This Is Not The 5th Century

Chapter 22 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.

In an alley behind the opera house, Sir Hugh and Gwenddydd kissed and argued. Sir Hugh got a bit jealous of Llyr.

At one of the duke’s weekly salons, Gwenddydd scouted his residence for a future meeting. She’s tired of waiting. Sir Hugh followed and with a kiss got her out of trouble for being found where she shouldn’t be.

That night, Gwenddydd snuck out to deliver the sword. She found a dead man outside Wellington’s bedchamber.

Gwenddydd rose, reaching for the sword case strapped on her back. She flipped the catch, and caught the sword as it fell.

Adjusting her grip on the sword, she pressed against the door, easing it open.

A figure stood by the bed, almost invisible in black. A rising knife blade glinted in the moonlight.

“’Ware, Arthur!” She burst into the room, the sword already swinging towards the deadly blade.

The assassin turned, his features masked by the night, the waxing moon not giving enough light. He ducked Caledfwlch, tumbling into a roll past her and towards the window.

The thump of Wellington landing on the floor on the far side of the bed and his angry shouts relieved her that he lived.

She charged towards the attacker. Pushing up the window, the man turned to regard her. He scrambled out onto the sill, swinging down to hang by his fingertips. She swung her sword but came in contact only with stone.

Cursing, she swung the leather case to her front and replaced the sword, slipping the clasp shut. All the while she looked over the edge to track the assassin, who rose and stumbled across the courtyard.

She would not let him escape.

She climbed onto the windowsill and pushed herself off, falling free. She landed with a crunch on the paving stones below. She rolled, forcing life back into her jarred limbs and staggered upright.

“Gwen!” Above her, Hugh called her name. She glanced up, his face silhouetted by the warm blaze of light in the Duke’s room.

She ran.

She bolted across the courtyard, plunging into the dark passage leading to the street.

The gate gaped before her, letting in light and she glimpsed a man’s figure. His mocking laugh echoed down the stone passage. He disappeared around the corner.

Gwenddydd kept her onward rush. She chased him out onto the street, and saw him enter an alleyway.

He waited for her there, knife in one hand and a sword in the other.

She drew her sword—Arthur’s sword—and attacked.

He parried, skipping out of her way. “Your swordsmanship is barbaric,” he jeered, blocking another blow. The alley screeched with sliding blades.

She shoved him away. She didn’t know what ‘barbaric’ meant and she didn’t care. In the dark alley, lit only by the half-moon and a street-lamp, she needed to keep her footing and bring him down.

His sword withstood her blows, their blades shuddering with each contact. He fended her off with an almost feminine delicacy.

Don’t underestimate him. He is at least as skilled as you. Olwen’s voice reminded her. Gwenddydd had no time to look for the ghost. She searched for a gap in his defences, thrusting and parrying, giving no ground and gaining none.

He slipped on the icy cobbles. She seized the advantage, thrusting him against the stone wall. Their swords slid together, inches away from their faces.

The darkness hid most of his features. His left eye glittered in the street-light, his thin nose casting the rest of his face into shadow.

She felt at her waist for her knife to finish the job.

His fingers gripped the cross-guard of Caledfwlch.

“You cannot—“ Nobody could hold Caledfwlch without extreme pain except herself, Olwen and, she assumed, Wellington. “How—”

“You are not the only Chosen one, ma petit.”

How did he know?

Booted footsteps pounded in the street.

“Give my regrets to the Duke. We will meet another day.”

He shoved her hard.

Staggering back, she knocked his sword away. “No!” Caledfwlch flashed out in an arc, biting into the assassin, slicing across his torso, even as he skipped out of range. She struggled to keep her footing on the slippery cobblestones.

Clutching his chest, he ran. Over her shoulder, she spotted Wellington’s men almost upon her. She had to hide the sword. Only the Duke should see the gift.

With trembling hands, she pulled the sword-case over her shoulder and placed the sword inside. She snapped the catch closed.

The first man ran right by her. Lord Charles Somerset stopped. “Stay.”

She pointed at the alleyway behind her. “That way. He went that way.”

“We will check, but there is no point in dissembling any further, Miss Jones. I saw you plain as day.” Not unkindly, Somerset hauled her to her feet. He reached for the case slung between her breasts. “What’s this?”

