by Shari Anton
With her sisters gone, the chamber the three of them had shared felt empty, too silent. As she’d admitted to Alberic, trying to sleep in here last night had proved impossible. So she sought respite in the bed she’d considered her parents’ until now.
Our bed.
’Twas only a bed, after all. A thick, comfortable, feather-filled mattress supported by strong ropes fastened to sturdy planks. The four corner posters were neither as big around nor as highly decorated as some she’d seen in other castles, but stoutly supported the rods holding velvet draperies. When let down, the draperies shielded the bed’s inhabitants from drafts and created a cozy, private refuge.
If she intended to take advantage of that refuge, then it made no sense to leave her trunk and other belongings in here.
Gwendolyn took a deep breath, realizing the implications of the move she contemplated. Sleeping with Alberic, supervising his baths, eating her meals at the dais—those were all wifely duties expected of her no matter how she felt about the man. To give up her bedchamber and fully occupy his would be taken by many as an indication of affection for him, not just a move for convenience’s sake.
She’d surprised herself when she defended Alberic’s actions to Nicole. She’d expected to be thoroughly wroth with him on the day of her sisters’ departure. Instead, she’d placed blame where it rightfully belonged: on the whim of a king who hadn’t considered, or cared, what suffering his orders would cause.
If she were to be completely truthful, her father bore a part of the burden, too, for his single-minded and foolhardy attack on the earl of Chester. As for William, he’d always been a follower, not a leader. Perhaps given time and guidance her brother would have made a fine lord of Camelen, but as it was, he’d followed his father to his death on the point of Alberic’s sword.
Admitting Alberic hadn’t been at total fault for William’s death came hard. Knees weak, Gwendolyn sat down on the bed.
Both Garrett and Emma had tried to convince her that Alberic shouldn’t bear responsibility for what had happened at Wallingford. That he’d been as much a victim of the king’s whim as the de Leon sisters.
Gwendolyn wiped aside a grief-induced tear, banishing with it her stubborn refusal to fully admit William’s faults. Nor did she have the right to bear ill will toward Alberic for merely defending himself.
Or did she grasp for excuses to soften toward Alberic? To justify her preference for him as her husband and legacy partner over Madog.
Since his arrival, Alberic had done all he could to ensure Camelen prospered and to shield its people from harm. He’d proved both generous of heart and willing to fight for his possessions. Though she’d been miffed that he’d likened her to his horses, she’d understood the meaning behind his words. Alberic considered her valuable, would protect her to his dying breath.
He cared for her and all she cared for, which was more than she could say for her former betrothed.
Madog intended to do Camelen grievous harm if his ridiculous demands weren’t met. The surest way to force any besieged lord into the field was to burn a village hut or two, or harass the people.
’Twas hardly the way to win her respect or affection or cooperation.
But then, this siege truly wasn’t about her, but about power. About who possessed her and a few horses.
And no matter which man she might prefer, Alberic wore the ring and so with him she must remain.
Shaking her head over the absurdity of the situation, Gwendolyn rose and fetched the jar of salve from the table. Alberic should be near finished with his bath. She’d rub some salve on his bruise before sending him back to the battlements to figure out how to thwart Madog. And while he was occupied, she would move her trunk and other possessions into the lord’s bedchamber.
The artifacts, too?
There must be someplace in the lord’s bedchamber to conceal them where they would be safe and out of sight.
Alberic surely didn’t want to see them again anytime soon.
Could he be right about the legacy? Had her parents been fooled into believing in magic, making the claim of the power to recall King Arthur nothing more than fantasy?
She didn’t believe it possible. Her parents hadn’t been stupid people. And the ring stubbornly clung to Alberic as it had to her father. Alberic could deny the existence of magic all he wished, but until the ring slid off she had to believe some power greater than any lord’s, any king’s, ruled the ring.
Magic. Sorcery. Whatever one wished to call the force behind the legacy, it existed.
