Some two weeks after Arthur left, shortly before he was due to return, I ordered a feast. The tension had ebbed a little, and I thought that a feast, full of songs about the old war, might bring back some memory of the old comradeship, and ease things further. Moreover, since it was a private feast, the women could share the tables with their men, and they unquestionably eased the tension.
It went very well, at first. Cei had asked my permission to bring his mistress Maire up to sit beside him, and she duly appeared in her best gown and some borrowed jewelery, as excited as a young child and laughing delightedly at the slightest excuse. Nearly everyone at the high table began laughing as well, and by the time the meal was over and we had heard several old eulogies from Taliesin, it seemed almost as though Medraut had never come to Camlann, even though he was sitting silent in our midst. The lower tables were full of laughter and joking and old battles refought. Taliesin came and sat at the end of the high table and smiling, passed his harp to Gwalchmai, saying that he was tired of singing and that it was someone else’s turn. Gwalchmai laughed and played some Irish song about the spring which he had put into British some while before, then offered the harp to Bedwyr. Bedwyr was in an exceptionally good mood: he took it, smiling, and said, “So I am to play first after you, and look a fool? Why don’t you give it to Cei, and make him look a fool? But if I must…” and he played a one-handed setting of a Latin poem I was fond of. He did not have a fine voice, but his harping was excellent: sparse, difficult, powerful. When he finished he offered the harp to me. But harping was one of the things I had neglected in favor of reading when I was young, so I declined to play, and instead offered the harp to Medraut, who sat on my left.
Medraut took it, smiling with all courtesy, and began to play the prelude to the tale of Blodeuwedd—a song about an adulteress. He ostentatiously caught my eye before he actually began to sing, however, looked disconcerted, paused just long enough for it to be noticeable to anyone who was listening—then began to play something else. It was very neatly done, an insinuation made perfectly plain without a word spoken, and all I could do was look calm, smile, and pretend that I was too innocent even to notice it.
But when Medraut finished his song and offered the harp to Gwyn, who sat next to him, Gwyn accepted it with a very grave look. He pulled at a few of the strings hesitantly, as though they were out of tune, then looked up resolutely. “I do not see why you did not finish the first song you played,” he told Medraut in a clear, carrying voice. “Was the harp tuned to the wrong mode?”
Medraut’s smile was unchanged, but his eyes glittered. He had hated Gwyn passionately from the moment he learned that the youth was his brother’s son, and so merited hatred rather than contempt. Dissembler as he was, he had obvious difficulty in disguising that hatred. Gwyn, of course, made no futile attempts to hide his loathing for Medraut, and a peculiar honesty prevailed between them.
“No,” said Medraut. “But I thought the tale too long, and not suitable for the present company.”
Gwyn smiled, pulling a few more of the strings. “Indeed, it would have bored us all—it has been sung so often that everyone knows it by heart. Nor is it suitable because of any great truth in it—I was talking to a priest, a learned man, the other week, and he said it is a pagan tale about the old gods, and is altogether false and wicked.” Maire giggled at this, and an instant later there was another ripple of laughter from everyone who had been following the talk. Gwyn looked at me, his smile changing into a look of wonderful and secret delight, sharing his pleasure at Medraut’s discomfiture.
I smiled back, loving the boy. “Play that song you were playing in the Hall the other day,” I suggested. “It had a lovely tune, but I couldn’t hear the words clearly.”
Gwyn flushed slightly. “Oh, that song. It is of little value—but since it is you who ask for it, my lady, I will sing it.”
From this I gathered that the song was of his own composing, and tried to look serious and attentive again. Gwyn played a short prelude and sang,
Where are you going? The whitethorn quickens
Up on the hill where the blackbird’s singing,
While down the stream beds water wakens
As fresh from the sea the wind comes, bringing
The black-backed swallows from the blue south shaken:
Where are you going?
I ride to the east where the streams are flowing
White with the snows and the haste of waters
Over the bright rocks and green weeds going
Into the swirl of the swollen river
That over the cloud-shadowed fields goes rolling
Off to the eastward.
I ride east to war, and no more linger
For life is brief, gone sooner than spring-time,
Sooner than sun-glint goes from the river:
Why, then, delay till the coming of noon-tide
Or complain about death in the face of the winter?
Soon comes the cold, and no spring stays forever.
It was, indeed, a lovely melody, with a curious lilt that ran through the mind unexpectedly when one thought it forgotten. Cei, however, who was sitting next to Gwyn, took the harp with a snort when the youth finished.
“You are a fine one to be singing about death, puppy,” he said. “You’ve never ridden east to face the Saxons, and God send you’ll never need to. It would be a cruel shame for a maker of sweet songs to die on a Saxon sword.”
Gwyn smiled. “I hope that the Saxon would die, not me. Sing a sweet song yourself, most noble Cei.”
Just before Cei could strike up, Medraut leant forward across the table and interposed. “There would be no fear of your being killed by a Saxon, nephew. I do not think you would see much of a battle.”
Cei responded to this before Gwyn could. “What do you mean?” he asked, in the tone of polite inquiry which meant he wished a fight.
