In the Shadow of Midnight

by Marsha Canham

  She reclaimed it with yet another sob and clenched it into a fist, fighting the urge to strike out at something, anything, but most especially the motionless, unresponsive wall of muscle that held her trapped against the moss.

  “I … have no need for a boot scrubber,” he admitted finally. “And I have already sampled your talents as a cook’s helper, only to find them sadly wanting. As to a mistress … aye.” He paused consideringly and ran both hands down the curve of her back. “You show promise of a distinct knack there, my lady, but alas … no. I have no need for a mistress either. I have neither the time nor the energy to spare on such things.”

  Ariel’s hopes sank and her shoulders sagged, but it seemed he was not finished chastising her yet. Nor would he let her escape without tilting her face up and forcing her to meet his gaze.

  “It will have to be as a wife, or nothing at all,” he said quietly.

  Ariel’s breath stopped in her throat and her heart missed a noticeable beat.

  “Your … wife?” she whispered.

  “If you will have me: a scarred and saddle-galled beast, arrogant and ill-mannered, brutish, unfeeling—” He pursed his lips and frowned. “My memory fails me, was there more?”

  She studied his smile intently. “You mock me, sir.”

  “I love you, my lady. God Himself could be waiting for you at Gloucester and I would not relinquish you.”

  Stunned, she barely responded as he bowed his head, kissing her with all of the tenderness she could have longed for and more than she deserved.

  “Of course … your uncle is another matter. He will not be pleased to hear how you have spurned another groom.”

  “I have not spurned Rhys ap Iorwerth,” she protested softly. “I have simply made a wiser choice.”

  “Nonetheless, you have broken your contract with him. A contract your uncle signed and sealed in good faith.”

  “The contract is void if I marry another—Lord knows the Welsh have stolen enough brides away from their intended grooms to be well acquainted with the law. As for Uncle Will …” She paused and the relief she felt brought forth a giddy question. “Are you afraid of him?”

  “Me? Afraid of the Marshal of England? The greatest champion of all time? Only from the ankles up, my love; only from the ankles up.”

  “But he likes you. He admires you; this he told me himself.”

  “Aye, well, his admiration might dim somewhat once he learns how sadly we have botched things.”

  “Botched? But you have saved the princess. You have stolen her out of King John’s clutches.”

  “That we have,” Eduard agreed grimly, disengaging himself as gently as possible. “But in such a way as to leave no doubt who was responsible. Part of your uncle’s plan was to keep the king from having positive proof of your involvement. Gisbourne may not yet know who I am, but he will surely waken with blood in his eye and the name De Clare screaming from his lips.”

  “Whatever did you do to him? Furthermore, what did he want with Robin?”

  Eduard glanced up from refastening his points. She still stood against the moss, her cloak skewed to one side, her tunic raised in a crush above her thighs. The stone walls of the tunnel were damp from the mist and the tiny, glistening bits of minerals in the rock reflected the opalescent wash of light that came through the falls, seeming to form a glowing nimbus around her. Despite her obvious and magnificent look of debauchery, Eduard thought it best to guard a small part of her innocence, for a while longer at any rate.

  “Suffice it to say he wanted Robin for no good reason and that Robin himself offered his refusal in a way Gisbourne will not likely soon forget—or forgive.”

  “Meaning he wanted Robin in the same way you wanted me … and Robin responded in a similar fashion as Alan of the Dale.”

  “Alan of the … who?”

  “The outlaw who ambushed us on the road to Rennes. He said the guards wanted to use him as a whore, and he butted them, all right, but—”

  Eduard’s mouth came down swiftly, perfunctorily, over hers, muffling her recollection along with the small laugh she accorded the look of surprise on his face.

  “I have an excellent memory,” she said when she was able.

  “Aye, and a knack of drawing on it at most inopportune moments.”

  Ariel’s expression sobered. “Is Robin … that is, he was not hurt in any way, was he?”

