Gwendolyn's Sword Page 25

  “Your father’s death was an accident,” de Coutances said evenly. “The dagger was not meant for him. I saw it myself. You have been infected by John’s ambition. You can still stop this, Edmund.”

  Tears streamed down Edmund’s cheeks and he shook his head. “It is done,” he said faintly. Gwendolyn saw no hesitation in the eyes of the men that surrounded Edmund. They had cast their lots with the earl’s son long ago; they were ready to follow through with whatever consequences might come of it. They were paid fighters, nothing more.

  “She will come with me,” he whispered hoarsely, looking past his men to Gwendolyn.

  “You would need an army,” she replied, standing firmly beside Nigel.

  “No,” he said, then raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “You care too much. You will follow of your own accord. It is just as he said.”

  With Edmund’s men holding them at bay, Edmund strode swiftly to Michael, grabbed him by the shoulder with one hand, and punched him cruelly in the face with the other with such force that the boy was stunned. He turned on his heel for the doorway, dragging the bleeding boy on stumbling legs with him.

  “Give me time to get away!” Edmund shouted behind him as he ran out.

  And then the melee broke out. Edmund’s men advanced on Gwendolyn, Nigel, and the archbishop. The man in front of her doubled over as the point of her sword pierced straight into his stomach, her powerful forward thrust puncturing through the mail armor. William had stepped in from behind, and the three remaining guards were immediately occupied defending their own lives. One of the women who had not gone to the chapel for Vespers, the wife of a baron, started to scream. Edmund was right; Gwendolyn would follow him of her own accord, and when she caught up with him, she would make sure he would never lay a hand on Michael again. She saw her way clear to the doorway. The others who had left for Vespers would hear the screams and come running at any moment. Before her way out could be blocked, Gwendolyn darted out of the hall, down the steps, and out of the keep.

  She was out of sight before William could stop her. She ran toward a trap, and he was certain she realized it and chose to go anyway. He was also certain that the trap had been laid by John’s sorcerer and not by the prince himself.

  The man before him lunged and missed, but William’s blade found his thigh, high up beside his groin. Blood poured from the wound and the man staggered unsteadily, tried to raise his sword once more and then fell to the straw face-down. Walter de Coutances had backed into the dais and was falling backward defending himself as Nigel pulled his blade from the chest of the man in front of him. De Coutances froze, gauged his opponent’s movements, and rolled to his side at the last moment as the man’s blade missed its mark and splintered the wood beside him. The man raised his sword again but then arched forward, his eyes wide open in shock as Nigel’s sword ran through him from behind. Nigel pulled his sword free, helped de Coutances to his feet, and turned to William.

  “She’s gone after him,” William said loudly as the others entered the passageway outside the hall. “Stay and defend Arundel. This may only be John’s distraction to take the castle. Gwendolyn and I can handle Edmund.”

  “Go,” Nigel said and abruptly turned to join de Coutances. Members of the garrison had arrived from the gatehouse and began filing into the hall. De Coutances took charge and began issuing orders to the men to take up arms and post a watch in each of the towers along the curtain walls.

  William pushed his way through and out the doorway of the keep, across the timber planks, and onto the battlements. He walked quickly down toward the gatehouse, aware of the surging warmth down his side. Over the clamor in the keep behind him he heard Matilda’s voice rise up.

  “It isn’t true! You’re wrong! Edmund!” She shouted her son’s name, and a long silence followed. As he rushed forward, William could not help imagining the grim scene inside the hall, de Coutances comforting Lady d’Aubigni as she came to grasp the extent of the horror that had so suddenly come to pass in her home. He reached the gatehouse, stepped out into the yard, and shouted for his horse and his hauberk.

  From the keep above, a man’s voice suddenly yelled out, “Stop her!”

