The Winter King twc-1

by Bernard Cornwell

  Madness ends sometimes. The Gods decree it, not man. Arthur had been mad for love all summer, and it was a good summer despite our menial occupations, for a happy Arthur was a beguiling and generous Lord, but as autumn swept the land with wind, rain and golden leaves, he seemed to wake from his summer dream. He was still in love indeed I do not think he was ever out of love with Guinevere but that autumn he saw the damage he had done to Britain. Instead of peace there was a sullen truce, and he knew it could not last.

  We cut ash pollards for spears and the blacksmiths' huts rang with the sound of hammer on anvil. Sagramor was called back from the Saxon frontier to be nearer to the kingdom's heart. Arthur sent a messenger to King Gorfyddyd, acknowledging the hurt he had done to the King and to his daughter, apologizing for it, but pleading that there must be peace in Britain. He sent a necklace of pearls and gold to Ceinwyn, but Gorfyddyd returned the necklace draped about the messenger's severed head. We heard that Gorfyddyd had stopped drinking and taken his kingdom's reins back from his son, Cuneglas. That news confirmed that there would never be peace until the insult done to Ceinwyn had been avenged by Powys's long spears.

  Travellers brought tales of doom from everywhere. The Lords Across the Sea were bringing new Irish warriors into their coastal kingdoms. The Franks were massing war-bands on the edge of Brittany. Powys's harvest was stored and its levies were being trained to fight with spears instead of cutting corn with sickles. Cuneglas had married Helledd of Elmet and men of that northern country were now coming to swell the ranks of Powys's army. Gundleus, restored in Siluria, was forging swords and spears in the deep valleys of his kingdom, while to the east, more Saxon boats were grounding on their captured shores.

  Arthur donned his scale armour, only the third time I had seen it since his arrival in Britain, and then, with two score of his armoured horsemen, he rode in progress around Dumnonia. He wanted to show the kingdom his power, and he wanted the travellers who carried their goods across the kingdoms' frontiers to carry a tale of his prowess. Then he came back to Lindinis where Hygwydd, his servant, scoured the new rust from the armour's scales.

  The first defeat came that autumn. There had been a plague in Venta, weakening King Melwas's men, and Cerdic, the new Saxon leader, defeated the Belgic war-band and captured a great swathe of good river land. King Melwas pleaded for reinforcements, but Arthur knew Cerdic to be the least of his problems. The war drums were beating throughout the Saxon-held Lloegyr and throughout the northern British kingdoms and no spears could be spared for Melwas. Besides, Cerdic seemed fully occupied with his new holdings and did not threaten Dumnonia further, so Arthur would let the Saxon stay for the time being. “We'll give peace a chance,” Arthur told the council. But there was no peace.

  In late autumn, when most armies are thinking of greasing their weapons and storing them through the cold months, the might of Powys marched. Britain was at war.

  PART THREE

  The Return of Merlin

  IGRAINE TALKS TO ME of love. It is spring here in Dinnewrac and the sun infuses the monastery with a feeble warmth. There are lambs on the southern slopes, though yesterday a wolf killed three of them and left a blood trail past our gate. Beggars gather at the gate for food and hold out their diseased hands when Igraine comes to visit. One of the beggars stole the maggoty remains of a lamb carcass from the scavenging ravens and sat there gnawing at the pelt as Igraine arrived this morning. Was Guinevere really beautiful, she asks me. No, I say, but many women would exchange their beauty for Guinevere's looks. Igraine, of course, wanted to know if she herself was beautiful and I assured her she was, but she said the mirrors in her husband's Caer were very old and battered and it was so hard to tell. “Wouldn't it be lovely,” she said, 'to see ourselves as we really are?"

  “God does that,” I said, 'and only God."

  She wrinkled her face at me. “I do hate it when you preach at me, Derfel. It doesn't suit you. If Guinevere wasn't beautiful, then why did Arthur fall in love with her?”

  “Love is not only for the beautiful,” I said reprovingly.

