Guinevere's Gamble

  Color drained from Guinevere’s face. “That was Merlin?” Her head began to spin. Her specter was the second most powerful man in all the land, and she had tried to deny him! Automatically, her fingers made the ancient sign against enchantment. She caught herself, whipped her hand out of sight, and crossed herself with the other. She was a Christian now and, as Father Martin and Queen Alyse had both explained at length, no longer owed allegiance to the gods of her pagan childhood.

  “Why is he here?”

  “He’s King Arthur’s political advisor. Where else should he be when there’s a treaty to be made?” Trevor frowned. “Gwen? Is something wrong? You’ve gone pale.”

  She could not keep her trembling out of her voice. “You sound as if you’re on friendly terms with him.”

  “I am. He brought me back from darkness. We’ve talked about many things in the last six days. He stops by every evening before dinner to share the council’s doings with me and Mother. He’s my proxy until I’m on my feet again. I’m decidedly grateful to him. He keeps me informed of the council’s deliberations, if one can call them that, and takes my opinions—our opinions—back to them. In truth, Mother’s voice counts more than mine. She’s the strategist in the family.”

  “And does he carry her opinions back to council and give them as his own?”

  “As mine—yes, he does. That pleases you, I see.”

  “Of course it does,” she said. “Women should always have a voice in council. I’m sure you agree.”

  He laughed. “I dare not deny it. No doubt Queen Alyse speaks her mind through King Pellinore as often as Mother does through me. My father once warned me that, despite appearances, the world is run by women.”

  “It used to be so, long ago,” Guinevere said, remembering the old tales she had learned in Northgallis and the Great Goddess she had worshipped there. “Before the Romans came. Now even the councils of the Old Ones are run by men.”

  Trevor looked at her curiously. “How on earth do you know that?”

  “I attended one of them. With Llyr.”

  “Did you? I didn’t know they let in any of our kind of folk. What was it like?”

  Guinevere shivered, averting her gaze. “Frightening. Amazing. I met their wisewoman, the One Who Hears. Her power was real. She … changed things.”

  “How?”

  “It’s hard to explain. She made me see things about myself I didn’t want to—to accept. I’ve been different since that day. So has Llyr.”

  Trevor did not reply, and when she turned to him, she found him asleep. Queen Esdora had warned her he was prone to spells of weariness as a consequence of the knock to his head when he fell. Quietly, she rose from her stool, took up a glazed bowl of herbal water, and sprinkled some over the embers in the brazier. Steam hissed upward, filling the tent with the clean scents of sage, comfrey, and kingwort.

  If Merlin was Trevor’s physician, he had probably prepared the herbs himself. He must be the one who had straightened Trevor’s leg and bound it between two carved slats of wood. He must also be the one who had told Queen Esdora that the leg would heal straight in time, and that Trevor would be able to walk and ride again. Coming from such a man as Merlin, those were comforting words indeed. There should be nothing to fear in such a man….

  Trevor awoke as quickly as he had fallen asleep, and with as little warning. “I beg pardon,” he said irritably, putting up a hand to shade his eyes, although the room was dim. “It comes upon me like a fainting fit. I do apologize. We were talking about your friend Llyr, weren’t we? There’s something I think you should know. Ever since Llyr’s visit to Sir Bedwyr, talk has been going around about him. Some people think he’s been spying on us from the woods; others believe the Old Ones themselves are watching us, perhaps scouting our movements, preparing to attack.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “I know, Gwen; calm down. Mother and Queen Alyse and Sir Bedwyr are quashing these rumors wherever they hear them, but some of the men believe them anyway. They’re starting to look for Old Ones when they ride out—”

  Guinevere went cold. “They’re hunting Llyr?”

  “I’m afraid so. You’d better warn him to be careful. We don’t want him to be caught.”

  “That’s not fair! He hasn’t done anything wrong!”

  “I’m sure he hasn’t,” Trevor said gravely. “But his guilt or innocence doesn’t matter to many of them. They want him because he’s an Old One, and because he’s here, where he doesn’t belong.”

  “Doesn’t belong? The Old Ones were here before we were!”

