Midnight Magic

by Shari Anton

  Mathilda had been right about one thing, at the least. Men ventured onto the battlefield more for personal gain than for honor or glory or in support of a just cause. The earl of Chester would invade Wales as a means to further his own ambitions, and he hoped to drag Alberic into the fray with him.

  Did not one man in the entire kingdom consider what was best for the kingdom? Apparently not!

  King Arthur would, and if Arthur Pendragon seized the reins of power, no one would question his right to the crown. The war would end. The kingdom would be at peace. Alberic would no longer have to decide whether or not to participate in the invasion of Wales.

  She’d come to love him, and after all she’d lost to this war, wasn’t sure if she could bear to lose him, too.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ALBERIC WASN’T INVITED to sit at the dais with the earl and his wife, but Mathilda did him and Gwendolyn the honor of seating them at the first table below the dais, with the highest-ranking members of Chester’s court.

  He’d known the names and positions of most of these men for years, and with an inner smile, wondered how they felt about having a man they’d dismissed as too far below them, too unimportant to consider worth a moment of their time, taking a seat among them.

  ’Twas almost as satisfying as being accorded a seat at the dais. Almost.

  Alberic assisted Gwendolyn onto the bench, her gracious smile sweeping the table. To their credit, several of the men raised wine-filled goblets to her in salute, uttering welcomes.

  The man across from her, Sir David, held several manors in fealty to the earl, and his wife served as one of Mathilda’s handmaidens. He raised his goblet high. “’Tis rare a lady of your beauty and wit graces us with her presence, Lady Gwendolyn. We are most pleased to have you with us. You also, Sir Alberic. I congratulate you on your rise in rank.”

  Alberic wondered how David knew aught of Gwendolyn’s wit, but let the comment pass, having recognized the insincerity in the man’s entire speech.

  “Our thanks, Sir David.” Alberic glanced at the empty seat across from him. “Your wife does not join us?”

  “The Lady Elizabeth is indisposed this eve and begs your pardon for her absence.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” Gwendolyn commented in all sincerity.

  “A mild malady, I am sure.”

  A malady quickly cured as soon as the lady wasn’t forced to dine across the mere span of a trestle table from the earl’s bastard son, Alberic was sure.

  Perhaps he was being too harsh and quick to judge, but his experience with the members of Chester’s court hadn’t been cordial, just as his relationship with the earl hadn’t been close. He’d often wondered which of Chester’s advisers had cautioned the earl against acknowledging a half-English, peasant-raised son all those years ago. Probably all.

  Alberic doubted his rise in rank sat well with any of them. Too bad.

  He raised his goblet. “To your lady’s improved health, Sir David. May she not suffer unduly long.”

  David acknowledged the sentiment with a nod. “I will pass along your kind concern. Are you enjoying your visit to Chester, my lady?”

  “Lady Mathilda has been most gracious.”

  Alberic almost smiled at the tightness of Gwendolyn’s tone. She’d obviously figured out that David didn’t care one whit whether she enjoyed her visit or not.

  As the two exchanged false pleasantries, Alberic wondered how much David knew of the earl’s plans to invade Wales, of how many others at the table Chester had taken into his confidence. He hoped the topic wouldn’t come up as dinner conversation, and wasn’t at all upset when, at the presentation of the first course, David excused himself from the table as well, citing some vague duty, leaving both places across from him and Gwendolyn empty.

  Alberic made his selections from the platter presented to him with genuine delight. “Now this is spectacular.”

  Gwendolyn stared down at the large wedge he placed on their trencher beside sugared dates and bits of capon. “It looks . . . interesting.”

  “’Tis made of eggs, cheese, almonds, fennel and . . . I know not what else.”

  “A favorite of yours?”

  He sliced off a chunk and popped it into his mouth, allowing a low moan to answer for him.

  She laughed lightly. “Lady Mathilda offered to give me directions for some dishes she claims are your favorites. Shall I request this one?”

  “Oh, pray do!”

  “She also offered to give me the name of the wine merchant who supplies Chester.”

