In Winter's Shadow (20 page)

I shook my head. “Medraut still cannot prove anything. We can still deny it, perhaps successfully. We might hold power till our lives end.”

He looked up and smiled, a little half-smile of ironic amusement. “Might we? Come, my white hart, you are wiser than that. Medraut is no fool, and has no lack of skill. Perhaps when actually in power he is too heavy-handed, but he can play upon the discontents of Britain as skillfully as his brother does on the harp. And he has strings enough to hand: dissatisfied and revengeful kings, like Maelgwn Gwynedd; the enmity of the Church; the boredom of my own warriors. Our wars with the invaders are finished, but the Empire is not entirely restored, as we promised, and the frustration of that is burning in Britain, like a stubble fire, waiting for fuel to blaze up. It only needs a skillful leader to direct it. Medraut can break us—or make us pay such a price for power that we would be better off dead. It’s not worth ruling if one has to be a tyrant to do so, or if one has to destroy one’s own people. No, we must hold on as long as we safely can, and then abdicate. The problem is still to find a man to give the power to, one I could trust to rule justly, who would be strong enough to hold his own against Medraut. And still, there is no one.”

“It would be very dangerous to abdicate,” I pointed out.

He gave the same tired smile. “‘For this Empire which we have acquired is a kind of tyranny,’” he quoted—it was one of a collection of sayings of famous men, most of whom I had never heard of, which Arthur had brought from the monastery where he was raised—“‘which it may be wrong to have taken up, but which it is certainly hazardous to let go.’ But what does that have to do with either of us? We did not take it up to be safe, and have risked death for it often enough.”

“I meant it would be dangerous for the Empire. The kings of Britain know you, and if they do not believe in your justice, they at least believe you are a skilled warleader. They might be willing to fight a successor of yours, especially if he was young, where they would not fight you.”

He sighed and rested his head on his hands. “You are right, of course. It might come to war before I could afford to abdicate. And if I were to be defeated, and if Medraut seized power—no, I must trust God that that, at least, he will not permit.” He looked into the fire again, and continued in a voice so low I could barely hear it. “And yet, this darkness was of my getting. I myself am responsible for Medraut. The unrest in the kingdom, too, is my fault, for I got my power by strength of arms and contrary to the law, and it is not surprising that I have enemies. I thought I was doing right at the time, but perhaps, in God’s eyes, it was as grave a sin as incest.”

“No,” I said, laying my hand on his.

He shook it off. “The destruction is coming from within us, and from within me. The Saxons could not defeat us, but we ourselves are destroying the Empire; the faction in the Family, the flaw within. Once I thought that merely the shame and dishonor of being known to have loved my sister would be intolerable. Now that seems unimportant. That only affects me, while this, this is the ruin of the West, the Darkness coming upon us. Why must we love the Light so much when we are bound to work its destruction?” He looked up at me as he asked this, raising his voice, as though I might have the answer. The fire crackled softly on the hearth.

“My dearest, we have not lost yet,” I said at last. “And you yourself said we must trust God: surely he will not permit the Darkness to conquer. We have too much to fight for to give way to despair.”

He sighed, “I am tired.” He rubbed his face, “I have been fighting for the better part of thirty years, and I begin not to believe even in victory. And to be responsible for it…but you are right. We have a great deal to fight for. Indeed, we are fortunate to have so much, to be able to love it and fight for it. It would be cowardly and ungracious to surrender before the battle is under way.” He rose and kissed me, then stood, holding me against him. He was still wearing his mail coat, and I could feel the links under his tunic and feel the strength of his body under that. I thought of Bedwyr, and of my own desire to be weak, and was bitterly ashamed.

“Gwynhwyfar,” said Arthur, “I do not deserve you. Forgive me that I have been angry with you—and that I undoubtedly will be again, for I am very tired, and most bitterly grieved at heart.”

“Oh, my heart’s dearest,” I said, and could not think of anything more. But words were not really necessary.