  “Yes,” said Trevor, “no doubt they were. Their lineages are ancient. But—how shall I put this?—the men are bored. They’ve chased away all the game into the hills and it’s harder work to hunt. It’s time to be packing up for home, but the council’s at a stalemate and the kings are not the only ones growing restless. Tempers are short. Your friend Llyr has provided the men a diversion. Half the time they’re out hunting, they’re looking for him. We’re afraid they might kill him if they catch him.”

  “Kill him?” Guinevere was instantly on her feet. “They can’t—he hasn’t done anything!” She turned for the door. “I have to find him!”

  “Wait, Gwen!” He caught at her arm. “Wait. Not in broad daylight. You’ll be followed.”

  She gaped at him in disbelief. “Am I watched, then?”

  “Probably. It’d be the easiest way to find him.”

  Guinevere sat down heavily on the stool, her eyes wide and unfocused. “I can’t warn him, can I? Not without risking his life.” Her gaze sharpened as she turned to him, and her voice steadied. “But he already knows they’re after him. He couldn’t fail to know. If they haven’t caught him yet, it’s because he’s gone into hiding. No one can find Llyr when he’s in hiding. He’s an Old One. They’re invisible in a forest.”

  “The leaves are falling,” Trevor suggested.

  Guinevere shook her head. “That won’t matter. They’ll never catch him unless he wants to be caught.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Trevor said, his voice still full of doubt. “So long as you can’t think of anything—any circumstance, any predicament, any person—that might make him want to be caught?”

  Her eyes darkened as she frowned.

  “He’s a loyal fellow, isn’t he?” Trevor added gently. “Are you sure there isn’t anyone he would sacrifice himself for?”

  Guinevere put her hands up to cover her face. Of course Llyr would sacrifice himself for her sake; his guardianship required it of him. He would not go into hiding, for he could not guard her if he hid. He would not be safe unless he left the area, and he would not leave the area as long as she was there. He would not leave even if she ordered him to, for although she was the one he guarded, she was not the one he served. The One Who Hears had spoken with the god’s voice.

  “What shall I do, Trevor? The only way to make him leave is to convince him that his leaving will help me and his staying will not. I have to find him, but how can I find him without endangering him?”

  “Well,” said Trevor, with a gleam in his eye, “if you’re willing to listen to a brother’s counsel, maybe I can help….”

  Well after moonset, when the night was at its darkest, Guinevere donned her cloak, pulled her hood forward to hide her hair, and sneaked out of camp to the horse lines. She waited there, silent and alert among the resting animals, for a long time. The twitch of a tail or the swivel of an ear would give her instant warning of anyone’s approach, but nothing happened. Nothing moved.

  Silent as a wraith, she slipped into the forest, settled down behind a tree, and waited again. She heard nothing beyond the night sounds of the forest: the scuffle of creatures in the undergrowth, the whispered beat of wings in the darkness above, the rasping of crickets, the call of an owl.

  She moved to another tree and waited again. A minimum of three trees, Trevor had advised. Look sharp, move slowly, be patient. She followed his advice. The
night sounds continued unabated. Eventually, she made her way to the beech tree and, from stones collected that afternoon from the river’s edge, built a small cairn between the flared roots at its base. When she had finished, she moved on to another tree, and then to another, letting time pass and the silent dark surround her. Finally, she slipped back into camp, certain that she had completed her mission unseen.

  She was almost right. The forest animals had ceased to pay her any attention. Only a single pair of eyes had watched her throughout. But those eyes were human.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Confessions

  Every morning and evening for three days, Guinevere strolled through the woods in sight of the beech tree. The cairn stood untouched. No hand had tumbled it and dispersed its stones. That was the sign she looked for, the sign that the message—a request for a meeting—had been received. Part of her was relieved; it meant that Llyr had gone from the surrounding woodland and might indeed be in hiding. But she also feared that there might be a more sinister reason he did not come. She took comfort in the knowledge that if Llyr had been found or captured, she would have learned of it by now through Trevor or Queen Esdora.

