In Winter's Shadow (16 page)

Arthur tore his eyes from the door, then sat heavily in Cei’s empty chair and stared at the fire for a long time. I came and sat on the floor beside him. After a while he put his arm around me, and I leaned my head against his thigh. The fire crackled, and the smoke which the snow trapped in the room stung our eyes. “My heart,” Arthur said at last, “perhaps you were right, even then.”

“It is evil to poison.”

“But now Medraut has poisoned his brother, my warrior.”

“Perhaps it was not so. Agravain had long been ill.”

“And do you believe it was a natural death?”

“No.”

Arthur ran his hand through my hair, then turned my face toward him. “I am sorry,” he said, in a very low voice. “And yet, still, it must have been evil; we are no better than our enemies if we do such things. Only I am bitterly grieved for Agravain, and for Gwalchmai, and for us all. Gwynhwyfar, my white hart, it would have been better for you if you had never met me. Then the way of virtue would have been a Roman road, while now…now we draw furrows on the pathless waves. My joy, I am sorry.”

After that we had to hold each other, for around us was only the silence, the darkness, and the wind.

Gwalchmai had loved his brother Agravain. He would have been much afflicted by his death in any circumstances, and that the death was probably caused by his other brother made it worse. I remembered Agravain and Gwalchmai sitting together at table in Camlann, years ago, talking rapidly in Irish: Agravain gold-haired with hot blue eyes, angry, excited over something someone had said to him; Gwalchmai calmer, regarding his brother with patient affection and a touch of amusement. Agravain had always taken a kind of proprietary pleasure in his brother’s achievements, and was enormously proud of him; Gwalchmai treated Agravain almost as he might a sensitive child, protectively, defending the occasional outbursts of bad temper and violence—for Agravain always had been quickly moved to anger, overly sensitive to insult. Yet I had gathered from a few things each had said that once the closeness had been between Gwalchmai and Medraut, with Agravain an outsider, a potential enemy. What Gwalchmai thought now was anyone’s guess: he behaved as he always did when troubled, politely refusing to speak of it to anyone and spending most of his time riding his horse or playing the harp and brooding. But when Medraut sent a letter from the Orcades, lamenting Agravain’s death and promising to pledge his new kingship to an alliance with Arthur, Gwalchmai asked to be sent to the Islands as an emissary. Arthur sensibly refused. There was no need of it, and Gwalchmai was the last person we could trust to Medraut’s good faith. Instead, Arthur replied by letter that the king of the Orcades was welcome to visit Camlann peacefully.

Even before he could have received this letter, Medraut sent another letter saying that he hoped to come to Camlann in the spring or early summer, when he had established his realm in greater security and when it would be easier to travel. Arthur was content to wait until then. He sent a message to Eoghan the shipwright in northern Pictland, to be sent to those of Medraut’s cousins who were displeased with their new king. In this he said that he grieved for Agravain, but that Medraut was his nephew and would be received as such. This letter was so worded that it would cause no difficulty if it fell into Medraut’s hands, but equally made it plain that, if Medraut were overthrown, there would be no reprisals.

The sentence of relegation which Arthur had passed on Medraut was allowed to sink into oblivion. It had been passed against a private individual, and could not be allowed to obstruct relations with an important allied kingdom. So we waited, knowing that in the spring or early summer the contest would begin again.

It was a strange, bittersweet winter. The year was a wet one, with much snow and more rain: the thatching of the Hall and houses grew dark and heavy, and the rooms filled with smoke even with a hot dry fire. But a kind of truce was established in the Family. Medraut as an allied king far away in Dun Fionn was a different man from Medraut a warrior in Camlann, even to his friends. Foreign kings were no concern of the Family, unless they were inclined toward war with us; Medraut had no further claim on anyone’s loyalty. Oh, things were not as they had been once, not as they were back in the days of the war, or the first years of the peace, when Camlann had seemed almost a new Rome. Then we knew that we had set ourselves a battle that all the world had lost, and which we were winning. We had fought as no one else had fought, not for power, gold, or glory, but to preserve the Light, the Empire: knowledge and justice, law and peace. It had given a kind of exaltation to our lives, even amid hardship, violence, and grief. Now the peace was old, familiar, taken for granted, and the battles were all fought; and now hatred and distrust had crept in among us. Yet there were times when it seemed we were still innocent, and all things were possible to us. We held festivals in the Hall, celebrating Christmas and the New Year for days on end. The splendor was greater than it had been during or soon after the war: everything glowed and glittered, and it seemed that the benches even of the lower Hall were afire with jewels. Taliesin sang of great things accomplished, by us and by others, until the men were as dizzy with music as with mead, stunned by the glory of the past and eager to emulate it.

