Midnight Magic (12 page)

And now Emma had betrayed her, and Nicole felt betrayed
by
her.

Anger warred with sorrow and panic for dominance. With her escape thwarted and no possibility of rescue, Gwendolyn glanced down the path of her life and saw naught but bitter mud and soul-jarring ruts.

Nothing was as it should be and might never come right again.

Chapter Seven

A
S WAS THE CUSTOM AT CAMELEN
, on Sunday morning the castle folk celebrated Mass in the village church instead of the castle’s chapel. As lord, Alberic attended, as did Gwendolyn and her sisters and a host of tenants from leagues around. The tension in the nave was as thick as the fog outside, and Alberic’s thoughts were far from pious.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wishing Father Paul could slide over a prayer or two. But since that wasn’t to be, he glanced again at Gwendolyn’s beam-stiff back and wondered how the devil he could convince her to bend.

She showed not a dram’s worth of submissive pretense this morn, her distress displayed to all and sundry. Many would assume her sorrow caused by her presence in the church where her father and brother now lie interred under the floor.

Alberic knew Gwendolyn also mourned the loss of her freedom, bemoaned her inescapable fate. He’d tried gallantry, flattery, and gifts in his effort to win her over. Courting her hadn’t gained him any favor, and he was at a loss over what to do next. Or even if he should.

Perhaps time and familiarity would work a miracle, turn her despair into contentment. Except he didn’t believe in miracles, and sometimes allowing fate to rule could be a grave mistake.

He shouldn’t allow Gwendolyn to affect him so. Not her moods and not her kisses, especially not her kisses.

She wasn’t indifferent to him. Her physical response to his kiss and touch was all he could hope for, which boded well for the marriage bed and the begetting of heirs. Yet she’d played him false, leading him to believe she was resigned to their marriage while defiantly plotting her escape.

Praise heaven Emma had been concerned about her sister’s odd actions, become suspicious of her purpose, and given him warning, or this morning he might be out scouring the countryside for Gwendolyn.

More dangers existed in the forest than bandits and wolves. Patrols had found no trace of the rogue archer, but Alberic couldn’t assume the man no longer lurked in the area, though he dearly hoped the coward had taken the one shot at him and then fled. To where, Alberic no longer cared, considering himself fortunate to have survived the serious attempt to murder Camelen’s new lord.

The second attempt, Nicole’s, he considered an aberration, the action of a distraught child who lacked discipline. On the day after the wedding, on the same day Garrett escorted Emma to court, Sedwick would take Nicole to Bledloe Abbey and leave her to the strict care of the nuns, which the girl considered an unholy fate. Punishment enough.

Emma’s and Nicole’s absence would leave him alone with just one female to tame. Gwendolyn.

While he hated to think Gwendolyn might never be at peace with him, it truly didn’t matter if she found contentment as his wife. His wife she would be. ’Twould be nice not to be at odds with her and be assured she would remain at Camelen without his placing her under constant guard.

Nice, but not required.

But damn, he liked the woman. Aye, she’d tried to escape, and given her circumstances he might have done the same. Her attempt might have been foolhardy and dangerous, but showed spirit and bravery he couldn’t help but admire.

He’d like to make that woman happy if she would let him. A contented wife, a willing lover. Did he ask too much?

Adding to the tension, something had caused strife among the sisters. Though Emma and Nicole stood near Gwendolyn, they held themselves a bit apart, and the looks they gave one another signaled discord. He’d not told Gwendolyn of Emma’s involvement in thwarting the escape, but now wondered if the truth had been revealed after Gwendolyn’s return to the ladies’ bedchamber.

“Amen” rang through the small church.

Alberic quickly crossed himself and turned to leave. The crowd parted like the Red Sea for Moses, allowing him and the ladies to pass through. He waved Emma and Nicole ahead of him, then took his place beside Gwendolyn, who didn’t acknowledge him, but neither did she speed off.

He considered it a good omen.

Outside, the fog had given way to a light mist. Beside him, Gwendolyn flipped up the hood of her beaver cloak to cover her veil and circlet, effectively shutting him out of her sight. Silence reigned during the long climb up the steep hill to the gatehouse, and across the bailey to the stairs leading up to the keep’s great hall.

