Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [84]
She normally kept her hair tightly braided and clubbed like a horse’s tail, so it was tidy enough not to need combing out and rebraiding. She cast aside what she had been wearing, smelling of horse and sweat as it probably was. The gray wool trews and leather tunic could use a good beating and cleaning in snow, and the linen shirt could stand a boiling. She hopped from one foot to the other, shivering as the cold air bit at her, dressed again from the skin out in good clean linen and woolen hose, then pulled on the trews and wriggled into the tunic. She reflected wryly as she did so that among the captains, war chiefs and generals she was going to stand out as much as that pest Medraut had; the trews were white doeskin, and the tunic, unlike the festal garb of most of her father’s folk, was not a checkerboard of bright colors, with contrasting bands of embroidery at hems and neck. Her best tunic was light gray, with silver and white bands. Somehow, she realized, she had come to have most of her clothing made in these colors, as if she were trying to live up to her name. And, thank the gods, it was so stark as to give her too-youthful face a more serious cast. There was nothing she could do about the fact that her cheeks were not scarred, browned by the sun, weathered by the wind. Nor could she change that she had not so much as a sign that she was more than old enough to be a mother six times over by now—twenty-five, and she looked sixteen at best! But at least she could look as serious and remote as a vengeful spirit.
Bah, it is more that I am trying to look as unlike Gwenhwyfach as possible, she thought, a little crossly. Her sister, the last time she had seen the chit, was as profligate in her love of opulent, showy dress as Medraut was—except she did so in colors rather than stark black.
Well, no matter. All things went to serve a purpose, and she would stand out, which was good, but not in an ostentatious way or as if she were trying to, which was also good. And the clothing had been laid up in lavender and meadowsweet, so she would smell less of horse than usual. She opened the small chest that held her few jewels, bound the silver fillet around her brow, got out her silver torque with the horsehead finials, and put it on and fastened her cloak, not with her old bronze brooch, but with the silver Epona brooch that had been the latest gift from her father. Stamping her feet to settle them in her soft boots, she pushed aside the tent-flap and headed in the direction of the tent of War Chief Urien, who was the chief of all her father’s generals. That was where newcomers of importance would be taken.
It was the largest tent in the encampment, and that was needful, since outside the hours of sleep, it had to house the table where the maps were laid and strategy made, and in the hours of sleep had to hold Urien’s entire personal band of companions, some twenty men in all. Companions of this sort were men who did nothing other than hold themselves ready to fight; they held no lands, and they got all their substance from their chief. This was a Saxon custom not often found among Lleudd’s folk or the other tribes north of where the Saxons held sway. But Arthur had adopted the practice, making the sons of his underkings into his band of companions and setting them, it was said, about a round table that had neither head nor foot, as a sign that there were no “greater” or “lesser” men among them, that all were equal. Shrewd, that was. Supposedly he had got the curious table, which must have been enormous, as part of his queen’s dower.
His now-dead queen . . .
To think I envied her as a child.
At any rate, Urien followed the High King’s example, and Lleudd saw no harm in his doing so, though he himself did nothing of the sort. Having to haul around so large an expanse of canvas and hide was a nuisance, but Gwen was glad of the shelter and relative warmth in this winter campaign.
Outside the tent was all astir with men coming and going with purposeful looks and brisk paces. She winced a little at the bright light; being