“Didn’t Lancelot even try to see the Queen?” It was Dane again. Inevitably she threw the sharpest barbs.
“Yes.” The admission came bitterly. “When we parted he was headed for Amesbury. He did not want her to learn of Arthur’s death from a stranger’s lips. Even though she is in a monastery with comfort all around her.”
“Quite right.” Anet nodded.
“Cold comfort for such a queen,” Dane said sadly.
Galahad scowled. “I advised him not to go.”
She met his eyes. “I believe it.”
Unaccountably, Galahad felt heat in his face. “He’d be better off if he never saw her again.”
“Only a man would think so,” Dane shot back.
Anet rose, silencing them. “The leeching must be finished. Let us see how Percival is doing.”
Peredur rose with her, and took her arm. “An excellent idea. Thank you, Galahad, for sharing your tale with us. It was good of you to let us know how my brother died.”
Galahad and Dane rose together. She put her hand on his arm. “Cousin. A moment.” Her tangle of hair hid half her face, giving her a fragile, childlike look. He was not fooled.
“What do you want?”
“I owe you thanks for not betraying our secret. Val’s and mine. About how he stowed away.”
“I kept silent for Percival’s sake.”
“I know.” The changeable eyes met his directly. “It was my plan. He was the one who wanted to go, but I made it happen. If he’d been killed—” She swallowed suddenly.
“He wasn’t.”
“But he so nearly was. I . . . I couldn’t have lived with myself if he’d died.”
“You should have thought of that before you sent him off.”
“I did. I did. But he wanted to prove himself so desperately. And our parents were so afraid to risk him. They never let him near a weapon. He’s their only son.”
“He’s not out of the woods yet.”
She smiled fleetingly. “Oh, he’ll live. I know he will. Now that he’s home.” She paused. “I’m sorry if I trod on your private ground. I didn’t mean to. But I can’t abide not knowing things.”
He stiffened instantly. “Never mind.”
She nodded, dropping the subject at once. “How long are you going to stay here?”
“I don’t know. Until I’m certain of Percival’s future.”
“Do you mean, until he is recovered?”
“That’s part of what I mean.”
Her eyes widened and she smiled. “Your thoughts run with mine. You do well to have doubts. Let’s call a truce, shall we? For Percival’s sake? We are twins, you know. I can’t be angry at you if you’re his friend.”
He looked down at her. For a girl she was remarkably perceptive. He lifted his shoulders. “All right. But private ground is private ground.”
She grinned, suddenly looking a lot like Percival. “Agreed. I’ll keep off yours if you’ll keep off mine.”
“What is that, I wonder?”
She laughed. “You’ll never know.”
4
EAVESDROPPING
Dane huddled in a corner of the turret, drawing a thick wool blanket closer around her shoulders. This was her favorite hiding place, this niche in the tower wall. It had a narrow window that looked down over the courtyard where her father’s soldiers trained, and a ledge just wide enough for her to sit. A sharp wind gusted in from time to time, more reminiscent of winter than of spring, and she wriggled deeper into her warm cocoon. She prayed her mother would not miss her and come looking. She was not worried about Peredur’s wife finding her. Lady Ennyde was too wrapped up in her own concerns to know, even after all these years, where Dane hid when she wanted to escape her duties.
Dane shuddered. The winter had been long and cold, penning the women indoors in the workrooms, and she was sick of spinning. She loathed it. It amazed her that grown women could stand the tedium. She liked weaving better; at least that required thought. But she was too young and small to work the looms herself. Once in a while Anet would let her help. She enjoyed that. Her mother was a master weaver whose tapestries were the pride of all Wales. Several of them hung in Camelot itself, for Queen Guinevere had prized them above the work of her own women.
But spinning! There was nothing so mind-numbing as spinning. Her thread was forever uneven and her fingers blistered after an hour of it. It was all right for her mother’s women; they were old hands; they sat and gossiped and made wishful matches for their daughters and nieces while the lumpy wool raced through their fingers and onto the spindle as neat thread. She would so much rather watch sword practice than spin!
