Maid Of Midnight

Ranulf wondered at his own insistence in the face of Francis’s obvious misery. He should forget the girl and put his mind on the business of finding his brother, but something compelled him to find out about her. His head was starting to throb again. He set his jaw and returned the monk’s implacable gaze. “Then I’ll make my own inquiries. I warrant someone in town will be able to tell me about her. There can’t be too many young women of her description with the healing powers.”

Francis winced, then he hiked the hem of his habit, knelt awkwardly at the side of the vegetable patch and reached once again for the basket. “You are a very stubborn young man,” he said.

“Aye. So I’ve been told.”

“She’s no longer here,” Francis said finally, beginning to pick beans off a tangled vine. At Ranulf’s skeptical expression, he glanced up at him and continued, “I’m telling you the truth this time. She left this morning for Beauville. But you must believe me when I tell you that inquiries could put her very life in danger.”

This was not what Ranulf had expected. He’d speculated about different reasons for the monk’s reluctance to tell him about the girl, but this notion had not been among them. Looking around at the gentle green hills that surrounded the humble abbey, he asked, “What could threaten a young maid’s life in this peaceful place?”

Francis continued his methodical picking. “Once again, I can’t tell you. ’Tis a secret guarded over these many years. But I would beg you to put her out of your mind.”

Suddenly Ranulf’s curiosity about the beautiful maid took on a whole new meaning. If the monk’s words were true—if his mysterious nurse was truly in danger—then perhaps he’d been brought here to help her. He’d seen such miracles before on Crusade.

“I’d like to help her,” he said.

His tone was so earnest that Francis put down the basket once again and dropped his head to his chest, lost in thought.

Sensing that the monk was weakening, Ranulf pressed his case. “I’d do nothing to harm her, Brother. I swear it by the holy rood. And perhaps it would be in my power to help her.”

“I don’t think there’s anything you can do to help,” Francis said slowly. “But if you give your sacred word never to speak to anyone of the circumstances under which you met her, I’ll tell you where she is. You may go to thank her and give her whatever reward you would like for the services she rendered you.”

Ranulf felt a peculiar elation that seemed out of proportion to the simple fact that he would have the opportunity to give a proper payment to a young woman who had tended him. “Where is she?” he asked eagerly.

Francis shook his head. “First, your word.”

“That I’ll not speak of her?”

“Aye.”

It seemed a strange request, but Ranulf nodded. “Aye, you have my word.”

Brother Francis looked into the basket. The bottom was scarcely covered. With a grunt, he pushed himself off the ground with both hands and stood. “The information will cost you,” he said, dusting off his hands.