Midnight
Magic
by Shari Anton
Chapter
One
England
1145
 When
the royal temper raged, prudent men held their peace.
Alberic
of Chester considered himself a prudent man. With his helm
securely tucked under one arm, he stood quietly near his fellow
soldiers, holding a sword still too bloody to sheath.
Chilly
rain mingled with his sweat to soak his hair and trickle down
his neck to seep under the layers of chain mail, padded gambeson,
and linen shirt. His chain mail weighed down on shoulders beginning
to stiffen from exertion, his body too weary and spirit too
heartsick to feel victorious.
A skirmish
shouldn't have been fought in this field where sprouting oats
were now ruined. So many men shouldn't have died today. A frightful
waste.
Alberic
yearned to return to the austere comforts of the royal army's
camp, where everyone from the lowliest pikeman to exalted King
Stephen had idled away weeks while laying siege to Wallingford
Castle. There awaited him a canvas tent where he could get
out of the rain and, if the supply wagons had arrived, drink
enough ale to drown out the wails and moans of the wounded
and dying.
Except
he dared not move until given the order.
So Alberic
watched tall, robust King Stephen pace the road alongside the
freshest battlefield in the ten-year dispute over the rightful
possession of England's crown. Unconcerned for either the rain
wetting his woolen cloak or the mud splattering his leather
boots, the king focused his fury on two men: Ranulf de Gernons,
the earl of Chester, the living, stoic target of his wrath,
and Sir Hugh de Leon, a baron who lay face down in blood-soaked
grass, beyond hearing and earthly cares.
"An unfortunate
death, Chester."
The king's
deceptively placid statement reeked of ire and accusation.
With nearly
as regal a mein as the monarch's, Chester retorted, "His death
could not be avoided, Sire. Sir Hugh refused to surrender when
given the chance."
The king
gestured toward a young, fair-haired man sprawled not far from
the baron. Alberic tensed, aware of whose blood dried on his
sword, and prepared to acknowledge his part in the senseless
carnage if need be. But the king continued to address the earl.
"The son,
also?"
"Young
William followed his father's foolhardy example. Had they allowed,
I would have captured both and held them for ransom."
"So instead
you allowed both to die!"
Chester
tossed a hand in the air, his usually unshakable composure
fraying. "Their goal was to attack the camp and take you as
their prisoner. What would you have us do, Sire? Not defend
our own lives? Stand aside? Perhaps allow them to escape and
return to Maud's service?"
"We would prefer our
land-rich subjects be captured and brought before us! Sir Hugh
might have been turned to our service if given sufficient enticement."
The twitch
of Chester's jaw made Alberic wonder how long the recent, brittle
alliance between the earl and the king would last. Chester's
reputation for acting only in his best interest was well earned
and widely known. And given the king's mistrust of Chester,
a breech could come at any time, for any reason, split asunder
by either man.
"As I
said, Sir Hugh gave us no choice," Chester stated, firmly indicating
he would argue no more.
Wisely,
King Stephen didn't push the earl further. Instead, he glanced
at the field littered with dead, at the wounded men-at-arms
being tended, and finally at the poor souls who'd been taken
prisoner - those of Sir Hugh's small force who'd survived.
Too small
of a force to have a prayer of prevailing against the earl's.
Alberic still didn't understand why Sir Hugh, vastly outnumbered,
hadn't surrendered. Or why William had fought on with such
vicious zeal when knowing his father had fallen and their mission
doomed.
All pondering
over the de Leon men's actions halted when King Stephen's gaze
settled on him. Alberic endured the full force of the dark-eyed,
measuring stare for several uncomfortable moments before the
king asked of Chester, "Your whelp?"
Alberic
almost smiled at the earl's obvious chagrin.
For several
years now, Chester had dismissed the familial similarities
between himself and Alberic as slight and utterly no proof
of paternity. To have the king notice the resemblance so quickly
and accurately must be irritating. Alberic also knew better
than to hope for the answer he'd waited nigh on half a lifetime
to hear — full acknowledgment. Even so, his heart beat quickened.
"So his
mother claimed," Chester finally answered.
