Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

  He flattened himself against the wall as he suddenly heard the sound of voices coming from the path to the abbey behind him. Sliding sideways so that he was hidden behind the big shed door, he waited for the newcomers’ approach.

  “The baron wants this finished quickly,” one of the voices said.

  Francis peered through the crack in the door. The men’s faces were illuminated by the furnace light coming from inside. He recognized the speaker as the sheriff from Beauville and, with a sinking heart, he recognized the man the sheriff was addressing. It was Brother Cyril.

  “The men can only produce so many points a night,” Cyril was saying in that animated, special voice he used for discussing his scientific achievements. “If you cheat on the time or the mixture, you won’t be happy with the results.”

  The sheriff grumbled his reply. “I don’t know why we can’t just come in here and take over the furnace. Then we could be producing night and day.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t violate the sanctity of the abbey,” Cyril protested.

  “Aye, because the Duke of Austria wanted to keep his new weapons secret. But once he starts using them in his next campaign, everyone in the world will know of the marvelous black metal of St. Gabriel.”

  Francis thought that Cyril looked distressed, but it could have been the way the furnace flares fell on his face.

  “What will happen then?” the monk asked.

  The sheriff clapped a heavy hand on the monk’s shoulder. “Why, then you’ll be famous, Brother. ’Tis what you wanted, isn’t it? For the world to know how brilliant you are?”

  “Aye, I wanted the world to have my knowledge,” Cyril said. “But I didn’t think it would mean the end of the abbey.”

  “Ah, well, it’s a bit late to worry about it now, isn’t it?”

  The men reached the edge of the door where Francis was hiding. Absently the sheriff reached out with his hand to push it open a little farther, but with Francis wedged behind, it sprang back at him.

  “What the hell?” the sheriff exclaimed. Francis made a sound as the door hit flat against his big belly. Then, before he could even think to run, the sheriff had pulled the door open and pinned him against the wall.

  “Brother Francis!” Cyril cried.

  “Who’s this?” the sheriff growled. He pushed against Francis’s throat with his metal wristlet, nearly choking him.

  “’Tis one of the brothers,” Cyril said.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve told no one about this.” Cyril’s voice was shaky. “Don’t hurt him,” he added.

  Guise eased the pressure against Francis’s neck. “What are you doing here, lard bucket?” he asked.

  Francis coughed, then said to Cyril, “I’ve come to learn who has betrayed our abbey, Brother Cyril, and I warrant that now I know.”

  The sheriff muttered an oath and turned his head toward Cyril. “How many more know your secret, Brother?”

  Cyril shook his head in misery.

  “Everyone will know of it if I have anything to say about it,” Francis said.

  The sheriff gave a disgusted look from Francis to Cyril. “Confounded godmongers,” he said. Then, still holding Francis pinned against the wall with his big arm, he drew a dagger from his belt and moved it toward Francis’s throat.

  Cyril was on him in an instant, pulling the hand with the dagger away from Francis’s neck. “No!” he shouted.

  Guise released himself from the monk’s grasp without effort. Then he pulled his arm back and thrust the knife into Francis’s habit.

  Cyril watched in horror as the round monk sank to the ground without a sound.

  Guise pulled back his dagger, wiped it on his tunic and stepped around the still-open door. “You have until dawn to bury your fat friend,” he told Cyril, “unless you want all your precious abbey brothers to discover that you helped cause the death of one of their number.”

  Cyril had clutched the side of the door for support. “You’ve killed him,” he gasped.

  “Aye, and he’s only the first this night. With luck, we’ll have taken care of the two bloody Englishmen as well before the night’s out.”

  “May you burn in hell, Guise,” the monk said, crossing himself.

  The sheriff laughed. “Aye, but you’ll join me there. After all, Brother, who is the greater murderer, the one who dispatches one bothersome monk with a single dagger or the one who invents a metal that will cause the deaths of hundreds, perhaps thousands?” Then he turned and stalked into the work shed.

