Gwendolyn's Sword Page 22

  William held the earl’s gaze momentarily when Edmund spoke up and put his hand on his father’s elbow, as if his assistance was needed for the earl to continue to stand.

  “The boar has the reputation of being the Devil’s own beast, familiar with the demons and the realms of Hell.”

  The earl laughed out loud and pulled his arm from his son’s grasp.

  “Yes, it does have that reputation,” William agreed. “If this is the worst the Devil’s got, I’ll sleep easily tonight.”

  “But there’s more, isn’t there?” Edmund persisted. As he spoke, Walter de Coutances approached their little group. “Last night you mentioned that Prince John has found himself a sorcerer.”

  “And the archbishop rightly corrected my misstatement,” William quickly replied, indicating to Walter de Coutances. “John only believes he has a sorcerer in his service. It’s not the same as actually having one.”

  “Our instruction is very clear on this,” de Coutances added, “The faithful are to shun the sorcerer and the witch. The practices are unnatural and against God’s holy order. He alone provides for our needs; He alone holds past, present, and future in His almighty hands.”

  “And anyway, we have Caliburn’s heir among us,” the earl joked to his son. William and de Coutances immediately jerked their heads up at the remark, which the earl had said loudly enough to be heard by those nearby.

  “Your ruse is safe here,” d’Aubigni assured them, and put an arm around Edmund’s shoulders. “There is not a person in Arundel who is either a supporter of John’s rebellion or a believer in the prophecy of Caliburn’s return.”

  Edmund pulled back from his father and pushed his hair out of his eyes.

  “Really?” he asked, his gaze falling on William with a look of amusement that seemed to Gwendolyn to carry more than a hint of real excitement. She realized Edmund had assumed that William was the rumored heir of Caliburn.

  “Over here,” Gwendolyn said with a smile, daring Edmund to disparage her again in front of his father. She watched the young man’s features shift in disbelief as he realized that Gwendolyn, and not William, was the fabled heir of the prophecy.

  A momentary hush fell over the hall, and Gwendolyn and William followed the shift of attention to the doorway, where a tall, hooded figure had appeared. He arrived unescorted by any of the Arundel guard, which meant that he was both familiar and trusted. The man pulled his hood back, revealing a mantle of snow-white hair that hung past his shoulders and disappeared into the folds of his pale cloak. His face bore the wear of years spent out of doors, and his features appeared polished and worn, as if they had been carved in wood. The man’s face was kind, but it seemed there was more etched within its lines than could be drawn from a single lifetime. The earl crossed the room to the man and greeted him warmly with his arms extended.

  “Mogh, old friend, welcome! I didn’t expect your visit so soon this year. I apologize that I have not yet send a messenger for you, but we’re fully occupied here, as I’m sure you know.” The earl reached out and offered his hand to the visitor as he approached, and then looked puzzled again. “But—you’ve come alone? Surely you haven’t traveled to Arundel alone?”

  At the mention of the visitor’s name, Gwendolyn immediately stiffened and stared more closely at the stranger. Both the prior and her father, in his letter, had mentioned a seer named Mogh. How many men could walk this island with his name? She realized she was staring at the very source that had connected her personally with the Welsh prophecies so many years ago. He had known both her mother and father, and he had been with William when he had lived at the priory. She held her breath waiting to hear what business brought him to Arundel. She also realized from Walter de Coutances’s shocked stare that the archbishop knew Mogh as well. De Coutances had told William as much after the hunt, as William had described his conversation with the archbishop to her and Nigel that afternoon.

  “Nay, my lord, the others remain on the far side of the river. We’ve only just arrived to our wintering camp last night,” the man replied softly, scanning the room with pale blue eyes that reminded Gwendolyn of William’s and seemed to miss nothing. “I have come to speak with an old friend.”

  14

  ACROSS THE BRIDGE

  “That one,” Mogh said, raising his long arm with a bony finger extended, pointing to William. “I would request his company, if you can spare him, until the morrow.”

