by Shari Anton
“Agreed,” Rhodri said, remembering a time when England had been at peace under King Henry. Wales had suffered mightily.
Rhodri had been all of ten when King Henry died and Stephen of Blois, Henry’s nephew, had seized the English throne. Empress Maud, Henry’s daughter, objected by raising an army and challenging Stephen for the right to rule England. Now Maud’s son, Henry Plantagenet, who some said was as forceful and ambitious as the grandsire he’d been named for, was poised to succeed where his mother had failed for eighteen long years.
“Wales must unite,” Connor declared. “If we do not, we may perish.”
A knot formed in Rhodri’s gut. During his apprenticeship to a chaired bard, he’d learned the history of Wales all the way back to ancient times. Rarely had the Welsh princes banded together under one leader to stave off invasions.
“Each of the princes has his ambitions for expanding his own lands. For them to unite for a common cause might require a miracle. Have you one at the ready?”
Connor sighed and eased down onto a nearby stool, placing his deeply wrinkled hands on his knees. White hair revealed his advanced years; a furrowed brow bespoke a troubled mind. Still, vigor and intelligence lit the chieftain’s amber eyes, belying any belief that his mind might wither with age.
“No ready miracles,” Connor admitted. “However, we may have time to conjure one. Most likely, Stephen will be forced to name Henry Plantagenet as his heir, so the lad will have to wait until Stephen dies to claim England’s crown.”
Rhodri inwardly scoffed. He could name several sons and nephews who’d sent fathers, uncles, and brothers to their graves before their natural end. Youth tended to impatience when the prize was within reach.
Henry Plantagenet, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, count of Anjou, Touraine, and Maine, wasn’t known for his patience.
Nor were the Marcher earls. They’d lost most of their royally granted land in Wales over the past few years, and they eagerly awaited the chance to reclaim those lands and punish the native princes for their audacity in believing Wales should be ruled by the Welsh.
Knowing his irritation caused his mind to wander from his task, Rhodri set aside his whetstone and sword.
“If peace comes to England, the earls of the March will once again turn their thoughts toward us. With the aid of Prince Madog of Powys, we will defend Glenvair as we have always done.”
“That we will,” Connor stated firmly, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I am of a mind, however, to try to gain an advantage.” He waved the rolled parchment. “Though my niece is always kind enough to send us whatever news she hears of affairs in England, I wish to heaven above that when Gwendolyn and her sisters were orphaned, I had gone to Camelen to fetch them and bring them to Glenvair. That mistake must now be made right.”
Rhodri didn’t see how Connor could do aught now for his long-dead sister’s girls. He well remembered the day Connor received word that his Norman brother-by-marriage, Sir Hugh de Leon, along with his son, William, had lost their lives fighting for the Empress Maud, and that the three surviving girls had been made wards of King Stephen.
Gwendolyn had been forced to marry Alberic, the bastard son of the earl of Chester, one of the most hated of the Marcher lords. Emma had been sent to King Stephen’s court, where she’d been forced to marry Darian of Bruges, a Flemish mercenary. Nicole had been given to the Church and, as far as Rhodri knew, still resided in Bledloe Abbey.
“The girls were out of your reach then, as they are now.”
“Gwendolyn and Emma, perhaps, but not Nicole. Stephen holds her captive in Bledloe Abbey. He intends to wed her to a Welsh prince to forge an alliance with the English crown, driving a wedge between the princes. We must remove that weapon from Stephen’s armory and use it to our own advantage.”
That meant stealing Nicole out of Bledloe Abbey, near Oxford, in the heart of England. A raid that far into enemy territory might prove disastrous.
Connor ap Maelgwn was a cunning chieftain, a ferocious soldier, and an honorable man. How much was he willing to risk to wrest his youngest niece from English control?
“Kidnapping Nicole might be considered an act of war. And what of her sisters? Surely, Gwendolyn and Emma will not approve of your scheme, and their husbands would make formidable opponents.”
