Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [126]
Duty.
Finally she hung her head in defeat. “If I must . . .” she said reluctantly.
“The alternative is Medraut on the throne,” replied the Lady, her voice showing that she very clearly cared no more for Medraut than Gwen did. “You know Medraut as well as any of us. You know your sister, who was trained by Anna Morgause, just as Morgana was. You know what will come of that.”
That was no alternative at all.
“Very well. I accept,” she sighed. And I will find some way to have at least a part of my dream, too.
But first, as she had feared, she found that to be made into a queen, she must be unmade.
This was a strange world that she reentered. It was not that she had abandoned womanly things so much as that she had made a choice that left no room for them. But now, suddenly, there was a veritable flood of womanliness that had swept her up and was carrying her off, and she watched the banks of simple practicality rushing past, out of reach, as Cataruna and Gynath and all the women of Lleudd’s court descended on her, determined to “make her over.”
She understood that this was needful. She could not turn up at the High King’s stronghold in her armor and tunic and trews. And if she did not act like a queen she would have ridicule for her portion. If she did not look like one, well . . . not only ridicule, but perhaps even scorn.
She hated it. But she threw herself into it with a will. There was no turning back now, and hard as this was, it had been far more difficult to become a warrior. She had discipline, and she applied it as firmly as she had ever applied herself to learning a weapon, or to ride.
The women began with her hair, which seemed a logical way to start.
She had not chopped hers off short, as Braith had, because it tended to behave itself if properly braided, and what was as important, it made a good padding under a helm. But now it was unbraided and brushed until her head was sore, and washed first in lime-water to make it even paler than it had been, then in rainwater. Then she had to lie with it spread out while it dried. They did all this several times over the course of a week. She got very tired of it by the second round.
With all this came several sorts of baths. Now, as a whole, she enjoyed baths. But she did not really enjoy being bathed, then oiled, then bathed again, then oiled again, then bathed for a third time and rubbed down with perfumes while there was a woman on each hand and each foot, tsking and fussing over the toes and fingers.
When they were done with the bathing, and her hair was finally pale and silky enough to make them happy, it was time for the final step in the process. It was braided up, but no, not in her sensible single plait. Now it was braided in two, hanging down on either side of her face, braided with gold cord, which seemed a shocking waste of gold to her, then the bottom third of the braids were wrapped in a bit of fine cloth, and that, in turn, was held in place by a criss-cross of more gold cord. The braids hung heavily from her temples and made her head ache.
Why couldn’t she just keep it loose, like every other maiden she’d seen?
Evidently because that wasn’t what a king’s daughter did.
She liked to keep her breasts bound—not flat, and not tight, but enough so that they didn’t get in the way or move about and cause problems.
Well, that, it seemed, was completely out of the question. Her breasts were to be . . . prominent, and she found herself with braids and breasts encumbering her and making it impossible to move quickly.
Then there was the new clothing to get used to.
Oh, she was not averse to wearing a gown now and again, provided it was one that was comfortable, easy to move in.
Well.
First, a whole new wardrobe had to be constructed. The women did this at breakneck speed, while her hair and body were being scrubbed like a fish being descaled. The new wardrobe began with the