“He is a king’s son?” Llyr sounded sullen.
“Yes. Why?”
Llyr shrugged. “I saw him talking to you.”
Guinevere’s heart sank. If Llyr was going to resent everyone she spoke to, it was going to be a laborious friendship indeed. “You’d best get used to Trevor of Powys, because I’ll be seeing more of him,” she said evenly. “We’re going to race our horses when we get a chance. He thinks he can beat me.”
Llyr did not reply, and they rode steadily on, each staring at the path ahead. Guinevere wished fervently that he would come to his senses. She missed the Llyr who had been her companion all summer, the Llyr with the ready smile and the zest for adventure. She had taught him to ride, and together they had ridden all over the hills behind the castle. Llyr, being an Old One, was at home in the heights and knew all the animal trails. They had explored cliffs, caverns, and eagles’ eyries, and hidden springs on the mountainsides.
She had learned about the ways of the Old Ones by watching Llyr set snares, follow spoor, and tease fish into his net. She had stopped at their wayside shrines and left gifts—a handful of mealcakes plump with raisins or a slice of mutton filched from the kitchens—for the gods of the place. She had grown to love Llyr almost as dearly as Elaine, and it grieved her to see his affection take a different turn. Since nothing could be done about it, it must be endured, and the easiest way to endure it was to ignore it.
She drew breath, clucked to Zephyr, and reminded herself what a pleasure it was to be out riding. It might even turn into an adventure, for Llyr had found something in the forest south of Deva that he wanted her to see, something he could not describe and was afraid to remove from its setting. More interesting still, it was something that Lord Riall was hiding.
She was curious to see it, since it might explain why Lord Riall had come to Deva. According to Queen Alyse, he had not been invited by the High King, but since Lord Riall’s father had been Queen Alyse’s uncle, he had presumed upon his family connections to join King Pellinore’s party. Thus far, he had been at loose ends in Deva, being the only lord not in council. The only attention anyone paid him was to wonder why he was there.
In the five days since their arrival, life had settled into a busy routine that left little time for leisure. Sir Bedwyr called the council to order every morning after breakfast, and sometimes again in the afternoons after a break for the midday meal, which, like breakfast, was cooked over each kingdom’s communal fire. Dinner, however, was prepared by the High King’s men over a central bonfire and was eaten together by the entire camp.
The task of supplying food was shared among all. Whenever they were not in council, the men went hunting. The grooms, who were always up at dawn, fished the river as soon as the horses were fed, and anyone not on duty was expected to set rabbit snares or hunt the flocks of waterfowl gathering in the marshy inlets on their annual flight south.
With so many servants busy hunting, the women had to perform the servants’ tasks. Water had to be brought from the river for washing, cooking, and drinking. Firewood had to be gathered to supply all the cooking fires, and wastepots had to be emptied into the trench the High King’s men had dug at one end of the field. All of Queen Alyse’s women were pressed into service. Elaine and Guinevere, too, were given daily chores.
Guinevere usually did Elaine’s chores as well as her own, since Elaine now spent her days with Princess Morgan. Every day after breakfast, the princess sent her page to the girls’ tent to lead Elaine away. To Guinevere’s astonishment, Queen Alyse approved this arrangement. Cissa said the queen had received a very pretty apology from Princess Morgan, so perhaps she had thought twice about offending a woman whose brother was not only High King of all the Britons but also King Pellinore’s commander.
Elaine was thrilled to dance attendance on Princess Morgan. She was flattered to be so singled out, and when she returned to her parents every evening at the bonfire, she sang Princess Morgan’s praises. Queen Alyse made no response to this, but Guinevere, who watched her aunt carefully these days, could sense her annoyance. She suspected that Queen Alyse distrusted Princess Morgan despite her apology, and the queen’s social instincts seldom led her astray.
Guinevere certainly did not trust the princess. She was sure Morgan had befriended Elaine to serve her own ends, and not from any natural liking for the younger girl. It was of course impossible to say this to Elaine. She would not hear a word said against her new friend. For the moment, Princess Morgan could do no wrong in Elaine’s eyes, and nothing would change her mind. At least it was not likely to be a friendship of long standing. Soon Sir Bedwyr would lead Princess Morgan north to Rheged, and King Pellinore would take his family home.