  “Lovely. That makes this trip worthwhile.”

  And in a way it did. ’Twas surprising that Mathilda knew anything of his preferences. But then, the lady of the castle was trained to notice such things about those who ate in her hall. Still, before today, he’d eaten at a table at the far end, within a draft’s distance of the hall’s doors—too far away for Mathilda to easily notice.

  “She likes you, you know.”

  Gwendolyn’s voice was hushed, too quiet to be heard by any but him. He followed suit.

  “Lady Mathilda has always been kind to me.”

  “Perhaps you should take advantage of her goodwill. She would be in a good position to help you gain acknowledgment from Chester.”

  He’d considered that a few years ago, then abandoned the idea. “I am sure Mathilda plans to have children. I doubt she would do anything to place me above them.”

  “She bemoans that her father’s bastardy proved an obstacle to the crown. If Robert were king, she feels, there would have been no war. Given her enlightened sentiments, she may not begrudge you the earldom.”

  “At the expense of a son of her own? ’Tis hardly likely.”

  Gwendolyn picked up a chunk of capon and took a dainty bite before asking, “How long have she and Chester been married?”

  Alberic had to remember how old he’d been when the earl brought his royal bride to Chester. “Nigh on five years.”

  “A long time. Perhaps they will have no children.”

  He glanced up at the dais where Mathilda sat beside Chester. She stared intently at the far end of the hall, likely at the door from which the servants who carried the food in from the kitchen emerged.

  If Mathilda didn’t bear the earl’s children, would she begrudge him a seat at the dais, a share in the earldom? Possibly not, but he couldn’t bring himself to wish barrenness on a woman he liked and respected. Should she not bear an heir, Chester would have reason to petition for an annulment in order to marry another. The degradation would be horrific.

  “In order for her to have children, the earl must remain home for more than a few days at a time, not be gone for months on end.” He sliced the rest of the egg wedge in two, feeding a piece to Gwendolyn before she could say any more on the subject. “Watch the end of the hall. If this meal follows suit, the next course should be a treat for the eyes.”

  To the blare of trumpets, Gwendolyn turned slightly, just as the platter bearers marched into the hall. “Oh, gracious me, will you look at that!”

  Each platter held a swan on which the feathers had been carefully reattached after roasting. Alberic thought it silly to try to make a dead bird look alive, a waste of time to put the feathers back on again when the servers must just take them off to slice the meat.

  He glanced up at Chester, who smiled broadly, enjoying the showy parade.

  The two of them might look alike, but there the similarities between father and son ended. Chester loved the grandiose; Alberic preferred simplicity. Perhaps a legitimate son, born to full nobility and trained to assume the earldom, might share more of Chester’s traits.

  That’s when the flaw in Chester’s plan hit him: Chester hadn’t allowed for the traits of the sons of King Stephen and Empress Maud.

  Stephen fought not only to keep his throne, but for his son’s right to inherit after him. Prince Eustace was a tall, solid lad, only three years from coming into his majority. Many current royal supporters would
stand behind Eustace if Stephen fell and the crown settled on a young head.

  If Chester was right, if Bristol was threatened, Maud just might flee all the way to the continent, where awaited her son Henry, only a couple of years younger than Eustace. All agreed Henry was a personable lad already skilled in statesmanship. If the lad convinced his father, the count of Anjou and duke of Normandy, to back him, England would be subjected to a war of proportions not seen since the last Norman invasion of the kingdom.

  This war had to end by a negotiated treaty, where one side gave up all pretensions, not by driving one particular woman out of the country.

  Alberic knew then he would turn down his father’s offer. If the king decided to invade Wales and called Camelen’s troops into service, then he’d have no choice but to comply. But until that unlikely event happened, he preferred not to become involved in one of his father’s impulsive schemes.

  Chester wasn’t going to be happy.

  Again, too bad.

