by David Wind
Morgan swung the mace in the air, the heavy lead ball whooshing loudly in Miles’s ears as he stepped up to his foe. Then, with his shield held in ready, Miles hefted the battle-axe and charged.
Both knights’ screams rose as their weapons descended on the other. The heavy ball thudded against Miles’s shield, and the impact sent pain shooting through his arm. But he stood his ground, and even as Morgan drew back to let loose the mace again, Miles’s axe descended.
Its flattened edge struck the outer umbo of Morgan’s shield, bending the thick metal band and making the heavy-set knight stagger. But the mace’s ball did not falter as it again struck Miles’s shield, sending another wave of pain upward to his shoulder.
Miles spun, lifting his shield to cover his head, but he’d anticipated wrong, and the mace struck his side in a devastating blow. Miles stumbled, but his instincts came fully to life. He dropped his shield low, this time rightly anticipating Morgan’s move. The ball hit his shield, and as it did, Miles flicked his wrist to send the ball ricocheting harmlessly away. In the same move, he swung the axe horizontally toward Morgan. The wide-set knight moved faster than Miles had thought he could, neatly deflecting the axe with his shield.
Then they stood apart for a moment, staring at each other and taking several deep breaths. Both men were conscious of the unusual silence that had fallen over the crowd. There were no strident calls, no cheers of encouragement, just a deadly silence that called for more fighting.
Slowly, Morgan lifted the mace and began to whirl it over his head. Miles watched his eyes, not the mace, as Morgan stepped closer. Then, before Morgan could take another step, Miles whirled in a circle, shouting out a battle cry and bringing the heavy battle-axe downward in a swift movement. Morgan’s shield barely contained the surprise move. His mace glanced harmlessly off Miles’s shoulder, yet the glancing blow was effective enough to stop Miles’s attack.
Rivulets of sweat poured down both their faces as they fought on. Attack and defend, attack and defend, for endless and wearying minutes. Five minutes after the battle had been joined, Miles’s shield was ripped and tattered, almost as badly as was Morgan’s.
But neither knight would stop. When Miles charged yet again, his foot caught on a clump of grass and he tripped. Cries were heard from the crowd, amongst theirs, Gwendolyn’s. Her knuckles turned white as her fists curled ineffectively and her eyes stayed locked to the combat.
She alone, among everyone else, was aware of the truth of this fight. Morgan would do whatever he could to win, and if he could at the same time kill Miles, he would not hesitate. Not even Richard’s command would stop him.
“Bad,” whispered Marshall behind her.
Morgan’s mace whirled again as Miles rolled on the ground. Suddenly the deadly metal ball whisked downward, and a loud shout rose from the crowd, obliterating the sound of the ball hitting Miles’s left shoulder. But even as the mace fell, Miles had freed his right arm and swung the axe upward. When the ball hit his shoulder, his axe met the wooden handle of the mace.
Then the unbelievable happened. A loud sound crackled in the air, and the round morningstar continued to arc harmlessly to the ground, followed by both the chain and half the wooden handle. In one swift movement, Miles rose to his feet, the axe held near Morgan’s throat while he stared at the knight.
Morgan’s enraged eyes did not blink as he released his hold upon the useless bottom half of the mace.
Slowly, Miles dropped his shield and lowered his axe. He stepped back a foot, and bowed to his opponent.
“It is not over yet,” whispered Morgan.
Miles smiled, ignoring the pain in his side and shoulder from the mace’s cruel blows. “Soon,” he retorted in challenge.
“Upon your death,” Morgan stated.
“So be it,” Miles replied, grasping his pommel and drawing the longsword out smoothly.
He hefted it above his head, and brought it down slowly in salute to the other knight. Never once did his eyes leave the dark, rage-filled ones of his opponent.
Moving forward, Miles began to whirl the longsword in the air. Their swords met in a glinting clash above their heads, and Miles again felt in the jarring of his arms the animal strength of his opponent.
Morgan showed none of the effect of the axe, but Miles felt the mace’s lingering caress in his shoulder. Spinning under the blades, Miles bent low, swinging toward Morgan’s thighs.
