Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit Part 11

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 did not warm with humor, or with anything else. "Well, everyone will learn this soon enough, from my servants if nothing else, so no harm if we're overheard, I suppose. First of all, my mother is dead."

He announced this in the same matter-of-fact tone that she would have a.s.sociated with "I've killed a deer," or "one of the watchdogs died," so for a moment, she was so utterly taken aback that it took her a while to stammer out, "My condolences, Prince-"

"Oh, don't bother, the cow got what she deserved," he said, his eyes finally glinting with cruelty, which took her so by surprise that she actually lost her breath. "Two of my brothers, Gwalchmai and Agrwn, found her with a lover. Somehow, they were all too thick to realize she's had more lovers than a queen bee, but this time they caught her in the middle of making the two-backed beast. They killed her and him." He shrugged. "He was the son of one of the High King's allies, so there will be trouble over it, I expect. But it was the price of stupidity, and she was getting more stupid every year. Eventually someone was going to catch her, and if it had not been my brothers, it would have been someone else that King Lot could not ignore. Even if it was him that was her pander more than half the time. She had the appet.i.te of a cat in season. My Aunt Morgana has more sense than the lot of them put together."

Gwen was so shocked, all she could do was stare at him.

"But that's not why I'm here," he continued. "I'm going to my father's court to present myself to him now that she's gone, and you should hear that from me."

She blinked, unable to understand. "Haven't you just come from there?"

He curled his lip again, and gave her a look of disgust. "Not Lot's court. My father's court. My blood father." When she failed to understand, he heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Arthur."

Her jaw dropped. "Arthur?" she repeated, stupidly.

He nodded with some satisfaction at her shock. "And now that there're no little princes in the way, I expect my dear blood father will be pleased to see me. He has no obvious heir, after all. His other sons also seem to have had tragically short lives. So I need you to promise me some things. Morgana gave me some good advice, and I am going to take it. First, I don't want Arthur to know I'm wedded to your sister. At least, not just yet."

Not that she was going to get anywhere near the High King to tell him, but-"Why not?" she managed.

"I'm trying to replace his sons. I'd rather he thought of me as a helpless little lad whose mother has just been rent from him. Someone in need of pity, comfort, and guidance from someone other than King Lot." Somehow, in that moment, Medraut . . . changed. In an instant, his face seemed to grow rounder and softer, his eyes larger and brighter and infinitely sad. His lower lip quivered ever so slightly.

In the next moment, he was back to his normal self, as always, looking like a man far older than his years, with eyes that belonged in the hardened face of someone like Peder. If Peder had no conscience at all.

"You can see how being married would interfere with that," he pointed out.

She nodded, finding herself agreeing with him, although she really did not want to.

"Second, don't tell anyone I have the Gifts." His eyes bored into hers. "That's something no one at the court needs to know. Ever. I don't want the Merlin to know, nor the Ladies. I've had good training at Morgana's hands, she has promised me more as I need it, and I don't feel as if I need to undergo it all over again."

Again, she nodded.

"Good. Thank you, fair sister." He smirked. "Fair indeed. I hear they have taken to calling you 'White Ghost.' That you frighten the Saxons. That they think you are some uncanny creature out of the spirit world or the realms of the elves."

She had felt so proud of that, but it felt so . . . foolish when she heard him say it. "There's no accounting for what soldiers will say," she replied harshly. "The Saxons don't believe that a woman can be a warrior, so they have to have some foolish explanation about why and how I can best them. It doesn't matter to me what they think I am. I do my job, and I am good at it."

"So you are," he replied, somehow making it sound as if he meant the opposite. "And, of course, there is nothing magical about you at all. Now remember. Keep my secrets."

"I will," she replied, and he turned and went rudely back into his pavilion, dismissing her as if she had been a churl and he- Well, he was a prince. Rather more than just any prince, if he hadn't been lying. Arthur's son . . .

