by Shari Anton
Gwendolyn released Nicole slightly in order to sit down on the bed next to Emma, who’d managed to put on her chemise. She shouldn’t be out of bed. One could still see the glaze of pain in Emma’s eyes, sense what it cost her to rise. Just leaning forward to take her surcoat from where it draped over Nicole’s shoulder caused her to pale.
Nay, Emma shouldn’t have to suffer so, and Nicole shouldn’t be driven to violence. And Gwendolyn wished she didn’t have to be the strongest among them, again.
Damn war. Father and William shouldn’t both be dead. But they were, leaving the de Leon daughters to grapple with the aftermath as best they could. Leaving Gwendolyn to hold heart and hearth together for the time left to her.
Gwendolyn swallowed her distress, grasped hold of Nicole’s hands, and prayed for the strength to find the right words.
“Father and William were . . . killed by the king’s men, ’tis true. But they fell in battle, with honor. There is no honor in murder, Nicole. Besides, we know not how they died, or at whose hand. But mark my words, ’tis probable they gave a good accounting of themselves. Never doubt that more than one king’s man suffered the same fate as Father and William.”
Knowing her father, he’d probably been in the thick of the fray, William close at his heels, their pride allowing nothing less. And look where pride led them: to their deaths.
“Would that this war would end,” Emma said softly. “No more deaths, honorable or no. No families left to grieve.”
“Stephen should surrender the crown to Maud,” Nicole declared, mimicking an opinion heard often from their father, a sentiment his daughters shared.
“Aye, but that is not likely to happen soon.” Gwendolyn pulled Nicole in for a brief but heartfelt hug. “Nor can we do aught about it just now.”
But you might be able to now, a little voice whispered. Gwendolyn roughly shoved the nagging thought aside. No sense contemplating invoking the legacy to put an end to the war. At least not for the nonce. All of the conditions hadn’t yet been met and wouldn’t be until she reached her betrothed.
Nicole nodded her acceptance of her powerless state, then asked, “Will Sir Alberic allow us to stay? What will become of us?”
Gwendolyn wished she had an answer to allay what she realized might be Nicole’s worst fear, that the new lord might banish her from her beloved home.
“I know not for certain, but that is for Emma and I to worry over, not you. We will see you taken care of no matter what happens. Can you trust in us?”
Again Nicole nodded, though she looked no less concerned.
Indeed, what choice did the girl have but to trust her older sisters? Their mother had died ten years ago, shortly after Nicole’s birth, leaving the babe in the hands of a disinterested father, a loving but hapless brother, and two sisters who were more than eager to try their hand at mothering. Gwendolyn hoped they hadn’t done a bad job of it and ruined the imp beyond repair.
Sweet Jesu, may we all find the strength to bear whatever is to come.
She squeezed Nicole’s hands. “Go back to the window and watch while I braid Em’s hair.”
Nicole assumed her post at the window slit without comment, an oddity for her, a measure of her upset.
Emma used Gwendolyn’s shoulder as support when she rose, and Gwendolyn worried over Emma’s ability to withstand the next few hours without collapsing.
“Perhaps you should return to bed. Nicole and I can—”
“And have it whispered about that Sir Hugh de Leon’s eldest daughter gave her father and brother less tribute than their due? Never. Help me with my surcoat.”
If Emma was determined to see this through, then she would. Such was the power of her will. Would that her aching head succumb to that will. Unfortunately, the sick headaches ran their own course, sometimes lasting for several days. Rest and herbal potions made them bearable, but nothing they’d tried over the years could give complete relief.
Surcoat in place, Emma shuffled over to the stool. Gwendolyn fetched the ivory comb and eased it though the tangles, knowing every tug must hurt.
Emma rubbed at her brow. “The new lord, this Sir Alberic. Is he evil?”
Gwendolyn bit back a hasty, hateful comment about evil lurking in the hearts of all men; an answer Emma’s question might have evoked from Father Paul. Now was not the time to let loose her temper, not with Nicole in the chamber.
