Gwenhwyfar had been getting quite edgy of late. Her mother had put it down to an unnatural existence underground, and indeed, Gwenhwyfar had found it very trying never to see the sun in the sky, but to exist only by its fore and after glow, and not to feel the passing of the seasons, but to live in a perpetual summer haze. But her mother had explained that life in these circumstances prevented the very disagreeable mortal propensity to age.
There was a distinct dearth of the ordinary in Gwyn’s realms. Gwenhwyfar wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t pregnant and that made her feel disagreeable and distantly worried. Edern was a dutiful and skillful lover, never far from her side, but she had begun to feel the need for placid Enid’s company for once, though she dared not admit as much. She toyed with the idea of asking Edern to arrange Enid’s abduction, just to keep her company, but the thought of what her foster sister would make of Gwyn’s kingdom stayed her tongue.
Preparations were well advanced for Gogfran’s visit when another guest was announced.
‘Morrigan! Here?’ Creiddylad sounded appalled.
Gwyn wagged a finger at his mistress, ‘She is kin to me and you will welcome her politely.’
‘But . . . of course,’ said Creiddylad, irritated beyond measure. ‘But she’s Arthur’s—’ She bit her lip, so that Gwenhwyfar never learned what Morrigan was to Arthur, but she remembered the mirror and comb, and shuddered. It was the first time that she had seen her mother less than self-assured. She silently slunk back to her room and fetched out the magical mirror – the comb seemed to have been ‘borrowed’ by some faery being. It reflected her pinched and miserable face. She thrust it back into the bag with loathing. The pleasant summer land of Gwyn’s world was warping around her into some misshapen and wintry place. She even saw Edern with other eyes, noting for the first time the narrow set of his eyes and the sharpness of his ears, the aged, world-weary air that sat strangely upon his seemingly few years. Peeved with the whole faery realm, she locked herself away and sulked for the rest of the day.
It wasn’t until she heard gales of unmitigated hilarity issuing from the hall that she ventured out. She hailed a passing dwarf and asked her what was the matter. The diminutive wife skirled with mirth at sight of Gwenhwyfar and ran shrieking into the corridor. With her shawl clamped tightly about her, Gwenhwyfar strode into the hall.
It was thronged with Gwyn’s subjects, all of whom immediately fell silent, but for a few snickers.
Gwenhwyfar glared at the small, dark woman dressed in red and black who sat with a sword across her knees, her feet hoisted on the table, then across to Gwyn and her mother, who had the most peculiar expression on her face.
With twitching mouth, Gwyn summoned up his breath and said, ‘You’ll have to hear sooner or later, daughter . . . Your handmaid, Enid, has apparently become Queen of Britain!’
*
The ignominy hit Gwenhwyfar doubly hard. The ingratitude of the girl! After a lifetime spent in obedient service, Enid had dared to usurp her mistress’ place! Gwenhwyfar seethed with frustrated rage. She should have been Queen of Britain, not that plain, insignificant bastard of her father’s concubine!
Edern found his latest mistress ripping up the sheets and beat a hasty retreat to his father’s den, where he took refuge in male counsel: ‘They invariably go like that, son. It’s to be expected. Remember that she’s totally human and hasn’t the benefit of omniscience. Mortality is a strange thing . . . If you get tired of her, remember that a little exposure to the world above will bring her down to size. When she starts to show her age, you’ll have to find another mistress, you know you will!’ A piece of faery philosophy Edern could only dismally agree with.
In the midst of Gwenhwyfar’s outrage, Gogfran and family turned up. They were very nice about it, and kindly pretended not to notice Gwenhwyfar’s proud huffs and frequent tears. Being virtually immortal did bestow a certain amount of delicacy when dealing with such mortal performances as the erstwhile queen’s. Gogfran’s daughter was particularly sympathetic, listening patiently to Gwenhwyfar outpourings.
‘I mean, it’s me who should be queen,’ she protested to the large girl on the bed. Gwenhwyfar had overcome her timidity at social intercourse with giants and their ilk very early. Gogfran and family could accommodate themselves, at will, to the size of their surroundings – though it did still make moving about rather trying, since moments of expansiveness would come upon them and they would have to stretch suddenly, though mostly they did this discreetly in large spaces where servants and animals would not be inconveniently squashed.