Another loud clash echoed when Morgan parried the attack. Then, cautiously, both men fought. Each attacked in turn; learning about the other’s weaknesses as the minutes dragged on and the spectators began to shout encouragement to their particular favorite.
“You can’t win,” Morgan whispered when they were close. Miles ignored this, and accented his silent reply with a devastating blow to Morgan’s shoulder. The blunted edges of the sword would not cut through the maille, but the effect of the blows that fell was in their punishing pain.
Again, acting like the bull he resembled, Morgan took up the attack, slashing, striking, using his brute strength to weaken Miles and force him back.
Miles realized his danger while he retreated. He could not fight Morgan on the knight’s terms; Morgan was too powerful. Use your mind! he ordered himself. Then, as Morgan unleashed yet another furious attack, Miles drew his sword back and stepped forward. He knew it was a risky move, weighted down by the maille and leather armor, but he had no choice. Calculating everything to the very inch, Miles somersaulted forward, a hairsbreadth beneath the flashing blade, and rose behind Morgan before the man could stop his forward rush. Moving with lightning speed, Miles swung the sword just as Morgan spun to face him.
As soon as his sword met Morgan’s he knew! The sound of a blade breaking in battle was unmistakable, and the hollow cracking of metal reverberated loudly above them. Morgan stared at Miles, and then at his own broken blade. Suddenly, loud cheering erupted from everyone’s mouths as they realized the end of the tournament had been reached.
Silently, still holding Morgan’s maddened eyes, Miles bowed formally to the knight. Then, he sheathed his sword and removed his helmet. Turning, he strode toward Richard, Gwendolyn, and Hughes. When he reached the place before them, he loosened his coif-de- maille, and dropped its hooded continence to his shoulders before bowing to his king.
“Rise, Sir Miles, victor,” proclaimed Richard in a loud voice. Miles stood, but rather than look at Richard, his eyes locked with Gwendolyn’s and he drank in the emotions pouring from them.
“Sir Morgan, step forward,” Richard called loudly. He waited a moment until the knight, accompanied by his squire, stood next to Miles. “Today, two of my bravest knights fought for the hand of Lady Gwendolyn. But,” Richard said, pausing to gaze at both knights for a moment before he continued, “but, what everyone here today witnessed was more than just a tournament. What they have witnessed is the power, and the might of England and Normandy, and what they have seen today is but an example of what the Saracens shall feel when we arrive in the Holy Land!”
The crowd cheered lustily with Richard’s brave words, none noticing the strange look that passed between Gwendolyn and Miles when he spoke. Their eyes met again and held, until he finished his political speech.
“And now we declare this tournament ended. Sir Miles Delong, Earl of Radstock, champion of Lady Gwendolyn, granddaughter of Hughes, Duke of Devonshire, soon to be the Lady Gwendolyn Delong!”
Again the voices rang out, and none noticed that Morgan had stepped back. Miles’s and Gwendolyn’s eyes were locked upon each other’s, until Miles saw Gwendolyn’s blue eyes go wide. The crowd became hushed, and Miles, a tickling at the nape of his neck warning him, spun.
Morgan stood three feet from him, a shortsword raised high, his eyes mad and unseeing of anything except the target before him.
“Hold!” cried Richard as Morgan took a threatening step forward.
“No!” screamed Gwendolyn, vaulting the small barrier before her and stepping between Miles and
Morgan. “Stop before you dishonor your family,” she said in a low voice. “The king has spoken. There is nothing that can be changed. It is over. Leave!”
Miles stared at Morgan, timing everything as his hands went to Gwendolyn’s waist and readied himself to toss her from between them; then he saw the sword waver and slowly drop until it pointed at Miles’s face.
“For as long as you live, Delong, you will have Guildswood for your enemy. As Christ is my witness, I shall not rest until I am avenged for what you have taken from me this day. Whenever you go to sleep at night, pray that you will wake in the morning!” With his oath done, Morgan threw his sword to the ground before Gwendolyn and Miles. Then he bowed elegantly to Richard, turned, and stalked from the field.
