In Winter's Shadow

by Gillian Bradshaw

  Goronwy was very much excited, and ignored the second question. Having himself once fought Bedwyr, he had a great interest in the duel. “It was a near contest, my lord,” he said, “that dog Ruadh insulted her excellency the Lady Gwynhwyfar, and Lord Bedwyr fought him, on foot. Ruadh managed to get a thrust under his shield and stab in the thigh, so that he went down. Ach, but he was fast; Ruadh didn’t expect that, came in to finish him, and found Bedwyr’s sword up under his own shield, and into his stomach, quick as the lightnings of Heaven. Glory to God, it was a pretty stroke, and from his knees, too!”

  “Pretty?” cried another warrior, one of Medraut’s faction. “God of Heaven, it is a man dead, a man of the royal clan of Britain!”

  “Where is the lord Bedwyr?” Arthur demanded again, raising his voice over the renewed arguments of his warriors. They fell silent.

  “We bound his leg up, and had him brought to Gruffydd the surgeon,” replied Goronwy. “Cei is with him now. Many of us would have gone, but he himself commanded us to remain here out of the way.”

  I had not realized how my heart had been pressed, until that word freed it. Bedwyr was alive, and in control, commanding himself and the others. I felt Arthur relax beside me, though his face did not change from its set calm. “Very well,” he said. He lifted his hand to hold the eyes of the crowd, and looked from one to another of them. “It is enough, my cousins. No more quarreling. Rhuawn, go and find Lord Medraut ap Lot, and tell him that his kinsman Ruadh is dead, and that he has my leave to do as he will with regard to the burial. The man was a member of the royal clan, and his body will be respected accordingly: four of you stay here to guard it. The rest of you are dismissed to go about your own business. I repeat, there has been blood enough shed for one day, and I wish no more. Gwynhwyfar, come.”

  We hurried from the stables to Gruffydd’s house, arrived to find the surgeon just wiping the blood off his hands. He nodded to us, then jerked his head toward the bed in the corner. Bedwyr was lying on it while Cei sat on the ground beside him, folding a bloodstained cloth. The warleader was very pale, sweating with pain, but conscious, self-controlled and, most important, alive.

  “The worst of it was the loss of blood,” Gruffydd said, answering our unasked question. “The wound was bound up at once, fortunately: otherwise the fool would now be chasing Ruadh to Hell. He should recover quickly, if there’s no fever. Tell him to take the drug I have made him for the pain; he has refused it.”

  Arthur went to the bed and grasped Bedwyr’s hand. “You fool,” he said angrily. “Why, by all the saints, did you offer to fight him on foot?”

  Bedwyr shrugged. “I was angry,” he said, his voice hoarse from the pain, “and I wished to kill him.”

  Cei snorted angrily. “You could have done that better from horseback.”

  Bedwyr looked away. “This way more of the men will believe his death is a sign of divine justice.”

  “It was not worth the risk,” said Arthur. “My friend, my brother, it was not.” The anger faded from his voice and he looked almost happy; Bedwyr was alive. He continued, with incongruous lightness, “You have lost your philosophic detachment, old friend. What would your Victorinus say?” He released Bedwyr’s hand, looked around, took the cup of drugged wine which Gruffydd was now holding ready for him. “Here, drink this. There is no reason now for you to keep your head clear.”

  Bedwyr did not offer to take it.

  “I said the same,” Cei told us, “but he seems to think he must stay awake—as though none of us were fit to look after him.”

  “Take it,” I said.

  Bedwyr looked at me for the first time, and the bitter misery in his eyes shocked me. Then he looked at Arthur, nodded, and held out his hand for the cup.

  It was a fortnight before Bedwyr was on his feet again, and I thought during those two weeks that I could not go on. My friends all congratulated me and attributed Ruadh’s death to divine justice, and that hurt me even more than the insults of our enemies. I was torn also with grief for Arthur, who had to take on Bedwyr’s responsibilities as well as his own, and who grew daily more haggard and remote, and at night was too exhausted even to sleep, but lay rigid in the dark beside me, and shook me off if I reached out to him. I wanted Bedwyr more than ever, but it was torture to visit him only in respectful propriety, to be made miserable by his misery, and not to be free to speak from the heart, to touch, to console and be consoled. I was so chilled with helplessness and loneliness that I could not even weep. When finally Bedwyr was recovered sufficiently to meet me secretly, the intimacy was a paradise, a walled garden.

