Gwenhwyfar (49 page)

The most ordinary act took on weight and meaning when they shared it. She laughed more than she had in ten years. But at the end of the seventh day, he began packing up their things, and although her throat ached with sudden sorrow to see him do so, she did not protest. All things had to end; there was even a tiny leavening of relief that now the dread of ending was over. By now, Medraut knew he could not recapture her. By now, Gwenhwyfach must know she had escaped. Gwen and Lancelin needed to find out what both of them were doing and then put their own campaign into motion. If they were to have a life together, it would have to begin by giving each other up for a time. Even though she ached so much she felt as if she were bleeding from every pore.

So, at dawn on the eighth day, Lancelin saddled Idris and loaded him with their scant property. Wearing the looted shirt, breeches, and boots, Gwen helped him. And when everything was ready and they had led Idris out into the meadow, they turned back for a last look at the place that neither of them wanted to leave.

She felt a heavy weight of grief settle over her, and a lump formed in her throat. She fought back tears with every particle of will and determination that she had mastered over the years, but her heart felt as if it were going to burst with sorrow. The time ahead, when she must never look at him, never touch him, never give a sign of her love, stretched out like a road of ashes that she would never see the end of. She wanted to throw herself down on the ground and wail, or grab him and beg him to come with her, far away, anywhere—

But if she did that, if
they
did that . . . it would be the murder of part of themselves. Duty and responsibility had made them what they were. Could they still love each other when they both would have betrayed that? Would they be the same people? And even if they were, knowing that they had forsaken
that,
there must then always be the doubt, the wonder, if they would forsake each other . . .

No, they must endure this. And she must endure it without weeping. She must have let a single sniff escape, though, for in the next moment, he had wrapped his arms around her. She turned her face into his chest and gave herself a single moment of weakness.

“This is the hardest thing I have ever done, to go back to him, after—” Her eyes burned with tears. She blinked them back.

“I know,” he murmured into her hair. “And to see you, and not be able to touch you—it will be like death, a thousand times a day. But I will never leave you. Even if all I can do is look at you, I will never leave you. I love you, Gwen.”

The sarcastic voice, hatefully familiar, cut across the clearing.

She felt as if someone had dropped her into the heart of winter. Her pulse fluttered erratically, and she felt sick as she slowly turned her head.

Just where the path they were going to take began, Medraut stepped out from under the trees, sword held loosely in his hand, wearing a carelessly sardonic expression. Except for one thing. His eyes were furious. Gwen stared at him, mind going numb but her own hand reaching for her sword. With almost the same motion, she and Lancelin drew their weapons and stood side by side, prepared to defend each other.

“How charming,” Medraut sneered. But as his eyes rested on Gwen, she clenched her hand on her sword hilt. He was never, ever going to forgive her this. “How delightful. You
love
each other. And how long, I wonder, have you been so enamored? Months? Years? What a lovely couple you make. Don’t they, my King?”

To Gwen’s horror, Arthur stepped out of the shadows to stand beside him.

And so did an entire half-circle of warriors, all of Medraut’s brothers among them. She felt choked; she could scarcely breathe.

Arthur’s face was black with rage, but he said nothing. Perhaps he was too furious to speak. And all that Gwen could do was stare, helplessly, all of her plans in ruins at her feet.

There was only one thing she thought she could salvage from the wreckage.
He can’t charge us with treason. We never conspired to take his throne. Not like the last wife—

“So, when were you planning to take the High King’s throne along with his wife, Lancelin?” Medraut asked, poisonously, as if he was reading her mind. He smiled at her, his eyes dancing with malice.

“Never.” Her heart thrilled with pride at the steadiness of Lancelin’s voice. “I never wanted a throne, not Arthur’s nor that of any other king.”

“Ah, but the wife?” Medraut grinned. But that grin goaded her as nothing else had until now. That hateful grin—she had been forced to suffer it for months, that grin that said
I won, you lost, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Her mind unfroze as a flash of rage fired it, and in a flash, she assessed the situation. They—well, Lancelin—had one chance to escape this. He was a superb horseman. She had seen him leap into the saddle and ride off at full gallop. If he did that now, no one would be able to stop him. The warriors around them were carrying bows, but they had swords in their hands, not the bows. They were also, some of them, still in a state of shock and disbelief; and many were his friends, and for the moment, they would hesitate to attack him. He could get away as long as
he
didn’t hesitate or pause for anything. If he stayed long enough to pull her up behind him, though—

“Lance,” she whispered urgently, making sure not to move her lips too much. “Get on Idris and get out of here.”

Shock at her words made him glance down at her, though he did not move his head. “But—”

“Leave me.”
She made it a command. “He’s not thinking, and he won’t, Old Stag that he is, while the Young Stag stands before him. He’ll never listen to anything as long as you stand here. He’ll challenge you, and you’ll either let him kill you or kill him yourself. There’s no other outcome for this.”

If he kills Arthur, he’ll never be able to look at me again without thinking of that. And if Arthur kills him, I will follow.
She heard the breath catch in his throat. He loved Arthur; still loved Arthur.
“Go!”
she hissed. “He won’t harm me. He’ll lose the Ladies and my father if he does.”

Though Arthur might not be able to think at this moment, Lancelin certainly could, and her logic was inescapable. With an inarticulate cry of grief that wrung her heart and made a sob catch in her throat, he leaped into the saddle with a single jump. Idris, well used to what this meant, reared a little and plunged toward an opening in the line. The warriors, caught off guard, or perhaps not really wanting to try to stop him, did not react in time. He flashed between them and was gone.

