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GWENDOLYN’S SWORD

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

E. A. Haltom has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover and Interior design by Ted Ruybal

Manufactured in the United States of America

For more information, please contact:

Wisdom House Books

www.wisdomhousebooks.com

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-0-9963073-0-7

ISBN: 9780996307314

LCCN: 2015907121

FICTION / Historical / Fantasy

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www.smittenbythewords.blogspot.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

1. The End Of Solitude

2. William’s Curse

3. A Prophecy

4. Gwyn’s Letter

5. Guests Of Launceston Castle

6. The Mercenary Returns

7. The Face Of Evil

8. Guests Of The Tower

9. A Lamb For The Prince

10. Hounds Of Hell

11. The Walls Of Arundel

12. Hunter And Hunted

13. The Secret Revealed

14. Across The Bridge

15. Theater In The Hall

16. Accused

17. The Sword Breaks

18. A Gamble Won

Historical Notes

About E. A. Haltom

DEDICATION

For my family.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As this is my debut novel, I asked for and gratefully received the free commentary, proofreading and feedback of several among my friends and family. Put bluntly, this story would not have happened without their constant support and encouragement. For their kindness and their reassurance that the story was worth the effort to see it through, I am entirely in their debt. I would also like to thank my excellent editor, Ashley Davis, and also Ted Ruybal of Wisdom House Books for a fantastic book cover design, and for generous advice and guidance in layout and formatting. Having said that, all errors that may still be found in this book are my own.

I would especially like to acknowledge the Writers’ League of Texas, for providing such excellent resources, classes, and networking for new authors. The annual agents’ conference was an eye-opener for me, and the opportunity to submit my manuscript for consideration in the historical fiction category (and win!) was another irreplaceable source of encouragement and information that I desperately needed.

Lastly I would like to thank all of the independent authors out there in the interwebs for all of your advice, informative blogs, tweets of encouragement, and general camaraderie. I hope over time I can give back what I’ve received.

THE END OF SOLITUDE

Cornwall, England August, The Fourth Year of King Richard’s Reign

A broadsword was a difficult thing to hide in a dress. Gwendolyn wore a long cloak to conceal her weapon where it hung against her hip. She was as accustomed to the weight of it as she was to her own skin. But she had donned the cloak to conceal more than her sword. Years of training with the manor guard had added lines of muscle and scars across her forearms. Hers was a body formed for combat, her temperament more inclined to exercising command. These traits, she had learned, were not generally praised in women, and until her marriage she had tried to cloak them, as well, with mixed results. Here in the forest where she sought a few moments of solitude, she dressed herself in the ordinary garb of a lady of the manor, the wife of a landed knight who had taken up the cross and traveled to Outremer to join the king’s crusade. Standing tall, with shoulders as broad as those of any of the men in Penhallam’s manor guard, her bearing drew enough attention as it was. But walking through the woods without her weapon was unthinkable; outlaws took refuge here.

Beneath the leaves and ferns and fallen trees, a welcoming coolness persisted in the forest floor throughout all of the seasons. Long branches arched gracefully over her like a cathedral vault and shivered with a gentle breeze as she passed beneath them. She granted herself these moments of calm, accompanied only by two of her maids, as her sole respite from the constant work of managing a growing estate. She paused in the still air and turned to mark the progress of Anne and Martha behind her, the two friends happily absorbed in their conversation. Her constable had warned her sternly about the dangers she flirted with by taking these walks, and she conceded that he had a point. But so have I, she thought to herself, her hand resting casually against the hilt of her blade beneath her cloak.

From daybreak to nightfall, Gwendolyn occupied herself with the business of the manor and its lands. Some nights she sat at the trestle table in the hall, scratching out the manor’s accounts on the wooden surface with charcoal while the rest of the house’s residents slept in the straw around her. Her men sometimes woke to find her there in the morning, fast asleep, a night’s worth of calculations spread across the table around her. The coming winter would mark four years since Robert had taken up the cross. She had been a new wife of sixteen when he left; since then she had managed the estate alone. She had succeeded in earning the respect of her trade partners, sometimes exploiting her decidedly unfeminine demeanor toward that end—dressing as a man, sporting cuts and bruises from training with the manor garrison, and keeping up with her men-at-arms cup for cup when the ale flowed.

Gwendolyn paused for a moment to study the canopy above her, full and green. By its lush shade, she estimated that the harvest of the grain was at least a month away still, maybe more. She smiled to herself, thinking of the days and nights of hard work that lie ahead, and the months of relative leisure that would follow through the winter.

