In Winter's Shadow

by Gillian Bradshaw

  “Lord Hywel,” I began, choosing my words at the cost of some pain to myself, “I am not the wife of any of these men. Lord Bedwyr has graciously chosen to give me his protection, in consideration that it was through each other that we each lost our position. Since Bedwyr suffers exile because of the just anger of my husband, the emperor, I thought it unfitting to escape more easily than he, and so have accepted his protection and his exile. If I also am welcome to your hospitality, I thank you. If not, I ask that you give me some trustworthy escort back to Britain.”

  Hywel gaped at me, looked quickly at Bedwyr, was satisfied by his expression that I was not joking. He then looked thoughtful. The fact that he was thoughtful rather than shocked and amazed made me guess that I had been right, that he had heard the rumors but perhaps discounted them.

  “Most, um, gracious Lady Gwynhwyfar,” he said, “it is a pleasure, always, to offer hospitality to a beautiful woman: be welcome, lady. Um…” He glanced again at Bedwyr.

  I quickly forestalled his next question by responding, “I am grateful for your hospitality, Lord Hywel. And I would also be grateful if you could give me the use of some private room where I could rest. We have traveled very rough these past days, and I am fatigued.” That would ensure that he did not simply send me to Bedwyr’s room. Unfaithful I might be, but I would not give the gossipmongers of Less Britain more material to cackle over, nor parade evidence of my shame about a foreign land.

  We were kept at Hywel’s fortress for two weeks before being given an escort to Macsen’s court, and I grew to know Bresta and dislike it. My first impression of it as a rich and busy town proved false. The port was fairly busy, but the town, like most of the towns in Britain, was more than half empty, falling into decay within its splendid ramparts. It was, nonetheless, the chief city of the northwestern part of Less Britain, the region called Dumnonia after the part of Britain which it resembled. Most of the people were Armorican—that is, descended from those who had inhabited Less Britain before it was colonized from Britain. They spoke a peculiar dialect of Latin among themselves which I found totally unintelligible. Hywel and his warband, with most of the merchants and innkeepers, were within one or two generations of being British—Hywel himself had left Cawel in Gueid Guith in southern Britain when he was twelve, as he told me many times. He spent a great deal of time talking to me and to Bedwyr, generally with several of his warriors about him, though he was too polite to tell us in so many words that he was keeping us under surveillance. He always treated me especially with great courtesy, at least to my face. I knew, however, that he and the rest of the fortress all viewed me as Bedwyr’s stolen woman, a show thing, a fine horse captured by a daring raider which they were eager to put through its paces and admire. They made jokes at Arthur’s expense, some of the warriors actually laughing at these in my presence. There was nothing I could do about it. That was almost worse than the shame: I was useless and helpless. I had been accustomed to responsibility and authority, and I had become a piece of Bedwyr’s luggage, the trophy of a battle. Bedwyr, of course, liked this no more than I did, and for him I was willing to endure a great deal. I told myself that things would have been no better in Britain; that with Menw they might have been considerably worse. Nonetheless, I grew to loathe Hywel, his fortress, his city, and his kingdom, and I was even glad when he sent us off to Macsen.

  We rode first northeast from Bresta: Bedwyr, his four followers, myself, and ten of Hywel’s warriors. We followed the Elorn river toward the hills, then crossed it at Llandemoch and turned south toward Macsen’s capital Car Aës. The Bretons all say “Car” for “Caer”: they speak British in the back of their throats, so that it sounds strange, almost another language. Bedwyr’s accent had been softened by years in Britain, and Hywel’s and his men’s were also gentler, but when we came to the older settlements of the interior the speech grew stranger. Less Britain is in fact several lands and several peoples. The earliest British colonies were made near the end of the Empire of the Romans, in the interior, carved out of the great forests which the original inhabitants had shunned. The coasts were only colonized from Britain later: Hywel’s province of Dumnonia, and its neighbor Tregor, were comparatively new. Cernw, the central region, where Macsen ruled directly, was the oldest and strangest part. Bedwyr’s family—it was not precisely a clan, for clans are less important among the Bretons—lived further east, near the city called Gwened in the province of Broerec. Macsen did not have uncontested authority so far east, for the eastern parts of Less Britain had partially submitted to a Saxon tribe called the Franks. Yet Macsen’s authority was felt everywhere. He claimed his descent from the first lord of Less Britain, Conan Meriadec, and could demand obedience from whomever he pleased. We arrived at his court in the last week of July.

