In the Shadow of Midnight

by Marsha Canham

There were increasing signs of pedestrian traffic as well. Fresh cart tracks and footprints had been set in the mud by farmers hoping to find eager buyers in the city. Several times they passed men on foot who glared at them with wary eyes and closed mouths, but there were no overt signs of an army on the move, or of the burning and pillaging King John had alleged was running rampant through Brittany and Normandy.

  There was no sign of FitzRandwulf or Sparrow either. Henry and Sedrick held a huddled discussion when they broke for the noon meal, including the Welshman out of respect for his princely state, no doubt, but leaving Ariel and Robin to pack away the remains of their food and utensils. She at least knew where FitzRandwulf was, having been privy to their strategies last night. But Robin, his face mostly concealed beneath the hood he had taken to wearing against the cold, was not so much concerned over his brother’s absence as he was hurt over being left behind. He was, after all, Eduard’s squire. He, not Sparrow, should have accompanied his lord into Rennes, regardless of any threat of peril.

  All told, it was not a happy group of three knights and two squires who approached the gates of Rennes. The city itself was indistinguishable from most others that had grown up around a Norman stronghold. The first sighting was of towers and needle-thin spires rising above the crest of a hill. Boundary stones placed beside the highroad marked the beginnings of the town’s land and divided the arable strips of meadow where the residents grew their crops and grazed sheep. Running alongside the city were the brawling, turbulent waters of the river Vilaine, a tumbling rush of wicked currents into which a man crossing the draw could fall and be swept a dozen leagues downstream before popping up to catch a breath. Entry into the walled city was through a stone archway and vast wooden gates that were kept closed and guarded from sundown to sunrise. A fat wart of a porter with a bulbous red nose and runny eyes collected a toll from the five travellers, allowing them to pass only after they and their packhorses had been thoroughly inspected.

  Here too were the first signs of open defiance against the English king. The pennons of Brittany and France flew prominently over the main gate; the leopards of England were conspicuously absent.

  Glancing past the shadowy arch of the tollgate, the new arrivals had no difficulty envisioning a bullhide-clad sentry lowering his crossbow upon the gatekeeper’s signal. There were more sentries boldly placed on top of the walls and in the watchtowers, all of them wearing the blazons of Hugh of Luisgnan.

  Inside the walls, the narrow, winding streets that formed a labyrinth of districts and guilds around the heart of the inner city were crowded, bustling with vendors and peddlers hawking their wares. Ariel strove to keep her head down and her face shielded under the brim of her hat, but there was too much to look at, too many sights that offered a change from the damp isolation of the past few days. Shop windows were open and goods displayed on hooks and tall, heaped shelves. Wooden booths were crammed into every nook and corner, selling everything from soap, garlic, and coal, to grindstones, shovels, and honey. The din was fierce and only grew in measure as they rode deeper into the city. Everyone shouted to be heard over their neighbour; church bells tolled unceasingly, babes screamed and dogs yapped. There were people and horses everywhere, knights with glinting bits of armour pushing through slower-moving groups of churchmen or ruffians. Once, Henry had to signal the others to move aside for a pair of hand-carried litters bearing two noble young ladies in a laughing, pointing hurry to spend their rich husbands’ money.

  Most of the buildings were built from timber, three and four storeys high, with a tendency to sag with age. With streets rarely more than seven or eight feet wide, the upper levels of the buildings hung over the alleyways, creating a tunnel-like effect with scant space between for daylight to shine through. Painted signs swung and creaked over doorways, some low enough to whack an indolent horseman to attention. With three and four families living over each shop, the stench of so many closely packed bodies was nearly as overwhelming as the din. Household refuse and ordure were heaved out of the windows with little warning, scavenged by pigs and kites that contributed their own slimy offerings to the general ambience.

  For convenience and protection, most bakers and cook shops were located in one warren, goldsmiths in another, linen makers, tanners, fish merchants all in their own. A blind man could find most by smell alone, following the sweet and heady scents of the bakers to the acrid mix of tannin and mashed brains for the leather makers. Worst was the butchers’ row, where the gutters and cobbles ran red with blood. Here the beggars and those of lowly descent fought with the dogs and gulls over dripping strings of entrails tossed into steaming heaps and deemed worthless even for the making of soap or casings.