Gogfran’s daughter was a pleasant, blonde girl, who told everyone that she was studying to become a proficient shapeshifter. At any other time, Gwenhwyfar would have cut her dead, but she was starved of a confidant in this place. Her mother was busy avoiding the hated Morrigan who had brought the shameful news of Enid’s elevation to the nobility, and even Edern had not been so attentive recently, so Gwenhwyfar took advantage of the nearest and certainly the largest shoulder.
‘Well, I think it’s a jolly shame. If my dad did that I’d turn all his toes into pigs for a week, I’ll tell you! What a rotten trick to substitute your old maid . . . But what a laugh on Arthur! I bet he doesn’t know how he’s been tricked! Mum always said he was pretty slow on the uptake!’
Gwenhwyfar sincerely hoped not, though she secretly hungered for a thousand deaths to seize upon Enid. She squinted more closely at the young giantess, ‘What did you say your name was?’
The young giantess threw one plait over her shoulder, ‘Gwenhwyfach, after my aunty in Cornwall.’
‘Gwenhwyfach . . . do you know any magic?’
Gwenhwyfach smiled broadly, ‘Of course! What kind?’
A cunning expression swept over Gwenhwyfar’s beautiful face and she dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘Evil magic.’
Gwenhwyfach’s bland and open face filled with puzzlement. It was her first encounter with a human at close range and, though her mother had told her countless tales about their switch-back cunning, she still did not understand their concept of evil at all. She decided to try the practical approach, ‘Well, what do you want to do?’
‘Make Enid suffer!’ breathed Gwenhwyfar
Before Gwenhwyfach could reply to this enormity, a voice cut between them, ‘Don’t you think she’s already doing that?’
It was the hateful Morrigan, as Gwenhwyfar already called her – she who had enjoyed rubbing her shame in before the whole court.
Gwenhwyfar retorted, ‘I imagine she’s having a splendid time, queening it about Britain while I rot here.’
Morrigan ignored her and addressed herself to the young giantess: ‘And how is your shape-changing coming on, niece?’
‘Oh, ever so well, aunty Mor. I can do eagles and serpents on good days. I even managed a dragon,’ babbled Gwenhwyfach enthusiastically. Then, on a more modest note, ‘though it was only for a few seconds.’
Looking straight at Gwenhwyfar, Morrigan said, ‘I should give dragons a miss until you’re a bit older, dear; they don’t really suit you.’
Gwenhwyfar snorted and made for the door, ‘Well if it’s going to be a professional conversation, I’ll leave you two to it!’
Morrigan called after her, ‘You don’t you want to be queen, then, Gwenhwyfar? It is your destiny after all . . .’
Gwenhwyfar had never had her fortune told, though she yearned to know. This wretched, underground obscurity where everyone but she knew the in-jokes, was already too much for her nerves. She craved the stimulation of praise and flattery, the love of her people.
With a royal sweep of her train, she turned back and listened to what Morrigan proposed.
*
Enid knew at last, without doubt, that she was pregnant. She had no idea how long she could possibly hide the fact, but she knew well enough that she might start feeling sick soon, and so avoided breakfast al
together under the pretence of fasting. Her reputation for piety and virtue was growing daily, becoming a by-word at court.
Arthur, who had asked after her absences from table, remarked to her one evening over the embroidery circle’s excited chatter, ‘Do take it easy, my love. Its very gratifying that you should have taken to the faith so readily, but don’t forget, we have other subjects who aren’t Christian. It doesn’t do for us to be fanatics, you know.’
Enid dropped her corner of the altar cloth and smiled ashamedly to her husband, ‘Of course, my lord, whatever you say. I thought I should set an example, that’s all.’
Arthur gave her an encouraging pat, for his wife wasn’t normally so talkative. ‘Well, that’s the spirit, of course, but just take it easy.’ He coughed and lowered his voice, ‘I wish you’d call me Art, Gwen.’
Enid pretended to examine her stitches more intently to hide her tell-tale face. She had taken Morrigan’s advice and carried on as normal, but she couldn’t see how anything would ever come right.
She embroidered Gwenhwyfar’s face on the angel she was stitching and stuck her needle into it with exasperation.