Connor took a long breath. “I am hopeful that, for a time, England’s lords will be more concerned with the fate of the crown than with other matters. As for Nicole’s sisters, I believe they can be convinced my motives are not selfish. Our family’s heritage must be preserved. The tree of Pendragon must bear a Welsh branch to remain strong.”
Pendragon. The bloodline of the revered King Arthur. Rhodri knew every word of the ancient legends and could sing the tales of Arthur’s conquests and his downfall. But even though he had the right to call Connor his uncle, Rhodri couldn’t claim the bloodline. His widowed father had married into the family, taking one of Connor’s sisters as his second wife several years after Rhodri’s birth.
He’d always felt like a blade of grass within the mighty oak’s shade, close in kinship but not a twig on the tree. His name wouldn’t be recorded as a descendant of Pendragon, but there were other ways to ensure one’s name was remembered through time. ’Twas one of the reasons he’d become a bard. All he needed was the chance to advance in his profession.
But that was for the future. Right now, he must do his utmost to counsel Connor.
“You cannot march a band of Welsh across half of England without drawing attention. The raid would fail.”
“True, which is why I propose to send one man.” From the way his uncle looked at him, Rhodri knew who he intended to send. The prospect both excited and disturbed him. He was honored by Connor’s faith and trust in him, but he foresaw problems. He wasn’t one of Nicole’s favorite people, as Connor well knew.
“You want me to kidnap Nicole out of Bledloe Abbey and bring her to Glenvair?”
“Better if Nicole comes of her own free will. Talk to her, Rhodri. Convince her that coming to Wales is the best course.”
“She does not like me. She may not listen.”
“Nicole was no more than a handful of years old when she was last here. Surely she can now be reasoned with. And if reasoning fails, bring her anyway. Her fate is too important to leave to chance.”
Connor rose and ambled off, leaving Rhodri to ponder how he might accomplish this task.
Talk to her, Connor had said. Would an appeal to Nicole’s sense of duty to her Pendragon heritage work? Perhaps, if she felt a sense of duty. Problem was, the Nicole he remembered cared only for her own concerns. A princess who struck out when she didn’t get what she wanted.
Rhodri ap Dafydd rubbed his leg, remembering the last time he’d tried to convince Nicole de Leon to do something she didn’t care to do, fearing this time she might do far worse than kick his shin and get him into more trouble than before.
Your time here is done, Nicole. Come out.
Nicole de Leon bolted upright on her narrow cot. Her eyes snapped open to see only the night-shrouded dormitory, not the owner of the voice from beyond the grave that had awakened her.
Why, she silently asked . . . and received no answer. Her brother William never answered her questions, merely gave orders he expected her to follow.
Even as sorrow for his plight flooded her, so did ire that William had seen fit to disturb her sleep. Again. Other spirits weren’t so inconsiderate. But then, William hadn’t been overly considerate in life, and death hadn’t wrought a change.
Nicole deeply breathed in the familiar scents of woolen robes hanging on their pegs, and of the burning night candle near the doorway. A glance over the cots revealed she hadn’t disturbed the nuns who would soon rise for matins and begin yet another day of prayer, meditation, and service in God’s name.
For eight years Bledloe Abbey had been her home, these nuns her gentle companions and patient teachers. William wanted her to leave them behind. For wher
e? To do what?
Silence reigned.
Calmer now, but knowing she wouldn’t go back to sleep, Nicole silently rose and slipped on her black robe over the linen chemise that protected her skin from the prickly wool. With her bedding straightened, hose and boots in hand, she padded her way to the infirmary where she knew Mother Abbess would be awake.
Mother Abbess rarely slept these days, too aware the heavenly reward she’d spent her life working toward was about to become reality.
Soon now, dear, soon!
This voice, too, came from beyond the grave. Sister Enid’s soft, excited greeting as Nicole entered the herb-scented, tranquil infirmary made her smile.
Sister Enid had left mortal life behind a few days after Beltane. In life, the nun had considered the care of Mother Abbess her life’s work, and so her spirit lingered to see her duty completed. The two old and dear friends would pass through the veil between this life and the next together.
