Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [129]
But no, as they reached the tents, the party split into two; the horses and their keepers went on, while her escort halted, and one of her chests was taken out of the cart that held all her belongings. That was when she knew, with a stab of pain, that this was truly where she was leaving her old life behind . . .
Without a word, she dismounted, and went straight for the most elaborate of the pavilions. Before she even reached it, the flaps were opened by a pair of servant girls; two more took her by the elbows, exclaiming with distaste over her travel-worn and “manly” garb. Numbly, she gave herself over to them.
They couldn’t manage a bath out here, but they did strip her down, warm some water at a brazier, and scrub her down and perfume her. Stubbornly, she did not allow them to take her comfortable breast bindings, but other than that, she submitted herself tamely to dressing, braiding, fussing, and bejeweling. And she submitted to being picked up and placed on a pillion pad behind the oldest of her escort. She hated it, and so did Rhys; he was tied to the saddle and following behind, and he eyed her with confusion and resentment. He didn’t like being hauled along like a pack mule.
Well, she didn’t like being baggage, either.
But she put a good, brave face on it. And when they reached the outskirts of the city, with people crowding around the road to the stronghold, cheering and peering, she continued to put a brave face on it, waving and smiling, nodding, and acting as if this was the culmination of her greatest dream.
Even though at that moment, if she’d been given an honorable way out of it, she’d have bolted like a rabbit.
Through the city, up the hill, through the gate in the wall, and then . . .
The entire cavalcade, which had, by now, acquired quite a long tail, stopped in front of the largest of the buildings. It was of stone and white-plastered timber, with roofs of red tile. Dead center was a grand entrance with tall white columns, and beneath the triangular pediment that surmounted them was a group of richly dressed men. She recognized Lancelin, Kai, Gwalchmai . . .
. . . Medraut . . . looking outwardly happy enough, although she very much doubted he was pleased with all of this.
And in the center of them, the man who could only be the High King.
Bearded, the red in his hair going to gray, he looked . . . worn and tired. His gold crown seemed to weigh him down. Over his fine red tunic he wore armor, breastplate and greaves in the Roman style; under it he wore sensible trews and boots. His red mantle was lined with ermine and was easily large enough to serve as a bedcovering. His expression was resigned.
As for his Companions, many of whom had met her already, their expressions were far more gratifying. Kai looked astonished; Gwalchmai grinned with great appreciation, as did many of the others. These were expressions she was not used to seeing on the faces of men when they looked at her, and at first, she had to stop herself from looking about to see what lovely woman they were staring at.
Am I really . . . pretty? she wondered. Practicality asserted itself. It was only the contrast, of course. They had seen her streaked with soot and dirt, in clothing that made everyone look the same, equally sexless. They were just surprised that she was a woman and that she had turned up looking like one.
But then she saw Lancelin’s face.
He looked utterly stunned. And when his eyes met hers, her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, her resignation turned to something else. A sorrow that stabbed her, as if he had pulled out his knife and driven it into her heart.
If only he were the High King . . .
The thought was repressed, instantly. It did not matter. The High King could be a bear in a crown and it still would