Guinevere's Gamble

  Gwarth emerged from his chamber in the old brown robe he had always favored after hunting. To Guinevere, he looked just the same as he always had. He was still the Gwarth of her childhood, a stocky, solidly built, black-bearded man with a rough tongue and a kind heart. He was more uncle than brother to her—a strong man who could be relied upon.

  “Geese for dinner,” he said, sitting gingerly beside her and pouring himself a cup of wine. “We had a good catch, even if I did get bitten once or twice on the hindquarters. There’ll be enough for everyone. I’ve let Sir Bedwyr know.” He emptied the cup down his throat and poured himself more wine. “Well, lass, let’s hear what’s troubling you.”

  She told him about Llyr’s predicament. “He didn’t steal anything, Gwarth. He came into camp of his own accord to keep us from killing any more Old Ones.” Mindful of Sir Bedwyr’s orders not to mention the involvement of Princess Morgan, she finished lamely, “I need your help against someone in camp who is his enemy, someone who is determined to destroy him at any cost. Someone who’s trying to manipulate the outcome of the hearing.”

  “Ah.” Gwarth cocked an eyebrow at her. He looked worried. “That wouldn’t be the High King’s sister, would it?”

  She gaped at him. “How did you know?”

  “Because she’s been to see me.”

  “Already?”

  “Aye, as I was leaving for the hunt.”

  “What did she want?”

  “I guess you know. Wanted me to stand with her against Sir Bedwyr if he sided with King Pellinore. Said she already had the allegiance of Guent and Dyfed, and could get Powys, too, before the night was out—”

  “She didn’t! She can’t! That isn’t true!”

  Gwarth’s smile gleamed in the black expanse of his beard. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you, Gwennie? Think that young scamp from Powys would never choose a raven-haired witch over you?”

  Guinevere was taken aback. “Trevor? Is that who you mean?”

  “Who else? Is there anyone else?”

  “Oh, for Lugh’s sake!” she cried, reverting in her frustration to the pagan habits of childhood. “It’s not me he wants, you oaf, it’s Elaine. He came here to meet her because the match meant so much to his mother. He loves her now. Ask him yourself, if you doubt me. I dare you to ask him.”

  Gwarth yielded. “Never mind, then. I’ll apologize. You sounded so sure of his loyalty, is all.”

  “I am sure of his loyalty! He’s my friend. We talk together every day.” Gwarth winked, and she threw up her hands in exasperation. “Friends.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Listen, Gwarth, because this is true: Princess Morgan doesn’t have the allegiance of Powys, and she’ll never be able to get it.”

  “Well, I didn’t know that, did I? I told her if she already had three kingdoms out of five, she didn’t need my help. I suppose once she finds out she’ll never get Powys, she’ll be back.”

  “She probably doesn’t have Dyfed and Guent, either.”

  Gwarth looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t wager against it. She’s been flitting around Mardoc’s tent for the last week or so, and where Mardoc leads, Dynas is sure to follow.”

  “But that’s only two kingdoms out of five.”

  “It’s all of South Wales. Arthur depends on South Wales. His headquarters are in Guent.”

  “But Powys sides with Gwynedd, and if Northgallis stands firm …” She looked at his worried face and swallowed. “Gwarth?”

  He shrugged. “How do I know until I’ve heard the lad’s side of it? Now don’t worry, Gwennie. The princess tells a pitiful story, but I don’t know that it’s true. I’ll hear the tale from his own lips before I judge the boy.”

  Guinevere froze. Bedwyr’s words rang in her head like a clamoring bell: He’s decided not to speak. Merlin talked him into it….

  She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “But, Gwarth, you can’t imagine he really took the dagger? Any dagger? The Old Ones don’t steal.”

  Gwarth grunted. “Who told you that? An Old One? They’re no different from other folk, when all’s said and done. They lie and cheat and steal when it suits them, just like us. Some of them, the renegades, they’ve come down out of the hills to steal our stores, and they’ve killed those who’ve tried to stop them.”

  Vaguely, Guinevere recalled stories from Northgallis. “But those men were outcasts, Gwarth! Desperate men who—” Too late, she saw the pitfall.

