My Lady Midnight

The child was heedless of the way the destrier laid back his ears at the sight of her running toward him.

“Peronelle!” cried Claire, dashing after the child even as the man on the enormous stallion fought to control the rearing beast. She gave little thought to her own danger, for her mind was full of the horrible image of the child’s lifeless body, crushed by one swipe of a powerful hoof. Reaching the girl, she grabbed her and pulled her out of harm’s way.

Moments later, Hawkswell managed to subdue the stallion. “Peronelle!” he shouted down at the girl. “How many times have I told you my war-horse is not some fat, friendly pony like your Dacy? You must never come near him, and especially not like that! You might have been killed, Peronelle!” He tossed the reins to the nearest manat-arms and dismounted, striding over to where Peronelle was huddled in Claire’s arms, weeping.

Claire bit back a sharp retort. She was supposed to be a mere English serf, therefore she could not give this monster of a father the tongue-lashing he deserved. But as the little girl continued to tremble and hide her face against Claire’s kirtle, she knew she had to say something.

“She be frightened of yer tone, my lord, as much as the horse,” Claire murmured, trying to see the features of the man behind the jutting nasal.

A pair of fierce dark eyes narrowed as they fixed on her. “Who might you be, woman?” he answered her in heavily accented English. “And more to the point, who are you to tell me how to speak to my own child?”

Claire looked down at the bent head of the child clutching her skirts, hoping to appear appropriately humble, when she was actually trying to conceal the seething anger he had provoked in her by his high-handed attitude.

“I be Haesel, my lord,” she said evenly, and added, when a glance from beneath her lashes told her he was continuing to favor her with a piercing regard, “please, my lord, the child…”

Just then she noticed a younger man, on a horse next to Lord Alain, smiling encouragingly at her. He must be a squire, she thought. She liked him instantly, if only for his friendly gaze in the face of Hawkswell’s disapproval.

Hawkswell shifted his eyes to Peronelle, and his gaze softened. Kneeling on one knee, he pulled off his helm and laid it on the ground with a clunk before holding his arms open. “Perry, come here, daughter,” Alain of Hawkswell said, his voice soft and coaxing.

Peronelle raised her head and peered at her father, knuckling her hand over her tear-flooded eyes for a moment before leaving Claire’s side. Then she threw herself into his arms.

In spite of her anger, Claire found herself oddly moved at the sight of the powerful Norman lord, embracing his daughter, his eyes closed as if he breathed a thankful prayer.

“Peronelle, Peronelle, don’t you know you are the most precious thing on earth to me? I would die a thousand deaths, my sweet daughter, if any harm came to you, don’t you know that? That is why I shouted—I was so fearful that you would be hurt before I could turn my stallion away from you.”

His voice, as he soothed his frightened child, was musical, deep and resonant, like a warm embrace. Claire found herself wanting to hear more of it.

“I just wanted to see you, Father! I’m sorry.”

“I know, my girl. I know. It is over now, and you will never, never come so near my destrier again, yes?”

“No, Father, never!”

All this time Guerin had been hovering uncertainly in the background, his face anxious. Remember me, Father, his eyes seemed to plead. What about me, your son?

Claire watched as Hawkswell raised his head and acknowledged Guerin with a nod. “Guerin, you were just going over the drawbridge when we rode up. Where were you going, when I gave strict instructions for both of you to stay behind the castle walls?”

She saw the boy’s shoulders tense. “I…I had gone to fetch my sister, my lord father.”

Alain of Hawkswell’s face darkened again. “Oh? And from whence did you fetch her, Guerin?”

Claire ached for the boy as she saw him clench his hand against a fold of his tunic and look away from his father’s cold gaze.

“From…the wood, my lord father. I found her at the edge of the wood…talking to this woman here,” he said, pointing at Claire.

Hawkswell’s jaw clenched. “Peronelle, I gave you strict instructions not to venture outside the walls, and Guerin, I gave your sister into your care. You know how adept she is at evading your nurse. Why did you—?”

“But Father!” interrupted Peronelle. “I know I was naughty to run away from my nurse just because of a bath, but you see, I met Haesel in the wood! Isn’t she wonderfully pretty, Father? I was taking her to meet Ivy. I want her to be my nurse too, and help Ivy! I would obey her, Father, always! Oh please, Father, say she may come and live with us, and—”

Alain of Hawkswell laid a finger across his daughter’s mouth to gently stem her torrent of words. “Hush, Peronelle, you chatter like a magpie.”

He scowled as his gaze shifted to Claire and swept over her, assessing her from the top of her head to the tips of her rough shoes.

She felt herself flushing while he continued to stare, and forced herself to drop her own eyes to keep portraying the humble serf. It felt as if those dark, narrowed eyes could see through to her very soul and glimpse the deceit that resided there. Claire felt his eyes drop lower, to linger on her breasts and hips before coming back to her face. She felt her cheeks flame.

“Peronelle,” he began, still pinning Claire with his gaze, “you have a trusting heart, daughter, but we do not know this woman—”

“I know her, Father, and so does Guerin! Isn’t she pretty, Papa?”