  William looked up and saw Matilda d’Aubigni step to the doorway and out to the narrow footbridge without pausing. She dropped straight off its edge without a sound, her green dress billowing around her. It happened so fast he doubted for a moment that he had actually seen it. More screams sounded from above, and the doorway to the keep was filled with the d’Aubigni’s guests, looking down in horror. Screams and wails carried across the grounds from the keep, and de Coutances appeared in the doorway. William watched the archbishop step forward, gaze downward for a moment, and then turn away. More of the garrison charged up the battlements to the keep. It could have been an accident, and William expected de Coutances to report the death as exactly that so that Matilda could be buried in her church beside the earl. But William knew from his vantage point that Matilda’s steps had been deliberate. She had gone to join her husband. He turned away sadly. The earl and Matilda were beyond his help now.

  With a few hasty questions from the small unit of men left at the gatehouse, William learned that Edmund had said the boy had fallen and that he was taking him to his family. The boy was bleeding and confused, and they had rushed to get him on his way. Gwendolyn had ridden off on Bedwyr moments after Edmund; she had not paused in the gatehouse long enough even to don her mail tunic. But William knew there would be no armed men waiting for Gwendolyn. Even John would be elsewhere, unwilling to associate himself with whatever trap she rushed toward. Edmund’s trick with the letter from her father had been effective, but it was only a trick. Somewhere, John had the real thing.

  The guard had seen Gwendolyn take the road back to the west and north—the only way out of Arundel other than by ferry across the Arun. She would be counting on Edmund’s horse, with its heavier load and stockier build, tiring faster than Bedwyr. By the time William was in the saddle and charging up the road in the falling darkness, he guessed she might be a mile ahead of him.

  The pain in his side burned like a hot coal. He held the reins in one hand and pressed his left arm tightly to his side to stanch the steady seep of blood. The image of Gwendolyn’s galloping mare swam before him, and he leaned forward over his warhorse and closed his eyes. It was becoming harder to breathe, and he coughed fresh, red blood onto his horse’s neck. The wound had punctured his lung, he realized, and he bled on the inside, as well. If the bleeding did not stop, his lungs would fill. His racing heart would pump the blood more quickly to drown him.

  William sat up and shook his head. He reined his warhorse to a stop, turning slowly in the darkness to scan for any sign or sound of Gwendolyn. His horse pranced beneath him, causing his saddle and armor to creak and rustle noisily, but he finally settled the stallion with a hand to its neck and a few low, soothing words. A road branched to his left, following the base of a low hill, and he turned his head that way, listening intently for a moment, then swung his horse about and charged down it, still pressing his arm tightly against his side.

  Scant moonlight filtered down through the clouds that gathered overhead, but it was enough to follow the pale, chalky road. He slowed his warhorse to a walk, looking intently down at the trail. He finally saw something that caught his interest and he pulled his horse to a stop and carefully dismounted. A small spot of blackness, like a dropped circle of cloth, stood out against the pale road. William crouched, brushed the darkness with his fingertips and raised them to his nose. He faintly detected the metallic scent of blood, probably Michael’s. An owl silently glided past him from a nearby stand of trees along the hillside, and William realized he could hear no galloping beats in the distance.

  A sharp chill passed through him, like a jab. The sorcerer was near. He led his warhorse forward a few steps and stopped again, looking at the hillside. William closed his eyes and focused on his breath, struggling to keep pushing air evenly into his lungs.
He heard a small rustling in the field beside him and turned around. Squinting in the darkness, he realized he was looking at Bedwyr, lazily grazing in the small clearing. He recognized the rhythmic sound of her contented munching on the thick grasses. But where was her rider? A darker shape farther off in the distance he recognized as Edmund’s mount.

  Every moment that passed mattered now. He scanned the hillside again, eyed the small cluster of shrubby trees and rocks that stood nearby, and stepped toward them cautiously. He felt a small breeze, cold, brush across his face. The hills in this part of England were rumored to be tunneled through with caves used by smugglers, bandits, and even furtive lovers. He reached up with his arm to push the branches out of the way, feeling a new stream of warm blood flow down his side from the exertion. A wall of cold air pushed into him, and he turned back and led his horse across to the meadow and dropped the reins, then returned to enter the cave.

