Free In Winter's Shadow by Gillian Bradshaw

Because he was warleader he had all three rooms to himself. It was much like my house, but plainer, suiting his taste. The only decoration was a rack of books on the desk, at which I sat while I drank the wine. He sat by the fireplace and looked at me.
    “Thank you,” I said, managing to keep my voice even again. “It was a foolish matter. I should never have allowed it to distress me.” I intended to say nothing more, to turn the conversation to the books or to politics, but under his calm, concerned eyes I suddenly found myself saying, “Oh, Bedwyr, I wish to God I could have children!”
    He jumped up, started toward me, then stopped, looking at me. I pressed my hands against my face, drew them down under my eyes to ease the pressure there. “It is only that I am tired,” I said. “One feels it, sometimes: all the wars and consultations and factions. And sometimes I wish I could be an ordinary woman—ach, I know, no doubt I would hate it if I were. Only…if I had a child, if Arthur had a son…he would never have trusted Medraut, if he had a son by me, and we would have a future, someone to inherit the Empire when we are gone…and I would so love to have a baby, my own child…”
    “Hush,” he said, and then did cross the room to me and stooped clumsily over me, patting me awkwardly on the back with the stump of his shield arm. I burst into tears, and he put his arms around me while I leaned against his shoulder and sobbed, bitterly ashamed of myself all the time.
    After a while I pulled away from Bedwyr and dried my eyes. He leaned back against the desk, his arm still around my shoulder, still watching me with concern. I fumbled for the wine glass, took another sip of wine, and managed to smile. “Forgive me,” I said. “It is very weak and foolish of me.”
    “My lady!” he protested. “God knows, you bear the weight of Camlann: is it strange that you grow weary now and then? I am honored that you should choose me to speak to.” I laughed a little, wiping my eyes again. “Truly, I am honored!” he said, with some vehemence. “Do not blame yourself, noble lady. There is not one of us who is not borne down by cares sometimes, and few who have as many cares as you.”
    “But not all of us imitate a fountain because of it,” I replied.
    “True. Most warriors asked to endure what you do would take a sword to one of their comrades over a trivial word or a joke. Fountains are safer.”
    I laughed, wiped my face once more, and rubbed my hands dry on my gown. “But not for your cloak, noble lord; I can see that I have drenched it as well as any rainstorm.”
    He glanced at the damp patch on his shoulder, then smiled, the smile that lit his face from the inside. I returned the smile, then rose shakily to my feet.
    “I must be going, lord,” I told him. “I am supposed to discuss next year’s tribute with the emissary from Elmet this afternoon, and I have some petitioners to hear before then. So we must weep a while and part, like lovers in a ballad. I thank you for the wine and for the use of your shoulder.”
    “I am your servant, my lady,” he returned seriously. He opened the door for me. As I paused outside it to take my leave he added, “my lady, you should demand less of yourself, and work less hard.”
    “More easily advised than done, Lord Bedwyr. Strange that that saying should apply to so much of your good advice! But I thank you. Truly.”
    I felt his concerned gaze follow me all the way to the Hall. I was ashamed that I had broken before him. And yet, I felt better for it. It is useful to weep, sometimes: it frees one to concentrate on other things afterward. And, as they say, a grief shared is a burden halved. But I wished I could have spoken to Arthur about it. Yet he had burdens enough and more than enough of his own; and I could never quite mention my childlessness to him. That, while it must be his grief as well as mine, was plainly my failure. In that at least Medraut gave true