In the Shadow of Midnight (31 page)

Sedrick scowled and in no uncertain terms advised Sparrow where he could thrust his luck, with or without the aid of a lumpkin’s pike.

“Tsk tsk, Sir Borkel. Save such hasty wishings for another time. Where we are going, we will need all the luck we can gather about us.”

Henry glanced quickly over at Eduard. “You have had word from my uncle?”

Eduard shook his head. “No, but M’sieur Gabinet has his own sources. Hopefully the marshal will be able to confirm it by the time we reach St. Malo, but for the moment, our destination appears to be … Purbeck.”

Henry suffered a twist in his gut that had nothing to do with the beating he had sustained. He had prayed sincerely to hear the princess was being held at Bristol … or even the London tower … if only for the added physical comforts that were available for a prisoner of such noble delicacy. But Purbeck … It was on the Dorset coast and, looming over it like a satyr’s eye, was Corfe Castle, a bleak and hellish place, seeming always to stand gray and ugly under a wind-blown, evil sky. Many prisoners disappeared inside the walls of Corfe Castle. Few were ever seen or heard from again. None, to Henry’s knowledge, had ever escaped.

“Well then,” he said. It was all he said, all he could think to say before he turned away and took several more deep swallows of ale.

Sparrow looked from one solemn face to another and supposed it was up to him to suggest a word or two in their favour. Unfortunately for his good intentions, one of the logs in the
fire chose that same moment to send a shower of sparks bursting out over the hearth. When he glanced at the grate to see what had caused the minor eruption, he saw that the small body of a bird had fallen out of the chimney and lay outlined against the glowing bed of embers. It was a sparrow and it was only there for a blink or two before the heat curled the wings and the tiny body caught on fire.

Sparrow felt an uncomfortable scratching at the base of his spine and he looked up to see if anyone else had noticed.

No one had, and when he looked back, the body of the bird was gone, leaving only the acrid scent of death behind.

W
illiam the Marshal’s confirmation came by way of a monk, who carried the message consisting of a single word Purbeck—from the earl’s temporary lodgings at Falaise Castle. FitzRandwulf’s party had already been in St. Malo a full day and had met with the captain of a small ship that same evening to arrange passage across the Channel.

It had taken two days to travel from Rennes to St. Malo, days of riding with aches and bruises, with broken bones and dark moods. Robin and Ariel were kept busy watching Dafydd ap Iorwerth, for he was not as much of a floppy puppy as his appearance had suggested. He had been fully prepared to leave Rennes the morning after their ignoble arrival, broken arm or not, and left little doubt he intended to keep to his saddle if he had to tie himself on.

Ariel had wakened with a blistering headache and no clear memory of anything that had happened after being clouted on the head. She might have remained blithely ignorant had she not had an early visit from her brother.

He had strided into her chamber unannounced, his one cheek and eye a massive purpling bruise, his nose swollen and decidedly to the left of straight.

“You should not cast stones before you see yourself in a glass,” he had remarked.

“I have no need to see myself. I can
feel
it ugly enough.” Henry had spared a glance for the blue and yellow goose egg she wore on her forehead, then helped himself to a chunk of cheese off the tray Robin had brought her earlier.

“You have heard, I gather, that the Cub has decided to rest here the day.”

“Because of Lord Dafydd’s arm?” “Among other reasons,” Henry agreed. “I hope I was not one of those ‘other’ reasons. It was my head that was cracked not my rump—I am perfectly able to sit a horse.”

“He predicted you might say that,” Henry mused. “But alas, he was more concerned with the horses than he was with your head.”

“The horses?”

“The packhorses, to be precise. He must needs replace them. It seems the threat of plucking out eyes and hearts carries little weight in Rennes. The destriers would have been too difficult to conceal or dispose of, but the rouncies must have been stripped down and sold to harness before the tavern door swung fully shut.”

“They were stolen? With all of our supplies?”

“We were hardly expecting to walk into a nest of vipers.”

“Or the wrong nest, for that matter.”

“An easy mistake. Anyone could have made it.”

“But it was not anyone, dear brother, it was you. You who pride yourself on your cunning and quick wit. You who claim to be able to travel from one end of the realm to the other with only your shield and merciless eye for protection.”

His scowl returned. “I could have carved the lot to shreds easily—”

“Had you not been distracted. Indeed, your merciless eye was lodged so far down the wench’s bosom, it was a wonder it was not torn from the socket when you were attacked.”

Henry leaned over. “If you would care to exchange insults, sweet Ariel, harken back to where you were when the truncheons flew and the blood spattered. Under a table? In a corner? The darkest you could find? Here, I would have expected to see you in the thick of the fray, for all your practising and boasting.”

Ariel started to return his scowl, but the effort faltered. “In truth, I can remember very little of what happened inside the tavern … and nothing at all of this place,” she added, indicating the clean, tidy room.

“Nothing at all?” he repeated skeptically.

“Fragments only. Robin had to tell me most of what occurred at the first tavern, else I would have thought we came here by magic.”

“Magic,” he murmured. “I suppose some damosels would
regard such a bold rescue as being magical—enough so to bind themselves in the rogue’s arms for a romantic ride to safety.”

“I would hardly call a wild dash through the streets romantic,” she said dryly. “Nor was I
bound
in his arms. I was in a faint.”

“And so you sought the strength of his lips to hold you up?” He saw her gather herself for a denial and wagged a finger. “Before you splutter needlessly, be advised I was standing right there”—he pointed—“in the doorway. I warrant it may be just as well I was, for neither one of you looked in too much of a hurry to take leave of the other.”

