Gwenhwyfar

by Mercedes Lackey

  And now Gwen saw exactly why Urien valued him so highly. There were two reasons. The first was that while this was Roman strategy indeed, it was Roman strategy adapted to the much more volatile men of the tribes. If a war chief or general said that he did not believe his men could do such-and-so, Lancelin immediately changed the strategy to something they could do. Some could, and would, hold the “Roman Square.” They had fought under Arthur, they understood how the thing worked, and they would overcome their own battle spirit to stand and not respond to the Saxon taunts. Some would not. Those, Lancelin appointed to places in the lines where it would do no harm, and much good, for them to follow the standard battle practice of running up by ones and twos, casting their spears at Saxons who had done the same, and perhaps engage in single combat.

  And as for the cavalry . . .

  “I know what my men will do,” he said with confidence. “They will be here, and here, and at my signal, they will close in around the rear of the Saxons and harry them onto the spears and javelins and archers of the Square.”

  In his hand were the few counters that represented Gwen and her scouts. He juggled them, looking from the map to her and back again. She answered the unspoken, and very awkward, question.

  “My men are like me, small, light of limb. We are horse archers, mainly. But we have King Lleudd’s finest and fastest warhorses; I would reckon they could be at the finish of a race while your men were halfway down the course—and be ready to take you all over again,” she said with pride.

  He brightened. “Fast, agile, and deadly. Good! There are two tasks for you and yours, lady. The first is to sting the Saxon boar, but precisely; I want you here, beside the Square, to run out in relays, find a leader, try to take him and no other, and race back to our lines.”

  She sucked on her lower lip. “Not likely we can hit more than once in a dozen shots,” she replied honestly. “When we fight, we generally shoot at the mass of men, and try to arc over the shields. Generally we hit something because they are so close-packed.”

  He nodded. “But deliberately choosing a leader—that will goad them, even if you do not hit. His companions will have had their honor touched, and they must defend him. That is what I want; I want them enraged, I want them charging up that hill and onto the Square without a second thought. And the second task is this: After they charge, you all retreat behind the Square, and when they break, and they will, you come out again to sting them a second time.” He smiled. “This terrain, this weather, can all play in our favor. We can wear them down, saving ourselves, in case they have more than one force out there.”

  Now that had not occurred to her, and from their faces, it also had not occurred to Urien and his men. Lancelin shrugged. “The Saxons fight like maddened boars,” he said. “That does not mean they cannot be cunning. We must be more cunning.”

  “And fight like men!” Urien roared, slapping Lancelin’s back again. The others shouted their approval.

  Lancelin was still looking at her, and she realized belatedly that he was waiting for her assent, as he had for the other chiefs. “That we can do,” she replied, nodding. “We all have changes of horses too; we can keep both at the lines and make sure we always have fresh mounts.”

  He didn’t smile as she had half expected, but his look of satisfaction was the same he had given to the other chiefs and generals. “Then by your leave, my lords, I will take these plans back to my men, and you take them to yours. One day for my men and horses to rest, and then we will show these Saxon pigs that it is ill done to covet the acorns beneath the High King’s oaks.”

  She took her leave while Urien was still speaking to the young man and returned to her troop. They had been awakened and were sleepily devouring their stew and bread. Over food, she laid out what was to be expected of them, while they listened thoughtfully. Although this seemed a fine battle plan to her, she half expected that there would be some discussion, if not objection, but there was nothing of the sort.

  “Clever,” said Owain after a long silence.

  “Aye, but not too clever.” Peder came to sit down to join them. Gwen made space for him beside her on a log. He accepted a bowl of stew from her servant. “If the High King and the Merlin have a fault, it’s the making of plans that are a bit too clever, so no one understands what’s to happen but them. I like this Lancelin.”

  “Come to steal our food again, old man?” asked Meical with a laugh.

  “Aye.” Peder cuffed him; or rather, cuffed at him. Meical ducked out of the way. “I’ll not poison myself before a battle with my own cooking.”

  “Arthur’s Companions do the same,” said Aeron suddenly.

  “What, poison themselves?” The others laughed, and Aeron wrinkled up his nose.

  “No fools, have a common store and a common cook pot. Like we do. No man starves because he didn’t want to burden himself, no man carries too much. Food is always waiting, and they never go into a battle or to bed hungry.”

  “Another Roman thing?” Owain asked, curiously.

  Aeron shook his dark head. “Nay. This was Arthur’s idea.”

  Gwen ate another bite of stew. Someone must have been hunting, for there was rabbit and maybe some duck in this along with the usual dried mutton, turnips, parsnips, and pease. “The Romans did as we do, except that there was a grain wagon a man got his bread ration from,” she offered. “I can see the advantage, but what happens when the enemy fires your provision wagon or carries it off? And it would slow you down.”

  “No slower than foot soldiers,” Peder pointed out.

  “True.” She savored the smoky taste of the broth, but she wished for a little thyme. “Something to think about.”

