by Shari Anton
Father had known the importance of her marrying a man she could love, and whose heart would be faithful to her in return. He’d been utterly convinced Madog ap Idwal suited Gwendolyn perfectly. The seal of the dragon was meant for such a man, not for an upstart knight chosen by the usurper king of England!
So why hadn’t her father and Madog made the betrothal bargain formal, put the terms of the agreement to parchment, or set the wedding date earlier? Had they done their duty, she wouldn’t now be fretting over marrying the wrong man and thus endangering the legacy. Neither of which she could allow to happen.
Why me? God’s truth, she wished she hadn’t asked!
Alberic’s passing over Nicole as a wife she understood. Not only was Nicole very young but, sweet heaven above, she’d tried to kill him. But Alberic should have chosen Emma, the eldest of them, as his wife! Emma was pretty, and bright, and far more suited to be a baron’s wife despite her horrible but infrequent headaches. The insult couldn’t be borne!
Sweet mercy, she dare not feel compassion for the man who intended to send her sisters away from Camelen; who’d brushed off her betrothal as if a crumb of bread on his tunic.
The man who’d killed her brother. For that reason alone she must steel her heart against any sympathy for Alberic.
“My lady.”
Garrett’s softly spoken greeting startled her. So deeply had she been lost in thought she didn’t hear his approach.
“Garrett.”
He leaned against the cold stone, ignoring the lovely view in favor of studying her. “Lady Emma wonders where you are.”
“Has Nicole left off her wailing?”
“Mostly.”
“Then perhaps I will go into the hall . . . later.”
But not to eat. Given her upset, whatever she might put down would surely come up again.
They stood side by side in silence, Gwendolyn cognizant of how faithfully the elder knight had served her father, and aware of his many courtesies toward her and her siblings. Then he’d brought Alberic to Camelen, even agreed to serve as the usurper’s counselor, and betrayed them all thoroughly.
Her anger and frustration spilled over. “Nothing is as it should be!”
“Nothing has been as it should be since King Henry died and Stephen stole the throne. Why he believed he could take the kingdom without suffering resistance—”
“I care not for the kingdom! I mean here, at Camelen. Father and William are dead and now we have our own usurper! Dear God, Garrett, could you not have lost Alberic along the way?”
“I could have, but then we might have the king himself to deal with, and angry kings cause great havoc.”
“Alberic is no better. He killed William, did he not? And he proposes to dispense us without our consent, and expects us to obey like . . . like sheep to the shearing!”
“He has no choice.”
“So he says!”
Garrett’s deep sigh reflected her own feelings of powerlessness.
“Gwendolyn, I know you hurt. You all hurt, as do I. But you must know that Alberic did not set out to take William’s life. Your father . . . aw, hell.”
His hesitation gave her pause. Garrett didn’t want to tell her something he felt she should hear. To spare her further agony? So like Garrett. Emma was right; she shouldn’t be blaming him for their current coil.
“I beg pardon, Garrett. I know you are not responsible for the actions of others. Pray tell me, what of my father?”
Several heartbeats passed before he answered. “Sir Hugh was determined to break the siege, and thought eliminating the earl of Chester the best way to begin. He was sure that with Chester dead the three hundred knights in his force would go home, leaving the king’s army weakened. Hugh might have been right, but his obsession with killing Chester himself blinded him to all else. When he should have surrendered the field, he fought on, and when he fell, William took up his standard and refused to yield. God’s truth, Gwendolyn, Alberic happened to be the last to cross swords with your brother. He merely defended himself while protecting the life of . . . the earl, just as several of our men died trying to protect Hugh and William.”
He sounded so reasonable. In her head she understood, had even used the same reasoning with Nicole. Death on the battlefield wasn’t considered murder. Even if her father had taken a bullheaded approach, leading to his own death and many others, her heart yet cried for the unfairness of it all.
