Midnight Magic (13 page)

’Struth, she could hug him for simply granting this one wish of hers—to allow the weapons their place of honor—proving he possessed a generous heart.

Both Emma and Garrett had praised Alberic’s virtues, and Gwendolyn had noticed many for herself. If not for her duty toward the legacy, she might not have been so set against the marriage.

Emma might believe Gwendolyn’s resistance to the marriage the reason for last night’s attempt to escape. And while Emma might have played a part in the thwarting, the stubborn ring had ended Gwendolyn’s plans far more effectively.

She didn’t know if she did the right thing or not, but it seemed that, for the moment, she must consider herself bound to Alberic by stronger ties than the upcoming wedding vows.

Rhys’s harp went silent.

Gwendolyn’s stomach fluttered, praying nothing would go amiss for the next few minutes.

“Father Paul, if you would,” Alberic said softly.

The priest made his way to the dais and made a sign of the cross over the weapons. “Bless these weapons, O Lord, that have seen their share of strife and bloodshed. May they now serve as symbols of the peace and joy Hugh and William enjoy in Your heavenly kingdom. We pray You look down in favor upon Camelen and its people in the days to come, grant us peace and prosperity. This we ask in the name of Jesus Christ, Your Son, our Savior. Amen.”

Sedwick stepped up to the dais and picked up William’s dagger. Holding it across his palms, he held it up for all to see. “We celebrate the short life of William de Leon, rich in fervor and glory, as befits a lord of Camelen. May we always remember him with fondness and pride.”

He then walked over to the short ladder and climbed four rungs. With the dagger secure in the bracket, Gwendolyn couldn’t help thinking Alberic must be relieved to see that particular weapon placed beyond easy reach.

Garrett then echoed Sedwick’s actions, lifting her father’s dagger with the reverence of a priest raising a chalice. “I served the baron for many a year, through peace and war, in times fair and foul. I am honored to place his dagger among those of his ancestors. May his lordship rest with God.”

All watched as her father’s most trusted knight placed the dagger within its bracket.

Emma lifted William’s heavy sword and held the blade up as the men had the daggers. “My brother never had the chance to be a true lord of Camelen, but had he lived—” Emma’s voice caught, and Gwendolyn tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat. “Had he lived, I believe he would have done the de Leon name proud.”

Emma slowly walked over to the tall ladder and placed the sword in the care of the soldier, who slid the weapon into a scabbard strapped to his back. Gwendolyn commanded her breath to a steady pace as the man hauled his burden up the creaky ladder, snugged it into the bracket, and made his way back down again, all without the mishap she’d feared.

Then Alberic picked up her father’s sword and held it high. Pride mingled with grief, and the tears she’d managed to hold back before now slid down her cheeks.

“As we honor Hugh de Leon, so we continue a proud and fitting custom. May the souls of all the warriors whose weapons grace this hall look down on us in favor.”

Gwendolyn’s heart pounded when Alberic strode across the hall and waved aside the soldier. With only one hand to steady him, he climbed the ladder in careful steps, one rung at a time, each rung groaning under his weight. She almost cheered when he finally, blessedly, reached the top without falling.

Then he gave her a jolt when he half turned to look down on the crowd below and held out the heavy sword at arm’s length. “Behold the sword of Sir Hugh de Leon. As we grant his weapon its proper place among those of Camelen’s past lords, may also God grant him heavenly peace.”

He snugged the sword into the bracket, and with both hands available, climbed down at a quicker pace.

Alberic’s audacious maneuver completed successfully, her relief more overwhelming than it ought to be, Gwendolyn waited until he again took his place by her side before she lifted her goblet.

“To the lords of Camelen!”

To the crowd’s cheer, she took a sip, then handed the goblet to Alberic, who wore a soft smile that melted her insides. He tilted the goblet toward her in salute, then drank down the remainder of the wine.

As planned, Rhys began another melody, and servants bore in large platters of food.

She took her seat.

Alberic slid into his. “You did well, Gwendolyn.”

“My thanks. So did you, except you were not supposed to climb the ladder. I had visions of your brain splattered among the rushes.”

His smile widened. “Worried for me?”

