Gwendolyn's Sword Read online

  They entered the city through the arches of Newgate at considerable cost in tolls. As they approached the gatehouse, Gwendolyn looked up and shuddered at the sight of several spiked heads of executed criminals jutting out on their pikes from the top of the gatehouse. Inside the walls, she felt assaulted by the sheer numbers of sounds and sights that surrounded her. She held back tightly on Bedwyr’s reins to pause for a moment and take it all in. The air was thick with rich smells, some the familiar odors of human excrement and rotting waste, some the vastly more pleasant aromas of baking bread and roasting meat. Shouts, calls, and conversations competed for her attention on all sides, through the lanes and from the windows and rooftops above her. To her right, she could see the skeletal spires of St. Paul’s Cathedral, an edifice to the glory of God more than one hundred years in the making, reaching over the rooftops as if to brush Heaven itself. Even from where she stood beyond the city gate, the ringing collision of hammers on stone could be heard over the din that filled the streets around her. London had been flattened by fire as recently as the reign of King Stephen, and yet no trace of the damage remained visible, so quickly had the city recovered and rebuilt—wisely, with stone and tile wherever such expense could be afforded. Sewers and conduits carried the filth of waste from the streets to the Thames, creating a famously noxious brew during the seasonal floods. William and Nigel drew up alongside her and motioned that they needed to move on. Their horses were in need of rest and grain, and their first business was to settle their mounts at a stable.

  London seemed to be full of every kind of amusement and diversion. Gwendolyn was pleasantly surprised to also discover that her dress and appearance seemed to cause not the least stir or notice among the throngs in the streets or looking down from the buildings and houses that crowded around them. Nigel led them into the heart of the city, past the meat market and the grain market, then turned south to the one bridge across the Thames that would lead them to Southwark. He stopped in front of the bridge and turned to them, looking a little apologetic.

  “There’s a stable for your horses and suitable lodging here. Southwark’s a little more colorful than London, but you’ll pay a dear penny for lodging in the city.”

  Gwendolyn nodded, and the three of them carefully threaded their way across the tightly packed span of famous timber whose construction, maintenance, and commerce was overseen by a monastic guild created by King Henry II solely for that purpose, the Brethren of the Bridge. Market stalls and houses and a variety of chapels to one saint or another lined the bridge and drew the large number of visitors, creating an impressive congestion of traffic and drawing from widely diverse walks of life. Beside this bridge, a new stone bridge was under construction, its stone footings rising like pillars in the swirling river. Gwendolyn’s stomach grumbled with hunger as they picked a route past the stands selling dried fruits, roasted meats and other treats, but there was no time yet to pause to eat. Ahead in the shadows, Gwendolyn spied an attractive woman standing beneath the sagging eaves of a tavern. The woman leaned casually against the whitewashed wall, watching the crowds ebb and jostle in front of her with a keen eye. Her thick, dark hair hung loosely over one shoulder to her waist. She wore only a tunic cinched by a wide belt over bare thighs, and she gestured with her hand to catch William’s attention. As he turned to look, she lowered her shirt and exposed a full, rosy breast to him, offering it with her hand and nodding toward the tavern door. Gwendolyn nearly laughed out loud and wondered if William would come back later to the tavern to take the woman up on her offer. From her position behind him she was unable to see his face or whether he had acknowledged the woman, but she could see his ears turn a vivid shade of red.

  When they reached the south bank of the river, Gwendolyn turned in her saddle to follow William’s gaze back the way they had come, and she took in her first view of the White Tower, east of the city on the north bank of the Thames. The building stood tall, imposing, and impenetrable, overlooking the river. Her mouth became dry as she realized how close she was to the seat of power in England. Her stomach churned anew, this time with doubt and uncertainty. Perhaps William was right and she had been a fool to think she could be welcome inside this fortress, much less into the presence of the king’s mother. She turned away and reminded herself of the child whose safety she had promised to secure first.

