Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit Part 18

QUEEN.

Chapter Nineteen.

It was just cool enough for a fire at the king's hearth, but the light it cast gave very little aid in reading facial features. Gwen could not believe what she had just heard, and stared at their visitor in total disbelief. "If this is a jest, it is in very poor taste," she finally managed. cool enough for a fire at the king's hearth, but the light it cast gave very little aid in reading facial features. Gwen could not believe what she had just heard, and stared at their visitor in total disbelief. "If this is a jest, it is in very poor taste," she finally managed.

But her father looked completely serious, as did the visitor, the Lady Aeronwen. "Lady" in the sense of "one of the Ladies." The Lady looked outwardly no different from any other woman, and Gwen was not Gifted enough to sense the Power in her; her clothing was unusual only in that it was of plain, undyed white linen and wool, and her hair was unbound, signifying she was not a married woman. There was nothing whatsoever to mark her as a person of any importance at all, but she had been sent directly here from the great School, and Cataruna, who bowed to almost no one, practically groveled to her.

She did have the most piercing dark eyes that Gwen had ever seen; eyes that definitely looked far beneath the surface of everything around her. Her speech was clipped, her manners rather severe. That, of course, was probably very effective against the young women sent to the School, but it cowed Gwen not at all.

And her proposal was . . . well, on the surface of it, sheer insanity. Why in the name of every G.o.d and G.o.ddess should she she become the High King's third wife? She had never even laid eyes on him to her certain knowledge, and she doubted he had ever seen her. And she was twenty-seven. Even if she did look eighteen. Surely he would want a younger bride. become the High King's third wife? She had never even laid eyes on him to her certain knowledge, and she doubted he had ever seen her. And she was twenty-seven. Even if she did look eighteen. Surely he would want a younger bride.

If he does, he'll reject this whole scheme out of hand.

"The High King must must have a queen. He dallied not at all after the death of his first, and there is no reason to wait this time, either. He drew up a pathetically short list of names that he indicated would be acceptable to himself and one or another of his advisors. The only other candidate that we will accept is Morgana," said Aeronwen flatly, her eyes hard. "And leaving aside the little problem that she is also the High King's half-sister, she is completely out of the question, because she is completely uncontrollable." have a queen. He dallied not at all after the death of his first, and there is no reason to wait this time, either. He drew up a pathetically short list of names that he indicated would be acceptable to himself and one or another of his advisors. The only other candidate that we will accept is Morgana," said Aeronwen flatly, her eyes hard. "And leaving aside the little problem that she is also the High King's half-sister, she is completely out of the question, because she is completely uncontrollable."

"Oh. And you can control me," Gwen replied dryly, raising one eyebrow. The tiny, dark woman flushed, disconcerted. Gwen sensed that she did not often find herself contradicted or her will thwarted.

"That is not what I mean, Gwenhwyfar." The Lady's glare could have put ice on a pond in summer. "I mean that you will work for the good of the land, for the good of the followers of the Old Ways, to protect the Folk of Annwn. You will think first of the good of others, not yourself. You have proven that, as a warrior. Morgana will work only on her own behalf, or Medraut's."

"And leaving aside whether or not Arthur will be remotely interested in a bride who has followed the warrior's path, just how do you propose to get the High King to accept a third wife with the name 'Gwenhwyfar'?" she asked. "I should think at this point he will regard that as very ill-omened."

"Or he will hold by the common notion that the third time pays for all," the Lady countered, and shrugged. "I confess, I am not in his confidence. I do not know what he will think, I only know that, like you, he considers first the good of his people. He needs an heir, the land needs a queen, and all else is secondary. He is getting no younger. He has no time to waste. We who have counseled him have made very, very sure that he understands this."

"There is another factor; the High King wants my horses," her father rumbled, nodding. "To get them, he will take you. It is a good bargain, as you know I do not part with them easily."

Her cheeks flamed with suppressed anger. "So that that is what this is about. I'm now the unwanted part of a horse trade!" is what this is about. I'm now the unwanted part of a horse trade!"

"Unwanted by the High King perhaps, but greatly desired by us!" the Lady snapped. "The King's second wife did us great damage with her adherence to the Christ priests. The High King grows old; in the back of his mind, I suspect, is the fact that the Young Stag supplants the Old, and Lleu slays Goronwy. The land is not suffering-yet-but if it does, his age may be blamed, and the followers of the Old Ways may look for a Young Stag. The Christ priests do not demand that the High King sacrifice himself-ever. Except metaphorically, of course."

"And do you?" she asked, pointedly.

