Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

  “He’s, ah, he’s not my young—”

  Claudine no longer seemed to be listening. She leaned back against the wall again and closed her eyes. “Young love is a wonderful thing. Aye, Philip and I had that once. There was not a lad in the village could hold a candle to Philip Marchand when it came to pretty speeches….”

  Her head drooped a little, and it appeared that the old woman had fallen asleep. Bridget considered briefly whether she should try to move her from the stool so that she wouldn’t topple over, but she decided to leave her alone. The morning nap had evidently become a ritual for the older couple, as had most of their daily routine.

  Bridget sat watching them both for a long moment, wondering what it would be like to have a partner to share all the everyday moments of life as the months and seasons and years marched by. She would have the monks, she supposed, though it wasn’t quite the same.

  She stood quietly and went out of the cottage, leaving the two asleep. It was another beautiful spring day. She looked down the path to the road from where he’d be coming. A now familiar hum of excitement tingled in her midsection. She walked to the little well behind the house and drew herself some water to freshen up with. Ranulf may not be her “young man,” as she had tried to make clear to Claudine Marchand, but he was every bit as handsome as the old lady had said. And he was coming to spend the day with her.

  Soon he would be riding out of her life, but for today, if she pleased, she could pretend that he was a young man come courting, just as Philip Marchand had courted his Claudine all those years ago. She wagered that Ranulf Brand could muster some pretty speeches, too, when he was of a mind.

  Smiling at her own fantasy, she cupped her hands into the bucket of water and gave herself a cold splash in the face.

  “The sheriff was away again,” Ranulf explained as he dismounted from Thunder in front of the cottage. “And the cobbler’s shop was barred, so I’m afraid my questions will have to wait one more day.”

  Bridget found it difficult to restrain the smile that met his words. “I’m glad we shall have our ride,” she said.

  “Aye.” Ranulf’s smile was equally broad. “Though I’m feeling guilty that I’ve wasted so much time inquiring about Dragon. If the sheriff hasn’t returned by tomorrow, I may have to ride to Rouen.”

  “You weren’t wasting time—you were recovering. In fact, I doubt you should be contemplating such a trip even now. You must let me see how your wound is faring.”

  Ranulf seized the hand she was lifting to his head. “My wound is fine, thanks to a brilliant nurse who used to creep in to tend me in the middle of the night.” He kissed the tips of her fingers. “Which reminds me that I’ve yet to give her a reward.”

  “She needs none, but she would like to be sure that her medicines have completed their task.”

  Ranulf shook his head. “It’s fine—nearly healed. I keep the bandage only to avoid scaring little children along the road. I’m afraid the incident has left my skull a bit altered.”

  “It will all return to rights eventually.”

  Ranulf grinned. “I’m glad to hear it, but I don’t mind the scar. When I find Dragon, I’ll use it to taunt him over what I’ve suffered for his negligence in staying away so long.”

  Bridget had heard enough about the holy Crusades to know that many hundreds of soldiers had never returned. If Ranulf’s brother had been missing for three years, it was not too likely that he would ever be found, but she was not about to argue with his unshakable belief that he would find his brother alive.

  “I daresay, he may have a few scars of his own to share,” she said simply.

  “He’d better have scars or some other damn good excuse for putting us all through such worry.” Ranulf glanced at the door to the cottage. “Do you have to tell the Marchands that you are leaving?”

  Bridget shook her head. “They’re both asleep. But Mistress Marchand knows that I was to go with you this morning. She called you my ‘young man.”’

  Ranulf grinned. “Why, she’s right. At least, I’m a young man…and I’m all yours for today, fair lady.”

  “For today,” Bridget repeated.

  “Aye,” he said, and his grin died.

  In all of her reading from the special closet at the library, Bridget had never quite imagined this. She hadn’t realized what it would feel like to ride on the back of a horse with her arms clasped around a man’s strong chest, to laugh with him as they crossed meadows smelling of springtime and splashed through shallow streams.