  The mood in camp was deteriorating fast. Age-old animosities had begun to surface. The South Welsh grumbled at the North Welsh, and the North Welsh glowered at the South. There seemed no end to the verbal sparring. Even King Pellinore, normally the most cheerful of men, began to mutter and curse at the glacial pace of negotiations. Every day, Sir Bedwyr looked more haggard and exhausted. Guinevere wondered at his patience. It was nearing the end of October, and the days were growing shorter, the weather colder, and life in camp more tiresome. Work parties had to go far afield to search for firewood, using wagons to bring back the next day’s supply of fuel. This left fewer men available for hunting. Fish and waterfowl began to form a larger part of the daily diet in the absence of fresh venison. Grumbling could be heard from every tent. Surely, Guinevere thought, it was time Sir Bedwyr took Princess Morgan north to Rheged. Rumor had it that he had sent a courier to King Urien to warn him that their arrival would be delayed.

  Guinevere wondered what had happened to Princess Morgan. She had seen nothing of her since Trevor’s accident, excepting only her appearance at the communal evening meals, where she spoke to no one. She no longer sent for Elaine, who now resumed her place in the family. Elaine would say nothing of what had passed between them. Although the two cousins worked side by side, fetching water and kindling, tending the cooking fire, airing bedding, helping Ailsa and Grannic repair the tent cloth, and performing a dozen other chores that cropped up daily, Guinevere could not cajole Elaine into deeper confidence.

  Early on the fourth day after building the cairn, Guinevere was returning from the river with a bucket of water when she saw Queen Esdora running to Queen Alyse’s tent. She abandoned the bucket and fled to Trevor. He greeted her with worried eyes. Sir Bedwyr, he said, had just left their tent after bringing them distressing news. Someone—Sir Bedwyr would not say who—had reported the theft of a valuable dagger. It was now Sir Bedwyr’s duty to find the thief and bring him to justice. Sir Bedwyr, he finished heavily, was organizing a search for Old Ones.

  “Old Ones! Why?”

  Trevor did not meet her eyes. “An Old One was seen at the site of the theft at about the right time, apparently. I’m afraid your friend Llyr is the one they seek.”

  “It isn’t Llyr!” Guinevere cried hotly. “He hasn’t been in camp! The cairn is still there!”

  “Listen, Gwen, I’m telling you this to warn you. Sir Bedwyr may want your help in finding him.”

  “To arrest him? I shan’t lift a finger to help!”

  “To protect him. Against the men out looking for him now. The dagger’s owner has offered a talent of silver to the man who captures Llyr … alive or dead.”

  Guinevere stared at him, aghast. “Llyr was named?”

  “Yes. Sir Bedwyr has informed all the kings in council. Mother’s gone to speak to Queen Alyse. We’re all supposed to keep an eye out for him … for his own sake. Sir Bedwyr wants him put under guard, for his own safety, until he can get to the truth.”

  Guinevere paled. “The truth is plain enough already! Oh, Trevor, I must do something to prevent this. I’ve got to find him first and send him home.”

  Trevor gazed at her steadily. “Will he go?”

  The question burned in Guinevere’s mind all the way back to her tent. Would she be able to persuade Llyr to abandon her and return to the safety of his family on Y Wyddfa until the real thief should be found? She had to try. She could think of no other course.

  There was no one in the tent but Elaine, still curled on her pallet beneath a fur-trimmed coverlet, putting off chores until the last possible moment.

  “Where are Ailsa and Grannic?”

  Elaine stared at her unblinking and refused to answer.

  “Please, Elaine. Whatever I’ve done, can’t you forgive me? This is important.”

  “Why?”

  Guinevere threw open her trunk and began to unlace her gown. “I have to go out. I don’t want anyone to know.”

  Elaine sat up. “Out where?”

  “Where are Ailsa and Grannic?”

  Elaine considered before answering. “In Mother’s tent. Queen Esdora’s paid us an early visit. They’ll be a while.”

  “Thank goodness. I don’t suppose you’d cover for me?”

  Elaine scowled. “First, tell me what’s going on.”

  As she undressed, Guinevere told Elaine what she had learned from Trevor. “So you see,” she finished, “I have to find him myself before Sir Bedwyr does. He’ll put Llyr under guard, and Llyr will not understand it. The Old Ones don’t imprison people.”

