There were half a dozen carts drawn up before the main storeroom, with their owners, all tight-lipped, independent clansmen, sitting in the carts in a row, looking sour because I was late. Normally I enjoyed bargaining with them because they enjoyed bargaining, and practiced it as a great art. Now I found it maddening, and wished I could simply impose a reasonable price and have done with it. Instead, we worked through the preliminary stages of the poorness/richness of the previous harvest; the amount of seed corn available to the farmers; the amount the grain would sell for in an ordinary market; the relative scarcity/surplus of grain at Camlann and in the countryside; the value of the goods Camlann offered in return for the grain; the relative scarcity and value of these, and their cost in terms of products other than grain. We were finally approaching the vital question of whether the farmers wanted payment in cattle, woolen goods, or metal, and how much, when the Family’s infantry commander, Cei ap Cynryr, came storming along the wall of the Hall, saw me, and made his way toward us. Cei was a very big man, the largest in the Family. He had a great mass of sandy red hair, and wore large quantities of garish jewelery and brightly colored clothing so that even when he was in a quiet mood it was impossible to overlook him. Now he was plainly in a temper. I braced myself.
“That golden-tongued, oily-mannered bastard!” he exclaimed, pushing aside a farmer. “My lady, you must speak to Rhuawn and make him offer me an apology, or I will fight him, I swear it by my sword, and not spare him. And yet it is not his fault, but the fault of that weasel from the Ynysoedd Erch.”
I took his arm and hurried him aside. I knew who “that weasel” was, but it would be better not to let the farmers, outsiders, know the details of quarrels within the Family—although by now most of Britain must be aware that Arthur’s invincible, formerly indivisible force was torn in half by violent factions. The quarrel had been going on long enough to become notorious. Almost since “that weasel” arrived in Camlann.
“What has Medraut done now?” I asked.
Cei spat. “Ach, he has done nothing, not directly. Would you expect it of him? No, he will never confront a man to his face. He will leave some lying story behind his back, and let someone else fight for it.”
The farmers looked very interested at this, and I made hushing motions. Medraut ap Lot was the youngest son of Queen Morgawse of the Orcades Islands, which in British are called the Ynysoedd Erch, the “Islands of Fear.” His mother was the legitimate daughter of the Emperor Uther, and Arthur’s half-sister. Medraut had adored his mother, who had intended him to become king of the Islands on her husband’s death, though it was widely believed that he was not her husband’s son, but born of an adulterous love affair. However, Morgawse was dead, murdered by her eldest son Agravain in revenge for another of her affairs and for a rumored connection with her husband’s death; and the royal clan of the Islands had chosen Agravain as its new king, despite the murder. The queen had been reputed a witch and the clan had not loved her, though they were too much afraid of her to deny her anything. They were not so afraid of Medraut, and he had come to Camlann, while the new king, his brother, who had long fought for Arthur, returned and ruled in the Islands. Medraut was very bitter against Agravain. But the immediate cause of quarrels was generally his other brother, Gwalchmai, who was also at Camlann, and was one of Arthur’s most trusted and valued followers. Gwalchmai seemed to be hated by Medraut even more than Agravain was, though he had had no part in the murder, and most of the quarrels were between his friends, of whom Cei was one, and Medraut’s.
Cei glanced at the farmers and lowered his voice. “Rhuawn has taken to blaming Gwalchmai for the death of that witch from the Ynysoedd Erch. He has been repeating that tale for years now, like a catechism, so that half the Family thinks that Gwalchmai murdered his mother—as though the witch deserved to live in the first place! Whose tale is that but Medraut’s? Ach, but it is an old story; so old that I must listen to it in silence and say nothing. But when Rhuawn dared to say that Gwalchmai is hindering the negotiations with Less Britain, and deliberately obstructing the conclusion of a peace there, because of some imagined weak-mindedness—when I heard Rhuawn saying this to his friends, I went to him as he spoke and told him that it was he who was weak-minded, to believe such ravings. And Rhuawn leapt up with his hand on his sword, and called me a blind, stubborn fool who could not see what was before his eyes, and accused me of flattering the emperor into believing falsehoods—and this in the presence of four others! My lady, I could ask Arthur to demand that Rhuawn apologize to me, but I do not wish to humiliate the man. You can persuade him to offer it: do so, for God’s sake, or I will fight him tomorrow, and, though he is a fool, I do not wish to harm him.”
