Gwenhwyfar Page 2

  Gwen was the last to climb in, and Mag shut them in with the bed-curtains, leaving them in the close darkness.

  Gwen was always the last to climb in, because if she didn’t wait, her sister Gwenhwyfach, the baby of the family, would find some sly way to torment her. Poke, prod, pull hair, pinch—they were as alike as twins, everyone said so, and no one could understand why Gwenhwyfach hated her sister so. When Little Gwen was in a fine mood, she was enchantingly beautiful, and she bewitched everyone around her. Her hair, like Gwen’s was as light a gold as sunlight, her eyes large and a melting blue when she wanted something. She put Gwen in mind of the tale of the maiden made of flowers sometimes, she was so slender and graceful, even when she was up to mischief. In fact, her real name wasn’t Little Gwen at all, but everyone insisted they looked so much alike, the name had stuck and no one even remembered what name she’d been given at birth anymore. Perhaps that was why—perhaps she sorely resented that they were so much alike. It certainly wasn’t because Little Gwen was deprived. If anything, being the youngest and so pretty, she was spoiled.

  Then again, maybe it upset her that there was anyone who could be said to be as pretty as she was, much less that it was her older sister.

  Even Gwenhwyfar was at a loss; she didn’t remember doing anything that would have warranted this. If their positions had been reversed, had Gwenhwyfar been the youngest, there would be some cause for that resentment. But no, it had been Little Gwen who had usurped the position of “youngest” from her year-older sister, and she’d scarcely begun to toddle when she made her enmity known. From that day, Gwen’s life had been a struggle to avoid her clever sister’s tiny tortures.

  One thing she had learned early on: never strike back. Little Gwen was never caught, at least not by an adult, and retribution on Gwen’s part only brought down the wrath of an adult. Gwen was the older; logic said that when there was a quarrel, she was the aggressor, for why would a smaller child bully a larger? When Gwen displayed bruises, she was told that was what she deserved for picking on her younger sibling.

  Her older sisters knew what was going on, of course, but protests to an adult only got them told not to take sides.

  That was the other reason for having a Gwen on either side of the bed, with two sisters in between. It stopped the fighting.

  Well, mostly.

  “It’s all your fault,” Little Gwen whispered in the dark. “You got us sent to bed, Gwenhwyfar. We could still be there if not for you.”

  “Me? What did I do?” Gwen demanded as both her sisters sighed with exasperation.

  “You weren’t quiet enough. You made the queen look at you. You were fidgeting. You always fidget.” This, from the person that Mag always checked for fleas, since by the nursemaid’s way of thinking, anyone who squirmed that much must be harboring a host of fleas.

  “Did not!”

  “Did so!”

  “Did no such thing!”

  “Did so!”

  “Give over!” snapped Gynath, the eldest of them all. “Gwen did no more fidgeting than you, and she was a deal less obvious about wanting to hear every word about the Queen of the Orkneys. Now go to sleep!”

  “I can’t,” Little Gwen whined. “I’m cold. Gwen stole all the covers.”

  Since Gwen was barely covered by the drape of the blankets, this was obviously a lie. “Did not!”

  “Did so!”

  “Couldn’t have,” Gynath said smugly. “I tucked them under the featherbed on your side. You’re a liar, and that just proves you’re a changeling. I knew it! The Fair Folk took the real baby and left you in her place! No wonder you’re a little horror!”

  “Am not!” Little Gwen said, furiously. “And she stole the covers! Ow!”

  This last punctuated the thump on the head her older—and much larger—sister gave her.

  “Give over,” Gynath repeated. “Go to sleep, or I’ll tip you out and you can lie on the floor with the dogs all night.”

  “I’m lying with bitches now,” Little Gwen muttered, and Gynath thumped her again for her pains, and, at last, she subsided.

  Gwen turned on her side, her back to her sisters, and stared at the place where the curtains met. Stealthily—because if Little Gwen knew what she was doing there would be whining about letting the draft in—she parted the curtains with a finger and peered across the room at the light visible through the gaps between the door and doorframe, straining her ears to make out something besides the indecipherable muttering of voices. She had wanted to hear more too, but not about Anna Morgause.

  She wanted to hear about magic and the Power. Hearing about or watching someone working magic always gave her a shivery good feeling. She couldn’t wait until she came into her own Power.

  She wondered what it would be. Some, like Eleri, could do just about anything in reason. Some were just healers, some could command the weather, or see into the past or the future.

  She wanted to be able to do it all, though. Well, who wouldn’t? And she wanted something else. She wanted to be a chariot-driver, and a warrior. There had to be a way to keep the Power and still wield Cold Iron. Sometimes she felt torn in two, wanting both those things—

  But there was no doubt, no doubt at all, that when she came into her Gift, she would be sent to the Ladies. The doubt came about whether the King would be willing, no matter what he said, for a daughter to take up weapons. There were not many warrior-women, and most girls who tried the life soon gave it up.

  That wasn’t the only reason she strained to listen to the talk at the hearth. Besides hearing about magic, she wanted to hear about this new queen with the same name as her.

