Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

Alois raised his hand to interrupt him. None of the monks were ever allowed to speak the name of the monk whose sin of the flesh had led to Bridget’s birth.

  “’Tis because it’s our sacred charge, Francis,” Alois said calmly. “And that’s all we need know about it. Bridget will stay here at St. Gabriel. And Abbot Josef’s book will stay sealed.”

  Cyril and Ebert exchanged a frustrated glance, but Alois’s demeanor clearly indicated that the discussion was over.

  Bridget was unaware that her fate was being decided by the abbey council. She was back home again, inside the four walls of her tiny house in the old brewery. It felt comfortable and safe. She should never have left, she told herself over and over as she put on her nightdress to sleep. She should have held firm and stayed at the abbey.

  If she’d never left St. Gabriel, she would have missed the chance to see the marketplace at Beauville and ride Thunder through springtime meadows. She would have missed knowing Ranulf’s kisses. But if she’d stayed home, Philip and Claudine Marchand would this very moment be falling into a peaceful sleep in each other’s arms.

  She jumped at the sound of a knock on her door. It was an unaccustomed sound, since the monks never sought her here in her private sanctuary. The visitor could be only one person, and she felt her pulse surge, in spite of herself.

  Ranulf’s face showed the strain of the long day and made her remember that only a short time ago she had thought he had little chance to live. “I came to see if you’re all right,” he said, his voice weary.

  She held the door barely ajar, but when she noticed a slight sway to his stance, she opened it more widely to admit him. “Sit on the bed,” she told him. “I should take a look at your wound.”

  “I wanted to check your condition, not the other way around,” he protested, but he did as she told him. She took a seat beside him.

  The bandage had not been changed for some time and came off with difficulty. He winced as it pulled on a raw spot. “You should really have another poultice,” she told him. She was careful to keep her voice detached. Her fantasy day with Ranulf was over.

  He looked a little surprised at her tone, but excused it with the observation, “It’s not been an easy day for you.”

  “Nay. Nor for you. This is seeping again, and if you don’t take care of it properly, you’ll have the poisons back.” This time her voice was almost angry, and as she stood to fetch her medical supplies, he grabbed her hand and pulled her back.

  “Is there something else the matter, angel? Besides the Marchands?”

  She pulled her hand away and walked over to the chest where she kept her box of supplies. Couldn’t he see that everything was the matter? Couldn’t he see that after his kisses of this afternoon, she would never, ever be the same? And that all she wanted was to be the same and to have her secret life a secret again so that no one else would be in jeopardy because of her? “A man is dead because of me,” she said coldly. “Don’t you think that’s enough reason to be upset?”

  He studied her across the room for a long moment, then answered quietly, “Of course it is.”

  Neither said a word for several moments while she dressed his wound with fresh salve and a clean bandage. “That’s better,” she said finally.

  “I thank you,” he said, standing. “I’ll let you sleep now.”

  She stood back to allow him to leave, avoiding his gaze. “Good night.” Her voice was stiff.

  He reached for her hands, but she held them firmly clasped in front of her. Finally he took her chin in his hand to force her to look at him. “Bridget, we will find those men. They will pay for what they’ve done.”

  “With more violence?” she asked. “With more people suffering for my cause? When I don’t even know what my cause is?”

  “You need to let me help you.”

  She just looked down at the floor, shaking her head.

  After a moment, he said, “You’re tired. We’ll talk more in the morning when we’ve both had some sleep.” He waited for her to speak, and when she still remained silent, he said softly, “Good night, angel.” Then he turned and left the room.

  Bridget doused the candle and slipped into her bed. Her throat burned with unshed tears, but the tears only added to the weight of her guilt. She should be crying for Philip and Claudine and their lost love, but deep down she knew that instead she was crying for herself and for the love she would never have a chance to know.

  Charles Guise had waited for several hours in the baron’s antechamber at Darmaux Castle, but did nothing to reveal his impatience as he was finally ushered into LeClerc’s study. It was past midnight.

