In Winter's Shadow

by Gillian Bradshaw

  Medraut tried to rush forward and strike me, and one of his friends held him back. The grace and contemptuous smile were gone: he was red-faced, angry, excited, and a stranger to me. “The liar, the adulterous traitress!” he hissed, spitting at us. “Both of them, caught in the very act, panting in each other’s arms and betraying their true lord, and still she reviles me!”

  Medraut’s friends gave a yell and surged forward. I dropped Bedwyr’s arm and walked toward them. I did not dare look at Bedwyr. His passion had betrayed him again, and I knew he was eager to fight them, to die fighting them, no doubt. But that was the last thing we should do: we must stand trial, be convicted of what we had done, and let the fortress know the whole story so that they would know there was nothing more. I was myself again, what I was by nature, and also what chance and time and power had made me: I could think clearly. When I drew even with Medraut, his followers fell back a little, staring at me, hating me, but I knew that I could command and they would obey.

  “I must become your prisoner,” I said, “as must the lord Bedwyr. Where is Cei?”

  A murmur. “We take you prisoner!” insisted Medraut.

  “Cei is the infantry commander, he is next in power after Bedwyr and myself, and now he is of necessity commander of this fortress, not you, Medraut ap Lot. Let him see to it that we are guarded—or do you think he is a traitor as well? Tell me, Medraut, am I sleeping with him as well? You have set so many lies around me that I cannot keep track of them.”

  “You…arrogant, brazen…do you deny, can you deny what we have trapped you in?”

  “I am guilty of one thing, one thing only. Or if there is more, that is for my lord to decide, and not for you. Let me go back to my own house, and wait for his return. I am willing to die, if he should desire it. But I swear again before you all that I never wished or hoped that any other should wear the purple in his place. I was weak, and desired comfort, which lord Bedwyr gave, and that was the whole of the matter. For now, you know as well as I that you may not judge us, or sentence us, of do anything but wait for the emperor’s return.” Behind me I heard a soft thud, and my knees almost gave with the relief: Bedwyr had thrown aside his sword. I went on more confidently, “You, Rhuawn, and you, Goronwy: you can come and guard me, to make certain that I do not hang myself in despair before morning, as Medraut no doubt fears. Will someone fetch Cei?”

  “I…I will,” Gwyn said. “And I will fetch my father.” He turned, shoved his way through the rest, and was gone.

  Medraut glared at me with passionate hatred. “Still you give orders? That will change soon enough.”

  I said nothing, merely walked toward the line of men, and they gave way before me. “Gwynhwyfar,” Bedwyr said behind me. I looked back, saw him standing before the dark corner with the crumpled bed, his sword burning before his feet, his hand raised toward me, and a desperate horror in his eyes.

  “We knew it would come,” I told him.

  He nodded, lowering his hand. “Remember what I said,” he whispered. “It is my fault.”

  I did not answer, but turned back toward the door. Rhuawn and Goronwy separated themselves from the others and followed me out. I had picked them carefully to represent either party, and so content both. But the clarity of mind, the exaltation of finally speaking honestly to Medraut, departed as I passed the door and left Bedwyr to await what guard Cei would set. Then the depth of shame, of humiliation, anguish and terror for the future swallowed me, and I wished that I would die that night, and never see Arthur or the day again.

  ***

  I did not see Arthur when he first returned to Camlann and heard what had happened. Gwalchmai and Cei met him at the gates and told him the news. At first he refused to believe it. But when he saw that it was plain and certain, and denied by no one, he ordered everyone to leave him. When they reluctantly obeyed, he turned his horse about and rode away from Camlann at a gallop. He did not return until noon the following day. Then he went to Gwalchmai, still covered with the dust of his riding, and consulted him on the situation and how best to contain it. He then, with Gwalchmai, visited Bedwyr, who was being kept under guard at his own house.

  It was Gwalchmai who told me of all this. He had come at once when Gwyn informed him of the discovery, and had said no word of reproach, but instead immediately discussed with me how best to combat Medraut’s allegations of treachery. He and Gwyn continued to visit me over the next week, informing me of events, helping me to plan for them, and bringing me accounts and papers I asked for—for I was determined to leave the affairs of the fortress in good order.

