The Winter King twc-1

by Bernard Cornwell

  The servant Hygwydd ran forward and was given the white-plumed helmet in exchange for a necklace of bears' teeth that were set in gold sockets on a gold chain that Arthur hung around his sister's neck.

  “Something beautiful for my lovely sister,” he said, and then he insisted on knowing who Ralla was, and when he heard about her baby's death his face showed such pain and sympathy that Ralla began to weep and Arthur impulsively hugged her and almost crushed the baby King against his scale-armoured chest. Then Gwlyddyn was introduced, and Gwlyddyn told Arthur how I had killed a Silurian to protect Mordred and so Arthur swung round to thank me.

  And, for the first time, I looked full into his face.

  It was a face of kindness. That was my first impression. No, that is what Igraine wants me to write. In truth my first impression was of sweat, lots of sweat come from wearing metal armour on a summer's day, but after the sweat I noticed how kind he looked. You trusted Arthur on sight. That was why women always liked Arthur, not because he was good-looking, for he was not overly handsome, but because he looked at you with genuine interest and an obvious benevolence. He had a strong, bony face that was full of enthusiasm, and a full head of dark brown hair that when I first saw him was sweat-plastered tight to his skull, thanks to his helmet's leather liner. His eyes were brown, he had a long nose and a heavy, clean-shaven jaw, but his most noticeable feature was his mouth. It was unnaturally large and had a full set of teeth. He was proud of his teeth and cleaned them every day with salt when he could find it, and with plain water when he could not. It was a big face and a strong one, yet what impressed me most about him was that look of kindness and the impish humour in his eyes. There was an air of enjoyment about Arthur, something in his face radiated a happiness that embraced you in its aura. I noticed then, and ever after, how men and women became more cheerful when Arthur was in their company. Everyone became more optimistic, there was more laughter, and when he departed a dullness would ensue, yet Arthur was no great wit, nor a storyteller, he was simply Arthur, a good man of infectious confidence, impatient will and iron-hard resolve. You did not notice that hardness at first, and even Arthur himself pretended it was not there, yet it was. A slew of battlefield graves bear witness to it.

  “Gwlyddyn tells me you're a Saxon!” he teased me.

  “Lord,” was all I could say as I dropped to my knees.

  He stooped and lifted me by the shoulders. His touch was firm. “I'm no King, Derfel,” he said, 'you don't kneel to me, but I should kneel to you for risking your life to save our King.“ He smiled. ”For that I thank you.“ He had the knack of making you feel that no one else in the world mattered to him as much as you did and I was already lost in worship of him. ”How old are you?" he asked me.

  “Fifteen, I think.”

  “But big enough for twenty years.” He smiled. “Who taught you to fight?”

  “Hywel,” I said, “Merlin's steward.”

  “Ah! The best teacher! He taught me too, and how is good Hywel?” The question was asked eagerly, but I had neither the words nor courage to answer.

  “Dead,” Morgan answered for me. “Slain by Gundleus.” She spat through the mouth-slit of her mask towards the captured King who was being held a few paces away.

  “Hywel dead?” Arthur asked the question of me, his eyes on mine, and I nodded and blinked back tears and Arthur instantly hugged me. “You are a good man, Derfel,” he said, 'and I owe you a reward for saving our King's life. What do you want?"

  “To be a warrior, Lord,” I said.

  He smiled and stepped away from me. “You're a lucky man, Derfel, because you are what you want to be. Lord Owain?” He turned to the burly, tattooed champion. “Can you use this good Saxon warrior?”

  “I can use him.” Owain agreed readily enough.

  “Then he's your man,” Arthur said, and he must have sensed my disappointment for he turned back and rested a hand on my shoulder. “For the moment, Derfel,” he said softly, “I employ horsemen, not spearmen. Let Owain be your lord, for there's no one better to teach you the soldier's trade.” He gripped my shoulder with his gloved hand, then turned and waved the two guards away from Gundleus's side. A crowd had gathered close to the captured King who stood beneath the victors' banners. Arthur's horsemen, helmed with iron, armoured in iron-clad leather and cloaked in linen or wool, mingled with Owain's spearmen and the Tor's fugitives about the grassy space where Arthur now faced Gundleus. Gundleus straightened his back. He had no weapons, but he would not let go of his pride, nor did he flinch as Arthur approached.

