“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 no taken up residence in Caer Cadarn'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 stocked 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 in 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 looking 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 Other-world by Gofannon.“ Gofannon was the God of Smith-craft. ”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?”
“Why not?” I asked carefully for I sensed the jealousy in Owain's question.
“Because Arthur doesn't believe in the Gods,” Owain said, 'that's why not. He doesn't even believe in that milksop God the Christians worship. So far as I can make out Arthur doesn't believe in anything, except big horses, and the Gods alone know what earthly use they are."
“They're frightening,” I said, wanting to be loyal to Arthur.
“Oh, they're frightening,” Owain agreed, 'but only if you've never seen one before. But they're slow, they take two or three times the amount of feed of a proper horse, they need two grooms, their hooves split like warm butter if you don't strap those clumsy shoes on to their feet, and they still won't charge home into a shield-wall."
“They won't?”
“No horse will!” Owain said scornfully. “Stand your ground and every horse in the world will swerve away from a line of steady spears. Horses are no use in war, boy, except to carry your scouts far and wide.”
"Then why' I began.
“Because,” Owain anticipated my question, 'the whole point of battle, boy, is to break the enemy's shield-wall. Everything else is easy, and Arthur's horses scare battle lines into flight, but the time will come when an enemy will stand firm, and the Gods help those horses then. And the Gods help Arthur too if he's eve
r knocked off his lump of horseflesh and tries to fight on foot wearing that suit of fish-armour. The only metal a warrior needs is his sword and the lump of iron at the end of his spear, the rest's just weight, lad, dead weight.“ He stared down into the fort's compound where Ladwys was clinging to the fence that surrounded Gundleus's prison. ”Arthur won't last here,“ he said confidently. ”One defeat and he'll sail back to Armorica where they're impressed by big horses, fish suits and fancy swords.“ He spat, and I knew that despite Owain's professed liking for Arthur there was something else there, something deeper than jealousy. Owain knew he had a rival, but he was biding his time as, I guessed, Arthur was biding his, and the mutual enmity worried me for I liked both men. Owain smiled at Ladwys's distress. ”She's a loyal bitch, I'll say that for her,“ the big man said, 'but I'll break her yet. Is that your woman?” He nodded towards Lunete who was carrying a leather bag of water towards the warriors' huts.
“Yes,” I said and blushed at the confession. Lunete, like my new beard, was a sign of manhood and I wore both clumsily. Lunete had decided to stay with me instead of going back to what was left of Ynys Wydryn with Nimue. The decision really had been Lunete's and I was still nervous of everything about our relationship, though Lunete seemed to have no doubts about the arrangement. She had taken over a corner of the hut, swept it, screened it with some withy hurdles, and now talked confidently about our joint future. I had thought she would want to stay with Nimue, but since her rape Nimue had been quiet and withdrawn. Indeed, she had become hostile, speaking to no one except to turn away their conversation. Morgan was tending her eye and the same smith who had made Morgan's mask was offering to make a gold ball to replace the lost eyeball. Lunete, like the rest of us, had become a little frightened of this new, sour, spitting Nimue.
“She's a pretty girl,” Owain said grudgingly of Lunete, 'but girls live with warriors for one reason only, boy, to get rich. So make sure you keep her happy, or sure as eggs she'll make you miserable.“ He fished in his coat's pockets and found a small gold ring. ”Give it to her," he said. I stammered my thanks. Warrior leaders were supposed to grant their followers gifts, yet even so the ring was a generous gift for I had yet to fight as one of Owain's men. Lunete liked the ring which, with the silver wire I had unwrapped from my sword's pommel, was the beginning of her treasure hoard. She incised a cross on the ring's worn surface, not because she was a Christian, but because the cross made it into a lover's ring and showed that she had passed from girlhood into womanhood. Some men also wore lovers' rings, but I craved after the simple iron hoops that victorious warriors hammered from the spearheads of their defeated enemies. Owain wore a score of such rings in his beard, and his fingers were dark with others. Arthur, I had noticed, wore none.
Once our own harvest was gathered from the fields around Caer
Cadarn we marched all over Dumnonia to collect the tax crops. We visited client kings and chiefs, and were always accompanied by a clerk from Mordred's treasury who tallied the revenue. It was strange to think that Mordred was now King and that it was no longer Uther's treasury we filled, but even a baby king needed money to pay for Arthur's troops as well as all the other soldiers who were keeping Dumnonia's borders secure. Some of Owain's men were sent to reinforce the permanent guard in Gereint's frontier fortress at Durocobrivis while the rest of us became taxmen for a while. I was surprised that Owain, that famous lover of battle, did not go to Durocobrivis nor back to Gwent, but instead stayed with the commonplace work of assessing tax. To me such work seemed menial, but I was just a wispy-bearded boy who did not understand Owain's mind.
Tax, to Owain, was more important than any Saxon. Taxes, as I was to learn, were the best source of wealth for men who did not want to work, and this tax season, now that Uther was dead, was Owain's opportunity. At hall after hall he reported a bad harvest, and thus levied a low tax payment, and all the while he was lining his own purse with the bribes offered in return for making just such a false report. He was quite guileless about it. “Uther would never have let me get away with it,” he told me one day as we walked along the southern coast towards the Roman town of Isca. He spoke fondly of the dead king.
