This was a well-omened time for her to have such recognition, for along with the rites of the seed blessings, the Spring Equinox was the moment when the young god of Light took up his weapons for the first time, and slew his rival of Darkness, the young Prince of Spring eliminating the killer of his father, ridding the world of the murderous Winter King. As such, Gwen’s father generally called for another feast like the one at the Fall Equinox. It was not yet time for planting—the ground was still too cold, and the frosts still too certain for that—which meant that the men were not yet bound up in the sowing and tending. Lambing time was mostly over, and though calving and foaling time was on them, such were the responsibilities of horsemasters and herdsmen, not the warriors. So it was a good time to take stock of what the winter had taken and trade news and rumors.
The women, of course, and the Druids, all had magic to do. So it was a good time for them to gather also. There were the seed blessings . . . and there were other things.
For this feast, Gwen was not required to do any of the hearth chores, although she did, in fact, pitch in. With the other squires, she went to gather fallen wood in the forest. She gathered cress and the young sprouts of the cattail plants, which were delicious when quickly dunked in boiling water. She caught and cleaned fresh fish. There was, of course, little fresh game at this feast—this was the time of year when birds were about to nest and animals were giving birth, and careful custodian of his lands that the king was, he forbade any springtime hunting except for the very old—and those made for tough eating, and required stewing.
But mostly Gwen did the chores that her warrior band did—endless wood chopping for the cook fires and ovens, the hauling of water, which was regarded by their trainers as yet another fine way to build their strength, building temporary paddocks for the visitors’ mounts, and a thorough cleaning out of the stables down to the bare earth, which was then sprinkled with lime to sweeten it before sand was brought in to cover the lime, and straw laid down over that.
The castle underwent a thorough cleaning too, with the winters’ rushes hauled out, the stone floor scrubbed, and new rushes brought in, but that was mostly the work of the servants.
And Gwen had learned that for her, at least, the time of the celebration itself was going to mean still more work.
Peder ap Duach, Gwen’s chief instructor and one of her father’s most trusted captains, called all of his particular charges together just before the first visitors were to arrive. “I’ve assignments for some of ye,” he said, shortly, looking them all over with a stern eye. “And no whinging do I want to be hearing. Not all the king’s honored guests will be bringin’ their own pages and squires, and that’ll be the job ye’ll be doin’. ’Tis a great honor to be chosen, an’ a great trust. So here now. Here’ll be the ones that’ll be servin’.”
Never in a thousand years would Gwen have thought she’d be picked, but to her astonishment, she heard her name called; she would be serving Hydd ap Kei, Braith’s lord.
She didn’t question the assignment, however, nor did she complain about being put to work when some of the others were free to enjoy the relative freedom they’d have while the celebrations were afoot. For one thing, it gave her rather a thrill to have been picked over those older than she. For another, well, this was Braith’s liege lord, which meant that she would almost certainly be spending a lot of time in the company of the real warriors and chariot drivers, without needing an excuse to try to hang about.
So as soon as it was possible to do so, once Hydd had arrived, she presented herself to him as his page. Since the weather was fine, he’d set up a tent, as had many of the lords and captains. She didn’t blame them; sleeping conditions in the Great Hall were beyond “crowded.” His bodyguard nodded at her and pulled the canvas flap aside for her.
“Lord Hydd, I am to be your page,” she said, as the man turned away from something he had been unpacking from a small chest to look at her.
“Peder sent ye?” he asked. She bowed, as was proper, and kept her eyes on her toes, as was also proper. The king’s daughter could look boldly into the face of a High Lord and one of the king’s favored captains, but a page had to be respectful and show humility. “Then go to the king and give him my compliments, an’ ask when he wishes me t’ attend him. Bring me back his answer. Is Lord Gwyddian here yet?”
“Aye, milord, I will,” she replied immediately. “I don’t know about Lord Gwyddian, my lord.”
“Then unless the king wants me urgent, go to him and tell him we need to speak about that handfasting at his leisure. Find out about Lord Gwyddian. Then return with the king’s word; I’ll have more work for ye then.”
She bowed again, and ran off at high speed; she suspected sending her to her father was on the order of a test; if she hadn’t been sent by Peder, and was only trying to find a way to lurk about and eavesdrop on the adults, this would uncover the ruse. But of course, she had been; so she’d pass the test, if test it was.
Her father returned the compliments, as impassively as if she had been anyone but his daughter. There was no urgency, he would gladly receive Hydd at supper. Lord Gwyddian was not yet arrived. She ran back as quickly as she could—without arriving in an unseemly, untidy, and panting condition.
Hydd accepted the answers she brought back without comment, and immediately put her to work in truth. Mostly the work involved a lot of fetching and much more message-taking. In fact, by the time darkness fell she was about run off her feet.
Her duties to Hydd should have included serving at his side at table, but she hadn’t yet been trained in that, and with a chuckle he dismissed her. “Go and sup with yer family, little page,” he told her, kindly. Near starving, she was nothing loathe to obey him.
