Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

  “If she gets upset, we’ll stop,” Bridget told him.

  He nodded in agreement and led them into the big stone farmhouse. “Mind the door,” he told Ranulf, pointing to the knight’s tall head, though he was nearly as tall himself. Both men had to stoop to fit under the low lintel.

  The inside of the house was brightly lit with windows cut on three sides. A door led from the large main room to additional rooms at the back of the house. The Courmiers were obviously a prosperous family, Ranulf observed.

  There was no one in the room they entered. “My brothers are out in the barns,” Pierre explained. “And my mother is lying down for a nap.”

  “Then we should not disturb her,” Bridget said, concerned.

  “Nay, ’tis time for her to be up and about for a while. I’ll go fetch her.” He motioned to a bench. “Please have a seat.”

  Ranulf looked around for signs of children’s playthings, but found nothing. It appeared that the Courmier brothers were bachelors. “How many sisters and brothers do you have?” he asked.

  Pierre grinned. “No sister would have ever survived this household. We’re six lads.”

  “Six!” Bridget exclaimed. Ranulf gave her a sympathetic glance. It must be hard to picture a house full of siblings after the lonely childhood she had spent. He couldn’t imagine what his life would have been like without his two brothers for company.

  “Aye, six. The brawling and brawny Courmiers, they call us.”

  “You outman my household two to one,” Ranulf said. “But my two brothers and I would make you worthy opponents in a round of wrestling.”

  The two men exchanged a typically male look of competition. “Maybe we can arrange a match sometime.” Pierre grinned, then added, “I’ll be right back with my mother.”

  “Thomas and Dragon and I could probably take on the whole crew at once,” Ranulf said with a flare of bravado when the dairyman disappeared into the back.

  Bridget laughed. “You sound like the monks when they’re trying to best each other with their tinkerings. But at least they don’t end up with broken crowns for their pains.” She pointed to his still-bandaged head.

  He gave a rueful smile. “Aye, we men are barbarians, aren’t we? Though ’twas not exactly a friendly competition that got me this wound.”

  “I know.”

  They turned as Pierre reappeared in the door, his arm around an old woman scarcely half his height. Mistress Courmier looked even more frail and vague than when they had seen her in the market, and Bridget’s heart fell. It didn’t appear likely that the old dairy woman would be able to help her.

  Pierre helped his mother get settled in a chair that was obviously designed just for her comfort. It was short enough for her tiny legs to reach the floor and had sturdy slats up the side to keep her from falling. When she was seated, she leaned toward the visitors. “Have they given you a raisin cake?” she croaked.

  Bridget was too startled to answer, but Ranulf said politely, “We’ve no need of refreshment, good mother. We just came to talk with you.”

  “I try and try to teach these boys their manners, but they forget about the raisin cakes,” she said with a sigh.

  “We’ve eaten already,” Ranulf told the woman in a slightly louder voice. Bridget’s hopes were sinking lower.

  Pierre knelt next to his mother’s chair and laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “Sir Ranulf and Mistress Bridget have come to see you, Mother,” he said.

  “Of course they have. She comes every Sabbath Day,” Camille said, pointing to Bridget. She turned to her son. “And we give them raisin cakes.”

  Pierre lifted his head sharply. “I remember that,” he said with a look of wonder.

  Ranulf reached for Bridget’s hand and gave it a squeeze. She remained frozen on the bench. “What exactly do you remember, my friend?” Ranulf asked.

  Pierre shook his head as if to clear it. “I was just a little boy, perhaps only five or six. But I remember the fancy lady who used to come to see my mother. I remember that I always liked the way she smelled.”

  “And you think that woman was the Charlotte your mother was talking about in the market?” Ranulf asked.

  “My Charlotte,” said the old woman. “My little lamb who I raised from a child.”

  The others in the room exchanged a confused glance. “You say you had no sisters,” Ranulf confirmed, looking at Pierre.

