Midnight Magic

by Shari Anton

  But was her face too pale, or just oddly shadowed? Of the three candles in the room, she’d lit only the one by the door, its circle of light dimming before it reached her.

  Unsure of what to do, he leaned against the closed door, wondering what he could say that wouldn’t make him sound like a fool for rushing up here without cause. She would think he’d gone daft.

  Still, his instincts gnawed at him, urging both caution and patience. Why that should be he didn’t know yet.

  Then he saw her trunk sitting next to his and knew what she’d been doing all this time. Alberic grabbed at what he hoped was a safe subject, like a drowning man thrown a rope he didn’t have time to check for fraying.

  “You decided not to keep a separate chamber.”

  Gwendolyn glanced over her shoulder at the trunks before she answered. “I probably should have asked your permission first. I know some lords prefer having a chamber to themselves. If you object—”

  “Nay, no objection. I hoped you would choose to move in here with me. ’Tis a large chamber with a big bed. I saw no reason why we could not share.”

  She rose from the chair, her movement graceful, and as she came toward him he ignored the itch he wanted her to scratch. Later, he assured his unruly parts.

  “My parents shared this chamber. I saw no reason why we should not. Truth to tell, I intend to have my mother’s trunk brought out of storage and use it for my things. I think it fitting the matching trunks should once more grace the room.”

  “Fitting,” was all he could say before Gwendolyn’s hands landed on his chest. She leaned against him, placed her head on his shoulder, and he could do no less than wrap her in an embrace.

  Even as he held her tight, noting how right and good she felt in his arms, he felt her shaking. As much as he wanted to believe she trembled for want of him, he sensed otherwise.

  “Gwendolyn, what is amiss?”

  “Nothing, now that you are here. Have you decided what to do about Madog?”

  “Mostly. You shake. Why?”

  “The room is chilled. How does your side? Shall I rub more balm on your bruise?”

  The room was cooler than usual. And darker. Not only had she lit just one out of the three candles, but the fire in the hearth wasn’t as high as usual. Was she preserving supplies because of the siege?

  “Later,” he said of the balm. “If you are cold we can toss more wood on the fire. You need not take your precautions so far that you are uncomfortable.”

  “I am most comfortable at the moment. Do you think Madog might listen to reason if someone other than you spoke with him?”

  His embrace had never before been deemed comfortable. Warming. Enticing, aye. But comfortable? He decided it wasn’t a bad thing, especially when her trembling eased.

  “I doubt Madog would listen to anyone who argues against rescuing you from me.”

  “I tried to tell him the other day to leave things be. Perhaps if I made my feelings on the matter clearer—”

  “Nay. You are not to go anywhere near the man.”

  She sighed. “I do not intend to, but he might desist if I send him a message declaring I would not support petitioning the pope for an annulment. As you told Edgar, all of the conditions for a binding marriage, including consummation, have been met. We are bound by our vows and the legacy. Neither can be set aside.”

  He ignored her comment on the legacy. The vows were more than enough binding for him. “I believe ap Idwal would rather see you widowed.”

  Gwendolyn tightened her hold. “Which means you are not to go anywhere near the man, either. When the time comes to negotiate a peace, you might consider sending Rhys and Father Paul out to his camp. Madog would respect the priest and the bard, not harm them. I also believe the two of them might bring him to his senses.”

  He had no intention of promising not to go near ap Idwal. ’Struth, he would dearly love to take a chunk out of the man’s hide. However, the bard and the priest would make good emissaries, and both were in the keep. Alberic vaguely remembered the priest saying grace before supper and the bard strumming his harp afterward. His mind had been diverted, both by ap Idwal’s menace and Gwendolyn’s attentions.

  She still leaned against him, snuggled in for warmth—and comfort he suspected, though he didn’t yet know why. Ap Idwal and his siege didn’t worry her overmuch, as she’d proved to him earlier. So what else bothered her enough to prod his instinct?

  “You may be right, especially if Father Paul threatens him with excommunication for coveting another man’s wife. My wife.” He kissed her forehead. “Still chilled?”