More than she ought to be, though she saw no reason to admit that to him. “I also worried over the soldier who was assigned to climb the ladder, and he had two hands to use for balance. Your falling would have badly marred the ceremony.”

“Ah,” he uttered, completely discounting her denial, then made selections of fowl and fish and cheese from the platter set before him. “Dove. You remembered.”

Of course she remembered, but hadn’t taken his preference into consideration. “You gave me little time to prepare, and the dovecote is full and the birds roast quickly.”

He laughed lightly as he filled her goblet, the timbre of it relating she hadn’t convinced him. And she wasn’t sure why she tried. Obstinacy? Perhaps. Confusion? Certainly.

This morn, when she’d put the pendant and scroll back in their hiding place, she’d been certain she would never use them, even though England suffered a time of dire need, with the war only getting worse and no end in sight. If the messenger was right, then the war wasn’t going well for the empress. With King Arthur commanding her forces, Maud would be sure to win.

But now Gwendolyn wondered, as she had last night, if it mattered so much which man wore the seal of the dragon. Her father had maintained that he must choose her husband carefully, ensure the man was someone she could come to love.

She couldn’t love Alberic. To give her heart to the man who’d killed her brother was impossible, just
wrong
.

But she might be true and faithful to him, as Merlin the Sorcerer had set down in the scroll as an essential condition between the man and woman considered partners in the legacy. Could Alberic be counted on to remain true and faithful to her, even if he didn’t love her?

If she married him, and that fate looked more and more possible, she would have to tell him about the legacy, if only to impress upon him how carefully he must guard the ancient artifact stuck on his finger. As her father had not. And look what havoc his mistake had wrought.

Would Alberic believe or scoff? Did he need to believe for the spell to work? Perhaps not.

And perhaps she simply wanted a miracle to come to pass because she’d been miserably unsuccessful last night and wished to wash away the horrible feeling of failure.

Gwendolyn still hadn’t made peace with her unruly feelings when the hall’s doors opened and a young, very handsome man entered. Richly garbed in black velvet, the sword missing from his scabbard—safeguarded by the soldiers at the gate, no doubt—he glanced around as if looking for someone he might know. Then he ran his fingers through windblown, dark hair. The rough combing missed the lock that hung down the right side of his forehead to near his eyebrow. With a lithe, long-limbed stride he chose a path to the high table.

Blatantly noble and unmistakably Welsh, the visitor put one hand to his chest and swept the other outward before executing a courtly bow before Alberic.

“Forgive . . . intrusion, my lord,” he said in halting Norman-French, with a lilt that put her in mind of Rhys the bard. “I learned . . . of Hugh de Leon’s death and . . . offer sympathy.”

Alberic didn’t move a muscle, yet she could feel him tense and didn’t understand why. The Welsh noble posed no threat as far as she could see. Indeed, she liked both his amiable expression and his attempt to express his sympathy.

“On behalf of the family of Hugh de Leon, I accept your condolences,” Alberic stated so flatly as to be rude. “Who shall I say offers them?”

“Do I have the . . . honor of speaking . . . to Alberic of Chester?”

“Lord Alberic of Camelen.”

“Of course. Must always . . . present oneself in best . . . manner. Do you, perhaps . . . speak English or Welsh?”

“English.”

The man’s relief was visible.

“An honor to meet you, my lord. I am Madog ap Idwal, betrothed of the Lady Gwendolyn.”

Chapter Eight

B
ESIDE HIM, GWENDOLYN GASPED
but didn’t jump up and leap into the arms of her
former
betrothed. Alberic considered that another good omen, though he didn’t dare look at her. If her eyes shone with admiration for the Welshman, he didn’t want to see it. And what woman wouldn’t admire the dashing noble with a courtier’s manners and an engaging smile?

Alberic put down his goblet to prevent bending the stem.

Ap Idwal hadn’t come merely to pay his respects to Sir Hugh, but to claim Gwendolyn—a journey that could have been avoided if Alberic had thought to send a messenger to inform the Welshman of the change in wedding plans. Reluctantly admitting he might bear part of the blame for ap Idwal’s appearance, he decided to show the man a measure of courtesy.

But not overly much.

“On behalf of the daughters of Hugh de Leon, I accept your condolences. You may dine with us before you visit the church.”

