As soon as their own tent was ready, Ailsa and Grannic shooed the girls away and began the laborious process of turning the makeshift dwelling into an acceptable living space for the two or three weeks of their projected stay. Elaine tiptoed away to get as close as she dared to the High King’s tent, and Guinevere took Zephyr to the horse lines. She groomed the filly, removing the hated saddle and rubbing her coat to a smooth sheen. The horse was tired from the long day’s journey and content to be among the animals she knew. When the king’s grooms came by with armfuls of hay and skins of water hauled from the river, Guinevere gave her a last affectionate pat and headed into the woods to look for Llyr.
CHAPTER NINE
Trevor of Powys
Llyr sat on the low limb of a beech tree and waited for her. He knew she would look for him after she had seen to her horse. She would want to collect his pony, Thatch, and put him with the king’s horses, where he could be better fed and tended. To that end, he had hobbled the pony and left him to graze in a green patch not far from the beech. But she would also want to talk about her visit to Y Wyddfa, and he could no longer avoid her.
Llyr did not understand the urgent need of the Others to talk about everything all the time. His own race of men spoke only when necessary, for they were fluent in the language of posture and stance, expression and gesture, indicating by swift, subtle, and silent means most of what needed to be known. But the Others—Llyr shook his head at the wonder of it—the Others seemed blind and dumb when it came to body language. They used words, floods of words, for everything. Only when they were hunting did they keep their voices down and communicate by gesture—large, obvious pointings and wavings that no alert prey could fail to miss. It was thanks to the speed of their horses, the power of their weapons, and the strength of their nets that they captured anything at all.
Not for the first time, Llyr wondered if his growing association with the Others was making him more like them. In some ways it already had, but even though he was learning their language, he doubted very much that he could ever accustom himself to using it as they did. This made it doubly difficult to sit and wait for Guinevere. He knew she would have questions to ask him—questions about Alia—that he did not want to answer.
He still could not believe that the two girls had met and talked. Whatever they had said to each other had changed Alia forever. Soon he would know if it had changed Guinevere, too.
She came toward him through the trees, her pale hair clearly visible in the fading light. He slid to the ground and waited.
“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you. I’ve … I’ve come for Thatch. There’s a place for him in the horse lines next to Zephyr.”
He nodded. She did not come up to him as she usually did, but stopped ten paces away and lowered her eyes.
“I … I know you went home to see your family. Did they receive you? Did they honor you as you deserve?”
There was an unaccustomed shyness in her voice that Llyr found mystifying. He nodded. “More than I deserve.”
“And your father?”
“He approves.”
She looked up and smiled. “I am so glad.” She gestured to the woods around them. “Are you—are you going to stay here?”
“Sometimes here. Sometimes there.” He pointed to the woods across the field. “There are guards enough around the tents. I will do better at a distance, and it is possible that I may learn something useful.”
“As a spy?” She grinned. “That’s a great idea. I’ve been wondering how I shall occupy myself if I can’t go riding all day. Queen Alyse has made it plain that when I am in public, I must wear a gown.”
Llyr was relieved to find her more like herself. She had always hated wearing gowns.
“How shall I know how to meet you?”
Llyr patted the smooth bark of the beech. “Come to this place at lamplighting. I will wait in the tree. You can call me down with a whistle or a song.” He smiled. “I prefer a song.”
It was a mistake. She withdrew into a formal stiffness and, unless he imagined it, blushed. She released the pony from his hobbles and climbed onto his back. “What about food? Will you come eat with us? The queen won’t mind.”
He shook his head. “I can feed myself. It is better if I am not part of … all this.” He gestured toward the field—its tents, its people, its bustle.
“All right.” She met his eyes with a reluctance he had never seen in her before. “It is good to see you, Llyr.”
He acknowledged this with a nod. “And you, princess.”
He watched with misgiving as she rode the pony to the horse lines. She had changed. She had not asked the questions he had expected her to ask. She had not told him about her meeting with Alia. She had been distant and shy, which was unlike her. The diffidence in her manner reminded him of their first meeting in the hills above the castle last spring. But they were old friends now. Why should she suddenly treat him like a stranger?