She found herself seated between the same two boys as at the Samhain feast, but this time word had mysteriously spread that she was now one of their peers. Instead of ignoring her, they included her in their chatter, and despite the long day, she found herself having a lively conversation with them about tricks they had all learned for managing their horses. Though she was younger than they, she discovered she had great status in their eyes, not because she was the king’s daughter but because she was “Braith’s girl.” And that she could entirely understand. Sometimes the fact that Braith had singled her out made her feel giddy.
She had learned how to pour, so when the last of the supper was carried away and the tables set to the side, she stood behind Hydd and saw to it that his flagon was never empty. It was ale, not mead, they were drinking tonight; serious drinking would happen later.
The talk was of nothing particularly serious; that, too, would wait until the morrow, when all the guests would be here. The only thing that Gwen heard of any interest was that Braith would not be racing tomorrow; the best of Hydd’s mares were all in foal (the king looked envious), her team included.
Long before the men were prepared to take to their beds, Gwen and the other pages began to droop. She was willing to hold out as long as she had to, or at least to try, but the king took pity on them all and dismissed them. “My own servants can see our cups stay full,” he said with a laugh. “And we’ll get no work out of these youngsters tomorrow if they cannot keep awake.”
As was usual now, Gwen was the first into the big bed. Now she could have claimed the choice spot in the center, but she kept to her old place instead. This endeared her to her older sisters, who in their turn saw to it that Gwenhwyfach got not so much as a hope of interfering with her. Little Gwen might have outwardly reformed, but it was clear that Cataruna and Gynath were not convinced of her sincerity,
Nor was Gwen, but since her return to the king’s good graces, Little Gwen seemed to have wormed her way back into the position of “indulged baby.” Gwen didn’t much care, given that she had everything she could ever have wanted, but the two older girls were not so happy about it.
And in fact, they woke her up when the three of them came to bed, arguing about it.
“. . .
Father thinks it’s amusing,” Gynath was saying, the disapproval so thick in her tone that it surprised Gwen into complete wakefulness. “But it’s a disgrace. You shame all of us, acting like that. You’re too young to be putting on such a show and old enough to know better.”
“But Father likes it,” Little Gwen said insolently. “So you have nothing to say about it! I’m his favorite, and I can do what I want! You heard him!”
“We heard him,” Cataruna said darkly, then laughed. “But you won’t be his favorite for much longer, you wicked little changeling. You just wait till harvest. Ha!”
“Why?” Little Gwen’s tone was suspicious.
“I’m not going to tell you!” Cataruna taunted. “Because you are so full of yourself that you haven’t paid any attention to what’s going on right under your nose!”
“Tell me!” Little Gwen demanded. “Tell!”
“Oh, tell her before they hear her out in the Hall and we all get in trouble,” Gynath interrupted, crossly. “Oh—never mind. Brat, by the time harvest comes around, Mother will have had a baby, and it’s going to be a boy. Which means not only will you not be the youngest anymore, Father won’t care a straw about what you want. Not when he has a prince to fuss over. So there! Chew on that a while, and enjoy yourself while you can, because by this time next year you’ll be lucky if he even notices you!”
The bed creaked and moved as the two eldest girls got in.
“You’re lying!” Little Gwen finally burst out. “I don’t believe you!”
“And I don’t care. We’re going to sleep. You can stand there all night stamping your foot if you want, it’s not going to change the truth.” The bed bounced and shook a little more as both of the older girls turned their backs on the youngest. Little Gwen stood there for several moments longer, before finally coming to bed herself. But she said nothing, so Gwen fell quickly asleep.
In the morning she was the first awake, and none of the other three even stirred as she slipped out of bed. They must have come to bed much later than she had supposed, and far past their usual bedtime. Could that have been the cause of the quarrel? Or had it been something else?
Well it hardly mattered. Gwen had work to do.
The first thing was to make sure her horses were properly tended for the day. The grooms would ordinarily take care of that, but they would have their hands full with all of the visitors’ horses. So Gwen got into her older clothing first and went out to make sure they were fed, watered, groomed, and turned out for the day. Then she returned to the castle, changed into her good clothing, ate quickly, and went to present herself to Lord Hydd.
She spent the rest of the day in a state between anxiety and bliss. Anxiety because she was terrified lest she do something wrong and disgrace herself, or worse, her trainers and her father. Bliss because of the company she was in and all the things she was hearing. She didn’t understand more than a quarter of it, as the talk ranged from politics to horse breeding, but she tried to consign as much of it to memory as possible.
Again, at dinner and again at supper, Lord Hydd sent her to sup at the High Table with her family rather than waiting on him. She had assumed that tonight, the night when the women would gather to work the magic that would bless the seeds and the soil, she would be expected to serve as cup bearer. But no, once the remains of supper were cleared away, all the pages were dismissed as her father and his chief lords took themselves to the solar and closeted themselves away from any and all ears, including those of the pages.
