by Shari Anton
“She showed little interest in learning of any kind. Perhaps that is why I am surprised she has delved into a subject so deeply and, if she persists, perhaps she will find the cure for Emma’s headaches she seeks. I should be thankful she is content, especially since Emma cannot yet petition the king for Nicole’s release.”
Where Nicole was most content, Emma wasn’t. She’d suffered two headaches since arriving in London, bemoaned her lack of progress where Nicole was concerned, and sounded lonely. Apparently, she’d made only one friend, another of the queen’s handmaidens. Gwendolyn’s heart bled for her sister, but there was little she could do for Emma, either.
“Found it!”
Alberic pushed a panel aside to reveal an empty space behind it. He stood up and dusted off his hands, looking very proud of himself.
“Well done, Alberic.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “One would never find the secret space if one did not suspect it existed. Shall we?”
Gwendolyn slid off the bed and fetched the black velvet sack containing the pendant and scroll from the table. Alberic tucked the sack into the hiding place and pushed the panel back in place. Almost, she could hear him sigh with relief. He now believed in the legacy, but it still bothered him. Understandable. While she could put the reminders of her guardianship out of sight, he could not. The seal of the dragon sat on his hand, reminding him daily of his partnership in the legacy and the responsibility it entailed.
Gwendolyn smiled. The ring couldn’t have found a better man on whom to cling, for Alberic took all of his responsibilities most seriously. Nor could she have found a better man to love. Truly, she could ask for no more.
“We should go down to the hall,” she said. “’Tis nearly time for nooning.”
“A moment more. I have a gift for you.”
He crossed the room to where his cloak hung on a peg next to hers. Whatever it was he fetched, he could hold it in his closed fist. No gloves, then. Or hair ribbons. Her curiosity nigh on bursting, she held out her hand, and gasped at what he gave her.
A clasp for her cloak. Twin trefoils fashioned of delicate strands of intricately woven gold. In the center of each trefoil winked a jewel, one of garnet, the other of amethyst. She had no trouble determining its meaning. The garnet for Alberic, the amethyst for her, their future linked together.
“’Tis beautiful,” she managed to say before tossing her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. “Where did you find such a piece?”
“Day before yesterday, at the goldsmith in Shrewsbury. When I saw it, I could not pass it by. I gather you approve?”
“Heartily! I am tempted to wear my cloak to meal so everyone can see it.” Then she backed away a bit. “Alberic, you do realize any trefoil is considered magical.”
He shuddered and sighed. “Aye, but I reasoned that this was fashioned by a man, not a sorcerer, so whatever magic it might contain cannot be as forceful as your pendant.”
“True.”
She kissed him long and tenderly, an inadequate thanks for so special a gift, vowing to show greater appreciation later. Before they left the chamber, she attached the clasp to her cloak, noting how grand it looked. She would wear it always, and proudly.
Hands clasped, they headed down the passageway to the stairs.
“Now that we have put urgent matters aside,” he said, “I can pursue other endeavors.”
“I suppose you must hie off to Wales to inspect your new holding.”
“Aye, that, too, but first I want to learn some of the language. I thought to ask Rhys. A Welsh bard should be a good teacher, I would think.”
A wise choice.
“I can help you with your studies, teach you a few phrases.” And Gwendolyn knew just the phrase she wanted Alberic to learn first. “Yr wyf i yn dy garu di.”
“Yr wyf i yn dy garu di.”
He said it clumsily, so she repeated it.
He echoed her more fluently this time, then asked, “What does it mean?”
She squeezed his hand. “‘I love you.’ You shall have to say the phrase often so you remember it.”
Alberic stopped at the top of the stairway, and just before he kissed her, with heartfelt sincerity he said again, “Yr wyf i yn dy garu di.”