Gwendolyn turned to face Miles, her eyes still wide with the effects of Morgan’s words, but before Miles could comfort her, Richard spoke again.
“Do not think overlong on his words. He was angered, both by his loss of you, my lady, and by his defeat on the field. He is a good knight; he meant not what he said.”
But Gwendolyn knew the truth, as did Miles. Together, her smaller hand clasped in his tournament gauntlet, they turned to face the king and bow their understanding.
“But smile,” Richard declared, “for the marriage you both desired will come to pass. I shall witness it myself, in two weeks’ time. Sir Miles, send word to Radstock!” Everyone bowed when Richard started from the field, but he stopped and turned back to Miles and Gwendolyn once again.
“You are a brave woman, Lady Gwendolyn. I have never seen another step before a sword willingly, except for my mother. You are the first woman I could compare to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and she is a woman to look up to.” With the shock of his words apparent on the faces of his closest advisors, Richard walked from the field, followed by Hughes and Marshall, and then Miles and Gwendolyn.
Behind them, the cheers of the people followed, but above that sound, forcing both Miles and Gwendolyn to pause and look up, was Valkyrie crying out his victory call.
Chapter Six
DUSK fell over the moors, subduing them in understated tones as was Devonshire’s wont. Each day the moors affected a different view, from bold and beautiful, to a misty haze that none could penetrate. But there was no land that Gwendolyn could envision which would be able to compare to the beauty of Dartmoor. And none, she knew, would ever hold the lure and mystery that her home did.
Tomorrow she would be leaving her home. For the third time in her life, she would be entering a new place, a new home, but this time she looked forward to it.
Tomorrow, Miles would arrive in the early morning, as custom decreed, with his full retinue of knights and family. The king had returned yesterday from his tour of Cornwall and seemed impatient for the wedding to be over, so that he could return to London, and then onward to Normandy.
But these past two weeks had been very busy for Gwendolyn. Besides preparing her belongings to be moved to Radstock, she had taken many days to ride in the moors to go to the Pool of Pendragon, and her mother’s cave. In the cave, she had done many things besides communing with the sword and helping her powers to grow stronger. She had also prepared the cave for her wedding.
Four times she had gone to the cave. She had sat on the strangely warm floor and held the sword in her hands. She’d opened her mind, accepting and receiving the soothing channel of energy and light within her. The first three times she had called out to the Druid priestess, seeking advice, but had received nothing for her efforts. On the fourth try, as she had sat amidst the pure silver light of the sword and formed her thoughts to call for the old woman, something within her had made her stop.
As hard as she had been trying, she’d suddenly understood it had not been necessary. Realization had flooded her mind, making her blood run warm through her body. She’d held the sword aloft and felt it begin to vibrate in her hands. There was a crackling in the air, and the cave had become filled with the scent of a summer thunderstorm. Slowly, she’d released her hold upon the silver hilt, and as she did, beams of light, combining all the colors of creation, sprang from everywhere along the sword’s length to dance within the confines of the cave. The sword had floated above her, and all around her she sensed eyes watching her.
Taking a long, calming breath, she’d waited. Willing the tension in her mind to ease, she’d sensed a relaxing of those ethereal beings around her.
“I have been chosen,” she’d whispered, knowing exactly what to say without knowing how she had.
“You have,” a single voice had replied. Tears had welled within Gwendolyn’s eyes when she’d heard her mother’s voice.
“As were you,” she had replied.
“As was Gwyneth,” came another voice. Within the voice had been all the power of the heavens, and thunder vibrated within Gwendolyn’s mind. But she’d been unafraid of this new voice.
“As were you, Father,” she’d stated calmly.
“As ‘we all were,” he had replied. But Gwendolyn heard the approval in his voice, and her heart beat proudly.
“And Miles?” she’d whispered.
“He was chosen for you. Together you and your husband will rise to the greatness that is necessary for our survival. “ “I understand,” she’d said.
“No, not yet, but you will, my daughter,” intoned the son of thunder. “Prepare yourself well,” he had added in a gentler voice.
