by Shari Anton
He heard her frustration, but it was tinged with humor. If he couldn’t get her to disavow the legacy completely, perhaps she would, in the interest of peaceful marital relations, come to view it less seriously.
But that wouldn’t do him much good if she ever came to the conclusion that England truly needed the services of King Arthur.
“Tell me this, then. From among the prophecies, can you determine England’s time of most dire need?”
Gwendolyn ran her hand over the book’s cover, as if seeking an answer from within its pages. “The early prophecies tell of death, famine, and calamity. The last prophecies are just as disturbing. In the last, even the stars in the heavens weep. ’Twould seem that England flows from one tumult to another with few periods of peace between.”
“Of the early prophecies of death, famine, and calamity, would not the guardian of the legacy consider that time most dire?”
She looked away and pursed her lips, so he pressed on.
“Gwendolyn, you must realize that over the past several hundred years one of the guardians has considered her time in history the most dire. Would she not have tried to summon King Arthur?”
“No one has tried as yet. The legacy can be invoked only once.”
“Or she tried and the spell failed because there is no such thing as magic.”
She turned those wide brown eyes on him. “If it failed, then the conditions of the legacy were not met.”
“Or the legacy is false. Mortal men cannot be summoned from the grave.”
She stared at him a long while before getting up, looking so sad he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He was about to when she raised her chin.
“You and I might never agree on this, I fear.”
Damn. He thought she’d seen reason.
“Apparently not.”
“Can you remove the ring?”
Back to that again, were they? “I have not tried of late.”
Gwendolyn crossed her arms, her expression daring him to give the ring a tug.
He looked down at the seal of the dragon, the gold claws gripping the onyx and garnet, wishing he’d never put the thing on his finger. He tugged, and turned, and twisted, until his knuckle turned red from the chafing of bunched skin against gold.
Ruefully, he admitted, “Not as yet.”
Smugly, she smiled. “When you can prove to me that anything but magic keeps that ring on your finger, we will speak of this again.”
She flounced off into her bedchamber.
Alberic slumped in the chair.
Why, on this night of all nights, when all he wished to do was glory in his love for Gwendolyn, had they butted heads?
He shouldn’t have asked her about the Historia. He shouldn’t have attempted to sway her from her beliefs. He should have taken her off to bed and made love to her until dawn.
He still could, not doubting he would have no trouble coaxing Gwendolyn into a lusty mood.
Except this damn ring had to come off, and right outside the castle wall dwelled a blacksmith, and a bit farther down lived a goldsmith. Surely one of them would solve the problem, and if he hurried, there would yet be several hours before dawn to spend in her bed.
Confident, Alberic sped off into the village.
Two hours later, shaken to his core, he slumped in the same chair, his hand aching and useless at the end of his arm.
Thank God, Gwendolyn slept so he need answer no questions, for indeed, he found the answers revolting.
He’d gone to the goldsmith first. They’d lathered his hand with soap, then coated it with grease, then applied a truly nauseating liquid Alberic couldn’t name. The ring hadn’t budged.
So he’d hastened to the blacksmith, who pried and poked with both pincers and file, then gently and carefully wielded a saw. When the blacksmith scratched his head and suggested smashing the ring with his sledge- hammer, Alberic declined.
He stared at the ring that had been subjected to brutal punishment and refused to come off. The stones shone brightly, the gold remained unmarred. Only his hand suffered the penalty of the evening’s folly.
He didn’t believe in magic, still wasn’t prepared to embrace the notion it existed. But neither could he explain the ring’s stubborn grip on his hand.
What he’d heard of magic wasn’t heartening. The use of it was always associated with dark, unholy forces, inflicting suffering on the object of the spell and sometimes resulting in injurious, even deadly consequences to the wielder.
Its use involved great risk, far more than he wished to undertake. Infinitely more risk than he would allow Gwendolyn to take.
Several hours remained until dawn. He should go to bed, get some sleep, put the evening’s incredible events out of his head. Surely, with a few hours’ rest things wouldn’t seem so bleak. So impossible.
