“The lady is the Empress, the lord Arthur’s wife!” the surgeon cried, running over to Medraut, while I tried to gather my senses.
“I am the emperor,” Medraut said. “I may do as I please with this woman or with any of you. Anyone who wishes can pledge me fealty, and be welcome here. The rest are servants of my enemy, the usurping tyrant Arthur ab Uther: they are under arrest. Which of you will swear me the oath?”
Silence. Swearing of another kind of oath from some of the wounded.
“Take them away. Lock them in the storeroom,” Medraut commanded his warriors.
“But they are wounded, unarmed…” protested the surgeon.
“Then go with them and tend to them. No, do not take the Lady Gwynhwyfar with the others. Keep her…keep her in the warleader Bedwyr’s house. Bind her and leave guards at the door. I will see to her later.”
Medraut’s men poured in a mob about the carts, shouting and laughing. The wounded tried to struggle or protest, but the carts were quickly driven off. I saw this in a glance over my shoulder as my guards dragged me away, still half-stunned by the shock and by Medraut’s blows, and led me stumbling to Bedwyr’s house. They bound my hands in front of me with strips of the coverlet from the bed, took my own small knife away from me, then left, locking the door. I collapsed in a heap beside the bed and hid my face in the rough wool of the blanket. Outside, I could hear the guards joking and exclaiming excitedly.
Think, I told myself, trying to bite back the hysterical tears. You must think. You have been afraid of this all along; you need not be so surprised now that it has come about. Medraut has murdered Constantius and claimed the purple for himself. What has become of Constantius’s warband?
I had seen none of the Dumnonian king’s men, I realized. Medraut must have planned his move carefully: murdered Constantius, then had his followers take Constantius’s men unawares, probably at night, when they were sleeping after a feast. Perhaps some of the men had sworn the oath to Medraut, and the rest? Death or imprisonment—unless some had escaped. Would Medraut have any allies?
Undoubtedly he had contacted Maelgwn, king of Gwynedd. Maelgwn would support him in any move against Arthur. On the other hand, Medraut could not trust Maelgwn very far. The king of Gwynedd wanted the purple for himself, and would not be eager to see Medraut wear it. Had Maelgwn sent men to Camlann? No, I thought not. I had seen none. Though undoubtedly Maelgwn had raised his army, and was probably hurrying even now to join Medraut.
Medraut, though, must have only his own followers in Camlann at the moment. Even if he had managed to enforce oaths from some of Constantius’s men, and if he had been joined by some discontented nobles, he could not have much over two hundred warriors; three hundred at the most. Maelgwn had another three hundred and an army of some two or three thousand peasants. When had Medraut acted, and seized power? Fairly recently—yet he had obviously had some time to organize the fortress to his own liking. A week before, two weeks? Someone must, even now, be traveling to Less Britain to warn Arthur. Arthur had plenty of spies and plenty of loyal followers: Medraut could not murder them all. And when Arthur heard, he would abandon the siege and return to Britain as fast as he could. Would he be able to match Medraut when he arrived?
Medraut, Maelgwn of Gwynedd. Who else? Dyfed, Powys, Elmet would probably remain officially neutral in the struggle. If they believed the rumors Medraut had been spreading and still remembered Arthur’s violent seizure of power twenty years before, they might prove hostile and send some men to fight my husband. On the other hand, Medraut was a foreigner by birth and, by the same potent rumor, a child born of incest, accursed. The kings of Britain would not support him against Arthur, whose reign was at least familiar. And the kings would not support Maelgwn, either. They might rebel independently, but they would probably wait to see whether Maelgwn or Medraut or Arthur prevailed before doing that. Ebrauc, Rheged—they would support Arthur, if they heard in time, though half their royal warbands were off in Less Britain even now. The Saxon kingdoms? They had a healthy respect for Arthur, who had defeated them against heavy odds. But a Britain torn by civil strife was much to their advantage. They might make common cause with Medraut for a time; betray him afterward, of course, but support him against Arthur. Still, negotiations with the Saxons took time. Medraut could not have been negotiating directly before—Arthur and I would have heard of it. All in all, I decided, my husband and his son would be evenly matched in the war that lay ahead.