  “Nay.”

  “Is the offer of balm still good?”

  “Of course. Remove your tunic and I will fetch the balm.”

  A good start to what he truly wanted; both of them unencumbered by clothing and abed. As soon as she slipped out of his arms he felt the chill. More wood on the fire was definitely called for.

  As he neared the wood box, he spotted what might have bothered Gwendolyn earlier. On the table lay the black velvet sack containing the scroll and pendant she’d shown him while telling him a fantastical tale of magic and King Arthur.

  Alberic picked up the sack, confirming both artifacts were within. It shouldn’t bother him that Gwendolyn had brought her treasure into the bedchamber along with the rest of her belongings, but her belief in their magical attributes made him shiver.

  “Is there a loose brick in this hearth, too?”

  Gwendolyn released the breath she’d held since he picked up the sack, fearing he’d be upset by seeing it. From the moment Alberic entered the chamber, she’d sought to distract him from noticing the artifacts, then become caught up in the comforting distraction. A second mistake on her part in the course of a very few minutes.

  She’d recognized her first mistake almost immediately: lighting the third candle. She knew little of pagan rituals, but she did know they all included use of the number three. While wearing the trefoil pendant she lit three candles, provoking a reaction.

  Had he heard her whisper his name while suffering sharp pangs of intense desire? Apparently not, or he would have made comment. Wouldn’t he? She decided not to ask, fearful he would think she’d gone daft.

  After recognizing her mistake, she’d swiftly blown out two of the candles, removed the pendant, and put it in the velvet sack. Alberic had come into the chamber before she had the chance to hide it away.

  “I do not know,” she answered truthfully. “’Tis possible a secret hiding place exists in here, too. ’Tis also possible my mother merely kept the sack in her clothing trunk.”

  He tossed the sack on the table, then reached into the box for a chunk of wood to add to the fire. “You should have a care with those. Promise me you will not wear the pendant.”

  He’d told her before to put them away, and now demanded further assurance that she not believe in the magic he refused to acknowledge.

  “The pendant bothers you so much?”

  He shook his head. “Nay. To me it is merely a pretty bauble. However, with a Welshman camped outside our gate, this might not be a good time to remind everyone that you are half Welsh.”

  She didn’t need to remind anyone of her heritage. Likely they remembered every time Rhys played his harp. And though Alberic used a poor choice of words, he hadn’t meant to insult her by associating her with the likes of Madog. Verily, he meant to protect her.

  Now was not the time to chide him for his disbelief in magic or his ill-considered words. Indeed, the Welshman outside the gates preyed on Alberic’s mind and affected his mood. He needed relief from his concerns, and sleep, before dealing with Madog on the morn.

  Besides, now that she knew magic did exist, she was at a loss over what to do about it. She still couldn’t read the scroll, and had no way of knowing if England suffered the time of its greatest need. Both matters to ponder over later.

  “As you wish,” she said, a comment too obscure to be considered a promise, but
enough to placate Alberic for the nonce.

  He pulled his tunic over his head, and Gwendolyn dismissed all else from her thoughts other than applying a balm to his bruise, which seemed uglier than before.

  “Hurt?” she asked, spreading white cream over bluish-purple skin.

  “’Tis worth a bit of pain to have you tend it. You have gentle hands, Gwendolyn. I am slave to your tender ministrations.”

  She smiled at the bit of gallantry, hearing an undertone she was coming to recognize. Alberic suffered other hurts he wished tended, and she truly didn’t mind obliging. Her intense desire of earlier had abated but not left her completely.

  “I have often wondered what it might be like to have a man as my slave, at my beck and call to do whatever I require of him whenever a fancy strikes.”

  “Have you a fancy?”

  “Several,” she said wistfully, putting the jar back on the washstand. “They would require my slave to be of superior strength and form, possessed of unrivaled vigor and matchless endurance. Know you such a man?”

  He spread his arms wide, a truly wicked gleam in his eyes. “I am yours to command, my lady. Whatever your fancy, I shall strive to satisfy.”

