by Shari Anton
“And all is peaceful?”
“Oh, we suffer a raid here and there. A sheep or two go missing. But mostly they have left us alone, before out of respect for Lady Lydia, and now for her daughters.”
The first village was in sight, but Alberic wasn’t yet ready to visit. He reined in, and Sedwick halted.
“How does an English baron come to marry a Welsh princess?”
Sedwick thought for a moment, then answered, “Sir Hugh met her ladyship at court. Her father was among a Welsh delegation sent to petition King Henry for one thing or another. Hugh told me he took one look at the beautiful Lydia and lost both his heart and ability to speak. Apparently the father and daughter were amenable to the match.”
“I gather the king did not object.”
“Not that I am aware of.”
Hugh had married for love? Alberic nudged his horse forward, mulling over the oddity.
Surely, for a Welsh prince and an English king to agree to the match, there had been considerations to the bargain other than a baron’s attraction to a princess.
Normally, barons were given heiresses by their overlords, either as a reward or to seal an alliance. Love deserved no place in a marriage contract between nobles, not when lands and wealth were at stake.
As with his own marriage; by marrying one of the de Leon daughters, Alberic sealed his claim to Sir Hugh’s estates. Neither attraction nor love had aught to do with his decision of which daughter to choose.
That King Stephen had given Alberic the right to choose among the females might be an oddity, but that the king retained guardianship of the other two wasn’t. In time, Stephen would exploit those rights in whatever way he saw fit.
Though Alberic hadn’t yet decided which of the three would become his wife, he’d caught himself noticing Gwendolyn more than the other two. Of course, Nicole was too young to appeal. Emma’s illness hadn’t prevented her from attending to her duty toward her father and brother, but when her presence wasn’t required, she’d taken to her bed. She struck him as a pale reflection of Gwendolyn.
Gwen, as her sisters called her, certainly possessed a lovely face and a hardy constitution. The curve of her backside wasn’t hard to look at, either. Aye, he’d have no problem with taking those lovely curves into his bed.
She’d been upset over his ring when they’d parted last eve. He’d half expected her to take him to task over it when he’d come across her this morn.
Perhaps she’d come to terms with his possession of the seal of the dragon, and thus his lordship of Camelen, for she’d not mentioned it. But then, he’d found her in the midst of a most unpleasant duty, and she’d been preoccupied.
He hadn’t lied when admiring her courage, and admired it even more when he’d walked into the lord’s bedchamber and felt the emptiness. If the sparseness of the room had affected him, he could imagine how clearing it of her father’s belongings must have affected Gwendolyn.
Still, she hadn’t appeared overly distraught. And that, too, he had to admire. ’Twas no wonder Hugh left her in charge of the household in his absence.
Alberic rode into the village he’d been in briefly yesterday when putting Hugh and William to rest under the floor of the church at the far end of the village green.
As in most villages, the huts were constructed of wattle and daub, the roofs thatched. Geese and chickens pecked about in the yards, which sported patches of newly overturned earth, ready for planting gardens once the danger of frost passed.
Several women stood at the common well, buckets in hand, paying more attention to one another than the squealing children who chased around them.
As the children became aware of his approach, their squeals faded and the women turned to stare. He acknowledged curtsies and bows with nods, progressing slowly so all could get a good look at both him and the ring.
“Do you wish to stop, my lord?” Sedwick asked.
“At the church.”
“I believe Father Paul is at the castle.”
“’Tis not the priest I wish to visit.”
Long ago he’d learned how deeply a show of piety could influence the peasantry. Ranulf de Gernons, the earl of Chester, might be a harsh and self-serving man, but a visit to church earned him approval. Alberic meant to stop only long enough to light a votive candle, allowing all to think he did so in honor of the old lord. If the pretense didn’t aid his cause, for certes it could do him no harm.
He dismounted near the church steps.
The children’s curiosity got the better of them, and when they gathered around to ogle the men in chain mail and to admire the horses, the women and the few men about crowded around, too.