  In the centre of the town were the fine stone houses of the richer citizens, the guildhall with its belfry tower, the marketplace where ladies and their tiring women congregated to inspect the newest velvets imported by the Venetian merchants. Linens from Flanders were sold here, almonds and spices were offered in fragrant handfuls by swarthy-skinned Greeks. At the very heart was the town square with its raised dais and tall wooden cross where the town crier stood to make all public pronouncements.

  As in most cities, there were nearly as many churches as houses, built to play on the guilty consciences of the masses of sinners. There was a monastery for training acolytes and a nunnery for the welfare and safekeeping of beautiful or rebellious young daughters. In almost as great a number were the taverns, inns, and wine shops located where merchants could eat, sleep and drink with other merchants, Jews with Jews, sellers of iron and bronze with the brawny men who fashioned weapons and suits of fine chain mail. These, like all other establishments, bore no written names on their signposts, for only the very rich and privileged could cipher lettering. They were identified with graven pictures carved and painted brightly—a snarling boar to depict the Boar’s Head Inn, or a sprig of yellow weeds to harken patrons to the Golden Thistle.

  The inn where Henry finally called a halt boasted a swinging wooden sign painted with two strutting red cocks. At first, Ariel could scarcely believe it had been FitzRandwulf’s choice, for it was surely the most squalid, drunken tilt of warped boards and half-rotted thatching they had encountered. After an intense few minutes spent contemplating their surroundings, her brother was of the same shocked opinion.

  “I am not keen on the look of this place,” he said unnecessarily.

  “Aye,” Sedrick mused. “He might have chosen a place less extravagant nearer the butchers’ mart.”

  “Are you certain this is where Lord Eduard instructed us to meet him?” Dafydd asked in an awed whisper, his eyes rounded and fixed upon a man and woman strolling past, the latter scantily clad and screeching with laughter as the man thrust his hand under her bodice and gave her breasts a hearty fondle.

  Henry peered up at the sign to doubly verify it in his own mind. “Robin … perhaps you and Ariel should remain out here with the horses until we have had a look inside.”

  Ariel, already dismounted and standing on the cobbled street with the others, laid a hand on the hilt of her shortsword and shook her head. “I go where you go, brother dearest, and in this case, I prefer to have a look myself, thank you.”

  Henry frowned, but he was not in any mood to argue now, not with the daylight waning and the gloom becoming less wholesome by the minute. He hailed a burly looking scoundrel from a doorway nearby and held up a silver coin.

  “This is yours, fellow, if you will stand with the horses and guard against any curious hands straying too near.”

  The man nodded and grinned through a blackened grate of broken teeth. “Not so much as a finger, my fine lord, or you will have it on your plate come morning.”

  “My companions and I will fetch your fingers, along with your heart and eyes if you make the mistake of being too curious yourself.”

  The lout glanced at Sedrick, who looked big enough and powerful enough to do the fetching himself, without aid of a knife or sword, and he nodded again. />
  Henry girded himself and led the way.

  Inside, the cramped taproom was gloomy from lack of light. There were no windows and the only dim illumination came from a meagre supply of tallow candles smoking on the tabletops. The stench was like nothing Ariel had ever choked on before and she lifted her hand to cover her nose and mouth, preferring the leather smell of her gloves.

  When her eyes adjusted to the amber-toned shadows, she could see crudely built trestles and benches lining three of the walls. Along the fourth was a counter consisting of a warped board propped between two oak casks. A blowsy, amazingly buxom barmaid stood behind it exchanging ribald comments with a patron who was evidently haggling over the price of something more than ale. There were other, dark, surly looking characters seated at the tables. Their voices, likened to a low droning of bees, fell silent the moment the three knights came through the door. Ariel felt the chill of a dozen pairs of watery eyes questioning their presence in this swineherds’ paradise. Some of them, she guessed, had never ventured more than a stone’s throw from these walls and could not begin to understand why anyone beyond their fetid little community would venture in.

