“With all my heart!” I answered without hesitation. “Sir—oh, my father, there is nothing I would rather do.”
He laughed a little at my fervor and said, “I also ask a favor: that you try to impart to Lleu something of your own wisdom. He is unfinished. He is not full grown and is not very strong, he is eaim.ng, he sily frightened and often thoughtless. He needs to be crafted and straightened, like an arrow, and set in the right direction. My marksman, see if you can make him worthy of his name.”
“I will accept that challenge too,” I answered.
After that, we went together to the Great Hall to celebrate with the rest of the household. It was a time of new expectancy and hope, promise of an end to hunger and sickness, an end to stillborn children and bony livestock, and to all the fight to make the previous year’s poor harvest last till the next. We were glad of that spring.
The weeks that followed were full with new work and knowledge. Artos made me one of his Comrades, gracefully bringing me into his select band of warriors and counselors an entire year before his heir would become one of them. The mining too was a joy and a consolation to me. The mines at Elder Field are not large, though some of the natural tunnels go very deep; anyone looking for work can help in the less dangerous shafts and surface quarries. I had, when I was younger. Now I shared supervision of one of the deeper shafts with a man called Cado, each of us usually working only half the day. Cado was a solid man with a square face, devoted to his farm as well as to the mining; his initial uncertain deference to me soon fell away to reveal kindness and keen but gentle wit. The tunnel we worked together was dangerous and unpredictable, but that made the work worthwhile. The six men under our command were quick and clever as well as strong. We knew what we were doing, or we learned. Faulted ceilings we shored with rock and oak; newly dug passages we tested for poisonous air. I liked the even darkness, the even temperature summer or winter, the wet walls of mineral and clay glittering green and red. I liked Cado, and I liked the companionship of the other six I worked with, the respect they showed me and the responsibility I must show them.
In the evenings Artos and I played draughts, or I pored over maps with Ginevra. My small room was stacked with boxes I had sent from Byzantium and Africa, six years’ worth of books, tools, clothes, ornaments, and gifts that I had not seen since I acquired them. I unpacked these things slowly; sometimes Lleu and Goewin helped or watched, fascinated by the mysterious assortment of foreign goods. The twins coaxed me to read to them, or to tell them stories of the distant lands I had seen. I drew comfort from my small chamber and the simple things that surrounded me: the African cats that wandered in and out, the mosaic floor with its three dancing dolphins, the view of the high peaks in the distance, the infant bats in the little box hung outside the window. Once, near evening, Goewin found me outside the house reaching with cupped hands toward the bat box, and she inquired what I held. I stood a moment considering whether she would be frightened or delighted if I showed her, then opened my hands a little to reveal one of the baby bats, a tiny silver thing. “They eat insects,” I explained. “Would you like to hold it?”
“Could I?” Goewin said, as though she hardly dared touch something so exotic and fragile. “Will it let me?”
“I think so,” I said, giving the warm, exquisite creature into her hands. “They are learning to trust me.”
In April the twins were fifteen. In one more year Artos intended to declare Lleu as prince of Britain, the heir to his kingdom. Lleu, the prince of Britain: one could scarcely believe it to look at him, fragile and pale as he was. I worked to make him stronger. I saw that he had plenty to eat, sharing my own food with him when I thought he did not have enough. There was no hunting to be done at this time of year, but the horses must be exercised; we wetedcised; nt on long, easy rides through the raw and muddy countryside. Often Goewin came with us. To Lleu it must have been like a release from prison, to be out of the crowded and dark confines of the Great Hall, or the dreary chill of the villa. I was fiercely glad of the joy and strength he took from the weak, watery sunlight and the smell of damp earth, the cold daffodils and quickening hazel.