  “Only in the way he views the meaning of being in the ‘flower’ of knighthood. He, my lovely, is not quite so worldly-wise as you. Or me, alas. He is still convinced there is no true evil in the world, only slightly misguided fools who need a strong hand to show them the way to gaining purity of soul and goodness of heart.”

  “But you do believe it? You believe true evil exists?”

  “I am a product of it,” he said quietly. “And because of it, or perhaps in spite of it, I have tried too hard to protect Robin from the blacker side of humankind.”

  “Because of it … because of you, my lord,” she insisted, “and the man you have become in spite of everything, he will make for a braver and bolder knight one day, for he will want to be just like you.”

  Eduard lost himself in the drowning green of her eyes for a long moment and saw the pride and love shining there. It was pride for him, love for him, intense enough and honest enough to make him bow his head slightly, overwhelmed by the smothering tightness that took hold of his chest.

  The same tightness was etched on his face and Ariel recognized it for what it was. She had been suffering it herself, the whole blessed day long, each and every time she glanced his way. The worst of it had been eased and was still wet and slick between her thighs, but she knew it would happen upon her again and again until they were out of England and could shout their love for each other to the world.

  Until then, however, they would have to be content to shout it to themselves, in quiet ways. On darkened rooftops and in watery caves. With a look or a touch, or a few fleeting moments of intimacy that were over too soon. Too soon.

  “Did you really mean what you said?” she asked softly. “If God Himself were waiting at Gloucester, you would not relinquish me?”

  He did not meet her gaze, but the muscles in his arms bunched beneath her hands as he pulled her close again.

  “I meant it,” he whispered, burying his lips in her hair. Ariel pressed herself into his heat and her hands climbed up to his shoulders, then slid around, lacing together at the back of his neck. She was aware of his heartbeat hammering in his chest and of the tension coursing through his body. The tumbled waves of her hair framed the expectant face she raised to him; her lips, soft and moist, traced a warm, seductive path up his throat.

  “Absolutely shameless,” he murmured.

  Ariel sighed. And agreed.

  Henry de Clare heard a woman’s muffled cry and opened his eyes. It took a minute to register the scene: the cavern, the wool blankets hung to dry, the fire throwing shadows and shapes on the walls.

  The others—Sedrick, Dafydd, Robin, and Brevant were asleep. FitzRandwulf was standing guard at the entrance to the tunnel and the women were …

  Henry pushed to his feet, a curse forming on his lips as he jerked aside a corner of the blankets. Marienne and the princess were lying by the fire but the place where Ariel should have been was glaringly empty.

  Henry dropped the blanket and started to reach for his baldric when he heard the cry again and realized it had indeed come from the other side of the blankets. Without thinking, he lifted the edge again and saw what he had missed before. Eleanor’s long, slender legs had thrashed most of her blankets free. Her face was bathed in sweat and her hair was a blonde tangle, matted to her temples and throat in tight, wet curls.

  “No,” she gasped. “Please … please!”

  Henry ducked beneath the curtain and stretched out a hand to touch Eleanor’s shoulder, but a small white fist grasped his sleeve first, preventing him.

  Shocked, thinking Marienne might have misinte
rpreted his gesture as something other than concern, he folded his fingers into his palm and withdrew his hand immediately.

  “I was only wanting to see if she was unwell. A fever, perhaps—?”

  “It is no fever, my lord,” Marienne whispered. “Save the one in her heart.”

  “Please” Eleanor cried, thrashing in torment. “Arthur … my God, Arthur … tell him what he wants to hear. I was wrong. I was wrong. Tell him. Tell him anything. Tell him—” She stiffened and her back arched up off the floor. Her arms started to tremble and flay the air and Henry, helpless to do more than watch, saw Marienne move calmly to where Eleanor’s head rolled back and forth on the hard stone. She quickly folded a blanket and tucked it beneath the princess’s head, then crouched and took hold of her wrists, gently keeping them from striking the wall or the rough floor.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Marienne cried softly, “but if you could hold her ankles, she might be stopped from doing herself an injury when the worst of it comes.”

