Gwenhwyfar

by Mercedes Lackey

  It was a situation fraught with ugliness and difficulty, and one she was deeply grateful that she was not involved in.

  There was one thing she might do, though; it would remind Arthur that the followers of the Old Ways had not wavered in their loyalty, and it would reflect well on her father.

  She had come here with a gift of horses for himself and his Companions, but in anticipation of fighting, all of King Lleudd’s men had come with extra mounts. She herself had brought six—Rhys and Pryderi of course, but also four more, just in case something happened to her two main mounts. Now she pulled those four extras from the picket line, found a squire, and sent them off to the High King with the simple message that the horses were from King Lleudd Ogrfan Gawr.

  The camp was uneasy that night and unsettled. This did not taste like victory, even though Arthur had won.

  Talk around the fires was subdued, and no one had much appetite. Gwen was thinking very strongly of making use of that mead Cataruna had sent along to help her to sleep early, when she looked up to see one of Gildas’ monks peering around the circle of warriors at her fire. He finally whispered to the one nearest him, and to Gwen’s further surprise, the man stood up and conducted the monk courteously to her.

  “If you would be so kind,” the monk said, diffidently, once he had given her the bow of respect, “Abbot Gildas would like to speak with you.”

  She stood up immediately. “I would be honored,” she said honestly. Whatever the abbot wanted her for, he was clearly an important man. He was also a beloved man; however disagreeable he had seemed to her, he had to have earned that regard.

  So, she would give him the courtesy that she hoped he would show her, and see what happened.

  The monk conducted her quickly to the Abbey, and it was quite clear that the subdued mood in her camp was shared across the entire encampment.

  Gildas was waiting for her at another fire, and he rose to greet her without the disagreeable expression he had worn before. She gave him the same bow of respect that she would have given the Merlin.

  “Lady . . . I wish to thank you,” Gildas said awkwardly. “You were very kind to reassure my people.”

  “Abbot Gildas, your people were extremely worried for you, and they deserved to have someone treat them with courtesy,” she replied. “The High King’s Companions would have done so if they themselves knew what I did about the Folk of Annwn. Since they did not, and what I knew could ease the hearts of your people and allow them to devote their attention to—to—”

  “To prayer and their devotions,” Gildas supplied, with a little smile. “Yes. And again, I thank you. I also wish to apologize to you. Without knowing anything of you, I harbored ill thoughts of you. You, in turn, rather than doing the same to me, have given me a lesson in what should have been Christian charity. For this lesson, too, I thank you. I want you to know that despite our differences in belief, you may count me as a friend.”

  She was for a moment taken aback, but she quickly recovered. “I am honored, and I would be more honored if you will accept the same from me.”

  “I know that you are all curious as to what is to happen to the queen.” He sighed. “I should prefer, as you seem to not be prone to exaggeration, if you were to make it known that the High King and the queen will remain here for a time while I strive to make peace between them.”

  She winced. “I do not envy you that task. This was . . . a sad and bitter thing.”

  “I wish that I had hope of success.” A shadow passed over Gildas’ face. “But that will be as God wills it. I shall do my best. Arthur is a great man. I would that he were more a man of peace and less of war . . . for one of my brothers rebelled against him, you know, and met his death at Arthur’s hands.”

  Well, that explains a great deal . . .

  “Still I have forgiven him. And I know him to be a great, and great-hearted, man. And a good leader, of the sort that this land needs. He has a vision of this part of the world being united and strong, as the old empire of the Romans was. I hope that this does not harden his heart and make something terrible out of a good man.”

  Something terrible . . . like the sort of man who could order the deaths of infants? She said nothing, however, only nodded. She and Gildas exchanged a little more conversation, then he pleaded exhaustion, and she took her leave—making sure to stop with several war chiefs on the way back to her encampment to relate what Gildas had tacitly asked her to pass on.

  And then she and her men followed the example of the rest, packed up, and returned, thankfully, to their homes.

  Nevertheless, she was somehow not at all surprised to learn, about a month after their return, that Queen Gwenhwyfar had caught an unexpected chill, sickened, and died, and was buried on the grounds of the Abbey.

