Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

  “We’ll all miss you dreadfully, Bridget, and we’ll try to keep the abbey from falling apart in your absence.” There was a touch of amusement in Alois’s voice.

  “You may like it on the outside, Bridget,” Ebert added. “It’s time you had a life of your own that involves more than caring for a bunch of old men.”

  Bridget looked up at Francis, who still held her clutched to his side, then at the anxious faces of Alois and Ebert hovering over her. She was beginning to realize that, unlike times in the past when she’d been able to sweet-talk or bully the monks into seeing her side of things, this time they were not about to be swayed. “I’ve never wanted any life but this,” she said, her voice faltering. “I’m happy here. Please don’t send me away.”

  Alois straightened up. “It’s already decided. Ebert will take you tomorrow before dawn. By the time our English visitor wakes up, you’ll be gone. Now you’d best get some sleep before your journey.”

  Her momentary weakness past, Bridget slipped out of Francis’s arm and stood, facing all three of them, her hands on her hips. “I won’t go,” she said again. “I’m sorry that I’ve worried you by speaking with the stranger, but he’ll be soon gone, and I’m not going to let his visit disrupt the life of this entire abbey.”

  Francis rose heavily to his feet. “I’m afraid the abbot is right, Bridget. It’s the only way to protect you. What would people think if they knew you’d been raised among us?”

  “I don’t care what they think.”

  “Ah, but you profess to care what becomes of this abbey,” Alois said gravely. “And if it were known that we had kept you hidden here all these years, it could endanger our very existence.”

  This was an argument Bridget had not considered. “Do you think the church would—”

  “Holy orders have been disbanded for less grievous offenses,” Alois interrupted.

  She sat back down on the bed in stunned silence. Though she could hardly fathom the thought, it appeared that she might have no choice but to agree to the abbot’s decision. She was going to be banished from her home and all the people she loved.

  Struggling with rising tears, she said, “Promise me that once the stranger leaves, you’ll let me return.”

  Francis gave a sad smile. “Lass, you’re about to discover a whole new world that you’ve never before experienced. By the time the Englishman leaves us, you may not want to return here.”

  “I shall want to return here,” she said fiercely. “St. Gabriel is my home, and it always will be.”

  The monks exchanged a sad glance, but none of them tried to argue with her.

  “So as soon as he leaves, you’ll have me back?” she asked again.

  “We’ll discuss the matter at that time,” Alois said stiffly.

  And she had to be content with that.

  Ranulf found Brother Francis leaving church after morning prayers.

  “How’s your head today?” Francis greeted him. It seemed to Ranulf that some of the monk’s usual enthusiasm was missing.

  “Each day a little better,” Ranulf replied. “But I’ve not sought you out to discuss my condition. I’ve come for some answers.”

  Francis looked around. A number of the monks were leaving the church, making their way to their morning tasks. He nodded his head toward the far end of the courtyard. “We’ll talk over at the vegetable garden,” he said. “It will be more private, and in any event, I’m on cook duty today.”

  Neither man spoke until they had crossed to the other side of the compound and reached the good-sized plot of land where the monks grew most of their produce. Francis picked up a basket from the edge of the tilled area and gestured with it toward Ranulf. “Did they ever set you to harvesting vegetables in that fancy estate of yours, lad?”

  But Ranulf was not about to be distracted from his purpose. He ignored the monk’s question and the offered basket, saying instead, “I saw her again last night, Brother Francis—the midnight nurse. Why did you lie to me about her?”

  Francis hesitated, then set the basket back on the ground and turned to face the younger man. “May the Lord forgive me, son, but I had my reasons. I’ll ask you to inquire no further about the maid.”

  “But why? Can’t I at least have an explanation? This woman saved my life, remember.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll not give me her name? Nor tell me where I can find her?”

  “I cannot.”

