Midnight Magic

by Shari Anton

  Gwendolyn knew better. Alberic’s finger could shrivel to half its present size and still the ring would stay put. Somehow the magic had gone awry. The ring clung to the hand of a man who wore it by chance, not the hand chosen for it. Not that she was sorry, precisely, that she wasn’t marrying Madog. Still, she would somehow have to accept the ring’s choice of wearer.

  Convincing Alberic now that the ring bore magic, however, was impossible. Perhaps, someday, his stubbornness might abate. For now, she could do naught but allow him his defenses.

  She’d scared him nigh on witless. True, he’d shown no sign of fright. No widened eyes or shaking hand. A true warrior kept his fear hidden away from sight, for good reason.

  Only fear, she’d reasoned, could account for Alberic’s denial of the legacy and his refusal to accept responsibility for an awesome power no other man in her lifetime could possess.

  When she died, and the ring slipped from his hand, perhaps then he’d believe! A morbid and uncharitable thought, but at the moment she thought she could be excused for her lack of charity.

  But then, so could he be excused today from further discourse on the matter. Roger hadn’t returned as yet, and Alberic fretted over the welfare of his squire and the four soldiers he’d sent to capture Edgar. After seeing the king’s soldiers off at dawn—and Gwendolyn ruefully admitted she might miss Odell a bit—Alberic ordered a patrol to search for Camelen’s men. As yet there were no results.

  From across the room, Emma sighed. “I fear I shall appear the veriest pauper at court.”

  Grateful for the interruption, Gwendolyn allowed herself a smile at Emma’s unwarranted lack of confidence. The woman could garb herself in surcoats of the roughest peasant weave and not be mistaken for a pauper. ’Struth, no one of any sense would notice what Emma wore upon seeing her lovely face and hearing her speak. And if some half-wit noble disdained Emma for the fabric of her surcoat, the dolt didn’t deserve the rank of noble.

  “Your chemises are made of the finest linen, and your surcoats fashioned of silk and tight-weave wool. Surely that places you a rank or two above beggar.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Gwendolyn’s smile widened. “Is there aught of mine you wish to take?”

  In less than a heartbeat, Emma answered, “Would you be willing to part with the saffron?”

  No decision was easier. “I have never been partial to the color, so feel free to take it.”

  The seamstress rose from her knees and pronounced the pinning finished. Relieved, Gwendolyn slipped out of the surcoat and handed it over.

  The seamstress curtsied, then smiled. “’Twill be ready within the hour, milady.”

  Gwendolyn managed to smile back. “My thanks.”

  As soon as the seamstress closed the door behind her, Gwendolyn turned to Emma. “You may also have that one, if you wish.”

  Emma didn’t misunderstand which surcoat Gwendolyn willingly parted with. She looked horrified. “Your wedding finery? I could not possibly.”

  “I see no reason why not. ’Tis close of a shade of the other, so I doubt I would wear it much.”

  “Then why did you choose that piece of silk?”

  “I let Nicole choose it, not caring what she chose. Until yesterday I did not think I would wear the surcoat, ever, most especially not as wedding finery.”

  Emma frowned at Gwendolyn’s unintended petulance.

  “You have not forgiven me for warning Alberic. I do wish you would. I should hate to leave with ill feelings between us.”

  The wedding was now only one morning away, with Emma’s and Nicole’s departure set for the day following. While Gwendolyn stood for her surcoat’s final fitting and Emma packed her trunk, Nicole was spending time with Father Paul, who was telling the girl about life in a religious house; both what she could expect and what was expected of her. Gwendolyn didn’t want to part with ill feelings between herself and her sisters, either, but she doubted Nicole would quickly forgive her or Emma for allowing Alberic to send her off to a nunnery. Just as Gwendolyn was having a hard time forgiving Emma for alerting Alberic to the escape plan.

  But in the end, ’twas not Emma’s warning that had thwarted an escape, but the stubbornness of the seal of the dragon.

  “You must have patience with me, Emma. I am not as reconciled to the fate chosen for me as are you.”