Ap Idwal’s smile faded when he realized he wasn’t being offered the extended hospitality to which he rightfully felt entitled.

“I realize you have a full hall, my lord, so I will not press for hospitality, though I did hope that, perhaps later this afternoon, you might find the time for us to speak at length. I also request permission for a few moments with Lady Gwendolyn.”

Never. The faster the man left, the sooner Gwendolyn would give up hope of a rescue.

He’d thwarted her last night, and he would again now. She was his, damnit! The thought of her in this Welsh noble’s arms set his stomach churning.

“We have naught to speak of, ap Idwal. Nor is there reason for you to speak with the Lady Gwendolyn. I heard of your betrothal, but find no evidence of it among Sir Hugh’s documents. Since no formal bargain was signed, no betrothal exists.”

“But the bargain does exist,” he insisted. “Sir Hugh and I discussed the terms at some length, and set a date for the wedding. I can provide witnesses, if you like, from among my family and Lady Lydia’s kin. I realize the situation has changed with Sir Hugh’s death, but I stand ready to abide by the betrothal bargain we agreed upon.”

At the edge of his vision he saw Gwendolyn clasp her hands together tightly in her lap. She’d not said a word as yet, her initial gasp of surprise her only utterance. He dare not hope she would keep her peace much longer, making her identity known to the swain before them and add her pleas to ap Idwal’s arguments.

It struck him then that since the two had obviously not met and therefore never developed an affection, ap Idwal must want something within Gwendolyn’s dowry. A piece of land? The rights to collect a fee or toll? Whatever it was of Camelen’s the Welsh noble wanted, he couldn’t have that, either.

“Upon Sir Hugh’s death, his daughters became wards of King Stephen, and I have acted upon the king’s instructions. Lady Gwendolyn will be wed to another.”

He sensed Gwendolyn’s head turn, felt her stare at him. Comparing one
betrothed
to the other? Did she prefer ap Idwal’s dark hair to his blond? The Welshman’s wealthy heritage to Alberic’s poor one? Did she see ap Idwal as her chance at freedom from marriage to a man who held her under guard?

Certes, she must. What woman would not?

“The king, hmmm? Then it is to him I must address an appeal.”

What a perfect solution!

Alberic smiled down at ap Idwal. “You are certainly welcome to state your grievance to King Stephen. He is camped outside of Wallingford. As fate would have it, a king’s messenger is here who can act as your guide. You and your men—I assume you did not come alone?”

“A small retinue only.”

So Alberic had thought, because no guard had rushed in to inform him of a threatening force beyond the gate.

“Then you and your men may camp in the field beyond the village until morn. I bid thee good journey.”

Ap Idwal frowned deeply, likely realizing he still didn’t rate a pallet in the hall.

Gwendolyn’s slippered foot nudged his boot-covered ankle before she leaned toward him. He braced for her objection to his treatment of ap Idwal.

“He deserves the full truth,” she said, just above a whisper.

Unable to judge her mood from those few words, he glanced sideways and, for a moment, became transfixed by her wide, enchanting brown eyes. He gave himself a mental shake to avoid becoming distracted, to pay full heed to the matter at hand.

Gwendolyn was serious, but not upset. A good day for good omens.

He lowered his voice to match hers. “Why?”

“Because he came all this way to make good on a bargain with my father. His attempt is honorable, so he deserves a strong measure of consideration.”

Before he could disagree about ap Idwal’s sense of honor, she shrugged a shoulder. “Besides, my Welsh kin must be told of what will happen to me and my sisters. Madog could carry back the news.”

Her reasoning made sense, but Gwendolyn seemed too accepting, too calm, given her upset of this morning. He’d known the ceremony to honor her father and brother would please her, but he hadn’t dared hope to fully placate her and now mistrusted her apparent capitulation.

True, her relatives must be told, but when done, would they show up in force demanding her release? And did they not already know?

“You did not invite your kin to the wedding?”

She shook her head. “Until this morn I did not believe the ceremony would take place. Besides, you told me that no one who did not support either Camelen or the king would be allowed through the gate. Since I am unsure of their current stance, I did not want to chance your refusing them entry.”