Midnight Magic (17 page)

“Did the men have families?”

“One of them. Oscar Biggs.”

Alberic didn’t have to think hard to remember the child he’d met on his second day at Camelen. Little Edward, who’d played the earl of Cornwall to Nicole’s Empress Maud.

The widow must be informed. Alberic knew he could send someone else to do the deed, but considered it his duty. Along the way to the village he would decide when and how to strike back. ’Twould be unwise to allow the attack to go unanswered. Ap Idwal would see it as a sign of weakness, and so might others.

And damnit, he wanted his horses back, as well as a piece of ap Idwal’s hide.

“Tell Gwendolyn I will meet her at the church,” he told Roger. With a heavy heart, he headed for the village.

Gwendolyn walked behind the priest, Nicole and Emma at her sides, too upset over the death of Oscar Biggs to fret over the imminent wedding.

Alberic had taken on the onerous task of informing Mistress Biggs, but she wished he had waited for her to go with him. No matter if Alberic related the news in a gentle manner, which she didn’t doubt he would, the blow would be harsh for Oscar’s wife and son.

Not only had they lost a husband and father, but their livelihood as well. Gwendolyn had no notion of what the widow would do for income without Oscar’s soldier’s pay.

As the small procession neared the church, she spotted Alberic standing at the top of the steps, waiting for her. He looked every bit the lord of Camelen: straight and tall, shoulders wide and square, garbed in garnet and gold.

His somber expression hit Gwendolyn in the heart. She knew facing Mistress Biggs and Edward hadn’t been easy for him, and she very much wanted to console him.

She shouldn’t feel his pain or want to ease it. Because of Alberic, nothing was as it should be. She suffered a moment of grief that her father wasn’t present to place her hand into her husband’s. She mourned the lack of her kinsmen and the joy that should mark a wedding day.

And yet, as Gwendolyn climbed the steps to join Alberic, she couldn’t imagine herself standing there with any other man. So much was wrong between them, but as she looked into the green eyes of the man fate decreed would become her husband, she couldn’t douse the flicker of hope in her heart that they could somehow make most things right.

“In the name of God the Father, we invoke divine blessings this morn for Lord Alberic of Camelen and Lady Gwendolyn de Leon. May He look upon this marriage with favor.”

Aye, Lord, if You please!

Gwendolyn added her fervent prayer to the priest’s, sure that she and Alberic would need all the divine aid they could get in order to make this marriage succeed.

Alberic clasped his hands together to keep them from trembling. He’d never truly planned on taking a wife. Given his illegitimate birth and his lack of rank, wealth, or land, he’d had nothing to recommend him to any woman. Events at Wallingford had changed that, the king giving him everything necessary to make a good living, even to take his place in the king’s court should he choose.

At the moment, he couldn’t think that far ahead.

The visit to Mistress Biggs’s had shaken him more than he’d thought it would. She’d been almost inconsolable, her grief expressed in the wails and tears of a woman who’d deeply loved her husband.

During his attempts to give her and her son comfort, assure them that all would be well, he’d wondered how Gwendolyn would react to news of his own death, if it occurred. Would she shed a tear or two, or celebrate her freedom?

“Lord Alberic, you have freely given your consent to this marriage?”

“So I have given.”

Alberic held his breath when the priest asked the same of Gwendolyn, and his heart skipped a beat when, in a clear, strong voice she answered, “So I have given.”

“Lord Alberic, know you of any impediment, either of body or of spirit, which prevents you from fulfilling your duties as husband?”

Feeling a bit more sure that Gwendolyn was resigned to their marriage, he couldn’t help but grin.

“Oh, nay, nary a one.”

She blushed, a rosy hue brushing her high cheekbones, the color deepening when the priest asked if any impediment prevented her from fulfilling her duties as a wife. Her voice wasn’t quite as strong when she admitted, “Not that I am aware of.”

Relief flooded him. He had her consent, her disavowal of impediments. He saw no joy in her wide brown eyes, and in that moment he silently vowed to bring that about.

“The church’s ruling on consanguinity decrees that a husband and wife may not be related within seven degrees. Lord Alberic, have you any such relationship to Lady Gwendolyn?”

“I have not.”