  PART THREE

  QUEEN

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was just cool enough for a fire at the king’s hearth, but the light it cast gave very little aid in reading facial features. Gwen could not believe what she had just heard, and stared at their visitor in total disbelief. “If this is a jest, it is in very poor taste,” she finally managed.

  But her father looked completely serious, as did the visitor, the Lady Aeronwen. “Lady” in the sense of “one of the Ladies.” The Lady looked outwardly no different from any other woman, and Gwen was not Gifted enough to sense the Power in her; her clothing was unusual only in that it was of plain, undyed white linen and wool, and her hair was unbound, signifying she was not a married woman. There was nothing whatsoever to mark her as a person of any importance at all, but she had been sent directly here from the great School, and Cataruna, who bowed to almost no one, practically groveled to her.

  She did have the most piercing dark eyes that Gwen had ever seen; eyes that definitely looked far beneath the surface of everything around her. Her speech was clipped, her manners rather severe. That, of course, was probably very effective against the young women sent to the School, but it cowed Gwen not at all.

  And her proposal was . . . well, on the surface of it, sheer insanity. Why in the name of every god and goddess should she become the High King’s third wife? She had never even laid eyes on him to her certain knowledge, and she doubted he had ever seen her. And she was twenty-seven. Even if she did look eighteen. Surely he would want a younger bride.

  If he does, he’ll reject this whole scheme out of hand.

  “The High King must have a queen. He dallied not at all after the death of his first, and there is no reason to wait this time, either. He drew up a pathetically short list of names that he indicated would be acceptable to himself and one or another of his advisors. The only other candidate that we will accept is Morgana,” said Aeronwen flatly, her eyes hard. “And leaving aside the little problem that she is also the High King’s half-sister, she is completely out of the question, because she is completely uncontrollable.”

  “Oh. And you can control me,” Gwen replied dryly, raising one eyebrow. The tiny, dark woman flushed, disconcerted. Gwen sensed that she did not often find herself contradicted or her will thwarted.

  “That is not what I mean, Gwenhwyfar.” The Lady’s glare could have put ice on a pond in summer. “I mean that you will work for the good of the land, for the good of the followers of the Old Ways, to protect the Folk of Annwn. You will think first of the good of others, not yourself. You have proven that, as a warrior. Morgana will work only on her own behalf, or Medraut’s.”

  “And leaving aside whether or not Arthur will be remotely interested in a bride who has followed the warrior’s path, just how do you propose to get the High King to accept a third wife with the name ‘Gwenhwyfar’?” she asked. “I should think at this point he will regard that as very ill-omened.”

  “Or he will hold by the common notion that the third time pays for all,” the Lady countered, and shrugged. “I confess, I am not in his confidence. I do not know what he will think, I only know that, like you, he considers first the good of his people. He needs an h
eir, the land needs a queen, and all else is secondary. He is getting no younger. He has no time to waste. We who have counseled him have made very, very sure that he understands this.”

  “There is another factor; the High King wants my horses,” her father rumbled, nodding. “To get them, he will take you. It is a good bargain, as you know I do not part with them easily.”

  Her cheeks flamed with suppressed anger. “So that is what this is about. I’m now the unwanted part of a horse trade!”

  “Unwanted by the High King perhaps, but greatly desired by us!” the Lady snapped. “The King’s second wife did us great damage with her adherence to the Christ priests. The High King grows old; in the back of his mind, I suspect, is the fact that the Young Stag supplants the Old, and Lleu slays Goronwy. The land is not suffering—yet—but if it does, his age may be blamed, and the followers of the Old Ways may look for a Young Stag. The Christ priests do not demand that the High King sacrifice himself—ever. Except metaphorically, of course.”

  “And do you?” she asked, pointedly.

