Enemy of God

by Bernard Cornwell

  Lancelot glanced at Bors, then back at me. I despised him so much at that moment. He should have been fighting us, not shuffling his feet in Lindinis’s outer courtyard, but he had been dazzled by Arthur’s daring. He did not know how many men we had, he could only see that the Caer’s ramparts bristled with spears and so the fight had drained out of him. He leaned close to his cousin and they exchanged words. Lancelot looked back to me after Bors had spoken to him and his face flickered in a half smile. ‘My champion, Bors,’ he said, ‘accepts Arthur’s challenge.’

  ‘The offer is for you to fight,’ I said, ‘not for someone to tie and slaughter your tame hog.’

  Bors growled at that, and half drew his sword, but the Belgic chief who had guaranteed my safety stepped forward with a spear and Bors subsided.

  ‘And Arthur’s champion,’ Lancelot asked, ‘would that be Arthur himself?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and smiled. ‘I begged for that honour,’ I told him, ‘and I received it. I wanted it for the insult you gave to Ceinwyn. You thought to parade her naked through Ynys Wydryn, but I shall drag your naked corpse through all Dumnonia. And as for my daughter,’ I went on, ‘her death is already avenged. Your Druids lie dead on their left sides, Lancelot. Their bodies are unburned and their souls wander.’

  Lancelot spat at my feet. ‘Tell Arthur,’ he said, ‘that I will send my answer at midday.’ He turned away.

  ‘And do you have a message for Guinevere?’ I asked him, and the question made him turn back. ‘Your lover is on the Caer,’ I told him. ‘Do you want to know what will happen to her? Arthur has told me her fate.’

  He stared at me with loathing, spat again, then just turned and walked away. I did the same.

  I went back to the Caer and found Arthur on the rampart above the western gate where, so many years before, he had talked to me of a soldier’s duty. That duty, he had said, was to fight battles for those who could not fight for themselves. That was his creed, and through all these years he had fought for the child Mordred and now, at last, he fought for himself, and in so doing he lost all that he had most wanted. I gave him Lancelot’s answer and he nodded, said nothing, and waved me away.

  Late that morning Guinevere sent Gwydre to summon me. The child climbed the ramparts where I stood with my men and tugged at my cloak. ‘Uncle Derfel?’ He peered up at me wanly. ‘Mother wants you.’ He spoke fearfully and there were tears in his eyes.

  I glanced at Arthur, but he was taking no interest in any of us and so I went down the steps and walked with Gwydre to the spearman’s hut. It must have cut Guinevere’s wounded pride to the quick to ask for me, but she wanted to convey a message to Arthur and she knew that no one else in Caer Cadarn was as close to him as I. She stood as I ducked through the door. I bowed to her, then waited as she told Gwydre to go and talk with his father.

  The hut was only just high enough for Guinevere to stand upright. Her face was drawn, almost haggard, but somehow that sadness gave her a luminous beauty that her usual look of pride denied her. ‘Nimue tells me you saw Lancelot,’ she said so softly that I had to lean forward to catch her words.

  ‘Yes, Lady, I did.’

  Her right hand was unconsciously fidgeting with the folds of her dress. ‘Did he send a message?’

  ‘None, Lady.’

  She stared at me with her huge green eyes. ‘Please, Derfel,’ she said softly.

  ‘I invited him to speak, Lady. He said nothing.’

  She crumpled onto a crude bench. She was silent for a while and I watched as a spider dropped out of the thatch and spun its thread closer and closer to her hair. I was transfixed by the insect, wondering if I should sweep it aside or just let it be. ‘What did you say to him?’ she asked.

  ‘I offered to fight him, Lady, man to man, Hywelbane against the Christ-blade. And then I promised to drag his naked body through all Dumnonia.’

  She shook her head savagely. ‘Fight,’ she said angrily, ‘that’s all you brutes know how to do!’ She closed her eyes for a few seconds. ‘I am sorry, Lord Derfel,’ she said meekly, ‘I should not insult you, not when I need you to ask a favour of Lord Arthur.’ She looked up at me and I saw she was every bit as broken as Arthur himself. ‘Will you?’ she begged me.

  ‘What favour, Lady?’

  ‘Ask him to let me go, Derfel. Tell him I will sail beyond the sea. Tell him he may keep our son, and that he is our son, and that I will go away and he will never see me or hear of me again.’

  ‘I shall ask him, Lady,’ I said.

  She caught the doubt in my voice and stared sadly at me. The spider had disappeared into her thick red hair. ‘You think he will refuse?’ she asked in a small frightened voice.

  ‘Lady,’ I said, ‘he loves you. He loves you so well that I do not think he can ever let you go.’