  Worse, Henry thought, doing as he was bid. How much worse? And why did the girl not simply waken her?

  “’Tis the Angevin curse,” Marienne explained over the tears that started to well in her eyes. “It only happens when she is very weak, or very tired … or very frightened. And ’tis more like a trance than a true fit. A nightmare from which she cannot be wakened until it runs its course. She … feels guilt over her brother’s death. She thinks … it was because of her, because he did not want to appear weak or unworthy in front of the courage she displayed … that he refused to accept the king’s offer of exile. And because he kept refusing, the king became angrier, and …”

  “Arthur!” Eleanor’s shivered cry drew Henry’s shocked gaze downward again. “Arthur … sweet, merciful Jesus, where is Arthur? Not dead. Not dead! Not dead!”

  Eleanor twisted so suddenly, Marienne lost her grip. The princess reared up, flailing her arms, sobbing and screaming soundlessly as she went through the horrific motions of trying to escape some torment from which there was no escape.

  Henry caught one wrist, then the other, surprised by the strength of her pain. He crossed her arms over her chest and drew her back against him so that she was pinned firmly against his body. He held her there, through one tremendous struggle after another, until they were both panting and running with sweat.

  Marienne watched, her hands covering her mouth, her cheeks wet with tears. She knew it was over when Eleanor shuddered and went limp in Lord Henry’s arms, and she knew this episode had been worse than many others because of the anxieties roused by the escape. She was thankful Lord Henry had been there to help. Thankful he was helping still by holding the princess and rocking her gently as he smoothed the silvery web of hair back off her face.

  His hand shook visibly when he lifted the last few tendrils away, for the shadows in the cavern had almost made it seem as though her eyes were simply closed against the intrusion of the firelight. A further heart-stopping illusion made him imagine the scars were crescents of golden lashes and that any moment they would lift over eyes so blue they would sparkle like a deep clear lake.

  “Does FitzRandwulf know about this?” he asked quietly.

  “He knew she suffered them as a child. It was one of the things they had in common.”

  Henry’s head shot up. “FitzRandwulf suffers fits?”

  “Oh no, my lord. Not fits.” She hastened to explain, “I am told he … used to suffer nightmares. Terrible nightmares, and when my lady first happened to see him in the midst of one—she was but a child then—she thought it a common bond they shared. Truly, ‘twas only nightmares. And my lady’s fits are so very mild, they could almost be mistaken as such themselves. Indeed, there were a number of years when she suffered none at all. But now, with Arthur … and all else …”

  Henry looked back down at the Pearl of Brittany. She was sleeping deeply; exhausted. One of her hands was curled around his neck and her body was burrowed against his for warmth. She was so thin and fragile, so pale, so lovely, so …

  “My lord—?”

  Henry shook away Marienne’s worried frown. “She is asleep. Soundly now, I think.”

  Marienne offered a tremulous smile of thanks as she helped him ease Eleanor down onto a bed of cloaks. He waited until there was no longer any excuse for him to remain on this side of the blankets, and when he turned awkwardly to leave, he felt Marienne’s hand on his arm again.

  “Thank you, my lord. Not just for this, but … for everything. I am quite certain, you see, that the king was come to Gorfe to settle things with my lady once and for all.” “Settle things?”

  “He has tried so hard to break her mind and her spirit, I have no doubt he was counting on her to succumb long before now. I have even less doubt he had decided to have Gisbourne arrange an accident, so you see”—she folded her hands tightly in her lap—“whatever happens now can only be better than what would have happened had we stayed behind. And if it is true, if it is at all possible for my lady to find safe haven at Kirklees … I … I know she will find peace. I know she will be released from these demons that haunt her.”

  Henry felt, suddenly, as if his whole body was on fire. His arms burned where they had held Eleanor and his heart pounded in his chest with such force as he had never felt before, in the heat of battle, or passion.

  He gently pried one of Marienne’s hands free and sandwiched it between his with a fierce promise. “She will find haven at Kirklees,” he rasped. “You have my word on it … and my life.”

