Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit Part 9

"This is something I thought you should know," Bronwyn concluded. "And it will go no further than the three of us. But you, Gynath, may well be queen here one day. And you, Gwen, will likely serve her as you would have served your brother, had he lived. And you must both know about things like this and keep a sharp watch on the High King's doings." She bit her lip, and the flickering flame from their rushlight made her look even older and more drawn. "It may be he has done this for the Land and the Folk. Unless the Ladies bring the word to us, we cannot know. But on the face of it, these are dark doings, and the High King is besmirched by their foulness. If these are dark doings, there is one thing you may be sure of."

"What's that, Bronwyn?" asked Gynath in a whisper.

"That they will come back at him when he least expects and be his ruin," the old woman said, grimly. "Blood will have blood, and innocent blood calls more strongly than any other."

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The messenger went on his way. The season turned, summer to harvest, and the rites and the festival. Poor Gynath was at her wits end trying to arrange all, even with the help of Bronwyn and all the women, but out of respect for the king, few guests replied that they would come, and only the king's closest friends arrived. For the villagers, it was no different from any other Harvest festival. There was food and music, dancing and gaming, drinking and more drinking, coupling and handfasting, and all the usual doings in their season. And if the gathering at the king's hearth was a subdued one, if there were no races this year, well, at least there was, at last, a gathering at the king's hearth, and when the guests were gone again, there was no more going out to another hearth and leaving the king to mourn alone over the ashes. In part that was just plain sense, for there was no other place big enough to hold them all when the winter winds began to blow, but in part it was because the king was taking an interest in life again.

A few women made attempts to draw him out, but by Midwinter it was clear that there would be no queen taking Eleri's place.

As for Gwen . . . her instructors were keeping her too occupied to brood and had been for moons, so that when Midwinter arrived, it came to her one night as she served as her father's page that the terrible ache of grief, the chasm that had been inside her, was-not gone, never that, but-changed to something that was somewhat easier to bear. And looking at her father's face, it seemed he felt the same. He took an interest in things that he had not even at Harvest. Still not in women, but much the same, if somewhat grimmer, interest in the small affairs of his people and his kingdom and the greater affairs of what was going on outside that kingdom.

Perhaps it helped that there was, without a doubt, going to be fighting in the spring. The High King had sent out his messengers again, just before the snow flew, to warn that the seafaring chiefs, the Northerners, too disorganized to be called "kings," were uniting for what Arthur thought was another push to oust him and overrun them all.

It gave her father something to think about besides his own pain.

So at Midwinter, the talk was all of war and the preparations for war.

Gwen paid great attention to all this talk, for this was to be her business. There might not be a brother to guard now, but there were two sisters, one of whom would surely wed someone that their father would name as his heir. Whoever that was would need someone he could trust.

When the guests were all gone, Gwen and the rest found their hands being turned to those preparations that had been discussed. The nasty, barbed war arrows that would tear a man's flesh on being pulled out needed to be made. That was a matter of several steps, some of which could be entrusted to the squires. War chariots, spears, armor, bows, harness . . . all needed to be checked and put in good order. Much could be put in the squires' hands, and much was.

Gwen worked feverishly, and the work did much to help her set aside her troubled thoughts. There were no further ill tales, though more messengers came from the High King, traveling with great difficulty across the winter landscape, bringing with them the questions of levies and what could be supplied in lieu of or in addition to the levies. Now Gwen was glad that her father had not heard the tales, that Bronwyn had kept them to herself, for he threw himself into this work with a whole heart.

As might have been expected, there were other rumors coming out of the west, that King Lot had demurred, saying that mere rumors were no cause for raising levies, and that in any case, the Northerners might well lose interest before spring. "He intends to send nothing, or as little as possible," Gwen's father spat one night in disgust.

"There would be no loot in it for him," pointed out one of the chiefs. "Even if we drive them far back into their own lands and seize what we drive them off of, it is not on Lot's border, and he would get no share of it. If we only drive them back, well, what will we win? Arms and horses, both the worse for war." He shook his head. "And Lot is far enough from Celliwig that there is little the High King can do at this stage to enforce his will. Lot will find some excuse, a plague of flux or weather washing out the roads, and if he arrives, it will be too late to be of service."

"All the more reason for us to act with honor." The king set his chin firmly, and Gwen silently cheered. She felt better for seeing him so alive again and more like his old self.

