Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

  Bridget had been called to account before for minor transgressions, but she sensed something different about this audience. She was used to gentle chiding, a softly reproving smile. Instead the expressions on the faces of her three accusers seemed to reflect something resembling fear.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  Brother Ebert leaned forward. “Do you have something to tell us, Bridget? Did this man—this stranger—do anything—anything—”

  He stopped. The words were beyond even the worldly Ebert.

  Bridget felt a tug at her heart. What Alois had said was true. The brothers had cherished and protected her as if they had been her parents, but somewhere along the line it seemed almost as if she had become the mother and they the sons. She knew little of the world, but thanks to her readings, she probably had more sense than any of them about what could happen between a man and a maid. She could see that the monks were afraid for her, and that they had no earthly idea how to communicate either that fear or the love that inspired it.

  She wished she could go to each one of them and give them an embrace, but that, of course, was forbidden by the Rule. Instead she tried to put her feelings into her smile. “You can stop worrying about me. Nothing passed between me and our visitor. Perhaps I should not have tended to him myself, but there’s no help for that now.”

  Cyril was tapping a foot nervously on the crossbar of the bench. “She says nothing happened. What more do you want from the girl?” he asked impatiently. “Make her promise not to see him again, and let’s be done with it.”

  Bridget rarely saw Cyril outside of the work shed, and she imagined he was anxious to return to whatever experiment he was currently conducting.

  Ebert nodded agreement, but Alois looked uncertain. “As abbot, I must be sure.”

  Francis, who’d been standing next to Bridget, spoke for the first time. “The man was in a fever, brothers. He scarcely remembers what transpired, and soon he’ll be gone. I don’t think we need to take any further action.”

  With his three brother monks waiting for his word, Alois finally nodded agreement. “Do you promise, Bridget?” he asked.

  Bridget nodded. “I’ll stay well out of sight until he’s gone.”

  Alois let out a long breath. “Very well, then. We’ll speak of the matter no more.” The three monks stood with noticeable sighs of relief, then filed silently out of the room.

  Ranulf sat on the edge of the bed hoisting the heavy cloth belt in his hand. The thieves who had robbed him, if they had been thieves at all, had either been incredibly impatient or stupid. They’d taken his horse, his weapons, his outer clothes, even his boots, but they’d left him wearing a small fortune beneath his undertunic. And the plump little monk had just restored it to him untouched. For a man who’d been nearly beaten to death, Ranulf was amazingly lucky.

  “How far is this town, Brother?” he asked Francis. “And what’s the maid’s name? I’d like to visit her home to thank her and compensate her for her service.”

  The monk’s cheeks jiggled as he gave a vigorous shake of his head. “She’d not receive you, sir. Nay, ’tis best left alone. The only reward any of us wish is your return to good health. With the fever gone, it shouldn’t be long before you regain your strength and can be about your business.”

  Ranulf was not ready to tell the monk that his business was to begin here at St. Gabriel. He wanted his strength back and his head totally clear before he began his inquiries about Edmund.

  “I appreciate what you all have done for me, Brother,” he said, “but I believe it was the maid’s medicine that saved my life, and I don’t intend to leave without showing my gratitude.”

  Francis sighed. “Beauville is a long ways from here, Sir Ranulf. You’re not yet strong enough for the trip.”

  Ranulf’s head still hurt, but his mind had regained its sharpness. Something in the monk’s words confused him. “If she lives so far from here, how was it that she was tending me in the middle of the night?”

  “You must be mistaken,” Francis answered stiffly. “She comes at midday.”

  Ranulf glanced at the tiny window where a shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom of his cell. Had he been that muddled? he wondered. Or were day and night all one in this foreign land?

  “She treated me by candlelight. I remember it distinctly.”

  “Ah, sir, you were in too sorry a state to remember anything distinctly. Now I think it’s time for you to lie down and get some sleep, lest you fall back into the delirium you’ve just left.”

  Ranulf looked from the monk down to the money in his hand. “Shall I give this back to you for safekeeping?” he asked.

  Francis laughed. “You need have no fear of thieves inside the walls of St. Gabriel. Your coin has no value to us here.”

  Ranulf shook his head in wonderment. He’d never met such men before. The monks who had tended him seemed to be uniformly content with their lot. They appeared to have none of the failings of ordinary men—greed, ambition, desire.

  He dropped the heavy belt to the dirt floor beside his bed. “I’ll just leave it here for now. But though your holy brotherhood may have no interest in my gold, I’ll warrant my nurse would find good use for a few of these coins. I still intend to seek her out when I can mount a horse.”

  “Mules are the only mounts you’ll find here at the abbey.”

  “Until I can mount a mule, then.” Ranulf grinned. “I haven’t been on one since I was a page, but I won’t disdain the beast if it will take me to where I can outfit myself anew.”

  “They are steady creatures, I’m told, though I haven’t been on one myself. I keep meaning to give it a try.”

  Ranulf bit back a laugh at the picture of the rotund little monk on top of a mule. “Perhaps we’ll go seek the maid together—when I’m well enough.”

