In Winter's Shadow (25 page)

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 crime 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.”

Arthur looked at his hands, twisted the signet ring on his finger. I thought I saw a shadow of anger cross his face, but, if so, it was gone quickly. “Have you anything to add?” he asked Bedwyr, quietly.

“No, my lord. I am content to await your sentence.”

Arthur nodded, then raised his head. “Gwynhwyfar, daughter of Ogyrfan,” he called, and finally met my eyes.

I stepped forward. I had meant to bow, but I was afraid he would look away if I did. My mouth was dry, and I had to keep swallowing. I forgot all the others packing that Hall, forgot the heat, forgot everything but him.

“You are changed with defaming the imperial majesty by committing adultery with this man. Do you admit the charges?”

“Yes, my lord.” I had to catch my breath, swallow again, think whether I was going to correct Bedwyr’s story or not, wonder how to tell Arthur that I still loved him. But after that sole reply he rose, and looked slowly about the Hall.

“Both the Lady Gwynhwyfar and Lord Bedwyr have admitted the charge of adultery brought by Medraut son of Lot. Is there any that would deny it?”

I stared at him, not believing that he was ending the proceedings without any more words from me than “Yes, my lord.” But he stood still, holding the scroll of evidence, waiting. No one spoke. The Hall was so silent I could hear the swallows chirping in the thatch, and the children shouting outside, down the hill.

“Then I pronounce both Gwynhwyfar daughter of Ogyrfan and Bedwyr son of Brendan guilty of defaming the imperial majesty, for which the penalty is death. However, since both have given long and faithful service to the Empire, and since there is no evidence of any other treason, committed or intended, I here commute that sentence for both. Bedwyr ap Brendan.”

Bedwyr stepped forward.

“You I strip of all honors, ranks, and privileges hitherto conferred on you, and sentence to exile in Less Britain, on pain of death if you are found in any other part of my realm after a week’s time. You may take your horses, your arms, and sufficient goods to provide yourself and your servant with passage to Less Britain. You must leave this fortress before dusk this afternoon.” Bedwyr dropped again to his knee, bowing his head, and again rose. “And you, Gwynhwyfar, daughter of Ogyrfan…”

The steady, ponderous words stopped as Arthur hesitated for the first time, looking at me. I almost cried out to him, begging him to give me a chance to speak; I wanted to rush forward and kneel at his feet, try to explain, let him know that, adultery notwithstanding, I loved him. But was there anything I could say that would alter the course of this irrevocable law? And his eyes were cold, bitterly cold. I could not move. The look was not the one with which he had regarded Bedwyr. I saw that he did not understand what I had done, could not understand, and was cut beyond healing by betrayal where he had most trusted. He did not want to look at me, I could tell. It hurt him, and I knew that he did not wish to hear me speak and to torture him with explanations. I bowed my head, and he looked over me down the Hall, once again as calm and distant as a statue.

“Gwynhwyfar, daughter of Ogyrfan, it is not fitting that a woman who has held the imperial dignity should go into exile, or suffer punishments from those who were her subjects. Considering this, and considering also that you were the less to blame than your seducer, I decree only that you shall be escorted back to your own clan, and returned to the protection of its chieftain, there to live out the rest of your life.

“The sentence is decreed; the trial is ended.”