Alberic smiled down at one particularly grubby, flush-faced urchin, remembering his own early childhood spent in a village not unlike this one. Barefoot, garbed in a tunic of rough weave, he’d once chased with other children around a common well.
A hitch in his heartbeat accompanied the many memories.
Most of them were of his mother, scraping out a living as the village brewer. He’d never doubted her love for him, or that she did all she could to make them comfortable, and done very well. Not until near the end had she told him about his father, and of the few pence the earl sent each month to keep her from telling others of his youthful misadventure.
At times Alberic wished she’d kept her secret. At others, like now, he felt grateful. He’d endured much growing up at the fringe of Chester’s shadow, but the final gain was well worth the hardships he’d suffered. He now had the means to prove himself worthy of the earl of Chester’s acknowledgment, and he meant to make the most of the opportunity.
Alberic squatted down to face the boy nose to nose. “What is your name, lad?”
The boy’s eyes went wide, likely surprised to hear English from his lord rather than Norman-French.
“Edward . . . milord.”
“A good English name.”
“Me mum says she named me after the great Confessor.”
“Then you must strive to do justice to the name.” He tilted his head. “Your nose met the ground today. Did it hurt?”
The boy rubbed at the smudge of dirt. “Nay.”
A woman’s work-worn hands landed on the boy’s shoulders. Alberic looked up to see a short, round female, gray streaking her otherwise brown hair.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, milord. Did me boy do somethin’ he ought not?”
Alberic realized he probably shouldn’t have given in to the urge to talk to the boy. Most lords didn’t bother to notice a peasant child, much less deign to talk to him. In doing so, he’d frightened the boy’s mother.
Alberic rose up. “He has done nothing wrong, mistress. Indeed, he seems a fine lad.”
Relief and pride mingled in her toothy smile. “I believe so. If I can be so bold, milord, might I ask after the ladies of the castle?”
“All are well.”
“Lady Emma, too?”
“I believe I heard someone say she recovers.”
“Praise be. Poor dear. She suffers so. Would you be kind enough to tell Lady Gwendolyn—”
“Mistress Biggs, his lordship is not a messenger!”
Sedwick’s admonition pricked Alberic’s ire, hearing again the haughty Norman treatment of the English. He might look Norman, might speak English with the undertones of the Norman-French he’d been forced to learn and use after coming under Chester’s influence. But Lord above, he couldn’t bring himself to forswear his peasant roots, or treat this woman with less courtesy than he would a noble lady.
He shot Sedwick a disapproving glance before addressing Mistress Biggs. “What is it you wish Lady Gwendolyn to know?”
Unsure of herself, she pressed her lips together before gathering her courage. “That we miss her, milord.”
“You are accustomed to seeing her often?”
The woman nodded. “Once a sennight, at the least. She . . . she brings out medicines and spare clothin’, and bread what’s got burned on the bot
tom.”
“She tends to the villagers’ needs.”
Another bob of head. “Seems she does not mind tendin’ the likes of us, like Lady Emma. Hard to say how we would get along without Lady Gwendolyn’s care.”
“What of Nicole?”
Her smile returned. “Betimes she comes with Lady Gwendolyn. The girl likes to play with the children.”
What manner of noble child played with peasant children?
“Nicole chases with them?”
“Oh, heaven forbid, no, milord! That would be undignified!”
He almost laughed at her horror, but managed restraint.
“Then what do they play?”
Wariness replaced her horror. She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, this and that.”
Which was no answer at all.
“We play empress and earls,” Edward blurted out, supplying the information his mother hesitated to reveal.
Everyone went still, and Alberic wished he’d had the good sense not to pursue the matter. Certes, he didn’t have to ask who assumed the role of empress.
In Alberic’s opinion, Nicole had chosen her role poorly.
