In the Shadow of Midnight

by Marsha Canham

  Beside her, Henry cursed softly into the drizzle. His helm creaked as he turned his head to glance over his shoulder, but a hissed warning from FitzRandwulf stopped him before the gesture could be completed.

  Brevant had been swallowed into the gloomy base of the barbican tower, and the expectation of hearing a scream or a shout grew proportionately with each agonizingly slow minute that ticked past.

  When the shout did come, it brought all of them jumping out of their skin. Barely had it tightened around their bones again when the grate of rusted iron links winding through a winch sent spidery clawmarks of relief scratching down their spines. The spiked grate of the portcullis seemed to take another eternity to lift high enough for Brevant to stalk out of the shadows and remount whereupon an impatient wave of his hand brought them moving forward again.

  The horses hooves, clacking over the wooden draw, sounded like the rumble of thunder. Ariel was certain a momentary shout would bring a hail of crossbow bolts raining down upon their heads, and she rode as stiffly as a wooden marionette at a fair.

  The village seemed to be leagues away, the forest beyond might have been on the other side of the world. On their right, the sea shone dully through the rocky hillocks that shaped the coastline; landward, to the east, a receding mountain range of low-lying black clouds still bristled with night evils.

  Evil, in another form, sent a second shock to test the strength of Ariel’s heart and nerve. They were barely through the village and taking their first cleansing breaths of forest air, when the unmistakable blast of a horn trumpeted an alert to anyone venturing along the road: the royal cavalcade was approaching and expected to encounter no obstacles in its path.

  Eduard and Henry exchanged a hard glance.

  Their first instinct was to order everyone into concealment behind the wall of dense underbrush that lined the road. With the poor light and the rain, there was a chance the cavalcade would pass by without paying too close attention to the forest shadows. It was Brevant who kept a leveler head and drew the knights’ attention to the guardsmen who, though resentful of being out on the road in such miserable conditions, were already in the process of dismounting and smoothing their tunics lest the king’s eye happen to fall upon them as he passed by.

  “Now we’ll see what stuff your balls are really made of, my lord,” grunted the captain, grinning.

  He took command, ordering his men to form a straight line along the side of the road. Following their example, the De Clare party dismounted and led their steeds clear of the road, subtly forming a second line opposite the captain’s men. Eleanor, Marienne, Ariel, and Robin were put well back with the horses, while the knights prepared to give proper salute to their liege.

  The next blast of the horn went right up Ariel’s spine. Robin was beside her and she took some courage from the wink he gave before he bowed his head deeper into the shadow of his hood. All of the knights and guards went down on bended knee and lowered their eyes as the first of the king’s horsemen came into view. He, in turn, saw the troop of graycloaks and men-at-arms kneeling in the rain by the side of the road and gave two brief blasts on his horn to alert the others behind him.

  Only Brevant remained afoot, his lance held high to display Gisbourne’s pennons. One of the heavily armoured guards in the king’s troop rode forward with brisk authority to exchange a few words with Brevant, and, seemingly satisfied with the answers he received, barely glanced at the bowed helms of the others before he wheeled his horse back onto the road and rejoined the rest of the guard.

  Ariel, her view partially blocked by her brother’s broad shoulders, risked a few peeks as the cavalcade moved past. A guard of perhaps a dozen foot soldiers marched in the van, carrying the pennons and banners that normally would have fluttered colourfully and boldly to celebrate the approach of the king. Rain and wind had wrapped most of them to the lance poles, but here and there, a snap of wet silk revealed John’s device of stalking leopards. Behind the footmen came archers, and behind them, a single horse with the king’s personal confessor, who glared through the rain with a mean and unholy expression, probably thinking of a warm bed and a blazing fire. Fully a score of mounted knights splashed by next, their faces almost completely obscured by visors or long, wedge-shaped nasals. Heavy suits of chain mail were supplemented by baldrics and belts holding swords, daggers, and battle-axes; all creaking and sawing back and forth with the motion of the heavy destriers. Most of the animals looked walleyed and balky, having spent the past two days in the bowels of a transport ship.