  “Alberic is a good man, Gwen. You could do far worse.”

  True enough. She knew of other brides who’d not been fortunate in their husbands and had always been certain she would escape their misfortune, sure that the legacy assured her happiness in marriage. Instead, it had brought her misery.

  For now, she’d done as Alberic ordered; put the scroll and pendant back in their hiding place. If this war lingered on, with more lives lost, more crops destroyed, more castles and villages set to ruin, England would surely suffer its time of most dire need. Until she could convince Alberic of the truth, the legacy was useless to all and sundry.

  Unless she could tell Alberic what was written on the scroll. Should she ask Rhys to read it? Nay, not unless absolutely necessary would she show it to anyone else. Best just to get on with life and try not to fret over all that had gone wrong. What else could a body do?

  Gwendolyn took Emma’s hand. “You are my sister, and so I love you and always will. My anger will pass. How do you on your packing?”

  Emma’s arms came around her, and Gwendolyn felt better for the brief hug.

  “I love you, too,” Emma whispered, then released her. “As for the packing, I am nearly done. I suppose it is silly of me to worry about clothing anyway. I will not be a popular member of the court because of Father’s support of Maud, so will have no need for more than a few garments. Still, I want to do our family name proud.”

  “You will, Emma. Of that I have no doubt.”

  Emma’s mouth thinned. “I hope I do well enough so the king grants our petition to have Nicole released from the abbey. She is terribly unhappy and hasn’t yet set foot inside the place.”

  “Nicole knows you will do your best by her, and if you find court not to your liking, you are welcome to petition to return home, too.”

  Emma smiled. “And what would Alberic say if both sisters he thought himself well rid of show up at his gates begging admittance? But I thank you for the invitation all the same.”

  If her sisters came begging, would Alberic allow them to return? She didn’t see how he could object, but then she hadn’t anticipated his reaction to the legacy, either.

  Sweet mercy, she was about to marry a man she barely knew. On the morrow she would take vows to cherish and honor Alberic, vows she would be honor-bound to keep—somehow.

  And tomorrow night?

  She nearly shivered with the anticipation. She didn’t have to close her eyes to envision Alberic sitting on her maidenly bed, his eyes alight with desire. Nor was it hard to remember how hard she’d struggled not to accept his invitation. Tomorrow night she would be his wife, share his bed, with no choice but to lie with Alberic.

  That should bother her, she supposed, but heaven help her, the prospect of coupling with Alberic bothered her not at all.

  She’d overheard maids speak of the union, teasing and jesting with one another about “sharing blankets” and “taking a tumble.” She even knew which maids “lifted her skirt for any prick gone hard.” Vulgar terms, all, for coupling with a man.

  Unfortunately, sometimes sharing blankets led to trouble for a maid if the man’s “seed took root.”

  Trouble, Gwendolyn didn’t worry over. Bearing children was the duty, and some said the joy, of being a wife. All lords needed heirs, and even though her mother had died as the result of childbirth, Gwendolyn had always accepted that she must strive to give her husband an heir.

  Except she didn’t have a notion of how to take a tumble. Once she lifted her skirt, Alberic would have to show her what to do with a prick gone hard.

  Chapter Ten

  ALBERIC PACED THE HALL,
waiting for Gwendolyn and her sisters to come down the stairs so they could begin the procession to the church, when the squire he’d worried over most of the night walked in.

  Roger looked haggard and worn, as if he’d been in battle. The hair on Alberic’s neck rose, his warrior’s instincts coming alert.

  “Good God, man, what happened?” Alberic asked.

  “Ap Idwal must have realized we were following him. They attacked our camp in the middle of the night and stole our horses. If not for the patrol you sent out to find us, we would still be walking back to Camelen.” Roger took a fortifying breath. “We lost two good men, my lord, with naught to show for it.”

  Alberic’s immediate reaction was to mount a large force and go after ap Idwal, to avenge his fallen men and retrieve his horses. Except he was getting married within the hour, and securing his lordship of Camelen must come before all else. Retaliation would have to wait.

  “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 t
hrough 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?”