I sat. Nimue had ignored me thus far. The socket of her missing eye, that had been torn from her face by a king, was covered with an eye-patch, and her hair, that had been cut so short before we went south to Guinevere’s sea palace, was growing back, though it was still short enough to give her a boyish look. She seemed angry, but Nimue always seemed angry. Her life was devoted to one thing only, the pursuit of the Gods, and she despised anything which deflected her from that search and maybe she thought Merlin’s ironic pleasantries were somehow a waste of time. She and I had grown up together and in the years since our childhood I had more than once kept her alive, I had fed her and clothed her, yet still she treated me as though I was a fool.
‘Who rules Britain?’ she asked me abruptly.
‘The wrong question!’ Merlin snapped at her with unexpected vehemence, ‘the wrong question!’
‘Well?’ she demanded of me, ignoring Merlin’s anger.
‘No one rules Britain,’ I said.
‘The right answer,’ Merlin said vengefully. His bad temper had unsettled Gawain, who was standing behind Merlin’s couch and looking anxiously at Nimue. He was frightened of her, but I cannot blame him for that. Nimue frightened most people.
‘So who rules Dumnonia?’ she asked me.
‘Arthur does,’ I answered.
Nimue gave Merlin a triumphant look, but the Druid just shook his head. ‘The word is rex,’ he said, ‘rex, and if either of you had the slightest notion of Latin you would know that rex means king, not emperor. The word for emperor is imperator. Are we to risk everything because you are uneducated?’
‘Arthur rules Dumnonia,’ Nimue insisted.
Merlin ignored her. ‘Who is King here?’ he demanded of me.
‘Mordred, of course.’
‘Of course,’ he repeated. ‘Mordred!’ He spat at Nimue. ‘Mordred!’
She turned away as though he was being tedious. I was lost, not understanding in the least what their argument meant, and I had no chance to ask for the two children appeared through the curtained doorway again to bring more bread and cheese. As they put the plates on the floor I caught a hint of sea smell, that waft of salt and seaweed that had accompanied the naked apparition, but then the children went back through the curtain and the smell vanished with them.
‘So,’ Merlin said to me with the satisfied air of a man who has won his argument, ‘does Mordred have children?’
‘Several, probably,’ I answered. ‘He was forever raping girls.’
‘As kings do,’ Merlin said carelessly, ‘and princes too. Do you rape girls, Gawain?’
‘No, Lord.’ Gawain seemed shocked at the suggestion.
‘Mordred was ever a rapist,’ Merlin said. ‘Takes after his father and grandfather in that, though I must say they were both a great deal gentler than young Mordred. Uther, now, he could never resist a pretty face. Or an ugly one if he was in the mood. Arthur, though, was never given to rape. He’s like you in that, Gawain.’
‘I am very glad to hear it,’ Gawain said and Merlin rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.
‘So what will Arthur do with Mordred?’ the Druid demanded of me.
‘He’s to be imprisoned here, Lord,’ I said, gesturing about the palace.
‘Imprisoned!’ Merlin seemed amused. ‘Guinevere shut away, Bishop Sansum locked up, if life goes on like this then everyone in Arthur’s life will soon be imprisoned! We shall all be on water and mouldy bread. What a fool Arthur is! He should knock Mordred’s brains out.’ Mordred had been a child when he inherited the kingship and Arthur had wielded the royal power as the boy grew, but when Mordred came of age, and true to the promise he had given to High King Uther, Arthur handed the kingdom to Mordred. Mordred misused that power, and even plotted Arthur’s death, and it was that plot which had encouraged Sansum and Lancelot in their revolt. Mordred was to be imprisoned now, though Arthur was determined that Dumnonia’s rightful King, in whom the blood of the Gods ran, should be treated with honour even if he was not to be allowed power. He would be kept under guard in this lavish palace, given all the luxuries he craved, but kept from mischief. ‘So you think,’ Merlin asked me, ‘that Mordred does have whelps?’
‘Dozens, I should think.’
‘If you ever do think,’ Merlin snapped. ‘Give me a name, Derfel! Give me a name!’
