The sound of his voice made her shrivel inside, but she was not so easily turned away. “Why won’t you tell me what you’ve planned?” she persisted. “All you’ve said is that you’ll kill him in a joust. How, without rousing the suspicions of his men, without causing a war?”

A full minute passed, and still he did not answer. Disappointed, she laid her head back on his shoulder, fearing she had angered him.

“There will be no war,” he whispered with certainty.

She wondered how he could be so sure. She listened to the even thud of his heart. Her fingers coiled gently around the soft whorls of his chest hair. She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of repletion.

They would still have this when tomorrow was over. Perhaps their passion would deepen to abiding affection. It was a simple thing to imagine, a natural thing. She snuggled closer. She felt treasured and replete. She had a strong arm to protect her. A lover to warm her on winter nights. It was more than most women had in a husband.

A soft snore followed on the heels of her observation. Christian had fallen asleep. At least he had the peace of mind to do it. Her mouth quirked. For herself, she doubted she would sleep at all on the eve of Ferguson’s demise.

At the crack of dawn Christian garbed himself in chain mail and led his mount across the drawbridge. With the visor of his helm open, he absorbed the scene that awaited him. Ferguson’s warriors were up and stirring, their green plaid buried under thick, steel hauberks. They had traded their costume swords for sturdier weapons.

They milled about a campfire, their expressions grim. What had begun as an alliance would end in war if Ferguson failed to meet the challenge the Slayer had put to him last night.

Christian recalled the Scot’s expression when he’d charged him of his crimes before the wedding guests. He had sent Clarise to their bridal bower to shield her from any potential ugliness. He wished he could have done the same for her mother and sisters, who’d looked on, as pale as ghosts.

At his challenge, the Scot had spewed ale across the table. He’d blustered and protested. He’d turned an alarming shade of red. Kendal had lunged across the table with his costume sword in hand, only to be restrained by his own men. The Slayer’s men-at-arms displayed the points of their swords to discourage the Scots from reacting rashly.

Ferguson’s protests could not sway the warlord from standing in judgment of him. To prove your innocence, Ferguson, you must meet me tomorrow in a contest of arms, a battle to the death.

In declining, the Scot would have found himself and his men slaughtered in the Slayer’s hall. The gauntlet had been tossed, and Ferguson accepted it, with no other choice.

How quickly the night had sped by! The sun was already edging over the treetops. Peasants tromped across the meadow from their far-flung huts in order to satisfy their curiosity. Did they know the tourney had given way to a deadlier sport? Christian wondered.

He glanced over his shoulder at the sharply rising wall of the castle. He couldn’t see the solar from his present vantage, but he imagined that his bride still slept. She was rarely up before mid-morning. Had he done the right thing to keep the truth from her? It had been hard to think of little else when he joined her in the bridal bower. But later, as he drew her tender body close to him, he’d felt a peaceful certainty in his soul. And then he’d slept—by God, he’d slept the entire night without waking! It had been the best sleep of his adult life.

He wondered, now, if he should have told her everything. She’d assumed the Scot would come to some accidental end, that Christian would kill him by devious means. She did not fully realize the metamorphosis for which she was responsible. The only way to prove his worthiness was to slay Ferguson by honorable means: by Ordeal by Combat. That way Ferguson, at least, could defend himself, and neither Christian nor Clarise would be troubled by their conscience later. He knew too well the torment of a troubled conscience. His wife would never suffer such agonies, he vowed.

Still, he wished Clarise could watch him do it. How he longed to be worthy of her! But her peace of mind and her physical safety came first. He could not trust her to remain an impartial observer. Clarise was too loyal, too protective. She forgot at times that he had spent his adult years learning to fight. She thought she could do it better.

Nor did he trust the Scots not to target her in some way, thereby forcing his surrender. Nay, it was best she remained where she was, sleeping peacefully in bed, her body soft and warm beneath the coverlet.

Sir Roger scurried around the front of his horse, breaking into Christian’s thoughts. “My lord, I have a bad feeling about this,” he volunteered, catching his liege’s arm.

Christian shook him off. This was not the time for Roger’s sixth sense to kick into action. “ ’Tis too late to change my mind,” he snapped at his vassal. All he could do at this late point was to calm his roiling nerves.

“Look for trickery, then,” Sir Roger cautioned, his scars bulging with concern. “He knows he cannot defeat you. He will try something underhanded, mark my word!”

They led their horses off the drawbridge and onto the road. Christian’s armor made a chinking sound with every step. “We fight hand to hand,” he told his vassal. “Do you remark any trickery, then by all means strike the Scottish forces. But do so hard. I would not have any finding their way into the castle. Signal for the drawbridge to close.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Should something happen to me—”

The knight cursed, looking away.

Christian stopped and put a gauntleted hand on his vassal’s shoulder. It took effort to push the words past the constriction in his throat. “Do whatever it takes to keep my lady content in life and to assure Simon’s inheritance. Remember we suspect a traitor in our midst.”

Sir Roger’s mouth thinned. “It will not come to that,” he growled, as if to convince himself.

The fighting had been moved from the outer ward to the meadow outside the walls. The field afforded them more room for maneuvering. It would keep the Scots from spawning mischief in the castle to distract them. “They’re waiting,” Christian urged, nodding toward the area that was already roped off.

