Gwenhwyfar (3 page)

Oh yes, Gwen remembered now. Something about the blood being thin and only the one daughter in the line. So there it was.

Gwen envied her. It must be wonderful, to be an only child. No having to share everything. No big sisters who thumped your head nor horrible little teases of younger sisters. She’d have gotten the best of everything; only children got spoiled, everyone knew that. And now, to be marrying the High King, to be his equal in all things . . . she would have her own court; everyone knew that the power of the land went through the queen as well as the king. She was trained by the Ladies, so she would probably be the one in charge of all things having to do with the Power, subject to the Merlin, of course. She would have her own horses to ride and not have to share one elderly pony with three sisters.

And, oh, the clothing. Probably enough to fill chests and chests. She would have new clothing, not things that had been cut down from adult garments and then passed down until by the time Gwen got them, they had lost any color they had once had, and any trimming had long since been pulled off. In fact, with three sisters handing down the same clothing, it was Little Gwen who actually had the best of it, since by the time Gwen was done with what Gynath handed down to her, it was suitable only for padding, patches, and baby’s clouts. Little Gwen got true second-hand, just like the eldest of them.

There would be fur linings to that Gwenhwyfar’s cloak and hood. There would be embroidered hems to her gowns, and her shifts would be the softest lambswool and linen. She would dress like Eleri did on rare feast days, only she would do so every day, because she was High Queen. All her clothes would be colored, and she’d never have to wear anything faded or plain again. Except her shifts. Her shifts would be linen so blinding white they’d think she was a spirit. In fact . . . in fact, she would have one gown that was that white, too, whiter than snow, whiter than clouds. Everything she wore would be soft, too. No scratchy linens for her, no itchy wool.

And no shoes she had to wear three pairs of stockings with to keep them on. Shoes would be made to fit her feet, and hers alone.

She’d have the best food, too. Whatever she wanted, like as not. The best cuts of meat, the slices from the middle of the loaf, succulent cakes and pies whenever she liked. Goose, oh, lovely goose and the rich fat to dip her bread in. They’d let her have all the sweet mead she wanted. Apples, pears, plums, cherries and berries of every sort.

She would have a stable full of horses, one of every color there was. And a falcon, a real one, not just a little sparrow hawk, a real peregrine or a goshawk. And a coursing hound, with an elegant, long eared head. She would go hunting whenever she felt like it, and no one would tell her that she couldn’t.

There would be a bard all the time in the court, too, and jugglers and gleemen and all sorts of things. She could hear whatever tales she wanted, whenever she wanted, and if she woke up in the middle of the night and wanted to hear one, well, she could.

And she would, of course, have great Power and command the most serious of magic. The High Queen was also the chief of all of the Wise, and at the most important of the rituals of the year, she was the avatar of the Lady for all of the land. Gwen had seen Eleri coming back from the Great Rites, face flushed, eyes shining, exultant, and more alive than at any other time. Gwen wanted to feel like that one day.

Well, one day, she would. Eleri had promised as much. One day she, Gwen, would be leading the rituals, making the magic happen.

Suddenly, though, amidst all her envy, something else occurred to Gwen . . . would it be worth all those wonderful things to have to go far away from home? To never know if you were ever going to see your mother or father again? To have nothing around you but strangers?

Maybe . . . not.

Unable to hear anything meaningful, Gwen let the bed-curtains fall closed and wriggled closer to her sister. The bed was soft, and warmed by the heat of four bodies. They were all safe in here, and tomorrow the bird hunters were going out, and there would, almost certainly, be goose. And then there would be stories and maybe some rough music, and their visitor would talk more about magic.

And Gwen would be able to look up from her place on the hearth, look around her, and know every face in the Hall.

Maybe being High Queen wasn’t so wonderful after all.

