Midnight Magic (35 page)
“’Tis no wonder why we cannot read it then.” Alberic held out his hand for the scroll, which Rhys promptly handed over. “We thank you for looking.”
“If you wish, I could inquire of other bards—”
“Not necessary,” Alberic answered abruptly. “When I am called to the king’s court, I may make inquiries.”
Rhys bowed his head in acquiescence. “As you say, my lord.”
With his hand in the middle of her back, Alberic urged her toward the door. She knew she should obey without hesitation, but for most of her life she’d believed Rhys had come to Camelen with her mother as an aid to the legacy. With that notion now shattered, another question nagged.
“I have always wondered why a Welsh bard settled on England’s soil. What brought you to Camelen?”
His smile was soft. “Your mother. She worried her children might grow up too Norman. She asked that I come to keep the Welsh traditions alive for you and your siblings. When a Welsh princess asks, one relents.”
So simple an answer.
“And will you stay for my children?”
The bard’s smile widened. “If my lady wishes.”
“She does. Good day to you, Master Bard.”
Finally outside, her attention again turned to the scroll, and her frustration increased.
“Moorish. That makes no sense at all. I fear Rhys’s vison fails him.”
Alberic slowed, and Gwendolyn realized he’d led her to the middle of a field, not in a straight path to the keep.
“Have you looked at this of late?”
The tone of his question stopped her, and a quiver tingled along her spine.
“I had no reason to since showing it to you.”
His hand shook as he handed her the scroll. “Tell me what you see.”
She still saw ancient Welsh, but could read
more
. And what she read nearly buckled her knees.
Faithful hearts, honorably bound.
Then she understood why Alberic’s hand shook.
“You can read it, too.”
“Though the whole of it still appears to be in Welsh, I can now see whatever you see in Norman-French.”
Welsh. Moorish. Norman-French. All on the same parchment? Three people seeing three different languages?
“Not possible.”
“I swear to you, I see two phrases in Norman-French. Perhaps Rhys truly sees Moorish. Consider. The legacy was devised by Merlin, a mighty sorcerer. He gave the artifacts into the guardianship of the women descended from the line of Pendragon, whom he trusted to keep the legacy secret. But knowing the failing of humans, he must also have known that the artifacts could fall into untrustworthy hands. ’Twould be meet to place a spell on the scroll so those who are not supposed to read it cannot.”
How very sensible and safe. Except for one thing.
Gwendolyn flung a hand in the air. “But until now you were not able to read a word of it despite being chosen by the ring.”
“By the ring, perhaps, but until of late I did not believe in magic, nor was I accepted as partner by the guardian. It needed for you to love me first, Gwen. And that, I vow, is a magic unto itself.”
Gwendolyn melted into the arms of the man with whom she shared a magical love. And if his conjecture was right, then she also had to admire Merlin’s genius.
“So as time passes, the scroll will tell us what we need to know. And when the time is right to issue the summons, whoever is meant to invoke the spell will be able to read all.”
“I believe so, and I would be most pleased to pass through this life never being able to read the whole. What say we put this away and not take it out for, say . . . fifty years.”
Gwendolyn sat on their bed, watching Alberic inspect the lid of her mother’s trunk, looking for evidence of a hiding place for the scroll and pendant.
Faithful hearts, honorably bound.
Comforting words, for surely that meant the magic hadn’t forced her and Alberic to love each other. She silently thanked Merlin for putting the doubt to rest, even though she was irked he hadn’t done so sooner.
But she shouldn’t be surprised by the unusual way of revelation. One had only to look at Merlin’s prophecies; every one of them written in an unclear manner. Such, she supposed, was the way of sorcerers.
At least now she could put the artifacts away and not worry over them.
“Any luck as yet?” she asked.
He grunted, then asked, “Do you still wish to visit Nicole?”
Letters from both Nicole and Emma had arrived while she and Alberic were at Chester. Both disturbed her, especially Nicole’s. She’d been ready to leave for Bledloe Abbey right then, but after having time to reread the letter, had changed her mind.
“Nay. I suppose I should accept that Nicole has truly made peace with her fate and not interfere. My going to visit her may disrupt her contentment.”
“Nicole does seem to enjoy her time in the infirmary. She showed no interest in herb lore before, did she?”
“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.
S
HARI
A
NTON
’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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Fall 2006.
England 1145
N
ot 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.
