Gwendolyn's Sword Read online

  They broke their fast wordlessly with a piece of bread and hard cheese, packed up, and set off due east across the moor. A thin fog had settled across the low swells of green and rock with the morning, but the ancient stone tors could still be seen standing tall atop the hillcrests, watching over them like sentinels from another time. William took the lead, following the Lydford Way, a well-worn road traveled by the Romans, their stone markers still visible at the crossroads. They rode at a gentle canter, taking care to avoid the ruts and large rocks that would have been treacherous to the horses’ legs.

  Gwendolyn was surprised by how few people they passed on the road. Devonshire seemed to be raw country, largely uninhabited except for the scattered farms and tinners and a small handful of towns in the vast expanse. A little farther along, they approached a small stream with a thrown-together timber bridge stretched haphazardly across it. Tinners had diverted the water downstream from the bridge, using the currents to sweep away the sandy banks and reveal the layer of dark ore beneath. William should stop, she thought, watching him approach the bridge without slowing. Even if he was familiar enough with the road to know that the bridge was sound the last time he had passed through here, these aged structures were known to be fickle; she had heard tales of a sudden collapse from Tom, Penhallam’s old knight. William continued straight over the bridge without breaking stride, his warhorse’s hooves echoing solidly on the planks. Gwendolyn held her breath and followed over the bridge behind him.

  William picked up speed ahead of her, still less than a full gallop but true to his comment that morning that they would cross Dartmoor as quickly as possible. They came to two more streams, these without bridges, and William led them splashing through the frigid, shallow waters. The cold wind across her face made her cheeks and lips numb and drove tears from her eyes back across her temples and into her hair. They pushed on, William holding the pace just to the safe side of recklessness. After a while, Gwendolyn’s mare was breathing hard, but she still had plenty of run left in her. William’s warhorse, however, appeared to be starting to falter. She could see that the stallion was tired, his powerful neck drooping and his stride becoming shorter and choppy. William sensed his horse’s fatigue too. He straightened up in his saddle and called back to her, leaning gently back on the reins and slowing his warhorse to an easy lope. He guided his horse beside her and pointed to the horizon as she and Bedwyr came level with him.

  “We’re almost across,” he yelled over the horses’ hoofbeats. She steadied herself to look into the distance and saw dark green vales and swells of forest ahead of them, maybe a little more than a mile away. The mist from the morning had cleared, and the day’s sunlight warmed the top of her head and shoulders. As their horses settled in side-by-side, blowing hard from the long run across the moor, he held her gaze for a moment, and then their luck abruptly came to an end.

  William’s horse let out a terrible squeal and dropped forward, its right foreleg splayed sideways by a large, dome-shaped stone in the roadway that had been concealed by tall grass. The sudden jolt threw William up into the air, safely clear of his horse, but he slammed hard on his back onto the road. Thankfully his horse fell and rolled onto its side, saving its knees and recovering quickly to stand trembling beside Bedwyr. After a moment struggling to catch his breath again, William pushed himself up to sit in the road and get his bearings again. Gwendolyn stood by with the horses as he rose uneasily to his feet, looking a little dazed.

  “I’m okay,” he said, his voice guttural as he gingerly brushed dirt and grass from his clothing.

  She gave him a moment to walk around and shake his arms out and then passed his reins across when he reached for them. He took in a shaky, shallow breath and turned to his horse, closely inspecting its legs one after the other for cuts. Finding none, he tugged on the reins and led the stallion forward a few steps to observe whether it favored any of its legs. Finally satisfied, he lifted himself stiffly back into the saddle and exhaled slowly.

  “You should know that the people who live here still worship their own gods when they are outside of church. As far as they’re concerned, they’re not taking any chances on who’s right about Heaven and the afterlife. Just be aware that witchcraft and magic are an accepted part of life when we get to Chagford.”

  “To each his own,” Gwendolyn replied; she would not argue the point with him anymore. She steered Bedwyr to fall into step behind William as they walked the last bit of distance to the edge of Dartmoor.

