Gwenhwyfar

by Mercedes Lackey

  It had been three days. That was a cold sort of comfort. The more time that passed, the more chance there was for her friends to rally to her side. The more time that passed, the farther away Lancelin would get and the more likely that Arthur’s anger with him would cool a little. The only thing that worried her was—time was also on Medraut’s side.

  She had to fight with herself constantly, every waking moment, not to break down completely; this was like the conflict with Medraut in a way, and she dared not show any weakness, not if she was going to be taken seriously. It was worst on waking, for her dreams were full of Lancelin; in her dreams she was back in their sanctuary, held joyfully in his arms, and when she woke to find herself curled in the heap of straw in the mud-walled hut, the pain of disappointment was so bitter she could hardly keep herself from crying out with it.

  Lying in the darkness, waiting for sleep, was almost as bad; that was when the doubt and the fear plagued her, dogged her every heartbeat and warned her that, no matter what, this had forever poisoned what lay between them. That nothing would ever be the same again. That forced to choose between her and Arthur, Lance would always choose Arthur.

  Those thoughts were like knives in her gut. And although those thoughts were worst at night, when she fought for sleep, they were never far away.

  So she paced, counting the paces, as she had paced in Medraut’s prison. She rehearsed what she was going to say, over and over. How she would react. What she would do—she had to take the offensive; the ground was all Arthur’s. She had to force him to react to what she said and did, not the other way around. She had to put him on the defensive.

  She was rehearsing it all for the hundredth time when she heard the bar holding her in scrape across the door of the hut. The sound made her freeze, for it was neither dawn nor dusk. She turned, slowly, to face the little wooden door.

  Two guards stood there, two of the Companions she was not familiar with. “Lady?” one said, hesitantly, peering into what must have been dark to him. His voice was very young. “Lady, you are to come with us—”

  “I am Gwenhwyfar,” she said, steadily. “Queen perhaps, war chief certainly. Not ‘Lady.’ ”

  She stalked out of the darkness of the hut and into the light, her eyes narrowed so that it didn’t blind her, her back straight as a staff. “Lead on,” she said evenly, taking in her surroundings as soon as her eyes adjusted. The island tor of the Isle of Glass loomed to her right, but it was more distant than she had thought, and all around her were the tents of a camp. This looked like a little farmer’s hut, or a shepherd’s, that Arthur had commandeered to hold her. So, she was not on the Abbey grounds, after all. Perhaps Arthur had wanted to put some distance between them and the Isle, for fear Gwyn ap Nudd would interfere in some way.

  Which was foolish thinking. If Gwyn wanted to interfere, not the breadth of a kingdom would prevent him from doing so.

  She eyed the guards; they were young. Very young. Evidently her good behavior had convinced Arthur that he need not put his stoutest warriors over her. They flushed as she looked them over. New armor, new tunics. With whom had they served before joining Arthur? Were they the younger sons of one of his allies? She wondered what they were thinking.

  “Well,” she said, when they didn’t move. “If you are to lead me, then do so, if you please.”

  They flushed again, and one of them made an abortive gesture in the general direction of the largest tent in the encampment, which was, of course, precisely where she would expect Arthur’s tent to be, since the encampment was laid out in the Roman style. She nodded and moved off at a deliberate pace, neither dragging her feet nor rushing. She didn’t want these boys to have even a vestige of alarm about them because she had plans of her own.

  Two more guards at the tent entrance held the flaps open for her. Just as deliberately she stalked inside and the canvas dropped in place behind her.

  Arthur waited for her inside, flanked by Abbot Gildas and his foster brother Kai and two more pairs of guards. And before any of them could move or speak, she took the offensive.

  Literally.

  She crossed the space between them quickly, while they were still reacting to her presence, and slapped Arthur as hard as she could with the back of her hand. The crack shattered the silence and shocked them all speechless. Which was exactly the way she wanted it.

  “If I had a gauntlet, it would be at your feet, husband,” she spat. “How dare you, how dare you, take exception to anything I have done, when you just spent the last seven months fornicating with my sister?”

