Already the people around her were looking at her askance and whispering to one another, all except one stocky, dark-bearded man who glared at Princess Morgan with outrage on his face. Guinevere smiled at the sight of him. Her half brother, Gwarthgydd of Northgallis, was her father’s eldest son by his first wife. From Guinevere’s earliest years, he had been a rough but adoring uncle-like figure in her life, a powerful ally, and the father of Gwillim, her dearest childhood friend. At their father’s death, Gwarth had become king of Northgallis and Gwillim his heir. She had seen little of them since her move to Gwynedd until last spring, when Gwarth had brought Gwillim to King Pellinore’s stronghold to have a look at Elaine.
Gwarth turned and met her eyes, and by the brisk nod of his head gave her to know that an insult to her was an insult to him, and that he was ready to fight in her defense. Quick tears of gratitude rose to Guinevere’s eyes. She had forgotten what it was like to have Gwarth on one’s side.
Servants brought in the wedding gifts the family had carried from Gwynedd and laid them carefully at Princess Morgan’s feet. Queen Alyse had done the best she could on such short notice, especially since most of the king’s personal treasures had been lost in a fire last spring. The gifts were few in number but of very high quality: a pair of silver goblets rescued from the fire and polished until they blazed; a set of fine linen bedsheets and four thick blankets of good Welsh wool, banded—in the last two weeks—by wide borders dyed Pen-dragon red; a small dagger, taken in a chance encounter with a Gaelic raiding party, made for a woman’s hand, with a hilt of entwined serpents and a pretty enameled sheath; and an old, probably Roman brooch of silverwork chased in gold that had been in Queen Alyse’s mother’s family for generations.
Princess Morgan gazed politely at these gifts and praised them mildly, which produced a certain stiffening in Queen Alyse. The only gift that caught Morgan’s attention was a coverlet of imported white silk backed with bleached Welsh lambs-wool. In the center, embroidered colts and fillies kicked up their heels in a meadow of wildflowers. Princess Morgan rose from her chair and came forward to touch the coverlet, to run her hand over the smooth fabric and the stitched horses at play.
“I like this,” she said in some surprise, lifting it to the lamp to see it better. “The stitching is amazingly fine, and the little horses look almost real. I congratulate you, Queen Alyse. It is quite original. I have never seen anything like it.”
Queen Alyse nodded briefly. “Thank you, my lady. You are very kind, but I cannot take the credit. That coverlet was designed and stitched by my ward and niece, Guinevere of Northgallis.” She gestured toward Guinevere, the tiniest of smiles on her lips.
Guinevere fell into an immediate curtsy, but no words of thanks or commendation came from Princess Morgan, only silence, a thick, tense silence that grew and spread until it filled every corner of the tent. No one moved. Everyone waited with held breath for the spell to break.
At last, Princess Morgan spoke. “How very fortunate you are to have such a gifted seamstress among your dependents, my lady queen. I almost wish I could take her with me. I could use her.”
Guinevere’s eyes flew up at that.
“I regret,” Queen Alyse responded coolly, “that such a gift must be denied you. Lady Guinevere, as Sir Bedwyr has already told you, is my sister’s daughter and a most trusted and beloved member of our family. No one in Gwynedd regards her as a dependent.”
“No, nor in Northgallis, either,” boomed Gwarth’s deep voice from the crowd behind.
“Nor in all of Wales, I’m sure.” Princess Morgan’s smile was condescendingly kind, leaving them all to wonder if this was a slight directed at Wales itself.
“Ladies, if I may have your attention for a moment …,” Sir Bedwyr intervened, bowing low to a space between them. “The High King has charged me with the task of …”
Guinevere did not hear him finish, for when she looked up, her gaze was caught by a man standing motionless in the shadow of Morgan’s chair, a man hitherto unnoticed in all the hubbub, a tall specter of a man wrapped in a black cloak from chin to heel. He captured her gaze the instant she raised her head, and he looked into her eyes as if the distance between them did not exist. She trembled as she sensed a foreign presence enter her mind and search among her thoughts, her memories, her plans and dreams, with the precision of a disemboweling knife. She wanted to cry out in protest, she wanted to flee, but she seemed to have lost command of her body. A bubble of stillness surrounded her and held her motionless, deaf and blind to the outer world.