And there were times, too, apart from the great festivals, when Camlann seemed apart from the rest of world, halfway to Heaven: clear winter days when the snow lay thick on the ground, and from my doorway I could see the fields stretching out and away, further even than Ynys Witrin, shining like glass and silver in the light. The children of the fortress would run about shouting and throwing snowballs, and sometimes the warriors would ride their horses about the hill at full gallop for the sheer joy of running, a splendor of plunging hooves, white breath and back-flung snow, the jingle of harness and the flash of the rider’s smile in passing. Indoors by the smoky fires women sang at the loom, craftsmen at their workbench—or else, gathered together, friends and families laughed and argued. There was not much for me to do; I could join any party gathered for talk or music. Winter is a quiet season: the harvest is gathered and stored, everything checked and inventoried, the tribute all delivered. It is difficult to travel, so there are few petitioners for justice, and any emissaries sent out generally wait until the spring thaws the roads and calms the seas before returning. So I had time, time to spend with Arthur, to listen to songs, to read books purchased from traveling merchants the summer before and lying on the shelf since, waiting my attention. I felt even in the midst of it that this quiet winter was the calm before the storm—but I was resolved nonetheless to make the best of it. And, I told myself, we can very likely weather the storm when it does come. We have some strength here yet.

One of the things that continued to grieve me was Gwalchmai. The festivals of December and January passed, and he remained courteous and remote, brooding over his brother’s death. He only seemed to cheer up when he gave lessons to Gwyn.

The boy was now doing very well at Camlann. He had caught up with the other boys of the fortress in knowledge of weapons, and he was beginning to be accepted by them. He was now growing rapidly and always seemed too large for his clothes, but did not, like many boys, lose his sweet temper together with his treble voice.

However, one day in early February, when Gwyn and I were going over the preceding month’s accounts in the Hall, a monk came into the building and looked about as though searching for someone. Gwyn recognized the man at once.

“It’s Father Gilla, from Opergelei monastery, near my mother’s abbey!” he told me in great excitement, as I eyed the monk dubiously—monastics tended to disapprove of Arthur quite strongly, and it was rare to see one in Camlann on any errand but complaint. “He must be bringing me some news. Hai! Father Gilla, here I am!”

Gwyn wrote to his mother whenever he could find some trader or traveler who would be going to Gwynedd and could carry the letter. Most travelers were willing to do so, as such a letter would assure them of a night’s lodging and provision from the grateful mother. Gwyn had once had a letter back, but that had also been carried by some casual traveler. I had gathered that the boy’s mother was angry with her son for running off to learn war against her wishes, and it was because of this that she had not written more often. Never had a messenger been especially sent, and I was suddenly afraid for the boy, the more so when the monk came nearer and I saw his face. Good news goes on two feet, they say, but bad news has wings—and, moreover, good news does not wear an expression like Gilla’s.

Gwyn also realized this as the monk came up to us, and his first excitement was replaced by apprehension. “Why…what is the matter?” he asked.

The man looked at me nervously, then let his eyes slide over Gwyn and away. He was a small, fair, wispy man whose plain black robe was worn through at the elbows and patched. He seemed unwilling to speak.

“Has something happened?” Gwyn demanded. “Is Mama sick? Father, tell me. What is wrong?”

The little man finally looked at the boy directly, then embraced him. “My child,” he stammered, then, proceeding in a rush, as though to get it over with, “Gwyn my boy, I have bad news, bad indeed. Your mother…she wished me to come, she said, if she…she grew sick, three weeks ago, with a fever, and at first she wished you were with her—but you know how it grieved her, that you ran off here, when she meant you for the priesthood—but she said she forgave you, and that it was better, indeed, those were her words, that it was good that you were here…”

“Father, what has happened?” Gwyn interrupted. “She had a fever—is she better?” Gilla blinked at him miserably. “She…she didn’t…she’s not…”

“She is dead, child,” the monk said. “She died a week and five days ago, on a Friday. She gives you her blessing.”

“Oh no,” Gwyn said. He turned from the monk, ignored my outstretched hand, and sat down on one of the benches, leaning his head against his hands.

