Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

  She’d decided to work outdoors, hoping that the sunshine on her face might brighten her humor. She’d already seen that the Marchand garden was in total disarray. Someone had evidently planted earlier in the spring, but since then, the plot had been left to grow into nearly unidentifiable tangles of vegetables and weeds.

  She began a ruthless attack on the latter—hacking and pulling, then carefully pouring water from her bucket on the tender shoots she had uncovered. She was so engrossed in the effort that she didn’t hear the approach of the mule until it was at the edge of the garden. When she looked up in the middle of watering and saw Ranulf, the pail dropped from her hands, water splashing all around as it hit the ground.

  He gave her an engaging grin. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She looked down at the dirt on her skirt, which the soaking had turned to mud. Then she turned back to him with a gasp and blurted, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to talk with you.” He swung his leg easily over the swayed back of the mule and jumped to the ground.

  Bridget’s hands smoothed down her muddy skirt. “You can’t have. I mean…you’re not supposed to know that I’m here.”

  He grinned. “Ah, well. I’m a resourceful fellow when it comes to finding runaway angels. It’s a specialty of mine.”

  She could feel the sudden rush of heat draining from her cheeks and struggled to regain control over her voice. “I—I’m not an angel.”

  “But you are a runaway. Why did you run from me at the barn the night before last?”

  “Who told you to find me here?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  “Brother Francis.” At her look of amazement, he continued, “I bullied the information out of him as his penance for lying to me. I’d never known a man of God to tell a falsehood before.”

  His tone was uncensoring, but Bridget felt the need to defend her beloved guardian. “He did it for my sake.”

  Ranulf crouched down next to her, his eyes scanning her face. “Why? What is it that makes all of you so afraid that you’ll not even tell me your name?”

  He was no longer wearing the monk’s habit she’d dressed him in that first evening. “You found some clothes,” she said, ignoring his question.

  He shook his head in resignation at her continued avoidance of his questions, then took a step back and gestured to the rough linen tunic and simple wool hose with a grin. “Francis found them for me. From the odor when I got them, I believe they came from a pig farmer, but I aired them through the night so that you’d not have to hold your nose to talk with me, Angel-of-No-Name.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “My name’s Bridget,” she said.

  The words were rewarded with a smile. “Bridget,” he repeated, as if the name felt pleasant on his tongue. “Bridget the Angel.”

  His voice was rich with humor. “Some of the brothers would argue with you. When I was growing up, I’d be more likely called little devil than angel.”

  “You’ve been visiting the abbey since childhood, then?”

  “Aye, that is—” She paused. For some reason, Francis had revealed her whereabouts to the very stranger who had caused her banishment from the abbey, but he apparently had told Ranulf nothing more about her unusual upbringing. It was a secret she still should keep. “Aye,” she ended simply.

  He waited for more, but when it became obvious that she was not going to elaborate, he cleared his throat and said, “I came to thank you for my care, and I want to give you a reward for saving my life.”

  She shook her head. “I need no reward. I’m glad you survived.” As she said the words, she realized just how true they were. In spite of her discomfiture, she was fiercely glad that Ranulf was kneeling beside her, nearly healthy and watching her with that roguish smile. She couldn’t remember when she’d been so glad about anything.

  “Ah, but ’twould be my pleasure to reward you, Mistress Bridget.” He cocked his head as an idea seemed to strike him. “Perhaps you’ll accept something from me if I ask you for a further favor.”

  She could not break the spell of his gaze. “What would that favor be?”

  He hesitated and glanced toward the door of the cottage. “Perhaps I should ask permission of your…parents first?”

  Bridget felt the heat rising in her cheeks again. “The Marchands are not my parents. I—I merely live here with them.”

  “You are their ward?”

  She gave a vague nod, but he did not seem to notice her hesitation.

  “I’d like your company for the afternoon,” he said, standing and reaching for her muddy hands. “To show me around your Beauville. I need to make some inquiries about buying a horse and other supplies.”

