The Winter King: A Novel of Arthur

by Bernard Cornwell

  But for my most fair and generous protector, Igraine, let me set down what little I did learn. Arthur, despite Uther’s denial at Glevum, was the son of the High King, though there was small advantage to be gained from that patronage for Uther fathered as many bastards as a torn cat makes kittens. Arthur’s mother was, like my most precious queen, called Igraine. She came from Caer Gei in Gwynedd and is said to have been the daughter of Cunedda, King of Gwynedd and High King before Uther, though Igraine was no princess for her mother was not Cunedda’s wife, but was instead married to a chieftain of Henis Wyren. All that Arthur would ever say of Igraine of Gwynedd, who died when he was on the verge of manhood, is that she was the most wonderful and clever and beautiful mother any boy could ever wish for, though according to Cei, who knew Igraine well, her beauty was sharpened by a rancorous wit. Cei is the son of Ector ap Ednywain, the chieftain at Caer Gei who took Igraine and her four bastard children into his household when Uther rejected them. That rejection occurred in the same year Arthur was born, and Igraine never forgave her son for it. She used to say that Arthur was one child too many, and somehow she believed that she would always have ruled as Uther’s mistress had Arthur not been born.

  Arthur was the fourth of Igraine’s children to survive infancy. The other three were all girls and Uther evidently liked his bastards to be female for they were less likely to make demands on his patrimony when they grew. Cei and Arthur were raised together and Cei says, though never in Arthur’s hearing, that both he and Arthur were frightened of Igraine. Arthur, he told me, was a dutiful, hard-working boy who strove to be the best at every lesson, whether in reading or sword-fighting, but nothing he could ever achieve gave his mother pleasure, though Arthur always worshipped her, defended her, and wept inconsolably when she died of a fever. Arthur was then thirteen, and Ector, his protector, appealed to Uther to help Igraine’s four impoverished orphans. Uther brought them to Caer Cadarn, probably because he thought the three daughters would be useful throwpieces in the game of dynastic marriages. Morgan’s marriage to a Prince of Kernow was shortlived thanks to fire, but Morgause married King Lot of Lothian and Anna was wed to King Budic ap Camran across the water in Brittany. These last two were not important marriages, for neither king was close enough to send reinforcements to Dumnonia in time of war, but both served their small purposes. Arthur, being a boy, had no such usefulness and so he went to Uther’s court and learned to use a sword and spear. He also met Merlin, though neither man talked much of what passed between them in those months before Arthur, despairing of ever being given preferment by Uther, followed his sister Anna to Brittany. There, in the turmoil of Gaul, he grew into a great soldier and Anna, ever conscious that a warrior brother was a valued relative, kept his exploits known to Uther. That was why Uther brought Arthur back to Britain for the campaign which ended in his son’s death. The rest you know.

  And now I have told Igraine all I know of Arthur’s childhood and doubtless she will embellish the tale with the legends that are already being told of Arthur among the common folk. Igraine is taking away these skins one by one and having them transcribed into the proper tongue of Britain by Dafydd ap Gruffud, the clerk of the justice who speaks the Saxon tongue, and I do not trust him or Igraine to leave these words untouched by their own fancies. There are times when I wish that I dared to set this tale down in the British tongue, but Bishop Sansum, whom God cherishes above all the saints, still suspects what I write. At times he has tried to stop this work, or else has commanded the imps of Satan to impede me. One day I found my quills all gone, and on another there was urine in the inkhorn, but Igraine restores everything and Sansum, unless he learns to read and masters the Saxon tongue, cannot confirm his suspicions that this work is not, in truth, a Saxon Gospel.

