Gwenhwyfar (16 page)

Gwen herself was far more concerned with another person among the guests. Braith was here, and Gwen was very anxious that her idol be satisfied with her protégé’s progress. She didn’t want Braith to think that her trust had been misplaced.

So, in these moments before the race, now that she had gone over every bit of the harness and chariot five times over, she was standing between her two charges, as she had seen Braith do, breathing in their breath and letting them breathe in hers, scratching gently along their jaw lines, whispering nonsense to them. They were old hands at this game, of course, and were far less nervous than she was. They were properly warmed up, and she could sense the readiness of their muscles under her hands when she slid her palms down along their chests. They eyed the other teams nearest them, as if they were measuring their opponents, and then turned their attention back to her.

The starter was an old, scarred fighter from one of the guest contingents; he stopped chatting to a group on the sidelines and stepped up to the starting line. “Drivers!” he barked. “Take your places!”

With a final pat and a whispered word, Gwen left her horses and hopped up into her chariot, taking up the reins. The leather reins felt alive in her hands, as if the horses were speaking to her along them. She saw their haunches bunch as they prepared to leap forward on her command. “Get ready!” the old man shouted, and she flexed her knees, and braced herself for the start.

The horses didn’t wait for the reins to slap their backs. They were off as soon as they felt her lift them—or maybe they had responded to the starting shout. No matter—they were off. The chariot lurched forward, Gwen bounced a little against the curved back of her vehicle and habit took over as she regained her balance and crouched down even with the rumps of her horses.

She glanced quickly to either side and saw that she was dead even with the chariots on either side of her. Farther than that, she could not see, and she turned her attention back to the course. Beneath her feet, her chariot bounced and rattled; in front of her, the firm haunches of her horses rose and fell, their heads bobbing as they ran, their hooves flashing within a foot of her head. All around her was the thunder of hooves on the hard-packed earth, and the turf flew past in a blur just beyond her feet. Clods thrown off by the horses’ hooves pelted the bottom of the chariot.

And for a single moment, there was nothing but sheer terror.

Then, as always,
everything
settled into place. She didn’t really have the words to describe it. Calm descended, and she felt as if the reins, the chariot, even the horses were part of her. That she was wheel-to-wheel with the other chariots didn’t matter. She
knew
that things were going to happen an instant before they actually did, just enough time to avoid trouble. And she didn’t have to think about it, her body reacted before her mind actually registered what was about to happen—

Suddenly she knew that, as they wheeled for the turn, the team on her right was going to veer toward her a little too far and that the only two ways to avoid a collision were to pull back a little or try and get her team to shoot ahead.

And she knew that, as game as the team was, their strength was in endurance, not bursts of speed. They were too old for that sort of burst of speed. So she held them back. They fought her a moment, then yielded and dropped behind the other chariot.

The other team blundered into the space where her horses
would
have been; the driver shot her a look of alarm that blurred into relief, and then they had both made the turn and were on the return leg.

Through the reins, her hands told the team
fast but steady.
Through the reins, the team told her they would give what she asked for. She glanced to either side; the team that had almost collided with hers was ahead by more than a full length, but she recognized them with some satisfaction, for the driver was older than she by several years, and the team younger than hers, about two years into their prime. She was running second; in third, a length behind her, was another team driven by a boy with more experience and younger horses. His horses were laboring; hers were good for much more than just the run to the finish. If this had been a battlefield and not a race, he would be no good after this run.

She could hear the cheers; so could her horses. Their ears pricked forward.
Steady,
her hands told them.
We are,
they told her back. They stretched out their necks, though, determined to make the leader win his prize

And then they were across, and she was pulling them up, as the spectators swarmed the winner. But as she jumped out of the chariot and went to the horses’ heads to take their halters and begin walking them to cool them, a smaller group was heading for her in a more leisurely fashion. Braith, Braith’s lord, her father, and three of the warriors that were her teachers.

“I told you not to bet against her,” Braith was admonishing her lord, as that worthy handed over to the king a fine silver bracelet.

“And you said she wouldn’t even place, with horses that old, and young as she is,” the king crowed. He pulled Gwen into a hard embrace, laughing. “Well done, daughter! Second place, and your team still ready for another charge! First place isn’t everything.”

“Not when you bring your team to the finish line heaving and winded, King,” said Braith, a broad grin on her brown face. “Someone had better teach that boy in third that he’s training for battles, not for sprints.”

Gwen said nothing, but she felt as if she were glowing. She’d done it; she’d made Braith
and
her father proud.

“What are the prizes, my lord King?” someone called from the crowd around the winner.

“For first place, a silver brooch!” the king called back. “For third, a fine, fat duck and a flagon of wine from the king’s table! And for second—” He looked down at Gwen, his eyes twinkling. “—For second, a tun of ale and the boar meant for the king’s table!”

“Then let my prize be served among all the drivers!” she called out, her high voice ringing clearly out before the cheering could start again. “For surely all have earned a share!”

Any grumbling that might have started among the others that the king’s daughter had surely had some secret aid was erased in that moment, as the cheering started all over again.

Gwen looked up again at her father, and saw him mouth the words “well done” before he turned back to his guests to escort them to dinner.

But better even than the accolade from her father was the one from Braith, who winked, and mouthed the same.