She jerked away. “Wellington’s gift. I was trying to give it to him.”

“I bet you were.” Yet he let her carry it back to to Wellington’s headquarters. She saw none of the glittering, stylish public rooms. Instead, they descended dimly lit stone stairs.

Swallowing hard, she schooled her features into a blank hardness. She had done nothing wrong. She should have obeyed her first duty and given the bewildered, sleepy Duke the damned sword instead of haring off after the assassin.

A soldier’s first duty is to protect, a soft voice whispered in her skull.

“Olwen,” she breathed.

Somerset led her into a little cell. The stone walls, close enough to render Caledfwlch useless, leaked moisture, glistening in the lamplight. The space held a narrow pallet of straw in which to sleep, a table and two chairs.

Somerset gestured for her to sit. She unslung the sword case and laid it on the table, sitting heavily in the chair. Her bare feet ached with the cold. She tucked them under her chair.

A short while later, breathless and limping heavily, Hugh joined them. She caught the silent communication Somerset sent to him. “Too many damned stairs,” he muttered, pulling out the other chair and sitting.

Somerset leaned against the damp wall. Their shirt tails remained untucked, both men were without cravats, a trouser leg scrunched up at a boot-top.

“I am sorry if I have disturbed your rest, gentlemen.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “But it is just as well I did. The Duke is unhurt?”

Sir Hugh’s fists flexed. He looked grim. “Not a scratch.”

Somerset put in. “You should not have wasted your time strangling the guard.”

“I did not strangle the guard. He was dead when I found him.” She matched them tone for tone, fact for fact.

“Why did you not raise the alarm? Why did you flee?” Hugh’s eyes glittered with anger, his voice rough. He swallowed. “Have you been lying to me all this time?”

“About what? And I did not flee,” she corrected. “I chased.”

“Chased who?”

“The assassin.”

Somerset snorted.

“I would put myself between the duke and any such danger, do you understand?” Gwenddydd clenched her fists under the table. Of anyone in the room, Sir Hugh should understand but he sat back, watching her. “I have done. Wellington is our future, our hope, Britain’s hope.”

Somerset stared at her, his mouth slack. He wiped at his face. “Why this insistence to see Wellington, if not to kill him?”

“Because we have a gift for him.”

Wellington opened the door, his presence filling the tiny space. “You have—“ He stared at Gwenddydd. “Her?”

Sir Hugh leapt to his feet. “It seems so, sir.”

The Duke scratched his shorn head. “I swear I heard a woman’s voice cry out a warning. I don’t think she’s our assassin. I know what I heard.”

“Perhaps she bluffed, as a cover if all went wrong,” Somerset suggested.

Gwenddydd raised an eyebrow and restrained from snorting. She returned her attention to the Duke. “A man in black stood over your bed with a knife raised to strike—“

Wellington grimaced. “You called out in warning and deflected his blow with—with—? I heard a clash.”

“You believe this?” scorned Somerset. “Sir, you shouldn’t even be here.”

“I’m sure you both will defend me from a woman,” the Duke drawled, and pointed to the long, thin leather case. “Did you use that?”

She flipped the catch and opened it, facing it away from her. They stared at the old sword.

“That’s fresh blood,” Somerset remarked, looking horrified.

“It’s not mine,” Wellington volunteered, turning his keen gaze upon Gwenddydd.

“Nor mine.” Hurting from his distrust, she glared at Hugh. “He’s lucky it’s not his.”

“Then...then who?” Hugh’s gaze didn’t stray from the bloodied blade.

“The assassin. You should search for a wounded man, about my height, long thin nose, French accent.”

“Why were you carrying a sword?” Wellington asked.

“It’s the gift.” She flushed. “It’s the gift from Lady Meredith for you.” She pushed the case toward the duke, bloodied sword and all.

He did not reach for it. “Miss Jones, you are a woman of unusual talents.” She blushed. She’d never received such attention from any renowned leader, much less the reincarnated Arthur. “You can fight off boys with a broom, defend yourself with a sword… Who are you?”

“I am as you see.” She could give him no other answer without provoking a host of further questions.

