Guinevere's Gamble, Page 2

  Elaine did not attend the feast. Despite their best efforts, Grannic and Ailsa could not coax her out of bed, much less make her presentable. Queen Alyse pursed her lips when she was told, but accepted the fact with a readiness that made Guinevere believe she had expected it all along. Grannic returned to her nursing, as did Ailsa, who knew better than to accompany her own charge to dinner when the queen’s daughter was ill.

  Guinevere found herself sitting between Cissa and Leonora, two of the queen’s women, at the king’s round table in the dining hall. Across the polished expanse of oak, Queen Alyse and King Pellinore sat side by side, with Marcus, captain of the house guard, standing at attention behind them.

  Marcus winked at Guinevere as she took her seat. She flashed him a smile in return. Last spring, when King Pellinore had been away at the wars, she and Marcus had been thrown into an adventure together, and with Llyr’s help had saved the kingdom of Gwynedd from a rebel’s grasp. In her gratitude for his help, Queen Alyse had promoted Marcus to his present post.

  The queen had shown her appreciation to her niece more subtly. No longer was Guinevere blamed for the consequences of Elaine’s misbehavior. No longer was her excellence in the schoolroom ignored. No longer were the stables forbidden to her, or her riding restricted. She was more or less free to do as she pleased, provided she completed her lessons and her daily chores. For the first time since her arrival in Gwynedd five and a half years ago, Guinevere felt like one of the family.

  It was a heady feeling, and she strove to be worthy of the queen’s newborn respect. All summer she had tried to put duty before pleasure, to keep Elaine’s love of mischief in check, and to work as hard at her lessons with the priest Father Martin as she did with the pagan tutor Iakos. Having recently been baptized a Christian, she had resolved to put the pagan gods of her childhood behind her. She was thirteen and on the verge of womanhood. It was time, she told herself, to put away old things.

  A new face looked at her from across the table. In the place of honor at the king’s right hand sat a fresh-faced young man with dark, unruly hair and a badge bearing the royal cipher pinned to the shoulder of his tunic. A King’s messenger! This must be the courier who had come that day. Queen Alyse was paying him a compliment by inviting him to dine with the family. Usually, couriers were given supper in the kitchens and a wash, if they desired one; for, being always on the roads, they were always dirty.

  This man was not dirty. He sat calmly in his place and looked about with interest. There was straightness in his carriage and directness in his gaze. When Queen Alyse spoke to him, her voice held no trace of condescension. When she introduced him, Guinevere understood why. This was no ordinary courier. This was Sir Gereint, one of King Arthur’s Companions, come straight from Caerleon with a message from the High King himself. Guinevere knew by the flush of pride on the queen’s cheeks that she appreciated the gesture. Arthur Pendragon had sent her no weedy youth with dusty hair and broken fingernails, but one of his own lieutenants, one of his own friends.

  “Now, there’s a likely young man if ever I saw one,” Cissa said under the noise of general conversation. “Clean-shaven, too. What do you think of him, Nora?”

  “Too young,” Leonora returned. “He’s barely twenty.”

  Cissa giggled. “I meant for Princess Elaine.”

  Leonora let her assessing gaze rest for a moment on the polite, self-assured countenance of Sir Gereint. “It’s a pity the queen will never consider it. He might do the child a world of good.”

  Cissa nudged Guinevere’s elbow. “You didn’t hear that.”

  Guinevere smiled. “I never do.”

  “Wise child.”

  Throughout the meal, Guinevere glanced covertly at the only one of the High King’s Companions she had ever seen. He wasn’t tall and he wasn’t particularly good-looking, but he had a dignity about him that commanded respect, and a gentle smile full of friendliness. She wondered how many battles he had fought and what kingdom he called home. Her pulse quickened. If he was one of the King’s Companions, he must know the High King’s master of horse, foremost of all the Companions—the knight with the foreign name who had bred and trained her filly. For Zephyr had come to Gwynedd straight from the High King’s stables, a gift from Arthur to King Pellinore in recognition of his service on campaign, and from King Pellinore to Guinevere on her thirteenth birthday.

  She looked up to find Sir Gereint’s eyes on her. He was too far away for private speech, and there would be little chance to talk to him after the meal, for the men always lingered long after the women left. She would have to hope for some opportunity tomorrow.