  Gwendolyn looked him up and down, judging his merits. “Your arrogance is insufferable, for a slave, yet I believe you might . . . satisfy.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Aye, well, this slave has yet to determine if his efforts are wasted on an undeserving master. Are the lady’s charms worth expending my vigor?”

  “How ungallant!”

  “Insufferable.”

  She pulled off her surcoat. He sat down on the bed to remove his boots, yet watched her every movement.

  On their wedding night, he’d helped her out of her chemise. Tonight he watched, unmoving, as piece by piece she removed her garments. With each piece cast aside, she felt more powerful, more desirable.

  She didn’t have to ask if she’d been found worthy. His worshipful expression and outstretched hand said all. She deliberately resisted his invitation. Not an easy thing to do, but he’d begun this game, and she intended to play it out.

  “The lady seeks proof of her slave’s superior form.”

  “A shameless command.”

  “Insufferable.”

  Alberic stood, straight and proud, the bulge in his breeches straining the laces, a most gratifying sign of his willingness to expend vigor.

  The pounding on the door startled them both.

  “Lord Alberic! Ap Idwal has set fire to the village!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  ALBERIC’S OATHS BLISTERED THE AIR.

  Some of them Gwendolyn guessed were NormanFrench, and though she’d never heard them before, she caught the meaning.

  Having slipped on her chemise, she helped him dress, handing him pieces of clothing while he ranted.

  “I will have that whoreson’s head,” he vowed, jamming a foot into a boot. “Send the wretch to hell. He had the audacity to complain about Normans, but were it a Norman knight beyond the gate who set the limit of dawn, then dawn it would be! ’Tis unconscionable of ap Idwal to move before then.”

  Gwendolyn agreed, but for entirely different reasons. This was the second time today ap Idwal had interrupted her time with Alberic, and she was damn tired of his interference.

  “You could not have known for certain he would disregard the courtesy,” she murmured, feeling she should say something soothing, though she doubted Alberic was in any mood for soothing.

  He jerked on the second boot. “Well, I know now. I swear, if any of the villagers are hurt, ap Idwal will pay dearly.”

  He rose from the bed, strode toward his trunk, flipped up the lid, and pulled out his chain mail. “I shall need you to play squire.”

  “Certes.”

  Alberic whipped on the heavy shirt made of metal links as if it weighed no more than fine-weave linen, then sat on the chair.

  Gwendolyn began securing the latches he couldn’t reach. “What will you do?”

  “Go out to the village to see how bad things are.”

  Her hands fumbled with a latch. She’d believed him headed for the battlements, not out into the fray.

  “The villagers have been through a siege before, so they know what to expect. You should not wander beyond the wall. ’Tis no place for the lord of the castle. Send others out.”

  He snorted. “Thomas and Roger are too new to command. If Sedwick or Garrett were here, then I might. But they are not. And since my misjudgment put the tenants in danger, ’tis my place to make things right.”

  She moved to the other shoulder, ensuring each latch secure, doubting anything she could say would deter him from this lunacy. Lords didn’t put themselves in danger without good reason. If they should fall, then everyone loyal to him suffered.

  Only look at what happened when her father and brother . . . dear God, she didn’t want to think of what would happen if Alberic . . . nay, he’d be fine. He wasn’t facing well-armed troops. Still . . .

  “If you insist on going out there, be sure to take several men with you.”

  “Naturally. They will be needed to fight the fires.”

  And they would watch their lord’s back. ’Twas all the assurance she could ask for, for now.

  The chain mail secured, he strapped on his sword, the same sword that had killed her brother. To keep her hands from shaking and her emotions from flying to the boughs, she crossed the room to fetch his helm. She had to remain calm, dare not allow him to see how badly the whole situation upset her. For his sake. For her own.

  They came together at the doorway, and it struck Gwendolyn that he appeared as she’d first seen him: a battle-ready warrior who’d brought her father and brother home for burial.

