Gwendolyn's Sword Read online

  “My son has written to me of your husband, Lady de Cardinham. It appears he has the capacity both for brash action and discretion, a rare balance for a man-at-arms.”

  “There are few men like Robert,” Gwendolyn said quietly.

  “And few husbands, I suppose,” the queen continued, gesturing toward Gwendolyn’s armor and weapons.

  Gwendolyn blushed under the queen’s examination, holding her tongue and allowing the queen to lead the conversation.

  “I wore a sword once myself, when I was not much older than you, child. It ended disastrously. Tell me, what means do you offer that has not already been tried to persuade my youngest son to cease his attempts at stealing the throne from my older son? I admit I find your boldness in presuming to counsel my counselors bordering on offense.”

  “Yes, madame,” Gwendolyn replied, lifting her eyes to meet Eleanor’s.

  Gwendolyn’s heart pounded in her chest, but the moment had come. She took a deep breath and plunged forward.

  “You and your family, my lady, have made the tales of King Arthur famous. As Chretien de Troyes’s patron, your own daughter has brought the legends to life from across the centuries to our own time.”

  “He was the first and perhaps the greatest of the English kings,” Eleanor replied, somewhat pointedly.

  “But that’s just it, my lady. The Welsh claim him as their own. They have their own tales of Arthur; many claim them as prophecies, still alive on the tongues of their bards today. These prophecies claim that Arthur will return, and that Caliburn, his sword, will find him. Your son John believes the prophecies, and he has been searching the countryside for the sword. John believes that he will be unstoppable against any army if he possesses Caliburn. Even against Richard himself.”

  Eleanor’s eyes flashed darkly, and Gwendolyn knew she had entered treacherous ground.

  “I will not speak ill of my son or his folly in front of you, and I advise you not to do so, either,” she warned coldly.

  “I do not, madame. I offer you an opportunity to bargain with the prince for that which he seeks.”

  Eleanor’s hard stare remained fixed on Gwendolyn, but her expression softened slightly and she gave Walter de Coutances her hand as she stepped back and settled into her chair again.

  “You have my attention. Continue.”

  “I have been told that I am a descendant of Arthur, and that Caliburn comes for me.”

  Despite the many thick tapestries lining the room, Eleanor’s laughter echoed around them in cascades of mirth. Gwendolyn waited patiently, her cheeks burning with humiliation. Even the Marshal chuckled to himself behind her. Eleanor took a deep breath and sighed, composing herself and returning her gaze to Gwendolyn, all trace of malice erased.

  “Thank you for that bit of entertainment. Court business is usually so dreary, but this has been positively refreshing.”

  Gwendolyn looked down for a moment and licked her dry lips.

  “The descendants of Arthur are known in Wales, and my father claimed their legacy. My father was a Welsh warrior, a prisoner who escaped from your husband’s war camp at the Battle of Crogen in the Ceiriog Valley.”

  Eleanor tilted her chin askew slightly at this revelation.

  “Henry never forgot that,” she said quietly. “He would not have punished the remaining prisoners so severely had one not escaped in the night.”

  Silence dropped over the room with the gravity of Eleanor’s comment. Henry’s barbaric treatment of his prisoners had sealed the Welsh hatred of the Norman “foreigners” for generations. And yet, if her husband’s father, the Baron Fitz William, had not rescued Gwyn in the night, Gwyn would not have met her mother, and she would not be alive to offer herself—and Caliburn—to the disposal of an English queen.

  “You must know then,” Eleanor said, “how your father managed to escape?”

  “The Baron Fitz William, Robert de Cardinham’s father, took him and fled. My father saved the baron’s life in an act of chivalry in battle. The baron knew Henry too well. He couldn’t leave my father to whatever fate the king had in store for him.”

  Eleanor stared into the distance beyond them, as if she searched back through time to private moments with her late husband. Gwendolyn watched the queen’s eyes grow misty, and the queen shook her head, clearing away the images. “These tapestries are nothing next to the great weaving we all play our parts in, willingly or not.” She seemed to be speaking to no one in particular, or perhaps to her late husband.