  “Did Arthur speak with Bedwyr long?” I asked Gwalchmai anxiously.

  The warrior shook his head. “No, Indeed, he hardly spoke at all. He came into the house, and Bedwyr fell on his knees before him and bowed his head. Arthur said only, ‘Tell me what happened, nothing more,’ and Bedwyr said, ‘It was my fault, my lord, and I am most bitterly grieved at it.’ Arthur said, ‘Only the tale.’”

  “Was he angry?”

  “Not angry. He looked at Bedwyr as though he had never seen him before. I have told you, my lady, how it is: he is like a man coming to himself after a great battle, stunned, knowing neither what he has done or what he will do. Bedwyr knelt before him with his fingers clenching in the dust of the floor, afraid to look up, and my lord Arthur merely watched him as he might watch an animal, trying to understand what it was and what it wished. Then Bedwyr told him that he had seduced you after…after you had made your attempt on my brother’s life, when you were ill and unhappy. He said that he had loved you for a long while before that. And he said that you had often tried to end your relationship, but that he had always pressed you to continue—is it true, my lady?”

  “He exaggerates to blame himself. Oh, the time is true, and perhaps the form of things as well, but he twists it to exonerate me.”

  Gwalchmai looked at me closely for a minute, then shrugged. “He told Arthur all of this without looking up. He did not look at him until the end. Then he raised his head, and they looked at each other for a long time. Then Bedwyr said, ‘But it was you that she loved. Only you asked more from her than anyone can give. No one can be always a ruler only, always strong, not even you or her. I pressed her to lean on me a little. That was my fault. Do not punish her for it. And, my lord, I have always been your servant in everything else, and this betrayal is bitter to me also.’ But Arthur said nothing, merely gestured to me to follow him, and left Bedwyr kneeling there.”

  “Will Arthur come here as well?” I asked very quietly. I was afraid to raise my voice, afraid to find it twisted by hope or fear. I needed to remain calm.

  Gwalchmai hesitated, then shook his head. “I do not know, but I do not think he means to. He is sleeping in my house now, and he wishes you to stay here until the trial. He has told no one what he thinks of this, or what he plans to do. But I do not think that he wishes to see you.”

  And he did not see me, not until the trial itself. This was held about a week after the discovery. It took place in the Hall, before all the inhabitants of Camlann and many outsiders.

  The morning of the trial I dressed myself more carefully than I would have to attend a great feast, partly from bravado, and partly to make a point to the onlookers. I tore off the purple fringes of my best gown, the white silk kirtle that had traveled the long trade road from Rome and beyond; the silk was hard to tear, and left rough trailing threads of purple and gold along the edges. I wore no jewelery, and took the signet ring from my finger, wrapping it up in the strips of gold and purple silk. Then I put up my hair with a chain of Roman glass beads which as a girl I had found beside the Roman Wall, and which I had worn when I rode south to Camlann. I was surprised when my face in the mirror looked much the same as it had ever done. A week before the purple had been almost a part of me, and now I was less than what I had been when first I came to Camlann. I had no hope of power, and no clan to return to; even my clothing belonged to the Empress I would never be again. I ha
d nothing more than the flesh I stood in, and whatever my lord’s will would give me for a future.

  My guards rapped on the door, and I set the mirror aside and went with them to the Hall.

  It was full of men, almost overflowing: no women, for law is the affair of men. When I entered at the great door a murmur went up, and I could see those at the back craning their heads so as to look at me. I had resolved to bear my disgrace humbly, since it was deserved, but nonetheless I found myself proud and indignant now that it had come to the point, and I held myself very straight and walked the long way up toward the high table slowly. They had lit the torches, although it was day, and the beams of sunlight slanting under the eaves were blue in the smoke. It was hot, both from the warmth of the day, and from the tightly pressed bodies in the Hall, and as I walked I felt dizzy. The faces in the crowd were unfeatured, lost: I could see the glitter of armor and weapons, the white of the shields hung along the walls, but I recognized no friends. At the far end of the Hall, seated at the high table, was a figure like a statue, unmoving in the heat and smoky light. Arthur wore the purple and a collar of heavy gold, and his right hand rested on the scroll of evidence set on the table before him, the light burning purple in the jewel of his signet ring. His face was like a carving in stone, and as I approached his eyes looked beyond me, not meeting mine or answering any more than the eyes of an emperor pictured in a mosaic.

