Gwendolyn's Sword Read online

  At the far end of the room she made out the forms of Gerald and Simon, sitting on the floor, their arms in chains. She turned to Barton.

  “Release my men.” Her voice was barely audible, her jaw fixed.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Barton answered, a satisfied smile creasing his cheeks. He was relishing the feeling of power over her, and she kept her expression bland. “Your men arrived with a prisoner that they had no authority to hold, who was guilty of no crime.”

  Gwendolyn opened her mouth to argue, then remembered what she had instructed her men to say, to save the captured mercenary from a summary execution.

  “What did you do with the prisoner?”

  Barton took a step forward, placing himself between Gwendolyn and William, and leaned forward until his face was only a hand-width away from her cheek.

  “I released him, of course,” he replied smugly. The jailor leaned back again and smiled at her, daring her to challenge him, and at that moment she heard a muffled thud as the hilt of William’s sword struck the back of Barton’s head. The jailor’s eyes rolled up, his knees gave way, and he slumped into a pile at her feet. Before the man behind her realized what had happened she spun around and smashed her fist into his jaw, sending him over backwards. Both men lay still on the rank floor.

  “We only have a moment,” William warned, crossing the room to Gerald and Simon. She crouched down and pried the keys from Barton’s hand and tossed them across to William, who was already beside Gerald, rousing him. William quickly freed him, and Gerald stood up unsteadily, rubbing his wrists and cursing while William helped Simon to his feet.

  “Get moving,” he instructed, gesturing toward the doorway and the bodies lying inert on the floor beside it. But then something caught William’s eye, and he squinted in the gloomy light.

  “It can’t be,” he said quietly.

  He walked quickly up to one of the prisoners who stood in the middle of the floor, the full weight of his sagging body supported only by the hanging manacles, and looked closely at him. Suddenly he fumbled with the keys, unfastened the man’s hands, and slapped his face to rouse him. The man was barely conscious, and William shifted his shoulder under the man’s arm to bear the man’s weight and help him step forward to join them. The man was taller than William, and he had a high, smooth forehead, gaunt cheeks that appeared on the verge of starvation, and pale hair that was long, dirty, and tangled. William moved quickly, half dragging the barely conscious man with him to join them. More slowly than she would have liked, they filed up the stairs to ground level. Gerald and Simon blinked in the daylight and supported the stranger between them as they climbed into the waiting cart, Simon shifting to the bench up front and taking the reins. Gwendolyn and William swung back up on their horses and turned to leave.

  A man came running out from the stables shouting, but he stopped as Gwendolyn tossed him her small purse of coins. They crossed the yard and were through the gatehouse without incident. The guard eyed them, but, hearing no alarm, he allowed them passage. The plough horse took the hill down from the castle too fast, and the cart almost tipped all three men out when it leveled out into the square. Gwendolyn overtook William, cutting a path through the crowd. As they finally approached the town gate, Gwendolyn heard a commotion brewing behind her.

  “You’d better go see about that,” she said to the guards, nodding with her chin toward the growing shouts. As she had hoped, the guards mechanically grabbed their spears and ran toward the noise. She and William exited the gate out of the city as the portcullis dropped down behind them.

  She pressed her knees against Bedwyr’s sides and shifted forward in the saddle, urging the mare into a gentle lope, the fastest she dared go while being careful not to leave the cart behind. They continued at this pace for two miles, until they were certain that they had not been followed. From what she had seen in the hall, Gwendolyn doubted whether Barton or any of his men would be keen to give chase and leave the comfort of the tower keep.

  They finally stopped at a stream to water the horses and tend to their passengers in the cart. Simon and Gerald had perked up considerably, but the third man looked weak and sickly, although he was awake and appeared to be aware of his surroundings. Gwendolyn dismounted and was nearly knocked over by an enthusiastic embrace from Gerald.

  “Nicely done, my lady!” he exclaimed.