  Arthur’s mouth dropped open in sheer shock; his eyes went wide and her handprint reddened on his cheek.

  “My sister,” she repeated, viciously, “Who also happens to be married to Medraut. While Medraut held me captive in his villa, amused himself with me whenever he chose, and you didn’t even notice the difference.”

  “Wait—” Arthur stammered. “What—”

  “Ask Abbot Gildas,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “He managed to deduce the truth without even having a decent conversation with the bitch. Or ask Lancelin—ah, no, wait, you can’t, because you wanted to kill him, so to keep from harming so much as a hair on your head, he was forced to play the coward and flee. Because he knew you’d keep throwing yourself at him in a rage no matter what we said.”

  Arthur was not a fool; she had taken him by surprise, but he recovered quickly. “What kind of idiot do you take me for with this farcical tale of a sister like enough to you to be your twin?” he began. “And married to Medraut? Lady, you strain the bounds of—”

  There was a not-very-polite cough from behind her. “I presume that you will take my word as truth?” The Lady Aeronwen said, acerbically.

  Arthur’s face took on a look of confusion again. Not because he was confused by what the Lady had said—no, it was surely because he was trying to find a diplomatic way to respond.

  Aeronwen did not give him time. “I can bring a hundred direct witnesses from Pywll, nay, more,” she snapped. “Not to mention an equal number from Lothian. Gwenhwyfar of Pywll has always had a younger sister as like to her as a twin and separated from her by less than a year. So much like her that though the brat’s given name was Gwyneth, she got the name Gwenhwyfach, and her true name was almost forgotten.”

  The number of dropping jaws around the tent far outnumbered those who could keep their countenance in the face of such information.

  “Moreover,” Aeronwen continued, “The girl was fostered to Anna Morgause and schooled by her and by Morgana in magic. She grew to womanhood in Lot’s court and wedded Medraut.” She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Arthur. Your son by Anna Morgause wedded his foster sister, Gwenhwyfar’s near twin, who was schooled in the same kind of magic his mother wielded. The same kind of magic that drew you to Anna Morgause’s bed in the first place and brought about Medraut.” The Lady stepped up past Gwen and stood in nearly the same position. “As to whether she was the one in your bed the last several months, that I cannot say. But it seems logical.”

  “And you might ask yourself—and your men—just where Medraut is now,” Gwen said angrily. “Where are his men? And you might ask yourself just what someone raised by Lot thought he was going to gain by putting his wife in your bed. And you might—”

  But she got no chance to go further with that thought, for at that moment, there was a commotion outside the tent, and someone else shoved his way in through the tent flaps.

  It was Gwalchmai, and beneath the beard and the dirt and blood, he was as white as snow. He clutched his shoulder, where red stained his armor and tunic. “The gods forgive me, Arthur—” he blurted, swaying where he stood. “Medraut—that misborn, misbegotten son of a witch and a demon—Medraut’s on the way at the head of a Saxon army.”

  For one moment, there was no sound in that tent; it was as if the world had stopped dead in shock.

  Except, perhaps, for Gwen. There was a part of her that had expected this moment, had kn
own it was coming all along, and nodded in bitter recognition of that. That was why she recovered first and whirled, her gaze stabbing one of the two young warriors who had escorted her here. “You—” she snapped. “Get me armor to fit my frame. My armor, if someone brought it here. And a sword. And most importantly, a bow and a horse of my father’s breeding—my Rhys or Pryderi, if they are here.”

  Her voice seemed to jar them all back to life. The young man gaped at her and looked at Arthur. She frowned back over her shoulder at him. “You are going to need every warrior you have, Arthur. I saw your camp; most of your warriors are not here,” she said, her tone clipped and precise. Maybe they were all doomed. Maybe they had been doomed from the beginning. But she would still fight right up to the moment that doom fell upon her. “Medraut must have been planning this for a long time. This is not a good ground to fight on; the only advantage you have is that it is equally bad for both sides.”