  “Perhaps,” Francis said with a nervous smile. “Now, sleep. The sooner you regain your strength, the sooner you can be back on your journey.”

  Ranulf nodded and settled back on his cot. The monk seemed anxious to be rid of him, and even more anxious to avoid his questions about the beautiful woman who had come at least twice to his bedside. There was something odd about the monk’s story of a village maid, and it had been night when she had visited him. He was sure of it. He didn’t understand why they were being so evasive, but he was determined to find out. He was anxious to begin his inquiries about Dragon, but his brother had been missing for three years—the quest could wait another day or two while he solved the riddle of his mysterious angel healer.

  It was good to feel the sunshine on his face, Ranulf thought, especially considering how close he’d come to never feeling anything ever again.

  “So where is this magnificent mule you’ve promised me, Brother?” he asked Francis as they walked across the courtyard toward the barn.

  The monk smiled. “Are you sure you’re ready to try riding? Your wound is still fresh.”

  “Aye, but my brain is like to rot from the inside out if I don’t get away from that cell for a while. I’ll just give it a try, and see how it feels again to be up on a mount—any mount,” he added with a rueful twist of his mouth. He’d brought Thunder, his big gray stallion, all the way across the Channel only to have him taken by his assailants. The loss hurt more than his head wound.

  “At least our mules will give you no trouble. They’re old and lazy. They had other names once, but for years now they’ve been called Tortoise and Snail.”

  Ranulf joined in the round monk’s hearty laugh as they reached the open barn doors and went inside. The mules faced each other in stalls on opposite sides just inside the entryway.

  “Which is which?” he asked.

  Francis started to answer, then stopped as a scurrying sound caused both men to turn their heads toward the back door of the barn. Ranulf’s eyes had not adjusted to the dim interior, but as he looked toward the patch of daylight coming through the small rear entry, he saw a slim shape dash around the edge of the door
and disappear.

  Francis cleared his throat loudly. “This is Tortoise,” he said, taking Ranulf’s shoulder and turning him toward the right-hand stall.

  Ranulf twisted his head to look back toward the far door. He was almost sure that the figure he’d seen slipping through it had been a woman.

  “Has my nurse come to visit from her town?” he asked Francis.

  The monk shook his head. “Nay. She’ll not return now that you’re well.”

  “I thought I saw—” He nodded toward the rear of the barn.

  “The stable boy? He comes to muck the stables every few days.”

  Ranulf frowned. “I thought you said the monks did all their own work here.”

  “Aye, except for—except for this, er, stable boy. He lives on a farm nearby, from a poor family, he needed the work….”

  In Ranulf’s experience, men who had taken holy vows were invariably honest, but once again he had the feeling that the congenial Francis was trying to deceive him. He’d caught only a glimpse of the figure in the barn, but he was now almost certain that it had been the young woman he was seeking.

  He listened absentmindedly as Francis introduced him to the two mules, who, while not Thunder, were not the sorry creatures he’d feared. Either one would do to get him as far as a town where he could purchase a new mount and weapons.

  He reeled with a wave of dizziness as he swung up onto the back of the one they called Snail, but soon recovered his balance. A short walk around the barn was all he needed to see that he was perfectly capable of riding once again, though he did tire quickly.

  He’d give himself a day or two more to recover, he decided, handing the animal back over to Francis. In the meantime, he’d try to discover why the monk was lying to him about his beautiful midnight nurse.

  Bridget raced around the back of the abbey buildings and darted inside the kitchen, breathing heavily. It had been a narrow escape. She’d promised to stay safely hidden while the stranger was still at St. Gabriel, but she’d come seconds away from running smack into him.

  “How was I to know Francis would bring him wandering around the barn?” she asked aloud to the abbey cat who lay curled beside the fire. The tawny animal gave a delicate yawn and went back to its nap.

  At first, Bridget had thought the man was another of the monks. He still wore the habit she’d dressed him in that first night. But it had taken only moments for her to realize her mistake. Even in the rough habit, you could see the visiting knight’s broad shoulders and powerful arms. And the robe ended well above his ankles, since he was taller than every brother in the abbey, with the possible exception of Ebert.

  Bridget lifted the stone jug from the table and poured herself a cup of ale. She was hot and irritated. She knew that the monks were right to keep her from the visitor, but she hated having to run away like a frightened rabbit.

  “What would be the harm in a few minutes of conversation with the man?” she asked the cat, who raised its head again with an expression of annoyance. “He’ll ride away soon and forget he ever saw me here. Would it be the end of the world or the end of St. Gabriel to have one person from the outside learn of my presence here?”

  The cat’s only answer was the continued stare of its big black eyes. It appeared to be waiting to see if there would be further interruptions of its mid-morning slumber. When Bridget remained silent, the big furry animal stretched out its front paws and lay back down to sleep.

  The monks of St. Gabriel had a schedule of duty—kitchen, garden, repair, animals—that they rotated to give everyone a fair turn. Bridget had devised the system. Until she had taken charge, work had been performed haphazardly. She participated in much of the work herself, but caring for the animals was not among her assigned tasks. She did, however, make it a practice to check the barn daily to be sure that everything had been done properly.

