Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [43]
“To me?” Gwen was astonished. “But—”
“If that child does have such a thing, the queen has armored the king against it, as she has armored him against any ill magics—which is why she could not sway his anger. But there are others that will have no such armoring, and they may be those with whom you must deal.” Bronwyn shook her graying head. “I wish to tell you to be wary of rousing the child’s envy. Try not to come between her and something she wants, at least until I have devised a means to deal with her, or discovered what it is that she has.” She looked up again, down the road that Cataruna was traveling. “I am very glad that Cataruna is well away. And Gynath, I think, is safe enough for now. But you have ever had her enmity, and it is best you stay out of her gaze.”
Well, that was easy enough to promise. “I will,” she said, and Bronwyn let her go.
But it was troubling. This was the second time that someone she trusted had warned her against Little Gwen, and in terms that suggested she was more than just a spiteful little girl.
Chapter Seven
“Gwen‚” hissed Madoc. “Gwen!”
She ignored him, working hard on her horse’s harness with a polishing cloth, a little oil, and talc, trying to get the brass bits to look like gold. The leather was already cleaned and oiled and as supple as a snake. Adara and Dai were groomed within an inch of their lives every day, their hooves oiled, their manes and tails braided and clubbed up to keep them from tangling. Midsummer was barely a week away now, and, as usual, many of her father’s war chiefs would be arriving for the festival and the rites. Braith was coming. There would be some abbreviated races—nothing like the ones in the autumn, since some of the mares had foals at heel and you wouldn’t race one of those, but there would be a maiden race for the pages and squires, since all of them had horses past breeding age or geldings. Gwen was riding and driving both, and she desperately wanted Braith to be proud of how far she had come. She wasn’t really concerned about winning the races—some of the others had horses much younger than hers, three of the boys about her age were, frankly, more skilled. But she did want Braith to see that her backing hadn’t been misplaced.
So she had gone over her gear twice now, cleaning and polishing, mending not only popped stitches, but stitches that only looked a little weak. The saddle, the harness, all looked new. But the brass bits still weren’t shiny enough.
“Gwen!”
They weren’t supposed to be talking. They were supposed to be tending to their gear. “What?” she growled out of the side of her mouth.
“Is he coming? Here? Is he really coming?” Madoc sounded breathless and nervous. Probably at least as nervous as she was about Braith coming.
“Is who coming?” she responded, her irritation growing. Peder glanced over in their direction; he’d clearly heard the hissing, though he hadn’t picked out who was talking yet. She bent her head down to her task. With luck, he wouldn’t notice. Maybe she had permission to end her chores of women’s work, but that didn’t mean an end to toil. If he felt she wasn’t paying sufficient attention to repairing her harness, he would probably set her to wood chopping, water carrying, paddock building, or even carrying stones for the many hearths abuilding.
“The Merlin!” Madoc asked excitedly. “Is the Merlin really coming?”
The Merlin! Whatever gave him that idea? The Merlin was the High King’s man. There was no reason for him to come here, of all places.
It was a title of course, not a name; the Merlin was the chief of all the Druids,