That absurd speculation brought him to his feet. He knew better than to try to remove the ring to prove her wrong, but somehow he must force Gwendolyn to see sense, or to at least have doubts.
Mon dieu,
if word of her unnatural beliefs spread, people would think she had lost her wits or, worse, accuse her of practicing witchcraft.
“Let us say what you believe is true. If you cannot read the scroll to discern the spell, then what good is it?”
“I believe Rhys can read it.”
“The bard?”
“How many English castles boast a resident Welsh bard?”
“None that I know of, but—”
“Rhys arrived in Camelen shortly after my mother came here as a bride. The bards know all of the ancient tales, both the ones they sing and, in this case I suspect, those they keep secret. If anyone can read the ancient language, it would be a bard.”
“Have you shown it to him?”
“Nay. I do not believe Mother did, either. She just accepted his presence as an assurance of aid should it be needed.”
“Then perhaps we should show this to Rhys, have him read what it says.” And thus prove to Gwendolyn that her belief lacked merit.
She shook her head. “Not unless absolutely necessary, and ’tisn’t necessary unless we decide the time is right to summon King Arthur.” She pointed to words on the parchment. “Of the few phrases that seem familiar, I am certain the summoners must be of faithful hearts”—she moved her finger—“and their purpose honorable.”
An honorable purpose spoke for itself. The spell wasn’t to be cast for personal gain. Faithful hearts? Gwendolyn interpreted the phrase as a couple in love.
“So you are concerned that even if we did decide to summon King Arthur, the spell would not work because we do not marry for love, as did your parents and grandparents.”
“I am not sure.”
Alberic’s patience came to an end. No matter which argument he presented, he’d not budged Gwendolyn’s belief.
He put his hands on her shoulders, stared hard into her wide brown eyes. “Gwendolyn, maybe you believe this tale, and perhaps your mother and her mother before her believed it, but have you ever seen anyone perform magic? Have you ever heard of someone reciting a spell that worked?”
“Can you remove the ring?”
He’d tried soap and water, and goose grease, which hadn’t worked. But there must be a way to ease the ring over his knuckle. All he had to do was find it, believing the ring’s removal the only way to disabuse Gwendolyn of this absurdity.
“I do not for a moment believe an ancient sorcerer uttered some spell that fastens it to my hand. Put the scroll and pendant back in their hiding place and tell no one else of this foolishness.”
She pursed her lips. Was she about to argue?
“Gwendolyn, there is no such thing as magic. Never was, never will be. And if there were a way to summon King Arthur from Avalon, do you not think someone would have done so long before now? England has suffered other periods of strife.”
“Perhaps.”
He settled for the small concession. “Now, I must go down to see if Roger has brought our rogue archer inside. Will you be all right?”
“Of course.”
She wasn’t, not yet, her upset visible in the set of her jaw. But surely, eventually, Gwendolyn would come to see sense. ’Twould help greatly when he removed the ring.
The following morning, a seamstress pinned up the hem of the surcoat Gwendolyn had never planned to wear. She liked neither the color nor the cut, but wear it she would on the morrow. At her wedding.
The distressing thought begged distraction.
Careful to keep her body still, Gwendolyn glanced over at Emma, who smoothed a chemise into her trunk, readying it for the journey to London. As was Emma’s way, she’d piled all of her belongings on the bed and now sought to pack each item in the neatest, most efficient arrangement.
’Twould take her hours, keep her hands busy, and her thoughts ordered and calm.
Gwendolyn’s feet itched to move, and she was far from tranquil. Yesterday’s calamity lurked at the edge of her thoughts, and no matter how hard she tried to push them away, they intruded unmercifully.
She would have been better served to shed her garments and join Alberic on the bed. The invitation in his eyes had been unmistakable, and she’d definitely suffered temptation. Her curiosity over coupling with Alberic had swollen her nipples to hard nubs and caused her heart to race. Even now her body stirred, the yearning painfully centered in her most private woman’s places.
But she’d resisted, admonishing herself for her physical weakness where he was concerned and believing she served a higher purpose by telling him of the legacy.
How wrong she’d been. His disbelief had left her reeling, torn between horror and fury.
