Cei and Rhuawn made their reconciliation at the feast, quietly but publicly. Arthur granted three petitions, one for mercy by a criminal, one for a just settlement of a feud, and one that of the boy Gwyn, who had his place at Camlann confirmed. I had him called in, and he stood before the high table looking very thin and afraid. Arthur smiled at him gently.
“My lord,” Cei said, remembering his irritation from the afternoon, and on edge from the forced reconciliation, “why not send this boy home and find the Empress a proper clerk instead? He is only a bastard from a monastery, and likely to be no use with either pen or sword.”
Arthur looked at Cei sharply, and the corner of his mouth twitched. The black mood of the afternoon might never have existed. “Cei,” he said in an even tone, “I am a bastard from a monastery.”
“You are an emperor, and were never anything else,” Cei replied without so much as blinking. “I knew you to be capable of Empire from the time you first came to Camlann, long before you claimed the purple.”
Arthur smiled. “Spoken with uncustomary gallantry, old friend, but nonetheless a lie. Who was it that called me ‘the monk’ when I first took service with Uther? Yes, and knocked me down when I took exception to the name! And yet, I thank the heart that can so overlook the past. Boy, you are welcome here. You are to help the Empress Gwynhwyfar as she sees fit, and may spend the rest of your time training with the other boys of the fortress. Take note, Lord Gereint, you will have to train him! They use the yard behind the stables in the morning; go and join them tomorrow, if the Empress has nothing for you to do.”
Gwyn flushed with pleasure and bowed very low, his eyes shining. He was a sweet boy, I decided, and I wished him all good fortune. Likely he would need it, for the other boys would hardly welcome a foreign intruder to their well-established circles.
I rose and poured more wine for the high table, as I did at every feast, even the ones most women were barred from—it confers honor, and the men love it. The emissaries smiled and bowed their heads when I poured for them. I knew what they saw—the purple-bordered gown of white silk I was wearing, the gold and the pearls, the confident smile, the lady of the glorious fortress that was the Empire’s heart. A lie, and the glory of the feast also a lie, which we told them without speaking a word. The brittle splendor of ice, soon broken; frost on the grass that melts with the morning sun. And yet, the bitter truth of division, of foreign hostility and inner weakness, might fade away, and the glory would remain alone, and who could say then that it was a lie?
Yet that night when I returned to my own house and saw the ashes of Menw’s letter in the fire pit I grew sickened at myself. I wished desperately to be honest, to weep when I was grieved, to return openly love and hatred, to escape from riches, honor, and the sword-edge of power. But Arthur was already in bed, asleep in the sleep of exhaustion. He bore a heavier burden than I, and needed his rest, so I crept into bed quietly so as not to wake him.
TWO
I visited the lord Gwalchmai ap Lot the next day, before he set off for Gaul. He had a house to the east of the Hall, on the steep side of the hill but with a fine view toward Ynys Witrin and the marshes. When he was in Camlann—which because of his value as an emissary was seldom—Gwalchmai shared the house with Cei. When Gwalchmai was not there, Cei brought his mistress and her children into the house to live with him, as he disliked being alone. Warriors are used to close quarters, in the Hall or on campaigns, and never like solitude. Cei probably would have preferred to stay in the Hall most nights, but his rank and importance forbade it, just as it forbade his marrying his mistress. She was a fat, good-natured washerwoman named Maire and had been Cei’s mistress for some years now. She was a widow with four children, the last two of whom were Cei’s. She was at the house when I arrived, helping Gwalchmai’s servant Rhys pack while Gwalchmai sat on the threshold sharpening a spear. Her third child, Cei’s chubby two-year-old son, sat on the other side of the threshold sucking his thumb and staring at the whetstone as it glided rhythmically along the bright metal of the spearhead.
Intent on his work, Gwalchmai did not notice me until I was almost at the door, but when the morning sun cast my shadow before him he looked up, then set down the whetstone and rose.
“My lady,” he said, “a hundred welcomes to you.”