Elaine’s daily absences gave Guinevere time to visit with Gwarth and reminisce about the old days, time to ride her filly, and time to spend with Llyr. But as the days passed, Guinevere grew increasingly worried about Queen Alyse. The queen kept to her tent all day and only appeared in the evenings for the communal feast around the bonfire, where she ate little and drank less. Her gowns had to be taken in almost daily, but her increasing emaciation only accentuated the fine bones of her face and lent her an ethereal beauty that, in the flickering light of the bonfire, hid her illness from other eyes.
Guinevere wondered if she was in pain, but the queen’s women denied it, and King Pellinore did not seem concerned. On the other hand, none of them had stood captive in the darkness and heard Princess Morgan utter, in a voice eerily unlike her own, The Queen shall die of what she carries …
Guinevere pushed this fear away by reminding herself that there was no reason to think that Morgan’s prophecy applied to Queen Alyse; there were plenty of other queens among the Britons, and even more, no doubt, elsewhere in the world. Besides, she was loath to believe that Morgan’s “seeing” was real. She preferred to believe that it was a pretense staged to impress and frighten her and Elaine. And yet she had sensed a presence in that small, dark space, an ominous and other-worldly presence that had drifted in unseen with Morgan’s candle. Since that morning, she had been unable to rid herself of the feeling that something was very wrong.
“Here is the turning,” Llyr said, dragging her abruptly from her thoughts.
Llyr pushed Thatch into a trot and headed for the trees at the forest verge. The forest was thin here, for the old Roman road lay nearby, and the Romans had cut down every tree and bush for a hundred paces on either side. They had also thinned the woods between the road and the river, as had each generation after them. The Romans had not trusted the river, and they had been wise.
It was an excellent place for hunting deer, for the brush was low and afforded a good chase. Guinevere was not surprised to find signs of the recent passage of horses. Llyr observed the marks but did not pause to examine them. All his concentration was on finding the way to Lord Riall’s hiding place.
They rode into the cool and windy woods in single file. After a series of turns between the trees, Llyr slid off his pony’s back and led the animal toward a dip in the forest floor, a hollow where an old oak tree grew inside a blackthorn ring. Guinevere dismounted and followed him to the thicket’s edge. He pointed to the tree. “That is the place.”
She eyed the blackthorn dubiously. “Is there a way through?”
“Watch.” Llyr reached into the hedge with both hands and carefully pulled aside a large section of the dense, spiky growth. A narrow path had been cut into the hedge beyond, and it led straight to the base of the grandfather oak.
“Did he do all this himself?” Guinevere breathed. “Just one man?”
Llyr nodded. “He made the way. I saw him.”
“But the thorn—this brake was here.”
“Yes,” Llyr said, struggling to pull the section of twisted branches back in place. “This thorn is old. As old as the tree, perhaps. I think this used to be a sacred place.”
Guinevere shivered. Oaks were sacred to Druids, those select and clever pagan priests who still worship
ped the Goddess in ways long proscribed in civilized kingdoms. There were few of them about anymore, and for this she was thankful. One did not cross a Druid; his curse could follow a man for years before striking at the least expected hour. Druids’ memories, it was said, went back at least a thousand years.
“Not recently, I hope,” she said aloud to still her trembling. “If there had been a way through the blackthorn, Lord Riall wouldn’t have had to cut one.”
Llyr gave her a reassuring smile. “This space has not been used for a very long time. The oak is dying.”
He had finished pulling the movable section back into place. The solid circle of blackthorn around the tree seemed to seal the two of them off from the outside world. The hedge was tall enough that they could not be seen if they squatted down, and this gave them a sense of privacy.
Llyr approached the ancient tree, gnarled with age, and began to climb. At twice his height a dark gash cut partway through the trunk. Here, ages ago, a lightning strike had pierced the rugged bark, making an entrance for decay. Llyr swarmed up, threw a leg over the lowest branch, and, hanging upside down, stretched his hand into the open wound.