*
The exchange wasn’t going to be easy, Morrigan granted herself that. Gwenhwyfar was clearly pregnant, but ready to be queen. Enid was likewise with child and very willing to relinquish the queenship. May Day seemed the best time to effect a switch, with as much mayhem and confusion as was possible to cover their tracks.
Gwenhwyfar was proving difficult about relinquishing Edern. ‘You can always come to some arrangement, dear,’ her mother said, reasonably. But as Gwenhwyfar had rightly reckoned that love might have to bow to honour in the new relationship, she was proving stubborn and sulky. Her suspicions of Morrigan were worrying her, ‘Why are you doing this?’
Morrigan gave her a straight answer, ‘Because I believe in justice and destiny.’
Gwenhwyfar’s response was, ‘Well at least Arthur hasn’t crowned her yet! There’s some justice left!’
But she was still worried about what would happen when Arthur did notice the change.
Gwenhwyfach was most accommodating about lending her assistance. Morrigan encouraged the young giantess and would-be shapeshifter to act as a goad to Gwenhwyfar’s desire to be queen. It was so that Gwenhwyfar had to envisage the face of her erstwhile maid and foster sister for Gwenhwyfach’s benefit.
It was surprisingly difficult, after so short a space of time.
‘Now again!’ commanded her youthful tutor, sternly. ‘Look in the mirror and see Enid’s face.’
Gwenhwyfar threw the magic mirror from her, ‘This is ridiculous. What woman ever wanted to be queen at the expense of looking like her maid?’
‘One who wanted to be queen more that anything else,’ Morrigan pointedly reminded her.
‘Irish cow!’ Gwenhwyfar muttered, but took the point nevertheless.
*
Enid was sick into the basin again. It was borne off triumphantly to the physicians to examine. The queen was proclaimed to be with child to universal rejoicing, for Enid was well-liked throughout the land.
She was actually feeling sicker than normal since that morning a messenger had returned from Armorica, bearing a reply to her urgent letter to Gereint. The message was pretty short and clear:
‘I am already in exile because of you. Find someone else!’
Morrigan had said he hated her, and she had been right. She was about to lose a faithful husband, a friendly court and loving subjects in order to go into exile to a country whose language she didn’t speak, to a man who didn’t want her, bearing the king’s child.
Morrigan counselled her, ‘Go to him anyway. I don’t say it won’t be hard, but your destiny is to follow him and win him round.’
Enid, who knew the duty of following from birth onwards, resolved her heart.
*
The May blossom drifted from every bush and tree it seemed to Gwenhwyfar. Released from the underworld kingdom of Gwyn, she reveled in the wind and in the movement of the horse under her. She was a woman hundreds of years removed from the frightened girl who had ridden out of her father’s court a couple of months ago. Gwenhwyfach rode at her side, beaming with excitement at being, quite literally, at large in the world of men.
Morrigan had pleaded with the girl’s father to let her accompany Gwenhwyfar for, until Creiddylad’s daughter grew more expert at assuming the shape of Enid, it was by far the best insurance against disaster.
Meanwhile, down in the valley below, Enid was riding out with her women to engage in the pleasant enactment of the abduction of Fflur. Every May Day, the queen or one of her ladies represented Lady Fflur, the ancestress who had been espoused or least promised to the ancient protector of Britain, Caswallawn, but who had been foully abducted by Julius Caesar. The men of the court split into two parties, representing Britons and Romans. It was the duty of the queen to ride out alone, and the duty of the two bodies of horsemen to try to capture her and bring her back to court. If she was captured by the Britons, she was restored to the king, since one of the king’s champions might stand for the High King. But if she was won by the Roman faction, then Arthur had to pay a tribute of beer and saffron cakes to her captors before the queen might be returned. It was a harmless game, anciently marking the beginning of summer, but more practically indicating the seasonal commencement of campaigns, quests and raiding.
Enid had had some difficulty persuading Arthur, the doctors and her women that she was fit to represent Fflur. In fact, it was only when Morrigan agreed to ride with the queen that Arthur assented to her participation at all.
Now, riding a good pace in advance of her women, Enid turned to Morrigan, ‘What do we do now?’ she asked.
‘Draw the comb through your hair. You have brought it?’