  Riding in the middle, surrounded by this armoured phalanx of mercenaries, was the king. Ariel might have missed him entirely, so swathed and caped was he against the elements, but for a turn of the head and a glimpse of the long, pointed face. There was nothing regal about him. Nothing to set the heart aflutter or the lips moving in a prayer of exhaltation. Certainly nothing that would bring to mind his brother, the glorious golden-maned lionheart who had ruled before him. John’s features were dark and mean, his face starting to look bloated under the vee-shaped beard and prickling brows. His body was swollen from his overindulgence in rich foods and his legs stuck out, short and stubby, from the sides of his horse.

  Ariel lowered her lashes again. Another raised his and stared at England’s king through flint-gray eyes as cold as ice, as hard as steel. The bitter taste of gall rose in Eduard’s throat as he watched the pompous, gloating fool parade past. It would have been so easy—an arrow in the back and damn the consequences—to end all of Britain’s woes then and there.

  Eduard felt the hatred burning through his veins like acid. He saw the faces of the knights taken at Mirebeau who had been brought here to Corfe in chains and left to starve to death in darkness and unimaginable agony. He saw the proud, handsome face of Arthur, and the tormented features of the dowager queen so utterly devastated by the need to choose between a son and a grandson.

  And there was Eleanor. A casual word from John had crippled her forever. Eduard had not allowed himself to think about it until now, but he wondered if her uncle had watched while his torturer stuck his thumbs in Eleanor’s eyes and gouged them from the sockets? Had he savoured the pain she must have endured, the fear and incomprehensible terror she must have felt being strapped to a chair, her head held rigid while she suffered through the appalling disfigurement? Was her last sight that of John smiling, gloating over his cleverness and cruelty?

  Sweat broke out across Eduard’s forehead and the muscles in his belly tightened in spasms. He was thankful he had not broken his fast that morning, for he was having difficulty combating the surges of bile. The nausea fueled his hatred until it pricked and stung behind his eyes and in truth, he was not surprised to see the king’s head swivel slowly around, as if he had felt the threat and searched for the source.

  With an almost superhuman effort, Eduard lowered his head. The shape of his helm shielded most of his face from view, and luckily, with Brevant’s impressively huge frame overshadowing all others, FitzRandwulf’s own formidable presence earned no more than a cursory glance.

  And then the king was gone, swallowed into a green and gray miasma of rain and sagging pine boughs. More foot soldiers and servants formed the straggling rear of the cavalcade, and when they had safely passed and the last sucking footstep had faded along the forest road, Brevant released a long, slow hiss of breath.

  “There you have it then, my lords,” he said as he walked back to join Eduard and the others. “If I were a generous man, I would give us an hour before all hell descends upon us.”

  “The rain will slow that descent,” Henry said.

  “The rain will slow us,” the captain countered smoothly. “More so if we do not rid ourselves of extra baggage now.”

  So saying, he walked straight to where his men were grouped together and, without a change in stride or expression, swung his wickedly barbed scimitar with both hands, catching the first man high under the chin where the narrow gap between the hauberk and hood left a strip
of skin exposed. The edge of the glaive slashed through the man’s throat, tearing out bone and gristle, shattering the jawbone and silencing the startled scream under a gout of bright red blood. The remaining five guards fanned back in shock and surprise. The horses smelled blood and reared, pawing the air with muddy hooves.

  FitzRandwulf unslung his shield and hooked it over his forearm in a single fluid motion. He drew his sword with a hand that offered no apology for wanting blood, and he lunged for the nearest guard even as Brevant’s terrible weapon was laying open the chest of his second victim, throat to gut.

  The shrill clash of steel on steel sent the women scrambling clear of the sudden outbreak of violence. Two more guards were writhing face down in the mud before they could unsheath their weapons; a third gave Eduard a few screaming steps worth of resistance before his blade was scraped aside and cold steel punched through skin and rib and spine to emerge bloodied on the other side. The sixth man managed to grab his horse and swing himself onto the animal’s back, kicking and shouting at the beast to retreat before he was fully balanced. He gained no more than a pitiable few paces when he stiffened suddenly in the saddle and threw his arms wide. The air caught him and tossed him backward. He landed spread-eagled in the mud, a small six-inch iron quarrel jutting from an eye socket, leaking crimson tears down the side of his face.

