Gwenhwyfar

by Mercedes Lackey

  “And neither have I!” he began, eagerly.

  “Wait,” she had said, holding up a hand to forestall him from yet another attempt to persuade her to his way of belief. “Aside from that, now I must look to the followers of both our gods. Your own god has said that one knows the tree by the fruit it bears. Those people that heed the Druids and the Ladies, I see to be not much different from those that follow Christ. There are liars and thieves among both, kindly, honorable and wise among both, virtuous and vile in equal measure. Can you refute that?”

  He had looked as if he would have liked to, but he admitted that he could not.

  “So our peoples are not so very different. Their hearts are not so different. So—” she shrugged. “Since it is the gods that rule men’s hearts, it follows that your gods and mine are not so different. It seems to me that the faces we put on them have more to do with ourselves than with them.”

  He had looked at her with such astonishment on his face that she’d had to laugh. Eventually so did he, and gracefully he had turned the talk to more questions about the Folk of Annwn, about whom he was as curious as an eager child.

  But now he was gone, and there was nothing to make one day different from the next. She rose after sunrise. She ate. She heard what the cook would be making. She approved it. She came to the solar, to be surrounded by these fatuous women, and tried not to die of boredom. She ate. Then back to the solar. Or every other day, a bath.

  And not the efficient sort of bath she was used to, no indeed. This was a bath that took up an entire afternoon. First, she was ushered into an even warmer room, a bath in the Roman style but reserved for her and her women. This was, she was told, almost atop the furnaces that put warmth beneath the floors, and it was full of steam. There she put up with being washed with soap and cloths—as if she could not even wash herself!—and rinsed with jugs of warm water, which ran away into a drain in the floor. Then her hair was pinned up on the top of her head, and she was led like a dotard into a second room, where there was a pool—a pool!—of steaming hot water. All the ladies soaked in it together, occasionally going to a tub of cooler water, only to return to the hot one. And there they would gossip, gossip, gossip and talk of nothing but trivialities. She heard nothing of what was going on in the greater world, only endless details of dresses and love affairs. The few times she actually heard anything that did sound worth listening to, it turned out to be so distorted as to be incredible. Then, when she was sure she was going to fall asleep from boredom or the heat, came the drying, the massaging with lotions and scented oils, and at last, dressing and going to dinner. Dinner was generally in the company of the King and his Companions, but they never discussed anything worth listening to either! Oh, no, it was all pretty compliments and talk of hunts and weather—not a word of the Saxons, or King March, or anything else actually worth hearing about.

  The whole tedious business happened every other day. And she was certain that at least some of her ladies would do this every day if they could.

  This was not a bath day, so there would be no dinner with the King either. And finally fed up past bearing with the boredom, today she had ordered a servant to bring her the fletching materials from the armory. He hadn’t wanted to, but there was no reason why he shouldn’t, so at last she bullied him into it.

  At least she was getting something constructive done. She had not seen one single arrow in Arthur’s forces that was any better than hers. None of these women had ever seen fletching done, much less put feathers to arrows themselves, so there would be no undoing what she had done.

  Arthur finally had something to say to her besides a curt greeting when he turned up that night and the doors closed behind him. He looked at her, as she was waiting patiently in the far-too-luxurious bed, and frowned slightly. The bedroom was—like everything else—in the Roman style. It was long and narrow, with the bed under a vaulted ceiling at the far end. The floors were warm enough to go barefooted on them, but the alcove with the bed was a little drafty, and she pulled the fur up around her shoulders. Every night her women put her naked into this bed; every night the King turned up to perform like a bored stallion and depart.

  “I heard an odd thing from Kai, my lady,” he said, carefully, making no move to disrobe, although she was already naked beneath the covers. “This afternoon, he said, you ordered certain materials brought to you. You were . . . fletching?”

  She nodded and wondered how much of her expression he could read in the light from the single oil lamp at the bedside. “I was.”

  He paused. “I should like to know why. It seems . . . an odd occupation.”