  The half-open door blocked the light from reaching where Francis had fallen. Cyril knelt beside him and felt his body in the darkness. The entire right side of the monk’s habit was wet with blood, but when he touched him, Francis gave a slight groan.

  “Francis!” Cyril said in an excited whisper. “Can you hear me?”

  “Aye.” He opened his eyes. “’Tis as I’ve always said, sometimes a bit of bulk can serve a man in good stead. The knave’s knife just nicked my side.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “’Tis only a scratch.”

  “Francis, I never thought it would come to this. I never wanted to put the abbey in danger.”

  “Nay, but what about all the soldiers you were condemning to death with your devil’s tools?”

  Cyril had no reply.

  “’Tis not the time to speak of it,” Francis said after a moment. “I need to get this side bandaged or I truly shall bleed to death. Will you help me?”

  “Aye,” Cyril said, his tone heavy with remorse.

  “And then we need to find Ranulf. What did the sheriff mean when he said that two Englishmen would die? Was he talking about Ranulf?”

  “Aye, and his brother. They’ve had him captive for months since he came seeking information about the black metal.”

  “Ah, Cyril, how could you have put yourself in league with such men?”

  “It started because I just wanted…” Cyril’s voice faded until Francis could barely hear him. “I just wanted my discovery to be known to the world. The baron offered to help me in exchange for my silence.”

  “We don’t have time to discuss it now. Help me up, and then let’s get away from here before the sheriff discovers that it takes more than his puny dagger to kill this lard bucket.”

  The knock on her door was soft, but Bridget had no trouble hearing it, nor recognizing the low voice that called to her from outside. “Are you still awake?” Ranulf asked.

  She’d thought that he’d already gone to sleep, which had relieved her, since it would mean she wouldn’t have to worry about her delaying tactics until the following day. Crossing to open the door, she answered, “Aye, I’m awake.”

  He was fully dressed and didn’t look the least bit tired in spite of their long ride and the late hour. “I came to try to persuade you one last time to ride to Lyonsbridge with me,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Nay, the monks need me here. Nor should you be going. Your wound’s not healed enough for the crossing.”

  Ranulf smiled. “My wound is fine, thanks to my angel nurse. I don’t like to leave you, sweetheart. We don’t know when the sheriff’s men will begin to search for you again.”

  “They won’t come here,” she said, opening the door more widely and gesturing for him to come in. “When are you planning to leave?”

  “Now,” he said, stepping into the room.

  “Tonight?” she asked in alarm. Then, aware that her tone sounded panicky, she said more calmly, “You can’t ride in the dark.”

  “There’s a full moon. Thunder and I will be fine, and we can be at the coast before dawn. With luck, I’ll be back here in two days, three at most, with a full contingent of Lyonsbridge men. Then we can really see what LeClerc is up to.”

  Bridget’s heart had begun to race. “But why the hurry? Surely it would be better to wait and go in the daylight?”

  “Nay, I’ve delayed too long already.” He reac
hed out and took both her hands. “Sweetheart, somehow I know that Dragon is out there somewhere waiting for me to find him. He’s waited long enough.”

  “But—” She searched her mind to think of arguments to sway him, all the while aware of his warm hands clasping her cold ones. Finally she decided to voice her fears directly. “What will become of the abbey if you bring all those men back here? What will happen to the monks?”

  Ranulf looked uncomfortable, but answered, “Bridget, if your monks are involved in making weapons to kill people, they don’t deserve to be able to continue on under the name of a holy order.”

  “So you would see an end to St. Gabriel?”

  “If necessary.”

  She pulled her hands away. “I’d like you to give me and Francis some time to find the truth of this matter.”

  Ranulf looked surprised. “Does Francis think he may know something of it?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, but he’s going to put the question to the abbot tomorrow and perhaps talk to some of the others. If you’ll give us some time, we may be able to come up with some answers for you.”