The talk around the hearth was lively enough to satisfy anyone, and Gwen wished with all her heart that she would be allowed to go along with the levies. But she wouldn't be; none of the squires her age were going. Only the seasoned warriors, neither too old nor too young, would be sent. Even the king himself would remain behind, and that was on the orders of the High King himself. Her father grumbled at that, but he agreed that it was a sound decision, once he heard the reasoning.

"The High King is concerned that this might be a trick." The messenger that brought them this news was no mere mouthpiece; it was one of Arthur's handpicked warriors, part of his personal band. "He fears that either the Northerners themselves, or someone who has been scheming with them, is arranging for it to look as if they are preparing for a war when in fact they have no intention of facing us in the field. Instead, once the levies are committed, it is possible that the Northerners will retreat, drawing us after them-and then the real attack will happen somewhere else."

No need to ask where else. "The Saxons," her father spat in disgust. The messenger nodded. "So we need you, ready with a second force, to hold them back if they do push forward."

With Gwen watching and listening, committing everything to memory even though she didn't understand more than half of what she heard, the messenger outlined the possible strategies. Rough maps were sketched out in charcoal on the stones; the best of those were transferred with great labor onto tanned hide with a quill and walnut-hull ink. By the time the messenger left, Gwen's father had nothing but praise for the wisdom of the young Arthur.

There did not seem to be enough hours of daylight for all the preparations, and the warmer the weather became and the longer the days, the more the sense of urgency increased. Now it was Gwen who was up at dawn and hard at it until she almost fell asleep with her work in her hands; Gynath had a great deal to do, yes, but not nearly as much. Eleri had always kept ample supplies of healing herbs and so forth on hand, and there had not been much call for such things in the last year. "Always be prepared for warfare," had been her admonition to her women, and so they always were.

It was about lambing time, when it was possible to move freely about the countryside, and the storms of winter were past and boats could sail, that messengers again galloped among the High King's allies. The High King had been brought word from his spies. The Northerners were indeed ma.s.sing ships, as if to make a great raid. The levies were called up and marched off to join the High King. King Lleudd made a great show of sending them off and advised the men he sent to make double fires at night, and drag brushes behind them to make it seem that their numbers were larger. Then he told those he had kept in reserve to be ready and to keep their weapons to hand, as Arthur had warned him.

And Arthur was right.

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Near sunset, very near Beltane, a messenger on a winded horse rode across the southern border of Lleudd's kingdom of Pwyll, having already come through Pengwen, Calchfynelld, and Caer Celemion. The Saxons of the south were, indeed, ma.s.sing for war and marching. And Lot of Orkney was about to have a rude surprise, for the Northerners were making straight for the sh.o.r.es of Lothian, not further south. Perhaps it was just as well he had delayed in sending his levies, for they would not have far to march to meet the enemy. Doubtless, he would claim that his wife and Morgana had had some manner of magical warning this was to be so. And doubtless, for the sake of peace, Arthur would accept this, whether he believed it or not.

So said Bronwyn as she and the women methodically pa.s.sed the readied saddlebags to the squires, who put them on the horses they had already harnessed. The king had planned this to a nicety, so that the warriors could move out on a moment's warning, and the moment there was light, every man, woman, and child was up and putting his preparations into action. The cavalry would go first, followed by the chariots. There would be no men afoot; Arthur would supply the foot soldiers, for Lleudd's levies that had gone north consisted primarily of foot. Arthur had begged him to reserve the troops that could move faster for the Saxons.

The king himself would lead them. And this alone showed how grave the threat was. If he fell, that would leave Pwyll in the hands of three girls, none of them wed.

But he would not fall. Gwen willed it, fiercely. Besides, he would be in his chariot, and his chariot driver was second only to Braith in skill. He would be guarded by his sworn band, who also were well aware of what would happen if he fell.

By the time the sun was three fingers above the horizon, they were ready to depart. Gwen, to her sorrow but not her surprise, was not going. She was not being slighted; no one her age was being allowed to go.

She stood by the king's chariot, looking up at him. Around them, horses stirred restively. Gynath held her hand tightly, but of the two of them, it was Gwen who was the calmer.

"I rely on you, my daughters," the king said, his voice stronger and firmer than it had been since Eleri's death. Gwen could only marvel at how war had made him come alive again. For that, she could actually feel glad glad about it. "I do not know how long we will be in the field, but come what may, the lands have to be tilled, the flocks tended, the harvest brought in, and the rites celebrated. You must see to it that these things are done, and done well." about it. "I do not know how long we will be in the field, but come what may, the lands have to be tilled, the flocks tended, the harvest brought in, and the rites celebrated. You must see to it that these things are done, and done well."

