Gwendolyn's Sword Read online

  “Christ on the cross,” Nigel muttered, breathing heavily from his own fight. The dead were laid out in the grass, side by side. Four men were lost—three guards and one squire. Each of them bore ghastly wounds that ripped through hauberk and flesh alike. It was the worst Gwendolyn had seen, but even William and the seasoned soldiers recoiled at the leg connected only by sinew, the nearly severed spine. As the torch passed over the men’s faces, Gwendolyn sucked in a quick breath. Tristan lay among the dead.

  De Coutances looked the corpses over as his clerk hovered at his shoulder with a torch that trembled in his grip. The archbishop looked up at William across the bodies.

  “What did this?” he demanded, his eyes wide.

  William hesitated, swallowed the truth, and said, “Wolves, Your Grace.”

  “It was the Hounds of Hell!” one of the Tower men shouted, and a gasp and muffled screams were heard across the way from the others still huddled in the tent. “Just look! It’s lying right over there!”

  “Shut up,” Gwendolyn ordered through a clenched jaw. “They were only wolves.” She looked up severely at the men around her, daring them to contradict her, but each held his tongue.

  De Coutances motioned to his clerk and they walked to the trampled area where one of the beasts lay. After a few moments he returned.

  “William Rufus is right. These were wolves.” There were no more protests after the archbishop’s pronouncement. “These men fought bravely. Wrap their bodies and lay them in my cart. I will see to their burial in Arundel.” He turned to William and Gwendolyn and said quietly, “See that we arrive there tonight.”

  While the squires gathered the scattered horses, banging on the grain buckets and calling out into the night, William oversaw the bundling of the bodies into tent canvases that would not be needed again. Wounds were dressed and wrapped with clean bandages, and William allowed Gwendolyn to cleanse the cuts in his back. The wolf’s claws had raked across the back of his left shoulder, but the angle of the strike had been indirect and his mail, now damaged, had protected him from a deeper wound. His left forearm was bruised and painful, but the bones were still in place and intact. Gwendolyn only carried a new gash across her right cheek, below the eye. It would leave an attractive scar, he told her.

  With yelling and sharp orders, Gwendolyn pushed the camp to be back on the road and moving before sunup. She would not afford the rest of the travelers any chance to catch a glimpse of the remains of the fallen beasts. She was certain that these were real animals and no hounds called out against them by the Devil, but she could not risk a panic among the travelers. William said nothing to her as they quickly packed and mounted up, but she knew he was thinking of the sorcerer the queen had mentioned, and she wished the queen had kept that piece of information to herself. She looked up and saw De Coutances dressing hurriedly beside his cart, one of the squires assisting him with his full armor and sword belt. From their conversation she was well aware that the archbishop had not dressed for combat in years except as may have been required to participate in ceremony. But now as she watched him, he donned the fine gauntlets and coif of the Tower armorers without hesitation.

  They proceeded slowly, the carts and horses struggling through the deep mud that sucked and clung to their hooves and the cart wheels. More than once, de Coutances’s cart, burdened with the fallen men’s bodies, became so mired that several of the riders had to dismount to lift the wheels free of the muck so they could move on. Every one of them was exhausted and scared; many were wounded. But they worked hard to cover the ground as quickly as they could. Passing one more night outside of the protective walls of Arundel was not an option any of them was willing to consider.

  Gwendolyn rode immediately behind William, at his direction. He had sent a forward scout to ride out ahead and kept the rest of the men in tight formation together with the group. She huddled inside her cloak against the autumn chill, feeling plain outrage simmer inside her. She had seen the beasts, had killed one of them herself, and she was certain that they were no ordinary wolves of the forest, nor were they the product of witchcraft or sorcery. And the fact that they had left the horses unmolested had not escaped her notice. Whatever those animals were, they were bred to be killers of men and nothing else. Someone, she clearly understood, was too cowardly to face them in a fight and had sent dumb animals to do their bidding. Raising a pack of beasts like those would have required a significant amount of wealth and resources. And when it came to cowards with wealth at their disposal, she knew whom to place the blame upon. Somehow, Prince John had found her.

