“I know what Medraut says, Gwyn,” I told him, without looking at him. “But you see, we cannot send him away. Rulers cannot send people away without charging them with some crime, and we have nothing to charge him with. And he has fought for Arthur for some years now. We must pretend to overlook him, and hope that we can weather whatever storm he manages to raise. But do not be afraid to tell me what Medraut says. If there is something important, I want you to tell me immediately. It would help me, and the emperor as well. And we can hope that Medraut will find nothing to confirm his accusations, and they will eventually fail for lack of evidence, so that men will see him for what he is. But do not tell anyone what I have just told you, Gwyn. Officially, Medraut is one of us and trusted, and I cannot be reported to have said differently or many people will think Medraut is right and that I am his cunning enemy.”
“Yes, my lady,” he whispered. “But the lord Gwalchmai…”
“No one who knows Gwalchmai at all well will believe Medraut’s accusations. But come, why do you so admire him, Gwyn? You can scarcely have met him.” I looked back at the boy, managing to smile.
The distraction worked. He flushed a little. “I always admired him—from the songs, you know. And I saw him once in Gwynedd. I thought he looked like an angel of God. He rode by on his horse, looking like the Word of God in the Apocalypse…there was a picture of that in a gospel I copied, my lady. But he is courteous, even to people like me, and he notices. The other day,”—the flush grew deeper—“he told me how to use a spear from horseback, and he showed me himself what I had been doing wrong, and was so kind! And he said I ride well.”
I smiled again, this time a real smile. I could imagine Gwyn seeing Gwalchmai, in Gwynedd: a small boy raised on songs and illuminated gospels transforming the great white stallion, the gold, crimson, and glitter of arms into wings of light, something as much greater than the world as his own hopes. Well, he could have chosen worse men for his hero-worship. It said much for Gwyn that he admired gentleness and courtesy as well as strength of arms. “Gereint the riding master says you ride well, also,” I told him. “And he thinks, as I do, that you will make an excellent warrior, if you continue to learn as quickly as you have done.”
“I…I thank you, most noble lady,” he stammered, his eyes shining. He was as transparent as spring water, that boy, and could not more hide his feelings than he could fly.
“Then go and practice riding, most noble warrior, and we will finish with the wool inventory tomorrow morning. Is it well?”
“Very well, my lady!” he replied and, seizing my hand, pressed it to his forehead before running off. I was able to smile again, really smile, as I hurried on to Gruffydd’s house.
The surgeon lived on the northwest side of the Hall, halfway down the hill. He was by birth a townsman from Caer Ebrauc, and had received some education there, and some training in surgery from those in that city who remembered the skills of the long-vanished Roman legions. On coming of age he had joined a monastery and learned some physic to supplement his knowledge of surgery, but had quarreled with his abbot and been forced to leave. He joined Arthur shortly after the death of the Emperor Uther, before Arthur himself claimed the purple. He was a sensible, hard-headed man who never had a good word or an unkind deed for anyone. When I entered his house he was pouring some sticky syrup into a cup of wine, scowling. Goronwy, the injured man, lay on a bed. His sword arm was bound across his bare chest and his side and shoulder were bandaged. His face above his black beard was pale and he was sweating.
Gruffydd nodded and grunted when he saw me, but did not greet me. He set the cup in Goronwy’s left, uninjured hand: the wine wavered as his hand shook. He swallowed some of the potion and made a face.
“Drink it all,” Gruffydd advised him. “It will dull the pain—no, here.”
“I can drink it by myself; I left my mother years ago. Why didn’t you give it to me before, if it dulls pain?”
“I did give you some before; I’m giving you more now. I wanted you to have some of your wits about you while I worked. It would be easy enough to cut through a nerve, cleaning a wound like that, and under a broken collar bone. Gloria Deo! Are you eager to lose the use of your arm? As if you hadn’t already given enough proof of your foolishness by dueling!”
“My lady,” said Arthur, emerging from the shadows beside the bed. I had not noticed him till that moment, and my heart leapt suddenly. He took my hands a moment and pressed them. The lines about his mouth and eyes were very pronounced.
“Medraut told me you were here, and wanted me,” I said.
He nodded, letting go of my hands. “I saw him on my way here, and sent him.”