She didn't put it past him to lie . . . but somehow she didn't think he had this time. She turned her her back on his tent and went off to her own tent and the single camp servant she shared with her troop, intending to get something to eat. Most of the men did their own cooking over their own fires; she had always found it better to forego some of the duties her servant would have done in order to make sure that everyone under her command was properly fed. And it was only as she was sitting with her troop, alternating bites of hard camp bread soaked in the gravy of the ever-present stew with bites of the stew itself, that many things she had already known suddenly fell together into a pattern. back on his tent and went off to her own tent and the single camp servant she shared with her troop, intending to get something to eat. Most of the men did their own cooking over their own fires; she had always found it better to forego some of the duties her servant would have done in order to make sure that everyone under her command was properly fed. And it was only as she was sitting with her troop, alternating bites of hard camp bread soaked in the gravy of the ever-present stew with bites of the stew itself, that many things she had already known suddenly fell together into a pattern.

That Medraut, as a baby, had looked as if he had been born before his time because he was was born before his time. That he should have been born at the same time as the High King's twin sons. born before his time. That he should have been born at the same time as the High King's twin sons.

At the same time as Eleri's son . . . she thought, and hastily shoved the thought away. she thought, and hastily shoved the thought away.

But . . . that meant he had been conceived at the time of the Great Rite. At the very wedding, the celebration that Lot and Anna Morgause had traveled to in order to pledge their fealty.

And that was when the world went to white about her, as it had not for many, many years. The bowl and bread fell from her nerveless fingers, and she heard, as if from a great distance, Owain and Aeron shouting, and felt hands catching her. But that was of no matter, because of what she was seeing . . .

Anna Morgause, alone in a luxurious tent, lit by a dozen candles, and much younger than when Gwen had last seen her, working . . . well, magic.

Some sort of magic.

Impossible to mistake it when the whole tent glowed with power, when there was a knife of white bone in her left hand and one of black flint in her right. When there was a tiny cauldron steaming over a charcoal brazier at her feet, and when there was a litter of small objects around that cauldron. Most of what she was doing was hidden by the woman's body. The woman's nude body. But when she turned, Gwen could see that she was written all over with signs and symbols in what could only be the blood of the black cat that lay dead on the floor of the tent beside her. And she had turned because a man had come into her tent.

He was tall, handsome, with a warrior's body. He was somewhere between dark and fair, with a young man's beard. He moved as if he was walking in his sleep. Anna Morgause smiled and drew him to her. The High King. It must be he, though Gwen had never seen him.

Then there was a moment of darkness. When it cleared, it was Anna Morgause surrounded by women, now in a stone-walled room, another brazier burning brightly, crying out in the throes of giving birth. And at the same time, overlaid onto Anna Morgause, Gwen saw another woman, a second woman, in another stone-walled room, fair-haired as Gwen herself, and even in the middle of her travail, beautiful, also giving birth . . .

Darkness pa.s.sed across her eyes again. Again it cleared.

And then . . . she saw a new scene, a single bright s.p.a.ce in the midst of the darkness. In the center of that, the same enormous serpent she had seen fighting the bear, striking at two handsome young man-boys, who must have been Medraut's age. They fell dead without a cry.

And then she found herself lying on the snow with men around her, anxiously looking her over for some sign of sickness or a hidden wound, patting her face, putting snow to her forehead. It was Aeron who saw the sense in her eyes.

"Thank the G.o.ds, you're back with us!" he exclaimed. And before he could say anything else or try to prevent it, she struggled herself into a sitting position.

"I won't say I'm all right, but I'm not ill, and I'm not injured," she a.s.sured them. "This is just-it's part of Epona's touch on me, I think. I See things. Not often, this is the first time in-in years. It's harmless enough-" She let Peder chaff her hands in his, because she was cold from lying in the snow. And she considered what she might say. "It was something Prince Medraut said to me, the b.l.o.o.d.y news he brings to the High King. His mother's been kin-slain by his brothers. Anna Morgause is dead. I Saw it happen; I suppose Epona wished me to act as a sort of witness to such a terrible deed, in case a witness was needed."

That was enough to shock them all into silence and take their minds off her for long enough for her to get to her feet. "Let me get some drink and food into me, since I've managed to drop what I had."