  Ranulf wondered at his own insistence in the face of Francis’s obvious misery. He should forget the girl and put his mind on the business of finding his brother, but something compelled him to find out about her. His head was starting to throb again. He set his jaw and returned the monk’s implacable gaze. “Then I’ll make my own inquiries. I warrant someone in town will be able to tell me about her. There can’t be too many young women of her description with the healing powers.”

  Francis winced, then he hiked the hem of his habit, knelt awkwardly at the side of the vegetable patch and reached once again for the basket. “You are a very stubborn young man,” he said.

  “Aye. So I’ve been told.”

  “She’s no longer here,” Francis said finally, beginning to pick beans off a tangled vine. At Ranulf’s skeptical expression, he glanced up at him and continued, “I’m telling you the truth this time. She left this morning for Beauville. But you must believe me when I tell you that inquiries could put her very life in danger.”

  This was not what Ranulf had expected. He’d speculated about different reasons for the monk’s reluctance to tell him about the girl, but this notion had not been among them. Looking around at the gentle green hills that surrounded the humble abbey, he asked, “What could threaten a young maid’s life in this peaceful place?”

  Francis continued his methodical picking. “Once again, I can’t tell you. ’Tis a secret guarded over these many years. But I would beg you to put her out of your mind.”

  Suddenly Ranulf’s curiosity about the beautiful maid took on a whole new meaning. If the monk’s words were true—if his mysterious nurse was truly in danger—then perhaps he’d been brought here to help her. He’d seen such miracles before on Crusade.

  “I’d like to help her,” he said.

  His tone was so earnest that Francis put down the basket once again and dropped his head to his chest, lost in thought.

  Sensing that the monk was weakening, Ranulf pressed his case. “I’d do nothing to harm her, Brother. I swear it by the holy rood. And perhaps it would be in my power to help her.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything you can do to help,” Francis said slowly. “But if you give your sacred word never to speak to anyone of the circumstances under which you met her, I’ll tell you where she is. You may go to thank her and give her whatever reward you would like for the services she rendered you.”

  Ranulf felt a peculiar elation that seemed out of proportion to the simple fact that he would have the opportunity to give a proper payment to a young woman who had tended him. “Where is she?” he asked eagerly.

  Francis shook his head. “First, your word.”

  “That I’ll not speak of her?”

  “Aye.”

  It seemed a strange request, but Ranulf nodded. “Aye, you have my word.”

  Brother Francis looked into the basket. The bottom was scarcely covered. With a grunt, he pushed himself off the ground with both hands and stood. “The information will cost you,” he said, dusting off his hands.

  Ranulf nodded. “My money is still in my room. I’ll fetch it—”

  Francis broke him off with a slight smile. “I don’t want your money, young man. The price will be that basket of beans.” He stabbed toward the basket with his finger. “I’ll expect it full to overflowing. When you have gathered the fee, you’ll find me in the kitchen.”

  As the monks had promised, Claudine and Philip Marchand were kind people, though they were both stooped with age. In some ways their frailty was comforting, fo
r Bridget immediately set about putting their small thatched house to rights, cleaning and organizing and cooking a hearty meal, and for a time she could almost think that she was back at the abbey.

  She and Ebert had left St. Gabriel before dawn, plodding along on Snail and Tortoise. She’d been utterly aware that each step was taking her farther away from the only home she’d ever known, but the time on the road had given her a chance to think about the positive aspects of her adventure. She was going to see something of the world outside! Even if she never saw more than a peasants’ home outside of humble Beauville, it was farther than she had ever journeyed before.

  By the time they reached the Marchands’ tiny cottage, she was able to say goodbye to Ebert with barely a quiver of emotion in her voice, asserting once again that she would be back at St. Gabriel as soon as the stranger had left.

  Then she had turned to the embrace of old Mistress Marchand and felt a rush of warmth that evoked feelings from a time beyond her memories. She wondered fleetingly if she had once been held like this by another woman, tender and bosomy, but the idea seemed impossible. The only embraces she’d had in her life had been the rare ones the monks had given her while she was growing up. She now understood that each one of those gestures had been against the Rule, which meant she valued them all the more.