“I think not.” And not unfeeling, she had to admit. Alberic had expressed genuine sympathy for her loss, which she hadn’t wanted to hear from the man who’d benefited greatly from her grievous misfortune.
“Young? Old?”
“Perhaps a bit older than you.”
“Ancient, then.”
Gwen smiled at the attempted jest by a woman a mere two years older than herself. “Aye, beyond prime for certain.”
“Bad tempered?”
“Not today.” But from the solid set of his jaw, she didn’t doubt Sir Alberic could be driven to bad temper. Truly, he’d shown stoic patience throughout her outbursts. Her own father wouldn’t have allowed the loud, sharp barbs she’d tossed Alberic’s way, and her father had allowed all of his daughters to speak their minds—to a point.
“What else must I know?” Emma asked.
Gwendolyn glanced at Nicole and lowered her voice. “Thirty-two others died at Wallingford.”
Emma crossed herself. “Lord have mercy.”
“The battle must have been horrific. I cannot help but wonder what part Sir Alberic played that the king saw fit to grant him Camelen.”
Emma waved a dissenting hand. “Likely none at all. Kings do not grant baronies for performance in battle. We must assume Alberic is a highly placed noble and likely a king’s favorite long before Wallingford. Camelen is quite a prize for one so young.”
All quite true. “When he rode through the gate he looked around him, inspecting the place. I could not tell if he liked what he saw of Camelen or not.”
Gwendolyn put down the comb, separated Emma’s thick mass of silken, reddish-brown hair, and began braiding, all the while pondering her other impressions of Sir Alberic of Chester. His expression hadn’t revealed his thoughts, at least not until he’d spotted her wearing chain mail. To that he’d reacted with definite dislike.
“I can tell you Sir Alberic does not approve of women wearing chain mail.”
Emma glanced at the trunk into which Gwendolyn had placed the mail shirt, where it would remain until needed again by either sister. “Most men would object, I suppose, but it affords us protection.”
It did, even if Gwendolyn disliked wearing the heavy chain mail. She handed her sister the end of the waist-length braid. “Hold this,” she ordered, then took the two steps toward the table to fetch a strip of leather.
When she turned back to Emma, she noted her sister’s puzzled expression.
“What?” she asked gently.
“Father held Camelen and his other manors by royal charter,” Emma said slowly, obviously sorting thoughts as she spoke. “With Father and William . . . gone, we become royal wards. A frightening thought.”
Frightening, indeed. But where Emma and Nicole faced an uncertain future, Gwendolyn had no choice in her course.
Not for the first time since their mother’s death did Gwendolyn wish she could confide in Emma. But only now did she resent being her mother’s choice as guardian of the legacy, which she alone knew about and must guard with her life if need be.
A pendant for the woman. A ring for the man. A scroll bearing instructions on how to recall King Arthur from Avalon during England’s darkest hour.
The pendant and scroll rested safely and secretly behind a loose brick in the bedchamber’s hearth. Once she retrieved her father’s ring, she must take all the artifacts to a place of safety in Wales, to her betrothed.
Gwendolyn had always understood and accepted that her duty to the legacy must come before all else. She just hadn’t realized that doing so might mean abandoning her sisters. Her h
eart broke for the loss, but she truly had no choice. She would have to leave Nicole to Emma’s care and pray the two came to no harm.
Despite Nicole’s fears of banishment from Camelen, Gwendolyn doubted Sir Alberic intended to blithely toss the daughters of Hugh de Leon out the gate. Control over the fates of high-born, unwed females was simply too valuable a right to squander away.
Emma again rubbed at her brow. “Damn ache. I need my wits about me and cannot think through the pain.”
Gwen fetched a cup from the small bedside table. “I know this has cooled, but if you drink the rest you might feel some relief.”
Emma’s nose scrunched with disgust. “Foul brew.”
“Merely willow bark in broth.”
Emma drank, her distaste for the herb-infused broth visibly rising with each sip. “There. Satisfied? Believe me, Gwen, no potion will ever cure what ails me! The headaches are my penance to bear. Now leave off!”