  The dairyman was staring into space. “I’m trying to remember the woman who came to visit. I believe that before she married my father, my mother had spent several years as this woman’s nurse.”

  “Then this lady was a woman of some means,” Ranulf confirmed with another squeeze of Bridget’s hand.

  Bridget had grown cold and trembly inside. Suddenly she wondered if she really wanted to know the truth about her birth. Would she remain the same person? Would knowing the name of her parents make her life any better? Or might the knowledge bring changes that she could not predict?

  Pierre was still lost in memory. “The lady Charlotte,” he said slowly. “Aye, my father used to speak of the lady Charlotte.”

  “My precious child,” Camille said. “They killed her. They killed my lovely Charlotte. I tried to warn her….” A single tear made its way out of the corner of her eye and zigzagged along the wrinkles of her face.

  Ranulf looked at Pierre, who shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t remember anything about that. I just know that the visits stopped one day. I hadn’t thought of them in years.”

  “Would any of your brothers remember more?” Ranulf asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’m the oldest.”

  Bridget felt almost as if she were in a trance. She rose from the bench and walked across the room to kneel in front of the old woman’s chair. Pierre stood and moved back to make room for her. Taking the woman’s hands in her own, she said gently, “No one killed Charlotte, dear one. She died giving me birth.”

  “I couldn’t save her,” the old woman wailed, rocking. “If I had kept her from them, I could have saved her.”

  “Nay, ’twas the childbirth killed her. But she lives on through me. I’m Charlotte’s daughter.”

  The woman’s faded blue eyes suddenly took on a bright gleam of lucidity. “In truth?” she asked. “You are my Charlotte’s child?”

  “Aye,” Bridget said, and when the old woman leaned forward, she lifted herself up to embrace her. “Put no fault on yourself for her death, for ’twas the Lord decided to take her life in exchange for mine.”

  Camille cupped Bridget’s face in her hands. “Aye, ye are the very likeness of her, child. Just as beautiful.”

  Bridget took a shaky breath, then asked, “Do you remember her family name? The place where you cared for her?”

  Camille looked surprised. “Why, I cared for her at her home, of course. At Darmaux. My baby was Charlotte LeClerc, and I cared for her at Darmaux Castle.”

  The dairyman gave a low whistle. “I don’t know the connection, but Charlotte can’t have been the current Baron of Darmaux’s daughter. He’s not old enough.”

  “Could she have been his sister?” Ranulf asked.

  Bridget felt sick. Somehow, this is what she had been dreading since the old woman had first entered the room. What if she found out who she really was and found it unbearable? Could she really be connected to this wicked person who traded in weapons and had been responsible for the death of poor old Mr. Marchand and Jean the Smithy’s brother? Could this horrible man be her uncle? She sent Ranulf a stricken glance, and saw that he was reading her thoughts.

  “We know nothing yet for sure,” he said firmly. Raising his voice, he asked Camille, “Who was Charlotte, good mother? What connection did she have to Darmaux?”

  But the old woman’s mind had receded once again into her memories. She patted Bridget’s cheek gently. “My beautiful Charlotte,” she said. “You must eat more. For the babe.” She turned to her son. “Bring the lady Charlotte a raisin cake, Pierre.”
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  “Aye, Mama,” he said.

  She gave a satisfied nod, then closed her eyes and seemed to drift off. After a moment, Pierre said, “I’m afraid she may be tired. She rarely sees visitors these days.”

  Bridget stood, then leaned over to place a soft kiss on Camille’s cheek. “Thank you for loving my mother,” she whispered. When she straightened up, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  The sight gave Ranulf a twinge. Once again he tried to imagine a childhood without his family, without Lyonsbridge. He stood and walked swiftly across the room to put his arm around Bridget.

  Pierre moved to his mother’s side and straightened her in the chair. “I wish I could remember more,” he said with a sympathetic glance at Bridget.

  “You’ve been a great help,” Ranulf told him. “We’re grateful.”

  Pierre escorted them outside and stood watching while they mounted Thunder and rode away. For several moments, neither spoke.

