There had been no moonlight to speak of, only hints of light here and there through the thickening banks of cloud. The promise of a storm had grown stronger on every gust of wind that swirled over the top of the stone walls. Dried leaves rushed across the cobbled path at every footstep; the air tasted metallic with the threat of thunder and rain.
Normally she loved stormy weather. It suited her temperament somehow to watch all that power and fury unleashed in a limitless sky. Once, as a child, she had been caught out-of-doors during an especially violent display of God’s wrath, but far from being terrified by the experience, the brilliance and ominous beauty exhilarated her to the point where she still stood before an open window during a storm, hoping to recapture the excitement.
Dafydd ap Iorwerth had not been so enthralled by the elements. He kept glancing upward, as if he expected demons and dragons to appear in the sky above him. Ariel, as hard as she tried not to, was growing almost fond of the young Welshman. He was well mannered (in comparison to most other Welsh barbarians) and quiet. He was shy to the point where Ariel had amused herself by seeing how many times she could raise a blush on his face. He spoke enthusiastically of Wales, leading Ariel to believe he was more comfortable in his dark forests and misty mountains than he was in the bustle of a civilized town or city. He spoke eloquently of his homeland and ancestors and agreed, with no reservations whatsoever, that the Welsh were a violent race—but with good reason. Generations had been raised on blood and warfare, fighting for their freedom against the Saxons first, and then with the arrogant Normans, with whom they still battled to keep their identity. He recounted stories of villages and crofts where the forests were known to stir and rumble at night as the ghost of their great king, Arthur Pendragon, gathered a new army around him, anticipating the day when England would falter to its knees and be ripe for conquest. And, with the lords of Gwynedd being direct descendants of Pendragon, it stood to reason they should always be prepared to take up the call to arms.
Ariel had listened to most of this with a gently arched brow, but the young prince was so earnest and so intense, it was difficult to mock him openly. It was not so difficult to assume a wary guise when he spoke of his brother Rhys, for she sensed there was more he did not tell her than what he did. She fully expected to hear he was the bravest, boldest, most feared knight in all of Wales, but at the same time, she could not help wondering why young Dafydd’s eyes could not hold hers for any measurable length of time while he extolled these endless virtues, or why his voice seemed flat and lacking any real conviction.
Conversely, with the scent of winter roses swirling on the currents of a rising storm, the Welsh prince could barely contain his enthusiasm for the bold knights who dwelled in Chateau d’Amboise.
“Did you know, my lady, the Wolf fought a real dragon, one with glowing red eyes and a forked tongue that spat fire?”
“His brother, was it not? Did you never think your own kin had serpentine qualities when you were young?”
“Your pardon, my lady?”
“Never mind,” she sighed. “’Twas only a jest.”
“Only a jest?” he repeated in some awe. “To be in the presence of such men? I was not fully convinced they were even real much less that your uncle would bring us here to meet them.”
Ariel’s polite smile had launched him into another tale he had thought was a figment of some bard’s imagination, but she was only half-listening. Her uncle had ridden a day and a night out of his way to seek the ear of Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer and Ariel’s curiosity had been kept at a peak to know why. Henry, normally as malleable as clay in her hands, had been displaying an unusual ability to avoid answering her questions, and, since being advised of the earl’s decision to visit Amboise, had taken care not to be caught alone with her.
It could be nothing, or it could be something. But if the something had anything to do with her, she wanted to know. She had a right to know, did she not? Especially if any of these secrets and meetings involved her or her future.
Returned to her room, sequestered with her thoughts and her privacy, no amount of pacing seemed to provide any logical answers. The closeness of the walls and the staleness of the air seemed also to hamper her ability to breathe, and after a futile struggle with the heavy arras, she snatched her mantle off the edge of the bed and climbed the spiral stone staircase to the rooftop. She had to wrestle a moment with the unfamiliar latch of the trap-door, but with the aid of a timely gust of wind, she was able to fling it open and step out into the rush of bitingly fresh air.
Her hair, unfettered by braid or wimple, blew forward, a mass of tumbled waves that blinded her for as long as it took to sweep back the escaped curls and tuck them more securely beneath her hood. The air was cold and sharp, tainted with the slightly earthy tang of dampness and stone. Clouds were racing across the sky, their underbellies blue-white and roiling. The light was weak and murky, doing little to alleviate the ghostly shadows thrown by the ramparts.
No sentries were posted on this section of the roof; none were necessary. Ariel’s tower adjoined the section of the keep that faced out over a sheer drop of jagged rocks that spilled over the banks of the river Loire below. There were no windows on this side of the keep, no handholds, no toeholds, not even a postern gate at the base of the mighty stone walls. Only a fool or a goat would attempt an assault from the river, and then, because there were a dozen other towers and barbicans affording a breathtakingly clear view of all the surrounding lands in the valley, the warning would be given long before an enemy could begin to conquer the turbulent currents of the river.
The Wolf had displayed a keen eye for defense and privacy when he had chosen Amboise as his reward for serving the dowager queen. The village, hugging the shadow of the castle’s fortifications, would have no cause to worry after the safety of its inhabitants. Once locked inside these walls, a warlord and all of his retainers could withstand a siege lasting many months and mete out more damage than they would sustain.