  Nigel turned right into a narrow lane lined with taverns. At the far end of the lane, there was a low, long building with a wide door to accommodate the passage of livestock. They rode to this doorway and dismounted, and a large, muscular man stepped out into the daylight, blinking and frowning. When the man’s eyes fell on Nigel, he immediately scowled.

  “Don’t think you’re lodging your stolen horse here, cur,” he said, folding his arms and blocking the doorway.

  “Get off it, the horse is paid for, you unfortunate spawn of a three-legged dog,” Nigel retorted, jutting his chin toward Gwendolyn and William.

  The man looked Gwendolyn and William over carefully, his hand stroking his broad jaw.

  “You’re with him?” he asked skeptically, his scowl still in place.

  Gwendolyn nodded, hoping that the trade of insults had been in jest.

  The man turned back to Nigel and relaxed, then cuffed Nigel hard on the shoulder with a hand the span of a man’s head.

  “Maybe fortune’s wheel is finally turning for you,” he said, smiling. “I don’t know how you’re back, and on a horse, no less. Master de Lacy has gone to Lincoln—he said he was going to find you and Ella and bring you back.”

  Nigel shook his head gravely and handed the man the reins to his horse. “He’s lying. He sold me off to a mercenary for Prince John. And that man is dead now, thanks to her,” he added, gesturing with a thumb toward Gwendolyn. The man took a closer look at Gwendolyn, then smiled slightly. “This is Gwendolyn de Cardinham, of Cornwall, and her constable, William Rufus.”

  The man nodded respectfully to both of them, noting the colors on their surcoats, their fine horses and sword belts.

  “It is an honor, my lady. Peter Marshal, at your service.”

  “I haven’t been in Lincoln,” Nigel continued, “and may God have mercy on Master de Lacy if Ella is not safe in his shop right now.”

  “We’re going with you,” Gwendolyn said to Nigel, turning to retrieve her cloak from the bundle secured to her saddle. “I am not known here. Surely for a reasonable number of coins Master de Lacy’s wife will be happy to be free of the care of your child.”

  Peter huffed at her comment. “She is …” he stammered, searching for a less coarse description, “… . an unpleasant woman. And if she’s been lying all this time about Ella, then you’d better hurry.”

  Nigel nodded, and Gwendolyn could see anxiety rising behind his determined gaze.

  After quickly settling their horses in with Peter, the three of them crossed the bridge again on foot, pausing only for a moment to purchase a handful of rolls and move on. With her cloak concealing her surcoat and weapon and her hair and nails dirty from the days of travel, Gwendolyn realized she was a pale comparison to the finely dressed women they passed, tastefully coiffed in veils that even Roslyn would have envied, their hems and mantles adorned with seams of fine pearls and ribbons. She walked between William and Nigel, practically at a jog to keep up, and the crowds instinctively parted for them, sensing the presence of a man-at-arms before they even saw William’s sword. For his part, the years growing up in a company of mercenaries had imbued Nigel with an aura of lethal purpose that remained palpable even though he was completely unarmed.

  They proceeded quickly up Watling Street to the grain market, then north until they were close to the Guild Hall. Here, the merchants’ homes and shops crowded together in narrow store fronts that concealed long dwellings inside.

  “Master de Lacy’s house is just this way,” Nigel said, a little out of breath. “His wife will be minding the shop now.”

  They made another turn onto a narrow lane, and at one
of the shops Nigel stopped, took a deep breath, and stepped up through the doorway. Gwendolyn followed him, and William stayed outside, keeping an eye on the street and blocking the shop entrance.

  Stacks of finely embroidered linens were set out on a table, the tiny stitches of the needlework impressive in their detail and craftsmanship.

  A woman stepped into the shop from a doorway that led to the back room. She walked toward them with a bland smile on her face, eyebrows raised in feigned subservience that Gwendolyn guessed was the woman’s customary greeting. As she came near them, the woman stopped and squinted, her expression frozen, as she appeared to recognize Nigel.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, casting a sideways glance at Gwendolyn as she addressed Nigel.

