Gwenhwyfar (26 page)

T
he scouts‚ Gwen’s
troop among them, had been ghosting about the Saxon army camp for a week. “Ghosting” was the right word, too, because it had soon become clear that Gwen’s trick with the Saxon they’d let go was bearing fruit past all expectations. No one ventured outside the bounds of the camp at night. Even by day, no one went alone. Three spies had been sent in under the guise of selling the Saxons grain; they came back out again with a cart full of loot that had been traded for the food and a much richer store of camp rumors.

As a consequence, all the scouts had taken to doing what they could to add to the rumors of the White Phantom. Cries and screams in the middle of the night, for instance—not too often, or the Saxons would get used to them. And nothing that was obviously masculine either. But there were a couple of lads whose voices hadn’t broken yet who could manage a very convincing female laugh or sob, and young as they were, they were carefully shepherded to the edge of the Saxon lines to give their little serenades.

When Gwen herself got involved, the nights got even more interesting. Since she knew Saxon—and seemed to have exceptionally keen ears—she would linger around a particular section until she had picked up on someone’s name. Then, in the middle of the night, she would utter a blood-curdling wail, ending in the words, “Horsa”—or Ordulf, or Sidric, or whoever’s name she had picked up—“Tomorrow I come for
you.”

She tried to pick very common names, the better to give Fate a hand in giving her a victim. And more often than not, Fate gave her one. Where there were armed and edgy men, there were always accidents and quarrels. Where there were armed, edgy, men convinced that a supernatural agency was after them, the accidents and fights were fatal or near-fatal as often as not. A man who is sure he is going to die will do so even from a minor wound. By the time the king’s full force arrived, it was a full moon again, and Gwen had been emboldened enough to show herself.

Never for long. There was no point in risking a lucky bowshot. But by now she and her scouts knew every inch of land around the Saxon camp, and they could, in the shifting clouds and moonlight, make miraculous appearances and disappearances. So at one moment, a hilltop would be empty of all but moonlight, then suddenly a sentry would shout in fear, for the White Phantom was there, silver rider on silver horse, staring down at the camp. Then a cloud would obscure the moon, and when the Saxons looked again, she was gone.

It was very effective.

And by now there were desertions, not many, but enough to make the commanders angry, and angry commanders faced with desertions often make poor decisions regarding the treatment of their men. When you added to that the fact that those same men were not eating as well as they expected, had not had much loot, and their lords were running out of presents . . .

So it was that once King Lleudd’s men were rested and ready to deal with the Saxons, the Saxons were not nearly in as good a condition to deal with them.

The night had been an active one for Gwen and her troop; with a good moon and intermittent clouds, they had taken full advantage of the circumstances to bedevil the Saxons almost until dawn. There had been little sleep in that camp, and the lot of them had take to their bedrolls with weary satisfaction. A few more nights like this one, and the Saxons would be falling asleep on the battlefield.

She woke to hear a great commotion in the camp, and she was on her feet with her sword in her hand and her blankets cast aside before she realized that this was not the sound of an attack. Men shouted orders, but not in the tone of voice that indicated trouble; horses were clearly being brought in and picketed. It sounded as if a substantial addition to King Lleudd’s troops had arrived.

Well, any additions are welcome.
She couldn’t for the moment think who would have been able to muster out winter fighters, but it didn’t matter. She would find out soon enough, since she had best pull on a good tunic and present herself to welcome them. She might not be a general, and her actual rank was low among the officers, but she
was
King Lleudd’s daughter, and as such, it would be an insult not to greet and thank the new arrivals.

Her servant was of the same mind, for even before she had started to shiver, he came diffidently into the small tent, prepared to wake her if need be, with her best leather trews and embroidered wool tunic in his hands. She laughed at his relief—she was not known for waking gracefully—and pulled the clothing out of his grip. “Go wake the others,” she ordered, “I’ll be ready quickly.”

She normally kept her hair tightly braided and clubbed like a horse’s tail, so it was tidy enough not to need combing out and rebraiding. She cast aside what she had been wearing, smelling of horse and sweat as it probably was. The gray wool trews and leather tunic could use a good beating and cleaning in snow, and the linen shirt could stand a boiling. She hopped from one foot to the other, shivering as the cold air bit at her, dressed again from the skin out in good clean linen and woolen hose, then pulled on the trews and wriggled into the tunic. She reflected wryly as she did so that among the captains, war chiefs and generals she was going to stand out as much as that pest Medraut had; the trews were white doeskin, and the tunic, unlike the festal garb of most of her father’s folk, was
not
a checkerboard of bright colors, with contrasting bands of embroidery at hems and neck. Her best tunic was light gray, with silver and white bands. Somehow, she realized, she had come to have most of her clothing made in these colors, as if she were trying to live up to her name. And, thank the gods, it was so stark as to give her too-youthful face a more serious cast. There was nothing she could do about the fact that her cheeks were not scarred, browned by the sun, weathered by the wind. Nor could she change that she had not so much as a sign that she was more than old enough to be a mother six times over by now—twenty-five, and she looked sixteen at best! But at least she could look as serious and remote as a vengeful spirit.

Bah, it is more that I am trying to look as unlike Gwenhwyfach as possible,
she thought, a little crossly. Her sister, the last time she had seen the chit, was as profligate in her love of opulent, showy dress as Medraut was—except she did so in colors rather than stark black.