  Arthur walked in silence until he stood two paces from the captured King. The crowd held its breath. Gundleus was shadowed by Arthur's standard that showed a black bear on a white field. The bear was flying between Mordred's recaptured dragon banner and Owain's boar standard, while at Gundleus's feet was his own fallen fox banner that had been spat on, pissed on and trampled by the victors. Gundleus stared as Arthur drew Excalibur from its scabbard. The blade had a bluish tinge to its steel that was polished as brightly as Arthur's scale coat, helmet or shield.

  We waited for the fatal stroke, but instead Arthur dropped to one knee and held Excalibur's hilt to Gundleus. “Lord King,” he said humbly and the crowd, who had been anticipating Gundleus's death, gasped.

  Gundleus hesitated for a heartbeat, then reached out to touch the sword's pommel. He said nothing. Perhaps he was too astonished to speak.

  Arthur stood and sheathed the sword. “I took an oath to protect my King,” he said, 'not to kill kings. What happens to you, Gundleus ap Meilyr, is not mine to decide, but you will be held captive till the decision is made."

  “Who makes that decision?” Gundleus demanded. Arthur hesitated, plainly unsure of the answer. Many of our warriors were shouting for Gundleus's death, Morgan was urging her brother to avenge Norwenna while Nimue was shrieking for the captive King to be given to her revenge, but Arthur shook his head. Much later he explained to me that Gundleus was a cousin of Gorfyddyd, King of Powys, and that made Gundleus's death a matter of state, not revenge. “I wanted to make peace, and peace rarely comes out of revenge,” he admitted to me, 'but I probably should have killed him. Not that it would have made much difference." Now though, facing Gundleus in the slanting sun outside Caer Cadarn, he merely said that Gundleus's fate was in the hands of Dumnonia's council.

  “And what of Ladwys?” Gundleus asked, gesturing towards the tall, pale-faced woman who stood close behind him with a look of terror on her face. “I ask that she be allowed to stay with me,” he added.

  “The whore is mine,” Owain said harshly. Ladwys shook her head and moved closer to Gundleus.

  “She is my wife!” Gundleus protested to Arthur, thereby confirming the old rumour that he had indeed married his low-born lover. Which also meant that he had married Norwenna falsely, though that sin, considering what else he did to her, was small indeed.

  “Wife or whatever,” Owain insisted, 'she is mine.“ He saw Arthur's hesitation. ”Until the council decides otherwise,“ he added in a deliberate echo of Arthur's invocation of that higher authority. Arthur seemed troubled by Owain's claim, but his position in Dumnonia was still uncertain, for though he had been named as Mordred's protector and one of the kingdom's warlords, that only gave him an authority equal to Owain's. All of us had noted how, in the wake of the Silurian rout, Arthur had taken charge, but Owain, by demanding Ladwys as his slave, was reminding Arthur that he held equal power. The moment was awkward until Arthur sacrificed Ladwys to Dumnonian unity. ”Owain has decided the matter,“ he said to Gundleus, then turned away so he would not have to witness the effect of his words on the lovers. Ladwys screamed her protest, then went silent as one of Owain's men dragged her away. Tanaburs laughed at Ladwys's distress. He was a Druid, so no harm would be done to him. He was no prisoner, but free to go, though he would have to leave the field without food, blessing or company. Yet, emboldened by the day's events, I could not let him go without speaking and so I followed him across
the pasture that was littered with the Silurian dead. ”Tanaburs!“ I called after him. The Druid turned and watched me draw my sword. ”Careful, boy," he said and made a sign of warning with his moon-tipped staff.

  I should have felt fear, but a new warrior spirit filled me as I stepped close to him and placed the sword in the tangled white hairs of his beard. His head jerked back at the touch of the steel, rattling the yellow bones tied to his hair. His old face was lined, brown and blotchy, his eyes red and his nose twisted. “I ought to kill you,” I said.

  He laughed. “And the curse of Britain will follow you. Your soul will never reach the Otherworld, you will have torments unknown and unnumbered, and I will be their author.” He spat towards me, then tried to push the sword blade out of his beard, but I tightened my grip on the hilt and he suddenly looked alarmed as he realized my strength.

