Gwendolyn's Sword Page 16

  “That’s more like it, my lady.” He worked his jaw side to side, made a show of massaging it to the amusement of the Tower guard, although she knew his jaw, more granite than bone, was perfectly fine.

  She stepped back, stopped tending her stinging hand.

  “In Cornwall, that would pass for courtship. Next time don’t go so easy on me.”

  The Tower men broke into laughter, and William stepped back and bowed graciously toward her. He turned and walked outside the training ring, stretched his arms up to put his shirt back on, and resumed giving orders and directions to the men. They dispersed into pairs again, and she found herself faced off against a different man this time, a stout, ruddy-faced man who had watched the encounter with William closely and appeared eager to test her mettle himself. After all, the novel opportunity to match his brawn against a woman so obviously skilled and relentless might never present itself again. They fought with staffs, and he came at her with a force and talent for killing that took her breath away. This was nothing like training with the guard at Penhallam. These men of the Tower had spent years in France at the tournaments and in siege, spending every waking minute preparing for, fighting, and recovering from battle. William called out to the men to switch, and after a brief shuffling of opponents Tristan stood across from her again, the gleam in his eye warning her that he had learned his lesson. This training was more real, more thrilling, than any of the mock battles she had fought at Penhallam, and she was discovering an appetite for it, for the sheer purity of the blows, the simple elegance of strategy and elemental match of wits and strength, guts and nerve. She advanced and attacked over and over, and each time Tristan easily deflected her, sometimes smacking her unprotected hands roughly with the staff, sometimes sending her slamming to the ground on her backside. Every time, he patiently pointed out to her the error she had made, how she had left her body exposed and vulnerable. Her arms and shoulders burned with exhaustion. She noticed her hunger and dismissed it; the gnawing inside would pass.

  While they trained, squires and staff broke camp, packed and stowed belongings and equipment, and prepared a small morning meal. The priest called for morning prayer, and as she walked with the other men back toward the rest of their group, she realized from their coarse jokes and casual manner that she was one of them already. Walter de Coutances blinked in shock at her bloodied appearance when she arrived to break her fast with the others, and she grinned irreverently back.

  When she passed William again on her way to find Bedwyr and mount up, she leaned toward him and said quietly so that only he could hear, “Thank you.”

  They traveled at an easy pace again for most of the day, and the miles comfortably dropped behind them. Sybil had come to accept that her new mistress was unlike any she had served before and that her work was limited to the simple tasks of tidying her things and helping Gwendolyn to dress. There were no fresh flowers to gather, no elaborate hair styles to weave, no ribbons or wimples or elegant dresses to look after except the one, which Gwendolyn refused to wear anyway. Instead, Gwendolyn had suggested that she acquaint herself with the different types of armor she wore and their proper care and use—an obviously preposterous idea. However, Gwendolyn had deliberately provided Sybil with an excuse for lingering in the company of the squires, and the young maid took full advantage of the opportunity that day.

  As they rode, Walter de Coutances took position alongside Gwendolyn and introduced himself to her. Together, they reminisced about Cornwall, their shared homeland, sometimes falling into the Cornish language that few in this part of England spoke.

  “Is it true,” Gwendolyn asked him, after they had been talking for a while, “that your family are descendants of Trojan fighters who escaped before the city burned?”

  De Coutances’s mouth pursed with a suppressed laugh.

  “That would be the full and complete invention of my friend Gerald de Barri, my dear.”

  She raised her eyebrows in amusement. “He is quite a master with words, isn’t he?” she mused. “Perhaps one day he will tell my story, if I am fortunate.”

  De Coutances laughed again. “Be careful what you wish for, as they say in the East. De Barri won’t consult with you before spinning his tales.”

  Gwendolyn sat back in her gently rocking saddle, thoughtful, and ventured another question.

  “Why don’t you claim the title of Justiciar openly? Both Richard and the queen acknowledge your appointment, and your authority is unquestioned.”

  “Exactly,” he answered, cocking an eyebrow at her. “There is no need for me to do so. And integrity prohibits it. I will serve in whatever capacity my sovereign requests of me. But I took a stand at the synod of bishops called in the first year of Richard’s reign that clergy shall be prohibited from holding secular offices of the court. I cannot help that Richard has appointed me to the role of Justiciar, and I have given him my oath to serve him, but as I am also Archbishop of Rouen, I cannot at the same time and in good conscience flaunt the title of Justiciar.”

  “If there is a prohibition against clergy holding secular offices, it doesn’t seem to be very widely known,” she said with a little sarcasm.

  “You have struck on the principle weakness of the law—of any law. Once legislated, although it may be entirely right and good and full of wisdom, no law is worth the paper it is written on if it is not taught and enforced.” De Coutances stared ahead as he spoke, effortlessly reciting the principle of laws that she had already found and admired in the late baron’s library.

  “You have read Plato,” she observed quietly, and de Coutances turned to her with the pleasure of finding a kindred soul writ across his face. They continued talking well into the afternoon, passing away the hours, oblivious to the mission they were in the midst of until de Coutances reminded her with a question.

