Princess Morgan laughed in genuine amusement. “Very well, I won’t. I don’t need to. And I see it would do no good to warn you off. But I am sorry for you.” She turned to Guinevere. Her words, although casually spoken, carried an intensity that made them sharp. “And you, Guinevere? Have you not yet lost your heart?”
“No, my lady.”
“I have heard something about you, I think. Aren’t you the one who is called the Lark of Gwynedd?”
Guinevere’s eyes widened in surprise. She had thought that an epithet known only in Gwynedd. Four years ago, after the bloody battle against the Saxons that had won Arthur his crown and cost Uther his life, Queen Alyse had asked the girls to help out in the hospital tents erected on the castle grounds to house the returning wounded. Unable to abide the sights and smells within the tents, Guinevere had been made to sit on a stool outside and sing to the suffering men. Those who had lived had given her the epithet in appreciation.
“Yes, she is,” Elaine supplied. “Because she sang to all the wounded men who made it home after the battle of Caer Eden, and they all said that the sound of her voice eased their pain. Didn’t they, Gwen?”
Guinevere flushed and shot Elaine a meaning look.
Princess Morgan turned her stony gaze on Guinevere. “Singing after the battle of Caer Eden? When the rest of us were in mourning?”
“Mourning for what?” Elaine cried, heedless of Guinevere’s warning elbow in her ribs. “That was the day King Arthur came to power and beat the Saxons back!”
Princess Morgan seemed to freeze in place. “It was also the day my father died.”
Too late, Elaine stuttered an apology.
Princess Morgan rose. “Come with me.” She walked to the side entrance and beckoned them to follow.
The chamber beyond was Princess Morgan’s bedchamber, regally furnished with a carved fruitwood bed hung with scarlet hangings. A thin middle-aged woman sat in a corner and stitched by the light of a candle. Morgan did not introduce her, and Guinevere guessed that she must be the princess’s nurse. The woman watched, frowning, as Morgan crossed the chamber to another entranceway on the far side of the tent.
“Go on in,” Princess Morgan said, holding back the entrance flap. “It’s dark, but I’ll bring a candle. Marcia, give me yours.” The nurse yielded the candle, and Morgan followed Elaine and Guinevere inside.
It was very dark, even by candlelight. Herbscent and earth smells filled the air, and something acrid, like ashes from a fire. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, they could see a shelf or tabletop before them, and a brazier to one side, unlit now but reeking of recent use. On the shelf stood a myriad of objects: bowls, spoons, jars, and cloth bags tied with ribbon.
“This is my secret,” Princess Morgan said softly. “This is how I occupied all those dull hours at Tintagel.”
“But what is it?” Elaine wondered aloud. “And why is it so dark?”
“It’s a stillroom. There are herbs in those bags, and oils and other things in the jars. And this bowl …” She set down her candle next to a large black stone with a concave surface. Her fingers caressed it. “This is the source of my secret knowledge.”
Guinevere and Elaine looked at each other. This place was nothing like the stillroom at home, which was right off the kitchen garden and filled with light. Cissa, who gathered herbs from the garden and bark from the woods, brewed teas, and mixed medicinal potions for the family, considered bright light essential for her work. Guinevere knew at once that what took place in this small, suffocating space was something very different.
“I have made a study of the magic arts,” Princess Morgan said, pulling the stoppers from two of the jars and pouring oil and water into the black bowl. “But not everyone has the gift of Sight. Would you like to see if you do?”
“I—I thought you were Christian,” Elaine stammered. “Mother told me so.”
“So I am,” the princess said smoothly, “when I need to be. But Christ is a man’s god. His disciples were all men, and so are his priests. Women are nothing but obedient servants to him. There are other gods, older gods, who offer power to a woman courageous enough to grasp it. Come closer now, and look into the bowl while I stir in these herbs. I saw the Lark of Gwynedd in the bowl last night, before the presentation, but I was not certain which of you it was. A pair of swans you are, among so many Welsh geese. Perhaps we shall see something new today.”
