In the Shadow of Midnight

by Marsha Canham

  Up until then, the Wolf had been content to roam the tournament circuits of Europe as the dowager’s champion, known to all who dreaded his appearance in the lists as the Scourge of Mirebeau. Under the black armour and black silk mask that had been his trademark was another identity he had preferred to put behind him for over a decade—that of Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay, rightful heir to rich estates in Lincolnshire that had been won by his great-grandfather when the Normans had first wrested England from the Saxons.

  Lucien had had a brother, bastard-born and weaned on jealousy and malice. As close alike as twins, Etienne had followed Lucien Wardieu on crusade to Palestine where, under cover of a bloody battle for the Holy City, he had ambushed the De Gournay heir and left him to die under the hot desert sun. Returning to England in triumph, Etienne had then assumed the guise of his dead brother, and for the next thirteen years had ruled Lincolnshire as Lucien Wardieu, Dragon Lord of Bloodmoor Keep.

  Unbeknownst to the Dragon, his brother had not died. Through a dark mist of treachery and deceit, the Wolf had survived, had worked to heal his ravaged mind and body, and, by dint of loyal service to the dowager queen, transformed himself into Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, one of the most feared and respected knights in all of Europe.

  When Lord Randwulf, on a mission for the queen, had returned to Bloodmoor Keep to reclaim his name and honour, he had not known he would also be reclaiming a son, born a few scant months after he had left on crusade. The mother, a woman of incredible beauty and spine-chilling evil, had played mistress to both brothers and used the bastard child to further her own corrupt ambitions. Eduard’s early years had been years of cruelty and abuse, loathed by a dam who thrived on giving pain, tormented by a man who saw everything that had been noble and valiant in his dead brother growing to manhood before his hate-filled eyes. It was a wonder Eduard had maintained a grip on his sanity. An even greater wonder he had maintained a grip on his life when the Dragon and the Wolf had clashed in their final bloody confrontation.

  The death of Etienne Wardieu had set Eduard free. The Wolf had accepted his son proudly and without reservations, but, realizing it was only a matter of time before the prince regent avenged the death of his pet dragon, Lucien had brought his family home to Touraine. There, because he preferred to be known only as La Seyne Sur Mer, Eduard had also, eagerly, severed all ties with the Wardieu and De Gournay names.

  The Wolf and his beautiful bride had done everything in their power to erase the effects of those lost and lonely years, and indeed, Eduard had matured into a powerful man, an undefeated champion in the lists, a master with sword and lance whose courage and fighting skills were a source of bowel-clenching terror to enemies who saw him sally forth onto a battlefield or tournament ground. Moreover, he was content, despite Lady Servanne’s best efforts to turn him into a country noble, to continue serving his father to the utmost of his ability, to ride by his side and proudly bear the black and gold standard of La Seyne Sur Mer.

  This uncompromising loyalty from the Wolf’s son as well as from his vassals and liegemen was one of the main reasons why the long and sinister fingers of King John had never been able to reach this deeply into the Aquitaine. As prince regent, John had allied himself with the Dragon of Bloodmoor Keep, and had been humiliated at the Wolf’s hand when forced to expose Etienne Wardieu as a usurper. Barely a month after the Wolf’s return to Touraine, John had declared the De Gournay estates in Lincolnshire forfeit due to unpaid scutage. On the Continent, however, he was forced to tolerate the Wolf’s presence at Amboise, both because of the size of Lord Randwulf’s private army, and because of his defensive proximity to the French border. Nevertheless, he rarely missed an opportunity to besmirch the Wolf’s name or remind his numerous admirers that the Baron d’Amboise had slain his own brother and stolen the dead man’s bride.

  Another reason for John’s reluctance to do more than verbally assault the renowned knight was that La Seyne Sur Mer was still in the queen’s favour. It was Eleanor of Aquitaine who kept the Black Wolf leashed when he would have risen in support of Prince Arthur as successor to the Lionheart. Instead, it had been the black and gold pennants of Amboise that Arthur had encountered first upon his foolhardy attempt to lay siege to his grandmother’s castle at Mirebeau. It had also been to a black and gold war pavillion that the hapless prince had been taken upon his capture, for despite the Wolf’s disdain for King John and his genuine liking for the Duke of Brittany, he was first and foremost loyal to Queen Eleanor.