  “I’ve come for Ella. Send her out and I’ll leave.”

  The woman paused, staring closely at Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn realized Mistress de Lacy was sizing her up, trying to piece together whether Gwendolyn was a woman who could create trouble for her or not. Although the length of Gwendolyn’s cloak suggested she came from money, no self-respecting woman of title would have stepped out in such a poor state of grooming and complete absence of adornment. Gwendolyn smiled, hoping she had the woman thoroughly confused. The woman seemed to make up her mind and cleared her throat.

  “I’m sorry, but she’s not here. She ran away a week ago. I’ve asked all over the city, but no one’s seen her. You have no idea the trouble I’ve gone to trying to find her, walking the streets every morning.”

  Nigel started to protest, his face immediately red, but Gwendolyn placed a restraining hand on his arm. She picked up one of the embroidered cloths beside her and looked at the woman.

  “This is very fine needlework,” Gwendolyn said, raising her eyes toward the merchant’s wife. “I’ve never seen such fine detail in the pattern, and with such small stitches.”

  “Thank you, I have more in the trunks if you’d like to see them,” the woman offered, her demeanor shifting slightly. Gwendolyn was appalled as she realized that the woman had taken her observations for flattery and was trying to make a sale to her. She watched as the woman moved toward the trunks that lined one side of the shop.

  “Actually, I was wondering how they’re made,” Gwendolyn said.

  “Oh! Well, my mother taught me. I’ve been sewing since I was a girl.”

  Nigel was becoming agitated beside Gwendolyn, and she tightened her grip on his arm.

  “Well, then, you have quite a skill. Perhaps you could open one of the trunks for me?”

  The woman smiled with her lips only, her eyes darting uneasily to Nigel and back to Gwendolyn. As she turned her back on them to fumble with the latch that closed one of the trunks, squinting and leaning in to better see the lever and hook, Gwendolyn noticed the enlarged knuckles of the woman’s fingers. It was true that the woman had spent a lifetime sewing, but her days of stitching the fine patterns seen in her shop now were far behind her.

  “Bring Ella out now.” Gwendolyn allowed her rage to be heard in her voice. “You didn’t sew these. You can hardly see the latch to open the trunk. Only a child’s fingers could produce stitches like these.”

  The truth started to dawn on Nigel, beside her. He had been gone for three months, and the shop was filled with stacks of the same extraordinary needlework. He pushed past Gwendolyn and charged to the back of the shop.

  “Ella!”

  The woman turned to scream, but Gwendolyn had drawn her sword.

  “Don’t,” Gwendolyn said softly. “Please, don’t. Let this be the end of it.”

  Nigel’s heavy steps could be heard charging up the stairs in the back of the shop. Gwendolyn and the woman faced each other silently, Gwendolyn with her sword drawn, the woman glaring.

  “That girl belongs to me!” the woman said venomously.

  “Not anymore.”

  “When my husband returns—” she threatened, but her words were interrupted by Nigel entering the room again from the back, carrying a small girl in his arms. Gwendolyn’s heart sank at the girl’s emaciated appearance, the sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Her fingertips were swollen and raw from hours of handling needles and thread. Nigel’s face was purple with rage, his cheeks damp with tears.

  “Go!” Gwendolyn yelled at him. “Take her before you do something you’ll regret that will take you from her forever. Go!”

  She turned back to the woman, who began protesting immediately. “I fed that girl! I gave her clothes, a bed, and a skill she can use to support herself for the rest of her life! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  Gwendolyn backed away slowly, her eyes brimming with tears, aware that she was looking at the real face of evil, this unholy marriage of greed and indifference to suffering. Nothing that the prior or William could tell her about demons, ghosts, or the Devil himself could surpass the level of cruelty inflicted by living people with hearts of stone.

  “When your husband returns, you may tell him that Nigel and his daughter are in the household of Robert de Cardinham. I am on my way tonight to the Tower for an audience with the dowager queen. You’d best start packing now for a long journey outside of London,” Gwendolyn ground the words out through clenched teeth. “Know that I will inform the queen of your treasonous support of John’s rebellion by supplying mercenaries and money for the cause.”

