Broken But Still Alive
Chapter 3 of "A Sword for Wellington", Book Three of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles
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The story began in A Grail for Eidothea and continued with A River Trembles. Now the Chosen Court seeks another Arthurian treasure. New here? Save this post and have a binge read. You deserve it.
Gwenddydd related how she came to travel through time from 547 to 1815. She seeks Wellington, the reincarnation of King Arthur. Her arrival is what Sir Hugh’s aunt has been waiting for. He offers her a bed and a bath and further conversation in the morning. Her recently deceased friend, Olwen, appeared to Gwenddydd as a ghost.
Up before dawn, Gwenddydd padded downstairs, barefoot, Caledfwlch’s sword-hilt loosely grasped in her hand. Her clothing had been taken away last night to be cleaned, so all she wore was the loose cream-coloured shift that she’d worn to bed and Olwen’s magical stone necklace. She’d braided her hair in a simple queue that threatened to unravel.
She heard the faint rustling of life from the kitchen quarters and wandered out into the rear courtyard. The cold and damp cobblestones chilled her bare feet but she welcomed the ground’s touch.
It mattered not that she had been cast into the future. Her sword-arm would be ready for any threat.
Holding up the sword in the faint pre-dawn light, Gwenddydd prayed to the Lady for guidance. Mist cloaked the far ends of the building and yet the blade still gleamed.
Caledfwlch. A glorious, living thing. It quivered in eagerness, ready for battle. She prayed the Lady would forgive her using such a prize for simple practice.
She crouched, the sword before her. Stepping back, she swirled the sword over her head and brought it back down vertically before her eyes. She stepped forward, swinging the sword from left to right, a downward cutting stroke.
In moments, the old patterns reasserted themselves. At least this made sense. She flowed through the routine, her sword cutting the mist so cleanly she almost expected the air to bleed.
Hours later, she heard a slight cough behind her.
Spinning, sword at the ready, she saw Devenish Hugh Devenish leaning against the doorway, arms folded.
“If I ever doubted you came from another time, I would not doubt it now.” Hugh’s fingers tangled in his sleep-tousled hair. He settled on the edge of the raised herb beds. “That was beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
Hugh shook his head, bemused. “You are very skilled. There is a lethal grace to your drills that is … beautiful.” His hand grazed over his dark morning stubble. “You are a seasoned warrior.”
She raised her eyebrow. She’d been covered in blood not her own at their first meeting and had threatened him. Why would he think of her as a untested? “Yes.”
He met her even gaze with one of his own. His ruined cheek twitched. His voice dropped, matching her serious tone. “You have killed defending yourself."
She knew her expression grew bleak. "Yes. And to defend others.”
“Like Olwen.” Hugh sat motionless.
The sword tip grated against the cobblestone. Gwenddydd bit the inside of her lip. “Like Olwen.” She swallowed the rising tears and changed the subject. “You have killed people." She gestured he approach with her free hand. “Do you still use swords like this?”
Hugh touched his ruined cheek. “This was from a cavalry sabre. Lighter, sharper, than your sword. The battlefield has greatly changed. Mostly it is bayonets, rifles and cannon.”
She shook her head. “I do not understand these words.” She lifted the point of her sword. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
He nodded. He straightened and shifted his stance. He pressed a button on the handle of the walking stick that seemed more affectation than practical. The wooden cylinder slid off, revealing a thin rapier. “You would break this in an instant, I fear.”
She approached, sheathing her sword in its scabbard. “What is it for? Mice?”
Hugh huffed a laugh. “It does the job in close quarters. Provided I haven’t already fallen from losing my balance.”
She collected the long end of the cane and returned it to him, watching as he concealed the thin blade. “Could I have one?”
He stared at her, amusement crinkling the corners of his blue eyes. “You do not limp. Such a device would be too obvious.”
Gwenddydd scratched at her head, dislodging a few curls from her pulled back hair, the sleeve of her gown falling down her elbow.
Hugh’s eyes widened. He nodded at the ornate dragon tattoos curling up both forearms. “What do they mean?”
Hastily, she pulled down her sleeve. “They do not mean anything any more.” She glanced at the sky. The morning fog lifted, revealing blue sky. “Do I smell breakfast?”
She headed for the door. Hugh forestalled her with a hand on her arm. “I can find suitable swords for us if you would like a sparring partner? I could teach you a few new moves.”
