Llyr hugged his knees to his chest. What would the Elders do if—when—they decided against him? They would probably remove him from guard duty, but that was not disaster. He could still keep an eye on the clearing while he was out hunting. Would they bar him from the group hunts because they could not trust him? The thought brought a flush of shame to his cheek. To be excluded from the group in any fashion was the worst punishment a member of Earth's Beloved could suffer. Llyr was certain Mapon would not want to do this. He was not just any youth who had misbehaved; he was the son of Bran, leader of the White Foot, in whose care Mapon had placed his own favored son. Surely Mapon would think twice before bringing public dishonor upon Llyr.
Llyr found that this reasoning did little to console him. All the other members of the council were against him. Would they be powerful enough to sway Mapon's judgment or to overrule him? He went cold at the thought. What would he do—may all the gods preserve him—if they cast him out? He could never return to the White Foot under such disgrace. And he had nowhere else to go. He swallowed in a dry throat. He had heard of such men, cast out from their clans, cast out from the entire fraternity of Earth's Beloved, forced to live in the barren and lonely places of Britain, growing as wild and unkempt as any she-wolf and hunted by every man they met. They never lived long, these outcasts. No man could survive without his fellows.
A finger tapped him on the shoulder, and he spun around to see Lugh, son of Lugh Long-Arm, standing behind him. The young man looked frightened. “Time to go in,” he said.
In silence, Llyr followed him back to the cavern deep in the hill. Mapon stood alone before the fire. Everyone else had gone. Lugh, too, hurried away after a quick salute to the leader. Mapon's face was grave but not unkind.
“Sit,” he said. Llyr sat on one of the braided wool mats still in place around the circle. Mapon sat down next to him. The fire had been rebuilt with fresh turf, and both men stared into the flames as Mapon spoke. Like all of Earth's Beloved, when he told a tale, Mapon began at the beginning and worked his way in measured beats to the end. Too numb for thought, and huddling from the shadows all around him, Llyr listened to the story he had himself related a few hours before. Hearing it like this, from other lips, it sounded ridiculous, a boyish prank played by a fool, and he was not surprised the men had not believed him.
Mapon repeated the men's objections, that it was forbidden to show oneself to She With Hair of Light, whatever the circumstances; that it was forbidden to speak to her, to approach her, even to think of her except as someone who must be protected from harm. It was certainly forbidden to touch her, to aspire to any degree of familiarity, to tell her anything at all about Earth's Beloved and their ways. More, it was forbidden to let her know that she was guarded, and it was expressly forbidden to tell her why. Yet Llyr had done all these things, by his own admission. It did not matter what his reasons had been.
Mapon paused and picked up a stick to stir the flames. The Council of Elders had spoken with one voice: Llyr must be cast out from the clan. The final decision, however, was Mapon's. Out of friendship and respect for Llyr's father, Bran, he had decided against the wishes of the Elders, even if it cost him his place as leader of the Long Eyes. He was loath to subject his foster son, for whom he and his family had developed a genuine liking, to a punishment that was sure to end in a wretched and lonely death.
Mapon hesitated, his eyes on Llyr. When he spoke, sadness filled his voice. He wished to give Llyr the chance to realize the gravity of his error and reform. Llyr was to pack his belongings, go out into the hills, and live for one month the life of an outcast. At the next new moon, he could return, and if he could convince the Council of Elders of a change of heart, if he could give proof of his resolution through his actions, Mapon would readmit him to the society of Earth's Beloved.
Llyr heard it all through a steady drumming in his ears. The words made no impression but slid by like dead leaves in a dark current. He was cold, despite the fire, and his head was empty of thoughts. He heard his own voice pierce the silence, as though someone else were moving his lips, forming the words, pushing them out with breath he did not command. He listened, astounded, to what he said.
“Honorable father, I will go.”
Mapon's hand came down on his shoulder, heavy and warm. Mapon's rough lips brushed his cheek. “Light with thee walk, my son.”
