Gwenhwyfar

by Mercedes Lackey

  And by then she was the master, or perhaps mistress, of her own clothing. She moved as gracefully in it as Cataruna, if not more so. She had managed to contrive a breast-binding that at least made her chest stop aching. It might not be the height of fashion, but she didn’t care. It was one comfort she would have.

  By then, too, she had learned how to carry on a conversation that did not involve two or three ways to kill a man, nor how to track game, nor the three best remedies for horse colic. Her childhood skill with a needle had come back to her, though she was never going to be able to embroider with any level of competence. She had learned a great many songs that did not involve any marching cadences nor randy bed frolics. In one thing at least, her warrior training stood her in good stead: She could concoct a medicine and bind up a wound with greater skill than any of the others save Cataruna, who was Lady-trained.

  And then, far too soon, it was time to be off to her fate. It was with mixed relief—for she was finally able to put on her warrior gear—and regret that she mounted Rhys; and with a guard of her own warriors, the escort sent by Arthur, and a half dozen horse keepers, she set off with the herd of grays for the stronghold of the High King at Celliwig.

  The land lay barren before them, not yet covered with a sheltering blanket of snow, the trees bare, the grasses sere, the sky for the most part sad and gray. The only birds were rooks, crows, ravens, and now and again a wood dove. There was nothing festive about their group, either. They might as well have been riding to a parlay or a possible battle as to a wedding. Or perhaps to a funeral.

  At night, she kept very quiet, quieter even than her usual habits, and listened to the men talking. That was how she learned that it was not only the Merlin who had been struck down, but that the senior Druids were dying, getting ill, or outright vanishing.

  This was the first she had heard of such a thing, and it rather took her aback. But when she asked one of the escort, a fellow named Neirin, what he made of it, the man just shrugged.

  “They’re all old, lady,” he pointed out. “There’s nothing mysterious about old men dying.”

  She certainly couldn’t refute his logic, although there was still something about it that bothered her. But surely if something was wrong, the Druids themselves would be falling all over themselves to get to the bottom of the matter . . .

  They passed within a few miles of the Isle of Glass, and she was tempted to detour to pay a visit—but there was no guarantee that Gwyn would come out to see her, she had already had just about as much of the Ladies as she could stand, and Gildas was, in fact, waiting at Arthur’s Castle to wed them by the Christian rites, along with Aeronwen to bind them by the Old Ways.

  She was just as tempted to detour to the great Henge, but again, there was not much there to see. She did not have the Gift to see the Power in the Stones outside of the time of a major ceremony. There was no School or Convocation of Druids permanently in residence there as there was at the Cauldron Well. Other than marveling over the construction itself, there really was nothing to “see.”

  So in the end, she bypassed both places and kept on the straight road.

  The nights were the hardest. Not because they were cold, though they were, but because she knew that every time she slept, she was that much closer to the end of her former life. But rather than feeling desperation, she felt only a deepening melancholy.

  Until, finally, it was over. The road finally brought them within sight of Celliwig and the hill on which Arthur’s castle stood.

  At first, she was not at all impressed. There was a hill; on top of it, the walls of the more permanent version of the Roman-style fortification she was altogether familiar with, and just barely visible above that, roofs that appeared to be tiled. It was disappointing, actually. She had expected, from all the tales, to come upon some enormous artificial mountain of stonework, looming high above the plain below.

  It did seem odd that there were no men patrolling the top of the walls, however.

  It wasn’t until she saw small dots moving atop the walls that she realized her mistake. It wasn’t small. It was enormous—not in height, but in size. Probably the individual buildings were no taller than Castell y Cnwclas, but they were each just as large, if not larger. And there were as many of them, at least, as there were huts in the village. Clustered at the foot of the hill were houses and huts, indeed, enough to make up twenty villages the size of the one she had known.

  Now she was very glad that she had fought in so many big engagements; if she hadn’t, the sheer number of people would have been daunting.

  Before they even reached the city of Celliwig—for it was a city, not just a village—she caught sight of what looked like a cluster of tents and pavilions at the side of the road. As they drew near to them, she saw the High King’s red dragon banner flying above them, and she thought for a moment that Arthur had come ahead to inspect his . . . bargain.

  But no, as they reached the tents, the party split into two; the horses and their keepers went on, while her escort halted, and one of her chests was taken out of the cart that held all her belongings. That was when she knew, with a stab of pain, that this was truly where she was leaving her old life behind . . .

  Without a word, she dismounted, and went straight for the most elaborate of the pavilions. Before she even reached it, the flaps were opened by a pair of servant girls; two more took her by the elbows, exclaiming with distaste over her travel-worn and “manly” garb. Numbly, she gave herself over to them.

