Midnight Magic (31 page)
Did she still, at times, see him as the enemy? Had she put aside her enmity over her brother’s death, the worst of the crimes he’d committed against her? And what of their forced marriage and her sisters’ banishment from Camelen?
And his resistance to the legacy? No. She couldn’t hold that against him. In time, he would prove to her that magic didn’t exist. Perhaps even tonight.
How would he know he’d accomplished the impossible feat of being worthy of her?
When Gwendolyn loved him in return.
Gwendolyn’s love. Now there was a goal worth pursuing, a campaign worth waging.
First he had to get her home, but before that there was the earl of Chester to deal with.
Over a confection of sugared dates and almonds, Alberic planned his strategy. At the end of the meal, while he assisted Gwendolyn from the bench, he set it in motion.
“Are you averse to leaving on the morn?”
She raised a surprised eyebrow. “So soon?”
“I need to speak with the earl. After I tell him of my decision, I fear our welcome will end.”
A smile touched her mouth, and the approval he craved lit her eyes. “You have decided to refuse his offer.”
“He will not be happy.”
Her smile faded. “You might forever ruin your chance for acknowledgment.”
Alberic wrestled with the last bit of hope and, to his relief, it relented without much of a struggle.
“Quite likely.”
She bit her bottom lip, a gesture he found endearing, but then there wasn’t much about Gwendolyn he didn’t find endearing. “I fear you will have regrets.”
“Perhaps, but I must do what I feel is right for Camelen.”
She nodded, finally accepting his decision. “You do not give me much time to finish reading the
Historia.
”
He loved Gwendolyn, but her fascination with summoning King Arthur from Avalon, he could do without.
“Then you had best do so with the few hours you have left. Go. I will join you anon.”
She fled the hall, and Alberic looked around for Chester.
The earl stood at the base of the dais with a group of his retainers, their expressions none too serious. Deciding he wouldn’t be interrupting a discussion of import, Alberic waited until one of the men finished expounding on the qualities of his falcon before edging his way through the group to stand directly in front of the earl.
Chester’s brow furrowed in surprise and disapproval that Alberic would be so bold.
Summoning all of his resolve, he forged ahead. “A word if you would, my lord. ’Twill take only a moment.”
At a slight hand motion from the earl, the group faded away.
“What word?” Chester asked.
“I have given your offer much thought—”
Chester rolled his eyes. “That has always been part of your problem, Alberic. You think overmuch. You gnaw on a bone long after the meat is gone. Better to grab another bone.”
Alberic refrained from countering that the earl left too much meat on the bone before tossing it aside.
“Your plan is flawed, I fear. I fail to see how an invasion of Wales will hasten an end to the war. Let us say you are right, that if Bristol is threatened, Maud will flee the country. I cannot see Henry accepting his mother’s retreat with grace.”
Chester waved a dismissive hand. “The lad is not old enough to lead an army.”
“Not yet, but consider. If Henry craves the crown of England, and Geoffrey of Anjou feels the time is ripe to back his son, we will be dealing with an invasion.”
“Perhaps, but we are talking years, and that has naught to do with my possession of Carlisle.”
Which was utmost in Chester’s scheme.
“You have no assurance the king will grant you Carlisle.”
“If I rid the rebellion of its head, Stephen will give me whatever I request.”
“Which might cast us into a war with Scotland.”
Again the dismissive wave. “I have been at odds with the Scots since inheriting the earldom from my uncle, who was at odds with the Scots since inheriting from my father. Pray tell, what difference now?”
In his arrogance and ambition, Chester was willing to lay waste to Wales, and whatever portions of Scotland and England he must to obtain the honor of Carlisle. Once he had it, the rest of the country could go to seed and he’d not give a damn.
Presenting further argument against a Welsh campaign would prove a waste of breath. Chester’s mind was set, and nothing would budge him from his stance.
“I have decided to decline your offer. If the king decides to embrace your cause, and demands my participation, I will join his forces. Until then, I see no sound reason to become involved.”
Chester’s eyes narrowed. “What of ap Idwal?”
The dangled bait tempted. He refused to bite. There were ways to deal with Madog ap Idwal other than invading Wales.