“Medraut!” said Goronwy, trying to sit up. “He knows of this, then? Already?”
“I imagine half the fortress knows that you and the lord Bedwyr fought, Lord Goronwy,” I replied, keeping my voice even.
“Ah.” Goronwy fell back on the bed again. “Well. If you see him, tell him that I would welcome his company. It was for his sake that I fought, and, had he been present, he would himself have fought, so this matter concerns him.”
Gruffydd grunted. “It is for me to say whether or not you are well enough to see visitors. And I say that you will see none, not until tomorrow.”
Goronwy tried to sit up again, groaned and fell back. Gruffydd took the cup from him, poured some more wine, and added some more syrup. “Take it,” he ordered. “It will put you to sleep.” Goronwy took it without argument.
“Why did you fight the lord Bedwyr?” Arthur asked, as soon as the cup was empty. His voice; was quiet, calm. Only I, who knew him so well, could hear the tension in it.
Goronwy blinked at him. “My lord, he…damn his spear! He said I was a liar!”
“Did he so? Why?”
Goronwy blinked again. The drug was having its effect, as Arthur no doubt had calculated. “He said I…no, first we were talking about the lord Gwalchmai, my lord. Morfran ap Tegid, and Constans, and I. We were in the Hall. And I said that you did not send Gwalchmai back to Gaul because you suspected him of negotiating with King Macsen in bad faith. But Morfran said…he said, ‘By Heaven, it was false,’ and that you did not send Gwalchmai because he was ill. And Constans said that he could well believe that, and that Gwalchmai was indeed ill—in his wits, from killing his mother. He has a quick tongue, Constans! And Morfran went very quiet and shifty-eyed, and asked whether it was Medraut who said this; and Constans asked why he wished to know—and it was then that the lord Bedwyr came up—he had been sitting down the Hall from us—and said that Gwalchmai was not ill, but that you, my lord, wished him to rest, and that no one doubted his loyalty. And I said that that was false, for there are plenty that doubt it, and with reason; and he called me a liar. How can an honorable man endure it? I challenged him to fight me then and there. He said nothing, merely nodded, and we went out to the stable yards and saddled our horses and set to it. But damn his spear! On the very first attack, before I can get in one good blow, he jabs me under the arm and pushes me off my horse, so I am unfit to fight anyone for months. And, my lord, it is true that you distrust Gwalchmai, is it not?”
“I trust Gwalchmai above my own shield hand,” Arthur replied evenly. “And Bedwyr I trust above my sword hand. You have given too much belief to idle rumors, Goronwy.” He took the cup away from the warrior, gently. “Listen, cousin. This quarrel within my Family grieves me as deeply as your wound does you. I wish you to end it.”
Goronwy looked up at him, still blinking sleepily, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “But you would trust Gwalchmai, after all? To such a degree as that? He is a matricide!”
“Cousin, that too is false. Think a moment, of the form in which you first heard the tale of the death of Queen Morgawse of the Islands. At first, were not all agreed that she died at the hand of Lord Agravain? And you have heard why. Think also of Gwalchmai. You have known him as many years as I have, and fought beside him from here to Caledon. Think how often he h
as saved us in battle, and how well he has served us on embassies, and how slow he is to quarrel with anyone, even the lowest servant. Can you truly believe that he is mad, and worse, treacherous? And can you believe that I would not know or act if it were so? Am I a fool, Goronwy?”
Goronwy looked at me, suddenly, uneasily; then returned his eyes to Arthur with a look of bewilderment. Arthur leaned forward and caught his hand, clasping it. “Cousin,” he said, “again, you think of wild rumors. But think of what you yourself have done and seen, what you know. You know who and what I am, and you know Gwalchmai, and Bedwyr.”
Goronwy continued to look at him in bewilderment.
“Will you be reconciled with Lord Bedwyr?” Arthur asked, after a silence.
“With Bedwyr? Yes, damn his spear. If he takes back the name of liar.”
“He will do so. But you must not stir up your friends against him.”
“If you desire it so, my lord, I will keep silent about this quarrel.”
