In Winter's Shadow (26 page)

“My lord!” exclaimed Bedwyr. I looked at him quickly and shook my head, and he fell silent, though he started toward me as though he wished to speak with me, and had to be checked by his guards. I bowed low to Arthur, as Bedwyr had. But I remembered, as Bedwyr evidently did, the letter of my cousin Menw. Exile would have been preferable to his “protection.” It would mean more than simply hard words: I could expect beatings, and whatever else Menw could think of to humiliate and subdue me. Undoubtedly he would welcome the opportunity.

Arthur rose, and the crowd behind began to ease itself out of the Hall, talking in undertones. The set look was beginning to appear strained, as though his strength were failing and he could not hold it much longer. He did not mean to humiliate me, I knew. He knew very little of Menw, and had probably forgotten what he did know. The sentence—both sentences—were merciful, astonishingly merciful. And I would not plead with him, beg him to change his mind, explain. He wished no explanations, and I would not cling to his clemency and weep. I would not use the ties of love, of the fourteen years between us, to strengthen a plea, like a beggar flaunting a sore. I had wronged him, and he wanted nothing more to do with me. That was enough to keep me silent till death.

As Arthur was about to start down from the dais, Medraut intercepted him. “My lord,” he said, “I beg that you will allow me to display my devotion to your honor. Let me escort this woman back to her family.”

Arthur merely looked at him.

“I am most deeply moved, my lord,” Medraut went on, not meeting the other’s eyes, “by the wrongs you have suffered, and I am eager to prevent more by seeing that this woman is kept securely, and is unable to slip her guards and run shamelessly after her lover.”

Arthur pulled away and began walking out with his long, firm stride. “You speak very insolently of my wife, son of Lot,” he tossed back at Medraut without looking round, “but please yourself. Cei, choose five others to accompany him—not Gwalchmai, and not yourself, for I will need you. They are to leave tomorrow morning.”

Cei, who had followed Arthur from the high table, looked after him as he departed through the crowd that melted before him; then himself looked round, scowling fiercely. Gwyn jumped off the dais and came over to him. “Let me go with Lady Gwynhwyfar’s escort,” he asked.

Medraut gave Gwyn a venomous look, but Cei nodded to him, grinned, and slapped him on the back. Gwyn smiled back and came over to me. He was still very confused about what had happened, but more inclined to blame Medraut (irrational, but kind) than me. “At least I will have the pleasure of your company for another week or two, noble lady,” he said.

I smiled, found that my face was stiff, that it hurt to smile. I suddenly wanted to sit down somewhere, alone: not to cry, but simply to sit still until the pain diminished. “Thank you, Gwyn,” I croaked. “My lords, let me go back to my house, to prepare for the journey.”

Cei nodded, and I and my guards moved away.

I did not see Arthur when I left the next morning. It was the last day of June, and the light came early; the sun was high when I joined the rest of the party, my escort, at the stables, though the hour was still early. There were six warriors: Medraut, his friend Rhuawn, and Gwyn with three others of the loyal faction. There were also four servants, and our party had sixteen horses. I had my own horse waiting for me, my splendid, spirited little bay mare, and she whinnied eagerly when she saw me, and nuzzled my hand, looking for apples. Gwyn gave me his hand to help me into the saddle, and we set off under the clear pale sky, I riding in the middle, my escort flanking me, and the servants riding behind with the pack horses. The people of Camlann clustered thickly about the road down to the gate, watching. To my surprise, as soon as we left the stable someone called, “Farewell, noble lady!” and many others took it up. A woman rushed out of the crowd, forcing the escort to stop, and gave me a bunch of roses and a parcel of sweet wine cakes. “Good fortune be with you, my lady,” she said, taking my hand and pressing it to her forehead. I recognized Eivlin, the wife of Gwalchmai’s servant. “Better fortune than you have had till now.”

“Thank you,” I returned. “Farewell.”