  Gwendolyn gazed down upon the small village of Chagford for the first time as they crested a wide, green hill and began a slow descent to the broad valley cut by the river Teign. Robert had tried once to describe the beauty and wildness of Devon to her, but had finally shrugged and given up. She understood now as her gaze swept the wide swells of green hills, sweet meadows still blooming with late wildflowers and clover. The village nestled in the bottom of the valley, gray thatch rooftops of cottages and town buildings peeking out from the surrounding trees. All around the village, pastures lined the sloping sides of the valley, their ancient stone walls creating a boxy pattern like patches in fabric. The forests in the distance, away from the river, had begun to change for autumn, their swaths of green leaves giving way to pale gold that would soon burnish to copper and deep scarlet. She inhaled deeply and wondered how William could bear such deep apprehension in the midst of such beauty and calm.

  By the time they arrived in town the sun was still high in the sky and business was in full swing. Tinners were hauling their smelted tin to town in small two-wheeled carts that they pulled themselves or, if they had been successful enough, hitched to a horse. They brought their ingots to the tin dealers for assaying and payment, if any payment was still owed to them after deducting advances. From the looks of the storefronts, the tin dealers seemed to be enjoying a comfortable living in Chagford, and the varieties of wares for sale meant the town’s prosperity had caught the attention of the guilds and trades. The different occupations that came with the wool trade—sorting the fibers from soft to coarse, fulling, dyeing, and weaving—lined the lanes also. Despite crippling taxes, the last of which had gone toward the king’s ransom, Chagford’s prosperity was obvious.

  Unlike Launceston, the streets of Chagford were broad and smooth, and she rode comfortably beside William. She noticed a few disapproving looks cast in her direction, but she ignored them. If she was going to travel outside of Penhallam, she would have to develop a thick skin against those who would judge her simply for the peculiarity of her appearance.

  They approached Chagford’s only inn, at the far end of the village, and dismounted at the doorway. The thought of shelter, warm food, and grain for the horses was welcome after three days of hard travel. Gwendolyn handed William the purse of coins from her belt and stood outside with the horses while William, still looking a little foggy from his brush with disaster, entered the timber building to find the innkeeper.

  Outside, Gwendolyn turned her back to the road while she studied the construction of the inn. Its freshly hewn wood beams were visible where they protruded from the plaster walls, and she was wondering how many officials had been paid to turn a blind eye to the harvest of the timber when she became aware of a growing murmur behind her. She turned around and found a handful of men gathered around her and the horses.

  One of the men stared at her belligerently. He wore a fine shirt of green and golden weave and a long, black cloak held at the shoulder by a jeweled pin. In the moment that it had taken her to notice the gathering and register the hostility, three more men had joined. She was now facing a small mob, she realized. She blinked and looked at the well-dressed man who seemed to be the instigator, her expression openly innocent and puzzled.

  “You may not stay here, witch,” he said in a growling voice. “Get back out to the moors where you belong. You’ll bring none of your dark magic to these godly people.”

  Gwendolyn blinked again, realized what charges the man laid upon her, and be
gan to laugh. If only he knew how firmly she refused to believe in any of the foolishness he spoke of.

  Predictably, the man took her laughter for defiance, and this direct insult to his authority was an offense even worse than her alleged companionship with the devil. She realized too late that she had inadvertently made the confrontation personal. His countenance became hateful, and he and the crowd tightened their circle around her. She quickly dropped the horses’ reins and drew her sword. A small gasp passed over the crowd as she brandished her weapon. The air became charged with the promise of violence.

  “William!” she shouted loudly, wondering what kept her constable.

  The crowd had stepped back at the sight of her flashing weapon, clearing an arc out of her range, but the tide of aggression was beginning to shift again as they calculated their numbers against her.

  “William!” she called again, a note of urgency in her voice.