Gwen had not
meant to overhear her mother and the priestess, indeed she hadn’t. It was a cold, bright day, and she had been given sacks of goose and swan feathers to pick over and sort, for the king and his men had gone out bird-hunting and brought back a plentiful catch. Eleri was strict about idleness; there was to be none if there were tasks to be done, and Gwen was deft enough to be trusted with this one. She wouldn’t lose a single feather, she wouldn’t sort where the wind could carry them off, and she wouldn’t leave dirt on any of them. Not even Gynath picked feathers as clean as Gwen could.

She knew better than to sort inside; a chance draft might send the precious feathers into the fire. So she circled the castle and grounds and came to one of her favorite spots, just below the window of her parents’ room, on the south wall. This spot got sun all day and was sheltered from the wind; the lush grass made a good place to sit, and no one was likely to disturb her.

So she slowly picked through the feathers. Precious down feathers went into one sack, for making the softest of pillows and featherbeds.

Body feathers went into a second, for featherbeds of lesser quality. Longer feathers went into a third sack, to be used as needed, and the primary and secondary wing feathers went into a fourth, to be used for fletching arrows and very occasionally for quill pens, although there was no one here who could write more than reckonings. Dirty feathers had to be carefully picked clean, but her reward was that she could have any feathers she liked from the third sack. She had already made plans for a feather skirt for her doll and maybe a feather cloak too. It was not hard work, nor difficult to understand, but it was painstaking. Gwen was clever and dexterous, and besides, she loved the silky feeling of the feathers, the subtle plays of grays and whites and browns, so she never complained about getting this chore.

Despite the cold, the sun had baked warmth into the turf and the stones at this spot. She put her back up against the stones and set to work.

She was halfway through the second sack when she heard voices. She quickly recognized Eleri and the visitor, who must have sought out the privacy of the solar in order to keep their words from the ears of the inveterate gossips. She concentrated very hard at that moment, willing them not to look out of the window, even though Eleri knew she was picking feathers and that this was her favorite place to do so.

“Now tell me what you would not say in public about Anna of Orkney,” Eleri demanded, in what Gwen thought of as her “queenly” voice. “If there is danger to this realm from her, I want to know about it.”

“That is the trouble, the things that I know are as hard to hold to as water,” the priestess replied. “The priestesses great and small are not of one mind on this. Some think Anna of Orkney is dangerous, some think her ambition will be held in check by the High King and the Merlin, and some think that nothing will hold her if she reaches beyond her current status. I know that she holds to the Old Ways, and under any other circumstances, I would be inclined to her for that alone. But . . . but . . .” She sighed. “I know that Lot is ambitious. I know that his wife is equally ambitious, and I believe that there is not much either of them would scruple at to advance their ambitions. I know that she has the Power, and I know that she will use it to further her own ends rather than the welfare of the land. But how far she would go? I cannot say with any degree of certainty.”

“The High King has a son,” said Eleri, sounding irritated. “He has a son by the girl called Lionors. Lorholt, she calls him. Does he need more?”

The priestess made a
tsk
ing sound. “But she was not his wife. And it is only we of the West that still hold to the Old Ways, at least publicly. If your husband had a son by another than you, and he chose to make that son his heir, and you put your blessing upon it, no one here would think it amiss. But in the lands where the Romans once held full sway, The High King must have a son by a true wife, one wedded to him by a Christian priest, as well as promises, and sealed in betrothal. The Old Rites do not signify.” Gwen listened to this carefully. This seemed very strange to her. There were plenty of couples among her father’s people who had never even seen a Christian priest, nor had any priest or priestess say any words over them whatsoever, and yet no one doubted they were husband and wife. Jumping the fire at Beltane, jumping the broom among friends, that was enough for most. Only those with land, or with some title of honor seemed to need the formality of vows and blessings. Blessings were for babies, who needed every help they could get, and the proof of that was that there were four small graves with other daughters of Eleri in them, who did not live to see the full turn of the seasons.

