Gwendolyn's Sword Read online

  She shook her head, and he continued.

  “When your father arrived at Penhallam with the baron, he was on death’s doorstep. He was lucky, though. None of his organs were pierced, and the baron’s surgeon had done his work well with the bone and muscle. But it was the sickness in the wound that almost took him.”

  She had only a few memories of her father, a Welshman, and by all accounts a force to be reckoned with. The baron had told her of the time that he met her father while on a campaign into the Welsh Marches with King Henry. The king had led a substantial force of mercenaries up the Ceiriog Valley to attack the Welsh fortresses in the Berwyn Mountains, to end their resistance once and for all. Instead, the Welsh princes had sent small bands of skirmishers to pick off the marching English from cover of the surrounding forest. The Welsh attackers had painted their faces and bodies with paint and dressed themselves with the skins and bones of animals. They had screeched and howled from the dark shadows of the woods and called upon Welsh gods and demons with descriptions of such violence that even some of the battle-numbed mercenaries had fled their posts. The king had finally ordered the woods cleared with axes, but too late. The reduced English armies were met by the full onslaught of the Welsh attack on the valley floor. Days of rain had left the ground slippery even before the first blood was spilled, and the baron lost his footing in the heated battle and fell face-down into the muck. In that moment he had awaited death, but instead he felt the hands of his attacker lift him upright to face him again. The baron had stared at the flaxen-haired mountain of a youth who had righted him, trying to fathom the display of chivalry, and in that moment a spear had pierced the youth’s shoulder, sending him sprawling backward. The baron had stood over the youth, protecting his life only to see him become one of twenty-three Welsh prisoners kept by Henry upon the English king’s humiliating retreat. Baron Robert Fitz William had fought with Henry on many campaigns, and he knew the king’s reputation for cruelty was in fact milder than the reality. That night, at the risk of his own life, the baron had quietly rounded up his surgeon and his men, and they kidnapped the youth from the king’s camp, fleeing north to a ship and finally to safety in Cornwall. Furious at the insult of losing one of his prisoners, King Henry had mutilated the remaining twenty-two Welsh prisoners the following morning. Hatred for all Normans had solidified among the Welsh when the captured men returned to their villages, their tongues, noses, and hands cut off.

  Gwendolyn watched Gamel finally empty the mixture of powders into her cup.

  “You will sleep tonight, without dreams. But the memories,” he added, as if he read her thoughts, “are yours to keep.”

  William reined in his courser, slowing the stallion to a walk. Gerald pulled up beside him, his black mare blowing hard. From Gwendolyn’s description, William guessed they were getting close to where the bodies of the two men lay in the road. He motioned to Gerald to cover the right side of the road while William kept his eyes on the left.

  The forest was cast in blackness, and a chill breeze had swept away the afternoon warmth. The woods lay quiet and still, and William felt as though every sound they made could be heard miles away. Moonlight shone through in shafts slicing down through the canopy, casting eerie forms when a breeze shook and stirred the branches above. William shivered in spite of the heavy mail tunic he wore and the layers of quilted padding and undershirt beneath. He had been visited by nightmares since he was a boy. Some nights he saw glimpses of phantoms and demons, the unnatural monsters of darkness, hunting in the night for a victim. His father had tried different remedies, but none had worked.

  “This has naught to do with the humors,” Gamel had told him. “You have been touched by the finger of God. You have the gift of sight, William, but you are only a mortal vessel to carry it.”

  What his father had called a gift, William considered a curse. He had convinced his father to send him south to the priory at Launceston, and the monks there had helped him. The visions still came, his own private Hell, but now they played out for him as a reflection on water, distant and set apart. It was the best that could be done, they said. Like dogs, cats, and birds of prey, he sensed things unseen yet very real. The prior had told him that his mind was an open doorway to all things forbidden and condemned by the Church, and because all things had a purpose, William would discover his, in time. For now, William knew too well that not all of the shadows dancing in the forest around them now were mere tricks of the moonlight.