  “Because—” she took a deep breath. “Because it was better to make arrows than to pick up small objects and begin flinging them at the heads of those vacuous, simpering, gossiping idiots that I am supposed to be polite to.”

  His mouth dropped open, and he looked at her in astonishment.

  “Husband, I am not one of these women!” she exclaimed passionately. “I was not made, nor trained, for idleness! I am a warrior, trained from childhood to be a warrior. I have not one thing in common with them. I do not believe that any of them has done a single piece of simple, practical work in all her life! They have no thoughts beyond dress and gossip. I do not find gossip to be entertaining! I am a warrior! And being caged up in these rooms, hour after hour, day after day, doing nothing with any meaning to it, hearing nothing but trivialities discussed as if they were matters of the realm, is driving me mad!”

  “I—see—” he said. Finally he walked heavily to the bedside and sat down on the foot of it.

  “Husband, I am stifled. I cannot breathe here. My clothing weighs upon me, heavier than any armor; the rooms are too warm, the food so rich it makes me ill. I feel that if I do not see the sun and feel the wind, I will lose the few wits I have left to me.” She looked at him with pleading. “Surely you can see now what is wrong.”

  And then she saw understanding dawn on him, and he smiled a little. “Yes, wife, I do see!” He picked up her hand and squeezed it. “I understand. I shall leave orders I think will please you, and I expect after such a stressful day, you will want some sleep. I shall leave you to your rest.”

  And with no other words than that, he left her. This time, without the . . . the “servicing” that was so automatic that it felt like nothing more than a tedious chore for both of them.

  Relief suffused her like the warmth from the floor. Finally, he realized what kind of a person he had taken to wife. And he was truly as good and kind a man as she had seen him be with others. She blew out the lamp and pulled the covers about her, thinking happily of the hunting she would do tomorrow and of being, at last, part of his councils.

  She awoke to silence.

  Her first thought was gleeful. He had sent those awful chattering women away! Or at least, told them to take their unwelcome company elsewhere. The servant that slept in the chamber attached to hers woke up as soon as she heard Gwen moving about and tried to put her into those maddening drapes, but Gwen sternly ordered her to find her old clothing, the tunic and trews and good sturdy boots, and though the servant protested, she obeyed. A glance while she was dressing at the light coming from the tiny window up near the top of the ceiling—after waving the servant away—told her that she had slept well past midmorning. Another sign that the gaggle of ninnies was elsewhere! She quickly tied on her boots with a happy heart.

  Silently thanking the goddesses, Epona in particular, Gwen strode cheerfully into her solar and headed for the doorway to the outer corridor, intent on getting to the stables and finding Rhys. She hadn’t seen either of her horses since she had arrived here, and of the two, Rhys was the one most inclined to be lazy when he got the chance. Probably stuffing himself on hay and congratulating himself on escaping exercise, the slothful beast, she thought happily. Time to wake him—

  She pushed open the door, and at once was stopped by a bar to her exit. “Halt!” the guard at the door said, “Boy! What are you�
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  “Boy?” Gwen slapped at the spear that had been lowered to stop her from going any further. “Alun ap Grwn, are you blind? I’m no more a boy than you are. Now enough with your nonsense. I’m going to the stables.”

  The guard gaped at her, then snapped the spear back up. His usually stolid expression was gone, replaced with utter confusion. “Queen Gwenhwyfar, I—didn’t recognize—”

  She waved the apology off. “Never mind. I’m going for a ride, and I suppose I will need an escort. Send for whoever of the Companions isn’t busy, will you, and direct him to the stable. Or better yet, go yourself.”

  “Ride?” the man replied, looking dazed. “Stable? But, Queen Gwenhwyfar, you can’t—”

  “I most certainly can,” she said sharply. “and I am going to. Now get one of the Companions to—”

  “But—there’s no one here but Kai and Medraut,” the man stammered. “And I’m under orders from the King himself. You’re not to be disturbed, and on no account I am not to let you leave—”

  The first part of his sentence was lost in the slap to the face that the second part was. She whirled on him. “What?” she exclaimed in outrage.

