Gwendolyn's Sword Page 23

  A gentle flutter of movement brushed past him, and a woman glided ahead of where he stood. She wore a white gown, and he could not see her face, but long red hair draped down her back past her waist. She walked straight to the sword, lifted it out of the ground with one hand, turned and swung the blade through the middle of King John’s body. The figure that had been John became a tower of crows that scattered noisily and flew away. The woman turned to face him, the glowing sword still raised in her hand. With a rushing noise, the blade seemed to swallow back up the brilliant light that had shone from it, and for a moment the metal flashed with a dazzling gleam of silver, then became an ordinary sword again. Gwendolyn smiled softly, returned the sword to the earth. She turned her green eyes to him for a moment, then faded from sight until only a single white dove flapped its wings in midair where she had been and flew away.

  William awoke the next morning lying on his side in the same location near the fire where he had sat the night before. A leaden sky hung close overhead, and he shivered inside his cloak. The fire burned low before him, but its embers still gave off a soothing heat, and he sat up slowly and shifted himself closer to the circle of stones that served as a hearth. Neither of the others that had sat beside him the night before could be seen anywhere. In fact, he realized as he scanned around himself, he was quite alone.

  The Arun River flowed by gently in the distance, and the walls of Arundel could be seen beyond that, rising above the river valley. He sat still for a long moment while his mind recalled every detail of his vision from the night before. The memories were vivid and sharp, and the sense of serenity that had concluded his dream still hung about him like a song that had stopped in mid-verse, its notes still shimmering in the air.

  The images had seemed so real that he could not stop himself from brushing away the grasses and leaves on the ground around him to see if there would be a mark where John had thrust the sword. But he found the ground undisturbed except for the impression left behind by his own slumbering body.

  Movement behind him caught his attention and he turned around. Mogh approached him, a slight smile showing white teeth, and handed him a heavy oilskin.

  “For the thirst,” he said, and William became suddenly aware of his parched throat. He loosened the top of the skin and carefully poured the cooling liquid into his mouth, savoring its freshness that reminded him of the water from his dream.

  “Where were you?” he asked the old man, wiping his chin with his arm and handing the oilskin back to Mogh. “Where has everyone gone?”

  Mogh looked at him closely, his eyes twinkling, and began to laugh. Confused, William chuckled lightly with Mogh, but an uncomfortable feeling crept into his gut. Mogh’s laughter grew quiet and then changed into a dry cackle. Warmth seeped into William’s mouth from the back of his throat, and he became aware of the unmistakable metallic taste of blood. He felt light-headed and staggered a step forward. Mogh became quiet and William staggered back a step and lifted his fingers to the warmth that trickled from his nose. When he pulled them back, his fingertips shined red and wet with his blood. His vision began to blur, and the figure that was no longer Mogh stepped aside. Behind him lay the body of Gwendolyn, twisted on her side, pinned to the earth by her own sword. William tried to scream, but only a strangled gurgle came forth as he fell to his knees beside her. He could feel his life slipping away from him, and he was too weak to hold off the darkness.

  The first sound he registered was his own screaming, then Mogh’s soothing voice beside him. The others came too, and gentle hands pulled him upright to a seated position.

  “You’re okay, William. It was only a dream. You’re awake now.”

  William jumped to his feet and looked wildly about himself, then buckled over again to vomit onto the ground. His body heaved violently and repeatedly, emptying itself completely. When the spasms finally stopped, he slowly raised himself to standing and wiped his mouth with his arm. He brushed away the gourd of fresh water that one of the women offered.

  “I’ll get my own, thanks,” he said roughly.

  His head throbbed and the forceful retching left him trembling, but he felt strong—and very alive. The sky overhead gleamed sparkling and clear, as if it had been washed clean.

  Mogh stood beside him and William turned to face him. The fire had been built up again and the smell of baking bread and stew wafted across to him.

  “The sorcerer is real,” he said, adjusting his cloak around his shoulders.

  Mogh nodded. “Yes.” The old man looked William over carefully and tilted his head to the side for a moment.