Peder came out of his shock first. "Aye, lady, and I'll have someone put a hot stone in your bedroll, and when you've done with the food, you'll be going there. I know a little about these matters; when your sister does a Seeing, she needs rest after. You're no different, and you should do the same. Your father would have all our heads if summat was to happen to you. Do I need to find a Lady?" He looked so worried over her, she wanted to pat his head and tell him kindly not to be such an old hen. But she didn't. For one thing, she knew that, like her sisters, like Queen Eleri, she looked absurdly young, a fact that caused her much irritation when those who did not know her treated her as if she was merely Medraut's age and barely more than a squire. For another, her head really was still swimming, and for once, it was nice to be cosseted.

She shook her head. "This will be something they already know, I think," she said truthfully. The Ladies had ways of seeing these things that were more reliable than her own unpredictable visions. "And I'll be fine. I just need to sleep."

"Sleep you'll have. I'll make it right with our commander," Peder promised. And then, when she had eaten what she could, he escorted her to her little tent himself and saw to it she was rolled up in the now-warmed furs and blankets. As she settled in, another unpleasant thought occurred to her. Those infants that Arthur-or the Merlin, through Arthur-had ordered murdered. What if the reason he had done such a terrible thing was that he had been trying to be rid of Medraut?

She could almost . . . almost . . . forgive him, if that was the case. Medraut as a child made her want to shove him down a well. Medraut as a boy-man made her want to run to some land where he could never, ever go. Or . . . shove him down a well and fill the well in after him. What would he be like as a man grown?

As the High King's son?

Well, it wouldn't matter. He was married to Little Gwen. He wouldn't bother her any more.

She honestly could not remember what she had felt like the first two times this had happened to her, but she had a killing headache now. It made it hard to think. She reached for the skin of mead that Gynath had insisted she take, not to drink for pleasure, but as medicine at need; it was her mother's special recipe, and Gwen reckoned that if it calmed anger, it might just calm a headache too.

She gulped down a good tankard full, and after a while the headache did ease, and she felt muzzy-headed and sleepy, and then, she slept, dreamlessly.

Chapter Thirteen.

The scouts Gwen's troop among them, had been ghosting about the Saxon army camp for a week. "Ghosting" was the right word, too, because it had soon become clear that Gwen's trick with the Saxon they'd let go was bearing fruit past all expectations. No one ventured outside the bounds of the camp at night. Even by day, no one went alone. Three spies had been sent in under the guise of selling the Saxons grain; they came back out again with a cart full of loot that had been traded for the food and a much richer store of camp rumors. troop among them, had been ghosting about the Saxon army camp for a week. "Ghosting" was the right word, too, because it had soon become clear that Gwen's trick with the Saxon they'd let go was bearing fruit past all expectations. No one ventured outside the bounds of the camp at night. Even by day, no one went alone. Three spies had been sent in under the guise of selling the Saxons grain; they came back out again with a cart full of loot that had been traded for the food and a much richer store of camp rumors.

As a consequence, all the scouts had taken to doing what they could to add to the rumors of the White Phantom. Cries and screams in the middle of the night, for instance-not too often, or the Saxons would get used to them. And nothing that was obviously masculine either. But there were a couple of lads whose voices hadn't broken yet who could manage a very convincing female laugh or sob, and young as they were, they were carefully shepherded to the edge of the Saxon lines to give their little serenades.

When Gwen herself got involved, the nights got even more interesting. Since she knew Saxon-and seemed to have exceptionally keen ears-she would linger around a particular section until she had picked up on someone's name. Then, in the middle of the night, she would utter a blood-curdling wail, ending in the words, "Horsa"-or Ordulf, or Sidric, or whoever's name she had picked up-"Tomorrow I come for you." you."

She tried to pick very common names, the better to give Fate a hand in giving her a victim. And more often than not, Fate gave her one. Where there were armed and edgy men, there were always accidents and quarrels. Where there were armed, edgy, men convinced that a supernatural agency was after them, the accidents and fights were fatal or near-fatal as often as not. A man who is sure he is going to die will do so even from a minor wound. By the time the king's full force arrived, it was a full moon again, and Gwen had been emboldened enough to show herself.