  She marveled that she had never before felt so truly alive—so conscious of every bright flower, every sweet-throated bird, every sunbeam that glinted off the rippling water. They laughed over everything and over nothing, and by midday, she admitted to herself, deep down inside, that she’d become infatuated by the stranger from across the Channel, just as the bards had described it in the ancient love poems.

  “Brother Francis provided us with a picnic,” Ranulf said as he brought Thunder to a stop near yet another stream.

  “Brother Francis?” Bridget asked, amazed.

  “He’s been handling most of the cooking since you left, and complains of it night and day.”

  She smiled. “Poor Francis. He does better eating food than preparing it. I’ll be back to relieve him of his duties soon.”

  He reached up to help her off the horse’s back. “None too soon for him, I’m afraid. But we’ll hope he did well enough by us today.”

  “I’m not even hungry,” Bridget said, but when Ranulf pulled a bag from his saddle and produced some chicken and a flask of wine and laid out the repast on a blanket he’d brought along, she found herself enjoying it with as much enthusiasm as he.

  “I bought these in town on the way back from the sheriff’s this morning,” he said, digging into the bag for two fruit tarts like the one she’d enjoyed so much the previous day. The pastries had not held up well on their morning ride. “Blast,” he said. “They’re ruined.”

  “Of course, they’re not,” Bridget said, grabbing the mangled tart from his hand and eagerly biting into it. Ranulf ignored his own tart as he watched Bridget finish hers with great relish. “It’s delicious,” she said, her mouth full.

  He laughed and leaned over to kiss the sticky syrup from the corner of her mouth. “You’re delicious,” he said. She gave a happy giggle and made a motion to clean the excess tart off her face with the back of her hand. “Let me,” he said, his voice suddenly altered.

  Her laughter died in her throat as he gently nibbled at her lower lip, then broadened his kiss to her entire mouth. “You must eat yours,” she murmured.

  He threw his tart to one side. “Nay, I’ll take the sweeter fruit this day,” he said. Then he began to kiss her again. The kisses were tender, at first, as they had been on the previous day, but soon took on a kind of urgency that was new. His mouth and tongue moved over hers like silky fire. She felt a trembling in her middle and a kind of wild rush that radiated upward and downward at the same time from some point deep inside her.

  “Ranulf,” she whispered. The sound of his own name seemed to ignite him. Without stopping his kisses, he pressed her back on the blanket and moved his hand over her breast. She moaned as she felt her nipple harden under his slow strokes. For a moment, she looked past him to see the cloudless blue sky above them, then she closed her eyes and let herself be drawn into the vortex of sensations being produced by his mouth and his hands.

  After several endless moments, he stopped with a groan of frustration, and rolled over to lie beside her. She opened her eyes and turned her head toward him. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Ranulf’s eyes were closed. He chuckled without opening them. “For giving you your second real kiss?”

  “Aye. Though ’twas more than one.”

  “Quite a few more.”

  “I wasn’t counting,” she said. “I wouldn’t even have objected to more.”

  “Nay, we stopped just in time.”

  �
�In time for what?”

  He opened his eyes and boosted himself up on an elbow to look down at her. “In time to save your virtue, sweetheart. I’d not have been responsible for my behavior if we’d continued.”

  Bridget had a vague notion what he was trying to say, but she considered his worry a bit silly. What need did she have to protect her virtue, especially if she was going to spend the rest of her life in a monastery?

  “I wouldn’t have objected to a few more, just the same,” she said grumpily.

  He leaned over to plant a brief kiss on her pouting lips. “Which is why I’m going to take you safely back to the Marchands’,” he said firmly, “before those big, velvety brown eyes of yours make me lose my resolve.”

  Her fantasy day was over. Tomorrow or the next day, Ranulf would ride away on his search for his brother. She would return to her duties at the abbey. Francis could give up his cooking chores, which would no doubt be as much a relief to the other monks as to the portly Francis himself. Everything would return to normal. But she would always have this one perfect day. No one could take that away from her now.