  Hywel had, of course, informed his overlord of our arrival, and the king had also by then received Arthur’s letter regarding Bedwyr’s exile. Macsen himself came down to the gates of Car Aës to greet us—like Hywel, and like most of the Breton nobles, he had settled in a Roman town rather than a hill-fort. He treated us with greater courtesy than our present status merited, and rode with us through the town to his house, pointing out the sights to us. He was a man some few years older than Arthur, with a thin, hard face, lined with bitterness. The thing I chiefly noticed about him was his mouth, which had thick wet lips and strong white teeth that glinted through his heavy black beard. Sometimes he used to bite his upper lip and stare at someone or something with his cold black eyes, and I soon learned to recognize this as a sign of danger. But he was evidently doing his best to be charming.

  Macsen’s houses were in the center of the town, the old Roman prefecture and public buildings, and they were in very good condition. He had us shown to very fine rooms, much finer than Hywel’s, but he had me shown to the same room as Bedwyr, and the servants would not listen to my protests. It was a room very much in the Roman style, with a tiled floor, heavy, crimson-dyed hangings, and deep rugs by the bed, which was the only piece of furniture in the room. I would a thousand times rather have had a plain British room, clean and whitewashed, with a desk and tables and a case for books: this crimson luxury oppressed my spirits.

  I argued with the servants, and Bedwyr stood by the wall watching me. He wanted me to stay, I knew, though he did not ask it. He was unhappy alone. I was as well, for that matter, yet still I feared to stay. I felt that I could not allow myself to be reduced to nothing, to an appendage, to a tool to use against Arthur. But the servants were sullen and insistent, and I had no authority.

  Another servant arrived when I was beginning to despair, and requested Bedwyr to come immediately to speak with King Macsen. He hesitated, looking at me; then sighed and left. I sat down on the bed, exhausted, and the servants began showing me the things that Macsen had ordered brought there for my use, holding up silks and jewelery as though they expected me to clap my hands and squeal like a girl at the sight of such fine things. The finest piece was a gown they wished me to wear to a feast that night, “a gift from the king.” It was of purple silk, heavy with gold. I refused to touch it. The servants would not listen to my refusal until I vowed to wear instead my plain green traveling dress, which was in none the better condition for having been worn for days on end along dusty roads. At this they sulkily left the room and went off to consult Macsen’s steward, leaving me in a rage. I would not appear at Macsen’s feast dressed as an emperor’s lawful wife, not to advertise my husband’s disgrace and give Macsen and his followers a chance to gloat over Arthur’s pain.

  Bedwyr returned exhausted from his interview with the king, and sat down heavily on the bed. He noticed the gown, which the servants had left draped over the bedstead in the hope that I would change my mind, and gave me an inquiring look. I explained, with some vehemence.

  “Yes,” he said, frowning. “He wishes to make a display of us. To use us.”

  My useless anger departed. The position was too hopeless and confined for it; it would merely break
the heart, and achieve nothing. I came over and sat down beside the bed, near Bedwyr’s feet. “What did he say?” I asked quietly.

  Bedwyr shrugged, rubbed his face. “First…first he asked for the details of our sentences, and of the fight on the road—he had heard of it. When I hesitated to tell him of the last, he insisted that, if I wished for his protection, I was bound to speak to him plainly. At this I was honest with him. Then he questioned me closely as to whether I had indeed plotted against my lord Arthur, which I denied on oath, and I think this displeased him. Then…then he showed me a letter from Arthur, which he had received a few days ago.”

  I looked up silently, afraid, and he nodded.

