Bella at Midnight Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Martha,

  and for Jim—

  who introduced me to

  Kitty-Pair-of-Kitties

  and the king of the fairies

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Book One: The Thimble

  1 Maud

  2 Beatrice

  3 Beatrice

  4 Will

  5 Bella

  6 Prince Julian of Moranmoor

  7 Maud

  8 Prince Julian of Moranmoor

  9 Bella

  10 Prince Julian of Moranmoor

  11 Bella

  Book Two: The Ring

  1 Alice

  2 Marianne

  3 Matilda

  4 Marianne

  5 Alice

  6 Matilda

  Book Three: The Slippers of Glass

  1 Marianne

  2 Bella

  3 Matilda

  4 Alice

  5 Bella

  6 Bella

  7 Bella

  8 Bella

  9 Prince Julian of Moranmoor

  10 Bella

  11 Squire Geoffrey of Brennimore

  12 Prince Julian of Moranmoor

  13 Alice

  14 Will

  Acknowledgments

  Bonus Material

  An Interview with the Author

  On Writing

  Excerpt from The Mysterious Case of the Allbright Academy

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  BOOK ONE

  The Thimble

  Maud

  When the message came and I saw it was from Edward, I nearly choked on my plum cake. It could only mean that my sister was dead.

  I had not seen her since her wedding day, three long years before. An occasion for rejoicing—that’s what you’re imagining, is it not? A beautiful bride, a blushing groom, flowers, and music, and bright new beginnings?

  It’s a sweet picture, but that is not how it was, not for Catherine, anyway. Oh, she did look a perfect angel in her delicate gown of robin’s-egg blue, her hair cascading down her shoulders, shining like the finest gold. And there were flowers aplenty, and music, too, and a sumptuous feast that lasted well into the night. Father wanted nothing but the best for her, you see. But as for the bright new beginnings—well, that’s another story. You’ll notice I haven’t yet mentioned the groom.

  Sir Edward of Burning Wood was an odd man, arrogant and proud. But I thought such traits to be common among the nobility. I knew little of such things, being born to the merchant class. And so I would have taken his peculiar and unfriendly ways as natural to his station in life—if it hadn’t been for the way he looked at me. There was such coldness in those eyes, such a hardness near to hatred, that it positively made me tremble, and I could not help but turn away. I remember thinking, when first he pierced me with that terrible gaze, that Edward of Burning Wood was not altogether right in his mind.

  He was no proper husband for my sister, of that I was sure—and I told Father so.

  “Catherine is rich,” I said, “and beautiful besides—she does not need to settle for such a man.”

  “Settle?” Father said. He was astonished, for he considered it a splendid match. “What can you be thinking? Edward is a knight, and he shall make our Catherine a lady. Just think of it, Maud—and she only a glass merchant’s daughter!”

  “A glass merchant’s daughter with a fortune, Father, don’t forget that.” (I knew, and Father knew, and surely even Catherine knew that Edward was marrying her for her money.) “I would far rather she remain a common lass than be raised to the nobility and be miserable all her life!”

  “But why should she be miserable?” Father countered. “Can you not see how the man dotes upon her?”

  This was true enough; Edward did seem besotted with my sister, for all that he wed her for gain. Yet even in this he was extreme and unnatural—for his was a wild, possessive, fanatical love. Catherine was flattered by it, of course. Moreover, she thought him handsome and admired his confidence and manly bearing.

  And so, as both Father and Catherine seemed so pleased with the arrangement, I resolved to keep my doubts to myself and say no more against the man.

  After the wedding—indeed, the very next day—it became clear that I had greatly underestimated Edward: he was far, far worse than even I had believed him to be! For once he was in possession of both Catherine and her dowry, he turned his back on us, forbidding my sister to ever see us again!

  Can you imagine such a thing? Why, it nearly put poor Father in his grave. Indeed, it was at about that time that his mind began to wander and he became childlike in his ways, as the old are sometimes wont to do. But I believe it was the loss of Catherine that caused him to decline—that and the guilt he felt over giving her in marriage to such a terrible man.

  And perhaps his infirmity was a blessing of sorts, for as I opened Edward’s letter now, I took some small comfort from the knowledge that, however dreadful its contents might be, Father was past suffering over it anymore.

  I scanned the message quickly, searching it for words such as dead or death—but they were nowhere in evidence. I am a poor reader, I confess, and tears blurred my sight. Also, Edward’s script was cramped and small and difficult to make out. But I struggled through it, word by word, until at last I reached the heart of the letter and—what joy!—discovered that my sister was not dead, not in the least! She was about to give birth to her first child—and I had not even known she was expecting!

  I squinted now, concentrating hard in my eagerness to learn what more the letter might tell me. I could not imagine that Edward had written me out of courtesy, even at such a time. And of course I was right; he wanted something. He wanted me to go there—to that house he had bought with my father’s money, to which we had never once been invited—he wanted me to go there and comfort dear Catherine in her labor! He said he did not like the looks of the midwife.

  He is afraid, I thought, afraid for Catherine’s life—for indeed, she was always a delicate creature and had never been strong. Now he feared to lose her, and he was so desperate that he had even stooped to asking me for help.