Lleu and Goewin also went out on their own, exploring field and forest and the red sandstone contours of the Edge over Elder Field. Goewin has always been a skilled rider and was trying to teach Lleu stunts and jumps; but Lleu did not even share her strength then, let alone her ability. I often came upon them practicing and would watch them racing madly through the unplowed fields, and sometimes I joined them uninvited. I never spoke a single word of disapproval. But I did not like to see Lleu vaulting walls and streams. They both sensed this and were vaguely resentful when I was with them, subdued and ill at ease. I swore to be damned before I let Lleu resent me: no one commanded my compassion. I was neither nurse nor guardian, and he could ride where and how he liked. So when the two began to slip out after dark to ride by moonlight, I told no one and did not try to stop them. When Lleu disastrously ended these escapades by breaking his arm I did not blame myself.
But they came to me for help that night, after all, rather than anyone else. I answered the tentative tapping on my door to find Goewin, for once as pale as her brother, supporting a fainting and battered Lleu. No questions, then; without thinking I caught Lleu in my arms and carried him to my bed as though he were a child of five, not fifteen. As I cut away the shredded remnants of his jacket and shirt I could not help but murmur, “Good God, Princess; what have you done to him? After I spent most of the winter trying to keep him alive, you half kill him in one night.”
Goewin stood in the doorway and watched miserably. “We went riding,” she said. “I said we should gallop, and I got ahead of him—we had to leap a stream, and he was going too fast to stop. It was dark; he missed the jump and was thrown. I—I couldn’t stop it happening—” Her voice shook. It had been her fault, and she knew it. She knew the limits of Lleu’s skill better than anyone.
“Don’t cry, little Princess,” I said. “He’s not dying.”
That made her angry. “Little Princess” stung her. She stood in the doorway a moment gazing at me wrathfully, then choked out, “I’ll get you some water.” She left the room in a quiet storm, black hair tossing, her hands shut in tight fists.
I lit a lantern. The left sleeve of Lleu’s jacket had been almost sheared off, and I guessed he must have been hurled sideways, landing on the arm and then sliding. One bone was broken cleanly and decisively, beneath skin that was brush-burned raw from shoulder to elbow. “Where else did you hit?” I asked.
Lleu spoke through his teeth. “All that side—I don’t know.”
“Your head?”
“No.” He lay taut and still, with his eyes closed and his fists clenched. Except for the arm I could see no severe hurt on him, only bruises and scrapes. Goewin came back and without a word set a jug of water by me on the floor, and turned to stir the coals in the brazier until she had coaxed a small fire into flame. After that she perched on the edge of the cot next to Lleu’s head, out of my way. She watched as I examined Lleu’s slender body, more mindful than Lleu himself of my long fingers testing the dark bruises. It wo Shuises. uld have been so easy to hurt him. But I could not forget my own helpless apprehension the summer before, as I lay under your hands, defenseless as Lleu and more desperately wounded.
“Nothing is broken but the arm,” I said at length. “Will you help me, Goewin?”
She did help me. She obeyed me, followed my directions and worked with me, but she would not look at my face or speak to me until I reached to the floor for the water jug, and the loose robe I wore slipped down my back. Then with smooth fingers Goewin traced the long, ragged scars across my shoulder blade, pale claw marks; there was such gentleness and pity in her touch. “What made these?” she whispered.
My body is seamed with scars. How is it she saw only those? I murmured, “What made any of them?” and jerked the sleeve back up across my shoulder, wishing that she had neither touched me nor spok
en. I bent to clean the abrasions across Lleu’s arm and knew without looking at her that Goewin still stared at me.
“What,” she said in an unsteady voice, “have you been doing these past six years that you have gained so many hurts and so much wisdom?”
Lleu lay listening, waiting tense beneath my hand for me to hurt and heal him. Anything I said could frighten him. “I cannot tell you now,” I answered Goewin without hesitation. My stiff fingers were steady against Lleu’s broken arm, and I was suddenly grateful for his trust and fear.
Together Goewin and I splinted and bandaged Lleu’s arm, and washed and anointed the scrapes. There was little more we could do for him. “Have you put away your horses?” I asked. Goewin nodded. “Go to bed, then,” I said. “Lleu can stay here tonight.”