But the priestess was continuing. “The truth is, young as he is, the High King has many sons, but none of them are . . .” A pause. “Suitable, to us, to the others. None were sired on a girl to whom he had any true tie, none has he accepted as his heir. None were sired on girls that the servants of the Goddess approve of, girls of the proper bloodline, with the Powers. All are . . .” Again, a pause. “Inferior. They are of no importance. Attempts to see into their futures show nothing of note, not a hint that the Goddess cares for them any more or less than she cares for any other of her daughters. They are toys for the young High King’s bed. Their sons will be numbered among his warriors but will never be outstanding. They are ordinary. The High King’s heir cannot be ordinary.”

Eleri snorted. “So. The High King must breed him a son on a girl acceptable to us and to the followers of the White Christ. A girl with the Powers. A young woman like this Gwenhwyfar he is wedding. So?”

The priestess responded reluctantly. “The scrying bowl shows me nothing I can make sense of. I see a son of Arthur vying for the throne, not one holding it unopposed. And I see the Merlin, and blood, connected with that son, but I cannot make out what that means.” She hesitated. “I see the death of many children associated with the birth. And yet I see him surrounded by all the signs that says he has the right to the throne, and I see him as a man of the Powers. I think . . . it would be wise to avoid the wedding.”

Eleri sniffed. “We could not go in any case. Arthur has our pledged fealty from his coronation, and he scarcely needs it a second time. That is a very long way to go with winter coming on, and all for a feast that we could as well hold ourselves. Which, to show our loyalty to the king, we shall, with bonfire and all. There will be nothing to complain of in our demonstration of fealty.” Suddenly her tone changed. “Do you see Morgause’s ambition spreading to these lands?”

“Not directly,” the priestess said, though reluctantly, and Eleri breathed a sigh of relief.

“Then hear me out. The magic to make the High King a son will be a powerful one, and I am minded to sip at that same cup,” Eleri continued. “My man speaks highly of his daughters, and he loves them true, but—”

“But a man wants a son, and a king wants a son more than most men.” The priestess sighed. “To answer your question, that cup will indeed be overflowing, and if you, as the Chief Priestess here, were to open yourself to what is not needed, you likely will find yourself graced with the same gift. But Eleri . . . there is danger there. There may be a reason why the Goddess has seen fit to give you all daughters. It may be because of the Blessing in your blood. We cannot know that, or, if it is true, what that reason is. If you flout Her will in this, there may be consequences.”

“The Goddess has seen fit to give me a husband I have come to love, to love enough to give him something he wants and will not ask for.” Oh, Gwen knew that tone. The queen was not to be denied. This was what would be, and woe betide whoever stood between her and the goal.

“Then, for what it is worth, my blessing be upon you.” The priestess sounded resigned. “In this, I cannot speak for the Goddess.”

“You have given me leave, and that is enough,” Eleri said firmly. Gwen heard their footsteps leaving.

Gwen continued to pick through and clean the feathers, trying to piece together what this all meant. All that talk of sons and the High King only puzzled her; she couldn’t imagine what these Christian priests had to do with who the High King picked as his heir. But then again, that didn’t matter. The High King was very far away, and what he did in Celliwig hardly even caused a ripple here. But what Eleri was up to—that troubled her, though she could not have said why. She knew very well where babies came from; her mother was midwife as well as queen, and the Great Hall, where all the rest of the court slept, was open to any sleepless child who would rather go outside than use a chamber pot. Gwen had seen the dogs and cats, the chickens and ducks and geese, her father’s famous horses, and no few of her father’s men and her mother’s maids coupling with pleasurable abandon and no regard for privacy. So she knew where babies came from and what made them, and she had also known most of her life, in that vague sense that put parents in some mental place other than “everyone else,” that the king and queen did this same thing in their great bed. Well, they must have, to have produced Gwen and all her sisters.

But this sounded more portentous than that. Magic would be involved. And her mother was going to try to make a son for the king.

Gwen turned that thought over and over in her mind. She wasn’t sure she liked this idea, not sure at all. She felt more than a twinge of jealousy. A boy-child would get all the attention, right from the start. He’d be the king one day. He’d be able to order his sisters about in every place but the Circle of the Goddess and the hearth. Her father would take all the attention he now paid his daughters and lavish it on this newcomer.