Enemy of God twc-2

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Back!’ Galahad shouted at us, and Issa and I tossed our shields and spears to the men already safe on the high rocks’ summit, then clambered up ourselves. A black-shafted spear clattered on the rocks beside me, then a strong hand reached down, grasped my wrist and hauled me up. Merlin had been similarly dragged up the rocks, then unceremoniously dropped in the summit’s centre where, like a cup crowned by the ring of vast boulders, there was a deep stony hollow. Ceinwyn was in that hollow, scrabbling like a frantic dog at the little stones that filled the cup. She had vomited and her hands obliviously scratched among the mix of vomit and small cold stones.

  The knoll was ideal for defence. Our enemy could only climb the rocks with hands and feet, while we could shelter in the clefts of the summit’s crown to deal with them as they appeared. A few tried to reach us, and those men screamed as the blades slashed into their faces. A shower of spears was thrown at us, but we held our shields aloft and the weapons clattered harmlessly away. I put six men down in the central hollow and they used their shields to shelter Merlin, Nimue and Ceinwyn while the other spearmen guarded the summit’s outer rim. The Bloodshields, their ponies abandoned, made one more rush and for a few moments we were busy stabbing and lunging. One of my men took a spear cut on his arm during that brief fight, but otherwise we were unhurt, while the dark riders carried four dead and six wounded men back to the knoll’s foot. ‘So much,’ I told my men, ‘for shields made of virgins’ skins.’

  We waited for another attack, but none came. Instead Diwrnach walked his horse up the slope alone.

  ‘Lord Derfel?’ he called in his deceptively pleasant voice and, when I showed my face between two rocks, he offered me his placid smile. ‘My price has risen,’ the King said. ‘Now, in return for your swift death, I demand the Princess Ceinwyn and the Cauldron. It is the Cauldron that you’ve come for, is it not?’

  ‘It is all Britain’s Cauldron, Lord King,’ I said.

  ‘Ah! And you think I would be an unworthy guardian?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Lord Derfel, you do insult a man so very easily. What was it to be? My head in a pit being dunged by slaves? What a paltry imagination you do have. Mine, I fear, sometimes seems excessive, even to me.’ He paused and glanced towards the sky as if judging how much daylight remained. ‘I have few enough warriors, Lord Derfel,’ he went on in his reasonable voice, ‘and I do not want to lose any more of them to your spears. But sooner or later you must come out of the rocks and I shall wait for you, and as I wait I shall let my imagination rise to new heights of achievement. Give the Princess Ceinwyn my greetings, and tell her I so look forward to a closer acquaintance.’ He raised his spear in mocking salute, then rode back to the ring of dark riders who now had the knoll entirely surrounded.

  I let myself down into the bowl in the knoll’s centre and saw that whatever we found here would prove too late for Merlin; death was plain on his face. His jaw was hanging open and his eyes were as empty as the space between the worlds. His teeth chattered once to show he was still alive, but that life was a thread now and it was fraying fast. Nimue had taken Ceinwyn’s knife and was scratching and clawing at the small stones that filled the hollow of the summit, while Ceinwyn, her face looking exhausted, had slumped against a rock where she shivered and watched as Nimue dug. Whatever trance had possessed Ceinwyn had now passed and I helped her clean the mess from her hands, found her suit of wolfskins and covered her over.

  She pulled on her gloves. ‘I had a dream,’ she whispered to me, ‘and saw the end.’

  ‘Our end?’ I asked in alarm.

  She shook her head. ‘Ynys Mon’s end. There were lines of soldiers, Derfel, in Roman skirts and breastplates and bronze helmets. Great hunting lines of soldiers and their sword arms were bloody to their shoulders because they just killed and killed. They came through the forests in a great line, just killing. Arms going up and down, and all the women and children running away, only there was nowhere to run and the soldiers just closed on them and chopped them down. Little children, Derfel!’

  ‘And the Druids?’

  ‘All dead. All but three, and they brought the Cauldron here. They’d made a pit for it already, you see, before the Romans crossed the water, and they buried it here, then covered it with stones from the lake, and after that they put ashes on the stones and lifted fire with their bare hands so that the Romans would think nothing could be buried here. And when that was done they walked singing into the woods to die.’

