by Joan Wolf
She was pale beneath the light tan, but her voice was composed. This was clearly a subject she had thought out long ago. “Why, Morgan?” He asked the question that he had long wondered at. “Why wouldn’t you marry him? Ten years ago, I could understand it. But now . . . Arthur has the church in his pocket. There would have been no trouble.”
The faintest quiver passed over her face, but her voice was steady. “I cannot have children” she said.
“Ah . . . ” It was a long, drawn-out note of comprehension and compassion. “I see” he said, and drew her to her feet and then into his arms.
She rested against him, the top of her head not reaching as high as his shoulder. “You know him too, Cai.” Her voice was a little muffled by his chest. “He is a king. About some things he is intensely possessive. He can’t help it; it’s in his nature.”
Cai held her close, felt the warmth and tenderness of her body against his, thought of Arthur, and knew she was right.
Chapter 22
THERE was the flare of torches in the courtyard of the praetorium and then the clatter of hooves on stone.
“The king is back!” Word ran like wildfire through the house and the stables, and men came running to take the horses. The December night was cold and breath hung white in the air as the men moved into the house. The horses were led away and quiet fell on the courtyard once more.
Inside the praetorium, servants ran to and fro. Food was ordered to be served in the king’s private rooms for Arthur and Prince Bedwyr. Then Gareth went running to summon Lionel and Valerius from the army encampment. Cai had already joined the king and Bedwyr. The food was removed and the five men sat down to talk.
Gwenhwyfar paced her room impatiently. News of Arthur’s return had reached her, but he had not come to greet her. The servants had said he wanted to see Cai and Lionel and Valerius.
Gwenhwyfar told herself she understood. Arthur and Bedwyr were returning from a meeting with Offa of Kent. They had met to discuss the terms of a treaty that would carve distinct boundaries for the Saxon kingdoms within Britain. It was a meeting of momentous importance for all of Britain; of course Arthur would want to inform his men about what had happened.
He had been gone for weeks. He would come to her as soon as he finished with the men. She knew that. Suddenly, however, she could not wait.
“Olwen, get me my cloak,” she said in her most imperious voice. Olwen looked surprised but made no comment as she handed the queen a deep green cloak and watched as Gwenhwyfar flung it around her shoulders. The queen turned to take a quick, cursory glance in the mirror.
“Shall I come with you, my lady?” the girl asked.
“No.” Gwenhwyfar swept regally to the door. Then, over her shoulder: “I am going to the king.” The door closed behind her.
The four girls left behind looked at each other. Then Elaine said, “Bedwyr is back too.” She went to look in the queen’s mirror.
Olwen sighed. “I hope the king’s return improves my lady’s temper.”
“She has missed him,” Cara said softly.
“Yes.” Olwen turned her head. “Elaine, get away from that mirror. No matter how much you preen, you’ll never be as beautiful as the queen.”
“But the queen already has a husband,” Elaine said complacently as she came back to pick up her sewing.
“Stay away from Bedwyr, Elaine,” Olwen warned. “The prince has no mind to marry.”
Elaine smiled secretly. “We shall see,” she returned.
Cara said, “Olwen, tell us a story.”
The guard at Arthur’s door admitted Gwenhwyfar immediately. She stood for a moment on the threshold, looking at the lamplit room with the five men seated in a circle at the far end of it, and her poised exterior masked inner uncertainty. Perhaps she ought not to have come.
Five male heads turned to her. Arthur recognized her first and, with the courtesy Merlin had drilled into him, rose to his feet. The rest of the men followed suit immediately. “Gwenhwyfar,” her husband said, the faintest note of surprise in his voice.
She came one step into the room. “I heard you were home . . .” Her voice trailed away and then he was smiling and holding out his hand, and she knew it was all right.
“Come join us and hear all about our momentous meeting with the bretwalda.” There was no extra chair in the room, so he moved a stool close to his own chair and Gwenhwyfar sat down. She looked around the circle of faces and smiled.