She looked down again at the sun-washed courtyard. Sir Maldryn, Maelgon’s master-at-arms, was sparring with Percival. She had never liked Sir Maldryn and she wished Peredur would appoint someone new. But good swordsmen were impossible to find these days. Between Autun and Camlann, everyone with an ounce of skill or courage was dead. Maldryn had a mean streak in him which surfaced from time to time. It made him untrustworthy in her eyes. She watched as he instructed Percival on a new defense, demonstrated it, let him practice.
Percival’s arm was daily growing stronger and more mobile, but it had been a long recovery. His fever had lasted a fortnight, despite leechings, and it had been a month before he could swallow more than broth. From Christmas to midwinter he had been abed. By the time of their twelfth birthday, a week beyond the spring equinox, he had been able to last an entire day up and about, and had been able to attend the feast held in their honor. That had been wonderful, staying up until they were weary and not being sent to bed as soon as the wine went round.
Dane frowned suddenly. Her twelfth birthday had also been the day Ennyde spoke to her mother about marrying her off to the king of Powys. How dare the old witch act as if she were queen! Thank God Anet had refused to consider making a match for her yet! Most girls weren’t married until fifteen or so, but twelve was not too young for betrothal. Anet, whether from wisdom or from kindness, thought her unready and refused to discuss the subject. Dane grimaced. Even such a fool as Ennyde ought to be able to see she was unready. Her body was as straight and slender as a boy’s with no hint yet of any change. And Dane was determined to keep it that way. She did not care if she had to bind herself like a barley sheaf; she was not going to let Ennyde’s sharp eyes detect change when it came.
Boys were so lucky, she thought glumly, watching Percival swing his sword in the glinting sun. They could ride and hunt, and play with swords and cudgels, and go exploring alone in the summer hills. They were encouraged to be strong and independent. Yet she was scolded for all these things when she was caught at them. She was made to spin and weave and sew until she was half-dead with boredom. Sighing, she shrugged off her annoyance. This was an old complaint, and years of protest hadn’t changed a thing. Fighting it only made her bitter and unhappy. She did not want to grow up ill-humored like Ennyde.
In the courtyard several of Peredur’s men were throwing spears at targets of stuffed animal hides hung from poles. They kept a respectful distance from the center of the square where Sir Maldryn pushed Percival to greater effort. To one side, leaning casually against the shield rack, watching, stood her cousin Galahad. She studied him a moment. Although he had been five months in Gwynedd he was still an enigma to her. That he was devoted to Percival was clear, and as far as she was concerned it was his saving grace. He rarely addressed her willingly, and when he did she found him taciturn and haughty. Val, however, worshiped him. Whenever she found fault with Galahad, Val defended him vehemently, and it wasn’t just his natural loyalty to someone who had saved his life. Val genuinely admired him. She supposed they shared that mysterious brotherhood born between men who had been to war, but she sensed that the source of Val’s worship went deeper than that. She wished she could understand it, but they never shared their counsels with her. In fact, if she came upon them talking together, Galahad always went silent until she passed out of earshot
.
She supposed she ought to hate him for it, but she couldn’t. There was something about her tall, black-haired Breton cousin that intrigued her. He was not everything he seemed to be. Percival thought him the soul of honor, valiant, honest, and devout, but for all his inward calm and enviable self-possession there were times when he seemed to Dane, oddly, somehow lost.
From the corner of her eye she saw two servant girls blush and curtsy in Galahad’s direction as they passed by. Dane smiled when she saw their efforts were in vain. He didn’t even see them. He never noticed women. Percival said he had made a vow never to marry. It was what she liked best about him. But he was fifteen, tall for his age, with eyes as deep blue as a cloudless day in summer and features of astounding beauty. And he was Lancelot’s son and heir to Lanascol. No wonder every maiden in Gwynedd was vying for his attention! With such gifts, it would be a miracle if he kept his vow.