  And so, by blood and sword, was Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise. Though his heart had been with the young prince, he had ridden with his father to relieve the siege on Mirebeau, and, although the English king’s power was being eroded in Normandy, Brittany, and the Aquitaine, as long as Eleanor commanded the Wolf’s allegiance, the black and gold would continue to defend her borders.

  Eduard was anxious to return to that defense. His temper was short and his patience lacking. He had practised with such zeal in the yards the previous day, there had been no un-bruised or undaunted men lining up to challenge him this morning. After a few lackluster rounds of archery—again with no wagers placed against him—it was the surplus of raw, unfocussed energy that had sent him prowling through the bailey and down into the village.

  And kept him there, he thought with chagrin, far longer than he had intended. The castle could have come under siege and he would not have known it. Pestilence and peril could have descended and he would not have noticed.

  What he did notice now, as he crossed the outer bailey and headed toward the arched gates of the inner curtain wall, was a marked lack of activity in the yards. It was not so late that the quintains should have been put away and the knights all retired to their barracks.

  “Sweet St. Cyril, rot my teeth!”

  Eduard stopped, startled out of his musings.

  “Nay, he should take my teeth, my toes, and all my fingers if I could but once lay a hand to the scruff of my lord Cockerel’s neck at the first call to do so.”

  FitzRandwulf squinted upward, tracing the source of the familiar plea for dismemberment. Above, seated between the crenellated teeth of the flying arch, was the diminutive figure of the castle seneschal, Sparrow. Dwarflike in stature, with a round elfin face and a mouth puckered tight with self-importance, Sparrow had found a perch overlooking the main entry to the inner bailey and had settled there with the patience of Job, waiting for his quarry to come into sight. Seated beside him, obviously relieved to have won a reprieve from Sparrow’s company, was Robert d’Amboise, firstborn son to the Wolf and Lady Servanne.

  “Rest an eye on yon fine specimen of knighthood,” Sparrow lectured sardonically. “Take heed, young Robin, of what can befall a man who heaves over to debauchery at the merest wink of a comely eye.”

  Eduard followed Sparrow’s gaze down to where his shirt was rumpled and loosely caught about his waist; to his hose, haphazardly rebound to only half the required leather points and bagging sadly around the knees.

  Seeing that the black eyes were dancing at the prospect of creating some mischief, Eduard feigned innocence and kept walking under the flying arch. “You have been looking for me?”

  “Looking for you? Looking for you?” Sparrow gave an indignant squawk as he leaned too far forward on the wall and nearly lost his balance.

  Eduard emerged from the shadow of the archway into the setting sunlight again and, as if by magic, Sparrow was there to greet him, his arms squared on his hips, his stubby legs planted firmly in the path.

  “Look you to my heels, Groutnoll, and you will see them worn to the bone from hunting and searching. Your father has torn block from mortar with his bare hands this past hour waiting on your tardy appearance.”

  Eduard glanced sharply up at the main keep. “An hour? Why the devil did you not fetch me at once?”

  Sparrow’s eyebrows took a belligerent leap toward his hairline. “Both Robin and I have turned the castle grounds upside, hither, and yon! Why the devil
were you not where you were supposed to be? After scouring the first hundred or so trysting nests, these old bones of mine began to aggrieve me.”

  “I should aggrieve you with the back of a broom,” Eduard scowled, starting briskly toward the keep.

  “Eduard! There you are!”

  FitzRandwulf stopped again, too suddenly for Sparrow, who had taken up the chase with malicious intent. The wood sprite stumbled into the back of the knight’s thighs with enough of an impact to send his cap slewing sideways over his ear.

  “I see Sparrow found you,” said Alaric FitzAthelstan. “Has he told you the news?”

  “News?” Eduard frowned and glared down at the seneschal. “What news?”