  “You need to give yourself time for your blood to thicken again,” he told him. “You need food.”

  “I can’t stay here,” William answered, his throat chafing. He ran his hands quickly over his belt and beneath his cloak to ensure that he had all of his belongings with him. “He means to kill her.”

  Mogh reached out and gripped his forearm. “The sorcerer is not coming for you, William. You and Gwendolyn will go to him of your own volition. It is already written. He will lure you both to him, using your best qualities to bait you. And this sorcerer is a master in the ways of death in the same way that your father uses his herbs and powders for healing. But he is more powerful. His dark magic has disturbed the very song of time.”

  William placed a hand on top of Mogh’s, and for a moment the two men held each other’s eyes in silence, both aware that this could be the last time they would stand in each other’s company. Mogh released William’s arm, and William took off at a run for the river and the ferry across. He did not pause or look back.

  15

  THEATER IN THE HALL

  Gwendolyn paced the floor of her small room, fuming. Since the morning that William had returned from Mogh, almost a week ago, she had agreed not to step from the castle’s protective walls until he was certain the danger had passed. She had complained bitterly when he asked her to forego joining the Arundel guard in training, but she had heard the mix of urgency and genuine fear in his voice. William had slept each night lying across the threshold of her door, and he practically stood outside the privy whenever she went to relieve herself. He followed her when she walked the battlements, and his glowering presence had effectively ended any conversation she might have had with Arundel’s residents. Even Matilda, who generally preferred the company of women, only made light small talk with her now. She found his constant lurking irritating and unnecessary, but his loyalty to her was indisputable. She trusted him and believed he would not ask her to endure such confinement without cause. Knowing this, however, did not ease her temper.

  Edmund had spent most of his time in town for the last several days, which was fortunate for all of them. When Edmund was at Arundel, the earl’s son kept close to his group of men-at-arms from the tavern and cast furtive glances toward William and Gwendolyn. She found the treatment preferable to the snide remarks and leers from their encounter in town, but his demeanor was starting to affect the other residents of Arundel, who did not want to be seen as favoring these outsiders that the earl’s son obviously disliked. A polite coolness had settled over their expressions and curt comments, and both William and Nigel were on edge because of it. Gwendolyn, however, felt certain Edmund’s behavior was simple retribution for his humiliation by her hand at the tavern, and she ignored it.

  St. Crispin’s Day approached, reminding her of how many days had passed since she had left London. It seemed that she should have heard some sort of direction from the Tower by now. Walter de Coutances walked the battlements daily, partly to ease his own growing frustration, partly to consult with the earl over the siege preparations. De Coutances had directed the assault against the castle at Windsor last summer that had eventually driven Prince John’s rebels out and returned the fortress to Eleanor’s control. The similarities between Windsor and Arundel in the design and arrangement of their fortifications made his continued lingering in Arundel at least not entirely without purpose. A moat h
ad been quickly excavated and filled by the marsh water that bubbled up around the front of the gatehouse to prevent tunneling beneath the walls, and carpenters were busy chopping trees and shaping the trunks into pikes to fill the ditch at the foot of the motte. All of the towers along the curtain wall had been well stocked with wood, for use in heating cauldrons of oil that could be poured onto wooden ladders and siege machines and the men with them, then lit.

  In the midst of this activity, Gwendolyn felt useless. She had followed de Coutances when he permitted it, listening closely to absorb the man’s experience and knowledge as he went about advising the earl. But the idleness of the last week had left her with raw nerves and a foul temper. She was reaching her limit, and with the close of each uneventful day, her willingness to continue to give weight to William’s fears waned a bit more. She told him so, followed by a long list of the fortifications and military precautions that surrounded her and ensured her safety. He had listened, unmoved, even though he could see for himself how nearly intolerable the confinement had become for her. He shook his head at her.

  “There is no sorcerer,” she growled at him. She wheeled around and punched him hard in the shoulder, watched with satisfaction as his anger flared.

  “I saw you dead,” he repeated, glaring at her and rubbing the smarting muscle. “I will not see it again in the flesh.”