She’d put the horror to rest, at least. Alberic had adamantly warned her to tell no one of her “foolishness,” so she highly doubted he would spread the tale.
Fury at his utter refusal to consider the legacy legitimate had lessened to anger, and finally, in the hours since dawn, to resignation. Alberic didn’t believe in sorcery. He spurned the possibility of magic. Clung fiercely to the belief that the ring held tight to his finger because the skin bunched at his knuckle, preventing it from sliding off.
Gwendolyn knew better. Alberic’s finger could shrivel to half its present size and still the ring would stay put. Somehow the magic had gone awry. The ring clung to the hand of a man who wore it by chance, not the hand chosen for it. Not that she was sorry, precisely, that she wasn’t marrying Madog. Still, she would somehow have to accept the ring’s choice of wearer.
Convincing Alberic now that the ring bore magic, however, was impossible. Perhaps, someday, his stubbornness might abate. For now, she could do naught but allow him his defenses.
She’d scared him nigh on witless. True, he’d shown no sign of fright. No widened eyes or shaking hand. A true warrior kept his fear hidden away from sight, for good reason.
Only fear, she’d reasoned, could account for Alberic’s denial of the legacy and his refusal to accept responsibility for an awesome power no other man in her lifetime could possess.
When she died, and the ring slipped from his hand, perhaps then he’d believe! A morbid and uncharitable thought, but at the moment she thought she could be excused for her lack of charity.
But then, so could he be excused today from further discourse on the matter. Roger hadn’t returned as yet, and Alberic fretted over the welfare of his squire and the four soldiers he’d sent to capture Edgar. After seeing the king’s soldiers off at dawn—and Gwendolyn ruefully admitted she might miss Odell a bit—Alberic ordered a patrol to search for Camelen’s men. As yet there were no results.
From across the room, Emma sighed. “I fear I shall appear the veriest pauper at court.”
Grateful for the interruption, Gwendolyn allowed herself a smile at Emma’s unwarranted lack of confidence. The woman could garb herself in surcoats of the roughest peasant weave and not be mistaken for a pauper. ’Struth, no one of any sense would notice what Emma wore upon seeing her lovely face and hearing her speak. And if some half-wit noble disdained Emma for the fabric of her surcoat, the dolt didn’t deserve the rank of noble.
“Your chemises are made of the finest linen, and your surcoats fashioned of silk and tight-weave wool. Surely that places you a rank or two above beggar.”
“Perhaps.”
Gwendolyn’s smile widened. “Is there aught of mine you wish to take?”
In less than a heartbeat, Emma answered, “Would you be willing to part with the saffron?”
No decision was easier. “I have never been partial to the color, so feel free to take it.”
The seamstress rose from her knees and pronounced the pinning finished. Relieved, Gwendolyn slipped out of the surcoat and handed it over.
The seamstress curtsied, then smiled. “’Twill be ready within the hour, milady.”
Gwendolyn managed to smile back. “My thanks.”
As soon as the seamstress closed the door behind her, Gwendolyn turned to Emma. “You may also have that one, if you wish.”
Emma didn’t misunderstand which surcoat Gwendolyn willingly parted with. She looked horrified. “Your wedding finery? I could not possibly.”
“I see no reason why not. ’Tis close of a shade of the other, so I doubt I would wear it much.”
“Then why did you choose that piece of silk?”
“I let Nicole choose it, not caring what she chose. Until yesterday I did not think I would wear the surcoat, ever, most especially not as wedding finery.”
Emma frowned at Gwendolyn’s unintended petulance.
“You have not forgiven me for warning Alberic. I do wish you would. I should hate to leave with ill feelings between us.”
The wedding was now only one morning away, with Emma’s and Nicole’s departure set for the day following. While Gwendolyn stood for her surcoat’s final fitting and Emma packed her trunk, Nicole was spending time with Father Paul, who was telling the girl about life in a religious house; both what she could expect and what was expected of her. Gwendolyn didn’t want to part with ill feelings between herself and her sisters, either, but she doubted Nicole would quickly forgive her or Emma for allowing Alberic to send her off to a nunnery. Just as Gwendolyn was having a hard time forgiving Emma for alerting Alberic to the escape plan.
