The Winter King: A Novel of Arthur

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘She is my wife!’ Gundleus protested to Arthur, thereby confirming the old rumour that he had indeed married his low-born lover. Which also meant that he had married Norwenna falsely, though that sin, considering what else he did to her, was small indeed.

  ‘Wife or whatever,’ Owain insisted, ‘she is mine.’ He saw Arthur’s hesitation. ‘Until the council decides otherwise,’ he added in a deliberate echo of Arthur’s invocation of that higher authority.

  Arthur seemed troubled by Owain’s claim, but his position in Dumnonia was still uncertain, for though he had been named as Mordred’s protector and one of the kingdom’s warlords, that only gave him an authority equal to Owain’s. All of us had noted how, in the wake of the Silurian rout, Arthur had taken charge, but Owain, by demanding Ladwys as his slave, was reminding Arthur that he held equal power. The moment was awkward until Arthur sacrificed Ladwys to Dumnonian unity. ‘Owain has decided the matter,’ he said to Gunidleus, then turned away so he would not have to witness the effect of his words on the lovers. Ladwys screamed her protest, then went silent as one of Owain’s men dragged her away.

  Tanaburs laughed at Ladwys’s distress. He was a Druid, so no harm would be done to him. He was no prisoner, but free to go, though he would have to leave the field without food, blessing or company. Yet, emboldened by the day’s events, I could not let him go without speaking and so I followed him across the pasture that was littered with the Silurian dead. ‘Tanaburs!’ I called after him.

  The Druid turned and watched me draw my sword. ‘Careful, boy,’ he said and made a sign of warning with his moon-tipped staff.

  I should have felt fear, but a new warrior spirit filled me as I stepped close to him and placed the sword in the tangled white hairs of his beard. His head jerked back at the touch of the steel, rattling the yellow bones tied to his hair. His old face was lined, brown and blotchy, his eyes red and his nose twisted. ‘I ought to kill you,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘And the curse of Britain will follow you. Your soul will never reach the Otherworld, you will have torments unknown and unnumbered, and I will be their author.’ He spat towards me, then tried to push the sword blade out of his beard, but I tightened my grip on the hilt and he suddenly looked alarmed as he realized my strength.

  A few curious onlookers had followed me and some tried to warn me of the dreadful fate that would torment me if I killed a Druid, but I had no intention of killing the old man. I just wanted to frighten him. ‘Ten or more years ago,’ I said, ‘you came to Madog’s holding.’ Madog was the man who had enslaved my mother, and whose homestead the young Gundleus had raided.

  Tanaburs nodded as he remembered the raid. ‘So we did, so we did. A good day! We took much gold,’ he said, ‘and many slaves!’

  ‘And you made a death-pit,’ I said.

  ‘So?’ He shrugged, then leered at me. ‘The Gods must be thanked for good fortune.’

  I smiled and let the sword point tickle his scrawny throat. ‘So I lived, Druid. I lived.’

  It took Tanaburs a few seconds to understand just what I had said, but then he blanched and trembled, for he knew that I, alone of all in Britain, possessed the power to kill him. He had sacrificed me to the Gods, but his carelessness in not making sure of his gift meant that the Gods had granted the power of his life into my keeping. He screamed in terror, thinking my blade was about to lunge into his gullet, but instead I pulled the steel away from his ragged beard and laughed at him as he turned and stumbled away across the field. He was desperate to escape me, but just before he reached the woodland into which the handful of Silurian survivors had fled, he turned and pointed a bony hand towards me. ‘Your mother lives, boy!’ he shouted. ‘She lives!’ Then he was gone.

  I stood there with my mouth open and my sword hanging in my hand. It was not that I was overcome by any particular emotion for I could hardly remember my mother and had no real recollection of any love between us, but the very thought that she lived wrenched my whole world as violently as that morning’s destruction of Merlin’s hall. Then I shook my head. How could Tanaburs remember one slave among so many? His claim was surely false, mere words to unsettle me, nothing more, and so I sheathed the sword and walked slowly back towards the fortress.

