Twilight Magic (31 page)
Until the time came when the king decided on the fate of his ward, Nicole would be safe and well cared for at Bledloe Abbey. But Emma had another concern.
“Aye, so she seems. Gwen, you are the guardian of an ancient, magical spell. I have visions, which some would deem magical. ’Twould be reasonable to expect Nicole to possess some magical quality, too, would it not?”
Gwen thought that over. “I should think Nicole would have told one of us if she experienced something she deemed unusual.”
“Perhaps not. We kept our secrets from each other for a very long time.”
“From each other, but not from our parents, who then
ordered
us to keep our secrets. You by Mother, me by Father. Would Nicole have told Father if she experienced oddities? Or perhaps William?”
Gwen’s brow scrunched. “I doubt she told Father. But our brother?” She shrugged. “Nicole followed William around like a devoted pup, and he doted on her. ’Tis possible, I suppose. Do you believe we should ask Nicole?”
Emma didn’t know if, by asking, she would be doing the girl a disservice or not.
“Perhaps we should wait to see if Nicole brings up the subject, and then decide how to deal with it.” Emma tossed a hand in the air, remembering how they’d futilely worried over the tone of Nicole’s letters. “And perhaps we again worry over naught. ’Twould not be the first time!”
A rap on the door preceded Alberic’s entrance into the bedchamber, Darian behind him, his smile bright. Oh, how she loved his smile!
Alberic tossed an arm over Gwendolyn’s shoulders. “You two have been up here since supper, shamefully neglecting your husbands, who have decided such conduct must cease.”
Gwendolyn beamed at her husband’s teasing. “Poor dears.”
Emma crossed the room to take Darian’s upraised hand. “We did not mean to neglect you, merely lost all sense of time while we talked.”
“So we assumed,” Darian said. “Finished?”
Not hardly, but in the days ahead, she would have time for more such talks with Gwendolyn while Darian went to speak to Earl William at Wallingford. Having decided to leave the earl’s service, Darian felt honor-bound to inform the earl himself.
“For now.”
“Then we bid thee good night, my lord, my lady.” Darian pulled her out into the passageway and closed the bedchamber door behind them. A few steps away was the bedchamber Emma, Gwendolyn, and Nicole had once shared, which she and Darian would occupy for one more night before Darian left on the morn.
His packed satchel lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. His cloak hung on a peg near the door. Emma intended to take all night to say fare thee well.
Her thumb glided along the gold band she’d quickly become accustomed to wearing. It suited her perfectly, as did the man who’d given it to her. She would miss Darian, but assured of his love and their commitment to each other, she couldn’t begrudge him a few days apart.
“You neglected to tell me of the extent of your dowry.” Darian’s comment caught her off guard.
“Is that what you and Alberic talked about?” “ ’Twould seem my princess is not without means.” Good to hear!
“I did not tell you because I was not sure Alberic would honor my father’s intentions. Alberic is willing to give up a portion of Camelen?”
With a gleam in his eyes, Darian placed his warm palms against her cheeks. “Alberic and I came to a bargain. In return for my oaths of fealty and homage, he grants your dowry. The portion I am interested in is a holding he speaks of not far south of here. Apparently the manor house is large enough to hold us, several children, and a servant or two besides.”
Emma grasped fistfuls of his tunic, able to envision them there without the aid of a pool of water. “I know the place, and the manor is as lovely as anywhere in the kingdom. But Darian, be very sure you wish to settle in one place, or to serve Alberic as his vassal. I should hate for you to one day realize such a life was not what you desire.”
He lowered his head until their foreheads touched. “Alberic is a decent, honorable man I can serve in good conscience. Becoming his vassal will be no hardship whatever. Granted, for most of my life, I vowed I would never want a home or family for fear of losing all. Then I met you, and now I can think of nothing I want more. If you want something different, tell me now.”
“I want for you to be happy in your choice.”
“And I you.”
She’d sealed her fate when she refused to allow a king to hang a mercenary, and what an excellent choice that had been.
“Then I say we spend the rest of the night on the matter of producing children to fill our manor.”
And so they did.