  Igraine urges me to write more and faster, and pleads with me to tell the truth about Arthur, but then complains when that truth does not match the fairy-tales she hears in the Caer’s kitchen or in her robing chamber. She wants shape-changing and questing beasts, but I cannot invent what I did not see. It is true, God forgive me, that I have changed some things, but nothing important. Thus, when Arthur saved us in the battle before Caer Cadarn, I realized he was coming long before he actually appeared, for Owain and his men knew all along that Arthur and his horsemen, newly arrived from Brittany, were concealed in the woodlands north of Caer Cadarn, just as they knew that Gundleus’s war-band was approaching. Gundleus’s mistake was to fire the Tor, for the smoke pyre served as a warning beacon to all the south country and Owain’s mounted scouts had been watching Gundleus’s men since midday. Owain, having helped Agricola defeat Gorfyddyd’s invasion, had hurried south to greet Arthur, not out of friendship, but rather to be present when a rival warlord appeared in the kingdom, and it was fortunate for us that Owain had returned. Yet even so, the battle could never have happened as I described it. If Owain had not known that Arthur was nearby he would have given the baby Mordred to his swiftest horseman and sent the child galloping to safety, even if the rest of us did go down beneath Gundleus’s spears. I could have written that truth, of course, but the bards showed me how to shape a tale so that the listeners are kept waiting for the part they want to hear, and I think the tale is better for keeping the news of Arthur’s arrival until the very last minute. It is a small sin, this tale-shaping, though God knows Sansum would never forgive it.

  It is still winter here in Dinnewrac, and bitter cold, but King Brochvael ordered Sansum to light our fires after Brother Aron was found frozen dead in his cell. The saint refused until the King sent firewood from his Caer, and so we do now have fires, though not many and never great. Still, even a small fire makes the writing easier, and of late the blessed Saint Sansum has been less meddlesome. Two novices have joined our small flock, mere boys with unbroken voices, and Sansum has taken it upon himself to train them in the ways of Our Most Precious Saviour. Such is the saint’s care for their immortal souls that he even insists the boys must share his sleeping cell and he seems a happier man for their company. God be thanked for that, and for the gift of fire, and for the strength to go on with this tale of Arthur, the King that Never Was, the Enemy of God and our Lord of Battles.

  I shall not weary you with the details of that fight before Caer Cadarn. It was a rout, not a battle, and only a handful of Silurians escaped. Ligessac, the traitor, was one who escaped, but most of Gundleus’s men were captured. A score of the enemy died, including the two naked fighters who went down to Owain’s war spear. Gundleus, Ladwys and Tanaburs were all taken alive. I killed no one. I did not even dent my sword’s edge.

  Nor do I even remember much about the rout, for all I wanted to do was stare at Arthur.

  He was mounted on Llamrei, his mare, a great black beast with shaggy fetlocks and flat iron shoes tied to her hooves with leather straps. All Arthur’s men rode such big horses that had their nostrils slit into flaring holes so that they could breathe more easily. The beasts were made even more alarming by extraordinary shields of stiffened leather that hung to protect the animals’ chests from spear thrusts. The shields were so thick and cumbersome that the horses could not lower their heads to graze at the battle’s end and Arthur ordered one of his grooms to unstrap the device so Llamrei could feed. Each of the horses needed two grooms apiece, one to look after the horse shield, body cloth and saddle, the other to lead the horse by the bridle, while still a third servant carried the warrior’s spear and shield. Arthur had a long, heavy spear named Rhon-gomyniad while his shield, Wynebgwrthucher, was made of willow boards covered with a skin of beaten silver that was polished until it dazzled. At his hip hung the knife called Carn-wenhau and the famous sword Excalibur in its black scabbard that was cross-hatched with golden thread.

  I could not see his face at first for his head was enclosed in a helmet with broad cheek pieces that shadowed his features. The helmet, with its gash for eyes and dark hole for a mouth, was made of polished iron decorated with swirling patterns of silver and had a high plume of white
goose feathers. There was something deathly about that pale helmet; it had a fearsome, skull-like appearance which suggested its wearer was one of the walking dead. His cloak, like his plume, was white. The cloak, which he was fastidious about keeping clean, hung from his shoulders to keep the sun off his long coat of scale armour. I had never seen scale armour before, though Hywel had told me of it, and seeing Arthur’s I was overwhelmed with a desire to possess such a coat myself. The armour was Roman and made from hundreds of iron plates, each no bigger than a thumbprint, sewn in overlapping rows on to a knee-length coat of leather. The plates were square at the top, where two holes were left for the sewing thread, and pointed at their base, and the scales overlapped in such a manner that a spear head would always encounter at least two layers of iron before striking the stout leather beneath. The stiff armour chinked when Arthur moved, and it was not just iron sounding for his smiths had added a row of golden plates around the neck and scattered silver scales among the polished iron so that the whole coat seemed to shimmer. It took hours of polishing each day to prevent the iron rusting, and after every battle a few plates would be missing and would need to be reforged. Few smiths could make such a coat, and very few men could afford to buy one, but Arthur had taken his from a Frankish chieftain he had killed in Armorica. Besides the helmet, cloak and scale coat, he wore leather boots, leather gloves and a leather belt from which Excalibur hung in its cross-hatched scabbard that was supposed to protect its wearer against all harm.

