Princess Morgan had reported the theft of a valuable dagger from her tent. Her serving woman had seen someone near the tent at about the time the dagger disappeared, and had the impression that the thief was an Old One. A few days later, Sir Bedwyr had found a dagger shallowly buried beneath a tree at the edge of the forest—a tree that an Old One in King Pellinore’s service was known to occupy from time to time.
A wave of angry mutters swept the gathering. Shouts of “Thieving hillman!” and “Heathen savage!” resounded from the outer edges of the crowd. Guinevere bit her lip. The proximity of the dagger to the tree seemed enough to convict Llyr in the eyes of many.
Sir Bedwyr brought forth Lord Riall’s dagger and showed it to them, pulling the weapon free of its sheath so that the size and beauty of the blade could be admired by the men while the flash of jewels and silver chasing on the damaged sheath raised eyebrows among the women. A unique and valuable weapon, the gesture proclaimed. Worthy of royalty.
Guinevere frowned. Sir Bedwyr did not actually say that this was the dagger Princess Morgan had reported stolen, but he certainly implied it. She wondered why. Had he come to agree with her that Princess Morgan had received it from Lord Riall and buried it herself, but could not say so because he was presenting Princess Morgan’s version of events?
It was clever of Princess Morgan to make Sir Bedwyr do her persuading for her. When the High King’s proxy accused Llyr of theft, the charge achieved legitimacy. Guinevere’s throat went dry at the sudden thought that Sir Bedwyr might have changed his mind. Perhaps he had come to believe that Llyr had stolen the dagger! She shook her head sharply to dismiss the thought. He was too good an advocate for Princess Morgan, that was all. That had to be all.
When she returned her attention to the dais, Sir Bedwyr was talking about the hunt for Old Ones by certain men who were supposed to be hunting deer. Now an innocent boy lay dead. He looked out over the crowd and let the words hang in the air. His contempt for the killing was clear in his face. The men responsible, he said, had confessed to the deed. They and the kings they served had agreed to make reparation to the dead boy’s clan, as justice demanded.
A grumble of discontent ran through the gathering. Here and there, shouts rang out. “Justice!” someone snarled. “Wasted on savages!”
Guinevere turned in her seat to see who had objected, but Ailsa stopped her with a firm grip on her arm. “No, Gwen.”
“But—”
“Shh.” Ailsa nodded pointedly toward the front row, where King Pellinore had started to rise. But Queen Alyse caught his sleeve, and he sat back down. Guinevere stared at them. Were they going to say nothing? Did this mean they would not defend Llyr when it came his turn to speak? All because of Morgan’s threat to rob Queen Alyse of her husband’s precedence with Arthur? Then they were cowards, both of them. Llyr had saved Elaine’s life!
Elaine squeezed Guinevere’s arm. “Wait,” she breathed.
Sir Bedwyr resumed his narrative. He pointed out that Llyr had come willingly into custody in order to prevent more slaughter among his people, but that because Llyr’s name had been mentioned in connection with the theft of the dagger, Sir Bedwyr had thought it best to hold a hearing to determine the truth of the matter.
Mentioned in connection with the theft! Guinevere glared at Sir Bedwyr. He knew perfectly well that Llyr had been accused outright by Princess Morgan. But he would not say so in public.
Sir Bedwyr turned toward Llyr. “Llyr, son of Bran, leader of the White Foot of Snow Mountain,” he said gravely. “Can you defend yourself against this charge of theft?”
Llyr gazed out at the crowd with blank, unseeing eyes. His stillness was so complete that he might have been carved of granite. People began to jeer and shout as his silence continued. They called him names, insulted his ancestry and his clan, belittled his appearance, and vowed revenge. Llyr did not stir. He remained as he had from the beginning: his body sitting obediently in the chair, his spirit already somewhere else.
Sir Bedwyr looked directly at the Gwynedd contingent before turning to the entire company. “Is there no one here who can speak for Llyr?”
Ailsa clamped a hand on Guinevere, and a moment later King Pellinore rose to his feet. “I will speak,” he said, turning to face the crowd. He was a big, gruff man, well known for his courage, and the people quieted to hear him.