I nodded, feeling sick. The quarrel was typical. I had had to wheedle too many warriors into offering apologies, and I could not disguise the fact that my sympathies were entirely with Gwalchmai, which meant that it grew increasingly difficult for me to win over members of Medraut’s party, which included Rhuawn.
Warriors tend to quarrel in the best of years. They are taught to regard an insult, or an admission of weakness, as a dishonor, and the only remedy for dishonor as the sword. They quarrel most in the winter, when they are kept in a narrow space together—the three hundred men who slept in our Hall had more space than most—and have little to do. In the summer they can go to war if there are any wars to be fought, or else fight bandits and form escorts, or, at the least, go hunting; and then they tend to be good-natured. But the quarrels at Camlann were more serious. They were not easing with the warm weather. For years they had been growing steadily worse, and the ordinary methods of soothing them—flattery and pleas on both sides—were working less and less well. I was afraid for the future.
“If Rhuawn apologizes,” I told Cei, “you must beg his pardon for calling him weak-minded.”
“Must I, by God? He is weak-minded, to believe such slander!”
“The slander is Gwalchmai’s affair. If anyone accuses him to his face, he can demand an apology, and we can see to it that he receives it, at least as far as the negotiations with Less Britain are concerned. But it is not your affair to fight Rhuawn on his behalf, noble lord. Let Gwalchmai guard his own honor. He is not exactly helpless.”
“He is too courteous. And no one will accuse him to his face if they must fight him: he either escapes the insults or turns them.”
“It is still his affair. And if you do not wish to fight Rhuawn, noble lord, you will have to apologize.” I said it more sharply than I meant, for I was growing impatient.
Cei again began to protest, but one of the farmers, also impatient, came over and suggested a price for his grain, asking if it was acceptable. It was too much, and I knew it, but I snapped “Perhaps,” and went back to make arrangements. Cei hung about behind me like a large red thunder cloud, waiting for me to finish.
When we had fixed on a price—and the price was still too high, since I was in no mood to bargain patiently, and these southern farmers are not to be out-bargained at the best of times—I was further distracted by a petitioner. A boy who had been sitting in one of the carts jumped out and knelt before me.
“What is it?” I asked wearily.
“M-most n-noble queen,” he began, then switched to a surprisingly good formal Latin. “Your Grace, I have come here hoping to find a place in the emperor’s service.”
I had expected some complaint about a neighboring clan, and I looked at the farmer whose cart the boy had been sitting in, surprised. “Isn’t he your son?”
The farmer shook his head. “No, noble lady. I only gave him a ride from Baddon. He is a good, biddable lad, though; listen to him.”
I sighed and brushed back a loose strand of my hair. Another petition for service at Camlann. People came all the time, offering to practice any imaginable trade, and many of them we accepted, and many we did not. I did not feel like weighing this boy’s qualifications now, after the letter and with Cei looming behind me. But I reminded myself to
be strong, be gracious, and smiled at the boy. Cei snorted impatiently.
“What manner of place, young man?” I asked, also in Latin, studying him. He looked about thirteen, of average height for that age, with a mass of pale hair above a thin face and a pair of surprisingly dark eyes. He was not a farm lad, I decided. His Latin was too good, and there was a nervous sensitivity to his face which argued some education.
“I…Your Sacred Kindness, I am willing to do almost anything. But I wish to learn how to be a warrior.”
Cei snorted again. “Boy, do not trouble the lady. Go back to your family and don’t run away from it in future.”
The boy flushed deep crimson. “I…I…” he stammered.
