The Winter King

by Bernard Cornwell

  Cuneglas turned his horse away. I looked at my sword, so battered and sticky, then I looked at my surviving men. ‘If we did nothing else,’ I told them, ‘we made sure Gorfyddyd’s army can’t march on Dumnonia for many a long day. And maybe never! Who’d want to fight men like us twice?’

  ‘The Blackshield Irish would,’ Sagramor growled and he jerked his head towards the hillside where the ghost-fence had held our flank all day. And there, beyond the magic-ridden posts, was a war-band with round, black shields and the wicked long spears of Ireland. It was the garrison of Coel’s Hill, Oengus Mac Airem’s Blackshield Irish, who had come to join the killing.

  Arthur was still fighting. He had torn one-third of his enemy’s army into red ruin, but the rest now held him checked. He charged again and again in his efforts to break that shield-line but no horse on earth would ride through a thicket of men, shields and spears. Even Llamrei failed him and all that was left for him to do, I thought, was to thrust Excalibur deep into the blood-reddened soil and hope that the God Gofannon would come from the darkest abyss of the Otherworld to his rescue.

  But no God came, nor did any man come from Magnis. We later learned that some volunteers had set out, but they arrived too late.

  Powys’s levy stayed on the hill, too scared to cross the ghost-fence, while beside them were gathered more than a hundred Irish warriors. Those men began to walk south, aiming to walk around the fence’s vengeful ghosts. In a half-hour, I thought, those Blackshield Irish would be joining Cuneglas’s final attack and so I went to Nimue. ‘Swim the river,’ I urged her. ‘You can swim, can’t you?’

  She held up her left hand with its scar. ‘You die here, Derfel,’ she said, ‘then I die here.’

  ‘You must –’

  ‘Hold your tongue,’ she said, ‘that’s what you must do,’ and then stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the mouth. ‘Kill Gundleus for me before you die,’ she pleaded.

  One of our spearmen began singing the Death Song of Wer-linna and the rest of them took up the slow, sad melody. Cavan, his cloak blackened by blood, was hammering the socket of his spearhead with a stone, trying to tighten the shaft’s fit. ‘I never thought it would come to this,’ I said to him.

  ‘Nor me, Lord,’ he said, looking up from his work. His wolf-tail plume was bloodsoaked too, his helmet dented and there was a rag bandaged about his left thigh.

  ‘I thought I was lucky,’ I said. ‘I always thought that, but perhaps every man does.’

  ‘Not every man, Lord, no, but the best leaders do.’

  I smiled my thanks. ‘I would have liked to have seen Arthur’s dream come true,’ I said.

  ‘There’d be no work for warriors if it did,’ Cavan said dourly. ‘We’d all be clerks or farmers. Maybe it’s better this way. One last fight, then down to the Otherworld and into Mithras’s service. We’ll have a good time there, Lord. Plump women, good fighting, strong mead and rich gold for ever.’

  ‘I shall be glad of your company there,’ I told him, but in truth I was utterly bereft of joy. I did not want to go to the Otherworld yet, not while Ceinwyn still lived in this one. I pressed the armour at my chest to feel her small brooch and I thought of the madness that would never now run its course. I said her name aloud, puzzling Cavan. I was in love, but I would die without ever holding my love’s hand or seeing her face again.

  Then I was forced to forget Ceinwyn for the Blackshield Irish of Demetia, instead of walking around the fence, had decided to risk the ghosts and cross it. Then I saw why. A Druid had appeared on the hill to lead them through the spirit line. Nimue came to stand beside me and stared up the hill to where the tall, white-cowled and white-robed figure strode long-legged down the steep slope. The Irish followed him, and behind their black shields and long spears came Powys’s levy with its mixed weaponry of bows, mattocks, axes, spears, single-sticks and hayforks.

  My men’s singing faded away. They hefted spears and touched their shield-edges on each other to make sure the wall was tight. The enemy, who had been readying their own shield–wall to attack ours, now turned to watch as the Druid brought the Irish down to the valley. Iorweth and Tanaburs ran to meet him, but the newly come Druid waved his long staff to order them out of his path and then he pushed his robe’s hood back and we saw the long, plaited white beard and the swinging pigtail of his black-wrapped hair. It was Merlin.

