Which meant both Gwen and Gynath were up at dawn and working long, long past sundown. They needed those sops-in-wine.
They also needed to hear what Bronwyn gleaned over the course of the day, carefully winnowing news and important details from mere gossip and speculation. Gwen had had no idea that Bronwyn had performed this service for Eleri until Bronwyn herself told them, over that first bowl of toasted bread covered with sweetened, spiced wine.
And she looked grim this night as she handed them the thick pottery bowls. “This is for no ears but yours,” she said quietly, as they settled down on their bed—a bed luxurious to the point of decadence now that only two of them shared it. “I would not have the king your father hear of this, or his loyalty to the High King might well be tested to breaking. But you should know.”
The bite Gwen was swallowing all but lodged in her throat; she swallowed it down with difficulty. Her stomach knotted with anxiety.
“This messenger was sent to spy on us,” Bronwyn continued, her jaw tight. “He sidled about and put his questions mingled in with other things a-plenty but I could tell what was important to him, and it was about babies. Who’d given birth of late, who had sons, and when? Strange thing for a King’s Messenger to be asking, I thought. And I liked it not at all. So I made sure to keep his cup full, and nothing loath was he to drink it. And that was when I heard the tale—”
She shook her head. Gwen waited, spoon resting in the bowl, no longer with any appetite.
“I don’t have the gift the queen had, the knowing, that she could say when a man was telling true, telling false, or telling nothing more than wild rumor. But . . . well here it is.” Bronwyn looked them both in the eyes, each in turn. “He said that once his sons were born, on the Merlin’s advice, every boy child born in those parts within a week on either side of their birthing date was taken from his mother and smothered.”
“What?” gasped Gynath.
Gwen could only sit there, half frozen, as memories she didn’t think she was supposed to have came flooding back. Of the Merlin’s questions. Of what he had mumbled.
“There were not, thank the good Goddess, many of them,” she continued. “But . . .” She shook her head again. “The way he said it, made me think it must be true. And so cold-blooded—”
“Perhaps . . .” Gynath began, in a whisper, her face gone pale.
“Perhaps it was meant as . . . a sacrifice.”
They all three exchanged sober glances. Even as young as she was, Gwen knew that there were sacrifices. From time to time one of her father’s treasured white horses went off and never came back.
There were sacrifices at all the Great Rites. Mostly fruit and flowers and grain, of course; among other things, you didn’t waste the life of an animal that could breed more of its kind unless you needed something really badly from the gods. But animals were sacrificed and—sometimes people as well.
That was mostly in the hands of the Druids. Mostly. Though sometimes there had to be a Year King . . . only in dark times though.
But the Merlin was the Chief Druid. And he was the one who had advised Arthur to do this terrible thing. Was he playing the Substitute King with the High King’s new twins, sacrificing other boy children like them so that they would be spared? If he was, well, that was just wrong. Even Gwen knew it didn’t work like that. The Year King had to go to the sacrifice willingly, had to know what he was doing, and do it for the Land and the people, and how could a baby do that?
But if they were sacrifices, what were the sacrifices for?
It was baffling, and somehow, that made it even more horrifying.
“This is something I thought you should know,” Bronwyn concluded. “And it will go no further than the three of us. But you, Gynath, may well be queen here one day. And you, Gwen, will likely serve her as you would have served your brother, had he lived. And you must both know about things like this and keep a sharp watch on the High King’s doings.” She bit her lip, and the flickering flame from their rushlight made her look even older and more drawn. “It may be he has done this for the Land and the Folk. Unless the Ladies bring the word to us, we cannot know. But on the face of it, these are dark doings, and the High King is besmirched by their foulness. If these are dark doings, there is one thing you may be sure of.”
“What’s that, Bronwyn?” asked Gynath in a whisper.
“That they will come back at him when he least expects and be his ruin,” the old woman said, grimly. “Blood will have blood, and innocent blood calls more strongly than any other.”
The messenger went on his way. The season turned, summer to harvest, and the rites and the festival. Poor Gynath was at her wits end trying to arrange all, even with the help of Bronwyn and all the women, but out of respect for the king, few guests replied that they would come, and only the king’s closest friends arrived. For the villagers, it was no different from any other Harvest festival. There was food and music, dancing and gaming, drinking and more drinking, coupling and handfasting, and all the usual doings in their season. And if the gathering at the king’s hearth was a subdued one, if there were no races this year, well, at least there was, at last, a gathering at the king’s hearth, and when the guests were gone again, there was no more going out to another hearth and leaving the king to mourn alone over the ashes. In part that was just plain sense, for there was no other place big enough to hold them all when the winter winds began to blow, but in part it was because the king was taking an interest in life again.
A few women made attempts to draw him out, but by Midwinter it was clear that there would be no queen taking Eleri’s place.
As for Gwen . . . her instructors were keeping her too occupied to brood and had been for moons, so that when Midwinter arrived, it came to her one night as she served as her father’s page that the terrible ache of grief, the chasm that had been inside her, was—not gone, never that, but—changed to something that was somewhat easier to bear. And looking at her father’s face, it seemed he felt the same. He took an interest in things that he had not even at Harvest. Still not in women, but much the same, if somewhat grimmer, interest in the small affairs of his people and his kingdom and the greater affairs of what was going on outside that kingdom.
