The Winter King

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I heard myself saying.

  ‘Sorry?’ he laughed. ‘For what? Hywel always said you were the best he ever trained and I should have believed him. You’re fast. Now come, we have to see what we’ve won.’

  I took my victim’s sword scabbard that was made of willow-stiffened leather and found it fitted Hywel’s sword tolerably well, then we searched the two bodies for what little plunder we could find: an unripe apple, an old coin worn smooth, two cloaks, the weapons, some leather thongs and a bone-handled knife. Gwlyddyn debated whether we should go back and fetch the two horses, then decided we did not have the time. I did not care. My vision might be blurred by tears, but I was alive and I had killed a man and I had defended my King and suddenly I was deliriously happy as Gwlyddyn led me back to the frightened fugitives and raised my arm as a sign that I had fought well.

  ‘You made enough noise, the two of you,’ Morgan snarled. ‘We’ll have half Siluria on our heels soon. Now come! Move!’

  Nimue did not seem interested in my victory, but Lunete wanted to hear all about it and in the telling I exaggerated both the enemy and the fight, and Lunete’s admiration engendered even more exaggeration. She had her arm in mine again and I glanced at her dark-eyed face and wondered why I had never really noticed just how beautiful she was. Like Nimue she had a wedge-shaped face, but where Nimue’s was full of a wary knowledge Lunete’s was soft with a teasing warmth, and her closeness gave me new confidence as we walked on through the long afternoon until at last we turned east towards the hills of which Caer Cadarn stood like an outrider.

  One hour later we stood at the edge of the woods that faced Caer Cadarn. It was late in the day, but we were in midsummer and the sun was still high in the sky and its lovely gentle light was flooding the western ramparts of Caer Cadarn with a green glow. We were a mile away from the fortress, but still close enough to see the yellow palisades atop the ramparts, close enough to see that no guards stood on those walls and no smoke rose from the small settlement inside.

  But nor was there any enemy in sight, and that decided Morgan to cross the open land and climb the western path to the King’s fortress. Gwlyddyn argued that we should stay in the forest till nightfall, or else go to the nearby settlement of Lindinis, but Gwlyddyn was a carpenter and Morgan a highborn lady, so he surrendered to her wishes.

  We moved out into the pastureland and our shadows stretched long in front of us. The grass had been cropped short by deer or cattle, yet it was soft and lush underfoot. Nimue, who still seemed to be in a pain-haunted trance, slipped off her borrowed shoes and paced barefoot. A hawk sailed overhead and then a hare, startled by our sudden appearance, sprang out of a grassy hollow and raced nimbly away.

  We followed a path edged with cornflowers, ox-eyes, ragweed and dogwood. Behind us, shadowed by the sun’s western slant, the woods looked dark. We were tired and ragged, but journey’s end was in sight and some among us even appeared cheerful. We were bringing Mordred back to his birthplace, back to Dumnonia’s royal hill, but before we were even halfway to that glorious green refuge, the enemy appeared behind us.

  Gundleus’s war-band appeared. Not just the horsemen who had ridden to Ynys Wydryn in the morning, but his spearmen too. Gundleus must have known all along where we would go and so he had brought his surviving cavalrymen and over a hundred spearmen to this sacred place of Dumnonia’s kings. And even if he had not been forced to pursue the baby King, then Gundleus would still have come to Caer Cadarn, for he wanted nothing less than the crown of Dumnonia, and Caer Cadarn was where that crown was bestowed upon the ruler’s head. Who held Caer Cadarn held Dumnonia, the old saying went, and who held Dumnonia held Britain.

  The Silurian horsemen spurred ahead of their spearmen. It would take them only a few minutes to reach us and I knew that none of us, not even the swiftest runners, could reach the long slopes of the fortress before those horsemen swept around us with slashing steel and stabbing spears. I went to Nimue’s side and saw that her thin face was drawn and tired, and her remaining eye bruised and tearful. ‘Nimue?’ I said.

  ‘It’s all right, Derfel.’ She seemed annoyed that I wanted to take care of her.

  She was mad, I decided. Of all the living who had survived this terrible day, she had survived the worst experience of all and it had driven her to a place I could neither follow nor understand. ‘I do love you,’ I said, trying to touch her soul with tenderness.