S
HARI ANTON
’s secretarial career ended when she took a creative writing class and found she possessed some talent for writing fiction. The author of several highly acclaimed historical novels, she now works in her home office, where she can take unlimited coffee breaks. Shari and her husband live in southeastern Wisconsin, where they have two grown children and do their best to spoil their two adorable little grandsons. You can write to her at P.O. Box 510611, New Berlin, WI 53151-0611, or visit her Web site at
www.sharianton.com
.
THE MAGIC
DOESN’T STOP HERE!
Turn the page
for a preview of
Shari Anton’s next novel,
the third book in her
enchanting trilogy.
Available in mass market Fall 2007.
Chapter One
Wales, August 1153
R
hodri ap Dafydd skillfully wielded two weapons in the service of Connor ap Maelgwn, chieftain of
Glenvair.
During supper, to lift the gloom wrought by the latest bad news from England, Rhodri had played his harp and sung the praises of the Welsh princes who, after years of fighting, had driven most of the Anglo-Normans from Welsh lands.
Tonight, he sat cross-legged on the hard-packed earthen floor, within the central fire pit’s flickering glow, sliding a whetstone along the edge of his sword, preparing for another battle he hoped wouldn’t come.
Connor paced a path in the dirt and tapped the rolled parchment containing the bad news against his leg. “If it is true that King Stephen’s heir is dead, he may succumb to his magnate’s pleas to bargain for peace. England at peace always means trouble for Wales. Better they should continue to fight amongst themselves and leave us be.”
“Agreed,” Rhodri said, remembering a time when England had been at peace under King Henry. Wales had suffered mightily.
Rhodri had been all of ten when King Henry died and Stephen of Blois, Henry’s nephew, had seized the English throne. Empress Maud, Henry’s daughter, objected by raising an army and challenging Stephen for the right to rule England. Now Maud’s son, Henry Plantagenet, who some said was as forceful and ambitious as the grandsire he’d been named for, was poised to succeed where his mother had failed for eighteen long years.
“Wales must unite,” Connor declared. “If we do not, we may perish.”
A knot formed in Rhodri’s gut. During his apprenticeship to a chaired bard, he’d learned the history of Wales all the way back to ancient times. Rarely had the Welsh princes banded together under one leader to stave off invasions.
“Each of the princes has his ambitions for expanding his own lands. For them to unite for a common cause might require a miracle. Have you one at the ready?”
Connor sighed and eased down onto a nearby stool, placing his deeply wrinkled hands on his knees. White hair revealed his advanced years; a furrowed brow bespoke a troubled mind. Still, vigor and intelligence lit the chieftain’s amber eyes, belying any belief that his mind might wither with age.
“No ready miracles,” Connor admitted. “However, we may have time to conjure one. Most likely, Stephen will be forced to name Henry Plantagenet as his heir, so the lad will have to wait until Stephen dies to claim England’s crown.”
Rhodri inwardly scoffed. He could name several sons and nephews who’d sent fathers, uncles, and brothers to their graves before their natural end. Youth tended to impatience when the prize was within reach.
Henry Plantagenet, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, count of Anjou, Touraine, and Maine, wasn’t known for his patience.
Nor were the Marcher earls. They’d lost most of their royally granted land in Wales over the past few years, and they eagerly awaited the chance to reclaim those lands and punish the native princes for their audacity in believing Wales should be ruled by the Welsh.
Knowing his irritation caused his mind to wander from his task, Rhodri set aside his whetstone and sword.
“If peace comes to England, the earls of the March will once again turn their thoughts toward us. With the aid of Prince Madog of Powys, we will defend Glenvair as we have always done.”
“That we will,” Connor stated firmly, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I am of a mind, however, to try to gain an advantage.” He waved the rolled parchment. “Though my niece is always kind enough to send us whatever news she hears of affairs in England, I wish to heaven above that when Gwendolyn and her sisters were orphaned, I had gone to Camelen to fetch them and bring them to Glenvair. That mistake must now be made right.”
Rhodri didn’t see how Connor could do aught now for his long-dead sister’s girls. He well remembered the day Connor received word that his Norman brother-by-marriage, Sir Hugh de Leon, along with his son, William, had lost their lives fighting for the Empress Maud, and that the three surviving girls had been made wards of King Stephen.