After leaving Thatch with the other horses, Guinevere took a shortcut through the clustered tents from the horse lines. She misjudged her way, arriving at the High King’s tent instead of at her own. Hurrying past the royal guards, she ran toward the banners of Gwynedd. She was almost there when she heard someone behind her call her name.
She whirled, recognizing her cousin’s voice, and was astonished to see Elaine walking toward her at the side of a laughing young man. He was a big-boned youth still growing into his strength, with large hands and feet, red hair, and a square, freckled face designed for cheerfulness. Elaine grinned at his laughter and waved to Guinevere.
“Gwen! There you are! I have someone I want you to meet.”
Guinevere had hoped to meet no one of importance before she had time to change into a gown, but the meeting was unavoidable now. She waited.
“Who’s that?” she heard the young man ask Elaine. “Your brother?”
Guinevere stiffened as color rushed to her face.
“No, no,” Elaine giggled. “You’ve got it wrong again. She’s my cousin.”
“She?” The young man had the grace to color himself as he met Guinevere’s eyes.
“Gwen,” Elaine said, “meet Trevor, Prince of Powys. He’s here with his mother, Queen Esdora. His father, the king, is too ill to travel. Trevor, this is the daughter of my mother’s sister, my cousin Guinevere of Northgallis, who lives with us.”
Trevor of Powys bowed politely. “I am honored to meet you, Guinevere.”
“She’s a king’s daughter,” Elaine whispered belatedly.
Trevor’s blush deepened until his face was nearly as red as his hair. “I beg your pardon, princess,” he said. “I meant no discourtesy.”
Guinevere made him a reverence as best she could in boots and leggings. “The discourtesy was not yours, my lord,” she said evenly. “And the honor is mine.”
She turned to enter the tent, but Elaine stopped her. “We have been watching the High King’s men build a bonfire,” she said eagerly. “Trevor says we shall meet everyone tonight. We are the last to arrive, and also the most important, so the greeting ceremony will be formal.” She giggled. “You’ll have to wear a gown.”
“I intend to.”
“Tell us, my lord,” Elaine continued in a jaunty voice, “what you and your mother wore when you were presented to the High King. Was it so very formal? Were you dripping with jewels and weighted with gold?”
Trevor smiled. “I’m afraid that Powys is not as rich as Gwynedd. We have too few jewels to drip and too little gold to cause discomfort. But of course you must do your best for Princess Morgan. As a woman, she will appreciate your efforts.” He added, as an afterthought, “The High King, as you know, is not here.”
The joy drained from Elaine’s face. “Not here? What do you mean, not here?”
Trevor looked from Elaine to Guinevere and back again, perplexed. “I beg your pardon, but I thought you knew. The High King was called away on the eve of his departure by news of a Sa
xon invasion in the east. Sir Bedwyr leads the escort in his stead. And the council.” He bowed politely. “Forgive me for bearing such ill tidings.”
Angry tears sprang to Elaine’s eyes. “Not here! We’ve come all this way, and he’s not here!” She tore aside the curtain and bolted into the tent, leaving Guinevere and Trevor standing awkwardly outside to listen to her sobs.
“Forgive me,” Trevor murmured. “I didn’t know you didn’t know.”
“It’s not your fault, my lord. It’s not anyone’s fault. But it’s the only reason Elaine wanted to come.”
Trevor shrugged and said, with a little smile, “One of those, eh? The land is littered with them, I hear. But I’m afraid she’s a little late to the, er, race.”
Guinevere smiled. “We did hear about his marriage. Gwynedd is isolated, but not quite that isolated.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Do forgive me, princess, won’t you, for my mistaking you before? In Powys, we knew about the queen’s daughter—indeed, that’s another reason I accompanied my mother—but not about you.”
“That’s all right,” Guinevere replied, charmed by his frankness. “It’s an easy mistake to make. I dress like a boy when I ride—it’s the only way—but I can’t expect everyone outside Gwynedd to know that.”
