“Be a pleasure.” Sir Bedwyr nodded. “I’ve a lot to tell him. No, not about Morgan. I believe I’ll let that be. She’s Urien’s headache now.” He smiled and jerked his head toward a group of Welshmen gathered in song. Above their rich voices floated a lyrical soprano that lifted Sir Bedwyr’s heart. “But I know he’d like to hear about that.”
Merlin touched a hand to his forehead as if it ached. “Bedwyr, I have a favor to ask. The Old Ones have come to pay their respects to the girl and join the celebration. With your permission.”
Wide-eyed and suddenly sober, Sir Bedwyr rose to his feet. “They’re here now?”
“In the woods beyond.” Merlin paused. “It’s Samhain Eve. You lit a bonfire.”
Sir Bedwyr, who like his Roman ancestors worshipped Mithras, a god of light born in the civilized East, recalled the ancient practices of the older, native race of Britons. The feast of Samhain marked the completion of the harvest, the end of the growing season, and the beginning of the dark half of the year. A bonfire was lit as a symbol of community, and singing, dancing, and wilder revelries took place around the sacred fire as people joined together to prepare for winter.
Sir Bedwyr gulped. “The men have their weapons on them. It’s the last night and I thought—I didn’t ban them. It’s not a council meeting.”
The enchanter shrugged. “Lack of weapons never stopped a fight. But the Old Ones come in peace, and your men are singing. There will be no trouble.”
Sir Bedwyr did not know whether Merlin spoke from fore-knowledge or considered opinion, but his intention was clear. With an effort, the sobered knight drew the cloak of leader-ship across his shoulders once again. “I’ll come with you to welcome them.”
“We’ll be under the beech tree,” Merlin said. “Bring her with you.”
Sir Bedwyr noticed with a lack of surprise that neither of them had referred to Guinevere by name. There had been no need; they each knew, and knew that the other knew, who she was.
* * *
Guinevere followed Sir Bedwyr into the woods. It was dark out of reach of the bonfire, but the moon was full, and it was easy enough to find the way. She walked eagerly beside him, matching her stride to his. She was going to see Llyr. He had returned, Sir Bedwyr said, and he had brought his friends with him to celebrate around the Samhain fire.
She wanted to make sure that Llyr had recovered from his ordeal. She had hoped to see him when she and Marcia hurried to Bedwyr’s tent after the hearing, but Sir Bedwyr had already released him. She hoped he would understand her speaking out in his defense, and that it was his own silence that had made it necessary.
Sir Bedwyr came to a halt before the beech tree. The woods around them, starkly shadowed in black and white, looked empty.
Sir Bedwyr bowed. “Prince Merlin.”
Even after he spoke the name, it was moments before Guinevere could distinguish a face above what she had taken for a shadow.
“Sir Bedwyr. I have the honor to present to you Bran, leader of the White Foot of Snow Mountain.”
Figures took shape in the moonlight and moved forward: Bran, Alia, and behind them a host of Strong Hearts. Guinevere’s eyes searched for Llyr but could not find him.
“Princess,” Sir Bedwyr said, “these folk would like to meet you. They have been hearing much about you.”
She curtsied politely. “I would be honored to meet them.”
The Strong Hearts came forward one by one, giving her their names and their descent, until they were all gathered about her. She understood that they had come to see She With Hair of Light, and she bore their stares with patience. Tonight, the prophecy mattered less than ever. But where was Llyr?
Finally, Bran and Alia came up to her. Bran looked so much like an older version of Llyr that Guinevere warmed to him instantly.
“Thank you, Gwenhwyfar, for your patience with our people,” he said in Mountain Welsh. “I know you do not like being She With Hair of Light.”
“I don’t mind, for the sake of the Strong Hearts. I owe them a debt of gratitude. They sacrificed one of their own to protect Llyr.”
“For this I, too, owe them a great debt. And to you, for preserving Llyr from harm. My son has many protections, but yours means most to him.”
Guinevere colored and dipped her knee. “I am very glad to meet Llyr’s honored father,” she said. “And I apologize for the wrongs my people have done to yours. There should be no need for protections between us.”