  The earl turned to William as he stepped to the earl’s side.

  “You know this man?” the earl asked.

  “From many years ago. Arundel is armed to the teeth and well-guarded. I can join Mogh at his fire for one night. We will stay nearby.”

  Walter de Coutances and Gwendolyn had approached, and the archbishop spoke first.

  “Why do you have need of this man?” he asked with the sharpness of an interrogator, but Mogh’s expression remained calm and warm.

  “Archbishop,” he said respectfully. Mogh’s eyes seemed to twinkle, and Gwendolyn wondered whether he had known de Coutances as a boy.

  “I find I am surrounded by old friends,” Mogh observed. “And of course you are Gwendolyn,” he continued as his eyes fell on her. “Your beauty matches your fierce heart. I am honored to meet you,” he said, and bowed his head. Gwendolyn found she had taken a step back, equal parts mesmerized and repelled by the magical aura that surrounded the man.

  “Yours was not the only estate in Cornwall that I visited, Your Excellency,” Mogh finally answered de Coutances. “I met William as a novice at Launceston Priory, along with your friend Prior Thomas. And the earl here has been kind enough to allow my band of wanderers to camp nearby in the weeks prior to midwinter, when we must be off again.”

  “I hope you have abandoned your heretical beliefs, Mogh,” the archbishop said bluntly. “I will pray for your soul.”

  “I thank you for the kindness,” Mogh replied in a soothing voice.

  De Coutances, somewhat deflated, added, “It’s good to see you again. I had heard you had stopped coming to the spring at Easter.”

  “We do not get around as we used to,” Mogh replied with a shrug. “We are all older than we can count.”

  The earl put a hand on Mogh’s shoulder.

  “You and I both, my friend. As ever, you and your camp are welcome in Arundel. Just be careful. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone on watch during the night. Our towers will signal if we see anything, but where you are, you’re vulnerable to the east.”

  Mogh thanked the earl, and William turned to Gwendolyn.

  “Sleep here among the Tower guard tonight. And don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone.” The hint of a smile pulled the corners of his mouth, but she stared back at him stone-faced. Since the first mercenaries had crossed Penhallam, William had barely left her side, and he had scolded her just that morning for stepping out to town without him. He would not be leaving her now if he did not consider it essential, and she realized he had shown no surprise at the old man’s sudden appearance. Suddenly Gwendolyn stepped forward and put her hand on William’s arm.

  “Wait,” she said a little breathlessly, looking at Mogh. This all started with you, she wanted to protest, but Mogh stared placidly back at her.

  “I am not the source of these events,” he said kindly. She stood frozen, her jaw fixed in mid-question, as he and William stepped out of the hall and into the night. She felt a pull to go with them, but something stronger held her back, rooted where she stood. She discovered that she did not want to venture too deeply into William’s world, even when presented with the opportunity. The singing and laughter from the castle yard drifted up to her again, and she watched their backs, side by side, as the men descended along the battlements down to the gatehouse.

  The d’Aubigni’s had returned to their seats on the raised dais at the far end of the hall. Edmund had characteristically excused himself to go to town, and a group of barons moved in to fill the void around the earl that Edmund’s departu
re opened up. Walter de Coutances stood behind the earl, leaning over and whispering into his ear. The earl’s expression was grim, and he nodded to whatever de Coutances was telling him. A sense of unease came over Gwendolyn, some sort of foreboding, and she retreated to an empty spot along the wall with her thoughts. The evening passed slowly, and she felt awkward and alone. In Penhallam she craved solitude, but here among strangers, the absence of companionship felt isolating. And yet she had no desire to approach any of the barons or even kind Matilda d’Aubigni to struggle through the niceties of light conversation. She was exhausted in body and mind, and the only fellowship she could tolerate was the sort that could be still with her in companionable silence.