Just inside the door stood a man garbed in royal livery, who must have arrived sometime during Mass. For a moment Alberic suffered the vision of being informed that the king and earl had finally come to a falling-out, and the king now recognized his error in gifting the earl of Chester’s bastard son with a barony, and intended to remedy the mistake.

The messenger bobbed his head. “Good morn, Lord Alberic. I bear tidings from His Majesty and news from Wallingford.”

At the words, Gwendolyn flipped back her hood and altered her steps, coming to stand beside him instead of crossing the hall. She was hoping for the worst of news, Alberic was sure.

“All good, one hopes,” he told the messenger, expressing his fondest wish.

“For the most part, my lord. Brian fitz Count yet holds the castle, but the king’s forces have succeeded in sealing off Wallingford. With both supplies and communication cut, we are now hopeful of the castle’s quick surrender.”

“Good news, indeed.”

The messenger’s smile concurred. Gwendolyn’s frown reminded Alberic that while he might be a king’s man, most folk at Camelen had supported Empress Maud for many a year, even if they now did so in silence.

“The king also wishes to know how you fair.”

Alberic almost smiled at the messenger’s attempted diplomacy. “You mean the king wishes to know if I am in a position to send back his soldiers.”

“He made no direct request, but I believe he would be most appreciative.”

This wasn’t a decision to be made lightly. The presence of the king’s soldiers had given Alberic the time necessary to exert his authority over Camelen. Enough time? If he now allowed the soldiers to leave, did he court the possibility of an uprising?

Given the events of last night, the woman at his side might joyfully condone a revolt, if not take up arms herself. He was a bit more sure of the garrison than Gwendolyn, but obtaining the opinion of his council couldn’t hurt.

“Lady Gwendolyn, would you see that the messenger is fed while I consult with Garrett and Sedwick?”

Alberic considered it a mark of Gwendolyn’s training that she yielded graciously. If only she would be as obedient in other areas . . . He shook off the wish as premature, admiring her grace as she showed the messenger to a trestle table, seating him below the knights but above a group of soldiers.

Loyalty. How was a man to know the measure of another man’s heart and mind? Alberic was fairly sure of Garrett. Sedwick certainly did and said all that was proper of a steward to his lord. Though the knights and soldiers of the garrison had all sworn oaths of homage and fealty, he could hardly expect to have gained their complete trust in so few days.

What must it be like for a king to know that many of his former supporters, all of whom had given him the same oaths, now fought to toss him from his throne? A fragile thing, loyalty.

Alberic breathed a sigh of relief that the messenger hadn’t uttered Chester’s name. Apparently the earl hadn’t yet left the king’s service so, for the nonce, Alberic needn’t worry over a royal change of mind. Camelen was still his, but for how long? If for some reason he were forced to take up arms to defend his right to the holding, would the men of Camelen fight beside him?

He glanced up at the circle of swords Gwendolyn had pointed out to him the other day, where she wished to hang Hugh’s and William’s swords. He noted the gleam of the weapons, knowing they’d belonged to former lords of Camelen.

Would his sword someday hang in that circle of honor, or would he be too small a part of Camelen’s history to be considered worthy?

Time to hang the swords
.

Alberic generally heeded the prodding of instinct, and the more he considered the action, the more it made sense.

Of course, the swords of Sir Hugh de Leon and his son deserved their place among the others, and by hanging them he might earn a further measure of respect from the men who’d fought by their sides.

Too, and not an insignificant argument in favor of honoring Hugh and William de Leon, the ceremony would formally mark the end of one lord’s rule and the beginning of a new one.

Another possible result hit him upside the head and turned him around to stare at Gwendolyn, now seated in her chair at the dais, breaking her fast. He tried not to gloat as he crossed the hall and halted before the high table to gaze up at the lady he hadn’t yet been able to please.

Her spoon, filled with porridge, halted halfway to her mouth. Her somber, self-absorbed expression turned warily quizzical as she looked down at him.