Gwyn, who had let her through to me, smiled, but Medraut scowled and motioned the rest back, and spurred his horse to a canter, and the rest of us were forced to follow him, down along the road, past the houses, the open spaces, down to the gate and through it. I looked back at the fortress, rising behind its sheer wall from the gates to the distant thatch of the Hall; looked back again and again as we trotted on down the road, until I lost sight of it among the other hills. Still I rode looking back over my shoulder, unable to believe that I could no longer make it out, that I could leave so easily what I had loved so long.

The first night of our journey we stayed in a fortified villa some few miles south of Baddon, the holding of a local nobleman who was eager to offer hospitality to such notable or notorious figures, and who eyed me constantly with undisguised and insolent curiosity, so that I was glad to leave.

The next day we continued as far as Caer Ceri, and stayed with the local lord at the fortress there. This was a man I knew reasonably well, who had been useful during the war. He treated us with far greater courtesy, giving us a feast. From him I learned that Bedwyr had passed through Caer Ceri the day before. This circumstance might have gone unremarked, were it not that some half dozen of Bedwyr’s friends, those Bretons who had followed him into Arthur’s service, had chosen to follow him out of it, and had accompanied him in his departure from Camlann. Any party of armed men larger than half a dozen will be noted and inquired after in any town.

“But I do not understand,” I told the local lord. “I did not think he was going to go this way. One would expect him to ride to Caer Uisc, or Caer Gwent, and take ship from there.”

“Like enough he will take ship from Caer Gloeu,” said the nobleman. “The river port is large enough, and there’s much traffic there from the upper Saefern, this time of year; one can find a ship quickly there. Perhaps he wished to avoid notice by avoiding the larger ports. Do not trouble yourself, noble lady. I would not have mentioned it, except that I thought he had been sent that way, and wondered at the reason.”

I agreed not to worry about it, though I was still surprised. But my mind felt numb and lethargic, and I did not think about it again.

The following day we took the northeast road that runs from Caer Ceri to Linnuis, where it joins the main road to Ebrauc. It was yet another fine summer day: the road was hazed with a light mist in the valleys, but the rising sun was dispersing it quickly. The damp woods glistened, the corn in the plowed lands was beginning to turn silver-gilt, and the cattle in the pastures were sleek and shining with contentment. The bright day made my spirits heavier, and I rode staring at the sun on my horse’s mane. Thus I could let my mind sink into the numbness, the fatigue that beset me, where every effort seemed too great; I could rest, and not feel much, instead of feeling all there was to feel for what had happened. I was almost dreaming when someone shouted, and the horse in front of mine stopped. I reined in my mare and looked up to see another party of horsemen approaching us at a trot, coming down the road from the opposite direction. With a shock, I recognized the foremost rider as Bedwyr.

“Lord Bedwyr,” said Gwyn at the same moment, stopping his horse beside mine. His dark eyes widened, as his father’s did when he was tense, though Gwalchmai never showed that he was pained and nervous as clearly as Gwyn did. Gwyn was afraid of some scene, of harsh words, enmity between those he loved. “What does he expect?” he asked me anxiously. “Does he expect that…”

“He has come to steal the lady,” declared Medraut. He unslung his shield and strapped it to his arm. Some of the other warriors began to do the same.

“In the name of Eternal God!” I snapped, angry with them, and more angry with Bedwyr. “There is no need to prepare to fight. If that is what Bedwyr has come to do, he will go off without having achieved it, for I will not go with him.”

Medraut paid no attention, but pulled his thrusting spear from its sling on his saddle, and started his horse forward. The other group stopped its advance, and Medraut reined in again, touching his horse with his heels, to make it dance.

“You scheming traitor!” called Medraut. “What have you come for?”

Bedwyr started forward again, then, clear of the others, stopped his horse. He too had strapped his shield to his arm, but held it away from his body at an angle, leaving himself unprotected. “Let the lady Gwynhwyfar come with us,” he called to Medraut. “I know that her cousin’s house will be little to her liking and, as the emperor said, it is not fitting for such a lady to be treated as a criminal.”

So that was indeed it. I remembered Bedwyr’s attempt at protesting when I was sentenced, and I cried out wordlessly in exasperation and anger. He should realize that I did not want to be rescued, that he could not protect me from the consequences of our crime; that it was not his task to protect me, that, though I had been weak with him, I was strong enough to endure suffering, and deserved it. Oh, he was kind, as always, but this was madness. I spurred my mare forward. “Medraut!” I began.