I thought for a moment. I was in a better position than most men to know Mordred’s sins for I had been his childhood guardian, a task I had done both reluctantly and badly. I had never succeeded in being a father to him, and though my Ceinwyn had tried to be a mother, she too had failed and the wretched boy had grown sullen and evil. ‘There was a servant girl here,’ I said, ‘and he kept her company for a long time.’
‘Her name?’ Merlin demanded with a mouth full of cheese.
‘Cywwylog.’
‘Cywwylog!’ He seemed amused by the name. ‘And you say he fathered a child on this Cywwylog?’
‘A boy,’ I said, ‘if it was his, which it probably was.’
‘And this Cywwylog,’ he said, waving a knife, ‘where might she be?’
‘Probably somewhere very close,’ I answered. ‘She never moved with us to Ermid’s Hall and Ceinwyn always supposed that Mordred had given her money.’
‘So he was fond of her?’
‘I think he was, yes.’
‘How gratifying to know that there is some good in the horrible boy. Cywwylog, eh? You can find her, Gawain?’
‘I shall try, Lord,’ Gawain said eagerly.
‘Not just try, succeed!’ Merlin snapped. ‘What did she look like, Derfel, this curiously named Cywwylog?’
‘Short,’ I said, ‘plumpish, black hair.’
‘So far we have succeeded in whittling our search down to every girl in Britain beneath the age of twenty. Can you be more specific? How old would the child be now?’
‘Six,’ I said, ‘and if I remember rightly, he had reddish hair.’
‘And the girl?’
I shook my head. ‘Pleasant enough, but not really memorable.’
‘All girls are memorable,’ Merlin said loftily, ‘especially ones named Cywwylog. Find her, Gawain.’
‘Why do you want to find her?’ I asked.
‘Do I poke my nose into your business?’ Merlin demanded. ‘Do I come and ask you foolish questions about spears and shields? Am I forever pestering you with idiotic enquiries about the manner in which you administer justice? Do I care about your harvests? Have I, in short, made a nuisance of myself by interfering in your life, Derfel?’
‘No, Lord.’
‘So pray do not be curious about mine. It is not given for shrews to understand the ways of the eagle. Now eat some cheese, Derfel.’
Nimue refused to eat. She was brooding, angered by the way Merlin had dismissed her assertion that Arthur was the true ruler of Dumnonia. Merlin ignored her, preferring to tease Gawain. He did not mention Mordred again, nor would he talk about what he planned at Mai Dun, though he did finally speak of the Treasures as he escorted me towards the palace’s outer gate where Issa still waited for me. The Druid’s black staff clicked on the stones as we walked though the courtyard where the crowd had watched the apparitions come and go. ‘I need people, you see,’ Merlin said, ‘because if the Gods are to be summoned then there is work to be done and Nimue and I cannot possibly do it all alone. We need a hundred folk, maybe more!’
‘To do what?’
‘You’ll see, you’ll see. Did you like Gawain?’
‘He seems willing.’
‘Oh, he’s willing all right, but is that admirable? Dogs are willing. He reminds me of Arthur when he was young. All that eagerness to do good.’ He laughed.
‘Lord,’ I said, anxious for reassurance, ‘what will happen at Mai Dun?’
‘We shall summon the Gods, of course. It’s a complicated procedure and I can only pray I do it right. I do fear, of course, that it will not work. Nimue, as you might have gathered, believes I am doing it all wrong, but we
shall see, we shall see.’ He walked a couple of paces in silence. ‘But if we do it right, Derfel, if we do it right, then what a sight we shall witness! The Gods coming in all their power. Manawydan striding from the sea, all wet and glorious. Taranis splintering the skies with lightning, Bel trailing fire from heaven, and Don cleaving the clouds with her spear of fire. That should scare the Christians, eh!’ He danced a pair of clumsy steps for pure delight. ‘The bishops will be pissing in their black robes then, eh?’
‘But you cannot be sure,’ I said, anxious for reassurance.
‘Don’t be absurd, Derfel. Why do you always want certainty of me? All I can do is perform the ritual and hope I get it right! But you witnessed something tonight, did you not? Does that not convince you?’
I hesitated, wondering if all I had witnessed was some trick. But what trick could make a girl’s skin glow in the dark? ‘And will the Gods fight the Saxons?’ I asked.