Desperate for some way to defend herself, Guinevere stared back at the forbidding figure and tried to funnel her rising resentment into some sort of resistance against this unpardonable intrusion. At once the intrusion ceased. There was surprise, regret, a touch of respect, and even apology as the other mind withdrew and released her. The bubble dissipated into the lamplit air, and the noises, smells, and vivid colors of the common world returned.
Shaking, Guinevere turned away. She was astonished to find that time had passed and that no one had noticed anything amiss. King Pellinore and Queen Alyse were busy greeting the royalty of Wales. Trevor of Powys was chatting again with Elaine, and Gwarth was bearing down on her with arms outstretched.
“Why, Gwen, just look at you! You’ve grown another handspan since spring, I’ll wager. And still as light as a reed.” His great arms engulfed her in a bear hug and swung her from the ground. “Pay no mind to that mealymouthed wench in the scarlet clothes. Royal is as royal does, I always say. She’s no likeness of her brother, may the gods be thanked.” Gwarth’s voice, even when he whispered, could be heard across a room.
“Shhh. She’ll hear you.” Guinevere kissed his rough cheek and hugged him.
“Don’t care if she does.” Gwarth grinned. “Besides, she’s gone. Sir Bedwyr took her out.” He chuckled. “There’s a man who earns his salt. Turned a catfight into an administrative meeting right under the princess’s nose. More than I could’ve done.”
Guinevere stared at him blankly. She had heard nothing of Sir Bedwyr’s administrative meeting.
He ran his eye over her in evident satisfaction. “You’re looking fine, Gwen—you look more like your mother every time I see you. The fairest woman any of us in Northgallis ever saw.”
Guinevere grabbed his sleeve. “I need your help, Gwarth. Who is that man behind Princess Morgan’s chair? No, don’t stare, just take a quick look and tell me.”
“What man? There’s no one behind the chair.”
Guinevere whirled around. It was true. The shadows behind Princess Morgan’s chair were empty. “But there was a man there! All during the presentation. Didn’t you see him?”
Gwarth’s eyebrows rose and he shook his head. Guinevere fought down rising panic. Had she dreamed it? Or had the villain sneaked out while her back was turned?
“I’ll find him, if you like,” Gwarth offered, watching her. “What did he look like?”
She shivered. “A vulture. But never mind…. Where’s Gwillim?”
“Left him home to run the kingdom.” Gwarth grinned. “I hope it’s still there when I get back…. Are you all right, Gwen? You look pale.”
“It’s only a headache.”
“Too much stink from those lamps. Let’s go outside.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“I’ll tell the queen I’m walking you back to your tent.”
Guinevere let him take over with gratitude. She was suddenly so tired, she didn’t think she could move without help. A calamitous thunder roared inside her head, and she longed for sleep. Her visit to Deva was off to an unlucky start. Without willing it, she had somehow made an enemy of Princess Morgan—and after she had imagined a kinship of spirit between them! Even if she could avoid the princess for the rest of her stay, which seemed unlikely in so small an encampment, would she be able to avoid the sinister specter that dogged her?
She shivered as Gwarth took her arm and led her out into the cool of
the evening, but not with cold.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Black Bowl
In the morning, Princess Morgan sent for Elaine and Guinevere.
Leonora, Queen Alyse’s woman, delivered the summons. “You’re both to attend her this morning—the queen’s orders. And you, Guinevere, you’ll have to change your clothes.”
Guinevere, who was half dressed in tunic and leggings for a visit to the horse lines, put down her boots with obvious reluctance. “Both of us? Are you certain?”
Leonora ignored the question. “The queen thinks your blue gown would serve best. Not the gray. On no account the gray. Elaine will wear yellow. Lady Elaine, your mother reminds you to behave yourself and to remember, when you open your mouth, that the honor of Gwynedd is at stake.”
