They were men, like any others. No matter that she had spent years listening to tales of their deeds. Braith had been just as courageous and deserved just as many tales. The only two that gave her pause, really, were Trystan and . . . Medraut. Of course. It was always Medraut.
There were three of the allied war chiefs she had not met yet, the chief men of three of the allied kings, sent, as Gwen herself had been sent, at the head of their forces. There was a Druid, Aled ap Meical, who seemed to be taking the Merlin’s place, although he did not have the title and looked ill-at-ease in the position. And there was a Christian priest, Gildas, who glared at the Druid and Gwen with equal impartiality; clearly he hated them both.
“I asked you all here,” said Lancelin, carefully, “Because of something that happened to Gwalchmai today. I do not believe this should be bandied about the camp yet, but we need, I think, to discuss this. Old friend?”
Gwalchmai got heavily to his feet. “This afternoon, I took a squire and a boat and went to look at that bastard’s walls,” he rumbled. His shaggy red brows furrowed together. He was a bear of a man, and he gave the impression he could easily snap an ordinary man in half with his bare hands. “I bethought the mist would keep me hidden, but I should have known my cursed luck would make sure that whatever I wanted, the opposite would happen. The mist blew off, and there I was, and there was Melwas on the tower, and if I’d had but a knife or even a stone to throw, we’d not be sitting together having this meeting, because I’d have killed him on the spot.”
The last was growled with an air of frustration, and Gwen didn’t blame him.
“At any rate, he commenced to flinging insults instead, and I did the same. And then, after a bit of this pleasantry, someone comes to join him. Gwenhwyfar.”
Those who were not yet aware of this news exchanged uneasy looks and murmured to one another.
“If his tongue’s sour, hers is like a whip,” Gwalchmai continued, flushing a deep red with anger. “I’ll not repeat what she said to me, though there wasn’t much of it before she ended it with, ‘Let us leave the loons to paddle back to their nests,’ and drew Melwas away. But she looked nor sounded not like any captive.”
And with that, he cast a glare at Gildas, who was plainly taken much aback.
“I came and told this straightaway to the High King and to Lancelin, and Lancelin called you here.” Gwalchmai sat down again.
“This is ill hearing,” Kai muttered, staring at his clasped hands. “But I cannot think what we are to do about it.”
“Well, I will tell you what you are to do about it.”
All their heads came up as a voice like the sound of a hunting horn cut across the silence. And one strode into their fire-circle as if he owned it and immediately caused all the hair on the back of Gwen’s head to stand straight up.
He was beautiful and gold and white, with golden hair, pale skin, gold-embroidered white tunic, trews and boots. He could easily have been the brother to one of the Lake Maidens, and he was as beautiful as they were. Inhumanly so.
“Inhuman” was a very good word for him. Having seen one of the Folk of Annwn once, Gwen was not likely to forget their look again.
This one wore a thin gold circlet about his brow and a torque of gold with orm-headed finals, so there was only one person that he was likely to be.
And she was the first of them to recover her wits and realize it. She leaped to her feet and bowed deeply; she made sure that they saw her offer the ultimate respect before the others, who might not have the eyes to see what and who he was, offered him an insult.
“Greetings to the noble and generous Gwyn ap Nudd, King of the Folk of Annwn,” she said, as she straightened again. “Welcome to our Council. I know that the High King counts you as a friend and one of his Companions, as well as ally.”
Those who had recognized him, had also gotten to their feet and likewise bowed, a bit later than she had. Those who had not, looked stunned for a moment.
Then one by one they recovered their wits and their manners and, as Gwyn ap Nudd looked them over with amusement, scrambled to follow their example.
“Greetings, my fair cousin, fair of speech as you are of face,” he replied genially. “I regret that I did not seek out the High King before this, but I had hoped that this situation would sort itself out without my intervention.” He lifted one long brow at Gildas. “My meddling is not always considered welcome.”
Gildas looked uneasy.
“And I have a solution to this knotty problem. If—” now he turned an ironic expression on Gildas “—if the honored and holy Abbot Gildas is prepared to follow up on the—assertion, for of course no priest would boast!—that I know that he made to his fellow monks.”
Gildas went red, then white, then red again, and back to white. He was caught, and he knew it. Whatever it was he had boasted that he could do, or at least attempt, he had done so in the hearing of Gwyn. And now he had two choices. Either try it, whatever it was, with Gwyn’s help—the help of a pagan thing, perhaps a demon, certainly a creature with whom the good Christians were not supposed to consort. Or back out of whatever he had said, and be held up to ridicule by, yes, that pagan thing, that possible demon, who would no doubt find a way to mock the religion as well as the man.
The latter, clearly, was not a choice for him. He straightened, still white. “I said that I would try to bargain a settlement between Melwas and Arthur if only I could get into the fortress,” Gildas said bravely. “And so I shall.”