Stunned by Emma’s sharpness, Gwendolyn could think of no words to comfort her sister. The pain a penance? Surely not. Emma wasn’t thinking clearly. Pain mixed with grief must be muddling Emma’s thoughts beyond sense.
Into the silence, Nicole’s voice rang clear and somber.
“They come.”
Father Paul led the procession into Camelen’s crowded great hall, his steps in rhythm to a harp’s soulful song.
Alberic took his place, positioned directly behind the litter bearers and in front of the six guards chosen to stand first watch during the overnight vigil.
Sir Hugh and William were garbed in the armor in which they’d fallen, with their swords in their scabbards and their helmets placed between their feet. Their battered shields rested on their chests.
Alberic’s first impression of Camelen’s great hall was that someone had been overly enamored of weaponry. While he tried to concentrate on the small ceremony beginning the funeral rituals, he couldn’t help glance up and outward at the weapons hanging on the walls, on the six pillars supporting the roof’s arches, and from the roof’s support beams high above.
Groupings of swords, daggers, axes, lances, shields, crossbows, and claymores, most of them gleaming, all vied for his attention. Most spectacular were the swords, arranged in a stunning circle up high on the far wall.
Such a collection must have taken years to assemble, and the resulting effect of far-reaching and formidable power threatened to overwhelm the viewer. Likely each piece had its own tale to tell of victory or defeat, honor or shame, glory or disgrace. Someday he would have to ask Garrett, who walked stoic and somber at Alberic’s side, if he knew the tales attached to some of the weapons.
’Twould also be fascinating to learn why the lord of a wooden keep, surrounded by a thick, stone wall and a deep moat, located a mere few leagues south of Shrewsbury, had thrown his lot in with the rebellion when most of the shire supported the king. And if Hugh owned all these weapons, why hadn’t he armed a larger force of men to take with him to Wallingford?
Nagging questions that wouldn’t be answered today.
Gently, the litter bearers lowered the deceased lords of Camelen onto two trestle tables placed side by side in front of the dais. Beside the tables stood three females. He recognized the one in the center as Gwendolyn, who’d removed her chain mail. A startling sight, that, but the armor hadn’t detracted from her doe-eyed beauty one whit.
The other two must be her sisters, one a mere child.
From these three females he must choose a wife, but he had no time for more than a brief glance at them before the bearers bowed, then slipped away from the tables now become funeral biers.
The vigil guards took their positions. All done efficiently and quietly, with respect.
Along with Garrett, Alberic bowed his head and silently wished both father and son a speedy and safe journey to the hereafter.
Beg pardon, William. I did not mean . . .
Alberic squelched the guilt-induced apology. The two of them had met on the field of battle and crossed swords. In defending his own life he’d taken William’s. ’Twas not the first time he’d killed a man, and he could think of no other reason why he should be sorry other than this was the first time he’d observed funeral rites for his victim. And William’s death might continue to haunt his footsteps if the people of Camelen didn’t consider their new lord blameless in the old lord’s demise.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t any way to keep his part in William’s death a secret. The soldiers would talk among themselves. A servant would overhear. The tale would spread through the entire castle as fast as fire through dry brush.
Alberic wanted to avoid a revolt while establishing his lordship, but doubted the conversion would be completely peaceful, which was why he hadn’t removed his sword. And why he’d ordered all of Camelen’s soldiers disarmed until such time he no longer worried over being murdered in his bed. And why one of the king’s soldiers walked at his back.
Necessary precautions he hoped wouldn’t be necessary for too long.
So far, all had gone well and probably would continue to do so until after the burials, giving Alberic time to observe, assess, and take whatever preventive measures he deemed appropriate.
Again following Garrett’s lead, Alberic approached the priest and Hugh’s daughters, knowing all and sundry expected him to utter condolences.
Useless gestures. He well remembered that no words uttered by the villagers at his mother’s burial had made him feel less wretched, frightened, or alone.
During the long, somber ride from Wallingford, Garrett had provided bits of information, among them the daughters’ names and order of birth.
Indeed, the sisters crowded together for support. Emma and Nicole leaned inward, toward Gwendolyn. To prop her up or for succor? Whichever, they appeared as a cluster of feminine jewels in the masculine bedecked hall.
