Gwenhwyfar (11 page)

Long before the men were prepared to take to their beds, Gwen and the other pages began to droop. She was willing to hold out as long as she had to, or at least to try, but the king took pity on them all and dismissed them. “My own servants can see our cups stay full,” he said with a laugh. “And we’ll get no work out of these youngsters tomorrow if they cannot keep awake.”

As was usual now, Gwen was the first into the big bed. Now she
could
have claimed the choice spot in the center, but she kept to her old place instead. This endeared her to her older sisters, who in their turn saw to it that Gwenhwyfach got not so much as a hope of interfering with her. Little Gwen might have outwardly reformed, but it was clear that Cataruna and Gynath were not convinced of her sincerity,

Nor was Gwen, but since her return to the king’s good graces, Little Gwen seemed to have wormed her way back into the position of “indulged baby.” Gwen didn’t much care, given that she
had
everything she could ever have wanted, but the two older girls were not so happy about it.

And in fact, they woke her up when the three of them came to bed, arguing about it.

“. . . Father thinks it’s amusing,” Gynath was saying, the disapproval so thick in her tone that it surprised Gwen into complete wakefulness. “But it’s a disgrace. You shame all of us, acting like that. You’re too young to be putting on such a show and old enough to know better.”

“But Father likes it,” Little Gwen said insolently. “So
you
have nothing to say about it! I’m his favorite, and I can do what I want! You heard him!”

“We heard him,” Cataruna said darkly, then laughed. “But you won’t be his favorite for much longer, you wicked little changeling. You just wait till harvest. Ha!”

“Why?” Little Gwen’s tone was suspicious.

“I’m not going to tell you!” Cataruna taunted. “Because you are so full of yourself that you haven’t paid any attention to what’s going on right under your nose!”

“Tell me!” Little Gwen demanded. “Tell!”

“Oh, tell her before they hear her out in the Hall and we all get in trouble,” Gynath interrupted, crossly. “Oh—never mind. Brat, by the time harvest comes around, Mother will have had a baby, and it’s going to be a boy. Which means not only will you not be the youngest anymore, Father won’t care a straw about what you want. Not when he has a prince to fuss over. So there! Chew on that a while, and enjoy yourself while you can, because by this time next year you’ll be lucky if he even notices you!”

The bed creaked and moved as the two eldest girls got in.

“You’re lying!” Little Gwen finally burst out. “I don’t believe you!”

“And I don’t care. We’re going to sleep. You can stand there all night stamping your foot if you want, it’s not going to change the truth.” The bed bounced and shook a little more as both of the older girls turned their backs on the youngest. Little Gwen stood there for several moments longer, before finally coming to bed herself. But she said nothing, so Gwen fell quickly asleep.

In the morning she was the first awake, and none of the other three even stirred as she slipped out of bed. They must have come to bed much later than she had supposed, and far past their usual bedtime. Could that have been the cause of the quarrel? Or had it been something else?

Well it hardly mattered. Gwen had work to do.

The first thing was to make sure her horses were properly tended for the day. The grooms would ordinarily take care of that, but they would have their hands full with all of the visitors’ horses. So Gwen got into her older clothing first and went out to make sure they were fed, watered, groomed, and turned out for the day. Then she returned to the castle, changed into her good clothing, ate quickly, and went to present herself to Lord Hydd.

She spent the rest of the day in a state between anxiety and bliss. Anxiety because she was terrified lest she do something wrong and disgrace herself, or worse, her trainers and her father. Bliss because of the company she was in and all the things she was hearing. She didn’t understand more than a quarter of it, as the talk ranged from politics to horse breeding, but she tried to consign as much of it to memory as possible.

Again, at dinner and again at supper, Lord Hydd sent her to sup at the High Table with her family rather than waiting on him. She had assumed that tonight, the night when the women would gather to work the magic that would bless the seeds and the soil, she would be expected to serve as cup bearer. But no, once the remains of supper were cleared away, all the pages were dismissed as her father and his chief lords took themselves to the solar and closeted themselves away from any and all ears, including those of the pages.