Never for long. There was no point in risking a lucky bowshot. But by now she and her scouts knew every inch of land around the Saxon camp, and they could, in the shifting clouds and moonlight, make miraculous appearances and disappearances. So at one moment, a hilltop would be empty of all but moonlight, then suddenly a sentry would shout in fear, for the White Phantom was there, silver rider on silver horse, staring down at the camp. Then a cloud would obscure the moon, and when the Saxons looked again, she was gone.

It was very effective.

And by now there were desertions, not many, but enough to make the commanders angry, and angry commanders faced with desertions often make poor decisions regarding the treatment of their men. When you added to that the fact that those same men were not eating as well as they expected, had not had much loot, and their lords were running out of presents . . .

So it was that once King Lleudd's men were rested and ready to deal with the Saxons, the Saxons were not nearly in as good a condition to deal with them.

[image]

The night had been an active one for Gwen and her troop; with a good moon and intermittent clouds, they had taken full advantage of the circ.u.mstances to bedevil the Saxons almost until dawn. There had been little sleep in that camp, and the lot of them had take to their bedrolls with weary satisfaction. A few more nights like this one, and the Saxons would be falling asleep on the battlefield.

She woke to hear a great commotion in the camp, and she was on her feet with her sword in her hand and her blankets cast aside before she realized that this was not the sound of an attack. Men shouted orders, but not in the tone of voice that indicated trouble; horses were clearly being brought in and picketed. It sounded as if a substantial addition to King Lleudd's troops had arrived.

Well, any additions are welcome. She couldn't for the moment think who would have been able to muster out winter fighters, but it didn't matter. She would find out soon enough, since she had best pull on a good tunic and present herself to welcome them. She might not be a general, and her actual rank was low among the officers, but she She couldn't for the moment think who would have been able to muster out winter fighters, but it didn't matter. She would find out soon enough, since she had best pull on a good tunic and present herself to welcome them. She might not be a general, and her actual rank was low among the officers, but she was was King Lleudd's daughter, and as such, it would be an insult not to greet and thank the new arrivals. King Lleudd's daughter, and as such, it would be an insult not to greet and thank the new arrivals.

Her servant was of the same mind, for even before she had started to shiver, he came diffidently into the small tent, prepared to wake her if need be, with her best leather trews and embroidered wool tunic in his hands. She laughed at his relief-she was not known for waking gracefully-and pulled the clothing out of his grip. "Go wake the others," she ordered, "I'll be ready quickly."

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 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 G.o.ds, 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. 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 G.o.ds, 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. 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 out so much at night . . . she smiled to herself, thinking she was as sensitive to the sun as the spirits she was imitating, now. She did not have to push her way through the crowd, even though she was a good head shorter than most of them. Those that did not personally know her made way for her anyway. After all, there were not that many woman warriors in this camp, the fact that Lleudd's daughter was the head of the scouts was widely known, and dressed as she was, there was no mistaking who she was. She pulled aside the tent-flap and entered unannounced.

Inside the great table had been set up and the hide maps that she and her scouts had drawn up laid over it. All of the war chiefs and generals had gathered about this table, and all of them were listening with rapt attention to a young man not much older than she.

He had plainly come straight off his horse and into this meeting; there was horsehair no servant had yet brushed off clinging to his cloak, and his dark hair was all sweaty and askew from the helmet he had taken off and set aside. He was still in armor too, chestnut-colored leather breast- and back-plate over softly gleaming chain mail that she immediately craved in a way that she had never craved fine gowns. He was not handsome, his face being too craggy for beauty, but it was full of intelligence and character, and his voice was as worth listening to as that of any bard.

". . . and obviously, as I am sure you have already seen, we want to find a way to force them up this slope," he was saying, as he arrayed handfuls of wooden counters representing the Saxons onto the map. "It's not so steep they'll even think twice about charging it, but every time we force them to charge, they'll be laboring against not only the snow but also the slope. We'll tire them further."

