In Winter's Shadow by Gillian Bradshaw

says of him. I know that I am only a nun’s bastard, as the lord Cei says, but please, please believe me, my lady. You must not trust Medraut.”
    I thought over what Gwyn had said, and regretfully decided that there was nothing that would be useful. “Hush,” I told him. “We do not believe what Medraut says of Gwalchmai.” I turned and began to walk up the hill again.
    “Then why do you let him stay here?” Gwyn cried out, running after me. “He says that you would send him away if what he says was false, and many people believe him. And he says that the emperor is set about with flatterers, and does not know whom to trust, and he says that you, most noble lady, are the worst of the flatterers—oh, forgive me! I did not mean…”
    “I know what Medraut says, Gwyn,” I told him, without looking at him. “But you see, we cannot send him away. Rulers cannot send people away without charging them with some crime, and we have nothing to charge him with. And he has fought for Arthur for some years now. We must pretend to overlook him, and hope that we can weather whatever storm he manages to raise. But do not be afraid to tell me what Medraut says. If there is something important, I want you to tell me immediately. It would help me, and the emperor as well. And we can hope that Medraut will find nothing to confirm his accusations, and they will eventually fail for lack of evidence, so that men will see him for what he is. But do not tell anyone what I have just told you, Gwyn. Officially, Medraut is one of us and trusted, and I cannot be reported to have said differently or many people will think Medraut is right and that I am his cunning enemy.”
    “Yes, my lady,” he whispered. “But the lord Gwalchmai…”
    “No one who knows Gwalchmai at all well will believe Medraut’s accusations. But come, why do you so admire him, Gwyn? You can scarcely have met him.” I looked back at the boy, managing to smile.
    The distraction worked. He flushed a little. “I always admired him—from the songs, you know. And I saw him once in Gwynedd. I thought he looked like an angel of God. He rode by on his horse, looking like the Word of God in the Apocalypse…there was a picture of that in a gospel I copied, my lady. But he is courteous, even to people like me, and he notices. The other day,”—the flush grew deeper—“he told me how to use a spear from horseback, and he showed me himself what I had been doing wrong, and was so kind! And he said I ride well.”
    I smiled again, this time a real smile. I could imagine Gwyn seeing Gwalchmai, in Gwynedd: a small boy raised on songs and illuminated gospels transforming the great white stallion, the gold, crimson, and glitter of arms into wings of light, something as much greater than the world as his own hopes. Well, he could have chosen worse men for his hero-worship. It said much for Gwyn that he admired gentleness and courtesy as well as strength of arms. “Gereint the riding master says you ride well, also,” I told him. “And he thinks, as I do, that you will make an excellent warrior, if you continue to learn as quickly as you have done.”
    “I…I thank you, most noble lady,” he stammered, his eyes shining. He was as transparent as spring water, that boy, and could not more hide his feelings than he could fly.
    “Then go and practice riding, most noble warrior, and we will finish with the wool inventory tomorrow morning. Is it well?”
    “Very well, my lady!” he replied and, seizing my hand, pressed it to his forehead before running off. I was able to smile again, really smile, as I hurried on to Gruffydd’s house.
    The surgeon lived on the northwest side of the Hall, halfway down the hill. He was by birth a townsman from Caer Ebrauc, and had received some education there, and some training in surgery from those in that city who remembered the skills of the long-vanished Roman legions. On coming of age he had joined a monastery and learned some physic to