Though she preferred to be called empress, Maud had lost the title upon the death of her first husband, the emperor of Germany. Her father had then given her in marriage to Geoffrey, the count of Anjou, a hefty step down in her eyes. Nor did she rule over the earls loyal to her, for she possessed no true ruling power in England.
Several years ago, with King Stephen captured, Maud had been given a chance at obtaining her goal. She’d proved so arrogant and greedy that her support in London quickly vanished, leaving her vulnerable to forces raised by Queen Matilda. So had ended her reign as Lady of the English, with a hasty, undignified retreat.
Why Nicole would wish to liken herself to such a woman Alberic couldn’t guess.
“Are you an earl?”
The boy had caught his mother’s wariness, but he also knew he must answer. In a very small voice he admitted, “Reginald, earl of Cornwall.”
One of Maud’s half brothers and one of her staunchest allies.
“I fear you must give up your earldom, Edward. Perhaps on Lady Nicole’s next visit, she can be Queen Matilda and petition the king to grant you the earldom of York.”
The boy’s nose scrunched in confusion. “But who shall be king?”
“One of you lads must prove himself worthy of the title.”
He shook his head. “Nicole will loathe having to ask one of us for permission to name her earls. She likes givin’ orders on her own.”
Alberic bit back another laugh and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Such are the fortunes of war, lad. King Stephen is now our overlord, and I cannot have Maud and her earls mucking about in the village now, can I?”
Knowing a retreat was in order, and allowing himself to regroup and the villagers to breathe easier, Alberic turned to go into the church. He had no more than put a foot on the bottom stair when an arrow whizzed past his head and bit deep into the church’s solid oak door.
“Attack!” one of his guards shouted. “Get down, my lord!”
Alberic paid the order no heed, spinning around to look in the direction from which the arrow must have come. He saw no one with a bow in hand. Indeed, he saw few people at all.
Already the villagers had scattered, fleeing to the safety of their homes. ’Struth, he didn’t suspect any of the group of treachery. The arrow had to have come from the edge of the woodland.
He started for his horse. Sedwick caught him by the sleeve.
“Nay, my lord. You must not give chase. The risk is too great! Pray return to the safety of the keep.”
Prudence demanded he heed Sedwick’s advice, no matter that he didn’t like it. He was lord of Camelen now, and lords didn’t go chasing in the brush for rogues when he could send others. Lords didn’t put themselves in danger for less than excellent reasons. He wished he could think of an excellent reason for getting himself shot at a second time. None came to mind.
He nodded his reluctant consent, and a moment later two men galloped off in pursuit of the archer, who was probably long gone.
Alberic climbed the church steps and tugged on the arrow. It failed to budge. The damn thing would have to be dug out.
“My lord, we should be off.”
He heard the nervousness in Odell’s suggestion, knew the man made as much sense as Sedwick, but couldn’t stop staring at the slender rod of yew that had been aimed at his head and damn near found its mark.
The warning was all too clear. Someone took exceptional umbrage to Alberic of Chester’s lordship over Camelen and intended to do something about it.
Chapter Four
GWEN, CEASE PACING! Have you naught at all to do?”
She acquiesced to Emma’s request by plopping down on the bed the two of them had shared since their youth, and in which Emma no longer suffered. With her headache gone, Emma apparently felt well enough to express displeasure at her restless sister. She certainly looked better, her color more normal and her disposition less troubling. Gwendolyn still didn’t understand why Emma had declared her headaches a penance, and had decided not to bring the subject up again, blaming grief for marring her sister’s usual good sense.
But then, if Emma was so overwrought, how could she calmly sit in the chamber’s ornate chair, embroidering the hem of a garnet tunic’s sleeve with gold thread?
A tunic meant for Alberic.
“Nay. Now all look to Alberic or Sedwick for instruction.” To Gwendolyn’s own ears she sounded petulant, and admitted the lack of duties wore on her nerves.
