Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

“What do you think?” she asked the animal. “Do I dare?” The cow just watched her with its big brown eyes. “You’re right,” Bridget said with sudden decision. “I’ve been indifferent long enough. If we want things to happen in this life, we have to make them happen.”

  Then she marched out of the barn and headed in the direction of the abbot’s office.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mordin Castle was a small complex surrounding an old stone tower keep. The walls around it were crumbling, and it was apparent that little investment had been made in its upkeep over the years.

  The party from St. Gabriel stopped on a small hill to survey the landscape. Jean had reported no guards along the way, and there were none in evidence at the front gate. The blacksmith had once again pulled his horse next to Ranulf. “Do you intend to ride right up and storm the place?” he asked.

  Ranulf shook his head. “We can’t risk that. They might be able to do some harm to my brother before we can get to him.” That is, if he was still alive, Ranulf added to himself, which was the question that had tortured him with every pound of Thunder’s hooves all the way from the abbey. He was so close, it was unbearable to think that he might lose Dragon now.

  “What are we going to do?” Pierre Courmier had ridden up and heard Ranulf’s answer.

  Ranulf gave a grim smile. “The monks and I have worked out a strategy.” He pointed to a grove of trees. “We’ll stop over there and make the final plans.”

  Except for Ebert and Jacques, the monks dismounted stiffly, unused to the long ride, but Ranulf gave them little time to nurse their soreness. Calling the group all together, he quickly mapped out the plan. They assumed that Edmund Brand was being held in some kind of basement dungeon. The task before them was to enter the castle, subdue the guards, find and release the prisoner and escape before harm could come to any of them.

  “Count me in for dealing with the guards,” Jean said, clapping his huge hands together. The Courmier brothers nodded agreement.

  “Good,” Ranulf said. “But first we have a change of costume for you all.” He nodded to Ebert and Cyril, who pulled a big bundle off the back of the donkey and unrolled it on the ground. It was full of white robes.

  “Oh, no,” Jean protested. “I’m not dressing like an old lady.” When several of the monks gave him admonishing looks, he amended his objection to, “That is, it doesn’t seem right, trying to be holy-like.”

  Cyril picked up one of the habits and tossed it at the smithy. “Overcome your scruples just this once, my son. ’Tis for a good cause.”

  There was no more protest as the Courmiers, Ranulf and Jean donned the robes. They came to mid-calf on the tall men, but when one surveyed the group as a whole, the impression was of a band of wandering brothers.

  Quickly Ranulf outlined the rest of the plan, then they mounted up and set off down the hill toward the castle. The sun’s first rays were already striking its eastern wall.

  As they had anticipated, a sleepy guard threw open the door and let them inside without question. “The baron’s not here, brothers,” he told them, “but I warrant you may take some refreshment in the great hall.”

  “Peace be with you, my son,” Ebert said, and they steered their horses across the bailey toward the keep.

  Ranulf’s hopes rose. Perhaps no one would challenge them and they would be able to rescue Dragon peacefully.

  They got as far as the big wooden doors of the tower. There they were met by a dour-faced guard who barked, “We’ll bring some porridge out to the courtyard. Then you must be about your journey.”

  Ebert stepped up to the man and said, “We’d take shelter inside, my son.”

  The guard shook his head. “Nay, no one’s allowed inside Mordin Castle when the baron’s away.”

  Ebert looked back at Ranulf, who shrugged and said, “Let the choice be on his head, Brother.”

  In an instant, the place was in chaos. Ranulf, the Courmiers and the blacksmith threw off their cumbersome robes. Ranulf drew his sword and the others pulled out various weapons the blacksmith had brought for them. Instantly, over a dozen guards appeared from inside the keep, most brandishing short swords.

  From underneath the monks’ robes appeared a variety of mysterious instruments. Cyril had an apparatus that looked like a slingshot, but used a narrow slot into which he could fit the black metal arrowheads that he carried in a burlap sack over his shoulder.