“I have dealt with the Old Ones in my hills for many years,” he said. “They are an honorable folk who do not steal or lie. We have made treaties together, and they have always kept their word. This young man here performed a most valuable service to me last spring. He helped save my daughter’s life.”
Queen Alyse trembled at this public exposure of family matters, but she did not stop him.
“I tell you frankly,” the king said earnestly, “that I’d trust Llyr over most men I know. He never stole that dagger. I’d lay my crown on it.”
He resumed his seat, and Queen Alyse took his hand. Guinevere stared at the backs of their heads in horrified dismay. That was all he was going to say? He had refuted nothing! The crowd had already begun to grumble again.
Sir Bedwyr’s gaze swept over the gathering once more, and this time came to rest on her own face. His eyes met hers. “Anyone else?”
This time, no hand upon her sleeve could stop her. Guinevere rose.
“Oh, Gwennie!” cried Ailsa.
Guinevere stepped up onto the bench so she could be seen by all and made a quick reverence to Sir Bedwyr. “I will speak, my lord.”
Was it her imagination, or did Sir Bedwyr smile?
“Guinevere of Northgallis,” he announced in a carrying voice. “Silence, please, everyone. Go ahead, my lady.”
Guinevere turned to face a startled, hostile throng, but it was too late now for a case of nerves. “People of Wales,” she addressed them in a shaking voice. “I beg you not to allow this terrible injustice. Llyr is no hill bandit who lives outside the law. He is a prince among his own people. A man nobly born and raised to be a leader—”
“Aye!” shouted someone from the fringes of the crowd. “And don’t he look it, too!” Laughter followed from a small group of comrades.
“And do you judge a man solely by his looks?” Guinevere shot back, too angry to give thought to consequences. “Or by his actions? This man saved my cousin’s life. He risked his own to do it. For how many people have you done that lately?”
“Guinevere!” gasped Queen Alyse. But the crowd laughed.
“Well, it was under his tree, wasn’t it, that the dagger was found?” called out another voice. “If he didn’t put it there, mistress, who did?”
“I don’t know,” Guinevere said evenly. “I don’t even want to guess. Someone who intended that Llyr should be blamed for its theft. It’s clear that Llyr has enemies in camp.” She let her gaze wander among the crowd before she turned to Sir Bedwyr. “Isn’t it true, Sir Bedwyr, that the rumors about Old Ones spying on us from the woods went around camp well before Princess Morgan reported her dagger stolen?”
Princess Morgan’s eyes lifted from her lap and fixed on the back of Sir Bedwyr’s head.
Guinevere said quickly, “How do you suppose those rumors arose, Sir Bedwyr?”
“Well,” he said carefully, “I believe they began shortly after Prince Trevor’s accident, when you sent Llyr to me asking for help. That was the only time he came into camp. He was noticed, of course. Old beliefs die hard. I suspect that for some of us, his presence was best explained by the rumors about spies.”
“He tried to take Bevan’s sword!” cried a voice from the back. “Tried to kill him with it!”
Sir Bedwyr shook his head. “The guard outside my tent tried to stop him from entering. Llyr knocked the sword from his hand, but made no attempt to take it. I have this from two other men who saw it happen. He carried no weapon when he came into my chamber.”
“I think,” Guinevere resumed, “that the rumors of Old Ones spying on us prompted someone to try to get rid of Ll
yr, to make an example of him.”
Princess Morgan’s icy gaze fixed itself on Guinevere, who pressed hastily on. “When the theft of the dagger was reported, some people assumed that Llyr was the thief and started hunting him. He left camp to avoid them—as anyone would. I know that because when I went to the beech tree to warn him, he was already gone, and there was nothing buried there then.”
She looked around at all the faces turned to hers—puzzled faces, skeptical faces, contemptuous faces—and prayed to whichever god was listening that they might believe her. “Llyr’s time can be accounted for. He made contact with the Strong Hearts in the foothills west of here, and they gave him shelter. At their suggestion, he traded clothes with the boy nearest to him in size. That boy, Luath, was killed by the men who were hunting Llyr. After the murder, and after Sir Bedwyr found the dagger, Llyr returned to camp.” Her voice began to quaver. “He was certain we would kill him, but he came in anyway. He had to stop the hunt. He was ready to give his life to prevent more killing of his people. If that isn’t nobility of soul, I don’t know what is.”