  Nimue hissed in alarm, and I twisted around to see that she had uncovered a small skeleton. She fumbled among her otter skins and brought out a leather bag that she tore open to take out two dried plants. They had spiky leaves and small, faded golden flowers and I knew she was placating the dead bones with a gift of asphodel. ‘It was a child they buried,’ Ceinwyn explained the smallness of the bones,

  ‘the guardian of the Cauldron and the daughter of one of the three Druids. She had short hair and a fox-skin bracelet on her wrist, and they buried her alive so she would guard the Cauldron till we found it.’

  Nimue, the dead soul of the Cauldron’s guardian placated by the asphodel, dragged the girl’s bones from the small stones, then attacked the deepening hole with her knife and snapped at me to come and help her. ‘Dig with your sword, Derfel!’ she ordered, and I obediently thrust Hywelbane’s tip into the pit. And found the Cauldron.

  At first it was just a glimpse of dirty gold, then a sweep of Nimue’s hand showed a heavy golden rim. The Cauldron was much bigger than the hole we had made and so I ordered Issa and another man to help make it wider. We scooped the stones out with our helmets, working in a desperate haste for Merlin’s soul was flickering out the very last of his long life. Nimue was panting and weeping as she attacked the tight packed stones that had been brought to this summit from the sacred lake of Llyn Cerrig Bach.

  ‘He’s dead!’ Ceinwyn cried. She was kneeling beside Merlin.

  ‘He is not dead!’ Nimue spat between clenched teeth, then she seized the golden rim with both her hands and began to tug at the Cauldron with all her strength. I joined her, and it seemed impossible that the huge vessel could be moved with all the weight of stones that still pressed into its deep belly but somehow, with the Gods’ help, we shifted that great thing of gold and silver out of its dark pit. And thus we brought the lost Cauldron of Clyddno Eiddyn into the light. It was a great bowl as wide as a man’s outstretched hands and as deep as the blade of a hunting knife. It was made of thick uneven silver, stood on three short golden legs and was decorated with lavish traceries of gold. Three golden hoops were fixed to its rim so that it could be hung above a fire. It was the greatest Treasure of Britain and we ripped it from its grave, shedding stones, and I saw how the gold that decorated it was shaped into warriors and Gods and deer. But we had no time to admire the Cauldron, for Nimue frantically scattered the last stones from its belly and placed it back in the hole before tearing the black furs from Merlin’s body. ‘Help me!’ she screamed, and together we rolled the old man into the pit and down into the belly of the great silver bowl. Nimue tucked his legs inside the golden rim and laid a cloak over him. Only then did Nimue lean back against the boulders. It was freezing, but her face was shining with sweat.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Ceinwyn said in a small, frightened voice.

  ‘No,’ Nimue insisted tiredly, ‘no, he’s not.’

  ‘He was cold!’ Ceinwyn protested. ‘He was cold and there was no breath.’ She clung to me and began weeping softly. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘He lives,’ Nimue said harshly.

  It had begun to rain again; a small, spitting, wind-hurried rain that slicked the stones and beaded our bloodied spear-blades. Merlin lay shrouded and unmoving in the Cauldron’s pit, my men watched the enemy across the tops of the grey stones, the dark riders ringed us and I wondered what madness had brought us to this miserable place at the dark cold end of Britain.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Galahad asked.

  ‘We wait,’ Nimue snapped,
‘we just wait.’

  I will never forget the cold of that night. Frost made crystals on the rock and to touch a spear-blade was to leave a scrap of skin frozen to the steel. It was so bitterly cold. The rain turned to snow at dusk, then stopped, and after the snow’s passing the wind dropped and the clouds sailed off to the east to reveal an enormous moon rising full above the sea. It was a moon full of portent; a great swollen silver ball that was hazed by a shimmer of distant cloud above an ocean crawling with black and silver waves. The stars had never seemed so bright. The great shape of Bel’s chariot blazed above us, eternally chasing the constellation we called the trout. The Gods lived among the stars and I sent a prayer winging up through the cold air in the hope that it would reach those far bright fires. Some of us dozed, but it was the shallow sleep of weary, cold and frightened men. Our enemies, ringing the knoll with their spears, had made fires. Ponies brought the Bloodshields fuel and the flames burned vast in the night to spew sparks into the clear sky.