Except if he didn’t do something to assure himself that neither he nor Gwendolyn was endangered, he wouldn’t sleep.
He knew of no witch or conjuror or sorcerer to consult on the ways of magic . . . save one: Merlin.
From the table, the Historia Regum Britanniae beckoned.
Reluctant, but knowing of naught else to do, Alberic opened the book, found the prophecies that had so frustrated and angered Gwendolyn, and began to read.
Chapter Nineteen
AT MIDAFTERNOON, Gwendolyn sat atop her horse, waiting for Alberic to come out of the inn and tell her whether or not he’d procured a room for the night.
She’d thought they would go straight back to Camelen. To her amazement, Alberic decided to stop in Shrewsbury. Not that she minded spending the night at an inn instead of in a tent, and this one, within the shadow of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Peter and St. Paul, seemed neatly kept.
A baron, Alberic could have availed himself of Shrewsbury Castle’s hospitality. So why didn’t he?
While her curiosity nagged at her, she forswore questioning Alberic. Neither of them was in a good mood, and she didn’t want to risk arguing with him again. Their disagreement last eve over the legacy yet smarted, the wounds still fresh after all these hours.
As far as she knew, Alberic was more convinced than ever that Merlin’s prophecies proved him right and her wrong. But sweet mercy, if Merlin hadn’t intended for King Arthur to rule England a second time, then why the devil bother to devise the legacy?
She knew Alberic had left their rooms shortly after she’d childishly escaped into her bedchamber. Where he’d gone she didn’t know, but he didn’t appear to have gotten much sleep.
He strode out of the inn, pointed the cart’s driver toward the stables, and then came to her. No matter Alberic’s mood, he was ever gallant. As he assisted her from atop her horse, she wished he would hold her for a moment, tell her everything would be all right again soon, but he let go of her the moment she was steady on her feet.
“I have arranged for a private room for you and me. The others shall have pallets in the common room or in the stables. Do you wish to go up to the rooms now or walk around a bit to stretch your legs?”
She heard no anger, only weariness. “I shall defer to your preference, my lord.”
He raised an eyebrow, likely surprised at her acquiescence, and likely wishing she would defer to him as easily in other matters. As much as she loved Alberic, wanted peace with him, in some things she had no choice but to stand her ground.
“I planned to visit the marketplace. You are welcome to accompany me.”
If he thought she would pass on the chance to visit the merchants’ shops, he had best think again.
“Might we visit the apothecary?”
His brow scrunched. “Are you ill?”
His concern made her wonder if he was as wroth with her as she believed. “Nay. We are low on some healing herbs, is all. As long as we are here, I should replenish them. Is there a shop in particular you wish to visit?”
“A goldsmith.”
She waited for him to tell her why. He didn’t; merely turned to Garrett and
told him to ensure everyone in the retinue was settled, then asked her if she was ready.
As at Chester, one was hard-pressed to see signs of the war in Shrewsbury. Children dashed through the narrow dirt streets, playing games with no apparent concern for their safety. Monks from the abbey strolled by on their errands. Merchants conducted business, the items they hawked no different from the last time she’d inspected their wares. The tanner’s shop still stank, and the abbey’s bells sang the canonical hours.
Hard to tell, now, that near the beginning of the war, the castellan of Shrewsbury Castle had declared allegiance to Maud. Incensed, Stephen had laid siege to the castle and, in the end, hanged all ninety-three members of the garrison.
Alberic guided her into the apothecary where bunches of drying herbs and flowers hung from the rafters. The aroma of rosemary and sage mingled with the scents of lavender and roses, nearly overpowering the small shop. His nose scrunched. He reached into the leather purse tied to his belt and handed her a few coins.
“I will be across the street,” he announced. “Do not go farther without me.”
Gwendolyn watched him head toward the goldsmith, wondering what he wished to purchase. Knowing she’d likely find out later, she attended to her own task.
