Midnight Magic (25 page)

No doubt.

Alberic remembered a Beltane or two when he’d snuck off with a lusty maiden, heady from the ale and the dancing, cavorting naked in the woods, and the inevitable, successful completion of the rites.

“Perhaps you should caution the fathers to keep a close watch on their daughters.”

“Humph. More than a few fathers would not be upset should the girl swell with child and be forced to marry and move out. One less mouth to feed.”

Alberic couldn’t dispute the charge, though he thought the priest might be a bit harsh in his judgment. And while fire yet haunted his dreams, among other horrific memories, he’d not forbid the bonfire or the ale or the dancing.

“Come, Father, look around you. Given that we still have a village, and the repairs and rebuilding are going well, and the planting has gone on as scheduled, I think the people deserve a day of play. If that be Beltane, so be it.”

The priest gave a deep sigh. “I suppose I could speak with the fathers.”

“A good decision. I am sure God will look down on your efforts with favor.”

The disgruntled priest wandered off, and Alberic continued on his interrupted quest to inspect the repairs and rebuilding. No work would be done today, of course. Even those whose homes were only partially repaired, and who currently resided in the keep, had other plans for the day.

Gwendolyn had been up and out before dawn to lead a flock of women to the meadow to wash their faces in the first of May dew—why, he had no notion—and to gather armloads of flowers. Even now, she and a few others wove white-, purple-, and yellow-headed flowers into evergreen boughs to hang in the hall.

He’d escaped the nearly overpowering scents and, as he had each day for the past week since Gwendolyn finally pronounced him fit enough to leave their bed, he now stood before the new huts.

Not even the scent of flowers could banish the stench of smoke. Not even seeing stout oak center beams and patches of new thatch could obliterate the vision of flames and flying sparks.

His head no longer ached and the burns on his fingers were nearly healed. Paying most of the cost of restoring what was lost eased his conscience but didn’t diminish his guilt.

Not a day went by he didn’t suffer doubts about the quality of his lordship over Camelen, and not a night passed that he didn’t awake at least once, sweating, terrified that ap Idwal had somehow won.

Only by curling around Gwendolyn could he go back to sleep.

Leaning on Gwendolyn for comfort, even though she never woke and didn’t know, bothered him immensely. Never had he turned to another for succor, relying only upon himself. The dreams had to abate sometime, and that time couldn’t come quickly enough to suit him.

Giggling alerted him to the return of the village women. From the oldest to the youngest, each wore a circlet of flowers. Many carried an evergreen bough to hang over her hut’s door. Mistress Biggs wasn’t among them, her burns too severe to allow her to walk much yet.

Alberic began the trek back to the keep, hoping that enough of the greenery had been carried out of the hall to allow breathing. Soon enough he learned that the scent of evergreen could be ignored when one beheld the festive look of the hall.

Gwendolyn hadn’t taken down any groupings of weapons, merely hung the flower-dotted boughs over them, with the exception of two circles—those where her father’s and brother’s swords and daggers hung. The effect was astonishing, changing the whole feel in the hall from one of irrefutable power to one of . . . a home.

The woman responsible for the transformation stood at the dais, her finger tapping her chin, perusing the walls for one more spot to hang one more bough. She, too, wore a circlet of flowers in her unbound hair, a pagan goddess surveying her realm. The image struck his fancy, and ’twas suddenly easy to envision her in a moonlit woodland clearing, garbed in naught but her own skin, cavorting with fairies.

He shook off the fanciful vision and strode toward her, glad she was mere flesh and bone. “Perhaps we should remove some of the weapons.”

Her eyes widened, and he could almost hear a protest skitter through her head.

“Not the circle of swords or daggers,” he reassured her. “But many of the others have no special meaning and could be cleared away to make room for your boughs. Or a tapestry or two.”

“Well, it is your hall now.”

A quiet concession, but he could tell she rather liked the idea.

“’Tis merely a suggestion, and the hall is yours also. Make whatever changes you like, or none at all. Have you decided where to put the last bough?”

She smiled, and the room seemed homier yet. “If you truly do not mind removing a few weapons, then I believe the bough would look better over the door than the battle-ax.”

“Down it comes.”