  To me, dazzled by his coming, he appeared as a white, shining God come to earth. I could not take my eyes from him.

  He embraced Owain and I heard the two men laugh. Owain was a tall man, but Arthur could look him in the eye, though he was nowhere near as heavily built as Owain. Owain was all muscle and bulk, while Arthur was a lean and wiry man. Owain thumped Arthur’s back and Arthur returned the affectionate gesture before the two men walked, their arms about each other’s shoulders, to where Ralla was holding Mordred.

  Arthur fell to his knees before his King and, with a surprising delicacy for a man in stiff, heavy armour, lifted a gloved hand to take the hem of the baby’s robe. He pushed his helmet’s hinged cheek pieces aside, then kissed the robe. Mordred responded by screaming and struggling.

  Arthur stood and held his arms towards Morgan. She was older than her brother, who was still only twenty-five or twenty-six years old, but when he offered to embrace her she began to cry behind her gold mask that clashed lightly against Arthur’s helmet as they clasped each other. He held her tight and patted her back. ‘Dear Morgan,’ I heard him say, ‘dear, sweet Morgan.’

  I had never realized how lonely Morgan was until I saw her weep in her brother’s arms.

  He pulled gently away from her grip then used both his gloved hands to lift the silver-grey helmet from his head. ‘I have a gift for you,’ he told Morgan, ‘at least I think I do, unless Hygwydd’s stolen it. Where are you, Hygwydd?’

  The servant Hygwydd ran forward and was given the white-plumed helmet in exchange for a necklace of bears’ teeth that were set in gold sockets on a gold chain that Arthur hung around his sister’s neck. ‘Something beautiful for my lovely sister,’ he said, and then he insisted on knowing who Ralla was, and when he heard about her baby’s death his face showed such pain and sympathy that Ralla began to weep and Arthur impulsively hugged her and almost crushed the baby King against his scale-armoured chest. Then Gwlyddyn was introduced, and Gwlyddyn told Arthur how I had killed a Silurian to protect Mordred and so Arthur swung round to thank me.

  And, for the first time, I looked full into his face.

  It was a face of kindness. That was my first impression. No, that is what Igraine wants me to write. In truth my first impression was of sweat, lots of sweat come from wearing metal armour on a summer’s day, but after the sweat I noticed how kind he looked. You trusted Arthur on sight. That was why women always liked Arthur, not because he was good-looking, for he was not overly handsome, but because he looked at you with genuine interest and an obvious benevolence. He had a strong, bony face that was full of enthusiasm, and a full head of dark brown hair that when I first saw him was sweat-plastered tight to his skull, thanks to his helmet’s leather liner. His eyes were brown, he had a long nose and a heavy, clean-shaven jaw, but his most noticeable feature was his mouth. It was unnaturally large and had a full set of teeth. He was proud of his teeth and cleaned them every day with salt when he could find it, and with plain water when he could not. It was a big face and a strong one, yet what impressed me most about him was that look of kindness and the impish humour in his eyes. There was an air of enjoyment about Arthur, something in his face radiated a happiness that embraced you in its aura. I noticed then, and ever after, how men and women became more cheerful when Arthur was in their company. Everyone became more optimistic, there was more laughter, and when he departed a dullness would ensue, yet Arthur was no great wit, nor a storyteller, he was simply Arthur, a good man of infectious confidence, impatient will and iron-hard resolve. You did not notice that hardness at first, and even Arthur himself pretended it was not there, yet it was. A slew of battlefield graves bear witness to it.

  ‘Gwlyddyn tells me you’re a Saxon!’ he teased me.

  ‘Lord,’ was all I could say as I dropped to my knees.