  ‘Me? Not Lunete?’ Nimue said angrily. She was not looking at me, but towards the fortress, while I turned and stared at the approaching horsemen who had spread into a long line like men intent on flushing game. Their cloaks lay on their horses’ rumps, their scabbards hung down beside their dangling boots, and the sun glinted on spear-points and lit the banner of the fox. Gundleus rode beneath the banner, the iron helmet with its fox-tail crest on his head. Ladwys was beside him, a sword in her hand, while Tanaburs, his long robe flapping, rode a grey horse close beside his King. I was going to die, I thought, on the day that I had become a man. That realization seemed very cruel.

  ‘Run!’ Morgan suddenly shouted, ‘run!’ I thought she had panicked, and I did not want to obey her for I thought it would be nobler to stand and die like a man than be cut down from behind as a fugitive. Then I saw she was not panicking and that Caer Cadarn was not deserted after all, but that the gates had opened and a stream of men was running and riding down the path. The horsemen were dressed like Gundleus’s riders, only these men bore the dragon shields of Mordred on their arms.

  We ran. I dragged Nimue along by the arm while the handful of Dumnonian horse spurred towards us. There were a dozen riders, not many, but enough to check the advance of Gundleus’s men, while behind the horsemen came a band of Dumnonian spearmen.

  ‘Fifty spears,’ Gwlyddyn said. He had been counting the rescue party. ‘We can’t beat them with fifty,’ he added grimly, ‘but we might make safety.’

  Gundleus was making the same deduction and now he led his horsemen in a wide curve that would lead them behind the approaching Dumnonian spearmen. He wanted to cut off our retreat for once he had assembled his enemies in one place he could kill us all whether we numbered seventy or seven. Gundleus had the advantage of numbers and, by coming down from their fortress, the Dumnonians had sacrificed their one advantage of height.

  The Dumnonian horsemen thundered past us, their horses’ hooves cutting great chunks of turf from the lush pasture. These were not the fabled horsemen of Arthur, the armoured men who struck home like thunderbolts, but lightly armed scouts who would normally dismount before going into battle, but now they formed a protective screen between us and the Silurian spearmen. A moment later our own spearmen arrived and made their shield–wall. That wall gave us all a new confidence, a confidence that veered towards recklessness when we saw who led the rescue party. It was Owain, mighty Owain, king’s champion and the greatest fighter in all Britain. We had thought Owain was far to the north, fighting alongside the men of Gwent in the mountains of Powys, yet here he was at Caer Cadarn.

  Yet, in sober truth, Gundleus still held the advantage. We were twelve horsemen, fifty spearmen and thirty tired fugitives who were gathered in an open place where Gundleus had gathered almost twice as many horsemen and twice as many spearmen.

  The sun was still bright. It would be two hours before twilight and four before it was full dark and that gave Gundleus more than enough time to finish his slaughter, though first he tried to persuade us with words. He rode forward, splendid on his sweat-foamed horse and with his shield held upside down as a sign of truce. ‘Men of Dumnonia,’ he called, ‘give me the child and I will go!’ No one answered. Owain had hidden himself in the centre of our shield–wall so that Gundleus, seeing no leader, addressed us all. ‘It’s a maimed child!’ the Silurian King called. ‘Cursed by the Gods. You think any good fortune can attend a country ruled by a crippled king? You want your harvests blighted? You want your children born sick? You want your cattle to die of a murrain? You w
ant the Saxons to be lords of this land? What else does a crippled king bring but ill fortune?’

  Still no one answered though, God knows, enough men in our hastily aligned ranks must have feared that Gundleus spoke the truth.

  The Silurian King lifted the helmet from his long hair and smiled at our plight. ‘You may all live,’ he promised, ‘so long as you give me the child.’ He waited for an answer that did not come. ‘Who leads you?’ he finally asked.

  ‘I do!’ Owain at last pushed through the ranks to take his place in front of our shield-line.