  “What did you find out?” LeClerc snapped.

  Guise gave his customary bow. “The old man’s body is at the church. They’re to bury him first thing in the morning. There’ll be no questions.”

  LeClerc nodded. “The old woman lives?”

  “Aye. But she’s to be shipped off to a daughter’s home in Rouen. She’ll bring us no trouble.”

  “Good. Did you find out why the girl was staying there?”

  “Just the same information we had before—that she was living with the Marchands and that she was in Beauville yesterday with the English knight. Now she seems to have vanished.”

  The baron had arrived at the sheriff’s house that morning well before dawn, but he showed no sign of tiredness. He stood up and walked around the table to where the sheriff stood before him. “People do not vanish, Guise. Has she gone back to the abbey?”

  “I don’t know, milord.”

  The baron’s eyes glittered in the light of the dozen or more wall sconces that lined his study. “So,” he said softly, “why are you standing here instead of going to find out?”

  “You sent for me, milord,” Guise answered calmly.

  “I sent for you to bring me answers. You have not done so.”

  “I thought you—”

  LeClerc swiped the back of his hand across the sheriff’s face. “You are not in my employ to think. Now go find out where she went.”

  “On the morrow—”

  “Not tomorrow, tonight. If our contact at St. Gabriel has betrayed us, I want to know about it now.”

  “Aye, milord,” the sheriff said, his head down.

  “What are you waiting for?” the baron shouted.

  Guise bowed and backed out of the room, waiting until he had closed the door behind him before he lifted a hand to rub his reddened cheek.

  It felt good to be back in her own kitchen. Bridget had been up before dawn and had skipped morning prayers to go directly to the kitchen to have fresh bread ready for the monks to break their morning fast. She’d also made a quick weeding pass at the vegetable garden, checked the monks’ beds in the dormitory, remaking several of them, scrubbed the tables and the wooden floor of the refectory, hauled several pails of water from the well, and plucked and dressed five chickens for dinner.

  By late morning, she was sweaty and red faced. Her hair had pulled out of its net snood to fly every which way. She’d eaten nothing, and her hands trembled as she seated herself next to the kitchen fireplace and took a piece of bread out of Ebert’s bread-slicing machine.

  “I’d heard rumors of a divine whirlwind making its way through the abbey this morning.” Francis squeezed his way through the narrow kitchen door. “Turns out it was just our little Bridget come back to us.”

  Bridget gave a wan smile. “My adventure on the outside did not go as planned, Francis, and I fear ’twas chiefly my fault.”

  The monk pulled a stool to sit opposite her. “You can’t blame yourself for the evil that exists in the world, child.”

  She shook her head. “Those men would not have known to come looking for me if I hadn’t gone out into town with Sir Ranulf. It was nothing more than my own willfulness and wicked curiosity that caused poor Philip’s death.”

  “There’s nothing wicked about curiosity. Bridget, you’ve spent your entire lifetime shut away in this place. It would be unn
atural if you didn’t wonder what the rest of the world was like.”

  “From now on I’ll let my curiosity be satisfied in the abbey library. I’m pleased to be back.”

  Francis looked at the slice of bread she held clenched in her hand, uneaten. “So pleased that you plan to work and starve yourself into exhaustion? You’ve not eaten anything since you arrived.”

  Bridget glanced down at the bread in surprise. “I was eating.” She then amended, “I was just about to.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Francis bent over, puffing, picked up a cup from beside the hearth and dipped it into the kettle of soup that sat at the edge of the fire. Then he held it out to her. “Aye, you’re about to while I sit here and watch you. Don’t say another word until you drink this.”

  Bridget was not sure her stomach would welcome the attention, but she did as the monk asked, and had to admit that after she finished the soup, she felt better.

  “There,” Francis said with a satisfied clap of his hands. “A body without food is like a soul without prayer—it’s unnatural.”