That night, at the welcoming feast, Medraut swore the Threefold Oath to an alliance with Arthur. He knelt in the center of the Hall, under the roof-tree with its golden dragon standard, offering his sword hilt-first to Arthur and swearing in a clear voice, with apparent solemnity, to hold his kingdom at peace with Arthur, to make no wars against him or his subjects and allies, to respect the laws of the Empire, and to offer no refuge to enemies of Britain. Arthur took the sword and vowed to keep peace with the kingdom of the Orcades, and so on. The Family cheered as Medraut rose again and, smiling, sheathed his sword, but Medraut’s own men, brought from the Orcades, watched Arthur with a grim, unblinking stare.

Neither they nor Medraut ever returned to the Islands. Medraut had stayed at Camlann two weeks, and was preparing to leave again—after engendering the old tension in the Family—when a messenger came from the Orcades to say that the royal clan was deposed, and that the Islands would henceforth be ruled by a branch of that O’Niall family who ruled most of Erin. There had always been hostility between the O’Niall and the royal clan of the Islands: King Lot had originally left Erin when his clan lost its position in Ulaid to the O’Niall. The O’Niall had now been invited to Dun Fionn by one of the noble clans that Medraut had injured: this clan, and its allies, on a day previously arranged, took the port on the largest of the islands. A fleet from Erin put in, and the combined forces marched across the island to Dun Fionn. If Medraut had been present, the fortress would undoubtedly have been able to resist, but, as it was, half the inhabitants mutinied and opened the gates to the invaders. All the male members of the royal clan, with its staunchest allies, were then put to death, and the women distributed among the invaders in marriage or concubinage, usually the latter. All this had happened shortly after Medraut left the Orcades, probably before he even reached Caer Gwent; it had undoubtedly been arranged months before.

We gave this messenger—who was a member of the injured, revenging clan—an audience in the Hall. He had arrived in the middle of the afternoon, and there were not many people about when he took his place under the roof-tree and began to speak—we had had to send for Medraut. But more people came hurrying in as the man continued, telling his story with evident pleasure, coloring the details in favor of his new masters, the O’Niall. The Hall began to fill with whispers, explanations to newcomers, exclamations of horrors, demands to know what would be done, but the messenger did not look around, but faced Arthur steadily. When he had finished his narration of the events in the Islands he drew himself up, laid a hand on his sword, and addressed Arthur proudly in conclusion.

“Do not think,” he declared in his excellent British, “that it will still be possible for you to have an unjustified and ruinous influence on our Islands. We are Irish, not British, and now—rightly!—are bound to Erin. We will swear no further peace with you, High King of Britain. The accursed line of Lot did so, and all our evils sprang from that, from his marriage with a British witch for your thrice-damned alliance, and from his sons—the drunkard and the sorcerous traitor, and the last and worst, the one not of his getting, that shamefully begotten bastard, the witch’s son and curse of his people. If you, Pendragon, mean to send this tyrant back to rule us, there will be a thousand spears to meet you, and a thousand swords, and not easily will you win through them, nor easily hold the Islands if you do. This we have sworn by the sun and the wind, by the oath of our people and by the new God of Erin and the O’Niall, now our God. But if you,” and he spat this at Medraut, who had stood silent and unmoving on Arthur’s right, “presume to return to the Islands, know that you are sentenced to death, and no matter how many guards and warriors you set about yourself, or how many men you sorcerously seek out and kill, still someone, one day, will find a way through to you and make you pay for your tyranny. This also we have sworn.”

Medraut stared at him, his eyes bleak, frozen with hatred, though his face was still, unmoved. “And perhaps,” he said, in a smooth, conversational tone, “you also are sentenced to death, overly boastful messenger.”

The messenger laughed. “You killed my father, though no one could prove it, though he was charged with nothing and no blood-price was paid for his death. My cousin you had publicly butchered in your Hall. I asked for this mission, Medraut son of no one, so that I could see you when you heard this message; and having seen, I am not afraid of death. Lennavair, daughter of Durtacht, whom you had contracted to marry, sleeps with Laeghaire of the O’Niall as his concubine, and is glad to be a true man’s woman and not a bastard’s wife.”

“Look well to your ship when you sail home,” Medraut said quietly.

“He came as an emissary,” Arthur said in a quiet, but carrying voice. “And he will be permitted to leave in peace, according to law and custom. I do not know what you mean by telling him to look to his ship, son of Lot. Doubtless he is accustomed to sailing, even in autumn, and needs no such warning.” Medraut turned his cruel stare on Arthur; Arthur met it. After a moment, Arthur added very quietly, “For if you wish ill to this man, I would have you recollect that sorcery is a capital crime.”

