Gwendolyn's Sword

  The bones below Gwendolyn’s eye had healed enough that the swelling had receded, and she joined the men in drawing their swords and marching out onto the battlements. But when they peered over the wall to the road below, by the gatehouse torchlight they saw eight men on horseback waiting calmly for admittance. The man in the lead, riding a heavy, black courser, removed his helmet and pulled off his coif. He sat on his horse easily, almost gracefully despite the bulk and weight of his armor, and thick locks of black hair flowed to his shoulders. He turned his gaze up toward them and nodded, a subtle salute. His countenance carried a grave somberness, the weight of grief mixed with duty, beyond his years.

  “We will leave for London the day after tomorrow,” de Coutances said quietly beside her. “William d’Aubigni, Third Earl of Arundel, has arrived from Norfolk.”

  18

  A GAMBLE WON

  Mae’s tavern bustled with the usual evening mix of sailors and merchants, young lords and travelling families, when Nigel, William, Michael, and Gwendolyn arrived. They had parted ways with de Coutances, d’Aubigni, and the returning Tower guard at the bridge across the Thames to Southwark, but Gwendolyn and her men were due at the Tower later that night to present themselves before the dowager queen. They had already left their horses with Peter, and Gwendolyn had smiled this time as Nigel and the larger, broadly muscled man ritually exchanged their usual insults and barbs. Mae’s face lit up when she turned and saw them, and she dashed away from a customer in mid-sentence to greet them.

  “Stay right here, don’t move!” she said breathlessly and then disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later Gwendolyn spied a small girl in a cream linen dress, slight with rosy cheeks and shining eyes, who ran out into the tavern. She hardly recognized Ella as Mae followed behind the little girl, then crouched down beside her and pointed through the dim light toward them where they still stood near the door. The girl stood on wobbling tiptoes, craned her neck, and squinted her eyes. She suddenly squealed gleefully and ran across the tavern and up into Nigel’s waiting arms.

  “Papa! You’re back! You came back! I knew you wouldn’t leave me! I knew you would come back! Mae told me every day that you loved me more than anything! More than the sun! More than jewels! She told me you would tear down a castle wall with your bare hands to come back to me! Oh, Papa!”

  Ella tightly wrapped her little arms around Nigel’s neck and pressed her face against his cheek while he choked back a sob and blinked to clear the tears brimming in his eyes.

  “Oh! And Papa!” she said, leaning back in his arms, her nose level with his. “I have a grandpa! Did you know that? He’s a very important man,” she said, gravely serious. “He’s a bishop.”

  Nigel’s jaw dropped, and he stared at Mae as he gently lowered Ella back to the ground. Gwendolyn looked down as Michael peered shyly around William at the little creature, so bubbling with life, and Ella reached for his hand.

  “Your father has acknowledged you as his son and Ella as his granddaughter,” Mae said matter-of-factly. “The dress she’s wearing is his gift, and he has taken her out publicly, let it be known that she is the Bishop of London’s granddaughter. He boasted that his long-lost son was discovered, serving the queen herself.”

  Nigel’s eyes flashed with hatred.

  “Lying cur,” he said quietly. “Why now?”

  “The Marshal told me the dowager queen saw it,” Mae said, a little apologetically. “She accused him, threatened him, and he confessed.”

  Nigel clenched his jaw. “He had no right. He is a weak man with not even the shred of decency to have provided for the mother of his offspring or his own child, not even in secret in all these years. And now he tries to weasel himself into the high regard of his granddaughter only because the Queen of England ordered it.”

  Gwendolyn placed a hand on his arm, bringing him back to the present moment, to the warmth of the tavern and the friends that surrounded him. He took a deep breath.

  “You are no longer penniless or homeless,” she reminded him.

  Suddenly Ella giggled with delight.

  “What a funny little dog! Is he yours?”

  William’s hound had followed them from Arundel, a tireless companion, sleeping beside William every night and annoying his warhorse with nips and barks every day. The dog sat on its haunches in the straw facing Ella, pricked its ears forward and tilted its head, and she squealed again and laughed.