  “I’m not to—let you leave—your rooms?” he faltered, as she put one hand to her belt knife and stared at him, eyes blazing with rage.

  “We’ll see about that!” And with that, she headed off at an angry trot, outpacing him, as he tried to follow her, protesting every step of the way.

  She was so angry that she just shut his words out. She headed straight for the King’s privy chambers, since it wasn’t yet time for the usual audiences, nor for the Companions to gather about that famous round table. Her blood boiled. He had said that he understood! How could he—how dared he—

  Her chambers were separated from his by the courtyard; she passed along one side of it, the first time she had actually seen the sun and the open sky in days. Her breath steamed in the cold air; it felt good and clean after all the heat and perfume.

  She stormed past the startled guards on his doors, the protesting Alun right behind. The first room, where he would usually have been, sitting at a desk, was empty. There were no maps on the desk, no discarded cloak, and the mosaic floor that imitated the pool of the courtyard outside had been swept immaculately clean.

  The second room, where he usually lounged with Kai or others he considered close as kin, was also empty. The cushions were placed neatly on the Roman-style couches. There were no cups and horns waiting on the side table to be collected, no litter of food from breaking fast. And the small council chamber, with the frescos of Hercules defeating a lion, was just as empty. And his bedroom, as small as hers, was not only empty, but cold. Very empty, even of servants.

  She turned on the guards, who had followed her in. “Where is he?” she shouted.

  “G-g-gone, Queen Gw—l”

  “I can see that! Where?” If he and the Companions had gone off hunting and left before she was awake so he had an excuse to leave her behind—

  “Roughly half a day from here, more or less southwards, dear sister.”

  That was not a voice she wished to hear.

  She stiffened as Medraut strolled past the guards, a goblet held negligently in one hand. He took a sip of the contents as she stared at him, uncomprehending. Surely they were not hunting that far afield? And surely there was no need for Arthur to go visiting an ally in this weather—was there?

  “Half a day—what does that mean?” she demanded, her stomach sinking with dread. Because there was one reason why they would all have left . . .

  “Just what I said. He left this morning to join most of the Companions and the warriors. And his allies, of course.” Medraut smiled at her, evidently enjoying every moment of this.

  “Warriors—allies—why?” No. Surely not. Surely Arthur would not have—

  “The Saxons, of course. The moment they heard he’d married again, they decided to take advantage of it. Just like the last time, when they attacked in the winter. Evidently they did not learn the lesson. Or they heard that Arthur tamed the White Phantom, so now they believe it is safe to harass our border again.” His grin widened. “You’ve been carefully sheltered from all this terrible news so that you wouldn’t be upset by it. Arthur was only waiting until he was sure you were breeding to go take the field himself.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Wh—breeding?” Suddenly the conversation—or lack of it—they’d had last night all made sense. But not in the way that she’d assumed last night.

  He thought—

  “Of course, we were all sympathy when we learned of your outburst. And we agreed that it was safe enough to leave you now—not to mention that it’s very unpleasant to be around a female when she is so . . . temperamental. Women do get so emotional and so irrational when they’re breeding.” Oh how she hated the snide smile on Medraut’s face! She wanted to smash it off . . . her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. How much of that nonsense he had just spouted had he poured into Arthur’s ear? Her jaw was clenched so hard that her teeth were actually beginning to hurt, and she forced herself to relax, but her fury at both of them did not abate one bit. Of course he had taken the field himself. He hadn’t wanted her in the first place. She was only now beginning to realize just how he thought of women in general—that he had never, even with the evidence in front of him, thought of her as a warrior. Certainly he had not thought of her as the equal of one of his Companions. Bronwyn was right; though he had first seen his first wife as a warrior, she had later shown herself to him as a woman, and he had buried the warrior beneath the woman in his mind. He was not a man who could see both. And in her case, he did not want to.

