by Shari Anton
“A handsome gift,” Chester commented, still frowning in disapproval. Though the earl stared at the ring, clearly he meant the entire royal gift.
Alberic bent over and wiped the blood from his sword on the long grass, his stomach tightening as it always did when he spoke to Chester.
“A handsome gift, indeed. My mind would be easier about accepting it all if I knew what game the king plays.”
The earl shrugged a broad shoulder. “Simple enough. He believes he has now purchased your loyalty, and thereby firmly fixed mine.”
Then the king believed wrongly, the grandiose gift given for naught. Alberic glanced at the bodies of the baron and his son. The two had fought and died together for the same cause, loyal to each other to the very end. With either father or son, the king might have struck a bargain and gained the cooperation of the other. The same steadfastness could not be assumed regarding Ranulf de Gernons and his bastard.
“Then the king does not know you very well.”
“Nay, he does not. I wish you good fortune in claiming your prize.”
The earl walked off, shouting orders to his men to fetch carts to carry the wounded, to begin burying the dead, to march the prisoners back to camp.
Prisoners Alberic would soon have to take charge of.
He took a deeper than normal breath, the problems associated with his new position beginning to surface. The faces of the men he’d recently fought against twisted with varying degrees of defeat, anger, resentment, and despair.
He needed only one of Sir Hugh’s soldiers to lead him to Camelen. Would it be the pikeman who sat cross-legged in the mud, his head bowed into his hands, or the elderly knight who might understand that a man submitted to shifts of circumstances and accepted the changes wrought by war? Surely, if one man of Camelen swore allegiance to the new lord, others might, too, if only for the chance to return home.
Not that he could wholly trust the word of a one of them.
Accepting the king’s gifts had been as easy as taking an oath; gaining possession of them wouldn’t be so simple. Not only did he have to get to Camelen, but somehow get through the gate without someone on the battlements taking umbrage and shooting an arrow through his heart.
Alberic again inspected the ring, the garnet winking at him from atop the onyx, the dragon’s claws seeming to dig deep into his gut. He’d come by the ring and Camelen fairly and honestly, but he knew others would feel he’d stolen them.
Too bad. Camelen was now his, and he would make his claim. How to go about it merely required a bit of careful thought and planning, something he was very good at.
Atop Camelen’s battlements, Gwendolyn de Leon adjusted the ill-fitting helm in a vain attempt to keep the nose guard from interfering with her sight.
She understood Sir Sedwick’s insistence that she wear the helm—and the shirt of chain mail her brother had worn as a young squire—whenever she ventured onto the battlements. During times of war one took precautions against threats. Except she saw no immediate danger to either Camelen or her person, merely two knights atop palfreys riding over the field separating the castle from the woodland beyond. One of the two, Sir Garrett, she had no trouble identifying.
For a few moments she focused on the woodland, hoping either her father or her brother would emerge, too. Neither did.
“I do not like the looks of this, my lady,” Sedwick grumbled from beside her.
Her attention forced back to the field, Gwendolyn conceded that Sir Garrett shouldn’t be here, but rather with her father and brother defending Wallingford.
“Perhaps Father sent Garrett home with a message.”
In answer to her conjecture, Sedwick snorted through the battle-marred nose on his round face. “See you any sense of urgency? And why send two knights, one of whom we do not know, when a runner would have done? Nay, my lady. The very air stinks of trouble.”
“Then send someone out to learn their purpose before they come closer.”
“Without knowing who Garrett brings to our gate? His lordship would have my head on a pike were I to be so foolish. We will wait for Garrett to explain.”
Gwendolyn bit her bottom lip to hold her peace. She might be in charge of the household in her father’s absence, but Sedwick, her father’s steward, currently held sway over the defenses. The knight’s dour, suspicious nature made him perfect for the position, though she thought his current stance against lowering the drawbridge overly distrusting.
Sir Garrett certainly meant Camelen no harm. As for the knight who rode by his side, how much damage could one man do against thick stone walls and an armed garrison? He surely posed no menace.