  Philip Marchand had contented himself with a kindly pat on her shoulder as a welcome. Bridget soon discovered that the well-meaning man was nearly deaf, and sometimes more than a little confused, but his wife watched over him with the fierce love of a mother hawk to be sure that he came to no harm.

  “I’m afraid we’ll be poor company for a pretty young thing like yourself,” Claudine told her as they waved Brother Ebert down the road and turned to go inside.

  “Nay, ’tis kind of you to have me,” Bridget assured her. Then after a few more pleasantries, she’d begun to look around the cottage for tasks to perform—and she’d found them in abundance.

  The activity made the first day away from home go quickly, and, as Bridget lay down to sleep that night in a small loft at the back of the house, she decided that this interlude might not be so disagreeable after all. The monks had chosen the Marchands because the older couple now had little contact with the rest of the community, and their home was at some distance from the town. It was possible that she would be able to go back to the abbey before anyone else even knew of her presence here, and in the meantime, the Marchands could benefit from her help.

  Of course it was tempting, now that she’d taken this first step, to go out and explore the rest of Beauville, but if she did that, more questions might be raised. It was best to stay hidden, she decided, as sleep slowly claimed her. Then soon she would be able to go home.

  “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with St. Gabriel, lad,” Francis said as the two sat by the kitchen fire long after most of the monks had retired. Though Ranulf had already caught him in a lie, he was virtually certain the puzzlement in the monk’s voice was genuine.

  “I’m not sure, either, Brother. All I know is that the last word we heard from Edmund was a letter sent to his affianced bride. He told her he was heading toward an abbey of White Monks called St. Gabriel. This is the only such place we could locate.”

  “Aye, I know of none other.”

  “But you don’t have any idea why my brother would have wanted to come here?”

  “I don’t know why anyone would want to come here, son. Why, it’s been nigh on twenty years now since our own bishop has paid us a call.”

  Ranulf stared into the dying embers of the fire. “Mayhap he meant that he was coming to your town.”

  “Beauville? ’Tis as unlikely a choice as the abbey itself. Beauville’s a sleepy place known for the fine size of its vegetables at the weekly market.”

  “Blast Dragon for his vagueness.” Ranulf’s expression tightened with frustration.

  “Dragon?” Francis asked.

  “My brother. ’Tis the name I always called him. Back at Lyonsbridge he was known as Dragon-slayer.” His expression softened into a wistful smile. “He was the biggest of us three brothers. He could take on both Thomas and me at once and win the victory two times out of three.”

  Ranulf straightened up on his stool, realizing with sudden horror that he’d been referring to his brother in the past, as if he was dead. “He could best us both and he will again,” he amended. “As soon as I find him.”

  “I wish I could be of more help.” Francis’s blue eyes were kind.

  “Is there a sheriff in Beauville? Or a magistrate?”

  “A sheriff, aye—Charles Guise. He’s the sheriff of Beauville, but all know that he’s really the chief bully of the liege lord, LeClerc.”

  “LeClerc?”

  “Henri LeClerc, the overlord here. He lives in Darmaux Castle and owns some smaller holdings, as well, including the castle at Mordin.”

  “And this sheriff—Guise—is his man?”

  “Aye. I doubt he’ll be able to tell you anything. If a knight such as you describe your brother to be had visited Beauville, we would have heard of it, even here.”

  “I want to speak with the sheriff, nonetheless, and perhaps I’ll try to talk with the baron. And I’ll need to buy a new horse and weapons.”

  “You’d fare more cheaply if you rode as far as Rouen. Beauville has more limited possibilities. But you should be able to find a horse there for the right price.”

  “I’m not concerned with price. I want to get myself outfitted properly again and get started on my mission. I’ve delayed long enough. I’ll ride to town tomorrow if you’ll lend me one of your fine mules.”

  Francis smiled, but asked, “Are you sure you’re well enough?”

