In Winter's Shadow (21 page)

The only bright spot for us among these calamities was the fact that, since Gwalchmai was now officially a member of the royal clan of Britain, Gwyn was as well. As Arthur had predicted, most of the warriors were already beginning to forget that Gwyn was not legitimate by birth. The boy had traveled with Gwalchmai to Gaul, and afterward to the North—King Urien of Rheged had been having some disputes with his Saxon neighbors, and had requested arbitration from Arthur. Urien was a very powerful king, the strongest of all the northern rulers, and he was much impressed by Gwyn. He was apparently reminded of his own son, Owain, who after an unpromising childhood and youth had suddenly emerged glorious in a string of brilliant battles and expired winning victory in the last one. When Urien gave Gwalchmai the usual set of gifts—one for Gwalchmai himself as emissary, one for Arthur, in honor of his position, one for the Saxon king Gwalchmai had concluded the negotiations with—he bestowed one on Gwyn as well, and when the two left, he heartily wished the boy good fortune.

On concluding the negotiations between Urien and his Saxon neighbor, our embassy stopped in Ebrauc to break the journey back. King Ergyriad ap Caw made them welcome to his fortress, and at once claimed Gwyn as his kinsman, the son of his half-sister. This recognition enabled Gwalchmai to resolve some of the enmity between himself and the rest of the sons of Caw, who had hated him since he killed their brother Bran. Gwyn got on surprisingly well with some of them, and they too gave him gifts when he left Caer Ebrauc.

Arthur was very pleased when the two returned. He hoped, still, to have time enough in power to be able to appoint Gwyn as his successor. Urien’s support in this would be invaluable, as would that of the sons of Caw. He made a point of talking to Gwyn about the different countries he had visited and came away persuaded that the boy was capable of considerable political insight—as he ought to be, with Gwalchmai to teach him. Gwalchmai himself would never have been acceptable as a successor, despite his political skill, both because of his foreign birth and because he was far too gentle and otherworldly to be suited to power; but Arthur thought that Gwyn might be capable of Empire. Perhaps Arthur was merely fascinated by the parallel between Gwyn’s background and his own. But we both had hopes which we did not dare speak of much, and we hoped the more intensely as the situation grew steadily worse.

The fifty warriors that Medraut had brought with him from the Islands soon began to cause problems. A few of these were of the royal clan and savagely indignant with Arthur; all were devoted solely to Medraut and completely obedient to him, while extremely hostile to everyone else. They formed a solid, self-contained group within Camlann, isolated from the rest of the warriors by the barriers of culture, language, and religion, which they managed to breach enough only to carry out quarrels. After a few duels between them and some of our men, Arthur sent most of them back to Medraut’s ships and had them patrol the western coast against raiders. In December it was discovered that one of these ships had engaged in some raiding of its own, and Arthur had the men responsible put to death. Unfortunately, this included two members of the royal clan, and their execution nearly brought on armed conflict with the others. For a long time afterward the whispers circulated: “The Pendragon wishes to finish what the O’Niall began.”

At the same time, the rumors Medraut had started about his own parentage were circulating widely, and our spies reported them from every corner of Britain. No king dared to ask Arthur if they were true, but we soon saw who believed them by the uneasiness of some who had to have dealings with us, and the reluctance of others to contact us at all. But the uneasiness the rumors caused was nowhere so marked as in Camlann. Medraut had managed to gather most of his faction under him yet again, and the quarreling among the Family began anew. But there was a difference. Before, Medraut had attacked principally his brother Gwalchmai, and only questioned Arthur’s judgment in his support of Gwalchmai, and hinted that my husband was subject to my partial whims. Now the attack was direct: Arthur had treated Medraut unjustly, because of a dreadful secret, a secret whispered about the fortress, searched out by hundreds of shocked or troubled eyes fastening on Arthur wherever he went.

Some of Medraut’s followers grew uneasy as the direction of the attack grew plainer. Some had been lost after the poisoning attempt, and some after Agravain’s death. But there was still a sizable body of men whom Medraut could rely on, a hundred and six of them, with another fifty or so who were unsettled in their loyalties. This last group grew steadily smaller as the men decided gradually whom they chose to believe, and whom they would follow.

