In Winter's Shadow (29 page)

“You cannot mean to fight, in cold blood, against Arthur and the Family.”

“I have already fought against Arthur and the Family! My dearest lady, we will both suffer if I refuse.”

“We have suffered already, and we are suffering, and we will suffer much more, whether you accept or whether you refuse; why—how can you dream of adding yet more guilt to our suffering?”

Bedwyr stood, went to the bedstead, and touched the glowing silk of the gown. “We are damned upon the Earth already,” he said in a low voice. “Must we hurry to be damned in Hell?”

“God is merciful,” I said, after a moment’s silence. “If we die because we would not break faith or betray our country and our lord, but give up our lives in sincere repentance, perhaps God will pardon us. But we know that traitors are damned to the lowest Hell.”

“If God were merciful,” Bedwyr returned, without looking away from the purple, “then none of this could have happened. God is just. In justice I at least am damned, for I have betrayed my lord and all that I believed in. I think that in damnation one has destroyed the image of God within one’s soul. Perhaps, perhaps if I live I can repair that a little. But in death the desolation would become fixed and everlasting. Perhaps it becomes impossible even to desire what is good, any more—though perhaps that can happen even to those living upon the earth. But eternal damnation…My lady, we are set about with crimes. If I accept Macsen’s offer, that is a crime. But if we allow him to return us to Britain Macsen will still rebel, on some other occasion, and perhaps when Arthur is unprepared. And if we are tried again Medraut will have another opportunity to work at dividing the Family. So to return may give opportunity for more crimes than remaining here. And if we remain here and kill ourselves, that is also a crime. There is no escape. God is punishing us, and has given us over to our sins. Why not, then, take the easiest course, and live longer? At least then I can remain true to you, if to no other.”

I would have argued with him. I would have tried to talk him out of that extreme despair and convince him that he must refuse Macsen’s offer, but at that moment two more of Macsen’s servants entered.

“Lady,” said one, nervously, aware at least that the air was tense and that she interrupted, “lady, have you decided to accept the king’s gift, which he so generously made you?”

I looked at Bedwyr, who still stood fingering the gown, but he did not look back. If we were ruined and damned, I supposed a purple gown would make little difference to it. But I was not able, like Bedwyr, to view all the world as an expression of abstracts, so that one act of treachery must change my nature. I knew myself a criminal and dishonored, but yet I could not bear to disgrace myself or my husband further, or take on one scruple of an ounce more of dishonor than I must.

“Give the king my apologies,” I said to the servant. “The imperial purple is too noble a color for me now, and it would not be fitting for me to wear it. Besides, it clashes with my hair.”

The servant sighed, nodded, picked up the gown, draping it over her arm. “It is ungracious, lady, to reject a gift so generously given by so great a king. But, so that you will not shame him at the feast, the king has given you another gown.” She beckoned, and the other serving girl came into the room, carrying a blue-green gown and a great rope of gold strung with amber and blue enamel. I thanked them for this with the utmost courtesy, and asked them to convey my thanks to the king. When they were gone I looked again at Bedwyr, and could not endure the thought of being harsh to him in his despair. Since words would be no use I went over and put my arms about him, comforting him, holding him as a mother might hold an injured child.

Since Macsen had invited both Bedwyr and myself to the feast that night, I had assumed that it was an informal occasion, where men and women might eat together. But when I walked in holding Bedwyr’s arm, I discovered that I was the only woman there. I stopped on the threshold, feeling my face grow hot under the stares of all the men. It was not the whole of Macsen’s warband, for living in a Roman town he had no proper Feast Hall and could not accommodate them all—but it was enough of the band for their stares to be heavy. For a moment I considered turning around and walking out again. Then I forgot that, and forgot the stares, for sitting next to Macsen on the dais was Cei.

The entrance to the Roman state room which Macsen used as his Hall was behind the dais, so Cei had to twist about to see what everyone else was staring at. When he did turn his face went nearly as red as his beard and he jumped to his feet.

“What is this?” Cei demanded angrily of Macsen. “You said when I gave you the letter that they were not in your fortress!”

“And they were not. They arrived this afternoon. I had them brought here.” Macsen returned smoothly. “Sit down, Lord Cei.” And he looked at Cei in a considering fashion, biting his upper lip.

