Gwenhwyfar (37 page)

The High King had not summoned her though he had sent courteous, if overly formal, greetings and thanks to her and her father and further thanks for the gift of the two of her father’s famous gray cavalry horses that she had brought. Until she was summoned, it was poor manners to intrude on him and his councils, and really, there was not much more she could add. Nothing about this situation answered to either Roman tactics or anything she was good at. Add to that—her name. It would not be easy, hearing the name of his runaway wife attached to someone else.

But there was not much more she could do here at the camp, except add to gossip. She saw to her gear, but she had been so thorough that there was nothing left that she needed to attend to; Rhys and Pryderi were not much inclined to go riding out in the mist and gloom and showed their reluctance clearly. She didn’t blame them and couldn’t think of a reason why she needed to risk their legs and necks to an accident. After a good long while of staring blankly at the fire, it occurred to her that there was one foot of the power triangle here she could visit after all. After mulling it over, deciding against it, then deciding she was being a coward, she went to have a look at the church and abbey of the Christ priests.

It was not very imposing; the abbey was about the size of the village at Castell y Cnwclas; it was not a single building but a bevy of little wattle huts inside an enclosure, with the church, a more substantial timber structure, at the center. The huts looked like chicks surrounding a hen, and the church was about half the size of her father’s castle. But one thing struck her almost forcibly when she ventured inside the dark, incense-scented building; as small as it was, within those four walls she encountered a sense of deep peace the like of which she had not felt outside of a Sacred Circle. And that—was astonishing.

When she left the church, she was accosted by a swarm of the inhabitants. The monks that lived at the abbey were all in a state, not quite panic but certainly great anxiety about the well-being of Gildas. She got the sense that he was greatly admired, and even loved, here. And far from being made to feel unwelcome, when they made sure of who she was, she had a group of tonsured men in plain brown and black robes surrounding her, pressing fresh, hot bread and butter and a mug of small beer into her hands, asking her anxious questions. Was this Gwyn ap Nudd truly an evil creature? Was he honorable? Could he be trusted? Would he use some sort of magic on Gildas to corrupt him? Would the Abbot come back to them safely?

“Wait, wait,” she said, as they clustered around her. “I will answer any question I can, but I must be able to hear them!” She got them to stop talking all at once, finally, and sat down on a stone bench in the abbey herb garden where they had gathered around her. “I’ll tell you everything I know about the Folk of Annwn and Gwyn in particular,” she said, calmly, reassuringly. “But first of all, Gwyn ap Nudd is a friend to the High King, and, so I was told this morning, counted among the King’s Companions of the Round Table even if he seldom comes to court.” She waited for them to take that in. “If he comes to the Round Table, he has already passed the many tests that the High King sets his men. Yes?”

They looked at each other, then nodded.

“Now, among the Folk of Annwn, vows are taken as seriously as—” she looked about her, and although she
did
see a few faces showing suspicion or fear, she didn’t see any she would have thought dishonest “—as seriously as among you. Vows are sacred. Gwyn will have taken the same vows to the High King that all the Companions have, and one of those is to protect those who do not bear arms.”

“That is true,” murmured the fellow who had insisted she have some of his beer. “Women, children, and men of the cloth . . .”

“Furthermore, among the Folk of Annwn, the person of an envoy is held in the highest esteem. Their lives are sacred. Their words are to be listened to with courtesy, and they are not to be threatened nor harmed just because one side does not like what they have to say. Abbot Gildas is an envoy. Gwyn will defend him to the death and would not allow harm to come to him even at the hand of his own lady or son. I would lay my
own
life on that or that of my father, whom I hold dearer than myself.”

There was a collective sigh of relief at that, and a little of the tension eased. “Now, as to the Folk of Annwn . . . no, they are not mortal as we are. But they are not demons, either. They are just . . . other.” She shook her head. “It is hard to explain, but I think I can pledge to you that Gwyn of the Annwn would have no more difficulty in being within the walls of your church, there, than I did.”

