In the Shadow of Midnight

by Marsha Canham

  No one moved. No one drew a breath. Was the Marshal of England about to appeal to one of them to assassinate the king?

  Pembroke noted the silence and his piercing blue eyes passed over each taut face in turn. “Rest easy, friends. I have not come to ask of you what I cannot do myself. But I have come to put forth this to you: we must begin to take measures to limit the throne’s power. As you must already know, Poitou, Anjou, Maine, and Brittany are seething with revolt, burning and pillaging everything tainted by the king’s corruption. The barons in England watch and wait. They meet by twos and threes and know wherein the blame for all of this dissent lays, yet short of calling for a civil war, none are in a strong enough position on their own to lead a campaign against John Plantagenet. Randwulf—you spoke more wisely than you knew when you cursed the impetuousness of Arthur of Brittany. Had he bided his time, had he not thrown his lot in with Philip of France, had he but waited and built up his strength and support among the barons who, in the days ahead, might well have been willing to throw their lot behind an alternative to John’s greed and treachery … well …” He sighed and the huge, calloused hands came together, the fingers locking so as not to betray the tremors of anger and impotence that shook them.

  “Were you not the one who said the barons of England would never favour a boy over a man? Were you not the one who said it was better to take the devil we knew than the princeling we knew not?”

  William glared at Randwulf. “Walter de Coutances, our wise and vainglorious Archbishop of Rouen, predicted I would rue the day I threw the lot of England’s nobility behind John’s claim to the throne. He would also be crowing with delight to hear me decry that decision now.”

  “I am hardly crowing,” the Wolf said. “But since the boy is more than likely dead, it does little good to talk of what might have been or could have been had Arthur lived.”

  “Where the interests of England are concerned, men will always talk,” William advised solemnly. “Most especially when there is another possibility to talk about.”

  Alaric whistled softly under his breath, having already surmised where the discussion was leading. But it was Eduard who stiffened with a complete look of horror on his face.

  “The Princess Eleanor? You would have Arthur’s sister call England to a civil war?”

  “Were apples apples and oranges oranges, Eleanor’s claim does precede her uncle John’s,” William pointed out. “And although he beds his nubile young wife day in and day out, he is as yet without a legitimate heir of his own. If he were to die tomorrow of gout and flatulence, Eleanor would succeed him as queen of England.”

  “With or without his untimely demise,” the Wolf asked, “are you suggesting the barons would hold with putting another woman on the throne of England? After the hell they went through with Matilda?”

  “No. They most certainly would not trust her to rule alone. But if she were to marry wisely, and with a man the barons elected themselves, a man who could be trusted to place the welfare of England before all else … then some might see a benefit in making her queen. Let me put the question to you: Would Eleanor of Brittany be able to unite the barons of England?”

  “She is Geoffrey’s daughter, Henry Secund’s granddaughter,” Randwulf said with careful consideration. “She has the charm and wit of the one, the sense of justice of the other. Eduard—?”

  “She is honest and God-fearing,” said the darkly handsome knight. “Her beauty lights a room when she enters and leaves a terrible sense of loss when she departs. She is wise and brave, loyal beyond call—”

  “And obviously possesses the knack of winning devotion,” William interrupted with a smile.

  “Have you any candidates in mind for her consort?” Alaric asked.

  “There are several,” William admitted, betraying the fact that the matter had been much discussed already. “Each with his own merits, each capable of gaining and holding the respect of the barons … and more importantly, their armies.”

  “Forgive my lack of wit this night,” said Randwulf, “but it still does not explain why you have brought this meal to my table. I have no holdings to speak of, no vast army in England to draw upon, no influence there at all except with the royal executioner.”

  “Your modesty does you no justice. Moreover, England is not the crucible—Normandy is. If the pennants of the Black Wolf were not firmly planted on the banks of the Loire, how long do you think it would take Philip to bring his armies across? I know, after standing in the Frenchman’s court and counting the number of familiar faces in the audience, the deals have already been cut with half the barony of Brittany, Maine, and Anjou. In exchange for retaining their lands and titles, none will lift a lance against Philip’s forces when he attempts to make Normandy part of France. Only you and your absolute devotion to the dowager stand in his way. You are Aquitaine’s champion. You carry her pennant above your own in battle. You have proven your loyalty time and time again; she and her granddaughter both trust you. More importantly, they would listen to you with an open mind.”

  Under different circumstances, the Wolf might have laughed out loud, for the cobwebs had finally been blown off his senses and he knew why the earl had come to Amboise. The battles, verbal and physical, that Queen Eleanor and her husband Henry II had engaged in were the stuff of legends. Henry had even kept her under lock and key for seventeen years fearing she would lead her sons in open revolt against him. There had been no love lost between Eleanor and the blustery William either, and upon Henry’s death, she had heaped double the scorn on Pembroke, going so far as to rail her son Richard in public for making the old warrior Marshal of England.

  Yet the Wolf was not laughing. He was not even smiling. He was, if anything, having difficulty controlling his fury.

  “You would have me intercede on your behalf and convince the princess to play the cat’s paw to your political maneuverings, even though she has spent most of her life being used and manipulated like a piece on a chessboard?”

