Bella at Midnight (23 page)

I felt strangely elated. It would be a battle after all—with danger on both sides. There would at least be
some
honor in that!

We rode forward in silence, with only the sound of horses' hooves and the creaking of saddles and clanking of armor. But none spoke a word, and there was dread in the air. In the distance I saw the glint of moonlight on metal up ahead—the army of Brutanna, advancing upon us.

As soon as we came within range, our archers drew their great bows and sent a shower of arrows raining down upon Harry's army. At the same moment,
their
archers let fly in
our
direction. Men fell on either side of me. I took three arrows in my shield. And still we rode forward.

The time was drawing near when our two armies would merge into one writhing mass of murderous men, fighting hand to hand, swords slamming against armor, horses whinnying in terror, and beneath their feet the bodies of men, and parts of men, and blood everywhere.

Just then the clouds parted and a bright stream of moonlight lit the battlefield ahead. At the same moment, I heard the hollow thunder of a warhorse in full gallop. I turned to see from whence it came—and that is when I saw him: a solitary knight, riding between our two advancing armies, through a rain of arrows, carrying only a banner of purest white. He was clad in white armor, too—but in place of a helmet, he wore about his face a halo of heavenly flames, so that he shone like the sun! It was the prophecy fulfilled! The Worthy Knight, so longed for in the time of the Great War!

At the sight of him, the armies halted; arrows stopped flying. As the knight continued his ride—back and forth between the two armies, waving his banner of peace—a miraculous thing happened. The air was aglow with radiant light, the most beautiful thing I ever saw, and it was as if everyone there was holding his breath, such was the silence. Then all around me, knights and squires and archers and foot soldiers, all the men in the army, fell to their knees and laid their weapons down. Across the empty battlefield, the knights of Brutanna knelt also. Swords and lances lay everywhere upon the ground.

And then he was gone, the Worthy Knight. He disappeared into the darkness, and all was quiet for a very long time—until one by one, we got to our feet and began talking of it in hushed voices. Across the way we saw King Harry's men turning back toward the castle. We did not follow them.

Someone said that the king had ridden forward in a fury, to find out why the army had halted its advance. When he saw that the men had dismounted and were kneeling there upon the battlefield and laying down their arms, Gilbert was so astounded and angry that he rode about screaming at them like a madman, cursing and calling them cowards. But then he drew near enough to see the miraculous figure who still galloped between the two armies, all ablaze with light—and of a sudden the king grew silent and sat there upon his horse, transfixed with wonder. Moments later he began to cry out again, only not in anger, but in terrible pain. “I cannot see! I cannot see!” he cried. “Dear God, I am blinded!” And then he fell from his horse, insensible. The duke had taken over the command and had ordered a retreat.

I went looking for Julian, then, praying that he had not been slain in the first barrage of arrows. I found him still in the vanguard, and still upon his knees. Not a single arrow had pierced his fine doublet! Yet there were so many spent arrows lying scattered upon the ground, it seemed impossible that none of them had struck him! It had been a night for miracles, though—what was one more?

“Julian!” I called to him. “Was it not a marvel?” And I laughed at the wonder of it.

He got to his feet and embraced me long and hard. “It was a marvel indeed, Geoffrey,” he said. “Though I fear you shall have to take up farming now—find yourself a comely wife and sire many children and sit by the fire and play sweet melodies upon the lute. For the world has changed this night, and has no more need for your sword.”

Y
ou will think it ungrateful of me, that after such a miracle I could find it in my heart to be angry with God. For was not a war averted and peace restored? Did I not ride in the vanguard, with no shield or armor to protect me—and live? And is not my brother Gilbert now as tamed by his blindness as a hooded falcon—so that he turns to me for advice, and is moderate and mild, as he never was before?

These are wondrous works, and amazing, and good. But, still—could He not have saved Bella, too? Was such a small gift not within His power?

That night when, just at the decisive moment, the Worthy Knight appeared upon the field of battle and rode through a hail of arrows, causing two mighty armies to stop their advance and lay down their arms and embrace the cause of peace—after all that had happened, I went to find Bella near the birches where she said she would wait. My heart was near to bursting with joy. I had not thought the world had that much goodness in it, and I could scarcely wait to tell her of it.

But when I reached the spot, she was not there. Her horse was gone, and upon the ground I found her dress—ripped apart and stained with mud. There, too, lay her amazing slippers, and a collection of little figures, standing guard most pitifully upon a rock. There was a black wool cap, such as peasants wear in wintertime. And some distance away, at the edge of the forest, I found Bella's emerald ring. Oh, such terrible evidence!

I returned to the army in haste, hoping to enlist some men to help me search for her. But by the time I got there, the troops were on the move, already heading south toward Moranmoor. I rode forward, looking for my uncle, and finally found him at the front, riding beside the cart that carried my brother. The king lay unconscious, though he did not appear to suffer any pain. Indeed, upon his face there was an expression of perfect peacefulness. I knew not whether God had struck him down as punishment for his sins, or whether He had chosen my brother, as He chose Saul so long ago on the road to Damascus, calling him to turn from his wickedness and do the Lord's work in the world. Whichever it was, I did not doubt that the hand of God was upon my brother that day.

When I approached my uncle, he was most astonished to see me. He had heard nothing of my arrival at the camp earlier in the evening or my quarrel with Gilbert. When I told him how it was I came to be with the army, and of all that Bella had undertaken for my sake, and for the cause of peace, the duke was greatly moved. He most willingly gave me a score of men to search the woods and fields for any sign of her.