  “Did I say it was?” Igraine asked indignantly, 'but you said Guinevere attracted Arthur from the very first moment, so if it wasn't beauty, what was it?"

  “The very sight of her,” I answered, 'turned his blood to smoke.“ Igraine liked that. She smiled. ”So she was beautiful?"

  “She challenged him,” I answered, 'and he thought he would be less than a man if he failed to capture her. And maybe the Gods were playing games with us?" I shrugged, unable to come up with more reasons.

  “And besides,” I said, “I never meant to say she was not beautiful, just that she was more than beautiful. She was the best-looking woman I ever saw.”

  “Including me?” my Queen immediately demanded.

  “Alas,” I said, 'my eyes are dim with age."

  She laughed at the evasion. “Did Guinevere love Arthur?” she asked.

  “She loved the idea of him,” I said. “She loved that he was the champion of Dumnonia, and she loved him as he was when she first saw him. He was in his armour, the great Arthur, the shining one, the lord of war, the most feared sword in all of Britain and Armorica.”

  Igraine ran the tasselled cord of her white robe through her hands. She was thoughtful for a while. “Do you think I turn Brochvael's blood to smoke?” she asked wistfully.

  “Nightly,” I said.

  “Oh, Derfel,” she sighed and slipped off the window-sill to walk to the door from where she could stare down into our little hall. “Were you ever in love like that?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Who was it?” she demanded instantly.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  “I do mind! I insist. Was it Nimue?” she asked.

  “It wasn't Nimue,” I said firmly. “Nimue was different. I loved her, but I wasn't mad with desire for her. I just thought she was infinitely…” I paused, looking for the word and failing to find it. “Wonderful,” I offered lamely, not looking at Igraine so she would not see my tears. She waited a while. “So who were you in love with? Lunete?”

  “No! No!”

  “Who, then?” she persisted.

  “The story will come in time,” I said, 'if I live."

  “Of course you'll live. We shall send you special foods from the Caer.”

  “Which my Lord Sansum,” I told her, not wanting her to waste the effort, 'will take from me as unworthy fare for a mere brother."

  “Then come and live in the Caer,” she said eagerly. “Please!” I smiled. “I would do that most willingly, Lady, but alas, I took an oath to stay here.”

  “Poor Derfel.” She went back to the window and watched Brother Maelgwyn digging. He had our surviving novice, Brother Tudwal, with him. The second novice died of a fever in the late winter, but Tudwal still lives and shares the saint's cell. The saint wants the boy taught his letters, mainly, I think, so he can discover whether I really am translating the Gospel into Saxon, but the lad is not bright and seems better suited to digging than to reading. It is time we had some real scholars here in Dinnewrac for this feeble spring has brought our usual rancorous arguments about the date of Easter and we shall have no peace until the argument is done. “Did Sansum really marry Arthur and Guinevere?” Igraine interrupted my gloomy thoughts.

  “Yes,” I said, 'he really did."

  “And it wasn't in a great church? With trumpets playing?”

  “It was in a clearing beside a stream,” I said, 'with frogs croaking and willow catkins piling up behind the beaver dam."

  “We were married in a feasting hall,” Igraine said, 'and the smoke made my eyes water." She shrugged.

  “So what did you change in the last part?” she asked accusingly. “What story-shaping did you do?” I shook my head. “None.”

  “But at Mordred's acclamation,” she asked disappointedly, 'the sword was only laid on the stone? Not thrust into it? Are you sure?"

  “It was laid flat on top. I
swear it' — I made the sign of the cross' on Christ's blood, my Lady.” She shrugged. “Dafydd ap Gruffud will translate the tale any way I want him to, and I like the idea of a sword in the stone. I'm glad you were kind about Cuneglas.”

  “He was a good man,” I said. He was also Igraine's husband's grandfather.

  “Was Ceinwyn really beautiful?” Igraine asked.

  I nodded. “She was, she truly was. She had blue eyes.”

  “Blue eyes!” Igraine shuddered at such Saxon features. “What happened to the brooch she gave you?”

