pressed them against my eyes. The thought of that look in his eyes, of his rare, warm smile, melted my soul away within me. And it had struck him, it had trapped him as well, of that I was certain.
“Oh God,” I said again. My voice sounded strange to me.
I wiped my dripping hands on my gown and went back to the conference room. The book Bedwyr had been reading when I came into the house was still on the desk: I picked it up to put it away—anything, to distract myself from the turmoil within me. It was the Aeneid , and when I lifted it, it fell open at the beginning of book four:
At regina gravi iamdudum saucia cura vulnus alit venis et caeco carpitur igni…
But meanwhile the queen, wounded with a heavy grief
Feeds the wound with her blood and is seized by a blind fire…
I threw the book down on the floor and stared at it. Unhappy Dido, in love with Aeneas, who was bound for Rome. In love, in love, in love. I had not noticed it coming, and now that I saw and understood it was too late: love seized me savagely, bittersweet, irresistible. And adulterous, treacherous, ruinous.
With trembling hands I picked the book up again. I smoothed the bent pages and set it back in its place in the bookcase, then stood a moment, my palms flat against the cool, scarred wood of the desk. “Very well,” I said, aloud, feeling the beat of blood in my ears. It had happened; I loved Bedwyr. But still, Arthur…I closed my eyes, thinking of my husband: the eyes that could enforce silence with a glance or glow with pure delight; the confident step, the strength of his hands; the passionate force of his vision. My husband, my own, and if sometimes, burdened with Empire, he would not hear me—well, I had always expected that. But Bedwyr—no, I would not feed this wound with my blood. Nor would I even speak to the warleader, unless circumstances demanded it.
I turned and staggered from the room, stopped in the doorway. The day had grown dark, and clouds spat a few small drops of rain. I must…I must speak to the servants, and see that a few of them knew what Arthur had said regarding Gwalchmai, so that the rumor of his words would spread quietly, naturally, together with the tale of the quarrel. Yes. And as for Bedwyr…
Best not to think of him at all.
THREE
I was finishing the inventory of wools with Gwyn the next morning when Gwalchmai came into the storeroom looking for me. He smiled when he saw us, nodded to Gwyn, and gave me a slight bow. “My lady, I would like to speak with you, if you are free.”
“Is it urgent?” I asked, with wearied anxiety.
“Indeed not. I can wait—when will you be done here?”
“We’re almost finished now. If you wish me to come to the Hall when I’m done, or to your house…”
“Do not trouble yourself. I will wait here, if I am not in the way. Can I be of any assistance?”
“None whatsoever.”
“A pity. I feel like a horse let out to pasture, with nothing to do but graze and watch his fellows working. I had not thought thirty so old as all that…Hai, Gwyn! How goes the riding?”
Gwyn, who had been watching Gwalchmai with shining eyes, stammered his reply eagerly. “I c-can hit the target from a gallop now, since you showed me, noble lord. But I can’t pick up the ring, and the others told me I should be able to. I tried it yesterday, and fell off, and the horse didn’t like it.”
Gwalchmai laughed. “You were riding that chestnut three-year-old again? The beast’s half pony and has no more withers than a mule, and less training. One cannot throw all one’s weight onto one side of a horse unless he is used to it. What did that one do when you leaned over his neck? Stop suddenly and look surprised?”
Gwyn laughed back. “Like a hen with her tail feathers plucked. He stopped as soon as I had my left leg round the cantle, and then I fell off. He sniffed at me when I was on the ground, and looked very puzzled. But the others had all told me I should try it.”
“They
“Oh God,” I said again. My voice sounded strange to me.
I wiped my dripping hands on my gown and went back to the conference room. The book Bedwyr had been reading when I came into the house was still on the desk: I picked it up to put it away—anything, to distract myself from the turmoil within me. It was the Aeneid , and when I lifted it, it fell open at the beginning of book four:
At regina gravi iamdudum saucia cura vulnus alit venis et caeco carpitur igni…
But meanwhile the queen, wounded with a heavy grief
Feeds the wound with her blood and is seized by a blind fire…
I threw the book down on the floor and stared at it. Unhappy Dido, in love with Aeneas, who was bound for Rome. In love, in love, in love. I had not noticed it coming, and now that I saw and understood it was too late: love seized me savagely, bittersweet, irresistible. And adulterous, treacherous, ruinous.
With trembling hands I picked the book up again. I smoothed the bent pages and set it back in its place in the bookcase, then stood a moment, my palms flat against the cool, scarred wood of the desk. “Very well,” I said, aloud, feeling the beat of blood in my ears. It had happened; I loved Bedwyr. But still, Arthur…I closed my eyes, thinking of my husband: the eyes that could enforce silence with a glance or glow with pure delight; the confident step, the strength of his hands; the passionate force of his vision. My husband, my own, and if sometimes, burdened with Empire, he would not hear me—well, I had always expected that. But Bedwyr—no, I would not feed this wound with my blood. Nor would I even speak to the warleader, unless circumstances demanded it.
I turned and staggered from the room, stopped in the doorway. The day had grown dark, and clouds spat a few small drops of rain. I must…I must speak to the servants, and see that a few of them knew what Arthur had said regarding Gwalchmai, so that the rumor of his words would spread quietly, naturally, together with the tale of the quarrel. Yes. And as for Bedwyr…
Best not to think of him at all.
THREE
I was finishing the inventory of wools with Gwyn the next morning when Gwalchmai came into the storeroom looking for me. He smiled when he saw us, nodded to Gwyn, and gave me a slight bow. “My lady, I would like to speak with you, if you are free.”
“Is it urgent?” I asked, with wearied anxiety.
“Indeed not. I can wait—when will you be done here?”
“We’re almost finished now. If you wish me to come to the Hall when I’m done, or to your house…”
“Do not trouble yourself. I will wait here, if I am not in the way. Can I be of any assistance?”
“None whatsoever.”
“A pity. I feel like a horse let out to pasture, with nothing to do but graze and watch his fellows working. I had not thought thirty so old as all that…Hai, Gwyn! How goes the riding?”
Gwyn, who had been watching Gwalchmai with shining eyes, stammered his reply eagerly. “I c-can hit the target from a gallop now, since you showed me, noble lord. But I can’t pick up the ring, and the others told me I should be able to. I tried it yesterday, and fell off, and the horse didn’t like it.”
Gwalchmai laughed. “You were riding that chestnut three-year-old again? The beast’s half pony and has no more withers than a mule, and less training. One cannot throw all one’s weight onto one side of a horse unless he is used to it. What did that one do when you leaned over his neck? Stop suddenly and look surprised?”
Gwyn laughed back. “Like a hen with her tail feathers plucked. He stopped as soon as I had my left leg round the cantle, and then I fell off. He sniffed at me when I was on the ground, and looked very puzzled. But the others had all told me I should try it.”
“They
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