Gwenhwyfar (4 page)

And why was her mother doing this? Because, she had said, she loved the king. Yes, but didn’t she love her daughters? Didn’t she realize how they would feel, how they would be made to take second place?

A boy would get a pony as soon as he could walk; she was still waiting for hers, one that she didn’t have to share with her sisters. He’d get a real horse as soon as he had mastered the pony. He would get lessons in the sword and the bow without ever having to ask for them, much less beg. When the time came for chores, he would get the interesting ones, not weaving or spinning, picking feathers or sewing. He would get hunting, hawking, mending weapons, fletching arrows, making bowstrings . . .

How could she not be jealous? But also, there was curiosity. Not about the wished-for son but about the magic that would make him.

It was magic for the High King, and Eleri was going to share in it . . . and that did not sound right. Surely that was not right. That magic should go to the High King only, and not someone else, even if that someone was her mother.

It was magic, from the sound of it, that would be made in Circles across the land. The High King might not even be aware this was going to happen, but nevertheless, it was magic that would stretch through every little kingdom that owed allegiance to Arthur. And that . . . it seemed wrong, very wrong, for Eleri to steal some of that away. If it had only been their kingdom, it would have been different, for Eleri was the priestess here, and the magic that was made here should benefit this land and its priestess. But it was not. Eleri had no right to it. Did she?

But this was her mother, the priestess, and the queen. If anyone would know if this was right or not, surely it would be Eleri.

Gwen continued to turn these things over and over in her mind, and finally she sighed and gave up. Besides, the topic had turned to something even more interesting.

“Gynath seems to have little Gift,” the priestess was saying. “She should have come into it by now. Cataruna, though, has come on a great deal since I last saw her and should already be serving by you in the rites.”

“She is,” Eleri replied, with satisfaction. “And that is why I would rather not send her to you. I need her here, and she is not going to be so very powerful that I cannot teach her myself. But Gwen—”

“Already has the signs on her.” The priestess’s voice was firm with conviction. “And do not think that you are not powerful, for you are; whichever daughter you teach will be as powerful. You must send either Cataruna to us now, or Gwen as soon as she becomes a woman. Either will be suitable.”

“That is my intent,” the Queen said, then hesitated. “But . . .”

“What?” the priestess asked, sharply.

“Gwen yearns for the Power. But she also yearns for the reins and the sword. And you heard her father, he favors warrior women.” The Queen sighed. “I do not know if that is mere words, and I do not know if this is some childish longing, but if there must be a choice, I would rather it was a sure one.”

The priestess chuckled. “The king may well not wish to truly see one of his girls going to war. Or if he allows the training, she may tire of it. Even if she began tomorrow, the Power would not leave her overnight in any case, and by the time she is old enough to send, she will be old enough to understand that choice.” The priestess’s voice took on a shrewd tone. “After all, when a maiden begins to be interested in young men, suddenly all the things of war become much less attractive.”

Eleri chuckled. “I bow to your wisdom.”

They turned their talk to things in which she had no interest—other kings, other queens, people she didn’t know or care about. Gwen went back to concentrating on the feathers.

There were some things she would certainly do. If there was going to be a baby brother, she was going to spend more time begging her father for those things she wanted. She would redouble her efforts to be good. She would do everything she had been asked and some things she hadn’t, all so that her father would note what a good and obedient daughter she was. And she would take good care to ask him for those things she wanted—the pony (oh, a pony, she was almost sick with wanting one!), the lessons in sword and bow—at times when he was feeling well content. She would think very hard about convincing arguments why she should have these things, too.

That way, if there was a brother coming, she would have secured her booty before the baby claimed the king’s attention.

Making the feather skirt for the doll was easy; just a bit of string to bind the feathers around doll’s waist. The feather cloak, however, was proving a bit more problematic. She was old enough to be trusted with a bone needle of her very own, but sewing the feathers to a bit of rag was not working out as well as she had thought. She sat at old Mag’s feet with the feathers in her lap, the needle and cloth in her hand, and her tongue in the corner of her mouth as she concentrated, but the feathers just pulled out of the stitches she made. Finally she put the needle back in its keeper and gave up on the idea; the feather skirt was pretty enough. And after a moment of thought, she took the feathers she would have used for the cloak and went to the bedroom. In a corner she found Little Gwen’s doll and bound a similar skirt on it. Not out of kindness, out of self-defense. The moment Little Gwen saw the skirt, she would want one for her doll, and if she did not get one—she would hardly trouble to make one for herself—she would ruin Gwen’s the first chance she got. It had happened too many times before; Gwen had made flower crowns and skirts for her doll in the spring and summer, and Little Gwen had torn the fragile garments off in a fury when no one would make them for her poppet. Gwen had made a bow and arrow for her doll, and Little Gwen had stepped on them out of spite. Gwen had made a horse out of straw for her doll and Little Gwen had thrown it into the fire. Just for good measure, Gwen braided the yarn hair of Little Gwen’s doll and stuck some remaining feathers in the braids.
She
thought it looked ridiculous, but it was something Little Gwen’s doll had that Gwen’s wouldn’t, and that would satisfy her fractious younger sibling.

Wrapping her own doll carefully in a scrap of hide, and putting her away, Gwen considered what she could do to curry favor with her father. What would he like? What would he notice?

Perhaps a nice basket of nuts. She knew of one or two spots that hadn’t been picked over yet, mostly because tangled underbrush full of nettles and briars made the trees hard to get to. But she was small and clever about getting into and out of such spots; she got a sack and trudged out into the sunny afternoon.

