In Winter's Shadow (15 page)

Bedwyr raised himself on his elbow and stroked my hair and shoulder, whispering, “Hush. It is my fault, all my fault. Hush.”

“No, no. Mine. Oh, why did we?”

“My lady, my most sweet lady, I love you. I have always loved you. I told myself otherwise when I saw that my lord also loved you, but I could not believe that forever. I have wanted this for such a long time…I should never have come here. You were sick and grieving and could not help it. It is my fault.” The gentle hand slipped lower and I shivered. I sat up abruptly and looked at him.

“It does not matter whose fault it was. Arthur must not know. It would hurt him too much. And we must never do this again.”

He stared at me for a moment, then turned away. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You are right. Oh, Heavenly God!” He bent over with pain, clasping the stump of his shield arm. “What have I done? My lord’s wife, in his own bed…”

“We must not do it again!” I said, more urgently. “You must go somewhere far away, until we have forgotten this a little, and until I am reconciled with Arthur.”

He nodded, keeping his back to me, still bent over double. The gray light through the eaves fell along his back, picking out a long scar which ran up from his right side. Arthur had similar scars. All cavalry fighters have them; they cannot fight and defend themselves at the same time.

“It is my fault, too,” I told Bedwyr.

He shook his head, still without looking round.

“I love you,” I said. The words seemed meaningless. “I love Arthur, but you, as well.”

He reached down, fumbled about for the breeches thrown aside not long before. He pulled them on, then, standing again, turned and looked at me. He had to hold them up because he could not fasten his belt with one hand; in a tale it would have made me laugh. But his eyes were very dark with the pain, and the skin drawn tight around his mouth.

“You must go to Arthur,” I said, thinking desperately. “Ask him to send you to Less Britain, to talk to King Macsen. He needs to send someone, and he is determined not to send Gwalchmai again.”

Some of the pain ebbed. “Yes,” he said, after a minute. “I knew Macsen when I served his brother Bran; I could talk to him. Though my lord might be reluctant to allow me to leave for any length of time…but I could urge business, a desire to see my family and look to the estates. He will certainly give me leave to spend time on that.” He looked around for his tunic, picked it up, pulled it over his head with his shield arm. I got up and fastened his belt for him, then tied the fastenings of his tunic, carefully repeating the knots his servant customarily used. He let me finish, then caught my wrist.

“Gwynhwyfar.” His voice was resuming its usual quiet tone, but shock and confusion gave it still an edge of harshness. “My lady, you know now that I love you, and am ruined. I have betrayed my lord. I do not even know that I can repent, for I still desire you—but enough of that. If ever this should be discovered, let me suffer for it. It would be a plain case of treason, but my lord would probably commute the sentence from death to exile. I could endure that. I could not endure it if you were made to suffer for my crime, for it is my fault—no, it is true! I swear I would feel your disgrace more than my own. I know that if this is ever discovered you will not escape punishment altogether, but you might escape lightly, if you did not try to intercede for me or shift the blame onto yourself. We would both suffer more if you did. And do not grieve yourself for it; it is my fault.” His struggle for calm failed for an instant and he kissed me once more, hard.

When he released me I said nothing, merely found his sword for him and buckled it on, and helped him on with his boots. Only when he stood in the doorway did I whisper, “God keep you.” He bowed his head and was gone. I looked at the door for a long minute, then collapsed back onto the bed. I crawled under the blanket and lay there, trembling, remembering, until evening when I fell asleep.

Bedwyr spoke with Arthur that same evening, and set out for Less Britain within the week, despite the fact that he had, by then, come down with my cold. I stayed in the house until he had gone, and by then was recovered enough to get back to work on the harvest.

I worked also on reconciling myself with Arthur. Despite what had happened afterward, I decided, Bedwyr had been right. I was punishing my husband as well as myself by continuing to wallow in guilt and grief. And it did no one any good at all. A few days after Bedwyr left, I came back from supervising the disposal of a feast’s remnants, resolved to speak.

