Gwenhwyfar (2 page)

But it was not talk of the winter to come and the Samhain rites that occupied them now. It was talk of Arthur, the High King, and his court at Celliwig.

“. . . and so the High King takes a bride, and the Merlin is making sure the land-rites are performed,” the lady visitor was saying; she was very important, a priestess
and
a sorceress, from the great school at the Well of the Cauldron.

“And not afore time, too,” muttered old Bronwyn. “Asking for trouble it was, leaving it for so long! It’ll be a hard winter, thanks to all this dallying. As the king goes, so goes the land, and that’s a fact.” She made a sour face as the rest of the women nodded. “If the king be wifeless and childless, how can the land be anything but cold and hard? All very well to say the Merlin could make up for it, but he’s only a man, one man, and—”

“Hush,” Eleri interrupted, chiding her woman, and the visitor nodded with approval.

“What’s done is done; the land hasn’t suffered. The land has a long memory and longer patience. One hard winter will not ruin the land, and the Merlin has brought him round to the bride and the rites.” The woman sighed. “And now I am here to ask you, has the High King’s half-sister been among you?”

“Morgana?” Eleri shook her head. “You surely do not mean Anna Morgause . . . I have not seen her in a year or more. The Orkney clan does not favor us with their attention, much. Why?”

The visitor shrugged, but looked troubled. “It is Anna Morgause I mean. Morgana is hardly more than a child, for all her power, and she heeds the Merlin and the Council of the Wise. But Morgause . . . Anna is a woman grown, with four sons she would fain see raised high. She has the power and the willfulness, and she is wedded to Lot, who speaks the High King fair but watches through his fingers. And Morgause speaks the Council fair, but . . .”

But Eleri shook her head. “Rhianu, be careful of what you say. Have you anything other than gossip and your own suspicions? Has the Cauldron shown a vision of the future?”

The visitor looked away a moment. “No and no,” she admitted. Eleri smiled slightly. “Have done, then, and tell us of the bride. If gossip there will be, let it be of bright things and not dark, truth and not suspicion. Anna of the Orkneys will do as she does, and if the Cauldron gives you no visions, then that is the will of the Goddess.”

Gwenhwyfar pondered the visitor. She did not seem like someone who would gossip to make trouble, and normally Eleri would have deferred to her judgment, since she was older and a very powerful Wise Woman indeed, one of the Nine who served the Cauldron of the Goddess. But her mother must know
something
that made her say what she had. Perhaps there was bad blood between Rhianu and Queen Morgause, and perhaps Eleri knew about it.

Rhianu pursed her lips, then seemed to resign herself. “Well, her name is Gwenhwyfar, like your own daughter, and the name suits her, for she is very like to all of you, as fair as a Saxon and slender as a reed. She was not our first choice, but Arthur came to the aid of her father, Leodegrance, saw her firing arrows from the walls, with her fine gown kilted up and fire in her eye.” She shrugged. “He was smitten, and she is of the right bloodline and of our teaching. But—”

Eleri raised an eyebrow. “But?”

“She is her father’s only child. We question whether his blood grows thin. The Good Goddess knows Uther’s line—”

Eleri looked speculative. “Hmm. One child only, Arthur himself—”

“And never a by-blow by leman or lover, and it took the Merlin’s magic to quicken Arthur in Ygraine’s womb.” Eleri nodded. “Still, at least now Arthur has found a woman he
wants,
and all else is suitable. Passion has a magic all its own, and the rites themselves should ensure that there is at least one child.”

Rhianu coughed. “We intend to make certain of that,” she said, and significant glances were shared among the women.

“That is chancy, meddling in those matters,” Eleri murmured softly. “Have a care that your enterprise does not miscarry.”

Gwen shivered at that moment, as an icy finger traced itself along her spine.

“Has anyone troubled to scry the results?” Eleri continued, as Gwen shivered again.

“There will be a son born to Arthur, within the proper season,” Rhianu replied, with confidence. “At least one.”

