Gwenhwyfar

by Mercedes Lackey

  The night it had happened, Gwen had stumbled over the box that the Merlin had given her little sister, open, cast aside, and empty. Gwen had numbly picked it up and put it on Little Gwen’s chest; when she looked again, it was gone. For the first time ever, she felt sorry for Gwenhwyfach. Whatever charm the Merlin had given her, Little Gwen must have tried to use to bring their mother back, and it had failed. Not even the strongest magic could bring back the dead, of course, but Little Gwen wouldn’t have believed that until she tried it for herself. Probably her faith in the Merlin and his promise had been discarded in the moment, like the box.

  Gwen herself spoke only when she was spoken to, and she spent as much time as she could in the company of Dai and Adara, weeping into their manes.

  Nor was the king allowed to grieve in relative peace. No, first the lords and the chieftains, then the messengers had descended. And now, here were come the Queen of the Orkneys and her brood. Supposedly to tender condolences and help, but . . . something in Gwen roused angrily at the look in Anna Morgause’s eyes. There was a satisfaction there, a kind of gloating, that was ugly.

  She came with an entourage, but without King Lot or any of her older boys. Gwen had to admit, the only word for her was “enchanting.” Her lush figure would have been the pride of a much younger woman, her raven hair must have stretched out on the ground when it was unbraided, for the single plait that stretched down her back brushed her heels, and was as thick as a strong man’s wrist. Her little face reminded Gwen of a fox. Her clothing would have aroused immediate envy in every woman there, if they had not all been so wrapped in grief.

  When she was handed from her cart as she first arrived to be greeted by the king, she looked as if she had just stepped out of her own chamber rather than been traveling for a fortnight. And every man’s gaze was riveted on her. Eleri had always looked far, far younger than she was. Anna Morgause looked ageless.

  She had brought with her a wet nurse and Medraut, her new son, and Gwen hated him at first sight. He was long, thin, and pale, with a strange head of thick, black hair, and he didn’t act as a baby should. He never uttered a sound, not even when he was hungry, and he stared at people out of round, black eyes like shiny pebbles, not the blue eyes of most babies. She hated having his eyes follow her, she hated that he looked like a changeling, and she hated most of all that this thing was alive when her own brother, and her mother, were both dead. Vaguely, she felt that this was wrong; she was ten years older than this infant, she shouldn’t feel so threatened by a baby. But she did.

  With the queen had come her younger sister, Morgana. Gwen hated her, too. She was poised and controlled, and although she did not have the level of enchantment Anna Morgause had, she still made the young men’s eyes follow her. Her hair was the same raven black, but her face was more catlike than foxlike, and her green eyes glittered with secrets.

  When they were presented to the king, Anna Morgause said all the right things, but Gwen heard what was under the words. Silken, soft murmurs of condolence covered piercing blue eyes that looked everywhere for signs of weakness. And when she presented Morgana, there was more calculation. Gwen was proud of her father, though; he might be bleeding inside, but he gave no sign; instead he was gracious, hospitable, and offered his and his daughters’ own bedchambers to the visitors.

  “I would not like it that you should take your rest in a rude pavilion,” the king said. “My chamber for you, your son, and his nurse, and Morgana can sleep in the chamber beyond.”

  “You are most gracious, my lord. Morgana can share it with your daughters,” Anna Morgause replied, smoothly. Gwen immediately decided that it was time she began sleeping with the squires. Or out of doors. Anything other than sleeping next to the cat and waiting to see if she scratched you in the night. She made the best excuse she could think of, that she came to bed early, smelling of horse, and arose before dawn and would not for the world think of inflicting her coarse and boyish ways on a lady like Morgana. Her excuse seemed to pass muster with the guests, for they exchanged an amused look, but they said nothing at all when she took a rug and a blanket and went to sleep elsewhere.