For the first time, her expression lightened. “I will teach you a few old ones in return.”
Hugh barked a laugh. Not even his long scar marred his delight. The sheer boyishness of his smile gave her a glimpse of the man he used to be. The smile tugged at her heart.
Watching her practice with the sword proved last night had been no dream. Hugh blinked away the image of her in the early morning light, the outline of her lithe body visible through her sheer chemise, her legs bare from the knee down.
She reminded him of a vengeful angel, the sun’s glory setting her auburn hair aflame and outlining her in silver-gold. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with this magnificent creature. He’d sent her upstairs to change before they ate breakfast.
Gwenddydd entered the dining room, simply attired in a round gown he recognised as belonging to his sister. The stone in her necklace nestled at the base of her throat. She stared at the sideboard, loaded with platters of food.
“Good morning.”
She turned. Reality replaced dawn’s dreaming. He saw dark circles under her eyes. His sister’s gown hung off her. Only the slight swell of breasts to betrayed her sex, the rest of her being lean muscle. “This is a feast,” she whispered.
Her magical necklace glinted at the base of her throat, making their conversation comprehensible.
“It is breakfast.” He gestured to the sideboard. “Please, fill your plate.”
She did, taking enough to cover her plate but no more. She glanced wistfully over the array of foods.
“You can eat more if you need to.”
She dove into the food with her hands, ignoring the cutlery on either side of her place setting. She tore into the toast, then the ham, with a voraciousness that surprised him.
He served himself and sat opposite, eating with knife and fork like a civilised person.
She wiped her greasy mouth with the back of her hand. She looked at how he ate and at the utensils near her plate. Shrugging, she rose and refilled her plate but watched him instead of diving in.
Hugh glanced at her but continued to eat. She picked up a knife and then a fork and clumsily applied it to a slice of ham.
"How did it happen?" she asked. She waved a fork at his face.
His cheeks heated. He stared at her, but she did not seem repulsed by him, her expression being neutral, curious. Her quiet question also did not press him for an answer. Her calm, matter-of-fact voice held no fear.
Hugh's breath caught, overwhelmed by her acceptance of his appearance.
"I am sorry." She bit her lower lip. "I did not mean to cause you pain."
Such deep understanding in her eyes. Or did he imagine that?
"I would not wish to disturb you with such a story," he said. "It is not a pleasant one."
She nodded. Of course the scar’s breadth told her that. "That does not matter to me. I've seen worse."
Of course. What horrors must she have seen? They called the era she came from the Dark Ages for a reason. He bit back the questions he wanted to ask about her past. Hugh rose from the table. “If you are finished, shall I show you the house? You seem to have found your way thus far.”
She frowned at him. “Will I be staying long enough for that to matter? When do I get my clothes back?”
Hugh raised an eyebrow. “Your clothes?” He called over a waiting manservant and asked for the housekeeper. “Let us find out.”
The housekeeper arrived. “Her clothes were not fit to keep, sir,” she told him, her distaste plain. “They’re in the garbage heap, waiting to be burned.”
Gwenddydd shot to her feet. “There’s nothing wrong with them! If you don’t know how to clean them in this time, I’ll do it myself!”
Hugh bit on his upper lip to mask a smile.
“Miss, there was so much blood on them and old stains too.” The housekeeper cast a bewildered look at him. He shrugged.
Gwenddydd set her hands on her hips. “I will have them returned. Now.”
Hugh nodded at the housekeeper. “Do so and show her where she may wash them.”
That evening, she still wore her round gown from the morning. Her hands looked red and chapped from her laundry work. Hugh said nothing, devouring the simple supper of soup and bread. He set down his spoon and observed her empty bowl. “Join me in the drawing room?”
Frowning, she rose and followed him. “Is this how you’re able to use every room in this huge place? You just keep moving from one to the other?”
Hugh chuckled. “Something like that. I wanted to give us some privacy while the staff clear the dining table. Were you able to clean your clothes?”
She nodded. “They’ll always be stained but they are clean. Mended a few rips too.”
Hugh frowned. “Rips? Were you wounded in last night’s battle?”
“Some close calls. Nothing to be concerned about.” They entered the drawing room, a sumptuous space with blue silk hung on the walls and gold brocaded chairs. A matching sofa stood facing the fire with a pianoforte in the corner.