Would that William would pass through that veil, find peace, and cease pestering her with orders she refused to obey. She’d done so once, the first time William had spoken to her, taking advantage of her youth and grief over his death. Nicole thanked the Lord every day that she hadn’t possessed the skill or strength to murder her now brother-by-marriage, Alberic, and that he’d long since forgiven her for trying to stab him with William’s dagger.
And now William wanted her to leave Bledloe Abbey, for no other purpose than his selfish, unwarranted need for revenge against Alberic, no doubt. Nicole lowered onto the stool beside Mother Abbess’s cot, resolved to ignore her brother’s latest command, just as she’d ignored so many of his other demands.
“What brings you here so early?” Mother Abbess asked, the clarity of her voice belying both her advanced age and failing health.
As Sister Enid said, Mother Abbess would soon die. Still, the abbess looked no different this morn than she had last eve—frail and withered, her thin hair as white as fresh snow. In her gnarled hands she held prayer beads worn from years of use. Her green eyes, however, still often saw too much.
To hide the full truth, Nicole bent over to put on her black short hose and boots.
“I woke and did not wish to disturb the others. So I came to see how you fare.”
“Harrumph. We must usually pull you from your cot of a morn. What spoils your slumber?”
Nicole smiled. “Perhaps I have at long last become accustomed to waking before the bell is rung.”
Mother Abbess chuckled at the lie. “When sheep take wing.” Then she sobered. “What ails you, child?”
Nicole grappled for something troublesome the old nun might accept in answer, and easily found one that had floated in and out of her thoughts for several days now.
“Prince Eustace’s death, and how his loss will affect King Stephen and the war.”
Mother Abbess’s fingers slid from one bead to the next, seeking solace and wisdom in the prayer that had sustained her all her life.
“You fear King Stephen may now remember you are here.”
Bluntly put. Apparently, Mother Abbess also had been mulling what possible actions the king could take upon the loss of his heir. Nicole didn’t care if Stephen eventually lost his throne or not, but as his ward, she cared very much whether or not he would use her in an attempt to gain a desired alliance.
“I cannot say I am of a mind to marry a Welsh prince.” “You have always known the day might come. You also know how to avoid the king’s machinations.”
Nicole fingered the ends of her brown, waist-length braid. She could cut her hair short, cover it with a veil, and utter vows. She recoiled as she always did when she considered becoming a nun and spending her entire life in Bledloe Abbey.
“You well know I have no calling to the Lord’s service. ’Twould be no less than I deserved if God struck me deaf and blind the moment I uttered insincere vows.”
“Then perhaps you should consult your sisters. They would come if you summoned them.”
Emma and Gwendolyn would certainly make every effort, but they had husbands and children and estates to care for. And certes, at ten and eight, Nicole felt she shouldn’t burden her beloved sisters if she could work out her problems on her own.
And, certes, no problem yet existed. King Stephen hadn’t yet decreed whom she should marry. Worrying over it would do her no good, and Nicole wanted no distractions from what she saw as her immediate and more important task. Caring for Mother Abbess.
“I will consult Emma and Gwendolyn when the proper time comes,” she said, more to ease the furrows on the abbess’s brow than to quell her own misgivings. “Are you in pain? Need you a potion?”
“These old bones ache from disuse, but the pain reminds me there is life inside me yet. Go ready for prayer. The bell will ring soon.”
Though she preferred to remain in the infirmary, brewing potions and mixing unguents, she would attend morning prayers, if only out of love for Mother Abbess.
Nicole rose from the stool and kissed her friend and mentor’s thin-skinned forehead, wondering if she should tell the abbess of the joyous reunion with Sister Enid awaiting her on the other side of life.
She would, she decided, but not until the very end when the abbess had no time left for questions and lectures.
Sister Enid, Nicole was sure, would let her know when that time was upon them.
“I will bring your morning repast after matins. Is there aught particular you would like?”
