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Now no one nodded reluctantly.

She realized, and not for the first time, that she was, always had been, and always would be one apart from the rest. Even those who had come up with her as pages and squires; she shared a level of camaraderie with them that never went farther than the battlefield and the camp. Though Lleudd had never shown any favoritism to her, she had still always been the king’s daughter. Some had been jealous of that, some had been resentful, and even when she proved herself over and over, there had still been that distance of rank between them.

Even the handful of girls that had begun training with her had kept a wary distance, a distance that had only increased as most of them had decided to give up and try some other path. The only two who were left were chariot drivers, and she saw nothing of them.

Well, it was what it was.

The remainder of the talk centered on what to do when March moved toward the Saxon-held lands. Gwen listened but did not comment; this was not where she had any level of expertise. Everyone was agreed that he would at least try to buy his way to free passage. Some thought he might well try to ally with them.

“He would be very foolish not to try,” Lancelin said, his big hands absently rubbing the silver band on his drinking horn. “And they would be equally foolish to fight him or reject such an alliance. Neither of them can afford a battle on two fronts, and the Saxons are somewhat weakened from the losses they took this winter.” Lancelin’s suggestions were very astute, however, and she found herself admiring his knowledge and skill all over again.

And . . . truth to tell . . . admiring him for himself. He was not a beautiful man, but she had never cared that much for beauty in a man. A quick mind, however, a good and even temper, a sense of humor—those were things she cherished and admired.

She was not the only female to find him attractive; he, however, did not seem to notice any of the women casting glances at him. Or if he did, he was feigning not to notice. She wondered if he had a love elsewhere.

If he did, she could not imagine that it would be at Arthur’s court. No one she knew would be kept from the side of a lover just because the queen misliked his presence.

She regarded him across the hearth fire, and decided that he was probably heart whole. He didn’t act as if he were pining for a love. If anything, he seemed relatively content with being here as Lleudd’s advisor and liaison. The only time she had heard him voice any discontent, it was because he was missing the fighting at Arthur’s side.

As for that fighting—pay attention. You are in charge of the scouts, now. That was the reward her father had given her. She, and no one else, would be the one commanding all of the scouts, the saboteurs, and outliers for whatever force was sent to aid the High King.

As she listened, she began to formulate some ideas. A few were based around her ruse of “The White Apparition,” but she had plenty of others. March might very well know that “Gwenhwyfar” was a very real, mortal human creature; she would have to determine that, first, before she tried such tricks on his forces. But he would be fresh from dealing with her “allies” of the Folk of Annwn; there were other ways she could invoke “supernatural” terror among his men. The Saxons, of course, knew about the White Lady; she would find herself a few more of the woman warriors and recruit them to impersonate her. If one White Phantom was terrifying, what if there were many haunting the dark?

And spies, of course. She needed spies. People in March’s camp, people in the Saxon camp.

I wonder how much it would take to buy the ears of washerwomen and camp whores? If she could succeed in convincing them that when this was over, they’d have a place, protectors, on the High King’s side . . .

More than that, she’d have to find places. And each one would probably be different. There would be women who had gone to the life because they had no other options, women who were captives