The house was dark when I entered it, carrying the dim rushlight that had shown me the path round the Hall. When I entered the bedroom I saw that Arthur was already in bed, but he flinched as the light fell across him and I knew he was still awake, though he lay with his back to me and did not otherwise move. I knew that he was trying to avoid the pain of the silence between us, and was afraid. I set the light in its holder beside the bed and undressed in silence, wondering what to say, wishing to put it off. Almost, I extinguished the light without speaking. But I sat on the bed a moment, looking at Arthur, and touched his shoulder. “I am sorry,” I managed to say, hearing how rough and uncertain my voice was. “It was an evil intention. I am very sorry.” And suddenly I was not thinking of Medraut, but of Bedwyr, lying where Arthur lay now: of the betrayal that was greater than Arthur knew.

He turned, looking up at me strangely—not coldly, but in puzzlement. He caught my hand from his shoulder and looked at it, studying the carving on the signet ring, then looked back at my face. The room was dark, for the rushlight was flickering, almost out. Arthur sighed.

“I am sorry.” I whispered again.

“I know,” he replied. “But don’t you see that it needs more than that? This thing…Medraut has crippled us.”

“I wanted us to escape from him.”

He touched my hand to his lips, his eyes seeking mine. “Oh, my white hart, if only we could! But that, that degrades you. I know you would accept that, for the Empire, but I cannot. And he is mine, my son, my fault.”

“Please,” I said. I could not reason with him; reason meant nothing to what was between us.

He touched my face and stroked back my hair. “You are cold,” he said, after a moment. “Here, get into bed and go to sleep.”

He put his arms round me when I was under the coverlet, and I lay very still, not daring to move. My heart was crying for him, but it was a beginning.

The silence vanished slowly. But the harvest is a busy season, and, with Bedwyr away, Arthur and I had to consult each other more than usual. We had first learned to trust each other from the affairs of the Empire: from tribute received and dispatched, from the supplying of a warband, from the plans of kings. These restored our trust. Eventually, even in private, we could speak to each other freely, and even laugh. The last barrier dropped early in December, when Cei returned from the Orcades with the news of Agravain’s death.

Perhaps we should have expected it. We had long known that Agravain was unwell, and in my heart I had always been afraid of what Medraut might do in the Islands. Nonetheless, the news came as a shock. Cei brought it fresh: he had sailed from the Islands with the first tide the day Agravain died, and posted from Ebrauc at a pace that must have left a trail of foundered horses behind him. The winds were from the north, very good for the voyage, and so he had made the whole journey in a week and six days. He arrived about midnight on a cold December Saturday and burst into our house at once, shouting that it was urgent. It was snowing a little outside, wet flakes mixed with rain. Cei had ridden from Caer Ceri that morning, changing horses at Baddon, and he was gray-faced with exhaustion and shivering with cold. As soon as Arthur had thrown his over-tunic and cloak on he began building up the fire in the conference room, while I poured Cei some wine and put more on to heat. Cei, however, did not wait to take off his wet cloak or take more than one swallow from the cup before he burst out, “Agravain is dead.
He
murdered him. That honey-mouthed bastard murdered his brother.”

I almost dropped the pitcher of wine. Arthur froze for a moment, kneeling by the hearth, a piece of firewood in his hand. I know that the fire must have been roaring, the water dripping from the thatch: there must have been sound, but I can remember none, only a great stillness. Then Arthur set the piece of wood on the fire, stood, and pulled a chair closer to it, gesturing for Cei to sit down. Cei did so, unfastening his cloak and hanging it over the back of the chair to dry.

“Now, what happened?” Arthur asked quietly. “Agravain ap Lot is dead?”

“Near two weeks ago. He was found cold in his bed one morning, with no mark on him. But Medraut had been drinking with him the night before, and Medraut is a devil and a follower of devils, and knows ways of killing men which leave no mark. I’m not the only one that thinks so, my lord: the royal warband of the Islands has always thought as much. They’re dogs, those Irish warriors, a pack of curs that will lick the hand of any man that can beat them. They began cringing up to Medraut the moment he arrived, though when Agravain was present they pretended differently.”

