My Lady Midnight

“And why,” she asked carefully, “would I want to do that?”

“You’re a clever woman, Claire. You have the ability to appear to be whatever is called for, I have observed—on other occasions, as well as this one.”

“My lord?” she questioned, mystified.

“You entered the room unaware of what I wished of you, wanting only one thing—not to be forced into a distasteful marriage. Yet you did not wish to offend me, fearing that would result in the very thing you wished to avoid. And so you assumed a guise of meekness and mildness, which you are continuing even at this moment. ’Tis a good ploy, Claire, and probably Neville was fooled. But I am not. Being the shrewd judge of character that I am, I have discerned your true nature—but it pleases me that you have the ability to pass as what you are not.”

She darted a glance at her brother, but saw that Neville was as puzzled as she was about what their uncle wanted her to do. And when had Hardouin noticed that she was not the docile woman she had always tried to portray whenever he was around? He could hardly have overheard, from the lord’s chamber over the hall, her spirited defiance of Neville’s wishes while she sat on the greensward with the children, even if the shutters had then been open! But the earl had long enjoyed a reputation for knowing everything about everyone in his life, so perhaps he had a spy or two in this household.

Evidently Hardouin felt he had played with her long enough, for then he said, “I would have you use your ability to pass as English as a means to get close to the baron of Hawkswell.”

Her stomach clenched at the name. Hawkswell, who had once married her cousin, Julia. Aloud she said, “Hawkswell? But isn’t he sworn to Matilda?”

With a snort, the earl threw the rind of the cheese into the rushes at his feet. “Well, I would hardly need anyone’s help to get close to one of Stephen’s supporters, would I? If I am on the same side, I have but to send them a message requesting a meeting, yes?”

His tone was still mild, but Claire felt the sarcasm strike her like the lash of a whip. She could feel her face flame in response.

“No, I suppose not…” she began. “My lord, surely you’re not suggesting anything dishonorable…that I…” She made herself say it. “You don’t mean you want me to act the whore, and obtain Hawkswell’s secrets by sharing his bed?”

Hardouin threw back his massive head and laughed. The sound seemed to echo off the stone walls of the room. “Hardly! From what Neville tells me, you’re a cold fish who has no desire to experience the joys of the marriage bed again, so your trying to become Alain of Hawkswell’s mistress would be an exercise in futility, and ‘twould not achieve our goal, would it?”

Claire felt as if she had been punched in the belly. With tears stinging her eyes, she turned to glare at Neville, but her brother was suddenly preoccupied with examining his fingernails and would not meet her gaze.

She would not rise to the bait, Claire resolved, she would not. She blinked back the tears. “But you said you wished me to get close to Hawkswell. How, and to what end?”

From his startled smile she guessed her uncle was pleased that she was ignoring his jab.

“The baron of Hawkswell controls the Hawkswell Valley, an important piece of land that guards the southern approach to London. He has been a relentless warrior in Matilda’s service, one of her most trusted vassals. He has not bent, no matter how the winds of change have blown in Stephen’s direction, no matter what favors and promises were used to lure him.”

“An honorable man,” Claire murmured. “How unusual.”

Hardouin raised a bushy eyebrow, but he went on. “Stephen wants him.”

“Then he needs to catch him away from his castle, and to have a large enough force with him to subdue Hawkswell. Why are you speaking to me, a mere woman, about this?”

Her uncle ignored her sarcasm. “Nay, I didn’t mean Stephen wanted to capture him, Claire. He could do that, easily enough. But Stephen wants him to be his man.”

Claire shrugged. “And how can I possibly help in that regard? He is a widower, but you said this did not involve marriage for me, is that not so? And since you do not expect me to seduce him and I am not willing to do so anyway, what is it, then, that you wish me to do?”

Hardouin leaned forward, past Neville, and took her hand in his big fleshy one. She tried not to squirm, though she longed to yank her hand away.

“Claire, Claire…you give yourself such a limited role as a woman! There are more places than in bed where you can use your womanly wiles! But never mind. I have developed a masterful scheme based on your talents and your English appearance, niece.”

Claire nodded, unable to guess where this was leading. What he said was true enough. Normans tended to have dark hair and eyes, but she had always been told she resembled her Saxon granddam.

Willing herself to leave her hand quietly in his, she let him go on speaking.

“The baron’s wife gave him a child before she died of a fever last year, a daughter. He already had a bastard son who lives with him. From all I have heard he is a devoted father, so they may well be Lord Alain’s Achilles’ heel.”

Claire rubbed her forehead, feeling the beginning of a headache. “Perhaps I do lack imagination, my lord, but I still don’t see where this is leading.”