  For the first two days, Gwen did her best not to leave her father’s side, and it was the purest of good fortune that it was her turn to act as his squire and page. She had an idea that Anna Morgause had brought her sister with the idea of getting her wedded to the king. She remembered what had been told her, of how Eleri had armored him against enchantments, and from almost the moment she set eyes on the pair, she was horribly afraid of what might happen.

  And Morgana? As the queen? Lording it over Gynath, and her? The thought made her sick.

  It appeared, however, that the same thought had occurred to some of the other women—and was just as revolting to them as it was to Gwen. After the first night, Bronwyn, under the excuse (inspired no doubt by Gwen) of keeping Morgana from being disturbed when Gynath arose for her morning work, took Gynath to sleep with her among Eleri’s women.

  By the third night, when Gwen was lying wakeful, restless under the double burdens of a bright full moon and a heart full of anxiety and mourning, she heard the sounds of several people slipping away from the castle. She left her rug and blanket, pulled on her shoes, and followed the shadowy figures as far as the Stones.

  And that was when she was seized from behind by a pair of strong hands. A third hand was clapped over her mouth, smothering her yelp.

  “Go back to sleep, Gwen,” Bronwyn hissed in her ear. “We are armoring the king against the enchantments of that trollop and her sister. This is a women’s war, and not magic for you. Keep yourself and your power as Epona would have you.”

  In the moonlight, one of the figures huddled about the altar stone turned her face toward Gwen. It was Gynath, and it seemed to Gwen that it was more than the moonlight that made her seem pale. The other woman let Gwen go as Bronwyn took her hand away, and with a shiver, Gwen crept back to her rug and a restless sort of sleep.

  Whatever they did, it left Gynath listless and dull the next day, but it seemed to have worked. The king was courteous but distant, and Anna Morgause’s eyes held an annoyance and bafflement that heartened Gwen.

  Then it was Anna Morgause’s turn to make some sort of trial.

  Now, in all this time, both the queen and her sister had made a great pet out of Little Gwen, begging the king to release her from her ordinary work to play page for them, complimenting her, even praising her “charming manners” at meals. Gwen truly thought that they would use Little Gwen as their next means to get at the king, pointing out that she needed a mother, and how much she and Morgana doted on each other. That was a fearful thought, for Gwen couldn’t see how Bronwyn and the others could armor her father against that.

  But instead, Gwen woke with a start on the first night of the waning moon. At first, she couldn’t think what would have woken her—especially not feeling as if a terrible storm were about to break. The sky was utterly cloudless, there was no hint of disturbance, and yet the longer she lay there, staring at nothing at all, the more certain she became that there was a disaster building, some horrific deed about to happen. She had made her bed, as usual, near the wall of the castle, and without thinking much about it, not far from the window of the solar where the king and queen had slept. But it was when she heard whisperings that sent chills up her back coming from that slit of a window, she knew that must have been what awakened her. It sounded like two women whispering to each other. The queen and her sister, surely.

  Those whispers were—not right. Not clean. She couldn’t make out the words at all, but the very tone made her feel ill.

  And when she heard the scream of a rabbit from inside that room, her blood froze in her veins.

  The whole castle seemed frozen, plunged into an unhealthy sleep. And there were no normal night sounds at all: no insects, no owls, not even a bat overhead. There were night noises in the far, far distance, but nothing near.

  The whispering grew more urgent, and t
here were definitely two voices in it. Then one made a wordless cry of triumph, which was mingled by the squall of a cat, swiftly cut off in a gurgle—

  And suddenly, Gwen found she could move.

  She snatched up her blanket and rug and ran, without thinking, blindly, and in pure panic. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t even know how she got there when she came to herself again in Dai’s stall, with the stallion sleepily whuffling her hair.

  She cast her rug and blanket down and huddled in them, still shaking with fear, and remained there until morning. At some point she must have fallen asleep, for after a timeless age of mindless terror, she found herself awakened by the sound of ordinary voices.

  She was roused by the other squires coming to feed their charges; no one commented on her sleeping in Dai’s stall, but it was not unusual for squires to do so, if a horse was restless or acting a little “off.” So she shook the straw out of her clothing, attended to Adara and Dai, and then shuffled back to the castle, still feeling horribly ill. Bronwyn immediately intercepted her at the door.