Suddenly she saw Galahad straighten and his hand fall to his sword hilt. Her eyes flew to Percival. He was tiring. His legs had stopped moving and his sword strokes had lost all their finesse. He was doing little more than heaving the weapon about with all his strength, but Sir Maldryn would not let him stop. Instead, the master taunted him, rebuking him for his weakness, and ran his own sword in once, twice, and sliced his tunic. Percival staggered, exhausted. Dane had opened her lips to cry out when Galahad appeared at Percival’s side and Sir Maldryn found his blade crossed by the Breton’s sword.
For a long moment no one moved. Then Sir Maldryn sneered and made Galahad a mock bow. Galahad said something she could not hear while Percival limped to the courtyard wall, clutching his shoulder. Slowly the two men began to circle. She had seen enough instruction to follow some of the tactics. Sir Maldryn feinted but Galahad was not fooled. Maldryn lunged and dodged, moving quickly, but Galahad’s blade was always there to meet his, and Galahad did not seem to move at all. Several of the spear throwers turned to watch, and began laying bets on the contest. It was a game to them, but Dane’s knuckles whitened against the stone sill and her heart thudded in her ears. She could see Percival’s face as he leaned sweating against the wall. He was not smiling.
Game or not, it was over quickly. Sir Maldryn, never a patient man, charged in a fury, his blade flashing faster than the eye could follow. The next instant he found himself standing unarmed, gripping his wrist, his blade winking in the dust at his feet, Galahad’s sword point at his breast. In the stunned silence that followed, no one moved. Galahad stepped close to Maldryn until they were nearly face-to-face. He spoke slowly and distinctly. Dane could not hear what he said, but she saw a grin tug at the corners of Percival’s mouth. Then, still inches from Maldryn’s face, Galahad sheathed his sword, turned on his heel, and left by the nearest door.
Sir Maldryn flushed a dark red and stared back at all the watching faces. The soldiers quickly went back to their spears. Maldryn turned to the door where Galahad had disappeared and spat loudly in the dust. Then he bent for his sword and left the courtyard without so much as a glance in Percival’s direction.
Dane hugged her knees and shivered. She would see to it Peredur learned of his master-at-arms’ arrogant behavior. Peredur had better send him packing. Her father, Maelgon, would have killed the man for such insolence, but she knew Peredur was less violently tempered. Dismissal was probably the most she could hope for, dismissal and a blackening of his name.
She had swung her legs from the ledge when she heard women’s voices approaching. Quickly, she retreated back under the blanket, pulling it tightly around her and hiding her face in its folds. She knew the voices instantly: Lady Ennyde and one of her fawning women.
“Three years is a long time, my lady. There’s no need to get your feathers ruffled now.”
“I do not have feathers, Cressa,” Ennyde returned coldly. “And they are not ruffled.” Under her blanket Dane giggled and pressed her hand tight against her mouth. “He’s not only a boy; he’s a weak boy. He’ll never be a man of Peredur’s stature. The other kings of Wales are a vicious, power-hungry wolfpack. Without a strong hand in Gwynedd to guide them, I don’t like to think what might happen. Our lives might even be at stake.”
Unsmiling now, Dane strained to listen. They were close enough to see her. She hardly dared to breathe.
“Sweet heaven! But surely, my lady, that’s unlikely. You told me Prince Peredur is binding the Welsh lords into a federation—surely it won’t take three years to do that. You told me he had already put out feelers.”
“And what would happen, do you suppose, to such a federation should he hand over his power to an untried boy?” Untried! Dane thought furiously. What did she think Camlann was? A hunting party? “A federation of lords is only as strong as the leader who binds them. Look at Arthur and Britain. For twenty-six years Britain was a single kingdom because a strong king held the kingdoms together and bound the lords to his side. Now that he is gone, what has happened? No one follows that Cornish maggot, Constantine. He holds Camelot and Cornwall, but little else. No, Cressa, my dear, had Maelgon lived it would be different, but as it is”—she lowered her voice—“only Peredur can save Gwynedd, and as king, not regent. For all our sakes.”
“Can it be done? Queen Anet will never allow it.”
Ennyde laughed softly. “Dear Anet. What can she do, besides spread slander? She is the least of the obstacles in our way.”
Our way! Dane’s blood ran cold as she fought against her rising temper. They were walking away. She slid off the ledge and tiptoed forward, keeping her back to the wall.
