My Lady Midnight

She shivered, though the day was warm enough despite threatening clouds. Was the castle waiting to devour her? Would they see through her disguise of an English peasant right away, and take her prisoner? Hardouin would never allow Neville to ransom her, she knew; money was better spent, he would say, on something useful to King Stephen’s cause than on a useless and rebellious female. She would be left to her fate, which for a friendless female would be too awful to imagine. She had better be so convincing at playing the English peasant that Alain of Hawkswell would never guess she was as Norman as he.

Suddenly something struck Claire on the tip of her nose, startling her, and bounced off the toe of her crude leather shoe. She saw that it was but an acorn, and relaxed, only to feel another strike her head, and then another.

Was there a squirrel above her, dislodging them? She looked upward, expecting to spy a twitching, tiny gray body among the leafy upper branches, only to have another acorn impact her cheek with stinging accuracy. She ducked and covered her head with a muttered curse. No squirrel had so accurate an aim! But who?—

Then she heard a smothered but unmistakable giggle from high among the branches.

Remembering just in time that she was supposed to be a English peasant, Claire called, “Saints! Who be up there? Stop that right this minute!”

She heard another giggle, then a small face framed by unruly dark hair appeared from behind the thick upper trunk of the tree. “Sorry,” the little girl said in Frenchaccented English, staring down at Claire. “I hope I didn’t hurt you!”

She looked so anxious that Claire felt compelled to reassure her. “Nay, I be not hurt, girl. Ye’ve a right keen aim, though!” she said, rubbing her stinging nose. “What’re ye doing up there?”

“Hiding,” the little girl replied.

“From who?”

“From my old nurse, Ivy, who said I must take a bath. I don’t wish to take a bath, so I stole away to the wood. I’ll go back when I’m ready,” she announced primly, and then her gamine face crinkled into a grin. “By then she’ll have forgotten all about it. What’s your name?”

“I be called Haesel,” Claire said, using the typically English name she had chosen before departing Coverly Castle. “What’s yers?” she asked, though she had a strong suspicion that she already knew.

“I am Lady Peronelle of Hawkswell, only daughter of the lord of Hawkswell,” she announced with a grand gesture that nearly caused her to lose her balance and tumble headlong out of the tree.

“Oh, be careful, my lady!” Claire cried, alarmed. “Don’t fall! Mayhap ye’d better come down!”

“Don’t worry! I never fall,” Peronelle boasted after she had steadied her position. “But I will come down, because I wish to see you better. You’re very pretty, you know. I like you.”

Claire watched as the little girl began her descent, ready to catch her if she should slip. But Peronelle was surefooted, cautiously placing slippered feet on succeeding branches, then hanging from the lowest by her arms for a moment before dropping to the ground.

Claire congratulated herself. She had already met the first of her “targets,” as Hardouin had coldly referred to them before she had left his presence, and the child liked her already. She suppressed her reproachful conscience. She was not going to hurt the children she was plotting to abduct, and neither was her uncle, she reminded herself. They would be well cared for—in fact she would probably be the one to care for them—until they could be returned to their father.

Peronelle straightened and brushed dirt from her blue kirtle as she peered up at Claire. “You’re tall,” she informed her.

“Aye, my lady. My brother called me Beanpole, when we was young,” Claire said, remembering to speak like a serf. What she had said was true—Beanpole was but one of the hurtful names Neville had called her. He had never apologized, even after her tall frame had filled out.

“Beanpole?” The nickname sent Peronelle into another fit of giggles.

The child’s laughter had an infectious quality to it, and Claire felt herself smiling back. “Ye speak English well, my lady,” she told the child.

“Thank you,” Peronelle said. “My old nurse is English. I spoke English before I spoke French, she says.”

Claire’s heart sank. The child’s nurse was English! She’d never be able to convince a real Englishwoman that she was English too! A real Englishwoman would see right through her pose and become suspicious. But she had to try…Perhaps, since Peronelle had so easily escaped her nurse, the old woman was deaf and therefore could be fooled.

“Would you like to come back to the castle to meet Ivy?” Peronelle invited, gesturing to the gray mass of stone rising behind her.

Claire nodded, praying that the old nurse was both hard of hearing and unsuspicious. “Your father won’t m—”

“So there you are, Perry,” came a perturbed young voice from behind them, speaking in French. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! And who is this?”

Claire whirled and found herself facing a lad of perhaps six years, who had come from deeper in the wood. He eyed her suspiciously. “Who are you? Who said you could talk to my sister?” he demanded.

So this was the boy, the bastard, Claire thought. This was the child whose birth had broken Julia’s heart. She stared at him, wondering if he took his brown hair and eyes and his sturdy build from Alain of Hawkswell or from the serf woman who had given him birth. Claire had never seen Julia’s husband; Julia had wedded Hawkswell at his castle and only her immediate family had been present. Julia had called Lord Alain swarthy before they had wed, but her rare letters had never described any further the man her father had commanded her to marry.

“I said, who are you, woman?” the boy repeated, switching to English and lifting his chin to stare up at her with a challenging glint in his eye.

