Gwenhwyfar (7 page)

Gwen laughed. “I was watching the races.”

“And you didn’t climb a tree to see them better?” her sister shook her head. “I shall expect a hen to crow, next, and a gander to lay an egg. All right, sit down, and mind your manners.”

Gwen had every intention of minding her manners. She was not going to give her father the least little excuse for taking back what he had promised.

Dinner was uneventful, except for Little Gwen trying to command attention at her side of the table, boasting and being self-important. And it was irritating, but most of those around her seemed to find it amusing. Men and boys, particularly, fell under her naughty charm. By contrast, Gwen kept very quiet, didn’t grab for the best portions, and didn’t even complain when the boys on either side of her and across from her did. She watched wistfully as most of the goose went into those boys, and the juiciest bits of the roast pork, the best baked apples, the center part of the bread. Her reward was the approving nod from her mother. The king didn’t notice; what children did or did not do was not something that concerned him when he was busy speaking with his guests.

The boys on either side of Gwen quickly stuffed themselves and as quickly sped off to whatever game or competition had claimed their interest. That was when the queen passed down the remains of the very special dishes that the adults had shared. Little Gwen had also already dashed off on a quest of her own at that point, so Gwen was able to enjoy her feast in peace. And she did, indeed, for the first time in her life, get enough goose that she didn’t want any more and enough tasty goose-liver paste to spread on a bread-end.

The king also lingered, when he saw that Gwen was still there, and awkwardly cleared his throat, getting the queen’s attention.

“It’s Braith’s mind that Gwen’s ready for a horse and for warrior training,” he said, abruptly.

The queen stared at him as if she hadn’t quite heard him correctly. She licked her lips and twined the end of one of her braids about her fingers for a moment; she looked, at that moment, very conflicted. “Braith is a very competent trainer and warrior,” she said carefully.

“And you trust her judgment.”

The king nodded. “Braith says it’s Epona’s hand that’s on her. She entrusted her own team to Gwen for cooling down, and I saw it myself. The girl has horse sense. And good sense about horses . . .”

“Pardon, Father, Mother?” Cataruna, Gwen’s eldest sister, paused in fetching away the precious silver-rimmed drinking horns for safe-keeping. “Gwen is the one that always takes first care of the pony. And he never kicks or bites her, which is more than I can claim. Ask your horse keeper, he knows.”

The Queen sucked her lower lip in a little. “I suppose there’s no harm in it. But Little Gwen will want a horse and training too . . .”

The king began to roll his eyes, but then, narrowed them. “Then she shall have them. And when the horse is left neglected and her nurse has to march her down to the stable to tend him, or she cries because he’s too tall, and pouts because she got a bruising, or because it stepped on her foot, you shall make her beg you to let her off.”

Eleri the queen nodded, then looked past the king at Gwen. “And you will do none of these things,” she said to Gwen, who nodded solemnly at what was clearly an order. “Very well then. Let it be as you wish. She has some years before she will go to the Ladies, at any rate, and I suppose no harm ever came of a girl getting warrior training before she went to the Cauldron Keepers.”

“Exactly what Braith said,” the king replied, with open relief. He sprang to his feet. “Then, by your leave, I’ll have her with me for the rest of the races. She can’t see too much of them, and perhaps she can make herself useful with the boys.”

“Wait—” The queen beckoned to Mag. “Put Gwen into a good tunic and short kirtle, or trews if you can find them to fit her. She’s to help with the racers by the king’s command.”

“I’ll help you look!” Gwen exclaimed, her cauldron of happiness overflowing. She pulled up her skirts and ran back to the castle.