“It was a rapid fever,” the monk went on, after a moment. “She stayed up, the first few days, and then she fell down, at dinner, on Epiphany, and took to her bed, and died a few days later. She died very peacefully, after she had written the letter. She was willing to leave this world, and hurry to the next. She blessed you, and wished you all joy…” he trailed off again, uncertainly, staring miserably at Gwyn.

“Where is the letter?” Gwyn asked.

“What?”

The boy raised his head. His eyes were too bright, but there were no tears on his face. “The letter. You said she wrote me a letter.”

Father Gilla flushed. “No, no, she didn’t. That is, she wrote a letter, but not to you. She wrote a letter to the lord Gwalchmai ap Lot, that you said had been kind to you. She sealed it and gave it to me. Perhaps there is another letter with it, inside the seal. We can give it to him now, and see.”

“Oh,” said Gwyn. “To the lord Gwalchmai. So that he will protect me. No. I…I don’t want to see anyone now. My lady…”

“Gwyn.” I started toward him, longing to put my arms about him, but he threw his hands up between us.

“My lady,” he repeated, “please look after Father Gilla, and see that he receives hospitality: he is a good man, and not seditious, and notable in his own monastery, and he was always kind to me. Father, please, I will talk with you later, only now…” He turned suddenly and ran from the building.

Gilla looked after him, still blinking. “Poor boy,” he said, “poor orphaned child. And I cannot go after him, he would never let me, even when he was little.”

“He will want to talk to you later,” I said. “Father, let me find you a place to rest, and see that you have food and drink. You must be tired after your journey.”

“Indeed, though my poor horse is in greater need of care. Lady, I thank you for your kindness—I do not know your name…”

“Gwynhwyfar, daughter of Ogyrfan,” I said and, when he stared, I smiled and went on, “So you see, I have authority to see that you receive hospitality here, and that your horse is well treated.”

He bowed very low. “I had not thought it was you, noble queen. I thought queens wore purple and gold; though Gwyn spoke of you often in his letters. I thank your grace. But first I must see the lord Gwalchmai ap Lot, to give him the letter of the lady abbess.”

“Gwyn’s mother was an abbess?” I asked, surprised. “He never mentioned that.”

“But she was a very great abbess! A noblewoman, wise and courageous. She came first to St. Elena’s fourteen years ago, near her time of bearing Gwyn, and stayed, and took her vows there. She has been abbess four years now, and never was there a finer one.” He paused, recollected himself, and added, “I must give her letter to the lord Gwalchmai ap Lot. Could you graciously tell me, most noble lady, whether that lord is here now, and where he might be?”

I had happened to notice Gwalchmai practicing spear casting in the yard behind the stables, and I told Gilla as much. I escorted him—and his horse, which he had left tied to a post outside the Hall—to the stables, where I saw that the horse would be cared for; and then to the yard, where I pointed Gwalchmai out to him. Though, indeed, Gwalchmai needed little pointing out. He was casting his spears from horseback, and his white war stallion, famous from a hundred songs, stood out among the other horses like a swan among a flock of geese. Gilla walked out into the yard, waving and calling faintly, then stopped and waited while Gwalchmai threw a few more spears at the target. I began talking with one of the other warriors who happened to be there, telling him about Gwyn, and watching idly while Gwalchmai threw his last spear, turned his horse, cantered over to Gilla, and reined in. They talked, I saw from the corner of my eye. I knew that Gwyn’s mother had chosen well in deciding to write to Gwalchmai. The warrior would have done much for Gwyn in any circumstances, and the letter would incline him to do more. Still, it hurt me to think of the boy, suffering so, when grief is still new and one is unused to the thought of death. And he was like Gwalchmai in his refusal to accept comfort…Gilla had given Gwalchmai the letter, and he was reading it.

Suddenly, the distinct figure on the white horse whirled about and galloped off, leaving Gilla gesticulating wildly. I stared, surprised, for such discourtesy was unlike Gwalchmai. I did not have much time to stare, for the warrior galloped over, the snow flying in great wet lumps from the shining hooves of his stallion. He reined in sharply, and the horse danced, arching its neck and tugging at the bit.

“My lady,” said Gwalchmai, shouting to be heard over the horse’s impatience, “where is Gwyn?”

“Let him be for now,” I returned, “He has just had the news of his mother’s death, and he will no more wish to speak of it than you would.”