Arthur, I noticed, embraced Oengus, who returned the gesture happily. No ill-will there, it seemed, despite Iseult’s awful death. Arthur wore a brown cloak, perhaps not wanting one of his white cloaks to outshine the day’s hero. Guinevere looked splendid in a russet dress that was trimmed with silver and embroidered with her symbol of the moon-crowned stag. Sagramor came in a black gown and had brought his pregnant Saxon wife, Malla, and their two sons. No one came from Kernow.
The banners of the Kings, chiefs and Lords were hung from the ramparts where a ring of spearmen, all equipped with newly painted dragon shields, stood guard. A horn sounded again, its noise mournful in the sunny air as twenty other spearmen escorted Mordred towards the stone ring where, fifteen years before, we had first acclaimed him. That first ceremony had been in wintertime and the baby Mordred had been wrapped in fur and carried about the stones in an upturned war shield. Morgan had supervised that first acclamation which had been marked by the sacrifice of a Saxon captive, but this time the ceremony would be an entirely Christian rite. The Christians, I thought grimly, whatever Nimue might think, had won. There were no Druids here except for Dinas and Lavaine and they had no role to play, Merlin was sleeping in Lindinis’s garden, Nimue was on the Tor and no captive would be slaughtered to discover the auguries for the newly acclaimed King’s reign. We had killed a Saxon prisoner at Mordred’s first acclamation, spearing him high in the belly so that his death would be slow and agonizing, and Morgan had watched every painful stagger and every splatter of blood for signs of the future. Those auguries, I remembered, had not been good, though they had promised Mordred a long reign. I tried to remember that poor Saxon’s name, but all I could remember was his terrified face and the fact that I had liked him, and then suddenly his name came winging back across the years. Wlenca! Poor shivering Wlenca. Morgan had insisted on his death, but now, with a crucifix dangling beneath her mask, she was only here as Sansum’s wife and would play no part in the rites.
A muted cheer greeted Mordred’s arrival. The Christians applauded, while we pagans just touched our hands dutifully together and then fell silent. The King was dressed entirely in black: black shirt, black trews, black cloak and a pair of black boots, one of which was monstrously fashioned to encase his clubbed left foot. A gold crucifix hung about his neck and it seemed to me that there was a smirk on his round, ugly face, or perhaps that grimace just betrayed his nervousness. He had kept his beard, but it was a thin thing that did little to improve his bulbous face with its jutting hedges of hair. He walked alone into the royal circle and took his place beside the royal stone.
Sansum, splendid in white and gold, hurried to stand beside the King. The Bishop raised his arms and, without any preamble, began to pray aloud. His voice, always strong, carried right across the huge crowd that pressed behind the Lords, right out to the motionless spearmen on the rampart’s fighting platforms. ‘Lord God!’ he shouted, ‘pour down Thy blessing on this Thy son Mordred, on this blessed King, this light of Britain, this monarch who will lead Thy kingdom of Dumnonia into its new and blessed age.’ I confess I paraphrase the prayer, for in truth I hardly took much notice as Sansum harangued his God. He was good at such harangues, but they were all much alike; always too long, always full of praise for Christianity and always replete with mockery of paganism, so instead of listening I watched the crowd to see who among it spread their arms and closed their eyes. Most did. Arthur, ever ready to show respect to any religion, just stood with head bowed. He held his son’s hand while, on Gwydre’s other side, Guinevere gazed into the sky with a secret smile on her handsome face. Amhar and Loholt, Arthur’s sons by Ailleann, prayed with the Christians, while Dinas and Lavaine just stood, arms folded across their white robes, and stared at Ceinwyn who, just as on that day when she had run from her betrothal, wore neither gold nor silver. Her hair still shone so fine and pale, and she remained for me the loveliest creature that ever walked this earth. Her brother, King Cuneglas, stood on her other side, and catching my eye during one of Sansum’s higher flights of fancy he offered me a wry smile. Mordred, his arms spread in prayer, watched us all with a crooked smile.
