Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [118]
At least she could, with great virtue, make the assertion that none of that had originated with her men.
In the meantime, the orders from the High King were to wait. So, wait they did. Morning became midday, and still there was no sign of anything going on, either on the mainland or on the island. The mist did not lift; if anything, it thickened. An overcast day meant everything was shrouded in gloom, and it was easy to imagine strange shapes in the mist. Most men stuck close to camp, save for hers. King Lleudd’s force, emboldened perhaps by her connection to the Folk of Annwn, went out hunting and fishing. Gwen thought about trying to pay a visit to the Ladies and the Cauldron Well, then thought better of it. With all these strangers here, they had probably hidden the entrance to their school and stronghold, as they often did when times were uneasy, and although they would probably let her in, it might take her a while to get their attention. Besides, she had little or no magic these days. She would not be there as a fellow Lady, but rather as one who comes to see the sights . . . not entirely welcome under the circumstances. No, they knew she was here. If they wanted to see her, they would send a messenger, and if they did not send one, it was because mere visitors were not, at the moment, welcome.
The High King had not summoned her though he had sent courteous, if overly formal, greetings and thanks to her and her father and further thanks for the gift of the two of her father’s famous gray cavalry horses that she had brought. Until she was summoned, it was poor manners to intrude on him and his councils, and really, there was not much more she could add. Nothing about this situation answered to either Roman tactics or anything she was good at. Add to that—her name. It would not be easy, hearing the name of his runaway wife attached to someone else.
But there was not much more she could do here at the camp, except add to gossip. She saw to her gear, but she had been so thorough that there was nothing left that she needed to attend to; Rhys and Pryderi were not much inclined to go riding out in the mist and gloom and showed their reluctance clearly. She didn’t blame them and couldn’t think of a reason why she needed to risk their legs and necks to an accident. After a good long while of staring blankly at the fire, it occurred to her that there was one foot of the power triangle here she could visit after all. After mulling it over, deciding against it, then deciding she was being a coward, she went to have a look at the church and abbey of the Christ priests.
It was not very imposing; the abbey was about the size of the village at Castell y Cnwclas; it was not a single building but a bevy of little wattle huts inside an enclosure, with the church, a more substantial timber structure, at the center. The huts looked like chicks surrounding a hen, and the church was about half the size of her father’s castle. But one thing struck her almost forcibly when she ventured inside the dark, incense-scented building; as small as it was, within those four walls she encountered a sense of deep peace the like of which she had not felt outside of a Sacred Circle. And that—was astonishing.
When she left the church, she was accosted by a swarm of the inhabitants. The monks that lived at the abbey were all in a state, not quite panic but certainly great anxiety about the well-being of Gildas. She got the sense that he was greatly admired, and even loved, here. And far from being made to feel unwelcome, when they made sure of who she was, she had a group of tonsured men in plain brown and black robes surrounding her, pressing fresh, hot bread and butter and a mug of small beer into her hands, asking her anxious questions. Was this Gwyn ap Nudd truly an evil creature?