  “Outcasts. Yes, that’s what they’re called. And I heard,” Gwarth said cautiously, “that your friend Llyr’s an outcast. Born into one clan and adopted by another, but cast out from both. He has no clan at all.”

  Guinevere squeezed her eyes shut to keep nausea at bay. A great fear gripped her entire body and locked every limb in place. She saw in a flash what Morgan meant to do. And Llyr had no defense against the charge, for it was true. He was outcast. Because he had spoken to her. “That was on my account,” she whispered. “You can’t blame Llyr for that.”

  “I don’t. I blame it on the prophecy.”

  She opened her eyes to meet his apologetic gaze. “Yes, the prophecy. That’s another thing. You’ve got to stop telling people about it. I don’t want anyone to know. Really, Gwarth. I want to ignore it for as long as I can.”

  “Nonsense, Gwennie. You should be proud.”

  “Why? It’s nothing I’ve done. Suppose some mad hill witch had told Father on the eve of your birth that you’d one day be the strongest man in all the world. How would that feel, always having people’s eyes on you as you grew up? Knowing that they expected something miraculous from you that you couldn’t give them? Hearing their whispers; seeing the disappointment in their eyes? Would you like it much?”

  Gwarth frowned. “Not if you put it like that. Is that how it feels to you?”

  “That’s exactly how it feels.”

  “All right, then,” he said, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “I’ll say no more. I didn’t know.”

  “Thank you, Gwarth. Now see if you can solve Llyr’s problem as easily.”

  Gwarth sobered at once and shook his head. “I know he’s your guardian, Gwen. The Old Ones have always looked after you, one way or another, and rightly so. They took that on when they made the prophecy. But choosing Llyr … I don’t know, perhaps they should have chosen someone else. Let me hear what he has to say, and I’ll know what to think.”

  “And … if he doesn’t speak?”

  Gwarth frowned. “Why wouldn’t he? They’ll kill him if he doesn’t. No, no, he’ll speak. If he did the deed or not, he’ll deny it. I just want to see his face when he does.”

  Guinevere bit her lip. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away before Gwarth could see it. But another followed, and another, as she envisioned what lay ahead for Llyr, who, trusting in Merlin’s word, would not answer any questions tomorrow.

  “Come, come, Gwennie,” Gwarth said softly, lifting a grimy finger to catch a tear. “In the end, it’s Sir Bedwyr’s decision, not mine or anyone else’s. And if he asks for my opinion, I’ll stand by King Pellinore. Our father swore him an oath of allegiance, and so have I.”

  “Oh, Gwarth!” She hugged him, spilling tears of gratitude on his old brown robe. “Don’t let him die! Please don’t let him die.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Second Thoughts

  On the day of the hearing, Guinevere and Elaine rose at dawn. They swallowed the hot willow tea their nurses brought them and submitted to a slow and determined dressing, despite the frosty air. Guinevere could not eat the mealcake Ailsa pressed into her hand. Fear made it impossible to swallow food. Her struggle against her fear took all her energy and concentration. It took effort to force her sluggish body into motion and follow Elaine into the queen’s tent. King Pellinore was already there, fiddling with his swordbelt and adjusting his fur-trimmed mantle while he waited for the women. Cissa and Leonora hovered about Queen Alyse, applying the finishing touches to her
hair and gown.

  The queen looked magnificent. The sight of her standing there, tall, lovely, and self-possessed amid the bustle of her women, filled Guinevere with hope. She was still too thin, but the sunken look had gone from her eyes, and a flush of healthy color sprang from beneath her skin. She no longer looked like a woman under the curse of death, but more like a patient recovering from illness. Leonora settled the queen’s fox-trimmed cloak across her shoulders, adjusted the jeweled netting over her wheat-gold hair, and nodded. King Pellinore gave the word and out they marched into the still brightness of a cool October morning.

  Because the day promised fair, Sir Bedwyr had chosen to hold the hearing outdoors in the broad, flat space around the bonfire pit, where benches and stools were already in place. Beside the pit itself, a rough dais had been constructed during the night. Sir Bedwyr stood by the King’s carved chair in the center of the dais, deep in conversation with a handful of guards. On his right, his scribe sat behind a writing desk. On his left, a smaller carved chair, regally draped in cloth of Pen-dragon red, awaited its royal occupant. The fourth chair, at a little distance from this threesome, was empty.

