Gwenhwyfar (21 page)

No need to ask where else. “The Saxons,” her father spat in disgust. The messenger nodded. “So we need you, ready with a second force, to hold them back if they do push forward.”

With Gwen watching and listening, committing everything to memory even though she didn’t understand more than half of what she heard, the messenger outlined the possible strategies. Rough maps were sketched out in charcoal on the stones; the best of those were transferred with great labor onto tanned hide with a quill and walnut-hull ink. By the time the messenger left, Gwen’s father had nothing but praise for the wisdom of the young Arthur.

There did not seem to be enough hours of daylight for all the preparations, and the warmer the weather became and the longer the days, the more the sense of urgency increased. Now it was Gwen who was up at dawn and hard at it until she almost fell asleep with her work in her hands; Gynath had a great deal to do, yes, but not nearly as much. Eleri had always kept ample supplies of healing herbs and so forth on hand, and there had not been much call for such things in the last year. “Always be prepared for warfare,” had been her admonition to her women, and so they always were.

It was about lambing time, when it was possible to move freely about the countryside, and the storms of winter were past and boats could sail, that messengers again galloped among the High King’s allies. The High King had been brought word from his spies. The Northerners were indeed massing ships, as if to make a great raid. The levies were called up and marched off to join the High King. King Lleudd made a great show of sending them off and advised the men he sent to make double fires at night, and drag brushes behind them to make it seem that their numbers were larger. Then he told those he had kept in reserve to be ready and to keep their weapons to hand, as Arthur had warned him.

And Arthur was right.

Near sunset, very near Beltane, a messenger on a winded horse rode across the southern border of Lleudd’s kingdom of Pwyll, having already come through Pengwen, Calchfynelld, and Caer Celemion. The Saxons of the south were, indeed, massing for war and marching. And Lot of Orkney was about to have a rude surprise, for the Northerners were making straight for the shores of Lothian, not further south. Perhaps it was just as well he had delayed in sending his levies, for they would not have far to march to meet the enemy. Doubtless, he would claim that his wife and Morgana had had some manner of magical warning this was to be so. And doubtless, for the sake of peace, Arthur would accept this, whether he believed it or not.

So said Bronwyn as she and the women methodically passed the readied saddlebags to the squires, who put them on the horses they had already harnessed. The king had planned this to a nicety, so that the warriors could move out on a moment’s warning, and the moment there was light, every man, woman, and child was up and putting his preparations into action. The cavalry would go first, followed by the chariots. There would be no men afoot; Arthur would supply the foot soldiers, for Lleudd’s levies that had gone north consisted primarily of foot. Arthur had begged him to reserve the troops that could move faster for the Saxons.

The king himself would lead them. And this alone showed how grave the threat was. If he fell, that would leave Pwyll in the hands of three girls, none of them wed.

But he would not fall. Gwen willed it, fiercely. Besides, he would be in his chariot, and his chariot driver was second only to Braith in skill. He would be guarded by his sworn band, who also were well aware of what would happen if he fell.

By the time the sun was three fingers above the horizon, they were ready to depart. Gwen, to her sorrow but not her surprise, was not going. She was not being slighted; no one her age was being allowed to go.

She stood by the king’s chariot, looking up at him. Around them, horses stirred restively. Gynath held her hand tightly, but of the two of them, it was Gwen who was the calmer.

“I rely on you, my daughters,” the king said, his voice stronger and firmer than it had been since Eleri’s death. Gwen could only marvel at how war had made him come alive again. For that, she could actually feel
glad
about it. “I do not know how long we will be in the field, but come what may, the lands have to be tilled, the flocks tended, the harvest brought in, and the rites celebrated. You must see to it that these things are done, and done well.”

Gynath looked up at the king, her eyes bright with tears, so it was Gwen who answered. “We will, my lord.”

He nodded. “Now hear me well. I expect to return, in triumph. I
plan
to return. I have every intention of coming back loaded with Saxon wealth, carried on good Saxon horses. But the gods mayhap have other plans. Should the very worst befall, I have left certain orders. Gynath, and you, Gwen, and those who choose to flee are to take shelter with the King of Gwynedd. He is my oldest friend, for we fostered together and swore an oath of brotherhood. I will make no orders other than that. If affairs have gone that badly, let each man act on his own conscience.”

He had spoken loudly enough that his voice carried over the crowd, and though there were some murmurs, there was much nodding. Gynath sobbed. Gwen had a terrible lump in her throat . . . but also a strange certainty. King Lleudd would return. There would be others who would not, and she somehow knew there would be great grief for her, but her father would return and, as he hoped, in triumph.

Gynath had no such feeling of certainty; that much was clear from her look of despair. But she had courage. She swallowed back her tears, stood up straight, and despite red eyes and trembling voice, replied, “Yes, my lord Father.”