  She wondered what life was like, for this slender, fair young woman. Did her father have a castle like this one? Clearly, if she was a good archer, he let her train with the warriors. Oh, how Gwen wanted to do that, too—

  Well, maybe. She would have to be careful that the Power didn’t desert her because she handled Cold Iron too much. But there had to be a way! That Gwenhwyfar had done it!

  But if there isn’t . . . which do I want? To be a warrior, or to have the Power?

  Did she have sisters? Probably not, and probably not brothers either, if she had been on the walls, shooting arrows at her father’s enemies. Brothers were funny about things like that. Gwen had overheard plenty of fights when some of the boys tried to keep their sisters from training with the warriors and the like. No, from the sound of it, she was an only child . . .

  Oh yes, Gwen remembered now. Something about the blood being thin and only the one daughter in the line. So there it was.

  Gwen envied her. It must be wonderful, to be an only child. No having to share everything. No big sisters who thumped your head nor horrible little teases of younger sisters. She’d have gotten the best of everything; only children got spoiled, everyone knew that. And now, to be marrying the High King, to be his equal in all things . . . she would have her own court; everyone knew that the power of the land went through the queen as well as the king. She was trained by the Ladies, so she would probably be the one in charge of all things having to do with the Power, subject to the Merlin, of course. She would have her own horses to ride and not have to share one elderly pony with three sisters.

  And, oh, the clothing. Probably enough to fill chests and chests. She would have new clothing, not things that had been cut down from adult garments and then passed down until by the time Gwen got them, they had lost any color they had once had, and any trimming had long since been pulled off. In fact, with three sisters handing down the same clothing, it was Little Gwen who actually had the best of it, since by the time Gwen was done with what Gynath handed down to her, it was suitable only for padding, patches, and baby’s clouts. Little Gwen got true second-hand, just like the eldest of them.

  There would be fur linings to that Gwenhwyfar’s cloak and hood. There would be embroidered hems to her gowns, and her shifts would be the softest lambswool and linen. She would dress like Eleri did on rare feast day
s, only she would do so every day, because she was High Queen. All her clothes would be colored, and she’d never have to wear anything faded or plain again. Except her shifts. Her shifts would be linen so blinding white they’d think she was a spirit. In fact . . . in fact, she would have one gown that was that white, too, whiter than snow, whiter than clouds. Everything she wore would be soft, too. No scratchy linens for her, no itchy wool.

  And no shoes she had to wear three pairs of stockings with to keep them on. Shoes would be made to fit her feet, and hers alone.

  She’d have the best food, too. Whatever she wanted, like as not. The best cuts of meat, the slices from the middle of the loaf, succulent cakes and pies whenever she liked. Goose, oh, lovely goose and the rich fat to dip her bread in. They’d let her have all the sweet mead she wanted. Apples, pears, plums, cherries and berries of every sort.

  She would have a stable full of horses, one of every color there was. And a falcon, a real one, not just a little sparrow hawk, a real peregrine or a goshawk. And a coursing hound, with an elegant, long eared head. She would go hunting whenever she felt like it, and no one would tell her that she couldn’t.

  There would be a bard all the time in the court, too, and jugglers and gleemen and all sorts of things. She could hear whatever tales she wanted, whenever she wanted, and if she woke up in the middle of the night and wanted to hear one, well, she could.

  And she would, of course, have great Power and command the most serious of magic. The High Queen was also the chief of all of the Wise, and at the most important of the rituals of the year, she was the avatar of the Lady for all of the land. Gwen had seen Eleri coming back from the Great Rites, face flushed, eyes shining, exultant, and more alive than at any other time. Gwen wanted to feel like that one day.

  Well, one day, she would. Eleri had promised as much. One day she, Gwen, would be leading the rituals, making the magic happen.

  Suddenly, though, amidst all her envy, something else occurred to Gwen . . . would it be worth all those wonderful things to have to go far away from home? To never know if you were ever going to see your mother or father again? To have nothing around you but strangers?

  Maybe . . . not.

  Unable to hear anything meaningful, Gwen let the bed-curtains fall closed and wriggled closer to her sister. The bed was soft, and warmed by the heat of four bodies. They were all safe in here, and tomorrow the bird hunters were going out, and there would, almost certainly, be goose. And then there would be stories and maybe some rough music, and their visitor would talk more about magic.

  And Gwen would be able to look up from her place on the hearth, look around her, and know every face in the Hall.

  Maybe being High Queen wasn’t so wonderful after all.

  Chapter Two

  Gwen had not meant to overhear her mother and the priestess, indeed she hadn’t. It was a cold, bright day, and she had been given sacks of goose and swan feathers to pick over and sort, for the king and his men had gone out bird-hunting and brought back a plentiful catch. Eleri was strict about idleness; there was to be none if there were tasks to be done, and Gwen was deft enough to be trusted with this one. She wouldn’t lose a single feather, she wouldn’t sort where the wind could carry them off, and she wouldn’t leave dirt on any of them. Not even Gynath picked feathers as clean as Gwen could.