"The trick will be to get our men to hold and not answer their taunts," Urien replied with a frown. He was a big man, looming over the newcomer, and yet his posture bespoke willing subservience. Whoever the young man was, Urien was giving him pride of place without in the least resenting it. As dark as Urien was, and as bearded, he looked like a great bear in his fur cloak. "The good G.o.ds know I favor Roman tactics, but our men are not Roman soldiers . . ." He looked up, spotted Gwen standing diffidently in the door, and motioned to her to come forward. "Lancelin, this is Princess Gwenhwyfar, daughter of King Lleudd."

The young man looked up, and Gwen found herself the focus of a pair of the bluest eyes she had ever seen in her life. He had the direct gaze of a hawk, with a challenge in it that melted away when he smiled.

"My lady." He came from around the table, and bowed to her. "Your reputation precedes you."

She flushed, but she did not look down as a "maidenly" girl would; no point in giving him any reason at all to discount her. "Your courtesy seems equaled by your grasp of strategy, sir," she replied, with an enquiring look at Urien. "If you can hold War Chief Urien's full attention, you must be cunning indeed."

"Gwen, this is Lancelin, the High King's best best strategist," Urien replied in immediate answer to that look. He beamed. Gwen blinked a bit in surprise. Urien must feel that the young man's mere presence was a kind of honor. strategist," Urien replied in immediate answer to that look. He beamed. Gwen blinked a bit in surprise. Urien must feel that the young man's mere presence was a kind of honor.

"Arthur sent me, in place of himself," Lancelin added. A shadow of something-disapproval? Uncertainty? Pa.s.sed over his face. "And as many of his cavalry as could be mounted and sent in haste. This is an unprecedented push, and the High King wants a decisive blow struck against the Saxons, one that they will not forget soon. Arthur himself . . ." he trailed off. It was Urien who laughed coa.r.s.ely and completed what Lancelin would not say.

"Arthur is trying to replace his heirs, having already replaced his queen," Urien said with just the hint of a leer. "Another Gwenhwyfar, can you believe it? Gwenhwyfar, daughter of Gwythyr son of Greidiawl. I suppose having had such luck as to get twins with one Fair Apparition, he decided to try another."

The rest of the men chuckled as well, and Gwen made an amused and wry face. They had long since ceased to treat her as anything other than a fellow warrior, and as such, she shared in their jibes and bawdy jests-and again, an unmaidenly reaction merely helped to reinforce a position she had to fight to hold in their eyes. Only Lancelin seemed abashed. "There are many rites that the priests of the White Christ are demanding," he said, looking uncomfortable. "Arthur must conform to them before they will let him have his new queen. Greidiawl, King Gwythyr's father, was a great patron of those priests, and all his household was brought up in that service. Greidiawl brought to the last battle with the Saxons a banner that was said to be holy, and it is true that the Saxons broke and ran when it was brought on the field. When the queen died of grief, Gwenhwyfar the Golden, who was one of her ladies, strove to comfort the High King-"

"Oh, aye, comfort," comfort," Urien chuckled, and the other men roared with laughter. Lancelin squirmed. Urien chuckled, and the other men roared with laughter. Lancelin squirmed.

"There's fine comfort to be had between a pair of white legs," someone said loud enough to be heard, and even Gwen had to chuckle at that, shaking her head.

When the laughter faded, Urien came around to where Lancelin stood and slapped him on the back, staggering him a little. "We mean no harm, lad, and no disrespect to the High King either. The old queen followed her boys to the Summer Country, and alas for that, but she was a follower of the Good G.o.ddess and knew as well as any that Arthur could not mourn her forever. Better he find himself a new queen quickly, before the thaw, in time for the seedling time. As the king, so goes the land. He was mateless for too long, and the land suffered for it. There is not a man here that begrudges him a new queen, nor looks through his fingers at the notion that you are here instead of he."

Lancelin coughed a little. "I make no excuses-"

"Nor need you. Look you, he sent with you full eighty of the best of the best of his cavalry." Urien nodded his s.h.a.ggy head. "And I've been on the Saxon campaigns; I'd as lief have you here as Arthur. The companions may be all equals, but in strategy you have no peer."

Now Lancelin flushed, but he held his head high, as a warrior should. "By your leave then, sir, lady? Since the lady has seen and scouted the ground herself with her men, I've need of her counsel and memory."