  The door of the inn opened and William stepped out, unaware of the danger, his sword still sheathed. In a blur one of the men lunged from the crowd to William’s side, pulled his sword from its scabbard in a single stroke, and took a defensive position beside Gwendolyn, threatening the crowd with William’s sword. She could not turn to see the man’s face and risk taking her eyes off of the remaining men arrayed before her, but she was grateful for the stranger’s assistance and said so. The crowd stepped back again as Gwendolyn and the man stood back-to-back, their swords defining a half-moon that none of the mob dared breach.

  “Nigel,” the well-dressed man said, addressing her defender, “Step aside.”

  “Lay one hand on this woman and you will taste my metal when I shove it down your bloody throat.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and his jaw worked with fury as he stared at the man beside her.

  “You will leave this town with the witch and her consort, and you may never return.”

  “Gladly,” Nigel replied, “But you owe me for my work.”

  “I owe you nothing. Consider it your fine for drawing a sword on me and defending a witch.”

  Gwendolyn heard the man beside her mumble a curse and spit. There was something familiar about him that she could not place.

  “Your debt will be paid one way or another.” Nigel tilted his head toward Gwendolyn. “Now would be a good time to get back on your horses, my lady.”

  Gwendolyn risked a sideways look at the man beside her, and she recognized the mercenary William had captured at Penhallam and that Barton had freed at Launceston.

  “Allow us safe passage and we will leave peacefully,” Gwendolyn announced evenly.

  The well-dressed man grudgingly nodded and spread his arms wide against the crowd, stepping back and creating an opening for them. William and Gwendolyn mounted their horses while Nigel stood guard with William’s sword, and then William reached down to help Nigel up behind him. William and Gwendolyn held their swords drawn as they walked out of Chagford and across the bridge over the river Theign, the crowd sullenly watching them leave.

  After they had traveled about another mile beyond the town, William abruptly pulled the reins back and jerked his warhorse sideways, dumping Nigel onto the ground.

  Nigel managed to land on his feet with his fists raised, but William had drawn his sword and held it level with Nigel’s head.

  “That’s for taking my sword.”

  “You idiot,” Nigel said contemptuously, lowering his arms. “You had no idea what was going on out there. If they had gotten the jump on you—and they would have if I hadn’t been there—you’d be dead now and she’d be in the back of a cart being hauled back up the Lydford Way to the gaol.”

  “Lay off, William,” Gwendolyn ordered. “He’s right.” She dismounted beside them. “We might as well camp here tonight. The horses are tired, and we’ve got to pick up the pace. We should be well past Exeter by tomorrow evening.”

  “And you’re travelling on foot,” William added angrily to Nigel.

  “No, we’re buying a horse for him tomorrow. Nigel may travel with us as long as he pleases.”

  She turned her back to the men while she unfastened the cinch and removed the saddle and blanket from Bedwyr. As she turned around, she caught the last glint of the triumphant smile Nigel had flashed at William, and she dropped the saddle and smacked the back of his head hard.

  “Don’t make me change my mind,” she said roughly, and he grumbled a contrite apology. “Tell me your story. Why did you join John’s men?”

  “You think I went with that ogre of my own free will?” he asked, staring at her with eyebrows raised in an incredulous look. “What a life you have enjoyed, my lady!”

  She whirled around to face him. “You know nothing of my life and are in no position to judge me. Are you not a free man?”

  “I wasn’t, until you killed the last man who paid for me. Now I suppose I am.”

  7

  THE FACE OF EVIL

  Around the fire that night Nigel told them his story, and as he spoke, Gwendolyn realized how little she really knew about the circumstances of people’s lives and the depths of cruelty men were capable of. She had always considered Walter de Cardinham an aberration, but as Nigel’s tale unfolded, she started to believe that the kindness of spirit she was so well accustomed to at Penhallam was the real exception.

  Nigel was the unacknowledged son of an ambitious man who had eventually secured for himself the title of Bishop. The man had never accepted Nigel, although it was known that he had had an affair with Nigel’s mother. Instead, the man had publicly called his mother a whore who sought to take advantage of his meager means to secure a stable income for herself and her bastard child. Nigel was the spitting image of his father, a circumstance the bishop and all other men of consequence in London conveniently ignored. Fathering children outside of marriage was commonplace; holding one man accountable, particularly a man whose contributions to the city were so undeniable, would have been, in their eyes, a senseless exercise in hypocrisy.

