Enemy of God twc-2 Page 8

  I did not know when Merlin would summon us and so I waited in the small house to which Ceinwyn had led us in the moonlight. The house lay north and east of Dolforwyn in a small valley so steep that the shadows did not flee from the stream until the sun was halfway up its climb in the morning sky. The valley’s steep sides were shrouded by oaks, though around the house was a patchwork of tiny fields where a score of apple trees had been planted. The house had no name; nor even did the valley, it was simply called Cwm Isaf, the Lower Valley, and it was now our home.

  My men built huts among the trees on the valley’s southern slope. I did not know how I was to provide for twenty men and their families, for Cwm Isaf’s little farm would have been hard pressed to feed a fieldmouse, let alone a warrior band, but Ceinwyn had gold and, as she promised me, her brother would not let us starve. The farm, she told me, had belonged to her father, one of the thousands of scattered tenancies that had supported Gorfyddyd’s wealth. The last tenant had been a cousin of Caer Sws’s candleman, but he had died before Lugg Vale and no other tenant had yet been chosen. The house itself was a poor thing, a little rectangle of stone with a roof thickly thatched with rye-straw and bracken that desperately needed repair. There were three chambers inside. One, the central room, had been for the farm’s few beasts, and that room we swept clean to give ourselves a living space. The other rooms were sleeping chambers, one for Ceinwyn and the other one for me.

  ‘I have promised Merlin,’ she had said that first night in explanation of the two sleeping chambers. I felt my flesh crawl. ‘Promised him what?’ I asked.

  She must have blushed, but no moonlight came into deep Cwm Isaf and so I could not see her face, but only feel the pressure of her fingers in mine. ‘I have promised him,’ she said slowly, ‘that I will stay a virgin till the Cauldron is found.’

  I had begun to understand then just how subtle Merlin had been. How subtle and wicked and clever. He needed a warrior to protect him while he travelled into Lleyn and he needed a virgin to find the Cauldron, and so he had manipulated us both. ‘No!’ I protested. ‘You can’t go into Lleyn!’

  ‘Only a virgin can discover the Cauldron,’ Nimue had hissed at us from the dark. ‘Would you have us take a child, Derfel?’

  ‘Ceinwyn cannot go to Lleyn,’ I insisted.

  ‘Quiet,’ Ceinwyn had hushed me. ‘I promised. I made an oath.’

  ‘Do you know what Lleyn is?’ I asked her. ‘You know what Diwrnach does?’

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘that the journey there is the price I pay for being here with you. And I promised Merlin,’ she said again. ‘I made an oath.’

  And so I slept alone that night, but in the morning, after we had shared a scanty breakfast with our spearmen and servants, and before I put the bone scraps into Hywelbane’s hilt, Ceinwyn walked with me up Cwm Isaf’s stream. She listened to my passionate arguments why she should not travel the Dark Road, and she dismissed them all by saying that if Merlin was with us then who could prevail against us?

  ‘Diwrnach could,’ I said grimly.

  ‘But you’re going with Merlin?’ she asked me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then don’t prevent me,’ she insisted. ‘I will be with you, and you with me.’ And she would hear no more argument. She was no man’s woman. She had made up her mind.

  And then, of course, we spoke of what had happened in the last few days and our words tumbled out. We were in love, smitten just as hard as Arthur had been smitten by Guinevere, and we could not hear enough of the other’s thoughts and stories. I showed her the pork bone and she laughed when I told her how I had waited till the last moment to snap it in two.

  ‘I really didn’t know if I dared turn away from Lancelot,’ Ceinwyn admitted. ‘I didn’t know about the bone, of course. I thought it was Guinevere who made up my mind.’

  ‘Guinevere?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘I couldn’t bear her gloating. Is that awful of me? I felt as though I was her kitten, and I couldn’t bear it.’ She walked on in silence for a while. Leaves drifted down from the trees that were still mostly green. That morning, waking to my first dawn in Cwm Isaf, I had seen a martin fly away from the thatch. He did not come back and I guessed we would not see another till the spring. Ceinwyn walked barefoot beside the stream, her hand in mine. ‘And I’ve been wondering about that prophecy of the skull bed,’ she went on, ‘and I think it means I’m not supposed to marry. I’ve been betrothed three times, Derfel, three times!

  And three times I lost the man, and if that isn’t a message from the Gods, what is?’

  ‘I hear Nimue,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘I like her.’

  ‘I couldn’t imagine the two of you liking each other,’ I confessed.