Cei’s son grabbed the whetstone and began to pound it hopefully against the threshold. “No!” Gwalchmai said, looking for a place to lean the spear. I knelt and took the whetstone away from the child.
“You mustn’t do that,” I told him. “It will break.” The child gave a howl of outrage and tried to grab the stone back.
“Cilydd!” said his mother, emerging indignant from the house, “you are a bad boy! Ach, many greetings to you, most noble lady—Cilydd, be quiet, do not disturb the lady.”
“Cilydd is like his father: he speaks his mind,” said Gwalchmai, smiling. “Here.” He picked up another stone, a piece of ordinary flint, and tapped it against the threshold. Cilydd stopped howling and squinted at it. Gwalchmai offered him the stone, and the boy took it and began pounding the doorpost. The warrior straightened and dusted off his hands. “Again, my lady, welcome,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding. “But I am afraid my house is not fit to welcome you, at the minute.”
“Ach, great lord, we can leave,” said Maire cheerfully.
“It would not matter much if you did,” said Gwalchmai’s servant Rhys, also emerging from the house, “for the place would still be inside-out. You have moved in and out often enough, Maire. One would think you could do it better by now.” Maire grinned and bobbed her head, and Rhys, having dealt with her, bowed to me. “Greetings, most noble lady.”
“I am sorry to have no better hospitality to offer you, my lady,” Gwalchmai said, “but if you care to come in, there is probably some wine.”
“I thank you, no. Lord Gwalchmai, I wish to speak with you. Perhaps we could walk down to the walls—unless you need to prepare for your journey now, of course.”
“I am the last one needed to prepare for my journey; indeed, I am in the way—am I not, Rhys? It is a sweet morning, my lady. Let us walk.” He leaned the spear against the doorpost, then, looking at Cei’s son and his flint hammer, handed the weapon to Rhys instead. I handed Rhys the whetstone, which I was still holding, and Gwalchmai and I set off down the hill. It was indeed a sweet morning. The previous day’s clear weather continued, and the sun was bright in a soft sky, the air warm enough to make my spring cloak too heavy. Gwalchmai wore no cloak, and for once was without his mail shirt as well, and he walked lightly. His red tunic was loose, and I could see the end of a scar running up onto his collar bone. He had plenty of scars.
“You seem pleased today,” I said, to start the conversation, and because he did appear happy—a rare thing recently. “And Rhys did as well. Are you glad to be leaving Camlann?”
“To be leaving Camlann—I am neither pleased nor displeased at that, lady. But I am glad, for Rhys’s wife had her child last night, and she and the baby are both well.”
“Ach, good! I must visit them. Is it a girl or a boy?”
“A girl. And Rhys is pleased with that, as well, for now he has both a son and a daughter.”
“I am very glad of it. So, will Rhys be coming with you to Gaul now?”
He shook his head. “I have told him to stay. He was meaning to stay until his wife was delivered, and there is no need to change the plans. He now says that he will go, because she is safe, but it is plain that his heart stays with her, and I would not wish to drag the rest of him away.”
I was a trifle disappointed. Rhys was a plain, honest, down-to-earth farmer’s son, and in his way as great an idealist as Arthur. When he had become Gwalchmai’s servant he had eased one trouble from my mind. Gwalchmai was otherworldly enough to forget to eat, and honorable enough that he thought it preferable to be cheated than to stand up for his rights against someone weaker. Without Rhys he would undoubtedly overwork himself. I
wanted to order him to be gentle with himself, wanted to mother him, as I had ever since I first met him. Then he had been flat on his back and delirious among the other wounded whom Arthur had left in my father’s cow-byre, the first time he came to my home. Gwalchmai had watched me then with the dark eyes of an injured animal, and flinched when I came near him. Most wounded men like having a woman to tend them. They are reminded of their mothers, and feel safer. Perhaps I had reminded Gwalchmai of his mother, and the thought of Morgawse had frightened him. At any rate, I had noticed him, shown him special warmth, until the wariness dissolved suddenly and absolutely into gratitude and friendship. But he was too proud to receive much from another. He would give his heart’s blood for me, or for any of his friends, but I could not tell him not to work too hard. So I said only, “I hope your journey will not be too long.”