Hardouin gave her a wolfish smile. “What I wish you to do, niece, is to go to Hawkswell Castle in the guise of an English wench, and become nursemaid to his children.”

Claire let her jaw drop. Perhaps she had overestimated her powerful uncle. “And spy on him thus? My lord, he is hardly apt to drop state secrets in front of his children and their nurse!”

Hardouin clucked disapprovingly at her. “Of course not, Claire. Nay, what I had in mind for you to do, once you’re in a position of trust with my lord of Hawkswell, is to kidnap his heir and the other whelp and bring them to us. The baron will find it advantageous to switch sides, right enough, if we hold his children hostage.”

Chapter Two (#ulink_7ddbde8b-82fe-5001-ac03-f5724848ac4e)

Claire gasped. “You—you wish me to abduct his children?”

Hardouin smiled broadly. “Just so, niece! Isn’t it a brilliant plan? Who would suspect a young nursemaid? You will go in, gain his trust and that of his whelps, and one day, you will stroll out of his castle with them on the pretext of gathering herbs or some such idea, and voilà! You will bring them right to my waiting arms! He’ll come over to our side, right enough, especially if I hold his heir! Close your mouth, Neville, you look like the village idiot.”

“But my lord, I hardly think—” Claire began, her mind whirling with a hundred reasons why the count’s plan couldn’t possibly work.

“What, Claire, objections? Can it be you do not want to avenge your friend Julia, his dead wife?”

Leave it to Hardouin to ferret out the one reason why she was honor-bound to agree to his plan, Claire thought dully. But in spite of what Alain of Hawkswell had done, the very idea of stealing a man’s children…

“And if I refuse?”

Hardouin looked grim. “Then I think you had better resign yourself to wedding Fulk,” he said.

“But—but you said you had no quarrel with my unwillingness to marry him…that he was a blowhard! You said you supported my choice not to marry at all, if that was what I wanted!” she cried indignantly, feeling her face flush with rage.

Hardouin’s eyes narrowed, and Claire could see a small vein throbbing in his forehead. “I have said you need not marry, Claire, but I have no patience with unproductive leeches. If you refuse to be of any service whatsoever to the head of your family and our cause, then I would at least expect you to marry and remove yourself from our care,” he ground out.

She felt her face flame at being called a leech. “I believe I would rather take the veil after all,” she countered, lifting her chin and looking him right in the eye. Never again, she had promised herself, would she allow herself to be coerced into carrying out a man’s will. She wasn’t sure at all that entering a convent was preferable to agreeing to Hardouin’s plan, but seeing his implacable gaze, she rebelled. There would be opportunity to escape from a convent, surely, once she was safely away from her uncle’s control…

“I think not,” he said. “No convent in the land will take you if I say nay.”

He meant it, she saw. And she had no doubt he had that power. Hardouin would see that she had no dowry to give a religious foundation, and what abbess would take her if a powerful male relative opposed her entry?

Besides, a voice murmured inside her head, was it not true that she owed something to Julia’s memory?

“But what if there already are nursemaids aplenty?” she asked skeptically.

His returning smile told her he knew her question meant she was submitting. “My spy tells me there is but one old beldam caring for Hawkswell’s whelps. She’ll no doubt welcome the help.”

Claire shrugged. “How very convenient. And I will be free once I deliver my lord of Hawkswell’s children to you? You will then give me the manor—in writing?”

Hardouin nodded, chuckling. “So suspicious! So earnest! Yes, you’ll be free as a bird, niece. A woman of property.”

It was an unfortunate comparison, for just inches from Hardouin stood the perch on which the earl kept his falcon, a peregrine. Claire glanced over at the bird, seeing the jewel-studded hood over the falcon’s head, keeping it blind and relatively tranquil, and the jesses with little silver bells at her feet. As if the bird of prey sensed Claire’s scrutiny, she bated on her perch, setting the tiny bells tinkling. Hardouin’s falcon was only free when she had been launched after some prey, and even then the lure of food kept her returning to the earl. Claire did not want to be like that tethered falcon. Having her own manor would be a start.

Alain of Hawkswell’s castle was a day’s journey away. Situated at the entrance to the valley that led straight to London, it was directly in front of the best ford over the Hawkswell River, which cut through the downs. There was forest on the west side, but anyone who attempted to go around the fortress to ford the river was exposed to those who paced the wall walk of Hawkswell Castle. If any would cross the valley, then, they must have the consent of the castle’s lord.

It was a commanding position, thought Claire, studying it from the safety of a copse of oaks. Even now she could see a pair of sentries marching back and forth on the wall walk, their nasalled helmets obliterating their features. The drawbridge was down, the portcullis raised, and with the great wooden planking extending over the moat, Claire was reminded of a huge, hungry mouth.