Cei remained standing. “Do you intend to grant them sanctuary? They should be your prisoners, not your guests!”

“Perhaps they are. You will hear of that tomorrow, Lord Cei.”

“I am bound by my lord’s commands,” Cei said sharply, “and it would not be fitting for me to eat and drink with my lord’s enemies.”

“I am lord here, not you,” Macsen said, more sharply now. “Either remain here as my guest or leave the feast, but, as for these, they will stay.”

I let go of Bedwyr’s arm and came over as Cei hesitated, fuming. “Cei,” I said, “I did not know you were here, but it makes my heart sing to see you. If my lord’s orders to you permit it, stay, and tell me what has happened at Camlann, for I am almost sick with longing to hear of it. But if you cannot stay…Lord Macsen, I am willing to leave, and would sooner do so than cause you to take up, from your courtesy, such a dishonor as sending a guest and an emissary away from your feast.”

Macsen bit his lip and glared at me, for, put as I had just put it, to send Cei away would be a serious breach of hospitality. But Cei hunched his shoulders and gazed at me in confusion.

“My lady,” he began, then, in disgust, “ach, to Yffern with it, I mean Lady Gwynhwyfar!” But he did not continue. I took his hand and clasped it. I was surprised at how glad I was to see his face; I felt as though some clinging layer of dust were washed away, as though I could be myself again. Cei still looked confused, but almost involuntarily caught my hand and clasped it with both of his. “Well, then, my lady,” he said, more quietly. “You have been my lady too many years for me to use another style of talking now, I suppose. And despite it all, we have been friends, you and Bedwyr and I. Perhaps I should walk out and let men say what they will of King Macsen’s hospitality—but if he keeps faith, we’ll travel together tomorrow on our journey back to Camlann.”

“And I would enjoy the journey, in such company,” I returned.

Cei smiled and helped me to a seat on his right—not the seat which Macsen had meant to give me—and Bedwyr sat down beside me at my right. He did not greet Cei, only stared at the table, and Cei said no word to him. But they had known each other better perhaps than I knew either of them; they had fought innumerable battles, saved each other’s lives, camped side by side on numberless campaigns. That would make it more difficult to find anything to say now.

Cei looked at me closely as the meal began. “Well, my lady,” he said, “when you came in, I thought you looked the fairest queen since Elena the mother of Constantine, but now I see that you are pale. Have you been ill?”

“No, it is only the traveling, and the grief. But tell me, how are things in Camlann? How is my lord Arthur? And Gwalchmai—I have been sick, thinking of him.”

Cei gave me a very odd look. Beyond him, Macsen glowered. His showpiece was not behaving itself as he would have wished. Probably he had hoped for a quarrel, and hoped that Cei would storm out, leaving Bedwyr and me to impress his men.

“You believe that I conspired with Bedwyr for my escape?” I asked, guessing the reason for the look. “Cei, I swear to you I did not; I knew nothing about it until Bedwyr’s party met us on the road.”

“And she only came with me,” Bedwyr added, in a low, hoarse, voice, “because she knew that I was desperate with grief through what I had done.”

Cei did look at him, at that, and Bedwyr held his eyes for a moment, then looked away, out over the Hall. He had gone very pale, the skin around his eyes stiff from tension.

Cei’s look of anger gave way to one of uncertainty. “How did you come to kill Gwyn?” he asked Bedwyr, also speaking in an undertone.

Bedwyr shook his head, as though he were insisting on something he had said many times before. “I killed him as one kills in battle, the hand moving more quickly than the mind that should guide it. I had no time to think.”

Cei gave a little whistle through his teeth. “That was a black hour, cousin, when you planned to rescue the Empress, and a blacker one when you let fly the spear against your fellows. But I believe you. Indeed, I never thought that you would have killed our Gwyn, had you had murder on your mind. Not when that golden-tongued offspring of a fox and a devil, Medraut, was among your opponents.”

“But didn’t you see my letter?” I asked, and, when Cei looked blank, added, “The one we left at Caer Gloeu.”

Cei shook his head. “We sent to Caer Gloeu when the news first came, to see whether you were still there and to find what ship you had sailed on, so we could be sure to follow you. But there was no letter there. Perhaps it was lost, or misplaced by the men you left it with.”