  ‘Why ever not? I like her belligerence. Life is for the taking, not for submission, and all my life, Derfel, I’ve done what people told me to do. I’ve always been good,’ she said, giving the word ‘good’ a wry stress. ‘I was always the obedient little girl, the dutiful daughter. It was easy, of course, for my father loved me and he loved so few people, but I was given everything I ever wanted and in return all they ever wanted of me was that I should be pretty and obedient. And I was very obedient.’

  ‘Pretty, too.’

  She dug an elbow into my ribs as reproof. A flock of pied wagtails flew up from the mist that shrouded the stream ahead of us. ‘I was always obedient,’ Ceinwyn said wistfully. ‘I knew I would have to marry where I was told to marry, and that didn’t worry me because that’s what kings’ daughters do, and I can remember being so happy when I first met Arthur. I thought that my whole lucky life would go on for ever. I had been given such a good man, and then, suddenly, he vanished.’

  ‘And you didn’t even notice me,’ I said. I had been the youngest spearman in Arthur’s guard when he came to Caer Sws to be betrothed to Ceinwyn. It was then that she had given me the small brooch I still wore. She had rewarded all Arthur’s escort, but never knew what a fire she started in my soul that day.

  ‘I’m sure I did notice you,’ she said. ‘Who could miss such a big, awkward, straw-haired lump?’ She laughed at me, then let me help her over a fallen oak. She wore the same linen dress she had worn the previous night, though now the bleached skirt was soiled with mud and moss. ‘Then I was betrothed to Caelgyn of Rheged,’ she continued her tale, ‘and I wasn’t quite so sure I was lucky any more. He was a sullen beast, but he promised to bring father a hundred spearmen and a bride-price of gold and I convinced myself I would be happy all the same, even if I did have to live in Rheged, but Caelgyn died of the fever. Then there was Gundleus.’ She frowned at that memory. ‘I realized then that I was just a throwpiece in a game of war. My father loved me, but he would even let me go to Gundleus if that meant more spears to carry against Arthur. That was when I first understood that I would never be happy unless I made my own happiness, and it was just then that you and Galahad came to see us. Remember?’

  ‘I remember.’ I had accompanied Galahad on his failed mission of peace and Gorfyddyd, as an insult, had made us dine in the women’s hall. There in the candlelight, as a harpist played, I had talked to Ceinwyn and given her my oath to protect her.

  ‘And you cared whether I was happy,’ she said.

  ‘I was in love with you,’ I confessed. ‘I was a dog howling at a star.’

  She smiled. ‘And then came Lancelot. Lovely Lancelot. Handsome Lancelot, and everyone told me I was the luckiest woman in Britain, but do you know what I sensed? That I would just be another possession to Lancelot, and he seems to have so many already. But I still wasn’t sure what I should do, then Merlin came and talked to me, and he left Nimue and she talked and talked, but I already knew I didn’t want to belong to any man. I’ve belonged to men all my life. So Nimue and I made an oath to Don and I swore to Her that if She gave me the strength to take my own freedom then I would never marry. I will love you,’ she promised me, looking up into my face, ‘but I will not be any man’s possession.’ />
  Maybe not, I thought, but she, like me, was still Merlin’s gaming piece. How busy he had been, he and Nimue, but I said nothing of that, nor of the Dark Road. ‘But you will be Guinevere’s enemy now,’ I warned Ceinwyn instead.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I always was, right from the moment when she decided to take Arthur away from me, but I was just a child then and I didn’t know how to tight her. Last night I struck back, but from now on I’ll just stay out of sight.’ She smiled. ‘And you were to marry Gwenhwyvach?’

  ‘Yes,’ I confessed.

  ‘Poor Gwenhwyvach,’ Ceinwyn said. ‘She was always very good to me when they lived here, but I remember every time her sister came into the room she’d run away. She was like a big plump mouse and her sister was the cat.’

  Arthur came to the lower valley that afternoon. The glue holding the scraps of bone were still drying in Hywelbane’s hilt as his warriors filled the trees on Cwm Isaf’s southern slope that faced our small house. The spearmen did not come to threaten us, but had merely diverted themselves from their long march home to comfortable Dumnonia. There was no sign of Lancelot, nor of Guinevere, as Arthur walked alone across the stream. He carried no sword or shield.

  We met him at our door. He bowed to Ceinwyn, then smiled at her. ‘Dear Lady,’ he said simply.