He didn’t say the words perfectly, but Gwendolyn didn’t care. She would forever love hearing those words from Alberic, in whatever language.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SHARI ANTON’s secretarial career ended when she took a creative writing class and found she possessed some talent for writing fiction. The author of several highly acclaimed historical novels, she now works in her home office where she can take unlimited coffee breaks. Shari and her husband live in southeastern Wisconsin, where they have two grown children and do their best to spoil their two adorable little grandsons. You can write to her at P.O. Box 510611, New Berlin, WI 53151-0611, or visit her Web site at www.sharianton.com.
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Twilight Magic
Available in mass market Fall 2006.
Chapter One
England 1145
Not this morn, Lady Emma. The king has matters of great import to discuss with his counselors, so he will be occupied for the greater part of the day.”
Another of the chamberlain’s clerks had told her the same thing yesterday, and she’d heard similar excuses on other occasions throughout the past summer. With the king so rarely in residence at Westminster Palace, Lady Emma de Leon’s opportunities to speak to the king had been few, and she was determined to gain an audience before he left again.
“On the morrow, perhaps?” Emma asked of the pale little man with the graceful hands and up-tilted nose.
He sniffed. “There is a war being fought, my lady. Events will dictate who will be allowed into the royal presence based on urgent need.”
Emma understood all about the damn war. If not for the war’s horrible effect on her family, she wouldn’t be forced to plea for royal intervention on her youngest sister’s behalf.
“A child’s fate depends upon a royal decision, and I require only a few moments to make my request. Surely the king can spare a moment for an act of mercy.”
The clerk’s tight smile didn’t bode well. “If I granted time to everyone who requested a few moments, his majesty would be an old man by the time all were done.”
Emma tamped down her ire, striving mightily to be pleasant to the guardian of the royal chamber’s door. “I realize the king’s time is precious, and if any other person could act on my request, I would not bother his majesty. But King Stephen is the only one who can make decisions over his ward’s fate.”
“Is the child in grave danger?”
“Nay, but . . .”
He waved an irritatingly dismissive hand. “Then the matter is not urgent and does not require the king’s immediate attention. Indeed, I suggest you put your request to parchment for the king to consider at his leisure.”
“I did, several months ago, but have been given no answer. I can only assume my request has been . . . misplaced.”
Lost on purpose, no doubt. Shoved aside by the chamberlain’s clerks as unimportant. Her deceased father, Sir Hugh de Leon, was considered a traitor, and no one at court felt any obligation to show kindness or mercy to the traitor’s daughter.
The clerk’s eyes narrowed. “Naught which is overseen by the chamberlain becomes misplaced. You must have patience, my lady. The king will consider your petition in due time.”
With that he strode off down the marble-floored hallway to the royal residence leaving her standing alone and with no recourse. Naturally, the guards opened one of the huge oak doors and the clerk swept through without a challenge.
The clerk belonged; she did not.
She was tempted to rush the door and force her way in, but she knew she might hurt her cause if she were to be so bold. So Emma fled in the opposite direction.
All the way back to the queen�
��s solar, where Emma spent most of her days and nights, she fought the urge to scream and make someone listen to her. No one would, however. Not even if she screamed.
Since her arrival in London, she’d been shunned, considered the undesirable outcast. Emma had known from the moment she’d been informed she was being sent to court that she wouldn’t be popular. But she hadn’t expected to be treated with contempt.
As now, upon entering Queen Matilda’s sumptuously furnished solar. Several elegantly garbed women who served as the queen’s handmaidens looked up from their embroidery, or loom, or book to see who had entered. Each immediately turned away when they saw who came through the door.
No one of importance, their looks said. Only the traitor’s daughter, their malevolence shouted.
Having expected no less and intent on ignoring the hurtful dismissal, Emma took a seat on a bench at the far end of the room, near the open window slit. As the rain splattered against the palace’s thick stone walls, she took a deep breath to help calm her upset and ease the urge to blame her father or her new brother-by-marriage for placing her in an untenable situation.