Bedwyr’s eyes held hers for the longest, and he gave her the sweet lazy grin she was so fond of. The smiles of Lionel and Valerius were slightly fatuous. Only Cai appeared to be unmoved by her presence. He nodded to her with calm courtesy and looked again at Arthur.
“As I was saying,” Arthur recapitulated for the benefit of his wife, “there was a great deal of discussion about the safest place to meet. We decided at last upon the Isle of Wight.” The faintest amusement colored his voice. “That way, neither of us could have armies bent on assassination hidden in the woods.”
Cai grunted. “Makes sense.”
“Yes. Both parties crossed to the isle by separate boats and we met in a tent on the shore.”
“Whom did Offa bring with him?” Cai asked.
“Three of his brothers. And a bodyguard of five other warriors. They were all unarmed, of course. I only had Bedwyr, but he was more than sufficient.”
There was a pause. Cai looked from Arthur to Bedwyr. “All right,” he said resignedly. “What happened?”
Arthur’s face was very grave. “Offa challenged Bedwyr to arm-wrestle with him.”
“Arm-wrestle?”
“You’re familiar with the sport?” Arthur asked. He was obviously enjoying himself.
“Yes,” Cai replied, and looked sourly at Bedwyr. The prince’s blue eyes held a distinctly wicked sparkle. There was not a man in the army, Cai included, whom Bedwyr had not beaten in arm-wrestling. Many times.
“It seems that Offa had heard of our hero’s prowess,” Arthur continued smoothly, “and was anxious to test Bedwyr’s reputation himself.” Arthur looked at his wife’s wondering face. “Offa,” he explained, “is built like an oak tree.”
“He is indeed.” Cai had seen the bretwalda in battle many times. He stared at Bedwyr. “Well,” he demanded, “did you beat him?”
Bedwyr raised a golden eyebrow. “Of course I beat him. I beat his brothers too. I offered to take on the bodyguard, but at that point they were convinced.”
Cai began to laugh. “Precisely,” said Arthur, and his own voice was filled with amusement. Gwenhwyfar looked from Cai to Bedwyr and then turned her head to regard her husband. It was only when he was with these two friends that she saw this easy, humorous, approachable side to him.
“So then,” Arthur continued, “having established the most important point of business, we proceeded to discuss a treaty.”
“So that’s why you took Bedwyr!” Cai suddenly exclaimed, enlightenment dawning in his hazel eyes. Arthur’s choice of the prince to accompany him to the treaty negotiations had bewildered a great number of people, Bedwyr not precisely being famous for his diplomatic talents.
Arthur grinned. “Of course. I didn’t know about the arm-wrestling, but I did know that Bedwyr is the single most feared man in all our army. Offa has been on the receiving end of too many of Bedwyr’s mad-dog cavalry charges not to know just how dangerous our prince can be.” The gray eyes looked with affection at the big golden man sitting next to him. “Just having him there, looming beside me, was a potent reminder to Offa that it was in his best interests to negotiate a treaty.”
For the first time Lionel spoke. He said to Bedwyr, “It’s a good thing you didn’t lose.”
Bedwyr was unperturbed. “I never lose,” he replied, a statement which no one challenged, as it was all too depressingly true.
Cai returned his attention to the king. “All right,” he said briskly. “What happened next?”
The men began to talk about boundaries and access
es and safeguards, and Gwenhwyfar leaned her shoulder against Arthur’s knee and thought dreamily of how glad she was to have him home again. She did not begin to pay attention until the tones of the men’s voices changed.
“No,” Arthur was saying, “I don’t trust him.” Gwenhwyfar turned her head to look at her husband. He was frowning slightly and seemed to be completely unaware of her presence. He was talking to Cai. “We did all our negotiating through a translator. I did not tell them I spoke Saxon. And there were a few things said that I did not like.”
“Do you think he wants to lull us into a false sense of well-being?” Cai asked.
“I think that is a distinct possibility.”
“They were almost too accommodating,” Bedwyr said.
There was a little silence. Gwenhwyfar clasped her hands tightly in her lap. She had been so sure the fighting was over.