She hid her relief. The battle had been won again. He took her seriously. Now they all gathered around the map table, while Lancelin examined the maps, asked Gwen highly intelligent and detailed questions about the terrain, asked the others equally intelligent and detailed questions about the temper and skills of their men, and he and Urien moved counters about.

And now Gwen saw exactly why Urien valued him so highly. There were two reasons. The first was that while this was Roman strategy indeed, it was Roman strategy adapted to the much more volatile men of the tribes. If a war chief or general said that he did not believe his men could do such-and-so, Lancelin immediately changed the strategy to something they could could do. Some could, and would, hold the "Roman Square." They had fought under Arthur, they understood how the thing worked, and they would overcome their own battle spirit to stand and not respond to the Saxon taunts. Some would not. Those, Lancelin appointed to places in the lines where it would do no harm, and much good, for them to follow the standard battle practice of running up by ones and twos, casting their spears at Saxons who had done the same, and perhaps engage in single combat. do. Some could, and would, hold the "Roman Square." They had fought under Arthur, they understood how the thing worked, and they would overcome their own battle spirit to stand and not respond to the Saxon taunts. Some would not. Those, Lancelin appointed to places in the lines where it would do no harm, and much good, for them to follow the standard battle practice of running up by ones and twos, casting their spears at Saxons who had done the same, and perhaps engage in single combat.

And as for the cavalry . . .

"I know what my men will do," he said with confidence. "They will be here, and here, and at my signal, they will close in around the rear of the Saxons and harry them onto the spears and javelins and archers of the Square."

In his hand were the few counters that represented Gwen and her scouts. He juggled them, looking from the map to her and back again. She answered the unspoken, and very awkward, question.

"My men are like me, small, light of limb. We are horse archers, mainly. But we have King Lleudd's finest and fastest warhorses; I would reckon they could be at the finish of a race while your men were halfway down the course-and be ready to take you all over again," she said with pride.

He brightened. "Fast, agile, and deadly. Good! There are two tasks for you and yours, lady. The first is to sting the Saxon boar, but precisely; I want you here, beside the Square, to run out in relays, find a leader, try to take him and no other, and race back to our lines."

She sucked on her lower lip. "Not likely we can hit more than once in a dozen shots," she replied honestly. "When we fight, we generally shoot at the ma.s.s of men, and try to arc over the shields. Generally we hit something because they are so close-packed."

He nodded. "But deliberately choosing a leader-that will goad them, even if you do not hit. His companions will have had their honor touched, and they must defend him. That That is what I want; I want them enraged, I want them charging up that hill and onto the Square without a second thought. And the second task is this: After they charge, you all retreat behind the Square, and when they break, and they will, you come out again to sting them a second time." He smiled. "This terrain, this weather, can all play in our favor. We can wear them down, saving ourselves, in case they have more than one force out there." is what I want; I want them enraged, I want them charging up that hill and onto the Square without a second thought. And the second task is this: After they charge, you all retreat behind the Square, and when they break, and they will, you come out again to sting them a second time." He smiled. "This terrain, this weather, can all play in our favor. We can wear them down, saving ourselves, in case they have more than one force out there."

Now that had not occurred to her, and from their faces, it also had not occurred to Urien and his men. Lancelin shrugged. "The Saxons fight like maddened boars," he said. "That does not mean they cannot be cunning. We must be more cunning."

"And fight like men!" men!" Urien roared, slapping Lancelin's back again. The others shouted their approval. Urien roared, slapping Lancelin's back again. The others shouted their approval.

Lancelin was still looking at her, and she realized belatedly that he was waiting for her a.s.sent, as he had for the other chiefs. "That we can do," she replied, nodding. "We all have changes of horses too; we can keep both at the lines and make sure we always have fresh mounts."

He didn't smile as she had half expected, but his look of satisfaction was the same he had given to the other chiefs and generals. "Then by your leave, my lords, I will take these plans back to my men, and you take them to yours. One day for my men and horses to rest, and then we will show these Saxon pigs that it is ill done to covet the acorns beneath the High King's oaks."