Gwenhwyfar

by Mercedes Lackey

  But the second Gwenhwyfar’s betrayal was because he loved her. He does not love me. He does not even want me.

  And she was not going to lie here and try to counter all those things. Not though Arthur had “betrayed” her—because he surely could not have been so blinded by Gwenhwyfach that he didn’t realize she wasn’t his wife. Not that Arthur could be persuaded, she was sure, to give her up, so long as he could keep his precious horses.

  Instead she stopped his protests with her lips and built the fire anew.

  As dawn grayed the sky, she woke, and she knew they should move on, of course. They should leave this place in the first sun of the morning, and they should ride straight to Arthur’s villa. She knew it as the thin light of dawn penetrated the trees and filtered gently in through the broken wall of the house. She knew it as she listened to the birds sing, as she lay with her head propped up on one hand, watching him sleep. If they left now, they could pretend to themselves that last night had been a moment’s madness, the lust that came after battle. They could pretend to forget all the things that had been said, half said, and unsaid between them. If they left now, it would all be over, and she would go back to her joyless couplings, and he would slake his needs with whatever lady of the court or serving wench was willing.

  And that . . . would be unbearable.

  She considered her options, looked over what could be done as if she were planning a battle. A battle? No, a war. This would be a campaign. She would need to persuade so many people of so many things. First of all, the Ladies, that she would never, ever bear Arthur an heir because if it had not happened by now, it was never going to. For that matter . . . once she told them of her captivity, it would be obvious that for whatever reason, the fault was with her, for certainly, Medraut would have sired a child on her by now if it had been possible. She would have to open the whole sordid tale to the Ladies and show them what a threat Medraut was to the Old Ways. And maybe Morgana too, though that would be harder. Morgana had done nothing overtly, and even though she had pledged herself to Morrigan of the Dark Moon, that alone did not make her a traitor, either to Arthur, or to the Old Ways. The Goddess had both a Dark and a Shining face, and it was wise to never forget that.

  And then . . . she had to expose Medraut and her sister for what they were and what they had done before Arthur himself and his entire court and Companions. Arthur’s blood he might be, but he could not be Arthur’s heir. She would have to find proof of what he had done. She couldn’t do that without still being queen, so . . . persuading Arthur to put her aside would have to wait until Medraut was no longer a threat and Gwenhwyfach was properly dealt with and confined by the Ladies where she could no longer harm anyone.

  Then, once that was all sorted out, she had to explain her situation to her sisters. And her father. And, finally, Arthur himself.

  She almost groaned at the thought of what it was going to take. It could be a year—more—until she and Lancelin were free to be together. But she was a king’s daughter and the wife of the High King, and the good of the land and the people came before her own desires. This land must be made safe from Medraut. A new bride for Arthur must be found—one who could be as compliant and complacent as he desired. Yes, even if she were a follower of the Christ priests. Unlike the Ladies, after knowing Gildas—and after having the Abbot himself come so gallantly to her rescue!—she was by no means convinced that their way was at odds with the Old Ways. Did they, too, not have a Lady that they served? Their god too had died and returned.

  Oh, this could take months. A year. A year in which every moment of every day must be spent in cunning, in persuasion . . . And yes, she would do this. This would serve the greatest good for the land and for the King. Even her leaving and making way for another was not entirely selfish.

  But she could not . . . she could not face that year, without having a little joy hoarded up for herself. She needed this; she needed this in ways she had not even been able to imagine before last night.

  Besides . . . she looked at Lancelin, at the shadows under his eyes, at the deep bruises on his chest and stomach, at the half-healed wounds on arms, shoulders, and hands . . . he needed this too. Not just the love, he needed the rest. Arthur was hard on his Companions, but Lancelin was harder still on himself. How long had it been since he had actually taken the time to heal? Too long, by the look of things.

  So they would not be leaving this morning. And not for several more mornings.

  She put her head back down on his chest, let the morning light creep across their bodies and warm them, and drifted off to sleep again in its embrace.