“That may be, but I cannot bring myself to forget it was Alberic who took William’s life. Whether on purpose or no, it was his sword that cut William down. You cannot ask me to accept the man as my lord.”
“You have a generous heart, Gwendolyn. Perhaps in time you will find forgiveness.”
Gwendolyn saw no need to tell him she doubted she could forgive Alberic anytime soon. Indeed, even before she’d known of his involvement with William’s death, she hadn’t been unhappy that some unknown archer had taken umbrage at Alberic’s lordship.
She couldn’t allow her heart to soften. She couldn’t weaken. For her sisters’ sake, for her own.
“You truly believe the king ordered Alberic to separate us?”
“As I said before, I have no reason not to believe.”
“Is there no way to counter the order? If we petitioned the king to reconsider, would he?”
“Possibly. When at court, Emma will be in a position to do so.”
In a position, aye, but would Emma want to? From her sister’s reaction, Gwendolyn didn’t think Emma was particularly upset about being sent to court. Still, Emma might petition the king on Nicole’s behalf. The girl definitely did not want to enter a nunnery.
So many questions, too few answers.
“Might I suggest you speak with Lord Alberic this eve,” Garrett said gently. “He has not yet issued orders for me to leave for London, nor has he decided where to send Nicole. As his future wife, you might have some influence over him. Perhaps, if you can warrant Nicole’s behavior, he may let you keep the girl here.”
Except Gwendolyn wasn’t to be Alberic’s wife, so she wouldn’t be here to take care of Nicole. She might not have time to come up with a solution, either, depending upon how long it took her to convince Alberic to hand over the ring.
“Is Alberic easily influenced?”
Garrett thought that over for a moment. “During the journey from Wallingford we discussed much. I noted that he listened intently to all I told him, then formed his own judgments. In truth, I would say he is far more patient and tolerant than many of the men to whom the king might have entrusted Camelen. ’Tis my opinion that if given the chance he will make a good lord, might even make you a fine husband.”
Garrett’s full acceptance of Alberic was irritating. That she agreed with some of his statements was irksome, particularly when she remembered Alberic’s patience and tolerance when dealing with Nicole. But just because Alberic might make a good lord didn’t mean he’d make her a good husband!
No matter. There would be no wedding.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ask Alberic about his plans—especially about when he intended to send off Emma and Nicole. Surely he would allow them to stay for the “wedding,” which would give her a week to sort things through.
And she still had to get the ring, which might be the hardest task of all. He’d refused it to her twice already. But persuade him she must, using whatever influence she possessed with the lonely man occupying the lord’s bedchamber.
Knowing her sisters were taking supper in their bedchamber, Gwendolyn slid into Emma’s chair at the high table, confident in her plan to convince Alberic to give over the ring.
All she needed was for the man to appear.
The tables were readied for supper, each covered in white cloth. Baskets of fragrant bread and bowls of sweet butter awaited the diners. A spoon, tankard, and bread trencher had been laid at each place.
More people gathered for supper than in past days. All of the household knights had now sworn all
egiance to Alberic and were allowed their weapons and the freedom of the castle. And tonight the villages’ officials, the bailiffs and reeves, had been summoned to sup with their lord.
If not for the arrow Alberic had stuck in the pillar yesterday, one could hardly tell anything had changed from when Sir Hugh de Leon was lord. However, the arrow reminded all that not everyone was at peace with the change of lordship, and Gwendolyn was content to leave the arrow there to keep the memory alive.
Alberic came down the stairs, his expression puzzled when he spotted her. Odell took up his post behind the dais to watch for trouble.
Though it damn near killed her, she smiled sweetly when Alberic sat down next to her in her father’s chair.
He smelled of soap, his facial hair freshly scraped with nary a nick on his rugged jaw. His dark blond hair was neatly combed. A new tunic of deep blue linen fitted him perfectly across his broad shoulders, the color striking against the sun-touched hue of his skin and the green of his eyes.