When the prayer was done Bishop Sansum took the King’s arm and led him to Arthur who, as the guardian of the kingdom, would now present the new ruler to his people. Arthur smiled at Mordred, as though to give him courage, then led him round the outside of the stone circle and, as Mordred passed, those who were not kings dropped to their knees. I, as his champion, walked behind him with a drawn sword. We walked against the sun, the only time a circle was ever walked thus, to show that our new King was descended from Beli Mawr and could thus defy the natural order of all living things, though Bishop Sansum, of course, declared that the walk against the sun proved the death of pagan superstition. Culhwch, I saw, managed to hide himself during the circle walk so that he would not have to kneel.
When two full circles of the stones had been completed Arthur led Mordred to the royal stone and handed him up so that the King stood there alone. Dian, my youngest daughter, then toddled forward with cornflowers woven into her hair and laid a loaf of bread at Mordred’s mismatched feet to symbolize his duty to feed his people. The women murmured at the sight of her, for Dian, like her sisters, had inherited her mother’s careless beauty. She put the loaf down, then looked about her for a sign of what she was supposed to do next and, receiving none, she looked solemnly up into Mordred’s face and immediately burst into tears. The women sighed happily as the child fled crying to her mother and as Ceinwyn scooped her up and dried her tears. Gwydre, Arthur’s son, next carried a leather scourge that he laid at the King’s feet as a symbol of Mordred’s duty to offer the land justice, and then I carried the new royal sword, forged in Gwent and with a hilt of black leather wrapped with golden wire, and gave the sword into Mordred’s right hand. ‘Lord King,’ I said, looking into his eyes, ‘this is for your duty to protect your people.’ Mordred’s smirk had vanished and he stared at me with a cold dignity that made me hope Arthur was right and that the solemnity of this ritual would indeed give Mordred the power to be a good King.
Then, one by one, we presented our gifts. I gave him a fine helmet, trimmed with gold and with a red enamel dragon burned onto its skullpiece. Arthur gave him a scale coat, a spear, and a box of ivory filled with gold coins. Cuneglas offered him ingots of gold from the mines of Powys. Lancelot presented him with a massive cross of gold and a small, gold-framed electrum mirror. Oengus Mac Airem laid two thick bear pelts at his feet, while Sagramor placed a golden Saxon image of a bull’s head on the pile. Sansum presented the King with a piece of the cross on which, he loudly proclaimed, Christ had been crucified. The scrap of dark timber was encased in a Roman glass flask that had been sealed with gold. Only Culhwch presented nothing. Indeed, when the gifts were given and the Lords made a line to kneel before the King and swear their oaths of loyalty, Culhwch was nowhere to be seen. I was the second man to give the oath, following Arthur to the royal stone where I knelt opposite the great heap of shining gold and put my lips to the tip of Mordred’s new sword and swore on my life that I would serve him faithfully. It was a solemn moment, for that was the royal oath, the oath that ruled all others.
There was one new thing at that acclamation, a ritual Arthur had devised as a means of continuing the peace he had so carefully constructed and maintained throughout the years. The new ceremony was an extension of his Brotherhood of Britain, for he had persuaded the Kings of Britain – at least those present – to exchange kisses with Mordred and swear oaths never to fight against each other. Mordred, Meurig, Cuneglas, Byrthig, Oengus and Lancelot all embraced each other, touched their sword blades together and took the oath to keep each other’s peace. Arthur beamed and Oengus Mac Airem, a rogue if ever there was one, gave me a broad wink. Come harvest time, I knew, his spearmen would be raiding Powys’s granaries, whatever oaths he might have sworn.
When the royal oath had been made, I performed the final act of the acclamation. First I gave Mor
dred my gloved hand and helped him down from the stone and then, when I had conducted him to the northernmost stone of the outer circle, I took his royal sword and laid its bare blade flat on the royal stone. It lay there, glittering, a sword on a stone, the true sign of a King, and then I did the duty of the King’s champion by striding about the circle and spitting at the onlookers and challenging all who listened to dare deny the right of Mordred ap Mordred ap Uther to be the King of this land. I winked at my daughters as I passed, made certain my spittle landed on Sansum’s shining robes, and made equally sure it did not land on Guinevere’s embroidered dress. ‘I declare Mordred ap Mordred ap Uther to be the King!’ I shouted again and again, ‘and if any man denies it, let him fight me now.’ I walked slowly with Hywelbane naked in my hand, and shouted my challenge loud. ‘I declare Mordred ap Mordred ap Uther to be the King, and if any man denies it, let him fight me now.’
