Gwenhwyfar (34 page)

“Of course I do!” Gwen snapped. “But . . . this is different!”

Bronwyn raised an eyebrow. “So you see them as women and not as warriors.”

Gwen opened her mouth to protest and shut it again. Because, yes, she did. And she felt great irritation that she did so. And yet—they were women. They were not warriors. They had not been trained as warriors.

But she was glad enough when they got what she needed and made their way back to her—the sure information that March had allied with the Saxons, rather than buying his way across their lands, and the combined forces intended to attack Arthur together.

Now she could concentrate on her real duties with a whole heart—or so she thought.

Gwen had not chopped wood like this since she had been a mere squire, but she needed to take out her temper on
something,
and splitting wood was less damaging than hurling pots against a wall and more satisfying than perforating a target with arrows. She swung the ax against her hapless targets with accuracy and fury. Every blow split a log. At this rate, the squires would not need to chop wood for a week.

The squires who had been assigned to this task had all taken one look at her face and fled. Everyone else had already heard the news and wisely were avoiding anywhere she was even rumored to be. The pile of neatly split logs grew, and her temper was eased not in the least. She was in a self-imposed circle of silence in which there was only the wood, the ax, herself, and her anger.

Finally the king himself came down to the yard, and sat on a stump, and waited. She could not remember him
ever
coming here before. But she knew herself well enough not to trust herself to speak right now, so she pretended that she had not noticed him there.

The ax handle was a comfort in her hand, and the steady
chunk
as it cleft each log was just as much of a comfort. This, at least, she could control. She had chosen to do this. No one had said “you must,” or “you must not.” No one had come to say “So-and-so would do this better, go tend to your horses.” Yet it took her quite some time before she was able to get anything like words past the tightness in her chest and throat.

“It’s not
fair,”
she managed at last, the final word punctuated by the blow of the ax. She tried not to wail. She tried not to sound as if she was accusing Lleudd, whom she did not in the least blame.

“Indeed, it is not,” King Lleudd agreed. “Very unfair. You have spent long days training your scouts. You work as an effective group, and without you, they will be less effective. They trust you; they will not trust another leader so much. You have proven yourself in battle. You should have been the one to lead and command them.”

The ax thudded into another log. The two halves fell to either side of the chopping block. “Whoever this ‘Kai’ is, he cannot possibly know what they can do! I am not even sure he knows how to properly use scouts, much less my men!”

“He is the High King’s foster brother, and no, he cannot know what they can do, nor do I think from what I have heard of him that he is a particularly good war chief.” Lleudd sighed. “He is usually in charge of the squires and the court. He is not terrible . . . but he is not particularly good, either. At least they will not be misused. The High King fights with Roman tactics, and your men do not charge into battle like Saxons with no strategy. They will be just one more scouting troop among another dozen.”

“But they will get no chance to use all the things we have worked out together,” she said angrily. “They will get no chance to harry the Saxons as we did this winter.”

“No, because Kai will think such things unnecessary. But at least, because you trained them, they will know to be clever. They will know how to fight with the Roman style that the High King uses.” Lleudd sighed again, heavily. “I am sorry, my daughter. I am sorry that their command has been taken from you. But the High King prefers to use his own commanders.”

“And the High King does not trust a female warrior,” she said, bitterly. “He does not think such a one as I can command anything. Younger
men
than me have been put in command. Younger
men
than me are his warleaders.”
Thunk.
The ax split another log. “He thinks that I am only a chief because I am your daughter, and he does not trust my ability.”

“Probably not,” King Lleudd agreed.

“And Lancelin did not see fit to argue for me.”
Thunk.
That was another sore point. He spoke with her as if they were equals. He seemed to consider her a friend. He knew she was intelligent. And he had not spoken up for her.

“Possibly not. I cannot say. Possibly he did. Possibly he did not try because he did not want to remind the queen of his presence.” Lleudd shifted his weight on the stump. “I do not know, because I was not there. It is hard for a young man when he is caught between a man and his wife.”

She finally stopped and turned to face her father.

“Which makes him a coward?” she asked, angrily. “I had not thought him a coward.”

“It makes him . . .” The King sighed. “It makes him a man torn. On the one hand, he knows what you can do, even if he did not consider himself your friend. Which, I believe, he does. He knows you are not only a good leader, he knows that you know your men as no one else, and you are always thinking of the best way to use them with the best outcome. And as your friend, he would desire to advance you. On the other hand, the one thing he desires above all else is to serve his lord, his king, and his friend. Someone he has known far longer than you. You have seen that with your own eyes.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. She could tell; every moment he had been here, his heart had been with his king. She had been wrong in thinking him heart whole. He was a man driven by duty, and protective of his friends. He mistrusted the queen. There was nothing else that would have so great a part in his life. Not even, maybe, a lover.

“Perhaps, perhaps, there is also a touch of wariness there,” Lleudd continued. “You bargained with the Folk of Annwn. You are being served by them, in a sense. You are known to be subject to the Sight at times. Most warriors are uneasy in the presence of magic. And, yes, the Merlin has served the High King for longer than Lancelin, but the Merlin has ever been secretive about his magic. Few have ever seen him actually use it.”

Slowly, slowly, the king’s calm reason overcame her fury. Tears started into her eyes, and she dashed them angrily away. “You are not uneasy in the presence of magic!”