Another shift of fingers, another bead to hold between thumb and forefinger. Another prayer offered up to some good purpose.
“Nay. My hunger now is not for victuals. Ask the sisters to pray that I might see our Lord’s face sooner than later.”
The abbess had thoroughly accepted her impending death. Nicole wasn’t in that much of a hurry.
“I will do no such thing. Our Lord will take you when He wills and not a moment before. Have pity on those of us you leave behind, dearest Abbess. We shall be like lost ships in a storm-tossed sea without you to guide us home.”
The nun chuckled. “Oh, life will continue without me, and each of you will find your way.”
“Rudderless, wind-deprived, becalmed ships, I tell you.”
Mother Abbess’s hand rose, and Nicole took the hand that had gently but firmly guided a headstrong girl into womanhood.
“The way is never easy, Nicole de Leon. Remember this. When times seem the most confusing, point your bow to either sunrise or sunset and follow your heart.”
Appealing images—in opposite directions.
And neither course guaranteed a welcoming shoreline or safe haven.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desks of Shari Anton and Paula Quinn
Dear Readers:
From intimate visions to dancing warriors to King Arthur, Shari Anton and Paula Quinn dish in this author-to-author interview.
Shari Anton: Paula, how nice to see your LORD OF SEDUCTION (on sale now) on the bookstore shelves with my TWILIGHT MAGIC (on sale now) this December! Double the medieval fun! You really must tell me about your story.
Paula Quinn: Well, Shari, Tanon Risande is a prim and proper lady of the realm. Her predictable little world is turned upside down with the arrival of a fierce Welsh prince, Gareth ab Owain, who has come to claim her as his bride. Tanon has no intention of submitting to such a rough warrior, but Gareth is determined to prove to her that he is no savage. He will use far more persuasive methods to lure this lady willingly into his arms . . . and into his bed.
Is your couple as seemingly mismatched as mine?
Shari Anton: Of course! Lady Emma de Leon is about to present a petition to King Stephen when Darian of Bruges is accused of murder. She recognizes Darian as the man she once saw in a very intimate vision, so she’s compelled to save him by giving him an alibi, claiming they spent the previous night together. The king then insists they marry. Emma had planned on the bedding, but not the
wedding, especially to an ungrateful Flemish mercenary who wants no wife! The last thing Darian wants is to be the man of Emma’s dreams, but ignoring Emma’s charms and rebuffing her advances prove futile.
Prince Gareth sounds like a true LORD OF SEDUCTION! What aspect of him will intrigue readers most?
Paula Quinn: My favorite thing about Gareth is that he learned to fight by dancing. Yes, this warrior dances like nobody’s business! I also love that he goes barefoot and wears torcs. There’s something very feral about it. He’s extremely confident without being arrogant (although Tanon would disagree).
You’ve added a paranormal element to TWILIGHT MAGIC. How fascinating that Emma has visions!
Shari Anton: Poor Emma doesn’t like having them. Lucky for my story Emma saw Darian in a vision before she learned how to halt them! And scattered throughout my Magic trilogy is the legend of King Arthur.
So between us we have Norman ladies, a Welsh prince, a Flemish mercenary, torcs and dancing, visions and intrigue. Wow! I’d say Warner Forever readers are in for a real treat this month.
Paula Quinn: Agreed!
Sincerely,
TWILIGHT MAGIC
www.sharianton.com LORD OF SEDUCTION
www.paulaquinn.com
Medieval England has never
been more romantic…
Shari Anton
“A master who weaves magic onto every page.”
—Rendezvous
TWILIGHT MAGIC
0-446-61755-5
MIDNIGHT MAGIC
0-446-61466-1
AT HER SERVICE
0-446-61465-3
Paula Quinn
“Gloriously passionate, boldly sensual medieval romance.”
—Booklist on LORD OF DESIRE
LORD OF SEDUCTION
0-446-61782-2
LORD OF TEMPTATION
0-446-61595-1
LORD OF DESIRE
0-446-61594-3
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