“A demon cannot abide within church walls,” said someone else. “Nor stand on consecrated ground.”

She had to smile a little. “I daresay that if you looked closely at some of those who have come once or twice to your rites, you would find that more than one of them are of the Folk, for they are a curious set of peoples, and you are their near neighbors. They dwell in the Other World, not here on the middle earth, nor heaven, nor hell, but as if it were
sideways
to the lands we know. The doors to their lands are few; two are here, which is why Gwyn’s stronghold is here.”

“I heard a tale once,” one of the fellows faltered. When the others made encouraging murmurs, he got up courage and went on. “It was said that when Lucifer revolted and made war in heaven, there were some spirits that would take neither God’s side nor the Devil’s. And so, when the battle was over, and Lucifer and his minions cast into Hell, these other spirits were also driven from Heaven. Because they had not taken God’s side, they could not remain. But because they had not taken Lucifer’s either, they were not sent to Hell. And so they came to live beside, but not among, mortals, in a state that was half of spirit and half of the world . . .” His voice trailed off, uncertainly.

She shrugged. “I had not heard that tale before, but it is as likely as any other explanation. They are as many and varied as mortals and all the mortal creatures. There are good, bad, and middling ones. Many are tricksters. Some are evil, but Gwyn will keep
those
firmly under control here. They are quick to anger, slow to forget. A gift places a debt of obligation on them, and the freer and more genuine the gift, the greater the obligation. They will always hold by the letter of a bargain, but you must be careful, because if they feel they are being coerced into it in any way, they will try to find a way out of it. As I said, they hold the person of an envoy sacred. The best thing you can do if ever you see one is to offer it a gift, however small; by making a gift you will bind them not to harm you, and they will not rest until they feel they have discharged their obligation. Bread is always a good gift.” She thought some. “Would you continue to live in peace with Gwyn’s folk?”

“We had rather convert them and save their souls, if souls they have,” said a dry voice from the rear of the group. “As our brothers in Eire saved the souls of the Daughters of Lyr. But yes, if we can buy peace of them—”

“Then make a gift of bread at the water’s edge, once a week, say, if you have it to spare.” She smiled. “Most of them live beneath the Lake, and it is a little difficult to bake bread at the bottom of a lake. Mark it with one of your crosses, so that they will know from whom it comes, and nothing evil will be able to touch it.”

There were murmurs, but nods. She found herself smiling even more; she had not expected to like these men and certainly had not expected them to be asking advice of her.

They asked her a few more questions, which she answered as honestly as she could, and she left burdened with bread, butter, and honey for her men, for the abbey’s cattle and bees were evidently famous. One of the monks came with her, there was so much to carry.

She returned to the encampment burdened as much by thought as by the gifts. She had expected acute disapproval, even hatred. While some of those men clearly disapproved of her, more simply accepted her as her own people accepted her. And there was no hatred. Mostly they seemed to be grateful that she was taking the time to explain things and reassure them. Even those who seemed to disapprove of her had listened to her words.

So she found again, when she had seen that the food was properly distributed. As the monk said farewell and began to leave, he suddenly turned back to her.

“You are a great and kind lady, to have spent so much time explaining matters,” he said, shyly. “I hope you do not mind that I brought the brothers to speak with you.”

She grinned a little. “So it was your doing?”

He flushed. “Aye. When I saw you in the chapel, as fair as Our Lady is said to be, and with such a look of peace upon you, I knew that you had a good heart, even though your soul is pagan. I knew that you would tell us the truth and not put us off, as lord Kai has done. And I knew that because you are a woman that knows the hearts of your men, you would see us as a kind of warrior too and serve us the truth, instead of seeing us as womanly, as the Companions do, and serve us empty assurances.”

She was so taken aback that all she could do was blink and blush. He didn’t seem to mind; he just took her hand and wrung it a little.