  He sealed the pledge by raising the young maid’s captive hand to his lips. A last glance at Eleanor of Brittany sent him ducking quickly between the blankets; the need for cool, clean air sent him across the cavern and out into the gloom of the tunnel. Confused by too many new, emerging emotions, his composure took a sharp plunge downward when he rounded a curve in the tunnel and saw more than just the rushing gray-green wall of water.

  Ariel leaned into the warmth of Eduard’s body, her own beginning to display amazing recuperative powers by moving eagerly against the rhythm of his caressing hands. A few minutes ago, tottering on legs as weak as those of a newborn fawn, she would not have thought it possible to feel her blood racing anew and yet it was. Racing and flushing through her limbs so adamantly she heard Eduard press a deep, throaty chuckle into the soft pink curl of her ear.

  “Once, Vixen, is shameless,” he murmured. “Twice would be …”

  Ariel lifted her mouth to his and silenced his censure with a kiss that left them both short of breath and caution. Ariel moaned in assent as he started to lift her again, but a movement in the shadows turned her passion to shock as she pushed herself out of Eduard’s arms and scrambled hastily to pull her tunic down over her bared thighs.

  Eduard saw the look of horror on Ariel’s face and turned, alerted to the presence of someone behind them. His hand moved instinctively to his waist, to the sword that was not there but leaned against the stone wall more than two full strides away. His second instinct was to shield Ariel with his body, which he did by turning to meet the threat face to face.

  Lord Henry de Glare, his tawny hair glinting gold against the flare of light emanating from the cavern, moved forward with slow, measured steps. Neither Eduard nor Ariel had heard his approach over the rush of the waterfall, nor did they know how long he had been standing there observing them. To judge by the rigid look on his face, he knew they had not merely been enjoying a few minutes of private conversation. To judge by the way his fist opened and closed around the hilt of the dagger he wore thrust in his belt, he was not amused by what he had seen.

  It was a reflex action that sent Ariel’s hands down to further smooth the wrinkles in her tunic and to draw the edges of her cloak over the sudden chill in her flesh. Henry’s eyes scorned the gesture as much as the grim lines of his mouth suggested such modesty was late in coming.

  “Here?” he asked coldly. “Without so much as a bed or haystack for comfort?”

  Eduard fis
ted his hands. “Since your sister has agreed to be my wife, I would advise against offering too many insults.”

  Henry’s hazel eyes held FitzRandwulf’s for a few hard moments, then sought the pale sliver of Ariel’s face where it peeped out from behind her lover’s shoulder.

  “Is this true?” he asked.

  Ariel slipped her hand into Eduard’s larger, warmer one.

  “No. The absolute truth is that I offered to be his mistress if he would take me anywhere but to Gloucester … and he refused me. I had not even dared to hope he would take me to wife, but alas—” She looked up into Eduard’s bemused eyes and smiled. “He said it was to be thus or not at all, and so dear brother, I have accepted.”

  Henry opened his mouth, but snapped it shut again. His gaze flicked from his sister’s face to FitzRandwulf’s, but when he realized they had eyes only for each other, he threw his hands up in the air and turned on his heel to glare at the wall of sheeting water.

  “I know I have asked this before, but have you … have either of you … any notion of what you are doing? It is all very well and good to make dewy-eyed plans in the heat of passion, but … have you given thought to what you will do when the heat wanes? Where will you go? How will you live? Good God, man—” He swore loudly and rounded on Eduard again. “Half the king’s men will be hunting for you and the other half for us. Your father and our uncle will have to publicly disown us and disclaim having any prior knowledge of our intentions if they are to have any hope of avoiding the king’s retribution. They will have to declare us renegades and traitors and will no doubt have to make the gesture, at any rate, of helping the king try to hunt us down. Had you not crippled and castrated Gisbourne, we might have been able to exile ourselves to Navarre or Aragon—or even to Rome to plead our case before the pope. But Gisbourne will want our heads to stick on pikes and John will give him full rein to chase us to the edges of the earth.”