  “I wish I knew,” I said, lying. The brooch is in my cell, hidden there safe from even Sansum's vigorous searches. The saint, whom God will surely exalt above all men living and dead, does not allow us to possess any treasures. All our goods must be surrendered to his keeping, that is the rule, and though I surrendered everything else to Sansum, including Hywelbane, God forgive me, I have Ceinwyn's brooch still. The gold has been smoothed by the years, yet still I see Ceinwyn when, in the darkness, I take the brooch from its hiding place and let the moonlight gloss its intricate pattern of interlocking curves. Sometimes no, always I touch it to my lips. What a foolish old man I have become. Perhaps I shall give the brooch to Igraine, for I know she will value it, but I shall keep it a while for the gold is like a scrap of sunshine in this chill grey place. Of course, when Igraine reads this she will know the brooch exists, but if she is as kind as I know her to be, she will let me keep it as a small remembrance of a sinful life.

  “I don't like Guinevere,” Igraine said.

  “Then I have failed,” I said.

  “You make her sound very hard,” Igraine said.

  I said nothing for a while, but just listened to the sheep bleating. “She could be wonderfully kind,” I said after the pause. “She knew how to make the sad happy, but she was impatient with the commonplace. She had a vision of a world that did not hold cripples or bores or ugly things, and she wanted to make that world real by banishing such inconveniences. Arthur had a vision, too, only his vision offered help to the cripples, and he wanted to make his world just as real.”

  “He wanted Camelot,” Igraine said dreamily.

  “We called it Dumnonia,” I said severely.

  “You try to suck all the joy out of it, Derfel,” Igraine said crossly, though she was never truly angry with me. “I want it to be the poet's Camelot: green grass and high towers and ladies in gowns and warriors strewing their paths with flowers. I want minstrels and laughter! Wasn't it ever like that?”

  “A little,” I said, 'though I don't remember many flowery paths. I do recall the warriors limping out of battle, and some of them crawling and weeping with their guts trailing behind in the dust."

  “Stop it!” Igraine said. “So why do the bards call it Camelot?” she challenged me.

  “Because poets were ever fools,” I said, 'otherwise why would they be poets?"

  “No, Derfel! What was special about Camelot? Tell me.”

  “It was special,” I answered, 'because Arthur gave the land justice.“ Igraine frowned. ”Is that all?"

  “It is more, child,” I said, 'than most rulers ever dream of doing, let alone do.“ She shrugged the topic away. ”Was Guinevere clever?" she asked.

  “Very,” I said.

  Igraine played with the cross she wore about her neck.. “Tell me about Lancelot.”

  “Wait!”

  “When does Merlin come?”

  “Soon.”

  “Is Saint Sansum being horrid to you?”

  “The saint has the fate of our immortal souls on his conscience. He does what he must do.”

  “But did he really fall to his knees and scream for martyrdom before he married Arthur to Guinevere?”

  “Yes,” I said and could not help smiling at the memory.

  Igraine laughed. “I shall ask Brochvael to make the Mouse Lord into a real martyr,” she said, 'then you can be in charge of Dinnewrac. Would you like that, Brother Derfel?"

  “I would like some peace to carry on with my tale,” I chided her.

  “So what happens next?” Igraine asked eagerly.

  Armorica is next. The Land across the Sea. Beautiful Ynys Trebes, King Ban, Lancelot, Galahad and Merlin. Dear Lord, what men they were, what days we had, what fights we gave and dreams we broke. In Armorica.

  Later, much later, when we looked back on those times we simply called them the 'bad years', but we rarely discussed them. Arthur hated to be reminded of those early days in Dumnonia when his passion for Guinevere tore the land into chaos. His betrothal to Ceinwyn had been like an elaborate brooch that held together a fragile gown of gossamer, and when the brooch went the garment fell into shreds. Arthur blamed himself and did not like to talk about the bad years.

