Gwendolyn's Sword Read online

  She looked around the hall at the faces of Penhallam’s lords, knights, and squires, the families from the village that had joined them for the evening meal, Gamel, Anne, Young Hugh, and Eric. She and William had told her council of lords that they would travel to London to appeal for Robert’s return and to petition the queen’s intercession with Roslyn. The idea of Penhallam’s case being raised in the royal court with the support of Eleanor had captured their imaginations and would elevate their small estate, they reckoned, to a status level with the great baronial manors of Cornwall, even that of Walter’s Restormel.

  “Yes,” she answered as the room erupted into cheers. “We will leave in the morning.”

  “There’s so much to see in London!” Martha said excitedly, still a little disappointed not to be joining her. “I can’t imagine how elegant the ladies’ dresses are there, and the fine ribbons and veils.”

  Gwendolyn huffed into her ale cup at the idea of wasting her coins on such baubles, causing a murmur of laughter to rumble across the hall.

  “With luck, William and I will return before All Souls’ Day. And the only ribbons we’ll be carrying will be wrapped around a writ from Eleanor.”

  Gerald stood with his cup raised and swept his gaze around the room, his face already flushed from the ale.

  “My lady,” he began, bowing deeply, “I humbly request that you speak a toast in honor of your departure to go before the queen.” He turned around to the room again with his arms stretched out from his sides, and calls of “A toast!” and “Baroness!” rippled the air around her.

  She paused in her seat, waiting for the shouts to abate, and took a moment to consider her words. These opportunities were rare, and she liked to use them to point with laughter at the arbitrary customs that made skill with a sword, in a woman’s hands, something to be ashamed of. When the hall had quieted down and all eyes were turned her way, she stood up and crossed the hall to the carved horn hanging on the wall beside the hearth. The horn had not been brought down from its hook since the night before Robert’s departure, and it seemed fitting to bring it down on this night, to sanctify the journey ahead. Shouts of approval erupted again as she turned around, the horn held high in front of her. Tom rose and crossed to her with the jug of ale, filling the horn to the top and sloshing the overflow onto the straw below.

  Gwendolyn smiled slyly and raised the horn over her head as the hall grew quiet again.

  “Here’s to our horses and here’s to our men, and here’s to the women who ride them both!” It was an old Breton toast, a favorite of Robert’s father, but she had reversed the sexes from the traditional verse, giving the women the upper hand. The hall erupted into hoots and laughter, and Gwendolyn felt her chest tighten with affection for each person around her and in all of Penhallam, and she sent a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that this was not the last time they would stand together in this hall.

  William was up before dawn packing their provisions, filling oilskins with water, and giving Eric last details about the layout of the land and the vulnerable places where the guard’s watch should be doubled. He had watched with disappointment the night before when Gwendolyn had crossed the hall to take down the horn for the toast. She was unaccustomed to so much ale, and last night’s drink had been for celebration—rich and strong. The headache he expected her to have this morning would slow them down and leave her more obstinate than usual.

  When Gwendolyn joined him shortly after sunrise, she went about her business wordlessly, her mouth a grim line. She wore a fresh tunic, leggings, and her leather boots. Anne had combed her hair and plaited it into the usual braid. Her cloak was thrown back over her shoulders, and he saw that her sword and dagger both hung from their sheaths on her belt. However she might be feeling, he realized, she had not let it compromise her preparations to leave. Anne told him that she had also packed Gwendolyn’s surcoat bearing the de Cardinham colors into a satchel that included a second tunic and leggings, and secured the bag to Gwendolyn’s saddle. William waited patiently while the squire tied the bundle of her hauberk behind the satchel and she took one last draw of water from the oilskin Simon offered her. Finally, with just one acknowledging glance in William’s direction, she firmly placed her foot in the stirrup, took hold of the saddle with both hands, and lifted herself up and astride her mare.

  They rode through the day in near silence, speaking only a few words when they stopped to eat or give the horses a rest. They followed the same road to the southeast toward Launceston, but before they got too close to the town, William led them on a detour to skirt around to the east in case Barton or his men might still bear a grudge. After they passed Launceston they turned east and crossed the Tamar River by ferry. The river valley lay shrouded in thick mist, and the horses stamped their hooves nervously during the crossing. The hair on William’s arms prickled as they set foot on Devonshire soil, and he took notice as a shiver ran up his spine. He knew there was good reason for the feeling of foreboding that even the horses had seemed to sense.

  The entire county of Devon had been set aside as a royal forest, governed by the king’s forest law. Hunting was forbidden, except for the lesser birds and rodents, and poachers could be hung by the neck or worse. No trees could be felled, and the only farming and grazing allowed was what had already been in place when the Normans had first arrived more than five generations back. The towns of Devonshire had grown in the last hundred years, and the enforced preservation of lumber and fields had become a problem for laity and clergy alike.

  Because of the forest law restrictions, Devon also had preserved within its borders the structures and marks of those ancient peoples, pagans and spellworkers, who had lived there in ages gone by. The remains of their long houses, fortresses, and pasture walls—many of them still in use where possible—stood as visible reminders of days long past and now forgotten. For William, other reminders also remained, undisturbed and timeless. The traces of old spells and rituals lay across the land like a web of invisible pathways, connecting wells to sacred tors and their places of worship in between them. Here in the wilderness, magic was still a living thing, as potent as the day it was first cast.