  “Be on your guard,” he said in a low voice to Gerald, but as he said the words Gerald’s horse reared and twisted on its hind legs, pawing the air and trying to turn back while Gerald struggled to keep his seat. The young knight cursed and flung himself forward over the horse’s neck, standing in his stirrups and using his weight to force the panicked horse back down onto all four legs. William’s horse skittered sideways beneath him in agitation and tossed its head, the whites of its eyes flashing. A dark lump lay on the ground between them, and another in front. William recognized the rusty smell of spilled blood, the stench of guts pierced and emptied.

  William steadied his horse and swung down, holding the reins while he crouched beside the body of one of the dead men. A stump of bone from the severed arm glistened in the moonlight, and he knew before he removed his glove and touched the man’s cheek that he would find it cold and hard. The man’s eyes were open, his mouth frozen in an unspoken question. Gerald swung down beside William and walked over to the other figure in the road with his hand covering his nose against the smell. William decided not to bring the bodies back to Penhallam. Whoever these dead men were, they were not from Cornwall. Despite King Richard’s bequest of the title of Earl of Cornwall to his younger brother, there was no love for the prince here. The people of Cornwall prized valor, honor, loyalty. John had none of these. All that mattered now was to find the two who had fled and prevent them from reaching St. Michael’s Mount.

  “Get the bodies off the road, out of sight. Let the crows bury them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gerald answered, then coughed slightly as William picked up the severed limb from the ground and wrapped it in a cloth that he pulled from his saddle.

  William watched Gerald tie a rag tightly around the lower half of his face to cover his mouth and nose. He turned to William, his eyes smiling.

  “Gwendolyn did this?”

  William nodded, taking in the scene and imagining the fight.

  Gerald clicked his tongue and whistled quietly. “I knew she had it in her.”

  So did I, William thought grimly. As he continued to scan the area, he noticed the packs abandoned by the mercenaries when they had fled. Going over to one, he loosened the ties and found inside a mason’s hammer, a bulky tool with a flat, heavy head. He fixed the hammer under his belt and stood up.

  “I’m going on foot. With any luck, they’re still nearby.”

  William loosened a couple of leather ties from his saddle to take with him. He chose his dagger, a lighter weapon for an ambush, and left his sword hanging from the saddle. As he moved noiselessly through the dark brush that covered the forest floor, he was grateful to be free of its awkward weight and the creaking leather of the scabbard. These men would not be the sort to run far. Their bodies were trained for battle, like a bull’s, not for speed. Or for stealth, he realized as he spied the faint glow of a campfire in the distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile away.

  William approached slowly, checking the direction of the wind first. The men had no horses or dogs to alert them of his approach, but he was not one to take chances needlessly. The men might have reasoned that no one would follow them until sunrise—a fair assumption. Few people cared to venture out of their houses after sunset, much less into the wild woods. Even without William’s vision, many swore they saw the souls of the restless dead or their demon tormentors walking at night.

  As he approached downwind, he realized the reason for the fire. Their appetites had gotten the better of them. Three small birds, cleaned
and plucked, hung over the fire on a sapling stick held by one of the men. William could smell the meat roasting and wondered whether wolves would also be drawn by the scent. They talked with each other in low, hissing voices, and William crept closer, holding the stump of arm bundled at his side as he placed his dagger into his belt and pulled out the hammer with his free hand.

  “Where will we go now?” the younger man said, sounding like a frightened child.

  “Shut up,” said the second man, who held the stick with the skewered birds on it over the fire. “We’re free now. Don’t you understand?”

  “But you heard what she said. The people here have been warned. We’ll be discovered by someone else!” The first man hunched down further where he sat, pulling the edges of his mantle up to his eyes.

  The second man clenched his jaw and spat into the fire. “Just eat and we’ll start moving again. We’re exposed here. We need to get past this place before the sun rises.”

  The younger man lowered his head, as if he could conceal himself entirely from the strange noises of the forest that seemed to circle beyond the pool of light cast by the fire. William realized that Gwendolyn had judged the men correctly; only the larger man would offer any resistance. The other only needed a little encouragement to give up altogether.