“We spoke the other day of hanging your father’s and brother’s swords and daggers in the hall. Do you know where the weapons are stored?”

Her spoon lowered to the wooden bowl. “Aye.”

“Then send messengers to the villages and hamlets. Invite all to a feast and ceremony this noon to honor the fallen lords of Camelen. Can you make the arrangements within so little time?”

He’d stunned her, but she recovered quickly.

“I can.”

“Need you my assistance?”

She shook her head.

He nodded, then turned and strode toward the stairs.

Gwendolyn hadn’t reacted beyond surprise, but his intent to honor her father and brother surely must please her. She might not fall to her knees in gratitude, but he hoped they had taken a first step on the path to harmony.

And if not? Then perhaps no path existed and harmony was beyond them. The thought made him sad but no less determined to make Gwendolyn de Leon his wife.

He’d astonished her with the abrupt and thoroughly hopeless task of preparing a grand feast and fitting ceremony within the short space of four hours.

The man clearly didn’t comprehend the amount of time required to properly plan events, and Gwendolyn had almost told him so. Instead, part angry and part elated, she set out to accomplish the impossible.

Sending out messengers with the announcement had been easy. Accommodating a great number of people on such short notice proved taxing.

The poor baker had paled to the shade of his finest white flour, but he fired the ovens and rousted his helpers to provide enough loaves of bread for trenchers. The cook had nearly fainted. For several minutes they’d commiserated on the unfair, unimaginable task of cooking enough food in time to feed so many and then decided what to feed the tenants and what to serve at the upper tables. What the meal lacked in imagination and presentation would be made up in plentitude.

That they were using some of the supplies purchased for the wedding feast, now only two days hence and weighing heavily on Gwendolyn’s mind, didn’t bother her in the least. The ceremony to honor her father and brother was by far the more important to her. The other feast . . . well, she would deal with that later.

She’d set a lot of people to various tasks today, and now, standing next to Alberic beside the high table, garbed in her finest and listening to the strains of Rhys’s harp, she could see they’d all done their best to please her.

The hall was nearly as crowded as on the day of the burials. Had it been only eight days? It seemed longer, somehow.

White linen covered the multitude of trestle tables, the goblets, bowls, spoons, and baskets of bread already in place. In the arrangements she saw Emma’s deft hand, and she would have to thank her sister for the assistance, which might help put them on speaking terms again.

Despite their harsh words of last eve, Gwendolyn still loved Emma dearly. Though she didn’t like what Emma had done, she also realized her sister acted with the best of intentions, as was her way. Emma now stood with Garrett and Sedwick and Father Paul, all four awaiting their parts in the ceremony.

Nicole hovered near Emma, but she wouldn’t participate. Intentionally putting a sharp weapon in the girl’s hand might be too much for Alberic to tolerate.

On the wall, high up in the circle of swords, hung two new brackets, hurriedly and skillfully fashioned by the blacksmith and nailed in place by the fearless soldier who’d climbed the absurdly tall and creaky wooden ladder, and who must do so again to snug the swords into the brackets. Brackets for the daggers were also in place, but could be reached with a much shorter ladder.

On the table before her lay the four weapons, polished to brilliance by the two young men Alberic had chosen as his squires. Thomas and Roger had accepted the task as an honor, and not a hint of tarnish marred the blades or pommels. The squires now stood behind her and Alberic, officially replacing Odell, who, along with the king’s other soldiers, would return to Wallingford on the morrow.

Even Rhys had outdone himself, composing the soulful melody he played. The song yet lacked words, but Gwendolyn was confident that soon the names of Hugh and William de Leon would be set to music, their lives’ tale recorded for all time.

All was ready. The keep, the food, the people—and Alberic.

He wore the knee-length garnet silk tunic Emma had decorated with gold thread. He’d never before worn the girdle of gold links cinching his trim waist, nor the soft black leather shoes and the snug matching hose, all of which she assumed he’d purchased while in Shrewsbury.

He’d chosen his garb with care, and if Alberic had reasons of his own for a display of splendor, she didn’t mind. His attire proclaimed that he considered the occasion one of importance, and for that alone she could hug him.