But there was no answer. Guards searched for him, but none found him. Later the sentries at the western gate said that an old priest with a hunched back, an eyepatch, a grey cat and a filthy cough had left the city, but they had seen no other white-bearded sage.
‘You have been through a dreadful battle, Derfel,’ Arthur told me when we were in the palace’s feasting hall where a meal of pork, bread and mead was served. ‘Men dream strange dreams when they suffer hardships.’
‘No, Lord,’ I insisted, ‘Merlin was here. Ask Prince Galahad.’
‘I shall,’ he said, ‘of course I shall.’ He turned to look at the high table where Guinevere leaned on an elbow to listen to Lancelot. ‘You’ve all suffered,’ he said.
‘But I failed you, Lord,’ I confessed, ‘and for that I am sorry.’
‘No, Derfel, no! I failed Ban. But what more could I do? There are so many enemies.’ He fell silent, then smiled as Guinevere’s laughter sounded bright in the hall. ‘I am glad that at least she is happy,’ he said, then went to talk to Culhwch who was single-mindedly devouring a whole suckling pig.
Lunete was at the court that night. Her hair was braided and twisted into a flower-studded circlet. She wore torques, brooches and bangles, while her dress was of red-dyed linen girdled with a silver-buckled belt. She smiled at me, brushed dirt off my sleeve then wrinkled her nose at the stink of my clothes. ‘Scars suit you, Derfel,’ she said, lightly touching my face, ‘but you take too many risks.’
‘I’m a warrior.’
‘Not those sort of risks. I mean making up stories about Merlin. You embarrassed me! And announcing yourself as the son of a slave! Didn’t you ever think how that might make me feel? I know we aren’t together any more, but people know we were once, and how do you think it makes me feel when you say you’re slave-born? You should think of others, Derfel, you really should.’ I noted she no longer wore our lovers’ ring, but I would hardly have expected to see it for she had long found other men who could afford to be more generous than I ever could. ‘I suppose Ynys Trebes made you a little mad,’ she went on. ‘Why else would you challenge Lancelot to a fight? I know you’re good with a sword, Derfel, but he’s Lancelot, not just any warrior.’ She turned to look at where the King sat beside Guinevere. ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ she asked me.
‘Incomparably,’ I said sourly.
‘And unmarried, I hear?’ Lunete said coquettishly.
I leaned close to her ear. ‘He prefers boys,’ I whispered.
She hit my arm. ‘Fool. Anyone can see he doesn’t. See how he looks at Guinevere?’ It was Lunete’s turn to put her mouth close to my ear. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘but she’s pregnant.’
‘Good,’ I said.
‘It isn’t good at all. She’s not happy. She doesn’t want to be lumpy, you see. And I don’t blame her. I hated being pregnant. Ah, there’s someone I want to see. I do like new faces at court. Oh, and one other thing, Derfel?’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Take a bath, dear.’ She crossed the room to accost one of Queen Elaine’s poets.
‘Off with the old, on with the new?’ Bishop Bedwin appeared beside me.
‘I’m so old I’m surprised Lunete even remembers me,’ I answered dourly.
Bedwin smiled then took me into the courtyard that was now empty. ‘Merlin was with you,’ he said, not as a question, but as a statement.
‘Yes, Lord.’ And I told him how Merlin had claimed to be leaving the palace for just a few moments.
Bedwin shook his head. ‘He likes these games,’ he said despairingly. ‘Tell me more.’
I told him all I could. We walked up and down the upper terrace through the smoke of the guttering torches and I spoke of Father Celwin and of Ban’s library, and gave him the real story of the siege and the truth about Lancelot, and I ended by describing Caleddin’s scroll that Merlin had snatched from the fall of the city. ‘He says,’ I told Bedwin, ‘that it contains the Knowledge of Britain.’
‘I pray God it does, may God forgive me,’ Bedwin said. ‘Someone has to help us.’
‘Are things bad?’
Bedwin shrugged. He looked old and tired. His hair was wispy now, his beard thin and his face more haggard than I remembered. ‘I suppose they could be worse,’ he admitted, ‘but sadly they never get better. Things are really not much different from when you left, except that Aelle grows stronger, so strong that he even dares call himself the Bretwalda now.’ Bedwin shuddered at the barbarous pretension. Bretwalda was a Saxon title and meant Ruler of Britain. ‘He captured all the land between Durocobrivis and Corinium,’ Bedwin told me, ‘and he probably would have captured both those fortresses if we hadn’t purchased peace with the last of our gold. Then there’s Cerdic in the south and he’s proving even more vicious than Aelle.’