  William unbundled the severed limb and stood up, feeling its weight in his right hand and gauging the distance. He stepped back, took aim, and tossed it over the men’s heads so that it landed at the edge of the fire, right in front of them. The arm made a solid thud, the whoosh of air causing sparks to fly up from the fire.

  The effect was exactly as William had hoped. The two men stared for a moment. As recognition dawned, the first man shrieked and scooted himself on the ground away from the fire and the arm, kicking his legs out as if the arm were still alive. The second man, however, dropped the birds into the fire and jumped to his feet, wheeling to face the darkness behind him, his dagger drawn. But he was looking for an attack at eye level, and William, dagger in his left hand and hammer in his right, lunged out of the darkness, swinging the hammer low to slam into the man’s knee and knock him off his feet. The man screamed in pain and fell to his side. Before he could brace his hands against the ground to right himself, William swung again, this time smashing the man’s hand that held the dagger. William glanced to see where the first man had gone, and in that moment the man on the ground swung his good leg in a low sweep, knocking William off his feet. The heavier man flung himself at William, using his weight and bulk to pin William down onto his back. But bulk alone could not hold William, and as the man sharply thrust his head to break William’s nose with his skull, William twisted and rolled, positioning himself to straddle the man’s back.

  The man found himself flat his stomach with William’s arm locked around his neck and the edge of William’s dagger at his throat.

  “Be still!”

  William tied the man’s arms behind his back with one of the leather ties that he had brought with him, then stood up and hauled the man up to his feet unsteadily.

  “It’s not broken,” William said, watching the man test his weight on the injured leg. “Answer my questions and it will stay that way.”

  William heard approaching hooves and looked up as Gerald arrived at a walk leading his horse, holding the reins to William’s horse beside him. William squinted and saw a figure sitting in Gerald’s saddle, eyes downcast, difficult to make out in the darkness. Gerald grinned broadly, led his horse a few steps closer, and the form of the younger man emerged into the firelight, his wrists tightly bound in front of him. His hands, fine and small, rested on the pommel. The younger man still had the look of a boy about him, or maybe it was his expression that reminded William of a pouting child.

  “This was too easy, William,” Gerald said with mock disappointment. “He’s a she!”

  “What?” The man beside William erupted into a string of muttered curses. William stared at the woman, who raised her eyes to glare at him.

  3

  A PROPHECY

  “Wake up, my lady! Wake up!”

  Gwendolyn stirred and answered Anne with a sick-sounding groan. Gamel’s herbs had been effective. Her body felt weighted down, and with a great deal of effort, she opened her eyes halfway, aware that the room was lit with the glow of midday. Anne stood before her looking unreasonably firm in her conviction that Gwendolyn ought to be out of bed.

  “My lady, you must get up. Roslyn is here!”

  Her sister-in-law’s name registered in Gwendolyn’s mind like a jolt, and she pulled herself up to a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of her bed. Her private quarters, originally shared with her husband, were separated from the manor hall by a narrow passageway. Robert had added a heavy door prior to their wedding, and she was grateful for the privacy as she muttered a few choice remarks at the news of Roslyn’s unannounced visit. Walter’s wife never came to Penhallam except to deliver some tidbit of nastiness.

  Bracing herself, Gwendolyn leaned uncertainly onto her feet, frustrated by the persistent fog in her mind. The church bells rang the hour of Nones, and Gwendolyn realized in a panic that she had slept for the greater part of the day.

  “How long has Roslyn been waiting?” Gwendolyn asked while Anne lifted her sleeping gown over her head and reached for an undershirt.

  “She arrived for the midday meal, my lady. She and her men have kept Osbert busy filling their stomachs.”

  Gwendolyn sighed loudly. “I suppose the wait hasn’t improved her mood any.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m afraid not,” Anne agreed, reaching for one of the light tunics Gwendolyn wore when making her rounds through the fields and training with the manor’s garrison. “Your dress…isn’t ready to be worn yet,” she said, discreetly omitting mention of the bloodstains that may have permanently marred the garment, Gwendolyn’s only concession to feminine attire. Gwendolyn stepped into her leggings and sat down on the edge of the bed to braid her hair while Anne laced up her boots.

