Gwendolyn's Sword Page 2

  “He’s dead.” The young man looked up at her, horrified. “He’s dead!” He backed away slowly.

  “Who are these men? What are their names?” Gwendolyn’s sharp voice snapped the younger man out of his stupor. He was perhaps younger than her and plainly unaccustomed to the sight of blood.

  “You are John’s men,” she said evenly when he failed to answer her, and she lowered her sword slightly. “Rebels against the king. You will come with me now to Penhallam.”

  The younger man’s features blanched as he realized how much she knew, and he took another tentative step back toward his companion. The sky above shone a rosy color, and Gwendolyn raised her sword again and took a step toward the men. The larger man, who had been staring at her in shock, suddenly came to his senses and they both turned abruptly and dashed into the woods, quickly disappearing into the shadows.

  “The outlaws may do worse with them than William will when he finds them,” she said to herself, listening to the sounds of their steps growing fainter. She looked down at her sword, bloody for the first time since the smith forged it for her. She had to wipe and dry it or the blade would begin to rust. She looked around her, as if a clean rag might materialize for her there in the forest. Finally she gathered up a handful of her skirt and carefully wiped down the blade. The dress was already ruined, after all. As she sheathed her weapon, Gwendolyn felt a wave, unstoppable, roll up from the pit of her belly. She turned, bent over, and heaved the full contents of her stomach into the brush beside the path.

  When the gagging finally passed and she could stand upright again, she spat and wiped her mouth with her sleeve and turned on trembling legs to face her maids.

  Tears streaked Anne’s cheeks, and the girl frowned hard to stifle her sobs. Her fists clutched a rip at the neck of her gown.

  “Are you hurt?” Gwendolyn asked.

  Anne shook her head, her eyes fixed on the ground. Gwendolyn considered moving the men’s bodies to the side of the road, but decided she would send her men for them. Her priority was to get Martha and Anne safely back to Penhallam.

  “Come on,” Gwendolyn said, pulling her cloak across her shoulders again and concealing the dark spatters on her dress. She drew her sword again, in case the remaining two men had stayed near for another attack. Together, they started the walk back, Martha’s arm protectively circling Anne’s shoulders.

  The taste of bile still sour in her mouth, Gwendolyn realized her days of stealing these moments of solitude in the woods had ended. The intrigues of the royal court had finally reached into the far west of England, all the way to Penhallam. She had been foolish to ignore the plain fact that John’s plots for the throne had divided loyalties and brought England to the brink of war with itself. When Henry de la Pomerai took over St. Michael’s Mount, he had killed most of the monks and the abbot himself. She had known all of these things, had been warned by her constable, and yet she had refused to believe that the danger was real. You’ve been such a fool, she admonished herself, trying not to think of what could have happened if she had been without her sword. Then again, she realized, she had just intercepted rebels against the king. If she had not been walking the forest that evening, they might have safely reached their destination.

  “There will be no more walks in the forest,” Gwendolyn announced.

  “Yes, my lady,” Martha answered. “It’s for the best. William will be glad to hear of it.”

  As Penhallam’s constable, William Rufus commanded her men and had provided her no quarter in her training on account of her sex or her status. For this she respected him. But he held no authority over her, and this was a frequent source of aggravation for them both.

  The road emerged from the woods and Gwendolyn paused to take in the view of Penhallam’s estate. Two swift-flowing streams cut the ancient valley before them; where these streams joined, a Cornish warlord had built a timber stronghold long before the Normans came to England. The low valley provided shelter from the terrible sea gales that raked the land every winter, and the streams gave a ready supply of fresh water and fish. To improve defenses, a low moat had been dug out, the excavated dirt and stone used to build a ring-work to fortify the inner banks. In the year before their marriage, Robert had persuaded his father to dismantle the clay and timber house and build in its place a stone stronghold, complete with a large hall for the manor household and a private chamber for himself and his young bride.