  He stooped and lifted me by the shoulders. His touch was firm. ‘I’m no King, Derfel,’ he said, ‘you don’t kneel to me, but I should kneel to you for risking your life to save our King.’ He smiled. ‘For that I thank you.’ He had the knack of making you feel that no one else in the world mattered to him as much as you did and I was already lost in worship of him. ‘How old are you?’ he asked me.

  ‘Fifteen, I think.’

  ‘But big enough for twenty years.’ He smiled. ‘Who taught you to fight?’

  ‘Hywel,’ I said, ‘Merlin’s steward.’

  ‘Ah! The best teacher! He taught me too, and how is good Hywel?’ The question was asked eagerly, but I had neither the words nor courage to answer.

  ‘Dead,’ Morgan answered for me. ‘Slain by Gundleus.’ She spat through the mouth-slit of her mask towards the captured King who was being held a few paces away.

  ‘Hywel dead?’ Arthur asked the question of me, his eyes on mine, and I nodded and blinked back tears and Arthur instantly hugged me. ‘You are a good man, Derfel,’ he said, ‘and I owe you a reward for saving our King’s life. What do you want?’

  ‘To be a warrior, Lord,’ I said.

  He smiled and stepped away from me. ‘You’re a lucky man, Derfel, because you are what you want to be. Lord Owain?’ He turned to the burly, tattooed champion. ‘Can you use this good Saxon warrior?’

  ‘I can use him.’ Owain agreed readily enough.

  ‘Then he’s your man,’ Arthur said, and he must have sensed my disappointment for he turned back and rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘For the moment, Derfel,’ he said softly, ‘I employ horsemen, not spearmen. Let Owain be your lord, for there’s no one better to teach you the soldier’s trade.’ He gripped my shoulder with his gloved hand, then turned and waved the two guards away from Gundleus’s side. A crowd had gathered close to the captured King who stood beneath the victors’ banners. Arthur’s horsemen, helmed with iron, armoured in iron-clad leather and cloaked in linen or wool, mingled with Owain’s spearmen and the Tor’s fugitives about the grassy space where Arthur now faced Gundleus.

  Gundleus straightened his back. He had no weapons, but he would not let go of his pride, nor did he flinch as Arthur approached.

  Arthur walked in silence until he stood two paces from the captured King. The crowd held its breath. Gundleus was shadowed by Arthur’s standard that showed a black bear on a white field. The bear was flying between Mordred’s recaptured dragon banner and Owain’s boar standard, while at Gundleus’s feet was his own fallen fox banner that had been spat on, pissed on and trampled by the victors. Gundleus stared as Arthur drew Excalibur from its scabbard. The blade had a bluish tinge to its stee
l that was polished as brightly as Arthur’s scale coat, helmet or shield.

  We waited for the fatal stroke, but instead Arthur dropped to one knee and held Excalibur’s hilt to Gundleus. ‘Lord King,’ he said humbly and the crowd, who had been anticipating Gundleus’s death, gasped.

  Gundleus hesitated for a heartbeat, then reached out to touch the sword’s pommel. He said nothing. Perhaps he was too astonished to speak.

  Arthur stood and sheathed the sword. ‘I took an oath to protect my King,’ he said, ‘not to kill kings. What happens to you, Gundleus ap Meilyr, is not mine to decide, but you will be held captive till the decision is made.’

  ‘Who makes that decision?’ Gundleus demanded. Arthur hesitated, plainly unsure of the answer. Many of our warriors were shouting for Gundleus’s death, Morgan was urging her brother to avenge Norwenna while Nimue was shrieking for the captive King to be given to her revenge, but Arthur shook his head. Much later he explained to me that Gundleus was a cousin of Gorfyddyd, King of Powys, and that made Gundleus’s death a matter of state, not revenge. ‘I wanted to make peace, and peace rarely comes out of revenge,’ he admitted to me, ‘but I probably should have killed him. Not that it would have made much difference.’ Now though, facing Gundleus in the slanting sun outside Caer Cadarn, he merely said that Gundleus’s fate was in the hands of Dumnonia’s council.

  ‘And what of Ladwys?’ Gundleus asked, gesturing towards the tall, pale-faced woman who stood close behind him with a look of terror on her face. ‘I ask that she be allowed to stay with me,’ he added.

  ‘The whore is mine,’ Owain said harshly. Ladwys shook her head and moved closer to Gundleus.