  “Go find yourselves a place to sit,” Mae said, smiling again and ushering them into the tavern. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  They found an uncrowded end of one of the long tables where they could talk in private, although none of them seemed to feel much like talking. The memory of Gwendolyn’s letter from her father and Eleanor’s betrayal in losing it still gnawed at Gwendolyn, and the secret of Caliburn weighed heavily between her and William. A maid circulated among the tables with a pitcher of ale, and they sipped from their full cups in silence. Ella sat beside them in the straw playing with the hound, lifting its front paws and placing bits of straw on its nose while the dog played along patiently, occasionally licking her cheeks and nose, to her utter delight.

  Mae returned with a platter of bread and roasted scraps and cups of weaker table ale for Michael and Ella. Ella seemed to notice Michael again, and she inspected him closely as he leaned in shyly toward William.

  “What happened to your hand?” she asked innocently.

  Michael’s left hand was still in bandages, but the tips of his thumb and remaining fingers could be seen. He held it up, and she gasped as she realized that the last finger was missing. She sat, rapt, while Michael told her the story of what had happened, as he remembered it. By the time he finished his tale, complete with embellishments that elicited startled gasps and squirms from Ella, their meal was nearly finished. Ella turned her face up to Nigel with large, sorrowful eyes.

  “Is it true, Papa?” she asked.

  Nigel regarded her with a father’s protective affection and tossed a scrap of roast to the hound waiting patiently at their feet.

  “Yes. Every bit.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed and turned back to Michael with a mixture of reverence and awe evident in her little features. Gwendolyn took note of the way Michael seemed to sit a little taller on his bench, puffed his chest out a bit, and she smiled inwardly.

  “But there’s one thing, one mystery, that cannot be explained,” Nigel continued. “You see, Gwendolyn’s sword broke when she tried to slay the sorcerer the first time.”

  Gwendolyn and William froze in their seats and stopped chewing, their eyes connecting silently, waiting to see where Nigel was going with this tale of his.

  “So the question is, how was she able to slay the sorcerer later, when he fell?”

  Nigel allowed the question to hang out there, and Gwendolyn watched Michael frown and realize the problem, the inconsistency in the story.

  “William still had his sword,” Gwendolyn answered. “I grabbed it.”

  Nigel wordlessly looked from her to William and back again. Michael and Ella were satisfied with the explanation, though; both were apparently unaware that unanswered questions still remained. Nigel had made one thing clear to Gwendolyn and William without coming out and saying it: he knew that Gwendolyn carried Caliburn. And he knew that the sword’s existence must be kept secret.

  They finished their meal at a leisurely pace and settled Michael and Ella for the night in the back of the tavern, behind the kitchen where Mae’s family lived and slept. The hound lay down between the two children and settled its whiskered chin down onto its paws in the same way it had done in the cave, when it was still a beast. Only this time its brown eyes followed them with the protective, unblinking attention of a guard dog. Before they left for the Tower, Nigel paused and turned to Gwendolyn, reaching inside his cloak.

  “I believe this belongs to you,” he said, handing her a bundle of rough linen with something solid wrapped within its folds. She took the bundle and casual
ly unwrapped the cloth.

  The broken end of her sword lay across her hands.

  “I found it in the cave and hid it in my cloak. No one else saw it. No one else knows.”

  A shiver prickled across her skin and she felt her mouth go dry. She showed the shard of her old blade to William, and he gingerly picked it up as if he handled a holy relic. To anyone else this bit of metal would have been just the broken bit of a mediocre weapon, not uncommon to find in any field or stream. But to them this was proof of the inexplicable mystery of the sword that had come to Gwendolyn, thrust through from another world to theirs, though by whom and for what purpose they still did not know.

  “Thank you,” Gwendolyn said quietly. She held out the linen for William to place the shard back in, wrapped it back up, and looked back at Nigel.

  “Would you carry it for me?” she asked, handling the bundle back to him.

  Nigel’s eyes warmed with pride.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  When their ferry arrived at the Tower gatehouse later that night, the same silver-haired captain of the guard was there to greet them, along with the same impeccably armed and disciplined men-at-arms. Only this time the captain was expecting them.

