In the Shadow of Midnight

by Marsha Canham

  The Wolf sighed and eased himself painfully back into his chair. He noted the marshal’s concerned frown, for King John’s spies were everywhere, but he offered a smile that contained no sign of apology. “You have, I believe, met my son Eduard? He tends to be a little … headstrong … himself, at times.”

  The earl stood, his barrel chest glittering with the blazon of the Pembroke device—a black shield with bars of green and a lion rampant, embossed in gold. He thrust out a hand the size of a large slab of beef, and clasped FitzRandwulf’s arm warmly.

  “Aye, we have met. But it has been five … six years at the least, has it not?”

  “More like eight, my lord,” Eduard replied stiffly. “You were present when I won my spurs, and it was as much an honour to be in your presence then as it is now.”

  “We shall share the honours, shall we? I have been hearing how your reputation grows as a champion in the lists. Another year or two of seasoning and mayhap I will have to take you on myself.”

  Eduard’s grace was a little strained despite the immeasurable weight of the compliment. He had bathed and changed his clothes and come quickly to the great hall in the hopes of finding the earl and offering his deep-felt apologies along with what he hoped was an amusing explanation of the misunderstanding with his niece. Now he was being flattered and asked about his successes on the tourny circuits.

  “My triumphs are nowhere near as outstanding as your own, sir, and extremely modest compared to my father’s.”

  “Nevertheless, you buckled on your spurs when you were seventeen; an admirable achievement by any measure.” The marshal paused and glanced beside him. “I do not believe you have made the acquaintance of my nephew, Henry de Glare. Henry … bare a hand to the only man I might be inclined to bet against you in a match.”

  Henry moved forward and extended a greeting, noting the steady eye that met his.

  “FitzRandwulf,” he murmured amiably. “I confess my uncle’s reservation intrigues me. Perhaps when there is more time for such things, we could put his faith—or lack of it—to the test?”

  Eduard smiled tightly. An uncle and a brother to appease. Lord Henry’s hair was not the same fierce red as his sister’s, it was more of a brassy gold, but there was a distinct resemblance in the general character of the face—most notably in the stubborn cut of the jaw. Shoulders almost as broad as his own bespoke a comfortable strength, as did the fighter’s eye for instinctively gauging an opponent’s potential at first glance. De Glare would be no easy conquest in the lists or in hand combat, nor did he appear any more likely than his famous uncle to see humour in a case of misdirected insults against his sister.

  The two knights eased the intensity of their handclasp, but not their mutual wariness of each other.

  A disturbance further along the hall ended any further speculations. Servanne d’Amboise had returned from seeing the children tucked safely abed and her arrival was the signal for the cooks and servers to begin the final preparations for laying on the banquet. She had donned a gown of blue baudekin, a cloth from faraway Syria which combined azure silk and gold thread so that the folds shimmered and glowed with each step as though the copper rays of the sun had been caught and imprisoned in it. A girdle sparkling with jewels encircled her waist, and around her neck, a chain studded with sapphires and diamonds. Her long blonde hair had been divided into two gleaming plaits and bound within a woven crespine, over which she wore a thin, plain circlet of hammered gold.

  Walking by her side, their arms linked, was Alaric’s wife, Lady Gillian FitzAthelstan, very obviously heavy with child and descending the stairs with the slow, careful steps of a woman unused to such imbalance. Her skin wore a healthy tan, attesting to her preference for remaining out-of-doors in all weathers. It also camouflaged the faintly visible initial that had been branded into her cheek. The mark of a thief was so faded by the years as to be hardly noticeable—indeed, Alaric, Randwulf, and Servanne had grown so accustomed to seeing it, they would not even have acknowledged it by description if pressed. Nor, for that matter, would any of the knights or men-at-arms in residence at Amboise. They had far too much respect for the beauty of Gil’s bow arm, for most of them had been trained to shoot both the longbow and the crossbow under her expert tutelage.

  “Ahh,” said William the Marshal. “And there walks the bane of my life; the curse of my old age; the true test of mettle the likes of which I was never forced to meet in battle.”