She had grown up in Restormel Castle, the jewel of the de Cardinham family’s holdings, as an orphaned ward. The baron’s wife had passed soon after Gwendolyn arrived, and with no other daughters, the household had lacked any feminine influence. To Gwendolyn’s great pleasure, no one had attempted to instruct her in needlepoint or song or any other of the finer skills expected of well-heeled ladies. Left to her own devices, Gwendolyn had helped herself to the library of books and manuscripts accumulated by the intellectual baron over decades of travel and war. As soon as a large compilation of the works of Plato was available in Latin translation, a copy had arrived at Restormel. Gwendolyn had wept the first time that she read the text, with its clear logic and methodical application of reason in all things. War, she had concluded, was the worst of all evils; nothing brought more waste and destruction than its capricious appetite. She had decided at a young age that she would put her size and strength to good use and learn to fight so that war, when it came, would find its match and slink away like the cur that it was.

When the baron discovered the breadth of her learning, he had accused her, scarlet-faced and shouting, of deliberately rendering herself unmarriageable. But then his own son Robert had surprised him by asking for her hand, and the baron had shrugged and given his consent. The baron’s title and the grand estate of Bodardel, including Restormel Castle, had gone to Robert’s older brother, Walter. Robert was allowed the smaller estate of Penhallam, at that time a dilapidated timber house used for seasonal hunts. Shortly after her wedding, the baron, a man who had spent most of his life with a sword in his hand, had died quietly in his sleep. With Gwendolyn’s promise to keep Penhallam safe until he returned, Robert had departed for Outremer as soon as he received his knight’s belt. He had fulfilled her request for a sword and ordered his constable to see to her instruction in its use. Gwendolyn and the constable had both kept their promises, and she had the tough, scarred hands of a soldier to show for it.

Twilight approached, but Gwendolyn allowed herself the indulgence of lingering to inspect a growth of mushrooms. She stooped, loosened the cluster from the earth, and cradled it under her nose, inhaling the musky scent. As she tucked the mushrooms into the pouch at her waist, a flash of movement through the branches above caught her eye. The screech of a peregrine falcon on the hunt sounded high over the treetops, momentarily silencing the forest birds that had been merrily singing above her. For a moment death’s chill breath seemed to brush her cheek, then pass by. Whatever troubles weighed on her mind, these walks reminded her that all things passed, and that change—birth, death, and rebirth—was the natural order of things. She stretched and relaxed the muscles in her neck and breathed the sweet forest air deeply, feeling the tranquility around her finally ease her mood. Her left shoulder still ached from a well-placed blow she had received during training that morning, and she rubbed the joint to loosen some of the stiffness.

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes and gazed down the road, keeping watch over Anne and Martha as they idled far behind her. Like her cloak, Gwendolyn had brought the young maids with her for appearances only, to satisfy the village gossips who she knew might otherwise suspect she had stolen away alone for a secretive romance. During her husband’s absence, Gwendolyn was well aware that such rumors could do as much damage to her as a blade. And the girls, both in their sixteenth year, were friends; they looked forward to these walks, to talk freely beyond the manor house and its complete lack of privacy.

A faint hum of deep voices approaching ahead brought Gwendolyn to attention. She stepped quickly off the road behind a large tree and steadied her breath, listening for the sound of rushing hooves or footsteps charging toward her. Hearing nothing but steady conversation, she craned her head to peer around the tree. Four men approached on foot, carrying small packs and fully engaged in what sounded like an argument.

She had a few moments to look them over. Two were older than the others and carried their packs across their backs; the other two, younger and slighter of build, each carried a smaller sack slung across the shoulder. One of the larger men wore his long hair tied back; the other’s was trimmed close to his skull. Dust from the road clung to their mantles that they wore draped around their shoulders. Even from the distance she could see that their clothing was rough and worn, showing patches and faded colors. Although the group appeared strong and well fed, their clothing suggested poverty, and the incongruity immediately caught her attention. The men were within a few paces of her hiding place, and she smoothed her skirts and stepped out to confront them directly.

Gwendolyn stood her ground as the men paused their squabbling and took notice of her. She watched their eyes register her long cloak that reached to the ground around her feet, its length marking her as a woman of some measure of wealth. Her red hair hung in a single, thick braid down her back, and she wore no adornment in the braid or on her cloak. She stared back at them steadily with green eyes.

The tallest among them, the man with his long hair pulled back, shifted his pack to the ground and bowed deeply before her with a courtly flourish of his hand. He wore a wooden cross strung on rough wooden beads that swung forward as he bowed. The roughness of the beads struck her as odd; it was the habit of pilgrims to work the beads one by one through their fingertips in never-ending cycles of prayer, leaving the beads polished to a dark sheen. These beads had been left alone, ignored. Strands of the man’s hair fell forward, framing intelligent brown eyes. One of his smaller companions elbowed the man beside him, looking uneasy.

“Good evening, my lady,” the taller man said with a faint smile.

She curtsied slightly in the courtly manner, inclining her head to steal a sideways glance. Anne and Martha had observed the men’s approach and walked casually up the road toward her.

“A fair hour for a stroll,” the man observed, looking around them at the towering, ancient woods. “I see you and your maids walk unescorted.”

Gwendolyn answered lightly, “What need do ladies have of an escort in the company of godly men?”

The man smiled softly. “You take us for pilgrims, then, my lady?”

“I take you for men of the cross. If you are on pilgrimage, what brings you to Cornwall?”

