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  GWENDOLYN’S SWORD

  Copyright © 2015 E.A. Haltom

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  E. A. Haltom has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover and Interior design by Ted Ruybal

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For more information, please contact:

  Wisdom House Books

  www.wisdomhousebooks.com

  Paperback ISBN 13: 978-0-9963073-0-7

  ISBN: 9780996307314

  LCCN: 2015907121

  FICTION / Historical / Fantasy

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  www.smittenbythewords.blogspot.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  1. The End Of Solitude

  2. William’s Curse

  3. A Prophecy

  4. Gwyn’s Letter

  5. Guests Of Launceston Castle

  6. The Mercenary Returns

  7. The Face Of Evil

  8. Guests Of The Tower

  9. A Lamb For The Prince

  10. Hounds Of Hell

  11. The Walls Of Arundel

  12. Hunter And Hunted

  13. The Secret Revealed

  14. Across The Bridge

  15. Theater In The Hall

  16. Accused

  17. The Sword Breaks

  18. A Gamble Won

  Historical Notes

  About E. A. Haltom

  DEDICATION

  For my family.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As this is my debut novel, I asked for and gratefully received the free commentary, proofreading and feedback of several among my friends and family. Put bluntly, this story would not have happened without their constant support and encouragement. For their kindness and their reassurance that the story was worth the effort to see it through, I am entirely in their debt. I would also like to thank my excellent editor, Ashley Davis, and also Ted Ruybal of Wisdom House Books for a fantastic book cover design, and for generous advice and guidance in layout and formatting. Having said that, all errors that may still be found in this book are my own.

  I would especially like to acknowledge the Writers’ League of Texas, for providing such excellent resources, classes, and networking for new authors. The annual agents’ conference was an eye-opener for me, and the opportunity to submit my manuscript for consideration in the historical fiction category (and win!) was another irreplaceable source of encouragement and information that I desperately needed.

  Lastly I would like to thank all of the independent authors out there in the interwebs for all of your advice, informative blogs, tweets of encouragement, and general camaraderie. I hope over time I can give back what I’ve received.

  1

  THE END OF SOLITUDE

  Cornwall, England August, The Fourth Year of King Richard’s Reign

  A broadsword was a difficult thing to hide in a dress. Gwendolyn wore a long cloak to conceal her weapon where it hung against her hip. She was as accustomed to the weight of it as she was to her own skin. But she had donned the cloak to conceal more than her sword. Years of training with the manor guard had added lines of muscle and scars across her forearms. Hers was a body formed for combat, her temperament more inclined to exercising command. These traits, she had learned, were not generally praised in women, and until her marriage she had tried to cloak them, as well, with mixed results. Here in the forest where she sought a few moments of solitude, she dressed herself in the ordinary garb of a lady of the manor, the wife of a landed knight who had taken up the cross and traveled to Outremer to join the king’s crusade. Standing tall, with shoulders as broad as those of any of the men in Penhallam’s manor guard, her bearing drew enough attention as it was. But walking through the woods without her weapon was unthinkable; outlaws took refuge here.

  Beneath the leaves and ferns and fallen trees, a welcoming coolness persisted in the forest floor throughout all of the seasons. Long branches arched gracefully over her like a cathedral vault and shivered with a gentle breeze as she passed beneath them. She granted herself these moments of calm, accompanied only by two of her maids, as her sole respite from the constant work of managing a growing estate. She paused in the still air and turned to mark the progress of Anne and Martha behind her, the two friends happily absorbed in their conversation. Her constable had warned her sternly about the dangers she flirted with by taking these walks, and she conceded that he had a point. But so have I, she thought to herself, her hand resting casually against the hilt of her blade beneath her cloak.

  From daybreak to nightfall, Gwendolyn occupied herself with the business of the manor and its lands. Some nights she sat at the trestle table in the hall, scratching out the manor’s accounts on the wooden surface with charcoal while the rest of the house’s residents slept in the straw around her. Her men sometimes woke to find her there in the morning, fast asleep, a night’s worth of calculations spread across the table around her. The coming winter would mark four years since Robert had taken up the cross. She had been a new wife of sixteen when he left; since then she had managed the estate alone. She had succeeded in earning the respect of her trade partners, sometimes exploiting her decidedly unfeminine demeanor toward that end—dressing as a man, sporting cuts and bruises from training with the manor garrison, and keeping up with her men-at-arms cup for cup when the ale flowed.

  Gwendolyn paused for a moment to study the canopy above her, full and green. By its lush shade, she estimated that the harvest of the grain was at least a month away still, maybe more. She smiled to herself, thinking of the days and nights of hard work that lie ahead, and the months of relative leisure that would follow through the winter.

