Midnight Magic

by Shari Anton

  He smiled down at her. “You rarely hesitate to speak your mind. Out with it, Gwen.”

  “Pray remember you need not court the earl’s favor any further than you wish to.”

  Encouragement delivered as instruction. It struck him that in the past weeks she’d come to know him better than he knew her.

  “You need not worry over me, Gwendolyn.”

  “’Tis part of a wife’s duty, Alberic.”

  And with that, she spun on her heel and returned to Lady Mathilda.

  Now dismissed by both women, he made his way up the stairs into the great hall, then up more stairs to the earl’s solar. Not until he was outside the door did it occur to him that tonight he would sleep in a room on this very floor instead of out in the barracks. The notion that as a baron he now rated a bed in the castle amused him, so it was with a smile on his face that he knocked on the door, though he was careful to hide all emotion before obeying the earl’s order to enter.

  The earl of Chester sat behind a large, ornate desk of dark, highly polished wood. Several scrolls sat off to the side, with one spread out before him. The man needed to neither wear nor display any trappings of power. His very presence dominated the room, and Alberic knew better than to let his father know how very dominated he felt.

  In that he wasn’t alone. The earl intimidated most everyone, from the lowliest of peasants to the highest of nobles. Green eyes that perfectly matched Alberic’s stared out of a face older but of similar cut and hue. He raised a hand to stroke his bushy mustache, the facial hair an oddity among Normans, who preferred to face the world clean-shaven.

  “I rather expected you to arrive yesterday,” the earl said in his deep, commanding voice.

  Alberic heard both the admonishment and disappointment.

  “I decided to delay a day,” he answered, surprising himself by halting with the simple statement, giving no explanation or apology. Gwendolyn would be proud of him.

  Chester waved him to a chair. “Have a pleasant journey?”

  He removed his cloak and tossed it over the back of the chair, knowing the earl truly didn’t care whether the journey had been pleasant or not. It had been pleasant because as efficiently as Gwendolyn ran his household, she’d packed for their journey.

  He settled into the heavy, armed chair, allowing his hands to dangle over the ends of the arms, his ring in plain view. “Pleasant enough considering the weather.”

  “Do you find Camelen to your taste?”

  He couldn’t begin to tell the earl just how much he enjoyed Camelen. “It suits me well enough.”

  “Which daughter did you marry?”

  “The middle daughter, Gwendolyn. She is currently with Lady Mathilda.”

  “Any problems on that score?”

  The earl truly didn’t care about that, either, and Alberic saw no sense in revealing his problems with Gwendolyn. Not that they were many. She no longer seemed to hold the death of her brother, or his possession of Camelen, or their forced marriage against him. At the least, she’d not mentioned them of late. If not for this nonsense about magic and King Arthur, he believed his marriage would be nigh on damn near perfect.

  “She has accepted me and the marriage.”

  For that, Alberic earned an approving nod, and he found himself uncaring of whether or not the earl approved of his marriage. How strange, considering how many years he’d spent seeking Chester’s approval.

  “Do you know why I asked you to come?”

  “I assume to discuss how the war progresses. Has the king made inroads at Wallingford?”

  “He believes he has.” The earl shrugged his broad shoulders. “If one can call isolating Brian fitz Count from the rest of the rebel forces progress, then I suppose he has. Unfortunately, in order to keep the man isolated, Stephen must commit troops he could use to greater advantage elsewhere.”

  From Chester’s easy manner and offhand use of the king’s name, Alberic assumed the earl remained the king’s supporter. However, Chester would rather the king take a more aggressive route to winning the war, and thus take back the honor of Carlisle, held by King David of Scotland, a supporter of Maud’s, and hand it over to the person whom Chester believed the honor belonged: the earl of Chester. ’Twas all Chester wanted as an end result of this war, and he would serve whichever royal personage he thought might give him Carlisle in payment for his loyalty. At present, that royal personage happened to be King Stephen.

  “Your force is no longer needed?”