Ariel bundled her woolen mantle tighter around her shoulders and followed the ramparts around and down onto the broad, flat roof of the keep. As she passed each square-toothed crenel of stone, the wind sheared through the gap, tearing more strands of her hair free from the hood. The moon appeared briefly, and if she had not been distracted by a rough cobble underfoot, she might have noticed the second figure sharing the blustery solitude of the rooftops. She might have seen him make an abrupt halt in his own circuit of the ramparts and melt into the blackness of the parapet in the hopes of avoiding notice altogether.
Eduard recognized the cloaked and hooded figure at once. The long streamers of fiery red hair had been bleached by the eerie light to a dull coppery sheen, but there could be no further chance of mistaking Lady Ariel de Clare for a common serving wench.
Eduard watched her haphazard approach, noting the way she paused here and there to peer out over the stone parapet, or the way she turned against the force of the wind to give chase to the escaping tendrils of her hair. Once the wind caused her mantle to bell out behind her and he was given a filmy white view of the linen blanchet she wore beneath.
He leaned against the stone blocks and wondered again at the wisdom of using her as a shield for their activities. He wondered even more at Lord Henry’s obvious discomfort with the situation—a discomfort that was not, he suspected, caused entirely out of fear for her actual safety, but more for her temper, obstinance, and single-mindedness.
Sparrow had been the least reluctant to point out that, if caught in any compromising positions, most women were wont to reveal far more information than any casual questions warranted. In fact, they tended to chatter on and on like magpies until the head ached and the fingers longed to throttle. Both Henry and the lord marshal had come to Lady Ariel’s defense on the charges of chattering and revealing, but they seemed generally and uncomfortably to agree that she had a mind of her own and would not hesitate to plague them with arguments, suggestions, even conditions agai
nst her participation in any adventure, regardless of the possible perils.
Not exactly an encouraging testament from either brother or uncle.
As for Eduard’s opinion of women …? With very few exceptions, he considered them to be cold-hearted, lightheaded, and ruthlessly conniving when it came to furthering their own ambitions. Wealth, influence, and power were what put smiles on their faces; greed and a shrewd sense of survival were the prerequisites that put them in the beds of men they might otherwise shun like lepers … or bastards.
Most tended to share Lady Ariel’s opinion of bastards and rarely saw any advantage in marrying one, regardless of whose by-blow he might be. Eduard, in no particularly frenzied haste to bind himself to a wife and breed fine “respectable” sons to succeed him, saw no reason to expend any untoward effort in changing their minds. He was not averse to finding himself in the bed of some noble beauty—he was usually given a flurry of invitations to do so after each display of his talents on a jousting field. It amused him to display his talents elsewhere, and to leave those same beauties decrying the lack in their own husband’s skills. For the most part, however, he preferred to keep his distance from the nobility. It suited him to have women like Gabrielle, who made no demands on his time or affections. Most of all, it suited him to have emotional ties to none but his family … and Eleanor.
Eleanor of Brittany was a beauty among beauties, chaste in body and spirit. A fragile heart who could not find it in her soul to think evil of anyone. Not her mother Constance, who had urged Arthur to form the ill-fated alliance with France; not Philip, who had betrothed her to his son, the Dauphin, only to renege when it seemed likely Arthur’s quest for the throne would fail. She had not even seen the madness in Arthur’s plan to attack Mirebeau, or the insanity of accompanying him, knowing … knowing that failure—and it was inevitable he would fail—would mean imprisonment and possibly death.
Standing in the Wolf’s war pavillion, with the torchlights flickering over the proud features of the last true Plantagenet prince and princess, Lord Randwulf had tried speaking to her like the father she did not have. He had advised her to come away with him and wait to see how the king’s mood would swing. For Arthur, there had been no such option, but for Eleanor, there had been a chance to get away, protected by the might and sword of Amboise. Randwulf had left Eduard to talk to her, to try to convince her of the folly of remaining a brave front by her brother’s side, but she had only smiled and pressed herself into the comforting arms of his friendship, and assured him she was not afraid. It was her duty and her honour to remain with Arthur, to give him what strength she could to see him through the humiliation of renouncing his claim forever.
Eduard’s hands had been tied. He had watched Eleanor and Arthur led away and he had been unable to help either one of them. Now, however, with proof her uncle was breaking his word by taking her back to England to remain his prisoner indefinitely, with or without the marshal’s sanction, Eduard would have gone after her. Without or without the cooperation of the marshal’s niece, he was going to free Eleanor and, Lord Gwynwynwyn of Powys be damned, he was going to bring her back home to Brittany.
The wind gusted and Ariel’s footsteps slowed again. She turned her head slightly and stood as still as a statue, so close to Eduard FitzRandwulf that a long stride would have put her within arm’s reach. The same husky, masculine scent that had swamped her senses throughout the evening meal came to her now; the scent of woodsmoke and leather and crisp wintery sunshine.