  They couldn’t manage a bath out here, but they did strip her down, warm some water at a brazier, and scrub her down and perfume her. Stubbornly, she did not allow them to take her comfortable breast bindings, but other than that, she submitted herself tamely to dressing, braiding, fussing, and bejeweling. And she submitted to being picked up and placed on a pillion pad behind the oldest of her escort. She hated it, and so did Rhys; he was tied to the saddle and following behind, and he eyed her with confusion and resentment. He didn’t like being hauled along like a pack mule.

  Well, she didn’t like being baggage, either.

  But she put a good, brave face on it. And when they reached the outskirts of the city, with people crowding around the road to the stronghold, cheering and peering, she continued to put a brave face on it, waving and smiling, nodding, and acting as if this was the culmination of her greatest dream.

  Even though at that moment, if she’d been given an honorable way out of it, she’d have bolted like a rabbit.

  Through the city, up the hill, through the gate in the wall, and then . . .

  The entire cavalcade, which had, by now, acquired quite a long tail, stopped in front of the largest of the buildings. It was of stone and white-plastered timber, with roofs of red tile. Dead center was a grand entrance with tall white columns, and beneath the triangular pediment that surmounted them was a group of richly dressed men. She recognized Lancelin, Kai, Gwalchmai . . .

  . . . Medraut . . . looking outwardly happy enough, although she very much doubted he was pleased with all of this.

  And in the center of them, the man who could only be the High King.

  Bearded, the red in his hair going to gray, he looked . . . worn and tired. His gold crown seemed to weigh him down. Over his fine red tunic he wore armor, breastplate and greaves in the Roman style; under it he wore sensible trews and boots. His red mantle was lined with ermine and was easily large enough to serve as a bedcovering. His expression was resigned.

  As for his Companions, many of whom had met her already, their expressions were far more gratifying. Kai looked astonished; Gwalchmai grinned with great appreciation, as did many of the others. These were expressions she was not used to seeing on the faces of men when they looked at her, and at first, she had to stop herself from looking about to see what lovely woman they were staring at.

  Am I really . . . pretty? she wondered. Practicality asserted itself. It was only the contrast, of course. They had seen her streaked with soot and dirt, in
clothing that made everyone look the same, equally sexless. They were just surprised that she was a woman and that she had turned up looking like one.

  But then she saw Lancelin’s face.

  He looked utterly stunned. And when his eyes met hers, her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, her resignation turned to something else. A sorrow that stabbed her, as if he had pulled out his knife and driven it into her heart.

  If only he were the High King . . .

  The thought was repressed, instantly. It did not matter. The High King could be a bear in a crown and it still would not matter. It was her duty to wed him. So wed him she would.

  A servant brought a tall stool with three steps and placed it beside the horse. Gracefully, as she had practiced, she gathered up her garments and alighted, one foot outstretched, as if she were a goddess slipping down from the sky. Gracefully she descended the three steps and waited for Arthur to come to her, dropping her garments to fall about her in the most becoming folds. He took her hand and bowed over it.

  “Welcome, Lady Gwenhwyfar,” he said, without any hesitation when he said her name. “We rejoice at your coming.”

  And that was when she felt it. The sheer force of his personality, which crashed over her like wave. It was not meant for her—not meant for anyone in particular—it was merely what he was. You felt that, the power in him—felt his wisdom, his care for his people, his strength—and all you could think was that it was not a duty to serve him but a privilege.

  It was a glamorie, of course. But it was all the more powerful because beneath it, the strength, the wisdom, were real.

  But when she felt it, she fought against it. She was here from duty. She would fulfill her obligations. But she was not going to be seduced into liking it by magic.

  “And I to be here at last, my King,” she replied, with a slight inclination of her head.

  And he led her into his palace. Which felt, as the walls closed about her, altogether too much like a prison.

  Chapter Twenty

  With a cloth on her lap protecting a fine gown she would rather not have protected at all, Gwen carefully laid in the feathering on another arrow. Much to the horror of her ladies, who were all gathered about her with their fine sewing and bands of embroidery.

  She was beyond caring how scandalized they were. She had already horrified them by laying aside the woolen mantle and tying back the sleeves of her overgown. They shivered in the occasional draft. She was too warm by far. These rooms were heated by means of something they called a hypocaust, a contained fire that sent warm air under the floor. It was as warm as spring in here, although these fragile flowers seemed to think there would be icicles hanging from their noses at any moment. This device was Roman, of course. Arthur was . . . extremely fond . . . of all things Roman.

  She laid in another line of glue from the pot on the brazier beside her and quickly laid down the line of fletching.

  She was working on arrows because these charming ladies had made it painfully obvious that there was nothing she could sew that they would not have to undo and resew again. She simply was not allowed in the still-room to make medicines. That was the job of a single servant. This exhausted her repertoire of “womanly” tasks. She wasn’t going to sit there with her hands in her lap and listen to them giggle and gossip.

  So she was, by the gods, doing something she could do, and do well. She was making arrows.

  With both sets of vanes in, she took fine thread and bound them at the nock and the end of the vanes, laid the arrow aside to dry, and picked up a new one.

