Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

  “What do you want to do?” Guise made no indication that his knees had begun to ache. He knew that he was lucky that the baron hadn’t ordered him decapitated on the spot when he had had to tell him that he’d had Ranulf inside his own house and let the knight escape.

  The baron began pacing the length of his study. “If he stays at the abbey, we’ll leave him alone. Eventually he’ll become convinced that no one knows anything about his brother and he’ll return home.”

  The sheriff did not look pleased at the baron’s decision, but he held his tongue. “So you want me to keep my men away from the abbey?”

  “For the time being.”

  “What about the girl? Our informant says she’s back at the abbey.”

  LeClerc considered the matter a moment. “If she stays hidden there, we’ll let the matter ride for the moment. There will be plenty of time to get rid of her after the weapons are finished and on their way to the duke.”

  “Shall I tell the monk that we’re holding off for the time being?”

  “Nay, let the damned cleric sweat a little over our next move. When the weapons are done, I think it will be time to deal with him, as well. There will be no need to keep the secrets of St. Gabriel once the world knows of them.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  LeClerc motioned that the sheriff could rise and leave. Guise stood and rubbed his cramped legs. As he bowed and backed toward the door, the baron stopped him. “One more thing, Guise.”

  “Aye, milord?”

  “’Tis time we disposed of our prisoner in Mordin Castle.”

  “I thought that once the weapons are finished you were going to offer him to the duke to hold for ransom.”

  LeClerc dropped heavily into his chair. “Aye, but I’ve changed my mind. With Lyonsbridge sending men to look for him, we can’t risk holding him. There’s too much else at stake. Get rid of him.”

  “Aye, milord,” Guise said with another bow. Then he backed out of the room.

  The dizziness started about halfway back to St. Gabriel, and by the time he was within sight of the abbey, Ranulf had all he could do to keep himself up on his horse. Fortunately, Thunder needed little guidance and kept a steady pace toward the cluster of fieldstone buildings.

  He couldn’t remember reaching them. The next thing he knew, he was once again in his small cell, once again with his head throbbing in great waves of pain, and once again looking up into the tawny round eyes of his very own angel.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  She smiled. “That was going to be my question to you. I was going to ask it after I’d finished scolding you for ruining all my good nursing.”

  He closed his eyes a moment, hoping that the room would be steadier when he opened them again. It wasn’t. “I’m sorry to be such a bad patient.”

  Her smile died as he grimaced at a stab of pain. “You’ve opened the wound again,” she told him unnecessarily.

  “It feels as if I’ve opened my entire head.”

  “Nay, there’s still some left to crack if you want to go out and bash it yet one more time.”

  He could tell that her sharp tone masked concern. “Not today,” he rasped.

  “I should say not today, Sir Knight, for I don’t intend to let you up from this bed for the next week. I’ll call the monks to restrain you, if I must.”

  In good health, Ranulf could probably have mastered the forty monks of St. Gabriel singlehandedly, but at the moment he felt weak as a newborn kitten. He wanted nothing more than to float back into some kind of dream world where his head was detached from his body. But he hadn’t come to St. Gabriel to rest.

  “I can’t stay here, angel. Nor can you. It’s not safe.”

  “Did you find out something about the men who were looking for me at the Marchands’?”

  “Aye, I believe the men who were looking for you were led by none other than the sheriff of Beauville himself.”

  “The sheriff!”

  Ranulf struggled to sit up, but Bridget pushed him down again. “I have to get you away before they come here looking for me,” he said.

  She pressed firmly on his shoulders. “The devil himself may come after you, Ranulf, but you’re not getting up. You lost so much blood on your way in here that it’s a wonder you have a drop left in you. You’re not moving.”

  It didn’t take her hold on his shoulders to tell him that he was weak. He could scarcely move. “Then call Francis and the abbot,” he told her. “I need to talk with them.”