  She pushed him away with a friendly shove, struggling not to make a face at the smell of his soiled clothing. “Knew I’d find you lying around enjoying the scenery,” she said, handing him an oilskin filled with water. Gerald took a long draw from the oilskin and handed it to Simon. She glanced at their wrists, scraped and bleeding. “Put those in the cold water,” she said, gesturing toward the stream. “It will help with the swelling and ease the pain.”

  William raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged. “I listen to your father too,” she said. She walked over to the cart to stand beside him, looking with concern at the man smiling weakly at her.

  “This is Eric,” William said. “We trained together.”

  Gwendolyn was certain there was more to the man’s story than William was telling her, but she would wait for him to fill her in later. William had given the man his own oilskin, which he was carefully drawing from in small sips, although he appeared parched. He finally handed the water back to William, looked at Gwendolyn with lids half-closed, and smiled again.

  “You are an angel,” Eric said in a barely audible rasp.

  William rolled his eyes. “He’s going to be fine. In a few days you’ll wish we’d left him at Launceston.”

  They arrived at Penhallam in the late afternoon, and the first thing Gwendolyn noticed was the quiet. She scanned the valley uneasily; men and women working the rows of fields nodded to them without smile or greeting as they rode past. Songbirds and farm animals filled the air with their familiar calls and bleats, but the village felt dreary somehow, even in the soft sunlight and long shadows. She twisted in her saddle to look back at William, and his face reflected her own apprehension. Turning forward again, she nudged Bedwyr to a trot. Out of habit she slowed to a walk as she entered the lanes between the shops and cottages and then realized there was no need. No children darted precariously around her and William’s horses, chasing each other and playing games. The absence of their familiar shouts and laughter now registered with her, and her stomach fluttered inside her with panic. Pulling Bedwyr to a stop, she scanned the lanes and timber houses and yards. Shutters had been drawn and latched, doors were closed; no one milled about in the lanes who did not have a need to be there. She dismounted and handed Bedwyr’s reins to William while she walked to the nearest cottage and knocked softly on the door.

  Hawise, Martha’s mother and Penhallam’s midwife, opened the door a crack, recognized her, and smiled with relief.

  “What’s happened?” Gwendolyn asked. Hawise’s children timidly peeked out from behind her skirts. Gwendolyn breathed her own sigh of relief at the sight of them.

  “This morning, my lady, more of those men. They attacked Young Hugh while he walked the pigs beside the woods. Gamel is with him now.”

  Gwendolyn exhaled sharply and uttered a curse under her breath. Young Hugh was Anne’s brother, a slight bundle of mischief named for his father. But if Gamel was with him, then the boy still lived.

  “How many men?” She immediately thought of the prisoner Barton had released from Launceston.

  “We chased four of them, but they all got away, back into the woods. And these men carried swords, my lady,” she added. “No ordinary outlaws travel so well armed as these men.”

  Gwendolyn stared at Hawise for a moment, imagining the entire village, farm scythes, hoes, and clubs raised, charging with enough ferociousness to turn back four armed men. The rough and injured man William captured two days before was not part of this group. And if they carried swords, they could only have been more mercenaries. No knight or other household man-at-arms would attack a boy for his pig
s.

  She turned around in time to meet Simon as he drove the cart into the lane, Gerald sitting beside him on the bench and Eric asleep in the cart behind them.

  “Take Eric to my father’s house,” William called to Simon, and then turned to Gwendolyn. “I’ll get him settled there. Meet me in the hall.”

  She nodded and William led Bedwyr away as she continued on foot to Anne’s house. Gamel stepped out of the cottage as she arrived, his brow deeply furrowed.

  “You’re back already? That’s good. We need every man with a sword here now, it seems,” he said, rubbing the lines in his forehead with a bony hand.

  “Will Young Hugh be okay?”

  Gamel looked at her gravely. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “He took a hard blow to the head. He has not yet woken up. I’ve stopped the bleeding, wrapped the wound; now it’s between him and God. We’ll know by morning.”

  Gwendolyn reached to put a hand on the old man’s arm, but Gamel took her hand into his and studied it, gingerly turning it over in his hand. Only then did she register that her hand throbbed painfully.

  “I believe this is broken, my lady.”

