Gwenhwyfar (20 page)

And in many ways, everything had changed. The king had emerged from his stupor of grief, but he seldom smiled and never laughed. It was Gynath who supposedly was “The Lady” of the kingdom, though in reality it was Bronwyn who made all the decisions and advised Gynath what orders to give. The evenings in the castle were quiet times, with the king withdrawing immediately after dinner to discuss whatever needed to be discussed with his chiefs and then going to bed. There were no more long evenings of drinking and tale spinning at the king’s hearth. Gwen knew, of course, that such things were still going on, but it was at an improvised hearth, between the stables and the practice grounds. She had not been set to serve there at first; her teachers had let others take her place, but she supposed that now they thought enough time had passed, and it was time for her to do her duties again. And it wasn’t as if there were anything happening there in the evenings that the king needed to be concerned about. Even the carefully “spiced” mead and ale would continue to be the same; it wasn’t as if the secret of the brewing died with Eleri, for Bronwyn was well aware of the recipe and the same “spices” were going into the batches being made now.

No, it was nothing more than the same sort of talk and laughter that she had heard all her life; in a way, it gave her both comfort and melancholy. Comfort because it was so familiar. Melancholy because . . . she felt guilty. It seemed wrong not to go on mourning all the time, somehow disloyal.

And then, as the summer turned heavy and the first of the harvests began . . . the messenger from the High King arrived.

He brought with him news that the queen who shared Gwen’s name had given the High King not one, but
two
sons. Fortunately for his own safety, he had heard on his journey of Queen Eleri’s death, so the first words from him were not of Arthur’s good fortune but of condolence. Only after he had delivered a long—and to Gwen’s mind, suspiciously fulsome—speech on Arthur’s sorrow at hearing of this, did he deliver himself of his real purpose.

The king merely shook his head after a long moment of silence. “I wish the High King and his new sons well,” he said at last, not troubling to hide his bitterness. “All health and long life to them. I do not have rejoicing in me—but I wish them all well.” Then he dismissed the messenger with a small gift.

Bronwyn came and took him away to the women to be fed, and it was from Bronwyn that Gwen heard the thing that was both shocking and scandalous and almost not to be believed.

Bronwyn had made a habit since Eleri’s death and the departure of Little Gwen of making sops-in-wine for Gynath and Gwen before they went to bed. This was especially welcome to both of them, because both of them were laboring far longer than they had used to. Gwen found herself pouring for her father and then being summoned to the men’s fire to pour for one or another of her father’s chiefs until the last of them went to their beds. And Gynath was taking on the task of being the chief of the women far earlier than anyone had reckoned she would need to. Of course, it was Bronwyn that actually made most of the decisions, but Bronwyn was very careful to make it seem as if Gynath were the one doing so. Under Bronwyn’s eye and unobtrusive coaching, Gynath was doing almost everything that Eleri had.

Which meant both Gwen and Gynath were up at dawn and working long, long past sundown. They needed those sops-in-wine.

They also needed to hear what Bronwyn gleaned over the course of the day, carefully winnowing news and important details from mere gossip and speculation. Gwen had had no idea that Bronwyn had performed this service for Eleri until Bronwyn herself told them, over that first bowl of toasted bread covered with sweetened, spiced wine.

And she looked grim this night as she handed them the thick pottery bowls. “This is for no ears but yours,” she said quietly, as they settled down on their bed—a bed luxurious to the point of decadence now that only two of them shared it. “I would not have the king your father hear of this, or his loyalty to the High King might well be tested to breaking. But you should know.”

The bite Gwen was swallowing all but lodged in her throat; she swallowed it down with difficulty. Her stomach knotted with anxiety.

“This messenger was sent to spy on us,” Bronwyn continued, her jaw tight. “He sidled about and put his questions mingled in with other things a-plenty but I could tell what was important to him, and it was about babies. Who’d given birth of late, who had sons, and when? Strange thing for a King’s Messenger to be asking, I thought. And I liked it not at all. So I made sure to keep his cup full, and nothing loath was he to drink it. And that was when I heard the tale—”

She shook her head. Gwen waited, spoon resting in the bowl, no longer with any appetite.

“I don’t have the gift the queen had, the knowing, that she could say when a man was telling true, telling false, or telling nothing more than wild rumor. But . . . well here it is.” Bronwyn looked them both in the eyes, each in turn. “He said that once his sons were born, on the Merlin’s advice, every boy child born in those parts within a week on either side of their birthing date was taken from his mother and smothered.”

“What?”
gasped Gynath.

Gwen could only sit there, half frozen, as memories she didn’t think she was
supposed
to have came flooding back. Of the Merlin’s questions. Of what he had mumbled.

“There were not, thank the good Goddess, many of them,” she continued. “But . . .” She shook her head again. “The way he said it, made me think it must be true. And so cold-blooded—”

“Perhaps . . .” Gynath began, in a whisper, her face gone pale.

“Perhaps it was meant as . . . a sacrifice.”

They all three exchanged sober glances. Even as young as she was, Gwen knew that there were sacrifices. From time to time one of her father’s treasured white horses went off and never came back.

There were sacrifices at all the Great Rites. Mostly fruit and flowers and grain, of course; among other things, you didn’t waste the life of an animal that could breed more of its kind unless you needed something really badly from the gods. But animals were sacrificed and—sometimes people as well.

That was mostly in the hands of the Druids. Mostly. Though sometimes there had to be a Year King . . . only in dark times though.