  Arthur looked gray, as if the ground had been cut out from under him. So Medraut’s treachery cut him deeper than her defection? Well, so be it. That was just one more indication of how little he had thought of her and what she truly was, how little he had valued it. But he had his wits about him enough to see that she was right. “Do as Gwenhwyfar commands,” he told the boy, and he turned to Kai. “Muster out the men. Send messengers. Gwalchmai, how many are there?”

  “Same as last time.” The old man—when had Gwalchmai gotten old?—clutched his shoulder as Kai pushed past him. “It’s the full Saxon army, the one that retreated when we confronted them. That encounter was just a feint to test us and get our numbers. Medraut was planning this all along, planning to get you separated from the rest of your force. We’re outnumbered, Arthur. Badly.”

  Arthur grimaced and grew paler. But he straightened, and Gwen saw that, like her, though doom fell upon them, he would fight to the last.

  “Maybe not as badly as you think.” Gwen’s mind was racing. “Let me go to Yniswitrin. I’ll see if I can call Gwyn ap Nudd out. You likely won’t get fighters out of him, but he might make a passage for yours to come quickly. There’s more than one tale of mortal armies passing through Annwn at need, and he is one of your Companions and an ally King.” Right now . . . she wished profoundly she could be the one to lead those armies here. But the King of Annwn would be the only one who could.

  “I’ll go with you,” the Lady said quickly, before Arthur could say yea or nay. “With two of us, he is less likely to refuse.”

  Arthur looked for a moment as if he were going to refuse anyway, but then he shrugged. “Whatever can be done, we must do,” he said, his face a mask of resignation.

  Gwen didn’t wait for him to change his mind. She strode out of the tent with the Lady sailing behind her.

  There were several horses tethered beside Arthur’s tent, and to her intense relief, one of them was her Pryderi, who tossed his head, whickered, and picked up his ears when he scented her. Whoever had appropriated him—well, too bad, he was going to have to find himself another mount. She ran to the picket line, pulled his reins loose, and hauled herself up into his saddle. The stirrups were set too long; she ignored them for now. The day she couldn’t sit a horse for a straight run without stirrups would be a sad one indeed. As Aeronwen stood in the path, she rode up next to the Lady, and offered her hand. Aeronwen weighed next to nothing—did the Ladies never eat?—and Gwen was able to pull her up behind with just a little grunt of effort.

  As ever, Pryderi responded as if he could read her mind; he danced a little and then leaped into a full gallop, answering her touch on the reins to arrow toward the distant isle, which rose above its perpetual mist as if it truly didn’t belong in this world. Behind her, Gwen heard the camp coming to life, shouted orders and the frantic clashing of men getting armored and armed. In her ear, she heard the Lady softly chanting. What she chanted—well, Gwen didn’t recognize it at all; it was older than any words she knew. But she felt it, felt the Power in those words, and felt that Power being drawn from somewhere ahead of them. Pryderi’s ears swiveled, then pointed ahead again. He had never been disturbed by anything; she had schooled him to that.

  They neared the mist, and the mist swelled and billowed out to meet them in a solid wall of white. Pryderi plunged into it without hesitation.

  “Slow him,” the Lady said in her ear, but she was already reining Pryderi in, lest he make a misstep, go tumbling, and kill them all. He tossed his head with rebellion, for he loved to run, but dropped immediately to a walk. The mist closed around them so thick that it was even hard to see the ground right under Pryderi. It clung to them, chill, damp, carrying with it a scent of water and green things.

  Pryderi’s hoofbeats sounded muffled, as if he walked on thick moss. Gwen looked about, and up, trying to catch the landmark of Yniswitrin, but there was nothing, nothing but mist—

  “Give him his head,” the Lady said. “Trust his instincts. If the King of Annwn is inclined to open his door to us—”

  “The King of Annwn could not fail to welcome the Lady of the Cauldron Well and the White Apparition.” Gwyn ap Nudd’s voice came calmly out of the mist ahead of them. Pryderi stopped; the mist swirled a little, then parted, and then Gwyn stepped out of it, putting one hand on Pryderi’s bridle. He looked up at Gwen. “So. Arthur needs his men. I can, and will, bring them through the doors of Annwn.”

