Gwenhwyfar (27 page)

“Oh, aye,
comfort,”
Urien chuckled, and the other men roared with laughter. Lancelin squirmed.

“There’s fine comfort to be had between a pair of white legs,” someone said loud enough to be heard, and even Gwen had to chuckle at that, shaking her head.

When the laughter faded, Urien came around to where Lancelin stood and slapped him on the back, staggering him a little. “We mean no harm, lad, and no disrespect to the High King either. The old queen followed her boys to the Summer Country, and alas for that, but she was a follower of the Good Goddess and knew as well as any that Arthur could not mourn her forever. Better he find himself a new queen quickly, before the thaw, in time for the seedling time. As the king, so goes the land. He was mateless for too long, and the land suffered for it. There is not a man here that begrudges him a new queen, nor looks through his fingers at the notion that you are here instead of he.”

Lancelin coughed a little. “I make no excuses—”

“Nor need you. Look you, he sent with you full eighty of the best of the best of his cavalry.” Urien nodded his shaggy head. “And I’ve been on the Saxon campaigns; I’d as lief have you here as Arthur. The companions may be all equals, but in strategy you have no peer.”

Now Lancelin flushed, but he held his head high, as a warrior should. “By your leave then, sir, lady? Since the lady has seen and scouted the ground herself with her men, I’ve need of her counsel and memory.”

She hid her relief. The battle had been won again. He took her seriously. Now they all gathered around the map table, while Lancelin examined the maps, asked Gwen highly intelligent and detailed questions about the terrain, asked the others equally intelligent and detailed questions about the temper and skills of their men, and he and Urien moved counters about.

And now Gwen saw exactly why Urien valued him so highly. There were two reasons. The first was that while this was Roman strategy indeed, it was Roman strategy adapted to the much more volatile men of the tribes. If a war chief or general said that he did not believe his men could do such-and-so, Lancelin immediately changed the strategy to something they
could
do. Some could, and would, hold the “Roman Square.” They had fought under Arthur, they understood how the thing worked, and they would overcome their own battle spirit to stand and not respond to the Saxon taunts. Some would not. Those, Lancelin appointed to places in the lines where it would do no harm, and much good, for them to follow the standard battle practice of running up by ones and twos, casting their spears at Saxons who had done the same, and perhaps engage in single combat.

And as for the cavalry . . .

“I know what my men will do,” he said with confidence. “They will be here, and here, and at my signal, they will close in around the rear of the Saxons and harry them onto the spears and javelins and archers of the Square.”

In his hand were the few counters that represented Gwen and her scouts. He juggled them, looking from the map to her and back again. She answered the unspoken, and very awkward, question.

“My men are like me, small, light of limb. We are horse archers, mainly. But we have King Lleudd’s finest and fastest warhorses; I would reckon they could be at the finish of a race while your men were halfway down the course—and be ready to take you all over again,” she said with pride.

He brightened. “Fast, agile, and deadly. Good! There are two tasks for you and yours, lady. The first is to sting the Saxon boar, but precisely; I want you here, beside the Square, to run out in relays, find a leader, try to take him and no other, and race back to our lines.”

She sucked on her lower lip. “Not likely we can hit more than once in a dozen shots,” she replied honestly. “When we fight, we generally shoot at the mass of men, and try to arc over the shields. Generally we hit something because they are so close-packed.”

He nodded. “But deliberately choosing a leader—that will goad them, even if you do not hit. His companions will have had their honor touched, and they must defend him.
That
is what I want; I want them enraged, I want them charging up that hill and onto the Square without a second thought. And the second task is this: After they charge, you all retreat behind the Square, and when they break, and they will, you come out again to sting them a second time.” He smiled. “This terrain, this weather, can all play in our favor. We can wear them down, saving ourselves, in case they have more than one force out there.”

Now that had not occurred to her, and from their faces, it also had not occurred to Urien and his men. Lancelin shrugged. “The Saxons fight like maddened boars,” he said. “That does not mean they cannot be cunning. We must be more cunning.”

“And fight like
men!”
Urien roared, slapping Lancelin’s back again. The others shouted their approval.

Lancelin was still looking at her, and she realized belatedly that he was waiting for her assent, as he had for the other chiefs. “That we can do,” she replied, nodding. “We all have changes of horses too; we can keep both at the lines and make sure we always have fresh mounts.”

He didn’t smile as she had half expected, but his look of satisfaction was the same he had given to the other chiefs and generals. “Then by your leave, my lords, I will take these plans back to my men, and you take them to yours. One day for my men and horses to rest, and then we will show these Saxon pigs that it is ill done to covet the acorns beneath the High King’s oaks.”

She took her leave while Urien was still speaking to the young man and returned to her troop. They had been awakened and were sleepily devouring their stew and bread. Over food, she laid out what was to be expected of them, while they listened thoughtfully. Although this seemed a fine battle plan to her, she half expected that there would be some discussion, if not objection, but there was nothing of the sort.

“Clever,” said Owain after a long silence.

“Aye, but not too clever.” Peder came to sit down to join them. Gwen made space for him beside her on a log. He accepted a bowl of stew from her servant. “If the High King and the Merlin have a fault, it’s the making of plans that are a bit too clever, so no one understands what’s to happen but them. I like this Lancelin.”

“Come to steal our food again, old man?” asked Meical with a laugh.

“Aye.” Peder cuffed him; or rather, cuffed at him. Meical ducked out of the way. “I’ll not poison myself before a battle with my own cooking.”

“Arthur’s Companions do the same,” said Aeron suddenly.