Llyr rose. His chest ached, and he fought to draw a steady breath. “Dark from thee flee, my father.” He turned toward the mouth of the cave, blinded by tears, and fled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Tracker
Marcus, son of Argus, followed an old goat trail downhill. He paused under the branch of a juniper tree that had rooted in the scant soil between two rocky outcrops well above his head. He squatted and gazed intently at the edges of the trail. He saw, as he expected, that he was not the first to stop here under the shelter of the branch. The mark of a hard heel, a booted heel, stood out clearly in the dirt.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he raised his head. In the west, the sea and shore were gray with mist. Overhead the sky sank low with cloud. He could already smell the coming rain, enemy of the tracker. A hard rain would not last long, but it would wash out footprints. A soft rain might last for days and would blur the edges of any mark. It would certainly erase the delicate trail of prints he was trying to follow.
Marcus rose to his feet and continued his slow and careful progress down the rocky mountain pass. Away below him lay the soft green fields of Gwynedd and, to the north, the beginning of the marshes. There was much ground to cover and little time, but he would not rush. Hurry was as much his enemy as rain. He had spent days examining the shore road, the wagon road through the forest, the myriad cattle paths around the grazing pastures, and the animal trails that wound among the hills and snaked through mountain passes. He had picked up traces of horses, cattle, sheep, dogs, mountain cats, deer, boar, rabbits, and all kinds of vermin. He had seen the tracks of men, women, children, and Old Ones. He knew, within rough bounds, the business of the kingdom since the last hard rain. Late yesterday, in the slanting light of the setting sun, he had at last come across the signs he had been looking for. He had spent the night in a cave and now had picked up the trail again.
He smiled to himself. Queen Alyse was right. Where there were tracks, there were the men and beasts who made them. What a woman she was! Old Argus had warned him, when Marcus was offered a post at the castle, to pay attention to the queen. It had proved to be excellent advice. King Pellinore's word might be law, but the king did very little without the queen's assent. Except in matters of war, where she never meddled, Queen Alyse had an opinion on every subject and knew the right way to do anything that needed doing. A powerful woman was an easy target for ridicule and envious remarks, but those with intelligence paid Queen Alyse respect. She tolerated few mistakes and no fools. She ran the daily business of Gwynedd with a deft and efficient hand. In Old Argus's opinion, the kingdom had never been so wealthy, so strong, so powerful, or so respected.
That this was due largely to Queen Alyse, Marcus did not doubt. She was an exceedingly capable administrator. He admired a woman who could be both forthright and subtle, both feminine and cold of purpose. During their entire interview, she had not once stared at his arm. She had met him not as queen to servant, not even as woman to man, but as mind to mind. This was a rare enough experience among his fellow men, and unheard of in a woman. He had found it invigorating.
He stooped to run his fingers over another mark in the dirt, a soft smudge made by a small canvas shoe. It was the tenth such mark he had found that morning, and he regarded it with satisfaction. He had an idea now how the cattle thefts had been accomplished, but he had no proof. No one would admit to having seen the cattle leave. Regis had posted sentries throughout the hills after the thefts had begun, yet no one, young or old, shepherd or sentry, had seen a single sign of anything unusual.
The rain began as he reached the valley floor
. He hunched his shoulders against it but kept his gaze on the path ahead. The ground was softer here, but the tracks he sought were fewer. Someone had taken care to wipe them out. If the tracks were not there, the marks of erasure were, and he followed them.
How was it possible for a woman to be as intelligent, as perceptive as Queen Alyse and still have blind spots? He would wager his month's pay she had no idea that Regis of Wyebridge, the captain of her house guard for more than seven years, despised her. Regis seldom bothered to hide his contempt from his men, and Marcus had always assumed the queen must be aware of it. He knew now that she was not. Regis might not be her favorite, but he was King Pellinore's choice for the post, and she found him acceptable. Marcus wondered what she would say if she knew the truth. He wondered if he would have to be the means of enlightening her. He hoped not. He could not cast stones at Regis when the man was his commander.