  Well. I would do it for Catherine. I would gladly suffer his haughty pride and sharp tongue for her sake. And a new babe—oh, how the prospect stirred my spirit! I would go at once!

  And so I wrapped up well against the cold, roused the kitchen maid, and bid her keep an eye on Father (lest he wake in the darkness and, in his confusion, miss the chamber pot again). Then I rode off with the messenger in the direction of my sister’s house. It was full dark by the time I got there. As I mounted the steps, I heard the bells ring for Compline. The monks would be going to prayer and then to bed. But I knew there would be no rest for me that night.

  Edward let me in himself. His looks alarmed me, so pale and wild eyed did he appear. Things must be very bad indeed, I thought. But he said nothing, only turned and led me to the chamber wherein Catherine lay. There he left me. Childbirth is women’s business; there was naught for him to do but wait out in the hall, pacing and grumbling. Catherine was in God’s hands now—and in the midwife’s, and in mine.

  I went inside and closed the door. It was dark in that great, cold room, for all the candles that were burning. Yet I could see my sister well enough, her dear face damp with sweat, her cheeks bright, and her arms outstretched to embrace me. Oh, we were a pair, my sister and I, weeping and laughing and clinging to each other like two mad things!

  “Oh, Maud,” she whispered through her tears, “I am safe now that you are here. I shall not die, I am sure of it! For you have God’s healing touch—you always did!�
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  “Nonsense,” I said, kissing her forehead and stroking her hands as tenderly as though she were a child. “Of course you shall be well, silly girl. And soon you shall be a mother, too, of a fine fat babe. Now won’t that be grand?”

  She squeezed my hand in answer, and kissed it, then closed her eyes. She had been in labor some hours already, and it had worn her out.

  All this time the midwife had been busily rummaging about in her bag of potions and charms, as though looking for something. But I think it was only her way of giving us a bit of privacy for our reunion, for she now abandoned her search and returned to the bedside.

  “Well, then, my lady,” she said, “you must be the dear girl’s sister!”

  “Indeed I am,” I replied—though I need not have bothered, for she was not listening. She continued to chatter away, unceasingly, until I began to think she was driven to it by demons! Truly, she scarcely paused to draw breath. And what an endless, mindless, pointless, unbearable monologue it was, too! I was sorely tempted to strike her upon the head with the fire tongs, just to make her stop!

  Not until she had discussed the weather (it was uncommonly cold), her health (she had a terrible aching in the joints), Edward’s house (it was ever so grand), and her journey there (she had lost her way; she had encountered beggars at the crossroads, filthy creatures who did not deserve one penny of her hard-earned money; she had twisted her ankle and fallen into the gutter and fouled her skirt most horribly), did she finally arrive at the subject of my sister’s health. Though this was at least appropriate to the occasion, it proved to be even more intolerable.

  “Now you need not fret, my lady,” she said with uncalled-for cheeriness while rubbing some oily, foul-smelling paste onto Catherine’s swollen belly. “The babe is well presented, headfirst, just as we like it to be—because when they are turned around the other way, you see, feetfirst—well, that’s bad. And sometimes they get wrapped up in the cord, poor little things, all strangled like. You are sure to lose the babe when that happens, and sometimes the mother, too, and there is naught anybody can do about it. But there’s no sign of any of that here, my lady. No, no—not to worry! No need to worry at all. It just takes time—oh, my, yes! A good many hours with the first one—sometimes days! Why, there was this one poor lady who was in labor for nigh on a week, and—”

  “Please!” I cried. “Stop it! I will not hear another word!”

  My rebuke appeared to astonish her, for her face went red with embarrassment and indignation. Still, she managed to hold her tongue after that (though sullenly) for a little while, at least. And a blessed relief it was, too.

  Time passed slowly; it seemed an age before the matins bell chimed the midnight hour.

  “A new day,” I said to Catherine, wiping her brow with a damp cloth.

  “A new year!” added the midwife, who had recovered her spirits by then and was back to talking.

  “So it is,” I agreed with a sigh. “I had forgot it.”

  “And no common one, neither,” she said. “It marks a hundred years since we first went to war with Brutanna!”

  “Aye,” I said. “I had forgot that, too. Not a thing to celebrate, though.”

  “Oh, well, now, some say different! And if you think about it, my lady—a hundred years! Now that’s significant, if you know what I mean. People say that God will send us a miracle now and bring the war to an end! There have been signs and portents!”

  “What sort of signs?”

  “Well, there was a farmer grew a turnip, looked exactly like the Blessed Virgin! That’s one. And a calf off in Chesney was born with two heads!”

  “Foolishness,” I said. “Freaks of nature.”

  “Oh, no, my lady—they’re signs! Everybody says so. There’s going to be a great miracle. Surely you have heard the prophecy—it is on every tongue!”

  “No,” I muttered, “I have not heard it.”