“I was wedded to Eleri,” he pointed out dryly. “I have a Lady for a daughter, a bard for a son-by-marriage. Even so,
I
have never seen the Folk of Annwn. No one I know has, until now. This is more than mere magic, my daughter. This is meddling with the Spirit Realms.”

And this was her fault, how? “I didn’t know they would come! I only wanted to make a swamp to last for a fortnight or two!” Her eyes burned, her stomach tightened. “They wanted to treat with
me,
not the other way around!”

“I know that.” The king pointedly ignored her reddening eyes. “But . . . you are like your mother. You look much younger than your years. You are fair, and most of them are dark. And now this; it makes people wonder if you have the blood of Annwn in your veins yourself. Now, this is unfair. It is unjust. But it could have been predicted, I think.”

She stared in unhappy outrage—and some guilt, for had she not thought these very things herself? “What can I do?” she asked, controlling herself with an effort. Again, she tried not to wail.

“First, we do not speak of the Folk of Annwn in your swamp. Your bargain means that they will not harry our people; likely will not show themselves.”

She nodded. That was good sense. “You think maybe people will forget?”

He shook his head. “But we can put it about that it was Ifan they treated with, and I will say I granted
him
the lands you gave them. Only my war chiefs know the truth. Ifan is a bard. Everyone knows that the Folk of Annwn favor bards.”

Again she nodded. “And—”

“And as for the rest, this will be hard, but you have done harder things.” He smiled at her. “The High King has never had a female among his warriors. And if you are to break past that, you must remember that you are a warrior first, last, and always. That you are a woman is merely . . . an inconvenience. Do you understand?”

She was very glad that the other war chiefs were not here to see her fighting to hold back tears. The last thing she needed at this moment was to seem weak. Womanly. Her father was right, very right, and he was only reminding her of what she had known herself.

“Yes, my King,” she replied, straightening her back.

“Good.” He smiled. “Now, any warrior thus supplanted could be expected to be angry. I have seen many of my own chiefs in a rage over such an insult. Chopping wood is a good way to relieve that anger. Is your anger relieved?”

She took several deep breaths and blinked her eyes dry. “Yes, my King.”

“And since the High King has seen fit to leave one of my
ablest
strategists behind, I expect War Chief Captain Gwenhwyfar to take command of all of my men that have been left to me.” He waited a moment for the meaning of what he had just said to come home to her. And the moment it did, her eyes widened in shock.

“But—I—”

“My remaining chiefs do not think as quickly as you do. For that matter, your king and father does not think as quickly as you do.” He gave her a look of warm approval. “You have a knack for solutions where others see only that there must be fighting. You dealt with March on our border in a way that cost us only a little land and no men. Should March double back, or the Saxons desert him to attack here, we will have to defend our lands with less than half the men we
should
have. All of my chiefs agree that you are the fittest to lead in that case. Now. Make me a defensive strategy.” He stood up. “In fact, make me several. Think like that madman. Think like a Saxon. Find a way to make ten men fight like forty.”

She gave him the fist-to-shoulder salute of the Romans. “Yes, my King.”

“That is my war chief.” He patted her shoulder with approval.

“That is Eleri’s daughter. You fight with your head. My chiefs only know how to fight with their swords. Now come.” He beckoned to her. “Let us go back to the maps. Arthur is my High King and possibly the greatest leader I have ever seen, but no one has ever said he was incapable of being a fool. Though in this case . . .
I
am not the loser by his foolishness.” He laid one hand on her shoulder. “In fact, he has done me a great favor, in leaving me the finest sword still in my armory.”

And that was enough to take most of the sting out of the insult.

Never had Gwen thought that those words would come back to haunt all of them. But they had. Arthur’s current actions had brought them all to a stalemate.

A chill mist hung knee-high above the ground around a lake and billowed higher above it. It was very quiet; a little splashing somewhere out there in the mist and an occasional call of a loon or some other water bird only made the silence deeper. For some reason, even the frogs were quiet. Gwen glanced uneasily at the great tor that loomed over them all in the predawn light. There was Yniswitrin, the Isle of Glass, rising above that mist that always hung over the lake that surrounded it. At the top, if you knew what to look for, you could see a squat stone tower. That was the abode—or at least, the visible part of the abode—of Gwyn ap Nudd, one of the Kings of the Folk of Annwn, so it was said. Either there beneath that tower, or beneath the waters of the lake, or both, were entrances to Annwn, the Otherworld, itself. On the shores of the lake were two more poles of power. On the one side, a church and abbey of the priests of the White Christ that was over three hundred years old. And on the other, the Cauldron Well, hidden, secret, guarded by the Ladies who had their school here, where it had stood for far, far longer than the church. The three formed a triad of balancing powers, and managed a sort of uneasy truce.

But that was not why they were all here, this army of the High King’s allies. Before them, also on the island, was
that
reason. Built into the side of the tor, its top barely visible above the mist, was a stronghold made of stone. The fortress of Melwas of the Summer Country, a man who had once been one of Arthur’s Companions, whose blood was at least as old as Arthur’s, and who
might
have a touch of the Folk of Annwn about him.

A man, and a king. A man and a king who had taken Queen Gwenhwyfar when Arthur was off skirmishing with the Saxons, carried her off to this fortress and was using her as his claim to supplant Arthur as High King. He had every intention of wedding her, according to all the sources, and using the claim of his old blood and hers to take the throne.