  It was all over in less than a minute. Marienne was screaming and Lucifer was dancing in a thunderous circle, his gleaming black coat spattered in mud and blood. Henry, Dafydd, and Sedrick had only just managed to draw their swords and were crouched at the ready—ready for a fray that was finished before they had realized what Brevant had begun.

  “God’s grace!” Henry gasped. “You could have given a word of warning!”

  “The warning,” Brevant grunted, “is this, my lord: the king’s men will be riding up our heels quicker than you can spit, and we have no time to waste on niceties. Linger here awhile if you doubt me and—saints and God above! What’s that?”

  That was the diminutive green and brown clad shadow who came swooping down out of the treetops and landed almost on top of Sedrick. Brevant moved with lightning reflexes, thinking it to be some winged creature from hell come to avenge the slaying of the king’s men, and if not for Eduard’s equally swift reaction in cutting his blade across the path of Brevant’s sword, Sparrow would, in all likelihood, have found his head parted from his shoulders before he could finish chuckling over his timely arrival.

  As it was, he found himself sprawled flat in the mud, where he had flung himself to avoid the cold slick of air disturbed by Jean de Brevant’s sword. Being unaccustomed to flinging himself anywhere, let alone in a stinking quagmire of mud and rotted leaves, Sparrow lay there for a long, stunned moment, the air huffed out of his lungs, and only the whites of his eyes free of brown sludge.

  “The great, lubbering suet-gut!” he exclaimed syllable by syllable, extricating one arm, then the other from the oozing mess. Sedrick leaned over and grasped a fistful of Sparrow’s fur vest, hauling him up and setting him on his feet again with a grin as broad as his belly.

  “Nice of ye to join us again, Sprite. Bit off the mark, though, weren’t ye?”

  Sparrow still had hold of his arblaster, and at the sound of Sedrick’s chuckle, whirled around and drove the tip of the wooden bow into the toe of the Celt’s boot. The knight leaped and gave a howl of pain, which barely dented the wood elf’s craving for revenge. He rounded on Brevant and drew the two bone-handled daggers he wore at his waist, filleting the air in a promisory blur as he stalked the armoured giant.

  “Sparrow! Hold up!” Eduard shouted. “It was an honest mistake, with no harm done.”

  “No harm? No harm!” The little man puffed up like a quail in moult. “Two full days have I paced and pondered, fretted and feared, and now I am come back to join you only to have this lumber-nose send me arse over gob! Not likely I will hold up, sirrah! Not likely.”

  His daggers flashed again, but the point of Eduard’s sword sent them both spinning away into the mud. Undaunted, Sparrow drew a wicked-looking hatchet from a sheath in his belt and was about to fell a limb or two when he caught sight of the four cloaked and hooded figures by the side of the road. Robin was trying desperately to catch and calm the horses, Ariel and Marienne stood with Eleanor sandwiched between them.

  The two women had remained steadfastly by the princess’s side, relaying everything that happened, reassuring her in the calmest tones possible that the fighting had gone in their favour. Sparrow’s arrival and subsequent mud bath had eased some of their terror; seeing a long thread of silver-blonde hair blow free of the dark hood put a broad smile on the seneschal’s face and made him forget abruptly about Jean de Brevant.

  “Our Pearl!” he cried. “Our Little Pearl has been saved! Good St. Cyril, I offer thanks to all the … the …”

  Eduard had not been able to warn him. He had seen Sparrow’s black eyes dance with delight as he recognized the princess … and a moment later, widen with shock and horror as he caught sight of the face beneath the hood.

  “Oh.” Sparrow cried softly. “Oh … sweet Jesu …”

  “There is no time for an accounting now,” Eduard murmured tautly. “All will be explained to you later, when we have put some distance between ourselves and Corfe. In the meantime, it is enough for you to know we have barely skinned our way out of the castle keep; even now, I should think the castellan is trying to waken the governor and is discovering Sir Guy is not all that he should be.”