  “I left two hundred knights at Wallingford and brought the others home. My presence is still felt, for now.” His impatience with the situation clear, Chester spun the parchment on his desk and gave it a small shove. “Look at this.”

  Wary, Alberic rose to obey and found himself looking at a map of Wales. His heart thudded against his chest, very sure of what the earl was planning. Chester made no secret of his ambitions as far as Wales was concerned, either. Knowing Carlisle was beyond his reach for now, he’d decided to turn his sight in another direction.

  “’Tis a map of Wales. I assume you wish to rearrange its borders.”

  Chester actually chuckled. “A fine way to put it. Truth to tell, I wish to do away with the damn border from here to here.”

  The line he drew with his finger was long. Chester craved almost the whole northern half of Wales.

  “Ambitious.”

  “Less would make no sense. If the north falls, the south will follow in due time, but I care naught for it. Let another grab it if he can.”

  Alberic doubted Chester would feel that way if the north did fall and the south lay open for the taking. The earl would seize whatever he could manage.

  “The commitment to such an endeavor must be total. Have you enough support?”

  “If you ask if the king shows interest, nay, not as yet. But soon now he will tire of looking at Wallingford from the outside and seek new ventures. When that time comes, I plan to have the pieces in place to launch an invasion from here. Between the forces William and I can provide, and those of the royal army, we could sweep through a vast area before the Welsh know we are coming.”

  William de Roumare, earl of Lincoln, typically supported Chester’s schemes. The half brothers could cause the Welsh more Norman trouble than they’d suffered in years, whether the king joined with them or not. Between the two earls, they commanded the greater part of the north of England and ruled it in royal fashion.

  Alberic decided to ask the obvious question. “Do you truly believe the king will neglect his war with Maud to invade Wales?”

  “He would be a fool not to.” Chester pointed to several spots on the map. “If we captured these castles, he would have bases from which to launch attacks on Bristol without stretching his supply lines. By controlling this area”—his hand covered a large area of Wales—“we would so worry Maud, she would be forced to negotiate or flee.”

  “They have negotiated before and come to no resolution.”

  “Precisely. If Maud finds herself trapped in Bristol, she is likely to flee, as she has done many times before. Except this time she has fewer choices of secure shelter. With the exception of Bristol, most of her strongholds are now under the king’s control. So she gets on a ship and flees back to the continent. With Maud out of the country, her support dwindles. Eventually her supporters will treat with King Stephen to keep their lands, and we hear from the empress no more.”

  Making a grand hero of Chester for doing nothing more than convincing the king to help him get what he really wanted.

  “Would it not be better to capture Maud?”

  “Robert is an intelligent man. He will put his sister on a ship bound for Normandy before we get close enough to Bristol to prevent her leaving. Besides, if she was captured and imprisoned, then her supporters would do their best to free her. Better if she is out of sight and mind.”

  The reasoning made sense. Deprive the enemy of its head and wait for the body to fall.

  “What happens if
the king does not agree?”

  “Then William and I are of a mind to go on our own, and so my reason for summoning you. As baron of Camelen you now have resources of both men and provisions. You are the first to whom I offer the opportunity to join us, as a commander under your own banner.”

  Alberic strove to hide the thrill that ran through him, doubting he succeeded entirely. For so many years he’d ridden in his father’s wake, engaged in battle as part of his troops. For all of those years he’d longed to ride at his father’s side, as a son. The offer of joining his father’s campaign as a valued peer, under his own banner, came just short of fulfilling a lifelong dream.

  And damnit, the earl knew it.

  But the earl courted the baron of Camelen, not Alberic the son, and as a baron Alberic must make the decision.

  The campaign wasn’t without risks, both militarily and personally. If he committed Camelen to such a venture, and it failed, he placed his barony in danger. With the sweep of quill on parchment the king could take it away. Dare he even consider it?

  He’d been quiet too long. The earl’s eyes had narrowed.

  “You ask much of me,” Alberic stated. “What am I offered in return?”

  Alberic sensed he’d asked exactly the right question.

  “You get ap Idwal’s holding.”