  “You’re late,” he accused her as soon as they drew near.

  She could not help smiling at the curt greeting.

  “God’s bones! And what a smell you lot carry!” he exclaimed and stepped forward to take Gwendolyn’s hand.

  Nigel glowered darkly in the torchlight as he rose to step out onto the stone embankment.

  “I’m sure three days on the road leave you as fresh as a baby’s butt,” he muttered.

  “Baby donkey, maybe,” William added behind him.

  The captain shook his head.

  “I can’t imagine what business the queen would have with you blackguards. Try not to touch anything while you’re in there. And don’t think you’ll be staying for the night this time, either.”

  Gwendolyn nodded graciously. “Thank you. It’s nice to see that the queen’s invitation doesn’t make you any more pleasant.”

  The captain raised his eyebrows at her. “If you didn’t look tougher than your own men, here, I’d think you were flirting.” By his standards she knew he had just given her a significant compliment, and the corners of her mouth lifted slightly.

  They followed their escort into the Tower and up the stairs to the hall outside the queen’s rooms. William Marshal greeted them again, looking more haggard and worn down than she had seen him a handful of weeks earlier.

  “I’m sorry for your brother,” she said when he turned to her.

  The Marshal nodded wordlessly and cleared his throat.

  “You’re going in next,” he told them. “She’s cross tonight. She hasn’t got the full ransom, which she never expected to have, but it’s still much less than she thought she’d have by now. She’s got a hell of a negotiation ahead of her in Germany. Young William d’Aubigni’s doing very well, though. Without meaning to, he’s charmed her entirely,” he said with a little wonder.

  The Marshal looked at Gwendolyn more closely for a moment and narrowed his eyes. She watched his courtly smile fade as he took in the fresh scars on her face, the misshapen bone of her left cheek. She had lost weight, and it seemed that the way the Marshal looked at her now was not that different from the way the people of Penhallam had looked at Eric when he had first arrived from Launceston’s dungeon. She held his gaze with a hardened, inscrutable expression, vaguely realizing the extent to which the last few weeks had changed her.

  Moments later, the heavy wooden doors swung open wide enough for Walter de Coutances to step out, find them in the room, and motion for them to come inside.

  Familiar with the drill this time, Gwendolyn walked in and knelt, head bowed, before Eleanor. William and Nigel joined Gwendolyn on one knee to either side of her.

  “Turn your faces to me,” Eleanor snapped impatiently.

  Gwendolyn lifted her eyes and quickly took in the room around her. Walter de Coutances stood near the window, his expression dark and sulking. She recognized the energetic, short man standing beside the queen as Hubert Walter, the new Archbishop of Canterbury and Richard’s appointment in absentia to the office of the justiciar. Young William d’Aubigni stood at her other side, dressed coarsely for an earl, and yet he seemed to be the most polished and consequential man in the room.

  “You! Nigel Fitz Richard!” she began. “Why did you not tell me that Richard Fitz Neal, Bishop of London, was your father?”

  Nigel hesitated to answer, and Gwendolyn wondered if he would be able to come up with words to address the topic of his father that were polite enough to be spoken in the queen’s presence.

  “He sired me on my mother, madame, but he was never my father.”

  Eleanor cocked an eyebrow at him and sat up a little straighter.

  “Well spoken,” she remarked, sounding a little surprised. “The past is done, and I cannot correct the loss of your mother or your wife or any other suffering that was visited upon you in his absence. But he appears to be sincerely repentant. Do you wish to know him, to welcome him into your and Ella’s lives now?”

  Gwendolyn stole a glance at Nigel, and he looked as if he were struck dumb, astonished that Eleanor should take an interest in his private life.

  Eleanor had apparently read his expression too, and she continued. “It is my pleasure, as a woman, to exercise my station to hold men accountable for their private wrongs when they would not hold themselves accountable. Do you wish to know Richard Fitz Neal?”

  Nigel shook his head. “No, madame, I do not.”

  “Very well, then. I shall order him not to interfere in your life or Ella’s except as you may see fit to request of him at some future date, if ever.”

