In the Shadow of Midnight (14 page)

Cups and tankards were raised, swords drawn and held high in a salute to the lord of the manor and his exalted guest. Many remained standing, including those on the dais, for the varlets had begun clearing away the remnants of the meal. Ariel kept to her feet as well, pointedly turning her slender back on Eduard FitzRandwulf. She had borne enough of his sarcasm and mockery, and had no intentions of lingering to watch the foolish games of strength and dexterity with which the knights would amuse themselves while they drank their way into a drunken stupour.

A pair of boasting combatants were taking to the centre of the floor even as she watched, their swords drawn, their challenges earning shouted wagers from the laughing onlookers.

“A pity women are not invited to participate,” a voice murmured close to her ear. “With what fancy footwork as I witnessed this afternoon, a canny opportunist could make a handsome profit over the course of a bout or two.”

Meant as a compliment to the skills she had displayed in the armoury, Eduard’s words were, naturally, misconstrued as being anything but complimentary.

Ariel turned her head and found her gaze level with the top of his shoulder. He was standing infuriatingly close— enough for her to mark the individual stubbles of hair that grew on his chin and neck, and to see the pale line of white flesh where a second scar slashed through the arch of his eyebrow. Had that been the only mark on his face, she would have had to admit to a distinctly unnerving handsomeness. His body was certainly adequate. There were few, if any, knights who could have the term
lean
applied to their builds; fewer still who were not muscled like plowhorses simply from the weight of the armour they wore and the rigorous training they endured to become champions. Exchanging iron link mail and bullhide gambesons for studded and embossed velvet surcoats softened the effect somewhat, but there was no possibility
of completely camouflaging massive shoulders, chests, and thighs.
Partially
camouflaging it was an art. Done with careless charm and sensual indolence, it was a breathtaking achievement.

Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise
was
a breathtaking achievement in raw masculine power. He was a beast in his prime. His arrogance, scorn, and cynicism, however, reduced him to the level of a brawny oaf.

Eduard was easily able to translate each of the Lady Ariel’s fomenting opinions of him in the hot green sparkle of her eyes, but in truth, he was enjoying the backwash effects of baiting her. Each highly charged emotion she communicated by word, glance, or flush met with a strange reaction in the way his blood flowed through his veins. He could not fathom why, for his dislike for women of high self-regard was thorough and unchangeable, and the Lady Ariel de Glare undoubtedly held herself in the highest regard possible. Perhaps it was the image burned into his mind’s eye of her spinning and jousting half-naked in the torchlight of the armoury. The demure wimple could not erase the memory of flame-red hair swirling around her shoulders in a fiery cloud. Nor could the modest, almost drab tunic blunt the recollection of firm, upthrust breasts and coltishly long legs hidden beneath.

Eduard arched a brow and Ariel frowned.

The way he was looking at her … why … it was almost as if he could see clear through the brown cendon of her tunic, through the sheer linen of her blanchet to her bare flesh.

Their eyes met without warning and in the taut, vibrating silence that followed, a fresh welter of heat flushed through Ariel’s veins, prickling pink and warm into her cheeks.

“You have a bold manner, sirrah,” she said in a furious underbreath. “And a tongue that wants disciplining when in the company of your betters.”

“My … betters?” The smokey gray eyes scanned the room and his grin widened. “You mean, of course, that I should be seated below the salt with the other bastards in the hall?”

“Such arrangements are not unheard of,” she replied primly.

“Whereas the practice of seating petulant children on the dais
… is
little unusual.”

Ariel drew a deep breath. This was too much. He was pushing too far. Something—the loud snap of a bone clenched between the jaws of a nearby wolfhound—cracked the last shreds of her composure, but her hand had no sooner started on its upward intent to slash the grin off FitzRandwulf’s face, when it was caught and held in an ironlike grip.

“You tried that once and failed miserably, my lady,” he warned quietly. “I would not recommend you attempt it again … not unless you crave the thorough embarrassment of finding yourself flat on your backside.”

Two bright, hot spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks. “Do you dare threaten to strike me? Have you no shame whatsoever?”

“Not when it comes to dealing with women who pout and taunt and repeatedly disdain sincere attempts to apologize,” he said evenly. “A simple misunderstanding occurred this afternoon. You were found somewhere you should not have been, touching things you should not have touched. Even so, I made certain assumptions I should not have made and reacted in a manner which obviously caused offence. Thus, I would say we were both in error to some extent.”

“And do you now expect
me
to apologize to
you?”

Eduard’s penetrating gaze held hers for several moments longer before sliding down to where his fingers were slowly relaxing from around her wrist. “Wringing an apology from you was not my intention, demoiselle. I regret you did not enjoy your meal or the company with whom you shared it. With luck, however, the experience will not have to be repeated … for either of us.”

He offered a curt, mocking bow and walked away to join an animated conversation Lord Henry was having with Sparrow. The heat ebbed and flowed in Ariel’s cheeks and she massaged her wrist with a hand that trembled visibly. Lout. Buffoon.
Bastard!
How dare he speak to her like that. How dare he
presume
to lecture her on the rules of polite behavior.

“Lady Ariel …?”

She spun around, her face set for further battle. “What is it?”

Dafydd ap Iorwerth flinched an involuntary step back. He and Sedrick had been seated with the other knights, close to the dais as befitting their status, but too far to have joined any conversations. He had witnessed the hostilities between Ariel and FitzRandwulf, and had thought to offer himself as a diversion.

“F-forgive me for disturbing you, my lady. I only thought to inquire if you enjoyed your meal.”

The deep green sparks in Ariel’s eyes flared. “Enjoyed it? It is a wonder my belly has not soured beyond redemption. And the air … it is so stifling, I can barely breathe.”

