by Shari Anton
Alberic breathed a sigh of relief that the messenger hadn’t uttered Chester’s name. Apparently the earl hadn’t yet left the king’s service so, for the nonce, Alberic needn’t worry over a royal change of mind. Camelen was still his, but for how long? If for some reason he were forced to take up arms to defend his right to the holding, would the men of Camelen fight beside him?
He glanced up at the circle of swords Gwendolyn had pointed out to him the other day, where she wished to hang Hugh’s and William’s swords. He noted the gleam of the weapons, knowing they’d belonged to former lords of Camelen.
Would his sword someday hang in that circle of honor, or would he be too small a part of Camelen’s history to be considered worthy?
Time to hang the swords.
Alberic generally heeded the prodding of instinct, and the more he considered the action, the more it made sense.
Of course, the swords of Sir Hugh de Leon and his son deserved their place among the others, and by hanging them he might earn a further measure of respect from the men who’d fought by their sides.
Too, and not an insignificant argument in favor of honoring Hugh and William de Leon, the ceremony would formally mark the end of one lord’s rule and the beginning of a new one.
Another possible result hit him upside the head and turned him around to stare at Gwendolyn, now seated in her chair at the dais, breaking her fast. He tried not to gloat as he crossed the hall and halted before the high table to gaze up at the lady he hadn’t yet been able to please.
Her spoon, filled with porridge, halted halfway to her mouth. Her somber, self-absorbed expression turned warily quizzical as she looked down at him.
“We spoke the other day of hanging your father’s and brother’s swords and daggers in the hall. Do you know where the weapons are stored?”
Her spoon lowered to the wooden bowl. “Aye.”
“Then send messengers to the villages and hamlets. Invite all to a feast and ceremony this noon to honor the fallen lords of Camelen. Can you make the arrangements within so little time?”
He’d stunned her, but she recovered quickly.
“I can.”
“Need you my assistance?”
She shook her head.
He nodded, then turned and strode toward the stairs.
Gwendolyn hadn’t reacted beyond surprise, but his intent to honor her father and brother surely must please her. She might not fall to her knees in gratitude, but he hoped they had taken a first step on the path to harmony.
And if not? Then perhaps no path existed and harmony was beyond them. The thought made him sad but no less determined to make Gwendolyn de Leon his wife.
He’d astonished her with the abrupt and thoroughly hopeless task of preparing a grand feast and fitting ceremony within the short space of four hours.
The man clearly didn’t comprehend the amount of time required to properly plan events, and Gwendolyn had almost told him so. Instead, part angry and part elated, she set out to accomplish the impossible.
Sending out messengers with the announcement had been easy. Accommodating a great number of people on such short notice proved taxing.
The poor baker had paled to the shade of his finest white flour, but he fired the ovens and rousted his helpers to provide enough loaves of bread for trenchers. The cook had nearly fainted. For several minutes they’d commiserated on the unfair, unimaginable task of cooking enough food in time to feed so many and then decided what to feed the tenants and what to serve at the upper tables. What the meal lacked in imagination and presentation would be made up in plentitude.
That they were using some of the supplies purchased for the wedding feast, now only two days hence and weighing heavily on Gwendolyn’s mind, didn’t bother her in the least. The ceremony to honor her father and brother was by far the more important to her. The other feast . . . well, she would deal with that later.
She’d set a lot of people to various tasks today, and now, standing next to Alberic beside the high table, garbed in her finest and listening to the strains of Rhys’s harp, she could see they’d all done their best to please her.
The hall was nearly as crowded as on the day of the burials. Had it been only eight days? It seemed longer, somehow.
White linen covered the multitude of trestle tables, the goblets, bowls, spoons, and baskets of bread already in place. In the arrangements she saw Emma’s deft hand, and she would have to thank her sister for the assistance, which might help put them on speaking terms again.
Despite their harsh words of last eve, Gwendolyn still loved Emma dearly. Though she didn’t like what Emma had done, she also realized her sister acted with the best of intentions, as was her way. Emma now stood with Garrett and Sedwick and Father Paul, all four awaiting their parts in the ceremony.