Alia smiled at Guinevere as Bran withdrew to join Bedwyr and Merlin. “I also thank you, Gwenhwyfar. For Llyr’s life. I warned our leader, Bran, that you possessed such power, but I am not certain he believed me.”
“Alia,” Guinevere said in an urgent whisper, “where is he?”
Alia’s smile faded. “He could not come.”
“Why not? Is he hurt? Has he not returned from the Otherworld?”
Alia sucked in her breath. “So. You knew he had begun the journey.”
“Where is he?”
“In the woods. Alone. It is his choice.” Alia paused. “In a person’s life there are many small moments, and a few very big moments that one remembers always.”
Guinevere nodded. “Yes.”
“There have been many big moments for Llyr in a very short time,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “His journey away from you, away from us, was the biggest moment of all. It takes time to recover from such a journey.”
“I understand. But we break camp tomorrow and leave for home. Will he not be coming with us?”
Alia gazed up at her with a worried frown. “Gwenhwyfar, I do not know. He speaks to no one but the Master.”
“The Master? Who’s that?”
Alia nodded toward Merlin and Bedwyr. “The seer.”
“Merlin?” gasped Guinevere. “Merlin is the one who risked Llyr’s life in the first place by forbidding him to speak in his own defense!”
“Yes,” agreed Alia. “The Master sent him on the journey, and the Master is the only one who can help him back.”
“He had no right to take that risk. It could have meant Llyr’s life!”
Alia smiled. “That was the point, I think.”
“What?”
“The Master needed to see what you would do.”
Guinevere stared at Alia. “What I would do?”
Alia raised her shoulders and let them fall. “He was seeking for something he had to know.”
Guinevere recoiled, and Alia reached out to touch her arm. “Let it be, Gwenhwyfar. He knows who you are. Trust him; his powers are great. He will bring Llyr back, in time.”
When Sir Bedwyr led the Old Ones to the bonfire, Guinevere withdrew to her tent. Her celebratory mood had vanished. He was seeking for something he had to know. She recalled only too well the power of the man who had searched her mind a month ago. He knows who you are. Did Merlin the Enchanter want to know something about her? Something he had tried and failed to find once before, at the presentation? Something worth Llyr’s life to him? Would he try again?
He knows who you are. The very idea chilled her to the bone.
To Sir Bedwyr’s relief, no trouble arose when the Old Ones joined the crowd around the bonfire. They shared their skins of fermented honey with the men, who accepted this offering readily enough and in return shared their roast fowl and wine. Even without a common language, the Old Ones joined in the music-making and exchanged favorite songs with their enemies of the afternoon.
The Welsh kings led the celebrations. They excelled at drinking and feasting. Their queens did not retire early, as was the custom, but appeared as ready as the men to carouse until dawn. Queen Alyse and Queen Esdora rejoiced together, and Prince Trevor, his arm firmly about young Elaine of Gwynedd, appeared the merriest of them all.
Just on midnight, a lookout came running to Sir Bedwyr and reported a rider coming fast along the Roman road. Sir Bedwyr signaled to two of his men to follow and hurried after the scout to the meadow’s entrance. A single ri
der on the road at night meant a courier, and a courier coming at speed meant dire news. The thunder of galloping hooves drew closer, and a dark shape flew out of the darkness at them. Moonlight struck Sir Bedwyr’s raised sword, and the rider pulled up sharply.
“Ho!” the courier cried. “I’m a King’s man. I seek Sir Bedwyr of Brydwell!”
“Sagramor? It’s Bedwyr. What news, man?”
Sagramor slipped from his stallion’s back and held the blowing horse on a loose rein. “Sir Bedwyr.” He bent his knee and delivered his message with shining eyes. “My lord, I bring the best news in the world. My lord, the High Queen is with child!”
The words took a moment to sink in. With a whoop of joy, Sir Bedwyr yanked the messenger to his feet and grabbed him in a bear hug. “Is it true? Is it known for certain?”
“Aye,” laughed Sagramor. “So the physicians say.”
“Does Arthur know?”
“Not yet. How could he? He’s still in York.” Sagramor grinned. “I’m sent to bid you light a bonfire for the High King’s heir, but I see you are before me.”