  The Lady shrugged. “It has been our experience that the gods take that in hand before we need to. The Merlin is useless to us now, and the King has decided to forget that his old mentor was a Druid before he was the King’s man. Even though you have not the Gifts, Gwenhwyfar, you can undo some of that. You are called ‘cousin’ by Gwyn ap Nudd, and you are accepted by Abbot Gildas. You can turn some of the rancor of the Christ priests away from us. You can bring Arthur back to us. And perhaps you can supply an heir to the throne.”

  Gwen felt like a rabbit in a snare. All of this did make very good sense. She probably was the best candidate to be the High King’s new wife. And she could do much. Unlike many of the followers of the Old Ways—the Ladies being prime examples of that—now that she had actually met with some of them, she didn’t think all that badly of the followers of the White Christ.

  But this was not what she wanted to do! This had nothing to do with her dreams!

  But I am a king’s daughter. And kings’ daughters know that duty comes before desire. Kings’ daughters know that they will be called upon to sacrifice much. I have had my dream for years. Now . . .

  Now it was time to pay for having had that dream in her hands. And it felt horrible. As if something she loved was dying before her eyes.

  It’s me that’s dying. It’s the Gwen that is the war chief, the only Gwen I’ve been for all of my life. And something I don’t recognize is going to take her place.

  And . . . it wasn’t Arthur she wanted to wed . . .

  “Am I really the only one?” she asked, in a small voice.

  “Would I be here if you were not?” Aeronwen shrugged. “At least the High King is not in love with you. He was in love with the last Gwenhwyfar, and that did not end well. His wedding to the first Gwenhwyfar was far more arranged than the tales would make it seem; he wanted her father as an ally in the days when he had far fewer. Trust me, he is no stranger to marrying for expedience. For his second wife, he pleased himself; deluded himself, perhaps, but he did not think first of his people, or the Land, and the result was almost a disaster.”

  Gwen wanted to ask how the second queen had really died, but—no. It was probably better not to have an answer to that question. Whatever had happened was in the hands and judgment of the gods. Whichever gods those were.

  It was ironic, when she thought back to her childhood and how when she had heard that the first queen had her name, she had wished she too could be a queen and have goose every day and gowns that were not made-over. Now all she could think was how it meant the end of her freedom, that not all the fine food and handsome gowns in the world would make up for that loss. She had not been willing to give that up for one she truly wished for—and now she was being asked to give it up and for what?

  Duty.

  Finally she hung her head in defeat. “If I must . . .” she said reluctantly.

  “The alternative is Medraut on the throne,” replied the Lady, her voice showing that she very clearly cared no more for Medraut than Gwen did. “You know Medraut as well as any of us. You know your sister, who was trained by Anna Morgause, just as Morgana was. You know what will come of that.”

  That was no alternative at all.

  “Very well. I accept,” she sighed. And I will find some way to have at least a part of my dream, too.

  But first, as she had feared, she found that to be made into a queen, she must be unmade.

  This was a strange world that she reentered. It was not that she had abandoned womanly things so much as that she had made a choice that left no room for them. But now, suddenly, there was a veritable flood of womanliness that had swept her up and was carrying her off, and she watched the banks of simple practicality rushing past, out of reach, as Cataruna and Gynath and all the women of Lleudd’s court descended on her, determined to “make her over.”

  She understood that this was needful. She could not turn up at the High King’s stronghold in her armor and tunic and trews. And if she did not act like a queen she would have ridicule for her portion. If she did not look like one, well . . . not only ridicule, but perhaps even scorn.

  She hated it. But she threw herself into it with a will. There was no turning back now, and hard as this was, it had been far more difficult to become a warrior. She had discipline, and she applied it as firmly as she had ever applied herself to learning a weapon, or to ride.

  The women began with her hair, which seemed a logical way to start.

  She had not chopped hers off short, as Braith had, because it tended to behave itself if properly braided, and what was as important, it made a good padding under a helm. But now it was unbraided and brushed until her head was sore, and washed first in lime-water to make it even paler than it had been, then in rainwater. Then she had to lie with it spread out while it dried. They did all this several times over the course of a week. She got very tired of it by the second round.