  As the candles burned down, families and men-at-arms began to settle in for the night. Some of the men keeping watch along the towers returned and others left to take their place. After the younger guests had fallen asleep, curled beside the hounds or bundled into their mothers’ skirts, one of the women began to sing in low, haunting notes a familiar song of love lost to the grave. Conversations paused and all but a few of the remaining candles were extinguished. Gwendolyn recalled the song from her days at Restormel, and she closed her eyes to follow the familiar verses.

  Hath any loved you well, down there,

  Summer or winter through?

  Down there, have you found any fair

  Laid in the grave with you?

  ’s death’s long kiss a richer kiss

  Than mine was wont to be–

  Or have you gone to some far bliss

  And quite forgotten me?

  What soft enamoring of sleep

  Hath you in some soft way?

  What charmed death holdeth you with deep

  Strange lure by night and day?

  A little space below the grass,

  Out of the sun and shade;

  But worlds away from me, alas,

  Down there where you are laid.

  The song ended in the silent hall with its last notes lingering in the air. Gwendolyn looked around her and saw tears brimming even in the eyes of the battle-hardened knights. The darkened hall remained hushed, and when Michael and Nigel appeared in the doorway, she raised her arm to catch their attention. She had already settled herself into the straw, using her cloak for a blanket. The parish church had rung the hour for Compline prayers long ago. Michael found space in the empty straw beside her, and Nigel left wordlessly to return to the garrison at the gatehouse.

  The boy settled himself down on his side facing her, his features delicately outlined by the faint glow of nearby hearth embers. He stared at her solemnly for a moment and then reached up with both of his hands to place them on her cheeks, framing her face. He silently mouthed the words, thank you, held her gaze a moment longer, then withdrew his hands and turned over to face the wall. Gwendolyn smiled to herself, knowing that Michael slept that night warm, safe, and fed—possibly for the first time in years.

  William stared across the campfire at Mogh, his old teacher. A gourd was being passed around the circle, and the woman to his left, a slight form almost concealed in the pile of blankets that she had draped about herself, took a long draw. Without looking she passed the gourd to her right and William raised it tentatively to his nose. A familiar, bitter smell made him pinch his eyes closed and wince.

  “You’ll not be sleeping tonight, William Rufus,” Mogh said gently from across the fire. “It’s time to open you up.”

  At Mogh’s words, the hairs stood up on William’s arms despite the heat of the nearby flames. William took a deep breath and held it, to keep from smelling the brew, then raised the gourd to his lips and quickly swallowed several large gulps. The liquid landed in his stomach like a fire, and immediately his insides clenched in protest. William knew this rite. Prior Thomas called it “the bridge.” The liquid in the gourd was a remedy, when taken in small sips, to ease pains. In larger amounts it caused waking dreams, sometimes nightmares. But its chief effect was to blend all of the sensations—taste, sound, image, scent, touch—into a singular experience. Sounds acquired shape and color, which in turn gave off a smell that could be felt with one’s skin and tasted on the tongue. Prior Thomas had not crossed the bridge himself, but he was there once when Mogh did. He had told William that Mogh’s breath became so faint, his heartbeat so slow, that the prior had thought his friend had died. The prior had sat beside him through the night praying, only to have Mogh awaken at sunrise so serene and composed that he had spent the next several days in complete contentment. Even a sharp kick from the priory’s mule had left him laughing and applauding the mule for its spirit and precise aim.

  The woman to William’s left began to sway side to side, chanting some forgotten verse in a low voice, barely audible. To his right, an older man who looked to be about the same age as Mogh sat still as stone. William turned his gaze back to the fire and waited. The cramping in his guts had ceased, replaced by an unsettling numbness that seemed to be spreading throughout his body. As the numbness crept up his chest, he had the sensation of being unable to catch his breath. He felt an impulse to panic, and Mogh’s voice reached him, from across the fire or someplace farther way.

  “Have faith, William. You are safe. Nothing that you will see tonight can hurt you, but it is all real. More real than the life you imagine yourself to be living.”

