Gwenhwyfar (39 page)

“And do you?” she asked, pointedly.

The Lady shrugged. “It has been our experience that the gods take that in hand before we need to. The Merlin is useless to us now, and the King has decided to forget that his old mentor was a Druid before he was the King’s man. Even though you have not the Gifts, Gwenhwyfar, you can undo some of that. You are called ‘cousin’ by Gwyn ap Nudd, and you are accepted by Abbot Gildas. You can turn some of the rancor of the Christ priests away from us. You can bring Arthur back to us. And perhaps you can supply an heir to the throne.”

Gwen felt like a rabbit in a snare. All of this did make very good sense. She probably
was
the best candidate to be the High King’s new wife. And she
could
do much. Unlike many of the followers of the Old Ways—the Ladies being prime examples of that—now that she had actually met with some of them, she didn’t think all that badly of the followers of the White Christ.

But this was not what she wanted to do! This had nothing to do with
her
dreams!

Now it was time to pay for having had that dream in her hands. And it felt horrible. As if something she loved was dying before her eyes.

And . . . it wasn’t Arthur she wanted to wed . . .

“Am I really the only one?” she asked, in a small voice.

“Would I be here if you were not?” Aeronwen shrugged. “At least the High King is not in love with you. He was in love with the last Gwenhwyfar, and that did not end well. His wedding to the first Gwenhwyfar was far more arranged than the tales would make it seem; he wanted her father as an ally in the days when he had far fewer. Trust me, he is no stranger to marrying for expedience. For his second wife, he pleased himself; deluded himself, perhaps, but he did not think first of his people, or the Land, and the result was almost a disaster.”

Gwen wanted to ask how the second queen had really died, but—no. It was probably better not to have an answer to that question. Whatever had happened was in the hands and judgment of the gods. Whichever gods those were.

It was ironic, when she thought back to her childhood and how when she had heard that the first queen had her name, she had wished she too could be a queen and have goose every day and gowns that were not made-over. Now all she could think was how it meant the end of her freedom, that not all the fine food and handsome gowns in the world would make up for that loss. She had not been willing to give that up for one she truly wished for—and now she was being asked to give it up and for what?

Duty.

Finally she hung her head in defeat. “If I must . . .” she said reluctantly.

“The alternative is Medraut on the throne,” replied the Lady, her voice showing that she very clearly cared no more for Medraut than Gwen did. “You know Medraut as well as any of us. You know your sister, who was trained by Anna Morgause, just as Morgana was. You know what will come of that.”

That was no alternative at all.

“Very well. I accept,” she sighed.
And I will find some way to have at least a part of my dream, too.

But first, as she had feared, she found that to be made into a queen, she must be unmade.

This was a strange world that she reentered. It was not that she had abandoned womanly things so much as that she had made a choice that left no room for them. But now, suddenly, there was a veritable flood of womanliness that had swept her up and was carrying her off, and she watched the banks of simple practicality rushing past, out of reach, as Cataruna and Gynath and all the women of Lleudd’s court descended on her, determined to “make her over.”

She understood that this was needful. She could not turn up at the High King’s stronghold in her armor and tunic and trews. And if she did not
act
like a queen she would have ridicule for her portion. If she did not
look
like one, well . . . not only ridicule, but perhaps even scorn.

She hated it. But she threw herself into it with a will. There was no turning back now, and hard as this was, it had been far more difficult to become a warrior. She had discipline, and she applied it as firmly as she had ever applied herself to learning a weapon, or to ride.

The women began with her hair, which seemed a logical way to start.

She had not chopped hers off short, as Braith had, because it tended to behave itself if properly braided, and what was as important, it made a good padding under a helm. But now it was unbraided and brushed until her head was sore, and washed first in lime-water to make it even paler than it had been, then in rainwater. Then she had to lie with it spread out while it dried. They did all this several times over the course of a week. She got very tired of it by the second round.

With all this came several sorts of baths. Now, as a whole, she enjoyed baths. But she did not really enjoy
being
bathed, then oiled, then bathed again, then oiled again, then bathed for a third time and rubbed down with perfumes while there was a woman on each hand and each foot, tsking and fussing over the toes and fingers.

When they were done with the bathing, and her hair was finally pale and silky enough to make them happy, it was time for the final step in the process. It was braided up, but no, not in her sensible single plait. Now it was braided in two, hanging down on either side of her face, braided with gold cord, which seemed a shocking waste of gold to her, then the bottom third of the braids were wrapped in a bit of fine cloth, and that, in turn, was held in place by a criss-cross of more gold cord. The braids hung heavily from her temples and made her head ache.

Why couldn’t she just keep it loose, like every other maiden she’d seen?

Evidently because that wasn’t what a king’s daughter did.

She liked to keep her breasts bound—not flat, and not tight, but enough so that they didn’t get in the way or move about and cause problems.

Well, that, it seemed, was completely out of the question. Her breasts were to be . . . prominent, and she found herself with braids
and
breasts encumbering her and making it impossible to move quickly.

Then there was the new clothing to get used to.

Oh, she was not averse to wearing a gown now and again, provided it was one that was comfortable, easy to move in.

Well.