Nicole hovered near Emma, but she wouldn’t participate. Intentionally putting a sharp weapon in the girl’s hand might be too much for Alberic to tolerate.
On the wall, high up in the circle of swords, hung two new brackets, hurriedly and skillfully fashioned by the blacksmith and nailed in place by the fearless soldier who’d climbed the absurdly tall and creaky wooden ladder, and who must do so again to snug the swords into the brackets. Brackets for the daggers were also in place, but could be reached with a much shorter ladder.
On the table before her lay the four weapons, polished to brilliance by the two young men Alberic had chosen as his squires. Thomas and Roger had accepted the task as an honor, and not a hint of tarnish marred the blades or pommels. The squires now stood behind her and Alberic, officially replacing Odell, who, along with the king’s other soldiers, would return to Wallingford on the morrow.
Even Rhys had outdone himself, composing the soulful melody he played. The song yet lacked words, but Gwendolyn was confident that soon the names of Hugh and William de Leon would be set to music, their lives’ tale recorded for all time.
All was ready. The keep, the food, the people—and Alberic.
He wore the knee-length garnet silk tunic Emma had decorated with gold thread. He’d never before worn the girdle of gold links cinching his trim waist, nor the soft black leather shoes and the snug matching hose, all of which she assumed he’d purchased while in Shrewsbury.
He’d chosen his garb with care, and if Alberic had reasons of his own for a display of splendor, she didn’t mind. His attire proclaimed that he considered the occasion one of importance, and for that alone she could hug him.
’Struth, she could hug him for simply granting this one wish of hers—to allow the weapons their place of honor—proving he possessed a generous heart.
Both Emma and Garrett had praised Alberic’s virtues, and Gwendolyn had noticed many for herself. If not for her duty toward the legacy, she might not have been so set against the marriage.
Emma might believe Gwendolyn’s resistance to the marriage the reason for last night’s attempt to escape. And while Emma might have played a part in the thwarting, the stubborn ring had ended Gwendolyn’s plans far more effectively.
She didn’t know if she did the right thing or not, but it seemed that, for the moment, she must consider herself bound to Alberic by stronger ties than the upcoming wedding vows.
Rhys’s harp went silent.
Gwendolyn’s stomach fluttered, praying nothing would go amiss for the next few minutes.
“Father Paul, if you would,” Alberic said softly.
The priest made his way to the dais and made a sign of the cross over the weapons. “Bless these weapons, O Lord, that have seen their share of strife and bloodshed. May they now serve as symbols of the peace and joy Hugh and William enjoy in Your heavenly kingdom. We pray You look down in favor upon Camelen and its people in the days to come, grant us peace and prosperity. This we ask in the name of Jesus Christ, Your Son, our Savior. Amen.”
Sedwick stepped up to the dais and picked up William’s dagger. Holding it across his palms, he held it up for all to see. “We celebrate the short life of William
de Leon, rich in fervor and glory, as befits a lord of Camelen. May we always remember him with fondness and pride.”
He then walked over to the short ladder and climbed four rungs. With the dagger secure in the bracket, Gwendolyn couldn’t help thinking Alberic must be relieved to see that particular weapon placed beyond easy reach.
Garrett then echoed Sedwick’s actions, lifting her father’s dagger with the reverence of a priest raising a chalice. “I served the baron for many a year, through peace and war, in times fair and foul. I am honored to place his dagger among those of his ancestors. May his lordship rest with God.”
All watched as her father’s most trusted knight placed the dagger within its bracket.
Emma lifted William’s heavy sword and held the blade up as the men had the daggers. “My brother never had the chance to be a true lord of Camelen, but had he lived—” Emma’s voice caught, and Gwendolyn tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat. “Had he lived, I believe he would have done the de Leon name proud.”
Emma slowly walked over to the tall ladder and placed the sword in the care of the soldier, who slid the weapon into a scabbard strapped to his back. Gwendolyn commanded her breath to a steady pace as the man hauled his burden up the creaky ladder, snugged it into the bracket, and made his way back down again, all without the mishap she’d feared.
