Gwenhwyfar (32 page)

Cataruna and Ifan looked at each other, numbly. Bronwyn shook her head. “There’s more moving here than we reckoned on,” the old woman said.

That night, the storm Ifan and Cataruna had called broke, and Gwen had cause to regret that she had not put some form of provision against
that
in her bargain.

Not that there was any way of knowing whether a bargain with water spirits would have any effect on a storm.

They had done their best to prepare the camp for the onslaught, but there was only so much shelter that branches and stacked bracken could give against the sort of storm that eventually arrived. This was not a country for caves, and they had been traveling too light even for a bit of canvas.

When the storm hit, it did so as a full tempest. Torrential rain, lightning, thunder, wind . . . it would have been impressive within the walls of Castell y Cnwclas. It was a nightmare out in the open.

They had gotten the four horses into the little clearing, and because Cataruna had a foreboding, they had tied and hobbled them so that they could scarcely move, then made crude blinders and tied them over the horses’ heads. It was a good thing they had done so, or they would have been kicked to bits, trampled, and, had they survived that, found themselves without mounts the next day. As it was, the poor beasts whimpered and moaned and fought the hobbles until they were exhausted. Based on Cataruna’s foreboding, Gwen had opted for “sturdy” over “space” when it came to the shelter. It was a lean-to made of branches and many layers of bracken, and the four of them could barely squeeze into it.

They had been sitting around their fire, gnawing the last of the meat off the bones of the rabbits Gwen had shot, when they heard the storm coming. As it approached from the southwest, the steady growling of thunder was like a great beast in the distance. The closer it came, the more the horizon lit up with so many lightning strikes it looked as if it were crawling on dozens of legs toward them.

Down in the valley, the mist still had not lifted, and there were strange, dim lights moving in it. Those lights actually brightened in response to the coming storm. And strangest of all, as a wind sprang up, strengthening until their cloaks were blowing straight away from their bodies, the mist remained, unchanged, and unmoving.

At that point, with the branches of the trees tossing wildly, the horses fighting their bonds, the fire actually blew out. That was when they all scrambled into the tiny shelter and wrapped their cloaks tightly around themselves. Gwen and Ifan put themselves on the outside corners and grabbed the branches, determined to hold onto the thing no matter what.

Then the storm hit.

Rain pounded down onto them quite as if someone had emptied a river on their heads. The wind was terrible, and it was a good thing that Ifan and Gwen were holding to the shelter, or it would have blown away. There was so much thunder, and the wind was roaring so, it would not have been possible to hear a shout in your ear. All Gwen could do was duck her head, keep a good grip on the pitiful lean-to, and hope they would not all be struck by lightning.

The gods themselves must have concocted such a storm. Surely she heard the Wild Hunt out there, the hooves of their monster steeds pounding anything that got in the way as flat as cloth. They were all soaked within moments even with the shelter. All it accomplished was to keep the worst of the rain and wind off.

Before long, the pounding and howling and cold numbed her into a state of unthinking endurance. She couldn’t manage to put a single coherent thought together, and all that mattered was the slightly warmer place where all their bodies met. How long that went on, she could not have even guessed.

Then, at some point, the storm passed. The wind dropped. And although they could not have managed to separate their tangled limbs to attempt a fire, the warmth of their combined bodies finally dried out their cloaks enough that they began to doze.

Gwen woke with the birdsong of false dawn. Trying not to wake the others, she got herself loose to check on the horses. She was too tired to really think clearly, but she would not have been in the least surprised to have found them dead.

The poor things were in a sad state, but they were not dead. The crude head coverings had been blown away, and they had all fought their bonds so hard that they were now in a state of head-hanging exhaustion. She released some of their hobbles, gave them each a couple of handfuls of grain from the saddlebags, which they lipped up dispiritedly, and felt their legs to see if they had damaged themselves.

She could feel that the muscles had been strained, enough that it would be a good idea to give them a couple days of rest, but there were no sprains. With a sigh of disbelief at their luck, she crawled out of the open center of the brush-tangled copse to see what the rest of the world looked like.

And gaped at what she found.

Where there had been a flat valley, there was now a marsh. Not just
water;
she had expected water. No, this was a marsh, one that looked as if it had been there for generations.

Huge reed beds separated by stretches of open water spread out before her, out to the horizon. Here and there a was a hummock where a few trees and bushes hung on; the reeds and marsh plants in most places were as high or higher than a man’s head. Mist threaded its way along the water, hung in banks in other places. Ten feet in, and you would be lost and disoriented. If fog closed in so you couldn’t see the stars or the sun, you would never even know what direction you were going. It was a place that warned you, just by the look of it, that it would be full of sucking mires and unexpected sinkholes. You’d never find a secure, dry place for more than a couple of men to sleep. You’d never find the wood to make fires, or a place to make them. And that was all aside from the supernatural dangers hiding in those mists. It would be insane to take an army across that.

Of course, King March
was
insane, and he might try.

He wouldn’t get far, though. The border here was safe from him.

Gwen set about finding deadfall for a fire, then when she had piled up enough at the entrance to their little copse that the others could remake the camp while she was gone, she went hunting for some breakfast.