“Sons!” said the king, cheerfully, coming up behind his wife. “Oh, sons are all very well, but a king’s wealth is in his daughters! A son may run off and pledge his service to another man in another crown, but a daughter remembers what is due her sire—what is that old saw, my sweet?” He set both hands on Eleri’s shoulders, and she reached up to squeeze one with affection.

“ ‘A son is a son ’till he takes a wife, but a daughter’s a daughter for all of her life,’ ” Eleri responded, tilting her head back to look at him and being rewarded with a kiss.

“There, you see?” the king beamed at their visitor. “And there is my wealth. Fair daughters, strong and comely, and I know they will remember their duty to land and sire. If the High King wants loyal allies, let him have daughters to cement those bonds. If he wants magic to safeguard his kingdom, let him have daughters to spin him spells and speak for him to the gods. And if he is very lucky, he will also have a daughter that is a warrior-woman, for they make the most loyal shield-bearers.”

Gwen noticed at that moment, that the queen looked as if she were harboring a pleasant secret.

But she said nothing, only again squeezed the king’s hand, and the king chuckled and went back to his men.

“But what of Anna Morgause?” Eleri asked after a moment. “If there is anything about her you should be warning us against, it is your duty to make it plain.”

The visitor grimaced with distaste, then looked pointedly down at Gwen and her sisters. Gwen sighed. If she had been just a little off to the side, there was a chance that the visitor would not have noticed her. That happened a lot. Then she tried concentrating very, very hard on not being noticed. Sometimes that worked—more and more as she got the knack of it. But not tonight,

Much to Gwen’s dismay, her mother took the hint.

“Off with you,” she said in a quiet voice that nevertheless brooked no argument. “Time for bed.” The girls didn’t even try to dissuade their mother, they just picked up whatever they had been sitting on and trudged off to the private rooms behind the dais.

This was a grand, grand castle indeed. Behind the dais, through a wooden door, was a set of two small rooms where the royal family and their immediate servants slept, away from the tumble of bodies in the Great Hall. A pair of rushlights, one left burning in each room, lit the way just enough that the girls didn’t stumble over anything.

The first room was theirs; it was smaller than the second, and it had just enough space for the big bed where they all slept and their clothing chests lining the walls. Mag, the servant woman they all shared, who had been their nursemaid when they were smaller, helped them pull off their outer clothing and fold it neatly, each on top of her own chest. Then they clambered into the big bed, which Mag had warmed with a stone she’d put near to the fire earlier. They had their own particular order for this. The two most restless, Gwenhwyfar and Gwenhwyfach, on the outside, and Cataruna and Gynath on the inside. The bed, with its woolen blankets woven by Eleri and her women, its fur coverlet from bearskins of the bears killed by their own father, could easily have slept two more. They even had a feather mattress, an immense luxury.

Gwen was the last to climb in, and Mag shut them in with the bed-curtains, leaving them in the close darkness.

Gwen was always the last to climb in, because if she didn’t wait, her sister Gwenhwyfach, the baby of the family, would find some sly way to torment her. Poke, prod, pull hair, pinch—they were as alike as twins, everyone said so, and no one could understand why Gwenhwyfach hated her sister so. When Little Gwen was in a fine mood, she was enchantingly beautiful, and she bewitched everyone around her. Her hair, like Gwen’s was as light a gold as sunlight, her eyes large and a melting blue when she wanted something. She put Gwen in mind of the tale of the maiden made of flowers sometimes, she was so slender and graceful, even when she was up to mischief. In fact, her real name wasn’t Little Gwen at all, but everyone insisted they looked so much alike, the name had stuck and no one even remembered what name she’d been given at birth anymore. Perhaps that was why—perhaps she sorely resented that they were so much alike. It certainly wasn’t because Little Gwen was deprived. If anything, being the youngest
and
so pretty, she was spoiled.

Then again, maybe it upset her that there was anyone who could be said to be as pretty as she was, much less that it was her older sister.

Even Gwenhwyfar was at a loss; she didn’t remember doing anything that would have warranted this. If their positions had been reversed, had Gwenhwyfar been the youngest, there would be some cause for that resentment. But no, it had been Little Gwen who had usurped the position of “youngest” from her year-older sister, and she’d scarcely begun to toddle when she made her enmity known. From that day, Gwen’s life had been a struggle to avoid her clever sister’s tiny tortures.

