In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,115

the tower room, only candles to provide light. The air was close and smelled so strongly of damp mortar not even a blazing fire could relieve the stench. Not that they ever had enough wood to build a fire that did more than smoke and hiss and spit off the odd red cinder.

The bedding was always musty, the curtains that hung from the bed were rotted through in places and rarely failed to offer up the droppings of some small inhabitant when they were let down for the night. The king had promised to keep her in comfort. He had promised their stay at Corfe would be a short one, but they had heard nothing from Normandy since their departure and Marienne could only wonder if by “short” he meant “not long of this world.” He had evidently not instructed any special favours be accorded his niece. Day and night were the same, marked only by the arrival of fresh tallow candles each morning—two per day, to be used sparingly—and the emptying of the cracked slops jar each night. She was given a basin of water three times a week for washing, and once each week, for an hour, she was permitted to walk the ramparts between her tower and the next.

Almost since their arrival in Corfe, however, the weather had been bleak and rainy, the wind too fearsome on the rooftops for Eleanor to bear more than a few minutes’ exposure even though it was her only chance for a clean breath. Her one solace was in prayer; her only pleasure was gained through communion with God. And because not even a king could deprive a soul from seeking salvation, each morning at Prime and each evening before Vespers, Eleanor was allowed to descend the long, twisting spiral staircase and share her prayers with Father Wilfred, a ritual closely supervised by at least two of the castle guards and more often than not, their captain, Jean de Brevant. The captain was a tall, gruff man with a face like hewn rock and a voice that sounded like a mountain avalanche. The top of Marienne’s head barely reached his armpit and her entire body could have fit into one leg of his chausses —with room to spare—but now and then there was a sad look in his eye; a look only she, perforce, could see. And now and then, when the priest and the armoured roaches had slouched away, and the princess had begun the long, laborious climb back up into her tower, Marienne would linger behind a moment and share a word or two with the formidable Captain Brevant.

On this particular morning, the captain had whispered something in her ear that had kept Marienne staring down the long, vaulted corridor long after he had ambled away. He had told her, so casually she had almost not paid heed, of a party of knights returning from pilgrimage who were staying in the village of Corfe. One of them had required the services of an herb woman to tend an injury to his arm, other else they might have kept travelling. And since Brevant made it his business to always know when there were strangers in the area, he had been told of their arrival almost before the dust had been shaken from their clothes.

One of them, he also mentioned offhandedly, bore a scar on his cheek.

Marienne had all but forgotten to breathe. She could not remember climbing the stairs afterward, nor could she recall choking down the stale crust of bread and wedge of moldy cheese that broke their fast. She had debated telling her mistress … but what would she tell her? A knight with a scar on his face had taken temporary lodgings in the village? There were a thousand knights with scars on their faces; it did not follow it had to be him. Nor would it accomplish anything to raise her poor princess’s hopes if it were just another wounded soldier returning home.

Brevant had promised to try to find out more, if he could, and to bring her word the following morning. Until then, she would have to hold her tongue and try not to betray her excitement to Eleanor of Brittany.

Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise rubbed his eyes, feeling the grit of a thousand sleepless nights scratching beneath the lids. He rubbed and looked again, but the view remained the same as it had for the past few hours he had spent staring at Corfe Castle, save