“We travel to the abbey of St. Michael’s Mount, my lady, to give glory to God.”

Gwendolyn’s mouth went dry and she felt her chest tighten, but she forced her breath to remain steady and she returned the man’s faint smile while her mind raced. St. Michael’s Mount stood on a rocky point off of Cornwall’s farthest coast, two days’ ride away. Henry de la Pomerai, a supporter of Prince John, had sailed a group of fighting men to the mount and violently overrun it. He had then sent messengers to John’s supporters in London asking for supplies and men. Those headed there now would be mercenaries, blood-thirsty men ready for war, travelling under cover and ready to kill to keep their secret. But perhaps these men really were pilgrims, unaware of the attack; word had only reached Penhallam a week ago.

“I am in charge of these lands and this road in the name of my husband, Robert de Cardinham, who has taken up the cross with King Richard. If you have any trouble while you pass through here, you may rely on the protection of my men.”

Her tone was perfunctory and impersonal, calculated to evoke a reaction or a comment, anything to give her a clue about the men’s intentions. She understood the danger clearly. If they suspected she saw through their ruse, they would kill her and her maids. Here, alone and unobserved in the forest, she had provided them the perfect cover for murder. And their mantles, she realized, were long enough to conceal weapons. If she drew her sword now, with all four ready to react, she might die where she stood.

“England’s men returned from Palestine a year ago, my lady,” the larger man said, and she thought she detected a hint of malice in his voice.

Gwendolyn paused to measure her breath, check that her tone remained casual. “My husband continues to serve the king in his captivity until he is returned to England.”

The man pressed his point. “Unless, as Prince John claims, the king is already dead.”

Beneath her cloak Gwendolyn’s hand gripped the hilt of her sword, and she felt her face flush in spite of her full effort to appear calm.

“What you suggest is treason, sir.” Her voice was low and steady. “The queen mother has sworn that her son lives.”

A moment of tense silence followed. Martha and Anne stood within ten paces, oblivious to the threat of violence unfolding ahead of them. The girls continued talking in low voices, stepping aside to make way for the group to pass them, and their light murmurs and laughter hung strangely in the air. Gwendolyn held the man’s gaze, her expression inscrutable. The second of the larger men touched his companion on the arm, gestured down the darkening path. The day was coming to an end; they had lingered long enough. Gwendolyn hoped the men were convinced that their pretense had worked, that she suspected nothing, and she made mental note of their size and number. She would send the manor guard after them as soon as she returned to Penhallam. Riding on horseback, her men would easily catch up with them.

“Of course, my lady,” the man agreed smoothly. With another deep bow, he shifted his pack up onto his arm and nodded to his companions. Together, they turned to continue on the path through the woods, the larger men leading. Gwendolyn exhaled and flexed the clenched muscles of her hand.

The girls stood facing each other, Anne’s back to the road, as the men walked past. Suddenly the man nearest to Anne, the large man who had spoken with Gwendolyn, swept his arm out and scooped Anne up off her feet, bracing her tightly against his chest.

Anne was tiny and light as a bird. She screamed and struggled to twist and kick in his grasp, but he easily pinned her with one meaty forearm while he wrestled both of her wrists into his other hand. In that instant Gwendolyn’s years of training crystallized. Her mind measured the distance between herself and the men, the speed with which the man who held Anne would be able to snap her neck.

Her cloak muffled the sound of her sword against its scabbard as she drew it. She lunged, running her sword through the man’s waist from one side to the other. The blade entered his body with surprising ease, and she felt the slight shudder against her palm as her steel ground across the bone at the front of the man’s spine. Martha screamed, and one of the younger men lunged at Gwendolyn, pulling a dagger from his belt as she freed her sword from the man in front of her, now collapsed onto his knees in the path. She pivoted, swung her sword, and cut off the arm with the knife still clasped in its hand. Blood surged from the man’s exposed elbow, splattering red across Gwendolyn’s pale blue dress.

Gwendolyn swung around to face the two remaining men, sword raised in battle stance, eyes unblinking. Less than a heartbeat had passed, and yet as she stood frozen in the path, her eyes locked on the men in front of her, the moments seemed to have stretched, slowing down all movement around her. She was sharply aware from the smell that the man beside her had emptied his bowels as he stooped to pick up the stump of his severed arm from the ground, looked at it blankly for a moment, and then fell face-down by her feet. Martha and Anne’s screams sounded far away over the rushing of her blood through her veins.

The younger of the two remaining men approached the kneeling form in the path and touched his shoulder with a trembling hand, then realized he had stepped into the damp, warm pool that surrounded the man’s body and withdrew with a shudder.

“He’s dead.” The young man looked up at her, horrified. “He’s dead!” He backed away slowly.

“Who are these men? What are their names?” Gwendolyn’s sharp voice snapped the younger man out of his stupor. He was perhaps younger than her and plainly unaccustomed to the sight of blood.