Medraut smiled contemptuously. “Even if our young hero went to the battle, or took up some quarrel in a duel, do you think his father would allow him to risk his tender limbs among hostile swords? Oh no! Even in the grip of his famous battle madness, my brother would tremble with paternal fear, and chase glory from the field.”
Gwyn went pale and his eyes glinted, and Gwalchmai interrupted at once: “You are much mistaken, brother. Neither would I command my son to be a coward, nor would he be so commanded if I did. I have seen my friends killed in battle, and know well enough that some griefs must be borne.” There was a pause, and Medraut and Gwalchmai watched each other in apparent calm but with a dark undercurrent of total understanding and irreconcilable opposition. “Of course,” Gwalchmai went on in a tone too casual for the tension, “if my son were forced or tricked into some quarrel, or murdered by treachery, that would be altogether different. Death in an equal contention must be borne as one bears death by flood or fever, but the laws promote justice to those who have been wronged, and to obtain justice in such a cause I would go to the ends of the earth; I would take no blood-price, and spare no life in the world for pleading or claims upon me. And such is only right in cases of deceit or treachery—but in battle one must trust to one’s own skill and the mercy of God.”
Medraut dropped his eyes, but Gwalchmai continued to stare unwaveringly. Gwyn also watched, uneasy, his hand looped through his baldric and resting beside the hilt of his sword. “Of course,” Medraut said in a low voice. “Everyone knows your passion for justice—even justice for an imagined evil, brother. And, of course, your son is able to defend himself. He takes after you in that—as in other things.” He looked up again, his pale eyes malignant.
“In what other things?” demanded Gwyn.
Medraut smiled cruelly. “Why, you both abandoned your homes and kin, scorned your mothers as though they were strangers, and left them to die.”
Gwyn’s hand closed about his sword, and he began to jump up. Medraut added at once, “But, of course, I know nothing about that. And the law does not permit me to quarre
l with my kinsmen, or fight duels with my own blood. My lords and lady, and I am grown unaccountably weary; I hope you will forgive any rough words that I may have spoken, and excuse me the rest of the feast. Good night.”
He stood and left the Hall. As he did so a number of other warriors rose, looking confused and surprised, and hurried out after him. Cei, still holding the harp, spat at their retreat. “Lost his temper for once,” he observed of Medraut. “We’re well rid of them.” He struck up a harsh marching song. Gwyn sat looking after Medraut, clenching and unclenching his grip on the hilt of his sword; then turned his head away. Gwalchmai watched him silently with concern.
When the feast was over, I was not at peace with Cei’s conclusion that Medraut had simply lost his temper when he came so near to offering to fight Gwyn. To be sure, he hated the youth, and could not conceal his hatred, but Medraut rarely did or said anything not dictated by policy. I could not quite believe this; I had never seen the face behind that gold mask, and I did not think I had seen it yet. If Arthur had been there we would have discussed what had happened for hours. In a way, I was glad he was absent and I did not have to talk about it, but the sheer habit of conversation kept me up. The house seemed very cold and empty, without my husband sitting at the desk waiting for me to come in. What with the tension and the extra work I had not spent much time in it recently, and the servant who had cleaned it had been the last person there, and had left it wiped clean of all character, like a guest house. I sat on the bed, took down my hair and combed it out, then found that I was too tense, and missed Arthur too much, to be able to lie down and rest. I went into the conference room and looked through some business at the desk, but could not concentrate. I sat and stared at the lamp until everything was black around the blue of its flame, and I thought upon the scene that had just passed, and on other scenes, and came to no conclusions. I put the lamp out, then went to the door. Outside the Hall loomed black and tall beside the house, blotting out the moon. Beyond its shadow the grass, the paths, the hunched shapes of the houses lay clear and plain, bleached colorless by the wan moonlight. But from Bedwyr’s house came a warmer glow, the buttercup yellow light of a lamp. Bedwyr’s servant would be asleep in his own house, at this hour, and no one else was about. I stood a moment, looking, then went out, closing the door behind me.
Bedwyr was sitting on the threshold of his house, staring at the moon and singing, very softly,
My pulse and my secret is she
The scented flower of the apple tree…
He saw me and stopped singing. He rose, stepped forward from the lamplight into the moonlight, and the moon made him pale as death. “I wondered whether you would come,” he said. “Welcome.”
The moon had laid a chill on my heart, and I pulled him from the cold light into the house. He closed the door. The fire was burning brightly on the hearth, and the lamp cast a warm dim light over the plain room, over the rack of books and the silver wine pitcher with the two cups set on the table. Bedwyr smiled at me and poured some wine, saying, as he handed me the cup. “I thought you might come, my lady. Your hair is very beautiful like that.”
I smiled back, brushing it away from my face. “You know me too well, noble lord. What do you think Medraut hoped to gain just now?”
He smiled again, standing at the other side of the table with the cup in his hand but only looking at me. “Well guessed. I did think you would ask that. Ach, Gwynhwyfar, I do not know. I think for once he did simply lose his temper. He has as much cause to be tense as we have. He has failed to gain ground recently, now that the faction has become a plain matter of following him or following our lord the emperor.”