  “Indeed! How very strange! Well, I shall tell you then. It is about the Worthy Knight—a great hero, you see, pure of heart and most virtuous. One day soon he will appear upon the battlefield, all of a sudden—in armor the color of snow. And instead of a helmet, they say, he will wear a halo of heavenly fire!” Here she demonstrated by waving her none-too-clean hands about her head while wiggling her fingers (presumably to suggest the flickering of flames). “And he won’t carry a sword or a lance, neither, but only the banner of peace!” She raised her right arm and waved an imaginary banner. “And at the sight of him, all the soldiers will fall upon their knees and lay their weapons down. And that will be the end of the war!”

  “Well,” I said, making the sign of the cross. “It is a pretty tale. God grant that it may be so. We could use a hero in these times.” And I meant it kindly, too, for all that the woman annoyed me. It was common folk such as her who suffered most of the death and destruction in wartime. No wonder they turned to superstition and miraculous stories.

  Catherine cried out as another labor pain seized her.

  “Merciful Lord,” I muttered, “will this never be over?”

  “In good time, madam. In good time,” the midwife said, as though speaking to an impatient child. “All the same, it might be well to take out the pins from your sister’s hair and let it lie free upon the pillow. Perhaps that will loosen things up a bit. And while you’re at it, unplait your own hair, also.”

  I did as she instructed and untied all the knots I could find. Then we called the housemaid and sent her out to open all the drawers and cupboards in the house. And, God be praised, just a few hours later, as first dawn began to light the room and I was putting out the candles, Catherine was delivered safely of a baby girl.

  I fell upon my knees and thanked Our Heavenly Father for bringing my sister through her hour of peril. Then I bathed the child myself with salt and warmed water, wiped her dry, and rubbed her all over with rose oil till she glowed a healthy pink and was as fragrant as a summer bouquet. I put a dollop of honey into her mouth so that she would nurse heartily and grow strong. Then I wrapped her tight in clean linen, which sweet Catherine had embroidered along the hem with tiny blossoms, and carried her out to Edward.

  “Catherine is well,” I told him joyfully, “and here is your new daughter.”

  As you might expect, he was sore disappointed that she was not a boy. Indeed, he scarcely even looked at her. But he was most grateful that his wife had survived her ordeal and went in to her straightaway.

  That night Catherine developed a fever. A physician was called, and he bled her and gave her some powders. But neither seemed to do her any good—in truth, she seemed somewhat weaker after his visit than she was before. Edward stayed at her side all that night and would not let me near her.

  I roused the cook and bid her warm some cow’s milk over the fire. Then I took a clean cloth and soaked a corner of it in the milk and touched it to the baby’s lips. At first she turned her face away angrily, but she was so hungry that soon she was sucking at it mightily.

  “In the morning you must find a wet nurse for the child,” the cook said.

  “That is Sir Edward’s prerogative, not mine,” I answered, dipping the rag in the warm milk again. “He would not like for me to interfere in a matter of such importance—though I suppose, things being as they are, it would not hurt to find someone to fill in, just for a while.”

  And so the following day, I asked around and was directed pretty quickly to a butcher’s wife who had just buried a child and still had plenty of milk. She agreed to come and nurse our little babe until my sister was better and a permanent choice could be made.

  But the next day Catherine was worse. I could not bear that Edward kept me away, for I know I could have comforted her. At the very least I might have told her good-bye and laid the child in her arms one last time.

  But he barred the door and stayed in there three long days. He would not allow Cook to bring in food. He would not even answer when we pounded upon the door. Only on the fourth day did he come out. Cath
erine had been dead all that time. It was well that it was winter, for had the room been warm, her body would have begun to stink. I do not think I could have borne it.

  Throughout that dark time, the child was never mentioned and little thought of, except by me. It was only after the funeral that I dared speak of her at all.

  “Edward,” I said, “I know it is hard to think of such things when we are all so brokenhearted—but should we not gather the godparents now and take the babe to the priest to be christened?”

  “Just take her away,” he said.

  “I will carry her home with me, then, if you like. I would be right glad to do that.”

  He rose to his feet of a sudden and strode over to where I stood with my back against the wall. He leaned down over me and breathed into my face. His expression was so wild, his eyes so piercing, I feared he might do me harm. But he only hissed—and I could feel drops of spittle upon my face as he spoke—“If I like? If I like? I would like you to get her out of here! I do not want that creature in this house, do you understand? Nor in your house, nor anywhere in this city! I will not breathe the same air she breathes!”

  “Oh, Edward,” I stammered, “you must at least take her to the priest! You are obliged to do that much, surely—to look after her immortal soul!”

  “Get out!” he screamed.

  And so I fled the room, my heart pounding, and hurried to the kitchen where Cook was minding the child. I gathered the wee thing in my arms and ran from that house as though fleeing from the devil.

  I took her to the priest myself that very day and had her christened. I named her Isabel, after my mother, who is with the angels.

  The next morning, accompanied by the butcher’s wife, we set out with a small mule train in the direction of Burning Wood, Edward’s country estate. It stands near to Castle Down, the great seat of the duke of Claren. And it was in the duke’s village that I found a home for Isabel—in the house of a blacksmith by the name of Martin.

  His wife, Beatrice, was a sensible woman, kind-hearted and clean. I liked her immensely, right from the start. And moreover, she was so well thought of in those parts that she had lately served as wet nurse to a royal prince!