The Lady shrugged. "It has been our experience that the G.o.ds take that in hand before we need to. The Merlin is useless to us now, and the King has decided to forget that his old mentor was a Druid before he was the King's man. Even though you have not the Gifts, Gwenhwyfar, you can undo some of that. You are called 'cousin' by Gwyn ap Nudd, and you are accepted by Abbot Gildas. You can turn some of the rancor of the Christ priests away from us. You can bring Arthur back to us. And perhaps you can supply an heir to the throne."

Gwen felt like a rabbit in a snare. All of this did make very good sense. She probably was was the best candidate to be the High King's new wife. And she the best candidate to be the High King's new wife. And she could could do much. Unlike many of the followers of the Old Ways-the Ladies being prime examples of that-now that she had actually met with some of them, she didn't think all that badly of the followers of the White Christ. do much. Unlike many of the followers of the Old Ways-the Ladies being prime examples of that-now that she had actually met with some of them, she didn't think all that badly of the followers of the White Christ.

But this was not what she wanted to do! This had nothing to do with her her dreams! dreams!

But I am a king's daughter. And kings' daughters know that duty comes before desire. Kings' daughters know that they will be called upon to sacrifice much. I have had my dream for years. Now . . .

Now it was time to pay for having had that dream in her hands. And it felt horrible. As if something she loved was dying before her eyes.

It's me that's dying. It's the Gwen that is the war chief, the only Gwen I've been for all of my life. And something I don't recognize is going to take her place.

And . . . it wasn't Arthur she wanted to wed . . .

"Am I really the only one?" she asked, in a small voice.

"Would I be here if you were not?" Aeronwen shrugged. "At least the High King is not in love with you. He was in love with the last Gwenhwyfar, and that did not end well. His wedding to the first Gwenhwyfar was far more arranged than the tales would make it seem; he wanted her father as an ally in the days when he had far fewer. Trust me, he is no stranger to marrying for expedience. For his second wife, he pleased himself; deluded himself, perhaps, but he did not think first of his people, or the Land, and the result was almost a disaster."

Gwen wanted to ask how the second queen had really died, but-no. It was probably better not to have an answer to that question. Whatever had happened was in the hands and judgment of the G.o.ds. Whichever G.o.ds those were.

It was ironic, when she thought back to her childhood and how when she had heard that the first queen had her name, she had wished she too could be a queen and have goose every day and gowns that were not made-over. Now all she could think was how it meant the end of her freedom, that not all the fine food and handsome gowns in the world would make up for that loss. She had not been willing to give that up for one she truly wished for-and now she was being asked to give it up and for what?

Duty.

Finally she hung her head in defeat. "If I must . . ." she said reluctantly.

"The alternative is Medraut on the throne," replied the Lady, her voice showing that she very clearly cared no more for Medraut than Gwen did. "You know Medraut as well as any of us. You know your sister, who was trained by Anna Morgause, just as Morgana was. You know what will come of that."

That was no alternative at all.

"Very well. I accept," she sighed. And I will find some way to have at least a part of my dream, too. And I will find some way to have at least a part of my dream, too.

[image]

But first, as she had feared, she found that to be made into a queen, she must be unmade.

This was a strange world that she reentered. It was not that she had abandoned womanly things so much as that she had made a choice that left no room for them. But now, suddenly, there was a veritable flood of womanliness that had swept her up and was carrying her off, and she watched the banks of simple practicality rus.h.i.+ng past, out of reach, as Cataruna and Gynath and all the women of Lleudd's court descended on her, determined to "make her over."

She understood that this was needful. She could not turn up at the High King's stronghold in her armor and tunic and trews. And if she did not act act like a queen she would have ridicule for her portion. If she did not like a queen she would have ridicule for her portion. If she did not look look like one, well . . . not only ridicule, but perhaps even scorn. like one, well . . . not only ridicule, but perhaps even scorn.

She hated it. But she threw herself into it with a will. There was no turning back now, and hard as this was, it had been far more difficult to become a warrior. She had discipline, and she applied it as firmly as she had ever applied herself to learning a weapon, or to ride.

The women began with her hair, which seemed a logical way to start.

She had not chopped hers off short, as Braith had, because it tended to behave itself if properly braided, and what was as important, it made a good padding under a helm. But now it was unbraided and brushed until her head was sore, and washed first in lime-water to make it even paler than it had been, then in rainwater. Then she had to lie with it spread out while it dried. They did all this several times over the course of a week. She got very tired of it by the second round.

With all this came several sorts of baths. Now, as a whole, she enjoyed baths. But she did not really enjoy being being bathed, then oiled, then bathed again, then oiled again, then bathed for a third time and rubbed down with perfumes while there was a woman on each hand and each foot, tsking and fussing over the toes and fingers. bathed, then oiled, then bathed again, then oiled again, then bathed for a third time and rubbed down with perfumes while there was a woman on each hand and each foot, tsking and fussing over the toes and fingers.

