Since he could not guard her and continue to live in the hills among the Long Eyes, he had exchanged his pallet for a hammock and the cave for a canopy of leaves. Now he lived in the fertile lowlands among the valley dwellers, learning their customs, speaking their language, and trying to make sense of their violent and noisy society. He was making progress. Washing his face and hands on rising had already become a habit. He had a woven tunic now, and a fine pair of doeskin leggings, for the queen of Gwynedd objected to men clad only in skins and loincloths. He had made a friend of Marcus, captain of the house guard. He had met Queen Alyse and King Pellinore. He was learning the king’s laws. He was learning to ride.
He watched horse and rider reach the top of the meadow and slow to a walk. The girl with hair of light dropped the reins across the filly’s neck and for the first time took a good look about her. She saw him at once, which pleased him.
“Llyr!” She waved, and without a movement that he could see, without even touching the reins, she directed the filly across the field toward him.
He raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning, princess. Another beautiful day, I think.” He spoke to her carefully in Welsh, proud of the new form of address he had learned only yesterday.
She slid off the filly’s back and came forward to greet him. “A wonderful morning. And I have news, Llyr, very exciting news. Will you walk with me while I cool off Zephyr?”
He listened to the exuberance in her voice as she told him of the upcoming journey. She had taken only one journey in all her life: from the kingdom of Northgallis to the kingdom of Gwynedd when her father died. Then eight years old, she had traveled in a litter surrounded by guards. He doubted they would get her to ride in a litter now.
“It will be my first trip out of Wales,” she said, turning to him with a wide smile and dancing dark blue eyes. “Our first stop will be at Caer Narfon. Riall, the lord of that place, is coming to Deva with us. We’ll spend at least one night camped outside his walls. It’s not far from Y Wyddfa, they say. You will be able to go home for a visit. You can see your family again.”
His dream returned to him with sickening clarity. Again he saw the blocked path, the closed cave, and the empty greeting ground. If he went back, was this what he would find? Or was the dream simply a reminder that he no longer had a home?
“What’s the matter, Llyr? Don’t you want to go home? You’ll see your father again, and your mother and sister and brother. Doesn’t that please you?”
“Of course,” he said, groping for a smile and failing to produce it. “I am very pleased.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I am sorry. It is not completely true. I am pleased, yes, but also not pleased.” He shrugged. “It is complicated.”
They walked on in silence. Below, through a gap in the trees, Llyr could see the gray stone towers of the castle outlined against the sea beyond. It was an impressive building. He had been inside it twice and thought it a sensible dwelling, although far too large for the number of people it housed. It seemed to be as close as a valley dweller could come to living in a cave.
“Is it because of what happened last spring?”
Guinevere spoke hesitantly, and he appreciated her reluctance. She had been part of a very private ceremony, held in a deep cave in the heights above the castle, which no valley dweller had ever before attended. She had sat in a circle with the elders of the Long Eyes while Mapon had summoned forth the One Who Hears. She had seen the clan’s wisewoman call up a vision for all to see and give Llyr a new life. Guinevere had been part of it, but she was not one of the Old Ones, and she had no way of knowing all the ramifications of that gift.
“Yes,” he said at last. “It is because of what happened last spring.”
“There is something I have wanted to ask you,” she said slowly, “but it is none of my business and it is … well, very personal.”
“You may ask.”
She glanced at him swiftly and looked away. “I wondered … do the other Old Ones, like the Red Ears of Northgallis and the White Foot of Snow Mountain, know what the One Who Hears has done?”
Llyr’s mouth tightened. “News travels faster than wind among Earth’s Beloved. Everyone knows.”
“Then your father knows.”
“Yes.”
“He will be proud of you, won’t he, for such an honor? I mean, even if you can’t take your rightful place as his firstborn son?”