Proving that to Alberic, however, would be a daunting task.
The only way to know for certain was to conduct a test. A small test. Sweet mercy, she truly didn’t want King Arthur to suddenly appear in the hall!
There must be a way to determine if the legacy was true or false. But how?
Wishing her mother had lived but a few hours longer, enough to give her a bit of training in the artifacts’ use, Gwendolyn headed back to the lord’s bedchamber, mulling over what very little she knew about magical spells.
Chapter Thirteen
THE ONLY TEST GWENDOLYN could think of was to put on the pendant and see what happened, if anything.
She held it in the palm of her hand, thinking the strip of gold shaped into a simple trefoil design, akin to a shamrock, was both heavier and sturdier than it looked.
The trefoil symbolized the number three, sacred to the pagan Celts and believed to hold power. ’Twas not surprising that Merlin the Sorcerer, who some thought to be among the first of the Druids, had used the trefoil in the workings of what might be his most powerful spell.
She’d never seen her mother wear the pendant. Indeed, she hadn’t known it existed until a few hours before her mother’s death. Not knowing what else to do with it, she’d obeyed the command to keep it hidden away behind the loose brick in the hearth. Only twice in those ten years had she taken it out to look at it and ponder its mysteries.
Her father became upset whenever her curiosity prodded her to ask about the legacy, so she’d stopped asking, aware that when she married and the ring must be passed on, he would be forced to explain. But now her father had died without divulging whatever knowledge he possessed.
Faced with Alberic’s certainty that the spell wouldn’t work because no magic existed, Gwendolyn wanted some sign that her parents hadn’t been fooled.
She didn’t think they had been, because the seal of the dragon clung as stubbornly to Alberic as it had to her father. But some other sign that she was right about the legacy, and Alberic wrong, would be welcome.
Conducting the test was one thing. Having Alberic know she did so was another.
Gwendolyn slid the delicate gold chain over her head and slipped the pendant beneath her chemise. The trefoil settled against her breastbone, the bottom circles touching the uppermost swell of her breasts. She placed her palm over the pendant, pressing the smooth gold against her skin, surprised at how lightly it pulled at the chain around her neck.
Lightning didn’t strike her dead. Time didn’t cease to pass. King Arthur didn’t appear in the bedchamber—not that the possibility had worried her. Surely Merlin wouldn’t have been so careless as to make the process so simple. Certes, there must be words uttered in a set order, in a ceremony performed involving certain actions, possibly to take place at a specific time. All of which were probably spelled out on the scroll she couldn’t read and so couldn’t inadvertently set the spell in motion.
Still, she stood motionless for several minutes, taking deep, measured breaths, opening her mind and senses to any subtle change in herself or her surroundings.
She noticed nothing unusual, confirming her reasoning that merely wearing the pendant wouldn’t usher forth magical events.
The test would come when she got close to Alberic. True, the pendant and the ring had been near to each other before, but then she hadn’t been wearing the trefoil.
Would she feel a stirring in the air? Perhaps the p
endant would grow warm or cold. Or Alberic’s ring might glow, which would likely frighten him again, but then, at the least, he would be forced to admit that the spell might work if they could determine what was written on the scroll.
Gwendolyn tucked the scroll into her clothing trunk, now settled in the lord’s bedchamber beside Alberic’s. She’d been forced to empty the trunk in order to drag it between the bedchambers, and when finished with the task, was disappointed with the result. Her simple trunk didn’t belong in the room. Another trunk did—the mate to the one already there. Her mother’s.
But that was a decision and task for another day.
With a flight of hands Gwendolyn ensured the chain was completely hidden under her chemise, and the pendant pressed flat so no one could detect its presence beneath her clothing.
