“Also . . . if I were to give advice on this,” she added cautiously, “I would say it were best to simply stay away from that marsh. While Cataruna thinks they are bound, and well bound, by the oaths they gave . . . the less traffic with the Folk of Annwn the better.” With the Folk of Annwn. With my mother’s people? Does Father guess? “I certainly have no plans to return there. Not even to see what March makes of the situation. He cannot pass there, that is all we need to know. That will force him through Saxon lands.”
Now no one nodded reluctantly.
She realized, and not for the first time, that she was, always had been, and always would be one apart from the rest. Even those who had come up with her as pages and squires; she shared a level of camaraderie with them that never went farther than the battlefield and the camp. Though Lleudd had never shown any favoritism to her, she had still always been the king’s daughter. Some had been jealous of that, some had been resentful, and even when she proved herself over and over, there had still been that distance of rank between them.
Even the handful of girls that had begun training with her had kept a wary distance, a distance that had only increased as most of them had decided to give up and try some other path. The only two who were left were chariot drivers, and she saw nothing of them.
Well, it was what it was.
The remainder of the talk centered on what to do when March moved toward the Saxon-held lands. Gwen listened but did not comment; this was not where she had any level of expertise. Everyone was agreed that he would at least try to buy his way to free passage. Some thought he might well try to ally with them.
“He would be very foolish not to try,” Lancelin said, his big hands absently rubbing the silver band on his drinking horn. “And they would be equally foolish to fight him or reject such an alliance. Neither of them can afford a battle on two fronts, and the Saxons are somewhat weakened from the losses they took this winter.” Lancelin’s suggestions were very astute, however, and she found herself admiring his knowledge and skill all over again.
And . . . truth to tell . . . admiring him for himself. He was not a beautiful man, but she had never cared that much for beauty in a man. A quick mind, however, a good and even temper, a sense of humor—those were things she cherished and admired.
She was not the only female to find him attractive; he, however, did not seem to notice any of the women casting glances at him. Or if he did, he was feigning not to notice. She wondered if he had a love elsewhere.
If he did, she could not imagine that it would be at Arthur’s court. No one she knew would be kept from the side of a lover just because the queen misliked his presence.
She regarded him across the hearth fire, and decided that he was probably heart whole. He didn’t act as if he were pining for a love. If anything, he seemed relatively content with being here as Lleudd’s advisor and liaison. The only time she had heard him voice any discontent, it was because he was missing the fighting at Arthur’s side.
As for that fighting—pay attention. You are in charge of the scouts, now. That was the reward her father had given her. She, and no one else, would be the one commanding all of the scouts, the saboteurs, and outliers for whatever force was sent to aid the High King.
As she listened, she began to formulate some ideas. A few were based around her ruse of “The White Apparition,” but she had plenty of others. March might very well know that “Gwenhwyfar” was a very real, mortal human creature; she would have to determine that, first, before she tried such tricks on his forces. But he would be fresh from dealing with her “allies” of the Folk of Annwn; there were other ways she could invoke “supernatural” terror among his men. The Saxons, of course, knew about the White Lady; she would find herself a few more of the woman warriors and recruit them to impersonate her. If one White Phantom was terrifying, what if there were many haunting the dark?
And spies, of course. She needed spies. People in March’s camp, people in the Saxon camp.
I wonder how much it would take to buy the ears of washerwomen and camp whores? If she could succeed in convincing them that when this was over, they’d have a place, protectors, on the High King’s side . . .
More than that, she’d have to find places. And each one would probably be different. There would be women who had gone to the life because they had no other options, women who were captives or near captives, women who liked the life, or at least, liked the sex when they weren’t afraid of being abused or beaten . . .
I should talk to Bronwyn. Maybe Cataruna, too. Don’t the Ladies need servants, helpers? It couldn’t be impossible. Bah. If I have to, I’ll make them my own retainers. And if they’re the sort that are hot as cats in heat, I’ll get them money enough to go to a town and set themselves up as courtesans.
It would also enrage the Christ priests, she suspected, if they found out about it. Well, that was not her problem, and she would not make it the problem of the women. If she dealt with this properly, no one would ever know who her spies were. But she really liked the idea of the women as spies; women had the potential to go anywhere and listen to anything in the camp. She was probably not the first person to think of doing this, but it was a new idea to her, which meant it was likely to be a new idea to their enemies as well.
As for sabotage . . . well, she would think on that, as well.
Meanwhile, as the other war chiefs continued to talk, she was making mental notes. Nothing was decided tonight, of course. They would have to discover what March was doing. The High King would have to decide what he was going to do. Then he would have to ask for levies through Lancelin.
Would he ask Lot? Probably. And Lot would say “yes” and actually do nothing. But now all four of Lot’s sons were with the High King; whatever Medraut had told Arthur about how Anna Morgause had been murdered, all of it had been smoothed over somehow, for Lancelin had several times said that Gwalchmai, Agrwn, and Gwynfor were still Arthur’s Companions, and Gwalchafed was absent only because he had wedded recently and taken up life in his lady’s lands.