Gwen spent the remainder of the day at her father’s side, being quiet, obedient, doing exactly what she was told, even though what she
wanted
to do was to poke her nose into everything. She was occasionally allowed to lead horses to cool them as she had for Braith, but most of the time she kept strictly in her father’s shadow and said nothing at all unless it was “Aye, sir” or “No, sir.” And even though she got hungry and thirsty, she didn’t run back to the tables, not even when the wind brought aromas that made her stomach growl. She kept her ears open too, to the opinions of the owners and drivers about various pairs or horse and rider. The races made her forget her growling stomach, even if they weren’t as exciting as Braith’s were, and she tried to see what it was that others had talked about as the horses thundered down to the turn and back again. As the afternoon went on, the horses pounded the grass on the improvised track to fragments, and raised more and more dust every time they ran. The horses were covered in a fine coat of the stuff, which streaked as they worked up a sweat. The King’s grays would have looked a sad sight if they’d still been racing.

There were prizes for every race, but Gwen came to understand that the one that Braith had won was very special and had been arranged far, far ahead of time: the king’s two pairs against the two finest pairs of those of his war chiefs who cared to match him. The rest were races among whoever brought a team and cared to challenge.

Finally the ridden races were over, and the best four pairs of all battled for the prize of the day: for the horses, silver bridle and harness ornaments; for the driver, a silver torque like the one Braith had won and a plain silver cloak-brooch; for the owner, if he was not the driver, a cloak-brooch worked in the image of Epona in her White Horse aspect, with a gemstone for an eye. Truly fine prizes, and there were many comments of admiration as they were passed around.

Gwen expected Braith to race for these as well, but to her surprise, the warrior was nowhere to be seen, and her horses must have been taken away for they were no longer at the picket line.

“I am surprised Braith is not here,” said one of the war chiefs, echoing Gwen’s surprise.

“I asked her not to run,” replied Hydd ap Kai, the chief to whom the pair belonged. “It’s said there might be trouble on our border before the snows fall, and I’d not have my best pair or driver not at my disposal if there is. This last race is dangerous. Drivers are like to push their pairs because it
is
the last race, and horses are tired.”

The king nodded sagely. “That is why my grays are not running,” he said. And then laughed. “Besides, I would not have it whispered behind hands for the rest of the year that my pair won only because the other horses were tired!”

All the men laughed at that. “And another good reason for Braith not to run,” agreed Hydd. “Whoever takes the prize will know he took it fairly, and those who lose will know they lost it fairly.”

The last four teams lined up, and the crowd fell silent. The four drivers leaned forward a little, knees loose, eyes on the turn at the far end of the course. Their teams had all been given a rest and been wiped down. And now it was not just the men who were gathered to watch the race; word had spread that this was the prize race, and the boys and young men had come from the contests, the older women from their cooking and talk, the maidens and the few maiden warriors from their dances and flirtations and contests of their own. They lined the side of the course nearest the camp, leaving the other free so that a team in trouble had a side to pull off to without endangering the spectators. The tension in the air made Gwen’s heart race, and her mouth felt as if it were full of dust.

The king solemnly stepped forward; with deliberation, he eyed each of the drivers in turn, then, looking at the sky so that he could not have been said to have cued a driver before time, waited until all was so still that only the distant metallic clatter of the rooks on the castle roof broke the silence, and then he shouted.

The teams shot off, showing no sign of being weary. Without Braith driving, without her father’s precious grays at risk, Gwen was able to simply watch them with the same excitement as everyone else.

The cheering started immediately, and did not abate; even if someone had not had a favorite before this race began, he’d picked a favorite by the time the horses were halfway to the grove.

The flags went up and the teams turned; it was a close race, so close that at this point anyone could win.

And then one of the two centermost teams stumbled.

The crowd gasped as one; for a moment the heads of the horses vanished under the dust, and Gwen’s heart stopped. Had they fallen? Had one of the horses, Epona forbid, broken a leg? That would be a terrible omen as well as a disaster—and worse still would be if the chariot had gone over, the driver thrown, to break a leg, an arm—a back—his head—

That had happened once a few years ago; she had been too little to be allowed near the course, but she remembered it, the wails of the women, the lamenting around the body, brought back to lie in solemn state on a swiftly cleared table. And that had been a horrible winter too—

But her heart leaped as the horses’ heads appeared again, far behind the others but not down—they moved slowly off the course, the off-side one limping, but that was the worst of it, pulled up lame.