“Hold out the ring.”

Alberic extended his right hand, over which Father Paul made a sign of the cross, blessing the band of gold Gwendolyn would wear as the physical proof she belonged to him alone.

The priest then grasped Gwendolyn’s hand. “In the absence of Lady Gwendolyn’s male kin, I give you her hand, entreat you to accord her honor and affection, provide her with shelter and sustenance, and protect her from all harm.”

The priest placed Gwendolyn’s hand in Alberic’s and stepped back, his part in the ceremony finished.

A sense of awe held him in thrall. The feel of her smaller hand resting so trustingly in his made him nervous again. He fumbled slightly with the ring before he slipped it into place, then found he had to clear his throat before speaking.

“With this ring I thee wed,” he stated, evoking an odd smile from Gwendolyn that he didn’t understand, nor could he take the time to now. He had to get the rest of his speech out before he forgot what he was supposed to say.

“As lady of Camelen you are entitled to income sufficient to maintain your wardrobe, reward your servants, and bequeath to charity. For this I grant you the tolls from the ferry and the profit from the gristmill. As your dower, you are entitled to one-third of any estates I may possess on my death to support your widowhood. Should I die without heirs, all is yours, given the blessing of King Stephen and Almighty God.”

With all requirements met and duly witnessed, Gwendolyn de Leon became his wife. As he turned her to go into the church for Mass, a calm settled in his heart and soul, believing himself the most fortunate of men.

Their hands remained joined, and Gwendolyn took strength from Alberic’s warm, firm grip. All through Mass, she could feel the ring he’d slipped on her finger: a wide band of gold set with three sparkling amethysts. ’Twas simple and utterly beautiful, so perfectly in tune with her tastes she might have chosen it for herself.

Apparently, Alberic had done a good deal more shopping in Shrewsbury than she’d first imagined. The hair ribbons, the gloves, and now this ring. He’d been very generous in her marriage endowments, too; her allowance more abundant than she expected or needed.

No gift was expected of the bride for the groom, but she wished she had one for him anyway, because he’d given her another gift she doubted he knew anything about and had touched her deeply.

All through the ceremony he’d seemed so self-assured, so rock-solid. Not through word or action had he expressed a single doubt, a hint of misgivings. Then his voice had trembled slightly as he’d slipped the ring on her finger, and she’d become aware that his insides churned as hard as hers, that he was just better at hiding his turmoil.

With a final blessing the priest turned them loose. Alberic led her out of the church and into the sunshine. The people cheered as they came down the steps, and fell in after them on their way across the village green.

Alberic squeezed her hand, a hand he hadn’t relinquished since he’d put the ring on her finger. “You made a beautiful bride, my lady.”

“All brides are beautiful.”

“You shame them all. None could be more lovely.”

Flattery, but said with a sincerity she couldn’t deny, and her heart felt lighter—until she spotted little Edward, grief in his eyes but putting on a brave face. She wanted to hug him, but feared doing him a disservice.

Instead, she held tight to Alberic’s hand. “I am sorry for your loss, Edward. How does your mother?”

“Well enough. She asked me to thank his lordship for his kindness this morn, and to give you her good wishes on your marriage, milady.” His half smile nearly made Gwen weep. “I am glad you did not go off to live in Wales. We would have missed you.”

Gwendolyn allowed herself to ruffle the boy’s hair. “I believe I would have missed you, too. Are you coming to the hall for the feast?”

“Nay, I had best get back to me mum.”

“Then we shall send food out to you. Give your mother my love, and tell her I shall visit her on the morrow.”

Edward scampered off.

Gwen took a deep breath to compose herself. “Might I take advantage of your generosity today and ask a boon, my lord?”

“Certes.”

“May we forgive Mistress Biggs her merchet?”

He shook his head. “’Twould be bad practice to forgive the death tax. Mistress Biggs must give Father Paul her best blanket and forfeit the cow owed her lord.”

“But she has so little already, and without Oscar’s pay I do not know how they shall feed themselves.”

He tugged on her hand and they began walking again. “You must not take every peasant’s troubles to heart, Gwendolyn.”

“Would you have them starve?”

“Nay, which is why I proposed to Mistress Biggs that her son might do as a page.”

