Gwendolyn's Sword Page 12

  When Nigel told Mae of their visit to the de Lacys’ shop, Mae sat up with her eyes shining.

  “Those horrible, horrible people! I was there just a week ago to see the embroidery for myself! It’s all the women of London are talking about! Mistress de Lacy practically threw me out of the store when she saw me, said her fine things weren’t for tavern maids like me. If I had only known …” Mae looked again at Ella, who sat in Nigel’s lap playing a game with some of the bones of the roasted birds, lining them back up into the semblance of a much larger bird with fearsome, grasping claws. Mae stretched her arms out to Ella, and the girl hesitated for a moment and then climbed down from Nigel’s lap, ducked under the table, and climbed into Mae’s embrace. Mae cradled her against her bosom, murmured to her softly, and began rocking her, and Ella’s eyes immediately drooped again.

  “She’s the image of Aliene,” Mae said quietly, planting a kiss on the girl’s forehead. Gwendolyn noted the resemblance between Mae and Ella and realized the girl’s mother had been Mae’s sister. Nigel’s eyes softened at Mae’s words.

  “Can she stay with you?” Nigel asked. “It could be a few days.”

  “Of course,” Mae responded, her attention completely focused on Ella.

  William and Gwendolyn looked up as the tavern door swung open. The light from outside was blocked momentarily by the frame of Peter, the stablehand they had given their horses to that afternoon. He walked into the tavern, followed by two boys only a little more than half his height. When his eyes found Mae and their group, he moved quickly toward them, his expression changing to relief at the sight of Ella asleep in Mae’s arms.

  “She was at the shop?” Peter asked as the boys reached for the generous leftovers on the plates while Mae shooed their hands away and admonished them to remember their manners.

  Nigel nodded and Gwendolyn pushed the plates toward the boys, who thanked her and sat down and began to eat.

  “She’s staying with us,” Mae said, rising slowly and shifting Ella to Peter’s extended arms. “Go settle her in the back on our bed, love, and I’ll make up a plate for you.” Mae left them to tend to her customers, and Gwendolyn watched her as she made her rounds in the tavern, addressing each person by name.

  They waited in the tavern until dinner had passed and Mae closed the kitchen. Gwendolyn’s head ached with fatigue, but she put her discomfort out of her mind, rallying herself for the several hours still ahead of her. Up until that moment she had put the visit to the Tower out of her thoughts, focusing instead on Ella and conversation with Mae and Peter. But now that the time had come, she felt her stomach twist with nerves. Mae had provided a bowl of water for her to clean herself up a bit and had rebraided her hair, fastening the end with a small ribbon that she wound around snugly several times.

  William noticed the change that came over her and nodded.

  “It’s time.”

  8

  GUESTS OF THE TOWER

  By night, London transformed into a different city. Packs of feral dogs roamed the streets, hunting rats and scavenging behind the taverns and through the empty stalls of the meat market. Houses and shops were closed and boarded up, their windows tightly shuttered. Only the occasional torch brought any light into the lanes. Nigel quickly led them through Southwark, past the taverns and houses of prostitution, both now quiet for the night. They strode silently across the bridge and over to the nearby docks. The White Tower had been recently fortified with a moat, and they would enter the stronghold by ferryboat. When they arrived at Billingsgate, they picked their way through the few gathered merchants and seamen who were busy negotiating passage and overseeing the loading of supplies and goods for shipment. The pace of trade out of London had become fierce; ships that were ready to sail at first light would get the advantage at the markets of Gascony, Poitevin, Breton, and Flamand.

  Nigel waved them over when he found what he was looking for: a flat, small skiff apparently abandoned and unoccupied. He found the skiff’s owners, thick-armed ferrymen sleeping beside their oars in a nearby corner, and roused them awake. A few coins from Gwendolyn helped to get the men to their feet, and Nigel quickly arranged their passage.

