Midnight Magic

by Shari Anton

  When Alberic no longer recognized the saints’ names from whom the priest begged indulgences, his attention began to wander, discovering he wasn’t the only one who no longer heeded the priest’s prayers.

  Gwendolyn seemed restless, but not overtly. A slight shift of stance. A brief glance his way. A perusal of the crowd.

  Then Emma leaned harder into Gwendolyn. Both women remained standing, but whatever ailed Emma affected her ability to keep upright on her own.

  He thought it fitting his first order in the hall should be one of compassion for the females. Perhaps they would remember it when he informed them of the rest of the king’s orders and not judge the bearer of the news too harshly.

  Alberic waited for the natural pause between the crowd’s “Amen” and the priest’s intake of breath for the next invocation. He pointedly cleared his throat and, as he’d hoped, drew the priest’s attention.

  He pitched his voice low so only a few would hear. “I believe a bit of mercy for the living is in order, Father.”

  The priest pursed his lips in chagrin. “A last prayer?”

  “Only if you must.”

  Gwendolyn looked at him fully then, her expression and small nod expressing her gratitude, though he also had the feeling she did so reluctantly.

  The final prayer was mercifully short, followed by an invitation to any who wished to keep vigil to remain in the hall, and a reminder of the burial rites to be observed on the morrow, a mere hour after dawn.

  Most of those gathered came forward for a long look at Hugh and William and to express their condolences to the ladies.

  Emma seemed to rally, determined to do her duty. But whenever someone went on too long or became overwrought, Gwendolyn hurried them along.

  Then his stomach growled, reminding him of how long ago he and the rest of his escort had eaten. Garrett overheard.

  “Events have interfered with showing you proper hospitality, my lord. I will have someone take you to your chamber and order food brought up.”

  As lord, his place was in the hall, but he didn’t think anyone would think too badly of him if he took a few minutes to wash and get out of his chain mail. He had passed his helmet off to Odell, the king’s soldier who acted as his guard and squire, but hadn’t yet taken off his riding gloves.

  Before he could answer Garrett, the sisters clasped hands, and together approached the twin biers. They went first to William, who was closest to them. He couldn’t see the sisters’ faces, but could feel their grief.

  Then they circled around to view their father, their grief nigh unbearable. Tears streamed down their cheeks. Nicole could barely look at her sire, hiding her face in Gwendolyn’s skirts. Emma closed her eyes, her mouth moving in silent prayer.

  Only Gwendolyn reached out to touch Hugh, her hand slipping beneath the shield to grasp his folded hands. She went very still, staring down at the shield covering her father’s chest.

  When she looked up she sought out Garrett, and Alberic could almost hear the question her expression asked of her father’s trusted knight.

  Father’s ring. Where is it?

  Not very gallant of him to hurt an already hurting woman, but maybe it was best this way. The daughters of Hugh de Leon must realize their lives had changed completely, that they were no longer the reigning princesses of Camelen.

  He slipped off the riding gloves he probably should have taken off earlier, if only to allow all to see the ring, the visible proof of his lordship. As the garnet in the center of the onyx flashed bright in the torchlight, he turned to Garrett.

  “I am ready for that room and food now.”

  “Immediately, my lord. This way.”

  They headed for the stairs. Gwendolyn bolted into his path, her ire high.

  “That ring belongs to my father. You may not wear it.”

  “Lady Gwendolyn, I am sorry for your loss, but you must accept that whatever once belonged to Hugh de Leon now belongs to me. His holdings, his people, even his ring.”

  He thought he’d been gentle, but she recoiled as if he’d delivered a punishing blow. Like the willow he’d compared her to earlier, she didn’t stay down long.

  “There are some things the king had no right to give away. The ring is one of them. I should like to have it back.”

  “Step aside, my lady. Go back to your mourning. Now is not the time to air your complaint.”

  She looked about to object, then took a deep, steadying breath before delivering what sounded suspiciously like an order.

  “Then we will speak of this later, my lord.”