  She pulled her hand back, eyed the swollen knuckle, gave Gamel a half-smile.

  “Not the first time. Won’t be the last.”

  Gamel looked at her with softened eyes and shook his head. “You are your father’s daughter. The bones must be bound to heal correctly.”

  Gwendolyn nodded. “Come find me in the hall when you’re ready. And I’ll send Osbert to your house with bread and meat for your pottage.” She waved away the old man’s protests. “You have another patient waiting for you at home, a friend of William’s. And from the look of him, I expect he’s going to be eating a lot.”

  Gamel straightened himself up and shook his shoulders back. He bid her goodnight and walked with forced vigor back toward his own home to face his next patient.

  When Gwendolyn entered Anne’s family cottage, she paused first with the door slightly open and waited for permission to enter. Aveline motioned her into the room and turned back toward her son. Covered with a light blanket, Hugh lay on a straw pallet, looking small and helpless. His younger sister, Isolde, sat on her knees on the hard earth beside him, her small arm forming a protective arc in the straw around his bandaged head. She rested her head in the crook of her elbow, with her eyes closed. Anne stood at the hearth and nodded to Gwendolyn with dry eyes. Aveline’s husband, Old Hugh, sat on a stool beside his son, while Aveline stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders.

  Gwendolyn drew near to Aveline and stood quietly beside her, looking down at the figure of her son sleeping peacefully. She was at a loss for words in the midst of the family’s vigil. Finally she placed her hand on top of Aveline’s, small and fine like Anne’s, and rested it there for a moment. There was nothing else to do and nothing to say. Gwendolyn took her leave from the family to join William in the manor house.

  Inside the yard, Simon unharnessed the cart horse, lifting the heavy collar over its head while speaking in soft tones to soothe it. Her groom had not eaten in over a day and his breeches were soiled from his time in the dungeon, and still he tended to the horse first before seeing to his own needs. The horse stamped its feet impatiently and tugged at its lead, ready to be brought to the stables and fed.

  “I’ve got this,” she said to Simon.

  “My lady,” Simon said gratefully, and ducked toward the stables to find clean clothing for himself. Isabel stepped out from the stables, brushing straw from her tunic. She reached out and lifted the heavy harness from Simon’s grasp and carried it back to its post to be hung and cleaned. She mumbled a polite greeting to Gwendolyn as she passed, which Gwendolyn returned, noting that Isabel plainly knew her way around horses and their keep. Even better, she seemed not to mind hard work. Gwendolyn stooped to check the horse’s hooves and legs for soundness, and, with Isabel’s assistance, settled both it and Bedwyr in the stables with a fragrant portion of hay. Gwendolyn went over to Bedwyr and checked her legs and hooves in the same fashion while the mare playfully nipped at her braid as it swung down in front of her. As Gwendolyn stooped over to pick up a hind hoof, a small bundle dropped into the straw before her, and she reached curiously for it. She recognized the small scroll from her father. The day’s events had completely pushed the priory visit from her mind, and the letter felt foreign to her now, out of place here in her home at Penhallam. She tucked the scroll back into her surcoat, wondering how long her father had held the same scroll after the prior had finished writing it for him.

  Gwendolyn entered the hall quietly, listening to the conversation underway between William and Tom, who were conferring at the trestle table.

  “We need more men,” Tom said forcefully to William as she approached.

  “I’ve brought you more. As soon as he’s on his feet, he’ll be looking for a sword.” William paused at her arrival. “If that’s okay with you,” he added, looking in her direction.

  “If you vouch for him, he’s welcome in the household.”

  “One man isn’t enough, William! We need at least three.” Tom slammed his hand on the table in front of him in exasperation and stood up.

  “Eric Longbeard is worth three men.”

  Tom regarded William with his jaw thrust out, ready to protest. But William returned his gaze calmly, and Tom understood the conversation was ended.

  “He’d better be on his feet within the week, William. We have no idea what’s headed our way.”

