Queen Of Knights Page 4

  Reverently, she grasped the hilt and lifted the sword.

  Although it should weigh so much that both hands of the strongest knight would be needed to lift it, the sword floated upward featherlike, within her one-handed grasp.

  The tingling that rippled through her increased when she stood and she could feel her blood begin to sing. The sword of her father always spoke to her thus, always gave to her a feeling of belonging, knowledge, and courage.

  The longer she gazed at this most wondrous of instruments, the faster her blood coursed through her body. Unexpectedly, a low glow rose from the sword. Yet, no fear entered her mind; rather did she gaze on it with wonder.

  Soon the ethereal glow increased, and the interior of the cave was illuminated with a shimmering silvery light. Gwendolyn was bathed within it and warmed by it. The walls of the cave were luminous, sparkling with the sheen of moss. All the while, the sword hummed in her hand, joining the singing of her blood until she could not distinguish her body from the sword.

  And then she saw a darkened shape appear in the rear of the cave. At first it was a wavering coalescence of shadows, but it grew steadily, at pace with the sword’s light. Finally the misty wavering figure solidified, and a robed figure with long flowing hair stood before Gwendolyn’s wide-eyed inspection.

  Gwendolyn held her breath as the apparition appeared, and when the figure had become steady, she released it with a long sigh. Gwendolyn was bathed with a feeling of tranquility at the appearance of this ghostly stranger. She watched the robed figure step toward her and saw clearly the other’s face.

  It was old and deeply lined, older than she had ever seen before. But it was not hideous. In the instant it took for Gwendolyn to gaze into the strange woman’s face, she saw kindness, concern, and love. Then, as her mother’s stories flowed through her mind, Gwendolyn knew who it was.

  “You are dead,” she whispered to the apparition of the Druid priestess.

  “What know you of death, my child? You who are the very essence of life itself—the blood of thunder and lightning flows through your veins. You are the chosen! You are the daughter of the giant Norse warrior, he who is the right hand to the god of thunder, he who rides the myriad skies with his bride, the fair Gwyneth, your mother!

  “They look down upon you as they traverse the heavens and smile when they see what they have created. Know you, Gwendolyn the chosen, whose blood is of the purest, unsullied blood of Britain and Wales that you were born to fulfill a destiny. You must live for it, and with it!”

  “Why have you come now?” Gwendolyn asked, accepting the priestess’s words without knowing why, but understanding that she must.

  “Because it is time. Because today you have taken the first step on the road toward your destiny.” As the old Druid stopped speaking, the silver sword began to vibrate in Gwendolyn’s hand, and she was hard pressed to hold it. “Release it!” the old one commanded, pointing one knobby finger at the sword.

  Gwendolyn stared at her, but refused to loosen her fingers. “Release it,” she repeated, this time in a husky whisper. Gwendolyn’s eyes were riveted to the priestess’s as she slowly unlocked her fingers. When she opened her hand fully, the sword’s hilt rested on her palm, yet the sword did not dip toward the earth. Hesitantly, Gwendolyn drew back her hand a fraction.

  The sword floated a hairsbreadth above her palm, burning even whiter as it wavered in the air. “You speak the truth,” she whispered to the priestess.

  “None can lie when they evoke the power of your father’s sword. Listen, my beautiful child, for it will not be often that we talk. This sword was cast untold eons ago, when the earth had not yet cooled. It is of the purest metal, forged by the powers of those whom you call the northern gods. It was made for only one purpose, to fulfill the destiny ordained by its makers, a destiny that must yet come to pass.”

  Gwendolyn, held by the dark orbs of the priestess’s eyes, felt as if she were being drawn within a vortex that was the other’s mind, pulled from her very body. Swirling colors assaulted her senses, a sensation of separating, and a fleeting impression of floating above the world sought to claim her, but even as it did she still found no fear within her.

  As the old one spoke, Gwendolyn could see the silver sword being cast, she could see the northern gods, bearded, blonde, and powerful, their bulging muscles glistening with sweat as they worked the sword, shaping and testing the blade until it glowed with unearthly perfection.

  “Thousands of years ago it was ordained that mortal man should fight mortal man, for they lost the way of the earth when they ignored the teachings of the ancient ones and desecrated the place they lived upon. They fought and killed each other, and called upon whatever gods they had created in their minds to justify this need for blood. And today it grows even worse. The people have turned their back on the way of light, and chosen, instead, a path of evil whom those you call the gods refuse to witness.

  “But, it has also been ordained that this path may be broken; however, the ancient powers will not interfere bodily. This road must be traveled, not by the blood of those who have chosen to follow desecration in error, but by those who have remained pure. Who, although they have no knowledge of what has happened before them, and what will happen after, have kept themselves unsullied by the powers of deceit.”

  Gwendolyn listened, entranced by the priestess’s words, yet all the while wondering if this were not but a dream.

  ‘‘‘Tis no dream you stand within, Gwendolyn. ‘Tis but the reality denied to a mortal,” she whispered as lightning danced around them, and carried them to the top of a floating mountain.

  Gwendolyn knew she was still in her cave, but she also saw that she was rising above the boiling tip of a mountain. Suddenly the volcano exploded, and blood-red lava rose to engulf them.

  “But I am mortal!” she cried, defending herself against this awesome vision, never once realizing she had spoken aloud.

  “Yes, but you have been chosen.”

  “Why?” Gwendolyn asked, fighting to regain her sense of reality while challenging the old one as boldly as she had the three men-at-arms a bare hour ago.

  “When the time comes for you to know, you shall. Now listen to me, my child, for my time here is almost gone and there is much to tell.” The priestess made a swirling motion with her hand, and they were again in the confines of the cave. The silver sword floated gently downward, until it rested upon the chamois that was its home.

  “Today you met the man who was chosen, when the sword was cast, to be your mate. You will marry him, as custom decrees. Your life will be devoted to protecting him, for it will be his seed within you which will produce the race that, in a thousand years, will inherit the earth.”

  A chill raced through Gwendolyn as she listened to the old one’s prophesy. She lifted her head to gaze into the ancient eyes of the priestess, but instead of the old lined face, she saw the sea-green eyes and jet hair of Miles of Radstock.

  “Yes!” the priestess cried. The visage of Miles dissolved and the ancient face of the Druid returned. “Yes, he is the one. He was born for you, as were you for him.”

  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 pr
otect 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 castle 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 in 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 the same. “Kildrake is more impressive than I remembered,” said the knight who wore a polished 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 abilities, 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 family—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 Delong loomed before her. She felt the warmth of his sea-green eyes wash over her, and knew, somehow, she would never fear Morgan.

  “I pray so daily,” Roweena whispered. “But yesterday, when Sir Morgan returned to the castle without you, his temper was fierce. 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 until after Sir Morgan had gone this morning.”

  “It will not happen again!” Before Gwendolyn could say more, the sound of horses and men in armor floated above the castle walls. Whirling, she went to the edge of the parapet and looked 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 white tunic that Roweena held for her, securing the tunic tightly about her narrow waist with a maille 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.