Exquisitely cut jewels. Their father had either indulged them outrageously or garbed them finely to proclaim his wealth.
To his surprise, Alberic saw nothing of the father in any of the daughters. All possessed fair skin and the wide, doe-like eyes he’d noticed of Gwendolyn earlier. He couldn’t help thinking their mother must have been quite a beauty.
A Welsh princess. Or so the king had said. Alberic still didn’t know whether or not to believe the family’s claim of heredity from King Arthur. However, he had no trouble believing the sisters came from Welsh heritage, and their bearing, especially Gwendolyn’s, was worthy of a princess.
All three wore chemises of the whitest linen, covered by silk surcoats of dove gray. Chains of gold links girdled their waists. Veils of a shimmery cloth he couldn’t name covered their heads, held in place by circlets of spun gold set with large, exquisite jewels, coming damn near close to crowns.
Topaz studded Emma’s circlet, putting Alberic in mind of the rising sun. The eldest—making her the expected choice for his wife—possessed a lovely face, graced by a full mouth. She was also amply endowed and wide-hipped. Desirable attributes in a wife for a man who needed heirs.
Young Nicole, with her emerald circlet slightly askew, snuggled up to Gwendolyn for comfort. She bore all the signs of becoming a great beauty, but was much too young to take on the immediate duties of a wife.
Glittering amethyst, the stones a pure, deep violet, adorned Gwendolyn’s circlet. Willow slender and graceful, she impressed him as sturdy yet flexible, able to endure life’s blows and then come right again. Perhaps he’d judged her too harshly in the bailey, put off by the sight of a woman draped in chain mail. In fully feminine garb, Gwendolyn was an enchanting vision.
Definitely suitable enough to wed and bed. According to Garrett, Hugh left her in charge of the household in his absence, so no one would need to become accustomed to a new mistress. And of all the females, she was the easiest to envision in his bed.
And of all the sisters, she paid him the least heed, staring hard at her father and brother.
Garrett bowed. “My ladies, I cannot fully express my
sorrow at this luckless turn of fortune. All I can do is assure you that Sir Hugh and William fought bravely and died honorably. May God have everlasting mercy on their souls.”
When Emma tried to smile at Garrett, Alberic sensed the pain that glazed her pale face was due to a physical hurt more than the depth of her grief. Was she ill?
“Sir Garrett,” she said, her voice strong despite the pain. “We thank you for bringing our father and brother back to us.”
“I wish the circumstances different, my lady. Escorting Lord Hugh to his final rest will be my privileged last service to a man I have served half of my lifetime. A good man, he was. A fair lord who will be missed by many.”
Then Garrett raised a hand, palm upward indicating the sisters. “Lord Alberic, may I present to you the ladies of the house of de Leon. Emma, Gwendolyn, and Nicole.”
Only then did Gwendolyn’s head turn, her red-rimmed eyes fixing him with a stare, as if wondering who he was and trying to remember if she’d seen him before. He dismissed the dent to his male pride as inconsequential. The woman obviously grieved deeply and must be allowed a lapse or two.
“I also offer my condolences, ladies. Loss of family is most difficult and distressing to bear. May Sir Hugh and William find peace in the hereafter.”
“Amen,” the priest intoned. “Shall we begin, my lord?”
It took Alberic a moment to realize whose permission the priest sought. He didn’t have to look around to know that everyone in the hall awaited his answer, the silence complete.
A heady sense of power flooded through him, knowing that in this hall his word was now law. Within an instant he could have everyone on their knees, groveling at his feet, as he’d seen the earl do when mightily displeased.
Alberic nodded his permission at the priest, then stepped off to the side to allow Emma, Gwendolyn, and Nicole full view of their father and brother.
The priest began the prayers. Alberic strove to listen attentively to the entreaties to God, Christ, and various saints to grant favor to Hugh and William. But God’s bones, how much help did Hugh and William need getting through heaven’s gate? A lot, apparently, given the priest’s many and earnest pleas for intercession for mercy on their souls.