He bent down and embraced them both, kissing the tops of their heads, then released them. As soon as he had, Gwen could tell that his spirit was elsewhere, already down the road, eager to face battle. Fiercely she wished she could go too—

But her fate was already written, and she had to step back and watch as her father took the reins from his chariot driver, and the horses, already impatient, lurched out at a trot.

And then they were gone.

Then came the worst part: the waiting. Gwen was too young to remember much about the last time the levies of Pwyll went to war, but Gynath was not, and Bronwyn certainly was not. Gynath collapsed in an orgy of grief and despair; Bronwyn allowed her two days to wallow in it, then roused her roughly, took her down to the brook, stripped her bare and ducked her in the freezing cold water. Gwen had no idea this was going to happen and only happened to look up from the bowstring she was plaiting to see Bronwyn hauling the weakly protesting girl in that direction.

There is such a thing as curiosity that can’t be suppressed. Gwen pinned the string down and followed, just in time to see Bronwyn strip Gynath to the skin and shove her into the spring-fed pond.

The water was ice cold, and Gynath shrieked and flailed her arms wildly trying to keep from falling in.

She failed, of course.

The water was only waist deep, but she came up gasping and spluttering, only to be hauled onto the bank just as roughly, rubbed down with a drying cloth, and have her clothing shoved at her.

“Wh-wh-what d-d-did you d-d-do that for?” Gynath cried indignantly, between the chattering of her teeth. Gwen ran the last few steps to help her get into her shift and gown.

“You’ve had your wallow. Two days of baaing like a lamb taken from its mum is enough,” Bronwyn said, her jaw set. “Your father is very much alive, and you have an example to set. What if every woman in this kingdom went bawling and blethering as if her man was already dead? Straighten your back, go to your duty, and remember that from the time you leave your bed to the time you take to it, you are being watched.”

Gynath looked furious—but furious was probably better than weeping. Certainly Bronwyn seemed to think so. She nodded and pointed back toward the castle. With her head erect and her eyes practically flashing, Gynath stormed off. She didn’t look back.

Bronwyn simply followed, without acknowledging Gwen’s presence. After a moment, Gwen went back to her bowstring.

It was not that long after that Gynath went briskly past, followed by one of the servants, both of them with their arms full of bundles of something. Clearly, Bronwyn’s ploy had worked, though it might take Gynath a while to forgive her.

Gynath was present at dinner, very much present, and sitting in their father’s place. It actually made Gwen proud of her, to see her sitting there, dry-eyed and talking as their mother had talked when the king was not in the high seat. And when dinner was over, she invited the remaining men to stay at the hearth, picked the most senior of the warriors to take the king’s seat, and directed Gwen to tend his cup, before taking the women aside.

“That was well done, tonight, sister,” Gwen whispered when she came to bed. She didn’t know if Gynath was still awake, but as it happened, she was.

“It was hard,” Gynath replied, with a little break in her voice. “And Bronwyn was horrid.”

Gwen debated a moment before saying anything. “Bronwyn was right,” she ventured.

“Which made her all the more horrid.” There was silence on the other side of the bed for a moment, then a sigh. “I wish one of us could See what was happening with Father. At least then I would know.”

Gwen pondered this for a moment. “Why don’t
you
try?” she asked.

“Because I—” Gynath began. And stopped.

“What would the worst be?” Gwen continued. “That you don’t See anything. You would be no worse off than now, and you’d know you tried.”

“I’ll . . . have to ask Bronwyn. For help. I’ve never tried scrying.” Gynath plucked at the blanket covering both of them nervously.

“Cataruna went to the Ladies. I’m on the Warrior Path. That leaves you,” Gwen pointed out. “You might as well try. You might be stronger in the Blessings than you think. Mother’s blood runs strong in all of us.”
Even in the brat, Little Gwen.

She wasn’t sure where those words were coming from, but they seemed to do Gynath a lot of good. “I might as well,” Gynath replied, and the tight sound in her voice was gone.

Gwen, somewhat to her own bemusement, had a real talent for braiding bowstrings and working with the fletcher, so that was what Peder set her to do. The work was exacting enough that it took her mind off her worries and fears, without being so demanding that she felt as if she were being pulled in too many directions at once. The men had taken almost every arrow and spare string with them, for there would be no time to make more on the march, nor when they closed on the Saxons; but that meant that just to have the means to hunt, a lot of work was ahead of those with the skill.

And now that she had rudimentary abilities in fighting—and now that all the older boys were gone—Peder had turned all his concentration on her and the rest of the young squires. This was not a bad thing at all. Such individualized attention meant that instead of being trained as a herd in the same things, Peder was taking the time to assess them, and decide what they might be best suited for. He might not have had that time until they were a year or more older, if it were not for the war. And if they were going to be the last line of defense against the Saxons, or a rear guard on an escape to Gwynnedd, they had better be doing what they were best at.