‘Doesn’t Aelle attack Powys?’ I asked.
‘Gorfyddyd paid him gold just like we did.’
‘I thought Gorfyddyd was sick?’
‘The plague passed as plagues do. He recovered, and now he leads the men of Elmet along with the forces of Powys. He’s doing better than we feared,’ Bedwin said bleakly, ‘perhaps because he’s driven by hate. He doesn’t drink like he used to and he’s sworn to avenge that lost arm on Arthur’s head. Worse than that, Derfel, Gorfyddyd is doing what Arthur hoped to do; uniting the tribes, but sadly he’s uniting them against us and not against the Saxons. He pays Gundleus’s Silurians and the Blackshield Irish to raid our coasts and he bribes King Mark to help Cadwy, and I daresay he’s raising the money now to pay Aelle to break our truce. Gorfyddyd rises and we fall. In Powys they call Gorfyddyd the High King now. And he has Cuneglas as an heir while we have poor little lame Mordred. Gorfyddyd collects an army and we have war-bands. And once this year’s harvest is collected, Derfel, then Gorfyddyd will come south with the men of Elmet and Powys. Men say it will be the greatest army ever seen in Britain and it’s hardly a wonder that there are those’ – he lowered his voice – ‘who say we should make peace on his terms.’
‘Which are?’
‘There is only one condition. Arthur’s death. Gorfyddyd will never forgive Arthur for the slight to Ceinwyn. Can you blame him?’ Bedwin shrugged and walked a few paces in silence. ‘The real danger,’ he went on, ‘is if Gorfyddyd does find the money to bring Aelle back into the war. We can’t pay more to the Saxons. We’ve nothing left. The treasury is empty. Who’ll pay taxes to a dying regime? And we can’t spare any spearmen to collect the taxes.’
‘There’s plenty of gold in there,’ I said, jerking my head towards the hall where the sounds of the feast were loud. ‘Lunete was wearing enough,’ I added sourly.
‘The Princess Guinevere’s ladies,’ Bedwin said bitterly ‘are not expected to contribute their jewels to the war. Even if they did, I doubt there’d be enough to bribe Aelle again, and if he does attack us in the autumn, Derfel, then those men who want Arthur’s life won’t whisper their demand, they’ll shout it from the ramparts. Arthur, of course, could simply leave. He could go to Broceliande, I suppose, then Gorfyddyd would take young Mordred into his care and we’d just be a client kingdom ruled from Powys.’
I paced in silence. I had no idea things were so desperate.
Bedwin smiled sadly. ‘So it seems, my young friend, that you have jumped from the seething pot into the fire. There will be work for your sword, Derfel, and soon, never fear.’
‘I had wanted time to visit Ynys Wydryn’ I said.
‘To find Merlin again?’
‘To find Nimue,’ I said.
He stopped. ‘You hadn’t heard?’
Something cold caressed my heart. ‘I’ve heard nothing. I thought she might be here in Durnovaria.’
‘She was,’ Bedwin said. ‘Princess Guinevere fetched her. I was surprised she came, but she did. You have to understand, Derfel, that Guinevere and Bishop Sansum – remember him? How could you forget him? – he and she are at odds. Nimue was Guinevere’s weapon. God knows what she thought Nimue could do, but Sa
nsum did not wait to find out. He preached against Nimue as a witch. Some of my fellow Christians, I fear, are not full of kindness and Sansum preached that she should be stoned to death.’
‘No!’ I protested.
‘No, no!’ He held up a hand to calm me. ‘She fought back by bringing the pagans of the countryside into the town. They sacked Sansum’s new chapel, there was a riot and a dozen people died, though neither she nor Sansum were hurt. The King’s guards panicked, thinking it was an attack on Mordred. It wasn’t, of course, but that didn’t stop them using their spears. Then Nimue was arrested by Nabur, the magistrate responsible for the King, and he found her guilty of stirring up revolt. He would, of course, being a Christian. Bishop Sansum demanded her death, the Princess Guinevere demanded Nimue’s release, and in between those two demands Nimue rotted in Nabur’s cells.’ Bedwin paused and I could see from his face that the worst was still to come. ‘She went mad, Derfel,’ the Bishop at last continued. ‘It was like caging a falcon, you see, and she rebelled against her bars. She went screaming mad. No one could restrain her.’