The knight was tall, certainly, and young, she judged from the lack of bend to his back and his solid yet fluid seat in the saddle. His broad shoulders carried the weight of gleaming chain mail with ease. The belt of his scabbard circled a trim waist over narrow hips. Black leather riding gloves covered his hands.
He wore a helm, of course, concealing his hair, the nose guard obscuring his facial features. Except his jaw, which was both square and bold.
As the men traversed the field, Gwendolyn’s curiosity kept pace with her rising impatience until, finally, the men had no choice but to halt at the outer edge of the moat. She caught herself wondering further about the coloring of his hair and eyes when Sedwick’s shout halted her silly musings.
“You return to Camelen in strange manner, Sir Garrett.”
Garrett removed his helm and ran a hand through his steel-gray hair. Sweet mercy, the man looked weary unto dropping from his saddle!
“Not the manner of my choosing, Sedwick.” The weariness in Garrett’s voice matched his appearance, and for the first time since she’d been called to the battlements, Gwendolyn felt a twinge of apprehension. “We bear news best not shouted over the wall, so I would be most grateful if you would lower the drawbridge.”
Sedwick made no move to signal an affirming command to the guards posted near the giant winches that controlled the bridge’s thick chains.
“Who do you bring with you?”
“Christ’s blood, Sedwick, I will explain all after—”
Abruptly silenced by the young knight’s hand to his forearm, Garrett’s visage turned grimmer than before.
“I am Sir Alberic of Chester,” the knight answered, his voice deep and clear, easily carrying up to the battlements without strain. “By my oath, I mean Camelen and its people no harm.”
“And I shall vouchsafe his oath,” Garrett stated.
Sedwick’s eyebrow arched sharply. “My lady, if this Sir Alberic is of Chester, then he is a king’s man and so our enemy. Yet Garrett bids us allow him entry! I like this not.”
All true and worrisome. Her father firmly believed in the right of King Henry’s daughter, Maud, to the English crown. He considered King Stephen the usurper and traitor for having swiftly claimed his uncle’s crown at Henry’s death. Ranulf de Gernons, the earl of Chester, had recently thrown the weight of his earldom behind King Stephen, infuriating her father, who’d vowed to present Chester’s head to Maud on a gold platter.
Nay, Sir Hugh de Leon wouldn’t be pleased if a man of Chester were allowed inside Camelen. And yet, Sir Alberic came in the company of Sir Garrett, a man her father trusted completely. And the young knight was willing to enter a hostile, fully garrisoned castle, so he must have a very good reason. The news the two wished to impart must be important and, she feared, grave indeed.
“Truly, Sedwick, what harm can come of Sir Alberic’s entry? Garrett vouches for him, and I doubt any knight is slow-witted enough to challenge an entire garrison. I say we allow him inside.”
Sedwick hesitated a moment more before tossing up a hand, signaling the guards to lower the drawbridge. The winches groaned and chains clanged as the heavy door of wide planks began its decent.
Gwendolyn swiftly headed for the gate tower stairway, removing the helm that had pressed hard against her thick braid and giving her head instant relief. S
he handed the detested headpiece to the page who’d held her veil and circlet, deciding to leave on the chain mail. Time enough to take it off after she heard Garrett’s news.
The bridge thudded to the earth, sending her scurrying down the stairway, Sedwick and several guards close behind. By the time she reached the bailey, Garrett and his companion had crossed the bridge.
She halted at the base of the gate tower, her curiosity centered on the young knight who’d removed his helm, which struck her as arrogantly confident he wasn’t in any danger.
And sweet mercy, Alberic possessed a riveting countenance.
He looked about him, taking in his surroundings with eyes as green as summer grass. Wheat-blond hair skimmed the wide shoulders she’d noted earlier, and framed a swarthy-skinned visage that had undoubtedly quickened the beat of many a careless maiden’s heart.
Gwendolyn wasn’t careless, having learned from her parents the importance of holding her heart on tight rein. So she appreciated Alberic’s handsomeness as if admiring a finely sculpted statue, choosing to ignore the faster beat of her pulse.