  Nigel bowed his head. “Thank you, madame.”

  “And you, my dear.”

  The queen held out her hand, and William Marshal approached and laid a scroll, bound with a ribbon, in her palm, which Eleanor then extended toward Gwendolyn. When she recognized the scroll, Gwendolyn felt her breath rush out of her.

  “Rise, my dear. This is yours. Thank you for your trust in lending it to me.”

  Gwendolyn felt tears rise, and she frowned and blinked against them.

  “But I saw it burn.”

  “No, child, you saw a copy burn. And a very good one, from the sound of it. Walter told me. The fact that you still came here to complete our bargain when you believed I had broken my word to you speaks highly of your character and loyalty. And now,” the queen said, standing up from her seat. “Hand me your sword and kneel again before me.”

  Gwendolyn hesitated with a moment of confusion and scanned the faces of the men around her. Nigel grinned at her; the Marshal nodded and gestured with his chin for her to do as she was bidden. But William watched her with raised eyebrows and a hint of alarm in his eyes, reflecting her own thoughts. Not a word had passed between them about the sword or the horrors of the cave. And yet they seemed more of a single mind since that day, their few conversations merely incidental.

  She tucked her father’s letter into her cloak, pulled her sword, handed the hilt to the queen, and knelt before her.

  Eleanor fixed her haughty gaze upon her. The queen seemed to enjoy the weight of the sword in her hand. She held the hilt up to examine it more closely, noting the ordinary crossguard, the leather wrapping. Her eyes traveled to the blade itself and the queen paused, a strange expression of disbelief coming over her face, but only for a moment. She turned to Gwendolyn.

  “There is no precedent for what I am about to do, Lady de Cardinham. I have consulted the archbishops and justiciars, present and future, and they advise me that you cannot rely upon this act to confer any legal right or title upon you. But you carry a sword and you appear to be of a mind and talent to use it. More importantly, you inspire others to follow you. I have come to the conclusion that I would fail my duty to my son if I allowed you to leave the Tower wit
hout securing your oath of homage to Richard as your liege lord, above all others. And I will confer upon you the customary title of Sir Knight, and by the force of your will and character may you succeed in exercising the rights thus afforded to you.”

  Gwendolyn considered the queen’s words, understood their implication. In short, she had shown herself to hold enough martial ability to pose a threat to the crown. The knight’s oath was used to ensure that the warrior’s weapons and violence were only put to his lord’s protection, against his lord’s enemies and never against his lord’s own home. In exchange for the oath, the knight could acquire title to his own lands and the rents and fees that he could collect from them. But in her case, the return for her oath was an empty gesture. Among women, only a widow with children held title to lands in her own right, and then only until her eldest son reached majority and assumed his inheritance. She was being asked to perform homage, to give her oath, in exchange for…nothing. Her eyes strayed again to Walter de Coutances, and he looked away.

  “You have my oath,” Gwendolyn replied evenly, her green eyes reflecting her clear understanding of the meaning of this unorthodox ceremony.

  Eleanor raised Gwendolyn’s sword in her right hand and laid the flat of the blade against her right shoulder, then the left. It seemed to Gwendolyn that she felt the sword’s blade tremble in the queen’s hand, and Gwendolyn’s thoughts raced like Bedwyr running with the bit in her teeth, but she reined them in immediately. It was ridiculous, she told herself, to suppose that the queen somehow could have recognized the sword.

  “I dub thee Sir Knight.”

  Gwendolyn bowed her head again, wondered what, if anything, useful could come out of such a charade of a ceremony.

  “And now, hasten yourself to Penhallam, Sir Gwendolyn.” Eleanor passed her sword back to her. “Rise, all of you,” she added sharply, turning her back to them to step back up into her chair. “Robert de Cardinham is returned,” she continued, staring at them keenly as she settled back into the elaborately carved chair. “That was the only thing that John related to you that was true. And by the accounts of my spies, John actually believed Walterus de Cardinham a wizard, his own Merlin, who would deliver Caliburn to him and then kill you. I understand his plot involved an attack on your constable here, and kidnapping and torturing a child to bring you to Walterus.”