That stopped him. “You
what
?”
“I wished to know what would happen if I wore it.”
“I saw it not.”
“I hid it beneath my chemise so you would not know.” She tossed her hand upward. “You forced me to question everything my parents told me about the legacy. So I conducted a test to discern if you could be right.”
His hand shook when he raised it to rub at his brow. “Dear God, Gwendolyn.”
“Alberic, if you believe this pendant holds no magic, then I should be able to wear it as freely as you wear the ring, which you still have not been able to remove, have you?”
Aye, she should be able to wear the pendant and nay, he hadn’t removed the ring, having given up trying. Nothing, however, would convince him that he wouldn’t, someday, find a way to take it off.
“That you wear the pendant is not as disturbing as what you believe can happen when you wear it!”
She slipped the damn thing over her head. “Take my hand.”
He stared at her outstretched hand.
“If there is no magic, naught will happen,” she stated firmly, daring him to cooperate.
Nothing would happen because magic didn’t exist. He knew that. So why did he hesitate to accept her challenge?
“You wore the pendant the other day and nothing happened, correct? So why bother now?”
“Because now you know I wear it and we are alone. Perhaps that will make a difference.”
Chiding himself for cowardice, he took her hand. ’Twas warm, as always, and fitted perfectly in his, as always, and his loins stirred at her touch—as always. Normal feelings and reactions all.
She looked at him quizzically, waiting for him to tell her that he, what? Could feel some kind of power? He could, but not the kind of power she expected.
“I want you, Gwen. But that is not unusual, is it? Given that we are alone in our bedchamber, I should think the stirring in my loins quite normal.”
He wasn’t sorry to see disappointment. Then she slipped away, headed for the hearth and lit a taper. Though it was the middle of the morning, she lit a candle. Before she could light a second, he figured out what she intended to do. ’Twas time to stop this idiocy before she went too far.
He snatched the taper from her hand. “Enough, Gwendolyn. I will stand for no more!”
“You fear if I light the candles I will prove you wrong.”
“I fear for your mind! If you light the candles and nothing happens, then what? Do we drink some nasty potion? Must we anoint ourselves with special oils? Perhaps we must stand on one foot, facing south. And if all those do not produce the results you wish, then what else will you decide must be done? Well, I am having none of it!” He stretched out his hand in demand. “Take off the pendant and give it to me. I shall put it away this time so it remains put away!”
She backed up a step. “You fear what you do not understand.”
“Apparently you do not understand, either, or you would not be conducting these ridiculous tests!”
“At least I try to understand. You make no effort!”
“I have no reason to try! Gwendolyn, you cannot perform magic. You cannot summon me to your side simply by thinking of me. You will never be able to summon King Arthur from Avalon. The entire legacy is
nonsense
!”
She bit her bottom lip, hard, telling him how desperately she wanted to refute him. Wisely, she didn’t try, but merely stood there looking hurt and disillusioned. Better that than her continuing to believe a ridiculous falsehood. Whoever had perpetrated this nonsense on her parents, and so onto Gwendolyn, should be hanged from a stout oak and left as carrion for the ravens to pick clean.
He extended his hand again, palm upward. “Give me the pendant.”
The demand squared her shoulders. “’Tis mine, a gift from my mother. No matter whether you believe in the legacy or not, you may not have it.”
Her outright defiance took him aback. “You are my wife, Gwendolyn. What is yours is mine.”
She shook her head. “Not the pendant! I may give it to no other than the next guardian.”
He lowered his hand, stunned. Short of ripping it from around her neck, which he refused to lower himself to do, she wasn’t giving it over.
Next guardian?
Passed from mother to daughter.
That he would never allow. To have Gwendolyn delusioned was bad enough without her passing on a false legacy to a daughter. They didn’t have one yet and might never have, but he still vowed to protect her as a father should, even from her mother.
Somehow he had to save them both. Somehow he had to decisively convince Gwendolyn that King Arthur was dead, buried, and would never again walk English soil!
On his own, he couldn’t. He’d tried and been rebuffed—defied! He needed help, and he knew where to find it. At Chester. Which meant facing his own demons, but he knew of no other way to put this legacy nonsense to rest.