I knew what was coming and shook my head. ‘No,’ I said.
‘The Isle of the Dead,’ Bedwin gave the awful news. ‘What else could they do?’
‘No!’ I protested again, for Nimue was on the Isle of the Dead, lost among the broken ones, and I could not bear to think of that fate. ‘She has her Third Wound,’ I said softly.
‘What?’ Bedwin cupped an ear.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Does she live?’
‘Who knows? No living person goes there, or if they do, they cannot return.’
‘But that’s where Merlin must have gone!’ I cried in relief. Merlin had doubtless heard the news from the man he had been whispering with at the back of the courtyard, and Merlin could do what no other man or woman dare do. The Isle of the Dead would hold no terrors for Merlin. What else would have made him vanish so precipitately? In a day or two, I thought, he would return to Durnovaria with Nimue rescued and restored. It had to be thus.
‘Pray God it is,’ Bedwin said, ‘for her sake.’
‘What happened to Sansum?’ I asked vengefully.
‘He wasn’t punished officially,’ Bedwin said, ‘but Guinevere persuaded Arthur to strip him of Mordred’s chaplaincy and then the old fellow who administered the shrine of the Holy Thorn at Ynys Wydryn died and I managed to persuade our young Bishop to take over there. He wasn’t happy, but he knew he’d made too many enemies in Durnovaria, so he accepted.’ Bedwin was plainly delighted at Sansum’s fall. ‘He’s certainly lost his power here and I don’t see him getting it back. Not unless he’s a great deal more subtle than I think. He, of course, is one of those who whisper that Arthur should be sacrificed. Nabur is another. There’s a Mordred faction in our kingdom, Derfel, and it asks why we should fight to preserve Arthur’s life.’
I stepped round a puddle of vomit thrown up by a drunken soldier come from the hall. The man groaned, looked up at me, then retched again. ‘Who else could rule Dumnonia?’ I asked Bedwin when we were safely out of the drunk’s hearing.
‘There’s a good question, Derfel, who indeed? Gorfyddyd, of course, or else his son Cuneglas. Some men whisper Ger-eint’s name, but he doesn’t want it. Nabur even suggested I might take over. He said nothing specific, of course, nothing but hints.’ Bedwin chuckled derisively. ‘But what use would I be against our enemies? We need Arthur. No one else could have held off this ring of enemies for so long, Derfel, but folk don’t understand that. They blame him for the chaos, yet if anyone else was in power the chaos would be worse. We’re a kingdom without a proper king so every ambitious rogue has his eye on Mordred’s throne.’
I stopped beside the bronze bust that looked so like Gorfyddyd. ‘If Arthur had just married Ceinwyn –’ I began.
Bedwin interrupted me. ‘If, Derfel, if. If Mordred’s father had lived, or if Arthur had killed Gorfyddyd instead of just taking his arm, everything would be different. History is nothing but ifs. And perhaps you’re right. Perhaps if Arthur had married Ceinwyn we would be at peace now and perhaps Aelle’s head would be planted on a spear-point in Caer Cadarn, but how long do you think Gorfyddyd would have endured Arthur’s success? And remind yourself why Gorfyddyd agreed to the marriage in the first place.’
‘For peace?’ I suggested.
‘Dear me, no. Gorfyddyd only allowed Ceinwyn to be betrothed because he believed her son, his grandson, would rule Dumnonia instead of Mordred. I should have thought that was obvious.’
‘Not to me,’ I said, for at Caer Sws, when Arthur had been struck mad by love, I had been a mere spearman in the guard, not a captain who needed to probe the motives of kings and princes.
‘We need Arthur,’ Bedwin said, looking up into my eyes. ‘And if Arthur needs Guinevere, then so be it.’ He shrugged and walked on. ‘I would have preferred Ceinwyn as his wife, but the choice and the marriage-bed were not mine to make. Now, poor thing, she’ll marry Gundleus.’
‘Gundleus!’ I said too loudly, startling the sick soldier who groaned over his vomit. ‘Ceinwyn will marry Gundleus?’ I asked Bedwin.
