Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [88]
“No slower than foot soldiers,” Peder pointed out.
“True.” She savored the smoky taste of the broth, but she wished for a little thyme. “Something to think about.”
When the men had finished, and Peder had wandered back to his own tent, she sat beside the fire, thinking. There was enough afternoon sun on her back to warm her; between the fire and the sunlight, she was, for once, nicely warm. So Arthur was not so grief-stricken that he had not filled his bed again . . . that was interesting. She could not imagine her father doing the same . . . . . . unless . . .
She scratched the back of her head, absently, staring into the fire. There might have been more to this than just a man not wanting a cold bed, and a woman willing to sleep her way to a crown. Anna Morgause was not the only woman in the world to employ the magics of glamorie.
But this Gwenhwyfar is a follower of the White Christ! Don’t they shun magic?
Maybe. But Anna Morgause had—supposedly—been one of the Ladies. And the Ladies would not have approved of what Gwen had seen in her vision. You did not use Gift of the Goddess to lure a man that was not yours to your bed. You did not steal the magic meant for the High King and his Queen to put a babe in your own loins so you could use him later as a tool to manipulate the High King himself.
She had no doubt that was what Anna Morgause had intended for Medraut.
She brooded into the flames, listening with half her attention to the buzz of the camp life about her, and tried to think this through, as the daughter of a king should do.
The priests of the White Christ had been angling at the High King for a very long time. His father, Uther, had toyed with them, although he had not actually committed to their faith; but he had given them shelter and leave to build their churches. Even one very near to the Isle of Glass, where the Ladies taught.
It was hard to imagine these men and what they were trying to do. She had never actually met one. The notion of converting a man to another spiritual path was foreign, even a little alien to Gwen, but it was one of the chief pursuits of these people, it seemed. So much so that it appeared they would do almost anything to bring a man into their ranks.
So maybe they allow—or forgive—magic, if it brings them another man. And if that man were the High King?
Probably anything short of murder would be forgiven.
Well, the High King was far away. And he would never repudiate the Merlin, nor would he do anything to drive away his allies, who were not Christ-men. Glamorie could do only so much; it would not turn a man against a friend or make a friend out of an enemy. The most that this Gwenhwyfar could accomplish would be to grant the Christ priests more tolerance, to put their rites on equal footing, at least at court, with the Old Ways. Probably.
Gwen considered what others had said about these men, these priests, how they pushed themselves and their god forward. Was it possible that Arthur would neglect the Old Ways in favor of the ones his queen followed, if he were infatuated enough?
Well. Yes. Anything is possible. After all, the gods had done nothing to preserve his sons. He might even be persuaded that his sons had died because he did not favor this new god.
She made a face at the fire.
Well, the High King was not here. And by his own decree, the customs of a kingdom held of him were to continue. She was certain that he would not dare to offend his allies by demanding that they give over their rites and gods and take up with this new one. If he did, he would soon find himself without allies altogether.
Fine. Let the Christ-men have him. The Romans brought their emperor and their Mithras, and look where they are now! Tumbled in the dust.
Then something else occurred to her. Medraut was still on his way to the court, fully expecting to find a distraught Arthur who would welcome this unlooked-for, undreamed of son—