Gwendolyn's Sword Page 6

  “As a Christian I am bound to offer shelter to those who need it, to live with kindness and humility, not to judge or condemn. When events began to unfold as the ancient ones had described them, beginning with William saving your life …” The prior spread his hands in a gesture of submission toward the heavens. “I cannot fathom what God’s plan is. I can only pray that my every action serves His will.”

  Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes, feeling the prior’s words stir up her usual distaste for all things religious. For her, the Church was on a level with the royal court, an interfering and dangerous collection of profligates who ultimately backed their dubious claims of authority by the sword. If the prior was sincere, and she believed that he was, his words would mark him as a heretic as well.

  “And these Druids have told you that the Welsh prophecies are true, and that I will carry Caliburn?”

  “Those Welsh songs were first spoken centuries ago as a Druid prophecy. The one who carries all of the Britons’ stories and prophecies today visited us for the first time twenty years ago when you were in your mother’s womb. His name is Mogh, and he saw you as a woman, holding Caliburn. He told your father that he would have a daughter, and that Caliburn would return to us from Avalon, to be carried by you.”

  “And he predicted the fire and William’s rescue? Could he not have warned my parents?”

  The prior’s face dropped with true sadness. “Nothing is revealed in its entirety, not even to a seer like Mogh.”

  Gwendolyn rose and turned away from the monk, stifling a curse under her breath.

  “Why would Caliburn come for me now? What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Every time Caliburn has returned, it comes to end tyranny. When its task is complete, it vanishes again from our world.”

  Gwendolyn turned back toward the prior and raised an eyebrow at him.

  “That’s right, child. Arthur was not the first to carry the sword. As long as men have tried to rule one another by might and not consent, as long as the strong have preyed upon the weak, Caliburn has waited for the man or woman with the strength, courage, and humility to carry it.”

  She could not stop herself from shaking her head slowly at the prior and William.

  “That is not all.” The prior glanced down and twisted his hands together, looking up at her with uncertainty. “Your father believed this, Gwendolyn. All of it.”

  Gwendolyn’s expression shifted immediately, and she fixed the prior with a piercing gaze. “Leave my father out of this.”

  “I have proof,” he said quickly.

  “Show it to me. Now.”

  The prior hurried out a small side-door, leaving her to pace the length of the room, the leather soles of her boots grinding loudly against the stone floor. The prior returned and approached her a little timidly, holding out a rolled scroll of vellum that was tied with a faded green ribbon. She took the scroll into her hands, feeling the soft lambskin between her fingers.

  “Gwyn asked me to scribe this for him when you were only a few months old. He was returning home from a campaign in Northumbria with the baron, and he stopped here. He was afraid that he wouldn’t live to see you grown. He asked me to keep this for him, in case … .” The prior looked at her sympathetically and continued. “Gwyn visited our priory many times. He liked our Druid brothers. He said they reminded him of home, of his Welsh elders. When your mother became pregnant, Mogh came to us. He sent for Gwyn and told him his vision. Gwyn believed him.”

  Gwendolyn gently loosened the ribbon and unwound the scroll, holding it tilted toward William so that he could read it beside her:

  My dearest daughter, fair Gwendolyn,

  Mogh has told me that a king’s sword awaits you, and I am afraid my time will have passed before you have grown to claim it. May these words give you comfort. May you hear my voice through Death’s veil.

  You are a warrior by birth. In our homeland all of the descendants of Arthur are known. There is no mystery in this. His offspring produced more kings across all of Wales than any other family of the Britons. But of these, Arthur was the greatest.

  Mogh is neither magician nor priest. The brothers call him a seer, but this is also false. He has been my friend. Mogh feels the echoes of time, forces aligning to cause events, in the same way that you and I feel a shift in the weather. He reads the signs of what has been and what will come. He has warned me, and I will pass his warning to you. There is a terrible struggle coming to this land. It will last through your lifetime, and it brews now. It cannot be stopped, but its outcome will decide whether the future is ruled by reason and justice or by might and greed. This is the reason for Caliburn’s return.