  “Well, well,” Leonora murmured. “The King’s Companion seems to have found something interesting at table. Keep your eyes down, girl.”

  Guinevere flushed and lowered her gaze. “I need to talk to him. I need to ask him a question. Do you think there will be time tonight?”

  Leonora looked at her in mild surprise. “Of course not.”

  “If I asked Aunt Alyse to arrange it?”

  Leonora coughed to cover her snort of laughter. “I should think that would make it downright impossible. If you wanted speech with him, you should have come downstairs earlier and talked to him while everyone was waiting to go into hall.”

  Guinevere bit her lip. She had been late coming in from her ride. She had missed that companionable gathering of the household every evening outside the closed doors of the great hall, where king, queen, family, courtiers, retainers, knights, and guests met to talk before going in to dinner. It was her own fault she had missed her chance to speak to Sir Gereint.

  His eyes were still upon her when he turned to King Pellinore and asked a question. The deep rumble of the king’s reply vibrated across the table. Guinevere caught the words ward and Northgallis. The queen’s head turned sharply in her direction, and Guinevere, out of habit, lowered her eyes again to avoid that cold blue gaze.

  “Storm clouds on the horizon,” Cissa murmured into her winecup. “Take in sail.”

  When the meal was over, Queen Alyse rose and the hall quieted to hear her. King Arthur, she said, had called a council of all the Welsh kings to be held in three weeks’ time in Deva, a village on the Rheged road just east of Wales. The High King was to escort his sister, Princess Morgan, north to marry King Urien of Rheged. He proposed to stop at Deva for a short time to allow the women time to rest and prepare for the final leg of their journey. While the women rested, the High King would help the kings of Wales work out a plan for their joint defense. The High King had cordially extended this invitation to include the wives and daughters of the Welsh kings in the hope that they might attend his royal sister during her stay. For this reason, Queen Alyse finished, she and King Pellinore would be taking Elaine and Guinevere with them when they left.

  The hall resounded with cheering and applause. Shouts of “Arthur of Britain!” and “Long live King Pellinore!” rang out from every table. Sir Gereint looked pleased at this response and rose to thank everyone on his commander’s behalf.

  When Queen Alyse led the women out shortly afterward, she pulled Guinevere aside. “Well, Gwen, are you glad to be going on such a journey?”

  “Oh, yes, Aunt Alyse. I’ve never seen the other side of the mountains. I’ve never been out of Wales.”

  The queen’s smile was dry. “You have yourself to thank for the invitation. Until Sir Gereint saw you at table, he had no idea that Pellinore and I had young women in our care. It seems,” she said, her voice growing hard, “that in all the years they’ve campaigned together, Pellinore never once told Arthur he had a daughter.”

  She turned away in an angry swirl of skirts, and Guinevere, instead of following the women to the queen’s workroom to share a last cup of wine around the fire, hurried back upstairs. The bedchamber was in near darkness, with the window shuttered and a single candle burning. Ailsa and Grannic dozed in their chairs. Elaine, too, appeared to sleep. No sound came from the bed, and the mound of blankets did
not move.

  Guinevere tiptoed closer and knelt at the edge of the coverlet. With her face on a level with her cousin’s, she touched Elaine’s shoulder and whispered her name. A blue eye opened.

  “Elaine, wake up and listen, for I have such news! Half your wish has been granted—we are going to see the High King!”

  The blue eye gazed at her, unblinking. Slowly, Elaine raised herself on one elbow. Her lids and cheeks were puffed from weeping, her face dragged with weariness. Her voice was barely audible. “What did you say?”

  Guinevere found her hand and squeezed it. “We are going on a journey, Laine. Across the mountains to the Rheged road to meet King Arthur. He’s called King Pellinore to a conference, and we’re going along to entertain his sister.”

  “Sister?” Elaine blinked. “What sister? When?”

  “We leave in two weeks. You should have come down to dinner. The High King sent one of his Companions with the message. He sat at table with us.”

  “Really?” Elaine pushed herself to a sitting position. “What is he like?”

  “He has excellent manners. He completely charmed your mother.”

  “He must have flattered her, then.”

  “I think it was Arthur who flattered her.”

  “Yes, of course, by sending her one of his Companions. I always said he was a clever man.”