  Any lapses would not be due to laziness or lack of will. But more than once a monk who was engrossed in testing a new method for making gates open by themselves would forget that he had left a cow unmilked or the pigs with no feed.

  The sudden arrival of Francis and Ranulf had prevented her from making her normal morning rounds. Missing a day would make little difference, but when she finished cleaning up after the evening meal, she decided to give the barn a quick walk-through before she retired to her little house.

  The long spring twilight was fading as she opened the heavy barn doors. Patches of pink sky showed through two openings in the roof of the big building, but the interior was dimmer than during her usual visiting hours. She should have brought a lantern, she thought. A gust of wind through the doors at her back made her shiver.

  The barn was quieter than in the daytime. Some of the animals had already nestled down for sleep. The two mules tossed their heads as she passed, but quickly lost interest when they saw that her hands were empty of the carrots she occasionally brought them.

  She moved along the center aisle, her eyes skimming over the three cows, the coop full of chickens. Everything seemed in order, and the sky above her was growing darker by the moment.

  Shrugging off a sense of unease, she turned to leave.

  Suddenly a hand grasped her arm and an unmistakable deep voice said, “Good evening, angel.”

  Chapter Four

  Bridget gasped and spun around to look up into blue eyes that were kindled with amusement.

  “Do you come by night to nurse animals as you do wayward travelers?” he asked.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat felt clogged with hay dust from the stable floor. “I—I—” she stuttered.

  His smile died as he saw the panic in her expression. “Calm yourself, angel. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’ve been looking for you these two days past in order to thank you for my cure.” He pointed to his still-bandaged head. “I probably owe you my life.”

  “Nay, ’twas nothing. I must go.” She twisted sideways to pull her arm from his grasp, but he held her firmly.

  “I won’t hurt you, mistress. I promise. Don’t run away again.”

  Bridget’s head was ringing with the dire warnings the brothers had given her over the years about what would befall them all if her presence became known. The dangerous game she had played with the stranger was no longer a game. It was obvious he was too well recovered to ever be convinced that seeing her had been another dream.

  “You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “I beg you, let me go.”

  For another long moment, their eyes held, hers anguished, his puzzled. Then he released his hold on her arm. Without another word she pushed past him, ran out of the barn and into the darkening night.

  Ranulf stood staring after her retreating form for several moments. One of his questions had been answered, at least. The maid was real. It was no wraith whose strong, slender arm he had held. The face that had looked up at him with such alarm was not that of an otherworldly creature, but of a flesh-and-blood woman with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and a wild-rose blush painting her cheeks. The lips he’d once touched with his own in the throes of his fever had been full and red.

  He realized with sudden shock that his brief encounter with the mysterious young woman had left him shaky with something akin to desire. Jesu. He’d never been a man to woo and love lightly. In fact, he’d scoffed at those of his fellow Crusaders who were desperate enough to seek out the women of the stews to ease their bodily needs.

  He’d always preferred to turn his own thoughts to loftier channels. Though he’d never admitted it to anyone, he’d often used the vision of Dragon’s promised bride, Diana, when the weariness of battle had made him long for more tender thoughts of women and home. Oddly enough, Diana’s ethereal beauty suddenly seemed tame next to the memory of the woman he’d just confronted in the barn.

  He looked around him. Night had fallen, and the animals had grown quiet. He could barely make out their forms in the darkness. He started walking slowly toward the doorway, his mind whirring with questions.
Why had she fled? What was she afraid of? And why had Brother Francis lied about her?

  He reached the courtyard and squinted to see across it in the dusk. There was no sign of his beautiful nurse. Across the square was the church with the small cemetery beyond. On his left were the monks’ quarters and to the right a kitchen. The small brick building beyond that? Could she have gone there?

  He continued walking to the middle of the square. The tiny building had no window, and there was no light showing from underneath the crack of the door. If his nurse was inside, she was sitting in the dark.

  Ranulf sighed. He did not yet have enough strength to search the whole compound for her, especially at night. His lifesaver would remain a mystery for another night.

  Francis had consulted with Brother Ebert and Abbot Alois.

  “Bridget, it’s simply too dangerous for you here right now,” Alois told Bridget gently as she sat in stunned silence on his bed in the abbot’s chamber. “The Marchands are kind people. They’ll give you a good home. If anyone discovers you there, Mistress Marchand has agreed to introduce you as her niece, the daughter of a sister who has died.”

  “That would mean living with some deceit, Bridget,” Ebert added. “But no more than we have all had to bear over the years. I’m sure God will forgive us since it has all been done in an effort to keep you safe.”

  Bridget shook her head and said firmly, “I won’t go. What would you do without me here?”

  Francis sat beside her on the abbot’s narrow cot and, ignoring the conventions of his order, put an arm around her and drew her against his plump shoulder. “We shall have to manage, Bridget. We’re not totally helpless, you know. We did get on somehow before you came.”

  “But the kitchens…the gardens…the work orders…” Bridget could not believe what she was hearing. They were sending her away from the only home she’d ever known, all because she’d exchanged a few sentences with a stranger who would no doubt continue on his travels and never bother them again.