‘That is why we are summoning them, Derfel,’ Merlin said patiently. ‘The purpose is to restore Britain as she was in the old days before her perfection was soured by Saxons and Christians.’ He stopped at the gate and stared out into the dark countryside. ‘I do love Britain,’ he said in a voice that was suddenly wan, ‘I do so love this island. It is a special place.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Lancelot burned your house. So where do you live now?’
‘I have to build a place,’ I said, though it would not be at Ermid’s Hall where my little Dian had died.
‘Dun Caric is empty,’ Merlin said, ‘and I will let you live there, though on one condition: that when my work is done and the Gods are with us, I may come to die in your house.’
‘You may come and live there, Lord,’ I said.
‘To die, Derfel, to die. I am old. I have one task left, and that task will be attempted at Mai Dun.’ He kept his hand on my shoulder. ‘You think I do not know the risks I run?’
I sensed fear in him. ‘What risks, Lord?’ I asked awkwardly.
A screech owl sounded from the dark and Merlin listened with a cocked head for a repeat of the call, but none came. ‘All my life,’ he said after a while, ‘I have sought to bring the Gods back to Britain, and now I have the means, but I don’t know whether it will work. Or whether I am the man to do the rites. Or whether I’ll even live to see it happen.’ His hand tightened on my shoulder. ‘Go, Derfel,’ he said, ‘go. I must sleep, for tomorrow I travel south. But come to Durnovaria at Samain. Come and witness the Gods.’
‘I will be there, Lord.’
He smiled and turned away. And I walked back to the Caer in a daze, full of hope and beset by fears, wondering where the magic would take us now, or whether it would take us nowhere but to the feet of the Saxons who would come in the spring. For if Merlin could not summon the Gods then Britain was surely doomed.
Slowly, like a settling pool that had been stirred to turbidity, Britain calmed. Lancelot cowered in Venta, fearing Arthur’s vengeance. Mordred, our rightful King, came to Lindinis where he was accorded every honour, but was surrounded by spearmen. Guinevere stayed at Ynys Wydryn under Morgan’s hard gaze,while Sansum, Morgan’s husband, was imprisoned in the guest quarters of Emrys, Bishop of Durnovaria. The Saxons retreated behind their frontiers, though once the harvest was gathered in each side raided the other savagely. Sagramor, Arthur’s Numidian commander, guarded the Saxon frontier while Culhwch, Arthur’s cousin and now once again one of his war leaders, watched Lancelot’s Belgic border from our fortress at Dunum. Our ally, King Cuneglas of Powys, left a hundred spearmen under Arthur’s command, then returned to his own kingdom, and on the way he met his sister, the Princess Ceinwyn, returning to Dumnonia. Ceinwyn was my woman as I was her man, though she had taken an oath never to marry. She came with our two daughters in the early autumn and I confess I was not truly happy until she returned. I met her on the road south of Glevum and I held her a long time in my arms, for there had been moments when I thought I would never see her again. She was a beauty, my Ceinwyn, a golden-haired Princess who once, long before, had been betrothed to Arthur and after he had abandoned that planned marriage to be with Guinevere, Ceinwyn’s hand had been promised to other great princes, but she and I had run away together and I dare say we both did well by doing so.
We had our new house at Dun Caric, which lay just a short journey north of Caer Cadarn. Dun Caric means ‘The Hill by the Pretty Stream’, and the name was apt for it was a lovely place where I thought we would be happy. The hilltop hall was made of oak and roofed with rye-straw thatch and had a dozen outbuildings enclosed by a decayed timber palisade. The folk who lived in the small village at the foot of the hill believed the hall to be haunted, for Merlin had let an ancient Druid, Balise, live out his life in the place, but my spearmen had cleaned out the nests and vermin, then hauled out all Balise’s ritual paraphernalia. I had no doubt that the villagers, despite their fear of the old hall, had already taken the cauldrons, tripods and anything else of real value, so we were left to dispose of the snakeskins, dry bones and desiccated corpses of birds, all of them thick with cobwebs. Many of the bones were human, great heaps of them, and we buried those remains in scattered pits so that the souls of the dead could not reknit and come back to stalk us.