“And I shall get you in. I weary of this Melwas, who calls himself King of the Summer Country, which is one of my titles that he usurps.” The blue-green eyes turned nearly black, although that was the only sign of the King of the Annwn’s anger. “I weary of him setting himself up on my island. I weary even more of the presence on my island of Arthur’s queen. This quarrel stirs up my people, your iron and steel bring them discomfort, and the peace of my island has been disrupted. I want them gone from my shore. But he is—supposedly—a follower of your Christ. So, man of Christ, as I and mine have not troubled you in all the years of your presence, perhaps you can repay that peace by making him come to see reason.”
Gildas swallowed. “I hope I may. And if you can take me to him—”
Gwyn ap Nudd laughed softly. “Nothing easier.” Before Gildas could move, or even flinch, the king had seized him by the arm.
Even Gwen could not rightly have told what happened then. To her, it looked as if Gwyn had stepped through a door, drawing Gildas after him. But there was no door there. They were there . . . and then two steps later, they were gone.
Gwen blinked and rubbed her eyes.
“Well,” said Medraut into the silence. “That was curiously satisfying. I was wondering if there was anything that could silence that pompous prig.”
There was clearly nothing more to be done that night, so the council broke up, with Lancelin and Kai volunteering to tell the High King what had just transpired. The awkwardness was palpable, as no one really knew what to say or do. Gwen wondered, though, just what sort of magic they had seen before—after all, the Merlin had been an integral part of the High King’s entourage since the beginning. Had he simply never done anything in their presence?
Or maybe the awkwardness was partly due to the queen’s defection and partly due to the fact that Gwyn ap Nudd had just appeared and trumped them all. Whatever plans they’d had in mind would have involved more siege, more fighting. Gwyn had aborted all of those, carrying off Gildas to try and end this thing without further warfare. At the moment, they were all so taken aback that they couldn’t think.
Well, if they couldn’t think, they could certainly talk, but she realized immediately that as she was not one of the inner circle, they were not going to do any frank talking around her. Wryly, she decided that sleep was her best option, so she bid them all farewell and started back to her encampment.
She had gotten just out of the reach of the firelight when she realized that she was not al
one. And the figure that was keeping pace with her was not one that she welcomed.
“ ‘Fair cousin,’ is it?” said Medraut, in a tone that sounded perfectly pleasant if you didn’t know him and realize there was certainly some other motivation behind his question than the wish to be conversational. “Are there folk of Annwn in your bloodline, then?”
“Not that I know of,” she replied, throttling down her revulsion and replying with the same surface pleasantry. There it was again. And he was married to her sister; wouldn’t he know by now if there was fae blood in them? Or—maybe he wasn’t as strong in magic as he liked to believe. “I’m sure someone would have mentioned it before this if there were. I believe that the King of the Isle of Glass was merely acknowledging that technically I am the overlord to some of his people now. Of course, he could have had some other motive; it’s impossible to tell with the Folk.”
“Ah, yes. Your little bargain.” Medraut stalked alongside her, and with his longer legs, there was no way she could outdistance him without running. Damn him. He was the last person she wanted to talk to. You had to be at your cleverest to exchange more than a few words with him, if you didn’t want him to ferret more out of you than you wanted him to know. “That was cleverly done, by the way. I salute you. I had no idea you had enough power in you to call up the Folk.”
“I don’t.” Actually, she didn’t want Medraut to think she had any magic at all. “I gave all that up when I took the warrior’s path. It wasn’t me that summoned them, it was Cataruna and Ifan, and even then, I think it was entirely accidental that they did so. We only summoned the waters to make a swamp, so King March would have to take his forces across Saxon lands rather than ours. I actually think that the Folk came by themselves.”
“Still clever. You saw an opportunity and took advantage of it. It was a good bargain; you lost nothing but a bit of land and got some formidable guards in exchange. Morgana was annoyed that it had not occurred to her to do the same. By the way, you may congratulate me. I have a son.” There was a flash of teeth, catching the light of a camp-fire as they passed. “And before you ask, no, Arthur is still unaware that your sister and I are wed.”
Which meant, of course, that he didn’t want Arthur to know and was reminding her of her promise. “I see. Well, congratulations. You are now ahead of the High King in that game. And the queen remains childless.” Unspoken was the depth of Medraut’s ambition. Unspoken, too, that although Medraut was not only a bastard but the product of incest, when presented with a grown man, a proven warrior, with his own heirs, if Arthur died it was likely that the irregularities of Medraut’s birth would be . . . overlooked. No one wanted to go through the chaos that had followed Uther’s death.
“I know. I live in hope.” There was another flash of teeth. “Meanwhile, I find that I quite enjoy being one of the Companions. It is a strange thing that I find get along better with my brothers now than I did at home. Gwalchmai has been a particular boon friend; he seems to appreciate my wisdom, and I certainly appreciate his muscles. Perhaps he wishes to make up for pummeling me so much as a child.”