  11

  THE WALLS OF ARUNDEL

  As they crossed into the county of Sussex, they were greeted by a mounted guard of five men bearing the colors of the Rape of Arundel and holding their lances at the ready. Walter de Coutances, astride his warhorse, rode to the front to join William and Gwendolyn. She watched the captain of the Arundel guard eye William without expression and then appear to recognize King Richard’s justiciar. The captain lowered his weapon while his men arrayed themselves behind him with their lances held level, their attention turned both to the road and to the woods behind them.

  “Your Excellency,” the man greeted de Coutances. “Welcome back to Arundel.”

  Walter de Coutances thanked the man, looked over the small band that he led.

  “Where is your sheriff?” William asked from beside her, and the men looked at one another uneasily.

  “He’s gone to Marlborough, sir.”

  “William Marshal’s brother, John, is Sheriff of Arundel,” de Coutances said to William. “But he also holds Marlborough Castle for Prince John and remains loyal to his lord. John’s rebellion may be the man’s ruin before it’s all over.”

  The Arundel guard looked over the exhausted travelers and their disheveled carts, noting the fresh bandages on the Tower knights.

  “Our camp was attacked by wolves,” Gwendolyn said, and the leader of the Arundel men turned his horse in her direction and looked her over closely, taking in her surcoat and weapons and the cut below her eye.

  “We met the queen’s messenger from the Tower two days ago, and your scout this morning. We’ve been expecting you.” The man eyed Gwendolyn skeptically. “A pack of wolves caused all of this?”

  “And killed four of our men,” de Coutances replied.

  The man continued looking them over and walked his horse in a circle around the group, but finally nodded to de Coutances and spurred his horse back to join the rest of his men.

  “We are under orders to patrol the roads, so we cannot escort you to the castle. But we will travel with you as far as we can.”

  “Thank you,” de Coutances answered graciously. “Is d’Aubigni in residence at the castle?”

  “Just returned from Norfolk last month, sir. The queen has ordered him and all of the lords of Sussex to prepare their men and defenses across the coast.”

  “In case the King of France makes good on his promise to support John with an invasion,” de Coutances added. “Well then, the earl should be in high spirits. The only thing William d’Aubigni enjoys more than preparing for a war is fighting one.”

  The guards rode with the group for close to a mile, gathering the news from London from the travelers, some asking after their family members that still lived there. Their captain finally signaled to his men, and as they gathered to return to the edge of the Rape he called out to de Coutances.

  “The storm has swollen the Arun, but the bridge on the Chichester road is sound. Tell the guard at the bridge what you have told me. They will see Richard’s herald on your shields; they know to watch for you.” De Coutances thanked the men again, and the guard reined their horses about and charged back up the road the way they had come, leaving the forlorn and weary group to continue on their own.

  The sky remained bleak and gray for the rest of the day. A steady misting rain had soaked through everything, and those who could huddled together in carts and under blankets to stay warm.
The travelers crossed the Arun without incident and entered a wood as the day began to slip away. Gwendolyn could see her breath in the chill air, and she loosely held Bedwyr’s reins with exposed fingers numb with cold. She imagined a spacious hall with a warm fire and full cups of ale to put the ache in her bones out of her mind. They had barely eaten all day, only partially due to their rush. The shock of the night’s events and the loss of the men weighed on them all. These men had lived, fought, and survived together, side by side, for years. They were like brothers to each other, and each carried stories of the fallen men. Even Gwendolyn carried a small part of Tristan’s story, and she passed the time in the saddle reviewing what she had learned from him a day ago in training.