  A tear showed at her eye, then spilled down her cheek. ‘So what will he do with me?’ she asked, and I gave no answer. ‘What will he do, Derfel?’ Guinevere demanded again with some of her old energy. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Lady,’ I said heavily, ‘he will put you somewhere safe and he will keep you there, under guard.’ And every day, I thought, he would think of her, and every night he would conjure her in his dreams, and in every dawn he would turn in his bed to find that she was gone. ‘You will be well treated, Lady,’ I assured her gently.

  ‘No,’ she wailed. She could have expected death, but this promise of imprisonment seemed even worse to her. ‘Tell him to let me go, Derfel. Just tell him to let me go!’

  ‘I shall ask him,’ I promised her, ‘but I do not think he will. I do not think he can.’

  She was crying hard now, her head in her hands, and though I waited, she said nothing more and so I backed out of the hut. Gwydre had found his father’s company too glum and so wanted to go back in to his mother, but I took him away and made him help me clean and re-sharpen Excalibur. Poor Gwydre was frightened, for he did not understand what had happened and neither Guinevere nor Arthur was able to explain. ‘Your mother is very sick,’ I told him, ‘and you know that sick people sometimes have to be on their own.’ I smiled at him. ‘Maybe you can come and live with Morwenna and Seren.’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘I think your mother and father will say yes,’ I said, ‘and I’d like that. Now don’t scrub the sword! Sharpen it. Long smooth strokes, like that!’

  At midday I went to the western gate and watched for Lancelot’s messenger. But none came. No one came. Lancelot’s army was just shredding away like sand washed off a stone by rain. A few went south and Lancelot rode with those men and the swan’s wings on his helmet showed bright and white as he went away, but most of the men came to the meadow at the foot of the Caer and there they laid down their spears, their shields and their swords and then knelt in the grass for Arthur’s mercy.

  ‘You’ve won, Lord,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Derfel,’ he said, still sitting, ‘it looks as if I have.’ His new beard, so oddly grey, made him look older. Not feebler, but older and harsher. It suited him. Above his head a stir of wind lifted the banner of the bear.

  I sat beside him. ‘The Princess Guinevere,’ I said, watching as the enemy’s army laid down their weapons and knelt below us, ‘begged me to ask you a favour.’ He said nothing. He did not even look at me. ‘She wants –’

  ‘To go away,’ he interrupted me.

  ‘Yes, Lord.’

  ‘With her sea-eagle,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘She did not say that, Lord.’

  ‘Where else would she go?’ he asked, then turned his cold eyes on me. ‘Did he ask for her?’

  ‘No, Lord. He said nothing.’

  Arthur laughed at that, but it was a cruel laugh. ‘Poor Guinevere,’ he said, ‘poor, poor Guinevere. He doesn’t love her, does he? She was just something beautiful for him, another mirror in which to stare at his own beauty. That must hurt her, Derfel, that must hurt her.’

  ‘She begs you to free her,’ I persevered, as I had promised I would. ‘She w
ill leave Gwydre to you, she will go…’

  ‘She can make no conditions,’ Arthur said angrily. ‘None.’

  ‘No, Lord,’ I said. I had done my best for her and I had failed.

  ‘She will stay in Dumnonia,’ Arthur decreed.

  ‘Yes, Lord.’

  ‘And you will stay here too,’ he ordered me harshly. ‘Mordred might release you from his oath, but I do not. You are my man, Derfel, you are my councillor and you will stay here with me. From this day on you are my champion.’

  I turned to look at where the newly-cleaned and sharpened sword lay on the royal stone. ‘Am I still a King’s champion, Lord?’ I asked.

  ‘We already have a King,’ he said, ‘and I will not break that oath, but I will rule this country. No one else, Derfel, just me.’

  I thought of the bridge at Pontes where we had crossed the river before fighting Aelle. ‘If you won’t be King, Lord,’ I said, ‘then you shall be our Emperor. You shall be a Lord of Kings.’

  He smiled. It was the first smile I had seen on his face since Nimue had swept aside the black curtain in the Sea Palace. It was a wan smile, but it was there. Nor did he refuse my title. The Emperor Arthur, Lord of Kings.

  Lancelot was gone and what had been his army now knelt to us in terror. Their banners were fallen, their spears were grounded and their shields lay flat. The madness had swept across Dumnonia like a thunderstorm, but it had passed and Arthur had won and below us, under a high summer sun, a whole army knelt for his mercy. It was what Guinevere had once dreamed of. It was Dumnonia at Arthur’s feet with his sword on its royal stone, but it was too late now. Too late for her.

  But for us, who had kept our oaths, it was what we had always wanted, for now, in all but name, Arthur was King.