Nervous, but determined to carry through, Gwendolyn headed down to the hall where preparations were under way for supper. This evening’s meal would be light and cold, preserving both provisions and firewood. Though Gwendolyn doubted the siege would last overlong—surely Alberic would find a way to dispense with Madog in short order—the meager fare would impress upon all that the situation wasn’t to be taken lightly.
All one had to do was look at little Edward’s face to know lives could truly be at risk. His worry for his mother’s safety shone as brightly as a beacon, though he went about setting trenchers on the table as if nothing were wrong.
Gwendolyn resisted the urge to hug the child, mindful of how both Edward and the other pages might react. Best to leave the boy to his duties and not call undue attention to either him or his distress.
So where was Alberic? On the battlements?
The moment she stepped outside, Gwendolyn wished she’d put on her cloak. Fog had settled in, depriving the afternoon of light and warmth.
With a start she wondered if putting on the pendant had caused the fog to descend. Nay, surely not. At the least, she would have had to be thinking of the weather for such a thing to happen. Dismissing her foolish thought, she spotted Alberic along the wall walk near the gatehouse, looking outward toward an enemy camp he probably couldn’t see.
She climbed the stairs with a sense of apprehension and anticipation, torn between wanting her test to prove the legacy valid, and fearing it wouldn’t.
Alberic absently noted her approach, his attention claimed by the threat from without. She halted several steps away, her senses again open to any change in the space between or around them.
The fog didn’t begin to rise. No ethereal light appeared in the sky. Alberic’s ring didn’t glow.
Unwarrantedly disappointed, she continued on until they stood shoulder to shoulder, hands braced on the cold stone, to stare out over the fog-shrouded countryside.
“Any change?” she asked.
“Nay. Ap Idwal is still out there. I wish this fog would clear so I could see what the devil he is doing.”
Given her silly thoughts on the fog, she couldn’t help but smile. “He is probably staring at the keep, wishing the fog would clear so he could see what the devil you are doing.”
He smiled at that, but kept his attention focused outward.
Gathering her courage, holding her breath, she put her hand over his, feeling the ring against her palm.
No angelic chorus sang on high. No dragon reared up out of the mist. No heat flared from the ring to singe her palm.
That her heartbeat sped up and her nether regions warmed signified naught but her usual reaction to Alberic’s nearness.
“Is aught amiss?” he asked.
Nothing. Everything.
Gwendolyn swallowed the urge to tell him of her test. Instead, she let go of his hand and strove for a reassuring tone.
“I came out to ask that you not stay out here much longer. The chill cannot be good for your back, and supper will be served soon.”
“All right,” he said, studying her, his confusion and concern much in evidence.
Gwendolyn quickly returned to the keep. Disheartened, but unwilling to give up too easily, she decided to wear the pendant at least through supper.
When by early evening nothing out of the ordinary had occurred no matter how near Alberic’s side she remained or how often she touched him, Gwendolyn conceded defeat. And when Alberic sat down at a trestle table with Roger and Thomas to ensure they knew what to do on the morn should Madog attack the keep, she made her way up to the bedchamber.
’Twouldn’t do to wait too long to remove the pendant and risk Alberic seeing it.
Against the advancing night, Gwendolyn lit a wood taper from the fire a servant had laid in the hearth and carried it back across the room to light the candle near the door. The wick caught instantly, casting welcoming brightness around the threshold.
Encompassed within the warm, flickering glow, her mood lightened. Perhaps her test hadn’t been a complete failure. All she’d proved, of course, was that the man and woman who wore the jewelry could be near each other without something magical happening. She hadn’t known that before, so she had gained knowledge. Not a waste at all.
She then moved to light the candle near the bed, where tonight she and Alberic would again share blankets. Given his earlier suggestion that pleasures untold could be savored in a tub—said too-small tub having been emptied and removed from the room hours ago—she didn’t doubt he’d be amenable to savoring those pleasures on a mattress.
Her breasts tingled at the memory of his hands cupping them, his thumbs grazing the tips, his mouth suckling in the most enjoyable manner.