  When the men had finished, and Peder had wandered back to his own tent, she sat beside the fire, thinking. There was enough afternoon sun on her back to warm her; between the fire and the sunlight, she was, for once, nicely warm. So Arthur was not so grief-stricken that he had not filled his bed again . . . that was interesting. She could not imagine her father doing the same . . . . . . unless . . .

  She scratched the back of her head, absently, staring into the fire. There might have been more to this than just a man not wanting a cold bed, and a woman willing to sleep her way to a crown. Anna Morgause was not the only woman in the world to employ the magics of glamorie.

  But this Gwenhwyfar is a follower of the White Christ! Don’t they shun magic?

  Maybe. But Anna Morgause had—supposedly—been one of the Ladies. And the Ladies would not have approved of what Gwen had seen in her vision. You did not use Gift of the Goddess to lure a man that was not yours to your bed. You did not steal the magic meant for the High King and his Queen to put a babe in your own loins so you could use him later as a tool to manipulate the High King himself.

  She had no doubt that was what Anna Morgause had intended for Medraut.

  She brooded into the flames, listening with half her attention to the buzz of the camp life about her, and tried to think this through, as the daughter of a king should do.

  The priests of the White Christ had been angling at the High King for a very long time. His father, Uther, had toyed with them, although he had not actually committed to their faith; but he had given them shelter and leave to build their churches. Even one very near to the Isle of Glass, where the Ladies taught.

  It was hard to imagine these men and what they were trying to do. She had never actually met one. The notion of converting a man to another spiritual path was foreign, even a little alien to Gwen, but it was one of the chief pursuits of these people, it seemed. So much so that it appeared they would do almost anything to bring a man into their ranks.

  So maybe they allow—or forgive—magic, if it brings them another man. And if that man were the High King?

  Probably anything short of murder would be forgiven.

  Well, the High King was far away. And he would never repudiate the Merlin, nor would he do anything to drive away his allies, who were not Christ-men. Glamo
rie could do only so much; it would not turn a man against a friend or make a friend out of an enemy. The most that this Gwenhwyfar could accomplish would be to grant the Christ priests more tolerance, to put their rites on equal footing, at least at court, with the Old Ways. Probably.

  Gwen considered what others had said about these men, these priests, how they pushed themselves and their god forward. Was it possible that Arthur would neglect the Old Ways in favor of the ones his queen followed, if he were infatuated enough?

  Well. Yes. Anything is possible. After all, the gods had done nothing to preserve his sons. He might even be persuaded that his sons had died because he did not favor this new god.

  She made a face at the fire.

  Well, the High King was not here. And by his own decree, the customs of a kingdom held of him were to continue. She was certain that he would not dare to offend his allies by demanding that they give over their rites and gods and take up with this new one. If he did, he would soon find himself without allies altogether.

  Fine. Let the Christ-men have him. The Romans brought their emperor and their Mithras, and look where they are now! Tumbled in the dust.

  Then something else occurred to her. Medraut was still on his way to the court, fully expecting to find a distraught Arthur who would welcome this unlooked-for, undreamed of son—

  —this son of his own half-sister—

  Oh, that will put the cat among the pigeons.

  Even among the followers of the Old Ways, people would look a little askance at that. They would accept it, if Arthur did, and find excuses for him. Tell themselves he could not have known Anna Morgause was his half-sister. Or that he was under her spell so deeply that he did not know who she was. Those things might even be true. But still . . . there would be some looks askance, and if harvests were bad, or winters long, people would ask themselves if this was the fault of the High King’s dalliance.

  But Medraut would not find a father in mourning and an empty throne. He would find a father infatuated with a new love, a queen who looked to supply him with more heirs, and one who followed the Christ to boot, whose priests most certainly would not look kindly on the love child not only conceived out of wedding bonds, not only sired on a Lady-trained sorceress and a follower of the Goddess, not only begotten on someone else’s wife, but the love child of a man and his half-sister.

  She almost laughed aloud to think of it.

  Arthur certainly could not acknowledge Medraut now, even if he was not beglamored, even if he was not inclining to these new priests. How could he? He had a queen with whom he expected to produce true heirs. The last thing he wanted was to set up a rival to them.

  The new queen was hardly going to welcome him, either. He would always be a rival to her own children. And if this same queen actually was given Gifts and the use of magic . . .

  I think they will eat each other alive.

  She went to her bed, chuckling at the thought.

  Chapter Fourteen

  If Lancelin had not been so modest and self-effacing away from the war table, Gwen would have been hard put to restrain her jealousy of his instant prominence among the war chiefs. He had overleaped her and the position she had spent seasons, years, achieving, and he had done so overnight.

  But he was, in fact, a quiet and astonishingly modest man outside of the tent, and when she was honest with herself, she had to acknowledge that he must have spent just as long a period among Arthur’s Companions to get that same position. So jealousy was not what she was really feeling. It was envy. And she had to admit that he was a genius at strategy.

  Every man in the oddly assorted army fielded by her father was perfectly placed to take advantage of his strengths—or, at the very least, to take advantage of what he would do no matter what had been planned.