  They made good time back to the cottage. As they’d left their picnic site, Bridget had been surprised to see that the sun was already sinking, and she felt a stab of remorse for leaving the Marchands for the entire day. She hoped that Claudine had had no trouble getting the cook fire restarted.

  “The Marchands will wonder where we’ve been all day,” she said, as Ranulf helped her down from Thunder.

  “Nay, I warrant they won’t wonder at all,” he said, and grinned.

  Bridget smiled briefly. The cottage seemed strangely quiet. There was no light coming from the two small windows, no smell of a fire burning or food cooking. Even the birds seemed to have stopped twittering in the trees.

  Her throat closed around a dreadful wave of foreboding. “Claudine!” she called.

  Ranulf was adjusting Thunder’s bridle and had not appeared to notice anything amiss, but at the tone of her voice, he turned sharply. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, she ran headlong into the cottage. Philip still lay on the bed where she’d left him that morning. Claudine was crumpled in a heap on the floor with the peas Bridget had shelled spilled all about her.

  Bridget stumbled backward in horror.

  Chapter Eight

  Ranulf helped Bridget steady herself and would have held her longer, but she pulled out of his grasp and flew across the room to kneel by Claudine’s side.

  The old woman was still breathing, and as Bridget lifted her head to cradle it in her lap, Claudine’s eyes fluttered open. “Philip,” she rasped.

  Ranulf had gone to check on the old man and was looking back at Bridget with stricken eyes.

  Bridget pulled Claudine more firmly into her arms and rocked her like a babe. She gulped back a sob that threatened to choke her. Had Claudine slipped while trying to prepare the meal Bridget had planned? But what of Philip? There was no sign of blood. Except for the spilled peas, nothing else seemed amiss.

  Ranulf lifted Philip into the center of the bed and straightened his limbs, then pulled a blanket over the top of him. Claudine started to moan as she watched him.

  Bridget dropped a kiss on the woman’s forehead and asked, “Are you injured? Do you hurt somewhere?”

  The old woman shook her head. Tears started falling out of the corner of each eye and rolled down her cheeks onto Bridget’s hands.

  Ranulf walked over to the two women and knelt beside them. “Can you tell us what happened?” he asked gently. She seemed unable to answer. Ranulf and Bridget exchanged a look of helplessness.

  “Do they have any family here in Beauville?” Ranulf asked.

  Bridget shook her head. “Only a daughter in Rouen.”

  He looked for a moment at the older woman, who was still moaning in Bridget’s arms. “Do they have some wine here?” he asked.

  Bridget pointed to the wooden larder cupboard. He stood and went to retrieve a flask, which he brought back and, kneeling again, held to the old woman’s lips.

  After a couple of sips, she pushed it away with her hand and motioned that she wanted to get up. It was several more minutes before Ranulf and Bridget were able to get her off the floor and situated on a stool that she insisted be placed directly next to her husband’s body. Bridget quickly cleaned up the peas and mopped the spilled water, guilt pounding behind her ears.

  “Did you have an accident? Was the pot too heavy to lift?” she asked finally.

  The color was returning to Claudine’s white face. “Nay, child. ’Twas no accident.”

  Ranulf put a hand on the woman’s shoulder to steady her and said calmly, “Tell us what happened, good mother.”

  In a halting voice, Claudine told them that she and Philip had been awakened from their nap by armed men. She was unsure of the number.

  “The leader was a huge man,” she said. “And when my Philip tried to keep him away, he swatted him backward as if he’d been no more than a child. His arms were that powerful, and he wore black wristlets that looked to be made of metal. He knocked my Philip clear across the room. Then he just crumpled there…on the bed.”

  Ranulf remembered exactly such a wristlet descending toward his own head on the road to St. Gabriel. Hellfire, he berated himself. It hadn’t occurred to him that his attackers might still be looking for him to complete the job they started. “Were they asking about me?” he asked the old woman.