Full of nervous energy, for she had keyed herself up to see the night through and not get sent to her bed like a sleepy baby, she was at a loss as to what to do with herself. This not being a great festival like Midsummer or even Beltane, and not being a feast of plenty like the Autumn Equinox, there were no bards, nor even itinerant musicians, only those among her father’s men and the villagers who could play a few tunes. That was good enough for dancing, but she had no interest in dancing. Some of her own lot of young warriors were taking advantage of the absence of their elders to dip as heavily into the ale and mead as they could; that held no appeal for her either. Cataruna and Gynath were each enjoying the attentions of several boys, an activity that seemed a pointless waste of time.

Then it occurred to her.

She could spy on the rites.

It wasn’t precisely forbidden; she wouldn’t have dared such a thought if there was any chance that the gods would take offense at her curiosity—so why not? In a few years she would be old enough to participate anyway, so what was the harm? Even if you weren’t one of the Wise Women, there was always a place in the Circle for you.

It certainly wasn’t going to be difficult to find them. All rites were held at the stone circle not far from the thicket where she had seen the bear and serpent fight.

She took a quick glance around the hall, and saw no one—no adult at any rate—who was paying much attention to what the youngsters were doing. She got up and walked out as if she had some errand she had been sent on.

No one stopped or questioned her, and once she got out past the tents and the fires, she made a sharp turn towards the stone circle. Once away from the fires, she looked back to make sure she was not being followed, waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, then carried on. With all the people about, she was not concerned with wild beasts; all the noise had probably frightened most of them into hiding, and the rest would be very cautious.

She saw the light of the fires within the circle reflecting up on the stones long before she caught sight of the figures within the circle or heard their voices. She knew where there would be a good vantage point, and as silently as a stalking fox, she slipped into it. Her heart raced with excitement; she had never seen any of the rites before, and she was hoping that there would be real magic.

Somewhat to her surprise, for she had thought that only women were permitted at the rites, she saw that there were two men and a boy within the circle. One of the men was cloaked and hooded, and stood well back from the rest. The others seemed to be a bard and his apprentice. The bard was speaking as she moved into place, and she held her breath to listen to him, when her mother answered him, but in a voice full of Power.

Now, she had heard the tale of Gwydion and Arianrhod, of Lleu and of Goronwy, often enough to know within hearing a few words that this was what they were playing out, with Eleri taking the part of Arianrhod and these men the other parts. But then something happened—

The world about her shifted.

She felt incredibly dizzy, hot and cold at the same time, as if she had struck her head in a fall. Everything blurred for a moment.

It was no longer night, but broad day. And she was not on her father’s lands near the stone circle; she was on the top of a bluff that fell off abruptly to end in the sea. At least, she thought it was the sea, though she had never seen it herself; there was water to the horizon, an unfamiliar tangy scent in the air, and a roaring sound from the waves coming to shore below her. On top of the bluff was a castle easily five times bigger than Castell y Cnwclas; maybe ten times, it was so big she couldn’t rightly judge. And the woman standing before the castle was so beautiful she took Gwen’s breath away.

Her hair was a ruddy gold and fell to her feet; her eyes were bluer than the sky, and her face was terrifying in its perfection. She wore a rich gown of some shining, red stuff that Gwen couldn’t identify; there was silver at her wrists and her throat, a silver chain served her as a belt, and she wore a silver filet in her air.

Before her was a man as like to her as could be; vaguely Gwen realized that if this was Arianrhod, then he must be Gwydion, her brother. With him was a boy, hovering on the edge of manhood. Both the boy and Gwydion were clothed in rough, churlish clothing with the leather aprons of cobblers.

Arianrhod was angry; but more than angry, she was near tears. And no wonder. This boy was her son, and his birth had been the cause of her shame, for she had been thus exposed by the magic of Math, Gwydion’s king, to all as being no longer virgin. It was Gwydion who was the cause of that, so small wonder she was angry at him and angry at his bringing before her the boy, who had until this moment been nameless and whom she had repudiated, abandoned, and denied. “He shall get no name unless he gets it from my own lips, and that will never be!” she had told her brother.