  Gundleus was placed under guard in a chamber off the great hall at Caer Cadarn. There was a feast of sorts that night, though because so many people were in the fortress the helpings of meat were small and hastily cooked. Much of the night was spent by old friends exchanging news of Britain and Brittany, for many of Arthur’s followers had originally come from Dumnonia or from the other British kingdoms. The names of Arthur’s men blurred in my mind, for there were over seventy horsemen in his band, as well as grooms, servants, women and a tribe of children. In time the names of Arthur’s warriors became so familiar, but that night they meant nothing: Dagon-et, Aglaval, Cei, Lanval, the brothers Balan and Balin, Gawain and Agravain, Blaise, Illtyd, Eiddilig, Bedwyr. I did notice Morfans, for he was the ugliest man I ever saw, so ugly that he took pride in his twisted looks, goitred neck, hare lip and misshapen jaw. I also noticed Sagramor, for he was black and I had never seen, let alone believed in, such men. He was a tall, thin and sourly laconic man, though when he could be persuaded to tell a story in his horribly accented British he could put a whole hall under his spell.

  And, of course, I noticed Ailleann. She was a slender, black-haired woman, a few years older than Arthur, with a thin, grave and gentle face that gave her a look of great wisdom. She was dressed in royal finery that night. Her robe was of linen dyed a rusty red with iron-soil, girdled by a heavy silver chain, and had long loose sleeves that were fringed with otter fur. She wore a gleaming torque of heavy gold about her long neck, bracelets of gold around her wrists and an enamelled brooch showing Arthur’s symbol of the bear at her breast. She moved gracefully, spoke little and watched Arthur protectively. I thought she had to be a queen, or at least a princess, except that she was carrying bowls of food and flasks of mead like any common servant.

  ‘Ailleann’s a slave, lad,’ Morfans the Ugly said. He was squatting opposite me on the hall floor and had seen me watching the tall woman as she moved from the patches of firelight into the hall’s flickering shadows.

  ‘Whose slave?’ I asked.

  ‘Whose do you think?’ he asked, then put a rib of pork in his mouth and used his two remaining teeth to strip the bone of its succulent flesh. ‘Arthur’s,’ he said after he had tossed the bone to one of the many dogs in the hall. ‘And she’s his lover as well as his slave, of course.’ He belched, then drank from a horn cup. ‘She was given to him by his brother-in-law, King Budic. That was a long time ago. She’s a good few years older than Arthur and I don’t suppose Budic thought he’d keep her long, but once Arthur takes a fancy to someone they seem to stay for ever. Those are her twin boys.’ He jerked a greasy beard towards the back of the hall where a pair of sullen boys of about nine squatted in the dirt with their bowls of food.

  ‘Arthur’s sons?’ I asked.

  ‘No one else’s,’ Morfans said derisively. ‘Amhar and Loholt, they’re called, and their father worships them. Nothing’s too good for those little bastards, and that’s exactly what they are, lad, bastards. Real good-for-nothing little bastards.’ There was a genuine hatred in his voice. ‘I tell you, son, Arthur ap Uther is a great man. He’s the best soldier I’ve ever known, the most generous man and the most fair lord, but when it comes to breeding children I could do better with a sow for a mother.’

  I looked back to Ailleann. ‘Are they married?’

  Morfans laughed. ‘Of course not! But she’s kept him happy these ten years. Mind you, the day will come when he’ll send her away just like his father sent his mother away. Arthur will marry something royal and she won’t be half as gentle as Ailleann, but that’s what men like Arthur have to do. They have to marry well. Not like you and me, boy. We can marry what we want, so long as it isn’t royal. Listen to that!’ He grinned as a woman screamed in the nigh
t outside the hall.

  Owain had left the hall and Ladwys was evidently being taught her new duties. Arthur flinched at the sound, and Ailleann raised her elegant head and frowned at him, but the only other person in the hall who seemed to notice Ladwys’s distress was Nimue. Her bandaged face was drawn and sad, but the scream made her smile because of the torment she knew the sound would give to Gundleus. There was no forgiveness in Nimue, not one drop. She had already begged Arthur and Owain for permission to kill Gundleus herself, and had been refused, but so long as Nimue lived Gundleus would know fear.