  With all this came several sorts of baths. Now, as a whole, she enjoyed baths. But she did not really enjoy being bathed, then oiled, then bathed again, then oiled again, then bathed for a third time and rubbed down with perfumes while there was a woman on each hand and each foot, tsking and fussing over the toes and fingers.

  When they were done with the bathing, and her hair was finally pale and silky enough to make them happy, it was time for the final step in the process. It was braided up, but no, not in her sensible single plait. Now it was braided in two, hanging down on either side of her face, braided with gold cord, which seemed a shocking waste of gold to her, then the bottom third of the braids were wrapped in a bit of fine cloth, and that, in turn, was held in place by a criss-cross of more gold cord. The braids hung heavily from her temples and made her head ache.

  Why couldn’t she just keep it loose, like every other maiden she’d seen?

  Evidently because that wasn’t what a king’s daughter did.

  She liked to keep her breasts bound—not flat, and not tight, but enough so that they didn’t get in the way or move about and cause problems.

  Well, that, it seemed, was completely out of the question. Her breasts were to be . . . prominent, and she found herself with braids and breasts encumbering her and making it impossible to move quickly.

  Then there was the new clothing to get used to.

  Oh, she was not averse to wearing a gown now and again, provided it was one that was comfortable, easy to move in.

  Well.

  First, a whole new wardrobe had to be constructed. The women did this at breakneck speed, while her hair and body were being scrubbed like a fish being descaled. The new wardrobe began with the linen chemise, of which she had three. They were fine; they were quite comfortable and very soft and lovely on her almost-raw skin. She would have enjoyed them except that they gave no support to her breasts whatsoever. Then came the undergowns, with tight sleeves—so tight she could never have drawn a bow or swung a sword or an ax in the wretched things. That was not
fine. It didn’t at all matter that they were of a perfectly lovely linen and wool mixed, as soft as the chemise. It didn’t matter that they had grand bands of embroidery of a sort she could never do herself. It didn’t even matter that every woman who looked at them sighed with naked longing. Because they were an absolute horror to wear.

  Nor was it fine that they dragged on the ground behind, making them exceedingly impractical anywhere outside. Still, she could kirtle them up . . .

  But then there were the overgowns, with wider, shorter sleeves and more bands of heavy embroidery on them. They were just wide enough that she had to try to keep the edges of the sleeves from drooping into things and getting filthy.

  And last of all came the wide, embroidered belt, that she was supposed to tie as tightly as possible to show off her small waist and push up her breasts (though it gave them no support at all), from which dangled keys, a knife for eating, pouches for this and that—

  On top of all this there was the mantle, which was not a practical cloak, oh no, but a great awkward rectangle of fabric that she was supposed to drape becomingly about her waist, and arms, and sometimes over her head.

  Finally, as a last insult, a fur-lined overmantle she was supposed to pin at the shoulders over this entire mess of cloth; it didn’t even close properly at the front, so she would stew at the back and freeze at the front.

  So there were all these swaths of cloth to manage, and the tight arms of the undergown, and the dangling bits on the belt, and it seemed as if she was catching some part of the outfit on something whenever she moved. She had never felt so sorry for other women in her life. She felt even sorrier for herself.

  Nevertheless, she was a king’s daughter and a war chief, and she was not going to allow herself to be defeated by mere fabric.

  So she did what anyone with sense would do. She put it all on and practiced. Practiced walking, walking quickly, moving about indoors and out, maneuvering around furniture, eating, carrying things—she couldn’t possibly do most of the household chores that other women did in this stuff, but, then, she wouldn’t have to. Cooking, cleaning, all that would be done for her. The High King’s queen did not even have the duties that Queen Eleri had had (and Queen Eleri had dressed much more simply, with one chemise, an overgown, and in the cold, a good heavy cloak). She even practiced some dancing, and riding—and with some teeth gritting, being carried pillion behind a rider. And the others, anxious for her success, helped her. They had some little time; although the High King wanted her father’s horses a great deal, he was less anxious to leap into a third marriage, and so the negotiations and bargaining went on through the autumn, and only concluded when the first snow fell. So she would go to the High King as his new bride a bare four months after the death of his second.