  Francis had never been one to stint on either account, Bridget thought with a sudden wave of affection. She could see worry in his kind eyes. “I’ll be all right, Francis,” she said softly.

  “Aye, lass, I know you will. But you mustn’t be afraid to admit the things that are changing in your life.”

  Bridget stared into the fire. “Nothing needs to change. I’m back where I belong.”

  Francis leaned forward and regarded her with a shrewd gaze. “And do you think you will still be satisfied with your life here?”

  She looked up at him. “I was only gone for two days, Brother Francis. It’s hardly time for me to have changed that much.”

  “I wasn’t only thinking about your stay in town.”

  Of all the monks, Francis had always been the one who had been able to see into her heart. He was the one she had run to for comfort through the minor trials of childhood. Though their roles had changed over the years as she began to assume more and more duties at the abbey, he still was the closest thing to a father she had. And he was a wise man.

  “You mean Ranulf,” she said slowly.

  He nodded. “I could see it in your face when he brought you back here yesterday. I think you’ve fallen in love with him.”

  Bridget gave her shoulders a little shake. “Nay, not love. We’ve had only a little time together.”

  “But you wish it could be more?”

  “’Tis foolish to wish for things that cannot be. Ranulf is a noble from a great estate in England. Soon he’ll be gone from here and from my life. And the sooner the better, I’d say, for look at the chain of troubles his arrival set in motion.”

  Francis seemed to be reflecting for a moment. Finally he said, “Perhaps his arrival was divine providence, Bridget—a message to all of us that we cannot expect to keep you here forever.”

  But Bridget would hear nothing of his arguments. She’d had her first true kiss and many more after that. She’d felt the tingle on her skin and the racing of her heart. She’d never forget it, but now it was time for her to retreat into the netherworld that had been her home since birth—before anyone else she cared about got hurt.

  Chapter Nine

  Finally it appeared that he was going to be able to question the sheriff of Beauville. There were a number of horses tied in front of the sheriff’s house as Ranulf rode up on Thunder after stopping at the blacksmith’s to pick up his arms. He slowed to a halt, then dismounted and began tying Thunder at the gate as a guard emerged and came down the path toward him.

  “State your business,” the man said.

  It seemed an unfriendly welcome for a provincial sheriff, but Ranulf reminded himself that there’d been a violent death in the town the previous day. “My business is with the sheriff,” he told the man pleasantly. “I’ve some questions to ask him about a missing person.”

  The man eyed Ranulf’s strange attire. He still wore the pig farmer’s humble tunic and boots, yet over it he had placed a tooled belt containing the smith’s finest dagger, and on his head he wore a small leather helmet that covered his head bandage. “You may give me your name and I’ll let the sheriff know you’re here.”

  Ranulf told the guard his name and waited patiently while the man disappeared inside the sheriff’s house, which, unlike the surrounding cottages, was built of a sturdy brick. It was several minutes before the man reappeared and motioned him to enter.

  Charles Guise was seated in the far corner of the room in a deep master’s chair with arms that gave it the look of a throne. He didn’t stand or make any acknowledgment at the knight’s entrance, but Ranulf ignored the insult. He was here to get information, not exchange courtesies.

  “We have no idea why my brother would have been wanting to find St. Gabriel,” Ranulf explained at the conclusion of his story. “And no one at the abbey seems to have heard anything of him.”

  Guise’s only response to his account was a question. “You have been staying at the abbey, then?”

  “Aye. They cared for me after the incident on the highway.”

  “You were lucky that they found you.” There was a curious detachment to the sheriff’s observation.

  “But not so lucky to have been waylaid in the first place, wouldn’t you agree?” Ranulf asked dryly.

  “Perhaps you should take it as a sign that the Crusades are over. It’s time for English knights to return to their homelands and leave us in peace.”

  At Lyonsbridge Ranulf had been raised with a respect for authority and the rule of law. He had not expected to be mistrustful of the sheriff. But the longer they talked, the more he began to dislike the man. Nevertheless, he kept his tone civil as he said, “I’ll be happy to return to England as soon as my brother can ride home at my side. I was hoping that you might be able to help me with my search, but if you have no information, I’ll begin my own inquiries.”