He peered into the thickening mist. A hundred paces ahead, the path forked. One trail headed north into the marshes, the other west to the meadows and the shore. Soon now he would know where the cattle had gone. But he could not return to Queen Alyse until he also knew why.
CHAPTER NINE
Counting the Days
Guinevere lifted her head from her needlework and listened to the rain clattering against shuttered windows. It had been raining for three days now, penning everyone but the shepherds within doors. It felt almost like winter again, for the stone walls of the castle still held their winter chill, and braziers blazed in every room. This imprisonment, after days of sun and warmth, had not improved anyone's temper.
Queen Alyse's ill humor, like the rising storm outside, seemed to grow in power with every passing day. She had been furious with Guinevere for riding out alone and returning late to her lessons with Father Martin. She had scolded Elaine for greediness at supper, Leonora for a misplaced stitch, and Grannic for a mistake in the pattern on the loom. Ailsa she berated for negligence, laziness, general incompetence, and anything else that occurred to her. No one was spared the queen's attentions. Folk either rolled their eyes behind her back or hid from her altogether. Everyone in Gwynedd seemed to be counting the days until King Pellinore's return.
Guinevere certainly was. Queen Alyse had not done the very worst thing imaginable, threatening to send Ailsa back to Northgallis, but she had done the next worst. She had banned both girls from the stables. Permanently. If they wanted to travel about, she had told them in icy tones, they would go like ladies, in a litter. If they wished to ride, they would have to wait until there were armed men enough to escort them. That would not be possible before King Pellinore's return and, depending upon the state of things in this impoverished, wartorn land, perhaps not even then.
Guinevere and Elaine were to spend their days in work, study, and prayer for the improvement of their souls. Lessons with Iakos were to begin midmorning, when they would share the schoolroom with Elaine's younger brothers. Since Guinevere was so facile at her studies—racing through her work in order to sneak out early—she could spare the time to help eight-year-old Prince Maelgon with his figuring and five-year-old Prince Peredur with his letters .
There would be no more early dismissals. The girls would spend a part of every day learning household management from Queen Alyse, her steward, and her women. Lessons with Father Martin would increase to four times a week, and Guinevere should prepare herself for baptism. It was high time she became a Christian. Queen Alyse had no intention of harboring a grown pagan in the family.
The girls were assigned the additional responsibility of constructing their own gowns. They must stitch every stitch themselves. It was time, the queen declared, that they learned the art of dressmaking, learned how to put together and take apart a garment, to refit it for another use or a changing fashion. It was high time they learned to do something useful.
The queen's workroom had become a place of refuge over the past three days, for Queen Alyse was too busy about the castle to spend much time there. Now, three of the queen's women huddled together near the brazier, spinning basketfuls of washed wool into thick, yellow-gray thread. Side by side on the long bench against the wall, Ailsa and Grannic worked the looms. Normally, the chamber would have hummed with the women's gossip, but today the only sound was the muted clacking of wooden shuttles as Ailsa and Grannic tried without success to weave in silence, attempting even in her absence to avoid the queen's notice.
Guinevere focused her attention on the fabric in her lap. For the hundredth time, she paused in her stitching to marvel at the feel of it against her skin. The thick silk was the color of oak buds, a spring green that made her think of the wooded hills above the castle warming to life in the April sun. Queen Alyse might have a famous temper and a tongue that could slay a man at sixty paces—or so the soldiers claimed—yet she was capable of a gift like this. Guinevere slid her hands under the heavy silk to feel its weight again. The quality of the cloth amazed her. It was superior in strength and texture to Elaine's blue, and the color was unusual, being both rich and delicate, with a sheen like a polished apple's. A gown of this fabric would flatter any shade of skin or hair. She thought she might actually look well in it. Not for the first time, she wondered what had moved Queen Alyse to give it to her.