“You are John’s men,” she said evenly when he failed to answer her, and she lowered her sword slightly. “Rebels against the king. You will come with me now to Penhallam.”

The younger man’s features blanched as he realized how much she knew, and he took another tentative step back toward his companion. The sky above shone a rosy color, and Gwendolyn raised her sword again and took a step toward the men. The larger man, who had been staring at her in shock, suddenly came to his senses and they both turned abruptly and dashed into the woods, quickly disappearing into the shadows.

“The outlaws may do worse with them than William will when he finds them,” she said to herself, listening to the sounds of their steps growing fainter. She looked down at her sword, bloody for the first time since the smith forged it for her. She had to wipe and dry it or the blade would begin to rust. She looked around her, as if a clean rag might materialize for her there in the forest. Finally she gathered up a handful of her skirt and carefully wiped down the blade. The dress was already ruined, after all. As she sheathed her weapon, Gwendolyn felt a wave, unstoppable, roll up from the pit of her belly. She turned, bent over, and heaved the full contents of her stomach into the brush beside the path.

When the gagging finally passed and she could stand upright again, she spat and wiped her mouth with her sleeve and turned on trembling legs to face her maids.

Tears streaked Anne’s cheeks, and the girl frowned hard to stifle her sobs. Her fists clutched a rip at the neck of her gown.

“Are you hurt?” Gwendolyn asked.

Anne shook her head, her eyes fixed on the ground. Gwendolyn considered moving the men’s bodies to the side of the road, but decided she would send her men for them. Her priority was to get Martha and Anne safely back to Penhallam.

“Come on,” Gwendolyn said, pulling her cloak across her shoulders again and concealing the dark spatters on her dress. She drew her sword again, in case the remaining two men had stayed near for another attack. Together, they started the walk back, Martha’s arm protectively circling Anne’s shoulders.

The taste of bile still sour in her mouth, Gwendolyn realized her days of stealing these moments of solitude in the woods had ended. The intrigues of the royal court had finally reached into the far west of England, all the way to Penhallam. She had been foolish to ignore the plain fact that John’s plots for the throne had divided loyalties and brought England to the brink of war with itself. When Henry de la Pomerai took over St. Michael’s Mount, he had killed most of the monks and the abbot himself. She had known all of these things, had been warned by her constable, and yet she had refused to believe that the danger was real. You’ve been such a fool, she admonished herself, trying not to think of what could have happened if she had been without her sword. Then again, she realized, she had just intercepted rebels against the king. If she had not been walking the forest that evening, they might have safely reached their destination.

“There will be no more walks in the forest,” Gwendolyn announced.

“Yes, my lady,” Martha answered. “It’s for the best. William will be glad to hear of it.”

As Penhallam’s constable, William Rufus commanded her men and had provided her no quarter in her training on account of her sex or her status. For this she respected him. But he held no authority over her, and this was a frequent source of aggravation for them both.

The road emerged from the woods and Gwendolyn paused to take in the view of Penhallam’s estate. Two swift-flowing streams cut the ancient valley before them; where these streams joined, a Cornish warlord had built a timber stronghold long before the Normans came to England. The low valley provided shelter from the terrible sea gales that raked the land every winter, and the streams gave a ready supply of fresh water and fish. To improve defenses, a low moat had been dug out, the excavated dirt and stone used to build a ring-work to fortify the inner banks. In the year before their marriage, Robert had persuaded his father to dismantle the clay and timber house and build in its place a stone stronghold, complete with a large hall for the manor household and a private chamber for himself and his young bride.

Beyond the moated area, the manor’s outbuildings stood in a cluster surrounded by a high timber palisade. The rest of the household’s eighteen residents lived and worked in these buildings brewing ale, baking bread, rendering tallow, and tending the horses. Penhallam’s men-at-arms kept a rotating guard living in both the outbuildings and the manor. Her constable, however, had not slept anywhere but the manor hall during Robert’s absence. Gwendolyn was, after all, the only member of the de Cardinham family in residence at Penhallam, and William considered her protection to be his first and personal duty. Along with the household, Penhallam was supported by—and in turn aided and protected—a dozen or more small hamlets and farmsteads that dotted the valley and neighboring lowlands.

The largest of these villages lay between the forest and the manor house, directly ahead of Gwendolyn and her maids. Its buildings huddled in a cluster of cottages, shared longhouses, small gardens, and shops, all of it encircled by a collection of small yards for livestock. The manor house stood shrouded in evening shadows just beyond the village, its dark walls pierced by the glow of the hearth visible through narrow window slits. The village church stood to the north, the sole stone building other than the manor house. The mill and the blacksmith’s hut, its fires glowing, stood alone beside the stream north of the manor. On their left a low hill swelled, marked by the rubble outline of an ancient fortress. A large cesspit lay at the bottom of that rise, downwind from the village and the manor house. To their right, strips of cultivated ground, some set aside for individual families and some shared, crossed the hillside. Rows of grain, legumes, and vegetables gently waved in the evening breeze, cooler now with the setting sun. The last harvest of the season would be upon them soon, and the hard work of reaping, storing, pickling, and salting would keep the full village occupied. It was an exhausting but joyous time, and Gwendolyn looked forward to the shared meals in the fresh air and the songs and stories of the traders that would come through afterward offering trinkets, pretty ribbons, amusements, and news from the larger towns. Old rivalries were set aside, if only for the harvest, and many courtships took root in the side-by-side labor that put young men and women in the fields together for days on end.