  They emerged from the woods into pastureland, and a small road, wide enough for a single cart and recently paved, branched off to their left, heading south. Their progress was easier on the large stones, despite the horses’ hooves occasionally slipping on the smooth surface. As darkness fell, the keep of Arundel Castle came into view, aglow with torch light and borne up into the sky atop a high hill like a Norman trophy. Their own group carried torches, and soon a call rang out from the castle guard that kept watch from atop the battlements. A trumpet blast from a distant ram’s horn sounded, and a dispatch of Arundel’s guard streamed down in an orderly line to meet them. Arundel’s men were accompanied by the forward scout that William had sent ahead of them that morning, and the man glowed contentedly with the intake of liquid mirth from the castle hall. Finding their man safe and a little drunk put the rest of the group at ease. Their journey had ended, and they were now a few paces from a hearth and the full hospitality of a castle well provisioned to outlast a siege.

  With Arundel’s guard leading the way, the procession wove along the southern flank of the broad hill that supported the motte and grounds of the castle. The hill would have a commanding view over the Arun River valley, and the longer they rode, the more Gwendolyn felt herself awed by the sheer scale of the fortress they had come to. The round keep would have been imposing enough atop the hill, but the conquering Norman armies had elevated it further with an earthwork motte. Passing beneath it, she could see the curtain walls extending out from either side of the keep, angling down the motte. There were no windows, not even the narrow slits used by archers, in the walls of the keep. The gatehouse that now loomed in front of her was to the right of the motte and at a lower elevation. If she could gain access to the battlements atop the walls, she could get a better view of the extent of the castle grounds and their fortifications. Tomorrow, she told herself. For now, she needed to finally remove her armor and tend to her parched throat.

  They approached the castle gatehouse, the only way in or out of the walls that encircled the castle grounds. Three stories high and built entirely of stone, the gatehouse promised a well-equipped garrison. They entered through an arched enclosure protected by a portcullis not unlike the gatehouse at Launceston. But the scale of this castle was much larger, on a par with the castle at Windsor. Such were the heavily fortified defenses to be found surrounding the site of the Norman armies’ entry into England more than a century earlier. The barrel-vaulted passage through the gatehouse led out into a large, oblong yard that stretched out to her right, bounded in by the protective walls. The yard was filled with the cottages and fires, tents, and equipment that supported a military stronghold under orders for war readiness. At the far end of the yard, she could make out the outline of a well, and, behind that, several stone buildings that backed up to the curtain wall, adding to its defensive strength and providing accommodation fitted with the luxuries suited to a king’s tastes. Half a century ago, Arundel Castle had become famous for hosting Empress Matilda and withstanding a half-hearted siege by her rival, her cousin King Stephen. Later, Matilda’s son, King Henry II, was rumored to have spent a small portion of the royal treasury to add a comfortable apartment and chapel to the castle’s accommodations and to finish out the stone walls and connecting towers that now encircled its grounds. Expenditures had also included improvements to the rooms within the keep, even adding a privy with a latrine chute to the motte hillside to satisfy the modesty of the occasional mistress who might have accompanied him on his hunting trips to Arundel.

  Grooms, attendants, and men-at-arms met them in the yard beyond the gatehouse, instructing them to dismount from their carts and horses. Walter de Coutances was immediately ushered back into the gatehouse and up to the battlements atop the wall, to walk up to the keep to meet with the earl. Tents had been erected already to house the new arrivals, their white canvas glowing with the oil lamps lit within them, and the members of their party were directed to one or the other tent for rest or food or tending of their wounds as needed. The yard buzzed with organized commotion, and Gwendolyn felt her fatigue finally settle in with thoughts of a soft pallet to sleep on. No bloodthirsty hounds would breach these fortifications. She slowly eased herself down from the saddle, gently shifting her weight onto her chilled and aching legs, and rubbed the top of Bedwyr’s head under the bridle straps as the mare turned her head toward her. After a few moments, grooms came for their horses, but before Gwendolyn could unfasten her oilskin for a drink of water one of the garrison knights approached her and William and told them they were to join the earl in the hall. She suppressed her disappointment, rallied herself, and followed William and the knight back into the gatehouse and up narrow steps to the top of the wall.