The Duke’s cool gaze fixed upon both her and Sir Hugh. At last, he nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw or deduced. “Miss Jones is also the only one who has seen the assassin. Devenish, I want you to work with her in finding this man who broke through our security. Although he’s not the only one able to apparently.” He regarded her with a mixture akin to respect and frustration. “Somerset, you will fix that.”

“Yes sir.” Somerset delivered a crisp salute.

“Miss Jones, I would be delighted to receive such a gift. However, not in its current state.” Wellington lowered the lid and pushed the case back to her. “Bring it to me again when you have caught this assassin.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.” She hated the delay and the conditions laid on the delivery, but the Duke commanded, and she would obey.

“Sir Hugh, you will escort Miss Jones to her residence.” The Duke flashed an apologetic look. “I am sure you do not need it, despite your wounds.”

She hadn’t even realised. A grazed lump swelled on her forehead, and surely was purpling. One had to be wary of head injuries. She’d seen a man fall after a blow to the head, with scarce a mark on him, and never rise again. “If you can spare him, Your Grace.” She smiled.

Wellington nodded. “There is work to do, and a few hours of sleep to snatch before it begins. I look forward to a quick result, Sir Hugh, Miss Jones.”

The room seemed larger with Wellington’s absence. Somerset muttered his excuses and followed after him.

Gwenddydd rose, slinging the sword case over one shoulder. She gripped the strap, a wave of dizziness washing over her.

In an instant, Sir Hugh stood by her side, taking her arm. “Are you certain you are unhurt?”

“Yes,” she got out between gritted teeth. She shrugged out his embrace. “I’m fine.” Resting a hand on the table, she took one step, then another. The world swayed, twisted. “Perhaps we should not walk back.”

Gwenddydd curled in the corner of the moth-eaten sofa, her arms wrapped around her knees. She stared at the sword case before, unseeing. She had failed twice in quick succession. The first in not handing Wellington the sword when she had the chance, the second in letting the assassin escape.

Lady Meredith entered in her nightgown, a thick grey-brown braid lying over one shoulder. “Gwenneth?” Her voice, low and soft, stabbed at her screaming headache.

Hissing out a pained breath, she ducked Lady Meredith’s outstretched hand. She did not want anyone touching her bruised forehead.

“What happened?”

“Someone tried to kill the Duke of Wellington last night.” She kept her voice to a soft monotone.

Lady Meredith sat heavily by her. “Tell me all of it.”

Gwenddydd obeyed, the words tumbling forth, aware of Lady Meredith’s disapproval of her night escapade but forging forwards anyway. She left the most disturbing part of the night’s events until last. “Lady Meredith, he touched the sword!”

“Who, dear?” The older woman frowned in confusion. “Sir Hugh?”

“No, the assassin. He said: ‘You are not the only Chosen one.’ What did he mean by that? Where did he come from?”

Lady Meredith reclined on the sofa, pinching her lower lip in thought. “My circle is not the only one. Miss Pendyr pursues the sword. It was not one of her people?”

“No.” Gwenddydd did not dare shake her head, not wanting the room to spin again.

“Never mind about that now,” Lady Meredith said briskly, getting up. We must dress, breakfast and see what the day brings us. I shall help you, Gwenneth, in all the ways I can, in finding this monster who threatens our nation’s security.”

Gwenddydd sat on the edge of her chair, waiting for Sir Hugh to make an appearance. He’d taken to staying at Wellington’s headquarters lately, instead of the hotel suite they’d booked.

Lady Meredith reclined the day bed, going through the morning mail. “The Duchess of Richmond has invited us to her weekly ball. The Duke of Richmond is supposed to get on famously with Wellington.”

“I have work to do with Sir Hugh.” Gwenddydd looked toward the entry. “I will not have time for parties.”

“The ball is three days away!” Lady Meredith leapt to her feet. “We need to make costumes. You must come, Gwenneth.”

Gwenddydd shrugged. “Could I go as a fifth century warrior?”

Lady Meredith managed a smile. “You just want to get out of the sewing.”

Flushing, she didn’t disagree.

“Do you truly wish to draw attention to your tattoos? You’ve hidden them well so far. Nobody will believe they’re painted on. If people found out they were real—“

“—I’d be utterly cast out from society with no hope of return.” Gwenddydd joined in the familiar refrain drummed into her since her arrival in modern England. She rubbed her forearms, most of the tattoos concealed under the long sleeves of her morning dress.