  She remembered wishing she’d not allowed Alberic of Chester to pass through the gate. Now, heaven help her, she didn’t want him to leave.

  She handed over his helm. “Is there aught you wish me to do?”

  “Ready the hall for wounded, especially for burns.”

  Ready the salve and bandages. That she could do.

  Fingers entwined in metal links, Gwendolyn pulled him down for a kiss, finding some comfort in his fierce response.

  “Have a care,” she whispered.

  “I always do,” he said, as if she should know that.

  Then he shoved on his helm and was gone.

  The silence in the room was deafening. Her stomach roiled and tears threatened. Unwilling to succumb, Gwendolyn finished dressing and grabbed the jar of balm, squeezing it so hard her hand hurt.

  “Dear God, keep him safe.”

  The prayer brought no relief, but what more could she do than consign him to divine grace?

  Slowly, she crossed the room to the table and picked up the velvet sack. If she knew more of magic, could she rid them of Madog with a well-placed bolt of lightning?

  The thought made her shiver.

  Perhaps such sorcery was beyond her, but surely she could invoke the protection of the pagan gods, too.

  The priest would be appalled, but anyone born and raised in the Marches wouldn’t be surprised or condemn her. Pagan beliefs mingled with Christianity, the rites of both honored.

  Gwendolyn bit her bottom lip, debating the wisdom of her impulse. She took out the pendant and stared at the trefoil.

  ’Struth, she’d learned a bit from her test. Once she lit the third candle, she must carefully control her thoughts, remain peaceful and calm.

  But she wasn’t in a serene mood and might do great harm if something went wrong.

  Chagrined, she admitted Alberic might be right about hiding the artifacts away and not wearing the pendant, at least until she knew how to use it properly and for the right reasons.

  Still, she clutched the pendant and closed her eyes. “Oh, Mother Goddess, from whom all earth’s bounty comes, I humbly ask thy protection for the man I—love.”

  Her head screamed in rebellion even as her heart embraced the notion that she might have fa
llen in love with Alberic. Her knees shaking so hard she couldn’t stand, Gwendolyn collapsed onto the chair and stared at the pendant, blaming its magic for endangering her heart.

  She couldn’t love Alberic. Serve as Camelen’s lady, aye. Be Alberic’s wife and share his bed, aye. But love him?

  Sweet mercy, she’d prayed for his protection when she should have asked for a divine shield for her heart!

  But then, how could she not love the man who even now risked his own life to ensure the well-being of the villagers? Who blamed himself for not foreseeing their predicament when Gwendolyn knew damn well any other lord would place the blame where it belonged—on Madog ap Idwal.

  How could she not be enamored of the man who’d done all he knew how to ensure the change of lordship was peaceful, who hadn’t punished Nicole severely when he’d had every right, who’d brought a peasant boy into the keep and made him a page so he could support his mother?

  The man who’d shown her that a piece of heaven was within reach when in his bed.

  If that man didn’t come back whole and hardy, she was going to strangle him and then tear ap Idwal in two.

  Sighing at her own lunacy, Gwendolyn slipped the pendant back into the sack, then tucked it away in her trunk. Jar of salve in hand, she made her way down to the hall where she put her emotions aside and let instinct take over.

  She ordered trestle tables set up and the bandaging and salve made ready. Cauldrons of broth were hauled in from the kitchen and kegs of ale brought up from the storage room.

  In the midst of the turmoil she glanced about, looking for a boy she couldn’t find. Edward. And she very much feared she knew where he’d gone.

  The fog had lifted and a bit of the moon shone in the sky. One couldn’t see much beyond a few feet, but the flames in the village provided a guiding beacon.

  At the open postern gate, Alberic chose several men to accompany him, Thomas among them. His other squire he would leave in charge of the keep.

  “Roger, you are not to let anyone pass through this gate whom either you or another of the guards do not recognize. No one. Understood?”

  “You expect treachery?”

  An understatement. “This could well be a ploy to draw us out. I would not put it beyond ap Idwal to attempt to storm this gate. Have a care.”