Gynath looked up at the king, her eyes bright with tears, so it was Gwen who answered. "We will, my lord."

He nodded. "Now hear me well. I expect to return, in triumph. I plan plan to return. I have every intention of coming back loaded with Saxon wealth, carried on good Saxon horses. But the G.o.ds mayhap have other plans. Should the very worst befall, I have left certain orders. Gynath, and you, Gwen, and those who choose to flee are to take shelter with the King of Gwynedd. He is my oldest friend, for we fostered together and swore an oath of brotherhood. I will make no orders other than that. If affairs have gone that badly, let each man act on his own conscience." to return. I have every intention of coming back loaded with Saxon wealth, carried on good Saxon horses. But the G.o.ds mayhap have other plans. Should the very worst befall, I have left certain orders. Gynath, and you, Gwen, and those who choose to flee are to take shelter with the King of Gwynedd. He is my oldest friend, for we fostered together and swore an oath of brotherhood. I will make no orders other than that. If affairs have gone that badly, let each man act on his own conscience."

He had spoken loudly enough that his voice carried over the crowd, and though there were some murmurs, there was much nodding. Gynath sobbed. Gwen had a terrible lump in her throat . . . but also a strange certainty. King Lleudd would return. There would be others who would not, and she somehow knew there would be great grief for her, but her father would return and, as he hoped, in triumph.

Gynath had no such feeling of certainty; that much was clear from her look of despair. But she had courage. She swallowed back her tears, stood up straight, and despite red eyes and trembling voice, replied, "Yes, my lord Father."

He bent down and embraced them both, kissing the tops of their heads, then released them. As soon as he had, Gwen could tell that his spirit was elsewhere, already down the road, eager to face battle. Fiercely she wished she could go too- But her fate was already written, and she had to step back and watch as her father took the reins from his chariot driver, and the horses, already impatient, lurched out at a trot.

And then they were gone.

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Then came the worst part: the waiting. Gwen was too young to remember much about the last time the levies of Pwyll went to war, but Gynath was not, and Bronwyn certainly was not. Gynath collapsed in an orgy of grief and despair; Bronwyn allowed her two days to wallow in it, then roused her roughly, took her down to the brook, stripped her bare and ducked her in the freezing cold water. Gwen had no idea this was going to happen and only happened to look up from the bowstring she was plaiting to see Bronwyn hauling the weakly protesting girl in that direction.

There is such a thing as curiosity that can't be suppressed. Gwen pinned the string down and followed, just in time to see Bronwyn strip Gynath to the skin and shove her into the spring-fed pond.

The water was ice cold, and Gynath shrieked and flailed her arms wildly trying to keep from falling in.

She failed, of course.

The water was only waist deep, but she came up gasping and spluttering, only to be hauled onto the bank just as roughly, rubbed down with a drying cloth, and have her clothing shoved at her.

"Wh-wh-what d-d-did you d-d-do that for?" Gynath cried indignantly, between the chattering of her teeth. Gwen ran the last few steps to help her get into her shift and gown.

"You've had your wallow. Two days of baaing like a lamb taken from its mum is enough," Bronwyn said, her jaw set. "Your father is very much alive, and you have an example to set. What if every woman in this kingdom went bawling and blethering as if her man was already dead? Straighten your back, go to your duty, and remember that from the time you leave your bed to the time you take to it, you are being watched."

Gynath looked furious-but furious was probably better than weeping. Certainly Bronwyn seemed to think so. She nodded and pointed back toward the castle. With her head erect and her eyes practically flashing, Gynath stormed off. She didn't look back.

Bronwyn simply followed, without acknowledging Gwen's presence. After a moment, Gwen went back to her bowstring.

It was not that long after that Gynath went briskly past, followed by one of the servants, both of them with their arms full of bundles of something. Clearly, Bronwyn's ploy had worked, though it might take Gynath a while to forgive her.

Gynath was present at dinner, very much present, and sitting in their father's place. It actually made Gwen proud of her, to see her sitting there, dry-eyed and talking as their mother had talked when the king was not in the high seat. And when dinner was over, she invited the remaining men to stay at the hearth, picked the most senior of the warriors to take the king's seat, and directed Gwen to tend his cup, before taking the women aside.

"That was well done, tonight, sister," Gwen whispered when she came to bed. She didn't know if Gynath was still awake, but as it happened, she was.

