“I might have been killed, too,” she went on, “but it was a young man who saw my sleeve poking out from the hay, and he didn’t give me to the leader, but kept me for himself in return for my not screaming.”
Ettard blushed suddenly, having confided more than she had intended.
“You poor thing,” I consoled her, putting an arm around her shoulder and letting her snuggle in against me.
“I stayed on after the sea wolves left,” she whimpered, “hiding in the burnt-out husk of the barn by day and foraging for berries and roots at night. The Saxons didn’t come back, but as I’d nowhere to go, I would have starved to death. Or frozen in winter. Then, in late autumn, a wandering holy man found me and took me to the convent. I didn’t go there to take vows, M’lady,” she added hastily, “only to find refuge. My mum raised us all to honor the Old Gods, and the nuns took me in without even asking if I’d been baptized. I don’t know what would have happened if they hadn’t, for I have no family left in all this world.”
She paused and I thought how lost a person is without kin to claim their own. There are few ways for a man to survive alone, with the woods being full of beasts and outlaws and so many of the cities deserted—for a woman it’s doubly difficult.
“From now on we’ll be your family,” I assured her.
Ettard stared up at me, her eyes shining with gratitude. Although I was only a few years her senior, she clearly seemed to view me as her guardian.
As we neared Silchester she plied me with questions about the people she’d met last year, when Arthur and I had wed. Yes, Vinnie, who had come south as my chaperon, was still with us, as was my foster-sister, Brigit. No, Nimue and Merlin were gone, traveling to Lesser Britain on a kind of honeymoon. But both Bedivere and Cei, the foster-brothers from Arthur’s early life, were with him in Wales, quelling the last of the Irish insurgence.
“And Morgan le Fey?”
I stiffened. Arthur’s half-sister and I were not on the best of terms, for I had accidentally come upon her in the midst of a lovers’ tryst and she had flown into a rage, claiming I was no better than the “goody-goody Christians” and would no doubt spread the story of her affair throughout the Court. No amount of reasoning could calm her, even though I too was raised in the tradition of Celtic queens bedding whomever they wished, provided it did no harm to their people. Instead, she and her lover had packed off to her Sanctuary, leaving me to try and explain their absence without revealing what had happened.
Now I glanced at Ettard and said as casually as possible, “I think the Lady of the Lake is too busy teaching the young princes at the Academy to come south.” If Igraine’s companion knew Morgan was angry at me, she didn’t pursue the subject.
“What about Morgause?” The girl was studying my face intently and nodded when I shook my head. “I thought not. She would have come to see her mother if she had been this close. I always wondered why she wasn’t at your wedding…”
The implied question hung between us, and I tried to shrug it aside, unwilling that anyone else should know how deeply Arthur hated his other half-sister. “The Orkneys are a long way away,” I hedged.
“But Gawain is with the High King still?” Ettard’s voice turned eager.
“He’ll no doubt be the hero of the summer campaign.” I grinned. The Prince of Orkney was coming into his own as a warrior, full of bravery and a bright battle-lust that was the envy of all the other men. Before long the bards would be making songs of glory in his honor.
“What about Silchester? Is it very fancy—more fancy than Sarum?”
“Oh much more,” I assured her. “It used to be a wealthy merchant town, so the sewers actually work and the bigger houses still have running water and heated floors.”
When we arrived at the Mansion I turned the convent girl over to Vinnie, who greeted her fondly. They had gotten on well enough last summer, so I was confident she was in good hands.
With the harvest coming in and the men due home before long, I had more than enough to keep me busy from dawn to candletime. There was fruit to gather and roots to dig, hay to be secured and cheeses to put by. Working side by side with peasant and servant, I watched the larder grow each day and sighed contentedly before dropping into exhausted sleep each night.
As the summer waned Brigit helped me set up an infirmary in the little Christian church—any war-leader’s wife knows that the proud boasts of springtime are paid for in the shattered bodies that come home in autumn. And every evening I prayed fervently that my husband would not be among the casualties this year.
