Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [160]
Those thoughts were like knives in her gut. And although those thoughts were worst at night, when she fought for sleep, they were never far away.
So she paced, counting the paces, as she had paced in Medraut’s prison. She rehearsed what she was going to say, over and over. How she would react. What she would do—she had to take the offensive; the ground was all Arthur’s. She had to force him to react to what she said and did, not the other way around. She had to put him on the defensive.
She was rehearsing it all for the hundredth time when she heard the bar holding her in scrape across the door of the hut. The sound made her freeze, for it was neither dawn nor dusk. She turned, slowly, to face the little wooden door.
Two guards stood there, two of the Companions she was not familiar with. “Lady?” one said, hesitantly, peering into what must have been dark to him. His voice was very young. “Lady, you are to come with us—”
“I am Gwenhwyfar,” she said, steadily. “Queen perhaps, war chief certainly. Not ‘Lady.’ ”
She stalked out of the darkness of the hut and into the light, her eyes narrowed so that it didn’t blind her, her back straight as a staff. “Lead on,” she said evenly, taking in her surroundings as soon as her eyes adjusted. The island tor of the Isle of Glass loomed to her right, but it was more distant than she had thought, and all around her were the tents of a camp. This looked like a little farmer’s hut, or a shepherd’s, that Arthur had commandeered to hold her. So, she was not on the Abbey grounds, after all. Perhaps Arthur had wanted to put some distance between them and the Isle, for fear Gwyn ap Nudd would interfere in some way.
Which was foolish thinking. If Gwyn wanted to interfere, not the breadth of a kingdom would prevent him from doing so.
She eyed the guards; they were young. Very young. Evidently her good behavior had convinced Arthur that he need not put his stoutest warriors over her. They flushed as she looked them over. New armor, new tunics. With whom had they served before joining Arthur? Were they the younger sons of one of his allies? She wondered what they were thinking.
“Well,” she said, when they didn’t move. “If you are to lead me, then do so, if you please.”
They flushed again, and one of them made an abortive gesture in the general direction of the largest tent in the encampment, which was, of course, precisely where she would expect Arthur’s tent to be, since the encampment was laid out in the Roman style. She nodded and moved off at a deliberate pace, neither dragging her feet nor rushing. She didn’t want these boys to have even a vestige of alarm about them because she had plans of her own.
Two more guards at the tent entrance held the flaps open for her. Just as deliberately she stalked inside and the canvas dropped in place behind her.
Arthur waited for her inside, flanked by Abbot Gildas and his foster brother Kai and two more pairs of guards. And before any of them could move or speak, she took the offensive.
Literally.
She crossed the space between them quickly, while they were still reacting to her presence, and slapped Arthur as hard as she could with the back of her hand. The crack shattered the silence and shocked them all speechless. Which was exactly the way she wanted it.
“If I had a gauntlet, it would be at your feet, husband,” she spat. “How dare you, how dare you, take exception to anything I have done, when you just spent the last seven months fornicating with my sister?”
Arthur’s mouth dropped open in sheer shock; his eyes went wide and her handprint reddened on his cheek.
“My sister,” she repeated, viciously, “Who also happens to be married to Medraut. While Medraut held me captive in his villa, amused himself with me whenever he chose, and