  “You would prefer to let John decide her fate?”

  A second, frozen hush descended over the group and this time it was Sparrow who broke the shocked silence.

  “Softsword has not dared to lay a hand on our Little Pearl, has he?”

  The earl’s eyes turned into chips of blue ice. “He dared to take her prisoner with her brother at Mirebeau, and he has dared to keep her confined in a tower room at Rouen all these months. Now, if the eyes I have watching those tower rooms are to be believed, he has dared to move her to Cherbourg, and from there, to transport her by ship to England.”

  “To England!” Eduard surged forward, the scar on his face turning a livid white with rage. “The bastard has moved her to England?”

  William nodded. “John himself is getting ready to bolt. He has no men, no money, no army. He knew before he sent me on this fool’s errand to see Philip that the French would never agree to a peaceful compromise, and he knows, once he shows the barons of Brittany and the Aquitaine how little he is prepared to risk in order to hold their loyalty, the fleur-de-lys will fly from every battlement west of the Seine. Normandy will be under French rule by the spring and there is nothing anyone can do to prevent it once John removes himself across the Channel.”

  “And the Princess Eleanor?”

  Pembroke was silent a moment. “Because of Arthur, because he once renounced his claim in supposed good faith only to reappear some months later at the head of an army … Eleanor could pledge her oath of fealty from the highest rampart in the land, she could shout it before the largest court assembled, and John would not be inclined to believe her. As long as she is alive, there is another whose claim to the throne precedes his own. And as long as she is alive, he knows there will be men gathering in dark rooms to speak of civil war.”

  “The king would not dare harm her,” Eduard declared evenly. “Every knight in the realm would turn their backs on him. He would be spitting in the eye of chivalry itself, and no amount of guilty penance, n
o weight of holy relics strung about his scrawny neck, would redeem him.”

  “You place more faith in his concern over public opinion than I do,” Pembroke remarked. “In any case, she is a danger to him and he would not contemplate returning to England without her. As his prisoner or his hostage—call it what you will—the Pearl of Brittany will never be allowed to walk free again, not so long as John sits upon the throne.”

  Eduard, standing in the silence and shadows, steeped in quiet fury. He raised a hand unselfconsciously and pressed it over his breast, feeling the bite of the tiny gold ring. Eleanor had given it to him the day he had won his spurs; the same day he had vowed, with drops of his own blood, to perform all deeds of bravery and honour in her name, and to serve and protect her unto the death as her champion.

  He had not trusted John’s motives from the outset and had wanted to go, by himself if necessary, to bring her away from Mirebeau. But his father and the dowager had both worked to cool his temper. Eleanor herself had assured him she was being treated well and was quite certain her uncle meant her no harm. At the time, she had also been quite certain Arthur would be set free again, and had even gone willingly to Rouen in the hope of being closer to him. As recently as a fortnight ago, she had held hope Arthur was somewhere in the castle donjons being kept in isolation and darkness until his Angevin stubbornness could be broken.

  If John had given the order for Eleanor to be moved to England, she must be aware by now that the rumours of her brother’s death were founded in truth. She would be frightened. Alone. She would know she could no longer trust her uncle’s promises and assurances.

  William the Marshal was watching Eduard’s face closely. “I would hasten to add that if any overt force was brought to bear against the king to win her release, it would invite upon her the same fate her poor brother suffered. Nay, even the threat of force would turn John’s hand against her.”

  Eduard met the marshal’s eye. “Do you suggest we do nothing to correct this travesty?”

  “I suggest we do the only thing we can do.” William drew a breath through his teeth and looked at each man in turn. “I suggest we steal her back.”

  “Steal her back?” Alaric exclaimed.

  “Aye. And the sooner the better. The farther from Brittany she is taken, the deeper into John’s domain she travels, the less likelihood there will be of wresting her from the king’s grasp.”

  “You have obviously ruled out appealing to the dowager for help,” the Wolf assumed.

  “For all of his faults, his past treacheries, and for all that he bestows upon her the affection of a moulting snake, Eleanor of Aquitaine has always favoured John among her sons. She would not knowingly intercede if it meant threatening his position on the throne. As much as she loved Arthur, she ordered a hail of arrows be delivered upon his head when he sought to take Mirebeau. As much as she loves her granddaughter, she would not condone any act that might lead to putting her on the throne in John’s stead.

  “Not,” he stressed, “that it would be necessary, or even probable, for the barons of England to band together to do so. It might well be enough just to be able to threaten to do so in order to win some compromise of power from the throne— compromises we must have to limit the power one man has over an entire kingdom.”

  “So you would use her,” Eduard spat contemptuously. “You would free her from one form of captivity only to place her in another?”

  “There would be no donjon walls and no gaolers to watch her every movement,” William insisted earnestly. “She would be free to marry and have a family and look forward to having her children’s children pulling at her skirts. With John, she will have none of those things. Not even the dreams.”

