Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [67]
By the time the sun was three fingers above the horizon, they were ready to depart. Gwen, to her sorrow but not her surprise, was not going. She was not being slighted; no one her age was being allowed to go.
She stood by the king’s chariot, looking up at him. Around them, horses stirred restively. Gynath held her hand tightly, but of the two of them, it was Gwen who was the calmer.
“I rely on you, my daughters,” the king said, his voice stronger and firmer than it had been since Eleri’s death. Gwen could only marvel at how war had made him come alive again. For that, she could actually feel glad about it. “I do not know how long we will be in the field, but come what may, the lands have to be tilled, the flocks tended, the harvest brought in, and the rites celebrated. You must see to it that these things are done, and done well.”
Gynath looked up at the king, her eyes bright with tears, so it was Gwen who answered. “We will, my lord.”
He nodded. “Now hear me well. I expect to return, in triumph. I plan to return. I have every intention of coming back loaded with Saxon wealth, carried on good Saxon horses. But the gods mayhap have other plans. Should the very worst befall, I have left certain orders. Gynath, and you, Gwen, and those who choose to flee are to take shelter with the King of Gwynedd. He is my oldest friend, for we fostered together and swore an oath of brotherhood. I will make no orders other than that. If affairs have gone that badly, let each man act on his own conscience.”
He had spoken loudly enough that his voice carried over the crowd, and though there were some murmurs, there was much nodding. Gynath sobbed. Gwen had a terrible lump in her throat . . . but also a strange certainty. King Lleudd would return. There would be others who would not, and she somehow knew there would be great grief for her, but her father would return and, as he hoped, in triumph.
Gynath had no such feeling of certainty; that much was clear from her look of despair. But she had courage. She swallowed back her tears, stood up straight, and despite red eyes and trembling voice, replied, “Yes, my lord Father.”
He bent down and embraced them both, kissing the tops of their heads, then released them. As soon as he had, Gwen could tell that his spirit was elsewhere, already down the road, eager to face battle. Fiercely she wished she could go too—
But her fate was already written, and she had to step back and watch as her father took the reins from his chariot driver, and the horses, already impatient, lurched out at a trot.
And then they were gone.
Then came the worst part: the waiting. Gwen was too young to remember much about the last time the levies of Pwyll went to war, but Gynath was not, and Bronwyn certainly was not. Gynath collapsed in an orgy of grief and despair; Bronwyn allowed her two days to wallow in it, then roused her roughly, took her down to the brook, stripped her bare and ducked her in the freezing cold water. Gwen had no idea this was going to happen and only happened to look up from the bowstring she was plaiting to see Bronwyn hauling the weakly protesting girl in that direction.
There is such a thing as curiosity that can’t be suppressed. Gwen pinned the string down and followed, just in time to see Bronwyn strip Gynath to the skin and shove her into the spring-fed pond.
The water was ice cold, and Gynath shrieked and flailed her arms wildly trying to keep from falling in.
She failed, of course.
The water was only waist deep, but she came up gasping and spluttering, only to be hauled onto the bank just as roughly, rubbed down with a drying cloth, and have her clothing shoved at her.
“Wh-wh-what d-d-did you d-d-do that for?” Gynath cried indignantly, between the chattering of her teeth. Gwen ran the last few steps to help her get into her shift and gown.
“You’ve had your wallow. Two days of baaing like a lamb taken from its mum is enough,” Bronwyn said, her jaw set. “Your father is very much