  Finally Ranulf said over his shoulder, “’Tis a start. Now that you know something, you may be able to find out more and perhaps learn about your father.”

  She tightened her hold on his waist. “If my family is responsible for Philip Marchand’s death, I don’t think I want to know more about them.”

  Ranulf had no answer. From what he knew of the Baron of Darmaux, he would want no part of the family, either.

  “The monk says that there’ve been questions about the black metal.” Sheriff Guise had ridden to Darmaux Castle before dawn and had been shown into the baron’s bedchamber.

  LeClerc swung his legs out of bed. “Who’s asking questions?”

  “One of the other brothers, apparently. But I suspect the Englishman’s behind it. I think it’s time we go in there and get rid of him.”

  The baron uttered an oath. “I’ve told the duke that we’d have the next shipment of weapons to him in a fortnight. We can’t afford to interrupt the production now.”

  “It’s going to be interrupted anyway if they discover our nighttime activities at the furnace.”

  LeClerc appeared lost in thought. “The Englishman still hasn’t left St. Gabriel?”

  “Nay. I have a watch on the road to the coast.”

  “He needs to be disposed of, but I’d still prefer not to do it at the abbey. Set some guards around the complex. The minute he sets foot outside the walls, seize him.”

  “What about the monks asking questions?”

  “Let them ask, the doddering old fools. Even if they do discover that one of their holy brotherhood has been helping us manufacture weapons, they’re not likely to do anything about it. They’re a bunch of old men in skirts who can think of nothing more than their prayers and their tinkering. And our man will keep things calm.”

  The sheriff looked less convinced. “What if some of them take it upon themselves to go to the bishopric with the information?”

  “Nay, they’re a complacent bunch. They’ve lived peacefully without interference from the church all these years. They won’t risk changing that.” LeClerc had finished pulling on his overtunic and surcoat. “Is the Englishman’s brother dead?”

  “I’ve sent a man to Mordin Castle to order it done,” the sheriff answered.

  LeClerc nodded. “Too bad, once the secret of the black metal is known, he would have brought a good ransom. Lyonsbridge is a wealthy estate.”

  “Well, ’tis done now. The messenger should be on his way there with the order.”

  “Good. I trust both the Brand brothers will be eliminated quickly.” He picked up his leather belt from a rack and twisted it in his hands like a garrote. “Then we’ll see to the matter of my late cousin’s daughter.”

  Bridget sought out Francis as soon as they got back to the abbey. The monk was just returning from the path to the work shed.

  “What have you been able to discover?” she asked.

  His face was grave. “I spent most of the afternoon around the blast fire,” he told her. “Nearly drove Cyril and Ebert crazy. I simply can’t believe that either one of them could be involved in something like this, but now that I was looking for it, I did see plenty of evidence that someone has been producing substantial amounts of the metal.”

  “Then it’s possible that it may be true.”

  “More than possible. I also found this.” He’d been holding his hands folded together in the sleeves of his habit. He pulled one out to show her that he held a piece of black metal narrowed to a point.

  “What’s that?” she asked as a feeling of cold swept through her.

  “Part of a weapon, I should think, a point of some kind.” He turned it over in his hands. “I’d judge it too long for an arrow, so it must be for a lance. ’Tis sharp as a dagger and from what I could see when I tested it against a rock, harder than any metal known.”

  “Hard enough to pierce armor, as Ranulf said?”

  “I’m a man of peace, not of war, but I think ’tis possible.”

  Bridget felt sick. She took the shiny black spear point from him and looked down at it as if it were a serpent. “You say you found it?”

  “Aye, fallen on the floor behind some of the other equipment.”

  “Did you ask Cyril and Ebert about it?”

  “Not yet. I thought perhaps I should talk to Alois first, and I think I’ll pay a nighttime call to the work shed. If someone from outside of St. Gabriel is using the work shed to make weapons, it must be while none of us are there.”