“I have no doubt he and I shall cross paths again. I will resolve my argument with him in my own way, in my own time.”
Chester snorted. “So you will settle for waging petty raids on your enemy instead of grabbing at the bigger prize. No son of mine would pass up this opportunity to have all.”
Alberic’s stomach lurched. He stared into the earl’s hard eyes, at the unforgiving mouth. Chester’s words hurt, but they didn’t knock him down.
He would survive. He’d found a measure of contentment and happiness that no one could rob him of. Not even Ranulf de Gernons, the powerful earl of Chester.
Quietly, he told the Norman noble who would never admit to being his father, “Then perchance you have been right all along, my lord. Perhaps I am not your son.”
After a brief, parting bow, Alberic made his way across the hall and up the stairs, not stopping until reaching the door of the chamber. He pulled open the door and found sanctuary.
A warming fire glowed in the sitting room’s hearth, the low crackle of burning wood a soothing sound. Candles glowed within their iron sconces, the flickering flames reflected in the furniture’s highly polished wood.
In one of the chairs sat Gwendolyn, her veil dispensed with, her hair loose and pulled forward over a shoulder, strands separating to flow around her bosom, the tips flirting with her waist.
She looked up from the book on the table, the
Historia,
the question in her expression unmistakable.
“’Tis over and done,” he answered.
“I am sorry, Alberic.”
“I am at peace with it. Have you finished reading?”
She sighed. “Remember my asking you about Cadwallader? His tale is the last in the book. He was a king of the Britons who died in 689.”
Grateful she didn’t wish to pursue details of the discussions with the earl, Alberic turned his attention to the other reason he’d come to Chester.
“So now you know the prophecy concerning him is in the past.”
She nodded. “In his tale I found a reference to King Arthur. Apparently Cadwallader intended to reclaim the crown of Britain, but before he could set sail, an angelic voice told him God wished no Briton to rule Britain until the moment Merlin had prophesied to Arthur. So Cadwallader gave up the enterprise.” She tilted her head. “Does that allude to Merlin’s prophecy that Arthur would return?”
Wonderful. Now angelic voices ruled men’s actions. Better that, Alberic supposed, than prophecies and magic. He plopped down in a chair at an angle with Gwendolyn’s.
“Do any of Merlin’s latter prophecies mention a Briton ruling Britain?”
“Nay.” Then she smiled. “Not, that is, unless the Ass of Wickedness or the Dragon of Worcester or the Charioteer of York are Britons who manage to become kings. Sweet mercy, Merlin would have made the future much easier to discern by using names instead of these high-flown titles!”
“So is the Ass of Wickedness in our past or someone to be wary of in the future?”
Gwendolyn closed the book with a decisive thump. “In our past, I pray, but I cannot be confident of the conjecture. I am no closer to determining our place in history among the prophecies than I was before.”
He heard her frustration, but it was tinged with humor. If he couldn’t get her to disavow the legacy completely, perhaps she would, in the interest of peaceful marital relations, come to view it less seriously.
But that wouldn’t do him much good if she ever came to the conclusion that England truly needed the services of King Arthur.
“Tell me this, then. From among the prophecies, can you determine England’s time of
most
dire need?”
Gwendolyn ran her hand over the book’s cover, as if seeking an answer from within its pages. “The early prophecies tell of death, famine, and calamity. The last prophecies are just as disturbing. In the last, even the stars in the heavens weep. ’Twould seem that England flows from one tumult to another with few periods of peace between.”
“Of the early prophecies of death, famine, and calamity, would not the guardian of the legacy consider that time most dire?”
She looked away and pursed her lips, so he pressed on.
“Gwendolyn, you must realize that over the past several hundred years one of the guardians has considered her time in history the most dire. Would she not have tried to summon King Arthur?”
“No one has tried as yet. The legacy can be invoked only once.”
“Or she tried and the spell failed because there is no such thing as magic.”
She turned those wide brown eyes on him. “If it failed, then the conditions of the legacy were not met.”
“Or the legacy is false. Mortal men cannot be summoned from the grave.”
She stared at him a long while before getting up, looking so sad he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He was about to when she raised her chin.