Gwendolyn had been forced to marry Alberic, the bastard son of the earl of Chester, one of the most hated of the Marcher lords. Emma had been sent to King Stephen’s court, where she’d been forced to marry Darian of Bruges, a Flemish mercenary. Nicole had been given to the Church and, as far as Rhodri knew, still resided in Bledloe Abbey.
“The girls were out of your reach then, as they are now.”
“Gwendolyn and Emma, perhaps, but not Nicole. Stephen holds her captive in Bledloe Abbey. He intends to wed her to a Welsh prince to forge an alliance with the English crown, driving a wedge between the princes. We must remove that weapon from Stephen’s armory and use it to our own advantage.”
That meant stealing Nicole out of Bledloe Abbey, near Oxford, in the heart of England. A raid that far into enemy territory might prove disastrous.
Connor ap Maelgwn was a cunning chieftain, a ferocious soldier, and an honorable man. How much was he willing to risk to wrest his youngest niece from English control?
“Kidnapping Nicole might be considered an act of war. And what of her sisters? Surely, Gwendolyn and Emma will not approve of your scheme, and their husbands would make formidable opponents.”
Connor took a long breath. “I am hopeful that, for a time, England’s lords will be more concerned with the fate of the crown than with other matters. As for Nicole’s sisters, I believe they can be convinced my motives are not selfish. Our family’s heritage must be preserved. The tree of Pendragon
must
bear a Welsh branch to remain strong.”
Pendragon.
The bloodline of the revered King Arthur. Rhodri knew every word of the ancient legends and could sing the tales of Arthur’s conquests and his downfall. But even though he had the right to call Connor his uncle, Rhodri couldn’t claim the bloodline. His widowed father had married into the family, taking one of Connor’s sisters as his second wife several years after Rhodri’s birth.
He’d always felt like a blade of grass within the mighty oak’s shade, close in kinship but not a twig on the tree. His name wouldn’t be recorded as a descendant of Pendragon, but there were other ways to ensure one’s name was remembered through time. ’Twas one of the reasons he’d become a bard. All he needed was the chance to advance in his profession.
But that was for the future. Right now, he must do his utmost to counsel Connor.
“You cannot march a band of Welsh across half of England without drawing attention. The raid would fail.”
“True, which is why I propose to send one man.” From the way his uncle looked at him, Rhodri knew who he intended to send. The prospect both excited and disturbed him. He was honored by Connor’s faith and trust in him, but he foresaw problems. He wasn’t one of Nicole’s favorite people, as Connor well knew.
“You want
me
to kidnap Nicole out of Bledloe Abbey and bring her to Glenvair?”
“Better if Nicole comes of her own free will. Talk to her, Rhodri. Convince her that coming to Wales is the best course.”
“She does not like me. She may not listen.”
“Nicole was no more than a handful of years old when she was last here. Surely she can now be reasoned with. And if reasoning fails, bring her anyway. Her fate is too important to leave to chance.”
Connor rose and ambled off, leaving Rhodri to ponder how he might accomplish this task.
Talk to her, Connor had said. Would an appeal to Nicole’s sense of duty to her Pendragon heritage work? Perhaps, if she felt a sense of duty. Problem was, the Nicole he remembered cared only for her own concerns. A princess who struck out when she didn’t get what she wanted.
Rhodri ap Dafydd rubbed his leg, remembering the last time he’d tried to convince Nicole de Leon to do something she didn’t care to do, fearing this time she might do far worse than kick his shin and get him into more trouble than before.
Your time here is done, Nicole. Come out.
Nicole de Leon bolted upright on her narrow cot. Her eyes snapped open to see only the night-shrouded dormitory, not the owner of the voice from beyond the grave that had awakened her.
Why,
she silently asked . . . and received no answer. Her brother William never answered her questions, merely gave orders he expected her to follow.
Even as sorrow for his plight flooded her, so did ire that William had seen fit to disturb her sleep. Again. Other spirits weren’t so inconsiderate. But then, William hadn’t been overly considerate in life, and death hadn’t wrought a change.