Once, far into the night, when she had fallen into a brief, nightmare-ridden doze, she started up, thinking she heard Morgaine calling her name; she sat bolt upright on the dirty straw of the bed, staring into the thick darkness, but she was alone.

Morgaine, Morgaine. If you can see me with your sorcery, say to my lord when he comes home that Meleagrant is false, that it was a trap ... and then she wondered, would God be angry with her for calling on Morgaine's sorcery to deliver her? And she fell to praying softly until the monotony of her prayers put her to sleep again.

She slept heavily, this time, without dreams, and when she woke, her mouth dry, she realized it was full day and she was still prisoner in the empty and filthy apartment. She was hungry and thirsty, and sickened with the smell of the place, not only the stale straw and mould, but the smells from one corner she had had to use as a latrine. How long were they going to leave her here alone. The morning wore away and Gwenhwyfar no longer even had the strength or courage to pray.

Was she being punished, then, for her guilt, for not valuing enough what she had had? She had been a faithful wife to Arthur, yet she had hungered after another man. She had meddled with Morgaine's sorcery. But, she thought in despair, if I am being punished for my adultery with Lancelet, for what was I being punished while I was yet a faithful wife to Arthur?

Even if Morgaine could see, with her magic, that she was imprisoned, would she trouble to help her? Morgaine had no reason to love her; indeed, Morgaine almost certainly despised her.

Was there anyone who really cared? Why should anyone care what happened to her?

It was past noon when at last she heard a step on the stairs. She sprang to her feet, wrapping herself tightly in her cloak, and backed away from the door. It was Meleagrant who came in, and at sight of him she drew back even farther.

"Why have you done this to me?" she demanded. "Where is my woman, my page, my chamberlain? What have you done with my escort? Do you think Arthur will allow you to rule this country when you have offered insult to his queen?"

"His queen no longer," Meleagrant said quietly. "When I am done with you, he will not have you back. In the old days, lady, the consort of the queen was king of the land, and if I hold you and get sons on you, no man will gainsay my right to rule."

"You will get no sons from me," Gwenhwyfar said with a mirthless laugh. "I am barren."

"Pah-you were married to a damned beardless boy," he said, and added something more, which Gwenhwyfar did not completely understand, only that it was unimaginably foul.

"Arthur will kill you," she said.

"Let him try. It is harder than you would think to attack an island," said Meleagrant, "and by that time, perhaps, he will not care to try, since he would have to take you back-"

She said, "I cannot marry you, I have a husband."

"No man in my kingdom will care one way or the other," said Meleagrant. "There were many who chafed at the rule of the priests, and I have cast forth every damned priest of them! I rule by the old laws, and I will make myself king by that law, which says your man rules here-'

She whispered, "No," and backed away, but he sprang at her and pulled her toward him.

"You're not to my taste," he said brutally. "Skinny, ugly, pale wenches -I like better a woman who's some flesh to her bones! But you're old Leodegranz's daughter, unless your mother had more blood to her than I think she could have had! And so-" He pulled her to him. She struggled, got her arm loose, and struck him hard across the face.

He shouted as her elbow struck his nose, grabbed her arm and shook her, hard; then hit her with his clenched fist across the jaw. She felt something snap and tasted blood bursting in her mouth. He hit her again and again with his fists; she put her arms up, terrified, to ward off his blows, but he went on beating her. "Now," he yelled, "there'll be no more of that, you'll find out who's your master-" He seized her wrist and wrenched at it.

"Oh, no-no-please, please, don't hurt me-Arthur, Arthur will kill you-"

He answered her only with an obscenity, wrenched at her wrist, flung her down on the dirty straw of the bed, knelt beside her, hauling at his clothing. She writhed, shrieking; he hit her again and she lay still, crouched on a corner of the bed.

"Take off your gown!" he ordered.

"No!" she cried, huddling her clothes about her. He reached out, twisting her wrist, and held her while he ripped her gown deliberately down to the waist.

"Now will you take it off, or shall I tear off every rag of it?"

Shaking, sobbing, with trembling fingers, Gwenhwyfar pulled her gown over her head, knowing that she should fight, but too terrified of his fists and blows to resist. When she had done he pulled her down, held her down on the dirty straw, pushing her legs open with a rough hand. She struggled only a little, frightened of his hands, sickened by his foul breath, his huge hairy body, the big meaty phallus that thrust painfully into her, pushing and pushing till she felt she would break in two.

"Don't pull away from me like that, damn you!" he shouted, thrusting violently; she cried out with pain and he hit her again. She lay still, sobbing, and let him do what he would. It seemed to go on forever, his big body straining and pumping on and on, till finally she felt him convulse, thrust agonizingly hard; then he was gone from her, rolled a little away, and she gasped for breath, struggling to pull her clothes around her. He stood up, wrenching at his belt, and gestured to her.

"Won't you let me go?," she begged. "I promise you-I promise you-"

He grinned fiercely. "Why should I?" he asked. "No, here you are and here you'll stay. Is there anything you need? A gown to put in the place of that one?"

She stood weeping, exhausted, shamed, sickened. At last she said shakily, "I-can I have some water, and-and something to eat? And"- She began to cry harder than ever, with shame-"and a chamber pot?"

"Whatever my lady desires," said Meleagrant sarcastically, and went away, locking her in again.

Later in the day a crook-backed old crone brought her some greasy roast meat and a hunk of barley bread, and jugs of water and beer. She also brought some blankets and a chamber pot.

Gwenhwyfar said, "If you will bear a message to my lord Arthur, I will give you this-" and she took the gold comb from her hair. The old woman's face brightened at the look of the gold, but then she looked away, scared, and sidled out of the room. Gwenhwyfar burst into tears again.

At last she regained some calm, ate and drank, and tried to wash herself a little. She felt sick and sore, but worse than that was the sense of being used, shamed, ineradicably dirtied.

Was it true what Meleagrant had said-that Arthur would not have her back now, that she had been spoilt beyond redemption? It might be so ... if she were a man she would not want anything Meleagrant had used either ... .

No, but it was not fair; this was not anything she had done wrong, she had been trapped and tricked, used against her will.

Oh, but it is no more than I deserve ... I who am not a faithful wife, but love another ... . She felt sick with guilt and shame. But after a time she began to recover her composure and to consider her predicament.

She was here in Meleagrant's castle-her father's old castle. She had been raped and was held captive, and Meleagrant had proclaimed his intention of holding this island kingdom by right of being her consort. It was not to be considered that Arthur would let him do so; no matter what he thought of her personally, for his own honor as High King he would have to make war on Meleagrant. It would not be easy, but it should not be impossible to recapture an island. She knew nothing of Meleagrant as a fighter-except, she thought with a rare flash of grim humor, against a helpless woman, whom he had beaten into submission. But it was not to be considered, either, that he could stand against the High King who had driven the Saxons into utter rout at Mount Badon.