“But where will you—” Goewin began.
“I’ve blankets enough for both of us. There’s no sense in moving him now.”
She saw that there was not, but would not be dismissed so abruptly. “I’ll stay till you’re ready,” she said, and bent over and kissed her twin. “I’m sorry,” she whispered in his ear, not meaning me to hear. “Oh, Lleu, I am so sorry—”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Lleu whispered back. “Thank you.”
Goewin stayed sitting next to Lleu, and I began to put things away and to spread blankets on the floor for myself. It occurred to me that Lleu’s arm would keep him awake, and I mixed poppy and wine for him. I brought it to the bedside, lifted his head and shoulders gently, and held the bowl to his lips. “Drink.”
“What is it?”
“To lessen the pain.”
Lleu drank gratefully, and I lowered him again. But I stayed next to him, watching. “It wasn’t Goewin’s fault,” Lleu said. “I suggested we go out at night.”
It was a silver-washed night of a waxing moon; I could not blame them for wanting to be out in it. “You have received just punishment for so foolhardy a suggestion,” I said. “Your sister ought to be punished for encouraging it.”
“I probably will be, sir,” Goewin said fiercely.
Lleu, lying still with closed eyes, said suddenly, “Medraut.”
“Little one?”
“That drink,” Lleu saided D; Lleu. “Is it sending me to sleep?”
I watched him without feeling anything, as though I were watching from a distance. “Yes.”
“You know he hates to be made to sleep,” Goewin said angrily. “You do it on purpose.”
“It will be easier for him,” I said, now feeling amused at their indignation.
“I hate it,” Lleu said, and struggled to sit up.
Lleu enraged: the Bright One. Helpless and splendid. “Lie still, little one; lie still.” Goewin’s eyes on me were stony. “Don’t fight.”
But Lleu fought. I always underestimate the strength of his will. “You must promise me you’ll not do it again,” he said, struggling to stay awake and furious that he could not. “I’d rather be in pain.”
“I won’t do it without good cause.” Am I that cruel? “I don’t do it now without good cause. You’ll shock your parents well enough tomorrow without having spent a night without sleep.”
“Sir, you didn’t even ask him!” Goewin said.
Allied against me.
“Medraut, listen to me,” Lleu said. His eyes were closed and he spoke slowly and very quietly. “I command you—I command you not to use on me in the future, no matter how ill or hurt I am, anything that might make me sleep, without my consent. Swear.”
I sat with my head bent. I must seem hard and proud of body and spirit, aloof and most at ease in my cold, austere surroundings; but I woke without complaint or question in the middle of the night to assist and care for them, the children who had usurped my place in my father’s heart and hearth. “I promise,” I said, hesitating a little, “not to send you to sleep at any time you might be ill or hurt, from now on.” Lleu’s rigid body had relaxed. “Did you understand that?” I asked. I turned to Goewin, inquiring. Lleu murmured something brief and inaudible. “Even if you didn’t understand,” I said in quiet, “that is a promise I will keep.” I bent over and kissed Lleu as easily and honestly as Goewin had, then stood and held out a hand to help her rise. At the door she turned and looked at me straight.
“Well,” she said carefully, “it is behind you now.” She did not mean the promise I had just made. Her words touched me with the cool surety of her fingertips. She had come to me for help; she trusted me ev
en without fear, although she knew how you haunted me. “Thank you, Medraut,” she said.
III
Edges
THE SECRET OF MY birth tore at me. It seemed strange that even when he spoke to me alone, Artos always referred to you as my aunt or my foster mother. But I asked him if I might tell the twins the truth. It seemed important that they know, especially Lleu, so that their acceptance of who and what I was could be completely unclouded. Vain of me, selfish and probably irrelevant; but Lleu must know the real reason I could not be made my father’s heir, the reason that went deeper than mere bastardy. Artos agreed. So I told them; I told them that you are my real mother, and that your brother Artos is my father.