  Bedwyr was already standing before Arthur, and I glanced at him as my guards helped me a place on his right. He looked exhausted, his face worn out around the hard pain in his eyes, and, in his dark clothing, without any badge of office or any weapon, he looked more like an impoverished monk than a warrior lord. His eyes met mine briefly, and something leapt in them—pity, apology or love, I could not tell, for he looked away again very quickly. Our guards struck the floor with the butts of their spears, and the trial began.

  Arthur rose, picking up the scroll of evidence. “Bedwyr son of Brendan, sometime warleader of this Family, and Gwynhwyfar daughter of Ogyrfan, are charged with defaming the imperial majesty, according to the laws of the Empire of the Romans and of Britain, by committing adultery. The charge is brought by Medraut son of Lot. Lord Medraut, repeat now before these witnesses the charge you have laid against these persons.”

  Medraut rose from a place at the side of the dais and walked to stand before Arthur, on his left. He was not wearing his usual saffron cloak, but one bordered with purple, and a collar like Arthur’s; he paused before beginning, to be certain that all the Hall could note the resemblance between Arthur and himself before being distracted by his words. Then, without looking at me or Bedwyr, he gave his own account of how he had discovered the adultery, speaking in a clear voice occasionally tinged with sorrow, as though he were grieved at such terrible events. I watched Arthur. My husband looked very tired, and still more haggard and gray, now that I was close enough to see it, but his face was expressionless. I had seen that look of set calm often enough before to understand what it meant, but I suppose most of the others thought him cold and unmoved.

  It felt very strange to stand there before Arthur, listening to Medraut accusing me, when not long before I had sat in Arthur’s place and given judgment for others. I clung to that sense of strangeness, of shock, because it was better than the hot shame and the unworthy rage against humiliation, the loathing of Medraut’s smooth speech, which were the alternatives.

  “There was a feast the night before these crimes were discovered,” Medraut said, finally approaching his conclusion, “which I left early because of my indignation at the corruption of these two, and so as to keep a clear mind should there be any difficulties during my lord’s absence.”

  “Explain yourself,” said Arthur, for perhaps the twentieth time in that speech. Medraut had constantly tried to insinuate that Bedwyr and I had been plotting Arthur’s overthrow, but had been stopped each time when Arthur demanded what he meant and what evidence he could cite for it. Since he had none he had been forced each time to back away from his hints.

  “I wished to remain vigilant,” he said at once, “in case some difficulty should arise in my lord’s absence, which these criminals, in their preoccupation with a treacherous love, might have neglected.”

  “You had reason to suspect these two persons of negligence?”

  “No, my lord; but I thought it possible that they might be negligent, given the circumstances.”

  “Ah? And perhaps you thought that they were untrustworthy on some point you opposed them on? I believe a friend of yours, Lord Llenleawc ap Creiddawl, was under arrest at the time, accused of defaming the imperial majesty; perhaps you suspected some ill might come to him?”

  “My lord, I affirm nothing. And my friend Llenleawc merely said that these two persons were criminals, as the event has proved.”

  “Indeed. It was reported to me that he had called me a criminal as well, and killed another member of the Family in a duel for defending my name.”

  Medraut smiled, as though apologizing to the Hall for Arthur’s bad taste. “Indeed, my lord, I knew nothing of any accusations he made against you. As for this, let it suffice that I was concerned for the well-being of the fortress in your absence.”

  “Your loyalty is welcome, Lord Medraut. You had no evidence of further crimes by the accused, then, or any reason to suspect them?”

  Medraut hesitated, his smoothness finally marred by the merest hint of anger, then, apparently realizing that his hints would get him nowhere in court, finally responded, “No.”