While Elaine and Guinevere edged fearfully closer and peered into the oily reflective surface of the liquid, Morgan took a small knife from her pouch and cut off two strands of hair from their heads. Making no apology for the liberty, she dropped the hairs into the liquid, added three pinches of silvery powder, murmured something unintelligible, and stared into the swirling liquid with intense concentration.
Guinevere stepped back a pace. Morgan’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. “Look,” she commanded. “Tell me what you see.”
Guinevere obeyed, but all she saw was a glimmer of her own reflection. “I don’t see anything.”
“Concentrate. Empty your mind and concentrate.”
Guinevere shook off the restraining hand and backed away. This was foolishness. If her mind was empty, there would be nothing to concentrate upon. “I see nothing.”
“You don’t try.” Morgan glanced at Elaine. “Have you more courage than your cousin? Look. Wait. What do you see?”
Elaine approached the bowl resolutely, eager to see a vision. She waited, stared, and squinted. “There’s nothing there but oil and water and hair and herbs. I have a headache. I want to leave.”
But Princess Morgan did not reply. She bent over the black bowl, gripping its sides as if it held her swirling soul. With a little gasp, she pulled away. In the utter silence of the dark they seemed to hear the pounding of her heart.
“It has begun,” she whispered. “The wheel of time is turning. I feel its pull.”
“Come away, come away,” Guinevere breathed, tugging at Elaine’s hand.
“She’s on the verge of prophecy!” “She doesn’t know anything. Come away.” Morgan shut her eyes and began to sway back and forth. In the shivering candlelight she looked inhuman. Terrible shadows raked her face, turning it into an old woman’s visage. Elaine whimpered and retreated. Guinevere placed herself between the witch and Elaine, and pushed Elaine toward the door. So it was that she, and not her cousin, heard the grievous words Morgan uttered: “The Queen shall die of what she carries in her, and another shall be appointed in her place.”
Guinevere grabbed Elaine’s hand, pushed open the door flap, and led her away—past Marcia, sitting silently on her stool, past the regal bed decked in the color of blood, past the collected treasures of a witch, and out into the breezy, sunlit air.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Morgan’s Plight
Marcia rose to her feet as Princess Morgan came through the curtain. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, frightening those girls like that. Your mother would have your hide. You know better.”
“It amused me.”
“Morgan!”
“I didn’t harm them. I wanted to get to know them. I need to learn their … talents and interests.”
Marcia scowled. “Their strengths and weaknesses, you mean. Don’t you lie to me, Mistress Morgan. I changed your swaddling clothes.”
Princess Morgan threw up her hands in exasperation and sank to the bed. “What do you want of me, Marcia? What is it you and Mother expect? I’m marrying him, am I not?”
“You needn’t. You know your mother has reservations. He’s old enough to be your grandfather, and he’s got grown sons living. It’s not too late to change your mind.”
Morgan covered her face with her elegant, long-fingered hands. “Not too late? I’d laugh, but I’d be sick. It was too late a long time ago. It was too late the day my father died and Arthur’s ambition was let loose upon the land.”
“Tsk, Morgan, hush.”
“It’s the truth.”
&nb
sp; “You had a choice.”
The hands came down and Morgan’s eyes blazed. “You think so, do you? You think I could have refused my brother? He only asked because he knew he could make me do it.”
“Morgan, that isn’t true.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. You and Mother are just alike. You’ve always doted on him. No, not on him, but on the idea of him: the lost son, given away at birth and raised by strangers far from home in ignorance of his parentage. Missed. Longed for. Dreamed of. Out of nowhere he returns—a young Hercules, a hero—just in time to snatch victory from defeat and make himself a name.” Her voice held more sadness than bitterness, despite the words. When she paused, her amber eyes glittered with tears. “Everyone forgets that Uther Pendragon died in that battle. Everyone marks the day and celebrates it yearly. It—it infuriates me. No one grieves for him.”
Marcia came to the bed and sat down beside her. “Ygraine does,” she said, slipping her arm around Morgan’s shoulders. “Your mother has grieved for him every day and every night for four long years. He was the only man she ever loved.”