“Edward? A peasant child?”

“’Tis not unheard of. The boy is nimble and bright and would learn his duties right quick, I should think. Have you an objection?”

A page didn’t earn the same wage as a soldier, the son yet unable to command a pay equal to the father’s. Still, what coin he took home to his mother would be welcome, and Gwendolyn didn’t doubt she could occasionally slip an extra loaf of bread or length of fabric into Edward’s hands.

Alberic’s solution proved more than satisfactory.

“No objection at all, my lord.”

At the age of four and ten, along with the rest of her family, Gwendolyn had attended the wedding of her cousin Danielle. She’d observed the marriage rites and rituals and decided upon several things that day.

First, her groom would
not
mutter his vows so softly that even the bride was unsure of what he said. Alberic had already passed that test—in a clear, strong voice, making her rights and grants known to all.

Second, noblewomen could be as bawdy and vulgar as a scullery wench. Old enough to join in the ritual of putting the bride to bed, Gwendolyn had been shocked by her aunt’s and cousins’ advice to the bride, even though she hadn’t understood all of what they’d referred to until years later.

Most important, Gwendolyn had vowed she would not await her groom naked in bed. Some drunken dolt had teasingly tugged at Danielle’s coverlet and managed to pull it off the bed, exposing the bride’s nakedness for all to see. Gwendolyn had nearly died of embarrassment while others tittered or laughed so hard they cried.

Emma had attended that unsettling bedding ceremony, too, so she understood why Gwendolyn sat on a stool to have her hair brushed with her cloak at hand, ready to cover her chemise when she heard the smallest sound at the lord’s bedchamber door.

Her father’s bedchamber.

Alberic had not changed much in the room. She’d expected trunks of his possessions and possibly servants to arrive from Chester, but they never had. Nor had Alberic acquired furnishings or ornamentation for the room when shopping in Shrewsbury, only gifts for her.

She again admired her beautiful wedding band, the sturdy gold and sparkling amethysts, the gift she would wear all her days as proof of her wedded state. To Alberic.

“So what happens now?” Nicole asked.

Gwendolyn kept her mouth closed, hoping Emma would answer because Gwen wasn’t at all sure.

Emma put down the brush and sat in the other chair, holding her arms out to Nicole, who promptly accepted the invitation to cuddle on her sister’s lap.

“The men will come up and make bawdy remarks, which you must neither listen to nor try to comprehend. Then Father Paul will bless the bed and we will all leave, except Alberic and Gwendolyn, of course.” Emma pulled Nicole in for a hardy and loving hug. “And then I believe you and I shall retire. We each have a long day of travel tomorrow.”

Gwendolyn’s throat closed up at the reminder of their leaving.

“May I sleep in Gwendolyn’s place tonight?”

“If you promise not to seize more than your share of space.”

Nicole readily agreed, and Gwendolyn’s resolve not to cry fractured, but didn’t wholly split apart. She quickly brushed away the single tear before either sister could notice.

Loud voices in the passageway saved her further agony, tossing her from painful thoughts back to those of confused anticipation. As she stood up to greet the men, she remembered to wrap her cloak around her just in time.

The door burst open and several men entered, all of them grinning and, Gwendolyn suspected, all the worse for the amount of ale and wine they’d consumed during the feast and festivities of the afternoon.

Sedwick and Garrett performed exaggerated bows, comically mocking Madog ap Idwal’s overblown obeisance. Thomas and Roger aped the older men. Alberic stood behind them, taking in their antics with good-natured humor. Father Paul didn’t look amused at all.

Then Thomas offered her a goblet of wine. “Fortification, my lady.” He winked. “His lordship looks forward to a long, lusty night. Most of us are of the opinion that a de Leon can not only endure but outlast him.”

She raised a surprised eyebrow at the implication. “You wagered against your lord?”

Roger’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. “Nay, my lady. We merely wagered in your favor.”

Careful to keep her cloak mostly closed, she eased a hand out the front to take the goblet. A contest, then? One she was expected to win without knowing the rules or what determined success or failure. And if she learned enough during the course of the night to fully engage her sparring partner, on the morrow could she summon the audacity to announce victory or loss so the men could settle their wagers?