In Winter's Shadow

by Gillian Bradshaw

  “He…I sought him out,” he said, talking quickly now in a stammering, broken voice. “I thought that he would kill me, and that would end it. I know I am no match for him on horseback. But when I rode up to him…he paid no attention. At first he paid no attention. Then I engaged him, but he held his hand. At the last minute he looked…he looked directly at me. He was in the grip of battle madness; probably he did not even recognize me. I was sure he would kill me then; he had his sword ready. I aimed a blow at his head, it would have been deflected, had he used his sword, but he would not, he did not, he only sat there, looking at me. My sword struck him and knocked him from his horse, and the horse reared and lashed out at me with its hooves. I had to turn and lead my men back, for the Family was too strong for us. Why didn’t he strike? I meant him to. Oh God, God, I have lived too long!”

  “We must go back,” I said.

  He seemed to grow calm at once. He put his hand to the side of my face and looked at me, silent.

  “We must go back,” I repeated. “We have both lived too long. But it will do more good to put our lives in Arthur’s hand than to take them with our own. If we are killed by the law we will give Gwalchmai what he wanted.”

  Still he said nothing. I pulled away from him and stood. “Listen, my heart. I decided that I would go after seeing you fighting this morning, and I will go. What is the watchword at the gates?”

  “You…you cannot simply ride out through the gates.”

  “You have put double watches on the walls to keep the men occupied and out of trouble at night. We cannot escape except through the gates.” I went to the cupboard, found my dark green dress and cut a wide strip off the hem with my own small knife. I cannot ride out. But two men on horseback who know the watchword could. I know you have been sending men out to raise the army; you have sent messengers to every corner of the kingdom. If we give the watchword at the gates and leave at night there should be no questions asked.”

  “No one would question two men, but a man and a woman would be questioned.”

  “Look,” I said. I went back to the mirror and twined the strip of cloth over my head, under my chin and around my neck. It made my face look even thinner, and my hair would not stay under it neatly—but I could braid that and fasten it so that it would not be noticeable. “I will wear this,” I told Bedwyr, “and a cloak with the hood up. And I will paint my face so that, in the shadow, I will seem to have a beard. It would not do for daylight, I know, but at night it should pass.” In the mirror, I saw that he was looking at me dubiously. “You have an armored jerkin as well as your mail shirt, haven’t you?” I asked his reflection. “Well, I will wear that, and boots, and leggings. And I can ride well enough not to give myself away. Ach, I know it is a wild plan, but, if it comes to the worst they will think we are deserters and kill us if we resist arrest at the gates. They would not expect a woman and so would not see one.”

  “If they killed us for deserters they would be right. I would be one,” said Bedwyr slowly.

  I turned from the mirror, set it down. “You would be returning to your true lord.”

  “I have sworn an oath to Macsen as well.”

  I stared at him, and he explained, “You know he has appointed me cavalry commander; do you think I could escape swearing him an oath after such an appointment? I will not break that oath as well.”

  “If you return to Arthur you will cancel out the first treachery.”

  “No. Nothing can cancel that out. I have killed my friends.”

  “And therefore you should return and suffer justice for them.”

  He shook his head. “Gwynhwyfar, I was born in this land, I was once sworn to serve its king—Macsen’s brother. I was released from that oath to serve Arthur. But I have betrayed Arthur and perjured myself. Macsen may take reprisals against my family if I betray him also; and even if he did not, I will not twice perjure myself.”

  “Yet you were willing to commit another mortal sin and die on your own sword, rather than continue to fight the Family.”

  “That is different.” He looked at the sword he was still holding, put it down and clasped the stump of one hand with the other. “I will not twice forswear myself. I would prefer to have died before being once a traitor, but I would rather be once a traitor than twice.”

  “Oh, very fine! You would rather serve the devil, once fallen, than return to God!”

  “Macsen is not the devil.”

  I sat down, angrily untied the piece of cloth. I began to put my hair up again, plaiting it.

