Midnight Magic (2 page)

“William fought with both zeal and skill. He had already vanquished several others before he and I crossed swords. I consider myself blessed to have come away the victor.”

“His equal, then?”

Only by citing legitimacy of birth could anyone make a case for William de Leon’s superiority, and Alberic chose to ignore that unfortunate circumstance of birth whenever possible.

“As you say, Sire.”

The corner of the king’s mouth twitched with humor, and approval softened his eyes.

“As we say, is it? Then we believe you may be ripe for what we have in mind.” The king drew his sword, a fighting weapon instead of the fancy blade one might expect a royal personage to wield. “Kneel before your king, Alberic of Chester.”

Doubting Stephen had lost his wits and intended to behead a man who’d committed no crime, Alberic could think of only one other reason for the king’s drawn sword and the accompanying order.

Knighthood.

Alberic hesitated, overjoyed at the prospect of receiving the coveted rank, but wary of why King Stephen had singled him out. Kings didn’t confer knighthood as an act of kindness, nor had Alberic done anything on the battlefield this day to warrant a field knighting. Therefore, the king had an unfathomable motive of his own—not good.

And Chester frowned in stark disapproval. Alberic knew their fragile relationship might suffer if he accepted the king’s offer. Dare he risk what the earl might consider betrayal?

But hadn’t Chester taught him by example that only dolts refused to seize an opportunity to gain honor, or land and wealth, and then hold tight to the favor and grants given?

And hellfire, Alberic wanted this. He’d craved the honor and rank of knighthood from Chester, and been loyal and patient only to be denied. What he hadn’t received from his father, he’d be a fool to refuse from King Stephen.

Misgivings brushed aside, ignoring the unrelenting drizzle, Alberic knelt in the mud and soon felt the weight of the king’s sword on his right shoulder.

“We dub thee knight, Alberic of Chester, with all the rights and responsibilities that come with the honor. We charge thee to uphold the laws of our beloved England, to serve as protector for widows and orphans, to hold fast to the teachings of the Holy Church and praise Almighty God for His blessings. Do you so swear?”

His mouth dry as dust, he answered, “I do so swear.”

The sword lifted from his shoulder and he tensed, steadying for the
colée
. The king’s open-handed buffet to the side of Alberic’s head nearly knocked him over, eliciting a cheer from the soldiers and thus serving its purpose—to fix in the witnesses’ memories the events of this day, of the oath given to the king when Alberic of Chester became
Sir
Alberic.

Through the ringing in his ears he heard the king continue. “And now, Sir Alberic, we propose to grant you a living to support your new rank. Upon swearing your homage and fealty to our royal person, we shall bestow upon you Sir Hugh de Leon’s castle at Camelen, along with all his other holdings.”

Stunned, Alberic stared at the ring the king held out, eager to grasp it but wary of accepting.

“What of Sir Hugh’s widow?”

“His Welsh princess died many years ago. William was his only son. Three daughters remain. We charge you to take one as your wife, send another to our court, and give the last to the Church.”

Alberic’s curiosity nearly burst with questions about Camelen, which he knew lay somewhere south of Shrewsbury, and the extent of the estates and the income he could expect. Verily, for wont of a simple oath the king meant to make him a rich and powerful man.

He gave fleeting thought to the daughters. Surely one of the females would be tolerable enough to wed and bed, and thus produce an heir, firmly establishing his claim to Camelen.

Only a witless fool would hesitate longer or argue further.

Alberic put down his sword and helm, slipped on the baron’s ring, then raised his clasped hands for the king to enfold. When next he stood, only two men within sight outranked him: the earl of Chester and the king of England.

Ye gods, how quickly men’s fortunes rose and fell given the vagaries of war.

The king slid his sword into an intricately tooled leather scabbard belted at his waist. “Take de Leon and his son home. Bury them with the honor due them, then hold Camelen in our name.”

“As you say, Sire.”

King Stephen smiled wryly. “‘As you say.’ Do you hear how easily and sincerely he says the words, Chester? You could learn much from your own get.”

The king spun and headed toward his horse, and the unease Alberic felt earlier returned. Why in the name of all the saints had the king granted knighthood and the wealth and power of a barony to the earl of Chester’s bastard?

