Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [7]
She knew better than to sort inside; a chance draft might send the precious feathers into the fire. So she circled the castle and grounds and came to one of her favorite spots, just below the window of her parents’ room, on the south wall. This spot got sun all day and was sheltered from the wind; the lush grass made a good place to sit, and no one was likely to disturb her.
So she slowly picked through the feathers. Precious down feathers went into one sack, for making the softest of pillows and featherbeds.
Body feathers went into a second, for featherbeds of lesser quality. Longer feathers went into a third sack, to be used as needed, and the primary and secondary wing feathers went into a fourth, to be used for fletching arrows and very occasionally for quill pens, although there was no one here who could write more than reckonings. Dirty feathers had to be carefully picked clean, but her reward was that she could have any feathers she liked from the third sack. She had already made plans for a feather skirt for her doll and maybe a feather cloak too. It was not hard work, nor difficult to understand, but it was painstaking. Gwen was clever and dexterous, and besides, she loved the silky feeling of the feathers, the subtle plays of grays and whites and browns, so she never complained about getting this chore.
Despite the cold, the sun had baked warmth into the turf and the stones at this spot. She put her back up against the stones and set to work.
She was halfway through the second sack when she heard voices. She quickly recognized Eleri and the visitor, who must have sought out the privacy of the solar in order to keep their words from the ears of the inveterate gossips. She concentrated very hard at that moment, willing them not to look out of the window, even though Eleri knew she was picking feathers and that this was her favorite place to do so.
“Now tell me what you would not say in public about Anna of Orkney,” Eleri demanded, in what Gwen thought of as her “queenly” voice. “If there is danger to this realm from her, I want to know about it.”
“That is the trouble, the things that I know are as hard to hold to as water,” the priestess replied. “The priestesses great and small are not of one mind on this. Some think Anna of Orkney is dangerous, some think her ambition will be held in check by the High King and the Merlin, and some think that nothing will hold her if she reaches beyond her current status. I know that she holds to the Old Ways, and under any other circumstances, I would be inclined to her for that alone. But . . . but . . .” She sighed. “I know that Lot is ambitious. I know that his wife is equally ambitious, and I believe that there is not much either of them would scruple at to advance their ambitions. I know that she has the Power, and I know that she will use it to further her own ends rather than the welfare of the land. But how far she would go? I cannot say with any degree of certainty.”
“The High King has a son,” said Eleri, sounding irritated. “He has a son by the girl called Lionors. Lorholt, she calls him. Does he need more?”
The priestess made a tsking sound. “But she was not his wife. And it is only we of the West that still hold to the Old Ways, at least publicly. If your husband had a son by another than you, and he chose to make that son his heir, and you put your blessing upon it, no one here would think it amiss. But in the lands where the Romans once held full sway, The High King must have a son by a true wife, one wedded to him by a Christian priest, as well as promises, and sealed in betrothal. The Old Rites do not signify.” Gwen listened to this carefully. This seemed very strange to her. There were plenty of couples among her father’s people who had never even seen a Christian priest, nor had any priest or priestess say any words over them whatsoever, and yet no one doubted they were husband and wife. Jumping the fire at Beltane, jumping the broom among friends, that