“Perhaps,” I said, but I was wondering whom Arthur had sent to Caer Gloeu. If not Medraut himself, then surely one of Medraut’s friends, someone who could have taken the letter from the port officials and destroyed it privately.

I quickly told Cei what I had said in the letter, Bedwyr occasionally adding two or three words in a barely audible voice. When I had finished, Cei nodded.

“A grief to hear,” was his comment. “One of your escort insisted that you had not gone willingly, and that you had offered to tell Bedwyr that you would not go, but we did not know what to believe. Now it seems that it is all Fortune’s wheel turning against us, and even innocent intentions are turned toward ruin.”

“I pray that our Empire may yet escape it,” I replied quietly. “But I beg you, tell me what has happened in Camlann!”

Cei looked at me with an expression I did not recognize at first, I had seen it on his face so rarely: pity. “Nothing good, my lady. Indeed, there has been little enough that is good at Camlann since that witch’s bastard came there.”

I said nothing, and eventually Cei went on, “Very well then. Medraut and the rest of your escort returned to Camlann six days after they left it, and returned in sad condition, too. They had two men carried in stretchers slung between two horses and three wrapped in blankets and slung over other horses—and one of these horses was that sweet roan mare which Gwalchmai gave Gwyn. They rode up to the Hall without looking either to the right or to the left, and there they stopped. I happened to be sitting outside the Hall, enjoying the sunlight, but when I saw them coming I stood up and stared at them like any peasant staring at a fair. So Medraut dismounted before me and told me, ‘Bedwyr has stolen Gwynhwyfar. Where is the emperor?’ So I called for servants to come see to the wounded, and fetch Gruffydd the surgeon, and then went into the Hall with Medraut, for I knew that my lord would be there. Sure enough, he and Gwalchmai were sitting at the high table, talking politics, but they stopped and looked troubled when they saw Medraut come in.

“Medraut, with Rhuawn and all the others who could walk, went straight up the Hall, not hurrying at all, and then Medraut took his time in bowing to Arthur. ‘Why are you here?’ Arthur asked him. ‘One cannot ride to Ebrauc and back within a week.’ ‘My lord,’ said Medraut, very cool and pretending he’s trying not to give way to anger, ‘Bedwyr ap Brendan and his friends attacked us on the road from Caer Ceri to Linnuis, and they have stolen away the Lady Gwynhwyfar.’ And Arthur just stared at him, and frowned. After a moment, Gwalchmai said to the emperor, ‘My lord, if this is true, unless there has been bloodshed it is not a crime. You told the lady to return to her family but she has chosen exile, a more severe punishment. And Bedwyr has obeyed his sentence. But if there has been bloodshed we can claim the just blood-price and end it there.’

“Arthur looked away and hid his face in his hand a moment. I think he was stunned by it, as I was. And I did not like the sound of it, for I knew that men had been killed, and even if they had not been, an emperor cannot afford to have his wife living with another man in a foreign land. ‘She should enter some convent,’ said the emperor. ‘She might prefer that to her family, my lord,’ Gwalchmai responded, and Arthur nodded, looking as tired as I’ve ever seen him, and I’ve seen him after all his great battles, in the midst of campaigns that last years and near kill a man with weariness.