She bought willow bark and feverfew for aching heads, though with Emma at court they no longer needed to stock as much. Chamomile to soothe the spirit after a trying day. Woad to stanch blood flowing from wounds, which she hoped never to use.
Finished, she stood in the apothecary’s doorway to await Alberic. The aroma of meat pies wafted on the light spring breeze from a vendor’s cart not far down the street. Her stomach grumbled, but though she might have enough coin for the purchase, she dare not move.
Alberic hadn’t needed to warn her about wandering the town’s streets on her own. No matter how safe it seemed, rabble always lurked about, mostly beggars and footpads who preyed on the unwary.
She deemed as harmless a bent-over old woman, a basket hanging from her arm, who shuffled toward the apothecary shop. But instead of going inside, the woman stopped and displayed a toothless grin.
“’Ere, milady. Be ye needin’ a charm or two? Fer good luck, mayhap, or to ward off curses or evil spirits?”
Gwendolyn sighed. The last thing she needed was another object that purported to possess magical qualities. The pendant and ring were enough to deal with.
“Nay, I—”
“Ach, do not be hasty, now.” With gnarled fingers she pulled what looked like a rotted nut from her basket. “This charm ’ere is one o’ me better sellin’. Hang this around yer neck and ye’ll ne’r be pestered by lice.”
Nor pestered by any other living creature, given the smell of the ugly charm.
“I thank you, but—”
“Or grind it up and put it in yer wine. Cures whatever ails yer belly or bowel.”
Just the thought of it churned her stomach.
“Old woman, I need no charms. Be gone with—”
“Ah! I ’ave just the potion all young women cannot do without.” From the basket she plucked a small vial containing a blue liquid. “Love potion. Ne’r failed to work. I can name ye a flock full of satisfied ladies, some most noble. Ye put this in the man’s drink, and next thin’ ye know”—she snapped her fingers—“he be fallen at yer feet, heart in hand. ’Tain’t that worth a pence to ye?”
’Twould be worth several pounds if it stood a chance of working. Gwendolyn glanced toward the goldsmith’s shop, wishing Alberic would come out and rescue her. When he did leave the shop, he shook his left hand as if it hurt.
“I am already married,” she said absently, guessing at why he’d gone to a goldsmith.
Alberic hadn’t wished to make a purchase, but to enlist the goldsmith’s aid in removing the ring. Apparently, whatever they’d tried hadn’t worked. The ring yet sat on his hand, his reddened hand.
“That yer ’usband?”
“Aye.”
The woman sighed. “Can see ye need no love potion, but I am willin’ to give ye a more than fair price on—Hey, where ye goin’?”
Gwendolyn was halfway across the street before Alberic spotted her and quickly slipped on his riding glove. His expression dared her to comment. She bit her bottom lip and refrained. The middle of a Shrewsbury street was no place to question him about the ring.
“Shall we return to the inn?” she asked instead.
“Not just yet.”
She tossed her head toward the pie vendor. “Hungry?”
“I could be.”
They shared hot pastry-wrapped pork and gravy as they ambled through the streets. Gwendolyn stopped to look at a length of blue linen, but passed it by. Neither of them slowed at the potter’s shop. Alberic found a shoemaker’s wares interesting, and ordered a pair of boots to be delivered to Camelen a week hence.
The silence lengthened, but the tension eased.
They rounded a corner, and at the edge of her vision she caught sight of a man who struck her as familiar, but when she turned to look fully, he was gone. Still, the back of her neck tingled, and she struggled to put a name to the fleetingly glimpsed face.
Except she knew no one in Shrewsbury, and doubted anyone she knew would also be wandering its streets. Surely, she was mistaken. Still, her unease continued until they found the cooper’s shop, where a sighting of a different sort banished all else from her thoughts.
Alberic grinned from ear to ear. “There it is, Gwendolyn. Our tub.”
The tub was huge, oval in shape, and long enough for Alberic to stretch out his legs. Room enough for two.