Then Alberic picked up her father’s sword and held it high. Pride mingled with grief, and the tears she’d managed to hold back before now slid down her cheeks.
“As we honor Hugh de Leon, so we continue a proud and fitting custom. May the souls of all the warriors whose weapons grace this hall look down on us in favor.”
Gwendolyn’s heart pounded when Alberic strode across the hall and waved aside the soldier. With only one hand to steady him, he climbed the ladder in careful steps, one rung at a time, each rung groaning under his weight. She almost cheered when he finally, blessedly, reached the top without falling.
Then he gave her a jolt when he half turned to look down on the crowd below and held out the heavy sword at arm’s length. “Behold the sword of Sir Hugh de Leon. As we grant his weapon its proper place among those of Camelen’s past lords, may also God grant him heavenly peace.”
He snugged the sword into the bracket, and with both hands available, climbed down at a quicker pace.
Alberic’s audacious maneuver completed successfully, her relief more overwhelming than it ought to be, Gwendolyn waited until he again took his place by her side before she lifted her goblet.
“To the lords of Camelen!”
To the crowd’s cheer, she took a sip, then handed the goblet to Alberic, who wore a soft smile that melted her insides. He tilted the goblet toward her in salute, then drank down the remainder of the wine.
As planned, Rhys began another melody, and servants bore in large platters of food.
She took her seat.
Alberic slid into his. “You did well, Gwendolyn.”
“My thanks. So did you, except you were not supposed to climb the ladder. I had visions of your brain splattered among the rushes.”
His smile widened. “Worried for me?”
More than she ought to be, though she saw no reason to admit that to him. “I also worried over the soldier who was assigned to climb the ladder, and he had two hands to use for balance. Your falling would have badly marred the ceremony.”
“Ah,” he uttered, completely discounting her denial, then made selections of fowl and fish and cheese from the platter set before him. “Dove. You remembered.”
Of course she remembered, but hadn’t taken his preference into consideration. “You gave me little time to prepare, and the dovecote is full and the birds roast quickly.”
He laughed lightly as he filled her goblet, the timbre of it relating she hadn’t convinced him. And she wasn’t sure why she tried. Obstinacy? Perhaps. Confusion? Certainly.
This morn, when she’d put the pendant and scroll back in their hiding place, she’d been certain she would never use them, even though England suffered a time of dire need, with the war only getting worse and no end in sight. If the messenger was right, then the war wasn’t going well for the empress. With King Arthur commanding her forces, Maud would be sure to win.
But now Gwendolyn wondered, as she had last night, if it mattered so much which man wore the seal of the dragon. Her father had maintained that he must choose her husband carefully, ensure the man was someone she could come to love.
She couldn’t love Alberic. To give her heart to the man who’d killed her brother was impossible, just wrong.
But she might be true and faithful to him, as Merlin the Sorcerer had set down in the scroll as an essential condition between the man and woman considered partners in the legacy. Could Alberic be counted on to remain true and faithful to her, even if he didn’t love her?
If she married him, and that fate looked more and more possible, she would have to tell him about the legacy, if only to impress upon him how carefully he must guard the ancient artifact stuck on his finger. As her father had not. And look what havoc his mistake had wrought.
Would Alberic believe or scoff? Did he need to believe for the spell to work? Perhaps not.
And perhaps she simply wanted a miracle to come to pass because she’d been miserably unsuccessful last night and wished to wash away the horrible feeling of failure.
Gwendolyn still hadn’t made peace with her unruly feelings when the hall’s doors opened and a young, very handsome man entered. Richly garbed in black velvet, the sword missing from his scabbard—safeguarded by the soldiers at the gate, no doubt—he glanced around as if looking for someone he might know. Then he ran his fingers through windblown, dark hair. The rough combing missed the lock that hung down the right side of his forehead to near his eyebrow. With a lithe, long-limbed stride he chose a path to the high table.