  Brother Jacques had some kind of lever rigged to a spring that when it was pulled one way, shot the opposite with tremendous force. He used it against the chin of an oncoming guard and the man sank to the ground, out cold. Jacques looked around, surprised and a little embarrassed at his own success. When he saw that no one had paid attention to his deed, he ran over to another guard and repeated the performance.

  The guard who had refused to admit them had engaged Ranulf with a broad sword, but the man was a poor match for the English knight and Ranulf had soon laid him flat with a blow to the side of his head. Within minutes, every one of the Mordin guards lay unconscious on the ground or had slunk away to the back part of the castle to nurse wounds. None of the men from St. Gabriel had more than a scratch.

  Ranulf looked around his crew with a whistle of amazement. “If we’d had you lads in the Holy Lands, they’d be Christian now,” he said.

  The men exchanged grins of triumph, but Ebert looked around at the men on the ground and said, “We didn’t kill any, did we? I’m virtually certain that would not be allowed by the Rule.”

  “It’s a bit late to be worried about that, Brother Ebert,” said Brother Jacques. “But, nay, none of these men appear to be dead.”

  “Now we just need to find my brother,” Ranulf told them. His heart had started to race at the prospect. Was it possible that Dragon was here, perhaps just underneath where he stood now in the castle entry? Then the fingers of fear crept up his throat once more. What if they were too late?

  Jean seemed to recognize his emotion. Speaking in a voice of authority, he told the men, “We need to split up and go to different parts of the castle, searching each room. If you find the prisoner, shout and bring him back here.”

  Ranulf regained his voice. “Go in groups of three or four in case you encounter more opposition. And hurry, before these men start regaining consciousness.”

  Jean and two of the Courmier brothers headed up the winding stairway to the upper floors. The other dairymen went back out into the courtyard to be sure the complex was secure. Ebert and Cyril followed Ranulf down the stairs to the lower level.

  The stairs grew blacker the farther they went. Ranulf lifted a torch from a wall bracket. The stairs ended at what appeared to be a solid wall of stone. He turned around and looked at the two monks with an expression of bewilderment. “We’ve reached a dead end, it appears,” he said.

  Cyril and Ebert were both looking intently at the wall. “I don’t think so,” Cyril said.

  Ranulf waited while the two monks bent and stretched to study each stone. Finally Cyril straightened up with a smile of triumph. “’Tis an old system of counterlevers,” he said. Then he leaned heavily on the rock he had chosen and the entire wall started to turn into a huge door.

  Ranulf’s palms began to sweat in anticipation, but when the wall opened, it revealed a small chamber, and it was empty. He nearly cried out with the disappointment.

  Ebert took the torch from his numb fingers and lifted it high to see into the little room. “There,” he said, pointing. On the other side of the chamber was another small door. From behind it they could hear distinct rustling sounds.

  With a sudden surge of energy, Ranulf ran to the door and tugged at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. “Dragon!” he called, his voice desperate. From behind the door they could hear an answering human voice. “Dragon!” he yelled again, then yanked on the handle furiously again and again, until Cyril put a hand on his arm.

  “Let me try, Sir Ranulf,” he said. “The door is locked.” He held some kind of tool, whi
ch he inserted into a slit just beneath the door handle. Ranulf and Ebert waited in tense silence while he worked.

  After several moments, Cyril let out a long sigh. “That should do it, I think.” He stepped back and gestured for Ranulf to try the door again.

  Ranulf reached out and pulled the handle. The door opened with a harsh rasp against the stone floor, and there standing on the other side, looking pale but fit, was Dragon.

  The two brothers stared at each other for a long moment, then fell into an embrace. When he could finally speak, Ranulf stepped back and said, “You were ever one to get yourself in trouble, little brother.”

  Edmund grinned. “That’s because I knew I could count on my big brothers to get me out of it.”

  Ranulf shook his head. “Next time don’t be so damned sure of that. I’ve better things to do with my life than chase you around the world.”

  Edmund looked from Ranulf to the two monks. “Not—er—not following the example of these good brothers, I hope.”