  “It’s a point in his favor that Sir Gereint is his friend. You must come to breakfast, Laine, and meet him.”

  “Try and stop me,” Elaine laughed, throwing off her blankets and startling the nurses awake. She paused in mid-movement. “Or is this some extravagant ploy of Mother’s to get me out of bed?”

  Guinevere grinned. “Your mother’s forgotten all about you. She’s got a journey to plan.”

  “Thank God for that.” Elaine jumped out of bed as Grannic came forward tentatively with a bowl of broth. “Take that tiresome soup away and get me some real food before the kitchens close. I’m hungry as a bear in springtime.”

  Early in the morning, before Elaine had begun to stir, Guinevere donned her tunic and leggings and hurried to the stables. There was time for a ride before breakfast if she was quick about it, and she knew there would be no time later. The rest of the day and all the coming days would be spent in frantic preparation for the journey.

  She stepped into the close warmth of the stable and let its heady aroma surround her. All her life she had loved the smell of horses, hay, and oiled leather. To her, they were the scents of sanctuary.

  Stannic the stablemaster greeted her with his customary cheerfulness. “Good morning, my lady. A misty morning for a ride, but it will clear. Today, for once, you’re not the first one out.”

  Guinevere turned to him. He was holding a silver coin up to the stable lantern and squinting at it. With a sense of fore-boding, she asked, “Who beat me to it?”

  “The High King’s man, the knight who rode in only yesterday. He has the horse for it, I’ll give him that. Legs like iron bars.”

  “Sir Gereint is gone?” Guinevere could not keep the disappointment out of her voice, and Stannic turned to her.

  “Rode out at dawn for Northgallis. And Dyfed and Powys to visit after that. Rode out on the best piece of horseflesh I’ve ever seen.” He smiled at her expression. “Barring your filly, of course. What’s the matter, lass? Did you want to see his stallion?”

  Guinevere nodded. “Yes, but I wanted more to meet the knight. Elaine will be furious to have missed him.”

  Stannic thrust out his hand, with the silver coin lying in the middle of his palm. “Look at that. He gave it to me for taking such particular care of his horse. It’s newly minted. Go on, take a good look. Hold it up to the light.”

  Guinevere did as he said and looked at the coin carefully. The silver was new and shone like a polished gem. One side of the coin pictured a glowing sword; the other, a man’s face in profile. It was a clean-shaven face, with a noble brow and a direct gaze that looked forward into the future. Around the edge of the face were engraved the words ARTURUS REX—KING OF THE BRITONS. Above the sword on the other side ran the phrase TO HIM UNCONQUERED.

  “The first coin of a new realm,” Stannic said proudly. “There’ll be more, the knight said. Coins for Britons. Makes no sense to use Roman money now, does it? We’re not Roman anymore.”

  “No indeed,” Guinevere said thoughtfully. “It’s a beautiful coin. It could unite us.”

  Stannic nodded. “That’s what the knight said. A new coin for a new Kingdom of the Britons. They’re minting them in copper and bronze, too. And maybe someday in gold.”

  Guinevere smiled at his enthusiasm. Stannic had been a warrior once. Now, like an old warhorse long put out to grass who still lifts his head at the call to battle, Stannic sensed change in the wind and longed to be part of it. Perhaps, Guinevere thought as she went to bridle her filly, Sir Gereint was bringing a larger message to the kingdoms of Wales: It was time to work together, despite border disputes and ancient rivalries, to achieve a greater good for all. It was time to unite against the pressure of invasion. It was time to form a nation.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Llyr’s Dream

  Llyr awoke as dawn broke across the meadows. He looked up at a soft pearl sky through the canopy of boughs above him and swung lightly from his hammock. Mist moved among the meadow grasses, gray-pink and tinged with light. Across the field, hardwoods crowded thick along the forest verge, looming like ghostly giants behind a veil of smoke. He pulled the stopper from his waterskin, poured a libation on the ground for the god of the place, and drank. It would not be long now. He rinsed his face in a nearby stream to clear his head. Last night, he had dreamed of home—of rushing torrents born in the snow-clad heights; of steep paths, craggy peaks, and wise-eyed mountain goats; of Y Wyddfa, the Snow Mountain, where the gods walked. He had awakened in a sweat. Why had this dream come to him now, when he had lived two years among the Long Eyes and no longer suffered from homesickness?