“I know that goodness and beauty do not always go hand in hand,” he finished, simply, “But in you, White Spirit, I think they are united. God’s blessing on you. I will pray for you.”

He trotted off back to his duties and his brothers, leaving her staring dumbfounded after him.

O
n the third
day after Gwyn vanished with Gildas, a parley flag appeared on the tower of Melwas’ stronghold. After much discussion, Arthur sent his foster-brother Kai out in a boat to hear what was to be said.

They watched as Kai was taken into the stronghold. And then there was more waiting. As the time passed, the tension grew greater, and it was with tremendous relief that they all saw Kai come back out again.

This time, he was not alone. Two more men were with him; in the shifting mists, it was hard to make out more than Kai’s red tunic and the vague shapes of the other two, but—

“No, fair cousin, one of them is not me,” said Gwyn right into her ear. She jumped, and he laughed as she spun to face him. She was standing a little apart from the rest of her men, and they didn’t seem to have noticed that Gwyn had simply—well, probably, he had pulled the same trick as he had the last time, stepping out of nowhere to end up beside her.

“Gildas is a stiff-necked fellow, but honest and fair, and once I saw that he was going to make good on his boast, I left him to it,” Gwyn told her. “Let him have all the fame, if fame comes from this, for reconciling Melwas with your High King.” He chuckled a little. “In truth, cousin, I think that Melwas was getting mightily weary of the company of his prize, confined as he was to one small island, and not all of that.”

“And will he still be calling himself ‘King of the Summer Country’. . . cousin?” she asked.

His smile grew teeth. “I think not. He has seen that it is not wise to usurp what is another’s, whether it be a wife or a title. And by the way, I thank you for calming his flock of little brown chicks.” The smile softened. “That was courteously done.”

She flushed a little. “That hadn’t been my intention when I went to look over their hennery,” she said, with a slight laugh. “But they clucked and fussed so, it moved me to pity. Besides, it was no great effort, I only had to tell them the truth.”

“As fair-spoken as you are fair of face,” he laughed. “It is as well that I have me a lady who holds my heart fast—and
you
have your duties to your father. Elsewise I would steal you away as Melwas stole that fool of a Gwenhwyfar to the true Summer Country.” He lifted an elegant brow and gave her a thoughtful look. “I think you have great things in you, cousin. I do not yet know what they are, but surely the hand of a goddess is on you.”

She was a little flustered now, although she was determined not to show it. That was twice, now, that men had called her attractive. She was not at all sure what to make of this . . .

Then again . . . the two men who had found her lovely were the King of the Annwn and a monk. Neither were “men” in the ordinary sense. She ought not to place too much importance on this.

“Have you any notion of what Gildas brought about?” she asked instead.

“Some. He’ll turn over the queen, of course. And for taking her, there will be some Christian punishment or other. I think he’ll be giving over his stronghold to Gildas, though what the monks will do with it, I’ve no notion.” He shrugged. “They do not trouble me, I do not trouble them. They will bring no weapons of iron and steel to my door, and that is all I care for.”

She pondered this. “Well . . . if ever the Saxons overrun this place, the stronghold will make a safe place for them to go.”

Gwyn nodded, his eyes on the nearing figures. “And this is no bad thing. Blood spilled so near my door would bring the sort of the Folk that I do not care for. The sort that only look for more blood, and finding it not, goes hunting for it. That is always bad. You mortals are not so discriminating when it comes to my kind and are like to punish all for the faults of a few.”

She could find no reason to dispute that claim and sighed. “I wish it were not so. But if wishes were horses, my father would have no need for stallions.”

“Well said.” He bowed a little to her. “With that, fair cousin, I take my leave. The Folk still owe you something of a debt. You may feel free to claim it of me at your will.”

And then, he stepped . . . away . . . again. A single pace to the side, and he was gone, just as the boat touched the shore.