In the Shadow of Midnight (30 page)

Eduard suffered her sarcasm, but only because she was bleeding already. “Are you able to walk?”

“Away from you? Gladly.”

“Away from here will have to suffice for the time being,” he countered smoothly, “unless you would prefer to remain and address your complaints to the local justicar?”

Ariel opened her mouth to respond, but the sickening stabs of pain she had been fighting sent a sudden, hot bubble of vomit up her throat. She swallowed it on a sour gasp and reached out a hand for support, clutching at a fistful of Eduard’s gypon.

“My lady …?”

She managed to tilt her head up toward the dark, frowning visage and fought the spinning mass of bright pinwheels for as long as she could before her pride crumpled.

“It … hurts,” she sobbed raggedly. “It … hurts too much to bear.”

She heard FitzRandwulf murmur something, but the words were too far away to hear. Closer and more importantly, she found herself suddenly cradled against a body that wore a hard casing of armour and leather—neither of which should have been soothing or comforting, but were both. She knew he lifted her into his arms because there was no longer any need to fight for her balance or steady herself against the swimming motion of the walls and floor. All she had to do was curl her arms around the strong column of his neck and burrow into the safety of his embrace.

Dimly, she was aware of the deep vibration of his voice as he called to Sedrick and Henry to help Dafydd out of the tavern. Henry’s face loomed in front of her for a moment, but it was an easy enough thing to do to transfer the blame to his shoulders, and she turned her face away, refusing to acknowledge his concern or his offer to carry her out to the horses. She heard Robin’s voice and Sparrow’s squawks of distress, and
then they were out in the street in the midst of another minor storm of noise and shouting.

FitzRandwulf’s voice conquered them all. He was still a formidable threat, even with his arms full of fainting woman, and the crowd parted, giving them access to their horses.

Ariel was not sure how far they rode or in what direction. She was not even sure how FitzRandwulf managed to swing himself up onto Lucifer’s back without once loosening his grip or tipping her over on her head. If anything, she felt molded to his body, as if he had taken her as a part of himself, absorbing any movements that would cause her pain or discomfort. She must have drifted out of consciousness for a while, for when she woke again, there was no light at all in the sky and she feared the blows on her head had blinded her. A cry sent her fingers across her brow, and in so doing, she pushed aside the heavy curtain of her hair that had blown over her face. Still later, she stirred when she realized she was being carried again, this time into a blur of brightly flickering tapers. She had a vague impression of a clean, well-lit room with whitewashed walls and a large, roaring fire in the hearth, more voices, none of them familiar, making her press herself closer to Eduard’s body, unmindful of the sharp edges of mail that imprinted on her skin.

Carrying her as if she weighed nothing, he mounted a narrow flight of stairs two at a time, shouting at someone behind him to bring water and bandages. Ariel groaned softly and tried to bury her head deeper into the crook of his neck, but although he had removed his helm and loosened his mail hood, there were too many rough edges and the dark mane of his hair seemed too impossibly high to reach. The underside of his chin was not, however, and she found her lips touching his flesh, tasting the salt and heat and bold, heady maleness of him. When he shouted again, she recoiled with a shiver that took the heat away from her lips.

“What is it?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”

“Too loud,” she gasped.

“Too
loud?”

“Your voice. When you shout, it is so loud … it makes my
feet
ache.”

Eduard was taken aback. “Forgive me, my lady. I was more concerned for your head than your feet.”

“My head is broken,” she moaned pitifully. “There is no hope for it.”

“There is always hope for something so hard,” he assured her with a wry smile.

He cradled her a moment longer before leaning over the side of a bed and settling her down as carefully as he could. She was deathly pale except for the growing blue patch on her forehead … and the blood. There was a wide, smeared streak of it running from the cracked egg on her scalp to the collar of her tunic. It was matted in her hair and staining her hands; a small red rosette of it blotched the front of his gypon, just above the Crusader’s cross stitched on the gray wool.

Her skin was so white, her eyes so green and deep … capable of drowning a man’s best intentions. Eduard reached up to unlace her hands from around his neck, but she resisted, and her fingers were so cold, he took them no further than the caressing warmth of his lips.