  Chapter Three

  A SERVANT HAULED the last full canvas sack out of the lord’s bedchamber. Gwendolyn stood in the doorway, her hand on the latch, trying not to wallow in grief.

  She’d thought burying her father and brother the most wrenching experience she’d ever endured. Now a full day afterward, she felt as though she’d barely survived ordeal by fire.

  The lord’s bedchamber didn’t look very different from when she’d begun removing her father’s belongings.

  The huge, four-poster bed claimed its normal space, the golden velvet draperies tied back against the posts. Though her mother had died ten years ago, Gwendolyn could envision Lady Lydia lying there during her last days. Only months ago her father had perched on the edge of the thick feather mattress, complaining about how his new boots pinched his toes.

  Mere weeks ago she spent nigh on an hour in this chamber with him, listening intently while he explained why he and William must go to Brian fitz Count’s aid at Wallingford, a vital stronghold for the Empress Maud, and what he expected of her in his absence.

  He had promised to return home before Beltane. And he did, but not in the manner he planned.

  So now the ornate trunk along the far wall no longer held her father’s tunics and breeches. His shoes and boots no longer stood beneath the wooden pegs where he’d hung his cloaks. A pewter flagon of wine and a gold goblet graced the heavy, round oak table where her father had tended to toss odd items until one could barely see the surface.

  Alberic’s gloves and helmet lay on the table. His cloak occupied a peg. She noticed no other of his possessions, and had thought it strange until remembering he’d come to Camelen straight off the battlefield. Surely he’d already sent someone to collect his personal belongings from Chester. Too soon he would make the chamber his own.

  Fighting back tears, Gwendolyn closed the door behind her and strode down the passageway to yet another bedchamber. There, too, several sacks awaited her.

  Stepping into William’s chamber was akin to drowning. She struggled for breath while waves of grief battered at her resolve not to cry again. Her heart ached, her throat hurt, her eyes burned. Tempted to retreat, Gwendolyn swallowed the lump threatening to choke her as she crossed the room to yet another trunk that must be emptied.

  She knelt down and opened the lid, only to lose sight of the contents through another wash of tears.

  The swish of silk slippers on the rush mat alerted Gwendolyn to Nicole’s entry. A deep breath helped steady her, bolstering her resolve to hide the worst of her distress. As she turned she hoped her smile didn’t look too feigned.

  “What is it, dear?”

  Nicole bent over to pick up a sack from the stack, then brought it toward Gwendolyn. “Shall I help?”

  She rose, feeling her face soften into a genuine smile at Nicole’s offer. But if the task was agonizing for her, ’twould be sheer misery for Nicole.

  “Nay. Truly, ’twill take me little time.” She took the sack. “Done with your lesson?”

  “Father Paul ended it early. Neither of us could concentrate on adding numbers.” She waved at the trunk. “What will you do with it all?”

  “Give some away to needy soldiers or peasants. Keep some.” She shrugged a shoulder, not yet sure what to dispose of and what to keep.

  Nicole glanced at the table that held several items dear to William. “Their weapons, too?”

  Gwend
olyn placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “The swords and daggers should hang in the hall. The others? We shall see.” She gave Nicole a brief hug. “Perhaps you should go sit with Emma for a while. I believe her headache begins to wane.”

  “All right,” she agreed with lack of enthusiasm. Having never been sick a day in her short life, Nicole didn’t deal with others’ ailments with much compassion.

  Gwen walked her little sister toward the door, wanting her out of the chamber so she could get the unpleasant chore over with.

  “Will his lordship allow us to hang the weapons?” Nicole asked.

  Gwendolyn hadn’t thought to ask Alberic’s permission. Would he give permission? Likely.

  “I should think so. Weapons from Camelen’s past lords hang among those Father collected. ’Tis tradition.”

  “Is it also tradition for the new lord to plunder the stores of the old?”

  Gwendolyn stopped walking. “What do you mean?”