  “Madame, if I may?” William asked softly, his blue eyes clear and unblinking.

  “And you are?”

  “William Rufus, Constable of Penhallam, madame.”

  Eleanor nodded, as if she recognized the name. “You may speak.”

  “Like you, my lady does not believe any of these prophecies. But she sees in them an opportunity. Your clerk, Gerald de Barri, can attest to the truth that Arthur’s descendants still fight for Wales today. And my lady carries proof that her father claimed their kinship.”

  “That would be interesting to see,” Eleanor said, returning her gaze to Gwendolyn and presenting an outstretched hand. Gwendolyn reached into her surcoat and pulled out the rolled letter from her father. She hesitated before passing the letter to Eleanor.

  “It is all I have of him, my lady. My father and mother died when I was a child.”

  Eleanor nodded slightly without emotion, and Gwendolyn passed her father’s letter into the queen’s hand.

  Eleanor gently opened the vellum scroll and sat quietly as her eyes traced back and forth across the lines of script. When she was done, she handed the letter to Walter de Coutances to inspect and turned her gaze to her clerk.

  “Gerald, what say you to all of this?”

  Gerald de Barri was a wiry man of medium height with a shock of ginger and gray hair standing mostly upright over a high, smooth forehead. He had stood by quietly for the entire conversation, intelligent eyes twinkling.

  “This presents a most intriguing possibility, madame,” he answered.

  “You traveled with John in Ireland. Will he believe this?”

  “Well, I can vouch for the present existence of the descendants of Arthur in Wales. And the Welsh prophecies are well known. Geoffrey of Monmouth made careful alterations to them in his Prophecies of Merlin, so that the tales favor a Plantagenet legacy. But John of Cornwall, whom I have discredited in my own writings, correctly claims that the prophecies predict the expulsion of the Normans by the Welsh, who regard themselves as the last of the original Britons. It is the reason we have worked so hard to adopt the legend of Arthur as our own and thus rob the Welsh of their greatest hero.”

  “Indeed,” Eleanor agreed. Gwendolyn’s eyes grew wide and she glanced sideways at William to try to read his reaction. The Plantagenets had been using the lore of Arthur for their own ends already.

  “The only missing piece,” Gerald continued, “is whether this … unusual woman is indeed the heir of Caliburn from the prophecies.”

  “Of course she isn’t,” the queen responded. “But if we can persuade John that she is, what difference does it make?”

  “Exactly,” Gerald agreed.

  “Who else has been told that you are Caliburn’s heir?”

  Gwendolyn paused to think, grateful for the distraction from her aching knees. She realized that she had found the proposition so absurd that she had kept it entirely to herself.

  “Yourselves, madame,” she answered confidently. “And the prior of Launceston, and a wandering soothsayer.”

  At the mention of Launceston Priory in Cornwall, Walter de Coutances’s cheeks rose in a faint smile.

  “Your friend, Walter?” the queen asked.

  “Thomas, madame. A friend from my childhood.”

  The queen appeared satisfied and folded her hands into her lap comfortably.

  “Stand up,” she directed Gwendolyn, William, and Nigel, and waited patiently while they repositioned their coats and weapons back in
to place. Although she remained seated, Eleanor’s chair on the elevated dais kept her above eye level with Gwendolyn and her men. She raised an eyebrow and gave them her decision quickly.

  “You have indeed presented a most ingenious means of bargaining with my youngest son. You are now the guests of the Tower. You may not leave until I have given my permission, and then you will go where I tell you to go, and you will say what I tell you to say. You have offered a great service today, and I will reward you when this matter involving my sons has been resolved.”

  Gwendolyn stood blinking for a moment, grasping what the queen had said, aware of Nigel beside her stifling a protest in his throat.

  “But, madame, this man,” Gwendolyn began.

  “Whatever it is, it will wait.”

  “One of the merchants in London, a dealer in linens, is a traitor, a supporter of John’s rebellion. This man is a witness.”

