Gwenhwyfar (48 page)

With their discarded clothing for a pillow, they lay in each other’s arms and fed each other bits of hare—which, by some miracle, had not been burned to blackness in the bottom of the pot. She listened to his heart pound and traced her fingers over his chin. He held her as if he would never let her go.

“I think I began to love you when you spoke to me after the battle in the winter,” he said, quietly. “But I thought—I thought you were spoken for, maybe. And if you were not, well, you were a warrior, your father’s eyes and soon to be his right hand. You were the White Phantom, the legend the Saxons had learned to fear. What could I offer you? I have no land, let alone a kingdom. I have only my status as a Companion. Not even my horse is my own.”

Cataruna’s husband came to us with less,
she wanted to say, but how could she? That was the past, and words would not change it. “So I put you from my mind, and when I thought of you, I told myself to think of you as another warrior. And so I did. Until I saw you as Arthur’s bride, so beautiful, so regal, and—” His voice choked a little. “—and I knew what a fool I had been, and you were going to Arthur, and if you did not love him then, you would love him soon.”

As you love him?
She did not say that either. “He did not want another wife, much less one with my name,” she said quietly. “And he especially does not want one like me. He kept me as much a captive as Medraut, even if that captivity was in a cage of gold rather than stone.”

There was more, much, much more, that she wanted to say. But these were not things that you said to a lover.
When we lay together, the only thing that kept it from being rape was my consent.
And
I cannot, and never will, welcome him into my bed. He may come there, but I cannot welcome him, for it is not
me
he wants—any empty vessel would do.

Or
he thought I was breeding. He stayed only long enough to put a child in me and then could not leave me fast enough.

“I love
you,”
she said, knowing it to be true.

“But—” he began, his voice rising a little in distress. And she knew what he was going to say. That she was still Arthur’s—oh, not necessarily by the laws of
their
gods, but certainly by the law of the land and of the Christian one. That Arthur would never give her up. That they had together betrayed Arthur, just as the second Gwenhwyfar had.

And she was not going to lie here and try to counter all those things. Not though Arthur had “betrayed” her—because he surely could not have been so blinded by Gwenhwyfach that he didn’t realize she wasn’t his wife. Not that Arthur could be persuaded, she was sure, to give her up, so long as he could keep his precious horses.

Instead she stopped his protests with her lips and built the fire anew.

As dawn grayed the sky, she woke, and she knew they should move on, of course. They should leave this place in the first sun of the morning, and they should ride straight to Arthur’s villa. She knew it as the thin light of dawn penetrated the trees and filtered gently in through the broken wall of the house. She knew it as she listened to the birds sing, as she lay with her head propped up on one hand, watching him sleep. If they left now, they could pretend to themselves that last night had been a moment’s madness, the lust that came after battle. They could pretend to forget all the things that had been said, half said, and unsaid between them. If they left now, it would all be over, and she would go back to her joyless couplings, and he would slake his needs with whatever lady of the court or serving wench was willing.

And that . . . would be unbearable.

She considered her options, looked over what could be done as if she were planning a battle. A battle? No, a war. This would be a campaign. She would need to persuade so many people of so many things. First of all, the Ladies, that she would never, ever bear Arthur an heir because if it had not happened by now, it was never going to. For that matter . . . once she told them of her captivity, it would be obvious that for whatever reason, the fault was with her, for certainly, Medraut would have sired a child on her by now if it had been possible. She would have to open the whole sordid tale to the Ladies and show them what a threat Medraut was to the Old Ways. And maybe Morgana too, though that would be harder. Morgana had done nothing overtly, and even though she had pledged herself to Morrigan of the Dark Moon, that alone did not make her a traitor, either to Arthur, or to the Old Ways. The Goddess had both a Dark and a Shining face, and it was wise to never forget that.

And then . . . she had to expose Medraut and her sister for what they were and what they had done before Arthur himself and his entire court and Companions. Arthur’s blood he might be, but he could not be Arthur’s heir. She would have to find proof of what he had done. She couldn’t do that without still being queen, so . . . persuading Arthur to put her aside would have to wait until Medraut was no longer a threat and Gwenhwyfach was properly dealt with and confined by the Ladies where she could no longer harm anyone.

Then, once that was all sorted out, she had to explain her situation to her sisters. And her father. And, finally, Arthur himself.

She almost groaned at the thought of what it was going to take. It could be a year—more—until she and Lancelin were free to be together. But she was a king’s daughter and the wife of the High King, and the good of the land and the people came before her own desires. This land must be made safe from Medraut. A new bride for Arthur must be found—one who could be as compliant and complacent as he desired. Yes, even if she were a follower of the Christ priests. Unlike the Ladies, after knowing Gildas—and after having the Abbot himself come so gallantly to her rescue!—she was by no means convinced that their way was at odds with the Old Ways. Did they, too, not have a Lady that they served? Their god too had died and returned.

Oh, this could take months. A year. A year in which every moment of every day must be spent in cunning, in persuasion . . . And yes, she would do this. This would serve the greatest good for the land and for the King. Even her leaving and making way for another was not entirely selfish.

But she could not . . . she could not face that year, without having a little joy hoarded up for herself. She needed this; she needed this in ways she had not even been able to imagine before last night.