Startled to discover she was not alone on the rooftop, and increasingly certain of the identity of the interloper, Ariel fought a sudden urge to turn and flee back to the safety of her cramped bedchamber. She fought it and conquered it, forcing herself to stand calmly in the whirling breezes, her eyes searching the midnight shadows until she located a shape that was not a part of the wall.
“Is it always your custom, sirrah, to spy from crevices and darkened hallways?”
Lightning flashed overhead, giving brief substance to the niche where Eduard stood. His shoulder was against the wall, one of his booted feet was raised and propped on a wooden joist that protruded from the mortar. He returned her stare impassively, looking anything but chagrined or embarrassed.
“Is it always your custom to wander where you are not invited?”
Ariel bristled at the wry retort. She was doing nothing wrong, breaching no protocol. Surely she needed no one’s permission to seek a breath of fresh air. “Are the rooftops private, then? If so, the doors should have been barred and a guard placed at the exit.”
“I somehow doubt that would have held you,” he murmured.
Ariel could not see him clearly through the gloom, but she caught the dull glint of the sword he wore at his hip, and of the buckles and studs that ornamented his surcoat. His hair was curled forward over his cheeks and throat like strokes of black ink; he looked dark and dangerous and none too concerned to find her alone on a stormy rooftop.
He shifted forward suddenly, straightening from the wall, and Ariel was startled into taking a step back, a reaction that brought forth a weary sigh from the shadows.
“My lady … is it possible we started out on the wrong footing this afternoon? Can you have imagined me to be more of an enemy than I am?”
It was possible, Ariel conceded. But not probable. He had mocked her and made her the brunt of his amusement. He had grabbed her and laid his lecherous hands on her, begging her pardon only upon learning her identity. He was obviously accustomed to having his attentions returned eagerly by every wench who took his fancy, tumbling them at will or want.
On the other hand …
On the other hand, had they met for the first time in the great hall, would she have been so hasty to read insolence and sarcasm behind each glance or action? Would she have baited him at every turn of phrase? Or deliberately provoked him into returning her every barb and insult in kind?
Had she first met this brooding, dark-haired knight in the bustling atmosphere of the great hall, with his pewter gray eyes and heart-ravaging smile, would she not have taken his solicitousness at the meal table as flattery?
Ariel chewed thoughtfully on her lip. “You are right, Sir Knight. Perhaps I was somewhat rude this evening—with good cause, though, you will admit. ’Tis not often I am groped and fondled by a complete stranger.”
He bowed slightly. “I assure you, Lady Ariel, ’tis not normally my habit to grope or fondle without invitation.”
“Well … I suppose I should apologize for being in the armoury. I … took a wrong turn and simply followed the light.”
“An understandable error.”
“And since I was there, I did not think there would be any harm in looking.”
“None whatsoever,” he agreed. “In truth, those were my very sentiments. I might not have even intruded had you not tried to slice off my leg with a targe.”
“It was an accident.”
“So it was, and no harm done.”
Ariel regarded him narrowly. Was he mocking her again?
He was certainly waiting for whatever gem might fall next from her lips and she looked up at the sky, over the ramparts towards the river, anywhere but up into his face.
“I … could not sleep and thought a walk might tire me. I suppose, with the rain feeling so close, I should return now.”
Without waiting for his reply she started to retrace her steps and was startled again to hear his long strides drawing him abreast.
“I confess I was surprised to see anyone else venturing forth in this weather, and at such a late hour. Is your room not to your liking?”
“The room is fine,” she said quickly. “As to the weather, I enjoy stormy skies. Tonight especially, it … suits my mood.”
“Ahh. Yes. Your uncle did mention you were a little out of sorts with the entire world these days.”
She stopped so suddenly the hem of her mantle creamed around her ankles, and Eduard carried forward several more steps before no
ticing he walked alone.
“So. He discussed me, did he?”
FitzRandwulf bought an awkward moment of respite by walking back to her side. “He … mentioned why you were here, in Normandy. That you were not pleased with the king’s writ.”
Ariel planted her hands on her waist. “He discussed my marriage with you?”
“Only in passing. And only by way of explaining why you are here, defying the king’s decree.”
“I am not defying him. I am refusing him.”
“You are not pleased with his choice of husbands?”
“Not pleased? Not pleased?” She held her temper in check with a visible effort. “Why, I am delirious with joy. Why should I not be? Marriage to a gaoler’s son—a rough-handed, large-nosed, bull-legged churl with the manners and odour of a wild boar—” She smiled sweetly. “How could I be anything but blissfully delighted with my sovereign’s keen interest in my future happiness?”
Eduard hid his own smile even though he doubted she could see it. “I gather you have met the happy groom?”
“I certainly have not,” she snapped. “Nor have I any intentions of doing so.”
“Not even if the king commands it?”
“Not even if the king takes me by the heels and drags me to an audience!”
“Are you not worried your refusal might put your uncle in a worrisome position?”
Ariel whirled around and glared over the parapet, her hands small and white where they gripped the stone casement. “My uncle is the Marshal of England. He is accustomed to being in worrisome positions. I cannot believe for one instant he would take the king’s defense over mine.”
“He may not have a choice in the matter,” Eduard offered gently.
In the Shadow of Midnight Page 14