Ariel’s mouth dropped open. “I … was obviously not in my proper senses.”

“You will hear no argument from me. You will hear a warning, however. He is fire, Ariel, and if you dally with him, you will be burned.”

“Dally with him!” she exclaimed. “I have no intentions of dallying with him!”

“I am glad to hear it, for I would remind you the bloodlines of the De Glares are purer than some who would aspire to be kings and queens. FitzRandwulf may wear the black and gold of La Seyne Sur Mer, but he is a bastard and as such would only breed more bastards on whoever he takes to his bed.”

Ariel was dumfounded. Almost speechless. “How …
dare
you even take it upon yourself to say such a thing!”

“I dare because we only have each other to watch out for, Ariel. I dare because I am the head of the De Clare family and, frankly, I would dare a great deal more to see our pennon flying over the ramparts of Cardigan Castle again.”

“Do you doubt I want the same thing? Have I not agreed to marry the very man who has the power to restore our family name to its proper place?”

“Indeed you have,” Henry agreed with quiet intensity. “And indeed you will, even if I have to gird you in an iron belt and tie you to my side every step of the way.”

Ariel’s response had been to heave the entire tray and its contents at his head, forcing him to duck back out the door.

And while Henry had not exactly girded her or tied her to his side, he had all but transformed himself into a hawk for the close and predatory watch he kept on her after that. He took precautions never to leave her alone with FitzRandwulf He even limited the time she spent in Robin’s company lest the lad boast of too many more of the Bastard’s accomplishments.

If Ariel objected to this new attentiveness on her brother’s part, she did not put voice to any complaints. She had been given more than just a knock on the head to think about and she was not altogether certain she trusted herself around FitzRandwulf.

Not that she would have known, by anything he said or did, that whatever intimacy they may or may not have shared had left a lasting impression. He was his usual cool, brusque self, preoccupied with finding horses and supplies to replace what they had lost, and then with speeding them on their way to St. Malo with no further delays or mishaps. Only at night, during the still, dark hours when the only sound was the beating of her own heart, was she aware of the slate gray eyes watching her across the fire. Then, if she still had reason to doubt the validity of what Henry had told her, she needed only to feel the warm wash of sensations sliding through her belly to know his concerns were real.

   St. Malo was a crowded and busy port city. The smell of fish and salt water, canvas and wood rot, permeated everything.

It was also a secretive city, filled to the eaves with men who made their livings carrying other men back and forth to England who preferred to keep their travel arrangements to themselves. Fully a third of John’s meagre army had returned to England without the permission or knowledge of their captains. Another third waited in dirty taverns, rolling dice and hoping to win the price of a berth on board the next ship heading home. Voices in the shadows railed King John as a usurper, a liar, a foul murderer. There were brawls in the taverns and throats slit every night. Fevers ran high in favour of the rebel forces seeking to oust the Norman king from
Brittany, and even humble pilgrims were not immune from the effects of widespread dissent, twice fielding sprays of rotten vegetables thrown by invisible hands.

FitzRandwulf’s party sought lodging at another inn that opened its doors wider to the words à
outrance
, and though the owners were neither as portly nor as amiable as the Gabinets, the rooms were clean, the food hearty, the ale strong and plentiful. Henry and Eduard wasted no time making arrangements for their crossing. Passage for the men and their horses was won at an exhorbitant price, paid in silver to guarantee the captain would not sell their berths to others as eager to remove themselves from Brittany.

When the men returned to the inn for the evening meal, they behaved as if at least a portion of the weight on their shoulders had been lifted. It showed in the amount of ale they consumed with their food and in the lighthearted banter that flew across the platters of mutton, quail, fish, and legumes. Henry was so relaxed, his eye kept wandering to the shapely figure of the innkeeper’s daughter, who all but ignored him as she filled their tankards and carried the meal to and from the large dining table. His wandering eye became a general restlessness and, after Ariel declared her intentions to retire for the night, he confided he might partake of a walk to another tavern where the patrons were less solemn and the wenches less prone to keeping their thighs clamped together. It was their last night in Normandy, after all, and there was naught left to do but find their way to the docks before midnight the following eve.

Sedrick, heaving a sigh of vast indulgence, said he might as well accompany the randy young lord to save him from having his brains rattled again. Sparrow, declaring the pair of them needed watching, sharpened his eyes for mischief and followed after them. Neither Robin nor Dafydd ap Iorwerth expressed any further craving for adventure. The Welshman’s arm was healing, but painful, and he bid a weary good night to all and did not protest when Robin tucked himself under his arm and supported his weight up the stairs. They left Eduard brooding in front of the fire … where he was still to
be found an hour or so later when Ariel descended from her room in search of a cup of honeyed milk.

At first, she did not see him, for his dark clothing blended perfectly with the shadows. Nor did he make any overt move to draw attention to himself, letting only his eyes follow her progress across the room.

She had indulged in a bath earlier that afternoon, scrubbing a week’s worth of sweat and pine sap out of her hair. Weary of braids and pins and pillowed felt hats, she had left it loose to dry and had caught the bulk of it at the nape of her neck with a scrap of linen. There were unruly sprays drifting around her temples and throat, a soft nimbus of bright red curls that glowed like a halo in the firelight. The bruise on her scalp was still visible although the angriest blue had started to fade. She wore a loose-fitting tunic made of fine camlet cloth—a deliberately feminine concession to the leggings and coarse linsey-woolsey she had worn all week. A modest enough fabric in daylight, it was rendered pale and luminous by the firelight, playing teasing tricks with shapes and shadows so that Eduard could feel his mouth going dry even without looking at anything lower than her collarbone.