Both girls smiled to hear Queen Alyse’s words so exactly reproduced, even down to the crisp arrogance of her voice. But Guinevere’s smile faded. If Queen Alyse placed enough importance on this meeting to direct what they were to wear, there was no possibility of avoiding it. She would have to face Princess Morgan again, and in her blue gown, too, which Queen Alyse did not like her to wear in company because it matched the color of her eyes and made her too noticeable.
Today she wanted nothing more than to fade into the background. But today Queen Alyse apparently intended that she, Guinevere, should stand out and that Elaine, mono-chrome in a gown that matched her yellow hair, should stay in the background. It was a reversal of the natural order of things, and Guinevere wondered why.
She supposed the queen must have some plan afoot, or perhaps she was ill, seriously and secretly ill. At dawn that morning, Guinevere had awakened to the muffled sound of vomiting from the direction of the queen’s tent. She had heard the sound several times before. If Queen Alyse was ill, she might not be thinking straight or be in full command of her wits. She had seemed well enough last night, except at odd moments when the lamplight caught her face just so and revealed hollows below her cheekbones that had not been there before.
This thought made Guinevere so uneasy that she tried to cajole information out of Ailsa as she peeled off her tunic and leggings. “Ailsa, what’s the matter with Aunt Alyse? Something is, and don’t tell me you don’t know, because I see that you do.”
But Ailsa refused to be drawn. “Never you mind,” she said, refolding the discarded clothes and replacing them in the trunk. “If the queen wanted you to know, she’d tell you. Let be. Look, here’s your lovely blue gown, which always makes you look so like your mother, and which the queen hardly ever lets you wear….”
The change of subject confirmed Guinevere’s suspicions. Something was wrong with Queen Alyse. She asked no more questions, but stood quietly while Ailsa finished dressing her and combing out her hair. Elaine was ready first and danced impatiently about the crowded space, jubilant in her excitement.
“It’s such an honor, Gwen. Aren’t you thrilled? I mean, that’s why we’re here, Mother says—to entertain King Arthur’s sister, and now she’s sent for us. She’s taken notice. We must have made a good impression—or I did, at any rate. So stop looking so glum.”
She twirled around in place, the skirts of her gown swirling above her ankles and showing off her yellow slippers. “Maybe she’s invited us to give you a chance to apologize.” Guinevere’s head came up. “Apologize for what?” “For whatever you did last night to annoy her.” “For the thousandth time, I did nothing to annoy her. You know that. You were standing right beside me.”
“Well, you must have done something to make her take against you.”
“When you’ve figured out what it is, I hope you’ll tell me.”
The arrival of the princess’s page put an end to argument.
He led them outside into a fine autumn morning, cool and sunny, with a breeze that sent clouds flying across the sky. A perfect day, Guinevere thought, for riding out. As they passed by the sentries posted outside the High King’s great tent, they could hear the grumble of men’s voices from within. The council of kings had begun.
The page led them halfway across the meadow to Princess Morgan’s compound. The royal tent was foremost among a group of three clustered at a distance from all the others. There were twice as many guards posted here as around any other tent, and as soon as they entered, Guinevere understood why.
It was lavishly appointed, with polished tables and cushioned chairs, hanging tapestries, oil lamps of bronze and silver, fine ceramic bowls and platters, and exquisite jewelry all laid out for anyone to see. These, Guinevere guessed, must be Morgan’s wedding gifts, or perhaps part of the dowry her brother had provided. Of their own gifts, the silver goblets, the brooch, the blankets, and the dagger were already on display. The white silk coverlet with its dancing horses was nowhere to be seen.
Elaine looked wide-eyed at all the gathered wealth while Guinevere scanned the shadowed corners for any signs of the cloaked figure she dreaded seeing. When Princess Morgan entered through a side curtain, both girls fell into nervous curtsies. The princess wore a plain day gown of dark red and had bound her hair into a long braid down her back. Her hands, her throat, and her brow were free of ornaments. Only a pair of tiny garnet earrings graced her ears. To Guinevere, she looked a hundred times more regal than she had last night.