On the day of her father’s death, King Stephen had made Alberic of Chester a knight and gifted him with her father’s barony. Then the king had ordered Alberic to marry one of the three surviving de Leon daughters, send another to court and give the last to the Church.
Alberic’s decision on which daughter to marry hadn’t surprised Emma. Gwendolyn was by far prettier and more likeable than her older sister. Besides being too young for Alberic’s taste, Nicole had also tried to stab him with a dagger. Still, Alberic would allow the girl to return to Camelen, which only proved her brother-by-marriage possessed a generous heart.
Emma had promised Nicole she would petition the king to allow the girl to leave the nunnery at Bledloe Abbey and return home. Of late, Emma had considered adding a similar plea of her own, but admitted she didn’t particularly want to go home. Being dependent upon her slightly younger sister and her new brother-by-marriage didn’t appeal. Sweet mercy, she’d come to court with hopes of finding a place for herself but found only misery. ’Truth, she didn’t particularly want to remain here either.
For now, however, she had to put her own problems aside to solve Nicole’s. Once assured the girl was suitably taken care of, she would worry about her own future.
Not that she had any control over her own fate, for that, too, rested in the king’s hands. A king whose time was limited and guarded by wretched, unmerciful clerks.
A stirring at the doorway signaled the return of Queen Matilda from her daily walk in the garden, accompanied by the flock of men and women who comprised the cream of the queen’s court. Everyone in the solar stood, giving the queen the honor due her royal rank. Not until she crossed the room to her ornately carved, armed chair, and gave a small hand signal, did everyone return to their occupations.
Emma wondered if she should again ask the queen to intervene on her behalf. Matilda, however, showed no more inclination to assist the traitor’s daughter than the chamberlain’s clerks. Nor were any of the people closest to the royal couple interested in Emma’s problems, save one brave, caring soul who now came toward her.
Lady Julia de Vere, the lovely niece of the earl of Oxford, had come to court years ago as a hostage to her uncle’s continued support of the king’s efforts to hold onto his crown. Though held in the sumptuous cell of Westminster Palace and not the dreary White Tower, both Emma and Julia were prisoners of the crown. But the fundamental difference between them was that Julia de Vere was treated with the utmost courtesy and respect by all and sundry. Emma didn’t know why Julia didn’t consider her a social leper, but she was grateful the woman deigned to be friendly.
She tried hard not to notice how favorably Julia’s blond hair compared to her own drab brown, or how much better was Julia’s surcoat of sapphire silk, shot through with gold thread, which fit into the elegant surroundings better than Emma’s well-made but now faded green wool.
Emma accepted the difference in their position at court even though she actually outranked the niece of an earl. Being the daughter of a Norman baron placed Emma within the ranks of the nobility, and being the daughter of a Welsh princess should boost her far over Julia. Her high birth was, perhaps, the reason she resided in the palace and not the Tower. However, no one at court felt inclined to acknowledge her station further.
Julia’s smile went far to lighten Emma’s mood. She took a seat on the bench, careful to spread the sapphire silk skirt to show it to the best advantage. “How is your head today? You seem less pale.”
“Better. I appreciate your concern.”
“Four days is a long time to spend on pallet in a dark corner with a pounding head. I still believe you should allow a surgeon to examine you.”
Julia meant well, and Emma would heed the advice if she didn’t already know why the headaches occurred and what she could do to make them cease. However, she considered the cure worse than the agony. She would willingly suffer the pain rather than allow the cursed, devil-sent visions to overtake her as they had in her childhood. Since discovering how to both evade and fight off the visions, she’d done so—though not with complete success.
“The surgeon’s time would be wasted. The pain must run its course. How went your walk in the garden?”
“The flowers are fading. Michaelmas is but a fortnight away and with it will come harvest time’s chill. You should come with us next time. It may be our last opportunity to take the boats into the pond and feed the swans. Were you able to make your request of the king’s clerk?”