"Have
you provided for him as yet?"
"He has
a place in my household."
A place
grudgingly given and not the one Alberic had hoped for as a
lad of twelve. After his mother's death and having no means
to support himself, he'd shown up at Chester's castle and confronted
the earl. While Chester hadn't acknowledged Alberic as his
son, neither had the earl tossed him out the gate. Disappointed
but needful of shelter and sustenance, he'd responded to Chester's
scant generosity by working hard to earn the earl's respect,
if not his affection.
Most days
Alberic believed he'd made strides in winning Chester's acceptance.
On others he suffered pangs of sorrow for that skinny lad,
raw with grief, needing to belong somewhere and fearful
he never would.
"Is he
knighted?" the king wanted to know.
Alberic's
heartbeat kicked up another notch. That coveted honor hadn't
occurred yet, though he'd long since passed beyond the age
when most squires acquired their knighthood. Chester, however,
was decidedly reluctant to bestow the honor.
"Not as
yet."
Then Alberic
wondered why the king took so pointed and unwarranted an interest
in the baseborn son of the earl of Chester. Especially now,
when more important matters begged attention.
Discomfited,
Alberic watched King Stephen squat beside Sir Hugh and slide
a large gold ring from the baron's limp hand, pausing to study
it before clenching it in his fist.
"The seal
of the dragon," the king said softly. "We remember the first
time we saw this unusual ring many years ago, on an occasion
when Sir Hugh attended our uncle's court. He said he wore the
ring in honor of his wife, a Welsh princess, whose family claims
lineage from that of Pendragon."
Pendragon?
The fabled King Arthur?
All around
him Alberic heard both awed murmurs and snickers of disbelief.
All muttering stopped when the king rose from beside Sir Hugh.
"Disbelieve,
do you?" Stephen called out. When no one answered, his attention
again returned to where Alberic didn't want it. On him.
"What
of you? Do you believe?"
Alberic
considered his answer carefully, well aware he was being judged.
"I know
naught of the descendants of King Arthur, Sire, so cannot give
you an informed opinion on the matter."
The king
came toward him, his steps purposeful, his intention impenetrable,
stopping a mere arm's length away. "What is your name, young
man?"
"Alberic
of Chester, Sire."
"On your
sword dries the blood of William de Leon?"
Asked
mildly, but with an undertone of cold steel.
Apparently
the messenger who Chester had sent to camp to inform the king
of the skirmish had described how the baron and his son had
met their end.
"Aye,
Sire."
"Do you
now consider yourself the better man?"
Alberic
glanced over at William de Leon — young, fair haired, and damned
good with a sword.
"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, 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
which 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 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 colee .
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 witness's 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 near burst with questions about Camelen — which he
knew lay somewhere south of Shrewsbury — 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
was tolerable enough to wed and bed, and 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?
Definitely
something 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 sizeable, the ring didn't sit as heavily on
his hand as Alberic thought it should. Odder still, it fitted
as though a goldsmith 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 in 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 ruby 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
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 though 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
chain clanged as the heavy door of thick planks began its decent.
Gwendolyn
swiftly headed for the gate tower stairway, removing the helm
that had pressed so hard against her thick braid that her head
felt 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 maidens'
heart.
Gwendolyn
wasn't careless, having learned from her parents the importance
of holding her heart on tight rein. So she appreciated Alberic's
handsomeness as if admiring a finely sculpted statue, choosing
to ignore the faster beat of her pulse.
She could
tell nothing of his thoughts during his perusal of the castle
and contents of the bailey. Then he turned to look at her,
and his eyes narrowed in disapproval at the sight of her chain
mail.
Understandable,
she supposed, and of no importance. What he thought of her
strange garb mattered not.
Garrett,
who'd looked weary from a distance, looked nigh on haggard
up close, but not for all the gold in the kingdom would she
embarrass the proud knight by fussing over him.
The knights
dismounted, Garrett with the difficulty of age, Alberic with
the grace of a skilled horseman.
Garrett
attempted a smile. "Thought that was you on the battlements,
Lady Gwendolyn. A welcoming sight to these unworthy, weary
eyes."