  Nothing moved in the Cauldron’s pit where Merlin’s cloaked body was shadowed from the moon by the loom of high rock where we took turns to watch the riders’ shapes against the fires. At times a long spear would fly out of the night and its head would glitter in the moonlight before the weapon clattered harmlessly against the stones.

  ‘So what will you do with the Cauldron now?’ I asked Nimue.

  ‘Nothing till Samain,’ she said dully. She lay crumpled near the heap of discarded bundles that had been thrown into the summit’s hollow, her feet resting on the spoil we had scrabbled so desperately from the pit. ‘Everything has to be right, Derfel. The moon must be full, the weather right and all the thirteen Treasures assembled.’

  ‘Tell me of the Treasures,’ Galahad said from the hollow’s farther side. Nimue spat. ‘So you can mock us, Christian?’ she challenged him.

  Galahad smiled. ‘There are thousands of folk, Nimue, who mock you. They say the Gods are dead and that we should put our faith in men. We should follow Arthur, they say, and they believe your search for cauldrons and cloaks and knives and horns is so much nonsense that died with Ynys Mon. How many Kings of Britain would send you men for this search?’ He stirred, trying to find some comfort in this cold night. ‘None, Nimue, none, because they mock you. It’s all too late, they say. The Romans changed everything and sensible men say that your Cauldron is as dead as Ynys Trebes. The Christians say you are doing the devil’s work, but this Christian, dear Nimue, carried his sword to this place and for that, dear lady, you owe me at least civility.’

  Nimue was not used to being reprimanded, except perhaps by Merlin, and she stiffened at Galahad’s mild rebuke, but then at last she relented. She pulled Merlin’s bearskin about her shoulders and hunched forward. ‘The Treasures,’ she said, ‘were left to us by the Gods. It was long ago, when Britain was quite alone in all the world. There were no other lands; just Britain and a wide sea that was covered by a great mist. There were twelve tribes of Britain then, and twelve Kings and twelve feasting halls and just twelve Gods. Those Gods walked as we do on the land and one of them, Bel, even married a human; our Lady here,’ she gestured towards Ceinwyn, who was listening as avidly as any of the spearmen, ‘is descended from that marriage.’

  She paused as a shout sounded from the ring of fires, but the shout presaged no threat and silence fell on the night again as Nimue went on with her tale. ‘But other Gods who were jealous of the twelve who ruled Britain came from the stars and tried to take Britain from the twelve Gods, and in the battles the twelve tribes suffered. One spear stroke from a God could kill a hundred people, and no earthly shield could stop a God’s sword, so the twelve Gods, because they loved Britain, gave the twelve tribes twelve Treasures. Each Treasure was to be kept in a royal hall and the presence of the Treasure would keep the spears of the Gods from falling on the hall or any of its people. They were not grand things. If the twelve Gods had given us splendid things then the other Gods would have seen them, guessed their purpose and stolen them for their own protection. So the twelve gifts were just common things: a sword, a basket, a horn, a chariot, a halter, a knife, a whetstone, a sleeved coat, a cloak, a dish, a throw-board and a warrior ring. Twelve ordinary things, and all the Gods asked of us was that we should cherish the twelve Treasures, to keep them safe and offer them honour, and in return, as well as having the protection of the Treasures, each tribe could use its gift to summon their God. They were allowed one summons a year, only one, but that summons gave the tribes some power in the terrible war of the Gods.’