  To her shock, Bronwyn looked just as ill as she felt—but there was an air of triumph about her. “Drink this,” the old woman commanded, shoving a beaker at her. It was something pungently herbal and very nasty, but it immediately made her feel better. When she gave the beaker back to Bronwyn, the old woman grasped her chin and made her look up, into her eyes.

  “Aye, you felt it,” she declared grimly. “There was dark magic last night, and this morn, there’s a black cock missing from the hen roost, a black rabbit from the hutch, and a black kitten from the stable. But look yon—” she jerked her chin at the high table, where Gwen saw with astonishment that Anna Morgause and Morgana were picking at breakfast. Astonishment because they looked—common. There was nothing of the enchanting queen and her bewitching sister about them this morning.

  The Queen of the Orkneys was wan, her cheeks sallow and waxen, her hair and eyes dull. Morgana was plain, and she could hardly even manage to nibble at a bit of bread and honey.

  “It was them, for nought else would have rebounded on our protections on the king. What they did came back on them,” Bronwyn said with angry triumph. “Let this be a lesson in magic to you—what you try can be cast back on you, and you’ll suffer for it if it does.”

  Gwen nodded and rubbed her head. It still ached a bit, but it looked as if the Orkney pair had heads that ached much worse.

  “I’ve told your masters that you’re ill and got you leave to sleep off what I gave you,” Bronwyn continued, and gave her a little push toward the huddle on the women’s side of the hall, where she could see Gynath’s blonde hair among the sleeping women, several others, at rough count.

  “Why—” Gwen began. She meant to ask, why did you know I would be ill? But she never got that far.

  “I reckoned, given all in all, you’d be sick too.” Bronwyn did not explain herself, and after another moment, Gwen felt a heavy lassitude creep over her that smothered all curiosity. She stumbled toward a pallet, pulled a corner of blanket over her head, and slept till nightfall.

  And when she woke, she learned that the queen and her sister had taken to their beds to be nursed, struck down by the “mysterious” illness that seemed to have struck so many of the women. The men did not ask about it—but then, that was hardly surprising.

  “. . . we will be grieved to see you go, my lady,” the king said politely, but in tones of indifference that brought that flash of annoyance into Anna Morgause’s eyes before she swiftly covered it. She and Morgana were long back to their enchanting selves, and whatever safer ploys they had tried to bewitch the king had also failed so much that he was not even sorry to hear that they intended to be gone.

  “And I shall be grieved to part from you,” she replied with false sorrow. “Your company, and that of your family, is so wonderful to me. I wish that I could take some part of you with me when I return to my home. My home is so lonely and remote, my husband so often gone, and my boys—are boys, and of little companionship to a poor woman and her sister—” She sighed theatrically, then snapped her fingers. “But I have it! I can help you and ease my own loneliness at the same time, my lord!”

  The king looked at her as if she was mad. “Of course, my lady, but—”

  She bestowed a dazzling smile on him as Little Gwen looked up with a sharp and avid alertness that made Gwen wary. Whatever was going on, Gwenhwyfach was in it up to her chin. “Oh, King, let me take your youngest to foster with me. A child that young needs a mother, and I so long for a pretty little daughter.” The emphasis she put on the word pretty made Little Gwen preen and Gynath flush and frown. “Only think! Coming to live with us, the child will grow up with my boys, and there are five of them—surely one of them will come to like her, and from liking cleave to her, and then we shall have an alliance of blood as well as borders! And even if that great good does not come to pass, I can teach her as her mother would have, in the maidenly, womanly things she must learn to be a King’s daughter. She will not run wild with me, as she might if she is left to grow without a woman’s hand to guide her. What say you?”