  “What did Mogh say about your vision? What if it was only your own fears that fueled your imagination?”

  William grunted and turned away from her. The constant time in each other’s presence had stoked the sparks of their usual conflicts to a steady blaze.

  “It wasn’t. You cannot leave the castle.”

  She narrowed her eyes, watched him pace the floor near the door.

  Some sort of commotion stirring in the grounds below the keep caught their attention. Men shouted near the gatehouse, and William and Gwendolyn both grabbed their swords and charged down the timber steps and across the courtyard to the arched passage that led to the doorway out of the keep. They found the passage already blocked by the foot soldiers from the hall who had rushed out ahead of them. They paused and waited while the Arundel guard carefully navigated the planks to the battlements in single-file.

  “Prince John Plantagenet!”

  The call came from the guard below, at the gatehouse, announcing the arrival of the king’s brother. Everyone froze where they stood and looked below to the yard.

  The gatehouse guard stood at attention, spears raised, but at a respectful distance, while attendants ran to assist the prince and his men. There was a moment of confusion as Arundel’s guard and the grooms, pages and steward paused and looked at each other. There was no precedent for a moment like this. Eleanor had resisted the regents and refused to issue orders for her younger son’s arrest. One day it was possible that he would wear the crown legitimately, and Gwendolyn understood that his mother would not undermine his reign before it began by permitting him to be treated by his future subjects as a common criminal. But this was also the man leading an active rebellion against their king, threatening their coasts with Flemish mercenaries—a known threat to the crown.

  John himself solved the moment by unfastening his weapons belt and leaning over to hand his sheathed sword and dagger to the gatehouse guard. At his example, the rest of his men did the same. Their weapons secured, a palpable breath of relief passed across the yard and the attendants smiled and approached the visitors.

  John had arrived with only a few men. He was obviously confident of his safety among men like Walter de Coutances and William d’Aubigni. And he was travelling light. Not everyone knew what their king’s younger brother looked like. Travelling with a small entourage and no fanfare or display of colors enabled him to travel quickly, as any other well-off free man going about his business.

  William and Gwendolyn watched John and his men dismount below and allow their horses to be taken to the stables by Arundel’s grooms. One of the men who accompanied John pushed his hair out of his eyes in a familiar gesture, and Gwendolyn recognized Edmund. They must have crossed paths in town, she realized. Of course Edmund would have leapt at the opportunity to ingratiate himself to the king’s brother. John swept his gaze around those assembled in the castle yard, took in the preparations for war—the tents, rows of bows and spears and other pole weapons leaning against the wall where the castle armorers had been mending them, tightening strings, sharpening blades. He nodded with smug approval and turned his gaze up toward the keep.

  “William!” he shouted, and William gave a start beside her.

  John raised his hands to form a cup around his mouth and shouted again. “William d’Aubigni! Second Earl of Arundel!”

  William exhaled, then stepped back, away from the doorway. Walter de Coutances and d’Aubigni approached behind him, and the rest of the guard cleared the way to the doorway to the keep. The two men stepped forward into the opening.

  “Walter! Mother said I would find you here. You’ve been busy.” John called out the last words in a singsong voice, like a parent scolding a misbehaving child.

  “Do we have business to discuss?” de Coutances called back, suppressing his agitation.

  “Yes, we do,” John answered. “May I come up for a bit? I’m sure you’ll understand that I’d like to keep my men with me.” John had extended his arms, palms up, in supplication, the image of innocence.

  De Coutances leaned toward d’Aubigni and the two men conferred in hushed voices. Finally, d’Aubigni answered the prince.

  “You are welcome at Arundel, John, as were your father and grandmother before you. Your men are welcome, too. I’m sure you understand that it is no insult that Arundel’s men will hold on to their swords.”

  “I would expect nothing less from my family’s constant champion,” John said with a magnanimous sweep of his arm. From the clear space behind de Coutances and d’Aubigni Gwendolyn could see the whole display. She rolled her eyes and turned away, William close on her heels behind her.

  “Oh, for the love of the saints, William!” she complained. “It wasn’t John that killed me, was it?”