Bedwyr slung his arm around the youth’s shoulders. “We are indeed. Come join us. You’ll find a strange gathering around this Samhain blaze, but I’ll wager all of them will be glad to hear your news!”
But Bedwyr was mistaken. There was one person in that crowd who did not raise a cheer at the joyful announcement. Elaine of Gwynedd shrugged off Trevor’s embrace and ran from the fire into the cloaking darkness of the woods. There, Princess Morgan found her an hour later, still awash in tears and desperate sorrow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Morgan’s Revenge
The tent flap opened, and Ailsa slipped inside. “Gwen. Gwen, sit up, child. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. There’s news.”
Obediently, Guinevere dragged her aching head from her pillow and sat up. Ailsa sank to her knees beside her. “Gwen, is anything wrong? Why are you in here all alone? I thought you were with Sir Bedwyr.”
“I was. Never mind. What’s happened?”
“Elaine and Prince Trevor are betrothed. It was concluded at the bonfire.”
Guinevere smiled, although her head was pounding. “At last. I’m so glad. Elaine gave her consent, then? When is the wedding?”
“Not for a year or two. Elaine gave in with an ill grace, but she gave in. Queen Alyse and Queen Esdora have some plan afoot for an alliance between their two kingdoms and Northgallis. Queen Alyse made it plain to Elaine that it was in Gwynedd’s best interest for her to consent. Between you and me, I think Elaine actually likes Prince Trevor. She put up a show of tears, but in the end she agreed to it.”
“And Prince Trevor?”
“All smiles. Says as soon as he can ride, he’ll come to Gwynedd and sweep her off her feet.” Ailsa laughed. “He’s a fine talker, that one. They say he’ll be king before long. Even the Old Ones like him. I saw him talking to them for quite a spell. But the best news, Gwen, came with a courier straight from the royal quarters in Caerleon. The High Queen is with child! King Arthur will have an heir next summer, God willing, and secure his line. We are bidden to feast and make merry.” She paused. “The Old Ones are celebrating with us.”
“Are they? I’m glad.”
“Can’t you join us, dear? What’s the matter?”
Guinevere smiled halfheartedly. “It’s only a black mood, Ailsa. It will pass. But in the meantime, I’m best alone.”
Ailsa took the hint and withdrew to her pallet in a corner. She had celebrated more than she was used to and was soon asleep. Guinevere lay on her back, holding her hands to her head and looking up at the ceiling of tent cloth. Even without a lamp, it was not dark. The moonlight was bright enough to cast shadows, and every torch in camp had been lit in celebration. The sounds of song and laughter from the bonfire drifted by on the night wind and dulled fear into weariness. She waited, yearning for the oblivion of sleep.
Guinevere jerked awake as the tent flap opened. Someone stood, hesitating, just inside the tent. It wasn’t Llyr, nor was it a tall man in a dark cloak. It was Elaine.
Guinevere sat up. “Elaine?” she whispered. “Come in, come in. I’m awake.”
She did not know why she felt compelled to whisper. Ailsa was asleep, snoring softly, and would not be easily disturbed. The bonfire still roared and snapped, the singing still went on, and the hum of voices continued unabated. But it was darker now. The moon had sunk below the trees, and some of the torches had gone out. It felt like the middle of the night.
Elaine moved soundlessly toward her and sank down on her pallet. “I was hoping you were asleep.” She whispered the words as if she, too, were afraid to speak.
“Why?”
Elaine shrugged. She looked pale and unhappy, but it was difficult to gauge her mood in the dimness of the tent.
“I heard about your betrothal to Trevor. Aren’t you happy about it, Laine?”
Elaine looked away. “Trevor’s all right,” she said. “But I’m not going to marry him.”
“Do you mean you’re not betrothed?”
Elaine sighed wearily. “I am. Mother insisted on it. But Morgan says not to worry: the marriage won’t take place.”
Guinevere gaped at her. “Morgan? You’re listening to Morgan again?”
“I’ve been to her tent.”
A thrill of warning ran up Guinevere’s spine. “Why?”