  “I was ashamed,” he told me afterward, when he was on his feet again. “I killed Ruadh for a lie. He spoke the truth, and died for it. I could not have fought him from horseback, and given him so little chance. Yet I did wish to kill him. He had angered me, and I wished to see him dead and bloody before me. But after it, when I had killed him—then I wished to suffer.” He looked at the earth beneath his feet for a minute, then suddenly struck the half-healed wound on his thigh. He went white; I caught his arm, his shoulders, pulled him against me. We were alone for the first time since the duel, and I had thought during the two weeks he had been ill that I could not go on. My friends had all congratulated me, and attributed Ruadh’s death to God’s justice striking down a liar, and that hurt me even more than the insults of our enemies. And I had been afraid for Bedwyr, miserable at his misery, and still torn for Arthur, with no one to turn to who could make me whole again. I could talk freely only to Bedwyr.

  ***

  I still thought about ending the relationship, sometimes. Once I meant to I was in the Hall one morning, hearing complaints from some farmers and tradesmen, and sitting at the high table, when Gwalchmai came in. Since Gwyn was sitting over at one side of the Hall, playing the harp with some friends, I thought that Gwalchmai was looking for his son. I smiled and nodded and continued to listen to one old man’s endless account of a strayed cow. I was disconcerted to look up a few minutes later and see the warrior standing in the circle of farmers, evidently waiting for me to finish. “Is there anything the matter?” I asked

  “I would like to speak with you, my lady, when you are free,” he returned.

  “Of course. Is it urgent? Then it may be a while.”

  “I will wait.” He looked very serious, and there was no trace of his usual courteous smile. The old man coughed and proceeded with the cow, and I listened, feeling decidedly uneasy. Gwalchmai glanced at the numbers waiting for a hearing, then went over and joined Gwyn. Presently, over further details about cows, I heard him singing: someone must have passed him the harp.

  “So-o,” went my old farmer, “I saw her at the market, I did, at Baddon, last Sunday it was. It was my own cow, Strawberry, but this fellow—the lying dog—he said it was his cow! But he must have found her on the road and taken her in, indeed he did, and…”

  Gwalchmai was singing:

  The blackberry’s white flower is she,

  The sweet flower of the raspberry,

  She’s the best herb in the day’s light

  And excellence of the eyes’ sight.

  “And this man’s a fool, most noble lady, for claiming that my cow is his. Am I to blame that he can’t keep his cows home? You know me well; I’ve farmed from Camlann twenty years, and I swear that it is my own cow, raised by me, and my kin and my neighbors can…”

  My pulse and my secret is she,

  The scented flower of the apple tree,

  She is summer and the sun’s shine

  From Christmas to Easter, in the cold time.

  I pressed my hand to my head, feeling the headache coming. It was good, I reminded myself, that ordinary people such as these trusted us enough to come to us for justice—but I wished they would not do it just then, and not at such length. I recognized the tune of the song, though I had never heard the words. Bedwyr had been humming it for weeks.

  Eventually I had the cow, and someone else’s grazing right
s, and someone else’s frightened sheep all resolved, and was able to walk over to where Gwalchmai was sitting with the others. I smiled at them all, and Gwalchmai stood and bowed. Gwyn, who had the harp, just then, smiled and began to set it down to do likewise.

  I motioned him to sit. “Do not trouble yourself, Gwyn—I mean, Lord Gwalchaved. I only need to talk your father, if you can spare his company.”

  By then, however, Gwyn was on his feet. He bowed. “Couldn’t you stay and talk here, my lady? If it is business, it would not disturb us, and we would be glad of your company when it is done. It is too long since anyone has heard you sing.”

  “A mercy which all must be glad of,” I returned. “But I believe that the business is confidential—fortunately for you. Otherwise I might accept your noble offer, and spoil your fine harping by trying to croak a melody.”

  We walked down the Hall together, Gwalchmai and I; Gwalchmai paused in the doorway, listening as his son began to sing. Gwyn’s voice had settled from its adolescent squeaking into a deep tenor. He was fifteen now, no longer a child, already as tall as his father. Gwalchmai smiled, glancing back into the Hall, then walked resolutely out into the sun, and I followed him.