He turned, and for just a moment I saw the triumph on his face, and then the butt end of his spear caught me on the side of the head and knocked me from the saddle. I was so astonished and horrified that I did not even cry out, and the ground seemed to leap at me. Above me I heard Medraut shouting, “She plotted this with him! Guard her!” I tried to get up—I was sprawled in the dust of the road—but the breath had been knocked from me and I could not make my half-stunned limbs obey me. Hooves thundered past me, and ahead I heard shouting, a scream of rage or of pain. I tried again to shout, could not, managed to struggle to my feet, caught my mare’s bridle to go after Medraut and stop him, for I saw that he meant there to be blood and I knew that I must stop him. My mare was unused to such commotion and she danced nervously, trying to turn about and go home, and I jumped after her stupidly. More hooves around me, and then Gwyn’s horse was forced against mine, and Gwyn leaned from his saddle across mine, stretching out an arm to help me up. “Stop them!” I shouted at him, not taking his hand, knowing that every second was precious and he could reach the others more quickly. “Gwyn, Gwyn my heart, this is utter madness. Go tell Bedwyr that I will not go with him, make him leave; stop them! Oh God.”

Gwyn understood at once, and spurred his roan mare to a gallop. She leapt off like the seagull of her name, and I managed to scramble into my saddle, turn my horse about, and gallop after her. Ahead of me was a whirling melee of men and horses and weapons: swords flashing, clouds of dust, and lime shaken from shields into the clear air, horses backing and turning. One of Bedwyr’s men was lying very still in the dust of the road, soaking it with blood. Medraut was fighting another, trying to reach Bedwyr, who had engaged Rhuawn in combat. And Gwyn was galloping up to all of them, his fair hair streaming in the wind of his motion.

“Stop, stop!” Gwyn shouted, his voice breaking again with the urgency, going high like a child’s. “There is no need—the lady won’t go; Bedwyr, Rhuawn, the lady will not go! Bedwyr! Listen!” He threw the shield down from his arm into the midst of the struggle, under the feet of Bedwyr’s horse, and he flung wide his arms, “Bedwyr!”

Rhuawn hesitated in the midst of a sword stroke, and Bedwyr looked up. I was close enough then to see his face. He had a throwing spear in his hand; the light gleamed on that, and on his eyes. His arm was back, ready to hurl the spear, and, even as I watched, that arm came forward too quickly to follow, and something flashed. Gwyn, poised high in the saddle, perfectly balanced for each step of his horse, suddenly fell. Everything seemed to happen very slowly. I saw Gwyn fall onto the road as though he were falling through water, his horse plunging on past him, flicking her ears back, confused, not understanding what he was doing. Gwyn rolled over into the dust onto his side, rocked back; put out one hand and pushed himself up. He brought his knees under him and tried to stand, but fell back onto the road. Bedwyr’s spear jutted out from under his collarbone, very black except for the bronze sheathing on the butt of it, which stood out like some incongruous jewel. Gwyn opened his mouth, a look of astonishment on his face, but when he gasped only blood came out. One hand felt at the spear, pulled at it, then slid back down into the dust, palm upward, and he lay relaxed, twisted on his side with the astonished look still printed on his face and the brilliance fading already from the dark eyes.

I was screaming, I realized, a horrifying loud, shrill sound; I dropped my mare’s reins as she finally reached the group of men and stopped where the other horses had. I could scarcely hear someone’s shriek of “Murderer!” or the cry of a horse struck by another spear. I tried to stop screaming and could not. All around me now was the shouting and the confusion, and I thought
They will trample Gwyn
, and looked for him among the dust and the hooves, the shaken dust and the lime in the air and the blood on the road. I pushed my hands into my mouth, trying to stop myself from screaming, and some rider, some half-familiar face, dashed over and caught my mare’s bridle, then spurred his horse to a gallop, dragging mine after him. I caught my mare’s mane, trying to stop her, and she danced wildly and reared. Not sure what to do, and not even remembering which party this warrior fought for, I kicked my mount back into the gallop. The blood and sunlight of the road vanished behind trees; I realized I had been looking back. There was more shouting, and some other riders galloped after us, caught up with us and drew even.