  She paused and pulled the furs tighter about her thin shoulders. ‘So the tribes had their Treasures,’ she went on, ‘but Bel, because he loved his earthly girl so very much, gave her a thirteenth Treasure. He gave her the Cauldron and he told her that whenever she began to grow old she had only to fill the Cauldron with water, immerse herself, and she would be young again. Thus, in all her beauty, she could walk beside Bel for ever and ever. And the Cauldron, as you saw, is splendid; it is gold and silver, lovely beyond anything man can make. The other tribes saw it and were jealous, and in this way the wars of Britain began. The Gods warred in the air and the twelve tribes warred on earth, and one by one the Treasures were captured, or else they were bartered for spearmen, and in their anger the Gods withdrew their protection. The Cauldron was stolen, Bel’s lover grew old and died, and Bel placed a curse on us. The curse was the existence of other lands and other peoples, but Bel promised us that if one Samain we drew the twelve Treasures of the twelve tribes together again and made the proper rites, and filled the thirteenth Treasure with the water that no man drinks but without which no man can live, then the twelve Gods would come to our aid again.’ She stopped, shrugged and looked at Galahad. ‘There, Christian,’

  she said, ‘that is why your sword came here.’

  There was a long silence. The moonlight slid down the rocks, creeping ever nearer to the pit where Merlin lay beneath the thin cover of a cloak.

  ‘And you have all twelve Treasures?’ Ceinwyn asked.

  ‘Most,’ Nimue said evasively. ‘But even without the twelve, the Cauldron has immense power. Vast power. More power than all the other Treasures together.’ She looked belligerently across the pit towards Galahad. ‘And what will you do, Christian, when you see that power?’

  Galahad smiled. ‘I shall remind you that I carried my sword in your quest,’ he said softly.

  ‘We all did. We are the warriors of the Cauldron,’ Issa said quietly, displaying a streak of poetry I had not suspected in him, and the other spearmen smiled. Their beards were frosted white, their hands were wrapped in strips of cloth and fur and their eyes looked hollow, but they had found the Cauldron and the pride of that achievement filled them, even if, at first light, they must face the Bloodshields and the dawning knowledge that we were all doomed.

  Ceinwyn leaned against me, sharing my wolfskin cloak. She waited till Nimue was sleeping, then tipped her face up to mine. ‘Merlin’s dead, Derfel,’ she said in a small sad voice.

  ‘I know,’ I said, for there had been neither motion nor sound from the Cauldron’s pit.

  ‘I felt his face and hands,’ she whispered, ‘and they were cold as ice. I put my knife blade beside his mouth and it didn’t cloud. He’s dead.’

  I said nothing. I loved Merlin because he had stood to me as a father and I could not truly believe he had died at this moment of his triumph, but nor could I find the hope to see his life’s soul again. ‘We should bury him here,’ Ceinwyn said softly, ‘inside his Cauldron.’ Again I did not speak. Her hand found mine. ‘What shall we do?’ she asked.

  Die, I thought, but still I said nothing.

  ‘You will not let me be taken?’ she whispered.

  ‘Never,’ I said.

  ‘The day I met you, Lord Derfel Cadarn,’ she said, ‘was the best day of my life,’ and that made my tears come, but whether they were tears of joy or a lament for all that I would lose in the next cold dawn, I do not know.

 
I fell into a shallow sleep and dreamed I was trapped in a bog and surrounded by dark riders who were magically able to move across the soaking land, and then I found I could not raise my shield arm and I saw the sword coming down on my right shoulder and I woke with a start, reaching for my spear, only to see that it was Gwilym who had inadvertently touched my shoulder as he clambered up the rock to take over guard duty. ‘Sorry, Lord,’ he whispered.

  Ceinwyn slept in the crook of my arm and Nimue was huddled on my other side. Galahad, his fair beard whitened by frost, was snoring gently and my other spearmen either dozed or else lay in cold stupefaction. The moon was almost above me now, its light slanting down to show the stars painted on my men’s stacked shields and on the stony side of the pit we had scrabbled in the summit’s hollow. The mist that had shimmered the moon’s swollen face when it had hung just above the sea was gone and now it was a pure, hard, clear, cold disc etched as sharp as a newly minted coin. I half remembered my mother telling me the name of the man in the moon, but I could not pin the memory down. My mother was a Saxon and I had been in her belly when she had been captured in a Dumnonian raid. I had been told she was still alive in Siluria, but I had not seen her since the day the Druid Tanaburs had snatched me from her arms and tried to kill me in the death pit. Merlin had raised me after that, and I had become a Briton, a friend of Arthur and the man who had taken the star of Powys from her brother’s hall. What an odd thread of life, I thought, and how sad that it would be cut short here on Britain’s sacred isle.