Well, no matter. All things went to serve a purpose, and she would stand out, which was good, but not in an ostentatious way or as if she were trying to, which was also good. And the clothing had been laid up in lavender and meadowsweet, so she would smell less of horse than usual. She opened the small chest that held her few jewels, bound the silver fillet around her brow, got out her silver torque with the horsehead finials, and put it on and fastened her cloak, not with her old bronze brooch, but with the silver Epona brooch that had been the latest gift from her father. Stamping her feet to settle them in her soft boots, she pushed aside the tent-flap and headed in the direction of the tent of War Chief Urien, who was the chief of all her father’s generals. That was where newcomers of importance would be taken.

It was the largest tent in the encampment, and that was needful, since outside the hours of sleep, it had to house the table where the maps were laid and strategy made, and in the hours of sleep had to hold Urien’s entire personal band of companions, some twenty men in all. Companions of this sort were men who did nothing other than hold themselves ready to fight; they held no lands, and they got all their substance from their chief. This was a Saxon custom not often found among Lleudd’s folk or the other tribes north of where the Saxons held sway. But Arthur had adopted the practice, making the sons of his underkings into his band of companions and setting them, it was said, about a round table that had neither head nor foot, as a sign that there were no “greater” or “lesser” men among them, that all were equal. Shrewd, that was. Supposedly he had got the curious table, which must have been enormous, as part of his queen’s dower.

His now-dead queen . . .

At any rate, Urien followed the High King’s example, and Lleudd saw no harm in his doing so, though he himself did nothing of the sort. Having to haul around so large an expanse of canvas and hide was a nuisance, but Gwen was glad of the shelter and relative warmth in this winter campaign.

Outside the tent was all astir with men coming and going with purposeful looks and brisk paces. She winced a little at the bright light; being out so much at night . . . she smiled to herself, thinking she was as sensitive to the sun as the spirits she was imitating, now. She did not have to push her way through the crowd, even though she was a good head shorter than most of them. Those that did not personally know her made way for her anyway. After all, there were not that many woman warriors in this camp, the fact that Lleudd’s daughter was the head of the scouts was widely known, and dressed as she was, there was no mistaking who she was. She pulled aside the tent-flap and entered unannounced.

Inside the great table had been set up and the hide maps that she and her scouts had drawn up laid over it. All of the war chiefs and generals had gathered about this table, and all of them were listening with rapt attention to a young man not much older than she.

He had plainly come straight off his horse and into this meeting; there was horsehair no servant had yet brushed off clinging to his cloak, and his dark hair was all sweaty and askew from the helmet he had taken off and set aside. He was still in armor too, chestnut-colored leather breast- and back-plate over softly gleaming chain mail that she immediately craved in a way that she had never craved fine gowns. He was not handsome, his face being too craggy for beauty, but it was full of intelligence and character, and his voice was as worth listening to as that of any bard.

“. . . and obviously, as I am sure you have already seen, we want to find a way to force them up this slope,” he was saying, as he arrayed handfuls of wooden counters representing the Saxons onto the map. “It’s not so steep they’ll even think twice about charging it, but every time we force them to charge, they’ll be laboring against not only the snow but also the slope. We’ll tire them further.”

“The trick will be to get our men to hold and not answer their taunts,” Urien replied with a frown. He was a big man, looming over the newcomer, and yet his posture bespoke willing subservience. Whoever the young man was, Urien was giving him pride of place without in the least resenting it. As dark as Urien was, and as bearded, he looked like a great bear in his fur cloak. “The good gods know I favor Roman tactics, but our men are not Roman soldiers . . .” He looked up, spotted Gwen standing diffidently in the door, and motioned to her to come forward. “Lancelin, this is Princess Gwenhwyfar, daughter of King Lleudd.”

The young man looked up, and Gwen found herself the focus of a pair of the bluest eyes she had ever seen in her life. He had the direct gaze of a hawk, with a challenge in it that melted away when he smiled.

“My lady.” He came from around the table, and bowed to her. “Your reputation precedes you.”

She flushed, but she did not look down as a “maidenly” girl would; no point in giving him any reason at all to discount her. “Your courtesy seems equaled by your grasp of strategy, sir,” she replied, with an enquiring look at Urien. “If you can hold War Chief Urien’s full attention, you must be cunning indeed.”

“Gwen, this is Lancelin, the High King’s
best
strategist,” Urien replied in immediate answer to that look. He beamed. Gwen blinked a bit in surprise. Urien must feel that the young man’s mere presence was a kind of honor.

“Arthur sent me, in place of himself,” Lancelin added. A shadow of something—disapproval? Uncertainty? Passed over his face. “And as many of his cavalry as could be mounted and sent in haste. This is an unprecedented push, and the High King wants a decisive blow struck against the Saxons, one that they will not forget soon. Arthur himself . . .” he trailed off. It was Urien who laughed coarsely and completed what Lancelin would not say.

“Arthur is trying to replace his heirs, having already replaced his queen,” Urien said with just the hint of a leer. “Another Gwenhwyfar, can you believe it? Gwenhwyfar, daughter of Gwythyr son of Greidiawl. I suppose having had such luck as to get twins with one Fair Apparition, he decided to try another.”

The rest of the men chuckled as well, and Gwen made an amused and wry face. They had long since ceased to treat her as anything other than a fellow warrior, and as such, she shared in their jibes and bawdy jests—and again, an unmaidenly reaction merely helped to reinforce a position she had to fight to hold in their eyes. Only Lancelin seemed abashed. “There are many rites that the priests of the White Christ are demanding,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “Arthur must conform to them before they will let him have his new queen. Greidiawl, King Gwythyr’s father, was a great patron of those priests, and all his household was brought up in that service. Greidiawl brought to the last battle with the Saxons a banner that was said to be holy, and it is true that the Saxons broke and ran when it was brought on the field. When the queen died of grief, Gwenhwyfar the Golden, who was one of her ladies, strove to comfort the High King—”