  Now there was subtle insult in that, for Gwen, for Bronwyn, for Gynath—but it wasn’t something that a man would note, and it was nothing they could take exception to, though Gwen felt her cheeks growing hot, and Bronwyn looked like thunder. The king looked bewildered, and Little Gwen took advantage of his hesitation. She flung herself down on her knees beside him and clasped her hands around his wrist. “Please, Father! Please!”

  This was all leaving Gwen speechless with astonishment, and it seemed the king was just as surprised and unable to think, for the first thing from his mouth were the words, “Well, I suppose—”

  Little Gwen flung herself on his neck. “Oh, thank you, Father!” she squealed.

  And at that point, of course, there was nothing to do but agree.

  Chapter Ten

  It had been two full moons since Queen Eleri died and one since Little Gwen had gone off to foster with Queen Morgause. In some ways, nothing had changed. The farmers still toiled in the fields, the herds still needed tending, all the work of the kingdom went on as it had no matter who the king and queen were. Gwen continued to toil at her lessons and chores: the cutting of wood and hauling of water to build strength, practice with bow and wooden sword and blunted spear, with staff and bare hands to make her a warrior, on horseback and in chariot to make her one of the fighting elite, a knight. She added new lessons: tracking and scouting—how to read signs, how to slip undetected across the face of the land, how to spy and not be seen. She was especially good at this last.

  And in many ways, everything had changed. The king had emerged from his stupor of grief, but he seldom smiled and never laughed. It was Gynath who supposedly was “The Lady” of the kingdom, though in reality it was Bronwyn who made all the decisions and advised Gynath what orders to give. The evenings in the castle were quiet times, with the king withdrawing immediately after dinner to discuss whatever needed to be discussed with his chiefs and then going to bed. There were no more long evenings of drinking and tale spinning at the king’s hearth. Gwen knew, of course, that such things were still going on, but it was at an improvised hearth, between the stables and the practice grounds. She had not been set to serve there at first; her teachers had let others take her place, but she supposed that now they thought enough time had passed, and it was time for her to do her duties again. And it wasn’t as if there were anything happening there in the evenings that the king needed to be concerned about. Even the carefully “spiced” mead and ale would continue to be the same; it wasn’t as if the secret of the brewing died with Eleri, for Bronwyn was well aware of the recipe and the same “spices” were going into the batches being made now.

  No, it was nothing more than the same sort of talk and laughter that she had heard all her life; in a way, it gave her both comfort and melancholy. Comfort because it was so familiar. Melancholy because . . . she felt
guilty. It seemed wrong not to go on mourning all the time, somehow disloyal.

  And then, as the summer turned heavy and the first of the harvests began . . . the messenger from the High King arrived.

  He brought with him news that the queen who shared Gwen’s name had given the High King not one, but two sons. Fortunately for his own safety, he had heard on his journey of Queen Eleri’s death, so the first words from him were not of Arthur’s good fortune but of condolence. Only after he had delivered a long—and to Gwen’s mind, suspiciously fulsome—speech on Arthur’s sorrow at hearing of this, did he deliver himself of his real purpose.

  The king merely shook his head after a long moment of silence. “I wish the High King and his new sons well,” he said at last, not troubling to hide his bitterness. “All health and long life to them. I do not have rejoicing in me—but I wish them all well.” Then he dismissed the messenger with a small gift.

  Bronwyn came and took him away to the women to be fed, and it was from Bronwyn that Gwen heard the thing that was both shocking and scandalous and almost not to be believed.

  Bronwyn had made a habit since Eleri’s death and the departure of Little Gwen of making sops-in-wine for Gynath and Gwen before they went to bed. This was especially welcome to both of them, because both of them were laboring far longer than they had used to. Gwen found herself pouring for her father and then being summoned to the men’s fire to pour for one or another of her father’s chiefs until the last of them went to their beds. And Gynath was taking on the task of being the chief of the women far earlier than anyone had reckoned she would need to. Of course, it was Bronwyn that actually made most of the decisions, but Bronwyn was very careful to make it seem as if Gynath were the one doing so. Under Bronwyn’s eye and unobtrusive coaching, Gynath was doing almost everything that Eleri had.