Gwenhwyfar (35 page)

And there was rumor about the camp that Gwenhwyfar might not have gone unwillingly.

Gwen rubbed her aching head; this was all a hideous tangle, and it was only getting worse. Arthur had tried to get across the lake any number of times and had not even landed more than a handful of his men at the base of the stronghold. The mist would come up and bewilder them all, the boats would land anywhere but where they should, once a storm nearly drowned them all by all accounts, and the one time he did get some men at the foot of the castle, they’d been successfully repulsed.

She had not actually seen the High King in person, but she could well imagine the tone of his temper.

And what had happened to the Merlin did not help matters at all.

Oh, the Merlin . . . if there was anyone who might have been able to find a way to get Arthur’s men onto the island, it was he. He had purportedly worked greater feats of magic in the past. He could probably have disguised Arthur as Melwas and gotten him into the fortress that way, or somehow built a bridge to the island out of the mist itself. There was only one small problem.

The Merlin was no longer in a position to conjure anything.

Though rumors were flying throughout the camp about just what, exactly, had happened to him—the wildest of which featured him being locked inside a cave, a rock, or most improbably, an oak tree, by the Lady Nineve—one of Ladies had come to Gwen as soon as she had made camp and told her precisely what had befallen the Merlin.

“He was elf-shot,” the woman had said. “Though whether it was a curse, or some cruel weapon bought of the fae by Melwas, we cannot say. But as Melwas was fleeing, with Queen Gwenhwyfar as his captive, the Merlin was looked for in vain. He was found at last on the floor of his room, taken with a fit. And now he lies as one made of oak, with Nineve tending him. He cannot speak, and only his eyes seem alive.”

She could not help but wonder, although she did not say, if this was the punishment for all those innocent infants he had ordered killed so long ago. Certainly now he was as helpless as an infant, as trapped within an unworking body as if he had in truth been encased in a tree.

So much for the Merlin. The Ladies, of course, did not have any sort of magic that could be used to solve Arthur’s problem. And if Gwyn ap Nudd was inclined to help, well, he had not even so much as showed a light in his tower.

Gwen had turned up at the head of King Lleudd’s contribution to the army; she shortly thereafter discovered that in some ways, her arrival had made things even more complicated. To begin with, there was her name. It had caused rumors to fly through the camp when she first arrived, that Arthur’s queen had escaped, that she had arrived at the head of her own warriors, that she was, in fact, the ghost of Arthur’s
first
queen come from beyond the grave to help him. It seemed that everyone and his dog needed to come look at her to be sure that she was only herself, Lleudd Ogrfan Gawr’s daughter. It had gotten to the point by sunset that she simply left her own encampment and with a small escort made a tour of Arthur’s entire forces, introducing herself to all the war chiefs and making sure that everyone got a good long look at her.

That solved one problem, anyway, though now scarcely anyone called her by name. “The Giant’s Daughter,” they mostly called her. That was maddening, but understandable. What else were they going to do? Two Gwenhwyfars was one too many in this situation. And it wasn’t as if she had yet earned one of those clever descriptive names some warriors got.

More vexing was the unspoken assumption that Gwyn ap Nudd was simply going to appear and declare himself for Arthur just because
she
had turned up.

And oh . . . what a mixed set of expectations
that
was. Because not everyone here wanted a King of Annwn to turn up and make himself an ally. First and foremost of those that would object were the Christ priests.

With the abbey so near at hand, it was not surprising that there were monks wandering about the camp; and since the abducted queen was a follower of the White Christ . . .

Well, she supposed they were finding it necessary to make it clear that they favored Arthur. If the queen had, indeed, turned her coat, then they certainly would want to show by their presence that they still favored Arthur. Although, of course, there was a further complication because Melwas himself was Christian.

Gwen felt, rather cynically, that it was possible these priests were trying to play both sides; although they were praying ostentatiously for the return of the queen, if Melwas won out, they would also be right here to be the first to proclaim him the new High King.

Whatever was on their minds, they did
not
approve of anyone who consorted with “demons” as she was said to do—and evidently, a “demon,” in their eyes, was any creature that was not mortal and not an “angel.”

The monks, therefore, did not like her, and the rumors that Queen Gwenhwyfar was not an unwilling captive were making them uneasy. And that made them even more unhappy with
her
presence. She was a living reminder of everything the queen wasn’t—including, it seemed, loyal to the High King.

Then there were the followers of the Old Ways, who evidently expected her to conjure up Gwyn ap Nudd, who would then divide the waters of the lake, or build a bridge of rainbows across it, or fly the entire army through the air to take it to the fortress where the queen was. And then, of course, more magic would breech the walls, and in the conquering army would go, stopping only for enough combat to make them all heroes.

After all, hadn’t she won allies of the Folk of Annwn already?

Oh, it was irritating; here she had foregone the credit for striking that bargain in her marsh, only to have everyone turn right round about and decide that of course she
had
done it after all.

It made her head hurt. And she wanted to swat them all for being so foolish.

Well, she had gotten another summons, this time from Lancelin, to meet with him, some of the Companions, and some other, unspecified, leaders. And where once she would have been excited to meet with these warriors who were famed from the Channel to the Western Sea, now—

Well, she just hoped they weren’t expecting any magic out of her.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the first person she saw as she entered the fire-circle was Medraut. She restrained herself however, and by the time he turned away from the person he was talking to, a huge, broad-shouldered man who looked just about as angry as if he had strapped on a helmet full of hornets, she had composed herself.