"It was hard," Gynath replied, with a little break in her voice. "And Bronwyn was horrid."

Gwen debated a moment before saying anything. "Bronwyn was right," she ventured.

"Which made her all the more horrid." There was silence on the other side of the bed for a moment, then a sigh. "I wish one of us could See what was happening with Father. At least then I would know."

Gwen pondered this for a moment. "Why don't you you try?" she asked. try?" she asked.

"Because I-" Gynath began. And stopped.

"What would the worst be?" Gwen continued. "That you don't See anything. You would be no worse off than now, and you'd know you tried."

"I'll . . . have to ask Bronwyn. For help. I've never tried scrying." Gynath plucked at the blanket covering both of them nervously.

"Cataruna went to the Ladies. I'm on the Warrior Path. That leaves you," Gwen pointed out. "You might as well try. You might be stronger in the Blessings than you think. Mother's blood runs strong in all of us." Even in the brat, Little Gwen. Even in the brat, Little Gwen.

She wasn't sure where those words were coming from, but they seemed to do Gynath a lot of good. "I might as well," Gynath replied, and the tight sound in her voice was gone.

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Gwen, somewhat to her own bemus.e.m.e.nt, had a real talent for braiding bowstrings and working with the fletcher, so that was what Peder set her to do. The work was exacting enough that it took her mind off her worries and fears, without being so demanding that she felt as if she were being pulled in too many directions at once. The men had taken almost every arrow and spare string with them, for there would be no time to make more on the march, nor when they closed on the Saxons; but that meant that just to have the means to hunt, a lot of work was ahead of those with the skill.

And now that she had rudimentary abilities in fighting-and now that all the older boys were gone-Peder had turned all his concentration on her and the rest of the young squires. This was not a bad thing at all. Such individualized attention meant that instead of being trained as a herd in the same things, Peder was taking the time to a.s.sess them, and decide what they might be best suited for. He might not have had that time until they were a year or more older, if it were not for the war. And if they were going to be the last line of defense against the Saxons, or a rear guard on an escape to Gwynnedd, they had better be doing what they were best at.

For some, the choice was obvious. Tall, meaty boys with a lot of sheer brute strength already were clearly made for fighting afoot. To them, Peder now a.s.signed training with the staff, the cudgel, the hammer, the ax. Those with the best eye-Gwen among them-got extra training with bow and spear. Those who clearly were not doing well with their horses either had their difficulties sorted out or were (to their profound relief) dismissed from the chariot and cavalry altogether. Peder spent all of a day studying them, measuring them, looking at their parents, and consulting with the oldest folk in the village about their grandparents, in order to try to determine what they might grow to be like.

And that was when Gwen's own abilities became apparent. "Ye'll never be a giant," was Peder's shrewd a.s.sessment. "They tell me for size ye be the spit image of yer grammar and granther on king's side. Except the hair. Otherwise, small and fast and sleekit, not tall, like the queen. Braith was right. Epona put her stamp on ye. And the best place for ye, bodyguard to yer kin and scout. Cavalry or chariot an' ye must, must, but I'd sooner see ye scoutin'. Ye've got the way of movin' quiet and not being seen that it bain't possible to teach. That's not be from the king's blood." but I'd sooner see ye scoutin'. Ye've got the way of movin' quiet and not being seen that it bain't possible to teach. That's not be from the king's blood."

Now this was a revelation to Gwen, but it occurred to her immediately that this was true: She did did have a knack for getting around without people noticing her when she didn't want to be noticed. It had worried her that she was so little and would have to go up against much larger and stronger men. But Peder had found the right place for her, and it was something no one else would have been as well suited to, and she felt suddenly as if everything was have a knack for getting around without people noticing her when she didn't want to be noticed. It had worried her that she was so little and would have to go up against much larger and stronger men. But Peder had found the right place for her, and it was something no one else would have been as well suited to, and she felt suddenly as if everything was right. right.

Meanwhile, Gynath had made up with Bronwyn, and part of her day was spent in learning more of Women's Magic, so that she could try scrying as soon as Bronwyn thought she had the strength for it. In fact, Bronwyn heartily approved of the planned attempt. None of the other women had so much magic in them, and the mere fact that Gynath was going to at least try to see what was happening with their men made them all encourage her and look to her.