Gwendolyn and her maids covered the last bit of road quickly, threading their way between the low stone walls marking fields and pastures and into the muddy lanes of the village. Around them, men and their older sons returned from the fields, sweaty and tired, and their whistles and calls and the barking of working dogs greeted them. Women called to their families, announcing the evening supper, and the smoke of cooking fires curled into the dimming sky. The usually welcome smells of evening stews and breads caused her stomach to lurch with a new wave of nausea. She said nothing to the familiar faces that she passed, keeping her eyes downcast and hoping that no one stopped her for a word.

Gwendolyn stopped where a small footpath led to a timber and thatch cottage beneath the outstretched arms of an oak. She gently touched Anne’s arm and gestured for her to return to her own home tonight. Anne held Gwendolyn’s gaze for a moment before turning down the path, and Gwendolyn saw reflected back a new hardness that replaced some of the innocence they both had lost that afternoon. Anne said goodnight and walked briskly toward her family’s cottage, her hands in tiny fists at her sides.

Gwendolyn and Martha crossed the wooden bridge and passed through the timber gatehouse into the manor yard, where her hounds loped out to meet them, baying excitedly around their skirts. A rack of fish hung over a smoking fire, out of the dogs’ reach. Osbert, Penhallam’s cook and steward, stepped out from the undercroft as Martha ducked in on her way up to the hall. He wiped flour from his hands onto a leather apron and greeted Gwendolyn with a tip of his chin. Gwendolyn dodged Osbert’s curious look and wordlessly tossed him the pouch of mushrooms she carried from the woods. She ducked through the low doorway into the kitchen, a small building attached to the side of the house, leaving Martha to climb the stairs to the hall without her.

Osbert had set out a supper of bread and stew, ready to be carried up to the hall. Gwendolyn placed her hands flat on the worn, wooden table, fingers spread, and willed her body to become steady. She only had a few moments by herself, and she refused to allow her men to see her so unsettled. After all, this was what she had trained for; she had known this day would eventually come. Stacks of bread trenchers filled shelves lining the walls next to pots of butter and honey. Jars of dried fruits and berries had been shifted to make room for the smoked fish that would be stored there. Clusters of potherbs from the manor garden hung from the rafters above her. The tenants of Penhallam were well provided for, she reminded herself, and the thought helped to calm her. She stepped outside and entered the undercroft through the same low opening Martha had taken.

The space beneath the hall was as crowded as the kitchen, storing barrels of salted meats and fish, wheels of cheese, and jars of lard. Sacks of grain stacked as high as the timbers leaned against the row of thick oak pillars that ran the length of the undercroft. The pillars supported a long, massive beam, the backbone that braced the manor hall above. A narrow, spiral stairway, built of stone and standing in an enclosure attached to the side of the building, provided the only access up. The turn of the stairs, upward to the right, would force any would-be attacker to shift his weapon to the weaker left hand, giving right-handed defenders above the advantage. The same style of construction could be found in the royal castles around Cornwall and the rest of England, but it was unusual in a humble manor house. William had insisted on the design, however, and the baron had grudgingly agreed to the expense. Tonight she found new appreciation for William’s foresight.

She started up the stairs, steadying her feet on the narrow ledges, but suddenly found her way blocked by William, moving quickly on his way down. He stopped abruptly two steps above her, so that her eyes were level with his chest. William had a thin build, but in the narrow stairwell his height and broad shoulders still gave the impression of towering bulk that reminded her of the oaks that supported the house.

“Are you hurt?”

Martha had been up to the hall already; she would have given details of the attack to the men-at-arms gathering for the evening meal. Gwendolyn took a deep breath and looked up as she shook her head, her jaw set. She studied William’s face, pale blue eyes glowing in the dim torchlight, but she was unable to discern his thoughts from the taut lines of his expression. She paused with a hand on the stone wall beside her, felt its soothing cool beneath her palm, and lowered her eyes to receive the reproach that she knew she deserved. She had refused to heed his warnings; as a result she had placed herself and her maids into the path of mercenaries.

“Martha’s white as a sheet.”

“Yes, I am aware, thank you,” she replied, eyes cast downward. Her voice was clipped and full of guilt. When she looked back up at him, his face had softened.

“This wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course it was. You warned me, and you were right. I was incredibly foolish.” Her mind vividly recalled the blood, the grating of the sword against bone.

Her cloak had fallen open, and she waited while William’s gaze took in the pattern of blood on her dress, the straight lines across her skirt where she had wiped her blade. “You discovered rebels against the king and you stopped them. The two that are left will be easy to find.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “You did well, Gwendolyn.”