“The army is to be kept in complete readiness,” Arthur was saying. “Having come so far, I don’t want to lose all now.”
“God no!” said Lionel.
“Full drill, Valerius, for as long as the weather holds,” Arthur said. “And I will send messages to all the kings, to warn them that there is a possibility that we may be calling on them for troops once more.”
“Yes, my lord.” Valerius, son of Uther’s old general Claudius Virgilius, was in charge of the foot soldiers.
“Lionel. I want spies in Kent. More men than we have already, and deeper within the country. If there is any sign of an army being gathered, I want to know about it immediately.” Over the years, Lionel had become Arthur’s chief scout.
“Yes, my lord,” he replied promptly. “I’ll see to it.”
The men were beginning to get to their feet. Gwenhwyfar smiled courteously as they bade her good night. Then, at last, she was alone with him.
“I hope you didn’t mind my coming in on your meeting,” she said. “It’s just . . . it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”
“Of course I didn’t mind.” His voice sounded a little absent. He was still thinking about the meeting, she thought with annoyance.
“Well”—she let her annoyance show in her voice—“I’ll say good night then.”
That got his attention, she was pleased to see. “Just one moment.” He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. She stared into his face, which was now concentrated on her.
It was a face she knew so well: the light eyes, the thin, straight nose, the severely beautiful mouth. Yet she was never quite sure of what he was thinking. It was the Roman side of him, she often thought, that made him such an enigma to her. The Celts showed their feelings far more openly.
“Did I ignore you?” he was saying, and apology mingled with amusement in his voice. “I’m sorry. It’s my grandfather’s fault: he drilled it into me that duty must come before pleasure.”
“I missed you,” she said softly.
“I missed you too,” came the prompt reply. Too prompt, Gwenhwyfar thought. He sounded as if he were merely returning a courtesy. There was no love in his voice. Of course, love had not been one of the factors in their marriage arrangement. Only she . . .
“It has been a long time,” he was murmuring. His fingers brushed her cheek. “Too long.” He bent his head and kissed her. “Let’s both go to your room,” he said then, and she nodded mutely in response.
She walked beside him with studied decorum, and when they reached her rooms she dismissed her women. Then, finally, she was in his arms.
It was only at moments like this, she thought, that she was sure he needed her as much as she needed him. Please, God, she prayed as his clever hands began to arouse her to the pitch of passion, please, God, let me conceive a child.
Two weeks later, Arthur’s cousin Gawain came to Venta. Arthur was down at the cavalry school with Bedwyr, addressing some new recruits, so Gwenhwyfar received Gawain in the small official reception salon.
He was a handsome boy, she thought as she smiled at him and bade him be seated. His hair was auburn and his eyes a clear sky blue. Those eyes held a distinctly dazzled expression as he looked at her, and he was clearly feeling very shy. Gwenhwyfar, who was the same age as her husband’s eighteen-year-old cousin, had long since learned the art of putting tongue-tied young men at their ease, however, and in short order she had him talking comfortably.
“I expect you’d like to see the cavalry school,” she said finally, and rose to her feet.
Gawain’s face lit. “Oh, yes!”
Gwenhwyfar smiled. It had not taken her long to discover that all young men who visited Venta wanted to see the cavalry school. “I’ll have some horses brought around for us,” she said. “In fact, the king may even be there.”
The queen wrapped herself in a thick woolen cloak and led Gawain out into the sunshine. They rode down the main street of Venta and Gwenhwyfar pointed out places of interest along the way. The cavalry encampment was located several miles beyond the city gates, and Gwenhwyfar took Gawain directly to the big dirt ring where she thought there might be some activity for him to watch. There were indeed horses working and Gwenhwyfar directed Gawain to pull his own horse up near the rope that fenced the ring off from the surrounding area.
On the side of the ring nearest to them there was a group of young men on horseback, all of them trotting their mounts in small circles. There was another group of horses on the far side of the ring, performing some other exercise. Arthur and Bedwyr were watching from the center, both of them mounted on their own black stallions.
