Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella (18 page)

Gabriel finally, by some miracle, could hear the vagrant’s pleas over his own madness and stopped his barrage of punches. He looked down and beheld a man with a large nose, big eyes and what looked like dark hair that went down to his shoulders.

“Who are you?!” Gabriel demanded.

“My name is Louis,” the man said, his hands still trying to guard his bloody face, “I am here to see Marguerite. I come here all the time. She and I…we are lovers. Ask her if you don’t believe me.”

Gabriel knew at that moment, as he stared down at an innocent man he’d pummeled for no good reason, that with or without Thurlow’s spies to chase down, he needed to escape that very night.

“I am sorry,” Gabriel said, pulling the man up to standing position and trying to brush the dirt from his jacket. “Truly I am. I thought you were someone else. Please forgive me. Go inside. You will be well taken care of.”

The battered man said nothing but watched as his assailer walked briskly back toward the farmhouse and lifted the giant wooden log from the massive double doors. He walked in and was out of sight. Louis surveyed the darkness for only a few seconds before he heard the distinct whinnying of a horse and the tall man who’d pounced on him like a cougar riding into the night.

Gabriel raced Seely so rapidly through the night air that it felt as though the wind was cutting the skin of his face. If it was, Gabriel knew, it was no less than he deserved for his shameful actions. He saw his Benjamin’s countenance in his mind as he rode; he saw Thurlow.

He saw Ella.

There was only one place that Gabriel knew he could flee where he would be left alone to think, plan, and sift through the grueling elements that had transformed the last four hours into a nightmare; the same place that had concealed him for fifteen years.

Kersley.

Chapter Thirteen

Isolda stared our from her bedroom window at the rising sun creeping up the eastern mountains. She had not slept well that previous night. How could she with the breathtaking Duke of Ebersole hovering over her dreams? She longed for Peter’s arms to entwine her body with his and carry her violently to the bed to make love to her. Isolda wanted to know the sensation of having her arms pinned down beside her head, her hair fanned out against the silk pillow. She yearned for the power of desire to consume her body and leave her breathless, her fingers clawing away at the fabric of her bed sheets.

Desperate for air to quell her irresistibly carnal images, Isolda stepped out onto her balcony and felt the frigid morning air dissipate the heated surface of her skin. Peter had been only a teenage boy with protruding shoulders and scrawny arms when Isolda first made his acquaintance. Now, he was the stuff of fantasy and the allure of sin.

Was it possible the two were not the same person? They seemed as distinct to one another as night was to day—or, more accurately, evening to dusk. The differences were minute. Isolda wanted to laugh out loud at the presumption that Ella could concoct such a scam as to parade a man on her arm that was supposed to be her uncle but wasn’t. The girl was incapable of the wiles of deceit. She simply did not have it in her.

Still, Isolda could not shake the mental nudging that Peter had changed too much. She opted to veer from the whole prospect, resolved that the satiation of her deepest, most arcane urges would be more than enough to overlook any discrepancies, if there were any.

How much longer would she have to wait? Isolda had made a habit of patiently watching each sunrise and sunset, skilled at breathing in the aroma of her inevitable glory. Like fine wine that fermented in the dark caves beneath the vineyards, Isolda’s patience would yield the finest, most tantalizing elixir there ever was.

“Mother! Mother!” Aislinn’s high-pitched shriek nearly sent Isolda over her balcony.

“God in heaven, Aislinn!” Isolda protested, turning toward her daughter with her palm pressed against her chest. “Are you trying to murder me?”

Aislinn did not apologize. She knew once her mother caught a glimpse of the item that Aislinn waved above her head, she would have returned from the dead.

“What is it, child?” Isolda prodded, desperate to know why her eldest child was squealing like a baby kitten.

“Leopold!”

“The prince?! What of him?”

“He has returned and…” Aislinn handed the stunning gold invitation to her mother. Isolda snatched it and scaled the formal item with her eyes over and over again, then held it to her breast so tightly it creased in her fingers.

“It is finally here!” Isolda exclaimed, wildly.

“A ball?”

“A royal ball!”

Miles away, Ella held the same invitation in her hands. She let it drop to her lap. What good was a royal ball? Would she even attend now that Gabriel had vanished into the forests of Gwent, leaving behind him only a bruised and flabbergasted old man and a weepy young woman? Ella felt more aimless and infantile than she’d ever felt in her life.

This is what is best
, she heard her father’s mellifluous voice in her ear.
Let it be, daughter.

Let it be.

Ella knew she had no choice but to heed her late father’s ghostly appeal. Still, she waited for
—
ached for—the voice of her mother to befall her as hauntingly; the call of the woman who’d taught her beloved daughter to believe in miracles and stand proud in foolish optimism.

Would Gabriel return? What if Thurlow had discovered the truth and killed him? Ella dropped her head in sadness and uncertainty. Was it too much to hope for a miracle?