  “The Marshal of England is half a day’s ride from Amboise,” Alaric announced. “He has begged leave to rest here on his way back from his meetings with the French king.”

  Eduard was surprised. “I had heard that Lackland had sent him to negotiate terms of peace, but not that the earl marshal would be passing this way on his return to Rouen. For that matter, are we not a considerable distance south and east of where he wants to go?”

  “Considerable,” Alaric agreed. “And no doubt the news of his imminent arrival has caused a small flurry of excitement for the Wolf and his lady.” He paused and gazed thoughtfully up at the keep. “I warrant the entire household will have been turned turvy by now and set to cleaning, scrubbing, airing, and cooking. We would be wise, perhaps, to tarry a while longer before we answer our summons lest we find buckets and brooms thrust into our hands.”

  “Father sent for you as well?”

  Alaric was not only Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer’s closest friend and ally, but he had been deeded adjoining lands. Tall and lean, deceptively mild-mannered and scholarly in appearance, Alaric was never far from the Wolf’s side in any battle, and was, to Eduard’s knowledge, the only man he had ever seen best his father with a sword. He had, admittedly, been jealous of their closeness in the beginning, but it was exceeding hard not to like Alaric FitzAthelstan; harder still not to like a man whose logic and levelheadedness could defuse many explosive situations before the skill of his sword arm was put to the test.

  “Actually, the more urgent plea came from the Lady Servanne. She knows your father’s temper when it comes to any dealings with King John, and I gather she does not trust him to keep from speaking his mind. Not that the Earl of Pembroke is any great believer in John’s ability to keep the English banners flying over Normandy, but the earl has the advantage of his age and wisdom, and the respect owed him as advisor to three kings. As for this mission to see Philip …” Alaric shook his head in disgust. “It was a useless venture, designed to humiliate the earl and nothing more. Philip wants all of Normandy and both sides know John does not have the resources or the strength to fight for it.”

  “Do you think he will fight?”

  Alaric opened his mouth to respond, but a raucous volley of shouts and jeers drew his frowning attention to a window high on the tower wall. “What in God’s name …?”

  A flurry of waving arms accompanied the noise, all directed at a red-faced Robert d’Amboise, who was trying without much success to ignore them and to keep as solemn an expression as was warranted for a man newly promoted from page to squire.

  Eduard turned and regarded him with an arched brow.

  “I … I am sorry, my lord,” Robert said, fidgeting. “They are still children and think I have nothing more important to do with my time than play at winks and binks with them.”

  Eduard nodded solemnly. “Have you seen to my armour?”

  “Aye, my lord. I had the links repaired and the lot rolled in hot oiled sand until the iron gleamed like silver. I groomed Lucifer and fed him a double rasher of oats, then had your sword sharpened and the hilt of your lance repaired.”

  “You have been busy.”

  “Busier than most, I warrant,” Sparrow muttered under his breath.

  Eduard ignored the comment and dismissed Robert with a tilt of his head. “Go along then. Pull your brothers’ noses for me and give each of your sisters a pinch.”

  “I will, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

  The young squire scampered off at a run, shouting a warning that effectively ended the hooting and waving on squeals of mock alarm.

  “Well,” Sparrow harrumphed, clearly distempered, “I suppose you arrange for a teat for him to suck before he accompanies you onto a battlefield?”

  “Robin is a fine squire, and Eduard a tyrant of a taskmaster,” Alaric allowed. “No thanks to your own tutelage in their early years, Puck. In fact, one can only hope you do as well with Randwulf’s other sons.”

  Sparrow frowned, torn between a boast to acknowledge the flattery and a desire to expound on the detriments of a weak master. He knew full well how strict Eduard was when it came to training or discipline on the field, but there was still a natural tendency to spare a younger brother the bite of a whip if he showed a lack of proper respect between master and squire—respect that was necessary to learn the ways of a noble young man rising through the ranks of service. While Sparrow loved all the Wolf’s children with equal fervor, Robert—little Robin—had been just a tad more special than the others. Charmed somehow. Destined for some great future his diminutive mentor did not intend to see squandered for want of common sense.

