Enemy of God twc-2

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘You worry too much,’ she said, then took the hounds’ leashes from me and pushed a hand through her thick, springing red hair as she turned back to Ceinwyn. ‘Become pregnant,” she said, ‘and men think you’re made of glass.’ She fell into step beside Lancelot, Ceinwyn and Cuneglas, leaving Arthur to walk beside me towards the leafy valley where Cuneglas’s huntsmen had reported plenty of game. There might have been fifty of us hunters altogether, mostly warriors, though a handful of women had chosen to come and two score of servants brought up the rear. One of those servants sounded a horn to tell the huntsmen at the valley’s far end that it was time to drive the game down towards the river and we hunters hefted our long, heavy boar spears as we spread out into a line. It was a cold late summer’s day, cold enough to cloud our breath, but the rain had cleared and the sun shone on fallow fields laced with a morning mist. Arthur was in high spirits, revelling in the day’s beauty, his own youth and the prospect of a hunt. ‘One more feast,’ he said to me, ‘then you can go home and rest.’

  ‘One more feast?’ I asked dully, my mind fuddled with tiredness and from the lingering effects of whatever Merlin and Nimue had given me to drink on Dolforwyn’s peak. Arthur clapped my shoulder. ‘Lancelot’s betrothal, Derfel. Then back to Dumnonia. And to work!’

  He sounded delighted at the prospect and he enthusiastically told me his plans for the coming winter. There were four broken Roman bridges that he wanted rebuilt, then the kingdom’s stonemasons would be sent to finish the royal palace at Lindinis. Lindinis was the Roman town close to Caer Cadarn, the place of Dumnonia’s royal acclamations, and Arthur wanted to make it the new capital. ‘There are too many Christians in Durnovaria,’ he said, though he hastily, and typically, added that he had nothing personal against Christians.

  ‘It’s just, Lord,’ I said drily, ‘that they have something against you.’

  ‘Some do,’ he admitted. Before the battle, when Arthur’s cause had seemed utterly lost, a party opposed to Arthur had grown bold in Dumnonia and that party had been led by the Christians, the same Christians who had the guardianship of Mordred. The immediate cause of their hostility had been a loan that Arthur had forced from the church to pay for the campaign that ended in Lugg Vale, and that loan had sparked a bitter enmity. It was odd, I thought, how the church preached the merits of poverty, but never forgave a man for borrowing its money.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you of Mordred,’ Arthur said, explaining why he had sought my company on this fine morning. ‘In ten years,’ Arthur went on, ‘he’ll be old enough to take the throne. That’s not long, Derfel, not long at all, and he needs to be raised well in those ten years. I le must be taught letters, he must learn to use a sword and he must learn responsibility.’ I nodded agreement, though not with any enthusiasm. The five-year-old Mordred would doubtless learn all the things Arthur wanted, but I did not see what business it was of mine. Arthur had other ideas. ‘I want you to be his guardian,’ he said, surprising me.

  ‘Me!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Nabur cares more about his own advancement than he does about Mordred’s character,’ Arthur said. Nabur was the Christian magistrate who was the child King’s present guardian, and it was Nabur who had plotted most vigorously to destroy Arthur’s power; Nabur and, of course, Bishop Sansum.

  ‘And Nabur is no soldier,’ Arthur went on. ‘I pray that Mordred will rule in peace, Derfel, but he needs the skills of war, all kings do, and I can think of no one better than you to train him.’

  ‘Not me,’ I protested. ‘I’m too young!’

  Arthur laughed at that objection. ‘The young should be raised by the young, Derfel,’ he said. A distant horn sounded to signal that game had been started from the valley’s end. We hunters entered the trees and stepped over the tangles of briar and the dead trunks that were thick with fungi. We advanced slowly now, listening for the terrifying sound of a boar crashing through the brush. ‘Besides,’ I went on, ‘my place is in your shield-wall, not in Mordred’s nursery.’

  ‘You’ll still be in my shield-wall. You think I would lose you, Derfel?’ Arthur said with a grin. ‘I don’t want you tied to Mordred, I just want him in your household. I need him to be raised by an honest man.’

  I shrugged that compliment away, then thought guiltily of the clean, unbroken bone in my pouch. Was it honest, I wondered, to use magic to change Ceinwyn’s mind? I looked at her, and she glanced my way and gave me a shy smile. ‘I have no household,’ I said to Arthur.