We left right away, for I was near frantic to get back to that clearing—though in truth, I had little hope of finding her alive. But at least I could bring her home for a decent burial, with all the honors she deserved.

We combed the woods and the countryside nearby for three whole days, but we did not find her. And so I grew angry with God and said blasphemous things and wept hot tears at the injustice of it, and the terrible pity.

Then I returned to Moranmoor, to act as regent for my brother until he came to himself and could rule once more. We had a holy truce now and needed no hostage to guarantee that which God had decreed.

I dreamed of Bella some nights, as she was when we were children. And when I woke, I could not believe she was no longer on this earth, so vivid was my vision of her. And so, remembering that she had said she would make her own way back to Moranmoor if I did not come, I began to hope that she had just been traveling all that time. Perhaps she had seen the armies advancing upon one another and had been frightened by it, and had ridden away in haste, leaving her treasures behind.

Of course this did not explain the torn dress. Moreover, she had
said
she would wait for me, and that she was not afraid, and I believed her on both counts. All the same, I clung to this one little hope, for I had no other.

Thus I went to the queen and asked if she had in her household a girl whose mother had recently married a knight, a widower with one daughter.

“Marianne,” she said. “She
was
in my household, but is no more.”

“For what cause did you send her away?” I asked.

“For gossiping of private matters, and telling state secrets about the town.”

“
That
is the very one I am seeking!” I said.

“The girl believed I would protect her, because I liked not Gilbert's plans. She came to me and said that she had endeavored to stop the war by sending her stepsister to
you
, Julian. Imagine! She thought I would embrace her for it.”

“But you did not favor the attack—is that not so?”

“I did not. I thought it deeply wrong and shameful. But it was none of
her
affair. I will have no one in my household who cannot be trusted to keep her tongue.”

“Will you tell me where she dwells, this girl? For I seek her stepsister, who was my dearest friend. She risked much to save me from a certain death.”

The queen looked down at her hands then, embarrassed—for it had been Gilbert who had put my life in peril, and she knew this right well, and was ashamed of it. “Truly, Julian, I will do all I can to help you.”

And so she told me, and I went there—to the house of Sir Edward and his wife, Matilda.

They were most astonished to see me. Matilda flushed scarlet when first I was announced by the housemaid, but she recovered herself with admirable speed and was soon offering me a seat by the fire and sending the maid to bring me wine.

Sir Edward was upstairs in the solar when I arrived, and had to be sent for. When he came into the hall, he bowed low and greeted me respectfully, as was proper. But after that, he said little, speaking only when questioned directly.

Besides Sir Edward and his wife—and the maid—I saw only Matilda's two daughters from her first marriage. The eldest—the infamous Marianne—was quite handsome, I thought, though she had a bold, flirtatious manner I did not like. And the younger one, Alice, seemed strangely withdrawn. Bella was nowhere to be seen. And so I decided to ask my questions quickly, then be gone—for I did not like these people much and cared not to prolong my visit to their house.

“You have another daughter?” I asked Sir Edward. “Isabel?”

He nodded. “Yes, my lord.” Matilda and Marianne exchanged looks of astonishment. Bella must have spoken of me in their hearing, I thought, and they had not believed her—that she could possibly
know
a prince, much less be
friends
with one. They would be just the sort to mock her over it, too. It pleased me to watch their consternation now.

“When did you see her last?” I asked.

“More than a month ago,” he said. “She left the house in the dead of night and we have not seen her since.”

My heart sank. “And you have had no message from her?”

“No. Nothing at all.”

I had with me Bella's things, wrapped in a sheepskin. And so I laid the package down upon the floor and unfolded it carefully. It stung me each time I looked at them—most especially the torn gown with its implied tale of violent death.

“Do you recognize these?” I asked.

The women knelt around the sheepskin to look, exclaiming over the glass slippers and the fine brocade of the ruined dress.

“This is her old cap,” Matilda said. “But we have never seen these other things before. The night she left she was still wearing her peasant . . . the clothes she came to us in. She had nothing so fine as this. I think they must belong to someone else.”

“No,” I said. “She was wearing them when last we were together, the night she disappeared.”

“What are these?” Matilda asked, picking up one of the dough figures. I had brought only four of them. I had not been able to part with the last one, the skinny little princeling.

I looked Bella's stepmother hard in the eyes. “That is her family,” I said.

She seemed puzzled, and put her hand to her heart as though to ask—
me
?

“No,” I said. “Her
family.
Beatrice and Martin and Will and Margaret. The people who loved her and cared for her all those years.”

At that, Sir Edward flushed and turned his head away—and I was very glad, too, for he
should
be ashamed!

“Your Highness?” It was Alice, the younger girl.

“Was there not a ring? An emerald ring?”

“Yes!” I cried, startled, and held out my hand to show her, for I wore it upon my little finger. Alice took hold of my hand to look at it, forgetting in her excitement that I was a prince and that to touch me so was a breach of propriety.

“It was
my
ring!” she said. “Father gave it to me—and I gave it to Isabel on the night she left.” And then she let go of my hand and hung her head and began to weep. “She is dead, isn't she?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I fear she is.”

We all sat in silence for a while, gazing down at Isabel's ruined lady costume lying there before us, and the little dolls she had made, and the coarse wool cap—all that was left of her now. Then Alice looked up at me again, her eyes bright.