Gwendolyn's Sword Read online

  She reached into her cloak and pulled out the vellum scroll and began to absently stroke the ends of the ribbon between her fingers, considering her options. She could travel to Winchester to seek an audience with Walter de Coutances, the king’s chief justiciar, but next to Roslyn she was no one. And without even a dress to wear, she would have to show up wearing a man’s tunic and breeches, and the justiciar might arrest her for that just to make a point. She considered seeking out Hubert Walter, who was the king’s favored counselor even if he was not yet officially Archbishop of Canterbury, but if he somehow learned a word about what the prior had told her, she would be locked up as a heretic. And lying low in Penhallam doing nothing was not an option. Roslyn was desperate, and when she found out what Walter had been doing when he was supposed to have been in London, she would become even more so. Gwendolyn had to come up with a way to get in front of her sister-in-law’s schemes, to protect Penhallam from John’s rebellion and cut off Roslyn all at once.

  She looked up and saw Anne in the distance, walking in the direction of the manor house, and hoped that this meant good news, that Young Hugh had woken up. Moving quickly, she joined Anne as she reached the bridge over the moat.

  Anne’s face was composed; she had always managed to bury well inside her whatever private burdens she carried.

  “How is Young Hugh?” Gwendolyn asked her maid gently.

  “He’s awake and talking.” Gwendolyn immediately smiled at this news. “But he sees nothing but a bit of light and shadow. Gamel says his sight may return with time, but…” She hesitated and cleared her throat. “He says to begin teaching him to find his way by touch and sound as soon as he’s steady on his feet.” She took a deep, slow breath and forced a little smile. “Izzy hasn’t left his side in all this time.”

  Gwendolyn exhaled as if the air had been knocked out of her. Young Hugh was Aveline and Hugh’s only son, and he had a knowing way with animals that had already caught the notice of Simon and Gerry, the overseer of the manor’s herds of livestock. But blind, unable to find his charges or observe their ailments, his usefulness was diminished, perhaps beyond redemption.

  “He can’t be allowed to feel sorry for himself. That’s why Gamel wants him up and moving as soon as he’s able. To begin learning over again how to do the things he did before.”

  “Yes,” Gwendolyn agreed, wondering how much that was really possible. “I’ll have Simon ready for him as soon as Isolde can bring him to the stables.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” she said, turning to look at Gwendolyn closely for the first time that morning. “My lady, you’re a mess! Your hair!” She placed her fists on her hips and shook her head at her. “Why do you never let me draw a bath for you like any other fine lady?”

  Gwendolyn smiled at the scolding, and for the brief time that Anne helped her to dress and comb her hair, she chatted lightly about William’s plans to train the village men and women, and the fighting strength of the man they had brought back from Launceston. Not once did she allow the true extent of the troubles that weighed on her to surface. Anne’s own troubles were more than enough.

  Her first stop that morning was Gamel’s cottage, to check on their guest. Despite what William had said, she knew there was a good chance she would find the man broken with fever, closer to death than the day before.

  As soon as she had passed through the low doorway, however, she realized that she need not have worried. Eric was already awake, sitting upright on the pallet that he had slept on, his long legs swung over the side and feet planted squarely on the floor. His face was obscured by the large wooden bowl that he tipped to his mouth, draining the last of a broth. Alice, William’s mother, stood beside him, waiting patiently for the empty bowl. A woman of few words, Alice nodded a greeting to Gwendolyn, grunted in reply to Eric’s words of thanks, and disappeared into the kitchen at the back of the apothecary.

  Eric smiled broadly at Gwendolyn, the ashen color on his cheeks from the previous day replaced already by a pale flush of pink, his eyes wide open and bright. With a little difficulty, he braced a hand against the pallet and pushed himself to standing. She could see that he had the looks and build of the people of the Danelaw, the northern region of England’s Yorkshire coast where waves of Vikings had arrived in boats centuries ago to burn and plunder villages and carry the loot back to their homelands. After a time the flaxen-haired invaders had also discovered fertile farmland beneath their feet, and many stayed behind to begin a different life among the English. At his full height Eric would be taller than William, she realized, and he bowed his head slightly to avoid striking the thatched roof above him. Even in his emaciated state his frame was broad and solid. He took a step toward her slowly, his hand outstretched to her in greeting, and she fought the impulse to cover her nose at the smell that emanated from his clothing.

  “I am in your debt, my lady,” he said roughly, the rasp in his throat not yet healed. His hand was warm when she grasped it, and his grip was hard and strong.

  “Then I hope you will stay to repay your debt once you have healed,” she answered, and as Eric took his seat again on the pallet and listened quietly, she told him about the mercenaries and the threats facing Penhallam, including Roslyn. She noted that he made no remark about her masculine clothes or her sword and belt. The women of the Danelaw were known to be independent and fierce in a fight—qualities that were praised and admired in their songs and stories. When she finished talking he looked at her approvingly.

  “You have accomplished all of this in your husband’s absence?”

  She nodded in reply and he shook his head, laughing softly.

  “Well, I would have fought for you anyway, until my obligation was paid, but now I shall fight proudly. You have more sense in you than most of the men I’ve known.”