  Caliburn is more than a sword, Gwendolyn. With Caliburn one wields the whole strength and will of the land in the blade. Nothing can repel the sword’s cleaving edge, not even stone. This is your birthright, and at the time that you choose to claim it, others more powerful than you will seek the sword as well. Caliburn belongs to you alone. Never forget that.

  I cannot tell you what you should do, but as in all things, follow your own heart. It will never fail you. Do not be afraid. Fight bravely, my daughter, and know that I wait to hold you in my arms again in the next world.

  Gwendolyn rolled the scroll back up and tucked it inside her surcoat, her vision blurred with tears. The prior could offer no proof that her father had actually requested the letter, and yet the fact that her father had refrained from telling her what she should do or believe seemed to make the letter authentic. If the prior had meant to present her with a forged letter as a ploy to manipulate her, she reasoned, he would have been more forceful in his persuasion. She dried her cheeks with her sleeve self-consciously, moved by her father’s words in spite of herself, and turned to the prior.

  “Did this Mogh ever say where I’m supposed to find Caliburn?”

  The prior pursed his lips and looked down.

  “No, I didn’t think so,” she said quietly, then turned to William. “We’ll leave for Launceston Castle in the morning to join Gerald and Simon and return to Penhallam.”

  She faced the prior one last time, her anger and frustration dissolved by her father’s words.

  “You are a Pendragon, my dear,” the prior said softly.

  Gwendolyn laughed under her breath and shook her head.

  “No, that is the creation of Geoffrey of Monmouth, from a slight rearrangement of the Welsh words. The songs only record Arthur’s mother, Igrayne. There’s no mention of his father, which was too intolerable for the scholar from Monmouth. My father used to tell me the only thing the Normans hated more than a weak man was a strong woman.

  “Thank you for this,” she added, touching the place in her surcoat over the pocket that now held the scroll. “It is the only piece of him that I have. But it does not prove that I am, as you claim, Arthur’s heir.”

  The prior’s face dropped as she spoke the last words, and he realized he had failed to overcome her doubts. His shoulders slumped with resignation.

  “If you will not believe your own father—” he began, but she stopped him with a warning look. He was not allowed to use her father’s memory.

  The prior nodded and said, “Very well. You are the priory’s guests tonight. Follow me to your rooms.”

  The following morning, Gwendolyn and William waited in the yard outside the cloisters, both dressed in their full mail armor and the de Cardinham colors, with only their heads and hands exposed. The monks were already inclined to stare at the intimidating strangers, but when those who looked closely enough to see realized that one of the men was a woman, they gave a little frightful jump that reminded Gwendolyn of startled lambs. The chapel bell rang the hour of Terce, the third prayer of the day, and a line of monks filed quietly into the chapel to mark Pentecost, the hour that the Holy Spirit descended upon the Twelve Apostles. Taking care not to disturb the orderly procession, Prior Thomas emerged from the cloisters to accompany William and Gwendolyn to the stables. She noted the deferen
tial greetings of the brothers as they passed by the prior, and heard him reply to each one by name. He was like a father to all of them, and it was easy to understand why men who had no intention of taking the Augustinian vows still found reason to visit the priory and its quiet simplicity.

  A full bank of clouds blanketed the sky, leaving a bleak morning light. Gwendolyn fastened her saddle and her bundled belongings to Bedwyr in silence. She wore her sword and her belt, and her hands were clammy with sweat at the prospect of riding into a large town in full armor and weapons. She realized she was grateful for William’s formidable presence beside her. Once they were rejoined with Simon and Gerald, they would return to Penhallam with all haste. She had already lost a day in figuring out how to stop Roslyn from obtaining a writ from some pliable official who would declare Robert dead solely on her sister-in-law’s insistence.