“If the air is close, my lady,” he suggested eagerly, “perhaps you would care for a walk in the garden? I have been told of Lady Servanne’s success with winter roses.”

Just like a Welshman, she thought angrily. Or any man for that matter, thinking to placate her with a walk in the gardens, as if the workings of nature should be the most important thing on her mind. Ariel steadied herself to tell him precisely where he could put each and every thorn of those winter roses, but a gust of masculine laughter farther along the dais lured her eye to where FitzRandwulf and Henry were standing together. Henry was looking her way and nodding with one of his wretchedly indecipherable smiles; the Bastard was deliberately
not
looking her way, but she could tell he was watching her nonetheless.

Seething, she slipped her hand through the crook of Lord Dafydd’s arm. “A walk among the roses would be just the thing, my lord,” she said loudly. “I thank you for your concern.”

Henry, his mouth still crinkled with amusement, watched the Welshman and his sister beg their leave of the lord and lady of the chateau before making their way toward the rear of the great hall.

“Odd,” he mused. “I would not have wagered she knew the difference between a rose and a thistle.”

Eduard glanced at the departing couple. “Whereas I would wager neither have as many prickles as her tongue.”

Seeing Henry’s slow frown, FitzRandwulf sighed and hastened to add, “I fear your sister did not enjoy my company overmuch this evening. We, ahh, happened to have met earlier in the afternoon when I found her in the castle armoury, and when I attempted to ascertain her reasons for being there, she apparently took umbrage at my manner.”

Henry stared at Eduard for a long moment before allowing the corner of his mouth to relent and turn upward again. “Pay no heed. Ariel tends to take umbrage easily, especially when she is caught doing something she should not be doing. I wondered why she acted as if she had caught a mouthful of hornets when the introductions were made. Raiding your armoury, was she?”

“Inspecting it, more’s the like. With a surprisingly keen eye, I might add.”

“She has a surprisingly keen ability to go along with it,” Henry advised.

“I will bear it in mind.”

“Bear also that she
is
my sister, and I love her dearly despite her faults.”

Eduard nodded slightly, acknowledging the sentiment and the warning.

Sparrow, who had thankfully been distracted during most of the exchange, received a nod from Lord Randwulf and looked up at both knights. “A finger has wiggled at us, inviting us to a private meeting with the lord marshal. Where is the Welshman gone?”

“To smell the roses,” Eduard said dryly.

“Eh? Just as well, he was not invited anyway. Come, my bold blades. Touch your toes to my heels and bring yon tankards. What I am smelling bodes nothing sweet ahead.”

Eduard spared a last glance at the far stairway, all but obscured behind the haze caused by the smoke and roisterous atmosphere raised by so large a gathering. Ariel and Dafydd had reached the top step and were a moment away from being swallowed into the heavier gloom of the outer landing. At the
last possible instant, Ariel turned to look over her shoulder, but her face was nothing more than a pale blur and Eduard could not be absolutely certain she saw him, let alone his mock salute.

♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥

E
duard declined to take a chair and stood with his back to the wall as his father and the marshal settled around a large oak table with Lord Henry, Alaric, and Sparrow. They had retreated to one of the private chambers partitioned off from the solid block walls of the hall. It was not much bigger than the alcove they had occupied before the meal, save it had a narrower entrance and let fewer sights and sounds escape. A further, casual nod from the marshal’s leonine head was acknowledged by Sir Sedrick of Grantham, who took up a position close to the chamber to discourage any potential eavesdroppers.

“A sad day indeed,” Lord Randwulf remarked, “when a man has to guard his tongue under his own roof.”

“It would be sadder still to give the king a reason to asseise Amboise,” the earl returned bitterly. “It will already require fancy word-work on my part to explain why we journeyed so many leagues out of our way to stop here, but …” He shrugged his big shoulders as if to express an opinion of the king’s wit.

The Wolf held his thoughts until a large flagon of ale had been tipped to fill their tankards and the servant dismissed with a wave of his hand. His leg was aching abominably but he suspected, with the same acumen Sparrow displayed, his wound would be the least of his concerns before the hour was out.

When the men were alone, he put forth the question bluntly. “Why
did
you stop here, old friend?”

William ran a thumb around the rim of pewter and took a deep swallow of ale. “Before I answer—and God grant me your mercy that you do not take offence—I must have your pledge as knights and men of absolute honour, that not one word of what we discuss here tonight is breathed beyond this circle. Not to your wives, not to your lemans, not to a priest
should he be incanting the last rites over your ascending souls.”

The Wolf’s steely gaze reflected the flame of the single, thick candle that sat in a puddle of its own translucent wax. Were it any other man demanding such an oath, swords would already have been drawn to answer the insult. That their weapons remained sheathed was not only a measure of the respect they had for the marshal, but an ominous indication that they all felt a strong degree of apprehension at his presence.

With a deliberate firmness, Lord Randwulf extended his hand and clasped it over Pembroke’s.

“You have my most solemn oath,” he pledged quietly.

Alaric leaned forward, as did Eduard and Henry, and finally Sparrow, who had to kneel upon the tabletop to reach his pudgy hand to the mound of others. Each gave his oath in turn, vowing to die by his own hands if necessary, to preserve the trust they were forming this night.

“I came,” William began, after they had settled to their seats again, “because I fear Merlin’s prophecy will soon come true: ‘That the sword shall become divided from the sceptre, Normandy from England, in the reign of a dark-eyed king.’ I came,” he added, “because the French monarch had a grin on his face when he sent me on my way. And I came … because I know you to be a man of your word, a man I can trust with my life, and the lives of my family, if need be.”