  “Alberic inspected the storage rooms this morn. He pulled several ells of fabric from a crate and gave orders for the seamstresses to make him some tunics.”

  She tamped down a swell of ire. “Did he?”

  “Aye. And Cook says he opened a sack of Father’s favorite almonds and devoured a handful as if he had never tasted the like before.”

  Gwendolyn imagined Alberic going through the storeroom, grabbing at this, handling that. Looting whatever suited his fancy. Laughing at her misfortune and his gain.

  Except the vision didn’t come clearly, nor ring true. As much as she hated to admit it, he had the right to the fabric, and she could hardly begrudge him a handful of almonds. He didn’t need to loot or plunder what now belonged to him.

  “What belonged to Father now belongs to Sir Alberic, both the fabric and the almonds. And the lands and the falcons and the hunting dogs. All of it, Nicole. We have no say in the matter.”

  “He does not own us, does he?”

  “Nay, we are royal wards, not Sir Alberic’s. Out with you now. Go pester Emma.”

  “She is likely asleep,” the girl grumbled, but obeyed.

  As Nicole disappeared into their bedchamber, the devil himself appeared at the top of the stairway. Alberic slowed as he came near, bobbed his head as he stopped.

  “Lady Gwendolyn.” He looked past her into William’s chamber, frowning. “A beastly task you set for yourself, and so soon.”

  “Someone must do it.”

  “Set a servant to the task.”

  Emma had suggested the same, and Gwendolyn had bristled then, as now. “Nay, ’tis a daughter and sister’s duty.”

  His frown disappeared, and an odd, almost haunted look stole over him before his composure returned. “I was all of twelve when my mother died, and seeing her belongings disposed of was nigh as difficult as burying her. I commend you on your sense of duty, and your courage.”

  That damn lump in her throat threatened to swell again, this time moved by his admission. ’Twasn’t hard to envision him as a young boy grieving for his mother. Except she found it hard to believe a noble male would take a hand in disposing of his mother’s belongings. Still, she’d seen his genuine pain.

  And truly, she didn’t deserve his compliment on her courage. She’d taken on the task this morn in part because Sedwick—whom Alberic had asked to remain as his steward and on his council as the knight had done for her father—had told her of Alberic’s plans to inspect the castle and lands this morn, so she’d known his chamber would be free of his presence. That suddenly seemed cowardly.

  And given Nicole’s upset over Alberic’s right to loot the storage rooms, he’d apparently made a thorough tour of the castle.

  “Have you been out to the villages yet?”

  He shook his head, his blond hair skimming his shoulders. “We are about to leave, so I came up to fetch my cloak and gloves.”

  This struck her as odd. “Why not send up your squire?”

  He stared at her, confused, then smiled. “You mean Odell? He is not my squire, merely one of the royal troops.”

  How was it a noble of high rank had no squire? Unless, like her father’s and Garrett’s, his squire had fallen at Wallingford, too. She bit her bottom lip to keep from offering condolences to a man she truly shouldn’t feel the least bit sorry for.

  He ran a hand through his thick mane, his green eyes narrowing. “Another task I must see to. I should imagine one or two of the younger guards would qualify to act as my squire. Have you a recommendation?”

  She was tempted, but he would immediately find out those she named were most unsuitable.

  “Sir Garrett would know better than I.”

  “A wise man, Garrett. I am pleased he has agreed to remain as a member of my council.” Then he bowed slightly. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I should be off.”

  With that, he took the last few steps to open the door to the lord’s bedchamber and disappeared into the room.

  Her father’s chamber no longer. All belonged to Alberic now.

  Even, it seemed, the people. Sedwick as steward. Garrett as counselor. Guards soon to be squires.

  The swiftness and thoroughness of Alberic’s conquest set her teeth on edge. She wanted to kick someone into organizing a rebellion. Except without Sedwick or Garrett to lead them, who would dare? Nor did she wish to put anyone at risk.

  Besides, she wouldn’t be forced to witness this folly much longer. As soon as she had the ring in hand, she would leave.