Blatantly noble and unmistakably Welsh, the visitor put one hand to his chest and swept the other outward before executing a courtly bow before Alberic.
“Forgive . . . intrusion, my lord,” he said in halting Norman-French, with a lilt that put her in mind of Rhys the bard. “I learned . . . of Hugh de Leon’s death and . . . offer sympathy.”
Alberic didn’t move a muscle, yet she could feel him tense and didn’t understand why. The Welsh noble posed no threat as far as she could see. Indeed, she liked both his amiable expression and his attempt to express his sympathy.
“On behalf of the family of Hugh de Leon, I accept your condolences,” Alberic stated so flatly as to be rude. “Who shall I say offers them?”
“Do I have the . . . honor of speaking . . . to Alberic of Chester?”
“Lord Alberic of Camelen.”
“Of course. Must always . . . present oneself in best . . . manner. Do you, perhaps . . . speak English or Welsh?”
“English.”
The man’s relief was visible.
“An honor to meet you, my lord. I am Madog ap Idwal, betrothed of the Lady Gwendolyn.”
Chapter Eight
BESIDE HIM, GWENDOLYN GASPED but didn’t jump up and leap into the arms of her former betrothed. Alberic considered that another good omen, though he didn’t dare look at her. If her eyes shone with admiration for the Welshman, he didn’t want to see it. And what woman wouldn’t admire the dashing noble with a courtier’s manners and an engaging smile?
Alberic put down his goblet to prevent bending the stem.
Ap Idwal hadn’t come merely to pay his respects to Sir Hugh, but to claim Gwendolyn—a journey that could have been avoided if Alberic had thought to send a messenger to inform the Welshman of the change in wedding plans. Reluctantly admitting he might bear part of the blame for ap Idwal’s appearance, he decided to show the man a measure of courtesy.
But not overly much.
“On behalf of the daughters of Hugh de Leon, I accept your condolences. You may dine with us before you visit the church.”
Ap Idwal’s smile faded when he realized he
wasn’t being offered the extended hospitality to which he rightfully felt entitled.
“I realize you have a full hall, my lord, so I will not press for hospitality, though I did hope that, perhaps later this afternoon, you might find the time for us to speak at length. I also request permission for a few moments with Lady Gwendolyn.”
Never. The faster the man left, the sooner Gwendolyn would give up hope of a rescue.
He’d thwarted her last night, and he would again now. She was his, damnit! The thought of her in this Welsh noble’s arms set his stomach churning.
“We have naught to speak of, ap Idwal. Nor is there reason for you to speak with the Lady Gwendolyn. I heard of your betrothal, but find no evidence of it among Sir Hugh’s documents. Since no formal bargain was signed, no betrothal exists.”
“But the bargain does exist,” he insisted. “Sir Hugh and I discussed the terms at some length, and set a date for the wedding. I can provide witnesses, if you like, from among my family and Lady Lydia’s kin. I realize the situation has changed with Sir Hugh’s death, but I stand ready to abide by the betrothal bargain we agreed upon.”
At the edge of his vision he saw Gwendolyn clasp her hands together tightly in her lap. She’d not said a word as yet, her initial gasp of surprise her only utterance. He dare not hope she would keep her peace much longer, making her identity known to the swain before them and add her pleas to ap Idwal’s arguments.
It struck him then that since the two had obviously not met and therefore never developed an affection, ap Idwal must want something within Gwendolyn’s dowry. A piece of land? The rights to collect a fee or toll? Whatever it was of Camelen’s the Welsh noble wanted, he couldn’t have that, either.
“Upon Sir Hugh’s death, his daughters became wards of King Stephen, and I have acted upon the king’s instructions. Lady Gwendolyn will be wed to another.”
He sensed Gwendolyn’s head turn, felt her stare at him. Comparing one betrothed to the other? Did she prefer ap Idwal’s dark hair to his blond? The Welshman’s wealthy heritage to Alberic’s poor one? Did she see ap Idwal as her chance at freedom from marriage to a man who held her under guard?