  “But can you not see that it is worse to be a traitor twice than once?” asked Bedwyr, greatly distressed.

  “All I see is that we have done evil to our lord, and more evil has come of it. We ought to go back and suffer the penalty for our crime, not skulk about like dogs that expect a whipping and wish to avoid it.”

  “Gwynhwyfar, it is not your homeland, and you have not sworn an oath!”

  “And I wish you had not, either. And though you have I do not see why you should weigh your oath to Macsen heavier than your oath to Arthur!”

  “Because I have already broken my oath to Arthur.”

  “Ach, damn your philosophy! Oaths are meaningless; it is the heart that swears, that binds itself to what a man is and what he stands for. You never meant in your heart to serve Macsen.”

  “I cannot escape by asking what I meant in my heart. I swore to serve Macsen, and I must take the consequences. I have perjured myself once, and I know what came of that. I will not do so again, even with greater cause. I will die instead, if God, just or merciful, will grant me death.”

  We glared at each other for a moment. Then I remembered what Bedwyr had meant to do, and went to him, knelt on the floor beside him, taking his hand. I could not understand why he refused to leave Macsen, but I had to believe that he acted in accordance with his conscience.

  “Very well,” I whispered. “Stay. But I have not sworn, and I will go. What is the watchword?”

  He stared at me for a long moment, then dropped to his knees on the floor beside me and put his arms around me crushing me against himself. “Do not go,” he cried. “Do not go.”

  “What is the watchword?” I demanded, fiercely because his plea tore my heart open.

  He loosened his hold and looked at me again. “You cannot mean to leave me as well.”

  “I love you. You know that. And perhaps I only mean to go because I hate this land and this life. But I cannot endure this division any longer. If you will hot help me, Bedwyr, I will find some way to escape on my own, I promise you. Though I love you, I will—must—go.”

  As he continued to stare at me I wondered if he would kill himself if I left him. The thought made me shrink inside. But I couldn’t let him live only for me, if it was for me in the ruin of all. And I thought he had prepared the sword on the impulse of immediate pain, and that his true hope was for death in battle. He knew that a private suicide would embarrass both Arthur and Macsen, and moreover was another mortal sin. And I hoped that he would die in battle. He had nothing to live for, and it was better than pouring out his blood in the smothering red luxury of that horrible room.

  “The watchword of the fortress is ‘liberty,’” Bedwyr said in a low voice. “But the guards at the gates have a special one. When they ask for the watchword, say ‘liberty’; they will then ask, ‘Whose liberty?,’ to which you must reply, ‘The liberty of the will, and of this kingdom.’”

  “‘The liberty of the will, and of this kingdom,’” I repeated, looking at him, feeling impossibly glad that he would understand, agree to at least this much. “Was that your idea?”

  “No, Macsen’s. He gives a new watchword every day, but it is usually something to do with liberty. I will give you the clothing and the armor.”

  “Not here. I am watched when I leave this room. Could you hide it somewhere—the stables? I think I could elude the guards when I leave the Feast Hall. They do not follow me when I am with you.”

&nb
sp; “Very well,” he said, numbly.

  I studied his face, wanting to memorize it. “You can tell them afterward that I said I wished to go back for something, and so gave you the slip.”

  “No. They will know that you must have learned the watchword from me. I will tell them the truth, and I do not think the king will be overly angry. You are of no use to him, and he distrusts you. But he needs me, and will be content enough that I did not go with you. And if he does grow angry, and dismiss me from his service, all the better. He will either have me killed himself, or I will follow you and leave the execution to Arthur.”

  ***

  Macsen gave a great feast that night, to celebrate the “victory” of the foray that morning, and the “success” of the war so far. Many of the men got drunk, and tried to congratulate Bedwyr for killing Gwalchmai. They had to be drunk to do so, for he looked so grim at any mention of it that the densest of warriors would notice it when sober. I said nothing all evening, only sat looking pale and remote, but this was nothing new and attracted no attention. Bedwyr and I left the feast as soon as we could, in courtesy, and went down to the stables.