“We shall go as Greek nymphs,” Lady Meredith declared. “The costumes will be cheaply pieced together from sheets we can find at the local markets.”

Sir Hugh’s abrupt arrival interrupted their planning. He delivered a brief bow. “Aunt, I hope you do not mind my stealing Miss Jones from you?”

“Indeed not,” Lady Meredith returned. “For she has told me all about her adventures last night.”

He shot a glare at Gwenddydd. “You did?”

Gwenddydd looked up from tugging on gloves to conceal her blue woad marks. “Of course. It wasn’t a secret.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I searched the alley Somerset found you in for clues but nothing stood out. You have not given us much to go on. We need to broaden our search.” He bowed to his aunt. “If you will excuse us?”

Outside, two saddled horses awaited them. He had provided a side saddle for her. She looked at it with unease.

“I suppose you want to run upstairs and put on your breeches,” he remarked, slipping a few coins to the boy who held the reins.

“I suppose I cannot?”

“This is the city, Gwen, not the fifth century.” He grinned at her plaintive sigh. “Do you need a hand up?”

She eyed the saddle. She didn’t want help, but she’d had enough of embarrassment. “Yes, I think so.”

The boy held her mount steady. Hugh laced his fingers together, giving her a place for her foot. She vaulted into the saddle, her balance precarious until she found her seat, pulling her skirts about her. Hugh slipped her foot into the other, shortened stirrup, smiling up at her. His gloved hand lingered on her bare calf for a moment.

“Where are we going?” she asked, keeping her voice light and steady.

“This is the route the Duke takes every morning and evening to the Prince of Orange’s. I thought we might scout it first.” Hugh nudged his horse into a walk.

With some difficulty, Gwenddydd coaxed hers to do the same. “Why does he go there?” she asked when she drew level with him.

“Military headquarters.” At her raised eyebrow, he continued, “It’s a concession to the prince. The Belgian knows nothing but book-learned warfare. He’s untried but—“

“Has power,” she finished for him, understanding. “It’s his country so he must be...” She struggled to find the word she wanted. “Be soothed.”

“Indeed.”

Once at the Duke of Wellington’s, they turned and crossed into the Parc, an idyllic green space in the city centre. A broad dirt path curved through the park, allowing for horse-riders, carriages and pedestrians.

On either side of the path, vistas of lush flower gardens greeted her along with ornamental shrubbery and fountains. The formal style mixed with man-made nature. Where ever she looked, Gwenddydd saw the potential for ambush: behind a tall fir tree, cut to look like a rectangle, behind the blurring sprays of water from that fountain.

“He could choose any position for an ambush,” she said at last to Hugh.

He agreed. “We search any place that may conceal a man before the Duke rides through. It’s the marksmen that are our concern. Anyone could disguise themself as a soldier and then turn and fire.”

A cowardly way to despatch an enemy, but she didn’t say so. She scanned the bushes, examined every person they passed, filtering out the blue sky and the day’s warmth, focusing only on potential danger.

“Sir Hugh!” A woman hailed them. Gwenddydd looked to the footpath alongside the bridle trail. Miss Pendyr, with her black eyepatch, walked alongside Llyr, her handsome yet out-of-place companion.

Hugh sketched a bow from the saddle. “Miss Pendyr. Taking advantage of the fine weather?”

Gwenddydd listened to them exchange pleasantries, her gaze scanning their surrounds. She saw too many bushes that could conceal an attacker.

“If you see something out of the usual—” Hugh glanced at Llyr. “—please do let me know.”

Miss Pendyr’s nose crinkled. “Has something happened?”

“Can we assist you?” Llyr added, stepping closer to Miss Pendyr.

“Nothing to concern either of you.” Hugh tipped his tall hat. “Good day to you both.”

They left Miss Pendyr and Llyr behind, breaking into a trot.

A bush rustled. A scatter of small brown birds filled the air, flying towards the east. Gwenddydd reined in her horse. Hugh followed suit.

Only one problem: her mount didn’t want to stop. It trotted on, slowing to a walk despite her repeated requests.

A sharp whip crack rent the air.

A bee stung her shoulder.

“Get down!” Hugh yelled, panic lacing his call.

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