The lord and his daughter were speaking in French. Hawkswell glanced at her again. “Yes, she has a certain…comeliness, in a common sort of way.”

Was he testing her to see if she spoke the language? She knew she must give no evidence that she had understood their rapid speech, but how dared this man speak so disparagingly of her, as if she were not there, and stare at her as if she were a whore? She longed to slap his arrogant, high-cheekboned face.

“We are not taking her into the castle, Peronelle. She may very well be a runaway serf, and you already have a nurse. Your duty is to obey Ivy, as it is to obey me. I have enough to worry about already, with these prisoners,” he said, jerking his head back to indicate the bound men whom Claire had entirely forgotten ever since Peronelle had rushed at the stallion.

“Who are they, Father?” Guerin asked, still obviously aching for his father’s attention.

“I came upon a party of them leaving the alewife’s place in the wood, and as they could not explain themselves, I think we can assume they were a party of Stephen’s mercenaries. We killed three of them when they tried to run, but this pair surrendered. They’ll cool their heels in that locked room below the cellar until I’m satisfied about what they were doing on my lands.”

He turned back to Claire, and his voice was coldly dismissive as he switched back to English. “Begone, woman, and be thankful I do not jail you with yon brigands.”

Claire’s heart sank. Was she to come this close, only to fail? “But my lord,” she began.

There was a rumble of thunder, and suddenly the rain, which had been imminent all day, started falling in sheets.

“Papa, you must let her in now, you must!” Peronelle cried. “’Tis raining, and she’ll catch her death of lung fever, just as Mama did!”

Alain of Hawkswell’s face went white at the mention of his dead wife, but Guerin seemed not to notice, adding his pleas and surprising Claire. “Please, Father, just for the night! ’Tis our Christian duty! You cannot turn her out in the storm like an animal!”

Alain de Hawkswell scowled again as the rain streaked down his cheeks. “Very well, I’ll not debate it further out here in the rain. She may sup in the hall and bed down there, but on the morrow she goes, do I make myself clear? I cannot take into my household every beggar that shows up at the gates. Take her in with you and get dry by the fire before you go up, and beg Ivy’s pardon for being such a wicked girl, Peronelle.”

Claire longed to fling his stingy hospitality back in his face, but too much depended on her getting into his household. At least she had gained entry for the night—and perhaps she would find a way to stay if fortune smiled on her.

“Thank ye, my lord,” she said, and hoped she appeared the picture of gratitude. “…She has a certain…comeliness, in a common sort of way,” indeed. I’ll teach you the folly of judging by appearances, Alain of Hawkswell.

Chapter Three (#ulink_a8cbd464-945b-5481-ad2e-cc1bc05317ed)

Alain of Hawkswell’s eyes followed his children and the young woman as they headed for the spiral stone staircase at the far end of the great hall after warming themselves at the fire. The woman his children had called Haesel followed as Peronelle and Guerin led the way. Peronelle was chattering excitedly, turning back as she said something to Haesel. Guerin was quieter, as usual, but even he had a look of pride on his face as he looked around, obviously urging Haesel onward.

Alain could not see her face, but he studied the erect back and the grace with which her long legs took her up the stairs. She lifted the edge of her threadbare skirt to more easily climb, and he caught a glimpse of a slender, well-turned ankle. As she ascended, the end of her golden braid caressed the small of her back, swaying to her motion.

Conscious of a stirring in his loins, he turned away from the sight, disgusted with himself. But even after he could no longer see her, his mind repeated the vision of Haesel warming herself at his fire. Unaware of his continued scrutiny, the peasant woman had stretched and flexed her arms as she stood before the roaring fire to dry herself, the wet homespun of her bodice clearly revealing the outline of her breasts. Unbidden and unwelcome, a vision came to him of Haesel stretched out in his bed, all that golden hair unbraided and fanned out over his pillow as she opened her arms to receive him. Julia had been blond too, but her hair had been pale and lifeless next to this woman’s golden tresses.

Peste, but why was he thinking of her in that way? It wasn’t as if he had not had a woman since Julia’s untimely death…Gylda, who dwelled in the village, made him welcome whenever he came to her. He was not a man who could be led around by his loins. Now that he had been widowed, he satisfied his carnal needs only when the clamoring of his body forced him to seek Gylda out. Once he had spent himself upon the accommodating peasant woman—on rare occasions even staying the night in her rude cottage, coupling with her more than once—he could return to his life as the baron of Hawkswell, lord of a strategic castle on the road to London.

One day, when the empress was secure on her throne, he supposed he would be given another heiress as a reward for his loyalty. It was the way of royalty to want to cement fealty with marriage alliances. It was for the same reason he had been given Julia’s hand, and they could have been as happy as most noble couples, if only…But it was no use thinking that way.

He had visited Gylda only two days ago…Then why was he so disturbed by a pair of blue eyes, a wealth of golden hair and a lush mouth that lured him to gaze lower, at the breasts that strained her bodice and the narrow waist he could span with his hands?