I had the children take turns on the walls, watching for Arthur’s return, but it was Griflet who brought the news. He found me repairing, for the hundredth time, the fence around the cabbages, and I whirled in alarm as his horse clattered into the courtyard. The animal was lathered and the boy covered with grime and sweat, but the smile on his face spread from ear to ear as he dismounted.
“The High King wants you to know he’ll be home by tomorrow’s sunset, and after all these months of foraging, could do with a home-cooked meal.”
“Not hurt?” I asked as Ulfin’s son dismounted.
“Not a scratch, M’lady—not a scratch!”
With a yelp of glee I flung my arms about him and we danced a wild little jig amid chickens and children while the rest of the household came dashing to see what all the commotion was about.
“There’s others that are wounded, some of them right bad,” Griflet added breathlessly when we came to a stop. “But the Irish have been driven from southern Wales once and for all, and His Highness is mighty hungry.”
“You there,” I called to the youngsters, having instantly decided on the menu. “Whoever catches that roaming porker gets an extra helping of dessert. Just bring him around to Cook so she can get started.”
Next afternoon the Companions marched down the broad Roman Road with the sun glinting off their spearheads and the horses prancing proudly under the Banner of the Red Dragon.
Brigit and I stood on the ramparts while the crowd gathered by the gates and filled the air with cheers and clapping as they waited for the victorious warriors.
Even from a distance Arthur looked splendid: bronzed and ruddy, he carried the pride of his accomplishment with youthful vigor. As he reached the gate he glanced up with that fine, level gaze that marks him so clearly as Igraine’s son. I was jumping up and down, waving my scarf and cheering along with the rest, and when he saw me he grinned and gave the Roman “thumbs up” sign before passing under the arch. I turned and raced down the steps, hurrying along the back streets to avoid the crowd as I rushed to the portico of the basilica.
The mob was pressing into the archway of the forum’s plaza, clogging the entrance and bringing the royal stallion to a fidgeting halt. The trumpeter had to blow several flourishes before the people parted and by then I’d skinned in the back door and was waiting for the public welcome.
The crowd rippled aside as Arthur made his way toward me. The rest of the Companions were strung out behind him, caught in the crush of people still funneling into the plaza. It was impossible to see who was there and who was not, but at that moment all I cared was that my husband had come home in one piece and was glowing with triumph.
As queen and spokesman for the people I intended to give him the traditional greeting but when a squire hurried forward to hold the warhorse, Arthur leapt from the saddle and bounded up the steps to my side. Without waiting for the time-honored words, he slid one arm around my waist and swung round to salute our subjects, then lifted me off my feet and kissed me soundly as the crowd went wild.
“Now that,” he shouted over the uproar, “is more like a welcome home!”
Held firm against the length of his body, I threw my head back and laughed with him, happier than I’d ever been before in my life.
We rode the crest of exhilaration through the joyful public display, and it was only later, after the ritual bath had soaked away the dirt and bruises of the Road, that I told him about Igraine’s death. He turned and stared out the window, his face as empty as the twilight sky above the treetops. One hand reached up, unbidden, to touch the amulet he wore around his neck—the charm Igraine had sent with him when she gave him up. Then with a sigh he turned and smiled slightly at me.
“Thank you for going to her—between you and Morgan, I’m sure she had the best of care.”
“Morgan wasn’t there,” I answered, wondering how he thought she could have made the trip from Lakeland to Logres on such short notice.
“Not there? You mean she stayed here and let you go alone?” Suddenly Arthur was standing before me, both hands on my shoulders. “Morgan is here, isn’t she? She must be.”
When I shook my head he turned away with an oath. “I can’t understand it. The best healer in all of Britain, my own half-sister and High Priestess to the Gods, and she isn’t here when I need her. I specifically requested that she join you.”