  She had grown up in Restormel Castle, the jewel of the de Cardinham family’s holdings, as an orphaned ward. The baron’s wife had passed soon after Gwendolyn arrived, and with no other daughters, the household had lacked any feminine influence. To Gwendolyn’s great pleasure, no one had attempted to instruct her in needlepoint or song or any other of the finer skills expected of well-heeled ladies. Left to her own devices, Gwendolyn had helped herself to the library of books and manuscripts accumulated by the intellectual baron over decades of travel and war. As soon as a large compilation of the works of Plato was available in Latin translation, a copy had arrived at Restormel. Gwendolyn had wept the first time that she read the text, with its clear logic and methodical application of reason in all things. War, she had concluded, was the worst of all evils; nothing brought more waste and destruction than its capricious appetite. She had decided at a young age that she would put her size and strength to good use and learn to fight so that war, when it came, would find its match and slink away like the cur that it was.

  When the baron discovered the breadth of her learning, he had accused her, scarlet-faced and shouting, of deliberately rendering herself unmarriageable. But then his own son Robert had surprised him by asking for her hand, and the baron had shrugged and given his consent. The baron’s title and the grand estate of Bodardel, including Restormel Castle, had gone to Robert’s older brother, Walter. Robert was allowed the smaller estate of Penhallam, at that time a dilapidated timber house used for seasonal hunts. Shortly after her wedding, the baron, a man who had spent most of
his life with a sword in his hand, had died quietly in his sleep. With Gwendolyn’s promise to keep Penhallam safe until he returned, Robert had departed for Outremer as soon as he received his knight’s belt. He had fulfilled her request for a sword and ordered his constable to see to her instruction in its use. Gwendolyn and the constable had both kept their promises, and she had the tough, scarred hands of a soldier to show for it.

  Twilight approached, but Gwendolyn allowed herself the indulgence of lingering to inspect a growth of mushrooms. She stooped, loosened the cluster from the earth, and cradled it under her nose, inhaling the musky scent. As she tucked the mushrooms into the pouch at her waist, a flash of movement through the branches above caught her eye. The screech of a peregrine falcon on the hunt sounded high over the treetops, momentarily silencing the forest birds that had been merrily singing above her. For a moment death’s chill breath seemed to brush her cheek, then pass by. Whatever troubles weighed on her mind, these walks reminded her that all things passed, and that change—birth, death, and rebirth—was the natural order of things. She stretched and relaxed the muscles in her neck and breathed the sweet forest air deeply, feeling the tranquility around her finally ease her mood. Her left shoulder still ached from a well-placed blow she had received during training that morning, and she rubbed the joint to loosen some of the stiffness.

  Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes and gazed down the road, keeping watch over Anne and Martha as they idled far behind her. Like her cloak, Gwendolyn had brought the young maids with her for appearances only, to satisfy the village gossips who she knew might otherwise suspect she had stolen away alone for a secretive romance. During her husband’s absence, Gwendolyn was well aware that such rumors could do as much damage to her as a blade. And the girls, both in their sixteenth year, were friends; they looked forward to these walks, to talk freely beyond the manor house and its complete lack of privacy.

  A faint hum of deep voices approaching ahead brought Gwendolyn to attention. She stepped quickly off the road behind a large tree and steadied her breath, listening for the sound of rushing hooves or footsteps charging toward her. Hearing nothing but steady conversation, she craned her head to peer around the tree. Four men approached on foot, carrying small packs and fully engaged in what sounded like an argument.

  She had a few moments to look them over. Two were older than the others and carried their packs across their backs; the other two, younger and slighter of build, each carried a smaller sack slung across the shoulder. One of the larger men wore his long hair tied back; the other’s was trimmed close to his skull. Dust from the road clung to their mantles that they wore draped around their shoulders. Even from the distance she could see that their clothing was rough and worn, showing patches and faded colors. Although the group appeared strong and well fed, their clothing suggested poverty, and the incongruity immediately caught her attention. The men were within a few paces of her hiding place, and she smoothed her skirts and stepped out to confront them directly.

  Gwendolyn stood her ground as the men paused their squabbling and took notice of her. She watched their eyes register her long cloak that reached to the ground around her feet, its length marking her as a woman of some measure of wealth. Her red hair hung in a single, thick braid down her back, and she wore no adornment in the braid or on her cloak. She stared back at them steadily with green eyes.

  The tallest among them, the man with his long hair pulled back, shifted his pack to the ground and bowed deeply before her with a courtly flourish of his hand. He wore a wooden cross strung on rough wooden beads that swung forward as he bowed. The roughness of the beads struck her as odd; it was the habit of pilgrims to work the beads one by one through their fingertips in never-ending cycles of prayer, leaving the beads polished to a dark sheen. These beads had been left alone, ignored. Strands of the man’s hair fell forward, framing intelligent brown eyes. One of his smaller companions elbowed the man beside him, looking uneasy.

  “Good evening, my lady,” the taller man said with a faint smile.

  She curtsied slightly in the courtly manner, inclining her head to steal a sideways glance. Anne and Martha had observed the men’s approach and walked casually up the road toward her.

  “A fair hour for a stroll,” the man observed, looking around them at the towering, ancient woods. “I see you and your maids walk unescorted.”