Llyr sucked in his breath. This was another difference between his own people and the Others, as Earth’s Beloved called the valley dwellers. The Others used language so much that they had lost the gift of divination. Among his own people, the question would not have been asked. The answer would have been already known.
Guinevere’s hand touched his. “Forgive me. It was impertinent to ask. Will you come down to the castle with me? There’s time for a ride along the beach before breakfast.”
The filly’s back was warm and alive under his seat. He wished that he could ride his pony without a saddle or pad, as Guinevere did her mare; it was a wonderful feeling. Or perhaps the wonderful feeling came from the nearness of her person, from his arms about her waist and his cheek against her long, pale hair. He shut his eyes for a moment and wished he were one of the Others—the prince of her destiny, perhaps, who could hold her in his arms forever.
He bit his lip. He could still hear the voices of the Long Eyes accusing him of falling in love with She With Hair of Light. He had thought the charge unjustified when it was made, but now he understood it. It must be true, for at the thought of another man’s arms around her, a rage possessed him—a rage against his destiny and hers, a rage against the prophecy made at her birth. For the first time, he understood her struggle to deny that prophecy, her refusal to believe in its truth. For the first time, he wanted to join her in that fight.
“Gwenhwyfar,” he whispered, pressing his lips against her flowing hair and falling back into the language of the Old Ones, which she did not understand. “It is too late. I am lost. That is what the dream meant.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Caer Narfon
“I hope you know,” Elaine said tartly, “that you’re making an utter fool of yourself.”
It was the morning of departure, and the courtyard bustled with last-minute activity Unable to sleep the night before, Elaine and Guinevere had taken their places early and now had to wait for everyone else. Only half the guards had arrived. The wagons, which had been loaded during the night to save time, were now unpacked and reloaded, over and over, with items that could not be left behind. None of the rest of the family had yet come out of the castle. Servants ran hither and yon with no concern for anything but haste. Marcus shouted orders, horses stamped, men grumbled, and Guinevere had her hands full keeping the excited filly under control.
“It’s all the bustle,” she said breathlessly as the filly danced about in little circles. “She’s not used to it. She’ll be better once we’re on the road.”
“I’m not talking about the horse.” Elaine’s voice was sharp. “You look perfectly ridiculous, Gwen. People will take you for my brother. Did you even bring a gown?”
Guinevere ignored the question. Elaine knew exactly what Ailsa and Grannic had packed in the girls’ trunk, which was more than two-thirds full of Elaine’s clothes. But the remark about being taken for a boy stung. At twelve, Elaine had already developed a figure; at thirteen, Guinevere had not. She had grown taller by leaps and bounds—she was nearly as tall as Queen Alyse—but her body still showed no sign of any change. Since she was not interested in suitors, she lost no sleep over their absence, but the lack of a figure had begun to bother her unreasonably whenever Elaine brought the subject up.
“Your father gave me permission to ride,” she countered, having brought the filly to a momentary halt. “He doesn’t think it’s ridiculous.”
Elaine sniffed. “He always gives you whatever you want. And he’s the last one to understand how it looks. Mother’s
furious. If I have to ride in her litter, I won’t forgive you, Gwen. Be sensible just this once. You’ll make us the jest of all Wales.”
Zephyr shied as a servant darted by, and Guinevere struggled to keep the filly from wheeling. She knew why Queen Alyse was angry. King Pellinore had granted Guinevere permission to ride her filly to Deva and back without first consulting his wife. Aghast at the prospect of her niece and ward appearing before the High King clad in boots and leggings, never mind bareback astride a horse—a horse, moreover, that Arthur had given to Pellinore only five months ago and no doubt expected him to keep as a broodmare—the queen had argued long and hard against it. Highborn ladies rode in litters. To do else was to live beneath one’s rank; to invite malicious comment, endless gossip, scorn, and ridicule.