She could tell nothing of his thoughts during his perusal of the castle and contents of the bailey. Then he turned to look at her, and his eyes narrowed in disapproval at the sight of her chain mail.
Understandable, she supposed, and of no importance. What he thought of her strange garb mattered not.
Garrett, who’d looked weary from a distance, looked nigh on haggard up close, but not for all the gold in the kingdom would she embarrass the proud knight by fussing over him.
The knights dismounted, Garrett with the difficulty of age, Alberic with the grace of a skilled horseman.
Garrett attempted a smile. “Thought that was you on the battlements, Lady Gwendolyn. A welcoming sight to these unworthy, weary eyes.”
Now wasn’t the time for smiles and gallantry.
“You bring news, Garrett. What has happened?”
Garrett took a long, steadying breath. “The worst news, I fear. My lady, I am given the sad duty of informing you that your father and brother have . . . fallen.”
Nay! Sweet Jesu, nay!
For several long moments Gwendolyn could only stare at Garrett, unable to breathe, struggling to deny what she couldn’t possibly have heard. Then Sedwick cursed, mocking her feeble attempt at disbelief. Grief hit hard. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. To keep herself upright, she grabbed hold of Garrett’s forearm.
“Fallen? Both?” she asked, almost choking on the words.
“In battle, near Wallingford.”
Briefly her thoughts flew to her sisters. The elder, Emma, and the youngest, Nicole. Orphans, all of us.
But not poor, and not without resources. Father had been most specific on her course of action should the worst happen.
Gwendolyn palmed away her tears, forcefully setting aside her grief. Later she would mourn, but now she must see to her duty to her loved ones, and then to the legacy.
With her father gone, she alone could ensure the safety and continuation of the legacy.
“Where are they?” she asked of Garrett, relieved to hear her voice sounded stronger.
“On a cart in the woodland.” Then he sighed and put his free hand over Gwendolyn’s. “We brought Hugh and William home for burial. However, we cannot bring them into the castle until we are assured all at Camelen are prepared to accept their new lord.”
Shock left her speechless. Gwendolyn soon reasoned out who that new lord must be.
Sir Alberic of Chester.
She glared at the knight she’d witlessly allowed entrance. “You have no right to Camelen. My father’s will clearly states that if William does not survive him on his death, Father’s estates should be divided between his three daughters. Emma is entitled to the castle as her dowry, and Nicole and I to our proper portion of manors and fees. I suggest you seek your fortune elsewhere!”
“In time of peace, or had Sir Hugh supported the rightful king, then his will might have been honored,” Alberic said in his deep, rumbling voice that now held a surprising and unwanted note of sympathy. “Unfortunately, your father rebelled against the king from whom he held the charters for his estates, which gives King Stephen the right to seize and dispense the lands as he chooses.”
Garrett’s hand pressed down on hers where she still clutched his arm. “Sir Alberic is right, my lady. I witnessed the gifting. We have no recourse.”
She snatched her hand away, distraught Sir Garrett could so blithely abandon his loyalty to her father in favor of an upstart knight.
“What if we do not accept this new lord, Garrett? What stops us from tossing him out the gate and raising the drawbridge?”
Garrett, damn his hide, looked to Alberic, who answered.
“The king kindly allowed a company of royal soldiers to accompany me. They are in the woodland, guarding the men of Camelen who survived the skirmish and the cart bearing your father and brother. If I do not give their captain the signal to bring all into the castle, he will take everyone back to Wallingford for King Stephen to dispense with at his whim.”
Gwendolyn’s heart sank. “You dare hold the bodies of the lords of Camelen hostage? My father deserves a lord’s burial in the church! My brother beside him! ’Tis unconscionable for you to deny them—”
“I do not deny them, my lady. Too many men of Camelen have already been lost—”
“How many?”
His countenance softened. “We bring sixty-three survivors with us, many with wounds. That I know of, five chose not to return and went on their way. Three were wounded too severely to chance the trip. I expect they will be buried at Wallingford with the others.”