  She let out the breath she had been holding at his answer and bowed in the saddle. “Then I thank you, Lord of Annwn.”

  He shook his head. “Do not thank me,” he said, his eyes growing dark and sad; he released Pryderi and turned back into the mist. “I do them no favors, cousin, for I bring them to their deaths.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Gwen wished that she could see Medraut’s face. From where she sat on her horse, all she could see was the suit of armor and the blank faceplate of his helmet. There was no doubt it was him, though. The helm already had a golden coronet around it. It seemed he was very confident of victory over Arthur.

  It was the first time she’d ever seen him in armor, although she had no doubt that he knew its weight well and knew the use of that sword he had strapped to his side. He had been one of Arthur’s Companions, after all, and that wasn’t just an honorary title. Medraut might avoid fighting whenever possible, but he clearly was able to give a good accounting of himself when he had to.

  But right now, he surely found himself feeling disconcerted. He had come with his army of Saxons at his back expecting to find Arthur and no more than two hundred of his warriors. Instead, he found himself facing Arthur and every fighter that could be persuaded to cross the arcane gates into and out of Annwn to be here. And for Arthur’s sake, that had been nearly all of them.

  Even Lancelin.

  Lancelin had arrived on his own, weary, on an exhausted horse. He had been taken straight to Arthur. She did not know what had transpired between the two men; she had not been privy to any of it, and he had made no attempt to seek her out, for explanations or otherwise. But Lancelin now held the left flank of the army, in his old position, as Kai held the right. Not by word or gesture had he even acknowledged that she was there, and by now, only the bands of her will held the pieces of her heart together. He had chosen. And as she had known he must, he had chosen the King.

  The armies faced one another across a watercourse barely large enough to be called a river. The timely arrival of his men had allowed Arthur to move his forces to slightly better ground before Medraut’s arrival; this place was called “Camlann,” according to the local farmer who had guided Gwen to several good places to position archers.

  But Arthur was determined to avoid a battle if he possibly could. He had hoped that a show of force would make Medraut change his mind; hoped that he could strike some sort of bargain with his son.

  So now, two armies of nearly equal size faced each other across a tiny river swollen with spring rains.

  Medraut’s face was hidden behind a faceplate of blackened metal. Arthur wor
e only the open-faced helm of a Roman soldier that he had worn all his life as a warrior. And so they are, on the field as in life. Medraut always concealing what he truly is behind a mask. Arthur never concealing anything . . .

  Except he had, of course. He had hidden so many things; his own birth had been concealed, he himself had been hidden until he had come of age to take back his father’s kingship. He had hidden the fact that he had sired Medraut, hidden that he had tried to kill the infant. Hidden that he had caused the slaughter of who knew how many others in an effort to get the one he faced now. He had hidden that Medraut was his son . . .

  So many things hidden . . .

  It was as if they had conspired together to create this very situation, making one bad choice after another. One thing she would not do—she was not going to lay this at the feet of the gods. No, this was all the doing of mortals, people who had made decisions that ranged from ill-advised to evil. Including, if she was to be honest, some of her own.

  An envoy approached Arthur’s lines, a white pennon tied to his spear. Another, sent from Arthur, met him at the edge of the river. They conferred. Arthur’s envoy returned, then came back and planted his pennon at the river’s edge.

  There was a flurry of activity, and a few moments later, Gwen felt her sleeve being pulled. She turned to see that fresh faced young man from Arthur’s entourage. He blushed; he seemed to do that a lot. “You are wanted for the parley, L—warrior,” he said, stumbling as he tried not to say “lady.” She nodded and left one of her men in charge as she joined Arthur. Who still would not look at her. Well, let him sulk. She gazed defiantly at him before following him down to the river’s edge, where Medraut already waited. The tension was intense; faces were strained, and hands hovered near weapons. It would not take much to cause these men to explode into violence.