With a look of contempt at Medraut that should have blasted him on the spot, Gwen tossed down her sword.

And waited for them to take her prisoner.

She paced the tiny, dark hut that they had locked her into. Ironic that they had brought her here, to Glastonbury Abbey. But Abbot Gildas had interceded again, so she’d heard; she didn’t know first hand, of course, since she hadn’t been allowed to see anyone but her guards, but that explained why she was here rather than at Arthur’s stronghold. That good old man was still honoring their friendship; she hoped he wouldn’t lose by it.

The hut walls were not that thick, and the guards gossiped; she heard practically every word they said. Arthur was incoherent with anger. There was no word of Medraut. There was no word of Lancelin either, which she took as a good sign. The guards didn’t know what Arthur planned to do with her—

Well, he could
plan
all he wanted to, but that did not alter the law. It was not yet treason for a woman, even a queen, to take a lover. She could, if she chose, even make the argument that she had only done so to give him an heir . . . and between bouts of weeping, she toyed with that idea. But it would be a lie, and she decided against it. She was done with lying to Arthur to save his pride.

They’d brought her a gown. She’d refused to change into it. She had no intention of surrendering her identity as a warrior a second time. She did behave herself honorably, otherwise. She did not rush the guards that brought her food and water and took away the bucket. She did not insult them, nor shout at them, nor demand anything of them. She stood quietly in a corner, let them come and do what they needed to do at dawn and dusk, and spoke only when she was spoken to. And yes, she wept, she had cried until her eyes were sore and dry and her cheeks sore and her nose sore and red with weeping, but she had done so silently. If—
when
—Arthur finally confronted her, she was going to force him to acknowledge what she was. In no small part because that was what Gwenhwyfach was not.

It had been three days. That was a cold sort of comfort. The more time that passed, the more chance there was for her friends to rally to her side. The more time that passed, the farther away Lancelin would get and the more likely that Arthur’s anger with him would cool a little. The only thing that worried her was—time was also on Medraut’s side.

She had to fight with herself constantly, every waking moment, not to break down completely; this was like the conflict with Medraut in a way, and she dared not show any weakness, not if she was going to be taken seriously. It was worst on waking, for her dreams were full of Lancelin; in her dreams she was back in their sanctuary, held joyfully in his arms, and when she woke to find herself curled in the heap of straw in the mud-walled hut, the pain of disappointment was so bitter she could hardly keep herself from crying out with it.

Lying in the darkness, waiting for sleep, was almost as bad; that was when the doubt and the fear plagued her, dogged her every heartbeat and warned her that, no matter what,
this
had forever poisoned what lay between them. That nothing would ever be the same again. That forced to choose between her and Arthur, Lance would always choose Arthur.

Those thoughts were like knives in her gut. And although those thoughts were worst at night, when she fought for sleep, they were never far away.

So she paced, counting the paces, as she had paced in Medraut’s prison. She rehearsed what she was going to say, over and over. How she would react. What she would do—she had to take the offensive; the ground was all Arthur’s. She had to force
him
to react to what she said and did, not the other way around. She had to put him on the defensive.

She was rehearsing it all for the hundredth time when she heard the bar holding her in scrape across the door of the hut. The sound made her freeze, for it was neither dawn nor dusk. She turned, slowly, to face the little wooden door.

Two guards stood there, two of the Companions she was not familiar with. “Lady?” one said, hesitantly, peering into what must have been dark to him. His voice was very young. “Lady, you are to come with us—”

“I am Gwenhwyfar,” she said, steadily. “Queen perhaps, war chief certainly. Not ‘Lady.’ ”

She stalked out of the darkness of the hut and into the light, her eyes narrowed so that it didn’t blind her, her back straight as a staff. “Lead on,” she said evenly, taking in her surroundings as soon as her eyes adjusted. The island tor of the Isle of Glass loomed to her right, but it was more distant than she had thought, and all around her were the tents of a camp. This looked like a little farmer’s hut, or a shepherd’s, that Arthur had commandeered to hold her. So, she was not on the Abbey grounds, after all. Perhaps Arthur had wanted to put some distance between them and the Isle, for fear Gwyn ap Nudd would interfere in some way.

Which was foolish thinking. If Gwyn wanted to interfere, not the breadth of a kingdom would prevent him from doing so.

She eyed the guards; they were young. Very young. Evidently her good behavior had convinced Arthur that he need not put his stoutest warriors over her. They flushed as she looked them over. New armor, new tunics. With whom had they served before joining Arthur? Were they the younger sons of one of his allies? She wondered what they were thinking.

“Well,” she said, when they didn’t move. “If you are to lead me, then do so, if you please.”

They flushed again, and one of them made an abortive gesture in the general direction of the largest tent in the encampment, which was, of course, precisely where she would expect Arthur’s tent to be, since the encampment was laid out in the Roman style. She nodded and moved off at a deliberate pace, neither dragging her feet nor rushing. She didn’t want these boys to have even a vestige of alarm about them because she had plans of her own.

Two more guards at the tent entrance held the flaps open for her. Just as deliberately she stalked inside and the canvas dropped in place behind her.

Arthur waited for her inside, flanked by Abbot Gildas and his foster brother Kai and two more pairs of guards. And before any of them could move or speak, she took the offensive.

Literally.

She crossed the space between them quickly, while they were still reacting to her presence, and slapped Arthur as hard as she could with the back of her hand. The
crack
shattered the silence and shocked them all speechless. Which was exactly the way she wanted it.