Perhaps it helped that there was, without a doubt, going to be fighting in the spring. The High King had sent out his messengers again, just before the snow flew, to warn that the seafaring chiefs, the Northerners, too disorganized to be called “kings,” were uniting for what Arthur thought was another push to oust him and overrun them all.
It gave her father something to think about besides his own pain.
So at Midwinter, the talk was all of war and the preparations for war.
Gwen paid great attention to all this talk, for this was to be her business. There might not be a brother to guard now, but there were two sisters, one of whom would surely wed someone that their father would name as his heir. Whoever that was would need someone he could trust.
When the guests were all gone, Gwen and the rest found their hands being turned to those preparations that had been discussed. The nasty, barbed war arrows that would tear a man’s flesh on being pulled out needed to be made. That was a matter of several steps, some of which could be entrusted to the squires. War chariots, spears, armor, bows, harness . . . all needed to be checked and put in good order. Much could be put in the squires’ hands, and much was.
Gwen worked feverishly, and the work did much to help her set aside her troubled thoughts. There were no further ill tales, though more messengers came from the High King, traveling with great difficulty across the winter landscape, bringing with them the questions of levies and what could be supplied in lieu of or in addition to the levies. Now Gwen was glad that her father had not heard the tales, that Bronwyn had kept them to herself, for he threw himself into this work with a whole heart.
As might have been expected, there were other rumors coming out of the west, that King Lot had demurred, saying that mere rumors
were no cause for raising levies, and that in any case, the Northerners might well lose interest before spring. “He intends to send nothing, or as little as possible,” Gwen’s father spat one night in disgust.
“There would be no loot in it for him,” pointed out one of the chiefs. “Even if we drive them far back into their own lands and seize what we drive them off of, it is not on Lot’s border, and he would get no share of it. If we only drive them back, well, what will we win? Arms and horses, both the worse for war.” He shook his head. “And Lot is far enough from Celliwig that there is little the High King can do at this stage to enforce his will. Lot will find some excuse, a plague of flux or weather washing out the roads, and if he arrives, it will be too late to be of service.”
“All the more reason for us to act with honor.” The king set his chin firmly, and Gwen silently cheered. She felt better for seeing him so alive again and more like his old self.
The talk around the hearth was lively enough to satisfy anyone, and Gwen wished with all her heart that she would be allowed to go along with the levies. But she wouldn’t be; none of the squires her age were going. Only the seasoned warriors, neither too old nor too young, would be sent. Even the king himself would remain behind, and that was on the orders of the High King himself. Her father grumbled at that, but he agreed that it was a sound decision, once he heard the reasoning.
“The High King is concerned that this might be a trick.” The messenger that brought them this news was no mere mouthpiece; it was one of Arthur’s handpicked warriors, part of his personal band. “He fears that either the Northerners themselves, or someone who has been scheming with them, is arranging for it to look as if they are preparing for a war when in fact they have no intention of facing us in the field. Instead, once the levies are committed, it is possible that the Northerners will retreat, drawing us after them—and then the real attack will happen somewhere else.”
No need to ask where else. “The Saxons,” her father spat in disgust. The messenger nodded. “So we need you, ready with a second force, to hold them back if they do push forward.”
With Gwen watching and listening, committing everything to memory even though she didn’t understand more than half of what she heard, the messenger outlined the possible strategies. Rough maps were sketched out in charcoal on the stones; the best of those were transferred with great labor onto tanned hide with a quill and walnut-hull ink. By the time the messenger left, Gwen’s father had nothing but praise for the wisdom of the young Arthur.
There did not seem to be enough hours of daylight for all the preparations, and the warmer the weather became and the longer the days, the more the sense of urgency increased. Now it was Gwen who was up at dawn and hard at it until she almost fell asleep with her work in her hands; Gynath had a great deal to do, yes, but not nearly as much. Eleri had always kept ample supplies of healing herbs and so forth on hand, and there had not been much call for such things in the last year. “Always be prepared for warfare,” had been her admonition to her women, and so they always were.
It was about lambing time, when it was possible to move freely about the countryside, and the storms of winter were past and boats could sail, that messengers again galloped among the High King’s allies. The High King had been brought word from his spies. The Northerners were indeed massing ships, as if to make a great raid. The levies were called up and marched off to join the High King. King Lleudd made a great show of sending them off and advised the men he sent to make double fires at night, and drag brushes behind them to make it seem that their numbers were larger. Then he told those he had kept in reserve to be ready and to keep their weapons to hand, as Arthur had warned him.
And Arthur was right.
Near sunset, very near Beltane, a messenger on a winded horse rode across the southern border of Lleudd’s kingdom of Pwyll, having already come through Pengwen, Calchfynelld, and Caer Celemion. The Saxons of the south were, indeed, massing for war and marching. And Lot of Orkney was about to have a rude surprise, for the Northerners were making straight for the shores of Lothian, not further south. Perhaps it was just as well he had delayed in sending his levies, for they would not have far to march to meet the enemy. Doubtless, he would claim that his wife and Morgana had had some manner of magical warning this was to be so. And doubtless, for the sake of peace, Arthur would accept this, whether he believed it or not.