Damn.
“Several years ago, a man by the name of Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote a history of the kings of England. The
Historia Regum Britanniae
. Have you read it?”
“I have heard of it but not read it.”
Neither had he, only heard parts of it discussed. But from what he’d heard, he was sure the book contained the answer to his dilemma.
“’Tis my understanding that the tome also contains the prophecies of Merlin. I believe ’tis time you read them.”
“You have a copy of this book?”
“Nay, but I know who does. Prepare for a visit to Chester. We leave on the morn.”
The town of Chester looked no different from when he’d left it for Wallingford.
On the palfrey beside him, Gwendolyn stretched this way and that in an effort to take in the sights along the dirt-packed streets. From those streets, people stared up at who most knew as the earl’s by-blow, with his new wife and a small entourage in their wake.
Alberic wondered if he should have listened to Gwendolyn and brought a larger retinue. She’d argued that a baron should travel with no fewer than a company of twelve, six of those being knights. He’d balked, bringing only two knights, one of them Garrett. Roger, four liveried soldiers, the cart driver, and a maid for Gwendolyn made up the entire entourage. Until now, when no one raised an impressed eyebrow, did he admit he’d truly wanted to impress his father’s people, allow them to remark upon how well the unacknowledged son had done for himself.
Too late for a show of rise in rank, wealth, and power.
Too late to impress his father.
Only one bejeweled ring sat upon Alberic’s hand: the seal of the dragon. He wore no gold chains around his neck, no showy brooch fastened his mantle. Instead of spending a portion of his newly gained wealth on flashy baubles, he’d purchased lumber and labor to repair fire-ravaged huts. All well and good, but the earl would dismiss the altruism as unnecessary because Alberic gained naught of import from it.
Peace of mind didn’t have a place on the earl’s ledger. Wealth and power were all that counted in his books, and he’d done a damn good job of ever adding to both.
Alberic spotted a few familiar faces. A bar wench, whom he ignored completely. The blacksmith who’d repaired his chain mail a time or two rated an acknowledging bob of his head. Two of his father’s knights came out of an apothecary shop, and to their hails of greeting Alberic raised a hand.
He led the way through the gate in the thick stone wall that separated the castle grounds from the town that had grown up around it. Gwendolyn sat tall and erect in her saddle, her expression serene, though she must be impressed by the size of the earl’s residence. She gave nothing of her thoughts away, however, as a proper, well-bred wife of a baron shouldn’t.
But then, a proper, well-bred wife of a baron wouldn’t have defied her husband over possession of a pendant, forcing him to make this journey to Chester! Alberic tucked away his ire as he had since their argument. If this journey turned Gwendolyn right-headed, then he considered the time and money well spent.
Naturally, a guard at the city gate had hustled to the castle to inform the inner garrison of Alberic’s arrival. A bevy of stable lads and servants hovered near the steps to lend the company assistance, and with them, quite to Alberic’s surprise, stood Lady Mathilda.
An honor, that. While he would like to think the honor all for him, he knew it wasn’t. As the daughter of a Norman baron and Welsh princess, Gwendolyn was due consideration in her own right, and the wife of the earl well knew which personages in England were due consideration.
Young and pretty, fair and blond, and of royal blood, Mathilda had married Ranulf de Gernons several years ago in a political marriage arranged by her father, Robert, earl of Gloucester. How she managed to remain on good terms with both her empress-loyal family and her now king-supporting husband, Alberic didn’t know.
But he knew her greeting smile for him was genuine, and didn’t doubt she would take proper care of Gwendolyn during those times when it proved necessary.
Alberic dismounted and aided Gwendolyn down from her palfrey, then led his wife to their beaming hostess.
“You bring me company, Alberic. How very sweet of you!”
Alberic took Mathilda’s outstretched hand and bowed over it. “Lady Mathilda, you honor us with your greeting. I should like you to meet my wife, Lady Gwendolyn.”
Gwendolyn dipped into a deep curtsy. “I am in your debt for your courtesy, Lady Mathilda.”