She knew she blushed, picturing him in the tub, naked, guessing at where he would invite her to sit.
“Do you have any notion of how much water we shall need to fill it?” she protested.
“Nigh on twice the buckets, I imagine.”
“You will have to hire a carter to haul it to Camelen.”
He ran a hand along the length of smoothed wood banded with iron, utterly enraptured. “All we need do is unpack the cart we have, pick up the tub, then put all our belongings inside of it.” He turned to the cooper. “Master Cooper, how much?”
While Alberic haggled with the cooper over the price, Gwendolyn stepped away to allow her cheeks to cool, convinced the cooper knew precisely why Alberic wanted the big tub. ’Twas an extravagance, all for one purpose, and to her chagrin she could hardly wait to get it home to test it.
She sighed. For all that was wrong between them, her love for Alberic hadn’t diminished, nor her desire. He hadn’t shared her bed last night and she’d missed him. Tonight they would share a room at the inn and most likely end up with limbs entwined and bodies joined.
Thank the Lord he hadn’t taken the earl’s offer. Alberic wouldn’t be going off to invade Wales instead of spending his days overseeing Camelen and his nights making love to her. ’Twas selfish of her to want to keep him home, but she also knew the day was coming when he’d be called upon to involve himself in the war once more.
All knights owed military service to their liege lords, and unless this war ended quickly, eventually the king would call on the baron of Camelen to serve his forty days.
’Twas probably also selfish of her to wish to summon King Arthur so he could put the whole mess to rout.
Poor Alberic. He’d made an attempt today to remove the seal of the dragon. Soon, he would be forced to admit that no physical reason explained the ring’s stubborn grip on his hand. She would give him time to come to terms with his involvement in the legacy . . . and then?
Whether or not the two of them decided to summon King Arthur, for the sake of the legacy’s continuance, she had to prove to him that they could. Elsewise, he wouldn’t allow her to pass the legacy to their as yet unborn daughter.
This meant another test, and as sure as Alberic would adore testing the tub, he would hate testing the ring.
The following sunny morning, an hour out of Shrewsbury, riding beside Gwendolyn, Alberic s
urrendered.
“I cannot remove the ring.”
To her credit, when she looked over at him, he saw no smugness, only sympathy.
“How is your hand?”
So he hadn’t put on his glove quickly enough, and she’d guessed why he’d gone to the goldsmith. Or she might have noticed the redness and swelling last eve while they’d dined, or later, though he was sure he’d pleasurably distracted her from his hand. Either way, she knew only part of what he’d done at the goldsmith. His gift for her remained secret.
“Sore.”
She looked forward again, down the road that led toward Camelen. “I would tell you I was sorry if I were, but I cannot be sorry that the ring is content with you as my partner in the legacy.”
He remembered putting it on all those weeks ago at Wallingford, of the odd feeling the ring had somehow been made for him. This coming to terms with the possibility of magic, that the ring had somehow deemed him worthy to wear it, still tightened his gullet. He also remembered Gwendolyn’s first reaction to his wearing it: utter horror.
Not sure he wanted to hear the answer, he asked, “What changed your mind?”
“Not one thing in particular, and make no mistake, ’twas not easy to accept that you were not at fault for tilting my world upside down.”
She no longer held him solely responsible for her brother’s death, then, or for accepting the gift of Camelen from the king.
“I would tell you I was sorry if I felt the least bit regretful that events led me to Camelen and to choosing you as my wife.”
She smiled. “I do not think you had a choice, but I wonder what would have happened had you chosen Emma. The ring might have slipped from your finger and refused to return. Would not that have raised an eyebrow or two?”
He smiled back, refusing to tell her that his own musings had been darker. Would the ring have remained on his finger and something untoward happened to Emma? While he was forced to accept the possibility of magic, he yet distrusted it, and doubted he would ever feel comfortable with it.
“Magic or no, legacy or no, I would have chosen you, Gwendolyn.”