“Pay attention, Gwen.” Elaine poked her in the ribs. “You're three seams behind me. Pity you can't stitch as fast as you can ride.”
Guinevere stifled a protest. Elaine's bone needle raced across the sky blue fabric, as quick and erratic as a darting bird. As usual, her seams were crooked and her hasty stitches far too large to withstand the stresses to which she would inevitably subject them.
“A great pity, for I'd be done by now.”
“Jest if you like, but there will be trouble if you don't finish your gown on time.”
“Your mother is overreacting. I didn't ride far, I wasn't very late, Father Martin didn't mind at all. I am not responsible for her rampage.”
“Well, you began it.”
Guinevere colored. “She has no right to ban me from the stables. My father taught me to ride when I was three years old. He was proud of my skill. And King Pellinore is the one who gave me Peleth. She has no right to forbid me to ride him.”
“Shhhhh.” Grannic shushed her from across the room, scowling. “Have some sense, girl. Keep quiet.”
“She's right,” Elaine said firmly. “Whatever you do, don't start that again. She'll put us all on bread and water.”
Once before, Queen Alyse had banned the girls from the stables, saying they had outgrown their ponies and were getting old enough to put away childish things. Elaine had objected on principle, but Guinevere had been devastated. King Pellinore had intervened and stemmed her grief by giving her Peleth, a retired cavalry mount he was about to put out to grass. Queen Alyse had not spoken to the king for an entire month afterward, but she had been unable to alter his decision.
Unfortunately, King Pellinore was still a week from home, and in his absence, Queen Alyse ruled the kingdom. Her word was law. Guinevere knew very well there was nothing she could do or say to change the queen's mind. Yet riding had become a necessary part of her life. It was the only time she could be alone. It gave her a sense of freedom and independence in a world growing every year more circumscribed as she neared marriageable age. Riding restored her sense of self. To wait an entire week for another chance of a gallop through the woods was more than she thought she could bear, yet somehow she would have to bear it. And she would have to hope that King Pellinore would, for his ward's sake, once again be willing to cross the queen.
She would ask the king as soon as he got home. He was due on Beltane Eve, but she would not ask him then. The mischievous spirits of spring were abroad on Beltane Eve, even in a Christian kingdom like Gwynedd. The castle inhabitants might not celebrate the ancient rites but the villagers, like most common folk across the land, believed in the old ways and worshiped the old gods. The spring-time festival of Beltane was one they looked forward to all wi
nter and would celebrate with or without the king's approval.
Up at the castle, however, the first of May was a day like any other. And if she missed the dancing, the ribbons, the flowers braided in her hair, and the footraces, which she always won, Guinevere was glad, on the whole, not to be in Northgallis now. Her half brother Gwarthgydd, King Leodegrance's eldest son from his first marriage, was king there now and would sit at the head of the feasting board in their father's place. Gwarth's only son, Gwillim, her best friend and companion for the first seven years of her life, would be fourteen now and training for a warrior. He would sit at the king's right hand on Beltane Eve, while she, if she were there, would be packed off to bed with the rest of the children, to watch from the window as the celebrations moved from the king's hall into the woods and bushes. This would be the year of Gwillim's initiation into the orgies of Beltane. For this birthday, Guinevere preferred to be in Gwynedd, where religious festivals, however joyful and exuberant, never spilled over into worship of the oldest arts.
The looms stopped, startling Guinevere from her thoughts. In the sudden silence, the girls could hear what the women had already heard: the horn at the gate followed by the clatter of hooves on stone. Elaine ran to the window, unlatched the shutters, and threw them open. She craned her neck to see around the corner of the castle wall and into the courtyard below.
“Horses!” she cried. “And a troop of men. I can't see a banner. It can't be Father, can it?”
“Not likely,” said Grannic, coming up behind her. “Close that window, my lady, before your mother catches you staring out like a common bawd.”