‘Their betrothal ceremony is in two weeks,’ Bedwin said calmly, ‘during Lughnasa.’ Lughnasa was the summer festival of Lleullaw, God of Light, and was dedicated to fertility, and thus any betrothal made at the feast was considered particularly auspicious. ‘They’ll marry in late autumn, after the war.’ He paused, aware that his last three words suggested that Gorfyddyd and Gundleus would win the war, and that the marriage ceremony would thus be a part of the victor’s celebrations. ‘Gorfyddyd has sworn to give them Arthur’s head as a wedding gift,’ Bedwin added sadly.
‘But Gundleus is already married!’ I protested, wondering why I was so indignant. Was it because I remembered Ceinwyn’s fragile beauty? I still wore her brooch inside my breastplate, but I told myself my indignation was not because of her, but simply because I hated Gundleus.
‘Being married to Ladwys didn’t stop Gundleus marrying Norwenna,’ Bedwin said scornfully. ‘He’ll put Ladwys aside, go three times round the sacred rock then kiss the magic toadstool or whatever else you pagans do to get divorced these days. He’s not a Christian any more, by the way. A pagan divorce, marry Ceinwyn, serve her with an heir, then hurry back to Ladwys’s bed. That seems to be the way of things nowadays.’ He paused, cocking an ear towards the sounds of laughter coming from the hall. ‘Though maybe,’ he went on, ‘in years to come we shall think of these days as the last of the good times.’
Something in his voice made my spirits sink even further. ‘Are we doomed?’ I asked him.
‘If Aelle keeps his truce we may last another year, but only if we defeat Gorfyddyd. And if not? Then we must pray Merlin has brought us new life.’ He shrugged, but did not seem very hopeful.
He was not a good Christian, Bishop Bedwin, though he was a very good man. Sansum now tells me that Bedwin’s goodness will not prevent his soul from roasting in hell. But that summer, fresh back from Benoic, all our souls seemed doomed to perdition. The harvest was just beginning, but once it was gathered, Gorfyddyd’s onslaught would come.
PART FOUR
The Isle of the Dead
IGRAINE DEMANDED TO see Ceinwyn’s brooch. She held it in the window, turning it and gazing at its golden spirals. I could see the desire in her eyes. ‘You have many that are more beautiful,’ I told her gently.
‘But none so full of story,’ she said, holding the brooch against her breast.
‘My story, dear Queen,’ I chided her, ‘not yours.’
She smiled. ‘But what did you write? That if I were as kind as you know me to be, then I would let you keep it?’
‘Did I write that?’
‘Because you knew that would make me give it back to you. You are a cunning old man, Brother Derfel.’ She held the brooch out to me, then folded her fingers over the gold before I could take it. ‘Will it be mine one day?’
‘No one else’s, dear Lady. I promise.’
‘Never,’ I said fervently.
She dropped it into my hand. ‘Did you really wear it under your breastplate?’
‘Always,’ I said, tucking the brooch safe under my robe.
‘Poor Ynys Trebes.’ She was sitting in her usual place on my window-sill from where she could stare down Dinnewrac’s valley towards the distant river that was swollen with an early summer rain. Was she imagining Frankish invaders crossing the ford and swarming up the slopes? ‘What happened to Leanor?’ she asked, surprising me with the question.
‘The harpist? She died.’
‘No! But I thought you said she escaped from Ynys Trebes?’
I nodded. ‘She did, but she sickened her first winter in Britain and died. Just died.’
‘And what about your woman?’
‘Mine?’
‘In Ynys Trebes. You said that Galahad had Leanor, but that the rest of you all had women too, so who was yours? And what happened to her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, Derfel! She can’t have been nothing!’
I sighed. ‘She was a fisherman’s daughter. Her name was Pellcyn, only everyone called her Puss. Her husband had drowned a year before I met her. She had a baby daughter, and when Culhwch led our survivors to the boat Puss fell off the cliff path. She was holding her baby, you see, and couldn’t hold on to the rocks. There was chaos and everyone was panicking and hurrying. It was no one’s fault.’ Though if I had been there, I have often thought, Pellcyn would have lived. She was a sturdy, bright-eyed girl with a quick laugh and an inexhaustible appetite for hard work. A good woman. But if I had saved her life Merlin would have died. Fate is inexorable.
Igraine must have been thinking the same. ‘I wish I’d met Merlin,’ she said wistfully.
‘He’d have liked you,’ I said. ‘He always liked pretty women.’
‘But so did Lancelot?’ she asked quickly.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Not boys?’
The Winter King Page 33