  When his mother had died, the man who owned the room where they had lived put Nigel to work to pay off her debt of rent. When Nigel had proved too difficult to manage, the man had sold him to a mercenary captain who took him to France. Nigel grew up in the company of the soldiers, fetching water, polishing weapons, and ducking fists, and yet by a mixture of cunning and luck he survived to reach adulthood and join the company. After years of service the captain was killed in a siege at Rouen. Nigel only had enough coins to travel back to England.

  He had gone to London to find his father, but instead he found a young woman and discovered, for the first time in his life, tenderness. They had a daughter and Nigel indebted himself again to provide her with a home, clothes, and food. His wife died of a fever in the spring, and their landlord, a merchant and a supporter of John, had sold him to the man Gwendolyn had killed. The merchant, Master de Lacy, had kept Nigel’s daughter as insurance for Nigel’s loyalty to the mercenary. Nigel was on his way back to London now to retrieve his daughter and travel north, where a man’s freedom was not so easily traded.

  “How old is your daughter?” Gwendolyn was thinking of her own years without her parents, remembering the isolation and despair.

  Nigel’s face softened for the first time since she had known him. “She’s seven years old, with the good sense of her mother, thank all the saints.”

  Gwendolyn sat quietly and looked at William’s face across from her, illuminated in the firelight, trying to discern his expression, but he was staring into the fire, lost in thought. Nigel had risked his life to save hers, and at personal cost to himself when he clearly had nothing to spare. Everything inside her told her she could trust this man, that his code of honor was the only thing he had that no one could take from him.

  “When we arrive in London, we will go with you to find this merchant, your Master de Lacy. I have my own business with the dowager queen, but I owe you for your protection today. Before I go to the White Tower to seek an audience with Eleanor, we wil
l first see your daughter safely returned to her father.”

  William looked up at her with his eyebrows raised, and Nigel stared at her in amazement.

  “You have an invitation to the Tower of London? To go before the queen?”

  Gwendolyn cleared her throat.

  “No, but I will gain admittance to an audience with her.” She offered no further explanation and Nigel glanced between the two of them, reading the silent exchange on their faces. He shifted a little uncomfortably, unaccustomed to finding himself on the receiving end of an offer of help—and from two people whose rank clearly out-distanced his own by a large measure.

  “Suit yourself,” he finally said a little awkwardly, then frowned and shook his head in silent reproach. He stared into the fire a moment, then quietly said, “Thank you,” as if the words were a foreign language in his mouth. He turned and looked her in the eyes and said the words again, slowly and clearly. “Thank you, Lady Gwendolyn.”

  They had eight days of solid riding ahead of them to get to London. They rode slowly the first day, the two men doubled up on William’s horse until they arrived near Exeter. The town had swollen beyond the city walls in a sprawl of quickly built, ramshackle houses and merchant stalls. Among them they found a stable that made all of its business off the large number of visitors—merchants, clerics, and scholars—travelling to and from the great city. William bought a sturdy horse, and Gwendolyn said they would make up for the expense by sleeping in the open every night. Although none of them discussed it, they were all relieved to avoid the chance of a repeat of the events in Chagford.

  East of Exeter they picked up a broad, flat road, paved with gravel and flanked on either side by shallow ditches. They followed this road east to Dorchester, then turned northeast, riding past Old Sarum, Silchester, Runnymede, and finally arriving in the late afternoon at the farming settlements that spread over the fertile floodplains west of the London walls. Gwendolyn had made inquiries from the travelers that they met at the Winchester crossroads to confirm that the dowager queen remained in London. Queen Eleanor was occupied with overseeing the accumulation of wealth and coin to be paid to the holy emperor for Richard’s ransom. Not only was the queen in residence, but the town also hosted the emperor’s treasury agents—four portly men who had acquired a reputation for their appreciation of strong drink and stronger women. Apparently London had something for everyone.