Besides . . . she looked at Lancelin, at the shadows under his eyes, at the deep bruises on his chest and stomach, at the half-healed wounds on arms, shoulders, and hands . . . he needed this too. Not just the love, he needed the rest. Arthur was hard on his Companions, but Lancelin was harder still on himself. How long had it been since he had actually taken the time to heal? Too long, by the look of things.

So they would not be leaving this morning. And not for several more mornings.

She put her head back down on his chest, let the morning light creep across their bodies and warm them, and drifted off to sleep again in its embrace.

She sat, drooping a little, on the pallet. “I can’t,” she said, quietly but firmly. “I cannot ride today and maybe not tomorrow. I haven’t ridden in over a year. My hips feel as if they have been dislocated, and if I get back on Idris today, I am going to be half crippled.”
That
was not even a lie—and not much of an exaggeration. “And look at you—” She gestured at him as he stood half clothed in front of her. He was the very image of the Young God to her at that moment—haloed with sunlight, motes of dust drifting about him. She fought back desire that made her body ache and concentrated on winning him. “What if Medraut ambushes us? You are in no fit shape for a fight.”

He opened his mouth to protest. She gave him a measuring look. “Be honest,” she warned. This was Gwenhwyfar the warrior, speaking to Lancelin the warrior, and he recognized it as such.

He shut his mouth. Looked at her with longing that made her feel warm inside. He heard the warrior and wanted the warrior-woman. She seized on his hesitation and capitalized on it. “I need rest,” she said, plaintively. “So do you. And who is being harmed if we take it?” She watched his hesitation fading.

“What about warning Arthur?” he asked, biting his lip.

“Medraut—”

“Medraut dares not make a move against Arthur until he knows where I am and whether I am alive or dead.” She had thought about this long and hard; and truly, if there had been danger that Medraut would act, she would be on that wretched horse this moment. “Gwenhwyfach will probably flee when she knows I have escaped, and even if she does not, Medraut does not dare leave her there for fear of what will happen to her when I do appear. I do not think he trusts her because I do not think he trusts anyone. He won’t risk her betraying him. Arthur is in no worse danger if we remain here long enough to heal.”

“But how do we explain taking so long to return to Celliwig—”

She chuckled. “We were pursued. We were elf-led. We were just plain lost. You were wounded. I was ill or injured. It doesn’t matter. There is no one to dispute what we say.”

He sighed, and his expression turned wistful. “There is truly no danger to Arthur?”

She bit back a sharp retort.
Are you more in love with Arthur than with me?
It was unfair, unkind . . . and yes, it was somewhat true. The bond that tied him to Arthur was complex. Worship of the office and the man, admiration, friendship, a kinship of spirit . . . yes, it was love. He had loved Arthur long before he had met her. He would love Arthur without regard to Arthur’s flaws. And while she could not help but feel more than a little jealous, this was something that men did, felt. They needed this. Perhaps it was the way that they saw the reflection of the gods on earth in their earthly brothers.

Even Gildas’ monks felt this same passion for their Abbot.

She had seen this many, many times in her men—mostly for her father, sometimes for their war chiefs, and occasionally for her.

So she could and would feel the pain of jealousy, but it was a foolish, stupid woman who thought to take this from the heart of her man. As well to cut off what made him a man.

“I have seen no visions,” she said, patting the pallet, so that he finally sat beside her. “I cannot say for certain. But this is what I am sure of, based on what I know of Medraut and of my sister.” The memory of Medraut sitting beside her as she struggled with the haze of his potions made her feel like vomiting. “Medraut talked a great deal to me. Talked
at
me, that is—”

He interrupted her, cupping a hand to her cheek. “Don’t think about it,” he said urgently, and then kissed her. “As long as Arthur will be safe while we tarry a little—then tarry we will.” He kissed her again, this time, lingering, his hand straying from her cheek to her breast. “Now . . . let me drive his shadows from your heart.”

The fire rose between them again, and she lost herself in it.

T
hey lingered seven
days. Seven days that would have been utterly blissful had they not been overshadowed by the knowledge that these days
would
come to an end, that they would have to return to Arthur and the Companions and pretend that nothing whatsoever had happened between them. If it were not for that, she would have been happier than she had ever been in her life.

Seven days, during which she was more completely herself than she had ever been since her childhood. Seven nights so full of love speech and lovemaking it seemed as if she were packing enough loving moments for a lifetime into those warm, honeyed nights. They confided secrets, revelations, history, and memories, and then between them, they made more.

She learned that he had been raised by one of the Ladies who said she was his guardian; he had no reason to doubt her, since there was not the slightest resemblance between her and him. She had him trained in all the arts of war, then sent him on his way with armor, sword, and horse, giving him directions to Celliwig, when he was twenty. There he became one of Arthur’s Companions; not the first, but soon the closest, for of all of the Companions, Lancelin’s education most closely matched Arthur’s, and they spoke the same language. He had remained the closest until the second Gwenhwyfar; then the estrangement began. And she could tell it hurt—hurt then, and still hurt. She did her best to soothe that hurt, but there was no denying that what she and he had was going to drive another wedge into the widening breech between him and the High King.