King Pellinore often lost these battles of will, but this time he stood firm. In his estimation, no one cared two pins what happened in the royal family of Gwynedd; he had never heard a breath of gossip. Gossip about what, he should like to know. Moreover, he had seen Guinevere ride, which Alyse had not, and if she thought the girl was going to come off the horse and land in a ditch somewhere, she should think again. That child rode better than most of his men.
Not caring to admit that her foremost concern had not been for Guinevere’s safety, Queen Alyse lifted her chin and sniffed. She finally relented when King Pellinore assured her that the High King, far from being disappointed, would be delighted to see what use had been made of his gift.
The queen might have lost the battle, but she won a final skirmish: Guinevere was permitted to ride her filly only if she used a saddle. It was bad enough, the queen said acidly, that the king and queen of Gwynedd would be thought eccentric guardians by every soul they met, but she refused to be thought negligent as well.
The saddle was part of the problem now. Zephyr hated it, even after two weeks of practice. She wanted the instant communication she was used to from her rider’s seat and legs, not the rub of saddle and pad or the cinch around her belly. The horse was frightened by her own confusion, and the excitement of the crowded courtyard made her skittish. It was all Guinevere could do to keep her still for a dozen heartbeats.
“I’m sorry to be the cause of your mother’s temper, but you know I loathe litters. And the ride will do Zephyr good. Besides, there’s more room for the rest of you without me. Ride with Ailsa and Grannic, and leave your mother to her women. Her mood will improve once we’re under way.”
“It’s not that.” Elaine shrugged unhappily. “We’ll be meeting important people, Gwen. The way you’re dressed—like any stable lad—you’ll ruin my chances.”
“Chances for what?”
“For making a good impression. For not disgracing us all.”
“Tell them it doesn’t run in the family.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“For heaven’s sake, Elaine.” Guinevere leaned down across the filly’s withers. “I won’t embarrass you in front of King Arthur, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I promise it. He shall never see me astride a horse. He shall never see me at all, if I can help it.”
Elaine looked up, her sky-blue eyes wide with gratitude and relief. “Really? Do you swear it?”
“On my honor.”
Elaine brightened and, turning to climb into the nurses’ litter, flashed Guinevere a smile. “In that case, it doesn’t matter to me what anyone thinks of you.”
The filly spun on her haunches as a tremor went through the crowd. The castle doors opened, and at last the king and queen appeared. Immediately, the chaos of the courtyard resolved itself into an orderly pattern of readiness. The king’s groom came forward with his stallion, the queen led her women into the litters, the standard-bearers raised the banners of Gwynedd, the gates opened, the horn sounded, and the escort began to move. Zephyr’s ears pricked forward, and Guinevere sighed in relief. At long last, the journey had begun.
At a trot, it was less than half a day’s ride to Caer Narfon, but with wagons and litters it took until sunset. The port town, so close to Mona, the Druid’s Isle, lay along the northwest coast of Gwynedd. The fertile lands behind it ran up into the foothills of Y Wyddfa, the Snow Mountain, the highest mountain in Wales.
King Pellinore’s party came over the last rise above Lord Riall’s stronghold as the westering sun blazed on the horizon. Torches flared beside the stronghold gates. A horn blew notice of their approach as the gates swung open to receive them. The procession passed into a courtyard paved in stone. Guinevere brought the now obedient filly to a halt beside Elaine’s litter and looked anxiously about for Llyr.
She had not seen him all day. She knew he had come on the journey, for he had taken his pony from the paddock that morning. Since then, however, he seemed to have disappeared. It was just like him to evade notice and fade into the background. He preferred the forest paths to the open roads and, like all the Old Ones, had the gift of invisibility in a wood. She wished he would make an appearance before the gates shut for the night. She wanted to find out when he was going to visit his family and beg him to take her along. She scanned every face in the courtyard, but Llyr’s was not among them.
King Pellinore dismounted as two people came forward from a torchlit entranceway. Elaine poked her head out from between the litter curtains, ignoring Grannic’s efforts to pull her back. “Who’s that?”