  Gwendolyn answered lightly, “What need do ladies have of an escort in the company of godly men?”

  The man smiled softly. “You take us for pilgrims, then, my lady?”

  “I take you for men of the cross. If you are on pilgrimage, what brings you to Cornwall?”

  “We travel to the abbey of St. Michael’s Mount, my lady, to give glory to God.”

  Gwendolyn’s mouth went dry and she felt her chest tighten, but she forced her breath to remain steady and she returned the man’s faint smile while her mind raced. St. Michael’s Mount stood on a rocky point off of Cornwall’s farthest coast, two days’ ride away. Henry de la Pomerai, a supporter of Prince John, had sailed a group of fighting men to the mount and violently overrun it. He had then sent messengers to John’s supporters in London asking for supplies and men. Those headed there now would be mercenaries, blood-thirsty men ready for war, travelling under cover and ready to kill to keep their secret. But perhaps these men really were pilgrims, unaware of the attack; word had only reached Penhallam a week ago.

  “I am in charge of these lands and this road in the name of my husband, Robert de Cardinham, who has taken up the cross with King Richard. If you have any trouble while you pass through here, you may rely on the protection of my men.”

  Her tone was perfunctory and impersonal, calculated to evoke a reaction or a comment, anything to give her a clue about the men’s intentions. She understood the danger clearly. If they suspected she saw through their ruse, they would kill her and her maids. Here, alone and unobserved in the forest, she had provided them the perfect cover for murder. And their mantles, she realized, were long enough to conceal weapons. If she drew her sword now, with all four ready to react, she might die where she stood.

  “England’s men returned from Palestine a year ago, my lady,” the larger man said, and she thought she detected a hint of malice in his voice.

  Gwendolyn paused to measure her breath, check that her tone remained casual. “My husband continues to serve the king in his captivity until he is returned to England.”

  The man pressed his point. “Unless, as Prince John claims, the king is already dead.”

  Beneath her cloak Gwendolyn’s hand gripped the hilt of her sword, and she felt her face flush in spite of her full effort to appear calm.

  “What you suggest is treason, sir.” Her voice was low and steady. “The queen mother has sworn that her son lives.”

  A moment of tense silence followed. Martha and Anne stood within ten paces, oblivious to the threat of violence unfolding ahead of them. The girls continued talking in low voices, stepping aside to make way for the group to pass them, and their light murmurs and laughter hung strangely in the air. Gwendolyn held the man’s gaze, her expression inscrutable. The second of the larger men touched his companion on the arm, gestured down the darkening path. The day was coming to an end; they had lingered long enough. Gwendolyn hoped the men were convinced that their pretense had worked, that she suspected nothing, and she made mental note of their size and number. She would send the manor guard after them as soon as she returned to Penhallam. Riding on horseback, her men would easily catch up with them.

  “Of course, my lady,” the man agreed smoothly. With another deep bow, he shifted his pack up onto his arm and nodded to his companions. Together, they turned to continue on the path through the woods, the larger men leading. Gwendolyn exhaled and flexed the clenched muscles of her hand.

  The girls stood facing each other, Anne’s back to the road, as the men walked past. Suddenly the man nearest to Anne, the large man who had spoken with Gwendolyn, swept his arm out and sco
oped Anne up off her feet, bracing her tightly against his chest.

  Anne was tiny and light as a bird. She screamed and struggled to twist and kick in his grasp, but he easily pinned her with one meaty forearm while he wrestled both of her wrists into his other hand. In that instant Gwendolyn’s years of training crystallized. Her mind measured the distance between herself and the men, the speed with which the man who held Anne would be able to snap her neck.

  Her cloak muffled the sound of her sword against its scabbard as she drew it. She lunged, running her sword through the man’s waist from one side to the other. The blade entered his body with surprising ease, and she felt the slight shudder against her palm as her steel ground across the bone at the front of the man’s spine. Martha screamed, and one of the younger men lunged at Gwendolyn, pulling a dagger from his belt as she freed her sword from the man in front of her, now collapsed onto his knees in the path. She pivoted, swung her sword, and cut off the arm with the knife still clasped in its hand. Blood surged from the man’s exposed elbow, splattering red across Gwendolyn’s pale blue dress.

  Gwendolyn swung around to face the two remaining men, sword raised in battle stance, eyes unblinking. Less than a heartbeat had passed, and yet as she stood frozen in the path, her eyes locked on the men in front of her, the moments seemed to have stretched, slowing down all movement around her. She was sharply aware from the smell that the man beside her had emptied his bowels as he stooped to pick up the stump of his severed arm from the ground, looked at it blankly for a moment, and then fell face-down by her feet. Martha and Anne’s screams sounded far away over the rushing of her blood through her veins.

  The younger of the two remaining men approached the kneeling form in the path and touched his shoulder with a trembling hand, then realized he had stepped into the damp, warm pool that surrounded the man’s body and withdrew with a shudder.