He’d touched her everywhere, from the light kisses he’d placed on her forehead to the arousing skim of fingers along her legs and between her thighs. Her body fairly hummed with the desire to once more experience the wonders of coupling.
Tonight, however, she intended to give back what she’d received. Surely he would enjoy her hands on him as much as she enjoyed his on her.
Feeling more than wanton, remembering the ultimate pleasure of Alberic’s thrusts flinging her into the heavens, Gwendolyn lit a third candle—and suffered cravings so sharp and deep that they took her breath away.
She trembled with need, so hard she nearly dropped the taper. The yearning for Alberic to take her, here, now, weakened her knees.
Even as she whispered his name, a plea she knew he couldn’t hear, she felt heat against her chest.
The pendant.
Alberic squirmed on the bench, anxious to go upstairs and be with Gwendolyn. She’d been attentive all afternoon and through supper, and every time she brushed up against him or touched his hand his loins stirred. All the while he’d tried to concentrate on ensuring Camelen’s defenses were in place for whenever ap Idwal chose to attack, he’d envisioned Gwendolyn in the lord’s bedchamber readying for the night.
Would she, this time, play the bride and await him naked in bed? Or would her modesty again force her to leave on her chemise, giving him the delightful opportunity to remove it?
Either way, the night would prove a delicious diversion from the awkward and irritating problem of being besieged.
On the map spread in front of him, Alberic again stared at the area of the village, his biggest concern. The tenants and their homes were the most vulnerable. He’d seen what a besieging army could do to the countryside when intent upon capturing a castle. Ap Idwal’s intent wasn’t to capture Camelen, but to rescue Gwendolyn, so this was no ordinary siege.
Alberic reasoned that if he remained firm in refusing to hand Gwendolyn over, the man might eventually abandon his pointless cause and return to Wales. Maybe. Probably not. Which meant finding a way to force the dolt into seeing reason, because the heavens would rain sheep before Alberic released Gwendolyn into ap Idwal’s care.
She was his wife, his lover. And at this moment she awaited his arrival in the bedchamber. Soft, warm, and welcoming.
Determined to focus on the task at hand, he turned to Roger, seated next to him. “The men know where they must be, and when?”
&
nbsp; “Aye, my lord. Not all have weapons, but we can move armed soldiers into position once we know from what direction and in what form ap Idwal begins his attack.”
“The postern gate is secure?”
“As secure as we can make it without nailing it shut.”
Which wasn’t a good idea. The back door to the castle might be needed to move people in or out as circumstances changed.
“The woodpiles are ready for lighting and cauldrons are at the ready,” Thomas said. “Should you decide we must use boiling oil in our defense, we can have it heated in a trice.”
Not for the first time Alberic wished Sedwick or Garrett were present. Roger and Thomas were good soldiers, made excellent squires, but to test their command abilities with so much at stake didn’t sit well.
Hell, he wasn’t even sure of his own command abilities. Until now, he’d trusted his instincts and they’d served him well. But no lives had been at stake. While he accepted the responsibility of keeping all within his charge safe, he truly wasn’t confident he did so in the best manner.
Not that he would confess his unease to anyone. A good commander showed no fear, not even the least doubt.
“We will go over this again before dawn,” he told the squires. “If either of you see some flaw in our plans, I want to hear about it then.”
Their chorus of agreement came at a good time, for he could no longer keep his thoughts from roaming toward the woman who awaited him upstairs.
A sense of urgency discomfited him, prodding him to wonder if something was amiss, and he suddenly found the need to see Gwendolyn and assure himself of her well-being almost overwhelming.
Long strides took him to the stairway. By the time he reached the chamber’s doorway, his palms were sweating. He entered the bedchamber to see Gwendolyn seated on a chair, fully clothed, her hands clasped together.
Not serene, but not troubled, either. She raised an eyebrow at his presence, and he chided himself for his discomfort.