With all of her work in the kitchen to calm herself nearly ruined by this unexpected kindness, she looked up at him again. “I feel like my heart is breaking. How do men live with this?”

William looked straight ahead for a moment, his eyes focused on the inner images of his memories.

“Not easily. You should go get something to eat, if you can,” he finally said.

Gwendolyn blinked and took a moment to regain her composure, but then remembered the ordeal was not yet over.

“There were four men travelling on foot to St. Michael’s Mount, disguised as pilgrims. Of the two that are left, one has certainly never held a sword. He was close to losing his wits. The other one is big. Not as tall as you, but heavier. He’ll fight you.”

“Any weapons?”

“I didn’t see any. The way they took off running, they were travelling light.”

“And pilgrims carrying swords would have brought more attention than they would have wanted.”

“Take Gerald with you,” she added. Gerald was Penhallam’s youngest knight, eager to please William and hungry for experience.

William nodded and moved past her, making an effort to press himself against the wall of the narrow passage to avoid brushing against her. William’s sense of propriety around her had always been flawless, although somehow it only reminded her that she was different, still only a woman despite the sword she carried.

WILLIAM’S CURSE

Penhallam’s hall smelled of smoke, straw, dog excrement, and the sweat of men. Fresh straw laced with fragrant herbs was laid down across the timber floor every Sunday, and by the end of the week the manor’s residents picked a careful path through the hall. Tom Butler, Gerald’s uncle and the oldest of Penhallam’s household knights, crossed the floor to her with a large cup of ale in his hand.

“You’ll be wanting this, my lady,” he said gravely, handing the wooden cup to her.

She thanked him and took her usual seat on the stool at the end of the trestle table, across from the hearth. Without tasting the ale, she set the cup down on the table, bent her face into her hands, and rubbed her eyes. She felt as if she had aged ten years since that morning.

Martha set bread and ale out on the table, her usual chattiness gone. Death seemed to have followed them back from the woods, and the hall was quiet and somber in its presence. Gwendolyn picked up a crust of bread, felt her stomach turn, and put the crust back down onto the plate. She stared into the hearth, wishing she could enjoy its warmth without being reminded of the night when her parents had died. She had been five years old, but she remembered the heat of the fire clearly, the look on her mother’s face when the flames reached her skirts while Gwendolyn’s father lay unconscious beneath a collapsed timber. A man had rushed in and grabbed Gwendolyn beneath her arms, swept her out of the cottage, and then left. She had watched the roof of the house collapse, sending a burst of orange sparks up into the night. She remembered her shock that something so terrible and cruel could be so beautiful at the same time. When others arrived from the village, they had found her safe beside a tree, quiet and alone. The man who had rescued her was never found. As young as she was, she had known that night that her life had been altered in an irrevocable way, that joy and laughter were gone from her future.

Foolish or not, the woods had been her only sanctuary. Now that was gone, too.

Osbert stepped into the hall, carrying the heavy black pot of stew in front of him, followed by the stooped figure of Gamel, William’s father and a spicer. Gamel’s knowledge of the healing uses of herbs and salves had served Penhallam and nearby villages and abbeys since before Gwendolyn was born. Gamel had instructed William as his apprentice until William’s fourteenth year, when Gwendolyn’s parents died and she left to live with the baron and his family at Restormel. She had wondered later if Gamel resented his son’s decision to take up arms, to pursue a life of breaking men’s bodies instead of healing them. But after she returned to Penhallam years later as Robert’s bride, on many nights she had found William conferring with his father quietly in a corner of the hall, receiving the old man’s instruction in the method of setting a broken bone or gathering a specific wort to contain the plant’s essence, listening intently even while polishing the blade of his sword.

“Got into a bit of a scuffle, did you,” Gamel remarked. The old man crossed the hall to the hearth and helped Osbert hang the heavy stew pot by its handle from an iron arm set deep into the masonry. Gwendolyn greeted the old man and shifted in her seat to make room for him at the table.

“Have you tended to Anne? She got the worst of it.”

“Aye, she’s in good hands with her mother. I’m here for you now, my lady,” he said.

Gwendolyn took a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness in her chest. “I’m fine, Gamel. Just a bit stiff.”

“You killed two men, Gwendolyn. Your body may be fine, but being so close to death can shatter a man on the inside.” He turned to face her and reached his hands toward her face, and she complied by leaning toward him. With steady hands he tilted her chin gently down and looked into her eyes. He said nothing and lay his hand gently across the inside of her wrist and closed his eyes, breathing softly, reading some unknown message in the throb of her pulse. Finally he opened his eyes and inspected the inside of her palm, turning it in the firelight to better see the fine lines etched into it.

“Pitched your stomach, I see,” he said, reaching into the worn sack that was permanently hung from his side.

Gwendolyn nodded. By now she was accustomed to the old man’s skill.