  Gwendolyn silently watched Tom leave. The older knight acknowledged her with a simple “my lady,” keeping his eyes directed forward as he passed. The attack on Young Hugh had happened on his watch. She knew Tom well enough to know that anything kind she might have said would have felt to him like pity. She waited several moments for him to be out of earshot before she spoke to William.

  “Tom may still be right. People are scared. Bring in every man and woman with strength and size to train with the garrison. Their farm tools can be as deadly as battle-axes. Teach them to use them. And they need to learn to take a hit,” she added, remembering the shock of the first blow to her jaw that had sent her onto her back, dazed and helpless. “Even if Eric is as you say, I doubt he would argue against any additional advantage we can muster.”

  William nodded and turned to leave when the pressure of her father’s letter tucked into her surcoat reminded her of one more thing she wanted to settle between them.

  “And William,” she added, “I don’t want a word repeated about what the prior had to say last night. Not to me or anyone else.”

  William turned and looked at her, folding his arms across his chest.

  “You saved my life,” she continued. “For that I owe you—”

  “Nothing.” William said firmly. “Whatever debt there may have been between us was settled long ago. You and Robert have given me a home, I have eaten at your table for years, and you have looked after my family like all other families at Penhallam.”

  Gwendolyn considered William’s words for a moment. “And there will be no more mention of Arthur or Caliburn.”

  William looked disappointed, but he grudgingly agreed.

  “Not a word.”

  Gamel entered the hall behind William, carrying strips of cloth and a wooden splint.

  “If you’re ready, my lady,” Gamel said, standing beside William. William paused and she smiled and held up her injured hand, now an impressive black and purple around the middle knuckle.

  William huffed lightly and turned to leave. “That should keep you out of trouble for a few days, anyway.”

  The next morning, Gwendolyn awoke before sunrise. Martha still slept peacefully across from her on the feather mattress that she usually shared with Anne. Gwendolyn quietly picked up her wooden shoes, draped her cloak across her shoulders, and awkwardly fished the scroll from her surcoat with her bound fingers. She pulled the heavy door to her room slowly open, only enough to allow her to squeeze
through. None of the manor guard stirred as she padded on bare feet across the hall to the cold stone stairs and out into the star-studded darkness. Sliding her feet into her shoes, she walked out of the manor yard, over the moat bridge and toward the palisade across the stream. She walked with soft steps across the timber bridge toward Penhallam’s outbuildings, but instead turned right to follow the banks of the stream, walking north until she reached the point behind the manor where the two streams that flanked it joined to form a slower, deeper stream that cut north to the sea.

  She unbraided her hair, slipped out of her clothes, and walked into the dark, swirling water, feeling the current push against her as she gritted her teeth against the chill. The stars above reflected in the dancing water like a shimmering veil spread around her. Her skin stung with the cold, but she kept moving her body and forced herself to completely submerge her head and rinse the dirt of the road from her hair. She stood up again and vigorously rubbed her arms and neck, washing off a week’s worth of dirt and sweat, then splashed the cool water into her face before carefully stepping back to the banks to dress again. Hanging wet, her hair reached past her hips, and she bent her head forward to comb the fingers of her left hand through the thick strands, trying to massage out some of the worst tangles. After a few failed attempts, she gave up and resorted to twisting her hair into a thick rope to wring out as much of the water as she could.

  Sunrise had begun to fade out the stars in the east, and she climbed the stream bank and walked back toward the timber palisade, seating herself on the ground out of sight of the manor house with her back against the timbers. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and created a warm tent with her cloak. Dawn had not yet broken, and she listened to the familiar sounds around her as the manor slowly roused to life. The problems she faced loomed large in her mind, and she was not entirely sure how to solve any of them. Follow your heart, her father had told her. But her heart could not tell her how to stop Roslyn from using her family’s connections to force her from Penhallam. Even if the declaration of Robert’s death were nullified later when Robert returned, the havoc that Roslyn and Walter could wreak upon Penhallam and its families in the intervening time would take years to recover from. And in the meantime, Prince John’s mercenaries would continue passing through, more brazen with each encounter, picking off and stealing from the people she had promised to protect.