Enid did as she was bidden, stifling her fear and loathing of the ivory thing. A sudden mist grew out of the ground behind them, creating confusion, hiding them entirely from sight.
Morrigan nodded with recollection, ‘A mist such as Caswallawn himself made to usurp Bran Fendigeid . . . Now, into the grove!’
Enid found herself in a small clearing whose purpose was clearly not Christian, since severed heads perched in the lower branches, their eyes and cheeks pecked bare by carrion.
In contrast to these horrors, beside a delightful spring, sat Gwenhwyfar, bathing her feet, while, beside her, intently deciphering a votive stone erected over the waters, crouched Gwenhwyfach. In moments of concentration she assumed a more titanic appearance, so that Enid was vastly startled by her size.
‘Are you ready?’ demanded Morrigan.
Gwenhwyfar was aggrieved at having been discovered in such an undignified attitude by her maid, ‘Quite ready!’ she cried, thrusting on her shoes, ready to mount up. She eyed the gold-clad Enid with ill-disguised distaste and fascination.
‘You have the mirror?’ Morrigan asked.
Gwenhwyfach brought it forth, ‘She’s got ever so much better, aunty, though she does need a lot more practice,’ she said severely.
‘Well, she’ll be getting plenty of that from today forward,’ remarked Morrigan. Then to Gwenhwyfar, ‘Hold it up to the queen!’
Gwenhwyfar flushed scarlet, ‘Who do you mean?’
Morrigan pulled on a gauntlet and transfixed her with a glance, ‘Why, Enid, of course! Let you never forget that she is rightful queen of this land. You but take her face, you but take her place, never forget it! Hold it up!’
With a shaking hand, Gwenhwyfar turned the mirror to Enid.
Enid looked wonderingly into it for a long time, into the eyes of the White Hart that was figured there.
‘Now!’ cried Morrigan, ‘Look into it, yourself!’
Gwenhwyfar turned the mirror to herself and saw Enid’s patient likeness looking back at her within it.
Gwenhwyfach breathed, ‘
Why, she looks just like her! Oh, well done, Gwen!’
Gwenhwyfar’s appearance was so like Enid’s that none could tell them apart. They swiftly changed clothes. But when Enid went to give the magical comb to Gwenhwyfar, Morrigan forbade her, ‘Though the comb is one of Britain’s treasures, it remains in your keeping. At your death, instruct that it be cast into the waters of the Fountain of Barenton; it will find its way home.’
‘How shall I know that place?’ asked Enid, fearing to look on her erstwhile mistress.
‘You will know it,’ insisted Morrigan, and called, ‘Accalon!’
A dark-browed warrior stepped from the trees and listened attentively to Morrigan’s commands, ‘Take this lady to Armorica and do not leave her till she finds Gereint ap Erbin!’
‘Is there any message for him, mistress?’ he asked.
Morrigan turned her horse’s head and smiled, ‘Yes! Say that you bring the scabbard of Arthur’s sword. He will know what you mean.’
And, very gently for such a fierce warrior-woman, she kissed Enid, laying hands of healing upon her and blessing her for the journey, ‘Go, with the blessings of Britain at your back! Be strong and resolute. Death itself cannot over-set such love as yours!’
And Enid remembered the eyes of the White Hart whose message seemed to be for her alone, and her heart was gladdened. With pity and compassion she turned to her mistress, as to an equal, ‘Be kind to him, Gwenhwyfar. Let him never know how we have deceived him.’
As she rode away with Accalon, Gwenhwyfar seethed, ‘We! The ungrateful, lying bitch!’
The frown of Morrigan seemed to obscure the sunlight; the grove grew cold and dark, ‘Do you dare miscall the Sovereignty of the Island of Britain – here, in her very nemeton? May you know sorrow, lady! Sorrow as she now bears!’
*
The sudden May morning mist had confused the May-Dayers. Romans and Britons alike were unable to track the queen. Her own ladies were alarmed, but comforted each other with the thought of Morrigan’s stout protection. It was Cai who first sighted the Lady Fflur in her unmistakable golden gown riding along the line of the hill. Setting up a whoop of triumph, he led his party of Britons to capture her. And so it was that Gwenhwyfar was at last brought home to Arthur, by Cai, as the rightful Queen of Britain.
The Jo Fletcher Books Anthology Page 26