  Arthur led a party of horsemen to Ynys Wydryn the next day and returned that evening to report that Merlin’s settlement had been burned to the ground. The horsemen also returned with poor mad Pellinore and an indignant Druidan who had taken shelter in a well belonging to the monks of the Holy Thorn. Arthur declared his intention of rebuilding Merlin’s hall, though how it was to be done without money and an army of labourers, none of us knew, and Gwlyddyn was formally appointed as Mordred’s royal builder and instructed to start felling trees to remake the Tor’s buildings. Pellinore was locked into an empty stone-built store-room attached to the Roman villa at Lindinis, which was the settlement nearest to Caer Cadarn and the place where the women, children and slaves who followed Arthur’s men found themselves roofs. Arthur organized everything. He was always a restless man who hated to be idle and in those first few days after Gundleus’s capture he worked from dawn until long after dusk. Most of his time was spent in arranging for his followers’ livelihoods; royal land had to be allotted to them and houses enlarged for their families, all without offending the people already living at Lindinis. The villa itself had belonged to Uther and Arthur now took it for himself. No task was too trivial for him and I even found him wrestling with a great sheet of lead one morning. ‘Give me some help, Derfel!’ he called. I was flattered that he remembered my name and hurried to help him lift the unwieldy mass. ‘Rare stuff, this!’ he said cheerfully. He was stripped to the waist and his skin was stained with the lead that he planned to cut into strips to line the stone gutter that had once carried water from a spring into the villa’s interior. ‘The Romans took all the lead away with them when they left,’ he explained, ‘and that’s why the water conduits don’t work. We should get the mines working again.’ He dropped his end of the lead and wiped his brow. ‘Get the mines working, rebuild the bridges, pave the fords, dig out the sluices and find a way of persuading the Sais to go back home. That’s enough work for one man’s life, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, Lord,’ I said nervously, and wondered why a warlord would busy himself repairing water conduits. The council was to meet later in the day and I thought Arthur would be busy enough preparing for that business, but he seemed more concerned with the lead than with matters of state..

  ‘I don’t know if you saw lead, or cut it with a knife,’ he said ruefully. ‘I ought to know. I’ll ask Gwlyddyn. Hie seems to know everything. Did you know that you always put tree trunks upside down if you use them for pillars?’

  ‘No, Lord.’

  ‘It stops the damp from rising, you see, and keeps the timber from rotting. That’s what Gwlyddyn tells me. I like that sort of knowledge. It’s good, practical knowledge, the kind that makes the world work.’ He grinned at me. ‘So how are you liking Owain?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s good to me, Lord,’ I said, embarrassed by the question. In truth I was still nervous of Owain, though he never showed me any unkindness.

  ‘He should be good to you,’ Arthur said. ‘Every leader depends on having good men for his reputation.’

  ‘But I’d rather serve you, Lord,’ I blurted out with youthful indiscretion.

  He smiled. ‘You will, Derfel, you will. In time. If you pass the test of fighting for Owain.’ He made the remark casually enough, but later I wondered if he foresaw what was to come. In time I did pass Owain’s test, but it was hard, and perhaps Arthur wanted me to learn that lesson before I joined his band of men. He stooped again to the lead sheet, then straightened as a howl sounded through the shabby building. It was Pellinore, protesting his imprisonment. ‘Owain says we should send poor Pell’ to the Isle of the Dead,’ Arthur said, referring to the island where the violent mad were put away. ‘What do you think?’

  I was so astonished at being asked that at first I did not reply, then I stammered that Pellinore was beloved of Merlin and Merlin had wanted him kept among the living and I thought Merlin’s wishes should be respected. Arthur listened gravely and even seemed grateful for my advice. He did not need it, of course, but was just trying to make me feel valued. ‘Then Pellinore can stay here, lad,’ he said. ‘Now get hold of the other end. Lift!’

  Lindinis emptied next day. Morgan and Nimue returned to Ynys Wydryn where they planned to rebuild the Tor. Nimue brushed aside my farewell; her eye still hurt, she was bitter, and she wanted nothing from life except revenge on Gundleus which was denied her. Arthur went north with all his horsemen to reinforce Tewdric on Gwent’s northern border while I stayed with Owain who had taken up residence in Caer Ca-darn’s great hall. I might be a warrior, but in that high summer it was more important to gather in the harvest than stand guard on the fort’s ramparts, so for days at a time I gave up my sword and the helmet, shield and leather breastplate I had inherited from a dead Silurian and went to the King’s fields to help the serfs bring in the rye, barley and wheat. It was hard work done with a short sickle that had to be sharpened constantly on a strickle: a wooden baton that was first dipped in pig’s grease, then coated with fine sand that put a keen edge on the sickle’s blade, though the edge never seemed sharp enough for me and, fit as I was, the constant stooping and tugging left my back aching and my muscles sore. I had never worked so hard when I lived on the Tor, but I had now left Merlin’s privileged world and was a part of Owain’s troop.