  A few curious onlookers had followed me and some tried to warn me of the dreadful fate that would torment me if I killed a Druid, but I had no intention of killing the old man. I just wanted to frighten him.

  “Ten or more years ago,” I said, 'you came to Madog's holding." Madog was the man who had enslaved my mother, and whose homestead the young Gundleus had raided.

  Tanaburs nodded as he remembered the raid. “So we did, so we did. A good day! We took much gold,” he said, 'and many slaves!"

  “And you made a death-pit,” I said.

  “So?” He. shrugged, then leered at me. “The Gods must be thanked for good fortune.” I smiled and let the sword point tickle his scrawny throat. “So I lived, Druid. I lived.” It took Tanaburs a few seconds to understand just what I had said, but then he blanched and trembled, for he knew that I, alone of all in Britain, possessed the power to kill him. He had sacrificed me to the Gods, but his carelessness in not making sure of his gift meant that the Gods had granted the power of his life into my keeping. He screamed in terror, thinking my blade was about to lunge into his gullet, but instead I pulled the steel away from his ragged beard and laughed at him as he turned and stumbled away across the field. He was desperate to escape me, but just before he reached the woodland into which the handful of Silurian survivors had fled, he turned and pointed a bony hand towards me. “Your mother lives, boy!” he shouted. “She lives!” Then he was gone. I stood there with my mouth open and my sword hanging in my hand. It was not that I was overcome by any particular emotion for

  I could hardly remember my mother and had no real recollection of any love between us, but the very thought that she lived wrenched my whole world as violently as that morning's destruction of Merlin's hall. Then I shook my head. How could Tanaburs remember one slave among so many? His claim was surely false, mere words to unsettle me, nothing more, and so I sheathed the sword and walked slowly back towards the fortress.

  Gundleus was placed under guard in a chamber off the great hall at Caer Cadarn. There was a feast of sorts that night, though because so many people were in the fortress the helpings of meat were small and hastily cooked. Much of the night was spent by old friends exchanging news of Britain and Brittany, for many of Arthur's followers had originally come from Dumnonia or from the other British kingdoms. The names of Arthur's men blurred in my mind, for there were over seventy horsemen in his band, as well as grooms, servants, women and a tribe of children. In time the names of Arthur's warriors became so familiar, but that night they meant nothing: Dagonet, Aglaval, Cei, Lanval, the brothers Balan and Balin, Gawain and Agravain, Blaise, Illtyd, Eiddilig, Bedwyr. I did notice Morfans, for he was the ugliest man I ever saw, so ugly that he took pride in his twisted looks, goitred neck, hare lip and misshapen jaw. I also noticed Sagramor, for he was black and I had never seen, let alone believed in, such men. He was a tall, thin and sourly laconic man, though when he could be persuaded to tell a story in his horribly accented British he could put a whole hall under his spell.

  And, of course, I noticed Ailleann. She was a slender, black-haired woman, a few years older than Arthur, with a thin, grave and gentle face that gave her a look of great wisdom. She was dressed in royal finery that night. Her robe was of linen dyed a rusty red with iron-soil, girdled by a heavy silver chain, and had long loose sleeves that were fringed with otter fur. She wore a gleaming torque of heavy gold about her long neck, bracelets of gold around her wrists and an enamelled brooch showing Arthur's symbol of the bear at her breast. She moved gracefully, spoke little and watched Arthur protectively. I thought she had to be a queen, or at least a princess, except that she was carrying bowls of food and flasks of mead like any common servant.

  “Ailleann's a slave, lad,” Morfans the Ugly said. He was squatting opposite me on the hall floor and had seen me watching the tall woman as she moved from the patches of firelight into the hall's flickering shadows.

  “Whose slave?” I asked.

  “Whose do you think?” he asked, then put a rib of pork in his mouth and used his two remaining teeth to strip the bone of its succulent flesh. “Arthur's,” he said after he had tossed the bone to one of the many dogs in the hall. “And she's his lover as well as his slave, of course.” He belched, then drank from a horn cup. “She was given to him by his brother-in-law, King Budic. That was a long time ago. She's a good few years older than Arthur and I don't suppose Budic thought he'd keep her long, but once Arthur takes a fancy to someone they seem to stay for ever. Those are her twin boys.” He jerked a greasy beard towards the back of the hall where a pair of sullen boys of about nine squatted in the dirt with their bowls of food.