  The monks spent the evening and early morning hours in prayers and slept during the night, which left a large amount of time that the work shed was supposed to be standing empty.

  “Will you go tonight?” she asked.

  “Aye, and in the morning I’ll talk to the abbot.”

  Bridget had a terrible moment of doubt. Even before he had become abbot, Alois had always seemed different from the others, more detached. “You don’t think that Brother Alois could be part of this, do you?”

  Francis did not share her misgivings. He shook his head firmly. “Alois has been our leader for years. Why would he betray the brotherhood in that way?”

  The idea seemed unthinkable to Bridget, as well, but it was equally unthinkable that any of the other monks would be involved. Ebert was the monk who had the most contact with the outside world, but he was friendly and easygoing. She couldn’t imagine him as a participant in trading weapons. Cyril was so involved in his science that he often forgot to eat the noon meal. In fact, the only interruption of his work he would tolerate was Bridget herself. For her, he always had a smile and a kind word. Cyril loved her, just as all the monks did. She couldn’t bear to think of any of them as a traitor.

  “We must find out the truth of this matter,” she said with a note of desperation. “Ranulf wants to be off to Lyonsbridge and will return with a veritable army of Englishmen. Then what will become of us?”

  Francis shook his head. “I’d like for us to be able to solve this mystery ourselves. Do you think you could persuade him to delay a little longer?”

  The cursed blush flamed her cheeks as she thought about the most surefire way to keep Ranulf from leaving the abbey, which would be a repetition of the lovemaking they’d shared the night in the barn. Of course, she would never seriously entertain such a notion. Anyway, she told herself, now that Ranulf had made love to her once, perhaps he would no longer be interested.

  “I’ll delay him,” she said with a lift of her chin. “One way or another.”

  Francis appeared too distracted about the distressing events to notice her self-consciousness. “Good,” he said. “By tomorrow we may know something more.”

  Changing the subject, she briefly told Francis about their discovery regarding her apparent connection to the Baron of Darmaux. He appeared unsurprised, but swore that he knew nothing more about the lady Charlotte’s identity.

  “I did know that she was a noblewoman,” he admitted. “Brother Josef told us all that due to unusual circumstances, the abbey would provide shelter to
her while she gave birth to her child. He never revealed what those circumstances were.”

  “But you knew the identity of the father,” Bridget protested. “If you would tell me that, it might give some clue.”

  Francis hesitated, then finally said, “I can assure you, lass, that your father had no connection to Darmaux Castle, nor would it tell you anything more if I revealed his name.”

  She tried arguing further, but he wouldn’t budge from his position. Finally she gave up and asked, “Would you like me to go with you to the work shed tonight?”

  “Nay. You deal with Ranulf. I’m going only to observe. I’ll not get myself into any trouble.”

  They agreed to meet in the kitchen before dawn to decide on their next move. Then she wished him good luck and started walking slowly back to her little house. She still held the spear point, and her fingers rubbed over and over its smoothness. If someone at the abbey was making weapons, it had to be stopped, and that might mean that it would be impossible to preserve the life she had always known here.

  But if there was a way to protect it, she would. And she would start by keeping Ranulf from leaving for Lyonsbridge.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A yellow, nearly full moon was rising in the midnight sky when Francis made his way out to the work shed. Compline prayers were long finished and the monks had retired. Francis had lain for nearly an hour, feigning sleep, then had risen and gone all through the dormitory, checking the neat rows of beds. Every one appeared to be occupied.

  He felt a little foolish creeping about in the middle of the night, but as he neared the work shed, he could hear the roar of the blast fire and it strengthened his resolve. If there was treachery at St. Gabriel, he was going to find out about it.

  The double doors to the shed stood wide-open. Inside, light flared again and then again as the big furnace was fired. Someone was inside.

  Noiselessly, in his monk’s sandals, he crept to the north side of the door and peered around the edge. On the far side of the shed he could see figures moving about in the eerie light of the furnace. There were at least six men and, to Francis’s immense relief, none were dressed in the habit of a monk.