  It was one of those spring days which make one feel as though the barriers between worlds have dropped, and that Britain must have become the Kingdom of Summer. The air was soft and sweet, the grass impossibly green, and sky seemed alive with light. The larks were singing, and even the scattering of chickens about the fortress preened themselves and beat their wings as though they too wished to soar. My spirits lifted; perhaps I was wrong about what Gwalchmai meant to say to me. But when I hummed a bar of the song he had just played in the Hall, he looked at me sharply.

  “Cei was in the Hall,” he said, “so my house will be empty, my lady, if you have time for private speech.”

  “Thank you, noble lord,” I said, trying to harden myself. “We will go there.”

  He offered me wine when we arrived, and I took some. He poured a cup for himself as well, but set it down untouched on the table by the fire, and sat a moment, looking at me with that same dark, serious look.

  “So,” I said, feeling entirely empty and almost uninterested in how it would actually happen, now that it came to the direct question from a friend. “What is the matter?”

  He looked away, quickly. “My lady, last week, when my son and I returned from our embassy to Powys, we found that Camlann still repeated this new rumor. We were surprised to find that it was not yet discredited, especially after Bedwyr had fought for it.” He stopped, looking back to me and waiting. I said nothing, and, after a time, he resumed. “Medraut came to me and spoke to me about it in private. He is very pleased with it. He says that it is true.”

  “Everyone knows that Medraut begins all the rumors,” I said. “Why should you pay special attention to this one?”

  He stood up quickly and walked to the door, which was open for the sake of the light, and leaned against the frame, looking out at the walls and the distant fields. “My lady,” he said, in a low, pained voice, “do not play games with me. I know that half the tale is a lie. Medraut admitted as much. But he says that something of it is nothing less than the truth. And I have known Bedwyr many years, and I know…what might be possible. And Medraut cannot lie to me.”

  I had lived through this discovery a thousand times in imagination, and the reality left me feeling merely tired, and, in a curious way, relieved. “Why did he go to you and tell you all this?” I asked. “And why should he be unable to lie to you?”

  “He does come to speak to me sometimes, very rarely. You know that, my lady. I am the only one that he cannot lie to, and I think that gives him relief, of sorts. And I knew our mother as well as he did. My lady, is the story true?”

  I was silent. He turned and looked at me. I felt my face go hot slowly, and stood. “I will go,” I told him.

  “No, I beg of you, wait. My lady, for the sake of any friendship there has been between us, sit down.”

  I sat again, and he sat down opposite me. He looked very remote, tense with unhappiness, and I felt something in the emptiness within me: pity. Pity for him, and a deeper, agonizing pity for Arthur. “It is true,” I told him in a low voice. I took a swallow of the wine. “I have been sleeping with Bedwyr. The rest—the supposed plotting and treachery—the rest is false. But that much is true.”

  He was silent for a long minute, then said, intensely, “You must end it!”

  “Oh God!” I said. “If we could! But we—I am not strong enough. We have tried, but it is no use. We need each other.”

  “But, my lady—my lord Arthur, your husband, do you know what it will mean to him if this is found out? And more, you must know that the Family will never believe that you were guilty in one thing but not in another: they will say, ‘The Empress and the foreign warleader were plotting the overthrow of the lawful emperor!’ taking the adultery and treason together. We will lose you, and Bedwyr, and our faith in everyone who remains, all at one stroke. My lady, how can you do this thing? This is the breach in the shield wall, and Medraut knows it. He will attack here, and our defenses will be gone like mist before the wind.”

  I looked at the table, hunching my shoulders, feeling hot and cold at the same time. My wine glass was there, the cup bronze, chased with silver in the shape of birds; it had been given to Gwalchmai by some Irish king. I picked it up and drank some of the wine, too disgusted with myself to speak. I should end it. I should tell Gwalchmai that I would do it, tomorrow, and see…but I knew it was impossible. I could not do it. I could desire it, for the safety of the realm, for Arthur’s happiness—but that was all. “My friend,” I said “love once made you an oathbreaker, and it has done nothing less to me. I cannot end it. Please try to understand.”

  “My lady.” Gwalchmai reached out, touched my hand, and I looked up: the misery was plain on his face now, the remoteness vanished. “What is to be done?”