  She knew better than to sort inside; a chance draft might send the precious feathers into the fire. So she circled the castle and grounds and came to one of her favorite spots, just below the window of her parents’ room, on the south wall. This spot got sun all day and was sheltered from the wind; the lush grass made a good place to sit, and no one was likely to disturb her.

  So she slowly picked through the feathers. Precious down feathers went into one sack, for making the softest of pillows and featherbeds.

  Body feathers went into a second, for featherbeds of lesser quality. Longer feathers went into a third sack, to be used as needed, and the primary and secondary wing feathers went into a fourth, to be used for fletching arrows and very occasionally for quill pens, although there was no one here who could write more than reckonings. Dirty feathers had to be carefully picked clean, but her reward was that she could have any feathers she liked from the third sack. She had already made plans for a feather skirt for her doll and maybe a feather cloak too. It was not hard work, nor difficult to understand, but it was painstaking. Gwen was clever and dexterous, and besides, she loved the silky feeling of the feathers, the subtle plays of grays and whites and browns, so she never complained about getting this chore.

  Despite the cold, the sun had baked warmth into the turf and the stones at this spot. She put her back up against the stones and set to work.

  She was halfway through the second sack when she heard voices. She quickly recognized Eleri and the visitor, who must have sought out the privacy of the solar in order to keep their words from the ears of the inveterate gossips. She concentrated very hard at that moment, willing them not to look out of the window, even though Eleri knew she was picking feathers and that this was her favorite place to do so.

  “Now tell me what you would not say in public about Anna of Orkney,” Eleri demanded, in what Gwen thought of as her “queenly” voice. “If there is danger to this realm from her, I want to know about it.”

  “That is the trouble, the things that I know are as hard to hold to as water,” the priestess replied. “The priestesses great and small are not of one mind on this. Some think Anna of Orkney is dangerous, some think her ambition will be held in check by the High King and the Merlin, and some think that nothing will hold her if she reaches beyond her current status. I know that she holds to the Old Ways, and under any other circumstances, I would be inclined to her for that alone. But . . . but . . .” She sighed. “I know that Lot is ambitious. I know that his wife is equally ambitious, and I believe that there is not much either of them would scruple at to advance their ambitions. I know that she has the Power, and I know that she will use it to further her own ends rather than the welfare of the land. But how far she would go? I cannot say with any degree of certainty.”

  “The High King has a son,” said Eleri, sounding irritated. “He has a son by the girl called Lionors. Lorholt, she calls him. Does he need more?”

  The priestess made a tsking sound. “But she was not his wife. And it is only we of the West that still hold to the Old Ways, at least publicly. If your husband had a son by another than you, and he chose to make that son his heir, and you put your blessing upon it, no one here would think it amiss. But in the lands where the Romans once held full sway, The High King must have a son by a true wife, one wedded to him by a Christian priest, as well as promises, and sealed in betrothal. The Old Rites do not signify.” Gwen listened to this carefully. This seemed very strange to her. There were plenty of couples among her father’s people who had never even seen a Christian priest, nor had any priest or priestess say any words over them whatsoever, and yet no one doubted they were husband and wife. Jumping the fire at Beltane, jumping the broom among friends, that was enough for most. Only those with land, or with some title of honor seemed to need the formality of vows and blessings. Blessings were for babies, who needed every help they could get, and the proof of that was that there were four small graves with other daughters of Eleri in them, who did not live to see the full turn of the seasons.

  But the priestess was continuing. “The truth is, young as he is, the High King has many sons, but none of them are . . .” A pause. “Suitable, to us, to the others. None were sired on a girl to whom he had any true tie, none has he accepted as his heir. None were sired on girls that the servants of the Goddess approve of, girls of the proper bloodline, with the Powers. All are . . .” Again, a pause. “Inferior. They are of no importance. Attempts to see into their futures show nothing of note, not a hint that the Goddess cares for them any more or less than she cares for any other of her daughters. They are toys for the young High King’s bed. Their sons will be numbered a
mong his warriors but will never be outstanding. They are ordinary. The High King’s heir cannot be ordinary.”

  Eleri snorted. “So. The High King must breed him a son on a girl acceptable to us and to the followers of the White Christ. A girl with the Powers. A young woman like this Gwenhwyfar he is wedding. So?”

  The priestess responded reluctantly. “The scrying bowl shows me nothing I can make sense of. I see a son of Arthur vying for the throne, not one holding it unopposed. And I see the Merlin, and blood, connected with that son, but I cannot make out what that means.” She hesitated. “I see the death of many children associated with the birth. And yet I see him surrounded by all the signs that says he has the right to the throne, and I see him as a man of the Powers. I think . . . it would be wise to avoid the wedding.”

  Eleri sniffed. “We could not go in any case. Arthur has our pledged fealty from his coronation, and he scarcely needs it a second time. That is a very long way to go with winter coming on, and all for a feast that we could as well hold ourselves. Which, to show our loyalty to the king, we shall, with bonfire and all. There will be nothing to complain of in our demonstration of fealty.” Suddenly her tone changed. “Do you see Morgause’s ambition spreading to these lands?”

  “Not directly,” the priestess said, though reluctantly, and Eleri breathed a sigh of relief.