One thing she had learned early on: never strike back. Little Gwen was never caught, at least not by an adult, and retribution on Gwen’s part only brought down the wrath of an adult. Gwen was the older; logic said that when there was a quarrel, she was the aggressor, for why would a smaller child bully a larger? When Gwen displayed bruises, she was told that was what she deserved for picking on her younger sibling.

Her older sisters knew what was going on, of course, but protests to an adult only got them told not to take sides.

That was the other reason for having a Gwen on either side of the bed, with two sisters in between. It stopped the fighting.

Well, mostly.

“It’s all your fault,” Little Gwen whispered in the dark. “You got us sent to bed, Gwenhwyfar. We could still be there if not for you.”

“Me? What did I do?” Gwen demanded as both her sisters sighed with exasperation.

“You weren’t quiet enough. You made the queen look at you. You were fidgeting. You always fidget.” This, from the person that Mag always checked for fleas, since by the nursemaid’s way of thinking, anyone who squirmed that much must be harboring a host of fleas.

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

“Did no such thing!”

“Did so!”

“Give over!” snapped Gynath, the eldest of them all. “Gwen did no more fidgeting than you, and she was a deal less obvious about wanting to hear every word about the Queen of the Orkneys. Now go to sleep!”

“I can’t,” Little Gwen whined. “I’m cold. Gwen stole all the covers.”

Since Gwen was barely covered by the drape of the blankets, this was obviously a lie. “Did not!”

“Did so!”

“Couldn’t have,” Gynath said smugly. “I tucked them under the featherbed on your side. You’re a liar, and that just proves you’re a changeling. I knew it! The Fair Folk took the real baby and left you in her place! No wonder you’re a little horror!”

“Am not!” Little Gwen said, furiously. “And she stole the covers! Ow!”

This last punctuated the thump on the head her older—and much larger—sister gave her.

“Give over,” Gynath repeated. “Go to sleep, or I’ll tip you out and you can lie on the floor with the dogs all night.”

“I’m lying with bitches now,” Little Gwen muttered, and Gynath thumped her again for her pains, and, at last, she subsided.

Gwen turned on her side, her back to her sisters, and stared at the place where the curtains met. Stealthily—because if Little Gwen knew what she was doing there would be whining about letting the draft in—she parted the curtains with a finger and peered across the room at the light visible through the gaps between the door and doorframe, straining her ears to make out something besides the indecipherable muttering of voices. She had wanted to hear more too, but not about Anna Morgause.

She wanted to hear about magic and the Power. Hearing about or watching someone working magic always gave her a shivery good feeling. She couldn’t wait until she came into her own Power.

She wondered what it would be. Some, like Eleri, could do just about anything in reason. Some were just healers, some could command the weather, or see into the past or the future.

She wanted to be able to do it all, though. Well, who wouldn’t?
And
she wanted something else. She wanted to be a chariot-driver, and a warrior. There had to be a way to keep the Power and still wield Cold Iron. Sometimes she felt torn in two, wanting both those things—

But there was no doubt, no doubt at all, that when she came into her Gift, she
would
be sent to the Ladies. The doubt came about whether the King would be willing, no matter what he said, for a daughter to take up weapons. There were not many warrior-women, and most girls who tried the life soon gave it up.

That wasn’t the only reason she strained to listen to the talk at the hearth. Besides hearing about magic, she wanted to hear about this new queen with the same name as her.

She wondered what life was like, for this slender, fair young woman. Did her father have a castle like this one? Clearly, if she was a good archer, he let her train with the warriors. Oh, how Gwen wanted to do that, too—

Well, maybe. She would have to be careful that the Power didn’t desert her because she handled Cold Iron too much. But there had to be a way!
That
Gwenhwyfar had done it!

Did she have sisters? Probably not, and probably not brothers either, if she had been on the walls, shooting arrows at her father’s enemies. Brothers were funny about things like that. Gwen had overheard plenty of fights when some of the boys tried to keep their sisters from training with the warriors and the like. No, from the sound of it, she was an only child . . .