  They led their horses outside the monastery walls accompanied by the prior and swung up into their saddles to bid him farewell. Thomas gazed wistfully at Gwendolyn and silently reached for her hand, which she offered, thinking he only intended a parting clasp. She was taken aback as he solemnly pressed his lips to her fingers, in a gesture of homage, and her cheeks warmed with a fresh flush of blood. The prior stepped back and made room for her and William to turn their horses about and go on their way. At the edge of the meadow, before they entered the woods again, Gwendolyn looked back over her shoulder and saw the prior still standing where they had left him, watching them with a troubled expression.

  5

  GUESTS OF LAUNCESTON CASTLE

  Gwendolyn and William rode the path out of the woods and on toward Launceston in silence, their horses walking at a casual pace, side by side. Gwendolyn refused to discuss the bizarre claims of the prior; in fact, she had decided that she would instruct William never to raise the topic again. When they returned to Penhallam she would call for her lords to join her in a council, and she would tell them of Roslyn’s threats. She was prepared to fight whatever forces came to Penhallam and her lords would stand with her, not only to protect themselves from Walter’s tyranny, but also to stand on the side of Richard, their king.

  Launceston was surrounded by a fortified stone wall, and when they arrived at the gatehouse, William announced to the guards who they were and what their business was at the tower. Gwendolyn paid the toll, ignoring the guards’ suspicious glances at her sword, and they lowered their spears and moved apart to allow her and William passage.

  Launceston was one of the three largest towns of Cornwall, along with Truro and Bodmin, and they jostled their way slowly through narrow lanes paved with stones, their progress slowed by carts and people and wandering livestock. When they finally reached the town center they found a cleared space crowded with merchants’ stalls in a loose ring around a well. Gwendolyn finally had a clear view of the tower keep of the castle, high atop a hill overlooking the town. A stone curtain wall encircled the tower, and she could see watchmen walking the battlements high above them, keeping watch over not only the town, but also the surrounding countryside. Launceston had held a strategic position in Cornwall, commanding the Tamar River valley that separated Cornwall from the rest of England, from the time of King Alfred.

  She was reminded again that England was in a state of war preparation because of Prince John, and she became uneasy, wondering whether the castellan at Launceston might have found reason to switch his loyalties to the prince. Although King Richard had generously given his younger brother title to Cornwall, the king had wisely kept its four strategic castles—Launceston, Tintagel, Restormel and Tremanton—for himself, held by families and magnates whose loyalty he trusted. Although now at least one of those castles would be in John’s hands if Walter de Cardinham had returned to Cornwall, and she wondered how many other of Richard’s castles might have turned during the king’s prolonged absence.

  “William!” she called out, and he turned around in his saddle.

  “Is it possible …” she began, unsure how to voice her concerns without revealing them to any prying ears in the throngs that surrounded them. She edged Bedwyr closer and leaned in toward him. “Could Launceston be in John’s control now?” she asked quietly.

  William shook his head without hesitation.

  “Richard Reynell is the castellan here and at Exeter.”

  She recognized the name. Richard Reynell was a friend of Robert’s. Although he was closer in age to Walter, he had found he shared neither Walter’s taste for flamboyance nor his cruelty, or so he had told Robert. It was Richard who started Robert on the path to knighthood, and who had served as a mentor of sorts in place of Walter. Richard Reynell was as stout a supporter of the king as his own mother. He was only a knight, like William, and he was a man whose loyalty was not for sale. And yet, until she actually saw the castellan in person, alive and well, she could not be certain what awaited them.

  William glanced down to her sword and tilted his head, signaling her to be ready to draw her weapon. She nodded back, and they turned resolutely toward the tower, directing their horses to climb the steep hill to the gatehouse.

  At the top of the hill, the fortress walls loomed even more impressively, and Gwendolyn tried not to think about the size of the garrison that was likely stationed within them. The gatehouse was a large building, three stories high, flanked on either side by the adjoining curtain wall that surrounded the castle. They halted their horses inside the arched passageway, and guards moved into position on either end, their sharp spears blocking both the way in and any escape back out. William told them their names and that they had come to collect their men, who had brought a prisoner from Penhallam the night before.