Full of nervous energy, for she had keyed herself up to see the night through and not get sent to her bed like a sleepy baby, she was at a loss as to what to do with herself. This not being a great festival like Midsummer or even Beltane, and not being a feast of plenty like the Autumn Equinox, there were no bards, nor even itinerant musicians, only those among her father’s men and the villagers who could play a few tunes. That was good enough for dancing, but she had no interest in dancing. Some of her own lot of young warriors were taking advantage of the absence of their elders to dip as heavily into the ale and mead as they could; that held no appeal for her either. Cataruna and Gynath were each enjoying the attentions of several boys, an activity that seemed a pointless waste of time.
Then it occurred to her.
She could spy on the rites.
It wasn’t precisely forbidden; she wouldn’t have dared such a thought if there was any chance that the gods would take offense at her curiosity—so why not? In a few years she would be old enough to participate anyway, so what was the harm? Even if you weren’t one of the Wise Women, there was always a place in the Circle for you.
It certainly wasn’t going to be difficult to find them. All rites were held at the stone circle not far from the thicket where she had seen the bear and serpent fight.
She took a quick glance around the hall, and saw no one—no adult at any rate—who was paying much attention to what the youngsters were doing. She got up and walked out as if she had some errand she had been sent on.
No one stopped or questioned her, and once she got out past the tents and the fires, she made a sharp turn towards the stone circle. Once away from the fires, she looked back to make sure she was not being followed, waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, then carried on. With all the people about, she was not concerned with wild beasts; all the noise had probably frightened most of them into hiding, and the rest would be very cautious.
She saw the light of the fires within the circle reflecting up on the stones long before she caught sight of the figures within the circle or heard their voices. She knew where there would be a good vantage point, and as silently as a stalking fox, she slipped into it. Her heart raced with excitement; she had never seen any of the rites before, and she was hoping that there would be real magic.
Somewhat to her surprise, for she had thought that only women were permitted at the rites, she saw that there were two men and a boy within the circle. One of the men was cloaked and hooded, and stood well back from the rest. The others seemed to be a bard and his apprentice. The bard was speaking as she moved into place, and she held her breath to listen to him, when her mother answered him, but in a voice full of Power.
Now, she had heard the tale of Gwydion and Arianrhod, of Lleu and of Goronwy, often enough to know within hearing a few words that this was what they were playing out, with Eleri taking the part of Arianrhod and these men the other parts. But then something happened—
The world about her shifted.
She felt incredibly dizzy, hot and cold at the same time, as if she had struck her head in a fall. Everything blurred for a moment.
It was no longer night, but broad day. And she was not on her father’s lands near the stone circle; she was on the top of a bluff that fell off abruptly to end in the sea. At least, she thought it was the sea, though she had never seen it herself; there was water to the horizon, an unfamiliar tangy scent in the air, and a roaring sound from the waves coming to shore below her. On top of the bluff was a castle easily five times bigger than Castell y Cnwclas; maybe ten times, it was so big she couldn’t rightly judge. And the woman standing before the castle was so beautiful she took Gwen’s breath away.
Her hair was a ruddy gold and fell to her feet; her eyes were bluer than the sky, and her face was terrifying in its perfection. She wore a rich gown of some shining, red stuff that Gwen couldn’t identify; there was silver at her wrists and her throat, a silver chain served her as a belt, and she wore a silver filet in her air.
Before her was a man as like to her as could be; vaguely Gwen realized that if this was Arianrhod, then he must be Gwydion, her brother. With him was a boy, hovering on the edge of manhood. Both the boy and Gwydion were clothed in rough, churlish clothing with the leather aprons of cobblers.
Arianrhod was angry; but more than angry, she was near tears. And no wonder. This boy was her son, and his birth had been the cause of her shame, for she had been thus exposed by the magic of Math, Gwydion’s king, to all
as being no longer virgin. It was Gwydion who was the cause of that, so small wonder she was angry at him and angry at his bringing before her the boy, who had until this moment been nameless and whom she had repudiated, abandoned, and denied. “He shall get no name unless he gets it from my own lips, and that will never be!” she had told her brother.
And now he had tricked her again. She had called him “the bright and clever handed,” which served very well as a name, so now he was Lleu Llaw Gyffes.
She had just at this moment seen through the deception. “Oh, perfidy!” she cried, and Gwen could see how hard it was for her not to cry. She was so angry with her brother for raising this child, for presenting the source of her shame to her, that she could scarcely form the words. “You have tricked me twice, but there shall come no third time, and this your protégé shall never be a man.” She all but spat the word. “Hear my will on this! You have got him a name by trickery, but he shall never bear arms unless I give them to him with my own hands! Now go! And find him a fit place among the churls or the women!”
A darkness passed over the scene as Gwen shuddered at the misery in Arianrhod’s voice. She sensed how deeply wounded the goddess was, how it wounded her that this beautiful boy, whom she would gladly have cherished, was the cause of the worst experience of her life. And when the darkness faded into light, the scene remained the same, but it was clear some time had passed. Two bards, an old, old man and his apprentice, approached the castle and were welcomed inside. Somehow Gwen found herself in the Great Hall with them, as if she were some sort of bodiless spirit. And while part of her knew that the bard and his companion were, in fact, Gwydion and Lleu in disguise, she could not see it and, clearly, neither could Arianrhod.
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