  Tewdric, for a time, refused to fight on either side. He blamed Arthur for the broken peace and in retribution he allowed Gorfyd-dyd and Gundleus to lead their war-bands through Gwent into Dumnonia. The Saxons pressed from the east, the Irish raided out of the Western Sea and, as if those enemies were not enough, Prince Cadwy of Isca rebelled against Arthur's rule. Tewdric tried to stay aloof from it all, but when Aelle's Saxons savaged Tewdric's frontier the only friends he could call on for help were Dumnonians and so, in the end, he was forced into the war on Arthur's side, but by then the spearmen of Powys and Siluria had used his roads to capture the hills north of Ynys Wydryn and when Tewdric declared for Dumnonia they occupied Glevum as well.

  I grew up in those years. I lost count of the men I killed and the warrior rings I forged. I received a nickname, Cadarn, which means 'the mighty'. Derfel Cadarn, sober in battle and with a dreadful quick sword. At one time Arthur invited me to become one of his horsemen, but I preferred to stay on firm ground and so remained a spearman. I watched Arthur during that time and began to appreciate just why he was such a great soldier. It was not merely his bravery, though he was brave, but how he outfoxed his enemies. Our armies were clumsy instruments, slow to march and sluggish to change direction once they were marching, but Arthur forged a small force of men who learned to travel quickly. He led those men, some on foot, some in the saddle, on long marches that looped about the enemies' flanks so they always appeared where they were least expected. We liked to attack at dawn, when the enemy was still fuddled from a night's drinking, or else we lured them on with false retreats and then slashed into their unprotected flanks. After a year of such battles, when we had at last driven the forces of Gorfyddyd and Gundleus out of Glevum and northern Dumnonia, Arthur made me a captain and I began handing my own followers gold. Two years later I even received the ultimate accolade of a warrior, an invitation to defect to the enemy. Of all people it came from Ligessac, Norwenna's traitorous guard commander, who spoke to me in a temple of Mithras, where his life was protected, and offered me a fortune if I would serve Gundleus as he did. I refused. God be thanked, but I was always loyal to Arthur.

  Sagramor was also loyal, and it was he who initiated me into Mithras's service. Mithras was a God the Romans had brought to Britain and He must have liked our climate for He still has power. He is a soldiers' God and no women can be initiated into His mysteries. My initiation took place in late winter, when soldiers have time to spare. It happened in the hills. Sagramor took me alone into a valley so deep that even by late afternoon the morning frost still crisped the grass. We stopped by a cave entrance where Sagramor instructed me to lay my weapons aside and strip naked. I stood there shivering as the Numidian tied a thick cloth about my eyes and told me I must now obey every instruction and that if I flinched or spoke once, just once, I would be brought back to my clothes and weapons and sent away. The initiation is an assault on a man's senses, and to survive he must remember one thing only: to obey. That is why soldiers like Mithras. Battle assaults the senses, and that assault ferments fear, and obedience is the narrow thread that leads out of fear's chaos into survival. In time I initiated many men into Mithras and came to know the tricks well enough, but that first time, as I stepped into
the cave, I had no idea what would be inflicted on me. When I first entered the God's cave Sagramor, or perhaps some other man, turned me about and about, sunwise, so quickly and so violently that my mind reeled into dizziness and then I was ordered to walk forward. Smoke choked me, but I kept going, following the downwards slope of the rock floor. A voice shouted at me to stop, another ordered me to turn, a third to kneel. Some substance was thrust at my mouth and I recoiled from the stench of human dung that made my head reel. “Eat!” a voice snapped and I almost spewed the mouthful out until I realized I merely chewed on dried fish. I drank some vile liquid that made me light-headed. It was probably thorn-apple juice mixed with mandrake or fly-agaric for though my eyes were tight covered I saw visions of bright creatures coming with crinkled wings to snap at my flesh with beaked mouths. Flames touched my skin, burning the small hairs on my legs and arms. I was ordered to walk forward again, then to stop and I heard logs being heaped on a fire and felt the vast heat grow in front of me. The fire roared, the flames roasted my bare skin and manhood, and then the voice commanded me to step forward into the fire and I obeyed, only to have my foot sink into a pool of icy water that almost made me cry aloud from fear that I had stepped into a vat of molten metal.