I smiled again to reassure him. “What is your name?” I asked. “And where is your family? You are young to seek service on your own.”
“They call me Gwyn,” he said. “I don’t know my father’s name. And I have no family, except for my mother, and she is in a convent in Elmet. Your grace, I am willing to do almost anything, if you will let me stay here and train to be a warrior. I know you must train boys to be warriors here. All the sons of the great warriors—like this lord here” (with a nervous, appeasing smile at Cei)—“they must become warriors as well. Surely it would be no trouble for one more to join them?”
“So he is a nun’s bastard, raised at a nunnery,” said Cei. “My lady, send him away. We have more servants than we can feed already, and don’t need some half-grown dreamer of a nun’s bastard.”
The boy had gone an even deeper red when Cei began, but went white at the end of his speech. He jumped to his feet, began to stammer a reply, then was quiet, blinking miserably. He evidently was a nun’s bastard, and must be a dreamer, if he wished to be a warrior so badly that he was willing to leave what home he had, alone, and travel to Camlann to offer to do “almost anything” to learn the arts of war.
“My lady,” Cei began again, going back to the subject which had been his sole concern all the while, “how can I apologize to Rhuawn after his slanders?”
But I felt sorry for the boy now. “You are too old to learn to be a warrior,” I told him gently, for a moment ignoring Cei and the farmers. “Most boys begin their training between the ages of seven and nine.”
“But I did start then, noble lady, on my own!” he cried, slipping back into British. “And a monk at the brother foundation to my mother’s convent, he taught me, too—he used to be a warrior, you see. Only I need to know more.”
“Be quiet, boy,” Cei snapped, but I raised my hand for him to wait.
“Can you read, Gwyn?” I asked.
He nodded eagerly. “Yes, noble lady. And I can write, book hand and cursive both. My mother wanted me to be a priest, and made certain that I learned how to write. She taught me herself.”
I looked at Cei, lifting an eyebrow. “There is a shortage of servants who can read, even here,” I said. “I could use a copy clerk to take down inventories and keep records for me.”
Cei shrugged. “As you please, my lady. It is a waste of time to teach some priestly little bastard from a convent the arts of war, but if you need a clerk, by all means keep him. Will you speak with Rhuawn?”
“You may stay,” I told the boy. “Go to the Hall and ask for Gweir, the steward; he will look after you, and tonight I will ask my lord Arthur to confirm you in a place as a servant. Yes, Cei, I will speak to Rhuawn, but I will promise him that if he apologizes you will as well. Good fellows,” to the farmers, “if you will come with me I will arrange for you to receive the price of your grain.”
The farmers were satisfied, Cei grumbled agreement, and the boy Gwyn was overjoyed. The next matter, then, was to talk to Rhuawn—though while I was in the storerooms I ought to see about the wool for the weavers. And then there was the feast for that night.
I spoke with Rhuawn before the afternoon was half over, and eventually persuaded him to apologize to Cei. But I knew that neither of the warriors would be content. Their reconciliation was like the forcing together, of two fragments of a broken dish, which might hold together for a little while if undisturbed, but which left the break as deep and unremedied as before. And at first Rhuawn had not listened to me, but only eyed me with a kind of suspicion and given polite, noncommittal replies. By the end of our talk he had grown warmer, and told me how he regretted his harsh words, but that Cei’s insult had been too much for any honorable man to endure, and so on and on.
Yet when walking back up the hill toward the Hall I kept remembering the way his eyes slid sideways from mine at the first. The mistrust was growing. I could scarcely bridge the gap between the two factions now, and if things continued as they were, Rhuawn and his friends would soon regard me as an enemy. Indeed, I was aware of rumors about me circulating, conversations suddenly hushed at my approach. Only up to now no rumors about me had been believed.
As I approached the kitchens, where I would check the arrangements for the feast to be given that night, my name was called and I found Arthur’s second-in-command, the warleader and cavalry commander Bedwyr ap Brendan, hurrying toward me.
