Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit Part 12

She took her leave while Urien was still speaking to the young man and returned to her troop. They had been awakened and were sleepily devouring their stew and bread. Over food, she laid out what was to be expected of them, while they listened thoughtfully. Although this seemed a fine battle plan to her, she half expected that there would be some discussion, if not objection, but there was nothing of the sort.

"Clever," said Owain after a long silence.

"Aye, but not too clever." Peder came to sit down to join them. Gwen made s.p.a.ce for him beside her on a log. He accepted a bowl of stew from her servant. "If the High King and the Merlin have a fault, it's the making of plans that are a bit too clever, so no one understands what's to happen but them. I like this Lancelin."

"Come to steal our food again, old man?" asked Meical with a laugh.

"Aye." Peder cuffed him; or rather, cuffed at him. Meical ducked out of the way. "I'll not poison myself before a battle with my own cooking."

"Arthur's Companions do the same," said Aeron suddenly.

"What, poison themselves?" The others laughed, and Aeron wrinkled up his nose.

"No fools, have a common store and a common cook pot. Like we do. No man starves because he didn't want to burden himself, no man carries too much. Food is always waiting, and they never go into a battle or to bed hungry."

"Another Roman thing?" Owain asked, curiously.

Aeron shook his dark head. "Nay. This was Arthur's idea."

Gwen ate another bite of stew. Someone must have been hunting, for there was rabbit and maybe some duck in this along with the usual dried mutton, turnips, parsnips, and pease. "The Romans did as we do, except that there was a grain wagon a man got his bread ration from," she offered. "I can see the advantage, but what happens when the enemy fires your provision wagon or carries it off? And it would slow you down."

"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. 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 G.o.ddess 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 Gla.s.s, 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 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. 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.ds had done nothing to preserve his sons. He might even be persuaded that his sons had died After all, the G.o.ds had done nothing to preserve his sons. He might even be persuaded that his sons had died because because he did not favor this new G.o.d. he did not favor this new G.o.d.

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 G.o.ds 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- -this son of his own half-sister- Oh, that will put the cat among the pigeons.

Even among the followers of the Old Ways, people would look a little askance at that. They would accept it, if Arthur did, and find excuses for him. Tell themselves he could not have known Anna Morgause was his half-sister. Or that he was under her spell so deeply that he did not know who she was. Those things might even be true. But still . . . there would be some looks askance, and if harvests were bad, or winters long, people would ask themselves if this was the fault of the High King's dalliance.

But Medraut would not find a father in mourning and an empty throne. He would find a father infatuated with a new love, a queen who looked to supply him with more heirs, and one who followed the Christ to boot, whose priests most certainly would not not look kindly on the love child not only conceived out of wedding bonds, not only sired on a Lady-trained sorceress and a follower of the G.o.ddess, not only begotten on someone else's wife, but the love child of a man and his half-sister. look kindly on the love child not only conceived out of wedding bonds, not only sired on a Lady-trained sorceress and a follower of the G.o.ddess, not only begotten on someone else's wife, but the love child of a man and his half-sister.

She almost laughed aloud to think of it.

Arthur certainly could not acknowledge Medraut now, even if he was not beglamored, even if he was not inclining to these new priests. How could he? He had a queen with whom he expected to produce true heirs. The last thing he wanted was to set up a rival to them.

The new queen was hardly going to welcome him, either. He would always be a rival to her own children. And if this same queen actually was given Gifts and the use of magic . . .

I think they will eat each other alive.

She went to her bed, chuckling at the thought.

Chapter Fourteen.

If Lancelin had not been so modest and self-effacing away from the war table, Gwen would have been hard put to restrain her jealousy of his instant prominence among the war chiefs. He had overleaped her and the position she had spent seasons, not been so modest and self-effacing away from the war table, Gwen would have been hard put to restrain her jealousy of his instant prominence among the war chiefs. He had overleaped her and the position she had spent seasons, years, years, achieving, and he had done so overnight. achieving, and he had done so overnight.