That winter was not quiet. Arthur drove himself as he had not done since the height of the war, rising before dawn and working all day, trying to keep the men occupied, to prevent quarrels, setting up half a hundred distractions for them to gain us time. He sent continuously to the kings of Britain on any pretext whatsoever so as to keep his authority before their eyes and maintain the contact so many of them were eager to break. He pretended that he had never heard the rumors, trying to act as though his energy and forcefulness were unimpaired by time, as though he were still moved by the old enthusiasm and delight. But in the evenings he collapsed on the bed in exhaustion, scarcely able to move. In the night he had dreams; he woke often, crying out the name of Morgawse. Then he would go to the desk, light the lamp, and read through our worn books or write furious letters for hours at a time. I would wake, and rise to see him bent over the desk in the adjoining room, the lamplight picking out the bones and hollows of his face until he seemed worn to a death’s head. I would go over and try to persuade him to come back and rest, for he desperately needed sleep. For all his forced energy during the day, he could not hide that. The nightmare etched its record in his flesh, more and more deeply, and I could not smooth its carving away.

For my part I grew so exhausted that my main desire was to escape. I had as much to do as Arthur, and I felt that all our labor was to catch our own shadow. No matter how hard we worked, or what we said and did and what advantage we gained from it, still the rumors kept pace with us. Often we felt that we could do no more, only to find that we must do more, and, doing it, discover yet another thing, and another, till the days were whirling by like the blows of a hammer.

I had Bedwyr; I needed Bedwyr. He was my one refuge, a place of springtime in the midst of that dark winter. Though the nightmare surrounded him too, he did not live in the heart of it, and he had time, as Arthur did not, to talk and to breathe. I could rest with him, and find strength; I could, for a little while, lay my cares at his feet and forget them. Of course we were careful and very discreet. We had frequent legitimate causes to see one another, and could easily enough make arrangements for meeting somewhere in Camlann where we would not be disturbed. The sin of treachery became my solace—and still, even in consoling, a torment. Sometimes when Arthur had woken from a black dream and I lay in bed listening to the scratch of his pen I would wish that it was already over with, even if the end were defeat and if I myself should be eternally damned. In death there is at least some finality, and, after the unremitting struggle, rest. And the next day I might weep on Bedwyr’s shoulder, because I had not been able to give comfort to Arthur, and ached for comfort myself.

But in fact the end did come soon—far too soon, I thought, when finally it was upon us.

In late March a new rumor began to circulate in Camlann. Arthur came back into our house one evening before a feast, tossed a bundle of dispatches onto the desk, collapsed into his chair, and commented, “My heart, there is a new rumor which you had best know of. You are now supposed to be sleeping with Bedwyr and plotting my downfall.”

“With Bedwyr?” I asked, feeling the coldness come over me, staring at Arthur.

But he merely remained slouched in the chair, his feet up on the grate. “Indeed. One wonders why Medraut fixed on Bedwyr. One would think Gwalchmai the more likely candidate for such a tale. But he has tried that already. Besides, he has already called Gwalchmai matricide, traitor, and madman, and has so far been unable to attach any stain to Bedwyr, so must invent this. Ach, I suppose it is clever enough, in its way. Bedwyr is not British, not of a royal or important clan, and yet he has power and influence. Medraut can use any resentment that causes to fuel belief in this tale, and can further blacken your name at the same time…ah, dear God, now Bedwyr as well. Now we have no one left who can mediate in a quarrel, or communicate with any of Medraut’s faction. But a tale like this!”

I came over and sat down by his feet. I felt very tired, and rested my head against his knee. What if I should tell him, I thought suddenly, confess it all, escape the burden, take the consequences? But when I looked up into my husband’s haggard face I knew that I could not speak, could not add to his pain or abandon him to suffer the ruin of his power alone. “Do you want me to be cold with Bedwyr?” I asked. “Avoid him during the next few weeks?”