  William lifted his head to gaze across the fire at Mogh, but when he did, in Mogh’s place he saw a young man with a wide smile and shining teeth. An aroma of nutmeg filled his head, and he looked up and saw a dense flock of birds flying overhead. He vaguely recalled that it should have been nighttime, with darkened skies, but the radiant blue that spread overhead was more beautiful than any sky he had yet seen, and he found he did not mind the sudden switch to daylight.

  “Are you ready?” The young version of Mogh stood beside him, and William began to lift himself to standing but found his body fixed to the ground. He looked down and found that his chest and legs had become the gray, gnarled trunk and roots of a hazel tree. He started to scream, but Mogh’s hand on his shoulder calmed him.

  “You are safe. This is your soul revealing itself to you. Your body is not hurt.” Mogh laughed softly. “The hazel tree is an apt manifestation for you. The tree is known for its gifts of wisdom and foresight. And here you were, thinking you were just a fighting man at heart.”

  Mogh pulled on William’s arm, and he found his legs restored beneath him. The sky still glowed a vivid cerulean that sounded like birdsong pulsing through his veins. He stood and faced Mogh.

  “Turn around, William.”

  William turned his head around to peer behind himself but could see nothing. Mogh nudged his elbow and he took a few steps, turning his back to the young man. In the distance, the ground in front of him became disturbed, as if something tunneled under it at a great speed. He narrowed his eyes, tried to squint to see into the distance. As the movement came closer, he realized the ground was in fact falling away, disappearing into an abyss. He turned to run, but before he could cover more than a few steps the crumbling earth fell away beneath him and he found himself clawing through the air, surrounded by clods of earth and turf.

  “Remember, William, you are safe. Always safe.”

  Mogh’s voice sounded ancient again, and so far away. William surrendered to the fall, his nostrils filled with the rich, pungent scent of the dirt that surrounded him. His vision was completely blocked, but he could breathe. Wind rushed past him, and he noticed the air around him beginning to clear. He felt as if he was falling into a hidden underworld that lie beneath the one he had spent his life upon until that moment. He landed with an easy splash into a cool lake. He gulped in mouthfuls of the water to wash the dirt from his mouth, and the water tasted fresher than any spring he had ever drunk from on the earth above. He swam easily to a sandy bank and climbed out onto verdant grasses. Everything felt brand new, as if he were the first person to see these colors, to lie upon these blades of grass. He took a deep breath
and closed his eyes, stretching his arms out to the sides. If this was the bridge that Prior Thomas feared, it was not all that bad.

  “William!” The urgent whisper came from beside him; the voice was Gwendolyn’s.

  He opened his eyes, and a man in full armor and helmet, already bloodied from his past battles, stood over him with his sword in both hands, poised to plunge the blade down into William’s chest. William yelled and rolled to his side, and the blade struck into the earth beside him. The man reached for the blade to pull it from the earth, but the blade stuck. It would not budge again. William watched curiously as the man struggled, bracing against the ground and gripping the hilt with both hands, until the scene became comical for him and he laughed out loud. The man stopped his efforts, stepped back, and reached up to remove his helmet. William gasped as he recognized Prince John before him, aged at least twenty years older than the young man who caused so much chaos now. John had passed through Cornwall two years ago, an unpleasant experience for all who had been forced to provide him and his entourage lodging and quarter. But this older version of the prince was haggard and dark shadows lay beneath his hollow gaze. William realized that he was looking upon a king and not a prince. John glared at him for a moment, then replaced his helmet and turned again toward the sword. But the sword had changed. It had begun to glow with an unearthly light. John stepped back and raised his hands to shield himself, but William discovered that the glare did not hurt his eyes. He watched the sword’s illumination grow until he lost sight of everything else. At last the light blinded him, surrounded him with the singing of distant voices. Everything was washed away in that moment—all of his foreboding and dread, the terrible things his sight had shown him since he was a boy. In a way Gwendolyn was right; they weren’t real, because they could not last. He realized, deep in his bones, that in the great length of time, there would be this peace that had engulfed him, that had always been and always would be. It could not be touched or destroyed. It simply was, and all else was not.