But the Merlin was the Chief Druid. And he was the one who had advised Arthur to do this terrible thing. Was he playing the Substitute King with the High King’s new twins, sacrificing other boy children like them so that they would be spared? If he was, well, that was just wrong. Even Gwen knew it didn’t work like that. The Year King had to go to the sacrifice willingly, had to know what he was doing, and do it for the Land and the people, and how could a baby do that?

But if they were sacrifices, what were the sacrifices
for?

It was baffling, and somehow, that made it even more horrifying.

“This is something I thought you should know,” Bronwyn concluded. “And it will go no further than the three of us. But you, Gynath, may well be queen here one day. And you, Gwen, will likely serve her as you would have served your brother, had he lived. And you must both know about things like this and keep a sharp watch on the High King’s doings.” She bit her lip, and the flickering flame from their rushlight made her look even older and more drawn. “It may be he has done this for the Land and the Folk. Unless the Ladies bring the word to us, we cannot know. But on the face of it, these are dark doings, and the High King is besmirched by their foulness. If these are dark doings, there is one thing you may be sure of.”

“What’s that, Bronwyn?” asked Gynath in a whisper.

“That they will come back at him when he least expects and be his ruin,” the old woman said, grimly. “Blood will have blood, and innocent blood calls more strongly than any other.”

The messenger went on his way. The season turned, summer to harvest, and the rites and the festival. Poor Gynath was at her wits end trying to arrange all, even with the help of Bronwyn and all the women, but out of respect for the king, few guests replied that they would come, and only the king’s closest friends arrived. For the villagers, it was no different from any other Harvest festival. There was food and music, dancing and gaming, drinking and more drinking, coupling and handfasting, and all the usual doings in their season. And if the gathering at the king’s hearth was a subdued one, if there were no races this year, well, at least there was, at last, a gathering at the king’s hearth, and when the guests were gone again, there was no more going out to another hearth and leaving the king to mourn alone over the ashes. In part that was just plain sense, for there was no other place big enough to hold them all when the winter winds began to blow, but in part it was because the king was taking an interest in life again.

A few women made attempts to draw him out, but by Midwinter it was clear that there would be no queen taking Eleri’s place.

As for Gwen . . . her instructors were keeping her too occupied to brood and had been for moons, so that when Midwinter arrived, it came to her one night as she served as her father’s page that the terrible ache of grief, the chasm that had been inside her, was—not gone, never that, but—changed to something that was somewhat easier to bear. And looking at her father’s face, it seemed he felt the same. He took an interest in things that he had not even at Harvest. Still not in women, but much the same, if somewhat grimmer, interest in the small affairs of his people and his kingdom and the greater affairs of what was going on outside that kingdom.

Perhaps it helped that there was, without a doubt, going to be fighting in the spring. The High King had sent out his messengers again, just before the snow flew, to warn that the seafaring chiefs, the Northerners, too disorganized to be called “kings,” were uniting for what Arthur thought was another push to oust him and overrun them all.

It gave her father something to think about besides his own pain.

So at Midwinter, the talk was all of war and the preparations for war.

Gwen paid great attention to all this talk, for this was to be her business. There might not be a brother to guard now, but there were two sisters, one of whom would surely wed someone that their father would name as his heir. Whoever that was would need someone he could trust.

When the guests were all gone, Gwen and the rest found their hands being turned to those preparations that had been discussed. The nasty, barbed war arrows that would tear a man’s flesh on being pulled out needed to be made. That was a matter of several steps, some of which could be entrusted to the squires. War chariots, spears, armor, bows, harness . . . all needed to be checked and put in good order. Much could be put in the squires’ hands, and much was.

Gwen worked feverishly, and the work did much to help her set aside her troubled thoughts. There were no further ill tales, though more messengers came from the High King, traveling with great difficulty across the winter landscape, bringing with them the questions of levies and what could be supplied in lieu of or in addition to the levies. Now Gwen was glad that her father had not heard the tales, that Bronwyn had kept them to herself, for he threw himself into this work with a whole heart.

As might have been expected, there were other rumors coming out of the west, that King Lot had demurred, saying that mere rumors were no cause for raising levies, and that in any case, the Northerners might well lose interest before spring. “He intends to send nothing, or as little as possible,” Gwen’s father spat one night in disgust.

“There would be no loot in it for him,” pointed out one of the chiefs. “Even if we drive them far back into their own lands and seize what we drive them off of, it is not on Lot’s border, and he would get no share of it. If we only drive them back, well, what will we win? Arms and horses, both the worse for war.” He shook his head. “And Lot is far enough from Celliwig that there is little the High King can do at this stage to enforce his will. Lot will find some excuse, a plague of flux or weather washing out the roads, and if he arrives, it will be too late to be of service.”

“All the more reason for us to act with honor.” The king set his chin firmly, and Gwen silently cheered. She felt better for seeing him so alive again and more like his old self.

The talk around the hearth was lively enough to satisfy anyone, and Gwen wished with all her heart that she would be allowed to go along with the levies. But she wouldn’t be; none of the squires her age were going. Only the seasoned warriors, neither too old nor too young, would be sent. Even the king himself would remain behind, and that was on the orders of the High King himself. Her father grumbled at that, but he agreed that it was a sound decision, once he heard the reasoning.

“The High King is concerned that this might be a trick.” The messenger that brought them this news was no mere mouthpiece; it was one of Arthur’s handpicked warriors, part of his personal band. “He fears that either the Northerners themselves, or someone who has been scheming with them, is arranging for it to look as if they are preparing for a war when in fact they have no intention of facing us in the field. Instead, once the levies are committed, it is possible that the Northerners will retreat, drawing us after them—and then the real attack will happen somewhere else.”