For the next little while they discussed which weapons to take down, which to leave or move. Alberic decided the arrow he’d stuck in the pillar no longer served any use. He knew the identity of the archer, and someday Edgar would pay for firing the arrow, probably the same day ap Idwal suffered for his audacity.

Assisting Gwendolyn proved restful, the feeling lasting until one of the guards entered the hall to deliver a scroll tied with a red ribbon flecked with gold.

From Chester.

“The messenger was told not to await a reply, milord. He said you would understand why after you read this.”

Alberic sat down at a trestle table and untied the ribbon. He quickly perused the message, written in Norman-French in neat lettering and formal wording—a graciously issued command for Alberic and whichever de Leon daughter he’d married to visit the earl at his castle in Chester.

Gwendolyn eased onto the bench opposite him. “Ill tidings?”

“We are invited to visit Chester.”

“The earl or the city?”

“Both. Apparently the earl is no longer at Wallingford.”

Not a good sign, unless Wallingford had fallen to the king. Unlikely. Had such a prize fallen, some passing traveler or merchant would have disclosed the news. So either Chester had gone home for a respite or he’d broken from King Stephen, and Alberic very much feared the worst.

“Are we going?”

He heard the hope in her question, but damn, he didn’t want to face Chester so soon after this latest debacle. And getting caught up in the earl’s self-serving politics might be bad for his health.

“We probably should, but I must warn you the visit might be unpleasant.” He leaned forward on crossed arms, searching for the words to explain the situation simply. “Chester does nothing without reason. This invitation means he wants something from me, most likely to take measure of where my loyalty lies if he renounces his support for the king.”

“Chester would expect you to break with the king because he does?”

“He might.” If he didn’t tell her why, she would ask, and she might as well know why the decision would be difficult. “Chester is my father.”

She stared at him for a moment, her brow furrowing. “Your father? But Chester is newly married and he has no . . . oh.”

Oh.
He’d let his illegitimacy be known and all she could say was “oh”?

“That I am his bastard does not bother you?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Not particularly, perhaps because I am half Welsh. Legitimacy is not such a delicate issue with them. All children are treated equally under the law.”

“Unfortunately for me, neither of my parents can claim a drop of Welsh blood. I am the by-blow of a Norman earl and an English peasant, God rest her soul. And no, I have no rights, legal or otherwise, unless Chester admits to his youthful lust for a woman so far beneath him and then grants me rights, which I doubt is his inclination.”

Her mouth thinned. “Then why bother with him?”

“Because he is my father.”

“Whom you did not invite to our wedding because you did not think he would lower himself to come.” She rose from the table. “’Twould seem to me you owe him naught, not even a visit.”

She flounced off, leaving him to gape after her. Then she spun on her heel and in high ire, hands on hips, she continued.

“The earls of Gloucester and Cornwall are both illegitimate. Does anyone think the less of them? Nay. A man’s measure is in his character, not in his birthright.”

This time when she left she kept going, clear out the door.

Gwendolyn had correctly assessed the situation and immediately passed judgment against the earl. He’d known she would find out about his bastardy sometime, and expected . . . what? Horror? Outrage? Fainting?

Her acceptance of his heritage surprised him, warmed him clear through. Smiling, Alberic decided he wouldn’t remind Gwendolyn that both men she mentioned might be illegitimate, but they’d been born of noblewomen and sired by a king who’d taken pride in all of his children. Unfortunately, at the time of old Henry’s death his remaining legitimate child had been a female—Maud.

Hence this war.

Nor would he chide his wife for using as examples men steadfast in their support of their half sister.

He tapped the scroll on the table, wishing he could dismiss Chester as easily as did Gwendolyn.

The earl was his father, and ever since King Stephen had bestowed Camelen on an undeserving soldier, Alberic had sought to prove himself worthy of both the honor and his father’s acknowledgment. He certainly hadn’t done so as yet. Still, personal feelings aside, Ranulf de Gernons was the most powerful earl in the northern Marches, not a man to be ignored. Declining the invitation might be a huge mistake, but disobeying the command might be courting disaster.

There was also ap Idwal to consider. The man had yet to pay for the deaths of two soldiers and for the burning of huts. Something must be done, and now that he’d healed, he must decide what and when.