But he was, in fact, a quiet and astonishingly modest man outside of the tent, and when she was honest with herself, she had to acknowledge that he he must have spent just as long a period among Arthur's Companions to get that same position. So jealousy was not what she was really feeling. It was envy. And she had to admit that he was a genius at strategy. must have spent just as long a period among Arthur's Companions to get that same position. So jealousy was not what she was really feeling. It was envy. And she had to admit that he was a genius at strategy.

Every man in the oddly a.s.sorted army fielded by her father was perfectly placed to take advantage of his strengths-or, at the very least, to take advantage of what he would would do no matter what had been planned. do no matter what had been planned.

Those who were going to charge no matter the orders had been put in the front lines of the flanks, so at least when they charged, it would be across the hill rather than down it. After that initial planning session, Lancelin had made a round of the fires, using charm, honesty, or, occasionally, a skin of strong mead to find out what each commander knew of his mens' behavior in battle and what he thought the others would do. Then he had revised his plans to account for what he learned.

When he spoke to Gwen, it had been with respect and honesty. She and her scouts-for the scouts had seen much more of how the others fought-answered him with the same frank candor. The result was that their disposition remained the same: to sting the Saxons until they charged, then hold back and harry the outliers, watching for an effort to flank.

She sat her horse easily, looking down the shallow slope to the Saxon army spread out in their rough battle line at the bottom.

There was a great deal of noise: challenges being shouted on both sides, weapons beaten on shields, insults, catcalls. It didn't matter that most of them didn't understand each other's language; the tone made the content clear enough. And if they had been fighting with traditional tactics, eventually one man or another would break from the lines, run forward, and throw a spear into the enemy nearest him. Unless he was extraordinarily strong or lucky, the spear would glance off the shield, fall short, break, or bury itself in the wooden shield. Then the man attacked would wrench it out, pick it up or take his own spear, run forward, and return the favor. Then the two would fight, one on one, while the rest of the armies cheered them on. The victor would taunt the enemy, return to his own lines, or remain for someone else to challenge him. Perhaps another fighter from his own side would join him. This would continue, with the number of single combats increasing until the tension broke and one side or the other would charge.

Of course, that was not going to happen here. Gwen would have thought that by this time the Saxons would have realized, the moment they saw forces forming the Square, that they were facing another force using the High King's Roman tactics.

Perhaps they think it is a ruse. Or perhaps they are confident that this this time they can induce us to fight their sort of battle. time they can induce us to fight their sort of battle.

The noise was making her horse dance and fidget in place; if this had been summer, she would have soothed him to keep him from wearing himself out. But it was winter, not summer, and all the prancing and stamping was keeping his muscles warm. This was all to the good.

She watched her men out of the corner of her eye. Their horses were as restive as hers, and they sat them as easily. They looked calm. She hoped she did. This would be her first major battle, the first where the armies of more than her father had joined together to face the foe.

There had only been one point of conflict between her and Lancelin. She had wanted to lead the scouts on their stinging attacks on the Saxon line. He had insisted that she ride somewhere in the middle of the skein. "You are almost the only woman in the army, lady," he had pointed out. "It will not be hard to identify you as the White Phantom. This will make you a tempting target for all archers if you ride first. But if you are in the middle, the confusion you and your men will cause will ensure they do not even realize you are a woman."

She didn't like it, not at all, but she had to admit he was right. What was the point of creating the legend of the White Phantom if the feared creature went down under the first volley of arrows? Still. She didn't have to like it, that he was right.

She watched the front line of the Square. It was Urien, not Lancelin, who would give the signal for her group to begin their a.s.sault. At least they would be doing doing something, not standing there chafing against the inactivity like the steady fellows who had formed the Square. something, not standing there chafing against the inactivity like the steady fellows who had formed the Square.

The noise rose and fell like the sound of waves on the rocks at Tintagel. The sun burned down on the white hillside, soon to be churned into an expanse of blood and mud. Things always grew well on a battlefield . . . as if the G.o.ds were saying, "Out of death comes life." If the local farmers were not eager to plow and plant this expanse come spring, they would surely not hesitate to scythe down the lush gra.s.s that would spring from the blood that watered this land. It would only last a season, but that season would be a good one.