  “Who accused him?”

  “I wish I knew. Sir Bedwyr didn’t say.” Guinevere stepped out of her gown. “Everybody has a dagger. It could be anyone…. Why do you look at me like that? Am I coming out in spots?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Elaine snapped. “How much is the reward?”

  “A talent of silver, if you can believe it. Large enough to tempt a man to murder.” Guinevere thrust the gown into the trunk and reached for her tunic and leggings. “The men are hunting Llyr, and it isn’t fair. There’s no reason to suspect him. Why don’t they concentrate on the people who live in camp? It’s bound to be one of us.”

  “A talent of silver is a huge reward,” Elaine said slowly. “The dagger must be awfully valuable.”

  Guinevere knew of only one dagger that might be worth the price: the dagger Llyr had shown her in the forest and let her hold, the dagger whose cool grip her hand still remembered. But she doubted very much that Lord Riall had brought a talent of silver with him from Caer Narfon. “Who could afford to offer so much?” she wondered. “The kings, I suppose, if any of them were foolish enough to carry such a sum on this journey.”

  “Father didn’t,” Elaine said firmly. “He can’t afford it. Mother’s always complaining about expenses.”

  “Gwarth can’t afford it, either. Northgallis has always been poorer than Gwynedd. And I doubt if Queen Esdora could, at present. That leaves Dyfed and Guent. And Dyfed’s a small kingdom. I’ve heard your father say that all their energy goes into keeping the Gaels off their coasts. Guent’s a possibility, I suppose. There’s no one else in camp who—” She broke off and stared at Elaine. “Princess Morgan!”

  “What about her?” Elaine said coldly, watching Guinevere struggle into her tunic and leggings.

  “She’s traveling with hundreds of wedding gifts, most of them worth their weight in silver or gold. Then there’s the bridegift for King Urien. The High King would have sent her off with a sizable treasure to honor him. Yes, I think Morgan could easily afford it. She’s probably the only one who could.”

  “She doesn’t have a dagger that valuable. At least, not that I’ve seen.”

  Guinevere paused, boots in hand. “For heaven’s sake, what’s wrong? Why do you look at me like that?
”

  Elaine made a sour face. “You’re growing out of your clothes again.”

  “I’m always growing out of my clothes. There’s no need to look so upset about it.”

  Elaine flushed. “I’m not upset. It’s just that—Morgan opened my eyes, and I hate her for it.”

  “Morgan? What did she say?” Guinevere waited, hoping that at last Elaine was ready to share what had happened between her and the royal princess.

  Elaine looked away and then turned back. Her voice was stiff. “Your shape is changing. Didn’t you even know?”

  Guinevere stood very still. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean?” Elaine threw off her coverlet and rose. “You’re not straight up and down anymore, are you? You’re growing curves.”

  For a moment, Guinevere’s breathing stopped and her heartbeat hammered in her ears. Could it be so? What had come to Elaine so easily and quickly at eleven, she had waited for in vain for three long years. Now she was nearly as tall as Queen Alyse, and still she was taken for a boy. Even Trevor of Powys had been fooled.

  “Don’t be such a half-wit, Gwen. Your clothes don’t fit the same, do they? You must have noticed.”

  “I’ve—grown taller.”

  Elaine went up to her and tugged at her tunic. “See how tight this is? You never used to have to struggle to pull it on, did you, like you did just now.”

  “It’s my shoulders,” Guinevere whispered. “They’re always—”

  “Not shoulders, oaf. Breasts. See how the lacing’s stretched? If you don’t believe me, ask Ailsa. I’ll wager she’s noticed.”

  Guinevere closed her eyes. Dear Lord in heaven, let it be true! Finally, in the middle of her fourteenth year, to begin to grow a shape … to join the world of adults and leave childhood behind … to become a woman. She had waited so long for this, she had almost ceased to believe it would ever happen.

  “Some of the men have noticed, too,” Elaine said coldly. “I’ve been watching the way they look at you. Morgan was right about that as well, only I didn’t believe her.”