  Bridget felt a stirring at the pit of her stomach. What he was asking was impossible. How could she show him around Beauville when she’d never set foot in the place herself? And she knew that the monks had hoped she’d stay hidden away at the Marchands. But the idea of really seeing something of the outside world—and in particular seeing it with him—had her heart racing with excitement.

  “I don’t go there…um…often,” she said. “You’d do better to find your guide in Beauville itself.”

  “I can think of no better guide than my very own angel. Please,” he coaxed. “You may count it as part of my cure, for in fact I do feel a bit dizzy under this strong sun. I might need some nursing to survive the afternoon.”

  The entire notion was crazy and dangerous, but completely irresistible. She allowed him to pull her up, muddy hands and all, and said, “I warrant the dizzy one is I, Sir Ranulf, for I believe I shall grant your request. Will you wait here while I change my dress?”

  He grinned. “I’ll stay planted as firmly as a turnip.”

  Bridget hesitated a moment more, then, before she could lose her courage, she turned around and raced into the house.

  Bridget’s first impression was that there was much more color in the town than she had ever seen at the abbey. Though many of the houses were built of the same dull gray fieldstone used at St. Gabriel, surrounding the cottages everything was colorful. Laundry lines flapped in the winds with brightly stained fabrics. Children ran back and forth, their towheads reflecting the yellow springtime sun. Along the street were people pushing carts full of vegetables and painted pots and dyed leather shoes and all manner of intriguing wares.

  She breathed in a deep gulp of air that smelled of bacon grease and boiling tar and lavender—all at the same time. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said to Ranulf.

  He smiled back at her, but looked a little confused at her enthusiasm for what was really just a common scene.

  Bridget forced her expression to be more composed, but her eyes still darted avidly here and there, taking in every single sight. This may be her only venture out into the real world, she told herself. She was determined to experience it all.

  “According to Brother Francis, the sheriff lives at the other end of town,” Ranulf said, looking to her for confirmation.

  Bridget nodded vaguely. She had no idea where the sheriff lived, though that would probably seem strange to Ranulf.

  They moved down the center of the street and Ranulf took her arm to steer her through the muck left by the busy market traffic. It felt strange to have his strong fingers wrapped around her—strange and comforting.

  “No one greets you, Mistress Bridget. Is your town so unfriendly?” Ranulf asked after a few moments.

  The couple had caused plenty of stares, but so far no one had said a word to them. Bridget hesitated, then said, “I don’t know many people here, Sir Ranulf. I told you that you would find a better guide elsewhere.”

  “Ah, but not a prettier one. There’s not a more lovely face in all the town. I’ve been checking,” he added with a grin.

  She didn’t know how to respond to either his flattery or his teasing. “I’m sure you would find many pretty girls in Beauville if you looked at the right households.”

  “Nay, I’m happy wi
th the one I’ve already found. In fact, I’ve decided to stop looking.” He halted in the middle of the street and cupped his hands alongside his eyes. “See, I’ve blinders on like a plow horse. Not another pretty face will enter my eyes this day.”

  She laughed at his silliness. “I can’t see that it does any harm to look. Indeed, if you don’t, you could venture into one of these muck piles and fall flat on your face.” She pulled his hand away from his face with one of hers, and he caught hold of it, refusing to let her go. For a long moment they stood facing each other in the middle of the street, hands clasped.

  “We should go. People are staring,” Bridget said. She was surprised to find that her voice came out as a bare whisper.

  The smile had dropped off Ranulf’s face as he watched her. He looked around as though suddenly remembering where they were. “Aye, I’m sorry.” He took the hand he’d been holding and tucked it securely into his arm. This time his voice was serious as he said, “In truth, I need no blinders, angel, for I can see naught but you.” Then he turned and led the way down the street.

  There was something odd about his lovely nurse, and it was not just the spell she had seemed to cast over him.