  Gwendolyn spun back into the room and shut the door to resume her task without further interruption. She made quick work of stuffing William’s garments into two sacks. They’d be taken to the same storage room where Alberic had found the fabric, to wait until she and Emma decided how best to distribute them.

  At the table, she looked over the items brought up on the dawn of the burial, when the guards had removed Father’s and William’s chain mail, when she and Emma had sewn shut their shrouds.

  Their suits of mail had been taken to the armory. Their swords and daggers lay on the table; their shields leaned against the wall.

  Alberic had the right to claim them, too, if he chose.

  She shouldn’t care if they were given the honor of hanging in the hall, but she did, and their disposition seemed important to Nicole, so tonight she would speak to Alberic about them.

  Surely she would have her emotions under control by then, her courage back at its rightful level. She would start by thanking him for his kindness to Emma, then speak to him of the ring, perhaps ask him nicely this time instead of demanding he give it over.

  She wouldn’t tell him the truth of the ring’s importance, of course. Perhaps she could explain it was a gift from her mother to her father, a keepsake handed down through the female line.

  If he didn’t give it over, then she’d have to find another way to take possession of the seal of the dragon from the man not meant to wear it.

  Alberic didn’t know a prime ox from a decent ox. If Sedwick claimed the two oxen pulling the plow through the field were prime, he had no reason to disbelieve the man who’d been steward of Camelen for more than a decade.

  Just as he didn’t doubt the man’s knowledge of how many sheaves of wheat and sacks of barley and oats were harvested each year; how much was kept for the lord’s use and how much could be sold at what price.

  He would understand all this eventually, but for now Alberic took contentment in sitting atop a quality horse, watching the work being done.

  Lords might come and go, but the tenants’ work didn’t halt, each task to its season. Given, of course, that some army didn’t come along and burn their homes and crops. He’d seen plenty of blackened timbers and scorched fields these past years, but hadn’t contemplated the effect of the war on the common people until now, when they were his people. His crops. His livelihood.

  The risk of harm came from directions other than an attacking army. Either lack of or an overabundance of rain. Pestilence. Early or late frost.


  But then there were the sheep. Hale and hardy Shropshires. One needed only meadows and freedom from disease to make a success of raising sheep, or so he thought. And this lovely corner of Shropshire provided an abundance of grazing land upon its gently rolling hillsides.

  The streams ran thick with trout and salmon. Hart and hare populated the woodlands. And he could hardly wait to fly the gyrfalcons against the herons and cranes.

  He watched the oxen make their turn at the end of the long row, then wheeled his horse southward. Sedwick and Odell fell in with him. The other guards marched behind.

  “Two villages?” he asked Sedwick.

  “Two villages, three hamlets, and scattered settlements. All in all, between the castle and the rest, nigh on three hundred or so people are dependent upon Camelen. And we on them. Most are decent, hardworking folk. We have our troublemakers, of course. You will meet them soon enough in your court, I fear.”

  He’d never passed judgment before, not levied a fine or demanded added service, nor sentenced a man to the stocks or the gallows. Another thing he would learn by doing. A study of the judgments issued by Hugh would be of help.

  “Craftsmen?”

  “Blacksmith, tanner, dyer.” Sedwick smiled. “God’s truth, my lord, we have too many to name. We even have a bard who calls Camelen home.”

  Alberic vaguely remembered hearing the strains of a harp both before the vigil and after the burial. But what he remembered was very nicely done.

  “Welsh?”

  “The best kind.”

  Alberic had to agree, though his experience with Welshmen wasn’t usually in a hall. Those who raided Cheshire had been considered sword fodder, except when the earl needed troops. Then Chester wasn’t above hiring anyone capable of wielding any type of weapon, including Welshmen.

  “Have we many Welsh?”

  “A few. Most came with Lady Lydia when she married Sir Hugh, or shortly thereafter. Rhys, the bard, of course. One of her ladyship’s handmaidens married the blacksmith. There are a few others, among them soldiers in the garrison.”