  “’Tis better to be harder on the boy than softer.” Sparrow scowled at Alaric, not wanting the comments to pass completely unnoted. “Your own young William shows a sad lacking in discipline, mooning about the castle like a lovesick calf, weeping so hard in his pallet at night, we have taken to calling him Will-of-the-Scarlet-Eyes.”

  “William is only six years old and fostered into Lady Servanne’s care less than two months,” Eduard said defensively. “I vow you wept and mooned and calved aplenty when you were that age. You still do, for that matter, as well as carp and wheedle and complain and aggravate beyond endurance.”

  Sparrow spluttered and Alaric laughed, clapping a hand on Eduard’s shoulder to steer him toward the main keep. “I can see this past week has been a long one for you.”

  “And growing longer each hour that passes.”

  “Aye, well, you should marry and see how much you miss these lengthy solitudes.”

  Eduard grinned. “No, thank you. I will never be in that much pain. How is Lady Gillian, or dare I ask?”

  “Oh—” Alaric drew a deep breath and released it in a gust. “Cross at everyone. Complaining her belly is too big and gets in the way of her bowstring. Blaming me, of course.”

  “Of course. The babe is due this month, is it not?”

  “Sooner, I pray, than later.”

  “Another lout with more brawn than brain,” Sparrow griped. “If the men of this shire paid as much heed to sowing their fields as they do their wives, there would be enough crops to feed all of Christendom.”

  Alaric passed a wry glance over his shoulder. “Whereas, if a certain thimble-sized codpiece were loosened now and then, I have no doubt its owner would have less cause to see only doom and gloom lurking beneath a woman’s kirtle. What was the name of that pug-nosed little vixen who had her eye on you the last time we were home? Bettina? Lettina?”

  “Letticia,” Eduard provided helpfully.

  “Letticia!” Alaric snapped his fingers. “Aye, that was it. Round and pink-cheeked, and determined to steal a peek up his tunic each chance she came by.”

  Sparrow skidded to an indignant halt on the drawbridge. He gaped at the two men as if they had suddenly grown horns and breathed fire. “That troll-necked shrew? Sooner would I bed a foul-breathed sin-eater than let that drudge clamp a thigh around me. Saints assoil me! A walking mort, she is. Schooled by Old Blister herself.”

  “Ahh, yes. Mistress Bidwell.” Alaric winked broadly as Eduard smothered another grin. “Now there is a well-kept secret if ever I heard one.”

  “Secret?” Sparrow gawped. “What secret?”

  “Nay, nay. You need not act th
e innocent with us, Puck. ’Tis a well-known fact: the harder a man protests against the virtues of a fine woman, the better … and more intimately he knows her.”

  They had arrived at the stone pentice—the covered stairwell that gave access to the great keep’s living quarters. Alaric bowed Eduard on ahead, the stairwell being comfortably wide enough for only one large man at a time, while pointedly ignoring Sparrow’s outraged denials.

  The stairs climbed in a gradual spiral to the second storey of the keep. Archers’ meurtriers were carved into the wall every few paces and admitted air and filtered light, but at the top, the landing was shrouded in a thick gloom, relieved only dimly by the light emitted by the entrance to the great hall. From where they stood, they could see down into the cavernous interior of the keep’s vast audience chamber. As Alaric had predicted, there were servants everywhere laying new rushes, spreading clean linens on the trestle tables that had been set up along both flanks of the room. The flames of a hundred candles twinkled through the haze of disturbed dust. The curling smoke from the torches blazing along the walls traced upward to the arched window embrasures, where the only outside light that gained entry was webbed and patterned by the huge crossbeams that supported the ceiling. The fires in the long cooking trench were shooting flames ten feet high in the air casting sparks in all directions as the cooks stirred the coals and prepared the hot beds for the spitted haunches of meat that stood waiting. Out of sight, behind the tall woven screens that concealed the entrance to the main kitchens and cook houses, there would be more frenzied activities as food was prepared and decorated, pastries baked and sweetened to the point of pain, soups, stews, sauces, and jellies boiled and set aside to complement each of the ten or more courses that would comprise the evening feast.