But those decisions were for tomorrow. Today he had duties to attend, most notably the lighting of the bonfire. There were gifts to present and dancers to watch. And an adorable goddess with whom to cavort and engage in lusty spring rites.

“‘To my lovely and loving sister, Gwendolyn, who I pray will recommend me to her most excellent husband, Alberic, lord of Camelen, my greetings.’”

“Read that part again. Either you read it wrongly or my hearing is faulty.”

Gwendolyn glanced up from Nicole’s letter to smile across the trestle table at Alberic, unable to resist the urge to tease.

“My sister thinks I am lovely.”

His arms crossed on the table, he leaned forward, the spark in his eyes a welcome sight. Perhaps the gaiety of Beltane had lifted his spirits, though she’d like to think her earlier outburst at the earl’s unimaginable, unacceptable shunning of a baseborn son had brightened his spirits, too.

“Your sister’s sight does her proud. ’Tis your attempt to alter her words that concerns me.”

Gwendolyn turned the letter around and held it up so he could see she did no such thing. “‘Excellent husband.’ Clear as day. Satisfied?”

He leaned back. “Unbelievable. Go on.”

Gwendolyn turned the letter around, admitting her surprise that Nicole deigned to mention Alberic, much less in good terms. Either Nicole suffered a softening of her heart, or the lessons on how to write a proper letter had prompted her courtesy.

“‘On this fourth morning since God, in His wisdom, guided me to Bledloe Abbey—’”

“Wait until Sedwick hears he is divine.”

Again Gwendolyn glanced across the table. “You interrupted me all through Emma’s letter, making it impossible to comprehend the first time through. If you intend to do so again, I shall not read it aloud.”

“Emma called me your most noble and honorable husband.”

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “Soon to be my most sorry husband if he does not keep silent.”

Alberic rose from the table and snatched up their mugs. “I am off to refill these with ale. You may read and inform me if there is aught of import in it.”

Gwendolyn suspected the amount of ale he’d consumed might also be affecting his mood, but said nothing as he strode off. He hadn’t yet decided on whether or not to make the journey to Chester to see his father. A startling revelation, that.

What remained of her discontent over his part in William’s death had now vanished. Garrett had told her, weeks ago, of how Alberic had stood between her brother and the earl. Now she knew Alberic had been defending his own father, a man who didn’t deserve his son’s defense. And before she could become outraged on Alberic’s behalf again, which would do no good, she again turned her attention to Nicole’s letter.

On this fourth morning since God, in His wisdom, guided me to Bledloe Abbey, my heart cries for joy that my fears were unwarranted. I share a cell with a sweet girl two years older than me. My cot is comfortable. Our meals are simple but filling. The nuns are kind. The garden is blooming and I am learning to discern a plant from a weed. If it is God’s will that I must dwell in a nunnery, I do not think I shall mind overmuch if I may stay here. Mother Abbess says I must pray for the Lord’s guidance and attend to my lessons. So I shall.

Blessings upon you and all the good people of Camelen. Your devoted sister, Nicole.

Uneasy, Gwendolyn glanced around for Alberic. He stood near the ale barrel speaking to Garrett and Sedwick, both of whom had returned in the past days, making it easier for her to convince Alberic to rest and heal. Apparently he wasn’t in any hurry to either fill the mugs or return to the table.

She should be overjoyed Nicole had settled into her new surroundings so nicely, but something about the letter proved bothersome. Unable to identify the source of her unease, Gwendolyn made her way up to the bedchamber, where she put the scroll on the table beside the two others that had arrived today.

Three letters.

She shivered even though she wasn’t wearing the trefoil pendant and she’d lit no candles. The letters numbered three, and all were troublesome.

Emma’s letter had arrived shortly after the earl’s, filled with news about her arrival, confirmation of the king’s orders for the disposition of the de Leon siblings, and of her position at court. Imagine, Emma a queen’s handmaiden! Unfortunately, since the war wasn’t going as well as hoped, the queen had advised Emma that now was not the time to bother King Stephen with so trivial a matter as an unhappy little girl in a nunnery. Emma would wait for a better time.