  Amazingly, Alberic suddenly didn’t care overmuch if he displeased the earl of Chester. As he searched for a reason why, he realized how much he’d changed over the past weeks. He had Camelen, more than he’d dreamed to ever possess. He no longer needed his father’s approval, or even acceptance. Neither was necessary to his happiness because he had Gwendolyn.

  Only her acceptance mattered. Only her approval and respect were important to him.

  Because he loved her.

  He almost choked on a piece of roasted swan, had to wash it down with a swig of wine to keep from coughing it up. And as the swan went down, he acknowledged that at some point he’d stopped trying to please Chester, and even himself, for want of proving himself worthy of Gwendolyn.

  Could he ever? Perhaps not. God’s truth, she had so many reasons not to consider him worthy.

  But he knew she cared about him. She’d nursed him when he was injured, done many things to bolster his spirits when he’d held himself in contempt. Her advice and suggestions were usually sound. And at night, when he reached for her, she responded willingly, taking a man she’d once denounced as an enemy into her body with an eagerness that brought him such joy.

  Did she still, at times, see him as the enemy? Had she put aside her enmity over her brother’s death, the worst of the crimes he’d committed against her? And what of their forced marriage and her sisters’ banishment from Camelen?

  And his resistance to the legacy? No. She couldn’t hold that against him. In time, he would prove to her that magic didn’t exist. Perhaps even tonight.

  How would he know he’d accomplished the impossible feat of being worthy of her?

  When Gwendolyn loved him in return.

  Gwendolyn’s love. Now there was a goal worth pursuing, a campaign worth waging.

  First he had to get her home, but before that there was the earl of Chester to deal with.

  Over a confection of sugared dates and almonds, Alberic planned his strategy. At the end of the meal, while he assisted Gwendolyn from the bench, he set it in motion.

  “Are you averse to leaving on the morn?”

  She raised a surprised eyebrow. “So soon?”

  “I need to speak with the earl. After I tell him of my decision, I fear our welcome will end.”

  A smile touched her mouth, and the approval he craved lit her eyes. “You have decided to refuse his offer.”

  “He will not be happy.”

  Her smile faded. “You might forever ruin your chance for acknowledgment.”

  Alberic wrestled with the last bit of hope and, to his relief, it relented without much of a struggle.

  “Quite likely.”

  She bit her bottom lip, a gesture he found endearing, but then there wasn’t much about Gwendolyn he didn’t find endearing. “I fear you will have regrets.”

  “Perhaps, but I must do what I feel is right for Camelen.”

  She nodded, finally accepting his decision. “You do not give me much time to finish reading the Historia.”

  He loved Gwendolyn, but her fascination with summoning King Arthur from Avalon, he could do without.

  “Then you had best do so with the few hours you have left. Go. I will join you anon.”

  She fled the hall, and Alberic looked around for Chester.

  The earl stood at the base of the dais with a group of his retainers, their expressions none too serious. Deciding he wouldn’t be interrupting a discussion of import, Alberic waited until one of the men finished expounding on the qualities of his falcon before edging his way through the group to stand directly in front of the earl.

  Chester’s brow furrowed in surprise and disapproval that Alberic would be so bold.

  Summoning all of his resolve, he forged ahead. “A word if you would, my lord. ’Twill take only a moment.”

  At a slight hand motion from the earl, the group faded away.

  “What word?” Chester asked.

  “I have given your offer much thought—”

  Chester rolled his eyes. “That has always been part of your problem, Alberic. You think overmuch. You gnaw on a bone long after the meat is gone. Better to grab another bone.”

  Alberic refrained from countering that the earl left too much meat on the bone before tossing it aside.

  “Your plan is flawed, I fear. I fail to see how an invasion of Wales will hasten an end to the war. Let us say you are right, that if Bristol is threatened, Maud will flee the country. I cannot see Henry accepting his mother’s retreat with grace.”

  Chester waved a dismissive hand. “The lad is not old enough to lead an army.”

  “Not yet, but consider. If Henry craves the crown of England, and Geoffrey of Anjou feels the time is ripe to back his son, we will be dealing with an invasion.”