Now wasn't
the time for smiles and gallantry.
"You bring
news, Garrett. What has happened?"
Garrett
took a long, steadying breath. "The worst news, I fear. My
lady, I am given the sad duty of informing you that your father
and brother have . . . fallen."
Nay!
Sweet Jesu, nay!
For several
long moments Gwendolyn could only stare at Garrett, unable
to breathe, struggling to deny what she couldn't possibly have
heard. Then Sedwick cursed, mocking her feeble attempt at disbelief.
Grief hit hard. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks.
To hold herself upright, she grabbed hold of Garrett's forearm.
"Fallen?
Both?" she asked, almost choking on the words.
"In battle,
near Wallingford."
Briefly
her thoughts flew to her sisters. The elder, Emma, and the
youngest, Nicole. Orphans, all of us.
But not
poor, and not without resources. Father had been most specific
on her course of action should the worst happen.
Gwendolyn
palmed away her tears, forcefully setting aside her grief.
Later she would mourn, but now must see to her duty to her
loved ones, and then to the legacy.
With her
father gone, she alone could ensure the safety and continuation
of the legacy.
"Where
are they?" she asked of Garrett, relieved to hear her voice
sounded stronger.
"On a
cart in the woodland." Then he sighed and put his free hand
over Gwendolyn's. "We brought Hugh and William home for burial.
However, we cannot bring them into the castle until we are
assured all at Camelen are prepared to accept their new lord."
Shock
left her speechless. Gwendolyn soon reasoned out who that new
lord must be.
Sir Alberic
of Chester.
She glared
at the knight she'd witlessly allowed entrance. "You have no
right to Camelen. My father's will clearly states that if William
does not survive him on his death, Father's estates should
be divided between his three daughters. Emma is entitled to
the castle as her dowry, and Nicole and I to our proper portion
of manors and fees. I suggest you seek your fortune elsewhere!"
"In time
of peace, or had Sir Hugh supported the king, then his will
might have been honored," Alberic said in his deep, rumbling
voice that now held a surprising and unwanted note of sympathy. "Unfortunately,
your father rebelled against the king from whom he held the
charters for his estates, which gives the King Stephen the
right to seize and dispense the lands as he chooses."
Garrett's
hand pressed down on hers where she still clutched his arm. "Sir
Alberic is right, my lady. I witnessed the gifting. We have
no recourse."
She snatched
her hand away, distraught Sir Garrett could so blithely abandon
his loyalty to her father in favor of an upstart knight.
"What
if we do not accept this new lord, Garrett? What stops us from
tossing him out the gate and raising the drawbridge?"
Garrett,
damn his hide, looked to Alberic, who answered.
"The king
kindly allowed a company of royal soldiers to accompany me.
They are in the woodland, guarding the men of Camelen who survived
the skirmish and the cart that bears your father and brother.
If I do not give their captain the signal to bring all into
the castle, he will take everyone back to Wallingford for King
Stephen to dispense with at his whim."
Gwendolyn's
heart sank. "You dare hold the bodies of the lords of Camelen
hostage? My father deserves a lord's burial in the church!
My brother beside him! 'Tis unconscionable for you to deny
them —"
"I do
not deny them, my lady. Too many men of Camelen have already
been lost —"
"How many."
His countenance
softened. "We bring sixty-three survivors with us, many with
wounds. That I know of, five chose not to return and went on
their way. Three were wounded too severely to chance the trip.
I expect they will be buried at Wallingford with the others."
Gwendolyn
quickly calculated, her heartache deepening. She looked to
Garrett for confirmation. "Thirty-two men lost?"
He nodded. "One
knight, several squires, including your father's and mine.
The rest foot soldiers."
Sweet
Jesu! So many. So very many.
Alberic
continued. "So you see why I wish a peaceful transfer of lordship,
my lady. Once done, you are free to bury Sir Hugh and William
| 
Rhodri
ap Dafydd skillfully wielded two weapons in the service of
Connor ap Maelgwn, chieftain of Glenvair.
"Not
this morn, Lady Emma. The king has matters of great import
to discuss with his counselors, so he will be occupied for
the greater part of the day."