  And Medraut? Medraut had encouraged him.

  “Here. Drink this, dear sister,” Medraut said, handing her the goblet. She almost dashed the contents in his face. But instead, she swallowed them in two gulps, not even tasting them, except to recognize them vaguely as mead. She thrust the cup back at him. “Your women protested that it was too early to tell, but he only smiled, and said, ‘Well, whatever else would cause a lady to suddenly demand fletching supplies and sit in her solar to make arrows? I expect her next demands will be for pickled vegetables, and stewed dormice.’ And then he laughed and appointed Kai and myself to be in charge of the realm while he was at war.” Medraut chuckled. “Such a trusting man. I suppose he thinks he’s tacitly grooming me to take Kai’s place eventually. But then, he knows that Kai will take excellent care of his queen, given her condition. And I, of course, told him that I would be sure that you had my very particular attention.”

  “He—what?” She was so enraged now that she was dizzy with it. “But I am the queen! I—” She groped blindly for the edge of the table to steady herself. She should have been the one left in charge, not Kai, and certainly not Medraut! That she had not—it was an insult past bearing.

  “Exactly, dear sister.” He laughed. Oh, how she hated that laugh! “You are only the queen. Obviously he couldn’t leave a mere woman in charge. That is hardly the Roman way—but you look ill, dear sister.”

  She held the table with both hands now, the room spinning around her.

  “You see, you have exerted yourself entirely too much. Let me help you to your chambers—” He waved off the anxious guards. “No, no, it’s quite all right. I can carry her easily.”

  And indeed, he bent a little and scooped her up as if she had been a child. He was much, much stronger than he looked. And by now, she couldn’t even push him away. Her arms and legs didn’t seem to want to work at all, and she was so dizzy that she couldn’t even get her eyes to focus.

  Her head lolled against his shoulder, and she hated, hated, the foul, possessive way his arms tightened around her. She tried to speak, but nothing would come out.

  Once more she crossed the end of the courtyard, but this time, even though she wanted to squirm out of Medraut’s arms and run away, she had to close her eyes against the way the heavens swung wildly about.

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nbsp; The chill air didn’t help, and the warmth that enveloped her once they got to her rooms only made things worse. She wanted to scream in protest as he invaded her very bedchamber, but her voice wouldn’t work. “Go get her women,” Medraut ordered the single servant, as he laid her down on her bed.

  “That didn’t take long at all.”

  That was a voice . . . a voice she should know. But it wasn’t one of her women. Gwen stared up at Medraut, and at the woman who had come to join him. A woman wearing her dress. A woman that was so like her, that Gwen seemed to be looking into a mirror. For a moment she thought, magic.

  And then her mind finally presented her with the right answer. “Hello, sister mine,” Gwenhwyfach said, and giggled, looking down at her. “What? No words of greeting?”

  Gwen’s throat worked, but nothing came out.

  “My potions have always been effective,” Medraut replied. “Because I take more care with them than my sister does.”

  “But your sister has other talents.” Gwenhwyfach reached up with a proprietary hand and smoothed Medraut’s black hair, and for one moment, his eyes flashed annoyance. She was looking at Gwen, however, and didn’t see it. “I have the cart all ready, my love. We only need to roll her up in the blankets and have your man carry her out.”

  “Good.” Medraut reached down and tilted Gwen’s chin so she was looking directly at him. “You see, dear sister, I could not take the chance that any woman the High King married actually might manage to breed Arthur an heir. I must have put together a dozen plans, depending on how important the woman was. The worst would have been one of the Ladies . . .” He made a sour face.

  Gwenhwyfach laughed. “There is no chance one of them would have given up her Power to come here!”

  “True enough.” Medraut looked down at Gwen, and she wanted to shudder at the expression in his eyes. “But when he decided to marry you, I knew I had the easiest and most elegant—and least risky—solution in my own two hands. My Gwen becomes the queen she has always wanted to be and makes sure Arthur dies childless. You will be taken away.”