The tables and benches had been set up outside, around the three hearths where all the cooking had been done. There were so many guests at a Midsummer gathering that the Great Hall would have been stifling hot, and you’d scarcely be able to cram them all in there anyway. There was great rejoicing at the table set aside for the squires who had driven in the race as they squabbled good-naturedly over the best parts of the boar, stuffing themselves with both hands, their faces shiny with the rich fat. Gwen, however, was just as happy back at her place behind the Merlin, serving him. For one thing, she already had the acclaim of the two who mattered to her; for another, her gesture—and her insistence on returning to duty—had favorably impressed her father’s guests, the Merlin included. The old man gazed on her for a very long moment as she took her place, and it wasn’t the sort of look he gave Gynath, but the sort of measuring he was bestowing on her father’s chiefs. It was a look that said
I underestimated you, and you are worth keeping an eye on.

And anyway, although she liked a slice of good boar as much as the next person, she had overheard her mother telling the chief cook to set aside a quarter of a goose and keep it warm for “our brave Gwen.” So she wasn’t losing by her generosity.

Once the feast was well underway, however, the Merlin was his usual abstemious self.

But this time he paid special attention to Gwenhwyfach. She was up to her usual tricks, utterly unaware that she was being studied.
First me, then Gynath, now Little Gwen . . .
She wondered what he was thinking.

Then it dawned on her; the High King was about to be the father of an heir. Such a boy was going to need a wife, and as soon as possible. An alliance with her father would give Arthur a near neighbor to the troublesome Orkney crew. And hadn’t her father suggested it himself?

Cataruna had gone to the Ladies, and once she came back, the king would not want to give up one with both the Gift and the training. Gynath was, perhaps, a little too old—oh, you could betroth babies in the cradle, but usually they were closer in age than this, and when the boy was old enough to sire a child, Gynath would be twice his age. Besides, if Eleri did not, after all, have a boy, then the king would want to pick a good husband for Gynath, in order to have a male to pass the crown to.

Gwen herself? Possible, but probably still too old. And as long as she was a warrior, she would not only be valuable to her father for those skills but would be much in the company of the men—and without the pressure of being first- or second-born, she might make a match of her own. Or not. Braith never had.

But Little Gwen, now . . . that was different. She was young enough to be reasonably close in age to the High King’s son, she was pretty and would likely grow to be even prettier, and she had immense charm. She’d make a good candidate for such an alliance. The king himself had said that there was no telling what she would grow into, so out of his own mouth the Merlin had it that she was not yet seen as a valuable asset. And she was fourth-born. Her father would have every reason to welcome such a betrothal.

So now the Merlin might well be watching her to see if she was trainable. If she
was
betrothed to the High King’s heir, they’d want her sent to them. They’d want to be sure she was raised
their
way, with schooling in what
they
thought needful.

And wouldn’t that be interesting.
Gwen schooled her more malicious thoughts. With the Merlin there, Little Gwen wouldn’t be able to use her glamorie, if indeed she had one, to charm people into doing what she wanted. She’d actually have to learn how to behave. Probably how to work, too. The life of a queen was not all fine clothes and goose every day. The queen had charge over the household, and in the king’s absence, could be expected even to command the warriors.

It would probably be the best thing that could happen to her.

And Gynath and I would have the bed all to ourselves,
she couldn’t help but think, wistfully. And then she sighed. The way that Little Gwen was carrying on, the Merlin would probably think she was far too much trouble, even for such a good alliance as with her father. Especially since her father was already clearly loyal.

She lifted the hair from the back of her neck for a moment to let a breeze cool it. She was very glad they weren’t stuck in the Great Hall. It was much more pleasant, eating outside, but the king, though he would have scoffed at such a notion, followed the Roman custom of having the family and retainers dining in the Great Hall most times. Sometimes Gwen wondered why, especially on an afternoon like this. It was easier to clean up after everyone was done eating, the sound of talking didn’t get bounced about by hard stone walls so that you had to concentrate even to hear a near neighbor, and it didn’t smell. As fastidious as Queen Eleri was, there was only so much you could do in a room where cats and dogs did as they willed, rats and mice came out at night, and people dropped food and spilled drink on the floor.

Maybe it was only because in the Great Hall the smoke rose straight up to the roof, and there was no “bad side” for the tables, where wind sent the smoke into your eyes. The people on that side of the hearth fires were looking uncomfortable.

Gwen checked on her charge again. The Merlin was still watching Little Gwen.
Oh, it would be so good if he picked her,
Gwen thought fervently.

Finally, when the last of the food was gone, and the men had settled down to serious drinking and talking, the Merlin’s manservant came and tapped Gwen on the shoulder and indicated with a jerk of his thumb that she should go eat.

She went straight to the head cook who had, indeed, saved her a good meal and, wonder of wonders, had carefully put the goose in a clay pot and left it basting in its own juice by the fire so that it didn’t congeal in its own fat. Gwen enjoyed every bite, but she felt the need to hurry back, lest she be thought laggard.

By now, the sun had almost set, and the embers of the fire matched the color of the western sky. She took the jar of beer from the Merlin’s manservant and quietly replaced him without a fuss. The conversation was about children—the children of the chiefs as well as of the king—betrothals that might be made, daughters gone to the Ladies, second or third sons that might be sent for harder training away from the family. No man would send his heir away of course, but it was thought that other boys would benefit from being away from the shadow of the eldest and the protection of the family. And, of course,
they
might catch the eye of a daughter, and there would be an alliance-marriage out of it.