A small silence followed. Princess Morgan stirred in her chair and looked pointedly at Sir Bedwyr.
Sir Bedwyr cleared his throat. “It’s odd, though, that the dagger was found buried beneath the very tree Llyr used as his—well, his temporary home.”
“Damned odd!” cried a voice. “Suspicious!” shouted another. “Left it there for safekeeping when he ran away!” called out a third.
Guinevere turned her back to the dais and faced the hostile voices. “Safekeeping? It was buried in a shallow hole with just enough dirt mounded over the top to cover it. Sir Bedwyr found it at once when he went to the tree. Is that where you would hide a precious object for safekeeping? Why, I can think of a hundred better hiding places: under a bush; in the bole of a tree; in a bedroll, a saddle pack, a streambed; under a rock; in a haystack. In the soft soil near the riverbank, where tree roots don’t get in the way. Safer still to carry it secretly on one’s person and hide it far from camp.”
She paused for breath. “The dagger was not put beneath the beech tree for safekeeping. It was put there so it would be found and its theft attributed to Llyr.”
“Why?”
The question came from behind her, and Guinevere turned. Princess Morgan sat forward in her chair, the anger in her eyes, which the people could not see, belying the smile on her lips, which they could.
“I—I beg your pardon?” Guinevere stammered.
Princess Morgan half turned toward the sea of faces and said, in a reasonable voice, “You are asking us to believe that someone deliberately tried to blame the hillman for the theft. Why would anyone bother, unless he was guilty?”
Guinevere swallowed hard. Princess Morgan was daring her to make an accusation openly before all these people. She could feel Sir Bedwyr’s gaze upon her as he waited to hear what she would say. Someone tittered in the silence and was quickly hushed. Guinevere’s chest tightened until it was difficult to breathe.
“Llyr has enemies,” she croaked. “People who fear the Old Ones and want to destroy them. A real thief wouldn’t have buried the dagger—not like that, not near the place he lived. He would hide it better or take it out of camp. It was easily visible. It was meant to be found.”
“And your hillman blamed?” Princess Morgan rose from her chair and faced the crowd. “Lady Guinevere seems to find the idea of blaming a hillman for theft outlandish. That argues a degree of attachment to him, I think. To most of us, he appears as the most likely suspect by far. After all,” she said reasonably, “it isn’t as if he’s sworn to obey King Arthur or King Pellinore or any authority at all. He’s an outcast. He isn’t even a member of a clan any longer. He lives by no rules at all. Calling him a primitive savage is saying no more than the obvious truth.”
The crowd grumbled. Some cheered; others hushed them. Princess Morgan moved closer to the edge of the dais. “We are all familiar with the vicious acts such men commit—untethered men, lawless men, outcasts. They steal our sheep and our cattle; they plunder unguarded stores; they hide in the hills and attack passing travelers for what they carry. They are thieves and cutthroats who live outside the bounds of civilized society. And this man is one of them.”
Shouts of approval rang out, and several of the men began to sing a victory paean.
“That’s not fair!” Guinevere cried. “Llyr has never done such things! And you’ve no grounds to believe he has!”
Sir Bedwyr raised a hand, and gradually the people hushed.
“On the contrary,” Princess Morgan said with a knowing smile. “I have it on good authority that six months ago Llyr killed a man in your own kingdom of Gwynedd. Not an Old One, but one of our race. Not in self-defense, either, but in a straightforward, vicious attack.”
Guinevere frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? He didn’t kill a man named Drako with an arrow to the heart? I spoke to someone who was there and saw it all.”
A whimper escaped Elaine, and Guinevere turned to see her shrink against Grannic, as if for protection. Guinevere gaped at her. Was there anything she had not blabbed to Princess Morgan?
She turned back to the dais. “You are referring to a villain who held my cousin Elaine prisoner and threatened to kill her. In Gwynedd, we regard Llyr’s deadly arrow as an act of heroism.”