  She sat, drooping a little, on the pallet. “I can’t,” she said, quietly but firmly. “I cannot ride today and maybe not tomorrow. I haven’t ridden in over a year. My hips feel as if they have been dislocated, and if I get back on Idris today, I am going to be half crippled.” That was not even a lie—and not much of an exaggeration. “And look at you—” She gestured at him as he stood half clothed in front of her. He was the very image of the Young God to her at that moment—haloed with sunlight, motes of dust drifting about him. She fought back desire that made her body ache and concentrated on winning him. “What if Medraut ambushes us? You are in no fit shape for a fight.”

  He opened his mouth to protest. She gave him a measuring look. “Be honest,” she warned. This was Gwenhwyfar the warrior, speaking to Lancelin the warrior, and he recognized it as such.

  He shut his mouth. Looked at her with longing that made her feel warm inside. He heard the warrior and wanted the warrior-woman. She seized on his hesitation and capitalized on it. “I need rest,” she said, plaintively. “So do you. And who is being harmed if we take it?” She watched his hesitation fading.

  “What about warning Arthur?” he asked, biting his lip.

  “Medraut—”

  “Medraut dares not make a move against Arthur until he knows where I am and whether I am alive or dead.” She had thought about this long and hard; and truly, if there had been danger that Medraut would act, she would be on that wretched horse this moment. “Gwenhwyfach will probably flee when she knows I have escaped, and even if she does not, Medraut does not dare leave her there for fear of what will happen to her when I do appear. I do not think he trusts her because I do not think he trusts anyone. He won’t risk her betraying him. Arthur is in no worse danger if we remain here long enough to heal.”

  “But how do we explain taking so long to return to Celliwig—”

  She chuckled. “We were pursued. We were elf-led. We were just plain lost. You were wounded. I was ill or injured. It doesn’t matter. There is no one to dispute what we say.”

  He sighed, and his expression turned wistful. “There is truly no danger to Arthur?”

  She bit back a sharp retort. Are you more in love with Arthur than with me? It was unfair, unkind . . . and yes, it was somewhat true. The bond that tied him to Arthur was complex. Worship of the office and the man, admiration, friendship, a kinship of spirit . . . yes, it was love. He had loved Arthur long before he had met her. He would love Arthur without regard to Arthur’s flaws. And while she could not help but feel more than a little jealous, this was something that men did, felt. They needed this. Perhaps it was the way that they saw the reflection of the gods on earth in their earthly brothers.

  Even Gildas’ monks felt this same passion for their Abbot.

  She had seen this many, many times in her men—mostly for her father, sometimes for their war chiefs, and occasionally for her.

  So she could and would feel the pain of jealousy, but it was a foolish, stupid woman who thought to take this from the heart of her man. As well to cut off what made him a man.

  “I have seen no visions,” she said, patting the pallet, so that he finally sat beside her. “I cannot say for certain. But this is what I am sure of, based on what I know of Medraut and of my sister.” The memory of Medraut sitting beside her as she struggled with the haze of his potions made her feel like vomiting. “M
edraut talked a great deal to me. Talked at me, that is—”

  He interrupted her, cupping a hand to her cheek. “Don’t think about it,” he said urgently, and then kissed her. “As long as Arthur will be safe while we tarry a little—then tarry we will.” He kissed her again, this time, lingering, his hand straying from her cheek to her breast. “Now . . . let me drive his shadows from your heart.”

  The fire rose between them again, and she lost herself in it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  They lingered seven days. Seven days that would have been utterly blissful had they not been overshadowed by the knowledge that these days would come to an end, that they would have to return to Arthur and the Companions and pretend that nothing whatsoever had happened between them. If it were not for that, she would have been happier than she had ever been in her life.

  Seven days, during which she was more completely herself than she had ever been since her childhood. Seven nights so full of love speech and lovemaking it seemed as if she were packing enough loving moments for a lifetime into those warm, honeyed nights. They confided secrets, revelations, history, and memories, and then between them, they made more.