Gwendolyn quickly calculated, her heartache deepening. She looked to Garrett for confirmation. “Thirty-two men lost?”
He nodded. “One knight, several squires, including your father’s and mine. The rest foot soldiers.”
Sweet Jesu! So many. So very many.
Alberic continued. “So you see why I wish a peaceful transfer of lordship, my lady. Once done, you are free to bury Sir Hugh and William with all the honor and ceremony they deserve.” Then he turned to Garrett. “Tell the captain of the guard to disarm the garrison. Until I am assured of the men’s loyalty to me, only royal troops will carry weapons. Any man not willing to swear loyalty must leave by nightfall on the morrow.”
Garrett bowed. “So it shall be, my lord.”
My lord. God’s blood, Garrett had truly gone over to the enemy! All those lives lost fighting an enemy of which Alberic had to be one, all for naught. How could he?
Gwendolyn opened her mouth to protest; Sedwick’s hand landed gently on her shoulder.
“My lady, your father always knew he might one day suffer retribution for his part in the rebellion. It appears the day has come, and ’tis we who must pay the price. If what Garrett and Sir Alberic say is true, then we have no choice but to bow to our fate.”
Gwendolyn closed her eyes and willed tears of anger and despair not to fall. If both Sedwick and Garrett, two of her father’s most trusted retainers and advisers, conceded the battle to Alberic, then he’d won the day.
She glared at the knight who usurped her father’s estates, and damned his cruelty in holding those she held dear as hostages against her cooperation.
Someday, when Maud won her crown, justice would be served. The usurper displaced. Camelen and its lands returned to the rightful heirs: she and her sisters.
For the nonce, she had no choice but to acknowledge Alberic of Chester’s lordship of Camelen, but swore she would never, ever recognize him as her lord. Thanks to the same father who’d lost Camelen to another man, she had resources of her own with which to flee and a safe haven awaiting her.
Soon after she retrieved the ring from her father’s hand, she must leave Camelen. While leaving her home and sisters behind would hurt deeply, go she would. The legacy, and the fate of all England, might depend upon her success.
Chapter Two
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AMEN,” GWENDOLYN SAID IN RELIEF, closing the bed-chamber door behind the departing priest. “I thought he would never leave us alone.”
Emma pushed back the green velvet coverlet, revealing her buxom nakedness, and eased her legs over the side of the bed. “He certainly gave me no comfort.”
Father Paul had stumbled over his words, the prayers he murmured with the intention of easing their grief having little effect at all. But then, perhaps the grief was simply too new and heavy for easing.
Gwendolyn helped her sister rise, grasping Emma’s forearm to lend support. “One cannot judge Father Paul too harshly, Em. He did what he thought right, though I admit a prayer or two less would have done. Nicole, fetch Emma’s chemise and surcoat.”
Ten-year-old Nicole nimbly jumped down from the chair she’d slid under the window slit, where she watched for signs that their father and brother were being brought into the bailey. Her wide brown eyes were reddened and puffy from weeping, a condition she shared with her older sisters.
Nicole handed over the chemise, then announced, “I say we get a sword and run him through.”
Emma gasped and sank down onto the bed. Shocked as well, Gwendolyn could only stare at the girl. Certes, Nicole tended to act first and consider the repercussions afterward, but the suggestion was beyond belief!
“Do you truly believe the priest deserves death for faulty prayers?”
Nicole placed her hands on her hips, ire twisting her pert, bow-shaped mouth. “Not Father Paul, this new lord. He is surely mean and . . . and evil. We cannot allow him . . .”
Fresh tears threatened to fall when Nicole’s bottom lip began to tremble. Gwendolyn wrapped the angry, fear-filled child in an embrace and strove for a soothing tone.
Not easy, given her own distress.
“Hush, now. Murder is not a solution.”
Nicole sniffed. “Why ever not? The king’s men killed Papa and William, did they not? And is this Alberic not a king’s man?”
The king’s men most certainly had killed their loved ones, and many more, and Sir Alberic undoubtedly was the enemy. Gwendolyn’s anger and grief threatened to overpower the need to chastise Nicole.