Shouts of laughter, approval, and protest rose from the crowd.
“You can’t deny he’s an outcast!” Morgan cried. “Even the Old Ones won’t have him among them any longer!”
“It’s true that Llyr was cast out from his clan,” Guinevere said evenly when the noise had abated. “Because he talked to me. But that was my doing as much as his. And the clan who cast him out took him back again and dedicated him to the service of their goddess. Now he has a status among the Old Ones higher than the leader of any clan. Why do you think the Strong Hearts went to such lengths to protect him, even risking one of their own by having him changing clothes with Llyr? Because he has been singled out for a unique honor. He serves the divine.”
She looked toward the back of the crowd, where the fighting men stood. “In a way, it’s much like serving a king. Do you not swear allegiance to your king? And through him, to the High King Arthur? And does that allegiance not take precedence over all other allegiances? Isn’t that why you leave home to fight for your king when he calls upon you? Isn’t that why your king leaves home to fight for the High King Arthur?”
She had their attention now. She could feel it. No one was watching Princess Morgan any longer. “Llyr has sworn allegiance, too, but to a god. He has had to give up his home and his family for a greater cause. His obedience has required him to travel far from his birthplace, learn new languages, wear strange clothes, and accept the customs of a society very different from his own. If he were a lawless outcast, he could do as he wished. Instead, he finds himself here, accused of something he did not do—would not do—and ready to give his life to prevent more bloodshed among his people.” She looked fiercely at the men on the fringes of the crowd. “Which of you can claim so much?”
No one spoke. Even the men at the back of the crowd were silent.
Princess Morgan broke the spell. “A very impassioned defense,” she said with a condescending smile. “I do believe I was right about your attachment to the creature. Poor deluded girl,” she said, turning to face the people. “She is in love with him.”
“I am not!” Guinevere cried, her face coloring at the sound of malicious laughter. “Llyr is my friend—he saved Elaine’s life—he has been part of the family all summer—he is like a brother to me. Besides,” she added with an innocence impossible to feign, “Queen Alyse does not allow me suitors yet.”
Laughter swept the crowd, but it was gentle laughter now, a kind and comprehending laughter, and Sir Bedwyr gazed at her with open gratitude.
Guinevere waited impatiently for the amusement to subside. “It doesn’t take a sage to see the cau
se of all this trouble. Too many people distrust the Old Ones. When Llyr came into camp, it was instantly assumed that he was there for no good purpose. If a stranger from Cornwall or Rheged or York had ventured into camp, no such judgment would have been made.”
“He’s a hillman!” someone shouted. “Not one of us!”
Guinevere turned toward the voice. “Yes,” she agreed. “He’s not one of us. But why should he be? His people have lived in this land for generations, not just in the hills, but in the valleys, too. Our ancestors are the ones who drove them out. We forced Llyr’s people out of the fertile valleys and into the hills and wastelands, into any land we did not covet for ourselves. We did to the Old Ones what the Saxons are trying to do to us.”
She paused to let the thought take hold. “Why do we despise the Old Ones? It’s an ungenerous way to treat a people on whose lands we live, I think. Does not the Kyrios Christos call us to turn the other cheek? To treat others as we would want to be treated if we were they? If the Saxons succeed,” she said, crossing herself quickly with one hand and making the sign of propitiation to older gods behind her back with the other, “I pray they will treat us with more respect than we give the Old Ones.”
“Dear God,” breathed Queen Alyse.
A chorus of male voices protested. Most denied the possibility that King Arthur could lose to the Saxons. Some believed the Lord required charity only to other Christians. A few refused to believe the Old Ones counted as men at all, but were animals, like the thieving vermin who robbed hardworking folk of their stores every winter.
“Are the Saxons men?” Guinevere shot back, hands clenched to hold in check her indignation. “Are the Romans?”
“Aye, but—”
“The Gaels? The Franks? The Picts?”
“Yes, but—”
“Persians? Egyptians?” she cried, dredging up the civilizations she had learned about in Iakos’s schoolroom. “Greeks? Sarmatians? Huns? Nubians? Iberians? Hebrews? Canaanites? Carthaginians? Macedonians? Phoenicians?”