The taller of the two was a sharp-faced man of about thirty with thin reddish hair and a straggling mustache and beard. On his arm leaned a small, aging woman in antique garb whose gilded linen scarf hid the gray of her hair and the wrinkles about her throat. As they approached, moving stiffly, she surveyed the newcomers with fierce, unwelcoming eyes.
“Lord Riall and his mother, I think,” Guinevere whispered. “Or his grandmother.”
“Lady Gemina,” Elaine breathed. “So that’s her. Mother told me her great-great-grandfather was a Roman governor somewhere in the south, and she thinks she’s someone important on account of it.”
“For heaven’s sake, keep your voice down. She’ll hear you.”
Guinevere slid off the filly’s back and helped Elaine from the litter. Ahead of them, Queen Alyse went forward on King Pellinore’s arm to greet their hosts. Cissa and Leonora followed, six paces behind.
Elaine shook out her gown and patted her hair in place. “She tried to take Mother’s crown, you know, years and years ago. Drove her husband, Mother’s uncle, to his grave trying to make him king of Gwynedd. And two of her sons. They’re all dead now.”
“And Lord Riall?”
“The third son. The youngest. Mother’s hoping Lady Gemina has finally decided to keep him at home and make him tend to his obligations.”
“Does he fight for King Arthur with Pellinore?”
“No. He’s never gone on campaign. Mother says that’s what makes his request to accompany us to Deva so puzzling.”
Guinevere gazed ahead at the regal form of Queen Alyse silhouetted against the torchlight. She did not look puzzled. She stood at King Pellinore’s side, tall and elegant, her hair glinting gold in the flickering light and her head held confidently high.
Lord Riall gave both king and queen a gracious bow and words of welcome, but Lady Gemina barely bent her knee. The rigidity of her upright posture and the arrogant angle of her chin held no hint of fealty. Lord Riall shot his mother a meaning look, and with a charming smile invited his royal guests into his stronghold. Lady Gemina bent her head a mere fraction. Queen Alyse brushed past her, trailing the dirtied edge of her traveling cloak across the toes of Lady Gemina’s antique slippers.
Elaine grinned. “The fat’s in the fire now.”
“My wager’s on your mother.”
The girls and their nurses followed the king and queen into Lord Riall’s stronghold, where they were duly introduced and led away to the rooms prepared for them. Elaine and Guinevere were given a set of spacious rooms with carved beds, pallets stuffed with down, and soft woolen blankets.
“Better quarters
than ours at home,” Elaine observed. “A silver bowl for washing, a pitcher of Samian ware, a triple-flamed lamp, and applewood in the brazier. No expense spared.”
“So Lady Gemina has impressed you.” Guinevere pushed open the window shutters and peered out. The view faced northeast, toward the rising ground and the famous silver mines of Y Wyddfa. Beyond the stronghold walls, she could see the king’s men setting up horse lines, raising tents, lighting cooking fires, and preparing for night. She saw no sign of Llyr or his pony.
“I wonder what ancient family treasures she’s put in Mother’s chamber.” Elaine stepped out of her traveling gown as Grannic lifted a fresh one from the trunk. “They’re probably all gold and as old as Rome itself.”
“Where is the postern gate, did you notice?”
Elaine looked up in surprise. “Why? Are you going somewhere?”
Ailsa hurried forward with Guinevere’s second-best gown held carefully across her arms. “You’ve no need of the postern gate, my lady. Close the shutters now, and let’s get off those boots and leggings. We don’t want to insult our hosts by being late for dinner.”
Guinevere sighed. Whenever Ailsa called her “my lady,” it meant she saw trouble ahead and was anxious to avoid it. Reluctantly, Guinevere pulled the shutters closed and began to undress.
“Don’t worry, Ailsa,” she said under her breath. “I won’t go far. I only want to find Llyr.”
Guinevere's Gamble Page 3