  Beyond the moated area, the manor’s outbuildings stood in a cluster surrounded by a high timber palisade. The rest of the household’s eighteen residents lived and worked in these buildings brewing ale, baking bread, rendering tallow, and tending the horses. Penhallam’s men-at-arms kept a rotating guard living in both the outbuildings and the manor. Her constable, however, had not slept anywhere but the manor hall during Robert’s absence. Gwendolyn was, after all, the only member of the de Cardinham family in residence at Penhallam, and William considered her protection to be his first and personal duty. Along with the household, Penhallam was supported by—and in turn aided and protected—a dozen or more small hamlets and farmsteads that dotted the valley and neighboring lowlands.

  The largest of these villages lay between the forest and the manor house, directly ahead of Gwendolyn and her maids. Its buildings huddled in a cluster of cottages, shared longhouses, small gardens, and shops, all of it encircled by a collection of small yards for livestock. The manor house stood shrouded in evening shadows just beyond the village, its dark walls pierced by the glow of the hearth visible through narrow window slits. The village church stood to the north, the sole stone building other than the manor house. The mill and the blacksmith’s hut, its fires glowing, stood alone beside the stream north of the manor. On their left a low hill swelled, marked by the rubble outline of an ancient fortress. A large cesspit lay at the bottom of that rise, downwind from the village and the manor house. To their right, strips of cultivated ground, some set aside for individual families and some shared, crossed the hillside. Rows of grain, legumes, and vegetables gently waved in the evening breeze, cooler now with the setting sun. The last harvest of the season would be upon them soon, and the hard work of reaping, storing, pickling, and salting would keep the full village occupied. It was an exhausting but joyous time, and Gwendolyn looked forward to the shared meals in the fresh air and the songs and stories of the traders that would come through afterward offering trinkets, pretty ribbons, amusements, and news from the larger towns. Old rivalries were set aside, if only for the harvest, and many courtships took root in the side-by-side labor that put young men and women in the fields together for days on end.

  Gwendolyn and her maids covered the last bit of road quickly, threading their way between the low stone walls marking fields and pastures and into the muddy lanes of the village. Around them, men and their older sons returned from the fields, sweaty and tired, and their whistles and calls and the barking of working dogs greeted them. Women called to their families, announcing the evening supper, and the smoke of cooking fires curled into the dimming sky. The usually welcome smells of evening stews and breads caused her stomach to lurch with a new wave of nausea. She said nothing to the familiar faces that she passed, keeping her eyes downcast and hoping that no one stopped her for a word.

  Gwendolyn stopped where a small footpath led to a timber and thatch cottage beneath the outstretched arms of an oak. She gently touched Anne’s arm and gestured for her to return to her own home tonight. Anne held Gwendolyn’s gaze for a moment before turning down the path, and Gwendolyn saw reflected back a new hardness that replaced some of the innocence they both had lost that afternoon. Anne said goodnight and walked briskly toward her family’s cottage, her hands in tiny fists at her sides.

  Gwendolyn and Martha crossed the wooden bridge and passed through the timber gatehouse into the manor yard, where her hounds loped out to meet them, baying excitedly around their skirts. A rack of fish hung over a smoking fire, out of the dogs’ reach. Osbert, Penhallam’s coo
k and steward, stepped out from the undercroft as Martha ducked in on her way up to the hall. He wiped flour from his hands onto a leather apron and greeted Gwendolyn with a tip of his chin. Gwendolyn dodged Osbert’s curious look and wordlessly tossed him the pouch of mushrooms she carried from the woods. She ducked through the low doorway into the kitchen, a small building attached to the side of the house, leaving Martha to climb the stairs to the hall without her.

  Osbert had set out a supper of bread and stew, ready to be carried up to the hall. Gwendolyn placed her hands flat on the worn, wooden table, fingers spread, and willed her body to become steady. She only had a few moments by herself, and she refused to allow her men to see her so unsettled. After all, this was what she had trained for; she had known this day would eventually come. Stacks of bread trenchers filled shelves lining the walls next to pots of butter and honey. Jars of dried fruits and berries had been shifted to make room for the smoked fish that would be stored there. Clusters of potherbs from the manor garden hung from the rafters above her. The tenants of Penhallam were well provided for, she reminded herself, and the thought helped to calm her. She stepped outside and entered the undercroft through the same low opening Martha had taken.