Lancelin had spotted her by then and welcomed her, giving her a seat between himself and the angry man, who turned out to be Gwalchmai. Gwalchmai actually
was
as angry as if he had strapped on a helmet full of hornets, and with good cause. He had been out in a boat trying to find a place to land; Melwas mocked him from the battlements.

And so did Gwenhwyfar.

Now, according to Lancelin, at best Gwalchmai had what might, at the kindest, be charitably described as a prejudice against women.

But this was a great deal more insult than a warrior and one of Arthur’s Companions could be expected to bear with an unruffled temper, even if that warrior was the next thing to a statue. Gwalchmai had, by all accounts, a nature so hot that he got into quarrels merely because he thought someone had looked at him oddly.

He glared at her as she sat down. She gave him the most sympathetic look she could muster.

His glare turned to suspicion. She shrugged and put on a rueful expression, trying to convey that she not only sympathized with him, she had no sympathy whatsoever for the queen. She caught Medraut watching them with veiled amusement.

This meeting turned out to be mostly Arthur’s chief Companions. Lancelin, of course. Gwalchmai, Kai, Bors, Peredur, Geraint, Bedwyr, Trystan, Medraut, Caradoc, Dinadan. The firelight made moving shadows on their faces, these famous men, Arthur’s closest comrades. Square and narrow, bearded and beardless, dark-haired, most of them, a few lighter. She supposed she should have felt intimidated by them, but they looked no different, really, from the men she had fought with and beside for all these many years. Experienced, yes, but so was she. Kai looked petulant, as if he forever labored under a grievance. Bors seemed weary, as did Bedwyr. Trystan, the nephew of March—oh, now that one gave her a chill. There was a look of doom about him, and a melancholy, as if he felt it too. Dinadan was impatient: clearly a man of action and few words. Caradoc was sardonic, and Geraint looked as if he considered everything something of a joke.

They were men, like any others. No matter that she had spent years listening to tales of their deeds. Braith had been just as courageous and deserved just as many tales. The only two that gave her pause, really, were Trystan and . . . Medraut. Of course. It was always Medraut.

There were three of the allied war chiefs she had not met yet, the chief men of three of the allied kings, sent, as Gwen herself had been sent, at the head of their forces. There was a Druid, Aled ap Meical, who seemed to be taking the Merlin’s place, although he did not have the title and looked ill-at-ease in the position. And there was a Christian priest, Gildas, who glared at the Druid and Gwen with equal impartiality; clearly he hated them both.

“I asked you all here,” said Lancelin, carefully, “Because of something that happened to Gwalchmai today. I do not believe this should be bandied about the camp yet, but we need, I think, to discuss this. Old friend?”

Gwalchmai got heavily to his feet. “This afternoon, I took a squire and a boat and went to look at that bastard’s walls,” he rumbled. His shaggy red brows furrowed together. He was a bear of a man, and he gave the impression he could easily snap an ordinary man in half with his bare hands. “I bethought the mist would keep me hidden, but I should have known my cursed luck would make sure that whatever I wanted, the opposite would happen. The mist blew off, and there I was, and there was Melwas on the tower, and if I’d had but a knife or even a stone to throw, we’d not be sitting together having this meeting, because I’d have killed him on the spot.”

The last was growled with an air of frustration, and Gwen didn’t blame him.

“At any rate, he commenced to flinging insults instead, and I did the same. And then, after a bit of this pleasantry, someone comes to join him. Gwenhwyfar.”

Those who were not yet aware of this news exchanged uneasy looks and murmured to one another.

“If his tongue’s sour, hers is like a whip,” Gwalchmai continued, flushing a deep red with anger. “I’ll not repeat what she said to me, though there wasn’t much of it before she ended it with, ‘Let us leave the loons to paddle back to their nests,’ and drew Melwas away. But she looked nor sounded not like any captive.”

And with that, he cast a glare at Gildas, who was plainly taken much aback.

“I came and told this straightaway to the High King and to Lancelin, and Lancelin called you here.” Gwalchmai sat down again.

“This is ill hearing,” Kai muttered, staring at his clasped hands. “But I cannot think what we are to do about it.”

“Well, I will tell you what you are to do about it.”

All their heads came up as a voice like the sound of a hunting horn cut across the silence. And one strode into their fire-circle as if he owned it and immediately caused all the hair on the back of Gwen’s head to stand straight up.

He was beautiful and gold and white, with golden hair, pale skin, gold-embroidered white tunic, trews and boots. He could easily have been the brother to one of the Lake Maidens, and he was as beautiful as they were. Inhumanly so.

“Inhuman” was a very good word for him. Having seen one of the Folk of Annwn once, Gwen was not likely to forget their look again.

This one wore a thin gold circlet about his brow and a torque of gold with orm-headed finals, so there was only one person that he was likely to be.

And she was the first of them to recover her wits and realize it. She leaped to her feet and bowed deeply; she made sure that they saw her offer the ultimate respect before the others, who might not have the eyes to see what and who he was, offered him an insult.

“Greetings to the noble and generous Gwyn ap Nudd, King of the Folk of Annwn,” she said, as she straightened again. “Welcome to our Council. I know that the High King counts you as a friend and one of his Companions, as well as ally.”

Those who had recognized him, had also gotten to their feet and likewise bowed, a bit later than she had. Those who had not, looked stunned for a moment.

Then one by one they recovered their wits and their manners and, as Gwyn ap Nudd looked them over with amusement, scrambled to follow their example.

“Greetings, my fair cousin, fair of speech as you are of face,” he replied genially. “I regret that I did not seek out the High King before this, but I had hoped that this situation would sort itself out without my intervention.” He lifted one long brow at Gildas. “My meddling is not always considered welcome.”