  “It demands that he return us both to Britain. I am to be tried for attacking the emperor’s warriors upon the imperial roads, and for murdering one Gwalchaved ap Gwalchmai, of the royal clan. And you are to be tried for conspiracy and evasion of your sentence. The letter used very strong terms, my heart. It insisted that Macsen return us or he would be considered to have broken all his oaths and treaties of allegiance and begun a rebellion.”

  “Oh, Heavenly God,” I whispered. It was worse than we had expected.

  Bedwyr nodded. “Yes. It was threat of war. I…was deeply troubled by this letter. When Macsen saw that I had finished reading it, he chewed on his lip for a time, and watched me, then said, ‘You see what your lord commands me to do. Shall I obey him, or not?’ And I replied, ‘You are king; it is your choice.’ And he smiled and said, ‘But it is you who will die if I send you back, since by your own account you are guilty: the matter concerns you rather nearly. And the Lady Gwynhwyfar may escape with some lighter penalty, if your tale is true and she is indeed innocent of conspiracy, but even so her punishment will be severe.’ And he talked of punishments for a time, and of ways in which we might be executed. When I said nothing, he folded the letter and put it away again.

  “Then he took up the same tale I had refused to hear the year before last, when I came here as Arthur’s emissary. First he said much concerning Less Britain, how it should be a separate nation, and no part of the Empire; then he said that he owed no obedience to Arthur, but had previously been forced to yield to the threats and demands of a tyrant. Then he said that I, as a Breton, and as a man wronged by the emperor, ought to agree with him. To this he added much pointed flattery of how my quality as a warleader was well known, and how Arthur owed much to me, and ought to have at least given me wealth and lands when he dismissed me—as if any other king in the West would not have had me killed for such treachery! And then he recalled to me that he had before offered me a position as his warleader, and said that now he renewed the offer, if I would aid him in rebellion against Arthur; if not, he would send us back. ‘You know the emperor’s methods of fighting, his allies, his numbers and his strategies,’ he told me, ‘and my warband and the people know that you know them. They have already begun to make songs about you, how you stole the emperor’s wife, and took her away with you to your own homeland. If you are warleader, the people will follow me readily into war.’”

  Bedwyr reported this speech in a tone of great bitterness, then caught the stump of his shield hand with his good hand and stared fixedly at the purple gown. “What could I say?” he asked in a very low voice, after a long silence. “Macsen has been awaiting his chance for rebellion since first he acceded to the kingship, for he has always hated Arthur. And he knows that I would be valuable to him. If I refuse, he is more likely to try us and kill us himself than to send us back to Arthur. Arthur might well spare you, and that would certainly be of less use to Macsen than killing you to impress his own people.”

  “You cannot betray Arthur,” I said.

  “I have already betrayed him. Betrayed his trust and my position, dishonored him before his subjects, and murdered his followers. Does it matter if I add armed rebellion to my crimes?”

  “Of course! How can you mean to lead an army against the men whom you yourself have led?”

  “Less Britain has never been properly a part of the Empire. After a few battles Arthur might well make a new treaty with Macsen and withdraw. And the Family is finer than any force Macsen can raise, without Arthur’s drawing on the forces of all the kings of Britain. Perhaps a foreign war would be useful to Arthur. Perhaps it would heal the Family. And if not, what does it matter? We are doomed as it is.”

  I jumped up and caught Bedwyr’s shoulders, forcing him to look at me directly. “You did not tell Macsen that you would lead his army?”

  Reluctantly, he shook his head. “I told him that I would consider it. He gave me until tomorrow morning to decide.”

  “Until tomorrow morning.” I let him go and stepped back, thinking hard. “We might escape tonight.”

  Bedwyr shook his head impatiently. “We could not. We are in the heart of Macsen’s fortress, and have only as much liberty as Macsen allows us. And if we could escape, what then? Are we to run off and live among the Franks or the Saxons, or take to herding pigs, like the heroes of old wives’ tales?”

  “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.

  NINE

  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.