She turned her attention back to the remaining teams, who thundered on, until with one tremendous effort, the team that had been farthest behind leaped forward, while the crowd screamed. Gwen shouted; the horses strained, and at the very last moment, they pulled a head-length in front of the team that had been winning.

The three teams pounded past as the drivers slowed them, turning them in a great circle to bring them back to the king and his men. The rest of the company swarmed around the winner as soon as it was safe; they gathered up the driver on their shoulders, and Gwen reckoned that if they could have gathered up the horses as well, they would have.

No one seemed to take thought for the poor loser leading his horses back to the picket line. Gwen’s eyes flicked between him and the winner for a moment. Then she ran as fast as her legs would take her for that lonely driver and pair.

“I’ll take them and walk them,” she called as soon as she was near enough for him to hear. “You find the king’s horse leech. He won’t watch the races, he’s at the ale tuns.”

“Epona’s blessings on you, little one,” the man said gratefully, giving the reins to her. Then, despite his own weariness, he ran.

She led the poor drooping things slowly; it wasn’t just the off-side horse that was limping. The stumble must have pulled the other over enough to lame him too. They wanted to stop, but she knew that if she let them, they’d cool too fast, and that might make their hurts worse.

But the driver was back in mere moments with the king’s horse healer; not needed now, she handed back the reins and walked away quickly. If it was very bad news . . . she didn’t want to be there to hear it or to see the driver’s face.

Supper was what
had been left over from the rest of the day for the common folk and baked meat pies and baked fowl for the king’s guests. Gwen had thought she had eaten all the goose she could possibly eat. She discovered, to her pleasure, that she was wrong. And this time, the boys, given the option of savory meat pies dripping with rich gravy, merely picked at the goose, leaving most of it to her.

The sun was setting as supper began; it was fully dark and the torches and bonfire had been lit by the time the last of the guests rose from the table, and the servants and Gwen and her sisters (all but Little Gwen, who had disappeared as usual) carried the valuable cups and knives back to their coffers in the castle.

The queen and her women were long gone. No one mentioned this; no one would say anything about it later.
They
had gone off to make magic for the High King to ensure a son from the marriage that had been made this day. That was woman’s work, and men were not even supposed to know about it.

Nor were little girls, so Gwen pretended that she didn’t and settled down to enjoy the music and dancing. Little Gwen finally put in an appearance; it seemed she had bullied or cajoled some of the village children to make her a Harvest Maiden, and they were parading about with her at the head of them, in a wreath of leaves and vines, with a stalk of weed as a scepter. The real Harvest Maiden chosen by the women was at the Working, of course. And last year, Gwen probably would have been irritated at Little Gwen’s showing off. But she was full of goose and the knowledge that she was going to be given a horse and training in a few days and that Little Gwen would surely get her come-uppance if she tried to wheedle and pout and cry her way into the same.

“Be wary of that one,” said a voice in her ear. Gwen turned to see Braith settling down next to her, a horn of mead in one hand, and a pottery cup in the other. She handed the cup to Gwen; it held hot cider.

“Why?” Gwen asked, casting a dubious glance after her sister.

“Because there’s power in her.” Braith nodded at the chain of children. “Look at her. Look at who’s following. Boys, mostly. A few girls. Even young as she is, she has that power over the males. Who indulges her? Men and boys. Who persuades women not to punish her? Men and boys. With one like that, there’s no reasoning with the menfolk; when she gets older and learns her Power, and make no mistake, she has
Power,
in her presence their eyes will glaze over and their reason fly out the window. The
glamorie,
that’s what she’s got, a true Power, make no mistake. Anna Morgause has it. I’ve seen her, and she’s but to bend a finger and nine men of ten will come to sniff at her hem. And they say that young Morgana has it too, though more subtle than Anna Morgause. So be wary of her, for once she’s woman grown, what she wants, she’ll have, and if someone else has it, she’ll take it, and the men will stand in line to get it for her.”