  Those who were going to charge no matter the orders had been put in the front lines of the flanks, so at least when they charged, it would be across the hill rather than down it. After that initial planning session, Lancelin had made a round of the fires, using charm, honesty, or, occasionally, a skin of strong mead to find out what each commander knew of his mens’ behavior in battle and what he thought the others would do. Then he had revised his plans to account for what he learned.

  When he spoke to Gwen, it had been with respect and honesty. She and her scouts—for the scouts had seen much more of how the others fought—answered him with the same frank candor. The result was that their disposition remained the same: to sting the Saxons until they charged, then hold back and harry the outliers, watching for an effort to flank.

  She sat her horse easily, looking down the shallow slope to the Saxon army spread out in their rough battle line at the bottom.

  There was a great deal of noise: challenges being shouted on both sides, weapons beaten on shields, insults, catcalls. It didn’t matter that most of them didn’t understand each other’s language; the tone made the content clear enough. And if they had been fighting with traditional tactics, eventually one man or another would break from the lines, run forward, and throw a spear into the enemy nearest him. Unless he was extraordinarily strong or lucky, the spear would glance off the shield, fall short, break, or bury itself in the wooden shield. Then the man attacked would wrench it out, pick it up or take his own spear, run forward, and return the favor. Then the two would fight, one on one, while the rest of the armies cheered them on. The victor would taunt the enemy, return to his own lines, or remain for someone else to challenge him. Perhaps another fighter from his own side would join him. This would continue, with the number of single combats increasing until the tension broke and one side or the other would charge.

  Of course, that was not going to happen here. Gwen would have thought that by this time the Saxons would have realized, the moment they saw forces forming the Square, that they were facing another force using the High King’s Roman tactics.

  Perhaps they think it is a ruse. Or perhaps they are confident that this time they can induce us to fight their sort of battle.

  The noise was making her horse dance and fidget in place; if this had been summer, she would have soothed him to keep him from wearing himself out. But it was winter, not summer, and all the prancing and stamping was keeping his muscles warm. This was all to the good.

  She watched her men out of the corner of her eye. Their horses were as restive as hers, and they sat them as easily. They looked calm. She hoped she did. This would be her first major battle, the first where the armies of more than her father had joined together to face the foe.

  There had only been one point of conflict between her and Lancelin. She had wanted to lead the scouts on their stinging attacks on the Saxon line. He had insisted that she ride somewhere in the middle of the skein. “You are almost the only woman in the army, lady,” he had pointed out. “It will not be hard to identify you as the White Phantom. This will make you a tempting target for all archers if you ride first. But if you are in the middle, the confusion you and your men will cause will ensure they do not even realize you are a woman.”

  She didn’t like it, not at all, but she had to admit he was right. What was the point of creating the legend of the White Phantom if the feared creature went down under the first volley of arrows? Still. She didn’t have to like it, that he was right.

  She watched the front line of the Square. It was Urien, not Lancelin, who would give the signal for her group to begin their assault. At least they would be doing something, not standing there chafing against the inactivity like the steady fellows who had formed the Square.

  The noise rose and fell like the sound of waves on the rocks at Tintagel. The sun burned down on the white hillside, soon to be churned into an expanse of blood and mud. Things always grew well on a battlefield . . . as if the gods were saying, “Out of death comes life.” If the local farmers were not eager to plow and plant this expanse come spring, they would surely not hesitate to scythe down the lush grass that would spring from the blood that watered this land. It would on
ly last a season, but that season would be a good one.

  From the center of the Square, a pennon on the tip of a lance shot up. Urien’s forces released their pent impatience in a roar as Peder spurred his horse, leading the scouts in their gadfly charge.

  She was third and had forsaken her usual gray clothing for ordinary leather armor with metal plates riveted inside, protecting breast and back. It obscured her shape, and her sex was further concealed by a half-helmet. All of the scouts looked reasonably alike, except for Gwen’s long braid of white-blonde flailing her back. She had tried coiling it up under the helm, but it wouldn’t stay. She needed a new and better helm.

  Peder’s horse labored a little, galloping through the snow. This pass would be the hardest; as the horses tired, at least the snow would be easier to get through. The others pounded in his wake, snow clots flung up by their hooves. The Saxons watched them in astonishment. Evidently, they had not expected this.

  It was not easy firing a bow from the back of a moving horse, and even Gwen’s men, who had practiced this with her against the day when they might be surprised and have to flee pursuit, were not what anyone would call good at it. But then, when the idea was to discourage pursuit, you didn’t need to be accurate. You only needed the appearance of accuracy.

  Gwen, however, was good. After all, she had reasoned, if Braith and some of the warriors she led could hit a man from a moving chariot with a spear, enough practice and a horse you could guide with your knees should make such a thing possible for a rider with a bow. Peder and the man following him more or less marked their target, a big Saxon with a russet shield. It was fairly obvious who they were shooting at, as two men near him screamed or went down. Gwen shoved her reins in her mouth, guided the horse in daringly close to the line, aimed quickly, and fired.