  The space beneath the hall was as crowded as the kitchen, storing barrels of salted meats and fish, wheels of cheese, and jars of lard. Sacks of grain stacked as high as the timbers leaned against the row of thick oak pillars that ran the length of the undercroft. The pillars supported a long, massive beam, the backbone that braced the manor hall above. A narrow, spiral stairway, built of stone and standing in an enclosure attached to the side of the building, provided the only access up. The turn of the stairs, upward to the right, would force any would-be attacker to shift his weapon to the weaker left hand, giving right-handed defenders above the advantage. The same style of construction could be found in the royal castles around Cornwall and the rest of England, but it was unusual in a humble manor house. William had insisted on the design, however, and the baron had grudgingly agreed to the expense. Tonight she found new appreciation for William’s foresight.

  She started up the stairs, steadying her feet on the narrow ledges, but suddenly found her way blocked by William, moving quickly on his way down. He stopped abruptly two steps above her, so that her eyes were level with his chest. William had a thin build, but in the narrow stairwell his height and broad shoulders still gave the impression of towering bulk that reminded her of the oaks that supported the house.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Martha had been up to the hall already; she would have given details of the attack to the men-at-arms gathering for the evening meal. Gwendolyn took a deep breath and looked up as she shook her head, her jaw set. She studied William’s face, pale blue eyes glowing in the dim torchlight, but she was unable to discern his thoughts from the taut lines of his expression. She paused with a hand on the stone wall beside her, felt its soothing cool beneath her palm, and lowered her eyes to receive the reproach that she knew she deserved. She had refused to heed his warnings; as a result she had placed herself and her maids into the path of mercenaries.

  “Martha’s white as a sheet.”

  “Yes, I am aware, thank you,” she replied, eyes cast downward. Her voice was clipped and full of guilt. When she looked back up at him, his face had softened.

  “This wasn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it was. You warned me, and you were right. I was incredibly foolish.” Her mind vividly recalled the blood, the grating of the sword against bone.

  Her cloak had fallen open, and she waited while William’s gaze took in the pattern of blood on her dress, the straight lines across her skirt where she had wiped her blade. “You discovered rebels against the king and you stopped them. The two that are left will be easy to find.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “You did well, Gwendolyn.”

  With all of her work in the kitchen to calm herself nearly ruined by this unexpected kindness, she looked up at him again. “I feel like my heart is breaking. How do men live with this?”

  William looked straight ahead for a moment, his eyes focused on the inner images of his memories.

  “Not easily. You should go get something to eat, if you can,” he finally said.

  Gwendolyn blinked and took a moment to regain her composure, but then remembered the ordeal was not yet over.

  “There were four men travelling on foot to St. Michael’s Mount, disguised as pilgrims. Of the two that are left, one has certainly never held a sword. He was close to losing his wits. The other one is big. Not as tall as you, but heavier. He’ll fight you.”

  “Any weapons?”

  “I didn’t see any. The way they took off running, they were travelling light.”

  “And pilgrims carrying swords would have brought more attention than they would have wanted.”

  “Take Gerald with you,” she added. Gerald was Penhallam’s youngest knight, eager to please William and hungry for experience.

  William nodded and moved past her, making an effort to press himself against the wall of the narrow passage to avoid brushing against her. William’s sense of propriety around her had always been flawless, although somehow it only reminded her that she was different, still only a woman despite the sword she carried.

  2

  WILLIAM’S CURSE

  Penhallam’s hall smelled of smoke, straw, dog excrement, and the sweat of men. Fresh straw laced with fragrant herbs was laid down across the timber floor every Sunday, and by the end of the week the manor’s residents picked a careful path through the hall. Tom Butler, Gerald’s uncle and the oldest of Penhallam’s household knights, crossed the floor to her with a large cup of ale in his hand.