  “And you,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “tell me how you came to be Barton’s prisoner.”

  Eric smiled impishly. “I have a knack for pissing off the wrong man. Particularly husbands.”

  Gwendolyn felt her cheeks flush at the confession. She turned as William entered the doorway behind her, followed by his father.

  “By the Devil’s breath,” William exclaimed, clearly pleased to see his friend recovering so quickly. “Look who’s up!”

  Eric raised himself to a standing position again, leaning against the pallet frame with a strained smile.

  “The sooner you get those legs working again, the better,” Gamel commented brusquely with his back turned. He emptied handfuls of fresh herbs from his mantle onto the table in the corner of the room and began to sort them into bundles for drying. William hung three rabbits, gathered that morning from the snares and freshly gutted, on a hook in the wall. The old man began to cough lightly, but the cough grew into a hollow rattle that was painful to hear. Gwendolyn watched concern shadow William’s face, and he laid a hand on his father’s arm. Gamel brushed his son’s attention away with an irritated wave of his hand. Gwendolyn recalled something Hawise, the midwife, had said to her once about physicians being terrible patients.

  “It’s just a bit of dust,” Gamel snapped. “I’m fine.”

  Alice walked in from the back of the cottage carrying a wooden cup that steamed with a concoction of dried herbs and flowers and handed it to Gamel. Her husband ignored her while he meticulously tied little knots of twine around the bundles of herbs.

  “Make sure he drinks that,” she called to William as she set the cup down loudly on the table in front of her husband. She leaned over close to Gamel’s ear and added, “All of it.” Gamel gave no acknowledgment, but Alice’s hand lingered softly on her husband’s arm for a moment as she turned to retrieve the rabbits and take them back to the kitchen in the rear room. “And for the love of the saints, William, get that man some clean clothes,” she ordered before returning to the kitchen.

  William looked doubtfully at Eric, who still leaned his tall frame against the pallet. “I don’t think I have anything large enough to fit you.”


  “I do,” Gwendolyn said. “When you are strong enough to walk to the manor and climb the stairs, I’m sure Anne can find clothes and boots in the de Cardinham chests that will serve. The baron was as tall as an alder, after all.” She headed toward the door, but paused with one more thought. “William, take our guest to the armory and give him whatever he requires.” She turned toward Eric. “I will pay the cost to arm you. I have a feeling you will repay the investment many times over.”

  While William and Tom patrolled the woods that morning, Gwendolyn joined the castle guard in training, pushing herself and the men to exhaustion. Her left arm tired and weakened too quickly, and when she and Gerald faced off against each other with staffs, the confrontation ended with a satisfying new cut above her brow. Later in the afternoon, she made rounds through the village, taking stock of who would work the long days of harvest, who would train with the guard to learn the ways of using a scythe as a weapon. She did not check on Young Hugh, wishing to leave the family in peace as they adjusted to their altered lives. But the next morning she carried bread and a cloth bundle of salted mutton to their house. Gwendolyn stood outside next to Aveline as she anxiously watched her son stumble in the lane and fall while Isolde stood several paces away, guiding him with her voice. Aveline held her hand over her mouth to muffle her concerned gasps, then finally turned away to go back into the house when she could take no more.

  “It is a mother’s most difficult work,” she said as they entered the cottage together.

  “What’s that?” Gwendolyn asked, wondering if Aveline referred to the work of tending her children when they were ill.

  “Allowing them the leave to make their own mistakes, even to fail. But it is the only way. I don’t know how much he’s capable of, and I would rob him of the chance to find out if I tried to shelter him from the pain of trying.”

  Gwendolyn paused for a moment to wonder at Aveline’s wisdom. Anne’s mother was right, and it explained her chambermaid’s quiet self-confidence. Before she left, Gwendolyn had to insist forcefully to get Aveline to accept the meat; she only relented when Gwendolyn told her that Young Hugh could earn it back by returning to help Simon in the stables as soon as he was able.

  Her morning errand done, Gwendolyn walked back toward the house, flexing her arms and shoulders to prepare herself for the morning’s training in the manor yard. While she walked, she found herself reflecting on the work of motherhood—an undertaking with which she had no experience and little memory of her own days under its influence. Did all mothers wrestle with the same impulses as Aveline, knowing when to shelter and when to step away? Birds pushed their little ones to fly, sometimes even knocking them out of the nest. Gwendolyn had always found their actions cruel, but now, through Aveline’s eyes, she saw such prodding toward independence in a new light. Something nagged at Gwendolyn’s thoughts, like the answer to a riddle floating just beneath the surface. She stood still for a moment and paused her thoughts. She had learned that the best way to find an answer was to stop chasing it, and she turned her gaze down the valley, taking in the low ripples of green that stretched out to the horizon. A few moments later she broke into a run across the bridge toward the palisade and the buildings within.

  “William!” she shouted, running toward the armory.

  Her constable stepped out of the long, narrow building, the alarm on his face easing as he saw her elated expression.

  “I know what to do,” she said a little breathlessly, and paused to lean over for a moment with her hands on her knees. William regarded her with a quizzical look.