  “We should make camp soon, my lady,” William shouted over his shoulder to Gwendolyn. She looked so miserable and tired that he laughed quietly to himself when she answered him with a mute nod. Gwendolyn had pulled her cloak up around her shoulders and she sat hunched in the saddle against the chilling wind. There was good grazing here for the horses, and he recalled the stiffness that set into the bones when the body was unaccustomed to long hours of riding. A little farther on they reached a small, shallow stream where they dismounted to water the horses and fill their oilskins.

  “We’ll stay here tonight,” William said, scanning the area with his eyes narrowed. The banks of the stream were thick with brushes and hedges that would conceal their camp, and the surrounding grass was thick and green. Once they had settled in with the horses grazing contentedly nearby, they spread their blankets on the ground and arranged their saddles to support their heads. Gwendolyn handed William a large share of the smoked fish that she had bought from a stall beside the ferry crossing at the Tamar. William was relieved to see her appetite returned, and she fell asleep within minutes of finishing her small meal and stretching herself out on her blankets.

  He watched her soberly, wondering what dangers he led her toward. When they entered towns, they could expect the usual jeers and challenges thrown at her by strangers who took offense at her attire and the weapons she carried. As long as he stayed nearby, these were only slightly concerning. But John and his desire for Caliburn was another thing, and Gwendolyn refused to exercise caution against a threat that she did not believe existed. Worse still, once they reached London and the royal court, he would be powerless to protect her. The proposition she intended to make to Eleanor, if she could even gain an audience with the dowager queen, was far-fetched at best. And Eleanor could find other uses for her. It was n
ot unheard of for a marriage to be annulled to allow a baron or other magnate to take for a wife whichever woman the man’s fancy had chosen, regardless of her husband’s protests.

  Gwendolyn stirred in her sleep across the fire from him, pulling her cloak up to her ears. Quietly, he approached and crouched down to touch her cheek. Her skin and fingers were chilled, and a wet mist began to fall as darkness settled around them. William hesitated for a moment, then retrieved his own blanket and returned to lay himself down cautiously beside her, watching her closely for any sign of waking. Making camp out in the open, he knew he would not sleep unless he could be certain he would awaken instantly if she moved. He eased his cloak over both of them and hesitated, but she remained fast asleep. He dropped his arm across her waist and fell quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Gwendolyn awoke in the morning to find William bundled close behind her, and as she blinked in the morning light, she realized that she had not slept alone. She sat up and turned around to look at him. The only man that she had ever slept so closely beside was her husband.

  “You were cold, my lady,” he said simply.

  If it had been anyone else, she would have considered the move presumptuous to the point of insult. But this was William. She had no doubts about his intentions, and however competent she was in defending herself, the fact was that while they travelled alone, she was safer sleeping in her constable’s grasp than not.

  William stood up and began gathering their belongings, avoiding her eyes. He handed her a bread roll for breakfast and walked away to collect the horses. Thankfully the fog and nausea from the previous day had passed, and she felt her appetite return with a vengeance.

  They rode through a fine drizzle that morning that soaked through their clothing and dripped into their eyes. The dampness had turned the cobbled roads slippery, slowing their progress. As they carefully picked their way over the slick stones, Gwendolyn found her thoughts wandering. Waking next to William that morning had taken her back to the brief time she and Robert had spent together as husband and wife before he left to join the king’s crusade.

  She had never been sure of Robert’s affection toward her, even after their marriage. During the summer of her fifteenth year, despite the extensive education she had given herself in Restormel’s library, the baron had found a young man of acceptable parentage who would have her. The third son of a scholar from Exeter, he had a brutish disposition and claimed her education was only a sham, given the feeble nature of the feminine mind. Robert happened to have been home on a visit when the young man and his parents came to meet Gwendolyn and make their decision. Gwendolyn recalled how Robert had sat quietly at the table during the evening meal, watching the young man closely and listening to every word from the parents, particularly the would-be groom’s snobbish mother. On the next day, Robert had found her in her sitting place at the top of Restormel’s tower, joking with the castle’s day watchman about the snooty habits of their visitors. Robert had asked her to walk with him, and she had hopped down and taken his hand, the same as she had done since their childhood days together. Except this time he had taken her on a path across the fields and to an ancient tor that overlooked all of Bodardel, and here he had asked her to consider him as an alternative to the scholar’s son. She remembered the shock that had hit her then, never having imagined that she herself would become a member of the de Cardinham family. But the shock had only lasted for a moment. She had folded her arms and regarded him with a raised eyebrow. She was certain that her expression had been full of mocking—in the way only achievable by teenaged girls.

  “Robert, there are many ladies far better suited for you. Why would you throw away the opportunity to make a strong match for yourself to marry a girl with no name, no status, and no wealth? Unless you’ve fallen in love with me, that is.” Even then, she would not have teased him so mercilessly if she had had any suspicion that he bore an actual affection for her.