Arthur had sent me dozens of young men to train into warriors and all that autumn I taught them the discipline of the spear and shield, and once a week, more out of duty than from pleasure, I visited Guinevere at nearby Ynys Wydryn. I carried her gifts of food and, as it got colder, a great cloak of bear fur. Sometimes I took her son, Gwydre, but she was never really comfortable with him. She was bored by his tales of fishing in Dun Caric’s stream or hunting in our woods. She herself loved to hunt, but that pleasure was no longer permitted to her and so she took her exercise by walking around the shrine’s compound. Her beauty did not fade, indeed her misery gave her large eyes a luminosity they had lacked before, though she would never admit to the sadness. She was too proud for that, though I could tell she was unhappy. Morgan galled her, besieging her with Christian preaching and constantly accusing her of being the scarlet whore of Babylon. Guinevere endured it patiently and the only complaint she ever made was in the early autumn when the nights lengthened and the first night frosts whitened the hollows and she told me that her chambers were being kept too cold. Arthur put a stop to that, ordering that Guinevere could burn as much fuel as she wished. He loved her still, though he hated to hear me mention her name. As for Guinevere, I did not know who she loved. She would always ask me for news of Arthur, but never once mentioned Lancelot.
Arthur too was a prisoner, but only of his own torments. His home, if he had one at all, was the royal palace at Durnovaria, but he preferred to tour Dumnonia, going from fortress to fortress and readying us all for the war against the Saxons that must come in the new year, though if there was any one place where he spent more time than another, it was with us at Dun Caric. We would see him coming from our hilltop hall, and a moment later a horn would sound in warning as his horsemen splashed across the stream. Gwydre, his son, would run down to meet him and Arthur would lean down from Llamrei’s saddle and scoop the boy up before spurring to our gate. He showed tenderness to Gwydre, indeed to all children, but with adults he showed a chill reserve. The old Arthur, the man of cheerful enthusiasm, was gone. He bared his soul only to Ceinwyn, and whenever he came to Dun Caric he would talk with her for hours. They spoke of Guinevere, who else? ‘He still loves her,’ Ceinwyn told me.
‘He should marry again,’ I said.
‘How can he?’ she asked. ‘He doesn’t think of anyone but her.’
‘What do you tell him?’
‘To forgive her, of course. I doubt she’s going to be foolish again, and if she’s the woman who makes him happy then he should swallow his pride and have her back.’
‘He’s too proud for that.’
‘Evidently,’ she said disapprovingly. She laid down her distaff and spindle. ‘I think, maybe, he needs to kill Lancelot first. That would make him ha
ppy.’
Arthur tried that autumn. He led a sudden raid on Venta, Lancelot’s capitol, but Lancelot had wind of the attack and fled to Cerdic, his protector. He took with him Amhar and Loholt, Arthur’s sons by his Irish mistress, Ailleann. The twins had ever resented their bastardy and had allied themselves with Arthur’s enemies. Arthur failed to find Lancelot, but he did bring back a rich haul of grain that was sorely needed because the turmoil of the summer had inevitably affected our harvest.
In mid autumn, just two weeks before Samain and in the days following his raid on Venta, Arthur came again to Dun Caric. He had become still thinner and his face even more gaunt. He had never been a man of frightening presence, but now he had become guarded so that men did not know what thoughts he had, and that reticence gave him a mystery, while the sadness in his soul added a hardness to him. He had ever been slow to anger, but now his temper flared at the smallest provocation. Most of all he was angry at himself for he believed he was a failure. His first two sons had abandoned him, his marriage had soured and Dumnonia had failed with it. He had thought he could make a perfect kingdom, a place of justice, security and peace, but the Christians had preferred slaughter. He blamed himself for not seeing what was coming, and now, in the quiet after the storm, he doubted his own vision. ‘We must just settle for doing the little things, Derfel,’ he said to me that day.
It was a perfect autumn day. The sky was mottled with cloud so that patches of sunlight raced across the yellow-brown landscape that lay to our west. Arthur, for once, did not seek Ceinwyn’s company, but led me to a patch of grass just outside Dun Caric’s mended palisade from where he stared moodily at the Tor rearing on the skyline. He stared at Ynys Wydryn, where Guinevere lay. ‘The little things?’ I asked him.
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