  “You must tell Arthur, of course,” I said, then swallowed and cleared my throat, for my voice was rough.

  “I could not betray you.”

  This surprised me, and I stared at him, saw that he meant it. It hurt. “You must,” I repeated. “It is your plain duty to your sworn lord. And it is better that Arthur learns of it from you than from Medraut and his friends, and better that he learns privately, and can take steps to ease the effect the news will have.” He continued to look at me without agreeing. “Gwalchmai, the thing is certain to come out somehow, eventually, if not by you than by some other. You could not betray us any more than we have already betrayed ourselves.”

  He shook his head. “I have been your friend, I hope, and your friendship has meant much to me. My son adores you above the Blessed Virgin. And Bedwyr has been a brother to me since first I came to Camlann, for all that he has been afraid to speak with me these past months. How can I betray you to disgrace, to exile or death? And how could I tell my lord that his wife and his closest friend are unfaithful to him? If this thing will be discovered anyway, let it be discovered without treachery from me. But I beg you, my lady, as you love your husband, your friends, and the kingdom, end this thing. I would plead with Bedwyr, but when you scarcely hear me, I know that he would not.”

  He was so desperate, so caught with love for all of us, that I said, “I will try,” and half believed I would. I wished that I were dead. In a way, I supposed it would be better if I were; it would certainly be a better end to our problems than discovery. But there were blind hopes and immediate needs to meet me every day, and I did not want to kill myself. Bedwyr and I might yet successfully deceive everyone, or the situation in Camlann might improve and we might end our relationship.

  I finished the wine, trying to compose myself, then walked with Gwalchmai back to the Hall.

  I had arranged a tryst with Bedwyr that afternoon. Camlann was large, and much land was enclosed within its walls. Some of this had not been built on, and a few stray trees, young oak, birch, and alder,
straggled up the slope on the east. I knew that no one was taking their pigs or cattle there that afternoon, and there was a storage shed built against the wall where I had arranged to meet Bedwyr. He was there before me. I heard him humming the tune Gwalchmai had played as I came down the hill, and my heart leapt.

  Bedwyr was sitting on a tree-stump before the shed, holding in his hand the white wing-feather of some bird, turning it this way and that. He heard my feet among the remnant of last year’s leaves, and stood, his face lighting with that warm smile. The wind was among the trees, and the sun danced through the branches, and I knew that it was hopeless: that I could not tell him that it was over, and go.

  “Gwalchmai knows,” I said, coming up to him. “But he will tell no one. He is unwilling to betray us. But he begs us to make an end of it.”

  Bedwyr’s smile vanished, but he had already put his arms around me. I leaned my hand against his shoulder, feeling the sun warm against my back, longing for a moment of light and joy among the shadows. “We must end it,” I whispered.

  “We must,” he returned, but neither of us moved.

  SEVEN

  Early in June Arthur left Camlann to visit the king of Elmet, who was quarreling with the king of the East Angles but did not wish to bring the dispute to us for our official judgment. Bedwyr and I were once again left in charge of the fortress and, more surprisingly, Gwalchmai remained there as well. Arthur wished to give the warrior a rest, and hoped that Gwalchmai could keep an eye on his brother.

  The tension in the fortress became very great. Some of Medraut’s followers may even have suspected Bedwyr and me of meaning to seize power while Arthur was away. At any rate, there was a duel shortly after he left, and one of our faction was killed. His opponent was badly injured, and when we had him sent to Gruffydd for healing, further violence almost erupted. Gruffydd’s sympathies were well known, and many of the men believed he would either poison the wounded man or let him die of neglect. In the end Bedwyr and I managed to settle the matter without more fighting—we announced that Arthur would sentence the man on his return; we forbade Medraut’s faction’s setting up a guard; and we allowed the man’s friends to stay by him unofficially until he was well enough to be moved to a friend’s house. At least we did not have to keep him a prisoner: he was far too sick to escape. But still there was muttering in the fortress, and comments of “cunning whore” and “upstart foreigner” behind our backs. There were no more duels, but this was largely because the tension had grown so great that the two factions no longer insulted each other by ones and twos. The next quarrel, I felt, would risk not a duel but armed conflict throughout the fortress. But this was something I did not think Medraut was quite ready for, so I waited, as he did, in silence.