  “You’re right, I’m not in love with you,” he had answered off-handedly, then lightly placed his fist against her shoulder; that one gesture was the only leftover between them from their rough-and-tumble childhood games. She had stood quietly while he explained to her at length his plan for acquiring a title and building Penhallam into an estate that would rival his older brother’s holdings at Restormel. It turned out that growing up as Walter’s younger brother had only been a little less tortuous than growing up as the baron’s ward. Robert had already seen the signs of waste and neglect taking hold of Restormel. He planned to take up the cross and join their new king on crusade; he would prove himself in battle and earn the king’s favor, which would eventually be rewarded with land and a title—such dispensations possible only from the throne itself.

  “And you,” he had added at last, “must hold Penhallam and see to its defense and survival in my absence. There is no other woman so qualified to do this as you.”

  Her thoughts had already raced of ahead of him, and she had seen clearly what purpose he set forth for her and what it would require. The thought made her smile, and she had leaned back, thinking of the vow she had made to herself just a few years ago when she had first read Plato’s words. She had straightened up and become deadly serious.

  “I want a sword.”

  “And you shall have one.”

  She had turned sixteen shortly after their wedding, and although her body bore all the signs of womanhood and she bled regularly with the moon’s cycles, Robert did not touch her as a husband. She knew that men and women coupled their bodies, as she had discreetly spied in Restormel’s hall on those nights when she awoke to the sounds of moans and grunts in the darkness. She also knew that the coupling led to children in the belly, and for this reason alone she was grateful that Robert did not press himself upon her. And yet, when they were lying on their backs in bed one night, she had finally asked him why he did not make a husband’s use of her. He had winced at the words as if she had slapped him.

  “You are not to be used, Gwendolyn. Your body is your own.”

  She had lain beside him, speechless in the darkness, and realized that she had underestimated him, and that her loyalty to Robert would be as great, if not greater, than any wife had ever felt for her husband. Robert had given her this opportunity to be who she was, and he had thrown respect and kindness into the bargain as well. Her deep sense of obligation to Penhallam, to its people and its fields, to its wealth and defense, became her marital vow. It was the only thing he had asked of her, and she had gladly, eagerly risen to the task.

  By the end of the day, they had passed through the town of Lydford, crossed the river Lyd and reached the western edge of Dartmoor. The moors would be rocky and windy, and Gwendolyn was relieved when they stopped to make camp to allow the horses the better grazing for the night.

  “It’s about nine miles across to the next town,” William said, raising his hand to his brow to scan to the east in the fading light. “If we move fast and find safe crossing for all of the rivers, we can be across the moor by midday tomorrow and spend the night in Chagford,” he continued, turning to face her. “Then on to Exeter.”

  “Maybe we can skirt that town, as well?” she asked hopefully, remembering the spurned scholar’s son.

  “That would probably be a good idea,” William agreed.

  They unfastened the blankets and saddles from the horses, William laying his far from her as he had when they had first settled the night before. Gwendolyn watched him lay out his blanket and prepare his bed across from her. When he was done she stood up, walked over, picked up his belongings, and set them down next to hers. If they were going to travel through the wilderness together, a small bit of his propriety around her would have to give. He could not protect her from a distance.

  “Stop treating me like such a woman,” she said, and she left to go relieve herself before settling in for the night.

  After another restful night, she woke to find William lying on his side, propped up on an elbow beside her
and staring at the last of the stars in the pale sky. He had a distant and troubled expression, as if he were lost in thought. She left him to whatever gloomy omens he thought he saw in the morning mists and turned her back to him, her face toward the dawn. Despite the rush they were in, she had started to enjoy these mornings, waking up slowly to the added warmth of a near body and the casual peacefulness of the country.

  “We must travel across Dartmoor as quickly as we can without risking the horses,” he said after a long pause.

  Gwendolyn sat up and brushed her hair from her face, narrowing her eyes.

  “What are you saying? Is it overrun with highwaymen? Has John placed his men there? What?”

  “No, it’s not that, Gwendolyn. It’s what you cannot see. God does not rule Dartmoor, and the things that do don’t believe in Him.”

  Gwendolyn stared at him, feeling her contented mood slip away.

  “Don’t talk to me about witchcraft, William. Or God, for that matter. Both would have me fall to my knees in fear and trembling, helplessly awaiting the fate they have chosen for me. You believe what you want. We will cross Dartmoor as quickly as you like, but only because I’m in as much of a hurry as you are.” She strode across the grass toward Bedwyr, but suddenly felt the need to settle the conversation for good and spun to face him again. “I fear no man’s god nor any devil, William. The only thing I fear is Evil, and I’ve seen plenty of that to know that it usually walks on two legs and fears dying as much as anyone else.”

  William stood up and began gathering his belongings. Although her constable’s dire warnings were easy to dismiss as nonsense, she found herself unfastening her armor from her saddle and putting on her hauberk. Instead of her cloak she wore her surcoat and wrapped her weapon belt tightly around it, across her hips. She was resolved not to allow Robert’s faith in her to be proven unwarranted. Whatever lay ahead of them, she would face it as herself, not concealing her sword or her pride in carrying it.