  “Richard Reynell knows me by name,” William said patiently, holding a tight rein on his warhorse in the narrow enclosure.

  “He’s not here,” the guard answered a little testily. “But your men are. Go find Barton. He will take you to your men.”

  The guards moved aside, permitting William and Gwendolyn to ride into the narrow castle yard. As she passed him, Gwendolyn asked the guard, “Who is Barton?”

  “The jailor, my lady.”

  Gwendolyn blinked, then pulled up to a halt beside William as a stable boy ran out to hold their horses for them. She saw Penhallam’s cart settled against the wall adjacent to the stables. The yard was a shambles, with scraps of food waste piled in the corners of the yard, picked over by rats, and a discarded shirt, broken wheel, bowls, and the shards of broken pots littering the ground. And although there were men walking the narrow battlements of the curtain walls above her, maybe a half dozen in all, the yard was completely deserted.

  “That cart came from Penhallam last night,” she said to the boy. “Please harness the horse and prepare it to leave. Tell the groom that I will settle our debt for the horse’s lodging when I return. Keep these horses saddled. We won’t be long.”

  The boy nodded shyly and took the reins of their horses, leading them away toward the stables, and she jogged lightly to catch up with William as he strode quickly to the tower and climbed the timber steps in two’s to the hall above.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust as she stepped into the dimly lit hall. The air was smoky from a poorly vented hearth that stood in the center of the room, and immediately her eyes and throat began to sting. She made out William’s figure standing to the side of the hearth facing the dais, and she crossed the floor to stand beside him. Several of the garrison’s men-at-arms filled the hall, in various states of dress, some eating, some sleeping noisily. A harried-looking young woman carrying a pitcher moved deftly between the men, filling the cups of those who were still awake without disturbing the slumbering forms underfoot. Contrary to outward appearances, in the castellan’s absence the formidable stronghold had fallen into disarray, its men ill-prepared to defend any kind of attack. On the dais before them stood a carved, wooden chair, large enough for two men. The man in it almost filled it, and his overfed belly pushed his tunic out over his breeches, complete
ly obscuring whatever belt he might have worn.

  “William Rufus, I figured you were going to pay me a visit.”

  “Where are my men, Barton?”

  “And you’ve brought a lady with you, I see.” Barton looked her over slowly, his full lips forming a sneer as he took in her appearance. “Or maybe not,” he added in a derisive voice.

  “My men, Barton.” William’s mouth formed a thin line and he moved his hand to the hilt of his sword, but Barton was not to be intimidated so easily. The jailor stroked his beard, tracing the line of his jaw with a greasy finger, his eyes still on Gwendolyn. Following her constable’s lead, she took a step closer and shifted her hand to her hilt. Barton’s expression changed to a leer, and he said quietly, “How interesting.”

  “Where is your castellan?” she asked in a commanding tone that momentarily interrupted the jailor’s toying glance.

  “He has been called to Exeter.”

  “And this is the state you have allowed this proud tower to fall into in his absence,” she chided him, jerking her chin toward the men sleeping and lying around them. At this the jailor straightened in his chair and adjusted whatever belt lay beneath the folds of his ample waist.

  “You want to see your men? Follow me. You!” Barton shouted to the man-at-arms nearby who seemed the most sober and in a state of full dress. “Follow behind. If one of their hands reaches for a sword, cut it off.”

  Barton stood up and turned his broad backside to them, digging an iron ring of keys out of the filthy straw behind him. While his back was turned, William nodded to her with one eyebrow raised, and they followed the jailor down a narrow stairway to the ground level, then down another set of stairs to the dungeon below. A acrid smell filled her nostrils, the smell of human waste left to accumulate and of bodies left to rot. A single torch barely illuminated the large space, and she could see no guards anywhere. Manacles of heavy iron lined the walls and hung from the ceiling. Only a few of them did not hold a prisoner. Some of those unfortunate enough to have been brought to this place appeared to have died long ago.