From the center of the Square, a pennon on the tip of a lance shot up. Urien's forces released their pent impatience in a roar as Peder spurred his horse, leading the scouts in their gadfly charge.

She was third and had forsaken her usual gray clothing for ordinary leather armor with metal plates riveted inside, protecting breast and back. It obscured her shape, and her s.e.x was further concealed by a half-helmet. All of the scouts looked reasonably alike, except for Gwen's long braid of white-blonde flailing her back. She had tried coiling it up under the helm, but it wouldn't stay. She needed a new and better helm.

Peder's horse labored a little, galloping through the snow. This pa.s.s would be the hardest; as the horses tired, at least the snow would be easier to get through. The others pounded in his wake, snow clots flung up by their hooves. The Saxons watched them in astonishment. Evidently, they had not expected this.

It was not easy firing a bow from the back of a moving horse, and even Gwen's men, who had practiced this with her against the day when they might be surprised and have to flee pursuit, were not what anyone would call good good at it. But then, when the idea was to discourage pursuit, you didn't need to be accurate. You only needed the appearance of accuracy. at it. But then, when the idea was to discourage pursuit, you didn't need to be accurate. You only needed the appearance of accuracy.

Gwen, however, was good. After all, she had reasoned, if Braith and some of the warriors she led could hit a man from a moving chariot with a spear, enough practice and a horse you could guide with your knees should make such a thing possible for a rider with a bow. Peder and the man following him more or less marked their target, a big Saxon with a russet shield. It was fairly obvious who they were shooting at, as two men near him screamed or went down. Gwen shoved her reins in her mouth, guided the horse in daringly close to the line, aimed quickly, and fired.

It was all luck, of course. She was aiming for the broader target of his chest, since he'd dropped his shield to gawp. She got him in the eye.

She kneed her horse, heeling him over to follow in Peder's wake, taking control of the reins again. A shout of rage followed her from the Saxon lines.

She didn't look back.

They gathered again at their first position, and only then did she wheel her horse to see the results of the attack.

"Well, they are not charging yet," Peder observed.

"Aye. But they aren't happy."

In truth, that was an understatement. The Saxons were outraged. Gwen smirked as she made out some of what they were saying. "They are calling us dogs without honor," she said. Peder laughed.

"They're welcome to chase us," he suggested. Gwen's smile turned into a smirk. The scouts were not mutton-headed bull-men whose idea of "honor" overrode the need to win battles. They couldn't be. All of them were small and wiry, and to stand and bash at one of those Saxon boars would have been suicide, and from the time they had gotten their full growth, it was very clear that they would never be the sort of fighters that won champions' battles and got songs written about them. While this turned some away from the warrior's path, this lot had become pragmatic. Let other men worry about gaining honor and glory. They would become clever and invaluable. And if no one sang about them, well, the war chiefs knew their value, and they were well rewarded with gifts and loot.

"Well, the cursed Saxons can throw whatever names about they care to. We might get a song out of this from our side," Gwen observed.

But Peder was already setting his horse for another part of the line, and a moment later, the second run began.

It took four before the Saxons' temper broke. Gwen was never again lucky enough to take her man down, but she forced the leaders to duck behind shields like nervous maidens, and that infuriated them. Finally one of Gwen's targets had enough. His face purple with anger, he waved his sword over his head and charged after her, roaring.

That was her signal to send her tiring horse not for the side, but uphill, straight for the Square.

The front line of the Square opened up to let her and the men behind her through, then closed behind them. She pulled up her horse to a trot and joined Peder, waiting for the rest. She didn't look back; the clash of arms and the shouts and screams from the front of the Square said everything that needed to be said.

With every nerve afire now with excitement, once the rest were gathered up, she made a chopping motion with her hand and pointed to either side of the Square. They split into two groups, one led by her, and one by Peder, trotting off to either side, first to scout for any hidden reinforcements, then to harry the Saxon flanks and rear.