Mathilda accepted the obiescense as her due and waited for Gwendolyn to rise before grasping her hand, too. “I am delighted the both of you accepted the earl’s invitation. He knows you are here, Alberic, and awaits you in the solar. Your wife and I shall have a pleasant visit until the two of you join us for supper.”
Alberic wasn’t surprised the earl wished an immediate audience, and he had no excuse to linger, knowing Mathilda would see all in his company settled in short order.
“I beg a boon, my lady. Gwendolyn is most interested in Monmouth’s
Historia
. Might she be afforded the honor of reading your copy?”
“Of course, Alberic. We shall have our visit in the library.”
“Then I shall leave Gwendolyn in your most excellent care.”
He bowed off, gathering his resolve to endure what was sure to be an uncomfortable meeting with his father. He’d taken no more than five steps when he heard Gwendolyn call his name. He turned to see her rushing toward him. She stopped a mere foot away, so close he caught her lavender fragrance.
She bit her bottom lip, a sure sign she wished to say something she wasn’t sure she should say. Likely she wished to issue some order, which he preferred to think of as well-meant advice or suggestions. Just this morning she’d advised him to wear his scarlet-and-gold tunic for his visit with the earl. He’d done so, not bothering to tell her that he’d already made that decision.
He smiled down at her. “You rarely hesitate to speak your mind. Out with it, Gwen.”
“Pray remember you need not court the earl’s favor any further than you wish to.”
Encouragement delivered as instruction. It struck him that in the past weeks she’d come to know him better than he knew her.
“You need not worry over me, Gwendolyn.”
“’Tis part of a wife’s duty, Alberic.”
And with that, she spun on her heel and returned to Lady Mathilda.
Now dismissed by both women, he made his way up the stairs into the great hall, then up more stairs to the earl’s solar. Not until he was outside the door did it occur to him that tonight he would sleep in a room on this very floor instead of out in the barracks. The notion that as a baron he now rated a bed in the castle amused him, so it was with a smile on his face that he knocked on the door, though he was careful to hide all emotion before obeying the earl’s order to enter.
The earl of Chester sat behind a large, ornate desk of dark, highly polished wood. Several scrolls sat off to the side, with one spread out before him. The man needed to neither wear nor display any trappings of power. His very presence dominated the room, and Alberic knew better than to let his father know how very dominated he felt.
In that he wasn’t alone. The earl intimidated most everyone, from the lowliest of peasants to the highest of nobles. Green eyes that perfectly matched Alberic’s stared out of a face older but of similar cut and hue. He raised a hand to stroke his bushy mustache, the facial hair an oddity among Normans, who preferred to face the world clean-shaven.
“I rather expected you to arrive yesterday,” the earl said in his deep, commanding voice.
Alberic heard both the admonishment and disappointment.
“I decided to delay a day,” he answered, surprising himself by halting with the simple statement, giving no explanation or apology. Gwendolyn would be proud of him.
Chester waved him to a chair. “Have a pleasant journey?”
He removed his cloak and tossed it over the back of the chair, knowing the earl truly didn’t care whether the journey had been pleasant or not. It had been pleasant because as efficiently as Gwendolyn ran his household, she’d packed for their journey.
He settled into the heavy, armed chair, allowing his hands to dangle over the ends of the arms, his ring in plain view. “Pleasant enough considering the weather.”
“Do you find Camelen to your taste?”
He couldn’t begin to tell the earl just how much he enjoyed Camelen. “It suits me well enough.”
“Which daughter did you marry?”
“The middle daughter, Gwendolyn. She is currently with Lady Mathilda.”
“Any problems on that score?”
The earl truly didn’t care about that, either, and Alberic saw no sense in revealing his problems with Gwendolyn. Not that they were many. She no longer seemed to hold the death of her brother, or his possession of Camelen, or their forced marriage against him. At the least, she’d not mentioned them of late. If not for this nonsense about magic and King Arthur, he believed his marriage would be nigh on damn near perfect.
“She has accepted me and the marriage.”
For that, Alberic earned an approving nod, and he found himself uncaring of whether or not the earl approved of his marriage. How strange, considering how many years he’d spent seeking Chester’s approval.