There was a great advantage to suddenly being on the edge of a marsh. There were fish in it, and they all seemed hungry. She fashioned a fish spear from an arrow, scattered some crumbs over the surface, and set to work. By the time the sun was a thumb’s breadth above the horizon, she had enough to satisfy the most ravenous of appetites. And she had the shrewd idea that she had been “helped” in this, for she thought she had caught a glimpse of amused eyes among the reeds.

She wasn’t going to argue about it. Given the size of this marsh, the water spirits were going to have plenty of room for some time to come. It was a good thing that Ifan was a bard, though. He would know to be careful of coming down here, even avoid it altogether. The Lake Ladies were a mixed sort, and there were those who would not hesitate to steal a bard from his lawful wife and take him down to their dwelling beneath the waters.

She brought the fish back up to a camp of people already packing to leave, though a fire had been started and twigs prepared to spit whatever she brought. She raised an eyebrow.

“I had thought to stay and rest the horses,” she offered.

Ifan took the fish from her, and he and Bronwyn began cleaning and gutting them, as Cataruna shook her head. “We can walk them if we need to, and make our way slowly back home, but I think we should put some distance between us and—that,” she said, thoughtfully. “Yes, they are feeling well-inclined towards us now, but—”

“Besides, we have raised a great deal more power than either of us expected to,” added Ifan, with a frown, as he set a fish to cook over the fire. “One could liken it to setting down a chest of gold and silver and spilling it open in the village square. Some will come to admire, but word will spread.”

She blinked. She had not considered that. “And what comes to look will not be bound by the bargain I made with the water spirits,” she said, slowly. “Which could be equally bad for March
and
for us.” She straightened her back. “On the whole . . . I think a slow walk back for a day or two would be of great benefit to all of us.”

“Healthier than remaining here,” said Bronwyn.

L
leudd’s war chiefs
and captains sat around his hearth fire in varying states of relaxation. Gwen had already recounted what she had done to Peder and her father privately and had gotten praise for her quick thinking. Now she had been asked to tell the tale at the hearth for the rest, who were all relaxing because there was no longer an immediate threat from March. Relaxing because of what she had done.

Supper was over, the mead was being poured out by the young squires, and Gwen had to hide a smile when she realized from the taste that Eleri’s special recipe had survived intact. The fire smoked just enough to drive the insects away and imparted just enough warmth to be comfortable. This was an occasion for a more . . . bardic retelling.

So she obliged, as best she could. At the end, King Lleudd roared with laughter. “Well, my war chief daughter, I hope that you are content with
your
lands being the ones under water!”

That elicited laughter from the rest. “Will you be farming eels and frogs?” one of the others asked, straight faced. “I hear the Romans thought frogs right tasty, and I am partial to an eel pie.”

“When you plant eels, do you plant ’em head first or tail first?” asked another.

Gwen smiled ruefully. War chiefs were expected to offer gifts, of course. And up until now she had mostly given things like ornaments, horses, or weapons. But land was always an option, and as Lleudd’s daughter, she was entitled to a certain amount to hold for herself or give as rewards as long as it had not been granted to another.

“I am content with awarding the new guardians of that border with the land they are guarding, my lord King,” she replied dryly. “If they prefer it being under water, well so do I.”

The king laughed again, as did the rest of his chiefs. “Well said. And, yes, I approve, most heartily, of your decision.” He looked around the fire at the men on his benches. They were all nodding too, even if one or two of them were doing so reluctantly.

“Also . . . if I were to give advice on this,” she added cautiously, “I would say it were best to simply stay away from that marsh. While Cataruna thinks they are bound, and well bound, by the oaths they gave . . . the less traffic with the Folk of Annwn the better.”
With the Folk of Annwn. With my mother’s people? Does Father guess? “I
certainly have no plans to return there. Not even to see what March makes of the situation. He cannot pass there, that is all we need to know. That will force him through Saxon lands.”

Now no one nodded reluctantly.

She realized, and not for the first time, that she was, always had been, and always would be one apart from the rest. Even those who had come up with her as pages and squires; she shared a level of camaraderie with them that never went farther than the battlefield and the camp. Though Lleudd had never shown any favoritism to her, she had still always been the king’s daughter. Some had been jealous of that, some had been resentful, and even when she proved herself over and over, there had still been that distance of rank between them.

Even the handful of girls that had begun training with her had kept a wary distance, a distance that had only increased as most of them had decided to give up and try some other path. The only two who were left were chariot drivers, and she saw nothing of them.

Well, it was what it was.

The remainder of the talk centered on what to do when March moved toward the Saxon-held lands. Gwen listened but did not comment; this was not where she had any level of expertise. Everyone was agreed that he would at least try to buy his way to free passage. Some thought he might well try to ally with them.

“He would be very foolish not to try,” Lancelin said, his big hands absently rubbing the silver band on his drinking horn. “And they would be equally foolish to fight him or reject such an alliance. Neither of them can afford a battle on two fronts, and the Saxons are somewhat weakened from the losses they took this winter.” Lancelin’s suggestions were very astute, however, and she found herself admiring his knowledge and skill all over again.

And . . . truth to tell . . . admiring him for himself. He was not a beautiful man, but she had never cared that much for beauty in a man. A quick mind, however, a good and even temper, a sense of humor—those were things she cherished and admired.

She was not the only female to find him attractive; he, however, did not seem to notice any of the women casting glances at him. Or if he did, he was feigning not to notice. She wondered if he had a love elsewhere.