  Inwardly, she seethed. Another thing that Arthur seemed very fond of. Roman customs. Such as the custom that confined women to a single section of this villa and kept them, for the most part, from mingling too much with men. Kai was in charge of the household. Not her. He set the menu for the day’s meals, he oversaw the chief servants, the housekeeper and the cook, and kept track of and dispensed the stores. She had never seen the cook. The housekeeper pretended not to understand her and went about ordering things in the way she pleased. Gwen was expected to remain here, in the queen’s chambers, until called for. Men were not supposed to come here unless they were servants or entertainers or came with Arthur. She was not supposed to mingle with the Companions, except under very supervised conditions, like meals or celebrations.

  She was only at those meals perhaps once every three days, and such meals were as structured as a magic rite. She and her ladies entered the hall after the men; she was seated beside Arthur. There was music, to which Arthur paid careful attention, so that she did not get much conversation from him—but she got contradictory glimpses of both the tired old man and the charismatic leader. She heard maddeningly brief bits that hinted at ideas that were truly visionary. Most of all, she saw how the Companions all virtually worshiped him, and they did so in a way that told her that he had earned that worship, that it was not the result of some trick of attraction. And then, when the meal was over, they all rose, and she and her ladies went back to the maddening confines of her “bower.” The only man that was allowed to come and go as he pleased there was Arthur.

  Which he did, precisely, every night. And then went away again to sleep somewhere else.

  She knew very well what lovemaking was all about. She hadn’t been afraid of it. But she certainly hadn’t expected it to be like . . .

  . . . like a household chore. Something tedious, to be gotten over with as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  Not that he was unkind, and not that he hurt her, except for the first time, and then it was nothing near as bad as some of the milder injuries she’d gotten in training. And for a while she had tried to be at least pleasant to him. Tried her best to look attractive where she waited for him, made sure that she smelled sweetly, that her breath was good. It was all to no purpose. She was nothing but a not-so-prize mare to him; he just wanted her breeding, so he need not visit her anymore. The Arthur that came to her room was neither the tired old man nor the vividly alive leader that she saw glimpses of at the table now and then. He was . . . like a horse trainer who had no vested interest in the horse he was training.

  Making arrows was soothing. She felt in grave need of some soothing.

  Was this why the other Gwenhwyfar had run off with Melwas? Because she was so bored she finally could not stand it any longer? At the moment, Gwen could not find it in her heart to blame her.

  But that Gwenhwyfar should have been raised and trained to appreciate this life. She should have found the too warm rooms, the endless hours of sewing, the gossip, the idleness appealing. And Gwen had to admit that this villa was wildly luxurious by her standards.

  There were no dirt floors anywhere, nor floors covered with rushes. Even the floors in the servants’ quarters were tiled, and the ones here were covered with jewel-like mosaics. Her quarters included her own bedroom, her own dining room, rooms for her ladies, this room, which they called a solar, just for receiving visitors and spending the day with her ladies, and hearing the reports of Kai, the housekeeper, and a few other important servants. Not that she was expected to do anything about those reports . . .

  There was even a bathing room just for her and her ladies. And all these rooms surrounded a colonnaded courtyard, in which, she presumed, she would be “allowed” to stroll on the perfectly manicured grass in fine weather. All she had to do was produce an heir and look, if not beautiful, at least queenly.

  It was driving her mad.

  The only relief she’d had from this cage was when Gildas had come to talk with her. Presumably, being a Christ priest, he had been “safe.” He and Aeronwen had presided over a pair of marriage ceremonies with civility and calm, if not liking. Aeronwen had made her immediate departure. He, however, had stayed for another fortnight, for the weather had turned foul as soon as Aeronwen was gone. She wondered if he suspected the Lady had something to do with that; certainly Gwen did.

  Gildas did not care for Arthur; that was hardly surprising, since
Arthur had slain his rebellious brother. But for some reason he had taken to Gwen. He had spent many hours in this solar, asking her intense questions about her beliefs, inviting questions from her about his. Arguing cordially with each other. She came to see what it was that made his monks so intensely loyal to him. Under that dour expression was a remarkably sweet temper, and if he was stern, he was also able to forgive readily, even eagerly.

  “I think that you will never convince me to leave my path,” she told him, finally, “But I am becoming more certain after listening to you that our paths are so near one another as to be identical in many places.”

  He had looked at her with a raised eyebrow. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.

  “There are things that the Ladies cleave to that I find . . . wrong,” she admitted. “I will never believe that the gods and the land require blood be spilled so that both can prosper. Think of all the blood spilled in war—if it were merely blood that was required, the lands that were battlefields should forever be waist deep in lush grasses and yielding four times the corn of others for all eternity. Yet I have never seen that. The first year after a battle, yes, but that is just logic, since you could get as goodly a harvest spreading manure. But not after.”