  “Nay, you lout. These are two of the White Monks of St. Gabriel. They’ve come to help me save your miserable hide.”

  “St. Gabriel? ’Tis the abbey where I was heading to try to find the—”

  “The black metal, aye. But if you don’t mind, brother, the explanations can wait until we’re safely out of this place. Are you all right? You can ride?”

  “Aye, my jailers have not been bad folks. They’ve kept me fed and well. But, God Almighty, it’s good to see you, Ran.”

  “And you.”

  Their gazes held one more time, then they all turned to make their way up the dark stairs.

  One of the paramount instructions of the Rule was obedience in all things, and Bridget felt more than a little guilty stepping into Alois’s office, which had always been strictly forbidden to her. But now that she had started the search for her name, the nagging wouldn’t stop, and the opportunity seemed too good to pass up.

  The room was mainly occupied with the abbot’s big writing table, a duplicate of the ones in the illumination room next to the library. Before they had become engrossed in their inventions, the monks of St. Gabriel, just like their fellow orders all over Europe, had spent long hours copying manuscripts. The writing table was clean, but Bridget knew that the abbey records were usually kept in a chest along one wall of the sparsely furnished room.

  She walked across to the big wooden box and sank down beside it. The lid was heavy, and just for a moment as she opened it, she wondered if she should slam it shut again and walk away. If this box held the key to her family and her past, perhaps she didn’t want to see what was inside.

  She didn’t have to look. She could remain in ignorance—stay simply Bridget, the no-name girl known only to the monks and hidden away from the rest of the world. Once she knew who she really was, it could change everything.

  She hesitated a moment longer, then took a deep breath and pulled it open. Inside, the neat stacks of books gave no indication of any ominous meaning they might have for her life.

  She lifted the top volume, brought it over to the writing table and perched on the stool to read. The book was a record of abbey accounts and important events, feast days and market purchases. Bridget felt a stab of disappointment. If this was all these books contained, she couldn’t see how they could give her the answers she sought.

  It was growing close to midday, and soon the monks would be breaking their prayers for the daily meal. What she needed to do was find the book that corresponded to the time of her birth, twenty-two years ago. She knelt once again beside the chest and began to search more quickly. She found it in the seventh volume she searched—Anno Domini 1173.

  Her anticipation had built the longer she looked, and she couldn’t help a small cry of disappointment when she opened the book and found nothing but the same kind of daily records that had been in the others.

  She sat on the floor next to the chest, the big volume in her lap and forced herself to read. If nothing else, she’d learn some interesting things about what St. Gabriel was like before she’d been a part of it. It wasn’t what she’d come to find out, but it was something.

  She’d skipped through the early pages, which were similar to the other volumes, and started into the main record when a piece of parchment slipped out of the middle and fell to the floor. She could see immediately that it was written in French, not Latin. She reached over to retrieve it, her fingers suddenly shaky.

  The signature at the bottom was Henri LeClerc, Baron of Darmaux.

  Biting down hard on her bottom lip, Bridget started to read.

  She never heard the door to the office open, and it was a moment before Alois’s soft voice broke her concentration. “Somehow I always knew that we wouldn’t be able to keep you in peaceful ignorance your whole life.” His voice was full of regret.

  Bridget gave a guilty jump and slammed the book shut. Then she recovered and met Alois’s gaze. “It never seemed to matter,” she said. “I’ve been happy here.”

  He stepped into the room. “Aye. We all have, and now it’s beginning to come apart. Cursed be on Cyril and his devil’s inventions. I knew from the beginning that it would mean the end of St. Gabriel.”

  Alois had an expression on his face that Bridget had never seen before. His normally cold eyes had an unnatural glow. “Surely not, Brother Alois,” she protested. “Once Ranulf and the monks deal with the problem of the black metal—”

  “Aye, the black metal,” Alois interrupted. “It makes men greedy and causes them to break promises and want more.”