I sat up, wiping my face and feeling somewhat better. I had cut the inside of my lip against my teeth from one of Medraut’s blows, and my face was smeared with blood. I stood up, looking around. There was no water in the room. The hearth was cold, even the ashes of the fire cleared away. The books were gone, and the lamp. Only the bed and a few musty-smelling blankets remained. No one had lived in the house since Bedwyr left it that summer, and the dust was thick over the desk. It was very cold, I realized. My bound hands had turned red, pale-mottled, and were numb. I flexed them, twisting them from side to side, trying to loosen the bonds. I went over to the coverlet, which the guards had thrown aside after cutting my bonds from it, and clumsily dragged it round me, then spat on a corner and wiped my face. My hair had come down on one side, but I could not fasten it up again. I sat huddled up against the bed, my hands between my knees for warmth. Medraut would doubtless send someone to care for me soon. Whatever he intended for me, he did not mean me to die from neglect.
What he intended…punishment of some kind, no doubt. A public display of strength, a trial for the woman who had tried to murder him, and a public execution. Burning? Stoning? Torture? I began to feel a cold different from that of the chill, empty room. Dear God, I thought, give me strength. If I could not escape I must at least die bravely, as befitted an Empress of Britain.
Escape. My bonds were very tight. There were two guards outside—why had Medraut not posted one inside with me to watch me? He must be afraid I would try to kill myself, to have me bound. Whatever his reason, it worked to my advantage. If I could somehow escape—through the smoke-hole?—but then there was the rest of the fortress to cross, and after that the walls. It would be madness to try the gate. Here I would be recognized, and I did not know the password. Still, it should be possible to climb the walls on the inside. Medraut did not have enough men to patrol the whole circuit of the fortress very closely.
A servant girl came in, accompanied by a warrior. She looked about, saw me, and went pale with fear. The warrior pushed her forward. “Build up the fire,” he commanded, “and see to the prisoner.” He leaned against the wall by the door, watching me. I remained sitting where I was. The girl built up and lit a fire, fetched water and swept the room without looking at me, although I had to stand and move when she came over to make the bed. She was plainly terrified. I suddenly thought to wonder about the servants at Camlann. If they were obedient, they should be safe—except for Cei’s mistress, Maire, and the wife of Gwalchmai’s servant. Medraut bore the latter woman especially an old grudge, for Eivlin had served his mother and betrayed her. He would be entirely capable of putting the woman and her children to death. And he could use Maire and her children against Cei.
“Eivlin, Rhys’s wife,” I said to the serving girl, “and Cei’s Maire: are they at Camlann?”
The girl gave me a terrified glance, then shook her head. “Quiet!” commanded the guard.
My hands were untied and I was allowed to wash, then was bound again, and this time my feet were tied as well. The servant and the guard left and I sat on the bed and stared at the new-made fire. Could I burn through the rag bindings with it? They had just left. It was likely that I would now be left alone, for a little while at least. I did not know Medraut’s plans, but the sooner I escaped the better. Where to go when I had escaped? Best to think of that later.
I rolled off the bed and crawled over to the fire. It was made of apple wood, and burned steadily. I thrust my hands over the flame, and realized as my skin scorched that
this was unnecessarily painful. Taking a stick of loose wood I pushed a glowing coal from the fire and pressed my bonds against it. It hurt, and I bit my lip and closed my eyes, thinking of Arthur while the cloth smoldered. But soon I could flex my hands; the cloth loosened, tore—I dragged my hands back, free, clenching and unclenching my numb fingers. Thank God. I sat back and unbound my feet. Now—how to get out of the house? The smoke-hole over the main hearth could be seen by the guards outside. There was another hearth in the kitchen, an oven. If I pulled some of the thatch loose from the vent I might be able to climb out of it. Best to take the blankets from the bed and use them to make a rope to help in climbing the walls of the fortress. I dragged the blankets loose, looked around the room for something to cut them with. Nothing there. I went into the kitchen, came back, took another smoldering branch from the fire and used that and rough jerks to divide each blanket into three strips. They were old blankets, and it was easier than I had imagined. I tied the strips together. There. And now…
The door flew open and Medraut came in. Halfway into the kitchen, trapped, I saw him pause, smile, and close the door behind him. I dropped my armful of blanket rope.