“Then the warband supports Medraut, now?”

“Yes, the dogs! Medraut used to lead them, and might have been made king before, had his mother lived, for they were all in terror of their very souls from that witch. They loved Agravain better, for he was his father’s son and a man who had fought beside them, but Agravain…was no longer his old self.” The furious indignation dropped for a moment, and Cei went on in a strange, hurt voice, unlike his own. “And what was the worst of it, my lord. It was wormwood to the heart to look at him. He was not himself. I extended my stay to help him—you had that second letter—I tried to warn him against what was happening. He was too drunk, most of the time, to take any notice, and when he was sober he never really cared. That a warrior, a king and a king’s son, should be so broken, so terrified and unsure! And he was my friend, a man who was a shield to me in battle, and like a brother to me. Poisoned, in his own home, by a smooth-speaking witch’s bastard! God in Heaven! We must have justice for him; we must…”

“Hush,” I said. “Tell the full tale, and then rest, for you are overtired. Here, the wine is hot now.”

He set his cup down and I filled it with steaming honeyed wine. He sipped a little, cautious because of the heat, and curled his cold-reddened hands about the sides. “There is not much more to the tale,” he said, wearily now. “Agravain was found dead, as I said, the morning after he had been drinking late with Medraut. I woke up to hear them keening and wailing. Some of the royal clan, who hate Medraut though they do not dare say so openly, came to me and told me the news before Medraut did, and helped me to the port and a ship before the day was old. They wished to know what you would do; I said that I was certain that this murder would anger you. They say that they cannot oppose the election of Medraut to the kingship, but that if you wish to contact them you must send a message to Eoghan the shipwright in northern Pictland—I think he is one of their spies. I was glad of their help, my lord, for I had no wish to be on that island when Medraut was king.”

“Is it certain that he will be made king?” asked Arthur.

“No one dares to oppose him. He can have the kingship if he wants it, and it is certain that he does want it. My lord, emperor of Britain, do we declare war?”

“No.”

When Cei leapt from his chair in anger, Arthur lifted his hand, looking at him. It was the calm look I knew so well, the look with which he commanded something that he hated but considered essential—an execution, a task which would cost the lives of those who did it. Cei also recognized the look and, though he loomed above Arthur, he seemed to shrink before it. Slowly he sat down.

“On what grounds can we declare war?” Arthur asked him. “Medraut will doubtless give his brother a splendid funeral and mourn extravagantly, then hasten south to swear an alliance with me. We can prove nothing. And if I contact these enemies of Medraut, who neither dare to oppose him openly nor even to be known to have received messages from me, what am I to say? ‘Murder him, and I will reward you’? That is more shameful than poison, and far less likely to succeed. No. We must prepare, and be ready for whatever Medraut plans next.” He paused, then added in a gentler voice, “Go to bed, Cei. I will need your strength.”

Cei nodded. He set down his empty cup, stood slowly. Then he stopped, remembering something, and his remembering touched mine.

“He shares a house with Gwalchmai,” I said. “He should not have to tell this tale to Agravain’s brother tonight.”

Cei nodded. “You have it, my lady; it is bitter news to bring. I sent for Gwalchmai when I arrived, so as to speak only once. I do not know where…”

The door opened suddenly and Gwalchmai came in. His face was very calm, but for a moment I could not recognize him, he looked so unearthly and remote. He had plainly been outside for some time, for the snow was melting in his hair and had soaked the shoulders of his cloak. “Your pardon,” he said, in a voice only slightly roughened, bowing to me and Arthur, “I have been outside. I was listening. But I guessed what had happened when your messenger woke me, Cei, and I feared to come in. Cousin, it is a long way to the Islands, and you had better sleep. No more words. My lord and lady, good night.” He held the door for Cei. Cei, after staring at him for a minute, crossed himself, picked up his own cloak and pulled it over his shoulders, and walked out. Gwalchmai gave one more slight bow and slipped back out into the night; there was the faint clunk of the bolt of the door falling back into its place, then silence.