“I do so desire it. Excellent, my cousin. Sleep now.” Arthur set Goronwy’s hand down on the bed, where it clenched slowly and relaxed. My husband watched his warrior a moment, his face grim, then turned and left the room.
The neighboring room was Gruffydd’s kitchen, also where he prepared his drugs. Arthur leaned wearily against the heavy table while Gruffydd closed the adjoining door, then asked, “And Bedwyr is unharmed?”
“Entirely. It was he who brought Goronwy here. Nor is Goronwy hurt badly, besides the broken bone. He should mend quickly.”
Arthur nodded, then, in a low voice, said, “He is not to see the lord Medraut. Prevent him any way that you can: tell Medraut that he is asleep, or is then too weak to see visitors. But allow Bedwyr to visit him.”
“I will do that, lord. And I will keep Rhuawn away as well, and all the rest of Medraut’s faction, to give Goronwy a chance to regain his wits.” He met Arthur’s steady eyes for a long moment, then added, “It is what you wish, isn’t it, my lord?”
Arthur nodded. “It is. But do not be obvious in the doing of it.”
“Never fear. But I will work on him myself, and see if I can talk him out of his slanders.” As Arthur continued to fix him with his eyes, Gruffydd added defensively, “Gwalchmai is my friend, and it sits ill with me to hear him called a traitor by some golden weasel such as Medraut.”
“The whole business is very ill, but Goronwy is a good man despite it. Whatever you say, do not begin any more quarrels! We can only hope that this will wear itself out with time, and that someone will challenge Gwalchmai directly.” After another moment, Gruffydd nodded, and Arthur sighed, rubbing his mouth. “Good, if you need anything for Goronwy, or want him moved, the servants will have orders to help you. Gwynhwyfar, Bedwyr will be waiting at our house.”
***
Bedwyr was sitting on the edge of the desk, reading a book. He set it down quickly when we entered and stood still, waiting. There was blood on his tunic and cloak, Goronwy’s blood, and his face was hard and bitter.
Arthur crossed the room quickly and caught Bedwyr by the shoulders. “It was well done,” he said, the grimness falling away from him suddenly. “It was very well done, my brother. But do not risk yourself: I could afford to lose both Goronwy and Morfran more easily than I could afford to lose you.”
Bedwyr’s expression relaxed, and he clasped Arthur’s arm. “There was no other way to stop it,” he said. “If I had not intervened, Morfran would have fought Goronwy, and one of them would have been killed.”
Arthur nodded, shook him very slightly, then let him go and sat at the desk. “I have just told Goronwy that I trusted Gwalchmai above my left hand and you above my right, and I pray God that word of it gets around. And since it was you who fought Goronwy, perhaps that faction will begin to believe that their leader is attacking me, not Gwalchmai. But, God of Heaven! I trust nothing now. There is nothing that is beyond his powers to twist into something sinister.”
No one needed to ask who “he” was.
“It would have been just as bad if you had sent Gwalchmai back to Gaul,” I said. “He may not be the issue, but I think that Medraut hates him.”
Arthur nodded, heavily. “And no one has challenged Gwalchmai directly. He has been back for two weeks and courting trouble, and still no one has challenged him.”
Bedwyr shook his head. He pulled out a chair by the fire for me, then reseated himself on the edge of the desk.
“Rhuawn said some violent things to Gwalchmai two days ago,” I said. “But there was nothing that Gwalchmai could have appealed to us to refute. He would not say what they were, merely that he would have had to fight Rhuawn if he had taken note of them. So he twisted their meaning into a joke and excused himself.”
“This is still the old trouble, only more blatant, more immediate.” Arthur stood, walked over to the hearth and leaned against the wall, staring back into the dead ashes of the fire pit. “Yet there must be something more to it, or someone would have challenged Gwalchmai.”
“It will be easier for a few days now,” Bedwyr said.
Arthur did not stir. His wide gray stare fixed itself on nothing, and I knew, with a sudden rush of grief, what he was considering now.
“Perhaps you should send Gwalchmai somewhere,” I suggested, to distract him from the nightmare. “You could send him on an embassy, to Ebrauc—or, better still, to the Islands, with an escort of some of Medraut’s followers and some of his own friends. He might be able to resolve something then.”