“Most noble lady,” said Medraut. “I had thought you were bound and secure.” He glanced down, saw the fragments of charred coverlet by the hearth, stooped and picked one up. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Obvious, but quickly thought of and daring.” He came over and caught my hand, looked at the burns on my wrist, shook his head, smiling. “I should have expected nothing less. And you have made a rope, too, to climb the wall! How fortunate that I came in just now. I think, most noble lady, you have mistaken my intentions toward you.”
“Do not play the fool, Medraut,” I said, keeping my voice level. “You know that I am your enemy, and we both know that I am at your mercy now. And I expect no mercy, from you.”
Again the smooth smile, the ironically lifted eyebrow. “You have always judged me hastily, my lady. What do you believe I mean to do with you, that you go to such lengths to escape?”
I stared at him, trying to penetrate the mask. I did not believe for an instant that he meant to be merciful, but I could not see what he wished me to believe, or what game he was playing now. “You know that I tried to poison you,” I said at last. “And I think you intend to have me tried for that, and for whatever crimes you can fabricate evidence for.”
“Ah, but the emperor drank the poisoned cup, and was unharmed. Plainly, I must have been mistaken. What are you guilty of, my lady, but adultery? And that is no crime against me; indeed, if your husband is not emperor—and I say he is not—it is not a political crime at all, and no concern of mine. Why should I treat you cruelly?”
I raised a hand to my jaw, still tender from the blow he had given me only a few hours before. “What do you intend for me, Medraut?” I demanded. “If you are trying to bargain with me, I will tell you plainly that I will not make peace with you on any conditions, nor give my support to you whatever you promise.”
“My intentions for you?” He laughed. “This.” He seized me by the shoulders and kissed me violently.
For a moment I was so astonished that I could not react, and then I tried to tear away from him. He grabbed one of my wrists, held me, caught the other wrist, his grip agonizing on the burns.
“My father’s wife,” he said through his teeth, “my father’s cunning wife, the wise and lovely daughter of Ogyrfan, the Empress Gwynhwyfar. Oh, you are beautiful, you are a queen indeed. This will hurt Arthur more than the loss of his kingdom; the Prince of Hell himself must have sent you here to me.”
“Let me go!” I said. “You cannot do this!”
He laughed again, tightened his grip, dragging my hands up so that the tears of pain leapt to my eyes. “I can, as you will see. I am going to have you, just as my father had my mother—by force.” He dragged me over to the bed, kicked my legs from under me, fell on top of me. I screamed as loudly as I could, got one of my hands free, found Medraut’s knife in his belt. Medraut swore. I struck out, blindly, found his hand on my wrist again, smelled blood. My hand was forced back, and I could not hold the knife. It fell to the bed, slid onto the floor with a soft clunk. Medraut pressed against me, our breath mingling, trapping my arms with his right hand. His left hand moved slowly down my body, tearing apart the fastenings of my gown. His eyes stared directly into mine, savage, bitter, with a strange, agonized loneliness.
“He did not rape your mother!” I said, using the only weapon left to me—words. “She seduced him. She did it deliberately, because she wished to bear you for his destruction. You are her tool, no more than a tool! Think of her! Oh God, God, help me!”
Medraut’s body went slack against mine. “Lies!” he screamed—screamed like a hurt child. Beneath the horror and the outrage, a little hope stirred in me. Everything Gwalchmai had ever said about his brother returned to me with burning clarity.
“She never loved you,” I told Medraut. “She only loved destruction. Gwalchmai loves you, Arthur wanted to love you, but she never loved you. She…she only wanted to devour you. She has devoured your father, she devoured Lot, and Agravain, she devours everything. She has eaten away your soul, and left you alone in the night.”