  For one thing, no one spoke to her. How could she have lived in a place her whole life and not be acknowledged by a single person? Beyond that, she appeared to wonder at the most common things. When they had passed the cooper’s shop, she’d begged to stop and watch how the man and his young assistant bent the staves around the barrel they were making. It was as if she’d never before seen such a sight. And no one at the cooper’s had appeared to know her, either.

  By the time they reached the end of the street where they were supposed to find the sheriff’s house, Ranulf was thoroughly mystified.

  “You do know the sheriff, I suppose?” he asked Bridget.

  “Nay.”

  He turned to face her. “Yet you have lived here your whole life? Have the Marchands kept you hidden away all this time?” he asked in jest, but was surprised to see her face go tense.

  “I agreed to come with you today, but I’ll have to leave unless you promise not to ask anything more about me,” she said stiffly.

  “I don’t understand—”

  “I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “Please don’t ask any more questions.”

  The words were determined, but there was fear in her eyes. What had Francis said? Ranulf tried to remember the monk’s exact words. Something about Bridget’s very life being in danger. He lowered his voice. “Who are you, mistress? What are you afraid of?”

  She shook her head. “No questions.”

  “I only want to help you. You saved my life. I’d like to be able to do something—”

  She interrupted him with another firm, “No questions, Sir Ranulf. Or I must leave.”

  He had no choice other than to comply, but the confrontation had dampened the pleasure he’d been feeling at spending a beautiful morning in the company of a lovely woman. His humor wasn’t helped when they discovered that the sheriff had ridden to Darmaux Castle and wasn’t expected back until later.

  The news was told to them by the sheriff’s neighbor, an elderly cobbler who never took his eyes from Bridget’s face even while he answered Ranulf’s questions.

  “I’ll have to see the sheriff when he returns,” Ranulf told the cobbler. “But in the meantime, I need to purchase a horse. Could you direct us toward the livery?”

  “You’d find a better pick of horses in Rouen,” the old man said, still staring at Bridget.

  “Aye, but I need one to get me that far,” Ranulf said patiently. “Surely there must be one for sale here in town.”

  “Jean the Smithy should have one for you. And weapons, if you’re in the market. He fancies himself something of an arms maker.”

  Bridget’s beauty would turn any head, but Ranulf was growing annoyed by the cobbler’s rude stare, and he sensed that it was making Bridget uncomfortable. Quickly he obtained directions to the blacksmith’s establishment, then put a protective arm around Bridget’s back and turned away from the old man with a curt thank-you.

  “He looked at me as though my hair had suddenly turned green,” Bridget said as they walked away.

  Ranulf had had much the same opinion, but he laughed and said, “Perhaps he’s not seen such a pretty sight for a long time.”

  “It made me feel odd.”

  He gave her arm a squeeze. “Pay no attention. I’m surprised you’re not accustomed to men’s stares by now.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Nay, I’m not accustomed to them at all.”

  Something in the way she said it made Ranulf look down at her sharply. The mystery about Mistress Bridget seemed to deepen the longer he spent with her.

  “I wish you’d tell me something more—” he began, but he broke off in mid-sentence to cry “Thunder!”

  They were walking up to the big wooden stables that housed the town’s prosperous blacksmith. Grazing quietly in a small corral at one side was a cloudy gray stallion. Ranulf dropped his hold on Bridget’s arm and took off toward the horse at a run.

  The animal gave a whinny at the knight’s approach and walked over to meet him at the fence.

  Ranulf called back over his shoulder. “It’s my horse!”

  By the time Bridget reached the fence, Ranulf had boosted himself over it and was standing next to the big animal, rubbing its neck. Thunder tossed his head in acknowledgment.

  “Ah, but it’s good to see you, boy,” Ranulf said. He nodded to Bridget, who was standing a step back, looking hesitant. “He’s gentle enough. Here, pat him, if you like.”