Gwenddydd ignored all that and drifted to the window. Fine white voile wisped across the white panelled bay window.
Hugh sat on the cushioned window seat, looking up at her. “You mentioned you didn’t think you would be staying long.” He hadn’t forgotten how her words had caused a strange and small stir of panic beneath his breast. They had just met. Why would he be anxious about her leaving his sight?
“You say the danger is past, but the sword still needs to be delivered to Arthur’s reincarnation. How far away is Wellington?” she asked.
He patted the cushions near him, inviting her to sit. “He is overseas. He left London not too long ago for Vienna. When his work there is done, he will return and we can pay a visit to him at his home in London.”
“When will that be? His work?”
“He represents our country in setting Europe back to rights. Napoleon invaded many places, so there is land to be returned, but the primary reason is to restore balance and prevent future wars.”
“We cannot go there?” She leaned towards him, longing written in her gaze.
Hugh regarded her. His gut curdled that she did not long for him like that, and never would. “We could go, but it is peacetime now. There is no need to hurry.”
Gwenddydd swallowed. “Olwen—my friend—told me that once she delivered the sword, she would return to me.”
Hugh canted his head. “Through the stones?”
She shrugged. “She did not reveal that. Maybe she is brought straight back?”
“I don’t know how that would work. I’m not privy to the stones’ secrets. There are rituals at set times of the year. Perhaps one of those is meant to return you? My aunt will know. I have already written to her, asking her to return home. She is … the custodian of the stone circle. She will know what to do and… It is not proper for a lady to live with a gentleman, even in a big rambling house like this.” His cheeks flamed.
She tilted her head, studying him with that intense blue-eyed gaze. Such a deep blue her eyes had, he discovered.
“Lady? I am a simple warrior.” Gwenddydd twisted in her seat to stare out at the night. The moon cast its bright light across the lawn, creating odd shadows from trees and blades of grass.
Hugh stared at her. With her hands loosely clasped in her lap, her straight back, she appeared the very model of modern femininity. Nothing like the feral soldier he met the night before.
He schooled his features, turning away. He needed to remember she could never be somebody he could take into polite society—not that polite society accepted his wrecked face either.
“You seem lost in thought.” Her soft words drew him back to her.
“What?” He focused. “Oh yes.”
She leaned forwards, her fingertips caressing the ruined side of his face.
His heart pounded. Were women that much bolder in her time? Why would she be attracted to him? Did she mean something else? He jerked away, grabbing her wrist. "Do not do that," he rasped.
"Do what?" She froze, her intrigued expression evaporated into confusion. She pulled free of his grasp, looking out into the night, but not before Hugh caught a glimpse of her wounded countenance.
"My scar."
"I am sorry.” Her gaze met his, her hurt replaced by concern. “It still hurts?"
"I don't like—“ Hugh broke off. "You reminded me that it was there."
She leaned against the panelled alcove, observing him. "It is a badge of honour. It is nothing to be ashamed of."
"You are assuming I received it in an honourable fashion."
"You did not?"
"I guess I did." He cleared his throat.
He rose and she followed suit, standing a bit too close to him. He retreated several steps into the room. “I never got to give you that tour. I fear it is too dark now. In the morning? Will you drill again?”
She nodded. “Are you joining me?”
“I found a couple of practice swords. If you have no objections, I would like to.” Sparring with her would be easier than this strange palpable tension beneath their conversation. Unless he wished too much for some woman to still want him, even as a ruin?
“I thank you for deferring to me,” Gwenddydd said. “Tomorrow at dawn?”
“Of course.” He sketched a bow. “I bid you good evening.” He hoped she’d pick up on the cue that he dismissed her.
Frowning, she did so, cutting past him. “I can find my way.”
Hugh debated whether to remain on the victory ground or to follow her out. He followed. He stood in the vestibule, gazing up at Gwenddydd ascending the staircase. He flexed his calf muscle. It had tightened up again. It had taken all he had not to limp from the dining room. Wellington thought him unfit... And he wasn’t wrong.
He gritted his teeth, turning away from the ugly thoughts of his disfigurement. He teetered on the brink of a gaping, black maw of self-pity from which there could be no return. In Spain, he'd succumbed to it once. He didn't wish to return to that hell.
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