Read Gwenhwyfar for Free Online Page B

wasn’t interested in the mock handfasting that was going on, nor the flirtations of her oldest sister.
    She made her way with quiet determination to where the horses had been tethered.
    She knew better than to approach them; handling the warhorses was strictly the work of those who were given that privilege—sometimes boys and rarely girls, but mostly fully grown men and the occasional woman. But feast days like these were the only time she ever got to see them do the sorts of things they had been trained to do.
    At the moment, they were being readied for the chariot races. The Romans had introduced the chariot to the tribes, and once they had seen chariots in action, there was no stopping the tribes from adopting the vehicle. But unlike the Roman races, which were held in the coliseums on round or oval tracks, and were consequently hideously dangerous for driver and horses alike, these races, like the ridden ones that would come later, were held on the straight. From the line out to some distant spot, then a turn, and back to the start. Horses were too valuable to lose to accidents that could easily be prevented.
    The chariots were light wicker affairs, never pulled by more than two horses. The wheels had iron rims and iron fittings, and the wicker cars themselves were open in front, with a curved wall behind. The chariot that their father used for important occasions had seats; these racing chariots did not. Nor did they have the scythes on the wheels that the war chariots had.
    The war chariots were fearsome things, and Gwen had never (of course) seen them in use in battle. But these races would demonstrate some of the skill of the charioteers and the warriors who fought with them.
    There were four in the first race, which was a very special challenge match; two of them were her father’s horses and were driven by his men. The other two belonged to two of his war chiefs. The king was well known to be a generous winner and a gracious loser; no one would hold back for fear of displeasing him. These would be excellent races.
    Much as Gwen yearned after the horses like one gone lovesick, there was one pair and their driver that Gwen particularly wanted to watch, and they were not her father’s horses. They belonged to Hydd ap Kei, one of the king’s oldest friends, and the chariot driver was a woman.
    Her name was Braith, and Gwen had watched her race a score of times. She was amazing in the races, and Gwen wondered what she would be like in battle. She seemed to be absolutely fearless, she was known for running out onto the pole, standing on the yoke to help balance for a fast turn, running back to the chariot again. Precious time could be lost in the turns, precious in a race, and, Gwen supposed, precious in a fight, too. Running the pole like that helped in a turn. Gwen had even, once, when the chariot had hit an unseen rock and shattered, seen Braith leap onto the horses’ backs and drive them with one foot on each horse, her hair coming loose from its braids and streaming behind her like the horses’ tails.
    She’d been disqualified, for after all, in a chariot race it is expected that there be a chariot behind the horses, but people were still talking about the feat.
    Braith was indeed in the first race, and Gwen edged as near as she dared, watching her idol crooning to and soothing her team. They weren’t a matched team, like the king’s two; the left-hand one was a dark chestnut, the right-hand a dun. Braith combed her fingers through their coarse manes, ran her hands along their stocky necks, and whispered into their short, broad ears, standing between them as if she were a third horse in the traces. Gwen watched her with raw envy, her fingers itching and twitching with longing to touch those soft noses, scratch those warm necks. She wasn’t allowed near the warhorses, ever. “Too dangerous,” her father said. He didn’t mean dangerous for her, he meant dangerous for the horses. She might move suddenly,