  “Dead, then, is he?” Sedrick asked.

  “Not when we left him. But he may wish he was when he comes around again. Once more I say, all will be explained when the breath of the leopard is not so close upon our necks. Robin! Dafydd! Gather up the spare horses … strip them down and string them together; we will take them along until we find a sweet enough meadow to deter them from running back to Corfe too soon. Sedrick, Henry, Jean … give a hand with these bodies. The longer it takes John’s Brabançons to find them, the longer they will think we move with caution. Sparrow … did you find us a safe route away from here?”

  Sparrow’s round, dark eyes lifted to Eduard’s. Pain and grief swam in their liquid depths, for he had known the princess since she was but a twinkle of silver light on a swaddling board. But he nodded and pointed a shaky finger down the road.

  “A league more and you will see an oak scarred and split in half by lightning. Veer off the road and follow the cut in the trees until you find the river. Follow this as far as you can, keeping to the middle in case they bring hounds.” He gave the thought a mild shudder and added, “Where the river widens and breaks in two, follow the north branch, again as far as far can take you …” His voice faded and his eyes slid back to where Eleanor stood.

  “Sparrow?” Eduard prodded gently.

  “Aye. Aye, as far as far can take you … then—” The curly head snapped forward again and a ridge of grim determination hardened his jaw. “Wait there until I come and fetch you, for though the lot of you might fancy yourselves great and glorious huntsmen, you will have your feet walking in circles without someone to shew you the way.”

  “Ye’re not coming with us?” Sedrick asked.

  “I will dally here a bit and see how many bees come out of the hive to search for us.”

  “Aye, and if the weather holds at this much misery and no more, it should help us a bit,” Jean de Brevant remarked, squinting up at the gray, shifting mass of cloud above them. “If it turns, though, and gets any colder …”

  Eduard followed his gaze to where the three women stood huddled together. They were soaked and frightened and could not be expected to last too long without heat and shelter.

  “At the end of the path I have given you is a waterfall,” Sparrow said, reading the concern on Eduard’s face. “Beneath it is a cavern, large enough to build a fire and heat a pan of food. It will take three, four hours to reach it in this mort of English hospitality, but once reached, will give shelt
er for as long as it takes to bolster any spirits, should they be flagging.”

  “You’ll not dally here too long,” Eduard said by way of a warning.

  Sparrow looked down the road toward Corfe, then up into the thick boughs of the pines that lined either side of the tract. “Only long enough to delay them,” he said narrowly.

  Eduard nodded and sheathed his sword before turning and walking back toward the bodies of the dead guardsmen. Jean de Brevant was close on his heels, a frown pleating his face.

  “What can one elf hope to do against a score of the king’s men?” he asked, helping Eduard lift and carry the first body into the brush.

  “You would not have to ask if you knew the elf,” Eduard answered.

  Sparrow asked himself, a dozen times, what he was doing wedged up in the boughs of a tree with rain drizzling down his nose and the occasional squirrel sniffing at his rump. He stank abominably. His vest was still thick with mud and his face streaked with grime, but he reasoned it helped in concealing him … if only the squirrels had not started thinking of him as a large brown nut. A troop of them squatted on an adjacent branch, bickering and debating amongst themselves how best to drag their discovery into their hidey-holes, and Sparrow was forced to heave the odd pine cone across the gap when their numbers grew bold enough and shrill enough to sound like a gathering of fishwives.

  He had been cleaved to the crotch of the tree for nigh on three hours, as best as he could figure it from the distant tolling of church bells. The oppressive drizzle had kept travellers off the road and no one had passed either way. The tracks left by the men and horses had lost their sharp definitions and the hollows were filled with puddles of water, spotting the road like a leper’s skin. Behind and beneath him, out of sight of anyone riding or walking by, were the bodies of the six guardsmen slain earlier. Sightless and soundless, they watched Sparrow with an equally unnerving diligence.