“They are not following us,” Bedwyr’s quiet voice said beside me. “They are seeing to Gwyn, and to the wounded.”

I looked behind me, and already the road was lost in the trees. I did not know even in which direction our wild gallop was taking us. Branches whipped past us, tearing at me. “Let me go back!” I cried.

Bedwyr nodded to his friend, and the other let go of my bridle. I gathered up the reins and slowed my mare to a walk. The others did the same.

“Do not go back,” Bedwyr said. “I beg you, my lady, come with me.”

I stopped my horse. She stood still, her sides heaving and her eyes rolling back at me, ears laid flat against her head. Around us was only the sound of the wind in the leaves, the song of birds. I took a deep breath and looked up through the branches at the obscured sky. “Gwyn,” I said, and my voice was almost gone. “You killed Gwyn. You killed him.”

Bedwyr said nothing.

“But he was not even fighting; he had thrown away his shield! You
killed
him!”

I pulled my mare’s head around, ready to force her back in the direction we had come, and Bedwyr leaned over and caught my hand. I finally looked at him, and saw his face for the first time. I have seen men dying in agony, from sickness or from wounds, and they have the same white, tortured face, and the same puzzled eyes.

“My lady,” he whispered. “I beg you. Do not go.”

I let out my breath, found that it was in a sob.

“Your head is bleeding,” Bedwyr said, and the mask of pain faded a little, leaving his features more his own. “Here, bind it up.”

I put my hand to my head, found a spot of pain, took my hand away sticky with blood from Medraut’s blow. I shook my head. “Let us put more distance between us and them first,” I told Bedwyr. “I will go with you.”

***

We reached Caer Gloeu that evening by following one of the old roads through the forest, which joined the Roman road a few miles from the port. There was a ship in the harbor, ready to leave for Less Britain, and Bedwyr had already paid passage money for eight persons and their horses. In fact, there were only six of us, for two of his men had died in the fight on the road.

We tried not to attract attention in the town. We had stopped by a stream around noon and washed off the blood that bespattered us. Fortunately I was wearing only a plain green gown and dark traveling cloak, and there was nothing to mark me out from any woman in the port town; Bedwyr and his men might have been any party of noblemen off to buy horses.

All my things had been lost, and now I truly owned nothing but what was on my back. Bedwyr’s passage had been all he had been allowed to take into exile, and though his friends were somewhat better off, we would have to travel some distance after we arrived in Less Britain, and we had little money to spare. Because of this, we did not stay in the town, but on the ship. I had a cabin to myself, and the five men shared the one other room the ship offered to passengers.

The captain showed me the room and I thanked him for it, and was glad to sit for a while on the tiny bed. But after a time I rose, found the captain again, and asked for vellum and ink. He grumbled at this, but eventually produced the ink, a pen, and a bill of lading which he told me I could easily write over. I found a pumice stone and rubbed at the parchment, and finally, though I had pressed so hard that it seemed more fit for a sieve than for a letter, I sat down with it. I sharpened the pen, dipped it in the ink—and sat, staring at that sheet full of holes. What could I say? “My dearest joy, Bedwyr has murdered Gwyn, and therefore I must go with him, for he is grieved to the heart, and because you might have to have him retried, for murder; and me retried, for seeking to avoid the sentence you passed”? But I had not meant to go with Bedwyr. How could I say that and have it believed? And Gwalchmai would read this letter, and there were no words I could say to him. Indeed, there were no words I could say for myself. I had thought that discovery, disgrace, exile from Camlann, and separation from both the men I loved, were catastrophes almost beyond my power to endure. Now I saw that one can never say that one has seen the worst. Even the ability to express grief failed, and words seemed altogether shallow and meaningless in the face of this reality.

The ink in my pen was dry. I cleaned it, resharpened it, and dipped it in the ink again. It was of the greatest importance that Arthur should know the true story. This calamity was a thing Medraut had seized on gladly, and I could not doubt that he would use it to create the greatest ruin he could. I was bound to do all I could to prevent further disaster.