  “Perhaps, but we are talking years, and that has naught to do with my possession of Carlisle.”

  Which was utmost in Chester’s scheme.

  “You have no assurance the king will grant you Carlisle.”

  “If I rid the rebellion of its head, Stephen will give me whatever I request.”

  “Which might cast us into a war with Scotland.”

  Again the dismissive wave. “I have been at odds with the Scots since inheriting the earldom from my uncle, who was at odds with the Scots since inheriting from my father. Pray tell, what difference now?”

  In his arrogance and ambition, Chester was willing to lay waste to Wales, and whatever portions of Scotland and England he must to obtain the honor of Carlisle. Once he had it, the rest of the country could go to seed and he’d not give a damn.

  Presenting further argument against a Welsh campaign would prove a waste of breath. Chester’s mind was set, and nothing would budge him from his stance.

  “I have decided to decline your offer. If the king decides to embrace your cause, and demands my participation, I will join his forces. Until then, I see no sound reason to become involved.”

  Chester’s eyes narrowed. “What of ap Idwal?”

  The dangled bait tempted. He refused to bite. There were ways to deal with Madog ap Idwal other than invading Wales.

  “I have no doubt he and I shall cross paths again. I will resolve my argument with him in my own way, in my own time.”

  Chester snorted. “So you will settle for waging petty raids on your enemy instead of grabbing at the bigger prize. No son of mine would pass up this opportunity to have all.”

  Alberic’s stomach lurched. He stared into the earl’s hard eyes, at the unforgiving mouth. Chester’s words hurt, but they didn’t knock him down.

  He would survive. He’d found a measure of contentment and happiness that no one could rob him of. Not even Ranulf de Gernons, the powerful earl of Chester.

  Quietly, he told the Norman noble who would never admit to being his father, “Then perchance you have been right all along, my lord. Perhaps I am not your son.”

  After a brief, parting bow, Alberic made his way across the hall and up the stairs, not stopping until reaching the door
of the chamber. He pulled open the door and found sanctuary.

  A warming fire glowed in the sitting room’s hearth, the low crackle of burning wood a soothing sound. Candles glowed within their iron sconces, the flickering flames reflected in the furniture’s highly polished wood.

  In one of the chairs sat Gwendolyn, her veil dispensed with, her hair loose and pulled forward over a shoulder, strands separating to flow around her bosom, the tips flirting with her waist.

  She looked up from the book on the table, the Historia, the question in her expression unmistakable.

  “’Tis over and done,” he answered.

  “I am sorry, Alberic.”

  “I am at peace with it. Have you finished reading?”

  She sighed. “Remember my asking you about Cadwallader? His tale is the last in the book. He was a king of the Britons who died in 689.”

  Grateful she didn’t wish to pursue details of the discussions with the earl, Alberic turned his attention to the other reason he’d come to Chester.

  “So now you know the prophecy concerning him is in the past.”

  She nodded. “In his tale I found a reference to King Arthur. Apparently Cadwallader intended to reclaim the crown of Britain, but before he could set sail, an angelic voice told him God wished no Briton to rule Britain until the moment Merlin had prophesied to Arthur. So Cadwallader gave up the enterprise.” She tilted her head. “Does that allude to Merlin’s prophecy that Arthur would return?”

  Wonderful. Now angelic voices ruled men’s actions. Better that, Alberic supposed, than prophecies and magic. He plopped down in a chair at an angle with Gwendolyn’s.

  “Do any of Merlin’s latter prophecies mention a Briton ruling Britain?”

  “Nay.” Then she smiled. “Not, that is, unless the Ass of Wickedness or the Dragon of Worcester or the Charioteer of York are Britons who manage to become kings. Sweet mercy, Merlin would have made the future much easier to discern by using names instead of these high-flown titles!”

  “So is the Ass of Wickedness in our past or someone to be wary of in the future?”

  Gwendolyn closed the book with a decisive thump. “In our past, I pray, but I cannot be confident of the conjecture. I am no closer to determining our place in history among the prophecies than I was before.”