Queen Of Knights (5 page)

It was then that Gwendolyn knew completely that the old one had told her the truth; the priestess had reached into her mind and had seen what was there.  Slowly, Gwendolyn nodded her head.

“Good,” said the priestess, a smile curving the edges of her lips.  “You must remember that you are different from all the others.  You are special
. 
The oldest powers of creation flow through you.  You must use your mind, because it is your richest possession.  For through it, the world may become yours.  Remember, my child, the silver sword of your father is but a channel
. 
Your mind and heart control the channel as do your hands control the paths of the sword.  Use them both well and you will become supreme.  Your children will be the inheritors of the earth, and a new world in the far distant future will be created by them.  Fear nothing and no one, for the powers of thunder, of lightning, and of light ride above your shoulders.  They will protect you, and guide you to where you are needed.”

As Gwendolyn stared at the Druid, the unearthly force of the old one’s words filled her body
. 
Then she saw the shimmering light begin to diminish, and the ancient priestess wavered before her eyes.

“Wait!” she cried, stepping forward with her hands outstretched in entreaty
. 
“I must know more ...
."

“You will, child,” came a thin whisper from the shadow that the old one had become.  “You will teach yourself
. 
Use your mind and the sword,” she said.  Her shadow dissolved, and the cave was once again dark.

Gwendolyn sank to her knees, staring at the spot the priestess had once occupied.  Her mind erupted in turmoil
. 
Everything the old one had said echoed within its chambers, and she had to force herself to gain some calm in order to understand it all.

She sat on the floor for hours, until finally she put everything in order
. 
She had thought of Miles, handsome, tall, and gallant.  She had thought of the old one’s words
—
that she would marry him, for he had been chosen
.

“Use your mind
,
the sword is its channel,” whispered the voice in her ear.  Haltingly, Gwendolyn reached out and grasped the hilt of her father’s sword and lifted it above her.  Its tip almost grazed the rounded curve of the cave’s ceiling as she closed her eyes and concentrated.  The sword began to vibrate within her hand, and her blood once more sang
. 
Her mind blossomed with light, and on light’s wings came confidence.

Gwendolyn opened her eyes.

The cave was filled with light, and she stood in the center of the purest white she had ever known.  She lowered the sword slowly until it was at eye level and grasped it with both hands.

Using her mind, she concentrated on the light, and it was magnified.  Then she stopped, and the cave was plunged into sudden darkness.

With tears tracing paths downward on her cheeks, Gwendolyn brought the blade to her lips and kissed it.  A moment later she folded the sword in the chamois and placed it on its shelf.  She found this leave-taking from the cave was to be harder than any of her past partings
,
but it was time to return to the cast
l
e and face her grandfather’s wrath for leaving the others.

Gwendolyn stepped into the cool dusk air and walked to her horse.  When she sat astride the black mare, Valkyrie’s cry tore through the trees.  The golden eagle dove low, and Gwendolyn stretched out her arm for the giant bird to settle upon.

<><><>

A group of horsemen broke through the woods and, moments later, crested a low hill.  In the murky distance, set within the confluence of two small rivers
,
was the imposing form of Kildrake Castle standing proudly upon high earthworks.  Because of its high perch, the castle had no moat: its defense was in the very height it occupied.  The triangular shape of the stone castle was unusual
i
n this area, but ten-foot-thick walls and high battlements told all who approached that an attack would be foolish.

The two knights riding in the lead reined in their mounts.

The entourage behind them did th
e sa
me.  “Kildrake is more impressive than I remembered,” sa
i
d the knight who wore a pol
i
shed hauberk covered with a simple surcoat bordered in purple.

“It
is
imposing, Sire.  The duke has added much to it in the last few years, especially the new barbican.  Look how the stone reflects even this poor light,” ventured Miles.  “But he has proved his loyalty to the crown many times over.”

“You have no need to remind me of that.  Miles, are you sure you want to do this ...thing?” Richard fixed Miles with a riveting stare.

“Yes, my lord,” Miles replied, meeting the king’s probing stare with openness.

“I shall never understand this thing between a man and a woman.”

“One day you shall, Sire.”

“I think not.  You know the stories they say about me.

That I have no temperament for women.  That I seek only the company of my knights.  What is it that prevents my people from accepting the fact that I am not yet prepared to marry?”

“Your subjects want only to have an heir, Majesty.”

Miles’s reply was tactful, yet at the same time he was reminding the King of England of his royal responsibility.

Richard laughed harshly when Miles spoke, his bearded face split by a half sneer.  “You are a true statesman, Miles.  But behind my back they call me a lover of boys!”

“What care you what they say, for it is truly behind your back.  You are the king of the mightiest country in the world.  You are Richard, King of England, Duke of Normandy, and the strongest knight the world has ever seen.”

“And you have the gall to flatter me yet ....  You must want her very badly.”

Miles’s face was suddenly drawn into tight lines.  The two men were of equal height; both were strong figures looming almost larger than life as they sat on their horses, staring at each other in the last light of the day.  After a moment, Miles slowly nodded.  “As I have never wanted another,” he admitted.

Richard lifted one large hand and placed it on Miles’s shoulder.  In the fast fading light, king and earl gazed into each other’s eyes, and the friendship flowing between them was a thing that could be felt.  “Then you shall have her, my friend.  I must tell you that I envy you your feelings.”