“My lady Gwynhwyfar!” he called again. “My lord Arthur asked me to find you. He wishes to have a conference upon the situation in Less Britain before the feast tonight.”
I stopped, trying to order my thoughts and rearrange my plans for the afternoon. “Very well, lord,” I said, after a moment, “but I must give some orders to the kitchens first or there will be no feast tonight.”
He nodded, smiling, and fell in step beside me. As Arthur’s warleader, Bedwyr would naturally be at the conference as well, so he had nothing to do but wait for me.
Bedwyr was a complex man. He was Arthur’s best friend and Cei’s as well. But he was as different from Cei as a man can be, and different from most other warriors as well. He dressed plainly, without any of the bright colors or jewelery they love. He had very dark brown hair, brown eyes, wore his beard close-trimmed, and his usual expression was one of quiet attention. Very little escaped his notice. He was a Breton, from the southeast of Less Britain, of a noble, Roman-descended family. He had had a Roman education, for the Roman ways are stronger in Gaul than in Britain, but he had not paid much heed to it. He joined the warband of Bran, the younger son of the king of Less Britain, who became Arthur’s ally. There he quickly gained in fame and authority, for he was a dangerous cavalry fighter, and had the clarity of thought, the self-possession, and the force of personality that make a leader in war. When his lord Bran crossed the sea to help Arthur in his struggle against the kings of Britain for the purple, Bedwyr was one of his captains. But he was wounded in the battle in which Arthur won the title, and lost his shield hand—he had since fought with his shield strapped tightly to his arm. This brush with death had put an end to his former ruthlessness, and he was converted to the philosophy he had read as a boy, and intended to return to Less Britain and become a monk. Instead he met Arthur, and after one conversation had decided that it was better to fight for God than to contemplate him in a monastery. Some dozen warriors had followed him in swearing the oath of allegiance to Arthur, and Lord Bran had ruefully remarked that he had come to Britain to help Arthur to a title, not to his own best warriors. But Arthur smiled and made Bedwyr his cavalry commander.
Yet even as commander of Arthur’s cavalry, and later, when Arthur relinquished that position, as warleader, Bedwyr had kept a philosophic detachment. He was a very good man, who had never since his conversion had one base or cruel action reported of him, and he had a passion for honor, but when I first met him, that seemed his only passion. I found him cold. He was never discourteous, but he had had very little to say to me, and would not even look at me for long. After trying for some time to be friends with him and achieving nothing, I presumed that, like many philosophers, he had little use for women. I found this the more irritating because he was only four years older than I, and no gray-bearded sage. I was puzzled that so many others, whom I loved, loved him, and I began to return his
coldness with an (equally courteous!) dislike.
When Medraut arrived in Camlann, however, and the quarrels began, I decided that the fortress could not afford this quiet enmity between the emperor’s wife and his warleader, and once again set out to be friends with him. For a long time, again, I made no progress—and then, one afternoon over something quite trivial, Bedwyr smiled at me. His smile transformed his face in a way I had never noticed before, perhaps because I had never received a smile from him before. The dark eyes were warm and delighted, fixed on my face with an attention which had ceased to be quiet and considering and had become alive, eager. Then I saw that I had been wrong all along: he was not cold. His detachment was the protection of a proud and honorable mind against a passionate nature. He had once been ruthless and violent, swayed by impulse, and was now determined to trust his mind alone. And I decided that his philosophic honor had led him to avoid women, so that he scarcely knew how to speak to them, but that he had never consciously been an enemy to me. I began to like him then, and he had ceased to be cold and distant with me, so that I came to love and trust him as Arthur did. It was the one good thing that came out of Medraut’s presence at Camlann.
Bedwyr waited while I gave some orders to the steward’s wife about the feast, then escorted me out of the kitchens. “My lord Arthur must have been waiting for us for some time now,” he commented, without anxiety. “Where were you, my lady? I expected to find you at the storerooms; indeed, I was told you had gone there.”
In Winter's Shadow Page 3