At the door, she stood considering what she should do, as she watched the horse keepers exercising her father’s famous beasts; the old men ran the horses around them in circles on the end of long tethers. She watched them pacing at the end of their leads, their muscles rippling under their rough winter coats, their necks arched, and their eyes bright. Once again, she felt sick with longing for one of them. You didn’t ride these horses to exercise them, not if you were old and not as agile as you used to be, or crippled. You needed every bit of your wits and strength to handle them. They were warhorses, trained for war, pulling the dangerous war chariots or charging into the fray, and not for casual riding. All horses were beautiful, all horses were desirable, but these—oh, these—these were kings and queens among horses. When she watched them, all her desire for the Power faded.

Finally she turned away. These horses were not for her, not yet anyway. And if she wasted her time standing there yearning after them, they never would be.

All her father’s men and a few of the women were out hunting in this fine weather, for in a few days there would be a great feast, both for Samhain and for the High King’s wedding, and a great deal of meat would be needed. Should there be any excess, it would be smoked and salted against the winter. This was also the time when the herd beasts were culled for the winter, but in that case, with the exception of a single ox, it would only be the things that couldn’t be preserved that would add to the feast.

You didn’t risk the warhorses in that sort of hunting. At least one party had gone out after boar, one had gone fowling, the rest, in pursuit of deer. She hoped there would be a lot of success with the fowling party; just once she would like to be able to eat so much goose that she didn’t want any more.

In theory, she wasn’t supposed to go out into the forest alone. Well . . . she wouldn’t be alone, even though none of her mother’s women would care to go scrabbling for nuts. But she wasn’t going to take any of the other, older children either.

Instead she marched off to the kennel, and loosed Holdhard, one of the boarhounds. All the dogs loved her, and Holdhard seemed to regard her as his special charge whenever he was let off his rope. With the formidable dog trotting alongside her, she made her way over the hill and down into the valley, where the little copse of hazelnut trees was what she had in mind. Holdhard knew to be quiet when she wanted to slip away; the two of them moved stealthily enough until she was well into the woods.

She avoided the oaks, and not just because they were sacred and dangerous. A thick layer of leaves and acorns carpeted the ground beneath them, and that meant the wild pigs could be feeding in there. Even a young pig could be dangerous to a child, and a grown sow or boar could easily kill a man. Holdhard sniffed at the air and growled as they went past; Gwen called him sharply to her. Whatever he scented had to be dangerous, but it would likely leave the two of them alone if they left it alone. At this time of year, like men, the beasts’ priority was to lay up food against the cold. In the case of the beasts, that meant eating everything they could to get fat against the days of starvation.

As a precaution against the nettles she had taken more rags with her; when they reached the nut trees, she wrapped them around her hands and pulled the stinging nettles aside so that Holdhard could worm his way in with her.

Once inside the ring of nettles, thistles, and briars, it was as if she were in a different world. There wasn’t a breath of wind; the branches above her were bare and let the sunlight through to warm this place as thoroughly as her little nook against the castle wall. The ground was thickly carpeted with crisp brown leaves that crackled as she sifted through them for the nuts. The air was full of the scent of them, a scent of dying, a little stuffy, with a suggestion of immense age.

It was soporific, and as Gwen felt through the leaves for the hard, round nuts, with the sun on her back, Holdhard flopped down into a sun-dappled spot and began to doze.

Slowly the sack filled. Holdhard snorted and snored and twitched. There was no other sound; there didn’t seem to be any birds at all in this part of the woods. The sun didn’t seem to move at all, and Gwen worked in a drowsy dream.

And then a snort that did not belong to Holdhard made her look up, and she froze.

Through the screen of nettles, she watched in numb fear as a bear shambled out of the underbrush. He swung his head from side to side, as if he was trying to find something, and finally he reared up on his hind legs to sniff the breeze.

Holdhard continued to sleep. She knew that she did not dare to move, for if she did, she knew that the bear would see or scent her.

The bear dropped down onto all fours and snorted fretfully. Gwen prayed silently to the Goddess, her lips and mouth dry with terror, that the great beast would continue to be oblivious of her presence.

Her fear made everything preternaturally sharp and clear, and she saw in that clarity the gray patches on the bear’s muzzle, saw that his eyes were dim rather than bright.

Then those dim eyes brightened, and the bear growled, a deep rumbling that emerged from its chest and filled the air like thunder. Fear turned to horror as Gwen saw what it was that the bear had spotted.

Gliding out of the deepest shadows among the bushes came a serpent.

But this was an impossible creature. It was long, long . . . long enough that if it had its head in the king’s bedroom, its tail would still be sticking out the main door of the castle. At the thickest point, its body was as big around as the chest of one of their horses, its wicked wedge-shaped head was as big as a barrel, and its glittering eyes were the size of her fist. It could as easily have swallowed one of the horses as a grass snake swallowed a frog. And it was black, an oily, glistening black, from the tip of its snout to the end of its tail. Even its flickering, forked tongue was black.

The bear reared up on its hind legs and roared at it. Gwen smothered a scream as the serpent raised itself as tall as the bear’s head, hissed angrily, and struck.

It sank its fangs into the bear’s shoulder; the bear roared with anger and pain and raked its head with terrible claws, laying the flesh open in four long, bleeding furrows. Gwen clapped her hands over her ears as the snake briefly released the bear, then struck again. This time the snake cast two coils around the bear and began to squeeze. Its eyes red with rage, the bear wheezed, but it raked the serpent again and again with vicious swipes of its claws and tore at it with it long white teeth.