  Author’s Note

  Cauldron stories are common in Celtic folk-tales, and their quest was liable to send bands of warriors to dark and dangerous places. Cúchulain, that great Irish hero, is said to have stolen a magic cauldron from a mighty fortress, and similar themes recur in Welsh myth. The source of those myths is now quite impossible to disentangle, but we can be fairly certain that the popular medieval tales of the search for the Holy Grail were merely a Christianized re-working of the much older cauldron myths. One such tale involves the cauldron of Clyddno Eiddyn, which was one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain. Those treasures have disappeared from the modern re-tellings of the Arthurian saga, but they were firmly there in earlier times. The list of the Treasures varies from source to source, so I compiled a fairly representative sample, though Nimue’s explanation of their origins on page 119 is entirely an invention.

  Cauldrons and magical treasures tell us that we are in pagan territory, which makes it odd that the later Arthur tales are so heavily Christianized. Was Arthur the ‘enemy of God’? Some early tales do indeed suggest that the Celtic church was hostile to Arthur; thus in the Life of St Padarn Arthur is said to have stolen the saint’s red tunic and only agreed to return it after the saint had buried him up to the neck. Arthur is similarly supposed to have stolen St Carannog’s altar to use as a dining table; indeed, in many saints’ lives, Arthur is depicted as a tyrant who is only thwarted by the holy man’s piety or prayers. St Cadoc was evidently a famous opponent whose Life boasts of the number of times he defeated Arthur, including one fairly distasteful story in which Arthur, interrupted during a game of dice by fleeing lovers, attempts to rape the girl. This Arthur, a thief, liar, and would-be rapist, is clearly not the Arthur of modern legend, but the stories do suggest that Arthur had somehow earned the strong dislike of the early church and the simplest explanation of that dislike is that Arthur was a pagan.

  We cannot be sure of that, any more than we can guess what kind of pagan he was. The native British religion, Druidism, had been so abraded by four centuries of Roman rule that it was a mere husk by the late fifth century, though doubtless it clung on in the rural parts of Britain. Druidism’s ‘dolorous blow’ was the black year of AD60, when the Romans stormed Ynys Mon (Anglesey) and so destroyed the faith’s cultic centre. Llyn Cerrig Bach, the Lake of Little Stones, existed, and archaeology has suggested it was an important place for Druidic rituals, but alas, the lake and its surrounding features were all obliterated during the Second World War when the Valley Airfield was extended.

  Druidism’s rival faiths were all introduced by the Romans, and for a time Mithraism was a genuine threat to Christianity, while other Gods, like Mercury and Isis, also continued to be worshipped, but Christianity was by far the most successful of the imports. It had even swept through Ireland, carried there by Patrick (Padraig), a British Christian who was supposed to have used the clover-leaf to teach the doctrine of the Trinity. The Saxons extirpated Christianity from the parts of Britain they captured, so the English had to wait another hundred years for St Augustine of Canterbury to reintroduce the faith into Llo-egyr (now England). That Augustinian Christianity was different from the earlier Celtic forms; Easter was celebrated on a different day and, instead of using the Druidic tonsure that shaved the front part of the head, the new Christians made the more familiar bald circle on the crown of the head.

  As in The Winter King I have deliberately introduced some anachronisms. The Arthurian legends are fiendishly complex, mainly because they include all kinds of different stories, many of which, like the tale of Tristan and Iseult, started as quite independent tales and only slowly became incorporated in the much larger Arthurian saga. I did once intend to leave out all the later accretions, but that would have denied me, among many other things, Merlin and Lancelot, so I allowed romanticism to prevail over pedantry. I confess that my inclusion of the word Camelot is a complete historical nonsense, for that name was not invented until the twelfth century so Derfel would never have heard it.

  Some characters, like Derfel, Ceinwyn, Culhwch, Gwenhwyvach, Gwydre, Amhar, Loholt, Dinas and Lavaine, dropped out of the stories over the centuries, to be replaced by new characters like Lancelot. Other names changed over the years; Nimue became Vivien, Cei became Kay, and Peredur Perceval. The earliest names are Welsh and they can be difficult, but, with the exceptions of Excalibur (for Caledfwlch) and Guinevere (for Gwenhwyfar), I have largely preferred them because they reflect the milieu of fifth-century Britain. The Arthurian legends are Welsh tales and Arthur is an ancestor of the Welsh, while his enemies, like Cerdic and Aelle, were the people who would come to be known as the English, and it seemed right to stress the Welsh origins of the stories. Not that I can pretend that the Warlord trilogy is in any way an accurate history of those years; it is not even an attempt at such a history, merely another variation on a fantastic and complicated saga that has come to us from a barbaric age, yet it still enthralls us because it is so replete with heroism, romance and tragedy.

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  First published by Michael Joseph 1996

  Published in Penguin Books 1997

  Copyright © Bernard Cornwell, 1996

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  ISBN: 978-0-14-192912-5