“But his following is far more dedicated now.”
“True. But it is smaller than he had hoped.”
“Yet he wanted…something. I do not trust his loss of temper. He is too skilled to do that.”
“Perhaps. But Gwyn troubles and angers him, more even than Arthur, though he hates our lord more. And Gwalchmai says that he is honest with him. He might well lose his temper.”
I sat down at the desk, sipped the wine. The room was warm, and it was comforting to speak, to be understood, not to be alone. “He might—yet now I am afraid for Gwyn. Ach, I know: Medraut cannot himself pick a quarrel with him, the law will not permit him to fight his own nephew. But he could persuade one of his followers to it. And Gwyn is hurt, and angry, and has been taunted with hiding behind his father. He could easily be provoked to fight. Does Medraut wish to destroy him? Does he fear the fact that Arthur favors him?”
Bedwyr shook his head. “The boy is not altogether helpless, my lady. He is already a match for many men, on horseback. Moreover, he is popular. Such a quarrel would do Medraut little good. And Gwalchmai has made it plain how he would view such a quarrel, and I do not think anyone would care to have Gwalchmai as a dedicated enemy. Rest assured: I do not think Gwyn is in danger. And, bird of my heart, if there is more to the matter you will not find it by this scratching in the sand.”
“No,” I said. I found myself studying him in the warm lamplight: the dark brown hair, still untouched by gray; the grave eyes under the level brows; the remnants of a smile snared at the corner of his mouth. Love was a solid thing, hard-edged and painful, cutting into my breast. We had both known that I had not come just to talk about the terrors of the world, and labyrinths of plots and politics. We both wanted to break free of those for a little while, to be in another world private to ourselves; now that other world was flowering around us. Bedwyr set down his untouched cup of wine, came forward and bent over, kissing my eyelids. He twisted my hair around his fingers, kissed me again. I set down my own wine cup and rose, pressing against him. One can lose oneself in love; forget identity, ties, responsibilities, everything. In love one can deny everything that one is and means, for everything else becomes nothing, another world, a dream. With Bedwyr I was simply Gwynhwyfar, not Lady or Empress, not old and trammelled with cares and bonds, and there was nothing outside the lamplit walls of his house. He loosened the laces of my gown and drew me down onto the bed.
And then our private world was broken into a thousand pieces.
The lamp and fire flared, leaping with a gust of sudden wind, and the cold smell of the night came in. There was a shout, more shouting; Bedwyr rolled off me and stood, seized his sword from beside the bed and crouched between me and the door. I sat up, trying to pull my dress straight, bewildered and hearing Medraut’s voice crying triumphantly, “She is here! Look!”
The light flickered madly. “What are you doing here?” demanded Bedwyr. “Get out! Or shall I kill you as I killed Ruadh?”
“Who is your woman?” yelled another voice, “Why are you hiding her?”
Footsteps surged forward; Bedwyr backed against the bed, shaking the sheath off his sword; the flaring firelight caught the steel and made it blaze like the sun. “Disarm him!” Medraut was shouting. “He is guilty of treason!”
“Murderer! Usurper! Traitor!” came other yells. Steel flashed.
I threw off the cover and stood, pushing past Bedwyr. The room suddenly went very silent. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and pulled my gown up.
There were about a dozen men crowding in through the door, with Medraut in front of them, his face flushed with triumph and his sword drawn. I let my eyes run over him to his witnesses, and saw Gwyn in the front rank, white-faced with horror, a horror which abruptly struck me also so that I wished to sink under the earth. When my eyes met Gwyn’s, he turned crimson, tried to back out through the press behind him, but was unable to. I looked away, saw a few more shocked, agonized faces in the crowd, men who had been my friends, who had honored me. Medraut had planned carefully. I had betrayed them, and now I could see it, I was so sick with shame that for a moment I could not speak. I looked back at Medraut.
“You challenged them that I would be here,” I said, and was amazed to find that I could hold my voice steady. “And your faction clamored of my guilt, and my friends of my in
nocence, until all agreed to put it to the test. And you proposed the test, as you had meant to, all along. Well, you have won. But,” looking to Gwyn and the others, “not all of it was true, for all of this, not all of it.”
The flush had begun to fade from Medraut’s face. He spat. “You lying, perjured whore!” he said. “Do you still pretend to innocence?”
Bedwyr moved beside me—just his sword arm, raising the weapon and angling it before himself, ready to attack. I caught his arm, pressed it. I felt his eyes on me, startled, but would not look at him. “I am guilty of adultery,” I declared, to all of them. “But before God, the Lord of Earth and Heaven, we are both innocent of the other treason with which rumor has charged us. We never wished any injury either to our lord Arthur, or to this Empire; and we never planned to gain power for ourselves. Now you may take us and punish us as you wish, for we deserve all that any of you would do to us, and I would not deny it. But, my friends, if ever you listened to me in your lives, listen now: Medraut ap Lot plans ruin for all of us, and if you distrusted him before, distrust him now even more. Now, let me out, to my house to await the judgment of my lord the emperor.”
In Winter's Shadow Page 19