“Besides Arthur.” Morgan shrugged off the arm and rose. “There wasn’t any choice, and there isn’t anything I can do about it now. Once I’m queen of Rheged—” She paused and changed what she had been about to say. “Until I’m queen of Rheged, I’m a pawn in my dear brother’s hands.”
“Now, Morgan—”
“Don’t scold me, Marcia. I’ve accepted it. I’m sixteen, after all. It’s time I wed. And Urien’s the most powerful king in Britain, after Lot. I shall have power in Rheged. At long last, I—” Again she broke off and changed her words. “I will achieve some influence over my life.”
“My dear,” Marcia said, rising quickly. “You’re shaking.” She wrapped her own shawl around Morgan’s shoulders. “It’s only natural to be afraid when you leave home for the first time. But the strangeness will soon pass. Rheged will become your home.”
Morgan shivered. “That’s not what I fear—leaving home, remaking my life in a new land. That I welcome. But …” She twisted the ends of the shawl around her fingers and stared off into space.
Marcia edged closer to her. In all the years she had served Queen Ygraine, she had never seen Morgan afraid. “What is it, my dear?”
Morgan forced a laugh. “I have been so little in company since Father died, and I was barely twelve then.” She turned to look Marcia full in the face. “I fear men. I know so little about them. We were a community of women at Tintagel. Men were guards or servants. One gave them orders, and they obeyed. But what of the men I face now, men of my own rank? I don’t know how to flirt with them or how to please them. I don’t know what they think about or what they fear. Yet in a few short weeks I will have to know how to deal with a great many different men. It will be important to handle this right. If Urien’s sons resent the match, my very life may depend upon it. Did you and Mother never think of that?”
Marcia smiled at her proudly and kissed her cheek. “Your mother and I gave you credit for the wits you possess. You’ll land on your feet. You always do.” She squeezed Morgan’s arm. “Besides, no woman can teach another about men. You learn as you go.”
Morgan’s lips twisted. “It would help to be beautiful. Mistakes might be forgiven.”
“Heavens, no, child. Never think so. There’s nothing more troublesome than beauty. Ask your mother. A beautiful woman brings out the very worst in men … and in women, too, come to that.”
Morgan looked at her sharply. Had Marcia guessed her reaction to those two golden girls? But Marcia was straightening the coverlet on the bed, and her face was hidden from view.
“You’re awfully full of sage advice today.”
“And you’re full of emotion. It’s unlike you.”
Morgan turned away, letting the shawl slip from her shoulders to the ground, where Marcia dutifully bent to retrieve it.
“That’s perceptive of you. I must have let that girl get under my skin.”
“Which girl?”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have frightened them. I suppose I shall have to pay Queen Alyse a visit and try to remedy the situation.”
“My dear, I think that’s very wise.” Marcia folded the shawl with care, keeping her eyes down. “Did one of those girls upset you? They looked an innocent pair to me.”
Morgan hesitated. “Elaine of Gwynedd. The pretty one. I shall have to make a friend of her, I think.”
Marcia looked at her doubtfully. “You didn’t think the other one was rather, er, startling?”
“The scarecrow? No. Certainly not.”
Marcia’s eyebrow rose, but she said mildly, “Well, by all means visit the queen of Gwynedd and befriend her daughter. She’s a powerful woman in the prime of life, and her influence is growing. It can only help you to know her. She has a reputation for intelligence—you might even enjoy her company.”
Morgan walked to the door of the tent and stood between the poles, looking out. The Sight did not come to her often, nor did it come on command, but when it came, it came clearly. Over and over again, in her bowl, in her crystal, in the dark pool below Tintagel, she had seen the same truth, sharp as a cutting blade. One of those girls in Queen Alyse’s care posed a danger to her—and to her plans for her much too popular brother.