  He stepped into blackness and immediately stumbled on the rocks that littered the narrow passageway. With arms extended to the walls on either side to support himself, he felt his way forward, testing each step before trusting his full weight on his footing. The pathway descended sharply, and the further he went, the colder the air became. The passageway grew so narrow that he was forced to turn sideways and inch forward in the blackness. William swallowed, fought the impulse to turn back. The sound of wind blowing through tunnels reached him from ahead, and he pressed forward and found himself in the middle of an opening with level ground. A slight breeze came from the right, and a faint glow could be seen in the far distance. His confidence returned, William strode toward it.

  He approached the opening and saw the scuffs and blood left behind by Edmund and Michael as they had passed through. As he turned the last corner, his stomach clenched and he stopped in his tracks. A putrid stench of decay and bile caused him to gag, bringing spasms of pain from his wound. A faint orange glow lit the gloom ahead of him, and he realized that the passageway opened up onto a large chamber. He could hear small, rustling noises ahead of him, but then something reached out from beside him and grabbed his arm. William spun around to see Gwendolyn, waiting there in the opening, a finger raised to her lips.

  She had paused here, he realized, to scout out the chamber from the safety of her hiding place before charging in. She held up two fingers in the air, and William nodded. Two men were inside: Edmund and the sorcerer. He pressed himself against the wall and leaned in more closely, straining to hear. There was a faint whimpering that he took to be Michael, and a steady, low murmur of words that he could not make out. Suddenly the chanting stopped.

  “Well, all of our guests have arrived. Let’s invite them in, shall we?”

  Michael screamed a blood-chilling, high shriek.

  Gwendolyn dashed into the chamber with William right behind her.

  Walterus de Cardinham stood behind a large, stone table, and he turned and smiled graciously to them, as if he stood in the hall of Restormel and had invited them for one of the great feasting days. William heard Gwendolyn grunt with disgust as she recognized the face of her childhood tormenter.

  “William! Gwendolyn!” Walter said cheerfully. “So glad you could join us!”

  17

  THE SWORD BREAKS

  Even in the dim light, Gwendolyn could see the ashen, slick skin of William’s forehead and cheeks. Her constable had lost blood, perhaps too much already. She had known he would follow her, that his loyalty permitted no other choice. She turned her attention to Walter and drew her sword; she would finish this herself, now.

  She had stepped into a dimly lit chamber larger than the hall at Arundel. Walter stood at a wide, stone table immediately in front of her, his lips moving softly as he resumed his chant and focused his attention on pulling the skin off of a writhing serpent that he held up in his hand. On the opposite wall a hearth large enough to walk into held a low fire with a cauldron bubbling over it. Animal pelts covered the ground in front of the hearth, and one of the beasts from the attack on the camp lay comfortably upon them, its massive chin resting on crossed paws. Its red, unblinking eyes followed her movements. Two heavy, carved wooden chairs sat at the far end of the chamber. Edmund sat in one of these, looking small and defeated, elbows on his knees and head hung down. Michael sat in the other, dried blood on his face, clutching his left hand to his chest. Bright, red blood ran down his shirtfront. She realized Edmund held a knife, and dark blood stained his hands.

  “Don’t worry, I started with the little finger,” Walter began and looked up with apparent amusement as Gwendolyn charged him, sword raised, teeth clenched. He wore no armor, stood too far from the pole weapons leaning against the back wall to defend himself. He made no attempt to defend himself and calmly resumed his chanting. She raised her sword, swung with her full strength to sever his neck.

  The ringing clash of her sword against stone echoed around them in the halls. Her blade, made of brittle English steel, broke in half. The greater part of her blade clattered to the floor somewhere beyond in the darkness.

  She stumbled backward, bewildered, not comprehending the lightness of the stubby hilt she held in her hand. Her ears rang with the explosive impact.

  “What …”

  Walter regarded her with a bored, contemptuous glance and paused his chanting again.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood, William,” he commented without emotion as he stepped out from behind the table.