  ‘But you will, and soon,’ he said. Then he held up a hand and I froze, listening to the sounds ahead of us. Something heavy was trampling in the trees and we both instinctively crouched with our spears held a few inches above the ground, but then we saw that the frightened beast was a fine stag with good antlers and we relaxed as the animal pounded past. ‘We’ll hunt him tomorrow, maybe,’ Arthur said, watching the stag run past. ‘Give your hounds a run in the morning!’ he shouted to Guinevere. She laughed and came down the hill towards us, her hounds straining at their leashes. ‘I should like that,’ she said. Her eyes were bright and her face flushed by the cold. ‘The hunting’s better here than in Dumnonia,’ she said.

  ‘But not the land,’ Arthur said to me. ‘There’s an estate north of Durnovaria,’ he went on, ‘that is Mordred’s by right and I plan to make you its tenant. I’ll grant you other land, too, for your own, but you can make a hall on Mordred’s land and raise him there.’

  ‘You know the estate,’ Guinevere said. ‘It’s the one north of Gyllad’s holding.’

  ‘I know it,’ I said. The estate had good river land for crops and fine uplands for sheep. ‘But I’m not sure I know how to raise a child,’ I grumbled. The horns sounded loud ahead and the huntsmen’s hounds were baying. Cheers sounded far to our right, signifying that someone had found quarry, though our part of the wood was still empty. A small stream tumbled to our left and the wooded ground climbed to our right. The rocks and twisted tree roots were thick with moss.

  Arthur dismissed my fears. ‘You won’t raise Mordred,’ he said, ‘but I do want him raised in your hall, with your servants, your manners, your morals and your judgments.’

  ‘And,’ Guinevere added, ‘your wife.’

  A snapping of a twig made me look uphill. Lancelot and his cousin Bors were there, both standing in front of Ceinwyn. Lancelot’s spear shaft was painted white and he wore tall leather boots and a cloak of supple leather. I looked back to Arthur. ‘The wife, Lord,’ I said, ‘is news to me.’

  He clasped my elbow, the boar hunt forgotten. ‘I plan to appoint you Dumnonia’s champion, Derfel,’

  he said.

  ‘The honour is above me, Lord,’ I said cautiously, ‘besides, you are Mordred’s champion.’

  ‘Prince Arthur,’ Guinevere said, for she liked to call him Prince even though he was bastard born, ‘is already chief of the Council. He can’t be champion as well, not unless he’s expected to do all Dumnonia’s work?’

  ‘True, Lady,’ I said. I was not averse to the honour, for it was a high one, though there was a price. In battle I would have to tight whatever champion presented himself for single combat, but in peace it would mean wealth and status far above my present rank. I already had the title of Lord and the men to uphold that rank and the right to paint my own device on these men’s shields, but I shared these honours with two score other Dumnonian war leaders. To be the King’s champion would make me the foremost warrior of Dumnonia, though how any man could claim that status while Arthur lived, I could not see. Nor, indeed, while Sagramor lived. ‘Sagramor,’ I said carefully, ‘is a greater warrior than I, Lord Prince.’ With Guinevere present I had to remember to call him Prince once in a while, though it was a title he disliked.

  Arthur waved my objection aside. ‘I am making Sagramor Lord of the Stones,’ he said, ‘and he wants nothing more.’ The lordship of the Stones made Sagramor into the man who guarded the Saxon frontier and I could well believe that the black-skinned, dark-eyed Sagramor woul
d be well content with such a belligerent appointment. ‘You, Derfel,’ he prodded my chest, ‘will be the champion.’

  ‘And who,’ I asked drily, ‘will be the champion’s wife?’

  ‘My sister Gwenhwyvach,’ Guinevere said, watching me closely.

  I was grateful that I had been forewarned by Merlin. ‘You do me too much honour, Lady,’ I said blandly.

  Guinevere smiled, satisfied that my words implied acceptance. ‘Did you ever think, Derfel, that you would marry a Princess?’

  ‘No, Lady,’ I said. Gwenhwyvach, like Guinevere, was indeed a Princess, a Princess of Henis Wyren, though Henis Wyren was no more. That sad kingdom was now called Lleyn and was ruled by the dark Irish invader, King Diwrnach.

  Guinevere yanked the leashes to subdue her excited hounds. ‘You can be betrothed when we return to Dumnonia,’ she said. ‘Gwenhwyvach has agreed.’