“It is not likely to be long.” His smile faded. He knew as well as I that Macsen would raise new questions for every one that we solved, and that he would have to return to Camlann for more consultations.
“That is what I wished to speak to you about,” I told him. “You will probably be back in another month.”
He nodded, frowning a little, his eyes fixed on my face.
“Although officially you have heard nothing, you know of this new rumor. If the negotiations are protracted, it will grow. And as it grows it will turn into an attack on Arthur as well as on you. They have begun to move against him, these rumors: they hint more and more that he is a fool, that he listens to flattery, and is partial and unjust. Listen, I want you to bring up the subject of the negotiations tonight and in the hearing of those who believe the rumor, if one of them challenges you on it, appeal to Arthur and have it dismissed. I talked to him about it this morning, and we agreed that this might kill it.”
The frown grew deeper. “I could speak of it tonight in the Hall. But I do not think I would be challenged. And if I were challenged—my lady, I do not wish to fight anyone. If I were challenged it might well be in such a way that it would be impossible to settle the matter by appeal, and I would have to fight.”
“You could always appeal. No one would suspect you of being afraid.”
“They will say that I am afraid to kill; or, more likely, that our lord Arthur prevented me from fighting so that I would not kill, because he did not trust what I would do in combat. And there would be some truth to that. I do not know what I might do, either.”
Gwalchmai was subject to a kind of madness in battle, which took his actions beyond his or anyone’s control. He considered it a gift from Heaven. Medraut had made much of it, saying that his brother’s mind was disturbed and that he was likely to go berserk at any time. I had never seen this famous madness, and certainly never seen any trace of insanity in Gwalchmai, but most of the Family had fought beside him and were more willing to listen to Medraut’s stories.
“Are you really afraid of that?” I asked Gwalchmai. “Have you ever killed against your will—for instance, in a mock combat?”
He hesitated. “No. No, I do not think I would kill…but even without killing, I do not wish to fight anyone of the Family.”
“Nor do I want you to fight anyone. But I want the matter brought into the open.”
“If it is, and if I can appeal, and Arthur then decrees for me, it will merely transfer the blame to him.”
“And that will help to bring the matter to a head. Gwalchmai, time is against us. Medraut has worked slowly. First he exclaimed against Agravain as a matricide, and then you. He found a faction of his own. Now there is a continual questioning of Arthur’s judgment, and a mask of wronged innocence when it becomes apparent that Arthur suspects and disbelieves him. But if we push the pace, make him accuse Arthur now, before his followers have had their minds quite poisoned, we may force him further than his friends wish to go. We may even catch him in treason, and be able to exile him somewhere and reunite the Family. But if we let him take his own time, he will destroy us. Isn’t that his goal?”
“It is. But you have omitted one of the things he has done, my lady. He knows that you are his enemy. He says that you are in league with me; perhaps he even says we are lovers—forgive me! I think he may have hinted that. If Arthur supports me, it will be said that it is your doing, that he is weak, a deceived husband ruled by his wife. It would be very ugly.”
“It will be ugly, and painful. But it will be worse if we delay. We must get it over with.”
“There is another thing Medraut may do,” Gwalchmai said, very quietly. He glanced about to see that no one was near enough to hear us. But we had reached the walls and were walking along them, with open space on one hand and only the rough mass of stone on the other. “He may accuse my lord Arthur with the truth.”
“It will still take time for him to have the truth accepted,” I replied, after a pause. “And he will not have the time if we succeed.”
Gwalchmai was quiet for a while, walking with his head down, staring at the grasses. Finally he nodded. “Very well,” he said heavily. “Since you think it likely to do good…and very probably, after all this, no one will challenge me.” He smiled apologetically.