But in the end, ’twas not Emma’s warning that had thwarted an escape, but the stubbornness of the seal of the dragon.
“You must have patience with me, Emma. I am not as reconciled to the fate chosen for me as are you.”
“Alberic is a good man, Gwen. You could do far worse.”
True enough. She knew of other brides who’d not been fortunate in their husbands and had always been certain she would escape their misfortune, sure that the legacy assured her happiness in marriage. Instead, it had brought her misery.
For now, she’d done as Alberic ordered; put the scroll and pendant back in their hiding place. If this war lingered on, with more lives lost, more crops destroyed, more castles and villages set to ruin, England would surely suffer its time of most dire need. Until she could convince Alberic of the truth, the legacy was useless to all and sundry.
Unless she could tell Alberic what was written on the scroll. Should she ask Rhys to read it? Nay, not unless absolutely necessary would she show it to anyone else. Best just to get on with life and try not to fret over all that had gone wrong. What else could a body do?
Gwendolyn took Emma’s hand. “You are my sister, and so I love you and always will. My anger will pass. How do you on your packing?”
Emma’s arms came around her, and Gwendolyn felt better for the brief hug.
“I love you, too,” Emma whispered, then released her. “As for the packing, I am nearly done. I suppose it is silly of me to worry about clothing anyway. I will not be a popular member of the court because of Father’s support of Maud, so will have no need for more than a few garments. Still, I want to do our family name proud.”
“You will, Emma. Of that I have no doubt.”
Emma’s mouth thinned. “I hope I do well enough so the king grants our petition to have Nicole released from the abbey. She is terribly unhappy and hasn’t yet set foot inside the place.”
“Nicole knows you will do your best by her, and if you find court not to your liking, you are welcome to petition to return home, too.”
Emma smiled. “And what would Alberic say if both sisters he thought himself well rid of show up at his gates begging admittance? But I thank you for the invitation all the same.”
If her sisters came begging, would Alberic allow them to return? She didn’t see how he could object, but then she hadn’t anticipated his reaction to the legacy, either.
Sweet mercy, she was about to marry a man she barely knew. On the morrow she would take vows to cherish and honor Alberic, vows she would be honor-bound to keep—somehow.
And tomorrow night?
She nearly shivered with the anticipation. She didn’t have to close her eyes to envision Alberic sitting on her maidenly bed, his eyes alight with desire. Nor was it hard to remember how hard she’d struggled not to accept his invitation. Tomorrow night she would be his wife, share his bed, with no choice but to lie with Alberic.
That should bother her, she supposed, but heaven help her, the prospect of coupling with Alberic bothered her not at all.
She’d overheard maids speak of the union, teasing and jesting with one another about “sharing blankets” and “taking a tumble.” She even knew which maids “lifted her skirt for any prick gone hard.” Vulgar terms, all, for coupling with a man.
Unfortunately, sometimes sharing blankets led to trouble for a maid if the man’s “seed took root.”
Trouble, Gwendolyn didn’t worry over. Bearing children was the duty, and some said the joy, of being a wife. All lords needed heirs, and even though her mother had died as the result of childbirth, Gwendolyn had always accepted that she must strive to give her husband an heir.
Except she didn’t have a notion of how to take a tumble. Once she lifted her skirt, Alberic would have to show her what to do with a prick gone hard.
A
LBERIC PACED THE HALL
, waiting for Gwendolyn and her sisters to come down the stairs so they could begin the procession to the church, when the squire he’d worried over most of the night walked in.
Roger looked haggard and worn, as if he’d been in battle. The hair on Alberic’s neck rose, his warrior’s instincts coming alert.
“Good God, man, what happened?” Alberic asked.
“Ap Idwal must have realized we were following him. They attacked our camp in the middle of the night and stole our horses. If not for the patrol you sent out to find us, we would still be walking back to Camelen.” Roger took a fortifying breath. “We lost two good men, my lord, with naught to show for it.”
Alberic’s immediate reaction was to mount a large force and go after ap Idwal, to avenge his fallen men and retrieve his horses. Except he was getting married within the hour, and securing his lordship of Camelen must come before all else. Retaliation would have to wait.