They already knew the likeliest places to look, and on horseback, even in the snow, Gwen and her group moved swiftly across the landscape, finding nothing. She could see from their faces that they were as impatient to return to the battle as she was. It was with relief that she sent her horse homing for the noise in the middle distance. As they pushed over the last hill, the smoke from a dozen fires rose blackly to their left. Gwen laughed when she saw it. Peder's men had fired the Saxon camp. Victorious or defeated, there would be nothing for them to come back to. No food, no shelter, no carts, no oxen or mules to pull them.

Not the time to think about it, however. They were coming up fast on stragglers, either left behind or fleeing the battle. Gwen drew her Roman sword, a fine piece of steel that she'd put a good edge on. Reins in her left, blade in her right, she charged down on the man in her path.

The Roman sword was meant for thrusting, but she used it to slash instead, cutting viciously at the man's face as he looked up at her in shock. He gurgled out a kind of scream, there was blood, and then she was on to the next, her heart pounding, shrieking herself, afire with excitement, full of sick nausea, driven with a cold anger and a hatred of these men who had dared try to invade her her land, enthrall land, enthrall her her people. people.

She slashed at men in her path until the edge of her blade grew dull and she used it like a club. At one point there was a spear sticking up out of the b.l.o.o.d.y snow in front of her; she s.n.a.t.c.hed it up in pa.s.sing and ran it through the next man to be in her path. It was only when her horse stumbled with weariness that she reined in her emotions and nudged the poor fellow over to the side, off the field, and under the trees where her servant, Gavin, waited, with their remounts, hidden. She was the first in.

She dismounted, handed the gelding's reins to Gavin, and mounted the mare, noting absently that her sword arm was blood-soaked.

That was when the nausea hit her like a club.

She doubled over in the saddle. It was always like this. When battle fever wore off, sickness would overwhelm her for a moment. Her stomach knotted, cramped, and heaved; she swallowed bile that burned in her throat and fought it down. Gavin handed her a water-skin; she took it and gulped down several mouthfuls, pushing them past the lump of sickness in her gullet. Then it pa.s.sed; she straightened and handed the skin back to Gavin as one of the others rode in, spattered from head to toe with blood and mud.

When they were all gathered-all, which anxiety had been part of her sickness, worry for them-she led them at a trot for a good place to get a quick reconnoiter. which anxiety had been part of her sickness, worry for them-she led them at a trot for a good place to get a quick reconnoiter.

The battle had degenerated into knots of combat. One was centered around Urien; one around Lancelin. These were not Gwen's concern, although she wasted a moment admiring Lancelin's fighting. He was ahorse-all of Arthur's chosen Companions were hors.e.m.e.n and fought mounted-and though there were a dozen men around him trying to pull him down, he and his stallion fought like a single lethal ent.i.ty.

Mentally she scolded herself for losing even a moment and turned to her men. There was still no way of knowing how this battle would turn, "Scout again," she ordered. "Then it's bow work."

They nodded. Once again the group divided, and they pounded off to make sure there were no reinforcements coming in.

The Saxons had committed everything. Gwen led her group as far as was reasonable and then scattered them. They came back to her to report-nothing. If If there were reinforcements, provided that Urien won this battle, it would be too late for them to do anything. there were reinforcements, provided that Urien won this battle, it would be too late for them to do anything.

They galloped back to the battle lines. They were all riding mares; less speed, but more stamina.

They saw the deserters before they heard the battle. As one they pulled out their bows and strung them.

Shooting from the back of a running horse was hard. Shooting from the back of a standing horse wasn't.

[image]

It was over.

That is, it was over for most most of the army. of the army.

There was loot to be had, of course, and here the mounted had an advantage over those on foot, although those on foot would be where the chieftains and war chiefs had fallen, in the thick of the battle. Still, not all of those chieftains had fought to the last, and Gwen's scouts had taken down enough of them that all of her men wore weary, satisfied smiles as they packed their takings on their horses.

And once they'd all mustered back at camp, eaten some food, and made at least an attempt at cleaning themselves and their gear, Urien called them to inspection, sent out the least exhausted to patrol, and ordered the rest to their beds. Neither Urien nor Lancelin were taking chances.

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 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 . . . 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.