“You didn’t arrive in a litter, then?”
“Goodness, no. I loathe litters.”
Trevor smiled, a spark of interest lighting his eyes. “And you have a fine horse, I suppose?”
“The best in all the kingdoms.”
“Is he fast?”
“She is. Very fast.”
“How fast?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had no one to test her against.”
Trevor’s eyebrows rose. “A test can certainly be arranged. Does King Pellinore know you have the best horse in the kingdoms?”
Guinevere’s eyes danced. “He should, my lord. He gave her to me.”
Trevor laughed. “Well, then, I think we must settle the matter sometime. Are you game for a race?”
“If the ground is good.”
“It’s settled, then.”
He extended his hand like any man making a wager. Guinevere hesitated only a moment before taking it firmly in reply.
CHAPTER TEN
The Presentation
It was well past lamplighting when a royal page came to summon King Pellinore and his family to meet Princess Morgan. The family, with Lord Riall, had gathered in Queen Alyse’s tent. Guinevere was relieved to see the queen looking healthy and regal in a rose-colored gown and a fox-trimmed cloak. Her face was a little thinner than usual, but her eyes were alive with excitement as she surveyed the girls and commended their nurses for having them ready on time.
Elaine, whose eyes were still pink from weeping, had begged her mother to excuse her from the ordeal of presentation. It would be long and tedious, she was certain, and since the High King would not be there, it held no interest for her. Queen Alyse had met this request with indignation, telling her daughter sharply to stop living in a world of dreams and dry her eyes.
“I will not be disgraced by my own daughter on such a significant occasion,” she had said. “Princess Morgan is the daughter of Ygraine of Cornwall, who was High Queen not so long ago and is still the most powerful woman in the land—in spite of turning into a recluse since Uther’s death. Morgan is also Arthur’s sister, his full, legitimate sister and his only trueborn sibling. The man she is going north to marry rules a kingdom twice the size of Gwynedd. She has influence, and influence is power. For political reasons alone I prefer to be in her good graces. So you will behave yourself tonight.”
Elaine had turned her head away, too miserable to object. Queen Alyse had grabbed her chin and forced her daughter to meet her eyes.
“If you are ever to be a queen, Elaine, you must learn how to comport yourself in all circumstances, even uncongenial ones. You set an example by your behavior. You will smile even when you are unhappy, you will show interest even when you are bored, and you will attend even when you are sick. Do you understand me?”
Ailsa’s eyes had fastened on the queen as she spoke the word sick, and for a moment Guinevere had wondered if her earlier guess that the queen might be ill had been correct. But Ailsa had denied it when directly asked, and now, standing dressed and ready in the queen’s tent, Guinevere could see for herself that there was nothing much amiss with Queen Alyse. She looked beautiful, composed, and in full control of her considerable authority.
Elaine stood sullenly at her mother’s side. Cold compresses had taken the puffiness from her cheeks and most of the redness from her eyes, but nothing could erase the impression of recent tears. Guinevere thought she looked lovely in spite of herself, with her golden hair held in place by a double string of river pearls and her costly gown the same vivid blue as her eyes. No wonder Trevor of Powys had been walking at her side.
Guinevere fidgeted with the sleeves of her own gown, which barely hid her wrists, as she and Elaine followed the king and queen past rigid sentries and stands of flaming torches to the entrance of the High King’s tent. The gown was her newest and best, a soft green the color of oak buds. Six months ago it had fit her straight frame perfectly, but now she was dismayed to find it tight in places and already a little short. Ailsa had added a dark green border to extend the hem, but there hadn’t been fabric enough to alter the sleeves. Queen Alyse did not seem to notice this deficiency, however, and Guinevere sincerely hoped Princess Morgan would not, either.
Sir Bedwyr met them at the entrance and welcomed them formally on behalf of the High King, cordially expressing Arthur’s regret that he was unable to greet them in person. His gaze lingered for a moment on the two girls before he swept aside the entrance curtain and led them all inside.
