In Winter's Shadow by Gillian Bradshaw

nonetheless a lie. Who was it that called me ‘the monk’ when I first took service with Uther? Yes, and knocked me down when I took exception to the name! And yet, I thank the heart that can so overlook the past. Boy, you are welcome here. You are to help the Empress Gwynhwyfar as she sees fit, and may spend the rest of your time training with the other boys of the fortress. Take note, Lord Gereint, you will have to train him! They use the yard behind the stables in the morning; go and join them tomorrow, if the Empress has nothing for you to do.”
    Gwyn flushed with pleasure and bowed very low, his eyes shining. He was a sweet boy, I decided, and I wished him all good fortune. Likely he would need it, for the other boys would hardly welcome a foreign intruder to their well-established circles.
    I rose and poured more wine for the high table, as I did at every feast, even the ones most women were barred from—it confers honor, and the men love it. The emissaries smiled and bowed their heads when I poured for them. I knew what they saw—the purple-bordered gown of white silk I was wearing, the gold and the pearls, the confident smile, the lady of the glorious fortress that was the Empire’s heart. A lie, and the glory of the feast also a lie, which we told them without speaking a word. The brittle splendor of ice, soon broken; frost on the grass that melts with the morning sun. And yet, the bitter truth of division, of foreign hostility and inner weakness, might fade away, and the glory would remain alone, and who could say then that it was a lie?
    Yet that night when I returned to my own house and saw the ashes of Menw’s letter in the fire pit I grew sickened at myself. I wished desperately to be honest, to weep when I was grieved, to return openly love and hatred, to escape from riches, honor, and the sword-edge of power. But Arthur was already in bed, asleep in the sleep of exhaustion. He bore a heavier burden than I, and needed his rest, so I crept into bed quietly so as not to wake him.

TWO
    I visited the lord Gwalchmai ap Lot the next day, before he set off for Gaul. He had a house to the east of the Hall, on the steep side of the hill but with a fine view toward Ynys Witrin and the marshes. When he was in Camlann—which because of his value as an emissary was seldom—Gwalchmai shared the house with Cei. When Gwalchmai was not there, Cei brought his mistress and her children into the house to live with him, as he disliked being alone. Warriors are used to close quarters, in the Hall or on campaigns, and never like solitude. Cei probably would have preferred to stay in the Hall most nights, but his rank and importance forbade it, just as it forbade his marrying his mistress. She was a fat, good-natured washerwoman named Maire and had been Cei’s mistress for some years now. She was a widow with four children, the last two of whom were Cei’s. She was at the house when I arrived, helping Gwalchmai’s servant Rhys pack while Gwalchmai sat on the threshold sharpening a spear. Her third child, Cei’s chubby two-year-old son, sat on the other side of the threshold sucking his thumb and staring at the whetstone as it glided rhythmically along the bright metal of the spearhead.
    Intent on his work, Gwalchmai did not notice me until I was almost at the door, but when the morning sun cast my shadow before him he looked up, then set down the whetstone and rose.
    “My lady,” he said, “a hundred welcomes to you.”
    Cei’s son grabbed the whetstone and began to pound it hopefully against the threshold. “No!” Gwalchmai said, looking for a place to lean the spear. I knelt and took the whetstone away from the child.
    “You mustn’t do that,” I told him. “It will break.” The child gave a howl of outrage and tried to grab the stone back.
    “Cilydd!” said his mother, emerging indignant from the house, “you are a bad boy! Ach, many greetings to you, most noble lady—Cilydd, be quiet, do not disturb the