Chapter Fourteen

Miles was not a heavy drinker but took pleasure in fraternizing with his friends and army comrades. So he imbibed slowly his tankard of beer and listened to the badinage of his compatriots. They were, for the most part, quite merry in their drunkenness. Miles, on the other hand, was heavily burdened. His men had no idea what kind of mission lay ahead for them and Miles himself was plagued with uncertainty. Most of his soldiers had wrestled with the order to evict the residents of Kersley. The consensus amongst the military was that those who dwelt in Kersley were plebeian to say the least; such was even the opinion of the whole of Gwent. But the derelicts were staying put and Gwent’s army wondered what threat such a people could even pose. The Gypsies and the other inhabitants were minding their own business and even the most pragmatic soldier knew better than to fix a system that was not broken. Miles took another swig of ale. It was not helping alleviate his distress. Thurlow was still supreme commander of Gwent, his Hussars were still incorrigible and undisciplined, and King William was still unreachable.

The rustling of the tavern crowd had been continuous for the last several hours. When it subsided with no warning, Miles knew why. There were only two men who could have entered such an establishment and stilled such a riot with only his presence. One of the men, the older one, had not been able to leave his royal bedchamber for many months. The other was Captain Thurlow.

Miles set his drink down and stood slowly from the bar counter. He turned and made eye contact. On any other occasion, Miles’ acknowledgement of his superior with appropriate salutation would have been instantaneous. This time, due either to his slight inebriation or his more than mild disapproval, the formal gestures were slow in coming.

“Commander,” Thurlow said, accepting the corporal’s salute though he was not blind to its laboriousness, “I require your presence in private, immediately.”

The evening air was as intoxicating to Miles Gamely as his libations had been. The sting of the wind aroused his body and his mental faculties. Once they were clear of the tavern’s entrance, Miles stood erect and gave his complete attention to Captain Thurlow, who was being flanked by James Halsty and one more of his Hussars. Miles looked upon the two Hussars and shook his head.

So much for harmony between the army and the Hussars. Halsty’s scathing fixation on Miles, the man who had once been his mentor, made quite evident that unity had no part in their coterie. The Hussars indeed adhered to their own doctrine.

“What is it you need, sir?” Miles inquired of Thurlow, though he watched Halsty cautiously.

“The hinterlands of Kersley are now, for the most part, evacuated,” Thurlow announced. “It is time to reengage your troops. Within a week’s time, I want each man in your outfit stationed in specific areas along the border to Hedensburg. Commander Halsty will instruct you on the coordinates of each station.”

Miles was speechless.

“I am sorry, sir,” he implored, “but—“

“Furthermore,” Thurlow continued with no heed to Miles’ protest, “all battalion equipment will be dispensed throughout the region just in case our actions put the Earls of Hedensburg on alert and they set up their own fortifications.”

“Sir, please,” Miles interjected, “you foretell the aggression of our long-standing allies when it is us who will set up full battalion defenses right along their border? That makes no sense. What’s more, why are we stationing along the Hedensburg border at all? They have posed no threat to us and will only be baffled and greatly unsettled by our actions. Our offensive and defensive materiel will only worsen their angst. I am afraid I do not understand our objective, sir.”

“It is not your job to understand, Sergeant,” Halsty interceded, “it is your job to follow orders.”

“Go to hell, Halsty!” Miles spat. “Don’t forget I am still your superior.”

“And I am
yours
,” Thurlow declared staidly, “and we all act in accordance with his majesty’s wishes. Listen here, Gamely. You think because you steal away into meetings with the king that you have any idea what he really thinks or cares about. He humors you. I am the one who knows his true ambitions.”

Miles was more than irked that his private meetings with King William had become such common knowledge to Thurlow. He chided himself that he did not recognize sooner just how ingrained Thurlow’s spies were in the architecture of Gwent. Thurlow had eyes everywhere, even the castle walls themselves.

“And King William has ordered this?” Miles implored.

“
I
order it! That is good enough for you,” Thurlow snapped, “But because you are a good soldier, Gamely, and your loyalty to the king is sound, I will let you in on a little secret. The Earls of Hedensburg are far from William’s allies. They consort with his enemies. They plot and scheme to usurp Gwent’s power and full potential.”

Miles did not believe it. But what did it matter what he believed? He’d pledged his unwavering loyalty to Gwent. And Gwent was no longer the land he loved. It was Thurlow’s land and nothing more.

“Very well, sir,” Miles conceded, “but I ask that you allow me to do my job and carry out the King’s orders myself. I will see to it that our borders are secure, that our defenses are standing by, and that no impudent and reckless actions by anyone will cause unnecessary violence. I would hate to see a contained, solvable conflict become warped into a bloody, unnecessary, unforgivable war by the rashness of a few miscreant hotheads!”

Miles had not even directed his gaze specifically at Halsty, but he might as well have. The first hit came promptly. Miles was able to deflect most of the momentum of Halsty’s punch but he still took a considerable strike to the right side of his eye. Before Halsty had a chance to regain his footing and his composure, Miles rained a brutal left jab to his chin and the man fell to the earth. Miles lunged on him and for several moments, the two former comrades engaged in a brutal skirmish that rallied the attention of many bystanders, who were mostly fellow army men. By the time the fighters were separated, by the command of a relatively calm Captain Thurlow, both Miles and Halsty’s faces were red with blood. Oli Roget had not been in the bar that evening with Miles, but out of nowhere the man appeared and tried to calm his frantic friend. Oli placed his hand on Miles’ shoulder but his friend was quick to reject it.

“You just keep stealing candy from babies and leave the important matters to me, Halsty,” said Miles, aware that his proximity to Thurlow was enough to deem his outburst perilously close to insubordinance. Still, he did not regret saying it. Halsty was itching to respond, but Thurlow beat him to it.