  ‘Owain.’ Gundleus recognized him, and I thought I saw a flicker of fear in Gundleus’s eyes. Like us he had not known that Owain had returned to the heart of Dumnonia. Yet Gundleus was still confident of victory even though he must have known that with Owain among his enemies that victory would be much harder. ‘Lord Owain,’ Gundleus said giving Dumnonia’s champion his proper title, ‘son of Eilynon and grandson of Culwas. I salute you!’ Gundleus raised his speartip towards the sun. ‘You have a son, Lord Owain.’

  ‘Many men have sons,’ Owain answered carelessly. ‘What is it to you?’

  ‘Do you want your boy to be fatherless?’ Gundleus asked. ‘Do you want your lands wasted? Your home burned? Do you want your wife to be my men’s plaything?’

  ‘My wife,’ Owain said, ‘could outfight all your men, and you too. You want playthings, Gundleus? Go back to your whore’ – he jerked his chin towards Ladwys – ‘and if you won’t share your whore with your men then Dumnonia can spare Siluria a few lonely ewes.’ Owain’s defiance cheered us. He looked indomitable with his massive spear, long sword and iron-plated shield. He always fought bare headed, disdaining a helmet, and his hugely muscled arms were tattooed with Dumnonia’s dragon and his own symbol of a long-tusked boar.

  ‘Yield me the child.’ Gundleus ignored the insults, knowing they were merely the defiance expected of a man facing battle. ‘Give me the crippled King!’

  ‘Give me your whore, Gundleus,’ Owain retorted. ‘You’re not man enough for her. Give her to me and you can go in peace.’

  Gundleus spat. ‘The bards will sing of your death, Owain. The song of the pig-sticking.’

  Owain thrust his huge spear butt-first into the soil. ‘Here the pig stands, Gundleus ap Meilyr, King of Siluria,’ he shouted, ‘and here the pig will either die or piss on your corpse. Now go!’

  Gundleus smiled, shrugged and turned his horse away. He also turned his shield the right side up, letting us know that we would have a fight.

  It was my first battle.

  The Dumnonian horsemen formed behind our line of spears to protect the women and children so long as they could. The rest of us arrayed ourselves in the battle line and watched as our enemies did the same. Ligessac, the traitor, was among the Silurian ranks. Tanaburs performed the rites, hopping on one leg and with one hand raised and one eye closed in front of Gundleus’s shield–wall as it advanced slowly across the grassland. Only when Tanaburs had cast his protective spell did the Silurians begin to shout insults at us. They warned us of the massacre to come and boasted how many of us they would kill, yet even so I noticed how slowly they came and, when they were only fifty paces away, how they stopped altogether. Some of our men jeered at their timidity, but Owain growled at us to be silent.

  The battle lines stared at each other. Neither moved.

  It takes extraordinary courage to charge into a line of shields and spears. That is why so many men drink before the fight. I have seen armies pause for hours while they summon the courage to charge, and the older the warrior the more courage is needed. Young troops will charge and die, but older men know how terrible an enemy shield–wall can be. I had no shield, yet I was covered by the shields of my neighbours, and their shields touched others and so on down our small line so that any man charging home would be met by a wall of leather-covered wood bristling with razor-sharp spears.

  The Silurians began beating their shields with their spear-staffs. The rattling sound was meant to unsettle us, and it did, though none on our side showed the fear. We just huddled together, waiting for the charge. ‘There’ll be some false charges first, lad,’ my neighbour warned me, and no sooner had he spoken than a group of Silurians ran screaming from their line and hurled their long spears at the centre of our defence. Our men crouched and the long spears banged home into our shields and suddenly the whole Silurian line was moving forward, but Owain immediately ordered our line to stand and march forward too and that deliberate motion checked the enemy’s threatened attack. Those of our men whose shields were cumbered with the enemy spears wrenched the weapons loose, then made the shield–wall whole again.

  ‘Edge back!’ Owain ordered us. He would try to shuffle slowly backwards across the half-mile of grassland to Caer Cadarn, hoping that the Silurians would not raise the courage to make their charge while we completed that pitifully slow journey. To give us more time Owain strode ahead of our line and shouted at Gundleus to fight him man to man. ‘Are you a woman, Gundleus?’ our King’s champion called. ‘Lost your courage? Not enough mead? Why don’t you go back to your weaving loom, woman? Go back to your embroidery! Go back to your spindle!’