  She looked up and saw that Matilda d’Aubigni, Lady of Arundel, had issued fast orders as soon as the prince’s arrival was announced. Two men carried a wooden chair, large and elaborately carved, out to the dais and set it alongside the chairs of Matilda and William d’Aubigni. Gwendolyn recognized the chair that she had sat in the morning that Matilda d’Aubigni had massaged her heels and cured her of her pains. Two women were making fast work of the fouled rushes on the floor, sweeping and bundling them out as quickly as two more women arrived with arms overflowing with fresh straw and herbs. Buckets of water were splashed over the trestle tables to clear crumbs and dry wood was thrown onto the fires. In a matter of minutes their efficient work transformed the hall into a well-tended, hospitable setting for the king’s last surviving brother.

  Arundel’s guests and guard filed back into the hall, finding places on either side along the walls to make way for the prince and his men. Some of the barons whispered among themselves uneasily, but the fact that the prince had arrived so unceremoniously with only a few men was taken to be a good sign, perhaps an indication that John was ready to admit the folly of his actions and step back into line as his brother’s supporter. De Coutances and the earl had stepped out onto the battlements to symbolically meet the prince halfway, and they walked back up the steep aisle to the keep with him. Their voices could be heard approaching, and an expectant hush fell over the hall.

  William d’Aubigni and Walter de Coutances entered the hall first, followed by Prince John, then Edmund, then John’s men. A stream of onlookers from the castle grounds filed in last, and many of Arundel’s guard, including those loyal to Edmund, abandoned their posts for the opportunity to be close to their sovereign’s infamous brother. Nigel and Michael came in and took their places along the wall beside Gwendolyn and William. She protectively pulled Michael in front of her, her hands resting on h
is shoulders.

  Gwendolyn’s gaze followed John closely, sizing the man up. He was shorter than she had expected, with a smooth brow and thick, dark hair that framed his face in waves. Large brown eyes conveyed a warmth that seemed in conflict with his reputation for cunning and ambition. What hatred he must have borne for his father to have forsaken the man upon his deathbed, she thought, recalling the account she had heard from the earl. John was undeniably handsome, with balanced, elegant features, and he carried himself with catlike grace. She decided, watching him, that she had underestimated him. This enigmatic man may not have the qualities of a warrior, but he was nonetheless a formidable opponent. And yet, something about his expression, the way that he seemed to take in the room like a jackal surveying a pasture of lambs, caused her to shudder inside. This man might also have a capacity for savagery that left honor and decency far behind.

  Edmund took his seat on the dais at his mother’s feet, looking pleased with himself. Matilda, staring contentedly into the distance, reached her hand out and touched his head affectionately. Prince John’s dark eyes flashed around the room as he took in the assembled crowd, a mixture of armed men, barons, and lords, wealthy merchants and their families. His lip seemed to curl a bit with pleasure.

  De Coutances stepped forward with an extended arm.

  “My lord, perhaps you and I can retire to private quarters to discuss our business,” he offered in diplomatic tones.

  John smiled, flashing his teeth in a predacious grin.

  “That’s hardly necessary,” he chided the justiciar. “I have nothing to hide from the good people of Arundel.”

  This is a performance, Gwendolyn immediately realized, and she braced herself for whatever scheme the prince was about to unleash on them.

  “You follow my mother’s orders, Walter, and I can’t fault you for that. But when I received her note that the Welsh prophecies were true, that she had in her custody the actual heir of Caliburn, I could hardly believe my eyes.” He paused, gave his audience a moment to get in on the joke. “Really, did you think I could believe that she,” he said, indicating toward Gwendolyn and raising his voice, “a woman, could be a Pendragon, Arthur returned, the heir of Caliburn?” He scoffed under his breath, and Gwendolyn took in the muffled exclamations and gasps of laughter that passed around the room. This was John’s show entirely, and these people, whose lives had been so uprooted and cast into uncertainty by the prince’s attempts to seize the throne, were enthralled by it. “Who could believe such ridiculous heresy?”