“Sire?”

“I wish I could please my people.  I wish I could find a woman who would arouse my passions, but I cannot.  I have
known this since I was twelve.  Women are too weak, too easy to overpower.  I have no use for weakness, only strength.  I have met only one woman who was strong, and the shame is that she is my mother.”

Miles could say nothing to this.  He had known Richard for years.  He was as close to the new king as any man was and knew that England’s king loved only one thing
—
had only one all
-
consuming passion
—
fighting
.

“Come,” ordered Richard.  “It is time to meet this maiden of yours.”

Together, the King of England and the Earl of Radstock led their men to the gates of Kildrake Castle
.

<><><>

Although it was still early spring, the weather was warm, and that evening a gentle breeze blew along the battlements and walkways high on the castle’s walls
.

Standing in a darkened corner, Roweena, Gwendolyn’s servant, watched her mistress tread the stones.  Only moments before she had helped bathe Gwendolyn, as she did every night, winter or summer.  She smiled when she thought about the other servants and their foolish superstitions.  They feared to bathe so often led to sickness and insanity
. 
So had she, until she watched her mistress grow strong and healthy
. 
Never once in the last nine years had Gwendolyn been ill.  So even though the others made fun of her mistress, Roweena bathed her nightly, and after Gwendolyn retired for the night, Roweena herself bathed, with Gwendolyn’s water and permission
.

“My lady?” Roweena called.

Gwendolyn stopped walking and turned toward her servant
. 
She gazed openly at the small, plain, yet pretty woman dressed in her servant’s tunic
.

“I am worried.  Sir Morgan was in foul temper today when he left.

“That does not concern me
,
” Gwendolyn said.

“I am afraid for our future,” Roweena whispered.  “Because of Morgan?”

“Because he is a cruel man.  He will hurt you if you do not obey him once you are married,” Roweena whispered.

“Never!”

“He is unlike your grandfather.  He is Norman not Saxon.  He treats his people like dirt, taxing them beyond their
ab
i
lities, leaving them half starved, and if they protest, he whips them.”

“Peasants and serfs are always spreading lies about their lords,” Gwendolyn protested half-heartedly, but she
,
too, had heard these tales
,
and not from the peasants.

“It is said that the men of Guildswood beat their women for sport
,
” she added in a fear-filled voice.

Gwendolyn shook her head sadly.  She would not deny Roweena’s words; she could not.  She knew all too well a woman’s lot once she married and left the protection of her own fami
l
y—she was her husband’s servant.  Her only use was to breed children, and male children at that.  But she also knew that she would never tolerate being beaten.  Never!

“It will not happen!” she swore to both herself and her maid
. 
And as she did, the face of Miles De
l
ong loomed before her.  She felt the warmth of his sea-green eyes wash over her, and knew, somehow, she wou
l
d never fear Morgan.

“I pray so daily,” Roweena whispered.  “But yesterday, when Sir Morgan returned to the castle wit
h
out you, his temper was
f
ierce.  He beat the stable boy
,
and even today the lad has not recovered.”

“My grandfather did nothing about this?” she asked in shocked disbelief.

“He did not know unti
l
after Sir Morgan had gone this morning.”

“It will not happen again!” Before Gwendo
l
yn could say more, the sound of horses and men in armor floated above the castle walls
. 
Whir
l
ing, she went to the edge of the parapet and
l
ooked down.

Beneath her, in the outer bailey
,
were more than a dozen men.  She tried to see through the darkness but could not
. 
She watched the gates open and the men enter.  A sudden flurry of activity erupted within the courtyard, and Gwendolyn turned to Roweena.

“We have guests.  Help me dress.” Moving quickly across the walkway, she returned to her bedchamber.

Inside, Gwendolyn shed the robe she’d worn and stepped into a long whi
t
e tunic that Roweena held for her, securing the tunic tightly about her narrow waist with a mai
l
le girdle.  Her golden hair hung freely down the length of her back.  But when she turned to leave, Roweena stopped her.

“Your hair,” she reminded Gwendolyn.  “We do not have the time.”

“The coif-de-maille?”

Gwendolyn nodded, and Roweena lifted the long headpiece and brought it to her mistress.  The coif itself, unlike the knight’s protection after which it was named
,
was of the finest golden strands.  Each strand was interconnected by a small unpolished jewel.  Gwendolyn bent to let her servant place the headpiece over her hair.  When Gwendolyn stood, the gold seemed to blend with the color of her hair, which made the gems
,
unpolished as they were, stand out in beautiful contrast.  The only polished jewel, a teardrop ruby, fell to the exact center of her forehead.  The maille covered her hair and draped down her back, ending in a staggered diamond-like pattern of jewels.

Gwendolyn reached the door and opened it, but was again stopped by Roweena.  “Your mantle?” her servant called.

“Not tonight,” Gwendolyn replied.  She stepped out of her bedchamber and walked to the main staircase.

Halfway down the wide stone steps, Gwendolyn stopped.

Below her a strange tableau unfolded.  Within the flickering illumination of the taper-lit walls, she watched her grandfather take the extended hand of one knight and raise it to his lips.  Instantly, Gwendolyn understood.  Her eyes went to the other knight and her breath caught in her throat.