When they were done with the bathing, and her hair was finally pale and silky enough to make them happy, it was time for the final step in the process. It was braided up, but no, not in her sensible single plait. Now it was braided in two, hanging down on either side of her face, braided with gold cord, which seemed a shocking waste of gold to her, then the bottom third of the braids were wrapped in a bit of fine cloth, and that, in turn, was held in place by a criss-cross of more gold cord. The braids hung heavily from her temples and made her head ache.

Why couldn't she just keep it loose, like every other maiden she'd seen?

Evidently because that wasn't what a king's daughter did.

She liked to keep her b.r.e.a.s.t.s bound-not flat, and not tight, but enough so that they didn't get in the way or move about and cause problems.

Well, that, it seemed, was completely out of the question. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were to be . . . prominent, and she found herself with braids and and b.r.e.a.s.t.s enc.u.mbering her and making it impossible to move quickly. b.r.e.a.s.t.s enc.u.mbering her and making it impossible to move quickly.

Then there was the new clothing to get used to.

Oh, she was not averse to wearing a gown now and again, provided it was one that was comfortable, easy to move in.

Well.

First, a whole new wardrobe had to be constructed. The women did this at breakneck speed, while her hair and body were being scrubbed like a fish being descaled. The new wardrobe began with the linen chemise, of which she had three. They were fine; they were quite comfortable and very soft and lovely on her almost-raw skin. She would have enjoyed them except that they gave no support to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s whatsoever. Then came the undergowns, with tight sleeves-so tight she could never have drawn a bow or swung a sword or an ax in the wretched things. That was not fine. It didn't at all matter that they were of a perfectly lovely linen and wool mixed, as soft as the chemise. It didn't matter that they had grand bands of embroidery of a sort she could never do herself. It didn't even matter that every woman who looked at them sighed with naked longing. Because they were an absolute horror to wear.

Nor was it fine that they dragged on the ground behind, making them exceedingly impractical anywhere outside. Still, she could kirtle them up . . .

But then there were the overgowns, with wider, shorter sleeves and more bands of heavy embroidery on them. They were just wide enough that she had to try to keep the edges of the sleeves from drooping into things and getting filthy.

And last of all came the wide, embroidered belt, that she was supposed to tie as tightly as possible to show off her small waist and push up her b.r.e.a.s.t.s (though it gave them no support at all), from which dangled keys, a knife for eating, pouches for this and that- On top of all this there was the mantle, which was not a practical cloak, oh no, but a great awkward rectangle of fabric that she was supposed to drape becomingly about her waist, and arms, and sometimes over her head.

Finally, as a last insult, a fur-lined overmantle she was supposed to pin at the shoulders over this entire mess of cloth; it didn't even close properly at the front, so she would stew at the back and freeze at the front.

So there were all these swaths of cloth to manage, and the tight arms of the undergown, and the dangling bits on the belt, and it seemed as if she was catching some part of the outfit on something whenever she moved. She had never felt so sorry for other women in her life. She felt even sorrier for herself.

Nevertheless, she was a king's daughter and a war chief, and she was not going to allow herself to be defeated by mere fabric.

So she did what anyone with sense would do. She put it all on and practiced. Practiced walking, walking quickly, moving about indoors and out, maneuvering around furniture, eating, carrying things-she couldn't possibly do most of the household ch.o.r.es that other women did in this stuff, but, then, she wouldn't have to. Cooking, cleaning, all that would be done for her. The High King's queen did not even have the duties that Queen Eleri had had (and Queen Eleri had dressed much more simply, with one chemise, an overgown, and in the cold, a good heavy cloak). She even practiced some dancing, and riding-and with some teeth gritting, being carried pillion behind a rider. And the others, anxious for her success, helped her. They had some little time; although the High King wanted her father's horses a great deal, he was less anxious to leap into a third marriage, and so the negotiations and bargaining went on through the autumn, and only concluded when the first snow fell. So she would go to the High King as his new bride a bare four months after the death of his second.

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 fas.h.i.+on, but she didn't care. It was one comfort she would would have. 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 gra.s.ses 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 vanis.h.i.+ng.

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 pa.s.sed within a few miles of the Isle of Gla.s.s, 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 bypa.s.sed 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 each just as large, if not larger. And there were as many of them, at least, as there were huts in the village. Cl.u.s.tered 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. just as large, if not larger. And there were as many of them, at least, as there were huts in the village. Cl.u.s.tered 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 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. 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 a.s.serted 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 s.e.xless. They were just surprised that she she wondered. Practicality a.s.serted 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 s.e.xless. They were just surprised that she was was a woman and that she had turned up looking like one. 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 G.o.ddess 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. 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. 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.