And Medraut is still at court as well. Gwen pondered that, as she pondered how the firelight made shadows on Lancelin’s face. From all that Lancelin had said, Medraut had made himself welcome there—although, like Lancelin himself, Medraut was no favorite of Arthur’s queen. Hardly surprising. She would be no favorite of Medraut’s either. Lancelin had said nothing about Medraut being Arthur’s son . . . perhaps Medraut himself had not made that openly known. But Arthur had made him one of the Companions, and from the little Lancelin said, he was giving a good account of himself among them.
Was it possible he could have . . . reformed, somehow?
A nice dream. A viper does not cease to be a viper because it smiles.
In the absence of concrete information, the talk had devolved to mere man-gossip. The mead had made them mellow and sleepy; even Lancelin, who had drunk but sparingly of it, looked heavy lidded. She slipped away.
Only to have her arm seized once she was away from the benches.
It was Bronwyn.
“You are not thinking of using the Folk of Annwn—” she whispered urgently, drawing Gwen into the shadows. Gwen was startled.
“No!” She shook her head. “No, I had rather stay well clear of them. They are unchancy. And unreliable as well, if you listen to the tales that Ifan sings. Too often those in stories call upon them only to be unanswered or not answered in time. Too often they flit off elsewhere or turn on you because you gave them some unintended slight. No. Let them dwell in the new marsh and leave us be, and I will be content.”
Bronwyn let out a deep sigh of relief. “I saw that you had that thinking look and—what were you thinking, then, that you did not tell the other chiefs?”
She was glad that the shadows hid her blushes, for she did not want to say that at least half the time she had been thinking about Lancelin. Instead, she explained her idea of using the camp followers among the Saxons and March’s army as spies. Bronwyn heard her ou
t.
“It could work,” she said at last, “But better that we find some women among our people willing to go.”
Gwen blinked. That had not occurred to her. “But—would—I thought—”
“Leave that to me,” the old woman told her. “There are those we took from the Saxons who would dearly love a taste of revenge. There are those of the western lands who are shamed that March is rebelling against the High King. The Ladies favor the High King; there would be some among them, mayhap. And . . .” She chuckled. “I can think of one or two who would gladly do this for the sake of the means to set themselves up in luxury in a city. Not everyone thinks the height of all good things is a sheepcot, a flock, and a shepherd who cannot put two words together without ‘baa’ in them.”
Gwen giggled a little. “I leave it in your hands, then,” she said and was about to go to the room she now shared with no one when Bronwyn tugged again on her arm. “My girl, that Companion—I would give you good, sound advice.”
She froze.
“There are men, a very few, who could look on a warrior, see the woman within, and remember the warrior. He is not one.” Bronwyn’s voice was steady. “He will see you as a warrior and a comrade or as a woman. Never both. It will be up to you to choose which he sees. And when you make that choice, remember, he will treat you as you have chosen.”
Gwen went cold inside for a moment. Bronwyn was right. She knew that Bronwyn was right. It made her angry—at herself and at him. It made her sad with disappointment. It made her embarrassed. But that did not make it any less true.
She could go to her chest and dig out one of her gowns, let her hair loose, and go and act as Gynath had, back when they were younger. Make big eyes at him, hang on his words—yes, she could do all of that. And, yes, he would see her as a woman, and he might even find her attractive. And so he would treat her as a woman.
Even in her armor with her hair clubbed up, he would treat her as a woman.
And so would the other war chiefs.
All that she had worked for, all that she had built, would be gone. Her father would lose the war chief that she was becoming. Her sister would lose the steady guard and guardian for her own children. Caradoc would lose the captain she would be for him. And for what? So that she could play the fool over a man.
Or she could keep things as they were, and she would have the friendship and high regard of a man whose company she enjoyed. They would speak and act as equals. He would listen to her ideas with respect, criticize them if it was needed, teach her more of the ways of war.
It was only years of schooling herself, training herself, controlling herself, that kept her from raging, weeping or both. She knew that outside the tiny group of her family and Bronwyn, she was thought to be cold, unfeeling, and in no small part that was because she meant them to think of her in that way. In that first year of her training, when some of the older boys had bullied or snubbed her, and even some of the younger had sometimes tried to sabotage her with dirty tricks and things meant to put blame on her, she had pretended that there was no hurt, no loneliness, that nothing would mar the armor of her control. Now that was habit.
“I see,” she was able to say, slowly. “Thank you for the warning, Bronwyn. You are . . . entirely right.”
“I have lived a very long time, my dear,” Bronwyn said, a little sadly. “I have seen many a girl throw over what she held dear for the sake of a trifle.”
She patted Bronwyn’s arm, glad that the old woman could not see the expression on her face. “This one will not,” she said.
Then she went to her bed. She lay, staring into the darkness, angry at fate for making her female, angry at herself for being so foolish, grateful to Bronwyn for seeing what she had been blind to, yet angry with her too. There were bitter tears in the back of her throat that she would not shed. Not now. Not ever. After all, what was she weeping for? Nothing more important than that poppet that Gwenhwyfach had torn to bits all those years ago.