I had almost completed the circle when I heard the blade rasp from its scabbard. ‘I deny it!’ A voice shouted and the shout was followed by gasps of horror from the crowd. Ceinwyn blanched, and my daughters, who were already frightened to see me dressed in my unfamiliar iron and steel and leather and wolf-hair, hid their faces in her linen skirt.
I turned slowly and saw that Culhwch had come back to the circle and now faced me with his big battle sword drawn. ‘No,’ I called to him, ‘please.’
Culhwch, grim-faced, strode to the circle’s centre and plucked the King’s gold-hilted sword from the stone. ‘I deny Mordred ap Mordred ap Uther,’ Culhwch said ceremoniously, then threw the royal blade down onto the grass.
‘Kill him,’ Mordred shouted from his place beside Arthur. ‘Do your duty, Lord Derfel!’
‘I deny his fitness to rule!’ Culhwch shouted at the assembly. A wind lifted the banners on the walls and stirred Ceinwyn’s golden hair.
‘I order you to kill him!’ Mordred shouted excitedly.
I walked into the circle to face Culhwch. My duty now was to fight him, and if he killed me then another King’s champion would be selected and so the stupid business would go on until Culhwch, battered and bloody, lay twitching his life blood into Caer Cadarn’s soil, or, more likely, till a full-scale battle erupted on the summit that would end with either Culhwch’s or Mordred’s party triumphant. I pulled the helmet off my head, shook the hair out of my eyes and hung the helmet over the throat of my scabbard. Then, with Hywelbane still in my hand, I embraced Culhwch. ‘Don’t do this,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘I can’t kill you, my friend, so you will just have to kill me.’
‘He’s a bastard little toad, a worm, not a King,’ he murmured.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I cannot kill you. You know that.’
He hugged me tight. ‘Make peace with Arthur, my friend,’ he whispered, then he stepped away and rammed his sword back into its scabbard. He picked Mordred’s sword out of the grass, gave the King a sour look, then laid the blade back on the stone. ‘I yield the fight,’ he called so that all on the summit could hear him, then he crossed to Cuneglas and knelt at his feet. ‘Will you have my oath, Lord King?’
It was an embarrassing moment, for if the King of Powys accepted Culhwch’s loyalty then Powys’s first act of this new Dumnonian reign was to welcome an enemy of Mordred’s, but Cuneglas did not hesitate. He pushed his sword hilt forward for Culhwch’s kiss. ‘Gladly, Lord Culhwch,’ he said, ‘gladly.’
Culhwch kissed Cuneglas’s sword, then rose and walked to the west gate. His spearmen followed him and thus, with Culhwch’s going, Mordred at last had the kingdom’s power unchallenged. There was silence, then Sansum began to cheer and the Christians followed his lead and so acclaimed their new ruler. Men gathered about the King, calling their congratulations, and I saw that Arthur was left to one side, alone. He looked at me and smiled, but I turned away. I sheathed Hywelbane, then crouched by my still frightened daughters and told them there was nothing to be worried about. I gave Morwenna my helmet to hold, and showed her how the cheek pieces swung back and forward on their hinges. ‘Don’t break it!’ I warned her.
‘Poor wolf,’ Seren said, stroking the wolf-tail.
‘It killed a lot of lambs.’
‘Is that why you killed the wolf?’
‘Of course.’
‘Lord Derfel!’ Mordred’s voice suddenly called, and I straightened and turned round to see that the King had shaken off his admirers and was limping across the royal circle towards me.
I walked to meet him, then bowed my head. ‘Lord King.’
The Christians gathered behind Mordred. They were the masters now, and their victory was plain on their faces. ‘You swore an oath, Lord Derfel,’ Mordred said, ‘to obey me.’
‘I did, Lord King.’
‘But Culhwch still lives,’ he said in a puzzled voice. ‘Does he not still live?’
‘He lives, Lord King,’ I said.
Mordred smiled. ‘A broken oath, Lord Derfel, deserves punishment. Isn’t that what you always taught me?’
‘Yes, Lord King.’