“It’s all in the humors, child. There is a balance for each of us, and you have too much bile,” he said, selecting certain small packets from the handful of glass vials and tiny pouches that he had pulled out onto the table. He began measuring and combining powders into a cup.

“Did you know that I treated Gwyn, your father, when he first came here?” he asked, pausing to raise his eyes to her. He had told her the story many times, but she still enjoyed hearing him retell it, part of her hoping he might recall some new detail he had not told her before.

She shook her head, and he continued.

“When your father arrived at Penhallam with the baron, he was on death’s doorstep. He was lucky, though. None of his organs were pierced, and the baron’s surgeon had done his work well with the bone and muscle. But it was the sickness in the wound that almost took him.”

She had only a few memories of her father, a Welshman, and by all accounts a force to be reckoned with. The baron had told her of the time that he met her father while on a campaign into the Welsh Marches with King Henry. The king had led a substantial force of mercenaries up the Ceiriog Valley to attack the Welsh fortresses in the Berwyn Mountains, to end their resistance once and for all. Instead, the Welsh princes had sent small bands of skirmishers to pick off the marching English from cover of the surrounding forest. The Welsh attackers had painted their faces and bodies with paint and dressed themselves with the skins and bones of animals. They had screeched and howled from the dark shadows of the woods and called upon Welsh gods and demons with descriptions of such violence that even some of the battle-numbed mercenaries had fled their posts. The king had finally ordered the woods cleared with axes, but too late. The reduced English armies were met by the full onslaught of the Welsh attack on the valley floor. Days of rain had left the ground slippery even before the first blood was spilled, and the baron lost his footing in the heated battle and fell face-down into the muck. In that moment he had awaited death, but instead he felt the hands of his attacker lift him upright to face him again. The baron had stared at the flaxen-haired mountain of a youth who had righted him, trying to fathom the display of chivalry, and in that moment a spear had pierced the youth’s shoulder, sending him sprawling backward. The baron had stood over the youth, protecting his life only to see him become one of twenty-three Welsh prisoners kept by Henry upon the English king’s humiliating retreat. Baron Robert Fitz William had fought with Henry on many campaigns, and he knew the king’s reputation for cruelty was in fact milder than the reality. That night, at the risk of his own life, the baron had quietly rounded up his surgeon and his men, and they kidnapped the youth from the king’s camp, fleeing north to a ship and finally to safety in Cornwall. Furious at the insult of losing one of his prisoners, King Henry had mutilated the remaining twenty-two Welsh prisoners the following morning. Hatred for all Normans had solidified among the Welsh when the captured men returned to their villages, their tongues, noses, and hands cut off.

Gwendolyn watched Gamel finally empty the mixture of powders into her cup.

“You will sleep tonight, without dreams. But the memories,” he added, as if he read her thoughts, “are yours to keep.”

William reined in his courser, slowing the stallion to a walk. Gerald pulled up beside him, his black mare blowing hard. From Gwendolyn’s description, William guessed they were getting close to where the bodies of the two men lay in the road. He motioned to Gerald to cover the right side of the road while William kept his eyes on the left.

The forest was cast in blackness, and a chill breeze had swept away the afternoon warmth. The woods lay quiet and still, and William felt as though every sound they made could be heard miles away. Moonlight shone through in shafts slicing down through the canopy, casting eerie forms when a breeze shook and stirred the branches above. William shivered in spite of the heavy mail tunic he wore and the layers of quilted padding and undershirt beneath. He had been visited by nightmares since he was a boy. Some nights he saw glimpses of phantoms and demons, the unnatural monsters of darkness, hunting in the night for a victim. His father had tried different remedies, but none had worked.

“This has naught to do with the humors,” Gamel had told him. “You have been touched by the finger of God. You have the gift of sight, William, but you are only a mortal vessel to carry it.”

What his father had called a gift, William considered a curse. He had convinced his father to send him south to the priory at Launceston, and the monks there had helped him. The visions still came, his own private Hell, but now they played out for him as a reflection on water, distant and set apart. It was the best that could be done, they said. Like dogs, cats, and birds of prey, he sensed things unseen yet very real. The prior had told him that his mind was an open doorway to all things forbidden and condemned by the Church, and because all things had a purpose, William would discover his, in time. For now, William knew too well that not all of the shadows dancing in the forest around them now were mere tricks of the moonlight.

“Be on your guard,” he said in a low voice to Gerald, but as he said the words Gerald’s horse reared and twisted on its hind legs, pawing the air and trying to turn back while Gerald struggled to keep his seat. The young knight cursed and flung himself forward over the horse’s neck, standing in his stirrups and using his weight to force the panicked horse back down onto all four legs. William’s horse skittered sideways beneath him in agitation and tossed its head, the whites of its eyes flashing. A dark lump lay on the ground between them, and another in front. William recognized the rusty smell of spilled blood, the stench of guts pierced and emptied.