  She learned that he had been raised by one of the Ladies who said she was his guardian; he had no reason to doubt her, since there was not the slightest resemblance between her and him. She had him trained in all the arts of war, then sent him on his way with armor, sword, and horse, giving him directions to Celliwig, when he was twenty. There he became one of Arthur’s Companions; not the first, but soon the closest, for of all of the Companions, Lancelin’s education most closely matched Arthur’s, and they spoke the same language. He had remained the closest until the second Gwenhwyfar; then the estrangement began. And she could tell it hurt—hurt then, and still hurt. She did her best to soothe that hurt, but there was no denying that what she and he had was going to drive another wedge into the widening breech between him and the High King.

  The most ordinary act took on weight and meaning when they shared it. She laughed more than she had in ten years. But at the end of the seventh day, he began packing up their things, and although her throat ached with sudden sorrow to see him do so, she did not protest. All things had to end; there was even a tiny leavening of relief that now the dread of ending was over. By now, Medraut knew he could not recapture her. By now, Gwenhwyfach must know she had escaped. Gwen and Lancelin needed to find out what both of them were doing and then put their own campaign into motion. If they were to have a life together, it would have to begin by giving each other up for a time. Even though she ached so much she felt as if she were bleeding from every pore.

  So, at dawn on the eighth day, Lancelin saddled Idris and loaded him with their scant property. Wearing the looted shirt, breeches, and boots, Gwen helped him. And when everything was ready and they had led Idris out into the meadow, they turned back for a last look at the place that neither of them wanted to leave.

  She felt a heavy weight of grief settle over her, and a lump formed in her throat. She fought back tears with every particle of will and determination that she had mastered over the years, but her heart felt as if it were going to burst with sorrow. The time ahead, when she must never look at him, never touch him, never give a sign of her love, stretched out like a road of ashes that she would never see the end of. She wanted to throw herself down on the ground and wail, or grab him and beg him to come with her, far away, anywhere—

  But if she did that, if they did that . . . it would be the murder of part of themselves. Duty and responsibility had made them what they were. Could they still love each other when they both would have betrayed that? Would they be the same people? And even if they were, knowing that they had forsaken that, there must then always be the doubt, the wonder, if they would forsake each other . . .

  No, they must endure this. And she must endure it without weeping. She must have let a single sniff escape, though, for in the next moment, he had wrapped his arms around her. She turned her face into his chest and gave herself a single moment of weakness.

  “This is the hardest thing I have ever done, to go back to him, after—” Her eyes burned with tears. She blinked them back.

  “I know,” he murmured into her hair. “And to see you, and not be able to touch you—it will be like death, a thousand times a day. But I will never leave you. Even if all I can do is look at you, I will never leave you. I love you, Gwen.”

  “Oh, how very touching.”

  The sarcastic voice, hatefully familiar, cut across the clearing.

  She felt as if someone had dropped her into the heart of winter. Her pulse fluttered erratically, and she felt sick as she slowly turned her head.

  Just where the path they were going to take began, Medraut stepped out from under the trees, sword held loosely in his hand, wearing a carelessly sardonic expression. Except for one thing. His eyes were furious. Gwen stared at him, mind going numb but her own hand reaching for her sword. With almost the same motion, she and Lancelin drew their weapons and stood side by side, prepared to defend each other.

  “How charming,” Medraut sneered. But as his eyes rested on Gwen, she clenched her hand on her sword hilt. He was never, ever going to forgive her this. “How delightful. You love each other. And how long, I wonder, have you been so enamored? Months? Years? What a lovely couple you make. Don’t they, my King?”

  To Gwen’s horror, Arthur stepped out of the shadows to stand beside him.

  And so did an entire half-circle of warriors, all of Medraut’s brothers among them. She felt choked; she could scarcely breathe.

  Arthur’s face was black with rage, but he said nothing. Perhaps he was too furious to speak. And all that Gwen could do was stare, helplessly, all of her plans in ruins at her feet.