  She looked up at him, surprised. “About you? Nay, they were asking about Bridget.”

  The Marchands’ neighbors, the Courmiers, had been summoned to help. Pierre, the dairyman they had met in the marketplace, had come with his five brothers and had taken Philip’s body to the church to await burial. Claudine had agreed to go to the Courmiers’ dairy farm until her daughter could be contacted.

  Bridget let the old women go with a last fervent hug. She didn’t like to leave her, but she was sick with the knowledge that it had been her presence in the old couple’s life that had led to this. Claudine would be safer away from her.

  “There were no bruises on the old man’s body,” Ranulf said after everyone else had left. “His heart probably just gave out with the fright.”

  “What kind of people would bully an innocent old couple like that?” she asked. “I can’t believe there are such fiends in this world.”

  Ranulf put his arm around her. “Aye, ’tis a sad fact of life. Yet there are many more good people than evil.”

  Bridget was unconvinced. Her brief time “on the outside” had been much less exhilarating and, at the end, much more horrifying than any of her imaginings over the years. She was ready to retreat behind the familiar and safe walls of St. Gabriel. If they were still safe.

  “What if those men, whoever they are, come to the abbey looking for me? Could the monks be in danger, too?”

  “You’ve said that no one ever knew of your presence there. I think it’s the perfect place for you until we discover who these men are and what they want.”

  “And you will be at St. Gabriel, too?”

  Ranulf looked around the neat little cottage where all the earthly evidence of the Marchands’ life together remained unchanged. “Aye,” he said. “Until this riddle is solved, I’ll be there, too.”

  Pierre Courmier had agreed to take good care of Claudine Marchand until her daughter came. They hadn’t told him where Bridget intended to go, and he hadn’t asked.

  Ranulf wanted to question Camille Courmier further about why she had called Bridget by the name Charlotte, but he decided that he should see Bridget safely back to the abbey before he set about making his inquiries.

  As soon as the couple returned to St. Gabriel and told their story to Brother Alois, he called a meeting of his counselors and Francis, who was an ex officio member of the panel. They quickly agreed that Bridget should stay hidden at the abbey, and that Ranulf could be allowed to stay while he tried to discover the identity of the assailant
s, who he felt were the same men who had waylaid him on the road.

  It was the last topic of the meeting that led to disagreements.

  “She has a right to know her own background,” Francis argued. “Especially now, when it looks as if something in that background might be putting her in danger.”

  “What danger?” Ebert asked. “A confused old woman thought the men were after Bridget. They could as well have been after the knight.”

  Cyril agreed. “Aye. If no one has come searching for her in all these years she’s lived here, why would they suddenly be looking now?”

  “I think we should open Abbot Josef’s records and find out the truth,” Francis said firmly. “Or do you already know the answer, Brother Alois?”

  All three monks looked at the abbot. “What I know is that Bridget was given to us as a sacred trust. We gave her the name of a virginal saint and raised her to be pure so that she could overcome the sin of her unholy birth.”

  Francis snorted. “Bridget had nothing to do with her birth, and she has no sin to overcome. She’s pure of heart, which is the important thing.”

  Brother Ebert stood and started to pace the length of the sacristy. “No one’s arguing Bridget’s good heart, Brother Francis. The problem is what do we do about her? If ’tis true that people are looking for her, then it’s possible they could find her here.”

  Cyril nodded reluctantly. “It might be time to consider another place where she could live safely. We don’t want people prying into abbey affairs. We’ve our inventions to consider.”

  Francis shook his head. “I don’t care about the inventions, only about Bridget. If this is the safest place for her, then we should keep her here. But I think for everyone’s safety, we should open Abbot Josef’s records and find out who her mother really was.”

  Brother Alois’s head was down and he appeared lost in deep thought. “Abbot Josef’s last words to me were that because of her parentage, the abbey of St. Gabriel would keep Bridget forever in its care.”

  “Aye, but that’s because of Brother Ren—” Francis began.