  Nimue cried when she saw Merlin, then she ran towards him. The enemy moved aside to let her pass, just as they parted to let Merlin walk towards her. Even on a battlefield a Druid could walk wherever he wanted, and this Druid was the most famed and powerful in all the land. Nimue ran and Merlin spread his arms to welcome her and she was still sobbing as at last she found him again and threw her thin white arms around his body. And suddenly I was glad for her.

  Merlin kept one arm around Nimue as he strode towards us. Gorfyddyd had seen the Druid’s arrival and now galloped his horse towards our part of the battlefield. Merlin raised his staff in greeting to the King, but ignored his questions. The Irish war-band had stopped at the hill’s foot where they formed their grim black wall of shields.

  Merlin walked towards me and, just as on the day when he had saved my life at Caer Sws, he came in stark, cold majesty. There was no smile on his dark face, no hint of joy in his deep eyes, just a look of such fierce anger that I sank to my knees and bowed my head as he came close. Sagramor did the same, then suddenly our whole battered band of spearmen was kneeling to the Druid.

  He reached out with his black staff and touched first Sagramor and then me on the shoulders. ‘Get up,’ he said in a low, hard voice before turning to face the enemy. He took his arm from around Nimue’s shoulders and held his black staff level above his tonsured head with both hands. He stared at Gorfyddyd’s army, then slowly lowered the staff, and such was the authority in that long, ancient, angry face and in that slow, sure gesture that the enemy all knelt to him. Only the two Druids stayed standing and the few horsemen remained in their saddles.

  ‘For seven years,’ Merlin said in a voice that reached clear across the vale and right up its deep centre so that even Arthur and his men could hear him, ‘I have searched for the Knowledge of Britain. I have searched for the power of our ancestors that we abandoned when the Romans came. I have searched for those things that will restore this land to its rightful Gods, its own Gods, our Gods, the Gods who made us and who can be persuaded to come back to help us.’ He spoke slowly and simply so that every man could hear and understand. ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘I need help. I need men with swords, men with spears, men with hearts unafraid, to go with me to an enemy place to find the last Treasure of Britain. I seek the Cauldron of Clyddno Eiddyn. The Cauldron is our power, our lost power, our last hope to make Britain once again into the island of the Gods. I promise you nothing but hardship, I will give you no reward but death, I shall feed you nothing but bitterness, and will give you only gall to drink, but in return I ask for your swords and your lives. Who will come with me to find the Cauldron?’

  He asked the question abruptly. We had expected him to talk of this sprawling blood-letting that had turned a green vale red, but instead he had ignored the fight as though it was irrelevant, almost as if he had not even noticed that he had strayed on to a battlefield. ‘Who?’ he asked again.

  ‘Lord Merlin!’ Gorfyddyd shouted before any man could respond. The enemy King pushed his horse through the ranks of his kneeling spearmen. ‘Lord Merlin!’ His voice was angry and his face bitter.

  ‘Gorfyddyd,’ Merlin acknowledged him.

  ‘Your quest for the Cauldron can wait one short hour?’ Gorfyddyd asked the question sarcastically.

  ‘It can wait a year, Gorfyddyd ap Cadell. It can wait five years. It can wait for ever, but it should not.’

  Gorfyddyd rode his horse into the open space between the spear-walls. He was seeing his great victory jeopardized and his claim to be the High King threatened by a Druid, and so he turned his horse towards his men, pushed back the cheek pieces o
f his winged helmet and raised his voice. ‘There will be time to pledge spears to the Cauldron’s quest,’ he called to his men, ‘but only when you have punished the whoremonger and drowned your spears in his men’s souls. I have an oath to fulfil, and I will not let any man, even my Lord Merlin, deflect that oath’s keeping. There can be no peace, no Cauldron, while the whore’s lover lives.’ He turned and stared at the wizard. ‘You would save the whore-lover by this appeal?’

  ‘I would not care, Gorfyddyd ap Cadell,’ Merlin said, ‘if the land opened and swallowed Arthur and his army. Nor if it engulfed yours as well.’

  ‘Then we fight!’ Gorfyddyd shouted, and he used his one arm to drag his sword free of its scabbard. ‘These men’ – he spoke to his army, but pointed the sword towards our banners – ‘are yours. Their lands, their flocks, their gold and their homes are yours. Their wives and daughters are now your whores. You have fought them this far, would you now let them walk away? The Cauldron will not vanish with their lives, but your victory will vanish if we do not finish what we came here to do. We fight!’