  There was only one thing she thought she could salvage from the wreckage. He can’t charge us with treason. We never conspired to take his throne. Not like the last wife—

  “So, when were you planning to take the High King’s throne along with his wife, Lancelin?” Medraut asked, poisonously, as if he was reading her mind. He smiled at her, his eyes dancing with malice.

  “Never.” Her heart thrilled with pride at the steadiness of Lancelin’s voice. “I never wanted a throne, not Arthur’s nor that of any other king.”

  “Ah, but the wife?” Medraut grinned. But that grin goaded her as nothing else had until now. That hateful grin—she had been forced to suffer it for months, that grin that said I won, you lost, and there is nothing you can do about it.

  Her mind unfroze as a flash of rage fired it, and in a flash, she assessed the situation. They—well, Lancelin—had one chance to escape this. He was a superb horseman. She had seen him leap into the saddle and ride off at full gallop. If he did that now, no one would be able to stop him. The warriors around them were carrying bows, but they had swords in their hands, not the bows. They were also, some of them, still in a state of shock and disbelief; and many were his friends, and for the moment, they would hesitate to attack him. He could get away as long as he didn’t hesitate or pause for anything. If he stayed long enough to pull her up behind him, though—

  “Lance,” she whispered urgently, making sure not to move her lips too much. “Get on Idris and get out of here.”

  Shock at her words made him glance down at her, though he did not move his head. “But—”

  “Leave me.” She made it a command. “He’s not thinking, and he won’t, Old Stag that he is, while the Young Stag stands before him. He’ll never listen to anything as long as you stand here. He’ll challenge you, and you’ll either let him kill you or kill him yourself. There’s no other outcome for this.”

  If he kills Arthur, he’ll never be able to look at me again without thinking of that. And if Arthur kills him, I will follow. She heard the breath catch in his throat. He loved Arthur; still loved Arthur. “Go!” she hissed. “He won’t harm me. He’ll lose the Ladies and my father if he does.”

  Though Arthur might not be a
ble to think at this moment, Lancelin certainly could, and her logic was inescapable. With an inarticulate cry of grief that wrung her heart and made a sob catch in her throat, he leaped into the saddle with a single jump. Idris, well used to what this meant, reared a little and plunged toward an opening in the line. The warriors, caught off guard, or perhaps not really wanting to try to stop him, did not react in time. He flashed between them and was gone.

  With a look of contempt at Medraut that should have blasted him on the spot, Gwen tossed down her sword.

  And waited for them to take her prisoner.

  She paced the tiny, dark hut that they had locked her into. Ironic that they had brought her here, to Glastonbury Abbey. But Abbot Gildas had interceded again, so she’d heard; she didn’t know first hand, of course, since she hadn’t been allowed to see anyone but her guards, but that explained why she was here rather than at Arthur’s stronghold. That good old man was still honoring their friendship; she hoped he wouldn’t lose by it.

  The hut walls were not that thick, and the guards gossiped; she heard practically every word they said. Arthur was incoherent with anger. There was no word of Medraut. There was no word of Lancelin either, which she took as a good sign. The guards didn’t know what Arthur planned to do with her—

  Well, he could plan all he wanted to, but that did not alter the law. It was not yet treason for a woman, even a queen, to take a lover. She could, if she chose, even make the argument that she had only done so to give him an heir . . . and between bouts of weeping, she toyed with that idea. But it would be a lie, and she decided against it. She was done with lying to Arthur to save his pride.

  They’d brought her a gown. She’d refused to change into it. She had no intention of surrendering her identity as a warrior a second time. She did behave herself honorably, otherwise. She did not rush the guards that brought her food and water and took away the bucket. She did not insult them, nor shout at them, nor demand anything of them. She stood quietly in a corner, let them come and do what they needed to do at dawn and dusk, and spoke only when she was spoken to. And yes, she wept, she had cried until her eyes were sore and dry and her cheeks sore and her nose sore and red with weeping, but she had done so silently. If—when—Arthur finally confronted her, she was going to force him to acknowledge what she was. In no small part because that was what Gwenhwyfach was not.