On the afternoon when Gynath was going to make her first attempt, Gwen found herself at a variation of her old ch.o.r.e taking goose feathers that she herself must have cleaned and carefully stripping the vanes, so that the fletcher could use them to feather his arrows. Of all of those who were left, she was the best at it, perhaps because she had cleaned so many and knew how to handle them. She spoiled very few; most were so perfect that the fletcher had very little to do but trim them to fit and glue them in place.

Her thoughts drifted to Gynath, wondering if she had begun . . . wondering what it felt like to be the center of a circle of Power . . . and that was when the feathers vanished from her hands, and she found herself . . . elsewhere.

On the top of a mountain? It seemed so, but this was not like standing on any real mountain, for she could see everything below her as clearly as if she stood within arm's length. A battle was about to begin.

A battle not between men but between two armies of animals.

On the one side, boars, an army of boars. Huge, brutish creatures, with greedy eyes and long, vicious tusks, with ravens circling above them. Leading them, a white dragon.

On the other side, another army, of mixed beasts: hounds, stags, keen-eyed wolves, with falcons on-watch above, and a great bear leading. Beside the bear, a n.o.ble white stallion.

She had only time enough to take this all in before the two forces leaped at each others' throats.

She had no experience of human wars, to know if this was more or less b.l.o.o.d.y, noisy, confusing, and chaotic. She wanted to look away, sickened by the slaughter, but she could not.

It seemed to go on forever. And then, at last, the boars began to lose. The mixed army drove them back over a field slick with blood and thick with fallen bodies. The white dragon turned tail and ran, leaving the boars alone.

Then it happened; pressing eagerly ahead, the white stallion stumbled over the corpse of a boar. Another, its tusks dripping with the blood of its victims, saw the chance, and leaped for him. Other animals saw what was happening but were too far away; they would never reach him in time to save him- All but one.

With a high, thin cry, a falcon dove out of the sky, talons slashing at the boar's eyes. The boar roared with pain, reared, and snapped, catching the falcon before she could escape, killing her instantly. But that was enough time for the stallion to scramble to his feet and rejoin the army, which rushed on the boar and slew it before it could even drop the poor, mangled corpse in its mouth.

And then-she was back, dazed, feathers still in her hands. But this time, this time she knew what she had seen. The boars were the Saxon army, for boars were sacred to them. The bear must have been the High King Arthur, the stallion, her own father. And the falcon-the falcon could only have been Braith.

And she had just seen how Braith had died . . .

Heedless of the feathers, she buried her face in her hands, and wept.

PART TWO.

WARRIOR.

Chapter Eleven.

Gwen's breath steamed in the frozen air as she looked down on the encampment of Saxon raiders, settling in for the night. She was in a tree at the edge of a natural meadow; they were camped just inside the trees, where the smoke from their fire would be broken up by the branches so that it wouldn't betray them. It was an orderly camp; that argued for a group that fought together regularly, with one man commander over the rest. They traveled lightly, no animals, one pack each, and their weapons. They camped properly, arranged around the fire, pine boughs and bracken over the boughs laid out to keep them off the snow. The fire had been well made in a sc.r.a.pe, so that melting snow didn't overwhelm it and put it out. They thought they were alone in the wilderness, roasting their stolen sheep, counting over their loot. Which was, all things considered, not much; they'd managed to find one poor peddler and had raided a single farmstead. It scarcely seemed worth the effort. They were bold, or desperate, to be making raids on her father's lands this deep in winter. in the frozen air as she looked down on the encampment of Saxon raiders, settling in for the night. She was in a tree at the edge of a natural meadow; they were camped just inside the trees, where the smoke from their fire would be broken up by the branches so that it wouldn't betray them. It was an orderly camp; that argued for a group that fought together regularly, with one man commander over the rest. They traveled lightly, no animals, one pack each, and their weapons. They camped properly, arranged around the fire, pine boughs and bracken over the boughs laid out to keep them off the snow. The fire had been well made in a sc.r.a.pe, so that melting snow didn't overwhelm it and put it out. They thought they were alone in the wilderness, roasting their stolen sheep, counting over their loot. Which was, all things considered, not much; they'd managed to find one poor peddler and had raided a single farmstead. It scarcely seemed worth the effort. They were bold, or desperate, to be making raids on her father's lands this deep in winter.

Unless, of course, they were scouts for a larger force. And if that was the case, they were looking to see what defenses were here once the snow fell and hoping to drive well into enemy territory before any organized defense could move in. The more she considered them, the likelier that seemed. Probably they were counting on the fact that her father was known, still, for his skilled charioteers, and chariots did not travel in snow at all.