  William stepped toward him, sword raised.

  “That won’t work here,” Walter said evenly. “At least, not on me. You’re welcome to use it on him, if you like.” He indicated with his chin toward the slumping form of Edmund. “His purpose has been filled. I’m done with him.”

  Edmund jerked his head up.

  “No! You said you would teach me! You promised!”

  “Why would I waste my talent and energies on a fool like you?” Walter snapped loudly, turning on the stricken younger man. For a moment Gwendolyn felt a pang of pity for Edmund; John had used him badly. “The fact that you believed me only proves the point.”

  Walter turned his eyes to the beast lying on the pelts, uttered a command in unintelligible words, and the animal stood up and turned to face Edmund, its massive hindquarters tensing to spring. Gwendolyn backed up in horror, afraid of what she knew would come next. Edmund shrieked and darted toward the opening behind them, but the beast leapt and landed with its paws on top of him. Before Edmund could scream again the beast scooped his body up into its great jaws and shook him violently. When it stopped, Edmund’s body hung silent and limp. The beast dropped the corpse to the floor, casually turned around and returned to its place by the hearth.

  Walter turned back to them, his eyebrows raised. Even with the orange glow of the fire reflected on him, his skin looked rough and gray, like marble, and Gwendolyn could see fine webbed lines like veins around his eyes and hands.

  “You really should have listened to William, dear sister,” he said sardonically. “His loyalty alone should have tipped you off. Such steadfast devotion can’t be inspired by myths or the troubadour’s empty songs.”

  Gwendolyn looked back over her shoulder, gauged the distance back to the narrow passageway where she and William might have a chance of escaping.

  “You won’t make it,” Walter said, growing annoyed. “My dog will catch you in three paces. And anyway, you won’t abandon the boy. Really, Gwendolyn, it’s over. You’ve lost.”

  He was right that she would not leave Michael. Walter had been there for her childhood, he had been the worst part of it, and she realized that he had known exactly how to manipulate her, to bring her to this point. But Walter never thought things through; he used things up—Restormel, his father’s love, and now apparently his own body.

  “What are you?” she asked with unmasked disgust, playing on Walter’s pride to buy herself some time and maybe an idea.

  “I am impenetrable to any weapon, unfortunately for you and William. I have made myself l
ike stone, you could say.” The conceit in his voice for his monstrous deformation turned her stomach. “The weak, human flesh rots and dies under my spell to be replaced by something harder, everlasting.” He smiled in a thin smirk at her. “Now all I need is a sword.”

  “I don’t have Caliburn. Surely you know that.”

  Walter sighed. “Gwendolyn, you are truly the most simple-minded woman. Caliburn will come to you. Through William.”

  “Go to Hell!” William spat at Walter, then wheezed and staggered forward a step from the effort. He coughed, and she turned to see his lips bright red with blood. “I see you,” he snarled. “Your soul has become as vile as your body. You will never carry Caliburn.”

  “Actually, I rather think my body is finally catching up to my soul in degrees of vileness—wouldn’t you agree, Gwendolyn?”

  Gwendolyn made no response, but continued searching the chamber for another way out, some other way of defeating Walter without the beast getting to her first.

  “Caliburn tried to come to you once already, but William was too far from you when he went for it, and it stayed behind, locked in the other world.” Walter walked past her to William, and William stepped back from the powerful stench.

  Walter leaned in, locked his eyes on William’s. “Dream the sword again,” he whispered, and as Walter’s enchantment took hold, William’s head drooped, his knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground.

  Gwendolyn stood breathlessly, looking at the inert form of William on the ground. She placed the remains of her broken sword back into its scabbard, realizing that there was nothing for her to do with it. It suddenly struck her as funny, given the prior’s and William’s insistence that she would wield Caliburn, that she was now going to die with just a stub of sword to her name. She took comfort in knowing that, if Caliburn were indeed real, at least her failure in obtaining it meant Walter would not have it either. And maybe she could still save Michael.