“What, poison themselves?” The others laughed, and Aeron wrinkled up his nose.

“No fools, have a common store and a common cook pot. Like we do. No man starves because he didn’t want to burden himself, no man carries too much. Food is always waiting, and they never go into a battle or to bed hungry.”

“Another Roman thing?” Owain asked, curiously.

Aeron shook his dark head. “Nay. This was Arthur’s idea.”

Gwen ate another bite of stew. Someone must have been hunting, for there was rabbit and maybe some duck in this along with the usual dried mutton, turnips, parsnips, and pease. “The Romans did as we do, except that there was a grain wagon a man got his bread ration from,” she offered. “I can see the advantage, but what happens when the enemy fires your provision wagon or carries it off? And it would slow you down.”

“No slower than foot soldiers,” Peder pointed out.

“True.” She savored the smoky taste of the broth, but she wished for a little thyme. “Something to think about.”

When the men had finished, and Peder had wandered back to his own tent, she sat beside the fire, thinking. There was enough afternoon sun on her back to warm her; between the fire and the sunlight, she was, for once, nicely warm. So Arthur was not so grief-stricken that he had not filled his bed again . . . that was interesting. She could not imagine her father doing the same . . . . . . unless . . .

She scratched the back of her head, absently, staring into the fire. There might have been more to this than just a man not wanting a cold bed, and a woman willing to sleep her way to a crown. Anna Morgause was not the only woman in the world to employ the magics of
glamorie.

Maybe. But Anna Morgause had—supposedly—been one of the Ladies. And the Ladies would not have approved of what Gwen had seen in her vision. You did not use Gift of the Goddess to lure a man that was not yours to your bed. You did not steal the magic meant for the High King and his Queen to put a babe in your own loins so you could use him later as a tool to manipulate the High King himself.

She had no doubt that was what Anna Morgause had intended for Medraut.

She brooded into the flames, listening with half her attention to the buzz of the camp life about her, and tried to think this through, as the daughter of a king should do.

The priests of the White Christ had been angling at the High King for a very long time. His father, Uther, had toyed with them, although he had not actually committed to their faith; but he had given them shelter and leave to build their churches. Even one very near to the Isle of Glass, where the Ladies taught.

It was hard to imagine these men and what they were trying to do. She had never actually met one. The notion of converting a man to another spiritual path was foreign, even a little alien to Gwen, but it was one of the chief pursuits of these people, it seemed. So much so that it appeared they would do almost anything to bring a man into their ranks.

Probably anything short of murder would be forgiven.

Well, the High King was far away. And he would never repudiate the Merlin, nor would he do anything to drive away his allies, who were not Christ-men.
Glamorie
could do only so much; it would not turn a man against a friend or make a friend out of an enemy. The most that this Gwenhwyfar could accomplish would be to grant the Christ priests more tolerance, to put their rites on equal footing, at least at court, with the Old Ways. Probably.

Gwen considered what others had said about these men, these priests, how they pushed themselves and their god forward. Was it possible that Arthur would neglect the Old Ways in favor of the ones his queen followed, if he were infatuated enough?

Well. Yes. Anything is possible.
After all, the gods had done nothing to preserve his sons. He might even be persuaded that his sons had died
because
he did not favor this new god.

She made a face at the fire.

Well, the High King was not here. And by his own decree, the customs of a kingdom held of him were to continue. She was certain that he would not dare to offend his allies by demanding that they give over their rites and gods and take up with this new one. If he did, he would soon find himself without allies altogether.

Then something else occurred to her. Medraut was still on his way to the court, fully expecting to find a distraught Arthur who would welcome this unlooked-for, undreamed of son—

—this son of his own half-sister—

Even among the followers of the Old Ways, people would look a little askance at that. They would accept it, if Arthur did, and find excuses for him. Tell themselves he could not have known Anna Morgause was his half-sister. Or that he was under her spell so deeply that he did not know who she was. Those things might even be true. But still . . . there would be some looks askance, and if harvests were bad, or winters long, people would ask themselves if this was the fault of the High King’s dalliance.

But Medraut would not find a father in mourning and an empty throne. He would find a father infatuated with a new love, a queen who looked to supply him with more heirs, and one who followed the Christ to boot, whose priests most certainly would
not
look kindly on the love child not only conceived out of wedding bonds, not only sired on a Lady-trained sorceress and a follower of the Goddess, not only begotten on someone else’s wife, but the love child of a man and his half-sister.

She almost laughed aloud to think of it.

Arthur certainly could not acknowledge Medraut now, even if he was not beglamored, even if he was not inclining to these new priests. How could he? He had a queen with whom he expected to produce true heirs. The last thing he wanted was to set up a rival to them.

The new queen was hardly going to welcome him, either. He would always be a rival to her own children. And if this same queen actually was given Gifts and the use of magic . . .

She went to her bed, chuckling at the thought.

I
f Lancelin had
not been so modest and self-effacing away from the war table, Gwen would have been hard put to restrain her jealousy of his instant prominence among the war chiefs. He had overleaped her and the position she had spent seasons,
years,
achieving, and he had done so overnight.

But he was, in fact, a quiet and astonishingly modest man outside of the tent, and when she was honest with herself, she had to acknowledge that
he
must have spent just as long a period among Arthur’s Companions to get that same position. So jealousy was not what she was really feeling. It was envy. And she had to admit that he was a genius at strategy.

Every man in the oddly assorted army fielded by her father was perfectly placed to take advantage of his strengths—or, at the very least, to take advantage of what he
would
do no matter what had been planned.