  “Meanwhile, Dragon waits.”

  Bridget swallowed hard. “If he’s waited this long, what difference would a few more days make?”

  Ranulf’s expression was sad. “I don’t know what difference it might make. That’s why I have to go get help now. Do you think I like leaving you unprotected? But I need help. I’m just one man. There’s no way I can go up against the sheriff and LeClerc all by myself.”

  Bridget looked straight into his blue eyes. “I’m asking you to wait,” she said.

  He hesitated a long moment, but finally said, “Angel, I can’t.”

  Inside she felt shaky. Backing up to the candle stand by her cot, she reached behind her to retrieve the spear point she’d left there earlier. “Do I get a kiss goodbye?” she asked.

  Ranulf cocked his head in surprise, then smiled and said, “I make it a practice never to deny a kiss to an angel.”

  In two steps he had her in his arms and the next thing she knew, his lips were on hers. She steeled herself not to be affected, but her knees went weak as his soft tongue swiped along her bottom lip. In another instant, she would be incapable of action.

  Gripping the spear point firmly in her hand, she brought it up so that the point was pressed into his neck. “Don’t move,” she said firmly, “because this is very sharp.”

  She felt his body go tense. “What game is this?” he asked.

  “’Tis no game,” she said. “I made a simple request and you refused. Now ’tis no longer a request, but an order. I want you to sit down on the bed behind you—carefully now or I’m apt to prick you.”

  Rather to her amazement, he complied with her request without protest. She kept the spear point pressed against him as he moved, then backed carefully away, holding it in ready. He watched her with a dark expression. “Has this all been a charade?” he asked. “Are you part of this conspiracy?”

  She was surprised at the question. “I’m part of no conspiracy, Ranulf. I’m merely trying to protect my monks from being overrun by two armies—yours and the baron’s.”

  Her answer seemed to relieve him. He pushed himself back on the bed, the ghost of a smile playing about his lips. “So you intend to keep me prisoner here?” he asked.

  She nodded. “For a while. Until Francis has determined what goes on in the work shed at night.”

  “And you think that scrap is enough to hold me here?” he asked, pointing to the metal in her hand.

  She looked down at it. “’Tis wickedly sharp. It could tear you open like a wildcat’s claw.”

  “Well now, we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?”

  Bridget bit her lip. She felt a little foolish standing in front of him with her piece of weapon clutched in her fingers, and she couldn’t stand here all night guarding him. Ranulf seemed to have relaxed. He sat leaning with his back against the wall, his long legs stretched out the length of the bed. He continued to watch her with a little twist of a smile.

  “Will you give me your word that you won’t leave if I let you go?” she asked finally.

  He gave a slow, almost imperceptible, shake of his head. “Nay,” he said.

  She swallowed again. Her entire throat had gone dry. By St. Bridget, I should have waited for Francis, she told herself. “Lie down, then,” she ordered. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. She made a horizontal gesture with the spear point. “Lie down on the cot,” she repeated. “I’m not letting you go anywhere, so you might as well be comfortable for the night.”

  His big body dwarfed her small bed, but he stretched and lay back against the mattress. “Like this?” he asked.

  There was a gleam in his eyes as he looked up at her that was making her stomach do those peculiar flips she had come to know. She avoided looking at him as she opened her chest of belongings and took out some hair ribbons that Brother Ebert had bought for her at the market in a rare acknowledgment of her needs as a young woman. The gesture had meant the world to her.

  She looked doubtfully down at the silky strands in her hand. They seemed flimsy compared to the ropes the monks used to tie up animals in the stable, but she had nothing else in her room that would serve.

  She could see the easy rise and fall of Ranulf’s broad chest. He didn’t look the least bit distressed, whereas her own breathing had become quick and shallow and there was a pounding behind her ears.