Carefully, he withdrew a long, flat package wrapped in canvas and tied with twine. He wedged it firmly under his arm and jumped to the ground.
They bent over it together. “What is it?” Guinevere asked. “Open it. Hurry.”
Llyr took his time undoing the knots. “Be patient,” he murmured. “This must be tied up again exactly the same way so that he does not know we have found it.”
“But what is it? You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
Llyr nodded. “But not up close. And not in daylight.”
Beneath the canvas and twine was an inner wrapping of leather bound with thongs. Again, Llyr untied the knotted thongs with consummate care. Inside the leather lay an oiled cloth wrapped around something thick at one end, flat and slender at the other. Gently, Llyr pulled back the final fold.
Around them the forest grew strangely still.
The sheath of a dagger gleamed with the dull luster of old gold and gems deep-set in the Roman style. Silver chasing ran along its edges, fine, threadlike work that spoke of superb craftsmanship and long-lost skills. The hilt was a masterpiece of the goldsmith’s art, and Guinevere uttered a soft cry as her hand reached out to touch it. Llyr watched her anxiously.
Her palm closed on the grip, worn smooth with use, and pulled the weapon free. It had a long steel blade, forged by an expert hand, with honed edges and perfectly balanced weight. Heavy as it was, Guinevere found it enticingly easy to hold. She had never been one to worship weapons, but the sight of it in her hand produced a heady rush of exhilaration. “Oh, Llyr,” she breathed. “It’s magnificent!” He edged closer. “Whose do you think it is?” “I don’t know. But it has power. I can feel it.” “Put it down, Gwenhwyfar. It could be cursed.” She almost laughed. “Oh no, not cursed. Not when it makes me feel like this!” The dagger’s grip seemed made for her hand, so close was the meeting of metal and flesh. She could not tell where one ended and the other began. Cool power flowed from the blade into her wrist and arm, and then into her body, making her heart pound and her breath come fast and light.
When Llyr held out his hand for the weapon, Guinevere almost recoiled. The fear in Llyr’s eyes brought her to her senses. It was not her dagger, and it never would be. Reluctantly, she let it go.
“A weapon that makes you feel like that is dangerous,” Llyr said gravely as he returned the dagger to its exquisite sheath. “It is better out of sight.”
He wrapped it up in the oiled cloth, and as it disappeared from view, the forest came alive with sound—not only of wind and whipping leaves, but of the thudding hoofbeats of a horse coming fast in their direction.
“Zephyr! Thatch!” Guinevere gasped. “We left them outside—they’ll be seen!”
Llyr jumped to his feet and struggled to push the movable section of blackthorn out of the way. “Send the pony home and ride south as fast as you can.”
“But—”
“Whoever it is, lead him away from here. You must. Or I cannot put this back unseen.”
Obediently, Guinevere squeezed through the thorny hedge.
“Head for the road,” Llyr urged. “The High King’s men will come that way after hunting. You will be safe.”
Guinevere did as he asked. She loosed Thatch and slapped him on the rump, sending him off to find his own way home. Someone shouted from the woods behind her as she leaped on Zephyr’s back. A glance over her shoulder showed Guinevere a tall man on a dark horse thundering toward her, his cloak flaring about him like wings. She swung Zephyr around and put her heels to the filly’s side.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Race
Zephyr bolted. Guinevere buried her fists in the filly’s mane and hung on. They flew through the forest, whipped by wind and branches, while behind them the relentless pounding of other hooves still came on. Guinevere lightened her grip on Zephyr’s reins while she talked to the mare, keeping her voice low and neutral. Zephyr’s ears flicked back to her, but the horse heard the thunder of her pursuer and would not be calmed.
Guinevere kept talking to the filly, keeping her legs steady against the animal’s slippery sides and varying her pressure on the reins to distract Zephyr from her fear. Here in the woods there wasn’t enough open space to turn a runaway horse; her only hope was to reach Zephyr’s panicked mind and calm her down before they tripped and fell or became thoroughly lost. They galloped another hundred paces before Zephyr began to listen, and as the horse slowed, Guinevere realized that the sound of pursuit had ceased.