That was easy to read. Medraut was finally able to manipulate the rather dim eldest of the Orkney clan and possibly the others as well. “This is the first I have encountered any of them but you. Well, again, I give you congratulations on siring a son. Where are you keeping him and your wife?” she asked. “Surely not with Lot—”
“Oh, Morgana has her. They get along famously. “ He waved a hand airily. “Like sisters, really. It’s quite affecting, to see them together.”
Now what did that mean? That Morgana and Gwenhwyfach hated each other as cordially as Little Gwen hated her real sisters? Or was this to mock her with; implying that Morgana and Little Gwen were alike? Surely if Morgana hated Little Gwen, she would not have her in her own castle, no matter how much she wanted to oblige Medraut. Gwen had heard stories about Morgana, who was supposedly an even more powerful sorceress than her sister, Anna Morgause. She seemed to spend half her time helping Arthur, and the other half being a thorn in his side.
But then—stories. They were only that. Men were uneasy enough around a woman with power of any sort. It would not be surprising that they made up tales about one who was powerful and refused to tie herself to any man to boot.
For just a moment, something too faint to be called a memory drifted past in her thoughts. An image, a glimpse, of Morgana and Little Gwen, side by side—but it was gone before she could grasp it.
She decided that she had better say something; she had been silent a little too long. “So long as I can assure Father she is content, that is all that matters,” Gwen replied untruthfully. The reality was, somewhere down inside, she was sickened. Gwenhwyfach by herself was bad enough. Gwenhwyfach tutored by Anna Morgause was worse. And Gwenhwyfach working hand in hand with Morgana? Gwen pitied anyone foolish enough to cross them.
“Yes, well, you can tell King Lleudd anything you like,” Medraut replied, stopping suddenly. That was when Gwen realized that they were at the edge of her encampment. “Just as long as you keep the oaths you swore. I have many plans in motion, and I would be very vexed if they were to be disrupted.” His eyes glittered in the darkness. “Morgana and my wife would be even more disappointed than I.”
That was easy to read, too. Keep my secrets, or there will be a price to pay. Morgana had always struck Gwen as the sort of person who liked being the hidden power and preferred to do nothing overtly.
Morgana was also, by all measures, someone who never staked all of her ambitions on one plan, or one candidate. If Medraut lost his bid for Arthur’s seat, she would have a dozen more directions she could go. But Gwenhwyfach? Without a doubt, she was already, in her mind, measuring her brow for the High Queen’s crown. Cataruna could probably handle Morgana and her magic if Gwen were to tell what she knew. But Gwenhwyfach, or the two of them together? Oh, no. Gwen was not minded to cross her little sister.
“And I have no plans except to serve my father and his heirs,” she replied honestly. “I am a plain warrior, cousin. I have no head for grand schemes.”
“Sometimes it is a good thing to have no ambition.” The flash of teeth, the glitter of eyes in the dark, put her in mind of something feral. “And on that, I bid you good night. It has been a most fascinating evening, with great potential for amusement to come. We will see what the morning brings.”
She was only too happy to leave him there and retreat to the safety of those she trusted.
She gave her own chiefs a brief explanation of what had happened, omitting only Gwalchmai’s report of the behavior of the queen, the strange way in which Gwyn ap Nudd and Gildas had vanished—and that the King of Yniswitrin had called her “fair cousin.” If the word of the queen’s treachery was to be spread about the camps, she did not want it to come from her people. And as for Gwyn ap Nudd, well, she intended to publicly distance herself from the Folk of Annwn and from magic as much as possible. Especially with Medraut snooping about. The less he thought about her, the better.
They accepted the news with astonishment. Then she left them to mull it over themselves. It was always better to let the men talk themselves out without her there to overhear them. It let them know that she trusted them; it also allowed them to air whatever foolishness came into their heads without the risk of looking foolish in front of her.
As mother once said; men are worse gossips than women ever were.
In the morning, nothing much had changed, except for the rumors flying about the camp. As she had expected, a garbled version of Gwalchmai’s narrative was all over the encampment, and the stories of how Gwyn ap Nudd had made off with Abbot Gildas were even more incredible than what had actually happened. In some, he vanished in a flash of lightning, in others, he grew great wings and carried Gildas off, and in some . . . good lack, it was Gildas who sprouted wings and flew to the Island.
At least she could, with great virtue, make the assertion that none of that had originated with her men.
The High King had not summoned her though he had sent courteous, if overly formal, greetings and thanks to her and her father and further thanks for the gift of the two of her father’s famous gray cavalry horses that she had brought. Until she was summoned, it was poor manners to intrude on him and his councils, and really, there was not much more she could add. Nothing about this situation answered to either Roman tactics or anything she was good at. Add to that—her name. It would not be easy, hearing the name of his runaway wife attached to someone else.
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