  We shuffled back, shuffled back, shuffled back, but suddenly a charge of the enemy made us stand firm and duck behind our shields as the spears were hurled. One whipped over my head, its passage sounding like a sudden rush of wind, but again the attack was a feint intended to panic us. Ligessac was firing arrows, but he must have been drunk for his shots went wildly overhead. Owain was a target for a dozen spears, but most missed and the others he swept contemptuously aside with spear or shield before mocking the throwers. ‘Who taught you spear-craft? Your mothers?’ He spat towards the enemy. ‘Come Gundleus! Fight me! Show your scullions you’re a king, not a mouse!’

  The Silurians beat spear-shafts on their shields to drown Owain’s taunts. He turned his back to show them his scorn and walked slowly back to our shield-line. ‘Back,’ he called to us softly, ‘back.’

  Then two of the Silurians threw down their shields and weapons and tore off their clothes to fight naked. My neighbour spat. ‘There’ll be trouble now,’ he warned me grimly.

  The naked men were probably drunk, or else so intoxicated by the Gods that they believed no enemy blade could hurt them. I had heard of such men and knew that their suicidal example was usually the signal for a real attack. I gripped my sword and tried to make a vow to die well, but in truth I could have wept for the pity of it all. I had become a man this day, and now I would die. I would join Uther and Hywel in the Otherworld and there wait through the shadowed years until my soul found another human body in which to return to this green world.

  The two men unbound their hair, took up their spears and swords, then danced in front of the Silurian line. They howled as they worked themselves into the battle frenzy; that state of mindless ecstasy that will let a man try any feat. Gundleus, sitting his horse beneath his banner, smiled at the two men whose bodies were intricately tattooed with blue patterns. The children were crying behind us and our women were calling to the Gods as the men danced nearer and nearer, their spears and swords whirling in the evening sun. Such men had no need of shields, clothes or armour. The Gods were their protection and glory was their reward, and if they succeeded in killing Owain then the bards would sing of their victory for years to come. They advanced one on each side of our champion who hefted his spear as he prepared to meet their frenzied attack which would also mark the moment when the whole enemy line would charge.

  And then the horn sounded.

  The horn gave a clear, cold note like none I had ever heard before. There was a purity to that horn, a chill hard purity like nothing else on all the earth. It sounded once, it sounded twice, and the second call was enough to give even the naked men pause and make them turn towards the east from where the sound had come.

  I looked too.

  And I was dazzled. It was as though a new bright sun had risen on that dying d
ay. The light slashed over the pastures, blinding us, confusing us, but then the light slid on and I saw it was merely the reflection of the real sun glancing from a shield polished bright as a mirror. But that shield was held by such a man as I had never seen before; a man magnificent, a man lifted high on a great horse and accompanied by other such men; a horde of wondrous men, plumed men, armoured men, men sprung from the dreams of the Gods to come to this murderous field, and over the men’s plumed heads there floated a banner I would come to love more than any banner on all God’s earth. It was the banner of the bear.

  The horn sounded a third time, and suddenly I knew I would live, and I was weeping for joy and all our spearmen were half crying and half shouting and the earth was shuddering with the hooves of those Godlike men who were riding to our rescue.

  For Arthur, at last, had come.

  PART TWO

  The Princess Bride

  IGRAINE IS UNHAPPY. She wants tales of Arthur’s childhood. She has heard of a sword in the stone and wants me to write of it. She tells me he was sired by a spirit on a queen and that the skies were filled with thunder on the night of his birth and maybe she is right and the skies were noisy that night, but everyone I ever talked to slept through it, and as for the sword in the stone, well, there was a sword and there was a stone, but their place in the tale is still far ahead. The sword was called Caledfwlch, which means ‘hard lightning’ though Igraine prefers to call it Excalibur and I shall call it so as well because Arthur never cared what name his longsword carried. Nor did he care about his childhood, for certainly I never heard him speak of it. I once questioned him about his early days and he would not answer. ‘What is the egg to the eagle?’ he asked me, then said that he had been born, he had lived and he had become a soldier, and that was all I needed to know.