William steadied his horse and swung down, holding the reins while he crouched beside the body of one of the dead men. A stump of bone from the severed arm glistened in the moonlight, and he knew before he removed his glove and touched the man’s cheek that he would find it cold and hard. The man’s eyes were open, his mouth frozen in an unspoken question. Gerald swung down beside William and walked over to the other figure in the road with his hand covering his nose against the smell. William decided not to bring the bodies back to Penhallam. Whoever these dead men were, they were not from Cornwall. Despite King Richard’s bequest of the title of Earl of Cornwall to his younger brother, there was no love for the prince here. The people of Cornwall prized valor, honor, loyalty. John had none of these. All that mattered now was to find the two who had fled and prevent them from reaching St. Michael’s Mount.

“Get the bodies off the road, out of sight. Let the crows bury them.”

“Yes, sir,” Gerald answered, then coughed slightly as William picked up the severed limb from the ground and wrapped it in a cloth that he pulled from his saddle.

William watched Gerald tie a rag tightly around the lower half of his face to cover his mouth and nose. He turned to William, his eyes smiling.

“Gwendolyn did this?”

William nodded, taking in the scene and imagining the fight.

Gerald clicked his tongue and whistled quietly. “I knew she had it in her.”

So did I, William thought grimly. As he continued to scan the area, he noticed the packs abandoned by the mercenaries when they had fled. Going over to one, he loosened the ties and found inside a mason’s hammer, a bulky tool with a flat, heavy head. He fixed the hammer under his belt and stood up.

“I’m going on foot. With any luck, they’re still nearby.”

William loosened a couple of leather ties from his saddle to take with him. He chose his dagger, a lighter weapon for an ambush, and left his sword hanging from the saddle. As he moved noiselessly through the dark brush that covered the forest floor, he was grateful to be free of its awkward weight and the creaking leather of the scabbard. These men would not be the sort to run far. Their bodies were trained for battle, like a bull’s, not for speed. Or for stealth, he realized as he spied the faint glow of a campfire in the distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile away.

William approached slowly, checking the direction of the wind first. The men had no horses or dogs to alert them of his approach, but he was not one to take chances needlessly. The men might have reasoned that no one would follow them until sunrise—a fair assumption. Few people cared to venture out of their houses after sunset, much less into the wild woods. Even without William’s vision, many swore they saw the souls of the restless dead or their demon tormentors walking at night.

As he approached downwind, he realized the reason for the fire. Their appetites had gotten the better of them. Three small birds, cleaned and plucked, hung over the fire on a sapling stick held by one of the men. William could smell the meat roasting and wondered whether wolves would also be drawn by the scent. They talked with each other in low, hissing voices, and William crept closer, holding the stump of arm bundled at his side as he placed his dagger into his belt and pulled out the hammer with his free hand.

“Where will we go now?” the younger man said, sounding like a frightened child.

“Shut up,” said the second man, who held the stick with the skewered birds on it over the fire. “We’re free now. Don’t you understand?”

“But you heard what she said. The people here have been warned. We’ll be discovered by someone else!” The first man hunched down further where he sat, pulling the edges of his mantle up to his eyes.

The second man clenched his jaw and spat into the fire. “Just eat and we’ll start moving again. We’re exposed here. We need to get past this place before the sun rises.”

The younger man lowered his head, as if he could conceal himself entirely from the strange noises of the forest that seemed to circle beyond the pool of light cast by the fire. William realized that Gwendolyn had judged the men correctly; only the larger man would offer any resistance. The other only needed a little encouragement to give up altogether.

William unbundled the severed limb and stood up, feeling its weight in his right hand and gauging the distance. He stepped back, took aim, and tossed it over the men’s heads so that it landed at the edge of the fire, right in front of them. The arm made a solid thud, the whoosh of air causing sparks to fly up from the fire.

The effect was exactly as William had hoped. The two men stared for a moment. As recognition dawned, the first man shrieked and scooted himself on the ground away from the fire and the arm, kicking his legs out as if the arm were still alive. The second man, however, dropped the birds into the fire and jumped to his feet, wheeling to face the darkness behind him, his dagger drawn. But he was looking for an attack at eye level, and William, dagger in his left hand and hammer in his right, lunged out of the darkness, swinging the hammer low to slam into the man’s knee and knock him off his feet. The man screamed in pain and fell to his side. Before he could brace his hands against the ground to right himself, William swung again, this time smashing the man’s hand that held the dagger. William glanced to see where the first man had gone, and in that moment the man on the ground swung his good leg in a low sweep, knocking William off his feet. The heavier man flung himself at William, using his weight and bulk to pin William down onto his back. But bulk alone could not hold William, and as the man sharply thrust his head to break William’s nose with his skull, William twisted and rolled, positioning himself to straddle the man’s back.

The man found himself flat his stomach with William’s arm locked around his neck and the edge of William’s dagger at his throat.

“Be still!”

William tied the man’s arms behind his back with one of the leather ties that he had brought with him, then stood up and hauled the man up to his feet unsteadily.

“It’s not broken,” William said, watching the man test his weight on the injured leg. “Answer my questions and it will stay that way.”