  His remarks, delivered with a heartfelt sigh, were directed toward the young woman who followed closely behind Gil and Servanne. At first glance she looked demure and complacent enough to suit the exalted company. Her tunic was a muted nutmeg brown, drawn tight at the neck and wrists with bands of green braiding. Her hair, that glorious abundance of fire tamed by little else, was confined within the folds of a modest linen wimple, its colour only hinted at in the glint of thick auburn lashes that framed her eyes.

  Those eyes, as green as the emerald clasp she wore at her throat, roved from one end of the great hall to the other, clearly awed by the rich trappings and barely able to conceal her excitement at being there.

  The small party consisting of Lady Ariel, her brother, Lord Sedrick, and Dafydd ap Iorwerth, had left Pembroke and sailed on board one of her uncle’s ships to the tiny port town of Fecamp, on the coast of Normandy. They had ridden quickly and without mishap directly to Rouen, only to find they had missed the lord marshal by a fortnight. He had gone, at the king’s behest, to meet with King Philip in Paris, ostensibly to negotiate terms for peace. But since the French king’s only term was the safe return of Arthur to France—which John already knew could not be complied with—William’s quest had been a useless waste of time and diplomacy.

  Hoping to intercept him on his return (and not wanting to linger in Rouen where the king’s spies might apprise him of their presence) the De Glares had set off in pursuit of the marshal’s caravan.

  Returning to his pavillion one night to find his niece and nephew appeared from nowhere … suffice it to say, it was one of the few times Ariel could recall her uncle threatening her with physical harm—and meaning it. Neither tears nor tempers nor pleas for understanding had any effect. He roared and shouted and went back two generations to draw upon a slack-witted ancestor who happened to have the same shade of red hair as Ariel, and whose adventures had seen her into an early grave at a similar age.

  Henry had fared little better. He was railed from one end of the pavillion to the other for agreeing to bring Ariel to Normandy in the first place, then to setting out across the country without a proper, heavy escort. Moreover, when the earl heard of the pact they had made with the Welsh prince— to kidnap the king’s messenger and hold him to ransom— William’s wrath knew no bounds.

  To Henry’s credit, he had remained rigidly silent during most of the earl’s tirade. The blame for everything could easily have been settled on Ariel’s shoulders, as indeed it should have been, but he bore the weight of the plottings with Rhys ap Iorwerth himself, with only a stoney glare directed at his sister now and then to warn her of the huge debt she would owe when the ashes had settled.

  The third one to bear the brunt of the marshal’s anger was Sedrick of Grantham. He too let wrath descend unchecked, waiting until the earl had run dry of invectives and spittle. Then, to everyone’s surprise, the gruff and normally reserved knight corroborated Henry’s version of the events, assuring the earl they had not had the luxury of time or precedence to make any other decision. Enlisting the help of the Welshman in waylaying the courier seemed like a convenient means of buying a few weeks’ time—long enough to apprise the lord marshal of the situation so that he might take steps to act upon it. Bringing Lady Ariel to Normandy had, in all likelihood, forestalled her from doing something even more foolhardy (and here he too had casually added his own reservations concerning Ariel’s heritage) when there would have been no one around with the strength or wit to stop her.

  The marshal had found logic in what
he said; difficult to argue.

  A final trump was played when the letter Lady Isabella had written was presented. It confirmed the loathsome prospects of the king’s proposed groom, the deplorable audacity of a sovereign who would abuse their loyalty in such a callous manner, and the unavoidable necessity of enlisting the service of renegades to protect their home and family in his, the lord marshal’s, continuing absence. Whether or not it was this veiled accusation, laying at least some of the blame on his own broad shoulders, that finally blew the tempest out of the marshal’s sails, none of the others could say for certain. Somewhat mollified, however, he had announced he would sleep on the matter but for none of them to be surprised to waken and find themselves turned back on the road to Fecamp.

  That ominous announcement had been made over a week ago, and now here they all were, standing in the majestic great hall of Amboise Castle, with minstrels settling into the upper gallery and servants rushing to and fro. Lights glittered everywhere, but on the dais, at the table reserved for the lord and lady of the chateau and their guests of honour, the candles were backed by circlets of silver so that the flames glowed like small sunbursts.