  He nearly leaped at the bait, and crossed his arms over his chest to hold himself back. That the earl knew of Alberic’s dealings with ap Idwal didn’t surprise him. News of events of any consequence flew on the winged feet of traveling merchants, pilgrims, and those informants men in high places paid to keep them apprised of happenings throughout the kingdom.

  Alberic could damn near taste sweet revenge on the Welshman. But the earl did nothing without reason, his own self-serving reason.

  “Do I get it free and clear, or in fealty to you?”

  Chester raised an eyebrow. “We speak of Wales. Only an earl could hope to hold it within his grasp as attached to an earldom. You could not possibly hold it long on your own.”

  Unfortunately, Chester was probably right. ’Twould take the power of at least an earldom to hold Welsh lands securely. To hold it of royal writ would be even better.

  If the king approved of and partnered this venture, Alberic knew he would accept in a gnat’s breath. But Chester meant to carry through without royal approval, which meant he needed all the help he could get to avoid royal displeasure, the only penalty Chester faced. The king didn’t have the right to take the earldom from Chester as he did to deprive a barony from Alberic.

  And knowing this, the temptation to risk all fair screamed at him to accept.

  “How large a force must I commit?”

  “Twenty knights, one hundred footmen. Not an unreasonable force for a barony.”

  Not unreasonable at all. Chester could have required double the force, which Alberic would be expected to not only command but provision. And knowing the way armies worked, likely his men would be among the first to engage in any battle. The thought both terrified and excited him. This would be his chance, at last, to prove his mettle to his father.

  The son should accept now, before the father changed his mind. But the baron knew that he didn’t dare be lured so easily. Among nobility, negotiations of this type sometimes took days, even months of haggling back and forth before agreements were reached. And even then, when the battle was engaged, one was never sure if the commanders would stand their ground or pull their troops from the fray without warning. In such a manner had the king once been captured, when his earls had disengaged, leaving King Stephen standing in the middle of the field with only a few men and his own sword to defend himself.

  A fleeting, fragile thing, loyalty. One could never trust in it, no matter the vows given or oaths spoken. One could only rely on oneself, a lesson he’d learned at the age of twelve and took to heart now. The earl might offer ap Idwal’s holding, but if the time came to deliver, would he?

  Alberic knew he had time to contemplate his answer. In fact, if he didn’t take more time and ask for more than merely ap Idwal’s holding, his father would think him too easily made a puppet. And that wouldn’t do at all.

  “You have given me much to consider.” Alberic scooped his cloak from the back of the chair and draped it over his arm. “Perhaps we can talk more on the matter on the morrow.”

  From behind his imposing desk, the earl nodded, giving nothing of his thoughts away.

  Without waiting for a dismissal, Alberic bowed out of the earl’s solar, torn between the chance of achieving several goals on the one hand, and losing all he’d already gained on the other. Hellfire, the price of power was a double-edged sword he was still learning how to wield.

  The hell of it was, in the learning he could easily slice off his own head, as had Sir Hugh de Leon when he’d allowed a personal grudge against Chester to cloud his judgment, getting himself and his son killed and leaving his daughters to suffer the consequences.

  And something in Chester’s reasoning seemed flawed. The whole plan for forcing Maud to give up her battle for the crown seemed too easy. What that flaw was, Alberic couldn’t quite reach out and grab hold of.

  Over the years he’d watched Chester become involved in risky schemes, putting the entire force of his earldom behind attempts to gain land and wealth. Thus far, for the most part, he’d succeeded. But Alberic sensed a day of reckoning on the horizon, and wasn’t sure he wanted to be there when the day arrived.

  Still, the vision of descending upon ap Idwal’s holding, with a large force of Normans at his back and Camelen’s banner flying high, appealed greatly. To crush Madog ap Idwal for his audacity to covet Gwendolyn, the death of two soldiers, and the burning of the village might be worth the risk.

  Chapter Seventeen

  GWENDOLYN RESOLVED not to gape at the wealth evident in yet another chamber, as she’d caught herself doing several times during the tour of Chester’s castle.