“You … will not abandon us again?” she implored.

He cupped her hands in his and kissed the soft hollow of each palm. “No, my lady, I will not abandon you again.”

“I … would have your most solemn oath on that, sirrah,” she whispered, her gaze fastened on his mouth.

In the sudden stillness, Eduard was acutely aware of the beating of his heart and of the soft, shallow breaths that parted her lips. He knew she was half in a daze and not fully responsible for what she said or did, but somewhere between a sigh and a whisper, he bowed his head closer to hers.

“You have my most solemn oath,” he murmured. “I will not abandon you.”

“Seal it,” she said on a rush.

“My lady …?”

She untangled her hands from his and laced them around his neck again, drawing his mouth down to within a warm breath of hers.

“Seal it, damn you, before I—”

Eduard’s mouth came down lightly, obligingly over hers, smothering her words, changing them into soft, throaty sighs. That was all he intended it to be—a means of silencing her— and all it would have been if a second sigh had not parted her lips beneath his, and if his own had not betrayed him by giving her what she wanted, taking what he himself wanted.

It was madness. He knew it was madness, yet he could not stop once the taste of her flooded his senses. Ever since she had challenged him to kiss her on the ramparts, the memory had haunted him. It had taunted him in the mists by the riverbank and it had intruded again in the abbey last night. He had not set out alone in the chill and fog because of a need to scout the road ahead; he had set out alone because he was not altogether certain it was only the heat of his temper being aroused by Ariel de Clare. He feared a heat of a different, dangerous kind was beginning to disrupt his instincts, erode his judgement, but if he had been hoping to prove himself wrong, he had failed miserably in his quest. All through the day he had caught himself thinking about her. Wondering. Worrying. Then in the tavern, when he had seen the blood, and felt her reach out to him …

Eduard ignored instinct and judgement now as his lips became almost bruising in their need to atone. Ariel shivered once, violently, and he broke abruptly away, fearing he had hurt her, but her eyes were wide and dark and trusting, and he kissed her again, groaning as he shared the exquisite, shuddering crests of pleasure that quivered through her body.

Ariel’s hands went slack around his neck and the breath fluttered from her lungs on a long, blissful sigh. Her lashes fought a moment longer before they drifted closed and Eduard caught her hands, holding them a few seconds more than was necessary, releasing them only when he heard the squeak of a floorboard behind him.

Thinking it was the matron arrived with water and bandages, Eduard was startled when he turned and found Henry de Clare’s hazel eyes waiting for him.

Eduard had not heard the knight follow him up the stairs,
nor had he any idea how long De Clare had been standing in the doorway, although, to judge by the warmth of his complexion, it was safe to assume he had not just arrived.

Henry looked as if he had just come from a battlefield, not a tavern brawl. His jaw bore a long gash that had bled profusely down the front of his tunic; his face was bruised, his lip cut and swollen. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, but they stared at FitzRandwulf with a hard, cold clarity of purpose.

“I trust she is not hurt too badly?” he asked evenly.

“She will be fine,” Eduard said, rising up off his bended knee. “The cut is clean and not too deep.”

“I am glad to hear it. The Welsh are a primitive breed, and I rather doubt Rhys ap Iorwerth would take too kindly to having his bride delivered in less than pristine condition.”

Eduard’s jaw clenched and he started across the room. He did not get fully past Lord De Clare when a hand reached out and grasped his arm.

He stared into the narrowed hazel eyes for a moment, then glared down at the restraining hand.

Henry relaxed his grip and smiled tightly. “Consider it a friendly warning … this time.”

His face set, Eduard walked past him and had to step neatly around the plump, red-faced matron as she panted up the last two steps, her arms filled with cloths, a collection of various medicinals and herbs for poultice-making, as well as a large, sloshing basin of water. She huffed a greeting and managed a polite bow before hurrying past Eduard and Henry to see to her patient.

Eduard watched a moment, then turned and walked sharply down the steps. As he descended, he unfastened one of the buckles that kept his hauberk strapped snugly over his shoulders. The flap of heavy mail fell forward over his gypon, straining the seams of the garment almost as much as his temper was strained at the sight of the motley group gathered in the taproom.