On hearing this the Bright One immediately informed me, “But that’s incest,” antha`d I could not help answering coldly, “So it is.”
When you took him, Artos had not yet been told who his parents were and could not have guessed that you were his sister. I impressed upon Lleu and Goewin their father’s blamelessness, and avoided any judgment of you and your part. Nor did I tell them what Artos suspected afterward, and what you told me yourself, that you had wittingly made love to him so you might use any child you bore to him as a weapon against him. That knowledge in itself is terrible enough for me to live with, but the incest… I wish Lleu had been able to say something else when I first told him. That single sordid night of my father’s life dwindles to insignificance in the black light of my own shame.
So, they knew now, and that secret was shared. Finally I could shut away the thought of you, just as I hid the dragon bracelets from Cathay that I could neither bring myself to wear nor to give away. And I no longer dreamed of you.
It was a gentle summer, and when I was not at work I was often with Lleu and Goewin. Inwardly I longed for their companionship, and the two sometimes allowed me within their circle. Not completely, and not always. But enough. We visited the smithy; we flew my Oriental kites of red and gold paper from the top of the Edge. We rode together, and spent long hours exploring the surrounding country. And twice I took Lleu and Goewin into the copper mines. The first time was by day, with Artos. We stood in the entrance of the cavern that leads to the main workings, and Cadarn the chief foreman explained to the twins how the copper ore is removed and how the shaft entrances are reinforced with stone lintels. But I am not sure they saw anything beyond an impression of the intriguing black, hollow place before them, shot through with darts of flame and glinting water, and echoing with the voices of men and the sound of metal against rock. The second time I took them was by night.
During the long spring mornings Artos was rebuilding the floor and heating system of the villa; he was painstakingly prying up sections of tile and replacing the crumbling hollow clay bricks that lay beneath the atrium. The exposed catacomb of the hypocaust had the look of a miniature crypt, ancient and airless, so old and grim that while the floor was uncovered Lleu would not walk through the atrium by himself after dark. One night I challenged him: “Would you see real darkness?”
Goewin, fearless, said, “Show us.” So that night I took them back to the mines. We made our way quietly through the young fields to the forest and the Edge; Lleu’s broken arm kept us from being able to climb, so we took the safest and most open paths. But beneath the Edge there is only the earth itself, and there the concept of safety becomes brittle and trivial. We stood in the first cavern, quiet now, and Lleu’s face was waxen in the light of his taper.
“Look up,” I said.
Lleu said, “We mustn’t go in very far.”
“No,” I answered. I did not laugh.
I marked the walls with charcoal when we came to turnings. Lleu and Goewin had only seen these tunnels full of the movement of men pulling carts and cutting stone. The carts stood at rest now, and the stone lay in heavy piles or jutted strangely and unnaturally from the walls where it had been hewn. The caves are no darker by night than by day; our candle flames cut the darkness softly, like aingftly, l hand parting hair, not a chisel shaping rock. We kept to wide, straight, level passages, for the tunnels and caverns connect and cross, run parallel and above and below one another. It is a quiet, secret place. At night it seems to return to its former silence, the silence of the inside of the earth, ignoring the little pickings of the miners during the quick days.
“This is all yours, Lleu,” Goewin said suddenly. “When you’re high king, this will be part of your kingdom too.”
“Dare anyone say he owns this?” Lleu said.
“Surely not one who is afraid of the dark,” I answered quietly.
He hated that. He hated it, and never argued: we stood two hundred feet below the surface of the earth, and only I knew the way out. Even Goewin said nothing in his defense. The prince of Britain, and afraid to walk through his own house at night! Well, he was not prince of Britain yet.
Perhaps I managed to shame him with my derision, and now he learned to disguise his fear. After that night, as his father replaced the atrium floor, Lleu followed behind, filling in and matching the broken stretches of mosaic with chips of glass and malachite and azurite. After he had glimpsed the abyss, the low dusty hollow place beneath the villa no longer frightened him. But I had not finished with this lesson in darkness.
The Winter Prince Page 3