  It was dark, and the grooms were asleep. Bedwyr found a blackened lamp, and by its light we found the clothing he had left under a hay bale by my mare’s stall. I dressed, and he saddled the horse. The clothes were too large, of course, but on horseback, at night with a cloak over them, it shouldn’t show. I used some of the kohl I had borrowed to darken my cheeks and upper lip, then wrapped the scarf around my head and pulled the hood of my cloak up. Bedwyr lifted the lamp and looked at me critically.

  “Your moustache is crooked.”

  I put some more kohl on.

  “That will do very well—the guards will have to look up to see your face, and that scarf hides a great deal.” He led my mare out of her stall and handed me the reins, then set down the lamp and kissed me, desperately and hard, several times. “Good luck,” he said hoarsely.

  I nodded. My throat was too choked for me to reply. I mounted the horse and took one last look at him standing there in the pool of dim light from the lamp. The kohl from my lip was smeared across his, and his face was almost as calm as it had been when he was Arthur’s loyal and philosophic warleader. But it was a different calm, a calm such as comes to the sick when they are at last worn out by anguish, and can resist the pain no longer, but lie still and wait for the end.

  “May God keep you, and be merciful,” I said, then, not trusting myself to say anything more touched my heels to my mare’s sides and rode out of the stable.

  I met the watch in the street, but gave them the watchword in a voice as deep as I could make it, and was told to pass. I knew a quick way to the city gate, but on that ride it seemed to take a long time. My mare sensed my excitement and was inclined to be restive. She was a high-strung, nervous animal at the best of times, though she could run as lightly as a swallow flies, and had all the spirit in the world. But this unusual night departure from her comfortable stall made her bad-tempered, and I began to worry that she might cause a commotion at the gate, perhaps even rear so that my hood fell back and I was taken.

  Reached at last, the gate was a blur of torchlight which I rode into boldly, my mare’s hooves clattering on the cobblestones. Two guards before the massive oak door snapped to attention, and I could vaguely see others in the tower above.

  “Watchword?” asked one of the two before me.

  “Liberty.”

  “Whose liberty?”

  “The liberty of the will, and of this kingdom.”

  The guard nodded to his fellow, who went to the postern gate beside the main one, and unbarred it. “Be careful with that cold, friend,” said the first guard. “And good luck. The enemy are closer than they were last night, for all of that fight this morning.”

  I coughed. “Thank you. Have a quiet watch.” I kicked my mare, took her through the gate at a trot, then spurred her to a canter. To my right Arthur’s campfires glowed, but I held diagonally away from the wall until I was certain that I could not be seen by the watchers there. Then I doubled back and sent my mare galloping toward the fires as though I should die of cold for the lack of them.

  I was still far from the fires when I heard another horse galloping on my left, still too distant to see in the cloudy night. I kept my mare at her pace, fearing that my escape had been discovered already, and that someone had been sent to find me. My horse was probably the faster one.

  My pursuer realized this fairly promptly, as well, for after another minute at the gallop he called out, “Halt! Halt, in the emperor’s name!” He had a British voice, a northern voice like my own. I at once slowed my mare to a walk.

  The other galloped up, looming out of the darkness, and drew rein near me. “Watchword?” he asked.

  I hesitated, said nothing.

  “Whose man are you, and where are you going?” he demanded.

  “I am British,” I told him, finding my voice still low, hoarse from tension. “I am escaping from the city. I wish to see the emperor.”

  The sentry drew nearer, a dark shadow on a dark horse. “Watchword?”

  “Macsen’s is ‘liberty,’ but I do not know Arthur’s.”

  “A northerner,” muttered the rider, evidently commenting on my voice, “and only a boy. Eh, lad, it was well done to escape, if indeed you have. I will take you into the camp myself, for the emperor has standing orders to bring anyone from the city to him. If you’re telling the truth you’ll find yourself fortunate. Give me your reins.”