“Uther was a fly old bastard, and always had a shrewd idea of what he should get, but what does Mordred know?” He looked to his left. We were crossing a wide, bare heath atop a great hill and the view to the south was of the glittering empty sea where a wind blew strong to fleck the grey waves white. Way off to the east, where a long sweeping shingle bank ended, there was a mighty headland on which the waves shattered into foam. The headland was almost an island, joined to the mainland only by a narrow causeway of stone and shingle. “Know what that is?” Owain asked me, jutting his chin towards the headland.
“No, Lord.”
“The Isle of the Dead,” he said, then spat to ward off ill luck while I stopped and stared at the awful place that was the seat of Dumnonian nightmares. The headland was the isle of the mad, the place where Pellinore belonged with all the other crazed and violent souls who were considered dead the moment they crossed the guarded causeway. The Isle was under the guardianship of Crom Dubh, the dark crippled God, and some men said that Cruachan's Cave, the mouth of the Otherworld, lay at the Isle's extremity. I stared at it in dread until Owain clapped my shoulder. ”You'll never need to worry about the Isle of the Dead, boy,“ he said. ”You've got a rare head on your shoulders.“ he walked on westwards. ”Where are we staying tonight?" he called to Lwellwyn, the treasury clerk whose mule carried the year's falsified records.
“With Prince Cadwy of Isca,” Lwellwyn answered.
“Ah, Cadwy! I like Cadwy. What did we take from the ugly rogue last year?” Lwellwyn did not need to look at his wooden tally sticks with their recording notches, but reeled off a list of hides, fleeces, slaves, tin ingots, dried fish, salt and milled corn. “He paid most in gold, though,” he added.
“I like him even more!” Owain said. “What will he settle for, Lwellwyn?” Lwellwyn estimated an amount half of what Cadwy had paid the previous year, and that was precisely the amount agreed before the evening meal in Prince Cadwy's hall. It was a grand place, built by the Romans, with a pillared portico that faced down a long wooded valley towards the sea reach of the River Exe. Cadwy was a Prince of the Dumnonii, the tribe which had given our country its name, and Cadwy's princedom made him of the second rank in the kingdom. Kings were of the highest rank, princes like Gereint and Cadwy and client kings like Melwas of the Belgae came next, and after them were the chiefs like Merlin, though Merlin of Avalon was also a Druid which put him outside the hierarchy altogether. Cadwy was both a prince and a chief and he ruled a sprawling tribe that inhabited all the land between Isca and the border of Kernow. There had been a time when all the tribes of Britain were separate and a man of the Catuvellani would look quite different from a man of the Belgae, but the Romans had left us all much alike. Only some tribes, like Cadwy's, still retained their distinct appearance. His tribe believed themselves to be superior to other Britons, in mark of which they tattooed their faces with the symbols of their tribe and sept. Each valley had its own sept, usually of no more than a dozen families. Rivalry between the septs was keen, but nothing compared to the rivalry between Prince Cadwy's tribe and the rest of Britain. The tribal capital was Isca, the Roman town, which had fine walls and stone buildings as great as any in Glevum, though Cadwy preferred to live outside the town on his own estate. Most of the townspeople followed Roman ways and eschewed tattoos, but beyond the walls, in the valleys of Cadwy's land where Roman rule had never lain heavily, every man, woman and child bore the blue tattoo marks on their cheeks. It was also a wealthy area, but Prince Cadwy had a mind to make it wealthier still.
“Been on the moor lately?” he asked Owain that night. It was a warm, sweet night and supper had been served on the open portico that faced Cadwy's estates.
“Never,” Owain said.
Cadwy grunted. I had seen him at Uther's High Council, but this was my first ch
ance to look closely at the man whose responsibility was to guard Dumnonia against raids from Kernow or distant Ireland. The Prince was a short, bald, middle-aged man, heavily built, with tribal marks on his cheeks, arms and legs. He wore British dress, but liked his Roman villa with its paving and pillars and channelled water that ran in stone troughs through the central courtyard and out to the portico where it made a small foot-washing pool before running over a marble dam to join the stream further down the valley. Cadwy, I decided, had a good life. His crops were plentiful, his sheep and cows fat, and his many women happy. He was also far from the threat of Saxons, yet still he was discontented. “There's money on the moor,” he told Owain.
“Tin.”
“Tin?” Owain sounded scornful.
Cadwy nodded solemnly. He was fairly drunk, but so were most of the men around the low table on which the meal had been served. They were all warriors, either Cadwy's or Owain's men, though I, being junior, had to stand behind Owain's couch as his shield-bearer. “Tin,” Cadwy said again, 'and gold, maybe. But plenty of tin.“ Their conversation was private, for the meal was almost over and Cadwy had provided slave girls for the warriors. No one had any attention for the two leaders, except for me and Cadwy's shield-holder, who was a dozy lad staring slack-jawed and dull-eyed at the slave girls' antics. I was listening to Owain and Cadwy, but kept so still and straight that they probably forgot I was even standing there. ”You may not want tin," Cadwy said to Owain, 'but there's plenty who do. Can't make bronze without tin, and they pay a fancy price for the stuff in Armorica, let alone up country.” He jerked a dismissive fist towards the rest of Dumnonia, then gave a belch that seemed to surprise him. He calmed his belly with a draught of good wine, then frowned as though he could not remember what he had been talking about. “Tin,” he finally said, remembering.
“So tell me about it,” Owain said. He was watching one of his men who had stripped a slave girl naked and was now smearing butter on her belly.
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