  The kings and their families sat on benches arranged, kingdom by kingdom, in a rough half circle facing the dais. Their household retainers jostled for position behind them, and their men-at-arms stood at the outer edges of the arc. Guinevere, Elaine, and their nurses took their places on the bench behind Queen Alyse and King Pellinore, where they had an excellent view of the dais and of the front rows of the other benches.

  With a cold pit in her stomach, Guinevere waited anxiously for Llyr to appear. Last night, the fear that he would say nothing in his own defense had made sleep impossible. All night she had lain awake trying to figure out what she could do to save him. Growing desperate as dawn approached, she had formed a last-ditch plan, but it was an exceedingly risky gamble. It very likely would not work, and if it failed or her part in it was discovered, she would bring disgrace upon the royal family of Gwynedd. She would have to stand up to Princess Morgan to be successful, and she did not know if she possessed that kind of courage. All in all, it was a gamble she would rather not take.

  Perhaps it would not be necessary. Everything depended upon how the hearing went. Perhaps when Llyr saw the size of the crowd and felt the glare of so many hostile eyes, he would speak up and tell what he knew. He risked death if he did not defend himself. Gwarth had made that plain enough. And if he chose not to speak, someone else—King Pellinore? Queen Alyse?—would have to speak for him. But what could they say to convince everyone of his innocence? The only way to prove that Llyr had not stolen the dagger was to prove that someone else had, or that the dagger had not been stolen at all but had remained in Princess Morgan’s possession. Guinevere did not believe the dagger had been stolen, but proving that Princess Morgan had had possession of it was going to be difficult. It might be possible if her plan worked, but it meant public humiliation for King Arthur’s sister. In the dark hours of the morning, such an outcome had seemed only fair for someone who had intentionally placed Llyr’s life in jeopardy, but now she was having second thoughts.

  She knew that Sir Bedwyr was determined to keep Morgan’s name clean at any cost. He had said as much that night in Trevor’s chamber. Protecting her was his sworn duty to Arthur. And political policy required that Morgan’s marriage to Urien take place. Rheged’s alliance was necessary to King Arthur’s plans to unite all the Briton kingdoms into a single Kingdom of Britain, whose strength would deter challengers and whose sovereignty was beyond question. All their futures depended on it.

  Guinevere could appreciate this warrior’s dream and understand Sir Bedwyr’s allegiance to it. But she could not understand why he feared that the marriage might be jeopardized by Morgan’s deceptions becoming known. Was Urien so sensitive to the moral character of his wife? Most princes, according to Queen Alyse, didn’t care what their wives wore, said, or did, as long as it didn’t interfere with the steady production of legitimate male heirs. It was possible, of course, that Urien of Rheged was that rare and unusual prince who did care what kind of woman he wed, but it seemed unlikely. He had consented to the match without having once set eyes on his bride.

  It seemed much more likely that Sir Bedwyr needed secrecy not for Urien’s sake, but for Morgan’s. Perhaps it was Morgan, not Urien, who might reject the match. Sir Bedwyr was not a timorous man. Why would he fear this unless Morgan herself had threatened to do just that? Guinevere thought this threat precisely the kind of weapon Morgan would not hesitate to use.

  She looked up as a murmur swept through the crowd. Princess Morgan had arrived, gowned in scarlet and crowned by a shining diadem of pearls. Sir Bedwyr came down from the dais to escort the princess to her chair amid a rising hum of voices.

  Guinevere watched him anxiously. She liked and trusted Sir Bedwyr. She had disappointed him by withholding information about Llyr, and she had forced him to suspect Princess Morgan without any proof beyond a belief in Llyr’s truthfulness. She did not want to disappoint him again. He had dealt with her fairly and treated her like an adult. She would do almost anything not to lose his respect.

  She knew that he was willing to put the good of the nascent Kingdom of Britain above the rights of one poor, insignificant Old One. He had already made it clear to her that she ought to do the same. But she did not think she could. It wasn’t fair that Morgan should escape justice simply because she was Arthur’s sister and her marriage was of importance. Her actions had to have consequences. She should not be able to do what she wanted with impunity. No one should, not even Arthur himself.

