Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [93]
Gwen herself reported to the commanders with tally sticks of everything (well, mostly, you couldn’t prevent the men from cheating a little) her scouts had taken. In theory, half of that should have gone to Urien and her father. In practice, there had been so much that Urien simply waved the tallies off. “Your men fought bravely and deserve what they took.” In the corner of the tent, Lancelin was winding a bandage around his wrist—not because he had been struck but because, unbelievably, he had sprained it, he had cut down so many of the enemy.
Some stragglers might have escaped, but Gwen didn’t think there were many of them. The snow had hampered escape and had made it easy to see escapees. And for those who had gotten away, without food, without shelter, with no real knowledge of the land, possibly injured . . . the night was going to be very cruel. And if a storm came, which it very well might . . .
So far as the Saxons were concerned, their army would have vanished utterly into the winter.
Lancelin looked up and caught her eyes. “I think enough messages got back to the Saxon leaders of the dread White Spirit that they will probably blame this defeat on her,” he said, with a wry smile.
She blinked at him in surprise. “I wasn’t even thinking of that,” she replied.
“I was.” He finished winding the bandage and tucked the end in, then flexed his hand experimentally.
She flushed. “I’m sorry to have spoiled your victory for you then.”
“No, you aren’t.” His smile remained.
“I’m not what?”
“Sorry.” He stood up. “And you shouldn’t be. That was very clever. I will advise the High King to make use of what you began.”
Urien laughed. “Your High King’s new queen cannot be half as clever as our princess,” he said with unconcealed satisfaction.
“Not in the same way, nor at the same things, no.” Lancelin lost his smile. “Queen Gwenhwyfar turns her mind to a different path than the princess.”
And it is one you don’t approve of, Gwen thought with some surprise. That was when she wondered if she should warn Lancelin about Medraut. She had sworn to tell no one but . . .
The moment passed. He bowed to her and left. She spoke a little more with Urien about the disposition of her men, but weariness had begun to fog her thinking, and it showed. The war chief sent her off with a laugh.
Still, it nagged at her. Someone should know about Medraut. Was there any way she could tell Lancelin without actually saying anything?
She decided to wait until morning. Sometimes things came clearer in the night.
In the morning nothing was clearer, but by midafternoon the last patrol reported that there was still no sign of any reinforcements. And ravens, both two-legged and winged, had come to scavenge on the bodies.
When pickings on a battlefield were lean, the winners generally stripped the bodies of the dead bare before burning them. But from all appearances, either the Saxon war chiefs had anticipated trouble from their men because of the difficulty of a winter campaign and had come laden with many gifts to keep them contented, or they had been forced to send back to their holdings for rich gifts in order to retain them after Gwen began her “haunting.” In any case, the bodies beginning to freeze in the churned-up bloody snow were still mostly, or at least partly, clothed, though good fur cloaks, fine shirts and trews had gone into packs and on backs.
Out of nowhere, the last of the battlefield gleaners had arrived; the local villagers and hunters who had hidden during the battle and hoped that the conquerors were not the Saxons. Urien sent out men to meet each little group as it arrived and struck a bargain. Now they were cleaning up the battlefield, stripping the corpses of the least rags, piling them up for burning. This, of course, would disappoint the ravens, who were gorging themselves and berating the humans for stealing their food from under their beaks. If it had not been that they were Saxons, the bodies would have