  “I know how to deal with Roslyn and stop John’s mercenaries, and maybe even John.”

  6

  THE MERCENARY RETURNS

  “It’s too dangerous,” William said after she had laid out her idea to him. “You are walking into a den of wolves if you go to London.”

  “Eleanor is a mother. She will listen.”

  “She is a queen first, and you’ll pay with your life if you forget that.”

  “She doesn’t want John to die, and if he keeps this up, that’s exactly where he’s headed.” Gwendolyn stepped back and fixed her eyes on William, wondering if it was even possible for him to understand the visceral bond between mother and child. “She has buried three sons already. After Richard, only John is left. As both a queen and a mother, she needs John to live.”

  Gwendolyn stared at William and set her jaw. After so many years in her company, she expected he knew too well that her thoughts were as firmly locked as her expression.

  “I will consult with my lords. I can’t tell them everything, obviously. But if they agree to the idea, we will leave as soon as Eric has his strength back,” she added. “And we will travel alone. I can’t leave Tom shorthanded.”

  William hesitated for a moment and held her gaze. “Eric can do more than fight, Gwendolyn. He was a captain of his own mercenary company. He led them to Palestine with King Richard. With your permission I will leave him in charge of the garrison, over Tom.”

  “Do it, then, and there’s no time to settle him in. We must get to London as quickly as possible. Roslyn may have decided to make a move and appeal to the Chancery herself to have Robert declared dead. There’s no time to spare.”

  Gwendolyn walked quickly across to the manor house, thinking of all of the preparations she would have to make. Being away from Penhallam during the harvest was unappealing, but she knew she could rely on Osbert to oversee the hard work. At the moment her first concern was how quickly Eric could regain his strength, so she was pleased to find him seated on a stool in the hall when she entered from the stairwell.

  “You are a welcome sight,” she said, noticing his improved appearance even since the last morning. His hair hung in wet ropes past his shoulders, and the filth and dirt of the dungeon was gone from his skin and nails. He had also shaved off his beard, and his cheekbones and jawline were chiseled and strong. She realized now, looking at him, that he was quite handsome. He was shirtless, and she guessed he must have washed in the stream before coming up to the hall to dress in fresh clothes. “Stay there a moment while I rummage through the trunks for you,” she said, turning toward her room. Just then, Anne stepped out from the passage to the private chamber, her arms stacked with shirts, padded linens to be worn under armor, and other assorted garments.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” she said efficiently, walking briskly past her. “Thought I’d go ahead and get this one sorted out.” She placed the stack on the table in front of Eric, hardly looking at him. “Right, then, I’ll leave you to it. Take whatever you like, leave the rest.” She turned to face Gwendolyn. “Your armor, my lady?”

  Eric’s face had turned a vivid red behind them, and he kept his eyes cast downward to the table’s surface. Gwendolyn had the distinct feeling of having intruded on something, and she carefully kept herself from smiling at the thought of what it might have been.

  As Gwendolyn had hoped, Eric continued to regain his strength steadily. His weapon of choice, a large battle-axe that had been favored by the late baron, had been repaired and reinforced, and the blade honed to breathtaking sharpness. The axe’s staff was as tall as a man, awkward and difficult to swing. But in Eric’s hands the weapon parted the air like a falcon diving—precise, deadly and beautiful to watch. Eric’s movements were graceful and confident, and his reach gave him even further advantage in combat.

  He quickly earned the respect of the manor’s men-at-arms with his instruction in fighting techniques brought back from Palestine. He spent hours in the yard with them to bring back his own strength—but also to learn each man’s skill and character. He trained with each of them one-on-one and taught them how to better exploit their particular strengths and compensate for their weaknesses. When Gwendolyn took her turn against him, he had laughed with pleasure at the forcefulness of her attacks and her immunity to intimidation. The men responded to the attention, and Gwendolyn took note as the guard as a whole seemed to take on a new
sense of brotherhood and pride. Eric was more relaxed with the men than William, making coarse jokes and teasing them good-naturedly. Within a short time the garrison transformed into a tightly disciplined unit. Where William had commanded the men, Eric was a natural leader, and he inspired the men to follow. His deference to Anne, however, was unmistakable. Although her maid’s every outward sign showed indifference to the courtship, Gwendolyn had seen Anne rebuff suitors in no uncertain terms numerous times since coming into womanhood. This was the first time that she had permitted the attention to continue.

  “We can leave tomorrow, my lady, if you are ready,” William announced one night as they all quietly took their supper in the hall. Two weeks had passed since the day Gwendolyn had told William of her plan. In that time, all of the necessary preparations had been made. Osbert understood the work cycles and order of tasks for the harvest. Crude but effective arms had been distributed to the village and surrounding farmsteads. Isabel had awkwardly requested that she might stay at Penhallam through the winter, and her request had been gladly received by Simon and Osbert. The horses’ hooves had been trimmed and freshly shod for the long journey. And when another small band of mercenaries, armed and on foot, had crossed Penhallam on their way to St. Michael’s Mount, Tom and the manor guard had intercepted them with fatal results. Her injured hand had healed and the strength had returned to her grip. There was no reason to wait another day.