Something was definitely amiss here.

He stared down at the uncommon gold ring King Stephen called the seal of the dragon. A sparkling garnet graced the face of faceted black onyx, the mounting held securely by gold prongs fashioned as dragon’s claws.

Oddly enough, though sizable, the ring didn’t sit as heavily on his hand as Alberic thought it should. Odder still, it fitted as though a goldsmith had made it especially for his finger—loose enough to twirl but snug enough to stay on.

“A handsome gift,” Chester commented, still frowning in disapproval. Though the earl stared at the ring, clearly he meant the entire royal gift.

Alberic bent over and wiped the blood from his sword on the long grass, his stomach tightening as it always did when he spoke to Chester.

“A handsome gift, indeed. My mind would be easier about accepting it all if I knew what game the king plays.”

The earl shrugged a broad shoulder. “Simple enough. He believes he has now purchased your loyalty, and thereby firmly fixed mine.”

Then the king believed wrongly, the grandiose gift given for naught. Alberic glanced at the bodies of the baron and his son. The two had fought and died together for the same cause, loyal to each other to the very end. With either father or son, the king might have struck a bargain and gained the cooperation of the other. The same steadfastness could not be assumed regarding Ranulf de Gernons and his bastard.

“Then the king does not know you very well.”

“Nay, he does not. I wish you good fortune in claiming your prize.”

The earl walked off, shouting orders to his men to fetch carts to carry the wounded, to begin burying the dead, to march the prisoners back to camp.

Prisoners Alberic would soon have to take charge of.

He took a deeper than normal breath, the problems associated with his new position beginning to surface. The faces of the men he’d recently fought against twisted with varying degrees of defeat, anger, resentment, and despair.

He needed only one of Sir Hugh’s soldiers to lead him to Camelen. Would it be the pikeman who sat cross-legged in the mud, his head bowed into his hands, or the elderly knight who might understand that a man submitted to shifts of circumstances and accepted the changes wrought by war? Surely, if one man of Camelen swore allegiance to the new lord, others might, too, if only for the chance to return home.

Not that he could wholly trust the word of a one of them.

Accepting the king’s gifts had been as easy as taking an oath; gaining possession of them wouldn’t be so simple. Not only did he have to get to Camelen, but somehow get through the gate without someone on the battlements taking umbrage and shooting an arrow through his heart.

Alberic again inspected the ring, the garnet winking at him from atop the onyx, the dragon’s claws seeming to dig deep into his gut. He’d come by the ring and Camelen fairly and honestly, but he knew others would feel he’d stolen them.

Too bad. Camelen was now his, and he would make his claim. How to go about it merely required a bit of careful thought and planning, something he was very good at.

Atop Camelen’s battlements, Gwendolyn de Leon adjusted the ill-fitting helm in a vain attempt to keep the nose guard from interfering with her sight.

She understood Sir Sedwick’s insistence that she wear the helm—and the shirt of chain mail her brother had worn as a young squire—whenever she ventured onto the battlements. During times of war one took precautions against threats. Except she saw no immediate danger to either Camelen or her person, merely two knights atop palfreys riding over the field separating the castle from the woodland beyond. One of the two, Sir Garrett, she had no trouble identifying.

For a few moments she focused on the woodland, hoping either her father or her brother would emerge, too. Neither did.

“I do not like the looks of this, my lady,” Sedwick grumbled from beside her.

Her attention forced back to the field, Gwendolyn conceded that Sir Garrett shouldn’t be here, but rather with her father and brother defending Wallingford.

“Perhaps Father sent Garrett home with a message.”

In answer to her conjecture, Sedwick snorted through the battle-marred nose on his round face. “See you any sense of urgency? And why send two knights, one of whom we do not know, when a runner would have done? Nay, my lady. The very air stinks of trouble.”

“Then send someone out to learn their purpose before they come closer.”

“Without knowing who Garrett brings to our gate? His lordship would have my head on a pike were I to be so foolish. We will wait for Garrett to explain.”