  “You mean de Lacy?” William Marshal spoke up from behind her and Gwendolyn and Nigel turned to face him. “We’ve known about him for weeks. He’s run off to Lincoln with his tail between his legs, waiting to see which way the tide turns.”

  “Master de Lacy held this man’s daughter,” Gwendolyn continued, nodding toward Nigel. “De Lacy forced her to stitch the embroideries he sells. She’s only just been reunited with her father.”

  Eleanor looked closely at Nigel for the first time and narrowed her eyes.

  “You were the man sold to the mercenary captain? Where is he now?”

  “Dead, my lady. She discovered us in the forest outside Penhallam,” he said, gesturing toward Gwendolyn.

  “Really?” Eleanor said with disbelief. “This isn’t all for show?” she asked, sweeping her hand to indicate Gwendolyn’s appearance.

  “I have trained with Penhallam’s guard, madame.”

  Eleanor leaned back in her chair, her eyes moving from Gwendolyn to William to Nigel. “Fascinating,” she murmured softly. “Why didn’t you kill him, too?” She indicated toward Nigel.

  “There were four of them, madame. I could only get the two of them before the other two ran off.”

  “But you’re helping him now.”

  “Nigel saved my life in Chagford. There was a crowd. Men don’t always like to see a woman carrying a sword.”

  “No, I suppose they do not,” she replied slowly. The queen continued to regard them all closely, and Gwendolyn was certain that the queen was calculating and weighing all of the options and possible scenarios behind her gaze. Finally Eleanor’s eyes landed sharply on Nigel.

  “Are you John’s man or not?”

  Nigel shuffled uncomfortably beside Gwendolyn. She held her breath, wondering how he could answer the queen without slighting her foolish son who might legitimately be his king one day.

  “I am whoever’s man you tell me I am, my lady.”

  Gwendolyn exhaled and Eleanor’s eyes warmed with approval at his answer.

  “You look very familiar,” she said. “Why?”

  Nigel returned her gaze and replied without a hint of guile, “I’ve just got one of those faces, my lady.”

  “Nonsense,” she retorted. “But I respect discretion. Where is your daughter now?”

  “With her aunt, in Southwark.”

  “I’m sure her aunt will take excellent care of her. I’ll have food and clothing delivered tomorrow.”

  Nigel flushed beside her, and again said the words so unfamiliar to him. “Thank you, madame.”

  “Now go and rest. Prepare to travel tomorrow.”

  “But my father’s letter …” Gwendolyn’s voice trailed off. She knew what the answer would be before it was spoken.

  “That bit of proof must stay in my keeping,” Eleanor said without apology. “I’m sure you understand why.”

  “Yes, madame.” Gwendolyn fixed her jaw and forbade tears to rise. Instead, she turned on her heel and followed her men out of the room.

  The queen’s antechamber hushed immediately as the Marshal, Gwendolyn, and her men stepped back into the brightly lit hall.

  “Wait here a moment,” William Marshal said to them, then crossed the room and had a word with one of the men standing in a small circle. The man nodded and left the room through a side passage while the Marshal signaled to two other men to join him in returning to the queen’s audience behind the heavy doors. As he swept past them again, the Marshal said simply, “Someone will come to show you to your quarters,” and then he disappeared again into the queen’s chamber.

  Gwendolyn turned to William and Nigel as a low hum of conversation resumed around them. Nigel avoided her eyes, his jaw set.

  “Nigel, I’m sorry,” Gwendolyn began, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

  “Ella will be fine. Mae won’t let her out of her sight, and the extra food will be more than that family has on their table in a whole month.” Nigel nodded to himself, squaring his shoulders. “And whoever would have thought a bastard like me would end up in the queen’s service?” He allowed himself a small smile. “I may get something out of this if I live to see the end of it. Enough for Ella and me to make a fresh start.”

  William nudged Gwendolyn and she turned around to see Roslyn approaching her again, calmly this time. She leaned in closely and whispered into Gwendolyn’s ear.

  “You may have beaten me to the queen, but it won’t do you any good. My family is thick with bishops and barons,” she said quietly. “I will have you out of Penhallam by midwinter.”