Arthur shook his head, without looking at me. “No. If anyone did challenge him on the journey, he would be unable to appeal to us for judgment: he would have to fight. And if there were killing the rest of Medraut’s faction would be out for his blood—God forbid it, but there might even be full combat on the road. No. I do not like this reluctance to challenge Gwalchmai in anything that I might be judge of. It suggests that already they distrust my judgment. Perhaps…perhaps already they believe other rumors. It is working quickly now, this sickness. More quickly than I had believed. I must send Medraut away…in God’s name, where? I dare not send him on an embassy.”
“Send him to Gwynedd, to discuss the latest tribute problems with Maelgwn,” suggested Bedwyr. “He will not dare to deceive us in something we can check, like tribute, and he can hardly make Maelgwn more our enemy than he is already. Indeed, if he presses Maelgwn too hard, the king may begin to distrust him, and he will have one ally the less.”
Arthur’s hand, resting against the wall, clenched slowly. “If I send him to Maelgwn…He is ready to tell the secret, he will tell Maelgwn.” His stare went far beyond the gray heap of ashes, off into a deep darkness, and his face was lined, old. His voice had sunk to a whisper.
“My lord?” asked Bedwyr, also in a whisper, looking at Arthur intently. He did not know “the secret,” but he had known Arthur for many years, too long not to be aware of that shadow on him, or fail to recognize that stare into the blind dark.
Arthur looked up at him abruptly, bitterly. “My wife knows.”
I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap; at the purple glint in the amethyst of the signet ring I wore, the carving of the imperial dragon. I would not meet Bedwyr’s dark, questioning eyes. But I could feel it when he turned them back to Arthur.
“Now?” Arthur said, very softly, to himself, then, “You should know. You are my warleader.”
“I am your friend,” replied Bedwyr, very quietly. “And your servant.”
The two pairs of eyes met, held: Bedwyr’s solemn in a straightforward humility, contented with whatever Arthur might say to him; Arthur’s hard and cold, as he himself was cold, twisted with the pain of a memory.
Then Arthur sighed, opening his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You are my friend and brother. And I know that, even knowing this, you will follow me. But I tell you now that I do not think it just that you should. I will accept it because I must, but it is not justice, and it was not just of me to have so long concealed this. M
edraut…” he stopped, caught a deep, sobbing breath, “Medraut is my son.”
Bedwyr stared at him. I watched the realization of what it meant creep over him slowly, first darkening his eyes with shock, then gradually draining the blood from his face. He rose, tried to speak; stopped, the fingertips of his one hand resting against the surface of the desk. “Your sister?” he asked, at last.
“Yes.” Arthur stood perfectly still, almost calm, only his eyes alive, brilliant and terrible. “Did you never notice that he resembles me?”
“I…he is your nephew. I thought that accounted for it.”
“He is my nephew, and my son. He is born of the incest I committed with my sister Morgawse. By all the traditions of the Church I am eternally damned.”
“He didn’t know!” I burst out, unable to be quiet longer. “He did not know who his father was. She planned this to destroy us.”
“Silence, silence,” Arthur said, half closing his eyes in pain, and then, turning on me with sudden ferocity, cried, “Do you think that makes a difference?”
The color returned to Bedwyr’s face all at once. “My lord, there is no reason to shout at the Lady Gwynhwyfar.”
Arthur nodded, then sat down abruptly by the fire, as though his strength had at last given out. He covered his face with his hands. I jumped up and went over to him, knelt beside him, held him, but he was motionless in my arms. Morgawse had wounded him more deeply than I could heal. Bedwyr stood by the desk, watching us, saying nothing.
After a long minute, Arthur lowered his hands and again met the eyes of his warleader. “So,” he said, his voice flat with exhaustion, “now I have told you. But the tale will be current soon. You ought to know that it is true. Ach, if you like, add to that knowledge this, which Gwynhwyfar told you: I did not know. It was…a long time ago.”
Bedwyr bowed his head in assent, a movement which began a deeper bow, for he sank to his knees, drawing his sword. He offered it, hilt first, to Arthur. “My lord,” he said, his tone as quiet and expressionless as Arthur’s, “I gave you this many years ago. Had I known then what you have told me, I would have done no differently.”
In Winter's Shadow Page 7