Alberic’s very presence wore on her nerves. She found his sitting in her father’s chair at the dais at mealtimes irksome. To know he slept in the lord’s bedchamber was so bothersome she could barely sleep. If one more servant remarked on how handsome and gallant and brave was the new lord of Camelen, she might be tempted to scream.
True, Alberic was both handsome and gallant. While she’d felt a kinship with him during their short talk yesterday, and admired the clean-shaven, rugged cut of his chin, she preferred not to be reminded of her enemy’s qualities. As for brave, he’d returned yesterday from the village and stuck the offending arrow into a pillar, announcing his intention to capture the man responsible for its flight. This morning, he’d taken out one of her father’s prize falcons to hunt, and all wondered what game he truly meant to bring back.
“Surely Alberic would not begrudge you overseeing the garden, or seeing to the needs of Camelen’s people,” Emma suggested. “Perhaps a walk out to the village would calm you.”
“The ground is still too hard for planting, and we are not allowed outside the walls without guards. And until Alberic returns from his hunt, there are no guards to spare from their duties. I feel a prisoner in my own home.”
Emma looked up from her stitching. “You are usually the calm pool, not the boiling river, and your ceaseless discontent is putting everyone on edge. You had best find something to do before you push us all to madness.”
“I fail to see how you can be so tranquil and accepting. We have been as good as conquered, and with the exception of a lone archer, everyone seems willing to serve the conqueror! Do you not find that disquieting? Nor has he seen fit to tell us of the king’s plans for . . . us. How long are we supposed to wait?”
Not that the king’s plans for them affected her. She would be gone soon, depending upon when she convinced Alberic to give up the seal of the dragon. However, her sisters’ fates were of great concern.
“Perhaps Alberic does not know of the king’s plans because none have yet been made. And all considered, the conquest could have been worse. We were not forced to suffer a siege, nor has his lordship made overbearing demands. Lord Alberic may have conquered, but he did so in civil, bloodless fashion. Indeed, he can be a pleasant man.”
“Oh, Emma, has he charmed you to complacency, too?”
Emma smiled. “Would you rather him a beast? Should he allow t
he king’s soldiers to rape and loot and pillage?”
“Nay, but ’tis unnatural for all to bow down so willingly.” Gwendolyn’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know he is pleasant? You have been ill most of the time he has been here.”
“Not too ill to observe. And I talked to him a few moments this morning, to ask his preference on the embroidery.” Emma secured the needle in the fabric and held it to the side; Gwendolyn sensed an oncoming lecture. “You should truly make an effort at courtesy, Gwen. We do not yet know how Alberic intends to deal with us, and after what happened yesterday I shudder to think of what action he might be forced to take if the villain is not found soon.” She wagged a finger. “While we speak of courtesy, you must also be kinder to Garrett. None of this is his fault.”
“He brought Alberic here, did he not?”
“Garrett had little choice if he wanted to return to his wife and children. ’Struth, Father knew the risks when he sided with Empress Maud. And he lost all. If you persist in raging against the inevitable, we may suffer more.”
Emma’s complacency rankled. All might not be lost.
Gwendolyn leaned forward. “Several of Camelen’s men who survived Wallingford chose not to serve Alberic. Do you think any of them might have gone to Bristol? Is it possible the Empress Maud or the earl of Gloucester might send troops to liberate us? Perhaps the archer is an assassin sent to rid us of Alberic.”
Emma shook her head. “Be sensible, Gwen. I am sure the empress has more urgent battles to fight. If she has not the troops to send to Wallingford’s aid, then certes she has not the means of laying siege to Camelen to overthrow Lord Alberic.”
So Gwendolyn had feared, but couldn’t help but hope.
So be it, then. She would do as Emma suggested and be sensible, but not in the way her sister hoped.
’Twas time to retrieve the ring and arrange to leave Camelen, going first to her uncle’s stronghold, and from there to Madog ap Idwal in Powys.
She knew little of her betrothed beyond that he possessed a good deal of land, and her father judged him well suited to be her husband and a partner in the legacy. To him she would give herself and the ring.