She hadn’t been this close to him since the night of the vigil and had forgotten about those tingles of awareness she’d felt when first meeting him. She used the precious seconds during the priest’s recital of grace to suppress the tingling’s renewal.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this eve, my lady? Is Emma ill?”
Even the deep rumble of his voice affected her more profoundly when this close. She commanded her pulse to slow and the fluttering in her stomach to cease.
Alberic might be a handsome devil, possessed of an enticing appeal, but she must consider him a sheep to be shorn. Except she’d never wielded the heavy, sharp shears. She would have to be careful, remain in command.
“Nay. We decided to allow all to have peace at their meal, so Emma sups with Nicole in our bedchamber. Wine, Sir Alberic?” Gwendolyn picked up the flagon and filled his goblet. “Cook tells me you requested dove. A fine choice.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow. “A compliment, too? How intriguing.”
Her false smile slipped a bit.
“I endeavor to put my troubles aside for an hour or two. Is that wrong of me?”
“Not at all, my lady.” He raised a hand, signaling the servants to begin hauling platters of food to the tables. “If a peaceful, pleasant meal keeps the smile on your face, then I shall endeavor to aid you.”
He poured her wine, a dark, musky-scented red from Burgundy, then lifted his goblet toward her.
“Shall we drink to continued peace at Camelen?”
A sentiment she approved. No matter what the future brought, she wished Camelen peace. God’s truth, she would miss her home and all the people in it when she left. In danger of becoming maudlin, she raised her goblet. “To Camelen.”
The wine went down smoothly and tasted different. Her surprise must have shown.
“Like it?” he asked.
“I do. A new cask?”
“Nay. I merely asked the butler to add sugar and clove to that served at high table. I like my wine sweeter than most.”
So he’d inspected the cellar, too. His cellar now. But she could hardly fault him for the change; the wine did taste better, more palatable.
For their first course he chose almond fish stew for their bowls, and figs stuffed with eggs and bits of baked salmon for their trenchers.
She’d never been fond of figs, so she used her eating knife to cut her portion into tiny pieces she could swallow whole and wash down with wine.
“A pretty knife,” he commented.
“Did you not notice Emma’s? They match. Nicole’s, too.”
“Nicole’s, too, hmmm?”
She probably shouldn’t have reminded him that Nicole yet retained her eating knife. At least the girl no longer had the dagger. Alberic did.
“I meant to ask if you objected to our hanging Father’s and William’s swords and daggers in their place of honor. ’Tis tradition.”
He glanced around the hall at the various weapons arranged in patterns. “Where?”
She knew exactly where they should be placed, and leaned toward him to point out an incomplete circle of swords. Her shoulder bumped his, and immediately she felt his warmth, somehow soothing and discomfiting at the same time. She instantly backed away.
“The swords should go there,” she managed to say.
Gallantly ignoring her retreat, Alberic stared at the circle as if deep in thought. “I meant to ask Garrett about the weapons. Did they all belong to lords of Camelen?”
“The swords and daggers did. Of the others, some were given to my father as gifts, and some he bought because he admired them. A few belonged to my mother’s Welsh ancestors. I fear I do not know which is which. Garrett or Sedwick might.”
“Impressive.” He took a healthy swallow of wine. “We will hang the weapons, but not until matters are more settled.”
Not until the possibility of an organized rebellion was less likely, he meant. Until then, he apparently wanted no further honors done to Hugh and William. That might take months, too long for Gwendolyn’s peace of mind.
“I had hoped to do so tomorrow, to have done with it. Would that not be best?”
“Tomorrow I ride for Shrewsbury. I need to visit the abbey, the sheriff, and the king’s castellan at Shrewsbury Castle.”
She understood the politics of his plan, but not the timing.
“With the archer still on the loose? Is that wise?”
“I refuse to allow one misguided villain to trap me in the keep. I will take several men as guard, so if our rogue attacks again, we will catch him.”