Last night, when she had been seized by such an immediate dislike for Guinevere of Northgallis, she thought she had found her enemy. But after meeting both girls today, she was less sure. They were much alike, after all, growing up together as the daughters of two sisters renowned even beyond Wales for their beauty. They were alike, too, in their unthinking ability to annoy her. But she would get the best of them; she would divide them. She would befriend one of them to learn about the other. She would ferret out their little vanities, their fears, and their dreams, and she would use this knowledge to divide them. Singly, they were no match for her.
This had to be done now, before Sir Bedwyr moved her party on to Rheged, for who knew when a chance like this would come again? Travel was slow and difficult for a royal personage, and even as queen of Rheged, she would not be free of fetters on her movements. This might be her only opportunity to meet her enemy face to face and take her measure. For this reason alone, she had persuaded Arthur to stop and rest at Deva and to invite the royal families of Wales to visit.
Of course, she hadn’t revealed all this to Arthur. She had woven him a tale he would be more likely to believe, about the importance of meeting as many of the west county Britons as she could, getting to know the lay of the land, and making a good impression on local folk in advance of her marriage. These were arguments she knew her brother would be unable to resist. That he had turned a social visit into an excuse for a military conference had not surprised her in the least. Fighting—winning—was all he ever thought about. But she had welcomed his decision. Thanks to Arthur, the men would be out of the way, and she would be at liberty to examine the women.
No one had been better pleased than Morgan when Arthur was called away to war and Sir Bedwyr put in charge of her escort. Without Arthur, she would have a freer hand. None of the men had the rank to oppose her, and she knew they would not, simply because she was Arthur’s sister.
Only Merlin the Enchanter could spoil her plans. But this was a woman’s affair, and it was well known that Merlin avoided women. He would pay no attention unless he had to.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lord Riall’s Treasure
Guinevere and Llyr rode side by side along the grassy verge at the river’s edge. It was a cool, cloudy afternoon with a rising breeze, and Zephyr danced in anticipation of a chance to run. Guinevere restrained her. She did not want to outpace Llyr, and Thatch took very short steps. This was only the second time in five days that she had managed to ride out with Llyr, and although they had met briefly each evening in the beech tree to exchange news and gossip, the reticence that had grown between them since Y Wyddfa had only partially dissolved.
This
change in their friendship saddened Guinevere, but she was at a loss to know what to do. She could not forget Alia’s words. She had seen the truth of them in Llyr’s eyes when they had met again at Deva. Every day he seemed to grow more withdrawn and shy. He tried too hard to be natural and ended up sounding either casual or stiff. He was no longer at ease in her presence. It did not seem to matter what she said or did; he had retreated from her, and she could not draw him out again.
Unable to talk about personal subjects, they stuck to gossip. Llyr had interesting things to report from his nightly vigils in the treetops. According to the guards, who frequently discussed what they knew of matters when they went to the edge of the woods to relieve themselves, the council was not going well. Listening in the branches overhead, Llyr heard them compare the kings of Wales to an unruly wolf pack, jostling for position, attention, and dominance. Old rivalries and border disputes had surfaced. Ancient insults were recalled. They had not sunk to name-calling because of Sir Bedwyr’s presence, but they seemed in no mood to negotiate a treaty for defense.
“Northgallis will keep faith with Gwynedd,” Guinevere said when she heard this. “My father swore it when he married my mother, and Gwarth has promised to hold fast to that oath. He even tried to persuade Gwillim to marry Elaine.” She smiled at the memory of Gwillim’s visit to Gwynedd last spring. “What a mistake that was.”
“The division, I think,” said Llyr, “is between north and south. Forgive me, I don’t know the names of the kingdoms.”
“Northgallis and Gwynedd are in the north. Dyfed and Guent are in the south. Dyfed is next to the sea, and Guent is east of it. The king of Guent is a powerful man now that King Arthur has made Caerleon his headquarters. Caerleon’s in Guent.”
“And Powys?” Llyr asked, his voice markedly casual. “I have seen the boy from Powys, the one with spots on his face.”
Guinevere grinned. “They’re not spots; they’re freckles. And I wouldn’t call Prince Trevor a boy. He’s sixteen and represents his father in council.”
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