“I might ask the same of ye,” Claire countered, his precociously imperious tone causing her to forget the appropriate humility.

“I asked you first.” He switched back to French. “Peronelle, how many times have I told you not to go into the wood by yourself? There could be outlaws who might hurt you,” he added, with a meaningful glance at Claire.

“Haesel’s no outlaw,” the girl insisted, her hands on her hips. “She’s nice, and I like her, so you stop being so horrid to her. She’s going to come back to the castle with us and meet Ivy.”

“Why?” the boy asked, turning back to eye Claire suspiciously.

“Why not?” Peronelle retorted. “Because I want her to, and that’s all you need to know, Guerin.” She turned back to Haesel, and spoke again in English. “This is my older brother, Guerin, Haesel. He doesn’t mean to be so rude, I’m sure.”

Claire saw the boy stiffen and look affronted. Clearly she must defuse the situation if she was going to win the trust of both children.

“My lady, I’m sure he just means to protect ye, like a good elder brother should. He be right, ye know. There might be bad folk about outside the walls of yer castle. Ye should not be wanderin’ around with no one to protect ye.” She curtsied to the boy. “Ye’re son of Alain of Hawkswell? I be pleased t’ meet ye.”

Mollified, the boy nodded. “I am Guerin of Hawkswell. You are called Haesel? Well, come along if you wish, but I have to take my sister back to our nurse now. It’s going to rain soon, and Father is due home at any moment, Perry. Ivy’s frantic that he not find you missing again. She’s afraid he’ll be angry, and you’re a wicked girl to worry her so.”

So Alain of Hawkswell tries to rule his nursery just as firmly as he did his wife. A bully, just as I thought.

But Peronelle was not at all intimidated by her half brother’s announcement. “Oh, Guerin, you’re as much a worrier as Ivy is. Father would never say a cross word to Ivy. Come on, Haesel.”

A thought struck her as hard as the acorn had hit her cheek minutes before. She had both of Hawkswell’s children with her! Perhaps she could summon the foot soldiers who had escorted her here and hand over the children without ever entering the castle and exposing herself to danger! But if they were watching her from cover, she saw no sign of them. Probably they had already sought shelter in the nearest alehouse, damn their black souls, she thought bleakly. She picked up the edge of her skirt and followed the children, who had already set off in the direction of the castle.

As they walked, Claire stared at Peronelle, seeing Julia’s fine bone structure in the girl and the same tiptilted nose that Claire had often teased her childhood friend about. But Julia had been blond, so Peronelle’s nearly black hair must be a legacy from her father. She saw little resemblance between Peronelle and her half brother; Peronelle was as slight and delicate as Guerin was sturdy and strong-boned.

Did Peronelle and Guerin know they were but half sister and half brother? There was certainly nothing deferential in the boy’s manner to indicate he knew he was born on the wrong side of the blanket, and that his sister was Alain of Hawkswell’s only legitimate child. Had their sire let them believe that Julia had given birth to both of them? If so, how long before some servant let slip the truth?

They came out of sheltering trees and Claire saw Hawkswell Castle before her in all its glory. It was larger than Coverly, both in breadth and height, its square gray walls rising twice as high. It seemed to touch the lowering sky. Atop its high towers sat turret rooms, clearly defensive in purpose. There was an uncompromising air about the way the stone fortress sat on its motte, as if by its very presence challenging anyone and everyone who came near.

“Come on, Haesel! Don’t be afraid!” called Peronelle, who had already skipped across the wooden planking.

Uncompromising. Pray God its lord was not so uncompromising, thought Claire, with a glance at Guerin, who stood in the middle of the drawbridge, looking curiously back at her.

Her crude leather shoe touched the wood of the drawbridge. Once I cross over that bridge, my part in the plot to capture Hawkswell’s children begins, she thought. At this point I can still turn tail and run, and I will have done nothing but tell two children a harmless fable. Once I reach the other side, I am committed.

But did she have any real choice? If she failed to carry out Hardouin’s command, she would be sacrificing her own freedom, for she had no illusions that she could survive on her own indefinitely. And she believed Hardouin when he had told her he would hunt her down like a wounded doe if she tried to play him false. She took a step upon the drawbridge, then another.

Just as she reached midway over the water-filled chasm, however, the thunder of hoofbeats reached their ears, and she turned around.

“Father!” Peronelle shouted, pointing to a horseman riding a huge red destrier at the head of eight mounted menat-arms. The party was cantering toward the castle from the direction of the woods. It was too late to run.

As they drew closer, Claire saw that two of the horsemen’s hands were bound and that their horses’ reins were held by those riding at either side of them. She suppressed a gasp as she recognized them as Ivo and Jean, two of Hardouin’s men-at-arms. She avoided looking at them as the man at the head of the procession reined in his horse just in front of them.

He wore mail, as did the others, and the flat-topped helm with its jutting nasal shadowed his features just as theirs did. The fineness and shine of his mail and the emblem on his shield proclaimed him the baron of Hawkswell, even if Peronelle had not gone rushing headlong across the drawbridge toward him, calling “Father! Father!”