  He drifted to sleep while she went to fetch the two monks, but struggled to open his eyes when they appeared beside his bed with Brother Ebert and Prior Cyril behind them. “You might have to be ready for a visit from the sheriff and his men,” he told them.

  Brother Alois looked concerned but said calmly, “They are welcome here, as are any of the good Christians of Beauville.”

  “I don’t know if the sheriff is a good Christian, Brother, but he’s a darn good fighter. He’s the one who split my head open like a ripe plum.”

  “Sheriff Guise?” Alois repeated. “Surely, you’re mistaken, my son.”

  The other three monks looked skeptical. Ranulf wished his head would stop pounding for just a moment, long enough to allow him to make a coherent argument. “You must take my word for it. What’s more, I believe it was the sheriff and his men who raided the Marchand house in search of Bridget.”

  “We should never have let her outside the walls,” Cyril said. “She was perfectly safe here until you offered shelter to this stranger. Nothing’s been right since then.”

  Bridget turned her head sharply toward Cyril. The monk sounded genuinely upset about the possible danger to her, and she was surprised. Cyril rarely talked of anything but scientific theories and the latest goings-on behind the walls of the work shed. She was touched by his concern.

  Alois said to Ranulf, “I believe Bridget is right that you’re in no condition to be moved. We’ll keep a watch out on the road for intruders and if anyone comes, we’ll be sure that Bridget is safely hidden away.”

  “We might be able to come up with a few tricks of our own to scare them off,” Ebert said, rubbing his hands together. Bridget recognized the gleam that he got in his eye each time he was on the verge of a new invention.

  “Let’s just hope that Sir Ranulf is wrong about the sheriff,” she said. “What we’d all like is for St. Gabriel to settle back into its normal routine.”

  With nods of agreement, the four monks filed out of the room, leaving Bridget alone with Ranulf, whose eyes were again closed.

  She put her hand gently over his new bandage to check if the wound was abnormally warm. Then she pulled the blanket up around him and started to turn around to leave.

  “Will they truly post a guard?” he asked weakly.

  “Let’s call it a watch,” she replied. “But, aye, Alois always does what he says he will do.”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll take you away from here.” His speech was slurred. “To Lyonsbridge. Safe there.”

  Bridget smiled sadly. “Aye, tomorrow,” she agreed. Lyonsbridge. The place had a magnificent sound, but it wasn’t a place she would likely see tomorrow or any other day. She stood watching him a long moment as his breathing evened out into sleep. Then, instead of leaving, she fetched a stool from the hall and sat down next to his bed.

  Ranulf awoke slowly. He’d dreamed that he was back at Lyonsbridge, engaged in one of his accustomed wrestling matches with Dragon. His brother had taken a hold on Ranulf’s head and refused to let go, even though the usually friendly game had become too serious. As the room came into focus, he realized that the head pain had not come from Edmund, but from his wound. His mouth was dry as dust.

  He was alone in the dim cell, and no candle burned on the stand at his side. Where was she? he thought in sudden panic. Had the sheriff’s men come to the abbey and found her while he’d been dead to the world? He sat bolt upright in the bed as pain splintered through his temple.

 
; “What do you think you’re doing, Ranulf Brand?” came her indignant voice from the doorway.

  With a sigh of relief, he sank back against the mattress. “I didn’t know where you were,” he mumbled, feeling grumpy and sore.

  Bridget sailed into the room and set the tray she was carrying down on the floor. “I do have a few other duties around here beside you,” she said. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Morning?” He looked sideways toward the window. The nondescript patch of gray sky that was visible gave no hint of the hour.

  “Well, almost midday. You’ve slept the day around and then some.”

  “And nothing’s happened? The sheriff’s men haven’t come looking for either one of us?”

  “It’s been peaceful as a lullaby. Unless you count Ebert’s fit over Cyril using pieces of his water clock to repair his blast fire.”

  “What’s a blast fire?” Ranulf asked the question absently. His mind was more intent on the proprietary note in Bridget’s voice when she talked about her monks.