  “So you are descended from Arthur?” He asked the question in a low voice, just above a whisper.

  “So I’m told,” she answered quietly, her jaw fixed in a derisive grimace.

  “You don’t believe it?”

  She scoffed haughtily at his question for reply. “Do you?”

  De Coutances looked into the distance. “No, if I am honest, I do not.”

  At that moment William galloped up beside them from the front of the line.

  “The weather is changing. We must make camp quickly.”

  Gwendolyn noticed then that the wind had picked up, and she pulled back on Bedwyr’s reins and scanned the skies around them. Bedwyr tossed her head in agitation and pranced sideways beneath her, sensing the coming storm. Ahead, coal-dark clouds came rolling toward them over the rise, and the bleating of sheep seeking shelter in their nearby pastures could be heard over the branches rustling from a nearby thicket of trees. Gwendolyn urged Bedwyr to a gallop and caught up to William at the front of the line.

  When she reached him, he raised his arm and abruptly pulled to a stop, signaling the column to halt. Nigel had urged the stragglers from behind, and the travelers pulled up into a tight formation.

  “We make camp here!” he hollered over the wind, pointing to a small circle of trees no more than a hundred paces from the road. “Hurry!”

  William sent half of the guard to the small circle of trees to begin preparing the ground for camp. He knew there would be no time to scout for water; fortunately they had filled all of their oilskins and watered the horses at the last stream. He ordered the remaining guard, under Nigel’s direction, to escort the rest of the travelers to the campground. William watched the men and Gwendolyn reorganize for camp as he kept a wary eye on the surrounding ridges and valley. Although he doubted that Eleanor could have already sent word to John that Caliburn’s heir had been found, and thus expose Gwendolyn to the risk of kidnapping or worse, he knew from experience that a small group setting up a hasty camp was distracted—and therefore vulnerable.

  A nagging sense of unease, inexplicable in the gentle autumn morning, had plagued him since they had broken camp after t
raining. It was the sort of vague dread that he knew better than to try to shrug off. As a precaution when they had set out that morning, he had sent two men from the Tower guard to ride out as scouts: one leading in front by half a mile to see that the way was clear, and one trailing behind to ensure that no one followed. The campfire being lit now would signal them to return with haste, and he waited anxiously for the sound of a charging rider on the road. Before the full camp was pitched both men had returned; all was clear.

  Darkness fell quickly, aided by the blanket of clouds that seemed to roll over on top of them. With their axes and hammers, the knights and squires had sunk iron stakes into trees and ground, lashed down tent flaps, and overturned carts to shelter supplies. The horses were gathered in a makeshift pen among the trees, already turning their tails into the wind and dropping their heads to eat from the small troughs of grain that had been set out for them.

  Nigel stood near the opening to the camp enclosure, watching the skies, when William approached from behind and stood quietly beside him, scanning the last shadow of horizon.

  “You’ve done quite a job training her. I never would have believed a woman could hold her own against fighting men like that if I hadn’t seen it myself.” Nigel seemed to be inspecting the sky as he spoke, and William smiled lightly as he recognized a compliment. But in many ways, Nigel’s sentiments were misplaced. William wondered how he could have failed to notice the transformation in her, so stark and obvious in front of his eyes all this time. The answer, he was afraid to admit, was simply that he had chosen not to notice. The truth was that he preferred the younger Gwendolyn, uncertain of her own strength and dependent on him for protection and instruction. But that Gwendolyn was gone, and this unyielding woman stood in her place.

  “She did it all herself. She’s never quit, and she’s never given up on anyone, especially not herself.”

  Nigel nodded, shuffled a toe into the ground self-consciously.

  “She could’ve given up on me from the first time she met me. I don’t know why she didn’t,” he said quietly, shaking his head.

  William sighed with fatigue and turned to Nigel. “It’s who she is. If she sees any value in you, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to live up to it.”

  He turned to walk back into the camp, leaving Nigel alone to puzzle over his words.

  Large, heavy raindrops began to fall as William ducked his head into the one tent where all of the travelers huddled together. Only two candles illuminated the interior, and loaves of bread, chunks of dried meat, and water pouches were being passed about in the dim light. Even with the storm upon them and everyone safely accounted for, the tense feeling that an attack was about to be sprung was still tight in his gut. He selected four of the nearest men from the guard and sent them out on the first shift to keep watch, then went to Gwendolyn where she sat with Sybil, allowing the maid to run a comb through her tangled hair.

  “She said it would settle her nerves,” Gwendolyn said softly, her expression warm. She eyed him closely and sat upright on her stool.

  “What’s wrong?”

  William shook his head.

  “It’s probably nothing. I’ve had this feeling ever since we headed out this morning. Something’s…not right.”

  “Maybe it was just the storm,” she offered. “Even the animals can sense these things.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said, ignoring how unconvincing he had sounded.

  “Anyway, the scouts found nothing, and the watch will warn us if anyone approaches,” she said gently. “We’ve all got our armor on and our weapons at hand. Whatever comes, we’ll be ready for it.”

  Nigel entered the tent and his gaze landed on Gwendolyn in time to see her place her hand reassuringly on William’s arm.