  In his dream, summer had gone from the mountain. He had pulled on his wolfskin cloak and begun to climb. The higher he went, the lower sank the clouds. Gray mists clogged his throat and breathed cold on the back of his neck. He stepped onto the old, familiar rock ledge and raised a hand in greeting. And stopped. The greeting ground was empty. Where the cave had been, he saw a solid wall of rock. Where the spring had been, he saw a giant fir blocking his way with spiky arms. Home had disappeared.

  Llyr shook his head to clear his mind of the dream. It was not the normal sort of dream that a few moments of wakefulness dispelled. It was an omen, and he could not ignore it. But its meaning was not clear.

  The sharp, staccato rap of hooves on the hard dirt of the ride brought his head up. Out of the mist and into the pale gold of early light came the dark gray filly with her dappled coat and the golden girl astride her. The last shreds of nightmare fled.

  Llyr watched with leaping heart as they raced uphill the full length of the meadow, then circled back, slowing to a canter and traversing the width of the meadow again and again, back and forth, changing leads at every turn with a fluid grace delightful to observe. It looked almost like dancing. Horse and rider moved as one in a strange and beautiful rite.

  The first time he had seen Guinevere ride, he had thought her possessed of magic. He could find no other explanation for the beauty of the sight, for the seamless unity between two such different beings. Now that he was learning how it was done—that it was a matter of communication between human and beast born of physical coordination and long practice, and not the casting of a spell—he admired the girl even more.

  To him, it was still magic of a kind. The ability to speak to the horse through seat and legs and hands, and, once understood, to engage the animal’s will, to harness his strength and speed for one’s own purpose, not by force, but by securing the animal’s willing cooperation—what could be more magical than that?

  Guinevere reached the bottom of the meadow and turned the filly around, gathering
her for another race uphill. He could see the horse’s ears switch back to listen; the hindquarters bunch, the forelegs dance in place, and the high neck curve as the filly fretted against a restraint he could not see. The girl barely moved. It was not her puny strength that kept the horse in place; it was her will. He saw her shoulders sink, and in that instant the filly exploded forward, hurling herself up the hill, the girl a mere gleam of gold clinging to the dark, whipping mane.

  Llyr sighed. Many could ride, but few could ride like that. Never would he be one of them. In all his seventeen years, he had never been on a horse until last spring. He had hunted them, as the Old Ones always had, for their flesh, their skins, and the strong fibers of their manes and tails; for their hooves, their tendons, and the marrow of their bones. But he did not hunt them anymore. Now he had a pony of his own, named Thatch, living below in the valley in the king’s own paddocks, right next to the king’s own horses. More amazing still, for five unbelievable months Guinevere of Northgallis had been teaching him how to ride.

  How much had changed in those five months! Last April, he had been living happily enough in the heights above the castle as foster son to Mapon, leader of the Long Eyes. His own father, leader of the White Foot of Snow Mountain, had charge of Mapon’s son in exchange. Until last spring, the only thoughts in Llyr’s head had been for hunting, pleasing Mapon, and treading lightly to avoid the notice of the One Who Hears. For a long time he had missed his family, his friends, and his dark-eyed Alia. But on the day he had first seen Guinevere, his life had changed. Nothing that had mattered to him before mattered to him after that. Meeting her had altered everything.

  Since then, he had spent more time with the valley dwellers. His friendship with the girl had alarmed the Long Eyes, and they had punished him for it in the most grievous way possible: they had cast him out from the clan. But the punishment had not mattered. All that mattered was the girl’s presence. Most of the Long Eyes had ridiculed him, accusing him of infatuation. The One Who Hears alone had understood. She knew, being a wisewoman, that Guinevere had changed the very composition of Llyr’s world. Perhaps that was why she had appointed him the girl’s guardian on behalf of all the Old Ones. What had been a joint effort among the clans for thirteen years was now a responsibility placed squarely on his own slim shoulders. Llyr no longer belonged to any clan. He belonged instead to the Goddess and to the girl he protected. His life’s purpose was to keep her from harm until the great king who was her destiny came to take her away. Afterward … Afterward was something he did not think about.