Arthur’s voice was sharp with frustration, and he quaffed his wine in a single draft while I bit my lip and looked down at my hands. Apparently Morgan’s anger at me had not abated—no doubt she would have been glad to come to his camp, but because he’d asked her to wait here with me, she’d chosen not to respond. And there was no way for me to explain without the whole story coming out, making me the gossiping little snitch she claimed. So I listened in silence to my husband’s lament and squirmed inwardly at being caught in such an impasse.
With a sigh Arthur sank down at the long table and stared moodily into his cup. “I was counting on her to save Bedivere.”
“Bedivere!” I scrambled over to the bench where Arthur sat, trying to remember if I’d seen the lieutenant in the tumult of greeting just past.
“Aye, Bedivere.” Arthur poured himself another goblet of wine, not even noticing when he spilled some. “He fell in the last encounter…damn near died on the spot, it took every skill we had to staunch the bleeding, and if it hadn’t been for Lance, we wouldn’t have gotten him this far.”
By now my husband was on his feet, moving restlessly back and forth across the rush-strewn floor. Concern for his best friend overshadowed even the season’s victory, and the tension built until he rounded on me sharply.
“Ye Gods, Gwen, what would I do without him?”
It was a cry full of fear and frustration and the unnerving realization of death’s nearness. Now that he had brought his men safely home, the war-leader was free to mutter to himself and quake in the face of what had happened. He refilled his goblet and resumed his pacing.
“At least Brigit is at hand,” I pointed out. “And where Bedivere is concerned, that should make up for the fact that Morgan isn’t looking after him.”
“Ummm…” My husband grunted noncommittally. “Don’t see how.”
I started to point out that Bedivere was in love with my foster-sister and her presence now was bound to cheer him. But Arthur was intent on his own thoughts, so I held my tongue. Besides, love—our own or other people’s—was not something he paid much heed to.
“What I’m most afraid of,” he growled, “is that Bedivere will just give up. It’s a dreadful thing to lose a hand, no matter who you are. But when you’re the High King’s lieutenant and a superb warrior besides, being left with only a stump could mean the end of everything.”
“Or the beginning of something new,” I suggested. “Bedivere’s far more than your lieutenant; he’s been your councilor and confidant for years. Even if he never rides to battle again, surely he’ll go on being your best adviser.”
“That’s true.” Arthur tossed off another cup of wine and putting down his cup, stretched noisily. “It was quite a campaign, Gwen…quite a campaign.”
Igraine once told me that Uther always picked a fight with her on his first night home. She said it was the way he crossed from the outer world where he dominated all others to the inner world where he could drop his own defenses. I watched my husband and wondered how much he would take after his father. I’d never seen a dark, unruly side to Arthur, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
Fortunately he wanted to share his memories rather than get into a row, so I listened carefully as he recounted the war.
At the onset the remnants of last year’s rebels had banded together to meet the Britons in a pitched battle.
“It might have been all over right then,” Arthur noted, seating himself at the end of the table. “The Irish wanted to settle the matter according to the Old Way, in single combat between two champions. Stupid business—almost as chancy as Trial by Combat. I wasn’t going to hear of it, but Gawain got his dander up—you know how he is when it comes to a challenge. And before I knew it, he was on his way out to meet the Irish champion, Marhaus, in a fight to the death. They went at each other from the cool of the morning until well past noon, with neither one able to get the upper hand. In the end both had to be dragged off the field, exhausted and covered with blood.” Arthur shook his head over such folly. “Thank goodness Gawain wasn’t badly hurt; he’s the best warrior I have!”
After that the enemy had scattered, forcing Arthur to divide his men into independent groups to pursue them.
“We chased them from the Brecon Beacons all the way to the ancient track on Presely Mountain, and from there down into the sea. Half the time my men would go out hunting for dinner and end up in a tangle with the Irish Boar instead.” He leaned back, absentmindedly propping a foot on the bench so that I could undo his boot. “Fortunately many of the men seem to be good leaders as well.”