  William took his seat on a narrow bench beside Gwendolyn in the back of the boat, and Nigel sat down facing them, his back to the Tower as they approached it. Gwendolyn watched the ferrymen’s oars glide through the dark currents of the Thames as they navigated the river to bring the little boat around toward a darkened archway. The looming fortress brought the reality of everything she was about to put at risk home to her. Beside her, she sensed William’s tension in the rigid line of his profile and the bared knuckles of his clenched grip on the edge of the bench. Her palms began to sweat, and her heart thrummed in her chest.

  “You don’t have to do this,” William said quietly.

  “And that is why this has even a chance of working,” she whispered back to him.

  The ferrymen maneuvered the boat under the archway and alongside another dock on the small island now defined by the moat. New construction had been raised around the southwest portion of the Tower grounds, defining what she guessed would eventually be a protective outer shell of walls, towers and outbuildings to house and guard the growing royal offices of exchequer, the curia regis, the justiciars and chamberlain. There would also be comfortable apartments to house those unwed heiresses whose properties had escheated to the crown, so that women and property both could be doled out strategically to accomplish the kingdom’s requirements of securing peace at the borders, acquiring property, and rewarding loyalty and service.

  Six guards stepped forward to meet the boat, their lances raised, steel tips flashing in the torchlight. Another man threw a loop of rope around the point of wood at the prow of the boat while his partner reached for the iron ring at the stern and ran a thick rope through it. They were captured, she realized, but not permitted to disembark. The ferrymen sat still in their positions at the oar locks, their staffs laid across their knees. Both men stared blankly ahead, impassive to whatever fate might befall their passengers. An older man, stout and tall with closely cropped white hair, stepped out from the standing guard and approached, the polished links of his mail armor glinting while he looked them over with an affronted expression.

  “What’s your business here?” He spoke to William in Norman French, the language of the crown and all those who circled around it.

  Gwendolyn stood up and steadied herself with her hand on William’s shoulder.

  “I come to see the queen, on a matter for her ears alone.” Her Norman French was as flawless as the guard’s.

  One corner of the man’s mouth drew back in amusement as he took in her armor and attire.

  “Do you now? And might you carry a summons from the queen requesting your presence?”

  “I have nothing but my name. I am Gwendolyn de Cardinham, wife of Robert de Cardinham. Tell your lady who I am and she will permit me to come before her.”

  “I personally know every soul who my mistress will permit in her presence, and you are not among them. Go now, before I add your heads to the spits lining the riverbank.”

  Gwendolyn’s chest was so tight she could barely breathe, but she held herself and her voice steady as she spoke.

  “It will be your head that gazes into eternity across this river if you fail to advise the queen of my arrival.”

  The man chuckled and considered her quietly for a moment and then turned his gaze to William and Nigel. Both men returned the unshaken gaze of soldiers. His expression seemed to sober a bit, and he turned and gestured to one of the guards to run to the Tower with the message of Gwendolyn’s arrival. When he looked back to Gwendolyn, his eyes were still hard, but she detected a little amusement in the corners of his mouth. While they waited, Gwendolyn took note of the high quality of the weapons and armor worn by the men, the stone-like stillness with which the guards held their position. If the guard returned from the Tower with bad news, she doubted that she and William w
ould be able to draw their swords to cut the ropes and break free before the guards were upon them. She realized her life, as well as William’s and Nigel’s, were all in the balance before she had even stepped foot on the Tower’s soil. She remained standing, fighting the impulse to place her hand on the hilt of her sword and brace for combat.

  After several moments, distant footsteps were heard returning at a run. Darkness shrouded the guard’s features until he was only a few paces away. He stopped abruptly in front of his captain and nodded. The man turned to Gwendolyn, his eyebrows raised.

  “Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything, my lady,” he said, extending his hand to help her step from the boat.

  “Thank you,” she replied graciously, taking his hand and stepping aside for William and Nigel. “You serve the queen well.”

  The man nodded to her and sent two guards to walk with them to the Tower. “You may keep your swords, but if you draw them, you will die where you stand.”