First, a whole new wardrobe had to be constructed. The women did this at breakneck speed, while her hair and body were being scrubbed like a fish being descaled. The new wardrobe began with the linen chemise, of which she had three. They were fine; they were quite comfortable and very soft and lovely on her almost-raw skin. She would have enjoyed them except that they gave no support to her breasts whatsoever. Then came the undergowns, with tight sleeves—so tight she could never have drawn a bow or swung a sword or an ax in the wretched things. That was not fine. It didn’t at all matter that they were of a perfectly lovely linen and wool mixed, as soft as the chemise. It didn’t matter that they had grand bands of embroidery of a sort she could never do herself. It didn’t even matter that every woman who looked at them sighed with naked longing. Because they were an absolute horror to wear.

Nor was it fine that they dragged on the ground behind, making them exceedingly impractical anywhere outside. Still, she could kirtle them up . . .

But then there were the overgowns, with wider, shorter sleeves and more bands of heavy embroidery on them. They were just wide enough that she had to try to keep the edges of the sleeves from drooping into things and getting filthy.

And last of all came the wide, embroidered belt, that she was supposed to tie as tightly as possible to show off her small waist and push up her breasts (though it gave them no support at all), from which dangled keys, a knife for eating, pouches for this and that—

On top of all this there was the mantle, which was not a practical cloak, oh no, but a great awkward rectangle of fabric that she was supposed to drape becomingly about her waist, and arms, and sometimes over her head.

Finally, as a last insult, a fur-lined overmantle she was supposed to pin at the shoulders over this entire mess of cloth; it didn’t even close properly at the front, so she would stew at the back and freeze at the front.

So there were all these swaths of cloth to manage, and the tight arms of the undergown, and the dangling bits on the belt, and it seemed as if she was catching some part of the outfit on something whenever she moved. She had never felt so sorry for other women in her life. She felt even sorrier for herself.

Nevertheless, she was a king’s daughter and a war chief, and she was not going to allow herself to be defeated by mere fabric.

So she did what anyone with sense would do. She put it all on and practiced. Practiced walking, walking quickly, moving about indoors and out, maneuvering around furniture, eating, carrying things—she couldn’t possibly do most of the household chores that other women did in this stuff, but, then, she wouldn’t have to. Cooking, cleaning, all that would be done for her. The High King’s queen did not even have the duties that Queen Eleri had had (and Queen Eleri had dressed much more simply, with one chemise, an overgown, and in the cold, a good heavy cloak). She even practiced some dancing, and riding—and with some teeth gritting, being carried pillion behind a rider. And the others, anxious for her success, helped her. They had some little time; although the High King wanted her father’s horses a great deal, he was less anxious to leap into a third marriage, and so the negotiations and bargaining went on through the autumn, and only concluded when the first snow fell. So she would go to the High King as his new bride a bare four months after the death of his second.

And by then she was the master, or perhaps mistress, of her own clothing. She moved as gracefully in it as Cataruna, if not more so. She had managed to contrive a breast-binding that at least made her chest stop aching. It might not be the height of fashion, but she didn’t care. It was one comfort she
would
have.

By then, too, she had learned how to carry on a conversation that did not involve two or three ways to kill a man, nor how to track game, nor the three best remedies for horse colic. Her childhood skill with a needle had come back to her, though she was never going to be able to embroider with any level of competence. She had learned a great many songs that did not involve any marching cadences nor randy bed frolics. In one thing at least, her warrior training stood her in good stead: She could concoct a medicine and bind up a wound with greater skill than any of the others save Cataruna, who was Lady-trained.

And then, far too soon, it was time to be off to her fate. It was with mixed relief—for she was finally able to put on her warrior gear—and regret that she mounted Rhys; and with a guard of her own warriors, the escort sent by Arthur, and a half dozen horse keepers, she set off with the herd of grays for the stronghold of the High King at Celliwig.

The land lay barren before them, not yet covered with a sheltering blanket of snow, the trees bare, the grasses sere, the sky for the most part sad and gray. The only birds were rooks, crows, ravens, and now and again a wood dove. There was nothing festive about their group, either. They might as well have been riding to a parlay or a possible battle as to a wedding. Or perhaps to a funeral.

At night, she kept very quiet, quieter even than her usual habits, and listened to the men talking. That was how she learned that it was not only the Merlin who had been struck down, but that the senior Druids were dying, getting ill, or outright vanishing.

This was the first she had heard of such a thing, and it rather took her aback. But when she asked one of the escort, a fellow named Neirin, what he made of it, the man just shrugged.

“They’re all old, lady,” he pointed out. “There’s nothing mysterious about old men dying.”

She certainly couldn’t refute his logic, although there was still something about it that bothered her. But surely if something was wrong, the Druids themselves would be falling all over themselves to get to the bottom of the matter . . .

They passed within a few miles of the Isle of Glass, and she was tempted to detour to pay a visit—but there was no guarantee that Gwyn would come out to see her, she had already had just about as much of the Ladies as she could stand, and Gildas was, in fact, waiting at Arthur’s Castle to wed them by the Christian rites, along with Aeronwen to bind them by the Old Ways.

She was just as tempted to detour to the great Henge, but again, there was not much there to see. She did not have the Gift to see the Power in the Stones outside of the time of a major ceremony. There was no School or Convocation of Druids permanently in residence there as there was at the Cauldron Well. Other than marveling over the construction itself, there really was nothing to “see.”