Gwendolyn bit her bottom lip to hold her peace. She might be in charge of the household in her father’s absence, but Sedwick, her father’s steward, currently held sway over the defenses. The knight’s dour, suspicious nature made him perfect for the position, though she thought his current stance against lowering the drawbridge overly distrusting.

Sir Garrett certainly meant Camelen no harm. As for the knight who rode by his side, how much damage could one man do against thick stone walls and an armed garrison? He surely posed no menace.

The knight was tall, certainly, and young, she judged from the lack of bend to his back and his solid yet fluid seat in the saddle. His broad shoulders carried the weight of gleaming chain mail with ease. The belt of his scabbard circled a trim waist over narrow hips. Black leather riding gloves covered his hands.

He wore a helm, of course, concealing his hair, the nose guard obscuring his facial features. Except his jaw, which was both square and bold.

As the men traversed the field, Gwendolyn’s curiosity kept pace with her rising impatience until, finally, the men had no choice but to halt at the outer edge of the moat. She caught herself wondering further about the coloring of his hair and eyes when Sedwick’s shout halted her silly musings.

“You return to Camelen in strange manner, Sir Garrett.”

Garrett removed his helm and ran a hand through his steel-gray hair. Sweet mercy, the man looked weary unto dropping from his saddle!

“Not the manner of my choosing, Sedwick.” The weariness in Garrett’s voice matched his appearance, and for the first time since she’d been called to the battlements, Gwendolyn felt a twinge of apprehension. “We bear news best not shouted over the wall, so I would be most grateful if you would lower the drawbridge.”

Sedwick made no move to signal an affirming command to the guards posted near the giant winches that controlled the bridge’s thick chains.

“Who do you bring with you?”

“Christ’s blood, Sedwick, I will explain all after—”

Abruptly silenced by the young knight’s hand to his forearm, Garrett’s visage turned grimmer than before.

“I am Sir Alberic of Chester,” the knight answered, his voice deep and clear, easily carrying up to the battlements without strain. “By my oath, I mean Camelen and its people no harm.”

“And I shall vouchsafe his oath,” Garrett stated.

Sedwick’s eyebrow arched sharply. “My lady, if this Sir Alberic is of Chester, then he is a king’s man and so our enemy. Yet Garrett bids us allow him entry! I like this not.”

All true and worrisome. Her father firmly believed in the right of King Henry’s daughter, Maud, to the English crown. He considered King Stephen the usurper and traitor for having swiftly claimed his uncle’s crown at Henry’s death. Ranulf de Gernons, the earl of Chester, had recently thrown the weight of his earldom behind King Stephen, infuriating her father, who’d vowed to present Chester’s head to Maud on a gold platter.

Nay, Sir Hugh de Leon wouldn’t be pleased if a man of Chester were allowed inside Camelen. And yet, Sir Alberic came in the company of Sir Garrett, a man her father trusted completely. And the young knight was willing to enter a hostile, fully garrisoned castle, so he must have a very good reason. The news the two wished to impart must be important and, she feared, grave indeed.

“Truly, Sedwick, what harm can come of Sir Alberic’s entry? Garrett vouches for him, and I doubt any knight is slow-witted enough to challenge an entire garrison. I say we allow him inside.”

Sedwick hesitated a moment more before tossing up a hand, signaling the guards to lower the drawbridge. The winches groaned and chains clanged as the heavy door of wide planks began its decent.

Gwendolyn swiftly headed for the gate tower stairway, removing the helm that had pressed hard against her thick braid and giving her head instant relief. She handed the detested headpiece to the page who’d held her veil and circlet, deciding to leave on the chain mail. Time enough to take it off after she heard Garrett’s news.

The bridge thudded to the earth, sending her scurrying down the stairway, Sedwick and several guards close behind. By the time she reached the bailey, Garrett and his companion had crossed the bridge.

She halted at the base of the gate tower, her curiosity centered on the young knight who’d removed his helm, which struck her as arrogantly confident he wasn’t in any danger.

And sweet mercy, Alberic possessed a riveting countenance.

He looked about him, taking in his surroundings with eyes as green as summer grass. Wheat-blond hair skimmed the wide shoulders she’d noted earlier, and framed a swarthy-skinned visage that had undoubtedly quickened the beat of many a careless maiden’s heart.