  None of them needed this bit of instruction; the show of force just to gain entrance had provided them all the guidance they needed to understand what sort of decorum would be expected of them in the Tower. As they crossed the yard, Gwendolyn noticed that construction on the new buildings was in full swing despite the hour, and the chinking and grinding clamor of tools, the shouts of men working, and the bustling of carts of stone and earth caught her attention. Their escort followed her gaze.

  “Her ladyship sleeps during much of the daylight and the construction disturbs her. So they work at night.” Gwendolyn nodded, wondering what the other residents of the Tower thought of being forced to follow the queen’s schedule. But then she guessed no one cared to ask them, either.

  The guard led them up a set of wooden stairs that led to the first floor above the ground level. The relatively flimsy stairway had a defensive purpose: it could be easily disposed of in times of siege. At the top of the stairs they entered into a small stone antechamber that had been added by Eleanor’s late husband, where they encountered four more guards. The men stepped aside as their escort continued forward, and they entered a large hall that stretched before them the entire length of the Tower’s western wall. They followed the guard through a side door into the adjoining room and to the corner of the building, where a spiral staircase led them to the rooms above—the queen’s anteroom and the larger hall where she received guests and heard and decided upon all matters brought before her.

  Gwendolyn paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, taking in the crowded room. The high walls were covered with long tapestries, depicting hunts, courtly romance, and one of a king standing at a large round table surrounded by knights, undoubtedly King Arthur from the descriptions of Chretien de Troyes. Eleanor was known for her taste for the wine of her homeland, and the cups that were passed here were not the wooden cups of watered ale that Gwendolyn was familiar with, but rather pewter and glass goblets, again characteristic of the queen’s preference for beauty and elegance. The room hummed with low conversations from huddled groups, and there was a momentary pause as Gwendolyn stood in the doorway while those assembled took in this new stranger and her companions. Beside her, William pointed out in a low voice those members of the royal court who were almost as famous as King Richard and his family: William Marshal, the model of chivalry who had risen from a humble birth to the post of regent; Aubrey de Vere, the eldest son and heir of the Earl of Oxford; and Gerald de Barri, the royal clerk and chronicler. He recognized others, but as they entered the room their escort caught the attention of William Marshal with a subtle gesture and then left them without a word to return to his post.

  Gwendolyn took a step back involuntarily as William Marshal strode up to them.

  “You are Robert de Cardinham’s wife,” he said, bowing slightly to Gwendolyn. “You know, I think Robert blames himself for Richard’s kidnapping. Apparently he was the one who threw Duke Leopold’s banner from the wall at Acre.” William Marshal also spoke to her in the tongue of the ruling class.

  She looked at him questioningly, and the man gave a sonorous, full-chested laugh that went all the way up to his eyes and seemed to make the room somehow more welcoming.

  “I am William Marshal, although you may call me ‘the Marshal’ as everyone else here does, and I have not met your husband, but Richard seems to like him quite a lot.” The Marshal looked to Nigel and William, who both stepped forward and introduced themselves.

  “What matter have you come to bring before the queen? Because if you are petitioning for Robert’s return, I can advise you now that you are wasting your time.”

  The Marshal’s voice had changed to the serious tone of a court official, and Gwendolyn squared her shoulders and shook her head.

  “What I have to say is for the queen alone.”

  The Marshal exhaled and raised a warning eyebrow at her.

  “My lady, you and your men gained access to the Tower over a quick death at the dock on the honor of your husband’s name. And with the same currency you may yet gain an audience with the queen this night. But no one comes before the queen without first advising me or her justiciar, Walter de Coutances, of the nature of your business.”

  The Marshal stared at her and maintained his position, and Gwendolyn realized she would have to disclose her intentions.

  “I have come to offer my queen a means to persuade John to abandon his rebellion.”

  William Marshal said nothing, but his mouth opened slightly. Gwendolyn guessed that the man was not accustomed to being taken by surprise, and he drew his brows together and squared his jaw.