  Having finally reached the library, she took the chair Lady Mathilda indicated—a heavy piece of highly polished dark wood, the seat cushioned by a pillow fashioned of emerald velvet and gold cord. Her feet rested on a rug of what appeared to be braided wool. A huge tapestry of knights at the hunt took up the whole of one wall. Along another wall shelves of oak held both parchment scrolls and books of vellum sheets pressed between leather covers.

  By the light of expensive beeswax candles in the various sconces and candle stands, Mathilda poured wine into bejeweled goblets. After handing one to Gwendolyn, the lady eased into a similar chair, stretched out her legs, and flexed her silk-slippered feet.

  “I always forget how many stairs are in the castle until I show someone the lay of it. Pray, taste the wine. I hope you find it pleasing.”

  Gwendolyn did as bid, hoping she didn’t knock one of the jewels from its setting or spill on the rug. She was used to fine things, but not this fine, and she struggled against feeling the veriest peasant among her betters. Not that Mathilda flouted her royal status. ’Struth, she’d been most gracious and generous with her time.

  The wine went down so smoothly Gwendolyn couldn’t help an appreciative low moan.

  Mathilda laughed lightly. “’Tis one of Alberic’s favorites. I shall provide you with the name of the merchant who supplies Chester. I have also instructed the cook to give you directions for a few dishes your husband is fond of.”

  “You are most kind.”

  “Kindness has naught to do with my offer. Now that Alberic has the wherewithal to provide for himself, he should do so to his tastes.” She tilted her head, her expression softening. “I admit I am most pleased at Alberic’s good fortune. Unfortunately, his rise in status came at a high price for you and your sisters, and for that I am truly sorry and saddened. I have fond memories of your parents, may God grant them eternal peace.”

  The last caught Gwendolyn by surprise. “You knew my parents?”

  Mathilda’s smile returned. “My family often journeyed from Bristol to Shrewsbu
ry, and one time my father stopped at Camelen to see Sir Hugh and Lady Lydia. A storm hit during supper, and we were forced to spend the night. That was . . . oh, dear, too many years ago. I was young, so you would have been younger still, so would not likely remember.”

  Mathilda couldn’t be more than a few years Gwendolyn’s elder, and she was married to a much older man. Though by all accounts age hadn’t diminished the earl’s vibrant personality and virile good looks. If nature followed course, Alberic would live well into his fortieth year in the same good health and vigor, if he didn’t get himself killed in some silly fashion, like in a war—a possibility she didn’t wish to contemplate overlong.

  “I fear I must have still been in the nursery, for I do not remember your visit. My sister Emma might, however. I shall have to write to ask her.”

  The lady tilted her head in thought. “Emma. Is she not the sister who is now at Stephen’s court?”

  The question reminded Gwendolyn of how closely the upper nobility kept track of the comings and goings of anyone of rank, and the familiar use of the king’s name reminded her that she spoke to the king’s cousin.

  Here was a friendship to court—a mercenary thought, but as a baron’s wife it was her duty to both her husband and Camelen to develop relationships that could prove useful later. An earl’s wife, and a royal personage in her own right, Lady Mathilda could prove a valuable ally.

  Influence begat power. Such was the way of the nobles.

  “Emma has become a queen’s handmaiden. From her one letter to me I gather she is content, for the most part.”

  “I should imagine any discontent would come from being surrounded by those who do not share her view of who should wear the crown. You must tell her not to overly cling to her position.” Mathilda smiled in conspiring fashion. “We women must have a care. One never knows when the ability to balance family, duty, and personal feelings will be most needed.”

  “I shall certainly pass along your advice.” Gwendolyn put her goblet down on the table, choosing her next words carefully. Though she’d thought to seek Mathilda’s advice on getting Nicole released from the convent, the conversation had taken a path Gwendolyn felt compelled to follow. “You seem to have found the point of balance. You are closely related to both the king and the empress, whom your father supports. Your husband has recently given his support to the king. It must be awkward for you to face your father.”