In the Shadow of Midnight (39 page)

Ariel turned her head slowly, wary of the sounds of the other sleepers around her. The inn only had the one room and one large bed that could have slept six head to toe if they were friendly. For the second night in a row, Ariel had been given the whole thing to herself, while the men had claimed various sections of the floor.

She had heard rain spattering the horn panes of the window during the night, and she could smell the dampness in the thatch overhead. It was even damper, she supposed, because the window was open a crack, but she was not of a mind to tell the man standing there to close the shutters and keep the chill to himself.

The last glimpse she had had of FitzRandwulf, he had been standing in the same position. He must have moved some time during the night, for his quilted leather gambeson had been removed and replaced with a rust-coloured jerkin. His profile was the same: hard and angular. The hand that rested on the shutter caught what light was blooming through the cracks, giving the veins and fine bones a raised pattern of shadows and planes, causing the signet ring he now wore on his thumb to glow blood red.

Ariel squeezed her eyes closed, but it was no use. The image of his hands, the memory of those hands boldly stroking over her body, would not be chased away. If anything, the memory caused little shivers to spread through her body, rippling across the surface of her skin, bringing on changes, disturbances everywhere. There was gooseflesh on her arms, but she was not cold. There was a shimmering weakness in her limbs, but she was not standing. Ribbons of heat, as unsettling
as the pinprick shivers started to flutter in the valley between her thighs—a queer sensation, smooth and sharp at the same time, and it made her want to press her thighs together to keep the ribbons from uncoiling.

How could she have let him do such a thing to her? Surely it was a sin to allow a man such freedoms? And an even greater sin to enjoy them? He had certainly known just what to touch and how to touch it, and it made her wonder … if he had not stopped himself … what other skills he would have shared.

This time she did shake the thoughts away. Quietly, carefully so as not to disturb the others, she gathered the folds of the blanket around her shoulders and sat on the edge of the bed. FitzRandwulf’s head had turned slightly to indicate he had detected the movement, but he did not look in her direction or move so much as a muscle anywhere else on his body.

Ariel glanced around the room. Sedrick and Henry were stretched along the floor on either side of the door, their faces to the wall, their arms folded over their chests as they slept. Robin was in a youthful sprawl, his mouth open, his hood folded forward almost to his nose, shading the upper half of his face. Sparrow was curled beside him, his hat crushed beneath his head as a pillow, his arblaster hugged against his body for comfort. The Welshman was partially hidden by the corner of the bed; all she could see were his feet, clad in their fine gray doeskin boots.

She stood, drawing the blanket higher around her chin. They had all slept fully clothed save for the bulkiest layers of armour, and she was careful how she put her boots to the floor, not wanting to waken anyone with a clumsy misstep. Apart from the tails of the blanket, which whispered softly where they dragged over the floorboards, she came up beside FitzRandwulf without a sound.

“What Robin told me must be true,” she said on a hushed breath. “He said you never sleep.”

The pewter-coloured eyes lingered on the scene outside the window, and she wondered if perhaps he hadn’t even heard her. But he had. It just took him a moment to steel
himself to look down at her—something he was hoping he could do without giving himself away.

There were soft pink creases on her cheek where she had lain on a fold of the blanket. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and her hair— Damn all the saints who strove to torment what few hours he did manage to sleep with thoughts of all that copper fire spread beneath a pale white body. Now it lay in a loosely plaited rope over her shoulder, with sprays and errant curls flying every which way around her face, making his fingers itch with the need to reach out and tuck it back behind her ears.

He turned to look back out the window again, judging it to be safer.

“I sleep when I need to, for as long as I need to. I had no idea my habits warranted discussion.”

Whether it was because he was not a man accustomed to whispering, or because she had somehow touched an open nerve, his answer came out harsher than she expected and the ribbons in her belly shrivelled into a tight knot.

“We were not discussing, we were only … talking, and … oh … never mind. Talking is another thing I am well aware you do not do with any great fondness. Forgive me if I disturbed you.”

She did not even gain a step when she felt his hand on her arm, stopping her. His hand remained through an awkward silence before easing away and falling to his side again.

“You were not disturbing me,” he assured her quietly.

