Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [131]
Which he did, precisely, every night. And then went away again to sleep somewhere else.
She knew very well what lovemaking was all about. She hadn’t been afraid of it. But she certainly hadn’t expected it to be like . . .
. . . like a household chore. Something tedious, to be gotten over with as quickly and efficiently as possible.
Not that he was unkind, and not that he hurt her, except for the first time, and then it was nothing near as bad as some of the milder injuries she’d gotten in training. And for a while she had tried to be at least pleasant to him. Tried her best to look attractive where she waited for him, made sure that she smelled sweetly, that her breath was good. It was all to no purpose. She was nothing but a not-so-prize mare to him; he just wanted her breeding, so he need not visit her anymore. The Arthur that came to her room was neither the tired old man nor the vividly alive leader that she saw glimpses of at the table now and then. He was . . . like a horse trainer who had no vested interest in the horse he was training.
Making arrows was soothing. She felt in grave need of some soothing.
Was this why the other Gwenhwyfar had run off with Melwas? Because she was so bored she finally could not stand it any longer? At the moment, Gwen could not find it in her heart to blame her.
But that Gwenhwyfar should have been raised and trained to appreciate this life. She should have found the too warm rooms, the endless hours of sewing, the gossip, the idleness appealing. And Gwen had to admit that this villa was wildly luxurious by her standards.
There were no dirt floors anywhere, nor floors covered with rushes. Even the floors in the servants’ quarters were tiled, and the ones here were covered with jewel-like mosaics. Her quarters included her own bedroom, her own dining room, rooms for her ladies, this room, which they called a solar, just for receiving visitors and spending the day with her ladies, and hearing the reports of Kai, the housekeeper, and a few other important servants. Not that she was expected to do anything about those reports . . .
There was even a bathing room just for her and her ladies. And all these rooms surrounded a colonnaded courtyard, in which, she presumed, she would be “allowed” to stroll on the perfectly manicured grass in fine weather. All she had to do was produce an heir and look, if not beautiful, at least queenly.
It was driving her mad.
The only relief she’d had from this cage was when Gildas had come to talk with her. Presumably, being a Christ priest, he had been “safe.” He and Aeronwen had presided over a pair of marriage ceremonies with civility and calm, if not liking. Aeronwen had made her immediate departure. He, however, had stayed for another fortnight, for the weather had turned foul as soon as Aeronwen was gone. She wondered if he suspected the Lady had something to do with that; certainly Gwen did.
Gildas did not care for Arthur; that was hardly surprising, since Arthur had slain his rebellious brother. But for some reason he had taken to Gwen. He had spent many hours in this solar, asking her intense questions about her beliefs, inviting questions from her about his. Arguing cordially with each other. She came to see what it was that made his monks so intensely loyal to him. Under that dour expression was a remarkably sweet temper, and if he was stern, he was