  She put out a tentative hand and touched the big animal’s forehead, then smiled. “You’re right. The mules would nip at me if I ever tried such a thing.”

  Ranulf threw an arm over Thunder’s neck and dragged himself up on his back. “Not Thunder. I’ve trained him to be fierce with enemies, but gentle with beautiful women.”

  “Only with the beautiful ones?”

  “Aye.” Ranulf grinned. “The ugly ones he bites.”

  Bridget shook her head, laughing, then asked, “But how did he come to be here? Is this the animal that the robbers took from you?”

  Ranulf’s grin faded. “Aye.” He gave Thunder a final pat, then slid down from his back. “I should check him over to see that he’s none the worse for our encounter, then I intend to have a discussion with the smithy about where he came from.”

  “The smithy might well make the same inquiry of you,” boomed a voice from the entrance to the barn.

  Bridget and Ranulf turned around to see a giant man nearly filling the oversize wooden door. He wore a leather apron over his hose and nothing more, leaving his shoulders and arms bare. They bulged with muscle. His head was bald and glistened in the sunlight.

  “Would you be Jean the Smithy?” Ranulf asked without alarm.

  “Aye.” The big man moved forward and it seemed as if the ground shook with each step. “Who the devil are you and why are you making yourself free with my horse?”

  Ranulf smiled and offered a hand. “It was a reunion of sorts. Your horse and I are old acquaintances.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the blacksmith reached out and shook the offered hand. Though Ranulf’s hand was big, the smith’s engulfed it.

  “Well, the horse is mine now,” the smith said.

  “Would you mind if I inquired as to how you came by the animal?” Ranulf asked.

  Bridget watched the exchange with interest. In his own way, the big, earthy blacksmith was as fascinating as Ranulf to someone who had seen nothing but monks all her life.

  “Aye, I’d mind,” he answered gruffly. “Folks around here don’t much like strangers who come around asking questions.”

  Bridget thought she could notice a tightening of Ranulf’s jaw, but his voice was still pleasant as he said, “If you came by him honestly, I’ve no quarrel with you. But I’d like to buy him.”

  “The horse is not for
sale.”

  Neither man blinked as they sized each other up for a long moment. Bridget cleared her throat and addressed the big man. “This horse was taken from Sir Ranulf by outlaws. You should be grateful that he’s offering to buy it back rather than demand it as his due.”

  Ranulf shot her a surprised glance, and the blacksmith turned his gaze on her for the first time. “Who are you?” he barked.

  Bridget swallowed. “I—who I am is not important. The issue is the horse, which should be returned to its rightful owner.”

  The smithy stood eyeing them both. “Sir Ranulf?” he asked. “Are you truly a knight?”

  “Aye,” Ranulf answered. “And that truly is my horse.”

  “You don’t much look the gentlemen in those clothes, but if the horse is yours, I’d wager you’re not a peasant. He’s the finest piece of horseflesh I’ve seen in these parts.”

  “Thank you. He’s served me well.”

  “But he’s mine now. I bought him fair and square.”

  She could see the carefully banked excitement in Ranulf’s eyes as he said, “I’ll pay you a fair price for my horse, and I’ll double it if you can lead me to the man who sold it to you.”

  The smithy’s eyes grew wide. All hostility had disappeared from his tone as he said, “I can tell you who brought in the animal, but he was no bandit. It was one of the baron’s men.”

  “And which baron would that be?” Ranulf asked.

  “Henri LeClerc, Baron of Darmaux. And lest you think the baron’s an outlaw, I’ll tell you that his liege lord is the Duke of Austria.”

  “Who’s the Duke of Austria?” Bridget asked.

  Both men looked a little surprised at her question, but Ranulf answered, “He’s one of the most powerful men on the continent. He’s the one who seized King Richard the Lionhearted as he returned from Crusade and held him prisoner. My brother Thomas and I were among those who collected the ransom to free him.”