  “Er…if you won’t give me your word not to try to leave, I’ll have to bind you to keep you here,” she told him. He continued to watch her, eyes dancing in the candlelight. With a grimace of distaste, she put the spear point temporarily between her teeth to free her hands, then stepped closer to the bed.

  At a gesture from her, he cooperated by putting both his hands above his head. His gaze never left her face.

  Kneeling, she lifted his limp arm, tied a loop around his wrist and fastened the other end of the ribbon to the leg of the cot. Then she walked around the back end of the bed to tie the other hand to the opposite side. Once it was done, she straightened up and took the spear point out of her mouth with a sigh of relief. “There,” she said. “Will you be able to sleep all right like that?” she asked, moving around the bed to look at him again.

  “You do love this place, don’t you?” he asked softly.

  She’d been so concerned with her attempts to restrain him that she hardly understood his question, but after a moment she realized that he was referring to St. Gabriel. “Aye,” she told him. “Every bit as much as you love your Lyons-bridge.”

  He winced. “Bridget, I don’t want to bring hurt to you or any of the ones you love, but something is wrong here. I believe something evil has entered your peaceful world, and nothing will be the same until you root out what it is and set it right.”

  “That’s what Francis and I are trying to do.”

  He shook his head. “There’s no way you and Francis can prove a match for someone as powerful as LeClerc.”

  “We can try.” She knew her voice sounded defensive. It felt odd to be standing here above him while he lay helpless in front of her.

  “We need help,” he argued. His voice became soft. “Enough games. Untie me and let me be on my way to Lyonsbridge so that we can see this thing settled.”

  “Nay.”

  His momentary look of irritation disappeared, replaced by a smile. “Ah, sweetheart, under any other circumstances I’d consider it an honor to be bound to your bed. Is this a typical cure you use for your patients?”

  His reference to her nursing made her remember his wound with a flush of guilt. “You’re not feverish?” she asked.

  “Not from the head wound,” he answered dryly.

  She understood his remark exactly. She felt feverish herself. Taking a step back from the bed, she said, “Then go to sleep.”

  He wiggled his fingers inside their bindings. “I don’t think I can sleep like this.”

  “I’ll u
ntie you if you promise not to try to leave.”

  “Nay, that I can’t do.”

  “So be it.” She pulled up her low stool to sit down, prepared to sit up awake until Francis came.

  “You’d be more comfortable stretched out here on the bed,” he said after a moment.

  His voice was warm and coaxing. She looked away from him. “There isn’t room.”

  “I’ll move over.” He turned his body sideways to make a narrow space on the cot beside him.

  Bridget shook her head. She stared at the flicker of the candle, willing her racing pulse to slow. She had a feeling that it was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Neither one had spoken for several moments when Ranulf moaned. The sound made Bridget jump. “What’s wrong?” she asked, turning her head to look at him.

  “Nay, ’tis nothing.”

  His eyes were closed and he appeared to be lying peacefully, but she thought she detected a slight sheen of moisture on his forehead. “Are you sure? Your head is not paining you?”

  “Don’t fret yourself about it.”

  She rose from the stool and walked over to him. It was hard to tell in the dim candlelight, but it seemed possible that his cheeks were flushed. “Is it aching?” she asked again.

  He merely shook his head from side to side, but at the end of the motion, he gave another little moan. “It is hurting,” she said in alarm. She sat down on the edge of the bed alongside him and put her hand against the cloth that still wrapped his head. “Let’s see if the wound is warm.”

  “Perhaps more of me needs tending than my head, my little angel,” he said in a husky voice. Then, before she knew what was happening, Ranulf sat up, easily breaking the ribbons from around both his hands and seized her in his arms. “Or should I say ‘my little devil,’ for tonight you’re surely bent on mischief.”

  His quick move surprised her, but as he lifted her onto his lap, Bridget admitted that she had somehow known that the only way to keep Ranulf at St. Gabriel would be this. And she realized that it was what she’d been wanting since he’d first knocked on her door. Every one of her senses was racing with the wanting of it.