Unwilling to tell Julia why the thought of going near the pond, swans or no, made her shiver, Emma merely answered Julia’s question.
“Apparently the king is too busy today to attend to anything not concerning the war. Tomorrow as well. Perhaps I will have better luck the day after.”
Julia leaned closer. “I gather you did not offer to bed the clerk.”
They’d had this discussion before. Emma smiled, remembering her horror the first time Julia had declared that officious, pompous clerks must be bribed into granting favor, either with body or with coin. Julia accepted the practice as a means of getting her way. Her uncle kept her well supplied with coin, but depending upon what she wanted and from whom she wanted it, Julia wasn’t above spending a night or two in a man’s bed, though she was selective in her bed mates and most discreet.
Indeed, taking a lover was common practice. At night, after the queen retired to her private bedchamber, a veritable parade ensued of men coming in and women going out of the solar. Emma had moved her pallet to a dark corner of the large chamber to avoid being stepped on or mistaken for another woman, as much as for a quiet place to endure her headaches.
“Nay. I refuse to offer up my virtue to so mean a little man. Nor do I have the coin to offer him. And nay, I shall not take your coin because I have no way to repay you. Allow me my pride.”
“Pride will not open the king’s door.”
Perhaps not, but she wouldn’t take Julia’s coin for such a purpose. As for bedding the clerk—well, not only did the pale little man not appeal to her, but even if she offered herself to him she doubted he would accept. She wasn’t slender and pretty as were the majority of the ladies who lived in the palace, and she would be utterly mortified if she offered the clerk a tumble and he backed away in horror.
Besides, she already knew the man to whom she would give her virginity, and he certainly wasn’t one of the clerks, thank heaven above.
“Then I must find another way into the royal chambers. Perhaps I should make my request of the chamberlain instead.”
“Tsk. The chamberlain is as hard to gain an audience with as the king. The clerks guard both zealously. ’Struth, Emma, you must somehow bribe one of the clerks or you will never get through the doors!”
Emma sighed inwardly. Julia was probably right. But she had nothing a clerk might want.
“There must be anot
her way.”
“Then you must find a means of entry quickly. I understand the king will be in residence for four more days before he returns to the field.”
Four days. Damn.
Well, if she couldn’t go through the clerks, or appeal to the chamberlain above them, then she would have to go around them. Make a direct assault on the royal chambers. Somehow get past the doorway’s guards.
Fortunately, she had one effective weapon in her. Bravado.
She would give the king today and tomorrow to meet with his counselors. Early on the morning after she would be among the throng of courtiers, advisors, and attendants milling outside his chamber door, prepared to sneak, bluff, or push her way inside.
No matter if she lowered her standing at court. After all, she was already so low she didn’t see how she could sink any further. But she would keep her promise to Nicole.
Darian of Bruges strode through the passageways of the royal residence beside William of Ypres, commander of the Flemish mercenaries, matching his stride to that of his shorter and rounder mentor.
He’d made this trek several times over the past years. Each time Darian was amazed that he was allowed onto Westminster Palace’s grounds, much less into the royal chambers. Of course, there were people who would prefer that a man of his ilk not be allowed in the city of London much less inside the palace.
Too bad.
King Stephen needed men such as Darian if he hoped to win his war against the Empress Maud. Men willing to take risks. Men capable of accomplishing those tasks men of refinement hesitated to undertake.
His boot heels clicked against the marble floors, an unusually loud noise for a man so devoted to silent approaches. But then, he wasn’t in the field. His only task this morn was to act as an added set of ears and eyes for William.
A task few others could perform. Not only did his commander trust Darian’s keenly honed ability to assess his surroundings, catching details others missed. But he was one of a handful of men who knew William’s eyesight had begun to fail. Not even the king knew yet, and William didn’t plan to tell him until the problem interfered with his ability to command his troops in battle. Thankfully, the surgeon felt that time might not come for many years yet.
