Midnight Magic by Shari Anton Read Free Book Online Page A

then speak to him of the ring, perhaps ask him
nicely
this time instead of demanding he give it over.
    She wouldn’t tell him the truth of the ring’s importance, of course. Perhaps she could explain it was a gift from her mother to her father, a keepsake handed down through the female line.
    If he didn’t give it over, then she’d have to find another way to take possession of the seal of the dragon from the man not meant to wear it.
    Alberic didn’t know a prime ox from a decent ox. If Sedwick claimed the two oxen pulling the plow through the field were prime, he had no reason to disbelieve the man who’d been steward of Camelen for more than a decade.
    Just as he didn’t doubt the man’s knowledge of how many sheaves of wheat and sacks of barley and oats were harvested each year; how much was kept for the lord’s use and how much could be sold at what price.
    He would understand all this eventually, but for now Alberic took contentment in sitting atop a quality horse, watching the work being done.
    Lords might come and go, but the tenants’ work didn’t halt, each task to its season. Given, of course, that some army didn’t come along and burn their homes and crops. He’d seen plenty of blackened timbers and scorched fields these past years, but hadn’t contemplated the effect of the war on the common people until now, when they were his people. His crops. His livelihood.
    The risk of harm came from directions other than an attacking army. Either lack of or an overabundance of rain. Pestilence. Early or late frost.
    But then there were the sheep. Hale and hardy Shropshires. One needed only meadows and freedom from disease to make a success of raising sheep, or so he thought. And this lovely corner of Shropshire provided an abundance of grazing land upon its gently rolling hillsides.
    The streams ran thick with trout and salmon. Hart and hare populated the woodlands. And he could hardly wait to fly the gyrfalcons against the herons and cranes.
    He watched the oxen make their turn at the end of the long row, then wheeled his horse southward. Sedwick and Odell fell in with him. The other guards marched behind.
    “Two villages?” he asked Sedwick.
    “Two villages, three hamlets, and scattered settlements. All in all, between the castle and the rest, nigh on three hundred or so people are dependent upon Camelen. And we on them. Most are decent, hardworking folk. We have our troublemakers, of course. You will meet them soon enough in your court, I fear.”
    He’d never passed judgment before, not levied a fine or demanded added service, nor sentenced a man to the stocks or the gallows. Another thing he would learn by doing. A study of the judgments issued by Hugh would be of help.
    “Craftsmen?”
    “Blacksmith, tanner, dyer.” Sedwick smiled. “God’s truth, my lord, we have too many to name. We even have a bard who calls Camelen home.”
    Alberic vaguely remembered hearing the strains of a harp both before the vigil and after the burial. But what he remembered was very nicely done.
    “Welsh?”
    “The best kind.”
    Alberic had to agree, though his experience with Welshmen wasn’t usually in a hall. Those who raided Cheshire had been considered sword fodder, except when the earl needed troops. Then Chester wasn’t above hiring anyone capable of wielding any type of weapon, including Welshmen.
    “Have we many Welsh?”
    “A few. Most came with Lady Lydia when she married Sir Hugh, or shortly thereafter. Rhys, the bard, of course. One of her ladyship’s handmaidens married the blacksmith. There are a few others, among them soldiers in the garrison.”
    “And all is peaceful?”
    “Oh, we suffer a raid here and there. A sheep or two go missing. But mostly they have left us alone, before out of respect for Lady Lydia, and now for her daughters.”
    The first village was in sight, but Alberic wasn’t yet ready to visit. He reined in, and Sedwick halted.
    “How does an English baron come to marry a