Medraut stared for another long moment, then dropped his eyes stealthily and bowed. “Why do you mention sorcery, my lord? Do you believe the wild charges of those who have declared themselves your enemies, and who have deposed and murdered a clan allied to you by many oaths and much blood? I do not think you can or do believe such charges. I ask your leave, noble lord, to depart and to inform my kinsmen and followers of this calamity.”

Arthur nodded, and Medraut bowed and started from the dais. He paused by the messenger and gave him another cold, measuring stare, then smiled and walked out slowly down the length of the Hall, with everyone making way for him. Many of his friends trailed out after him.

The messenger, however, looked at Arthur with surprise. “You preserve the tradition concerning emissaries,” he said, after a moment. “It is well. What message shall I take from you to the lords O’Niall, the rulers of the Orcades?”

Arthur leaned back in his chair and studied the messenger thoughtfully, until the man, up to then so bold, began to look uncertain and fidget with his sword.

“Tell your masters,” Arthur said at last, still not speaking loudly, sounding tired, but causing a silence through the rest of the Hall, “that I grieve for the Islands. Tell your cousins and their allies that I grieve for the royal clan, most savagely murdered. And tell your people that I grieve for them as well, that they destroyed the line that had always been their kings, and called in foreign masters to rule over them. Say to your masters, moreover, that it is easier to say that the Islands are bound to Erin than it is to rely upon Erin for aid. If the O’Niall trouble my subjects by raiding the coasts they will regret it; and I will follow that custom I have always followed, and put to death any raiders who are captured in Britain, and take no ransom for any of them. But if the O’Niall wish for British goods—and they will want wood, and tin, and iron, for they cannot get those in the islands—then they will have to come to terms with me and swear oaths to respect my lands and my subjects.”

The emissary looked in the direction in which Medraut had gone. “But the tyrant?”

“By birth he can be considered one of the royal clan of Britain. He has a place here, if he no longer has one in the Islands.” There was another moment’s silence, then Arthur rose from his seat at the high table and walked down the steps from the dais until he was facing the messenger. “I will not go to war with Erin for the sake of a tyrant, even if he is of the royal clan of Britain,” he said quietly. “If you wish, you can have peace with me. I will arrange the terms for you to bring to your masters. Meanwhile, Camlann offers you the hospitality due to emissaries.”

The emissary stared at Arthur for another moment, not quite believing him; glanced about the Hall, back to Arthur. Then he bowed deeply. “Lord High King, I thank you.”

When the messenger departed for the Orcades, Arthur had Medraut watched, gave the messenger a carefully picked escort back to his ship, which had been kept under a reliable guard, and finally sent money to the monastery at Ynys Witrin for a Mass to be said for those voyaging on the sea. Whether because of these precautions or because Medraut had decided to sacrifice his wishes to the need to make a good impression, the ship arrived safely back at Dun Fionn, and we presently heard that our arrangements for peace—oaths from the O’Niall to prevent piracy and raiding in return for some rights to trade in Britain—were acceptable. And Medraut stayed at Camlann.

Although it was plainly something he had not anticipated or desired, Medraut’s deposition worked in his favor. The fact that Arthur would not support him in a bid to reclaim his kingship gave him cause for complaint: he was Arthur’s nephew, and had sworn the oath of alliance, but Arthur had made a peace with those who had murdered his kin and usurped his kingdom. It did not matter that the alliance had never extended to mutual defense—it was old, established, sealed by marriage in the previous generation, and it had been set aside in an instant. Even in the family there was strong feeling that Arthur should have supported Medraut. Medraut’s actions while in power were not taken very seriously: Medraut himself blamed “poor Agravain’s laxness” for the fact that he had put so many noblemen to death, and men are never as concerned about tyranny in a foreign country as about some slight problem in their own. It did not help matters that Arthur arranged to have the sons of Morgawse formally recognized as members of the imperial clan of Britain, now that their father’s clan was destroyed: this served only to strengthen Medraut’s claim on British help.