‘And the oath, Lord Derfel, was sworn on your life, was it not?’
‘Yes, Lord King.’
He scratched at his thin beard. ‘But your daughters are pretty, Derfel, so I would be sorry to lose you from Dumnonia. I forgive you that Culhwch still lives.’
‘Thank you, Lord King,’ I said, fighting back a temptation to hit him.
‘But a broken oath still deserves punishment,’ he said excitedly.
‘Yes, Lord King,’ I agreed. ‘It does.’
He paused a heartbeat, then struck me hard across the face with the leather flail of justice. He laughed, and was so delighted with the surprised reaction on my face that he hit me with the flail a second time. ‘Punishment given, Lord Derfel,’ he said, then turned away. His supporters laughed and applauded.
We did not stay for the feast, nor for the wrestling matches and the mock bouts of swordplay and the displays of juggling, nor for the tame dancing bear and the competition of the bards. We walked, a family, back to Lindinis. We walked beside the stream where the willows grew and the purple loosestrife flowered. We walked home.
Cuneglas followed us within the hour. He planned to stay with us for one week, then he would go back to Powys. ‘Come back with me,’ he said.
‘I’m sworn to Mordred, Lord King.’
‘Oh, Derfel, Derfel!’ He put his arm around my neck and walked up the outer courtyard with me. ‘My dear Derfel, you’re as bad as Arthur! You think Mordred cares if you keep your oath?’
‘I hope he doesn’t want me as an enemy.’
‘Who knows what he wants?’ Cuneglas asked. ‘Girls, probably, and fast horses and running deer and strong mead. Come home, Derfel! Culhwch will be there.’
‘I shall miss him, Lord,’ I said. I had hoped that Culhwch would be waiting at Lindinis when we returned from Caer Cadarn, but he had plainly not dared waste a moment and was already racing north to escape the spearmen who would be sent to find him before he crossed the frontier.
Cuneglas abandoned his attempt to persuade me north. ‘What was that rogue Oengus doing there?’ he asked me peevishly. ‘And making that promise to keep the peace too!’
‘He knows, Lord King,’ I said, ‘that if he loses Arthur’s friendship then your spears will invade his land.’
‘He’s right,’ Cuneglas said grimly. ‘Maybe I’ll give that job to Culhwch. Will Arthur have any power now?’
‘That depends on Mordred.’
‘Let’s assume Mordred isn’t a complete fool. I can’t comprehend Dumnonia without Arthur.’ He turned as a shout from the gate announced more visitors. I half expected to see dragon shields and a party of Mordred’s men searching for Culhwch, but instead it was Arthur and Oengus Mac Airem who had arrived with a score of spearmen. Arthur hesitated at the gate’s threshold. ‘Am I welcome?’ he called to me.
‘Of course, Lord,’ I replied, though not warmly.
My daughters spied him from a window and a moment later they ran
shrieking to welcome him. Cuneglas joined them, pointedly ignoring King Oengus Mac Airem who crossed to my side. I bowed, but Oengus pushed me upright and enfolded me in his arms. His fur collar stank of sweat and old grease. He grinned at me. ‘Arthur tells me you haven’t fought a decent war in ten years,’ he said.
‘It must be that long, Lord.’
‘You’ll be out of practice, Derfel. First proper fight and some slip of a boy will rip your belly out to feed his hounds. How are you?’
‘Older than I was, Lord. But well. And you?’
‘I’m still alive,’ he said, then glanced back at Cuneglas. ‘I assume the King of Powys doesn’t want to greet me?’
‘He feels, Lord King, that your spearmen are too busy on his frontier.’
Oengus laughed. ‘Have to keep them busy, Derfel, you know that. Idle spearmen are trouble. And besides, I’ve got too many of the bastards these days. Ireland’s going Christian!’ he spat. ‘Some interfering Briton called Padraig turned them into milksops. You never dared conquer us with your spears so you sent that piece of seal shit to weaken us, and any Irishman with proper guts is coming to the Irish kingdoms in Britain to escape his Christians. He preached to them with a clover leaf! Can you imagine that? Conquering Ireland with a clover leaf? No wonder all the decent warriors are coming to me, but what can I do with them?’
Enemy of God Page 35