“These must be the new cavalry recruits,” Gwenhwyfar remarked to Gawain. “That is the king with Prince Bedwyr.” Both black stallions were standing with remarkable quietness. “The king is the one with the black hair,” Gwenhwyfar added kindly.
“I know,” said Gawain. As he spoke, one of the horses on the far side of the ring exploded out of the bending exercise he was supposed to be doing.
“Oh, dear,” said Gwenhwyfar as the horse threw its head back and reared. The man on its back swore and then used his whip. The horse, a bright chestnut, bucked. Then he bucked again, and the rider went sailing through the air. The riderless horse began to gallop around the ring.
All the other horses halted. The thrown rider got slowly to his feet. “Come here,” said the king.
The rider limped over to stand forlornly before Arthur. “Are you all right?” Arthur asked.
“Yes.”
“You are too rough. I have been watching you for the last fifteen minutes and I am only surprised that the horse did not rebel sooner.” Arthur looked around the ring. “Nor are you the only one at fault. Your horse was just more sensitive than the others.” The king was now addressing the entire group of recruits. “You must make work pleasant for a horse, or he will not want to work for you. And in the cavalry, a willing, obedient, well-trained horse is, quite literally, essential for life.”
Arthur dismounted from Dun and gave his reins to the horseless rider to hold. He then proceeded to walk up to the chestnut, which was standing now in the middle of the ring. The horse backed away but the king talked to him quietly, and when he reached for his reins the chestnut let himself be caught. There was perfect silence in the ring as Arthur mounted.
“I know you have all been exposed to the teaching of Xenophon,” Arthur said as he began to walk the horse around the center of the ring. The chestnut was still excited and pranced instead of walking quietly. Arthur patted his neck. “For a horse to be effective in battle,” Arthur continued to the ring at large, “you must have command of his haunches. Xenophon is quite explicit on that point. And in order to have command of the haunches, the horse must be completely tractable at all times. A horse that becomes excited in battle will kill you.” The chestnut was beginning to walk quietly. As he turned in their direction, Arthur for the first time noticed the presence of his wife. He lifted a hand and she waved back.
“What does Xenophon mean by command of the haunches?” Arthur asked the men in the ring.
&n
bsp; Hesitantly someone answered, “The horse must be balanced enough to go sideways as well as forward.”
“That is partly it,” Arthur agreed. “Prince Bedwyr will demonstrate what it means for you.”
Gawain watched with open mouth as Bedwyr and Sluan moved into the center of the ring. The muscles of the black stallion gleamed in the sun as he leapt in the air, kicking out with his hind legs. The demonstration took five minutes and left all the recruits, as well as Gawain and Gwenhwyfar, in a state of speechless wonder.
“Of course, not all horses are as talented as Sluan,” Arthur said pleasantly after Bedwyr had finished. “Nor are many riders as proficient as Prince Bedwyr.” The chestnut was walking with complete calm now and Arthur asked him to trot. The horse went forward freely and softly.
“Did anyone see Prince Bedwyr use his hands or his legs?” Arthur asked as he made the chestnut trot large circles.
“No, my lord,” came the uniform response.
“You will achieve nothing by force,” Arthur said. “Xenophon knew that four hundred years before Christ was born. Look at this chestnut. Is he resisting me?”
“No, my lord,” came the chorus back.
“Be soft,” said Arthur. “Never hard. Always soft. Now, let us go back to what you were doing before.”
The limping rider took Dun off to the stable and the rest of the riders returned to work. Arthur continued to ride the chestnut in ever-smaller circles as he watched the recruits. Bedwyr came over to Gwenhwyfar.
“That was a very impressive demonstration,” she said to him admiringly.
He grinned. “Arthur and I do this with every new batch of recruits. We wait until the first horse blows up, then Arthur gets on and gets him to behave like a lamb, and Sluan and I do our fanciest maneuvers. It always makes its point.”
Gwenhwyfar had begun to laugh. “Do you mean you’ve done this before?”
“Every winter for the last eight years,” Bedwyr replied amiably.