  “A blast fire is…I’m not sure, exactly. But the monks are dreadfully proud of it. It’s out in the work shed with most of their other tinkerings.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “I’m sure they’d be happy to show you. They’re proud of their inventions, even though ’tis a sin according to the Rule.”

  “Inventions?”

  “No, pride,” Bridget explained with a little grin.

  Ranulf sat up again, more carefully this time. “Did Abbot Alois put up the guard he promised against any unwanted visitors?”

  “Guards aren’t necessary. We see any visitors coming when they’re half a league away since the only road is across the meadow. There hasn’t been so much as a rabbit on it since you rode back from town.” Her eyes took on that merry gleam he had come to recognize. “It could be that the sheriff’s men would rather wait until you leave the abbey again rather than face the fearsome White Monks of St. Gabriel.”

  “Fearsome? Ebert’s a tall fellow, grant you. But Francis has the speed of a tortoise and Alois is getting on in years—”

  She interrupted him. “’Tis not their strength that scares folks, ’tis their eccentricities. You never know around here when you’re going to be caught up in one of their harebrained projects. I remember when the blacksmith came last month to repair the iron railing around the bell tower, Ebert and Cyril had him trapped up on top of the tower for half the afternoon while they tried to perfect a new relay system they’d invented.” The words were rich with affection.

  “But you love them,” Ranulf said softly.

  “Aye. They are my fathers. Every one of them.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never heard the like. It’s hard to believe that they’ve been able to keep you secret here all these years.”

  “As I said before, this is a quiet place. The people of Beauville mostly leave us to our own devices.”

  “What about the church officials? Do they know you live here?”

  “Gracious, no! That’s why we’ve had to be so careful. It would be the end of St. Gabriel if it were ever discovered.” Her expression changed from happy to alarmed. “You must never tell anyone.”

  “I won’t reveal your secret, angel,” he said. “But I still think ’tis no kind of place for a beautiful young woman. Think of all of life you are missing.”

  She looked wistful for only a moment before she smiled and said, “But I didn’t miss out on my first kiss, did I? Nor on the second, if you recall.”

  Ranulf groaned. “Aye, I recall very well, minx.” He swung his legs down from the bed, but had no strength left to attempt to stand. His gut ached with wanting to kiss her again, but instead he said softly, “Nor am I likely to forget.”

  She was quiet for a long moment as their gazes held. Then she cleared her throat and said briskly, “You’re still weak. You need some food in you.” She pointed to the tray. “Can you eat that by yourself?”

  He nodded. He’d be able to eat well enough once his insides stopped churning. “Aye, go ahead and be about your duties. I’ll be fine.”

  She hesitated a moment longer, then picked up the tray and put it beside him on the bed. “Start with the soup, nice and slow,” she ordered. Her chatelaine voice was back. He might as well be one of her charges.

  “Yes, mistress,” he said with a grin.

  She nodded, waited until he had picked up the spoon, then left.

  By afternoon he was feeling as fit as he had before he’d visited the sheriff’s house, and he felt a little silly lying in bed like an invalid. Bridget had brought him another set of clothes. They were as plain as the pig farmer’s had been, but smelled of soap and sunshine.

  He slipped them on and left the building. The day was still gloomy. Heavy, dark clouds hung in the sky to the west and there was a feeling of dampness to the air.

  The dormitory had been empty, which meant that the monks should be about their daily duties, but the courtyard looked deserted. He could see no one in the garden or working around the barn.

  Suddenly he heard the hollow bong of the church bell and realized that it was the hour of afternoon prayers, which explained the empty complex. He supposed it would be proper to go join them, but now that he had left his bed and his stuffy room, he had no desire to spend the next hour inside on his knees.

  Scanning the horizon, he studied the road leading into the abbey and saw that Bridget had spoken the truth. There was no cover leading up to the abbey gate. They would see intruders from quite a distance.