  There was a heartbeat of silence, then Gorfyddyd’s men stood and began to beat their spear-shafts against their shields. Gorfyddyd gave Merlin a triumphant look, then kicked his horse back into his men’s clamorous ranks.

  Merlin turned to Sagramor and me. ‘The Blackshield Irish,’ he said in a casual voice, ‘are on your side. I talked with them. They will attack Gorfyddyd’s men and you shall have a great victory. May the Gods give you strength.’ He turned again, put an arm around Nimue’s shoulders and strode away through the enemy ranks that opened to let him through.

  ‘It was a good try!’ Gundleus called to Merlin. The King of Powys was on the threshold of his great victory and that giddy prospect had filled him with the confidence to defy the Druid, but Merlin ignored the crowing insult and just walked away with Tanaburs and Iorweth.

  Issa brought me Arthur’s helmet. I crammed it back on my head, glad of its protection in these last few moments of battle.

  The enemy re-formed its shield–wall. Few insults were shouted now, for few men had energy for anything other than the grim slaughter that loomed on the river’s bank. Gorfyddyd, for the first time all day, dismounted and took his place in the wall. He had no shield, but he would still lead this last attack that would crush his hated enemy’s power. He raised his sword, held it aloft for a few heartbeats, then brought it down.

  The enemy charged.

  We thrust spears and shields forward to meet them and the two walls crashed with a terrible sound. Gorfyddyd tried to thrust his sword past Arthur’s shield, but I parried it and cut at him with Hywelbane. The sword glanced off his helmet, severing an eagle wing, then we were locked together by the pressure of the men thrusting from behind.

  ‘Push them!’ Gorfyddyd shouted at his men, then he spat at me over the shield. ‘Your whore-lover,’ he told me over the battle’s din, ‘hid while you fought.’

  ‘She is no whore, Lord King,’ I said, and tried to free Hywelbane from the crush to give him a blow, but the sword was trapped fast by the pressure of shields and men.

  ‘She took enough gold from me,’ Gorfyddyd said, ‘and I don’t pay women whose legs don’t part.’

  I heaved at Hywelbane and tried to stab at Gorfyddyd’s feet, but the sword just glanced off the skirts of his armour. He laughed at my failure, spat at me again, then raised his head as he heard a dreadful screaming battle cry.

  It was the attack of the Irish. The Blackshields of Oengus Mac Airem always charged with a ululating scream; a terrible battle-cry that seemed to suggest an inhuman delight in slaughter. Gorfyddyd shouted at his men to heave and cleave, to break our tiny shield–wall, and for a few seconds the men of Powys and Siluria struck at us with a new frenzy in the belief that the Blackshields were coming to their aid, but then new screams from the rearward ranks made them realize that treachery had changed the Blackshields’ allegiance. The Irish sliced into Gorfyddyd’s ranks, their long spears finding easy targets, and suddenly, swiftly, Gorfyddyd’s men collapsed like a pricked waterskin.

  I saw the rage and panic cross Gorfyddyd’s face. ‘Surrender, Lord King!’ I shouted to him, but his bodyguard found space to hack down with their swords and for a few desperate seconds I was defending myself too hard to see what happened to the King, though Issa did shout that he saw Gorfyddyd wounded. Galahad was beside me, thrusting and parrying, and then, magically it seemed, the enemy was fleeing. Our men pursued, joining with the Blackshields to drive the men of Powys and Siluria like a flock of sheep to where Arthur’s horsemen waited to kill. I looked for Gundleus and saw him once among a mass of running, mud-covered, bloody men, and then I lost sight of him.

  The vale had seen much death that day, but now it saw outright massacre for nothing makes for easy killing like a broken shield–wall. Arthur tried to stop the slaughter, but nothing could have checked that pent-up release of savagery, and his horsemen rode like avenging Gods among the panicked mass while we pursued and cut the fugitives down in an orgy of blood. Scores of the enemy succeeded in fleeing past the horsemen and crossing the ford to safety, but scores more were forced to take refuge in the village where at last they found the time and space to make a new shield–wall. Now it was their turn to be surrounded. The evening light was stretching across the vale, touching the trees with the first faint yellow sunlight of that long and bloody day as we stopped around the village. We were panting and our swords and spears were thick with blood.