  “Arthur's sons?” I asked.

  “No one else's,” Morfans said derisively. “Amhar and Loholt, they're called, and their father worships them. Nothing's too good for those little bastards, and that's exactly what they are, lad, bastards. Real good-for-nothing little bastards.” There was a genuine hatred in his voice. “I tell you, son, Arthur ap Uther is a great man. He's the best soldier I've ever known, the most generous man and the most fair lord, but when it comes to breeding children I could do better with a sow for a mother.” I looked back to Ailleann. “Are they married?”

  Morfans laughed. “Of course not! But she's kept him happy these ten years. Mind you, the day will come when he'll send her away just like his father sent his mother away. Arthur will marry something royal and she won't be half as gentle as Ailleann, but that's what men like Arthur have to do. They have to marry well. Not like you and me, boy. We can marry what we want, so long as it isn't royal. Listen to that!” He grinned as a woman screamed in the night outside the hall.

  Owain had left the hall and Ladwys was evidently being taught her new duties. Arthur flinched at the sound, and Ailleann raised her elegant head and frowned at him, but the only other person in the hall who seemed to notice Ladwys's distress was Nimue. Her bandaged face was drawn and sad, but the scream made her smile because of the torment she knew the sound would give to Gundleus. There was no forgiveness in Nimue, not one drop. She had already begged Arthur and Owain for permission to kill Gundleus herself, and had been refused, but so long as Nimue lived Gundleus would know fear. Arthur led a party of horsemen to Ynys Wydryn the next day and returned that evening to report that Merlin's settlement had been burned to the ground. The horsemen also returned with poor mad Pellinore and an indignant Druidan who had taken shelter in a well belonging to the monks of the Holy Thorn. Arthur declared his intention of rebuilding Merlin's hall, though how it was to be done without money and an army of labourers, none of us knew, and Gwlyddyn was formally appointed as Mordred's royal builder and instructed to start felling trees to remake the Tor's buildings. Pellinore was locked into an empty stone-built store-room attached to the Roman villa at Lindinis, which was the settlement nearest to Caer Cadarn and the place where the women, children and slaves who followed Arthur's men found themselves roofs. Arthur organized everything. He was always a restless man who hated to be idle and in those first few days after Gundleus's capture he worked from dawn until long after dusk. Most of his time was spent in arranging for his followers' liveliho
ods; royal land had to be allotted to them and houses enlarged for their families, all without offending the people already living at Lindinis. The villa itself had belonged to Uther and Arthur now took it for himself. No task was too trivial for him and I even found him wrestling with a great sheet of lead one morning. “Give me some help, Derfel!” he called. I was flattered that he remembered my name and hurried to help him lift the unwieldy mass. “Rare stuff, this!” he said cheerfully. He was stripped to the waist and his skin was stained with the lead that he planned to cut into strips to line the stone gutter that had once carried water from a spring into the villa's interior. “The Romans took all the lead away with them when they left,” he explained, 'and that's why the water conduits don't work. We should get the mines working again.“ He dropped his end of the lead and wiped his brow. ”Get the mines working, rebuild the bridges, pave the fords, dig out the sluices and find a way of persuading the Sais to go back home. That's enough work for one man's life, don't you think?"

  “Yes, Lord,” I said nervously, and wondered why a warlord would busy himself repairing water conduits. The council was to meet later in the day and I thought Arthur would be busy enough preparing for that business, but he seemed more concerned with the lead than with matters of state.

  “I don't know if you saw lead, or cut it with a knife,” he said ruefully. “I ought to know. I'll ask Gwlyddyn. He seems to know everything. Did you know that you always put tree trunks upside down if you use them for pillars?”

  “No, Lord.”

  “It stops the damp from rising, you see, and keeps the timber from rotting. That's what Gwlyddyn tells me. I like that sort of knowledge. It's good, practical knowledge, the kind that makes the world work.” He grinned at me. “So how are you liking Owain?” he asked.