The Hallowed Isle Book Three by Diana L. Paxson

“Look, our breasts are nestling together like doves.. . .” She moved closer, feeling a sweet fire begin to burn warm within her own body at the contact of skin on skin. She licked her lips, wondering if that skin would be as sweet to the taste as it was to touch. Julia made a small desperate sound and turned her head away.
    â€œYou like me, don’t you?” Guendivar asked in sudden doubt. “It’s not just because my mother makes you stay—”
    â€œOh Guendivar, my sweet child, I love you,” Julia whispered brokenly, “Didn’t you know?” The stiffness went out of her body and she reached up to stroke Guendivar’s hair.
    â€œI don’t know about love, but I know that you like holding me—” She smiled again and kissed Julia’s lips. There was a last moment of resistance, and then the other girl’s arms tightened around her.
    Together they sank back down on the blanket, and she learned just how much Julia liked her as, clumsy as colts and sensuous as kittens, they discovered the pleasure touch could bring. And presently, lost in sensation, Guendivar forgot the future that prisoned her, and was free.
    At Midwinter, the High King came to Lindinis. He was travelling from Londinium to visit Cataur in Isca Dumnoniorum, his message told them, and Lindinis would be a good place to break his journey. He would be there, he said, in time for the festival.
    â€œHe has not said he is coming to see me,” said Guendivar. Scrubbed and scented and swathed in Roman silks, she sat on the chest in her mother’s bedchamber, kicking her heels against its carven side.
    â€œHe wrote to ask your father if you were spoken for,” answered Petronilla, peering into her mirror of polished bronze as she hung discs of gold filigree and garnets in her ears. “God knows how he knew that Leodagranus even has a daughter, but if he is coming here, it is you he wants to see. Perhaps he fears that if he marries into Demetia or Dumnonia, the others will be jealous, whereas an alliance with Lindinis will not upset the balance of power. But you come of the blood of the Durotrige princes, and your ancestry is as royal as any in Britannia. So you will be on your best behavior, my girl—” she turned to fix her daughter with a repressive glare “—and show yourself worthy to be Artor’s bride.”
    And why should I want to be a queen? Guendivar wondered mutinously. From all I have heard, they have even less freedom than other wives —but she did not say so aloud. Her mother had explained quite clearly the advantages to her family, and threatened to send her back to the Isle of Glass with Julia if she refused.
    â€œAt least,” Petronilla continued as she settled the veil over her hair, “you are in blooming looks.”
    Guendivar felt a betraying flush heat her cheeks and hoped her mother would put it down to maidenly modesty. It was Julia’s care for her and the joy they had together that had made these past months bearable.
    Sounds from the street below brought both of them to their feet, listening. Petronilla moved swiftly to the porch that overlooked the atrium and glanced down.
    â€œThey’ve come—quickly now, we must be ready to greet them—” She reached for her daughter’s hand and towed her out of the room.
    Guendivar’s first thought was that Artor was old. After a second glance, she decided that perhaps he was merely very tired. He was tall and well-muscled, though rather thin, and his brown hair showed only a few threads of grey. He might even be rather good looking, if he ever relaxed. She wondered if she were judging him so harshly because he had hardly looked at her? Once they were all seated in the triclinium and the slaves began to bring in the food, the king had directed all his remarks to her father and brother.
    Artor’s nephew Gualchmai, an enormous young man who reminded her of a