Elaine shrugged. “I ran away from Trevor when the courier came—I was weeping, and Morgan found me. She said not to worry; I wouldn’t have to marry Trevor. She said she had looked in her black bowl after the hearing and seen a greater future for me.”
“And you believed her?”
“Well,” Elaine said defensively, “I wanted sympathy. You had disappeared and, well, Morgan was there.”
“And what future did she see for you?”
“She said the wheel of time was turning, and those who were not ready for their futures could be destroyed by them. She said it was always best to be prepared.”
“Morgan said that? It sounds remarkably like sense.”
“Listen, Gwen.” Elaine turned to her with sudden intensity and held both of Guinevere’s hands tight in her own. “Morgan was in a foul mood tonight. I shouldn’t have gone to her tent; I shouldn’t have followed her into the stillroom. But I couldn’t stop myself. Something drew me in, something unseen and powerful. You have to believe that. I was frightened, and I was trapped.”
Guinevere nodded, remembering the menacing darkness in Morgan’s stillroom. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Elaine gulped. “I had to listen as she looked into her bowl and told me things I didn’t want to hear. I couldn’t turn away. I couldn’t move. She had seen our fates, she said, and was bound by the Goddess to warn us of them. She called herself Cassandra.” Elaine paused. “I don’t know why.”
“Remember Iakos teaching us about the Trojan War? Cassandra was the daughter of the King of Troy who warned her people not to trust Greeks bearing gifts. She foresaw the Trojan Horse, but no one believed her. That was her fate, to be a prophet of doom whom nobody ever believed.”
Elaine shivered, and Guinevere squeezed her hand. “Tell me, Laine. Was Morgan a prophet of doom? What did she say?”
“I—I am to marry a great king, too—greater than Trevor, but not so great as Arthur. I will bear him a son whose name will be long remembered, and—and”—her voice caught on a stifled sob—“I will die in a foreign land.”
Guinevere saw the shine of tears on her face and hugged her close, stroking her hair. “You’re twelve years old,” she whispered, “and death is a long way off. Besides, consider the source. Morgan is nothing if not a liar.”
Elaine shook her head. “She saw the truth. I know she did. Because of—”
“Because of what?”
“Something else she saw that I know is true.”
“What was that?”
“Never mind.”
“Something about me? I’m not sur
prised. Tell me.”
“I don’t want to. And you don’t want to know.”
Guinevere managed a smile. “That’s probably true. But you’ll never sleep without telling me, so you might as well begin.”
Elaine hesitated. “If you’re sure.”
Guinevere shivered and pulled the blanket more tightly around her. “Go ahead. I’m ready.”
One night, Elaine said, an old woman dressed in rags came down from the hills in a fierce spring storm and begged entrance into the castle of a king. The guard at the door thought she wanted shelter and, as the king’s hospitality to the old and infirm was well known, he let her in and directed her to the kitchens. But the old woman went instead to the king’s hall, where the king was gathered with his men before a roaring fire. They were celebrating the impending birth of the king’s child, for his young queen was laboring upstairs and from time to time the midwife sent him news of her progress.
Guinevere hugged her knees to stop her shaking. So this was the true tale that had convinced Elaine of Morgan’s fidelity as a seer. She knew it well. It had been told to her often enough throughout her childhood. The king in the hall was Leodegrance of Northgallis, her father, and his young queen upstairs was Elen of Gwynedd, her mother.
The old woman approached the king, Elaine continued in a whisper so soft it was barely audible, and made him a prophecy in return for a place at his fire: This night shall be born a daughter who shall rule the mightiest in the land. She will be the fairest beauty the world has known and the highest lady in all the kingdoms of Britain. Her name will live on in the minds of men for beyond a thousand years. Through her will you reach glory.
“Yes,” croaked Guinevere. “I’ve heard it before. So have you. So has Morgan, obviously. What of it?”
Elaine looked away. “There’s more.”
The breath left Guinevere’s body. She knew there was more to the prophecy, but no one, not even Ailsa, had ever told her what it was. Now, like a fool, she had asked for it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she bowed her head against her up-drawn knees and braced herself.
Guinevere's Gamble Page 26