  “Have you found out anything that would explain your brother’s interest in St. Gabriel?”

  “Nay. I’ve questioned the monks there. They can make no sense of it.”

  Guise remained silent for a long moment, then leaned forward and said, “After all this time, your brother has no doubt met the same fate as thousands of other mercenaries just like him. A fate which could be yours as well if you persist in staying where you’re not welcome.”

  The sheriff then stood and walked out of the shadowy corner toward Ranulf. For the first time, Ranulf was able to get a clear look at the man. He was a big man, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt under a heavy tunic. On each arm he wore a long wristlet forged of black metal.

  Ranulf drew in a sharp breath, but Guise didn’t seem to notice. The sheriff now stood directly in front of him. Two of the sheriff’s men were in the room, as well, and the atmosphere had suddenly become menacing. He had not gotten a clear look at the men who had attacked him, but he’d never forget those massive arms in their black wristlets.

  “I’m sorry you are unable to help me in my quest, Sheriff,” Ranulf said smoothly as he quickly assessed the situation. “I trust you serve the people of Beauville better than you do its visitors.”

  He knew there was at least one other guard outside the sheriff’s house. With the sheriff, that made four armed men against one armed only with a knife. His only advantage was that the sheriff was unaware of Ranulf’s suspicions.

  “We have no use for strangers in this part of Normandy,” Guise said with a sneer. Both of the sheriff’s men had straightened up, tensing for action.

  In a move he had learned in the Saracen campaign, Ranulf turned slightly and gave a sideways kick into Guise’s midsection. The big man made a sound like “ooph” and crumpled backward, a startled expression on his face. Before his astonished guards could move, Ranulf took a running dive out the window, losing his new helmet and scraping his head along the brick as he rolled head over heels onto the ground outside.

  The fourth guard outside jumped at the sudden commotio
n, but Ranulf was halfway down the path by the time he had risen to his feet. In the few seconds it took the guard to retrieve his sword and follow, Ranulf had leaped onto Thunder’s back and was galloping away.

  Blood streamed into his eyes as he rode, and he realized that his window acrobatics had torn open his head wound and had, perhaps, deepened it. He muttered a curse at his own carelessness. He hadn’t originally thought about danger when he set out to find Dragon, but the attack on the road should have warned him.

  Now he was in a dilemma. He had no idea why the sheriff of Beauville wanted him dead, but he evidently did. And Ranulf had had ample opportunity to see that these were dangerous men. The last thing he wanted to do was to lead them into the peaceful life of the abbey, especially since he knew that Bridget was there.

  He could ride away from Beauville and head back home where he could nurse his wound until he was better and then return with reinforcements from Lyonsbridge.

  But the men at the Marchand household had been searching for Bridget not Ranulf, though the logical conclusion was that those men and his attackers were one and the same. Now that the sheriff knew that he’d been staying at the abbey, he would undoubtedly go there looking for him. Before any other course of action, he had to reach Bridget and be sure she was safe.

  He reached the fork in the road and pulled left on Thunder’s reins to steer the big animal in the direction of St. Gabriel.

  “I mislike the idea of storming into the abbey to get him, if indeed he was fool enough to go back there,” Henri LeClerc said more to himself than to the sheriff, who had spent the past half hour on his knees at LeClerc’s feet.

  “My men would take care not to harm the operations of the furnace,” Guise said. “I could arrest him for assaulting me and take him well away from the monastery before we deal with him. The monks never need to know what happens to him.”

  LeClerc remained silent, scowling. Finally he said, “This is turning out to be a bigger problem than I had anticipated. We thought he was merely a nosy knight who had gotten wind of St. Gabriel’s discovery. But now that we know he’s from an estate as powerful as Lyonsbridge, I’m not sure if killing him will solve our problem. They’ll only send more in his wake.”