  Ariel had heard a great deal about the famed Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, and was not disappointed in meeting the living flesh. He was equally as tall as her uncle, with a darkly savage handsomeness that had deservingly earned him the name Black Wolf. To his right was Alaric FitzAthelstan, another legendary knight of brave deeds and keen intelligence. She admired and respected him instantly for the open, unabashed love he had for his wife—a woman whose predilection for manly skills would have turned most men away in disdain … or jealousy.

  Lady Ariel had heard the stories, many and widespread throughout England, of how the Black Wolf had taken a select troop of knights into the forests of Lincolnwoods disguised as outlaws. Poets and troubadours in as remote a region as the Welsh Marches sang chansons de geste boasting of the great tournament at Bloodmoor Keep where the Wolf had slain the Dragon lord and rescued his beautiful demoiselle from certain death. They sang of the feats of Gil Golden, the best archer in all of Christendom (though none ever specified she was a woman) and of Sparrow, the magical wood sprite who could sprout wings and fly.

  Here they all were, in the flesh and blood, as normal as normal could be, greeting her, welcoming her as if she were already an equal.

  “… and my son, Eduard,” the Wolf was saying, extending the introductions to a figure who had been standing a little behind and to the side of his father, keeping well cloaked in shadows.

  Ariel’s smile froze.

  It was him. It was the scarred beast from the cellars. In place of the linsey-woolsey shirt and coarse hosen, he wore a quilted surcoat of the finest black samite, banded in stripes of velvet and studded at each junction with knots of heavy gold thread. He had given his jaw a close shave, scraping off the dark stubble that had blunted his features earlier, but the clean, square lines only emphasized the extent of the damage wrought to the flesh of his left cheek, and drew attention to the arrogant jut of his chin. His hair, while still looking as unruly as if he had just ravished a dozen maidens in a row, had been washed free of dulling dust and glowed the same rich chestnut as his father’s … but there could be no mistake. It was him: The lout. The brute. The voyeur. And he was stepping boldly forward to take up her hand in a formal greeting.

  “Lady Ariel,” he murmured, bowing his head respectfully. “God grant you health, honour, and joy.”

  “Peace and good health to you as well, milord,” she answered by rote, cracking her words like nuts. She had also heard the heartwarming tale of the Wolf’s long-lost son rescued from the donjons of Bloodmoor; the troubadours had sung of his many subsequent feats in the lists and she had been admittedly curious to meet this icon of chivalrous deeds and derring-do.

  Met him she had, and at his scurrilous best. Sneaking about like a thief, spying through peepholes, terrorizing helpless women … forcing himself upon them at his merest whim, swelled by his own self-importance. She supposed she should be thankful he had not pilloried her on the floor of the armoury that afternoon. Had she not had the shield of her uncle’s name to bring to her defense, she might well have found herself used as a brief diversion by the bold, ugly brute.

  On the other hand (and here she almost groaned aloud with the mortification), what a sight she must have made in her pelisson and hose, capering about the armoury engaged in mortal combat with an imaginary foe. How swiftly would the story spread throughout the castle and how comical would the embellishments grow with each retelling? Were there hands being raised even now to conceal the whispering and sniggering? Were heads and necks craning to have a closer look at the addle-witted niece of the Earl of Pembroke?

  As if to confirm her suspicions and deepen her discomfort, the level of noise rose markedly in the great hall. Knights and castle retainers had begun to fill the seats along the trestle tables that stretched down either side of the chamber, and the savoury odours from the cooking braziers were causing a general restlessness.

  “Come, my lord,” Lady Servanne directed, patting her husband’s arm lightly as he grappled with the cumbersome crutches. “Best we seat ourselves before the rabble begins to chew on the linens. My Lord Marshal, will you honour my husband’s right? Eduard … you will partner the Lady Ariel, of course, and Lord Henry, you may take your sister’s left, unless you would care to have the trouble of sitting next to Sparrow.”

  Henry weighed the dark look he saw on Ariel’s face against the brief introduction he’d had to Sparrow earlier, and chose the least damaging threat to his digestion.

  “I am advised Sparrow has vast knowledge on many subjects.”