  Was this the kind of Kingdom Arthur wanted to build? A land where the rich and powerful did as they pleased and the common people suffered without redress? She had heard differently of Arthur, and she wanted to believe he was a different kind of leader, but all she knew of him for certain was his ability to inspire men and lead them to their deaths in battle without losing their love. If he were here himself, what would he do? Sir Bedwyr, as his representative, had decided to protect Arthur’s sister. It was hard to imagine that the King himself might prefer a different course.

  And yet he might. So much depended on the kind of man he was. A strong kingdom led by a good king was a boon to everyone. In union lay strength, and in strength, safety. Hadn’t she made that very argument six months ago to Liam, a poor man of peasant stock, when she needed his help in Gwynedd’s defense? Sir Bedwyr had asked her for no more than the same allegiance, for the good of all Britons. How was such a request to be denied?

  She bowed her head to hide her dismay. Her arguments ran in circles within circles until they made her dizzy. Still, one thought lingered at their center like bedrock in a storm. It was not right that the Kingdom should matter more than the lives of its people. She did not want to live in a kingdom, however united or strong, that countenanced the murder of innocent men.

  The crowd quieted as Sir Bedwyr strode to the front of the dais and addressed them. He began by explaining that this hearing was modeled on those the High King held when disputes were brought to him for judgment. First, the complaint of injustice would be heard. Next, the person accused of committing the injustice would be allowed to speak to the complaint. Afterward, anyone who had anything relevant to say would also be heard. Sir Bedwyr, acting as King Arthur’s proxy and taking into consideration the counsel of the gathered kings, would make the final decision as to guilt and punishment. He impressed upon them the need for civil behavior. Anyone behaving in an unruly fashion would be taken into custody. Anyone objecting to Sir Bedwyr’s decision had the right to appeal to the High King, but must in the meantime let Sir Bedwyr’s decision stand.

  Guinevere wished she could trust Sir Bedwyr to exonerate Llyr, but she didn’t know him well enough. Queen Esdora knew him better, but there hadn’t been time for Guinevere to share her dilemma with the queen. Looking around, she saw that Queen Esdora was not sitting with Trevor on the Powys benches, but instead sat r
ight next to King Mardoc of Guent. Last evening, Trevor and his mother had gone quietly to visit Mardoc to negotiate some sort of bargain. There was no way to tell from the queen’s politely neutral features and precise, erect posture whether or not they had succeeded.

  A hum of anticipation swept the crowd. Guinevere turned back to the dais and saw Llyr led forward between two guards to the last empty chair. As Sir Bedwyr had promised, he looked well cared for. Someone had found him new clothes that almost fit him, and his black hair, shaggy and uncut, had been combed and bound by a thong behind his neck to keep it out of his face. Despite these efforts to make him look like everyone else, his essential foreignness was still apparent in the stillness of his gaze and the wariness of his posture.

  He did not look for her. She stared at him until she was sure he must feel the pressure of her gaze, but he gave no indication of knowing she was there. Instead, his eyes looked straight ahead at something no one else could see. With sinking heart, Guinevere realized that he had prepared himself for this ordeal by walling himself off from human interaction and waiting patiently for his fate. He was not going to speak. He was not going to participate. He no longer shared the space they shared or breathed the air they breathed. He had already distanced himself from this world and was, in spirit, halfway to the next.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Hearing

  Catcalls erupted from the crowd. “Thief!” “Spy!” “Heathen outlaw!” “This is your last day, you dirty savage!”

  Sir Bedwyr raised his arms for silence. The shouts faded to a low background grumble, and the entire camp simmered in expectation. Guinevere found herself clutching Ailsa’s hand, and Ailsa clutched hers in return. Only Princess Morgan seemed unmoved. She sat placidly in her chair, her eyes downcast, the very picture of regal righteousness. Guinevere waited for her to rise and bring her complaint before the people, but she did not stir. Instead, it was Sir Bedwyr who, after a solemn glance around the gathered company, cleared his throat and began to relate the series of events that had led them to this hearing.