  The castle keep, four floors high, stood directly ahead of her. She filed up the steep path that Walter de Coutances had taken moments before toward a shabby network of wooden scaffolding that climbed up the face of the keep. Construction of a large gatehouse that would extend out onto the battlements and guard a new entry into the keep was underway. Additional fortifications were also being added to protect a second well that served the keep. The current doorway into the keep, arched and surrounded by elaborately carved stone molding, was offset from the battlements, so that the doorway opening hung in the side of the wall like a large window. Access was gained only by crossing over from the battlements on a precarious bridge of timber planks that clung to the side of the keep. In the absence of a gatehouse, the timber walkway and offset entry were another means of defending the keep, since the timber planks could be easily cast down or burned in a time of siege. She took a deep breath, looked straight ahead, crossed over, and turned into the doorway, William right behind her.

  They passed up a few stone steps and turned abruptly right into the castle’s great hall. All of the buildings inside the keep were constructed of timber and plaster, using the circular shell wall as their outer wall. She and William stepped up into a long, curved hall that took up at least one quarter of the length of the inside of the keep. Hearths, each of them fitted with an iron spit large enough to roast a hart, had been built into the shell wall on the right side of the room. Vents moved smoke from the fires out of the hall but kept their warmth and light inside for the guests. As below in the yard, the hall was filled with guests, those up above dressed in the fine fabrics and gleaming adornment of well-heeled merchants and barons. As part of its role in a time of war preparation, Arundel Castle had opened its gates to its lords, tenants, and vassals—and all of their knights and men-at-arms. She spotted Nigel standing to the side with a group of the Arundel garrison. He was in the middle of an animated conversation, gesturing largely with his hands. She guessed from the men’s rapt expressions that he was telling them about the beasts that had attacked them in the night.

  Someone thrust a pewter cup into her hand, and she gratefully drank, feeling the warmth of rich, unwatered ale spread through her. A moment later Gwendolyn realized the room had grown still. She looked around her, puzzled, and surveyed the room for the cause of the sudden quiet, but all eyes had turned toward her. With her cloak thrown back over her shoulders and her mail armor and weapons flashing in the firelight, she had forgotten that she was among strangers. She felt William step in behind her protectively, heard the
rustle of his armor as his hand shifted to cover the hilt of his sword. A cough and a cleared throat echoed against the walls in the tense silence.

  “God’s bones! Can I finish my story or do you people need to gawk a little longer?” The men beside Nigel chuckled, giving the rest of those gathered permission to exhale and laugh with them. She felt William’s breath against her neck as he breathed again, and she felt her shoulders relax as the thrum of conversation resumed.

  Gwendolyn’s gaze fell on another woman, dressed elegantly but without adornment, who stepped toward her, her chin graciously raised and her gaze appearing to look out over all of their heads and into the distance. People wordlessly parted before her as she walked, opening a path. She had a faint smile on her face, and seemed to be listening intently to the small movements around her. This would be the lady of the castle, Gwendolyn surmised as the woman walked toward her. Suddenly, one of the women who had been handing out cups of ale set her tray down and dashed forward to take the lady’s hand.

  “It’s a full house tonight, my lady,” the woman said softly, guiding her mistress safely toward Gwendolyn and William.

  “Yes, Agnes, thank you,” she replied warmly, then turned her gaze forward, extending both of her hands to Gwendolyn and William. Her dark brown hair, laced through with gray, was swept away from her face in loose waves down her back, and her eyes were misted over with silver clouds that blocked her vision. Her gaze, directed toward them but not at anything in particular, remained warm and welcoming despite the fact that she could not see the faces of those she greeted.

  “We weren’t expecting you so soon, but welcome to Arundel,” she said to them in smooth English. While Norman French was the language of the royal court, away from the king and his family his subjects reverted to the language of their land. William reached forward and took her hand lightly and introduced himself and Gwendolyn. Matilda d’Aubigni tilted her head and felt William’s hand inside hers. She smiled softly.