  “I see,” said Arthur. “You left the feast early, then—I believe after a quarrel with Lord Gwalchaved ap Gwalchmai.”

  Medraut’s irritation grew slightly plainer. “Yes, my lord.”

  “But you approached Lord Gwalchaved after the feast, and told him your suspicions concerning Lord Bedwyr and Lady Gwynhwyfar.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Arthur looked at the scroll in his hand, looked up at Medraut again. “In your testimony you say merely that you were discussing the situation with a friend, when Lord Gwalchaved came out of the Hall and challenged you upon your statements. But now you agree with Lord Gwalchaved, and say that you approached him deliberately. What did you do, Lord Medraut?”

  Medraut looked back at Arthur, hard; Arthur remained calm, mildly inquisitive. Medraut bowed his head. “I believe I was speaking to a friend first, my lord, and, on seeing Lord Gwalchaved, addressed him as well.”

  “Ah. And you suggested to him that the Lady Gwynhwyfar was with Lord Bedwyr?”

  “I did, my lord. He denied it roundly, and I suggested that we test the suggestion. We went first to the lady’s house, and received no answer when we knocked on the door; and then, on entering Lord Bedwyr’s house, we found the two of them…” the anger surfaced suddenly, “panting in each other’s arms upon the bed.”

  “So. And you arrested them?”

  “Yes. Lord Bedwyr attempted at first to resist, but the lady insisted on his submitting to us.”

  “And I believe the lady had you send for Lord Cei, who on her arrest must be head of the fortress.”

  “I sent for Lord Cei, my lord, as soon as the crime became known.”

  “Indeed? I have it here on the testimony of…four witnesses that the lady demanded that Lord Cei be sent for, while you reviled her; and that Lord Cei was eventually brought by Lord Gwalchaved because of the lady’s demand. It was, of course, entirely proper that Lord Cei be present, as you did not have the authority to arrest these two, and as your position was already irregular in that you had broken into Lord Bedwyr’s house previous to accusing him.”

  “My lord,” said Medraut, his eyes very cold, “perhaps in the heat of the moment, and in my shock at seeing this crime of adultery virtually committed before my eyes, I used intemperate language, and acted in an irregular fashion, if so, set it down to my passion for your honor. I always meant to send for Lord Cei.”

  “Indeed. I thank you, Lord Medraut, without you, this c
rime would never have come to light. Have you anything to add to your testimony?”

  Medraut hesitated again, then apparently decided not to. “No, my lord, except my regret at this stain upon your name and honor.”

  “I thank you. You may be seated. Lord Gwalchaved!”

  Gwyn, Cei, and several others were called upon to confirm Medraut’s account, which they did as gently as they could. No further mention was made of plots and treason.

  Finally, Bedwyr was called, and he took one step forward, went down on one knee to Arthur, and rose again. Arthur pushed the scroll aside and looked at him, as Gwalchmai had described, as though he were a strange and mysterious animal he could not understand. “Do you admit the charge?” he asked Bedwyr.

  Bedwyr bowed his head. “Yes, my lord. I am guilty of adultery with the Lady Gwynhwyfar, and hence of treason against you.” Arthur watched him, waiting, and Bedwyr raised his head again before continuing, “I loved the lady for a long time, perhaps almost as long as you yourself, though for long after you married her I would not speak with her. On one occasion, however, which I told you of, when you were absent and when she was lonely, overburdened with care, and suffering a private grief, I persuaded her to confide in me, and seduced her. She tried often to turn from this crime, but I pressed her to continue, and she yielded, out of pity. For my part, my lord, I am certain that what Lord Gwalchaved ap Gwalchmai says of the events of that night is true, and I do not contest it. But I was driven by love, and not by any desire to do injury to the imperial majesty, which it has been my great joy to serve. My lord, in all but this my life has been at your command, and this was a madness that forced me out of myself. Believe that I have never otherwise betrayed you, and I am well content to die for this, as I should. And if you sentence me to exile instead of death, I will seek out some monastery and there undertake the harshest penance I can find, to punish myself for this grievous sin.”