  I tossed the reins over my mare’s neck and handed them to him. He took them with a nod, turned his horse about and rode back to call an explanation to another sentry before starting back toward the campfires.

  “Watchword?” someone called as we passed the first picket line.

  “Lex victrix!” called my captor, “The law conquers,” then added, to me, “And now, boy, you do know our watchword. But hopefully you’ll have no cause to use it tonight.”

  A number of men were sitting about the main fire when we came up to it, drinking and passing a harp around. I recognized most of them, and the recognition came as a sharp pain to my heart, though I was glad.

  “Halt!” called one of these men, standing lazily and brushing ashes off his leggings. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Morgant ap Casnar,” the sentry replied, “of the warband of Ergyriad ap Caw of Ebrauc. I caught this lad riding out of the city. He is British, by his speech, and he says he’s escaping. I have brought him here because I thought that the emperor might wish to question him.”

  “As well he might. Well, lad?”

  “I am not a boy, Morfran,” I said, calling him by name. I tossed my hood back and untied the scarf. There was a profound stillness, in which the fire sounded very loud. More of the men rose to their feet. I rubbed at the kohl on my face with the scarf and asked, “Where is my lord Arthur?”

  The flap of the great imperial tent before the main fire was tossed open, and Arthur stood there. Over the fire our eyes met. I slid off my horse. “Arthur,” I said; then, “I have come back to accept my sentence.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “Does Bedwyr know you have come?”

  “Yes. He helped me to escape. Macsen had me kept under guard.”

  “Come in here. Morfran, see to the lady’s horse.”

  I walked around the fire, awkward in the heavy boots. I felt keenly ridiculous in the outsized man’s clothing, as though there were not more important things I should be feeling. Arthur held the tent flap open for me and I went in.

  There were two torches and a lamp burning inside. Cei was sitting by the light table with a pile of maps; he jumped up and stared in astonishment as I entered. Sitting on the bed, leaning against one of the tent posts, was Gwalchmai.

  I cried out when I saw him, started forward and tripped over the boots. Arthur helped me back to my feet. “Gwalchmai!” I exclaimed, feeling my face almost break with a smile such as I had not
smiled for many weary months. “Bedwyr told me he had killed you!”

  “He almost did,” Arthur said, behind me. Gwalchmai stared at me as though he did not recognize me. He had aged since I had last seen him, and he was very pale and sick, his head bandaged. “However,” Arthur continued drily, “the blow was not a solid one. Gwalchmai, Cei, my wife escaped from the city with Bedwyr’s help.”

  “It alters nothing,” Gwalchmai said slowly, “Bedwyr remains guilty.”

  “Welcome, my lady,” said Cei, taking my hand and grinning. “A hundred welcomes.”

  “A hundred thousand thanks. Gwalchmai, I am very glad that you are alive. And Bedwyr will be glad, as well.” I glanced round at Arthur, decided to say it plainly, “He meant to fall on his sword this morning, when he thought you were dead.”

  “It alters nothing,” Gwalchmai repeated.

  Arthur took my arm and directed me to another chair. I sat down, and he stood a moment looking at me. I could not read his expression, though I knew his face so well. “What is that on your face?” he asked.

  I rubbed at it, then took the scarf and rubbed with that again. “A beard. I needed one to get through the gate,” I put the scarf down. “If it is any use to you, Macsen’s watchword tonight is ‘liberty.’”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Cei.

  “It may be,” said Arthur, still watching me.

  “A night assault!” said Cei eagerly. “Indeed, lady, that is an excellent idea. We might end it quickly. It would be better than more work on those siege engines” (to Arthur) “which you took out of that book. Those will only waste time and lives.” He looked at Gwalchmai, seeming to challenge disagreement. Obviously I had interrupted some conference on how to take Car Aës, and Cei and Gwalchmai had had differing opinions. “And I still say that if our night assault fails we should abandon this accursed city, move off south, take all the plunder we can find, and go home. We can come back again next summer. Macsen would be bound to tire of playing host to us and come to terms.”