  ‘There is one obstacle, Lord,’ I said to Arthur.

  Guinevere yanked on the leashes again, quite unnecessarily, but she hated all opposition and so she took out her frustration on the hounds instead of on me. She did not dislike me at that time, but nor did she particularly like me either. She knew of my aversion for Lancelot, and that doubtless prejudiced her against me, but she would not have thought my dislike significant, for she doubtless dismissed me as merely one of her husband’s war leaders; a tall, dull, flaxen-haired man who lacked the civilized graces that Guinevere so valued. ‘An obstacle?’ Guinevere asked me dangerously.

  ‘Lord Prince,’ I said, insisting on talking to Arthur and not to his wife, ‘I am oath-sworn to a lady.’ I thought of the bone in my pouch. ‘I have no claim on her, nor can I expect anything from her, but if she does claim me then I am obligated to her.’

  ‘Who?’ Guinevere demanded immediately.

  ‘I can’t say, Lady.’

  ‘Who?’ Guinevere insisted again.

  ‘He doesn’t need to say,’ Arthur defended me. He smiled. ‘How long can this lady claim your loyalty?’

  ‘Not long, Lord,’ I said, ‘only days now.’ For once Ceinwyn was betrothed to Lancelot then I could consider my oath to her voided.

  ‘Good,’ he said vigorously, and smiled at Guinevere as though inviting her to share his pleasure, but Guinevere was scowling instead. She detested Gwenhwyvach, finding her graceless and boring, and she desperately wanted to marry her sister out of her life. ‘If all goes well,’ Arthur said, ‘you can be married in Glevum at the same time that Lancelot marries Ceinwyn.’

  ‘Or are you demanding these few days,’ Guinevere asked acidly, ‘to conjure up reasons why you should not marry my sister?’

  ‘Lady,’ I said earnestly, ‘it would be an honour to marry Gwenhwyvach.’ That, I think, was the truth, for Gwenhwyvach would doubtless prove an honest wife, though whether I would prove a good husband was another matter, for my only reason for marrying Gwenhwyvach would be the high rank and great wealth she would bring as her dowry; but those, for most men, were the purpose of marriage. And if I could not have Ceinwyn, what did it matter who I married? Merlin ever warned us against confusing love and marriage, and though the advice was cynical, there was truth there. I was not expected to love Gwenhwyvach, just to marry her, and her rank and dowry were my rewards for fighting that long bloody day in Lugg Vale. If those rewards were tinged with Guinevere’s mockery, they were still a rich gift. ‘I will marry your sister gladly,’ I promised Guinevere, ‘so long as the keeper of my oath does not call on me.’

  ‘I pray she does not,’ Arthur said with a smile, then whipped round as a shout sounded uphill. Bors was crouched with his spear. Lancelot was beside him, but was glancing down the slope towards us, perhaps worried that the animal would escape through the gap between us. Arthur gently pushed Guinevere back, then gestured for me to climb the hill and plug the gap.

  ‘Two of them!’ Lancelot called to us.

  ‘One will be a sow,’ Arthur called, then ran a few paces upstream before starting to climb uphill.

  ‘Where?’ he asked. Lancelot pointed with his white-shafted spear, but I could still see nothing in the bushes.

  ‘There!’ Lancelot said petulantly, prodding his spear towards a tangle of briars. Arthur and I climbed another few feet and then at last we could see the boar deep inside the undergrowth. He was a big old beast with yellow tusks, small eyes and humps of muscle under his dark scarred hide. That muscle could move him at lightning speed and make him hook his sword sharp tusks with a fatal skill. We had all seen men die from tusk wounds, and nothing made a boar more dangerous than to be cornered with a sow. All hunters prayed for a boar charging in open ground so that they could use the beast’s own speed and bulk to drive the spear into his body. Such a confrontation demanded nerve and skill, but not nearly so much nerve as when a man had to charge the boar.

  ‘Who saw him first?’ Arthur asked.

  ‘My Lord King did.’ Bors indicated Lancelot.

  ‘Then he’s yours, Lord King.’ Arthur graciously waived the honour of the kill to Lancelot.

  ‘He is my gift to you, Lord,’ Lancelot answered. Ceinwyn was standing behind him, biting her lower lip and with eyes wide. She had taken the spare spear from Bors, not because she hoped to use it, but to spare him the burden, and she held the weapon nervously.