Arthur laid one arm loosely around my shoulders. “No. Do not trouble yourself. Medraut would only explain it to his followers as guilt fearing to be discovered. We can only hope that the thing will die out on its own. It must do so. It is too absurd for any thinking person to believe. You and Bedwyr! My wife and my most loyal friend, the two people who care most for this realm, guilty of treason! No, my heart, leave it. It is sure to die out of itself.”

It did not, however, though it several times seemed likely to do so. Always as it was beginning to be laughed at it would rise again, with some new fabulous instance of proof. We could disprove or explain the instances—one was that I was seen wearing a hawthorn flower in my hair after Bedwyr wore one in his cloak-pin—Bedwyr and some six hundred others!—and yet still the tale persisted, and each time it faded it returned stronger and more pervasive.

Toward the end of April Bedwyr had a dispute with one of Medraut’s Irish followers in the stable. This man, one of the royal clan, wanted some provision for a journey to his ship which Bedwyr thought excessive. The argument grew heated, and Bedwyr finally turned and began to walk off saying, “I will speak to you again when you are cooler, Ruadh.”

“That is right!” the Irishman shouted after him, in the hearing of some dozen people (one of whom later recounted the whole incident to me indignantly). “Run off to your lord’s wife; do his business for him!”—and he made an obscene gesture.

Bedwyr stopped and looked back at the other. The man repeated the gesture, and Bedwyr turned and walked back to him. He looked the other up and down and said very quietly and very coldly, “What foolishness is this? Are you drunk?”

The Irishman was completely unabashed. “Must I be drunk to speak the truth? I am tired of your pretended virtue. Brave, loyal Bedwyr, the philosopher, the perfect warleader! All the West knows that you sleep with that whore-queen Gwynhwyfar, your lord’s wife—much joy may you have of her!”

Bedwyr looked at him in silence for a moment, then still quietly but with a hard note under the quietness, said, “You are guilty of defaming the majesty of our lord the emperor. And you are lying.”

“Prove it,” said the other, eagerly. “Prove it with your sword.”

“Gladly. Here and now.”

The Irishman hesitated, then nodded. “On horseback or on foot?”

“Whichever you wish.”

That created a stir among the onlookers, whose numbers were growing as the crowd drew together from nowhere, pulled by the expectation of blood. Bedwyr was no more than ordinarily skilled as an infantry fighter, but he was a brilliant horseman. Ruadh, however, was a very fine infantry fighter. Ruadh knew this and stared for a moment in disbelief before rapping out, “On foot!”

At this one of the other members of the Family decided that Arthur should know of the duel, and ran off to find him. Arthur and I were together in the Hall, hearing petitions, and the warrior ran up and shouted loudly enough for all the world to hear, “Bedwyr is fighting Ruadh, on foot!”

I did not consciously think of what could have happened; I knew, at once, and I felt the color go from the world. I rose without thinking and said to the petitioners, “The hearing is suspended.” Arthur caught my arm and we started down the Hall.

“Where?” Arthur asked the messenger.

“The stables. They…” and the warrior gabbled out the whole story on the way.

We arrived to find a knot of men standing about and arguing. When they saw us they pulled apart and fell silent. In the center of the knot was a space of trampled, bloody straw and a body: Ruadh.

“What has happened?” asked Arthur.

The first response was an indistinguishable babble, and Arthur raised his hand for silence, singled one man out of the crowd. “Goronwy. What happened? Where is Bedwyr?”

Goronwy was very much excited, and ignored the second question. Having himself once fought Bedwyr, he had a great interest in the duel. “It was a near contest, my lord,” he said, “that dog Ruadh insulted her excellency the Lady Gwynhwyfar, and Lord Bedwyr fought him, on foot. Ruadh managed to get a thrust under his shield and stab in the thigh, so that he went down. Ach, but he was fast; Ruadh didn’t expect that, came in to finish him, and found Bedwyr’s sword up under his own shield, and into his stomach, quick as the lightnings of Heaven. Glory to God, it was a pretty stroke, and from his knees, too!”

“Pretty?” cried another warrior, one of Medraut’s faction. “God of Heaven, it is a man dead, a man of the royal clan of Britain!”