“Thank you.” I caught his hand and pressed it. “And you need not try to fight anyone. I agree that your killing a member of Medraut’s faction would be the worst thing possible.”
He smiled again and bowed his head. I had known that he would do as I requested, and had known also that he would be reluctant. I had been the one to speak to him, rather than Arthur, because Arthur he would have obeyed at once, while he allowed me to argue him into it. It was easier for him so. But it was a hard thing to ask of him. He knew that, despite my reassurances, he might be required to fight a duel, and could only hope that he would not be forced to kill. I knew how bitter the thought of drawing his sword against a member of the Family must be to him. I looked at his worn face and wished I had not had to ask it of him. But that is another of the bitter facts of power: those who give freely must be asked to give again and again, till they have nothing left to give, while those misers who hoard every drop of their wealth and strength can escape rich and easy to the grave. Perhaps God will give fair justice to all, but they find none on Earth.
We came to one of the stairways built along the inner face of the wall, and climbed it to the ramparts. The walls were not guarded in time of peace, and the battlements stretched empty to either side, curving about the hill. We turned, and looked back at Camlann, rising lively and strong from the smoke of the morning fires.
I looked sideways at my companion. It was hard that Cei must be restrained from quarrels, when he took them lightly, and that Gwalchmai must be encouraged to court them. But it would do no good to have Cei quarreling, while Gwalchmai might manage to resolve something…he looked like his brother Medraut, the cause of his grief. He was said to look even more like his mother Morgawse, the reputed witch. Blood is a strange thing, that can be so at odds with itself…I thought of my cousin Menw, and turned the thought quickly. “Gwalchmai,” I said, because it was a bright morning and I could speak of such things, “your mother—was she beautiful?”
He did not seem surprised at the question, but his hand slid to the hilt of his sword and his eyes widened a trifle, as they did whenever she was mentioned. At times like this he looked as though he had stepped from the hollow hills, and most people seeing him in such a mood crossed themselves. “She was very dreadful,” he said, softly but quickly.
“But was she beautiful?”
He paused, his thumb idly rubbing the gold crosspiece of his sword’s hilt. “I do not know,” he said finally. “I always said, ‘She is beautiful,’ to explain what happened to those who beheld her. Yet when I confronted her—twice I confronted her, once when I left the Islands, and once before she died—then she did not seem beautiful. No. If the sea and the earth are beautiful, she could not have been. But to look at her troubled the soul, and no one who once saw her could forget her.”
“But why? Even now, even dea
d, she influences us. Arthur and Medraut both fear her still. And Agravain…” I stopped myself; it was not kind to remind Gwalchmai of his brother.
“It was the force of her hatred and the force of her will,” he said, slowly now, but still softly. “Her sorcery. That was real, as I have cause to know. In her…it was as though this world and the Otherworld met.”
“You speak as though she were a kind of demon.”
He looked away. “Perhaps she was.”
I put out my hand to touch his, to call him back to the real world—then, again, stopped myself. Instead, I turned and looked out over the fields outside the wall, beyond the ring and bank defenses of the fortress. The nearest field was brown and raw, newly furrowed by the plow; beyond it sheep grazed in a pasture and the new lambs were dancing in the sun. Far off rose the hill of Ynys Witrin, blue-green and mysterious above the deeper green of the marshes. It seemed to float above the cultivated land. I could see why it had its name, “Isle of Glass.” But now that name made me think of the castles in the tales, the towers of glass which are said to revolve between this world and the next, surrounded by mist, torchlight, and sea: gateways to either Yffern or the Kingdom of Summer, to Heaven or to Hell. The tales say that this world and the next penetrate each other. You can walk into a familiar field, they say, and suddenly find that it has grown strange; and turning, discover that all familiar things are gone. And they say that what the world is depends on the heart’s intention, that reality is fluid as water, that one can put one’s hand through its cool surface and touch some deeper reality, like a rock beneath the surface of a stream. And had Morgawse found some such reality, to trouble the current of the world by the power of her will and the power of her hatred?
In Winter's Shadow Page 5