  “Aye. I’ve lain abed long enough.” Ranulf stood. He was anxious to start his inquiries about his brother, but he didn’t tell the monk that part of his eagerness was due to a desire to see his beautiful nurse once again.

  Francis leaned heavily on a fire iron to boost himself up from the stool. “Very well. I’ll meet you at the barn in the morning.”

  “And you’ll give me directions to find Sheriff Guise…and to the home where she’s staying.”

  Francis hesitated a long moment, then said, “I don’t go to the town much myself, but, aye, I’ll tell you where to find her.”

  “Thank you, Brother.”

  Francis gazed steadily into the younger man’s face. “Remember your promise.”

  “That I won’t speak of how she cured me?”

  “That you won’t speak of her at all once you’ve left here.”

  Ranulf frowned. “Though I don’t understand the reasoning of it, you have my word.”

  Francis nodded, but as he turned to bank the fire, his eyes were troubled.

  “Well, now, that’s an unexpected development,” Baron LeClerc said, dismounting from his big destrier. He’d just ridden in from reviewing the Darmaux estates to be greeted by the sheriff and his news. Fortunately for Guise, the ride in the brisk spring air had been good for the baron’s temperament.

  “I thought it best to come to you for further instructions, your lordship, since you’ve not wanted us interfering with the abbey in the past.”

  “No.” The baron thought for a moment. “No, I don’t want your men going in there.” He threw the reins of his horse to a waiting stable lad. “So our informant says that the Englishman is being cared for at the abbey, but he doesn’t know why he has come there?”

  “He says not. I gather the knight has not been too coherent. He’s delirious with fever from the wound.”

  The baron gave a sardonic smile. “So at least your wretched attempt at stopping the man accomplished something, Guise. Is it possible he’ll die?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Our monk didn’t know.”LeClerc drew off his long leather gloves and slapped them across the palm of his hands. “Keep in touch with the abbey. If the man recovers, I want to know why he’s here.”

  “Very good, milord. And if
he dies?”

  “Well, then that’ll be the end of it, won’t it, you bloody idiot?”

  “Aye, milord.” The sheriff bowed his head, but kept his eyes on LeClerc’s back as the baron stalked into Darmaux Castle.

  The mule kept a steady but maddeningly slow pace. Once again, Ranulf gave a sigh of regret over his lost stallion. It would be hard to find a horse to match Thunder, especially in this country town. He could see it now in the distance—Beauville, Francis had called it. The monk had explained that the Marchand house was a bit of a distance, up a small road that led north of town.

  The ride had given him time to reflect on why he had been so insistent on seeing the girl again. He hadn’t thought that anything could deter him from his mission to find Dragon. Perhaps the blow to his head had addled him more than was apparent. That was the only explanation he could think of for this odd obsession.

  Then he saw her. She was outside a small cottage, kneeling over a garden whose neat rows had long since been abandoned to run wild. She wore a yellow dress that matched her bright hair, the only splotches of light against the dark, tangled weeds.

  His breath caught, and a pulse throbbed in his neck. If the head wound had addled his brain, it had done so in a peculiar way, for he never remembered feeling such an instantaneous response to a woman. Not even at that moment when he had first seen Diana again after he and Dragon returned from the Crusades. Of course, Diana had been running into his brother’s arms at the time, oblivious to Ranulf’s burning gaze.

  His nursing angel was oblivious, too, at the moment, intent on her work. But Ranulf intended to change that. In a moment of painful honesty, he admitted that he had not sought out the maid for the noble purpose of giving her a reward. He’d come because he wanted her for himself.

  Chapter Five

  Bridget was having difficulty keeping up the resolve and high spirits she’d managed the previous day. Both the Marchands had been up before dawn and had been effusive in their thanks for the hearty morning meal she’d prepared, but after they’d finished eating, the older couple had sat on their little stools by the fire and had promptly nodded off to sleep. Bridget had listened to their gentle snoring with a sigh as she cleaned up the morning dishes. This was not the excitement she’d imagined when she’d thought about life beyond the abbey.