“Good morning,” Princess Morgan said with a light smile. “Princess Elaine, isn’t it? And Princess Guinevere? Thank you for coming so promptly.” She indicated a low cushioned couch. “Sit down.”
The girls obeyed. “First,” said Princess Morgan, “I must apologize for my rudeness of last night. I understand that I gave offense to Queen Alyse, which was never my intention. But I am shy of crowds. I become stiff and formal and apt to say things which I do not mean.” She smiled charmingly. “I hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course we can,” said Elaine. “Think nothing of it. But why should a small group like that make you shy? I should think you would be used to it by now.”
Princess Morgan lowered her eyes for a moment. “I should be, I suppose, had my father lived a little longer, for I grew up at court. But he died just before I turned twelve, and since then my mother and I have lived at Tintagel.”
She looked up into two uncomprehending faces. “Tintagel is a great fortress on the Cornwall coast. It is built on an island of rock inaccessible by sea and connected to the mainland by a single narrow causeway. All the kings of Cornwall are born there because it is so easy to defend. My brother was born there, and so was I.”
Elaine straightened, eyes wide at the reference to Arthur.
“It’s all very well as a nursery, for the place is impregnable. But it’s a prison for a girl of marriageable age. It sits on a sweep of rugged coastline, all alone. No one lives anywhere near it but shepherds and peat diggers. The nearest fishing village is ten leagues south—more if you go by the coast road. No one comes to visit. Life there is extraordinarily dull. Mother likes the isolation, but then she’s withdrawn from life. She mourns my father still and won’t set foot outside the walls. She waits for death.” She paused. “And I’ve been cooped up there for the last four years.”
Guinevere heard echoes of anger and resentment in her voice and wondered if she blamed her mother or her brother for this imprisonment. Her mother’s plight was unenviable, but probably beyond her power to control. As for her brother, where else was he to keep her? He and his men were always on the move, fighting Saxons, Gaels, Angles, and anyone else who coveted Briton lands. His court at Caerleon was more a fighting fortress than a home. Tintagel was safe.
Princess Morgan must have heard the echoes, too, for she said more mildly, “I’m only explaining why I am unused to speaking in a public forum. At Tintagel, there was only Mother, my nurse, my tutor, the household, and me.”
“Then how did you meet your husband?” asked Elaine. “Did he visit Tintagel and fall in love with you there?”
Princess Morgan laughed. “Hardly. I’ve never met him.” She smiled at Elaine’s confusion. “Mi
ne is a political marriage, arranged by Arthur. Rheged is a large kingdom, and Arthur needs King Urien as an ally. You needn’t look so sorry for me. I agreed to it. I will have power in Rheged.” Her face changed subtly, hardening around the mouth and eyes. “And power is something I’ve never had.”
Elaine shivered. “I should hate to marry a man I didn’t love. Mother has promised me that I shall not have to marry anyone I don’t want to.”
“Indeed? And you a king’s daughter? How very indulgent of Queen Alyse. I wouldn’t have expected it of her.”
“It’s the same promise her mother made to her,” Elaine explained, glossing over the implied insult in Morgan’s words. “I shall make it to my own daughter, when I have one.”
Princess Morgan’s smile grew gently condescending. “And you, Guinevere? Has Queen Alyse made the same promise to you?”
Guinevere raised her eyes only briefly. “No, my lady. Not yet.”
“She will, Gwen,” Elaine said. “Of course she will. She believes in marrying for love. It’s just that you’re not, well … ready for courting yet, so the subject hasn’t come up.”
Guinevere bowed her head to hide the flush of color that rose to her cheeks, but Princess Morgan, to her great relief, showed no interest in her lack of readiness for courting. She turned back to Elaine and said demurely, “Prince Trevor of Powys has taken an interest in you, I understand. Perhaps you will fall in love with him.”
“Never. There is only one man I could ever—” Elaine stopped, having seen the pitfall too late, and gulped. “I mean … I couldn’t love Trevor of Powys. I just couldn’t.”
“Because you are already in love with someone else?”
Elaine blushed.
“May I ask who he is?”
Elaine’s color deepened. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
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