  ‘Put the hounds on him!’ Guinevere joined us. Her eyes were bright and her face animated. She was, I think, often bored in Dumnonia’s great palaces and the hunting field gave her an excitement she craved.

  ‘You’ll lose both dogs,’ Arthur warned her. ‘This pig knows how to fight.’ He moved cautiously forward, judging how best to provoke the beast, then he stepped sharply ahead and beat hard down on the bushes with his spear as though to offer the boar a path out of its sanctuary. The beast grunted, but did not move, not even when the spear blade flashed down within inches of its snout. The sow was behind the boar, watching us.

  ‘It’s done this before,’ Arthur said happily.

  ‘Let me take him. Lord,’ I said, suddenly anxious for him.

  ‘You think I’ve lost my skill?’ Arthur asked with a smile. He beat the bushes again, but the briars would not lie flat, nor would the boar move. ‘The Gods bless you.’ Arthur said to the beast, then he shouted a challenge and jumped into the tangle of thorns. He leapt to one side of the path he had crudely beaten and as he landed he rammed the spear hard forward, aiming its glittering blade at the boar’s left flank just forward of its shoulder.

  The boar’s head seemed to twitch, only a slight twitch, but it was enough to deflect the spear blade off the tusk so that it slashed a bloody and harmless cut down the animal’s flank, and then it charged. A good boar can come from a still stance into instant madness with its head down and tusks ready to gut upwards, and this beast was already past Arthur’s spearhead when it charged and Arthur was trapped by the brambles.

  I shouted to distract the boar and plunged my own spear into its belly. Arthur was on his back, his spear abandoned, and the boar was on top of him. The hounds howled and Guinevere was shouting at us to help. My spear was deep in the beast’s belly and its blood spurted up to my hands as I levered up and over to roll the wounded beast off my Lord. The creature weighed more than two full sacks of grain, and its muscles were like iron ropes that twitched my spear. I gripped hard and pushed up, but then the sow charged and swept my feet away from under me. I fell, and my weight pulled the spear shaft down and thus brought the boar back onto Arthur’s belly.

  Arthur had somehow gripped both the beast’s tusks and, using all his strength, was now forcing its head away from his chest. The sow vanished, plunging downhill towards the stream. ‘Kill him!’ Arthur shouted, though he was half laughing as well. He was just inches from death, but he was loving the moment. ‘Kill him!’ he called again. The boar’s back legs were thrusting, its spittle was spattering Arthur’s face and its blood was soaking his clothes.

  I was on my back, my face lacerated with thorns. I scrambled to my feet and reached for my jerking, tw
isting spear that was still buried in the great brute’s belly, but then Bors plunged a knife into the boar’s neck and I saw the enormous strength of the animal begin to ebb as Arthur managed to force the squat, stinking, bloody head away from his ribs. I seized my spear and twisted the blade, searching for the animal’s life blood deep in its guts as Bors stabbed a second time. The boar suddenly pissed on Arthur, gave one last desperate lunge of its huge neck and then abruptly slumped down. Arthur was awash in its blood and urine, and half buried under its bulk.

  He cautiously let go of the tusks, then dissolved into helpless laughter. Bors and I took a tusk each and, with a concerted heave, hauled the corpse away from Arthur. One of the tusks had caught in Arthur’s jerkin and it ripped the cloth as we tugged it away. We dropped the beast into the brambles, then helped Arthur to his feet. The three of us stood grinning, our clothes muddied and torn and covered with leaves, twigs and the blood of the boar. ‘I’ll have a bruise there,’ Arthur said, tapping his chest. He turned to Lancelot, who had not moved to help during the struggle. There was the briefest pause, then Arthur bowed his head. ‘You gave me a noble gift, Lord King,’ he said, ‘and I took it most ignobly.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘But I enjoyed it all the same. And we shall all enjoy it at your betrothal feast.’ He looked at Guinevere and saw that she was pale, almost trembling, and immediately he crossed to her. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, and she put her arms about him and leaned her head against his bloodied chest. She was crying. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry.

  Arthur patted her back. ‘There was no danger, my love,’ he said, ‘no danger. I just made a hash of the killing.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Guinevere asked, pulling away from him and cuffing away her tears.

  ‘Only scratched.’ His face and hands were lacerated by thorns, but he was otherwise unwounded except for the bruise caused by the tusk. He stepped away from her, picked up his spear and gave a whoop. ‘I haven’t been put on my back like that in a dozen years!’