Gwenhwyfach—and what would she have done?
Put on the gown of, course, and thrown herself at Lancelin—
But she was not Gwenhwyfach, nor did she ever want to be. She was herself. And even if that was a cold and lonely thing, it was what she had wanted to be. Not “someone’s wife.” Not “someone’s mother.” Herself, with her own honor, her own place, and her own path. She owed nothing to anyone, save duty to her father.
It was comfort, if cold comfort.
She turned on her side and stared at the wall, sternly telling her eyes that they must dry. Or rather, she stared at where the wall should have been.
For at that moment, she felt that dizziness come upon her once again, and where the wall was, there was dim light instead, light that grew, and warmed, until she found herself staring into a fire-lit room, and at the backs of two women.
One had white-blonde hair that streamed down her back to her ankles. The other had raven locks that pooled on the floor. Both were wearing nothing more than their hair.
They bent over what at first she took for a table; then she realized that it was an altar, not a table. What there was upon it, she never got a chance to see, for the blonde suddenly raised her head.
“Morgana,” said Gwenhwyfach, in a voice so like her own that Gwenhwyfar felt her breath catch. “we are overlooked.”
The second also raised her head and turned slightly, staring straight into Gwen’s eyes. And now Gwen felt her breath freezing in her throat.
“Well,” Morgana said, her tone even and measured. “Blood will tell. Even untrained and on the Path of Iron, look who has found her way to our working.”
Now Little Gwen turned. Her naked body was astonishingly beautiful, even overwritten as it was with runes painted in blood. And her face was Gwen’s own, but contorted with a sneer.
“Spying, sister?” The sneer turned into a snarl. “Well, that will never happen again. And you will forget what you have seen,”
And something hot and red flashed between them, struck Gwen like a thunderbolt, and sent her tumbling down into darkness, her memories slipping between her fingers and running away like water.
Despite a near-crippling headache the next day, Gwen went grimly to work on her plans. Bronwyn found women as she had promised, and they were a varied lot. One had been a Saxon thrall and had lost her family to them and wanted nothing more than revenge. Two were very poor indeed and honest about their wish to be amply rewarded. “As well be swived by a mort’o lads an’ come to a saft bed after as be swived by one an’ come to a mud hut,” was the calm and logical response of one. One was sent by the Ladies and remained silent about her reasons; since Cataruna vouched for her, Gwen accepted her without comment. What all of them had in common was that they were attractive, under no illusions as to what would happen to them as camp followers, and were as fierce in their desire that March and the Saxons be beaten as any of Arthur’s Companions.
They did not need to remain in the camps long, much to Gwen’s relief. She felt enough guilt about sending them in there in the first place.
“And you have no guilt about sending your scouts out to spy?” was Bronwyn’s dry question, when she fretted aloud one day.
“Of course I do!” Gwen snapped. “But . . . this is different!”
Bronwyn raised an eyebrow. “So you see them as women and not as warriors.”
Gwen opened her mouth to protest and shut it again. Because, yes, she did. And she felt great irritation that she did so. And yet—they were women. They were not warriors. They had not been trained as warriors.
But she was glad enough when they got what she needed and made their way back to her—the sure information that March had allied with the Saxons, rather than buying his way across their lands, and the combined forces intended to attack Arthur together.
Now she could concentrate on her real duties with a whole heart—or so she thought.
Gwen had not chopped wood like this since she had been a mere squire, but she needed to take out
her temper on something, and splitting wood was less damaging than hurling pots against a wall and more satisfying than perforating a target with arrows. She swung the ax against her hapless targets with accuracy and fury. Every blow split a log. At this rate, the squires would not need to chop wood for a week.
The squires who had been assigned to this task had all taken one look at her face and fled. Everyone else had already heard the news and wisely were avoiding anywhere she was even rumored to be. The pile of neatly split logs grew, and her temper was eased not in the least. She was in a self-imposed circle of silence in which there was only the wood, the ax, herself, and her anger.
Finally the king himself came down to the yard, and sat on a stump, and waited. She could not remember him ever coming here before. But she knew herself well enough not to trust herself to speak right now, so she pretended that she had not noticed him there.
The ax handle was a comfort in her hand, and the steady chunk as it cleft each log was just as much of a comfort. This, at least, she could control. She had chosen to do this. No one had said “you must,” or “you must not.” No one had come to say “So-and-so would do this better, go tend to your horses.” Yet it took her quite some time before she was able to get anything like words past the tightness in her chest and throat.
“It’s not fair,” she managed at last, the final word punctuated by the blow of the ax. She tried not to wail. She tried not to sound as if she was accusing Lleudd, whom she did not in the least blame.
“Indeed, it is not,” King Lleudd agreed. “Very unfair. You have spent long days training your scouts. You work as an effective group, and without you, they will be less effective. They trust you; they will not trust another leader so much. You have proven yourself in battle. You should have been the one to lead and command them.”
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