But Gwen was not her father, she was her father's guard and right hand, and she had been schooled in a generation that was coming to rely on hors.e.m.e.n. More and more, the king was listening to her recommendations. And at her urging, he had gradually increased the strength of his cavalry over the past several years. His own near-escape in the battle where Braith had fallen had shown him that chariots were of limited use and even an actual hazard on broken ground. Now his chariots were mostly used for ma.s.sed charges and rescues over good flat land. This year, for the first time, hors.e.m.e.n in his ranks had outnumbered chariot drivers by two to one. Even the High King was taking notice of his tactics.

She had a good idea what the Saxon leader was probably thinking, if that was a scouting force below her. Even if someone saw them and reported their presence back to King Lleudd, the winter would keep him and his warriors bound to their holdings. Meanwhile, the Saxon scouts could roam with impunity and bring back intelligence to the army in time for them to drive deep into this kingdom. Once there, it would be costly to dislodge them. This land was less populous than the area to the east; easier to take, easier to hold, and the Saxons actually tended to be decent to farmers who didn't resist them. If you could stay hidden until the worst of the fighting and looting was over, you'd likely survive. Saxon fighters didn't till the land, and they needed to eat; there was no point in killing the hands that would feed them, so farmers were generally safe. If they could take this country, they might have a better chance of holding it than the lands the High King was pushing them out of.

Ah, but hors.e.m.e.n could go anywhere, regardless of the weather, so long as food for the horses could be found. And all villages within her father's lands were required to put in hay and keep it for the use of the cavalry in winter. That had been another of Gwen's suggestions, and she was unreasonably proud of it. It meant that the cavalry could get anywhere quickly, even in winter, unburdened by the need to bring fodder with them.

The villages were not doing badly by the policy. King Lleudd permitted the unused hay to be fed to local animals as soon as the snows melted, and until this year, that was what had generally happened. Gwen wondered, as she crouched on her tree branch, if the pressure that High King Arthur was putting on the Saxons in the east was making them concentrate on him, and they were not even taking her father's reputation into consideration. Perhaps in concentrating on Arthur, they underestimated a "lesser" king, one who was old enough to be a grandfather to boot.

The tree Gwen was in, though leafless, hid her perfectly. Not that they ever looked up. But she, in her white furs and gray clothing, merely blended into the snow-covered branches and the haze of leafless twigs. She had mastered the art of holding absolutely still for as long as she needed to. And there was, of course, that subtle magic that was all her own, the ability to will herself unseen.

The ironic thing was that Arthur, by all accounts, would have been perfectly ready to accept the Saxon surrender and alliance, would honor their rulers and their customs as he honored those of his other allies, like Gwen's father, and Lot of Orkney and Lothian, and the King of Gwynnedd. But they would have none of this. And so they fought him, lost, slunk back behind their shrinking borders, recovered, and fought him again. In more than fifteen years since her father had sent out his levies, they still had not learned that lesson.

This tree was not in the familiar hills that she had trained in and run over in her first years as a warrior. Over the last several years, Pengwen, Calchfynelld, and Caer Celemion had come into her father's hands, and all peacefully.

First had been Pengwen; when those levies of so long ago had come home amid mingled rejoicing and grief, the young-very young-ruler of Pengwen had come with them, had seen Gynath, and within a day even a fool would have known that the lad had lost his heart. From that moment, the conclusion had been forgone. And because he was so young, his father fallen in that last battle, with the agreement of his own chiefs, he had given over governorship of his land to King Lleudd.

He could have taken his throne by now, but he was not the least interested in having it back. Quarrels among the chiefs bewildered and upset him as a youngling, and as an adult, they bewildered and exasperated him. He hated fighting, he hated having to judge men, and above all, he hated being looked looked to for answers. He was happier by far doing the work of a steward; he deeply understood the land and the farmers and herdsmen. He had an instinct for what would be a good year, and what would be a poor one; those who followed his advice prospered. And so, instead of ruling, he served as steward and seneschal for what had once been four kingdoms, adored his wife and his children, and was a blessing on King Lleudd's house. to for answers. He was happier by far doing the work of a steward; he deeply understood the land and the farmers and herdsmen. He had an instinct for what would be a good year, and what would be a poor one; those who followed his advice prospered. And so, instead of ruling, he served as steward and seneschal for what had once been four kingdoms, adored his wife and his children, and was a blessing on King Lleudd's house.