  Arthur, his sword as red as mine, slid heavily from Llamrei’s back. The black mare was white with sweat, trembling, her pale eyes wide, while Arthur himself was bone-weary from his desperate fight. He had tried and tried again to break through to us; he had fought, his men told us, like a man possessed by the Gods even though it had seemed, all that long afternoon, as if the Gods had deserted him. Now, despite being victor of the day, he was in distress as he embraced Sagramor and then hugged me. ‘I failed you, Derfel,’ he said, ‘I failed you.’

  ‘No, Lord,’ I said, ‘we won,’ and I pointed with my battered, reddened sword at Gorfyddyd’s survivors who had rallied around the eagle banner of their trapped King. Gundleus’s fox banner also showed there, though neither of the enemy Kings was in view.

  ‘I failed,’ Arthur said. ‘I never broke through. There were too many.’ That failure galled him, for he knew only too well how close we had come to utter defeat. Indeed, he felt he had been defeated, for his vaunted horsemen had been held and all he had been able to do was watch as we were cut down, but he was wrong. The victory was his, all his, for Arthur, alone of all the men of Dumnonia and Gwent, had possessed the confidence to offer battle. That battle had not gone as Arthur had planned; Tewdric had not marched to help us and Arthur’s war horses had been checked by Gundleus’s shield–wall; but it was still a victory and it had been brought about by one thing only: Arthur’s courage in fighting at all. Merlin had intervened, of course, but Merlin never claimed the victory. That was Arthur’s and though, at the time, Arthur was full of self-recrimination it was Lugg Vale, the one victory Arthur always despised, that turned him into the eventual ruler of Britain. The Arthur of the poets, the Arthur who wearies the tongues of the bards, the Arthur for whose return all men pray in these dark days, was made great by that stumbling shambles of a fight. Nowadays, of course, the poets do not sing the truth about Lugg Vale. They make it sound like a victory as complete as the later battles, and perhaps they are right to shape their story thus for in these hard times we need Arthur to have been a great hero from the very first, but the truth is that in those early years Arthur was vulnerable. He ruled Dumnonia by virtue of Owain’s death and Bedwin’s support, but as the years of war ground on there were many who wished him gone. Gorfyddyd had his supporters in Dumnonia and, God forgive me, too many Christians were praying for Arthur’s defeat. And that was why he fought, because he knew he was too weak not to fight. Arthur had to provide victory or lose everything, and in the end he did win, bu
t only after coming within a blade’s edge of disaster.

  Arthur crossed to embrace Tristan, then to greet Oengus Mac Airem, the Irish King of Demetia, whose contingent had saved the battle. Arthur, as ever, went to his knees before a king, but Oengus lifted him up and gave him a bear hug. I turned and stared at the vale as the two men talked. It was foul with broken men, pitiful with dying horses, and glutted with corpses and littered weapons. Blood stank and the wounded cried. I felt more weary than I had ever felt in my life and so did my men, but I saw that Gorfyddyd’s levy had come down from the hill to start plundering the dead and wounded and so I sent Cavan and a score of spearmen to drive them away. Ravens flapped black across the river to tear at dead men’s bowels. I saw that the huts we had fired that morning still smoked. Then I thought of Ceinwyn, and amid all that bestial horror, my soul suddenly lifted as though on great white wings.

  I turned back in time to see Merlin and Arthur embrace. Arthur almost seemed to collapse in the Druid’s arms, but Merlin lifted and clasped him. Then the two of them walked towards the enemy’s shields.

  Prince Cuneglas and the Druid Iorweth came from the encircled shield–wall. Cuneglas carried a spear, but no shield, while Arthur had Excalibur in its scabbard, but no other weapon. He paced ahead of Merlin and, as he drew near to Cuneglas, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head. ‘Lord Prince,’ he said.

  ‘My father is dying,’ Cuneglas said. ‘A spear thrust took him in the back.’ He made it sound like an accusation, though everyone knew that once a shield–wall broke many men would die with their wounds behind.

  Arthur stayed on one knee. For a moment he did not seem to know what to say, then he looked up at Cuneglas. ‘May I see him?’ he asked. ‘I offended your house, Lord Prince, and insulted its honour, and though no insult was meant, I would still beg your father’s forgiveness.’