She brought Zephyr back to a walk and stroked her lathered neck. There was no one following any longer. There was no one else in sight. If they had galloped more or less south, the old Roman road was still somewhere off to her right. She turned the now pliant filly and headed west.
Zephyr picked her way delicately through underbrush and up a gentle slope into a piney wood. There, Guinevere found a path leading northwest, which was exactly the direction she wished to go. But sixty paces down that path a hand reached out from behind a tree and grabbed Zephyr’s bridle. The filly wheeled, held fast in the expert grip of a broad-shouldered young man with a sword at his belt.
“What the devil do you mean by stealing the High King’s horse, eh?” he cried. “And why did you run from me when I called out in the High King’s name? A Saxon, are you? Or just a lowborn thief? Get off this mare before I knock you off!”
Guinevere looked down in astonishment at the angry, up-turned face of Trevor of Powys.
“Prince Trevor!”
Too late, she remembered that she had tucked her hair beneath her mantle when she had first set out. Her hair was the only way anyone at a distance could tell her from a boy. Loosening the throat of her mantle, she extracted the long braid of white-gold and let it fall down her back. She smiled apologetically. “It’s me—Guinevere. I’m sorry I ran when I heard you shout. But I didn’t know who you were.”
Trevor’s jaw dropped. “Guinevere of Northgallis?” He released the filly’s bridle and stared at girl and horse in disbelief. “This is your horse?”
Guinevere grinned. “Is she not what you were expecting?”
Trevor shook his head. “She’s a beauty. Still a youngster, isn’t she? But, my heaven, she can run!”
“She’s two and a half,” Guinevere said, patting Zephyr’s neck. “And running is what she does best. I’m glad you were the one chasing us. I just wish I’d known.”
Trevor patted the filly’s neck, too. “I apologize if I frightened you. I thought you were up to no good.”
“How did you know I would come this way?”
“It’s the quickest way back, if you’re headed to Deva.” He looked up and hesitated. “May I accompany you?”
“Please do. Queen Alyse would be furious to think I’d been out without an escort.”
Trevor turned aside into a thicket and emerge
d leading a big liver chestnut with a face and carriage much like Zephyr’s, but with a heftier build. He mounted the stallion and rode up beside Guinevere.
“But I saw you with an escort,” he said. “Or I thought I did. Little fellow, black-haired, moves like a fox.” He looked at her questioningly. “Or wasn’t he with you?”
Guinevere wavered only a moment. “You saw Llyr. He’s a friend of mine.”
“But not an escort?”
“No.”
One sandy eyebrow rose, but Guinevere did not elaborate. Trevor clucked to his horse and headed down the path.
There was no one on the Roman road when they reached it. The afternoon had darkened under a thickening canopy of clouds, and the wind, which had grown fitful, announced itself in abrupt, unsettling gusts, making the horses uneasy.
Trevor laughed as his own mount skittered sideways. “I call him Dancer. He hates wind.”
“My filly is named after the wind, the west wind.”
“Is she really from the High King’s stables? I didn’t think they ever let go of the mares.”
“King Arthur gave her to King Pellinore last spring for his service against the Saxons, and King Pellinore gave her to me for my birthday.”
Trevor whistled. “That’s quite a gift. She’s young to be so fast.”
Guinevere smiled. “You owe me a race, my lord.”
“So I do. But not here. Too many of the paving stones are broken. Wait until we get nearer Deva. There’s a stretch of good ground there.” He patted his horse’s shoulder. “Poor old half-breed Dancer. I already know he can’t catch her. We were going full tilt before I stopped him, and you were pulling away with every stride.”
Guinevere laughed. “Well, if you are willing to forfeit, my lord …”
“Don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Trevor waited until they had rounded a turn in the road before saying, in a casual voice, “Your friend Llyr is an Old One, isn’t he?” When Guinevere did not reply, he continued in the same light tone. “Powys is a land of hills and valleys just like Northgallis, but less rugged. We have lots of hillmen. They call themselves the Wise Ones. What clan is Llyr from?”
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