My Lady Midnight. Laurie Grant
as they descended the stone steps from the upper floor, Claire saw that Lord Alain was pacing behind his chair at the high table. As soon as he saw them he strode forward.
“Children, make haste to break your fast,” he said, ignoring Claire. “Ivy’s funeral is to take place as soon as the servants have cleared the hall, so we must go to the chapel to pay our respects before the funeral begins.”
The children stopped stock-still next to Claire. He gestured at the loaf and goblet between their places on the dais, a motion that looked full of impatience. “You had best begin. There is not much time.”
She felt indignant. Not, “Good morning, Guerin and Peronelle, come and break your fast next to me,” before such a serious subject was raised? The unfeeling monster! The children were not even fully awake before he spoke so carelessly! She went and found her own seat, and glared at Lord Alain as he hacked off a piece of bread from the manchet loaf before him with his dagger and began to chew. Did he not even notice that his children were making a mere pretense at breaking their fast, and that their eyes remained downcast in their white faces?
She would have to attend the funeral to lend them support, since it was clear their father would not. Was he such a clod that he did not realize that his children were grieving, that no matter how carefully she had soothed Peronelle’s horror, the little girl was still having difficulty with the idea of putting her beloved nurse’s body in the ground and covering it over with earth?
The children were still only playing with their hunks of bread when Lord Alain arose and beckoned to them. “Come. It is time.”
Guerin stood and manfully followed his father as he stalked out of the hall, but Peronelle’s eyes flew to Claire. She appeared relieved as she saw that her new nurse was getting up too, and she waited until Claire had reached her at the step to the dais. The hand she reached up to Claire was cold as ice.
“Come, poppet, it will be all right,” Claire murmured, standing still a moment while she chafed the small, cold hand. “All will be well, you’ll see.” Impulsively she picked the child up and cradled her against her chest before walking rapidly in Lord Alain’s wake. The little girl buried her face against Claire’s neck.
The sun was just beginning to illuminate the bailey as they crossed its length. It was deserted except for some sleepy-looking chickens scratching in the dirt outside the barn on the far side. They went to the southeast tower, to the right of the inner gatehouse, and climbed a flight of steps.
The chapel of Hawkswell Castle was two stories high. The apse was built into the large window recess; behind the carved wooden rood on the altar was a stained-glass window depicting a sorrowing Virgin Mary praying before her Son on the cross. At the base of the cross a lamb rested, while above the cross a silver-gray dove flew.
A shaft of sunlight sent streams of red, blue and gold color flooding over the still white face of the old nurse on her bier before the altar.
“Look at Ivy, Haesel!” piped Peronelle, whom Claire had just set on her feet at the door to the chapel. “’Tis like a rainbow! Will she look like that in heaven?” The child’s voice echoed in the dim stillness, and Claire sensed rather than saw Lord Alain’s start of surprise as he turned around and realized she had come with the children. He said nothing, just regarded her silently before turning to his daughter. Uncertain as to her welcome, Claire remained in the entranceway.
“’Tis but the morning sun coming through the window,” Lord Alain said, a trifle gruffly, Claire thought. “Come, we will say a prayer for her soul, children,” he added, gesturing to the railing in front of the altar.
“I’ll pray, but she does not need my prayers,” Guerin announced. “Ivy was so good she is already in heaven—I just know she is.”
Claire saw Lord Alain look steadily at his son for a moment. “No doubt you are right, Guerin. But perhaps you should pray that you will be as good as she was, that you may be likewise rewarded,” he said, then he knelt and bowed his head.
Claire tried to pray herself, but she found herself oddly touched by the sight of the mighty lord of Hawkswell kneeling in prayer, and entranced by a ray of sunlight that had found his dark hair and transformed it into a halo of gold. How little he deserved a halo, the hypocrite, she thought darkly, but it became him all the same.
“Father,” Guerin said when Lord Alain lifted his head at last, “did Ivy used to tuck you in bed at night and tell you stories of the saints and Jesus when He was a little boy?”
Claire was startled. She had not realized that Ivy had been the lord’s nurse as well as that of his children. She saw him blink once, twice, and then look down at his stillfolded hands before answering his son. Suddenly Claire realized that Lord Alain had suffered a loss, too, just as his children had. Had his own grief been the reason for his curtness in the hall?
“Yes, though ’twas more often tales of Beowulf she told me,” he said. “I fear I was a bloodthirsty little boy, full of mischief. I must have given poor Ivy much worry.” His eyes had a faraway focus. He arose and went to Ivy’s body, kissing the alabaster cheek, and after a moment’s hesitation, both children did the same.
A short time later, the sound of many footsteps coming up the stone stairs warned them that the funeral was about to begin. Lord Alain said nothing as Peronelle motioned Claire to come up front with her, and she stood there with the children and Lord Alain while Father Gregory conducted the funeral mass.
After the service a number of stout male servants came forward and placed the nurse’s body in a hastily made coffin and carried it out of the chapel. Lord Alain, his children and Claire followed, and the castle folk fell in behind them. They went back out into the bailey and out the gatehouse into the outer ward between the inner and outer curtain walls.
To get to Hawkswell’s cemetery, the procession had to pass through the cluster of a dozen or so wattle-and-daub dwellings that constituted the village of Hawkswell, clustered against the side of the south wall. As they approached them, a woman, whose thick brown hair was barely confined by a crimson riband at her nape, suddenly emerged from one of the dwellings and stood watching the line of people coming toward her. She had a bold, unblinking gaze.
Even before Sir Gautier’s hissed intake of breath, Claire knew instinctively that the woman was Gylda, Lord Alain’s mistress. She saw Lord Alain catch sight of her and give a nod of acknowledgment, and then, out of the corner of her eye, saw the woman fall in toward the rear of the procession.
Claire was annoyed to feel herself bristle at what she saw as the woman’s effrontery. It was of no interest to her if Lord Alain’s whore came to watch the old nurse being buried! Claire, you are here on a mission that will gain you your freedom—nothing else that happens here need matter.
The burial was over, and the children had behaved well, Claire thought proudly. She had worried about how it would affect Peronelle, especially, to see the clods of earth being thrown onto the coffin, but when it was time to do so, Annis came forward and handed each of the children a rose. She bent to whisper in their ears, and then Peronelle and Guerin went forward and tossed the roses into the grave. Their action helped them accept what must come next, Claire thought, for when the earth began to be shoveled in afterward, both of them tensed but did not break down.
It was over. Everyone was walking away from the naked new grave. Claire hoped she and the children could go and find something enjoyable to do, for she longed to banish the shadows of grief from their faces now that the somber ceremony was done. She did not want the children to dwell on their sadness. Later, perhaps, they could go to the flower garden she had glimpsed on the other side of the gatehouse and cut some flowers to decorate the grave, but for now she just wanted them to forget.
But it was not to be.
“There will be some time now while the kitchen folk prepare the midday meal,” Lord Alain informed her in his accented English. “The children are to have their lessons with the priest as usual.”
“But my lord—” she began. Didn’t he realize that his son and daughter needed some happy distraction