  “You’ll be wanting this, my lady,” he said gravely, handing the wooden cup to her.

  She thanked him and took her usual seat on the stool at the end of the trestle table, across from the hearth. Without tasting the ale, she set the cup down on the table, bent her face into her hands, and rubbed her eyes. She felt as if she had aged ten years since that morning.

  Martha set bread and ale out on the table, her usual chattiness gone. Death seemed to have followed them back from the woods, and the hall was quiet and somber in its presence. Gwendolyn picked up a crust of bread, felt her stomach turn, and put the crust back down onto the plate. She stared into the hearth, wishing she could enjoy its warmth without being reminded of the night when her parents had died. She had been five years old, but she remembered the heat of the fire clearly, the look on her mother’s face when the flames reached her skirts while Gwendolyn’s father lay unconscious beneath a collapsed timber. A man had rushed in and grabbed Gwendolyn beneath her arms, swept her out of the cottage, and then left. She had watched the roof of the house collapse, sending a burst of orange sparks up into the night. She remembered her shock that something so terrible and cruel could be so beautiful at the same time. When others arrived from the village, they had found her safe beside a tree, quiet and alone. The man who had rescued her was never found. As young as she was, she had known that night that her life had been altered in an irrevocable way, that joy and laughter were gone from her future.

  Foolish or not, the woods had been her only sanctuary. Now that was gone, too.

  Osbert stepped into the hall, carrying the heavy black pot of stew in front of him, followed by the stooped figure of Gamel, William’s father and a spicer. Gamel’s knowledge of the healing uses of herbs and salves had served Penhallam and nearby villages and abbeys since before Gwendolyn was born. Gamel had instructed William as his apprentice until William’s fourteenth year, when Gwendolyn’s parents died and she left to live with the baron and his family at Restormel. She had wondered later if Gamel resented his son’s decision to take up arms, to pursue a life of breaking men’s bodies instead of healing them. But after she returned to Penhallam years later as Robert’s bride, on many nights she had found William conferring with his father quietly in a corner of the hall, receiving the old man’s instruct
ion in the method of setting a broken bone or gathering a specific wort to contain the plant’s essence, listening intently even while polishing the blade of his sword.

  “Got into a bit of a scuffle, did you,” Gamel remarked. The old man crossed the hall to the hearth and helped Osbert hang the heavy stew pot by its handle from an iron arm set deep into the masonry. Gwendolyn greeted the old man and shifted in her seat to make room for him at the table.

  “Have you tended to Anne? She got the worst of it.”

  “Aye, she’s in good hands with her mother. I’m here for you now, my lady,” he said.

  Gwendolyn took a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness in her chest. “I’m fine, Gamel. Just a bit stiff.”

  “You killed two men, Gwendolyn. Your body may be fine, but being so close to death can shatter a man on the inside.” He turned to face her and reached his hands toward her face, and she complied by leaning toward him. With steady hands he tilted her chin gently down and looked into her eyes. He said nothing and lay his hand gently across the inside of her wrist and closed his eyes, breathing softly, reading some unknown message in the throb of her pulse. Finally he opened his eyes and inspected the inside of her palm, turning it in the firelight to better see the fine lines etched into it.

  “Pitched your stomach, I see,” he said, reaching into the worn sack that was permanently hung from his side.

  Gwendolyn nodded. By now she was accustomed to the old man’s skill.

  “It’s all in the humors, child. There is a balance for each of us, and you have too much bile,” he said, selecting certain small packets from the handful of glass vials and tiny pouches that he had pulled out onto the table. He began measuring and combining powders into a cup.

  “Did you know that I treated Gwyn, your father, when he first came here?” he asked, pausing to raise his eyes to her. He had told her the story many times, but she still enjoyed hearing him retell it, part of her hoping he might recall some new detail he had not told her before.