  But, in spite of Bridget’s defense of her monks, he couldn’t imagine that he alone and the monks of St. Gabriel would be a match for trained warriors. He should leave this place now and return to Lyonsbridge for reinforcements. And he should take Bridget with him.

  He started walking in the direction of the kitchen, though he assumed that Bridget was at prayers, as well. Then he saw her, racing out of the barn and toward the church, her skirts hiked up in her hands and her hair flying out loose behind her.

  As she rounded the corner of the kitchen, she caught sight of him and stopped. Dropping her skirts and pushing back her hair, she continued walking at a more dignified pace, but this time in his direction.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Better. Good, in fact. I’ve been abed enough for one day.”

  “Are you on your way to prayers?”

  “Not if I can think of an alternative,” he said with a grimace.

  She laughed. “I often try to think up excuses for my own absences.”

  “You could say that you were tending to me,” he suggested.

  “Do you need tending?”

  The hint of flirtation to her tone belied the fact that she had spent her life in a monastery. It made his pulse race. “I could,” he said, “if it would absolve us both of an hour of prayers.”

  They exchanged a mutual grin. “You said you wanted to see the monks’ tinkerings. This would be a good time to show you the work shed, while they’re all in church.”

  He’d forgotten about wanting to see the inventions, but as he stood near her, smelling the lavender of her hair and listening to the sweet sound of her voice, he’d follow her anywhere she wanted to take him. “The work shed, it is,” he said.

  She let him take her hand as they crossed the compound, tiptoeing like naughty children along the edge of the church where they could hear the muted sounds of the vespers within, and started down the path to the shed. When they reached the clearing in front of the big building, Bridget stopped. “This is it. If the monks are inside working, you hear their clattering all the way back to the abbey compound.” They heard no clattering, but there was a curious roaring sound from within the building. “That’s the blast fire,” Bridget explained.

  Ranulf helped her pull open the double doors and they went inside. To the left of the door was a jumbled mass of wooden troughs and little cups. “Oh dear,” Bridget said with a rueful glance at
the mess. “No wonder Ebert was so upset. That is the remains of his water clock.”

  Ranulf looked around the shed in wonder. It was full of odd contraptions made up of all variety of wheels and pulleys and levers. “What is all this?” he asked.

  Bridget sighed. “It’s hard to keep track since they seem to change every week, sometimes every day.” She pointed to a tall structure in the corner built of narrow wooden timbers. “That’s a collapsible ladder,” she said. “Brother Jacques built it to take to the orchard for apple picking. Unfortunately, last time they used it, it collapsed on top of Brother Robert and nearly broke his leg. I believe they’ve brought it back for some readjustments.”

  “I should think so,” Ranulf said with a laugh.

  They walked slowly among the various contrivances in the direction of the roaring sound at the far end, which was obviously coming from a huge cylinder that went from a big iron base on the floor and reached up all the way through the roof of the building.

  “Here’s the blast fire,” Bridget told him.

  He could feel the heat from yards away. “What’s it for?” he asked.

  Bridget held the palms of her hands out to the warmth. “The monks say it gets hotter than a regular fire because of the shape and the height.”

  Ranulf walked toward the big device, looking it up and down. He’d never seen anything quite like it. From inside he could hear the roar of the flames. It sounded like a fire magnified by ten. “It’s amazing,” he said slowly.

  “This is the monks’ prize,” she said. “They’re always talking about it.” She pointed to a door cut in the metal. “Once Francis tried to fast-roast a chicken inside. There was nothing left of it but cinders.”

  Ranulf didn’t join in her laugh. “Such a furnace could be capable of incredible things.”

  “Aye, ’tis what the monks say.”

  At the far base a series of pipes extended from the furnace and ended at another device that looked like an oversize iron pot. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “One of Brother Cyril’s refinements,” she said. “He designed it as an auxiliary furnace to give an extra boost of air just when the fire was at its hottest. But they decided not to use it.”