  William pulled back uncomfortably, feeling color rising in his cheeks, and stood up. “Keep your sword nearby tonight.”

  The storm raged with impressive fury, even pulling a large branch down into the horses’ pen and causing a momentary panic until the horses were settled again out of harm’s way. But well into the night the gale winds relented, the rain softened to a steady thrum on the tent canvas, and the squires were able to cease their constant vigil of emptying the pools that gathered in the sagging fabric over their heads. Everyone breathed more easily, and blankets were unrolled and bundles set up as pillows as, one after the other, the travelers settled in to sleep for what remained of the night.

  William switched out the guard for fresh men, pleased to find that the second shift had managed to find a corner of the tent in which to catch a little sleep before he came to rouse them to relieve the soaked men outside. He was still on edge, but with the worst of the storm having passed, along with most of the night, he started to relax a little. For a moment he might be able to lie down and sleep before sunrise. He found Gwendolyn toward the rear of the tent, somehow sleeping on her own, neither in the company of Sybil and the other young women, nor among the Tower guard. He eased himself down onto the edge of the blanket that she had been given for a bed and lay down beside her on his back. He was fast asleep within moments.

  Deep and guttural sounds of snarling and the higher pitched cries of shouting men in the distance roused Gwendolyn beside him, and he felt her sit bolt upright as she woke. She grabbed her sword and dashed for the tent opening before he could stop her, followed closely by Nigel and the guard. William scrambled to clear his head and swore as he dug under the blanket to find his sword.

  He could hear mayhem breaking out in the darkness outside. Gwendolyn shouted for a torch, but by the time he stepped out of the tent she was gone. He struggled to see in the blackness, to make out the churning forms of bulk and shadow while the nearby watchmen’s shouts turned into screams of pain and terror. He drove forward into the black night, toward the shouting that was closest to him, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

  Three huge wolves alternately circled and leapt at the man who had taken the east watch. The man used both shield and sword to defend himself, but he was stumbling and weakened. The wolves were circling for the kill. And though he had seen wolves plenty of times stalking in the fields and woods, he had never seen the likes of these massive, shaggy creatures that turned and paced before him now. In the darkness, their eyes flashed with a crimson light that caused him to stop and shudder, as if foul death itself had taken shape in the night. He charged forward again, then stopped at the sound of Gwendolyn’s shouts. She had flanked to the far side of the wolves and he could make out the silver glint of her sword as she waived it, trying to draw the beasts from the wounded watchman. But the wolves ignored her, and he watched in horror as one leapt, swiping a massive paw at the guard and making contact with his neck.

  He and Gwendolyn both screamed and charged forward from opposite sides, swords drawn. The wolves withdrew a few steps, scattering apart as they retreated, but the distraction would only be momentary. Gwendolyn took position in front of the wounded guard who stood motionless, slumped over his shield. William caught sight of the dagger clenched in her other hand and realized that she held no shield to protect herself. He could not risk pursuing one of the beasts and giving the others the opportunity to attack, so instead he took a defensive position in front of her.

  She kept her gaze focused on the stand of shrubs beside her, and without turning her head she yelled, “Circling to the right!”

  Around them other battles were underway, and from the pitched growls and shouts he feared they might be outnumbered. The wolf nearest to them turned its eyes upon him, and William froze. The wolf growled, deep and low, and took a step toward him. William stared into the wolf’s eyes, and recognized the beast from his childhood dreams of long ago. He heard the other two growling nearer to Gwendolyn. Without another thought he charged the animal in front of him. The wolf reared up on its hind legs and swung its head, snapping its jaws and pawing at the air, but William held tight to his blade and thrust it deep into the beast’s neck. A feeling of fire spr
ead across his back, but he did not let go of his weapon. The wolf staggered back and warm blood spilled over his hands as the animal fell with a whine at his feet.

  Behind him Gwendolyn shouted, waiving her sword at the two wolves that remained. They padded back and forth before her, ready to spring at any moment. William saw the larger of the two crouch slightly, and he flung himself into the air in front of her, meeting the beast in mid-leap. The wolf clamped its jaws on his forearm as they both fell down to the ground in a tangled pile. He was aware of the sound of his own screams, the feeling of his arm being crushed, and he waited for the beast to shake him like a child’s doll, snapping his neck. But Gwendolyn had also lunged forward and she thrust her sword through the wolf’s neck and into its skull. The animal lay still where it fell beneath him. Gwendolyn freed her sword and spun around, but there were no more growls or movements around them. The third wolf had fled back into the night.

  The confrontation had passed in a matter of moments, and over the screams and snarls that continued in the distance, yelps could also be heard. Squires finally emerged with lit torches, and the last of the surviving beasts were run off. William turned to the man propped against the shield, but the body toppled over as soon as he touched it, the open eyes staring blankly. One of the squires arrived bearing a torch, and only then did they see the tear in the man’s throat. The squire crossed himself, and Gwendolyn turned her head.

  They carried the dead man to a circle outside the tent where the other members of the guard had gathered along with Nigel and Walter de Coutances.