  We stooked the cut grain in the fields, then carted vast heaps of rye straw to Caer Cadarn and Lindinis. The straw was used to repair the thatched roofs and to restuff the mattresses so that for a few blissful days our beds were free of lice and fleas, though that blessing did not last long. It was at that time I grew my first beard, a wispy gold affair of which I was inordinately proud. I spent my days doing backbreaking work in the fields but I still had to endure two hours of military training each night. Hywel had taught me well, but Owain wanted better. ‘That Silurian you killed,’ Owain said to me one evening when I was sweating on Caer Cadarn’s ramparts after a bout of single-stick with a warrior named Mapon, ‘I’ll wager you a month’s wages to a dead mouse that you killed him with your sword’s edge.’ I did not take the wager, but confirmed that I had indeed sliced the sword down like an axe. Owain laughed, then dismissed Mapon with a wave of his hand. ‘Hywel always taught people to fight with the edge,’ Owain said. ‘Watch Arthur the next time he fights. Slash, slash, like a haymaker trying to finish before the rain comes.’ He drew his own sword. ‘Use the point, boy,’ he told me. ‘Always use the point. It kills quicker.’ He lunged at me, making me parry desperately. ‘If you’re using the sword’s edge,’ he said, ‘it means you’re in the open field. The shield–wall has broken, and if it’s your shield–wall that’s broken then you’re a dead man, however good a swordsman you are. But if the shield–wall holds firm then it means you’re standing shoulder to shoulder and you don’t have room to swing a sword, only to stab.’ He thrust again, making me parry. ‘Why do you think the Romans had short swords?’ he asked me.

  ‘I don’t know, Lord.’

  ‘Because a short sword stabs better than a long one, that’s why,’ he said, ‘not that I’ll ever persuade any of you to change your swords, but even so, remember to stab. The point always wins, always.’ He turned away then suddenly whipped back to stab at me and somehow I managed to knock his blade aside with the clumsy single-stick. Owain grinned. ‘You’re fast,’ he said, ‘and that’s good. You’ll make it, boy, so long as you stay sober.’ He sheathed his sword and stared eastwards. He was loo
king for those distant grey smears of smoke that betrayed the presence of a raiding party, but this was harvest time for the Saxons as well as for ourselves and their soldiers had better things to do than cross our distant frontier. ‘So what do you think of Arthur, boy?’ Owain asked me suddenly.

  ‘I like him,’ I said awkwardly, as nervous of his question as I had been of Arthur’s about Owain.

  Owain’s great shaggy head, so much like his old friend Uther’s, turned to me. ‘Oh, he’s likeable enough,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I’ve always liked Arthur. Everyone likes Arthur, but the Gods alone know if anyone understands him. Except Merlin. You think Merlin’s alive?’

  ‘I know he is,’ I said fervently, knowing nothing of the sort.

  ‘Good,’ Owain said. I came from the Tor and Owain assumed I had a magical knowledge denied to other men. The word had also spread among his warriors that I had cheated a Druid’s death-pit, and that made me both lucky and auspicious in their eyes. ‘I like Merlin,’ Owain went on, ‘even though he did give Arthur that sword.’

  ‘Caledfwlch?’ I asked, using Excalibur’s proper name.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ Owain asked in astonishment. He had heard the surprise in my voice, and no wonder, for Merlin had never spoken of making such a great gift. He sometimes talked of Arthur whom he had known in the brief time Arthur spent at Uther’s court, but Merlin always used a fondly disparaging tone as if Arthur was a slow but willing pupil whose later exploits were greater than Merlin had ever expected, but the fact that he had given Arthur the famous sword suggested that Merlin’s opinion of him was a great deal higher than he pretended it to be.

  ‘Caledfwlch,’ Owain explained to me, ‘was forged in the Otherworld by Gofannon.’ Gofannon was the God of Smithcraft. ‘Merlin found it in Ireland,’ Owain went on, ‘where the sword was called Cadalcholg. He won it off a Druid in a dream contest. The Irish Druids say that when Cadalcholg’s wearer is in desperate trouble he can thrust the sword into the soil and Gofannon will leave the Otherworld and come to his help.’ He shook his head, not in disbelief, but in wonderment. ‘Now why did Merlin give such a gift to Arthur?’