  The woman stared at Gwendolyn furiously.

  “And why would anyone believe a girl who dresses and acts as a man over a respected member of the guild?”

  Gwendolyn met the woman’s eyes, remorseless and full of righteous indignation, one last time before she turned without answering the woman’s question to step out into the street.

  Outside, William stood beside Nigel, both men’s faces hard with outrage. Ella had curled up against Nigel’s chest and closed her eyes, her straw-colored hair spread across his arms. Whatever ill feelings William bore toward Nigel, for now they appeared to have been forgotten.

  “I hope you left her choking on her own blood.”

  “Not quite, but I don’t think she or her husband will bother you any more just the same.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I’m going to inform Eleanor and the regents of Master de Lacy’s support of John.”

  Nigel grunted. “I’d like to be there for that.”

  “I’ll need your witness, so you’re coming along whether you want to or not.”

  Gwendolyn turned toward the Tower, but Nigel reached for her arm.

  “The queen will be dressing now, preparing for the evening. She takes a late supper with the court and then retires to receive visitors in her chamber before closing the doors to confer with the regents. She stays up well into the night. You would be wasting your time to go to the Tower any earlier than midnight.”

  Gwendolyn stared more closely at Nigel. “How do you know the queen’s habits so well?”

  “I’ve watched Master de Lacy when he’s had to bring matters before the regents or the justiciar. It took him weeks sometimes to gain an audience.”

  “Well, we don’t have weeks to spare. But Ella …” she said, looking with concern at the small girl still quietly snuggled against Nigel’s chest.

  “She’ll be okay. We’ll take her to her aunt.”

  The three of them walked back the way they had come, across the bridge into Southwark and back up the street where the horses were stabled. She guessed that they had walked a little more than a mile, and the entire way Nigel did not once shift Ella in his arms, even though Gwendolyn was certain his muscles must have been aching. Nigel turned into one of the taverns, a long, narrow room lit by candles and oil lamps. The earthen floor was covered with fresh straw, and a woman moved between the two rows of tables removing cups and plates and collecting coins that she tucked into a pouch in her apron. She turned around as they took their seats and when she recognized Nigel, she smiled with clear, soft eyes and came over to them.

  “Master de Lacy said he’d sent you and Ella
to Lincoln in his place! It’s been nearly two months! I was worried about you two,” she said as she bent over to Ella. She reached her hand out to move a strand of hair from the sleeping child’s face, but as she neared the girl and saw the sunken cheeks, the frail arms and raw fingers, her expression changed to shock.

  “What’s happened to the girl, Nigel? Where have you been?”

  Nigel looked up at her wearily and said only, “It’s a long story, Mae.”

  Mae looked at William and Gwendolyn and nodded a mute greeting, then turned her attention back to Nigel and Ella, her eyes full of questions.

  “We can talk while we eat,” Gwendolyn said, and Mae recovered herself and nodded. She returned from the kitchen quickly with a plate piled high with bits of roasted meat, greens, sliced onions, and bread, and a pitcher of watered ale. Nigel roused Ella in his lap, and she smiled at the food spread before her. She shifted around and began delicately picking at a small, roasted bird while stealing shy glances at William, seated beside them.

  Ignoring her customers, Mae sat through Nigel’s recounting of the merchant’s betrayal, how he had sold him off to the mercenary to support John, promising to use the payment to keep Ella clothed and fed and housed for so long as Nigel continued to serve the captain. He described Gwendolyn’s interception of their group in the woods, and her quick reflexes that had saved her and her maids’ lives. He also described Gwendolyn’s refusal to see him hanged as a traitor, the confrontation with the mob in Chagford, and the race to London. Mae took in the story with wide eyes, and regarded Gwendolyn with a sort of fearful respect that Gwendolyn pretended not to notice as she ate slowly, fortifying herself for what she was afraid was going to be a long night.