  Others might have chosen this place deliberately as being a low enough and sordid enough stew to bypass any close inspection. These were men who would slit a throat for a penny and not care if the throat was noble or common.

  The wench behind the counter was not so impartial. Seeing Henry start to walk toward her, she gave the already loosened laces across her bodice an enthusiastic tug and swatted away the hands of the dullard who had been pestering her.

  “Oui, monsieur? And what might your pleasure be on such a fine, lusty evening as this?”

  “A tankard of ale to wash the dust from our throats,” Henry said, his words slowing noticeably as the truly awesome size of her bosoms came into the light. Fully as large as two ripe melons, they earned as hard a stare as the large, fat cockroach that lay belly-up on the counter. “And a word with the innkeeper, if you please.”

  “Monsieur Valois is not here,” the wench laughed. “He has spent the last few nights fettered in iron bracelets for smashing a bottle over the head of one of the justicar’s lackeys.” She leaned farther over the counter, crushing the hapless roach under the smothering weight of her breasts. “My name is Lizabelle. Is there nothing I can help you with?”

  “There … might be,” Henry agreed cautiously.

  “Speak, monsieur, and it is yours.”

  “Have you any rooms to let for the night?”

  Lizabelle grinned. “For the whole night, monsieur?”

  “If it is not too much trouble.”

  “It is never any trouble, m’sieur. In fact, it would be my very great pleasure to accommodate you”—she took a deep enough breath to send a brown, puckered nipple popping over the neck of her bodice—“so long as you have the coin to pay.”

  “I have the password,” Henry assured her, lowering his voice. “A outrance. I was told it would provide us with all our needs.”

  “Password, m’sieur?” she asked guardedly. “No coin?” “I have coin, which I will not grudge parting with for fair value.”

  “I am relieved to hear it, m’sieur, but just in case—” In a wink, her grin disappeared and her hand came up from beneath the counter, the sharp glint of a dagger flashing in her fist. Henry jerked back, but not fast enough to completely avoid the needle-like point. It slashed a thin red line along the side of his jaw and came back for a second stroke, but by then he had moved out of her reach … into the grasping clutches of the two burly men who had obviously been waiting for a signal to close in behind him.

  Each grabbed an arm, preventing him from drawing sword or knife. A wild glance over his shoulder found Sedrick in similar straits, swarmed by half a dozen stout men at least, all of them straining mightily to bring the roaring giant to his knees.

  Ariel, standing a little to the side and behind, had seen the men shifting stealthily into position, but before she could shout a warning, a thick, sour-tasting hand had clamped itself over her mouth and an arm had circled her waist, lifting her and dragging her back into the corner. Kicking and flailing, she watched as Henry was disarmed of his weapons and flung so hard against the wall, his brow cracked against the solid planking. Dazed, he wavered on his feet and staggered a half-turn before stumbling into one of the trestle tables. Tankards, ewers, and chunks of stale bread were scattered across the floor as one of his attackers started beating him with a wooden truncheon. Hampered by the weight of his armour, and with his brain still spinning from the contact with the wall, Henry floundered under the rain of heavy blows, barely aware of a second man searching his clothes for a purse or money belt.

  Sedrick lunged like a mastiff, carrying the shouting wave of assailants with him. He managed to wrestle an arm free and sent one of his attackers flying over the wooden counter to land squarely in the upflung arms of the shrieking Lizabelle. The impact sent them both caroming backwards into a rack of crocks and tankards. One of the swarm broke away and took up an oak bench, swinging it at Sedrick’s head, but a shout brought Dafydd ap Iorwerth plunging out of the shadows, his sword drawn and wrested away from the men who had not been quick enough to bring him to ground. The villain saw the blade coming and blocked it with the bench. The steel bit deep into the wood, lodging there solidly enough that he was able to twist it out of Dafydd’s grip. Two more villains leaped on him from behind while the lout with the bench swung it again, slamming it over Dafydd’s outstretched arm with a resounding craaaak!