So said Bronwyn as she and the women methodically passed the readied saddlebags to the squires, who put them on the horses they had already harnessed. The king had planned this to a nicety, so that the warriors could move out on a moment’s warning, and the moment there was light, every man, woman, and child was up and putting his preparations into action. The cavalry would go first, followed by the chariots. There would be no men afoot; Arthur would supply the foot soldiers, for Lleudd’s levies that had gone north consisted primarily of foot. Arthur had begged him to reserve the troops that could move faster for the Saxons.
The king himself would lead them. And this alone showed how grave the threat was. If he fell, that would leave Pwyll in the hands of three girls, none of them wed.
But he would not fall. Gwen willed it, fiercely. Besides, he would be in his chariot, and his chariot driver was second only to Braith in skill. He would be guarded by his sworn band, who also were well aware of what would happen if he fell.
By the time the sun was three fingers above the horizon, they were ready to depart. Gwen, to her sorrow but not her surprise, was not going. She was not being slighted; no one her age was being allowed to go.
She stood by the king’s chariot, looking up at him. Around them, horses stirred restively. Gynath held her hand tightly, but of the two of them, it was Gwen who was the calmer.
“I rely on you, my daughters,” the king said, his voice stronger and firmer than it had been since Eleri’s death. Gwen could only marvel at how war had made him come alive again. For that, she could actually feel glad about it. “I do not know how long we will be in the field, but come what may, the lands have to be tilled, the flocks tended, the harvest brought in, and the rites celebrated. You must see to it that these things are done, and done well.”
Gynath looked up at the king, her eyes bright with tears, so it was Gwen who answered. “We will, my lord.”
He nodded. “Now hear me well. I expect to return, in triumph. I plan to return. I have every intention of coming back loaded with Saxon wealth, carried on good Saxon horses. But the gods mayhap have other plans. Should the very worst befall, I have left certain orders. Gynath, and you, Gwen, and those who choose to flee are to take shelter with the King of Gwynedd. He is my oldest friend, for we fostered together and swore an oath of brotherhood. I will make no orders other than that. If affairs have gone that badly, let each man act on his own conscience.”
He had spoken loudly enough that his voice carried over the crowd, and though there were some murmurs, there was much nodding. Gynath sobbed. Gwen had a terrible lump in her throat . . . but also a strange certainty. King Lleudd would return. There would be others who would not, and she somehow knew there would be great grief for her, but her father would return and, as he hoped, in triumph.
Gynath had no such feeling of certainty; that much was clear from her look of despair. But she had courage. She swallowed back her tears, stood up straight, and despite red eyes and trembling voice, replied, “Yes, my lord Father.”
He bent down and embraced them both, kissing the tops of their heads, then released them. As soon as he had, Gwen could tell that his spirit was elsewhere, already down the road, eager to face battle. Fiercely she wished she could go too—
But her fate was already written, and she had to step back and watch as her father took the reins from his chariot driver, and the horses, already impatient, lurched out at a trot.
And then they were gone.
Then came the worst part: the waiting. Gwen was too young to remember much about the last time the levies of Pwyll went to war, but Gynath wa
s not, and Bronwyn certainly was not. Gynath collapsed in an orgy of grief and despair; Bronwyn allowed her two days to wallow in it, then roused her roughly, took her down to the brook, stripped her bare and ducked her in the freezing cold water. Gwen had no idea this was going to happen and only happened to look up from the bowstring she was plaiting to see Bronwyn hauling the weakly protesting girl in that direction.
There is such a thing as curiosity that can’t be suppressed. Gwen pinned the string down and followed, just in time to see Bronwyn strip Gynath to the skin and shove her into the spring-fed pond.
The water was ice cold, and Gynath shrieked and flailed her arms wildly trying to keep from falling in.
She failed, of course.
The water was only waist deep, but she came up gasping and spluttering, only to be hauled onto the bank just as roughly, rubbed down with a drying cloth, and have her clothing shoved at her.
“Wh-wh-what d-d-did you d-d-do that for?” Gynath cried indignantly, between the chattering of her teeth. Gwen ran the last few steps to help her get into her shift and gown.
“You’ve had your wallow. Two days of baaing like a lamb taken from its mum is enough,” Bronwyn said, her jaw set. “Your father is very much alive, and you have an example to set. What if every woman in this kingdom went bawling and blethering as if her man was already dead? Straighten your back, go to your duty, and remember that from the time you leave your bed to the time you take to it, you are being watched.”
Gynath looked furious—but furious was probably better than weeping. Certainly Bronwyn seemed to think so. She nodded and pointed back toward the castle. With her head erect and her eyes practically flashing, Gynath stormed off. She didn’t look back.
Bronwyn simply followed, without acknowledging Gwen’s presence. After a moment, Gwen went back to her bowstring.
Gwenhwyfar Page 15