  Lord Randwulf pursed his lips thoughtfully. If the marshal was serious—and there was no reason to doubt he was not —he was placing the men of Amboise in an extremely awkward position. The dowager would not only resist any attempt to use her granddaughter to control her son’s powers, she would never sanction her champion’s involvement in any such plot. Conversely, Randwulf was aware of the friendship and affection that had developed between Princess Eleanor and his son over the years, and he knew Eduard well enough to be fairly certain no amount of threat or method of persuasion could convince him to leave this thing alone. Randwulf had practically had to declare open war on France himself in order to keep Eduard in the battle lines and away from Rouen.

  “You say she has already been transported to England?” he asked.

  “From Cherbourg, aye.”

  “And taken where?” Eduard demanded.

  “I do not know for certain, but from past experience, the best guess would favour a landing at either Lyme or Purbeck. John has used both Bristol and Corfe Castle for his political prisoners in the past, as they represent the most difficult challenges for a rescue or an escape.”

  “There is also the White Tower, in London,” Alaric reminded him. “No one has ever escaped from there.”

  “True enough,” the marshal agreed. “I also considered London, but it might draw attention to her presence in England, and attention is what he will want to avoid at all cost.”

  “It is what we will want to avoid as well,” the Wolf said darkly, “for all that we are about to commit treason on a rather grand scale.”

  The marshal’s eyes glittered in the candle flame. “Then you agree she must be taken out of his hands and delivered into safer keeping?”

  Randwulf glanced over at his son. It was madness to agree. If the men involved were caught or even recognized, their lives would be forfeit. And if an attempt at rescue was made, but failed, not only their lives, but the life of the princess would be taken on the spot.

  “Before you answer,” the marshal interjected cautiously, “and because I come to you with more boldness than our friendship perhaps warrants, it must be said that the men entrusted with this bounden duty must not be known to the king or to any of his minions. Certes, not well enough for any of them to say to themselves: ahh, there is the Wolf’s head we have been waiting so many years to thrust onto a spike. Or”— the piercing gaze shifted from Randwulf to Alaric—“there is the good Friar who would better serve a monastery in hell. Second, the leader must be a man well-enough known to the princess that she would not fear or hesitate to go with him if he should suddenly appear before her.” The earl stopped and looked directly at Eduard. “It would be a mission fraught with danger and given slim chance of success.”

  Since the possibility of not aiding in the princess’s rescue had never entered his mind, Eduard was able to return the marshal’s stare with a creditably hard one of his own. “Allow me to select a few good men, and I will leave at first light.”

  “You may count me among them,” Henry volunteered at once. “I am familiar with both Bristol and Corfe, having spent a drunken fortnight in the one and a miserable month of service in the other.”

  “Then your help and company will be most welcome,” Eduard agreed.

  “Aye, and what will the pair of you blundernoses do?” Sparrow asked with a snort. “Prance through the gates of Corfe and inquire if Her Highness is receiving rogues that particular day? You will need to draw a plan, fools. And the plan will have to be looked at this way and that, upside and down, with guts spilled and charted so as to leave nothing to chance. This is no game or gambit to be entered with a righteous toss of plumery and a silvered scarf tied to the lance. This is a few against many, an assault on fortified battlements, with our Little Pearl’s delicate white throat poised on the edge of a blade! Leave at first light, will you?” he groused. “Paugh! Go then. And when you are caught circling the castles with your rumps sour with sweat, offer the king’s men my fond regards before they put out your eyes and roast your livers over an open fire.”

  Lord Randwulf gave the chastisement a moment to echo around the small enclave before looking calmly to Alaric. “Friar? A balancing opinion, perhaps? Or a rebuttal against the marshal’s assessment of our worth?”

>   Alaric steepled his hands together on the tabletop, placing the pad of each tapered finger carefully against its opposite. He spared the briefest of glances for the crutches leaning against the wall before he met the Wolf’s eyes.

  “I think … Eduard and Lord Henry have the advantage of speed, if it is needed, and the luxury of noble passion where it is most wanted. In other words, in the time it might take you or I to think of a way to breach a gate, they would be through it and out the other side.” Alaric left his unblunted point to sink in and looked at Sparrow. “I also think the lord marshal has not quite finished laying all out before us. I suspect he would not have come to us without a plan, Puck, and for what it may be worth, we should hear it first before consigning anyone’s gizzards to a fire pit.”

  Sparrow snorted again and glared belligerently at the earl.

  “I have indeed given the matter much thought,” William nodded. “But until recently could not settle on any scheme that did not offer more risks than rewards.” He paused and addressed Eduard. “Firstly—is it true you have managed to exchange several communications with the princess in spite of the heavy guard placed around her at Mirebeau and Rouen?”

  Eduard saw no reason to deny it. “We have passed a letter or two through the walls.”

  “Do you think you could pass another through thicker walls if you were to come within striking distance? And would she know beyond a doubt the message came from you and no one else?”

  Eduard’s eyes narrowed. For over a decade he and Eleanor had communicated by coded letters—a youthful fancifulness they had begun when she had been six and he thirteen … but how had the earl known of this?

  The lion-maned palatine smiled faintly. “The young maid who attends the princess as her personal tiring woman and companion … her name is Marienne, is it not?”