Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [94]
“I pity them,” said Lancelin, as he walked up to stand beside her. “I do. It seems so unfair, to have followed their chieftains so far in the dead of winter, on the promise of land and more, to end like this.”
She shrugged. “I don’t think about it. I think about our people, who had to hide in the forest, who would have suffered greatly had the Saxons gotten this far, who did nothing to deserve an army come to make them thralls. If they did not think about ending like this, these Saxons, then they were fools. And if they did and came anyway, then they were doubly fools.” She turned to look at him, a strand of hair blowing across her eyes until she moved it impatiently out of the way. “They will not come here again, I think, or at least not for a long time. And since they know that the High King himself is not here, they will know that it does not require the High King’s presence on the field of battle to be defeated.”
“True enough,” Lancelin replied. They had all managed to clean themselves of the filth of battle by now, and she noticed that his hair had a touch of gold in it. A little Saxon blood? That might account for the pity. “That is a good thing, but I do not think it will keep them quiet for long. They are growing desperate. Arthur is pressing them hard.”
“Was, you mean.” She shrugged. “He has a new bride. That will keep him home a season or two. The Saxons said as much around their fires. They may be less desperate if they are left alone. I think the queen is like to wish to keep him at her side, and he is like to stay there until he has himself an heir again, at least.”
Lancelin made a sour face. “And the new bride may keep me from court for longer than that. She does not like me, nor does she like my faith. I cannot say I care for her, nor hers.”
Gwen did not ask why there should be dislike, and he did not offer. She only replied, “The High King, I have heard, is accustomed to keeping his Companions close. A man might abide by the crochets of a lady for a time, but he grows impatient for his old comrades. I do not think that any woman will change that for long.”
Again, he made a wry face. “Perhaps. This one also has the Christ priests hiding behind her skirts. Thus, it is difficult to predict. Arthur wishes these men to support him; their followers grow more numerous with every year.”
She wanted to ask why, but she refrained. Instead, she shrugged, because this gave her an opening to drop some hints about Medraut without actually telling what she had pledged to stay silent about. “Then Prince Medraut will find himself unwelcome, I think. He is the son of a sorceress, and the Druids are more welcome at Lot’s court than the Christ-men. The High King may find himself poised between pleasing the queen’s priests and pleasing the prince, and I think that he will choose in her favor in that.”
“I had heard the prince had come and gone before my arrival.” Lancelin eyed her with speculation. “Why did he not remain to fight?”
A hundred answers danced on the tip of her tongue; she chose the most polite. “Business more urgent sent him to the court.” She explained about the murder of Anna Morgause by her own sons. Lancelin stared at her in horrified fascination.
“I know Gwalchmai well. His temper has often been his bane, but this . . . it seems impossible. Is this widely known?” he asked after a moment.
“I think not,” was her reply. “I think Medraut intends to tell the King only that she is dead and not at whose hands. After all, the ones who murdered her are Arthur’s Companions. This would put him in a difficult position.”
Lancelin looked pained. “He should always choose justice over . . .” “Convenience?” she suggested. “Friendship? Expediency?” She snorted. “And I think King Lot would not be pleased to have his sons haled up to answer for their mother’s murder, since