Go or stay, it was a difficult choice to make, but she retraced the step she had taken and even added another that she might crane her neck and see out the small, boxlike window. There was not much to view apart from the tall, looming silhouette of Corfe Castle crouched on the hill. The sky was gray and dirty, promising more rain before cock’s crow. Smoke and fog combined in viscous layers, opaque and undulant, like rivers of slow-moving cream that sought to fill the hollows where the village sat. It was eerie and ominous, but not worth staring at for hours on end. Especially not if someone was plagued by nightmares of another tall, bleak castle and the horrors it contained.

She wished she had the nerve to ask him about it, about his years at Bloodmoor Keep and his dam, Nicolaa de la Have. There were so many dark secrets cloaked behind the brooding gray eyes, so many painful memories he must fight with, every day, just to survive to see another.

A lesser creature, battling these demons within, might have thrown up his hands when confronted with the formidable walls of Corfe. A far nobler coward might have cut his losses, assumed his duty done, and slinked away, striking back across the Channel before any hint of an alarm was raised.

Not Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise. Not the son of the Black Wolf. Not even the very real possibility of being caught and stretched out on another torturer’s table would turn him away. Not when the woman he loved was held prisoner inside those walls.

Ariel bowed her head and studied her hands.

“Do you suppose Brevant will have convinced the governor to admit us?”

Eduard offered a casual shrug. “He seems a persuasive sort, if the mood is upon him.”

Ariel closed her eyes, aware of how close he stood, how sensual the vibration of his voice against her neck. She wished she could lean back and feel his arms wrapping around her. She wished he would hold her again, just once more, so she would know what it was like to feel safe and warm and protected.

“There is still time for you to change your mind if you are having second thoughts,” he said softly. “No one will think any the less of you.”

“I have not changed my mind. And
I
would think less of me, even if no one else did.”

She did not look at him but she knew his eyes had not left her face. She knew also that if she did look up, she would doubtless make a fool of herself again, for he could read her thoughts with such ease, he could probably see her confusion, see the havoc he had wrought on her senses, on her perceptions. Words, oaths, resolutions, promises … noble blood,
bastard blood … what did any of it mean beside a man who kissed like fire and brought ecstasy with a touch of his hand?

Behind them, someone moved, breaking the spell. Ariel stayed at the window but Eduard turned away at once, his boots striding deliberately through the silence, winning the desired chorus of groans, yawns, and shifting bodies.

Henry rolled himself upright and rubbed his fists into his eyes. “God love me, it cannot be morning already. I vow I barely closed my eyes an hour ago.”

“Aye, well, mine eyes as well as mine nostrils have opened and shut like a fishmonger’s mouth the whole night long,” Sparrow grumbled. He slanted a meaningful glance at Sedrick, who proceeded to break wind with a satisfying grunt of pleasure. “Hark! The Toothless Wonder speaks again. A moment yet and we will all swear something died in yon breeks.”

“Bah! ’Tis better than a belch for cleaning the pipes,” Sedrick declared, blowing again for emphasis.

Sparrow screwed his eyes down to slits and hefted his arblaster. “If it be thine pipes that need cleaning, messire, I have a keener way to drill them through.”

Henry, caught between the pair of antagonists, eyed the quiver of bolts Sparrow was reaching for and moved prudently out of the way. He saw Ariel standing by the window and joined her, hesitating half a moment before he ran his hand through his hair and ventured to speak.

“You know, no one will think any the less of you if you—”

“—find I have come to my senses during the night and changed my mind?” she finished with a wry smile. “Will you also act sensibly and remain behind with me?”

Henry frowned and scratched thoughtfully at his scalp. “I believe I had a sensible day … once. It is not entirely out of the realm of the possible to think I might be inspired to have another some day.”

“Be sure to come and find me when you do. I will want to bear witness.”

“Aye, Cardigan is only a day’s ride from Pembroke; at least I will not have to look far to find you.”

Her smile slipped a little at the corners, but she took his
hand and gave it a squeeze. “You are far more sensible than you will ever admit. That is why I had no fear in going to Normandy with you, and why I have no fear riding into Corfe with you now. Between you and”—she almost said FitzRandwulf, but caught her tongue at the last possible instant—“and the others, I know we will be riding out again … probably with more haste than what we ride in with, but intact all the same.”

He tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “Good God, I believe you really mean it.”

“I do, buffoon. And your doubting me does you little credit. You know I love you and trust you and value your opinion above all others. It may not always appear so,” she added softly. “Nor do I always welcome your advice with grace and gratitude, but I always listen to it and trust it comes from the heart. As you say, we only have each other to watch out for.”

A retort that normally would have been glib and dismissive was stalled in Henry’s throat. She was being sincere and honest with her emotions, something that occurred all too infrequently, and he could not help but wonder at the cause. He was neither blind nor deaf, and he had been the one to scrape a boot on the floor and interrupt the conversation between his sister and Eduard FitzRandwulf … something that was beginning to occur all too frequently. He preferred to see Ariel’s eyes hot green and flaring with contempt when she spoke with the Wolf’s cub, not soft and questioning and afraid to make contact.

He would have to redouble his efforts to keep them apart, although, in light of where they were going and what they would be doing, he could not, in all honesty, wish a better man to be watching his sister’s back.

   Jean de Brevant and a small escort of men-at-arms rode out of the main gates of Corfe a little before noon. Having never seen the man in daylight before, Eduard was as surprised as the others by the captain’s appearance. The mountainous silhouette of ominous shadows became a barrel-chested
pillar of brawn and muscle with a face that put a carved grotesque to shame. He was younger than the harshness of his voice had suggested—twenty-two or three, perhaps—and wore his authority with as much assurance as he wore his impressive hauberk of jazerant work. Glittering rows of round steel plates were attached to an underlying suit of canvas, with each plate overlapping slightly like the scales of a fish. Even more daunting to the eyes of the beholder was the weapon he carried—no ordinary sword, this, but a glaive, long-handled and curved like a scimitar, boasting a sharply barbed hook on the concave edge. He made an impressive and intimidating sight riding down the street toward the inn. Villagers stopped what they were doing to stare. Even the dogs and kites that usually chased after horses’ heels, yapping their imitation of Bedlam, cringed mutely by the roadside.

Sedrick of Grantham, who was accustomed to owning the advantage of size in most company was clearly lacking in this instance. And Eduard, who rarely felt slight by comparison to any man, allowed a moment for his ingrained fighter’s instincts to reflect back over his years of training and combat and wonder what tactics would be effective against such a foe … if, indeed, there were any.

Hopefully he would have no reason to draw upon them.

Brevant’s mount, a behemoth of horseflesh in its own right, drew to a halt outside the inn. Lord Henry de Glare, assuming the guise of leader, walked out under the leaden sky to offer greetings.

“My lord Gisbourne finds himself at a loss how to apologize for this oversight,” Brevant announced without preamble. “When he was informed there were members of the Pembroke household”—his wary black eyes slid to the marshal’s device, now boldly displayed on the front of Henry’s surcoat—“staying within sight of the castle, he immediately bade me—Captain Jean de Brevant—extend an invitation to you and your party to share more suitable lodgings.”

“My thanks to you, Captain Brevant,” Henry responded. “We would naturally be pleased and honoured to accept.”

Brevant smirked and glanced at the inn. “I am also informed
there is a wounded man in your group? Does he require a litter?”

“An unfortunate accident,” Henry allowed. “Serious enough to waylay us a few days while he attempts to recover his strength. A litter is unnecessary, but would be most appreciated, I am sure.”

While Brevant signalled two of his men forward with a chair, Henry turned and raised his hand. The door to the inn opened at once and Lord Dafydd ap Iorwerth, supported on one side by Sedrick and on the other by Eduard, was helped out into the street and lifted onto the chair. He groaned audibly as his arm took a small jolt before the sling was adjusted, whereupon he slumped forward in the seat as if he was only able to maintain his balance with the utmost effort. Two more of Brevant’s men stepped out of line and joined their comrades as they prepared to lift the carrying poles. Eduard, who was trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible, met the captain’s eye over the top of the litter as it was hoisted, and acknowledged him with a slight nod of his head before taking up a position beside Lucifer.