  Robin, meanwhile, had sailed to Ariel’s aid, but managed only a bloodcurdling promise of chivalrous revenge before a pewter tankard knocked the words and the sense out of his head. While he reeled blindly toward the door, Ariel kicked and clawed and gouged for her captor’s eyes and ears. She twisted and turned like a slippery eel, using the wooden soles of her shoes to good advantage, barking his shins time and time again until a curse made him loosen his grip. The respite was brief. Something solid slammed into the side of her face— a fist or a cudgel, it had the same effect—and her world exploded in a burst of white light. It struck again, carrying her hat away with it, and she could not be certain if it was the redness of her hair spilling over her face, or the red of her own blood.

  Discovering it was a woman he held, the man paused a moment in confusion and surprise—a moment too long and a surprise so absorbing he failed to see the door of the tavern smash open and a tall, mail-clad arbiter enter the arena.

  Dispensing judgement and justice on every thrust of his sword, he sent two men screaming into the shadows, clutching at severed clothing and spurts of gushing blood. A third forfeited the ability to scream at all as the blade slivered through his throat. He spun in a spray of blood and scattered the men clinging steadfastly to Sedrick. They saw the sword and the steely-eyed demon knight who wielded it, and they abandoned their attack to bolt for the door.

  The sword flashed several more times, striking flesh with the impact of a hatchet biting into wood. Ariel felt the pressure around her waist spring free and she folded into a small heap on the floor. Her vision dimmed behind a wall of pain. A warm, wet liquid was running between her fingers and down her hand, and she feared to let go of her head lest it fall off and be trampled underfoot.

  The door swung wide a second time and the flare of light revealed a scene from Bedlam. There was blood splattered everywhere. Bodies of the slain and wounded men lay twitching on the floor; broken crockery and dark puddles of ale littered the area, heaviest around the groaning bulk of Lizabelle and her unconscious accomplice. The light also touched briefly on Eduard FitzRandwulf’s visored helm, showing a brief glimpse of eyes that were neither gray nor blue, but washed of colour by the heat of battle.

  Caught in the light, a second newcomer was silhouetted in the doorway. His diminutive form was brushed aside by a pair of fleeing villains, and Sparrow spared but a fleeting breath on a graphic oath before he unslung his harp-shaped arblaster from his shoul
der and let fly a speedily armed quarrel after the departing culprits. The tip of the arrow punched into a well-rounded buttock and, with a squawk of glee, the wood sprite fit another short, stubby bolt to the bow and set off in further pursuit.

  The door swung shut behind him but Eduard had stared at the opening long enough to lose concentration. An assailant came up behind him, a dagger driving for the opened slit under the sleeve of mail. It was Iorwerth’s shout that brought Eduard spinning around, his sword cutting cleanly through the villain’s bony elbow. The forearm split away and cartwheeled into the shadows in a burst of blood, the hand still clutched around the hilt of the knife.

  The man screamed. His eyes bulged and his remaining hand reached quickly to clutch the stump of his arm as he lurched for the door and ran out into the street. He made one full turn, spraying the cobbles with blood, before he stumbled off down one of the laneways, scattering the onlookers who had been drawn by the sights and sounds.

  Eduard remained tense, his body poised to meet the next threat, but there were none. All who could run had done so. Those who could not dragged themselves, groaning, into the darkest, blackest shadows.

  Eduard saw Robin leaning against the wall and reached him in a single stride.

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  Robin shook his head and cursed his own ineptness. “Lady Ariel …?”

  Sedrick was slouched over one of the tables, groaning and swearing with equal aplomb. Lord Henry was in the process of trying to find his balance and swayed on his feet like an Infidel drunk on Christian blood. The Welshman sat in a dazed crumple against the wall, his face as pale as ash behind the beard, a bloodied arm cradled against his chest.

  And Ariel …

  Eduard whirled around, his eyes probing the shadows, identifying the bodies. Lady Ariel de Clare was nowhere to be seen in the haze of disturbed dust but before Eduard could broaden his search, Sparrow came crashing through the door with enough self-importance to send FitzRandwulf into a wary crouch again.