Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [65]
As for Gwen . . . her instructors were keeping her too occupied to brood and had been for moons, so that when Midwinter arrived, it came to her one night as she served as her father’s page that the terrible ache of grief, the chasm that had been inside her, was—not gone, never that, but—changed to something that was somewhat easier to bear. And looking at her father’s face, it seemed he felt the same. He took an interest in things that he had not even at Harvest. Still not in women, but much the same, if somewhat grimmer, interest in the small affairs of his people and his kingdom and the greater affairs of what was going on outside that kingdom.
Perhaps it helped that there was, without a doubt, going to be fighting in the spring. The High King had sent out his messengers again, just before the snow flew, to warn that the seafaring chiefs, the Northerners, too disorganized to be called “kings,” were uniting for what Arthur thought was another push to oust him and overrun them all.
It gave her father something to think about besides his own pain.
So at Midwinter, the talk was all of war and the preparations for war.
Gwen paid great attention to all this talk, for this was to be her business. There might not be a brother to guard now, but there were two sisters, one of whom would surely wed someone that their father would name as his heir. Whoever that was would need someone he could trust.
When the guests were all gone, Gwen and the rest found their hands being turned to those preparations that had been discussed. The nasty, barbed war arrows that would tear a man’s flesh on being pulled out needed to be made. That was a matter of several steps, some of which could be entrusted to the squires. War chariots, spears, armor, bows, harness . . . all needed to be checked and put in good order. Much could be put in the squires’ hands, and much was.
Gwen worked feverishly, and the work did much to help her set aside her troubled thoughts. There were no further ill tales, though more messengers came from the High King, traveling with great difficulty across the winter landscape, bringing with them the questions of levies and what could be supplied in lieu of or in addition to the levies. Now Gwen was glad that her father had not heard the tales, that Bronwyn had kept them to herself, for he threw himself into this work with a whole heart.
As might have been expected, there were other rumors coming out of the west, that King Lot had demurred, saying that mere rumors were no cause for raising levies, and that in any case, the Northerners might well lose interest before spring. “He intends to send nothing, or as little as possible,” Gwen’s father spat one night in disgust.
“There would be no loot in it for him,” pointed out one of the chiefs. “Even if we drive them far back into their own lands and seize what we drive them off of, it is not on Lot’s border, and he would get no share of it. If we only drive them back, well, what will we win? Arms and horses, both the worse for war.” He shook his head. “And Lot is far enough from Celliwig that there is little the High King can do at this stage to enforce his will. Lot will find some excuse, a plague of flux or weather washing out the roads, and if he arrives, it will be too late to be of service.”
“All the more reason for us to act with honor.” The king set his chin firmly, and Gwen silently cheered. She felt better for seeing him so alive again and more like his old self.
The talk around the hearth was lively enough to satisfy anyone, and Gwen wished with all her heart that she would be allowed to go along with the levies. But she wouldn’t be; none of the squires her age were going. Only the seasoned warriors, neither too old nor too young, would be sent. Even the king himself would remain behind, and that was on the orders of the High King himself. Her father grumbled at that, but he agreed that it was a sound decision, once he heard the reasoning.
“The High King is concerned that this might be a trick.” The messenger that brought