Warmth and light greeted them, and the subdued hum of voices. The interior of the tent was filled with people dressed in finery, who turned as one as they approached. Faces stared and voices died away as they passed through the crowd in Sir Bedwyr’s wake. At the far end of the tent, amid a cluster of bronze oil lamps emitting scents of cedar and lemon, a slender girl sat alone on a great carved chair.
“My lady Princess Morgan,” Sir Bedwyr said with a sweep of his arm and a formal bow, “I present to you the High King’s loyal subjects King Pellinore and Queen Alyse of Gwynedd, Princess Elaine of Gwynedd, Princess Guinevere of Northgallis, and Lord Riall of Caer Narfon, a kinsman. My lords, my ladies, Princess Morgan, daughter of Ygraine of Cornwall and Uther Pendragon, and sister to the High King Arthur.”
As they made their reverences to the girl in the chair, Guinevere thought what a pleasant voice Sir Bedwyr had, and how he had gotten all their names right, even though he was not a Welshman. And how surprising it was to find Princess Morgan so plain when her mother was a beauty of such renown. She had an elegant figure, to be sure, and beautiful dark brown hair combed to a sheen and bound with a triple strand of garnets around her brow. Her hands, long-fingered and slim, were adorned with rings, and her heavy gown, dyed a rich Pendragon red, was exquisitely cut to accent her figure. Her cloak was edged with ermine and matched her slippers. Proud and regal down to her fingertips, Princess Morgan ought to have been beautiful. But she was not. Her features were too strong, and her amber eyes too light for a girl with such dark hair.
This discordance between expectation and appearance disconcerted Guinevere. It was the way she felt whenever she and Elaine sneaked into Queen Alyse’s chamber to look at themselves in her mirror of polished bronze. Too well did she recall staring with rising dismay at the reality of her own image, which seemed to belong to a stranger, so little did it reflect the way she felt about herself. She wondered if Princess Morgan had ever been thrown off balance by the sight of her own reflection. Did she recognize the face that stared back at her? Or did her inner eye provide her with a more satisfactory vision?
Pleased by the discovery of a possible bond between them, Guinevere glanced at Morgan as she rose from her reverence
. For a moment, she shared a sense of sisterhood with the older girl. She, too, was the only daughter of a woman renowned for beauty, and she, too, had always fallen short of everyone’s expectations. But if Princess Morgan sensed this bond, she gave no sign of it. King Arthur’s sister sat stiffly in her brother’s great chair and looked down at them all with chill dislike.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance.” She spoke in a voice almost casually cool. “My lords, my ladies, please make welcome the royal family of Gwynedd, their kinsman, Lord Riall, and …” She turned to Guinevere and said with unapologetic abruptness, “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”
Guinevere sank into another reverence as color rushed to her face. Sir Bedwyr spoke quickly over her head. “Guinevere of Northgallis, my lady. Daughter of King Leodegrance, who was a great ally of your father’s, and Elen of Gwynedd, sister to Queen Alyse.”
Princess Morgan ran her cool gaze over Guinevere’s flaming face. “Another Guenwyvar? A name I cannot escape wherever I go, it seems. You are cousin to Princess Elaine?”
“Yes, my lady,” Guinevere breathed, unable to hide her surprise that Princess Morgan would refer to her brother’s wife with such disdain.
“And you live not in Northgallis but in Gwynedd? Under the protection of your aunt and uncle?”
“Yes, my lady. It was my father’s dying wish.”
Morgan’s laugh was sharp. “Foresighted man. No doubt he had ambitions for you. But it is dangerous for dependents to harbor ambition. You’d best keep yours in check. Unlike your namesake.”
The princess turned her attention to Elaine, leaving Guinevere frozen in place, trembling with anger and trying to pull her wits together. Princess Morgan had deliberately chosen to slight her before all these people, as if it mattered that she had the same name as King Arthur’s bride. But why? She was nothing to a woman of Morgan’s rank—less than nothing. There was no conceivable reason for the princess to take against her, and yet she had.
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