  Her sword, polished and gleaming again, leaned against the wall across from her, and she stared at it, all trace of the previous day’s bloodshed erased.

  “Tom’s squire took care of that for you, my lady,” Anne said quietly, reaching for Gwendolyn’s sword belt, but Gwendolyn shook her head.

  “Roslyn will see it as offense enough that I present myself to her dressed like this,” she said. “And my sword is no use against Roslyn’s tongue.” Anne flashed a small smile at Gwendolyn’s remark, and Gwendolyn was relieved to see it. She splashed some water on her face and dried it with a towel, allowed Anne to tidy the strands of her hair that had already come loose again, and stepped into the hall.

  Roslyn sat in Gwendolyn’s seat at the table, flanked on either side by a rangy knight. Greasy plates, wooden cups, and crusts of bread littered the table. Roslyn’s knights slouched in their seats and appeared in need of a nap. Anne cleared the dishes, brushed the scraps into the straw for the dogs, and exited the hall quickly. Roslyn looked Gwendolyn over with unmasked disapproval.

  “I suppose I should have sent word to advise you of my visit, sister,” Roslyn said icily. “It did not occur to me that you would still be sleeping past midday.”

  “I have been ill,” Gwendolyn said simply.

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that.” Roslyn put special emphasis on the word “am,” an unconscious habit that Gwendolyn had learned indicated that every word that followed it was a lie.

  “Thank you, sister. I am sure your concern is equal to your kindness.”

  Roslyn considered this for a momentary pause, her eyes narrowed and her mouth slightly askew. She decided to treat the remark as a compliment and smiled indulgently.

  “Will you and your men be our guests tonight? I will ask Martha to prepare my chamber for you. You are welcome to rest here after your journey.”

  Roslyn scoffed through her nose.

  “That won’t be necessary. We have rooms in Stratton and will return there
shortly.”

  “As you wish,” Gwendolyn said, bowing her head slightly to her sister-in-law. “Then what can I do for you? What business brings you so far from the comfort of Restormel?” Restormel Castle, Roslyn was pleased to remind Gwendolyn frequently, had been occupied by the de Cardinham family since the reign of Henry I—nearly one hundred years.

  “I might as well get straight to the point, Gwendolyn,” she said, straightening up to her full height and tilting her chin upward imperiously. “Robert has not returned from crusade in almost four years. And while your steadfast faith in his safety is commendable, I feel that it is time that you admit you are a widow and consider your options. You cannot continue to live like this forever.”

  Gwendolyn—and the queen mother herself for that matter—was certain of her husband’s whereabouts and safety, as Queen Eleanor’s trusted advisors returning from Germany had reported Robert’s popularity in the young German emperor’s court. Gwendolyn could have patiently explained this and the evidence for it to Roslyn. But she was out of patience, and Roslyn’s condescension and the facile manner with which she had discussed Robert’s mortality had inflamed her. She saw an opportunity to insult Roslyn and she took it.

  “I can continue like this for a very long time,” she answered, calmly crossing her arms. “Penhallam is thriving. We have no debts, our grain stores are full, and even after the scutage for the king’s ransom our treasury is not empty, which is more than you can say for Restormel.” Gwendolyn regretted the words as soon as she uttered them. Her face remained hard, but she knew she had crossed a line. She might as well have declared open war against Roslyn. William stepped into the hall in time to hear her blunder.

  “Why … you …” Roslyn blustered, her chin straining against the silk wimple that she wore wrapped tightly around her head. Her lips twisted with fury. “Walter has struck at every opportunity he could find. Even now he is in London seeking new buyers for the wool. In case you haven’t noticed, our dear king’s mother has stripped the country dry to pay his ransom!” Roslyn stopped herself and pursed her lips tightly together, regaining her composure. Gwendolyn took note of how quickly Roslyn had become defensive; things must have grown worse at Restormel than rumored. William had positioned himself beside the hearth, behind Roslyn, so that Gwendolyn could see his face without Roslyn or her men detecting a shift in her glance.