“Lies!” he cried. He slid off the bed, kneeling beside it and struck out at me. I tried to cover my head and he struck frantic, hysterical blows at my head and shoulders without aiming them. “She loved me! I will kill you…you witch! You proud whore! I…I will…”
He was sobbing. The blows stopped. I shook my head, lowered my hands, and looked at him. His chest was laboring with the sobs, and his face was streaked with tears. When our eyes met he fell silent.
“She is dead,” I said. “And she destroyed you as well.”
He moaned like a man in delirium when his wound is searched. He raised his hands to his face, then brought them down wet with tears. He stared at the tears for a moment uncomprehendingly, then looked up at me, anger growing behind his eyes. He wiped his face, turned, and without another word left the room.
“Tie her so that she cannot reach the fire,” I heard him order the guard as he left, and there was in his voice no trace of smoothness. I collapsed against the wall, trembling and weeping with relief. Thank God.
But would it work again? If he got himself drunk would he care how much I spoke to him of Morgawse? And if he gagged me—I must escape. I must escape from Camlann, if it was by death.
One of the guards came into the house with a strong rope, bound my wrists again, then tied them tightly to the outer post of the bedstead. As he turned to leave he paused, picked something up from the floor, and stood a moment turning it in the firelight. It was Medraut’s knife, and it was streaked with blood. He looked directly at me for the first time, then spat on me deliberately. “Murdering whore,” he said, and strode out.
I lay still, resting my head against my arms. Tied like that I could sit against the bedstead or lie flat with my arms above my head, but could neither stand straight nor move about. I could not have hurt Medraut badly with the knife. My blow had been wild and had not struck anything solid. It must have grazed him somewhere. He would come back and, bound like this, it would be very difficult to work free; difficult even to kill myself.
My thoughts leapt and ran among impossible escapes which grew wilder still as sleep came over me—one can sleep anywhere, if exhausted enough—till I lay moaning in a nightmare. I remember one dream in which I flew from Camlann on the back of the dragon of our standard, while Medraut, transformed to an eagle, flew behind me, drawing nearer and nearer. He reached me and I woke, screaming, feeling the cruel talons on my wrists—but the room was still and empty, and I had only twisted my burned hands against the rope. The gray dawn fell through the smoke-hole, and I lay motionless, staring at it while it brightened slowly into day.
***
I must have fallen asleep again, for when next I opened my eyes there were people in the room. I tried to sit up, caught my wrists against t
he rope, struggled about until I could swing my legs to the floor and sit leaning wearily against the bedstead. I could not see clearly. One of Medraut’s blows had swollen an eye shut. My bruises ached, my wrists burned again, and my tongue seemed swollen in a scraped, dry mouth. I shook my head, trying to toss my hair out of my eyes, and managed to focus on the others in the room. One was the servant girl who had come the day before, and the other was Medraut’s friend Rhuawn. He was staring at me, in horror or loathing, I could not tell which.
“Rhuawn,” I said, my voice reduced to a croaking whisper.
He gestured to the girl, and she hurried over and untied my wrists, fumbling with the stiff knots. “Do you want some water, noble lady?” she asked in whisper.
“Thank you,” I replied. She had brought a jug of water, and she held it to my lips—my hands were too numb to grip anything, and there were, anyway, no cups in the room. The water was bitterly cold, and stung the raw places in my mouth, so that I could drink only a little of it. The girl set the jug down and built the fire up, then put the rest of the water on to heat.
“Noble lady…” Rhuawn began in a hoarse voice, then trailed off, still staring at me.
“What is it?” I asked coldly.
“I had heard that the lord Medraut meant to…marry you.”
I stared blankly for a moment, then shook my head. “What Medraut told me of his intentions was rather less gentle than matrimony.” Though it might even be true; it would be an impressive public gesture for him to marry the Empress.
“He has beaten you!” Rhuawn’s voice was suddenly loud again. The girl glanced up at him, terrified.
“I was fortunate to escape so.” I said evenly, then bit my lip, for the expression on Rhuawn’s face was now plainly not loathing, but shock and horror. “You do not support him in this!”
He looked away from me at once, and one hand fell to his sword, tightened about its hilt until the bones stood out. “Medraut is my friend and my lord,” he whispered.
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