Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [113]
Whatever was on their minds, they did not approve of anyone who consorted with “demons” as she was said to do—and evidently, a “demon,” in their eyes, was any creature that was not mortal and not an “angel.”
The monks, therefore, did not like her, and the rumors that Queen Gwenhwyfar was not an unwilling captive were making them uneasy. And that made them even more unhappy with her presence. She was a living reminder of everything the queen wasn’t—including, it seemed, loyal to the High King.
Then there were the followers of the Old Ways, who evidently expected her to conjure up Gwyn ap Nudd, who would then divide the waters of the lake, or build a bridge of rainbows across it, or fly the entire army through the air to take it to the fortress where the queen was. And then, of course, more magic would breech the walls, and in the conquering army would go, stopping only for enough combat to make them all heroes.
After all, hadn’t she won allies of the Folk of Annwn already?
Oh, it was irritating; here she had foregone the credit for striking that bargain in her marsh, only to have everyone turn right round about and decide that of course she had done it after all.
It made her head hurt. And she wanted to swat them all for being so foolish.
Well, she had gotten another summons, this time from Lancelin, to meet with him, some of the Companions, and some other, unspecified, leaders. And where once she would have been excited to meet with these warriors who were famed from the Channel to the Western Sea, now—
Well, she just hoped they weren’t expecting any magic out of her.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the first person she saw as she entered the fire-circle was Medraut. She restrained herself however, and by the time he turned away from the person he was talking to, a huge, broad-shouldered man who looked just about as angry as if he had strapped on a helmet full of hornets, she had composed herself.
Lancelin had spotted her by then and welcomed her, giving her a seat between himself and the angry man, who turned out to be Gwalchmai. Gwalchmai actually was as angry as if he had strapped on a helmet full of hornets, and with good cause. He had been out in a boat trying to find a place to land; Melwas mocked him from the battlements.
And so did Gwenhwyfar.
Now, according to Lancelin, at best Gwalchmai had what might, at the kindest, be charitably described as a prejudice against women.
Of course, given his relationship with Anna Morgause . . .
But this was a great deal more insult than a warrior and one of Arthur’s Companions could be expected to bear with an unruffled temper, even if that warrior was the next thing to a statue. Gwalchmai had, by all accounts, a nature so hot that he got into quarrels merely because he thought someone had looked at him oddly.
He glared at her as she sat down. She gave him the most sympathetic look she could muster.
His glare turned to suspicion. She shrugged and put on a rueful expression, trying to convey that she not only sympathized with him, she had no sympathy whatsoever for the queen. She caught Medraut watching them with veiled amusement.
This meeting turned out to be mostly Arthur’s chief Companions. Lancelin, of course. Gwalchmai, Kai, Bors, Peredur, Geraint, Bedwyr, Trystan, Medraut, Caradoc, Dinadan. The firelight made moving shadows on their faces, these famous men, Arthur’s closest comrades. Square and narrow, bearded and beardless, dark-haired, most of them, a few lighter. She supposed she should have felt intimidated by them, but they looked no different, really, from the men she had fought with and beside for all these many years. Experienced, yes, but so was she. Kai looked petulant, as if he forever labored under a grievance. Bors seemed weary, as did Bedwyr. Trystan, the nephew of March—oh, now that one gave her a chill. There was a look of doom about him, and a melancholy, as if he felt