Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [159]
“Leave me.” She made it a command. “He’s not thinking, and he won’t, Old Stag that he is, while the Young Stag stands before him. He’ll never listen to anything as long as you stand here. He’ll challenge you, and you’ll either let him kill you or kill him yourself. There’s no other outcome for this.”
If he kills Arthur, he’ll never be able to look at me again without thinking of that. And if Arthur kills him, I will follow. She heard the breath catch in his throat. He loved Arthur; still loved Arthur. “Go!” she hissed. “He won’t harm me. He’ll lose the Ladies and my father if he does.”
Though Arthur might not be able to think at this moment, Lancelin certainly could, and her logic was inescapable. With an inarticulate cry of grief that wrung her heart and made a sob catch in her throat, he leaped into the saddle with a single jump. Idris, well used to what this meant, reared a little and plunged toward an opening in the line. The warriors, caught off guard, or perhaps not really wanting to try to stop him, did not react in time. He flashed between them and was gone.
With a look of contempt at Medraut that should have blasted him on the spot, Gwen tossed down her sword.
And waited for them to take her prisoner.
She paced the tiny, dark hut that they had locked her into. Ironic that they had brought her here, to Glastonbury Abbey. But Abbot Gildas had interceded again, so she’d heard; she didn’t know first hand, of course, since she hadn’t been allowed to see anyone but her guards, but that explained why she was here rather than at Arthur’s stronghold. That good old man was still honoring their friendship; she hoped he wouldn’t lose by it.
The hut walls were not that thick, and the guards gossiped; she heard practically every word they said. Arthur was incoherent with anger. There was no word of Medraut. There was no word of Lancelin either, which she took as a good sign. The guards didn’t know what Arthur planned to do with her—
Well, he could plan all he wanted to, but that did not alter the law. It was not yet treason for a woman, even a queen, to take a lover. She could, if she chose, even make the argument that she had only done so to give him an heir . . . and between bouts of weeping, she toyed with that idea. But it would be a lie, and she decided against it. She was done with lying to Arthur to save his pride.
They’d brought her a gown. She’d refused to change into it. She had no intention of surrendering her identity as a warrior a second time. She did behave herself honorably, otherwise. She did not rush the guards that brought her food and water and took away the bucket. She did not insult them, nor shout at them, nor demand anything of them. She stood quietly in a corner, let them come and do what they needed to do at dawn and dusk, and spoke only when she was spoken to. And yes, she wept, she had cried until her eyes were sore and dry and her cheeks sore and her nose sore and red with weeping, but she had done so silently. If—when—Arthur finally confronted her, she was going to force him to acknowledge what she was. In no small part because that was what Gwenhwyfach was not.
It had been three days. That was a cold sort of comfort. The more time that passed, the more chance there was for her friends to rally to her side. The more time that passed, the farther away Lancelin would get and the more likely that Arthur’s anger with him would cool a little. The only thing that worried her was—time was also on Medraut’s side.
She had to fight with herself constantly, every waking moment, not to break down completely; this was like the conflict with Medraut in a way, and she dared not show any weakness, not if she was going to be taken seriously. It was worst on waking, for her dreams were full of Lancelin; in her dreams she was back in their sanctuary, held joyfully in his arms, and when she woke to find herself curled in the heap of straw in the mud-walled hut, the pain of disappointment was so bitter she could hardly keep herself from crying out with it.
Lying in the darkness, waiting