When the voices had gone, the light faded. Gwendolyn had closed her eyes and grasped the pommel of the silver sword. Her tears fell slowly along her cheeks, but went unheeded as she thought about her father’s words.
“I will,” she’d promised. Slowly Gwendolyn had wrapped the sword in its chamois, and had risen from the floor. She had only one thing left to do before returning to the castle. She went to the package she’d brought with her and slowly untied it. She spread out the newly made rush mat, and smoothed it carefully. Then she’d placed the sword within its niche and left the cave. The sun was still out when Gwendolyn had mounted her horse· and headed back to Castle Kildrake.
“My lady?” called Roweena, forcing Gwendolyn’s mind to return to the present. She glanced at her servant and waited. “Your bath is ready, and then I must finish your wedding mantle.”
“Very well,” Gwendolyn said in a low voice. She gazed once more at the darkening vista of the moors, before following Roweena back to her chamber.
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Gwendolyn stood patiently upon the highest point of the near tower, waiting with Valkyrie perched upon her wrist, until the sun rose majestically over the moors. When it finally crested the tallest hill, and its rays glowed down upon the earth, Gwendolyn smiled. Light glimmered from the helmets of the approaching knights, and the pennants of Radstock flew high.
Valkyrie, uttering a low cry, arched his wings in anticipation of his coming flight. Sensing his impatience, Gwendolyn lowered her arm and drew it gracefully back. Then she moved it swiftly forward, lifting it high, until the large eagle left its leathery perch and entered its own territory. She watched the eagle drop from the tower and sighed when he caught the currents. Slowly, gracefully, Valkyrie rose in lazy circles.
Once he flew above her, the golden eagle called out.
Turning, Valkyrie arched majestically above Castle Kildrake, until he dropped lower and flew toward the oncoming procession.
When he had passed over the long line of riders, he circled behind it, and returned to the front. Then a solitary arm reached skyward. The richly embroidered material fell away from the wrist, and sunlight glinted off silver cuffs. Valkyrie seemed to stop in the air above the rider and then float downward until he was perched on the man’s shoulder.
Miles accepted the weight of the eagle when it came to rest on his shoulder. He gazed up into the bird’s amber eyes and saw he was being regarded carefully.
“Hello, old man,” he said.
Valkyrie stared at him unblinkingly.
Then Miles saw the chain around his neck, and the small p
iece of vellum attached to it. Gently, he drew the chain over the eagle’s head and unclasped the paper. He opened it and read, in Gwendolyn’s precise scripting, the message meant for him alone.
When he was finished, he replaced the chain on Valkyrie and looked upward at the high battlements of Kildrake, until he saw the form of Gwendolyn upon the parapet. He held out his arm for the eagle, and when the bird reached his wrist, he threw Valkyrie skyward.
Ten minutes later Miles was in the inner ward of Kildrake, kneeling before Sir Hughes, who pulled him roughly to his feet and pressed him close in welcome.
“The archbishop is with the king, the ceremony will start in two hours. I have had my own chamber prepared for you. Go to it;” he advised. “I wilt see to your family.”
“My thanks, my lord,” Miles replied honestly.
“Do not thank me too soon. You may yet regret your hasty decisions.”
“No, my lord, I shall not.”
Hughes gazed into the deep green pools of Miles’s eyes.
“I think not either, Miles, though I can’t for the life of me understand it.”
“There is nothing to understand, my lord. You must do as I have; accept it.”
“Well spoken. Miles, I am glad that Devonshire and Radstock will be allied. It will be beneficial in the future.”
“Thank you,” Miles replied, feeling the emotion of Sir Hughes’s words strongly within his heart. Then, Hughes clasped Miles’s shoulder in one of his large hands and squeezed gently,
“Go,” he repeated.
Miles motioned to Arthur and James as he started toward the stone wall and the entrance leading within. Behind him, his twin squires carried a large chest and walked as fast as they could.
Inside, he turned to them. “Take that to the duke’s chambers. I shall join you in a few minutes.”
Silently, the squires started up the stone staircase in one direction, while Miles ran quickly to the staircase opposite. A few moments later he stood at Gwendolyn’s door and knocked gently.