This made her wonder if he hoped to draw out the archer, using himself as bait. Was Alberic brave or reckless? She dismissed the concern for his safety as imprudent softening she couldn’t allow. Especially when his leaving increased the urgency of her obtaining the ring tonight.
The first course finished, Gwendolyn dipped her fingers into the water basin. As did Alberic. Sharing wash water with a male partner had never bothered her before. With Alberic it somehow seemed intimate even though they never touched.
Hands dry, Alberic poured more wine, filling both goblets, then called for another flagon.
For the second course he chose the roasted dove he’d requested, rice with almond cream, and elderberry cakes.
She adored elderberry cakes, and the second goblet of wine went the way of the first.
“Have you lived at Camelen all of your life?” he asked.
“Aye. My mother preferred not to foster us, so I was raised here, though I have seen some of the kingdom. London and York. I fear I was too young to remember much of them. And several times we made the trip to Wales, most times to Snowdonia. What of you? Did you foster at Chester?”
His half smile took on that lonely quality she’d promised herself she wouldn’t heed.
“Not in the usual way, but aye, I spent my youth in and around the castle.” His smile then softened. “By the by, Mistress Biggs wishes you to know the villagers miss you.”
The change of subject was abrupt, but the sentiment warmed her heart, even as she realized Alberic must speak English, a rarity for a Norman.
Her father never bothered to learn the language of the peasants, while Gwendolyn had been intrigued by the various words one could use to say the same thing. Norman-French, Latin, Welsh, and English. She could converse in them all, and the talent had served her well.
“Little Edward suffered from a nasty fever last fall. I feared we might lose him. His mother and I spent many an hour hovering over him.”
“Ah, I met the lad. Adorable little urchin.”
That he was. Cute and lively, he was the model for the little boy she would like to have some day. She would miss him, and the thought had her reaching for her third goblet of wine.
As she sipped, she looked out over the diners. Some ate with relish, others engaged in lively conversation with those around them. It was then she noticed the laughter, a lively sound that had been missing from the hall for several da
ys.
When the platter containing cheese, dried fruit, and nuts was presented, and the wine in her goblet replenished for the fourth time, Rhys began to play his harp. Belly full, head fuzzy, feeling languid and peaceful, Gwendolyn leaned back in her chair to listen to the melody.
Alberic interrupted her peace. “Sedwick told me Camelen boasted a Welsh bard. What does he sing of?”
For a moment, Gwendolyn paid attention to the words. “He sings of a Welsh chieftain named Vortigen and his battles against the Saxons. That is how the Welsh keep their history alive, through the bards.”
He nodded. “To appreciate the tales I shall have to learn the language, I own.”
Taken aback, she asked, “You intend to learn Welsh?”
“Seems sensible to me. After all, you are part Welsh, and I should hate to have my wife tell me something I do not understand.”
How odd, and very sweet that he should plan to undertake learning a language to please her. Or rather, to please the woman he thought would be his wife. A thoughtful gesture. Rare for a man. Would Madog ap Idwal be as gallant as Alberic? Perhaps. After all, her father would have chosen a thoughtful man as her betrothed, would he not?
’Twas disconcerting that she didn’t know. Her father had only described ap Idwal, told her of the extent of his lands, then assured her of their suitability.
Surely her father’s assurance should set her mind at ease over her betrothed’s suitability.
Alberic stuck a finger in the air. “Which reminds me, I ought to quell the speculation I understand runs rampant from bailey to village.”
“What speculation?”
He didn’t answer, but stood up as the strum of the harp signaled the end of the song. When he lifted his goblet, the hall went utterly silent, and a shiver of apprehension banished Gwendolyn’s languor.
“Good people of Camelen,” he called out. “Some of you are wondering about an upcoming event. I hear wagers have been placed on the possible dates. All well and good. I wish you all good fortune.”
The smattering of laughter didn’t quell her misgivings.
He raised the goblet higher. “I know you will all join me in a salute to the lovely Lady Gwendolyn, who will become my wife seven days hence.”