  Gwendolyn took a step back and regarded Roslyn with an amused expression.

  “The queen has invited us to stay in the Tower as her guests, Roslyn.” Roslyn’s face blanched at this news. “And in fact, your name didn’t even come up just now. Did it, William?”

  William made a show of stroking his beard, looking upward as if searching his memory.

  “No. No, it didn’t. Well, there was that bit about a Flemish donkey.”

  Roslyn’s jaw set again. She turned back to Gwendolyn, her expression dark with spite.

  “Do you know why no one here approaches you? Why every member of the court stays to the far side of the room from you? It’s because of the smell, Gwendolyn. You stink of filth and dirt, like an animal. Very fitting.”

  Roslyn turned around, her elegant dress sweeping the floor, and returned to her companions with gliding steps, her chin held high. Gwendolyn watched her, noting the gulf between a woman like Roslyn, who went to such effort to create the appearance of power and authority, and a woman like Eleanor, who exercised both so easily.

  9

  A LAMB FOR THE PRINCE

  Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, Gwendolyn slept soundly that night, not waking up until a chambermaid arrived for her. Gwendolyn had been provided a private room in the line of stone buildings that flanked the western end of the Tower yard. The mattress she had slept on, though narrow and too short for her, was stuffed with goose down and covered in soft, fresh linens scented with lavender. William and Nigel, on the other hand, had been shown to straw pallets in the passageway outside her door. As her constable, William had relocated his pallet to lie across the threshold, blocking the doorway to her room. To have slept anywhere else would have been considered an abandonment of duty.

  Early the next morning, Gwendolyn found herself gently woken up by a shy maid with a stack of sweet rolls and fresh linens. Gwendolyn took a moment to see that the maid had given food to her men also and then listened while the maid explained that a bath had been drawn for her and her men, and that Gwendolyn would be the first to bathe. Clothes would also be provided, and if Gwendolyn would allow her and her men’s swords and armor to be taken to the armory, the Tower’s craftsmen would mend and polish their equipment. Gwendolyn agreed to everything, aware that there would be no point in arguing with any of it anyway. She stepped outside to greet William and Nigel and tell them what was in store for them. Ignoring their grumblings, Gwendolyn followed the maid downstairs to a room adjacent to the kitchen, where a large, wooden tub h
ad been filled with steaming water strewn with rose petals.

  But this was to be no relaxing, peaceful bath. Two broad-girthed women followed her in, and as soon as she had dunked herself naked into the tub, they proceeded to scrub her from head to toe until she thought her raw skin would bleed. When they were finished with her, the quiet maid returned with pale linen and rich green fabric draped over her arm.

  “You will wear these,” she said simply, setting the clothes down on a chair and leaving again. Gwendolyn stepped out of the tub and the burly women dried her with equal indifference and then dropped a clean linen chemise down over her head. The scratchy fabric had never been worn before, and Gwendolyn wondered if the gown had been made that morning by the Tower’s seamstresses. She fit her arms through the sleeves and was surprised to find that it fit perfectly, even with her long arms and height. The women next reached for the green gown and paused, waiting. Gwendolyn looked at them questioningly.

  “Lift up your arms,” one of them sighed impatiently.

  Gwendolyn did as she was told, then had to bend over so the women could reach her wrists to settle the fitted sleeves of the gown over her arms and down to her shoulders. They tugged her long hair out from the back of the dress and pulled the gown snugly over her waist, then dropped the full skirts to the floor. Able to see again, Gwendolyn realized that the gown had an open seam on each side that ran from the armpit to her waist. A leather tie laced up the seams, holding the fitted dress close to her body while allowing her arms full range of movement.

  “Oh,” she said aloud, realizing the dress had been modified to account for the peculiar needs of a woman who carried a sword. New stitches at the wrists revealed where the long drape of fabric, so popular among women of wealth to better emphasize their willowy figures as well as their ability to afford such extravagance of fabric, had been removed and the sleeve repaired. “This will do nicely,” she said quietly to herself.