Sedrick was sitting on a bench by the hearth, his hands poking and prodding at bruised muscles. He had sustained several stout blows to the head and shoulders, but his armour,
like Henry’s, had protected him from the worst of it, though his neck bled from a gridwork of cut marks left by the iron links.

Robin was seated alongside, occasionally giving his head a shake as if to uncross his eyes.

By far the worst off was Dafydd ap lorwerth. Eduard’s shouts upon their arrival had brought the innkeeper and his wife bustling out of the back rooms to take immediate charge of the young Welshman. They had managed to divest him of his gypon and armour before the pain had rendered him unconscious—an easier path to take, all things considered, than to remain awake and aware of the injured arm being jostled free of the rest of the clothing. The break was midway between the wrist and elbow, and the master of the inn, M’sieur Gabinet, was in the process of pulling and fitting the grating ends of bone back together again.

The blood that had soaked the young lord’s sleeve and tunic came not from the shattered edges of bone tearing through the flesh, as Eduard had feared, but from a large sliver of wood that had been driven into the arm when the bench had smashed. Fully the length of a man’s hand, the splinter had already been removed and lay red and glistening on the table as M’sieur Gabinet worked on the arm.

“Comment va-t-il?
How is he?” Eduard asked,

“Bah! He is young and strong,” said M’sieur Gabinet. “The break is clean, the wound ugly but …
pftph!
… it will earn him much sympathy from the women, no? He will be uncomfortable, but he will not die from it.”

Eduard nodded his thanks and the innkeeper carried on, packing the wound with cobwebs before wrapping it tightly in strips of lyngel. A young boy, his son to judge by the similarity of face and shape, was issued brisk orders to cut strips of wood to use as splints, then to see to hot food and drink for their guests.

Eduard requested a small change to the order of priorities, and two brimming flagons of ale arrived at the table the same time as Henry returned from his sister’s room. He joined the
others, barely glancing in Eduard’s direction as he helped himself to a tankard of ale.

“I suppose you expect me to take the blame for this,” he said, wiping a foam moustache from his upper lip. “But how was I expected to know there were two accursed taverns in this hellhole with cocks hanging over the door? You might have at least mentioned the one had crossed swords as well.”

“It was an oversight we remedied just in time, it seems. I assumed you knew the difference between fighting cocks and a pair of prancing fowls. Did you honestly think I would dispatch you to such a pestilent hole?”

Henry pushed back his mail hood and raked his fingers through the flattened, sweat-dampened locks of tawny hair, discovering a lump the size of a toadstool cap behind his ear.

“In truth,” he muttered, “I was of the opinion you were possessed of an odd sense of humour, therefore it was more than possible you would send us to a brothel. I must say, however, this is far more to my liking.”

The taproom was large, well lit, furnished with sturdy tables that looked scrubbed clean daily. Fresh rushes covered the floor. A fire crackled in the hearth, warming the air as well as whatever savoury concoction bubbled and burped in an enormous black cauldron suspended over the flames. They were the only occupants; a thick wooden bar had been dropped across the door after their arrival to ensure against unwanted interruptions.

As Henry’s gaze roved around the room, it settled on Sparrow’s belligerent features. The elfin seneschal was perched on the lip of a table, his legs swinging over the side, quite content to see two prime specimens of Norman knighthood lick and suck at their wounds.

“Lucky for you we came along when we did, my Bold Blades,” he chuckled. “Other else, you might have found your arses swived on the end of some lumpkin’s pike.”

“Our thanks for your sympathies.” Henry grimaced. “How
did you
happen along when you did?”

“Happens
we were waiting and watching, to-ing and froing when our gracious host”—Sparrow paused and flourished a
hand in M’sieur Gabinet’s direction, who in turn paused in his bandaging and took a small bow of acknowledgement—“made mention of another scurrilous inn on the ot side of town where a man could have his brains addled for the price of a sop of ale. It seemed an odd place to go a-looking for lost souls, but a-looking we went, and hey-ho, there you go. Fists flying, tables crashing … and nary a sword unsheathed. Aye,” he added with a much-put-upon sigh, “lucky we came along when we did.”