“It’s Peredur himself I must convince, Cressa. He likes the boy, God knows why. I must convince him it is necessary for Gwynedd’s sake.”
“And he might think of his own children and his wife, from time to time, when he has the chance.”
“Indeed.” Ennyde’s voice warmed. “Meanwhile, I must get rid of that Breton creature who protects Percival.”
“What a taciturn, brooding soul he is.”
“He’s dangerous. Without him Percival is nothing. I need him gone.”
“And then what will you do about Percival?”
Ennyde laughed again, without amusement. “Are you afraid I’ll poison his soup? No, my dear. I’d hardly dare anything so obvious. Less direct means are far more effective, and less traceable to their source. Let me get rid of his handsome cousin and marry off his little bitch of a sister, and we’ll have nothing to fear from Percival. He’s a weakling like his mother. It’s that wretched girl who inherited Maelgon’s will.”
Cressa made some reply but they were starting down the stairs and Dane could no longer hear their words. She leaned against the wall, sweating, trembling so violently she could hardly stand. She must run to tell her father— Ah, no, alas, he was gone forever, that stalwart, thickheaded oak of a man. She must tell her mother— She bit her lip in despair. She could not go running to her mother with such a tale. Anet, bless her sweet soul, would never believe it. She never credited other people with motives by which she herself was never moved.
Slowly, carefully, Dane gathered the blanket in her arms and folded it, forcing herself to calmness and her whirling thoughts to order. It was up to her to think of some solution. There must be a way to foil Ennyde’s plans.
Long after dark Dane crept past her sleeping nurse and out into the dimly lit corridor. Slipping from shadow to shadow between the torches, she reached the men’s quarters, melted up the winding stairs like a wraith in mist, and scratched lightly on Percival’s door. After a long moment it opened. She looked up into Galahad’s frowning face.
“What are you doing here?”
“Let me in! Quickly! I must speak with Percival!”
Grudgingly he let her pass, closing the door behind her.
“Why, Dane!” Percival lay propped up in his bed, his right arm bent across his waist as if he still carried it in a sling. She knew without asking that his shoulder pained him. For an instant anger at Sir Maldryn bit at her, sharp as a knife blade,
but she quelled it.
“Forgive me, Val.” She sat beside him and slipped an arm about his neck, pressing her cheek to his. “Princes’ council. It’s urgent or I wouldn’t have come.”
Percival regarded her with open affection. “Princes’ council. Ah, Dane, how I miss those days!”
“What,” Galahad addressed Percival, “is a prince’s council?”
“Oh, it was just a name between us—our private signal for secret conferences in our childhood days. We met at prearranged places to plan our outings and adventures.”
Galahad grunted. “Your sister is hardly a prince.”
“I’m as much a prince as you are,” Dane retorted with a shake of her head. Her wild hair half tumbled from its bonds. In irritation she reached up and loosed the rest, letting it fall about her shoulders in an unruly jumble.
“Yes, and you’re a better one than I am,” Percival cut in, pushing her hair from her face with a tender touch. “If you’d been at Camlann we’d have won the battle.”
Dane flushed with pleasure. “Now you’re being silly. I’ve come about something serious, Val, and it’s just as well that Galahad’s here. Both of you are going to have to leave Gwynedd.”
They stared at her. “Why?”
“Because to stay is dangerous.”
Galahad stiffened and turned his back on her.
“This isn’t about Maldryn, is it?” Percival wondered. “He’s been demoted. He’s being punished.”
“He ought to be whipped and driven out of Wales!” Dane cried, trembling. “Father would have killed him publicly! What you call punishment is barely a slap on his wrist! It’s insulting!”
Percival smiled. “Well, you and Galahad are agreed on that.”
“And so should you be, Val. Maldryn’s in Ennyde’s pocket. It’s thanks to her he got off so lightly. Don’t you know that? He married Ennyde’s niece two years ago—she’s got Peredur convinced he risks war with her family if he exiles Maldryn!”
Galahad turned and glanced sharply at Percival. “Is this true?” Percival shrugged. “It is if Dane says it is. I don’t remember.”