  “Advice which came from his own beak, no doubt,” Alaric said dryly. He slipped his hand beneath the crook of Gil’s elbow and started to lead her toward the dais. “Trust that you will rue the day you ask him to expound on any of it.”

  Laughter prompted the others to walk away from the alcove, leaving only Ariel and Eduard to share a terse silence.

  After a long moment, he cleared his throat and offered his arm. “Shall we, my lady?”

  She glared at his arm, then followed the black samite of his sleeve up to his shoulder, finally braving the cool slate gray of his eyes. The wry amusement she saw reflected there did nothing to temper her resentment, and she drew on the only defense she had—her anger.

  “I am but a mere breath away from scarring the other side of your face, my lord. You would be wise not to challenge my patience … or my silence.”

  Eduard glanced around, then lowered his voice to match hers. “My own lips have been sealed fast these past few hours, but a challenge, alas, is a challenge, and we have here a good hundred pair of ears and eyes to judge who was in the right and who in the wrong.”

  Ariel’s eyes sparkled a moment before darkening around her retort. “You are known as Fitz Randwulf d’Amboise, are you not?”

  “I am,” he admitted after a wary pause.

  “Then I should think these hundred ears and eyes already know you to be the bastard you are. They require no further proof from me.”

  Her eyes swept his broad frame with a final look of derision before she turned and walked, unescorted, to the dais.

  In spite of the earlier pandemonium that had ruled the great hall, a creditable feast was set out in honour of William the Marshal. A steady stream of varlets flowed from the kitchens with cauldrons of soups and stews, platters mounded high with roast mutton, boar, capon. There were chines of pork and whole peacocks stuffed, roasted, and presented in fully restored plumage. Jellied eel and grilled trout came smothered in garlic and leeks, lavished with spices, swimming in thick sauces. Consumption of it all took several dedicated hours; a challenge met with undisguised glee.

  The men ate and belched to make the walls tremble. The women chatted and laughed and tried to make themselves heard over the rumble of countless conversations. Dogs begged and rooted noisily for scraps tossed into th
e fresh-strewn rushes. Minstrels strummed the lute, viol, and guitten from the balustraded gallery that protruded overhead.

  When the many courses of hot and hearty fare had given way to frumenty custard and wafers, tumblers took to the floor to display their talents, dancing and juggling and performing feats of acrobatic skill. Two wrestlers, stripped to the waist and oiled like carp, fought a heated match amidst howls of encouragement and heavy wagering.

  Ariel was conscious of everything but able to concentrate on nothing in particular. Her every sense was held hostage by the broad-shouldered knight who sat so mockingly attentive by her side. Since it was the custom for couples to share a goblet and trencher at formal dinners, she had no choice but to suffer his company. Despite the fact she suffered it with a coldness that should have left ice crystals forming on the food, he was the model of solicitousness. He wiped, with exaggerated care, the gold rim of the goblet each time he offered it into her hands. He selected only the choicest tidbits of meat, fish, fruit, and legumes to adorn her half of the trencher, and if it seemed her appetite was waning, he called for sweeter, richer, more elaborate delicacies with an air that was patronizing enough to draw the concern of the host and hostess if she refused. If he spoke to her directly, which he often did purely to irritate her, she experienced such a heated rush of conflicting emotions, she more often than not returned his stare blankly, forcing him to repeat his initial question slowly and carefully, as if querying a dolt.

  Fortunately for her patience, Alaric FitzAthelstan was seated on her right and proved to be an interesting conversationalist. In contrast to the startled responses she garnered in mixed company on the other side of the Channel, discussing politics or warfare at Amboise’s table, with men and women sharing an equal voice, appeared to be the normal state of affairs. Doubtless it was due to the mettle of the women who occupied the prominent seats on the dais. Lady Servanne showed no hesitation in confronting her husband on a point of order, nor did he attempt to exclude her from any subject under discussion. Lady Gillian, despite being in the very delicate state of pregnancy, argued the most efficient use of siege weaponry as if she had just walked off a battlefield. More than once, Ariel thought she could envision her aunt Isabella’s flustered, even shocked reactions to such talk coming over a course of poached salmon, and it was all she could do not to smile.