And now he had tricked her again. She had called him “the bright and clever handed,” which served very well as a name, so now he was Lleu Llaw Gyffes.

She had just at this moment seen through the deception. “Oh, perfidy!” she cried, and Gwen could see how hard it was for her not to cry. She was so angry with her brother for raising this child, for presenting the source of her shame to her, that she could scarcely form the words. “You have tricked me twice, but there shall come no third time, and this your protégé shall never be a
man.”
She all but spat the word. “Hear my will on this! You have got him a name by trickery, but he shall never bear arms unless I give them to him with my own hands! Now go! And find him a fit place among the churls or the women!”

A darkness passed over the scene as Gwen shuddered at the misery in Arianrhod’s voice. She sensed how deeply wounded the goddess was, how it wounded her that this beautiful boy, whom she would gladly have cherished, was the cause of the worst experience of her life. And when the darkness faded into light, the scene remained the same, but it was clear some time had passed. Two bards, an old, old man and his apprentice, approached the castle and were welcomed inside. Somehow Gwen found herself in the Great Hall with them, as if she were some sort of bodiless spirit. And while part of her knew that the bard and his companion were, in fact, Gwydion and Lleu in disguise,
she
could not see it and, clearly, neither could Arianrhod.

Gwydion was a famous bard in actuality, something that his sister seemed to have forgotten as he regaled her and her court of mostly women with song and story. But behind the storytelling, there was magic afoot; Gwen felt the Power stirring, could almost see it as Gwydion wove it into the tales of battle and tragedy that he chanted. She felt the Power stretching the very fabric of the air tight, as a drumhead was stretched tight, until at last it took shape from those very same tales just as Gwydion had intended.

The roar of an assaulting army shook the walls of the castle; startled into panic, Arianrhod and her women screamed in fear—as well they might considering how few men were in Arianrhod’s retinue. In terror, Arianrhod turned to the “bard,” who could be expected to have some idea who might be attacking her all unprovoked and who might well have some strong magic to defend his hostess. “I have given you my hearth and bread!” she cried. “I beg you, help me!”

Gwydion had only been waiting for this, and he thrust Lleu toward the queen. “This fellow is a doughty fighter,” he said, “Worth ten of any normal man. Arm him, my lady, and I will strive to make magic in your aid.”

Arianrhod called for a sword and armor to be brought, and with her own hands buckled sword and scabbard onto Lleu. In that moment, the clamor from outside ceased, and the seeming dropped from both Lleu and Gwydion, and Arianrhod’s fear turned to fury.

“Three times tricked!” she spat. “But this, I swear, will pay for all.
Never,
Lleu Llaw Gyffes, will you have lover or leman or wife that is a mortal woman! Enjoy that sword you got of me, for that is all the bedfellow you shall ever have!”

But Lleu did not care, for now, at last, he had the arms he needed to slay the man who had tried to slay him. His face was alight with a fierce exaltation, so that it outshone the sun, and his eyes burned so brightly that for a moment, Gwen was blinded.

When her sight came back, the scene had changed. A dark but handsome man cowered before Lleu, the treacherous Goronwy, who had plotted with Lleu’s faithless wife to slay him.

But now it was Goronwy’s turn to be slain. Standing where Lleu had stood, he pleaded for his life. “I have no magic to protect me as you did!” he was begging, as Gwen took in the scene. “Let me at least have a paving stone between us!”

Lleu laughed. “Never let it be said that I was less than fair!” he replied mockingly. “You may have your stone.”

Desperately Goronwy pulled up a flat stone and huddled behind it, as if behind a shield. And Lleu stretched his arm back—

And flung his spear with all his strength—

—and the spear hit the flagstone so hard that it pierced straight through and killed Goronwy in the instant.