“Then Gwalchmai turned and looked at the others and said, ‘But where is my son?’ And Medraut said, ‘He is outside.’ And Gwalchmai smiled, God help him, and got up and began to walk out to see his son. I meant to stop him, but I was uncertain myself what Medraut meant, for Gwyn might have been one of the wounded. So Gwalchmai went out, and Arthur also, and Medraut and the rest. When we came out of the Hall we found the servants and Gruffydd looking to the wounded, and Arthur stopped, and looked at Medraut, and said, ‘There was bloodshed, then.’ And Medraut bowed again, to hide the fact that he was smiling (but I saw the smile first) and he said, ‘One killed and two wounded of our party, and two killed of Bedwyr’s.’ And Gwalchmai looked around, and looked at the bodies wrapped in blankets, and saw his son’s horse. And then he looked at that bastard Medraut and said, in a strange voice, ‘Where is my son?’ And Medraut went to the roan mare and cut the ropes that tied the body to her back. And then the body fell onto the ground, and part of the blanket fell aside, and there was Gwyn, dead. And Medraut said, ‘There.’ And Gwalchmai stared a moment, and then he gave this long, dreadful wail, and went over to the body, and pulled off the rest of the blanket. And he put one hand over the wound in the boy’s chest, and the other under his shoulders, as though he were trying to help him stand up; but he stopped like that, and knelt there, looking at him, and made no further sound. So Medraut said, ‘He tried to make peace with Bedwyr when we were attacked. He threw aside his shield and called Bedwyr’s name, and Bedwyr looked up, saw him, and put a spear through him.’ And he went on to say that you, my lady, rode off with the others. Arthur looked at the other men, and they all agreed to this, though one insisted that you went unwillingly. But they were all angry. So Arthur asked who else was dead, and heard the names of those who rode off with you; and then he asked Gruffydd how the wounded were, and he told him. Then he ordered some of the servants to take away the bodies and wash them and prepare them for burial. And he went over to Gwalchmai, and put one hand on his shoulder, and Gwalchmai looked up at him, looking like a creature from the dark Otherworld. And Arthur said, ‘We must make arrangements to bury him,’ and called the servants to take the body. And Gwalchmai said nothing, and let them take it. Then he got up, pulled his hood over his face, and walked away without saying anything or looking at anyone, and no one wished to say anything to him.

“Well, Arthur had the wounded seen to, and they said Mass for the dead the next morning. Gwalchmai stood through the service without saying a word, and watched the burial with a face like a statue in a church. That afternoon he led the roan mare out of the stable, took her to the slaughterhouse and killed her. Then he went through our house, found all of Gwyn’s things, and took them out to burn them. I came in as he was doing this; I had just been told about the mare. ‘What do you imagine you’re doing?’ I asked. ‘I do not want these things to remind me,’ he said, without looking round, ‘and I could not endure that another should use them.’ My lady, I cannot say what it meant to me; I was sickened by looking at him. It was the same for me when I saw poor Agravain before he died. One should not have to see such a thing done to a friend.

“That evening they had the funeral feast in the Hall. Gwalchmai came in late, walked up to the high table, but did not sit down. Instead, he drew his sword and set it down before Arthur, with the hilt toward his hand, and he himself knelt down on both knees and bowed his head. And Arthur asked, ‘What do you wish?’ At once Gwalchmai replied, ‘Justice, my lord.’ Arthur said, ‘I will write to Macsen of Less Britain concerning Bedwyr. Will you agree to a blood-price?’ But Gwalchmai said, ‘I once swore, in this very Hall, that I would go to the ends of the earth and spare no life in the world and accept no blood-price, if my son were murdered by treachery. And I will stand by that oath.’ Then Arthur looked very grim, but said, ‘I will write to Macsen.’ ‘Do, my lord,’ Gwalchmai responded, ‘but do not write to him as you have written before, or Macsen will pretend he knows nothing of any criminals, or say that we have not agreed to a repatriation treaty, and he will do nothing.’” (And Cei glanced at Macsen who was now listening enthralled, like the rest of the high table.) “‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you must promise him war if he does not give justice.’ Arthur said nothing to this. He was not eager for war, and I think he understood, Lady, how it must have come about; he never believed Bedwyr meant to kill Gwyn. And he was never one to desire the blood of any who had ever done him service. But Gwalchmai remained kneeling and said, ‘My lord, for seventeen years I have fought for you, the full half of my life. In your service I have endured wounds and hardship, I have journeyed from one end of Britain to the other, crossed the seas, exiled myself from my own clan while I still had one. Never have I asked for any greater gift than that service in itself. And now I will not even demand it of you, but I will beg, like any suppliant, that you will give me justice against the murderer of my son.’ Then Arthur said, ‘It will probably mean war. I will give you letters and status as an emissary: go to Less Britain yourself, and ask Bedwyr for justice. I do not think he will refuse to fight you, or prevail against you.’ But Gwalchmai said, ‘I have not fought for the Empire and yourself all these years to wish for some private vengeance. No, my lord, let all the world see that you give me justice against this criminal, justice and the law.’ Then Arthur sighed and put out his hand, and took the hilt of Gwalchmai’s sword. ‘You claim no more than is your due. You will have your justice, if we must devastate all Less Britain to obtain it.’”