  She was having difficulty understanding him, and it frightened her. Alois, the serene leader who always took such calm control, now seemed nearly incoherent. It almost made her forget the paper she’d just been reading, but not entirely.

  She picked it up. “You knew about this bargain?” she asked Alois.

  “That the monks of St. Gabriel would keep you secret forever in return for your life? Aye.”

  “But why?”

  Alois looked down at her with an odd smile. “You were such a sweet little thing, Bridget. None of us had ever seen anything quite like you when your mother gave you birth. We couldn’t bear the thought of giving you into the hands of the baron. He would have killed you back then. I’m certain of it.”

  “My mother was his cousin.”

  “Aye, and the true heir to Darmaux. Henri was to inherit only Mordin, a much lesser estate. It wasn’t enough for him.”

  “So he forced her to run away.”

  “Once he discovered she was with child, another possible heir, he became enraged. She refused to name the father, and he was certain that it was some powerful knight who would come to help her enforce her claim.”

  Her father. The scrap of parchment had given no clue. “Who was my father?” she asked. Everything inside her had gone very still.

  “Ah, there was the irony.” Alois gave a hollow laugh. “Your father was no landowning knight, Bridget. In fact, he never would have been able to give you a legitimate name.”

  “Will you tell me who he was?”

  “’Tis no longer of any importance. Nothing is, really.” Alois walked toward her. “This is the end of it, you know. It started with that Englishman’s arrival. Now the black metal is known and your secret as well. It’s the end of all of it.”

  Bridget was growing alarmed. She’d never seen Alois like this before and the odd look in his eyes was scaring her. “Forgive me, Brother, but you’re wrong. St. Gabriel is as strong as ever. Once Ranulf finds his brother, everything will go back to the way it was….”

  Alois was shaking his head as he drew slowly nearer. “Nay, little Bridget, it’s too late to put things to right. St. Gabriel is dead and the rest of us will soon follow.”

  Then she looked up in horror as he lifted an inkstand from his writing table and sent it crashing down on her head.

  Alois stood, head bowed, hands tucked into the sleeves of his habit. “’Twas the girl herself who discovered the
secret, milord. No one at the abbey revealed anything to her.”

  The abbot had been forced to walk to Darmaux Castle since both the mules had been taken for the expedition to Mordin. He’d found the baron in a furious temper, shouting at the sheriff, Guise, who knelt before him on the hard stone floor of the castle entryway. A messenger had just ridden in from Mordin Castle to report the escape of the English prisoner.

  Alois knew that it wasn’t a good moment to arrive with his own news, but he was beyond caring. For too many years he’d felt the burden of his pact with the devil. Now it was time to start on his way to hell and begin to enjoy his eternity of paying for the fruits of his bargain.

  “Our bargain was that I wouldn’t use my power with the bishop to take over St. Gabriel lands as long as you kept the girl quiet,” LeClerc pointed out. “If she surfaces and finds support, she could still lay claim to the Darmaux holdings. And that, my fine abbot, is not going to happen.”

  “Do what you will with her, milord,” Alois said, lifting his head to meet the baron’s violet gaze with indifference. “I’ve left her tied in the work shed.”

  “And before long the Englishman will be back there with whatever army it was he mustered to storm Mordin,” LeClerc screamed. Rage made the veins pop on each side of his neck. He kicked at the sheriff, who still knelt before him. “Assemble the men, you incompetent fool. This time I’ll go with you to be sure the job’s done right. I want the girl dead and the abbey secure, and I want the English brothers recaptured and killed before the sun sets on this day.”

  For the first few moments, Bridget wondered if there might not be some truth to Alois’s words. It did seem as if the world she had known was dead, or at least dying. First there had been the shock over Brother Cyril’s betrayal, then the revelation that the monks had cared for her all these years not for her own sake, but to protect the abbey. Now Brother Alois. He’d been eerily detached as he’d forced her to the work shed and left her there in a dark corner behind a cupboard, and with each move Bridget’s conviction grew that the abbot’s mind had become unhinged.