She stood awkwardly, hands dangling at her sides. Once she would not have been able to stop herself; she would have reached for him, begged him to take that farewell back. Now?
“Then do fare well, Lancelin,” she said. He forgave us, she wanted to say. But he probably would not believe that. He was the sort that flogged himself relentlessly with his faults. “What we did or did not do changed nothing. Medraut did not conjure up that army out of nothing. He had this planned—for years, I think. If it had not been now, it would have been soon.”
Lancelin’s lips thinned a moment; then, reluctantly, he nodded. He looked up at the stone tower on top of Yniswitrin. “Do you know,” he said at last, his tone too casual, “What it was that caused the fighting to break out?”
“I was too far away to see. Only, there was a shout, and I think someone drew a sword—”
“When your sister struck you, half the men were ready to charge. It only needed an excuse. Someone saw a snake and drew his sword to slay it.” He shook his head. “And someone saw the sword drawn and shouted treachery. That is what makes me think you are right. Nothing we did or did not do made any difference. This was a mighty storm, and we were but reeds in its path.” He looked back at her. “I am going away. I am not sure where, just yet. Somewhere I can find some peace, I hope.”
She closed her eyes against the pain in his. “I hope so too, Lancelin. Fare you well.”
She kept them closed for a moment as a single tear forced its way beneath the lid of her right eye and moved down her cheek. If there was still anything, any spark in those ashes, he would see that tear, and he would touch it, or kiss it away, and—
But there was no touch, not of finger nor of lips. And when she opened her eyes again, it was to see his figure riding away, back as straight as a staff, yet head bowed beneath burdens he would not let go. It seemed too cruel that he was haloed by the sunlight of a perfect, peaceful day.
She wiped the tear away herself and walked to the little dock. The mist eddied and billowed over the lake, now showing, now hiding, the farther shore.
“And what will you do now, fair cousin?”
Somehow she was not surprised to find Gwyn standing beside her, though she had heard no one approach.
And that was when she realized what made her feel so hollow and so lost inside, so empty, and so broken. For the first time in her life, she had no direction, no purpose, and no certainty. She was a boat adrift, with no paddle and no tiller. “I don’t know,” she replied, and she closed her eyes on grief. “There seems no place and no need for me now.”
He considered that in silence. “Have your hands lost their skill with blade and bow?” he said, finally.
“I don’t—I don’t think so.” Yes, she did have that. And in the chaos that would come now, there would surely be a use for such skills. “But who would take me? I betrayed Arthur—”
“Those who are well aware you did nothing of the sort?” Gwyn replied. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face inland. “Look there. That peaceful Abbey of the Christ followers. The Saxons too follow that path and will leave them in peace, but there are those who will not, who will hear tales of wealth and think it is the wealth of gold and silver, and not of wisdom. They will need a strong hand to help protect them. And look there.” He turned her a little, aiming her at that hidden place that held the School of the Ladies and the Cauldron Well. “The Old Ways will die unless someone finds a way to hide them among the New. And the old queen, who is now called Sister Blessed, she would do that if she knew it was needed, for it was the Ladies who welcomed her as well as the Abbot. Or—” And now he turned her to face the mist. “—Or you can join my folk in Annwn. You will not be the first to join us, nor the last. And there is use for you there, as well. Or you can go into the wilderness and make a hermitage for yourself. Or return to your father and serve him and your sisters. Many choices are yours, more than most have now.”
He turned her to face him. “You have work, cousin. But you will have to make it for yourself. You no longer serve anyone for the moment; you are your own master.”
So there it was. Be careful what you ask for—it might be what you get. Hadn’t she longed for just that in the days after she had escaped from Medraut? She was her own master.
Her mind stirred, moved again, turning like an old mill wheel too long left idle. Not her father; he had done well enough this long without her, and she could prove a liability, even a danger. There were men, like King March, who would hear of her being there and want to take and conquer her just to be known as the man who “owned” Gwenhwyfar. She would not bring that down on those she loved.
And not a hermitlike existence either. That would drive her mad.
But here . . .
Gwyn had said that he thought there was a purpose for her, past being a mere warrior. The Folk of Annwn had answered to her call. The Ladies themselves came out to defend her.
Abbot Gildas called her friend.
She could be the bridge between the old and new. She was, perhaps, the only one who had all the skills and all the friends, to do so. She could not make Arthur’s dream of one kingdom come true in this lifetime, but she could plant the seeds for it to grow when the time was right.
A lightness began to trickle into that emptiness inside her. “There is much that can be done here,” she said slowly.
Gwyn nodded. “Yes, there is.”
She took a deep breath and felt her spirit come back to life. “Then it is time to start doing it.”
Afterword
I think every fantasy writer decides at one point or another to tackle “the matter of Britain,” otherwise known as the legend of King Arthur. The genesis of my own stab at this came when I was looking into Welsh legends and came upon the curious Triad of “The Three Guineveres.” Triad 56 of the Trioedd Ynys Prydein, translated as “The Triads of the Island of Britain,” lists the “Three Great Queens” of Arthur’s court.
Three Great Queens of Arthur’s Court:
Gwennhwyfar daughter of Cywryd Gwent,
And Gwenhwyfar daughter of Gwythyr son of Greidawl,
And Gwenhwyfar daughter of (G)ogfran the Giant.
[Trans. By Rachel Bromwich]
Well that certainly piqued my curiosity, as did the mention of yet another “Guinevere,” the “False Guinevere” or Gwenhwyfach, translated as “Little” or “Lesser” Guinevere. She is often said to be the bastard daughter of King LLuedd Ogrfan Gawr, or Ogrfan the Giant, born on the same day as her sister.
Yet another triad, Triad 53, describes the “Three Harmful Blows” of Britain and states that the third was when Gwenhwyfach struck Gwenhwyfar and caused the battle of Camlann.
And last of all I found this extremely interesting item in my researches, three stanzas found by Jenny Rowland: “in the margin of the Dingestow 8 copy of Ymddiddan Arthur a’r Eryr (Aberysywyth, National Library of Wales, MS 5268, p. 461).”
[Gwenhwyfar speaks:]
Arthur fab Uthr of the long sword
I will say to you ?now/sadly the truth:
there is a master over every strong one.
[Arthur speaks:]
Gwenhwyfar you are ?Gwenh[w]yfach.
I have never been healed of love-sickness for you.
Medrawd is dead. I myself almost.
A surgeon has never seen a scar
where Caledfwlch [Excaliber] struck once:
I have struck Medrawd nine times.”
Now when you add in all the times that Guinevere seems to have been kidnapped, wandered away, run off with someone (not usually Lancelot!) and otherwise had any number of wild excursions, this seems a rather too active life for any one woman. Then you look at the places where she is childless, has one son, twin sons, and wonder which is true. And finally looking at how she supposedly died—where she is buried with Arthur or somewhere else, is killed by Arthur after running off with Melwas, gets married (by force or willingly) to Mordred, becomes a nun, or dies of a broken he
art after Kai kills her son (or sons), I began to form a picture in my mind of not one, but three queens by that name.
Now I am not even going to pretend to be a Welsh/Celtic scholar, and I freely admit I made most of this up out of the little bits and pieces I found above. In my mind, I fastened on the third Guinevere, and I could easily see a scrappy fighter, much younger than Arthur, reluctantly wedded to a king quite old enough to be her father, as part of a bargain and power play—but who, schooled early on in the discipline and duty of princes, intended to make the best of it she could. And since the road to hell is paved with good intentions . . .
Therein lies the tale. I hope you enjoyed it.
1 Coming soon from DAW Books
Gwenhwyfar Page 38