In the Shadow of Midnight (38 page)

Marienne caught up to the princess halfway between landings, and nowhere near a source of light. Too eager to wait for either, she called out in an urgent whisper, “Your Highness, wait. Take this”—she pressed the ring into Eleanor’s hand— “and tell me if you know it.”

Eleanor frowned and ran her fingers around the surface of the gold circlet. “No. No, I—” She stopped and held the ring higher. She rubbed it harder and traced the distinctive filigree with the pad of her thumb before she gasped and slipped it over the smallest finger of her right hand. It was a perfect fit.

She reached out across the darkness and gripped Marienne’s shoulders. “Where did you get it? Where did it come from? Dear God …
Eduard!
Where is he? Have you seen him? Have you spoken to him?”

“No, I have not seen or spoken to him myself, my lady, but the captain has. He told me yesterday—
whisht!”
She stopped and bit her lip, glancing back down into the darkness. “The walls may have ears, my lady. We should say no more until we are behind our own door.”

Eleanor’s grip tightened briefly, but she could see the reason for caution and practically dragged her young maid up the winding stairs behind her. Safe in the isolation of the tower room, they closed the heavy door and took the further precaution of sitting in the farthest corner of the solar, near the prayer nave.

“Tell me,” Eleanor commanded. “Tell me everything.”

“There is not much to tell, for ’twas only a chance remark yesterday that first caught my ear.”

“What did he say?
What exactly did he say?”

“He said … exactly … that a group of graycloaks were passing through the village and had decided to lodge at the inn while one of their party was tended by an herb woman.”

“One of them is injured?” Eleanor gasped. “Or possibly using it as a ruse.” “And? Was that all he said?”

“Not all, my lady. He also said … one of the knights bore a scar on his cheek.”

Eleanor squeezed Marienne’s hands so tightly, the maid thought her fingers might pop apart at the joints. The princess turned toward the crucifix that hung in the nave and made soft, choking sounds, as if she did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

“He has come. Dear, sweet Eduard … he has come. Oh but … Jesu, Jesu …” She whirled back around and gripped Marienne’s hands more ferociously.
“Why
has he come? What does he think he can do? If the king’s men discover who he is, or … or if they even suspect … !”

“Do not distress yourself, my lady,” Marienne said. “Lord FitzRandwulf is no pudding-head. He is the bravest, boldest knight in all of Christendom—he will not have come without a clever plan to rescue you!”

“Rescue me?” Eleanor cried aghast. “Surely not! Surely he cannot be thinking … ! He would not try … !
He has not come to take me back to Brittany!”

Marienne looked puzzled. “Surely that is exactly why he has come, my lady. Brittany is your home. He has come … to take you home.”

“Dear Mother Mary,” Eleanor whispered, so weakened by the thought that she slipped down onto her knees. Her hands shook visibly as she ran them down the front of her gown, from breasts to belly, and when she raised them again, the tiny silver cross of her rosary beads was caught around her fingers. “I cannot go back to Brittany,” she gasped. “Not like this. My uncle sought to shame me, and he has succeeded. I cannot go back to Brittany! I cannot let Eduard see me like this! It would … kill him.”

“If he kills anyone, it will be the king,” Marienne declared savagely. “And good riddance to him! As for the people of Brittany, they love you. They will never stop loving you, nor can they blame you for the king’s perversions. They will be thankful enough you are still alive and not … not …”

“Not lying in a watery grave like my poor Arthur? Sometimes … I think I would have been better off beside him. At least then he would not have been alone, and I … I would not have had to bear the shame of Angevin lust and greed.”

“Your Highness, you must not speak this way. Lord Eduard has come to rescue you, to save you from this place, and from the king’s madness.”

“Then he has wasted his time, for there is no rescue possible
for me, only sanctuary, and this the king has already provided for me.”

“Here? In Corfe? You would be content to remain the rest of your days here?”

“The king has promised me I will not. Corfe is but a temporary accommodation while I … while I adjust to my condition,” she finished in a whisper.

“You would still believe him? After all he has done to you … the degradation he has forced upon you?”

“He did it to ensure I could never be a threat to his crown. In that he has succeeded, for I could never be queen now, never”—the words caught in her throat and took all of her strength to sob free—“be looked upon with anything but pity and derision.”

“Lord FitzRandwulf will only look upon you with love,” Marienne insisted. “Just as I do.”

“No!” Eleanor said fiercely. “No, he must never look upon me at all! He must be persuaded to go away from here and leave me to my own fate. He must be convinced this is what I want.”

“But … how, my lady? He will not believe the word of a gaoler, regardless of what proof Brevant gives him. He will not believe this is what you have said or what you want unless he hears it from your own lips.”

“You must find a way. You
must
convince him I am better left forgotten, for I could not bear to even imagine the look on his face if he should see me like this.”

Eleanor bowed her head and turned her body into the nave. She clasped her hands around her beads and pressed them to her lips, praying fervently between soft, muffled sobs. Watching her, Marienne thought her heart would surely break under this new burden of sorrow.

It was not fair. It simply was not fair that someone so proud, so lovely, so virtuous should have to spend the rest of her days with her head bent in shame.

Hoping to find a measure of the courage her princess possessed, Marienne took to her knees alongside her and appealed to the Blessed Virgin for guidance. She prayed all day as
she went about her chores and later that evening, when she again bumped into Captain Brevant and felt for the warmth of his large hand, she whispered her message, knowing full well it would take more than just a humble miracle to turn Eduard FitzRandwulf away from Corfe Castle.

   “What do you mean she wants nothing more to do with me?” Eduard demanded, his anger rising swift and sharp to the surface.

