Midnight Magic by Shari Anton Page B

weapons arranged in patterns. “Where?”
    She knew exactly where they should be placed, and leaned toward him to point out an incomplete circle of swords. Her shoulder bumped his, and immediately she felt his warmth, somehow soothing and discomfiting at the same time. She instantly backed away.
    “The swords should go there,” she managed to say.
    Gallantly ignoring her retreat, Alberic stared at the circle as if deep in thought. “I meant to ask Garrett about the weapons. Did they all belong to lords of Camelen?”
    “The swords and daggers did. Of the others, some were given to my father as gifts, and some he bought because he admired them. A few belonged to my mother’s Welsh ancestors. I fear I do not know which is which. Garrett or Sedwick might.”
    “Impressive.” He took a healthy swallow of wine. “We will hang the weapons, but not until matters are more settled.”
    Not until the possibility of an organized rebellion was less likely, he meant. Until then, he apparently wanted no further honors done to Hugh and William. That might take months, too long for Gwendolyn’s peace of mind.
    “I had hoped to do so tomorrow, to have done with it. Would that not be best?”
    “Tomorrow I ride for Shrewsbury. I need to visit the abbey, the sheriff, and the king’s castellan at Shrewsbury Castle.”
    She understood the politics of his plan, but not the timing.
    “With the archer still on the loose? Is that wise?”
    “I refuse to allow one misguided villain to trap me in the keep. I will take several men as guard, so if our rogue attacks again, we will catch him.”
    This made her wonder if he hoped to draw out the archer, using himself as bait. Was Alberic brave or reckless? She dismissed the concern for his safety as imprudent softening she couldn’t allow. Especially when his leaving increased the urgency of her obtaining the ring tonight.
    The first course finished, Gwendolyn dipped her fingers into the water basin. As did Alberic. Sharing wash water with a male partner had never bothered her before. With Alberic it somehow seemed intimate even though they never touched.
    Hands dry, Alberic poured more wine, filling both goblets, then called for another flagon.
    For the second course he chose the roasted dove he’d requested, rice with almond cream, and elderberry cakes.
    She adored elderberry cakes, and the second goblet of wine went the way of the first.
    “Have you lived at Camelen all of your life?” he asked.
    “Aye. My mother preferred not to foster us, so I was raised here, though I have seen some of the kingdom. London and York. I fear I was too young to remember much of them. And several times we made the trip to Wales, most times to Snowdonia. What of you? Did you foster at Chester?”
    His half smile took on that lonely quality she’d promised herself she wouldn’t heed.
    “Not in the usual way, but aye, I spent my youth in and around the castle.” His smile then softened. “By the by, Mistress Biggs wishes you to know the villagers miss you.”
    The change of subject was abrupt, but the sentiment warmed her heart, even as she realized Alberic must speak English, a rarity for a Norman.
    Her father never bothered to learn the language of the peasants, while Gwendolyn had been intrigued by the various words one could use to say the same thing. Norman-French, Latin, Welsh, and English. She could converse in them all, and the talent had served her well.
    “Little Edward suffered from a nasty fever last fall. I feared we might lose him. His mother and I spent many an hour hovering over him.”
    “Ah, I met the lad. Adorable little urchin.”
    That he was. Cute and lively, he was the model for the little boy she would like to have some day. She would miss him, and the thought had her reaching for her third goblet of wine.
    As she sipped, she looked out over the diners. Some ate with relish, others engaged in lively conversation with those around them. It was then she noticed the laughter, a