  “Do not play me for a fool, Lady de Cardinham. You may have made certain…compen-sations for the extended absence of your husband,” the Marshal said, nodding toward her sword, “but you have thrust yourself into a different world here. The fates of entire nations are decided in that chamber,” he said, wagging a thick finger toward the heavy carved door across the room from them.

  “This is no ruse,” William said beside her. “Bring Gerald de Barri with us when we go before the queen so that she may consult him. He is descended from one of the princely families of Wales on his mother’s side. He will vouch for the truth of my lady’s words.”

  The Marshal eyed her severely again.

  “If this is true, then there’s no time to waste. Stay here.”

  William Marshal crossed the room quickly and pulled the heavy doors open enough to allow himself passage inside. After a few moments, a stream of finely dressed courtiers and petitioners began to file out of the doors in a noisy commotion, some complaining and others searching for a familiar face in the crowd to continue passing the evening in pleasant conversation.

  Gwendolyn heard a familiar voice rise above the clatter, complaining loudly.

  “But we have been here waiting to be heard for five nights! Who could possibly be so important that isn’t here already?” Gwendolyn whipped her head around in time to make eye contact with Roslyn de Cardinham.

  “You!” her sister-in-law screamed across the room. “You don’t belong here! What lies have you told to get this close to the queen?”

  The room had grown so quiet that Roslyn’s last words echoed in Gwendolyn’s ears and she felt her face grow hot as Roslyn crossed the room to confront her. But with her back turned and in the midst of her rage, Roslyn did not see the Marshal exit the queen’s chamber behind her, nor did she hear his footsteps as he covered the distance to her in three strides. He grabbed Roslyn by the elbow and she turned around with a gasp of indignation.

  “Step aside, Lady Roslyn.” His voice was polite and even, the genteel tone of a practiced courtier.

  Roslyn stammered and took a few steps backward, making way for Gwendolyn, William, and Nigel to follow the Marshal. William Marshal called out to Gerald de Barri, and then ushered them all behind the great wooden door that separated the hall from the queen’s private chamber.

  As in the hall, the queen’s chamber for receiving guests was lined with ta
pestries and fine furnishings; however the room was not as well lit, and the softer lighting bathed its occupants in a golden glow that Gwendolyn realized would be more flattering for a woman advancing in years. The queen herself sat in the center of the room in a cushioned, carved chair that was elevated on a wooden dais. She held out her hand as they entered, and a silver-haired, well-built man stepped forward from the side of the room to take it, steadying her rise, although she hardly seemed to be in need of the assistance. At more than seventy years old, Eleanor of Aquitaine had kept the shape of a much younger woman, and her eyes were as lively and bright as Gwendolyn suspected they must have been in her youth. Her dress, a deep blue silk, fit snugly across her waist and hips, and the bosom was adorned with small beads of black glass that glinted like flame in the light of the candelabra that stood nearby. As Eleanor stood up, William and Nigel bowed deeply and took positions on one knee on either side of Gwendolyn.

  “I understand you have something rather interesting you would like to discuss with me,” Eleanor said directly.

  Gwendolyn hesitated with a momentary confusion and then recovered her senses and joined William and Nigel on one knee before the queen. She had known that Eleanor would be an impressive woman, unlike any other she had met before, and yet she was entirely unprepared for the effect Eleanor’s presence had on her. She understood why men were rumored to have fallen in love with the queen on sight. She could not imagine how powerful the queen’s charisma must have been in the vigor of her youth.

  The queen turned to the man beside her who had taken her hand. “Walter, I don’t believe any other woman has ever knelt before me as a knight.”

  The man nodded in agreement. “A first, madame.”

  Gwendolyn thought she might have heard in the man’s voice the lilted tones shared by the people of Cornwall. She realized she was staring at Walter de Coutances himself, the king’s justiciar and the most powerful man in England while Richard was away.