Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [79]
“If I have no daughters, the gods have chosen to give me a son as gifted as any girl,” she asserted. And Cataruna (somewhat reluctantly, Gwen thought) agreed. At the time, Gwen wondered if that was what made her so uneasy around him. Men’s Magic was that of the Druids, who did have to do with the warriors . . . maybe it was that unpredictable vision of hers that was trying to tell her that the child was strong in such things.
But after only a day, she knew it was not that. It was that Medraut was obsessed, unnaturally obsessed, with her.
At least this time he did not follow her about, but every time she was near him, she was acutely conscious of his eyes on her. More than once, she suspected he was trying to work some sort of magic on her—as mad as it would have been in anyone else, she had more than a suspicion that he had not given up his idea of marrying her. But if he was trying to bespell her in anyway, it didn’t work.
Horses still disliked him, and she had every reason to be with her horses now. She was training her new warhorses, two of the best grays from her father’s herd—Rhys and Pryderi. They were her sole care at the moment, for she was about to join the ranks of the real fighters and would need her warhorses.
Anna Morgause was there for more than just a familial visit. This time, however, her designs were not on King Lleudd, and Morgana had not come with her. No, she had other plans entirely, although they did involve marriage within the king’s family. By the time she left, Gwenhwyfach had been handfasted to the repellent boy; they would be formally betrothed in a year and married when he was fourteen, and Gwen had strong hopes she would never have to see him again. After all, Orkney was far from Pywll, the boy was anything but a warrior, and he was to be married to her sister, which should put an end to his uncomfortable obsession with her.
No such luck, it seemed.
And once she reported in, it seemed her luck was out even further. “Prince Medraut wishes to have speech of you,” she was told by the war chief, in a tone of voice that said and you had best go see him now. Evidently, Prince Medraut was considered a Personage of Importance now. Reluctantly, she made her bow to her commander, and went to find him.
It wasn’t hard. All she had to do was look for the showiest pavilion. It stood out in the encampment, with its decorations of red and black leather, its banners, and its utter new perfection. No one else had such things. The tents here had weathered many campaigns in all conditions and seasons, and they showed it.
And, of course, there he was. He was wearing all black: black cloak, black trews, black boots, black tunic. The only relief to the black was the silver penannular brooch holding the cloak closed at his throat. It was expensive, all that black. Black faded and needed to be redyed often. His was perfect. He was making sure he would be noticed. He invited her in, as his bodyguards stood one on either side of the tent entrance. The very idea of going into his tent made her want to turn and find her horse and ride as far away from him as she could. She demurred, politely, though. He was a Prince of Lothian and the Orkney Isles, and she was a Princess of Pywll. “I would not inflict my person on you at this moment. I’m straight from the field, and I stink of horse, Prince Medraut. And blood,” she added, though she was rather sure that it wasn’t the blood that would bother him.
Sure enough. “You do smell of horse, a bit,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I wanted to tell you of the news from my court in a more private surrounding, but . . .” His flat gray eyes