“You and I might never agree on this, I fear.”
Damn.
He thought she’d seen reason.
“Apparently not.”
“Can you remove the ring?”
Back to that again, were they? “I have not tried of late.”
Gwendolyn crossed her arms, her expression daring him to give the ring a tug.
He looked down at the seal of the dragon, the gold claws gripping the onyx and garnet, wishing he’d never put the thing on his finger. He tugged, and turned, and twisted, until his knuckle turned red from the chafing of bunched skin against gold.
Ruefully, he admitted, “Not as yet.”
Smugly, she smiled. “When you can prove to me that anything
but
magic keeps that ring on your finger, we will speak of this again.”
She flounced off into her bedchamber.
Alberic slumped in the chair.
Why, on this night of all nights, when all he wished to do was glory in his love for Gwendolyn, had they butted heads?
He shouldn’t have asked her about the
Historia
. He shouldn’t have attempted to sway her from her beliefs. He
should
have taken her off to bed and made love to her until dawn.
He still could, not doubting he would have no trouble coaxing Gwendolyn into a lusty mood.
Except this damn ring had to come off, and right outside the castle wall dwelled a blacksmith, and a bit farther down lived a goldsmith. Surely one of them would solve the problem, and if he hurried, there would yet be several hours before dawn to spend in her bed.
Confident, Alberic sped off into the village.
Two hours later, shaken to his core, he slumped in the same chair, his hand aching and useless at the end of his arm.
Thank God, Gwendolyn slept so he need answer no questions, for indeed, he found the answers revolting.
He’d gone to the goldsmith first. They’d lathered his hand with soap, then coated it with grease, then applied a truly nauseating liquid Alberic couldn’t name. The ring hadn’t budged.
So he’d hastened to the blacksmith, who pried and poked with both pincers and file, then gently and carefully wielded a saw. When the blacksmith scratched his head and suggested smashing the ring with his sledge- hammer, Alberic declined.
He stared at the ring that had been subjected to brutal punishment and refused to come off. The stones shone brightly, the gold remained unmarred. Only his hand suffered the penalty of the evening’s folly.
He didn’t believe in magic, still wasn’t prepared to embrace the notion it existed. But neither could he explain the ring’s stubborn grip on his hand.
What he’d heard of magic wasn’t heartening. The use of it was always associated with dark, unholy forces, inflicting suffering on the object of the spell and sometimes resulting in injurious, even deadly consequences to the wielder.
Its use involved great risk, far more than he wished to undertake. Infinitely more risk than he would allow Gwendolyn to take.
Several hours remained until dawn. He should go to bed, get some sleep, put the evening’s incredible events out of his head. Surely, with a few hours’ rest things wouldn’t seem so bleak. So impossible.
Except if he didn’t do something to assure himself that neither he nor Gwendolyn was endangered, he wouldn’t sleep.
He knew of no witch or conjuror or sorcerer to consult on the ways of magic . . . save one: Merlin.
From the table, the
Historia Regum Britanniae
beckoned.
Reluctant, but knowing of naught else to do, Alberic opened the book, found the prophecies that had so frustrated and angered Gwendolyn, and began to read.
A
T MIDAFTERNOON,
Gwendolyn sat atop her horse, waiting for Alberic to come out of the inn and tell her whether or not he’d procured a room for the night.
She’d thought they would go straight back to Camelen. To her amazement, Alberic decided to stop in Shrewsbury. Not that she minded spending the night at an inn instead of in a tent, and this one, within the shadow of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Peter and St. Paul, seemed neatly kept.
A baron, Alberic could have availed himself of Shrewsbury Castle’s hospitality. So why didn’t he?
While her curiosity nagged at her, she forswore questioning Alberic. Neither of them was in a good mood, and she didn’t want to risk arguing with him again. Their disagreement last eve over the legacy yet smarted, the wounds still fresh after all these hours.
As far as she knew, Alberic was more convinced than ever that Merlin’s prophecies proved him right and her wrong. But sweet mercy, if Merlin hadn’t intended for King Arthur to rule England a second time, then why the devil bother to devise the legacy?