“I am not the one to know what she means,” Brevant snarled by way of an answer. “I only know she gave me this”— he shoved something round and heavy into Eduard’s hand and withdrew his own as if the object had been glowing red hot and he was glad to be rid of it—“and sent a plea that you leave her to the fate God has chosen for her. Those were
her
words according to the Little One, and God curse my tongue for agreeing to carry them at all. Take my advice and do as she asks. The king is expected to sail from Cherbourg before the week’s end. He will be stopping here before he makes for Portsmouth and you would be smart to have moved your ugly faces a hundred miles from here by then.”

Eduard curled his fist around the ring Brevant had given him. He had no need to look at it, for he knew it was his own, wrought of gold and crested with the La Seyne Sur Mer device of a snarling wolf. News of the king’s imminent arrival came as a surprise. If it was true—and he had no reason to believe it was not—they had no more time to waste weighing the risks. They would have to take a few.

“I want you to inform your governor we are here.”

“Eh? Inform him you are here?” Brevant was stunned. “Are you mad?”

“We are all a little mad, my friend, some more than others is all. You have told us it is impossible to get inside the castle walls by stealth or force. It remains, therefore, the only other way is by invitation.”

“Invitation? You expect him to
invite
you into the castle as his guests?”

“I would expect him, as the king’s representative, to extend
the offer of hospitable lodgings to Lady Ariel de Clare and her brother, Lord Henry de Clare, niece and nephew to William of Pembroke, Earl Marshal of England.”

The giant’s jaw sagged open and his eyes bulged. “You want me to carry him a tale like that?”

“He must already know there are strangers in the village; it can only do you credit to go to him with the lord and lady’s identity and inform him they are in possession of letters, signed by the earl himself, granting her safe conduct and all due courtesies on her journey north to be united with her groom, the king’s own loyal vassal, Sir Reginald de Braose.”

Brevant grasped the hilt of his sword in a hand that could have crushed it. “You
are
mad, my bold fellow. Old Swill has no sense of humour and if he thinks, for one instant, the letters are a ruse and the lady is none other than Mistress Waycock from Strumpet Row—”

“The letters are genuine,” Eduard said evenly. “As will be Lord Henry’s wrath if he hears you have called his sister, the earl’s niece, a whore.”

Brevant expelled all the air from his lungs, sending a wave of heat blasting past Eduard’s face. “Perhaps you have no knowledge of the man who governs Corfe Castle.
I
do not call him Old Swill out of fondness, but because of the quantities of ale and wine he consumes each day in order to sleep through the screams of his prisoners at night. He was once one of John’s champions, you see, who gained some prominence in the lists as a man who rarely carried a blunted sword into matches and who had no qualms about striking a man when his back was turned if it was the easy way to victory. He also managed to expand his holdings in Nottinghamshire through several
favours
he did for the then prince regent—a few quiet assassinations for parcels of land here and there—and set his ambitions toward becoming sheriff.

“When Prince John became King John, our bold but foolish Sir Guy of Gisbourne jokingly made reference to some of these past favours he had done, fully expecting his services would be rewarded by his appointment to the king’s judiciary court. He was appointed here instead, with the promise of
Nottingham’s seat if he could prove both his deservedness and his ability to keep his mouth firmly shut.” Brevant paused and drew another deep breath as if to cleanse his lungs of some unknown foulness. “Gisbourne has been governor here at Corfe for two years, and has been striving to win his way back into the king’s good graces ever since. He is especially vindictive and especially creative if he thinks he has a victim in his claws whose screams of agony would put a smile on the king’s face.”

Eduard’s pulse was hammering in his throat. “This Gisbourne … he has not been near the guest in the tower cell, has he?”

“No. Not because he does not think the king would grin ear to ear, but because … he is not so foolish as to think he would sleep long without a knife cutting across his throat if he did dare to go near her.”

Eduard felt a mild flush of encouragement. It was not much, but it
was
an indication that there was a vulnerable chink in Brevant’s armour. If he could widen that chink, expose more of that vulnerability, maybe … just maybe there was a way to help Eleanor.

“Will you do it? Will you present our letters to Gisbourne?”

Brevant looked away and snarled. “If I did
…if
, mind … just how long would you be planning to play fancy with Gisbourne’s hospitality?”

“If the king is expected in four days’ time, we will be gone in three.”

Brevant rumbled again and turned, pacing several ground-shaking steps into the shadows before stopping and pacing back. “Once inside … what then? What do you plan to do?”

“The maid—Marienne—she is not a prisoner, is she? Can she move freely about the castle?”

“Aye,” Brevant nodded warily. “What of it?”

“I would see her then, and speak to her face to face. If I am convinced the one she serves is genuinely content with her fate, I will say or do nothing more.”

It was on the tip of Brevant’s tongue to tell the rogue
knight exactly why the lady would probably prefer to stay where she was, but it was not his place to reveal such things. Moreover he suspected even if he did tell the rogue of the lady’s plight, he would only tear a hole in the walls block by block to get at her to see the truth for himself. Let him come into Corfe, Brevant decided. Let him come and see for himself, if that was what he wanted … if he dared.

“Be ready by noon tomorrow,” he advised. “If Gisbourne takes the bait, I will come for you then. If noon passes and you have only your cap in your hand, I want your word you will put it on your head and ride out of Corfe without looking back.”

Eduard was loathe to be bound by any more oaths, but the giant was adamant.

“Your word, my lord,” Brevant demanded quietly. “Or this goes no further.”

“You have my word. We will quit the inn one way or another by midday tomorrow.”

A
riel stretched, from the tips of her fingers to the ends of her toes, feeling every muscle pull and tauten, every knuckle of her spine straighten and nudge its neighbour awake. It was still gloomy in the room; the sky outside the tiny casement window was tardy in relinquishing the night.