As they neared the meadow, the sun spilled over the hill in a bloodred stain. Christian’s gaze fell upon a blackbird as it swooped from the sky to steal a hot bun dropped by one of the spectators. When he next looked toward the tents, he was looking at Ferguson.

The Scot had emerged from his tent wearing English armor, his helm in his hands. Despite his indulgence the night before, he looked fit and fierce. His eyes were focused and clear above his burnished beard. At the sight of his double-edged ax, several onlookers backed away, giving him clear berth to approach the field.

Christian looked for Ethelred, standing alone with his cowl pulled over his head. A more reluctant participant could not have been found to shrive the two combatants. The good abbot gave him an imploring look as they came closer.

Unable to meet the abbot’s gaze, Christian focused on Ferguson instead. To bolster his enthusiasm, he recalled the nineteen peasants cut down at Glenmyre, the ravaging fire, Clarise’s mother begging to be let through the gate. He gave a thought to Clarise’s father, brought to an early demise by the Scot’s artifice. And lastly, he thought of the pink scars on Clarise’s beautiful back, put there by this barbarian.

By the time Christian’s soul was properly commended to God, he was fully ready to spill the Usurper’s blood.

“Choose your weapon, Ferguson,” Sir Roger charged, acting as intermediary.

The Scot gripped the handle of his ax and grinned like a cunning fox. Christian reached over his shoulder to pull the hilt of Vengeance from its sheath.

“You will begin at the sound of the horn. May the first to be unseated defend himself as best he can. Any violation of the code of honor shall end the tournament.” Sir Roger’s tone became threatening. He made it clear to everyone gathered that a breach of the rules would result in war. Behind them, men-at-arms watched each other warily.

“Mount your horses.” Sir Roger’s final words saw Ferguson spinning away toward his sorrel. Christian tightened the girth on his saddle. With nothing left to delay him, he heaved himself onto his mount and gave the destrier a jab. He trotted to his position on the far side of the field.

Turning by a copse of beech trees, he waited for the horn that would hurl him into combat.

Time stood still. Only the rapid beating of his heart assured him that the seconds ticked by. He found himself wishing suddenly that Clarise were in attendance after all. With the light of her eyes on him, he would feel himself cloaked in her protection. He imagined her standing at the edge of the field, a faint smile of encouragement on her lips. She’d believed in him last night. ’Twill be all right, she’d assured him. He repeated the words to himself. I promise, ’twill be all right.

He had to win. There was no room for defeat.

If he did not emerge the victor, he would never know if his plot to win her heart bore fruit. Or withered like an unplucked grape.









Chapter Nineteen


















The blast of a war horn caused Clarise to bolt upright. The shutters were ringed with morning light. Memories of her wedding night flooded pleasurably into her mind, and she fell back onto the blankets with a sigh. Her muscles were sore, as was the tender place between her legs. But she felt like a new woman, a butterfly freshly sprung from its chrysalis.

How foolish she was to have feared that marriage to the Slayer would bind her to a beast! He’d been gentle, considerate, unbelievably giving. She dragged a hand over her sensitive breasts. No longer did she worry what would become of their marriage after Ferguson’s demise. A world of possibilities lay before them. With Christian’s sword arm to defend them, their security at Helmesly was unbreachable. They would raise a family behind Helmesly’s impenetrable walls and never know the terror of being overcome, displaced, violated.

Her palm smoothed the sheets where her husband had just lain. She found them cool to the touch. He’d been gone longer than she thought.

She sat up again, experiencing an odd sense of abandonment. Had the tourney begun already? Of course it had. A horn had just bayed outside her window. Being the host, Christian had no choice but to rouse himself early and attend it. He had kindly thought to let her sleep.

Flinging off the coverlet, she crossed the room and threw the shutters wide, heedless of her naked state. She sensed a great stirring of activity on the eastern side of the field, but the window gave only a view of the tents with their pennants snapping.

She heard the telltale thunder of two combatants coming together. The repercussion of the blow carried clearly to the window. A roar went up in the crowd, conveying a sense of urgency.

She had planned to bathe and dress in one of her finest new gowns. But something came over her, gripping her with nameless agitation. She couldn’t spare the time to bathe. She was galvanized to join the spectators right away.

Spotting the dress Nell had laid out for her, Clarise slipped it over her head, leaving the laces to dangle at her sides. Unable to locate her slippers, she gave up looking for them and dashed out of the room. The great hall below her was empty. Was she the only one missing the day’s events?

Barefooted, she skipped down the wide stairs, shot through the double doors and down the steps of the forebuilding. The courtyard was also deserted. She crossed it quickly, braving the cobbles that gouged her bare feet. She was hardly dressed like a proper hostess, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something momentous was underway.

Lengthening her stride, she ran through the first gate to the outer ward. There she faltered at the sight of the empty lists. The tourney must have been moved to the field outside the castle. The urgency in her belly hardened into apprehension. Why would they have moved the tourney outside?

She bolted through the outer gates, pushing aside the guards that stood beneath the barbican. One of them tried to restrain her. “Let me go!” she demanded, sending him a look so fierce that he snatched his hands away.