  ‘You are angry with me, Lord?’ she asked him anxiously.

  He grimaced. ‘My wife believes I am, but no. How can I be angry? You only did what I once did, and you had the grace to do it before the oath was given.’ He smiled at her again. ‘You have, perhaps, inconvenienced me, but I deserved that. May I walk with Derfel?’

  We followed the same path that I had taken that morning with Ceinwyn, and Arthur, once he was out of sight of his spearmen, put an arm about my shoulders. ‘Well done, Derfel,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I am sorry if it hurt you, Lord.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. You did what I once did and I envy you the newness of it. It just changes things, that’s all. It is, as I said, inconvenient.’

  ‘I won’t be Mordred’s champion,’ I said.

  ‘No. But someone will. If it was up to me, my friend, I would take you both home and make you champion and give you all I had to give, but things cannot always be as we want.’

  ‘You mean,’ I said bluntly, ‘that the Princess Guinevere will not forgive me.’

  ‘No,’ Arthur said bleakly. ‘Nor will Lancelot.’ He sighed. ‘What shall I do with Lancelot?’

  ‘Marry him to Gwenhwyvach,’ I said, ‘and bury them both in Siluria.’

  He laughed. ‘If only I could. I’ll send him to Siluria, certainly, but I doubt Siluria will hold him. He has ambitions above that small kingdom, Derfel. I’d hoped that Ceinwyn and a family would keep him there, but now?’ He shrugged. ‘I would have done better to give the kingdom to you.’ He took his arm from about my shoulders and faced me. ‘I do not release you from your oaths, Lord Derfel Cadarn,’ he said formally, ‘you are still my man and when I send for you, you will come to me.’

  ‘Yes, Lord.’

  ‘That will be in the spring,’ he said. ‘I am sworn to three months’ peace with the Saxons and I will keep that peace, and when the three months are up the winter will keep our spears stacked. But in the spring we march and I shall want your men in my shield-wall.’

  ‘They will be there, Lord,’ I promised him.

  He raised both hands and put them on my shoulders. ‘Are you also sworn to Merlin?’ he asked, staring into my eyes.

  ‘Yes, Lord,’ I admitted.

  ‘So you’ll chase a Cauldron that doesn’t exist?’

  ‘I shall seek the Cauldron, yes.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘Such stupidity!’ He dropped his hands and opened his eyes. ‘I believe in the Gods, Derfel, but do the Gods believe in Britain? This isn’t the old Britain,’ he said vehemently. ‘Maybe once we were a people of one blood, but now? The Romans brought men from every corner of the world! Sarmatians, Libyans, Gauls, Numidians, Greeks! Their blood is mingled with ours, just as it seethes with Roman blood and mixes now with Saxon blood. We are what we are, Derfel, not what we once were. We have a hundred Gods now, not just the old Gods, and we cannot turn the years back, not even with the Cauldron and every Treasure of Britain.’

  ‘Merlin disagrees.’

  ‘And Merlin would have me fight the Christians just so his Gods can rule? No, I won’t do it, Derfel.’

  He spoke angrily. ‘You can look for your imaginary Cauldron, but don’t think I’ll play Merlin’s game by persecuting Christians.’

  ‘Merlin,’ I said defensively, ‘will leave the fate of the Christians to the Gods.’

  ‘And what are we but the Gods’ implements?’ Arthur asked. ‘But I won’t fight other Britons just because they worship another God. Nor will you, Derfel, so long as you’re oath-sworn.’

  ‘No, Lord.’

  He sighed. ‘I do hate all this rancour about Gods. But then, Guinevere always tells me I am blind to the Gods. She says it’s my one fault.’ He smiled. ‘If you’re sworn to Merlin, Derfel, then you must go with him. Where will he take you?’

  ‘To Ynys Mon, Lord.’

  He stared at me in silence for a few heartbeats, then shuddered.

  ‘You go to Lleyn?’ he asked incredulously. ‘No one comes alive from Lleyn.’

  ‘I shall,’ I boasted.

  ‘Make sure you do, Derfel, make sure you do.’ He sounded gloomy. ‘I need you to help me beat the Saxons. And after that, maybe, you can return to Dumnonia. Guinevere isn’t a woman to hold grudges.’ I doubted that, but said nothing. ‘So I shall summon you in the spring,’ Arthur went on, ‘and pray you survive Lleyn.’ He put an arm through mine and walked me back towards the house. ‘And if anyone asks you, Derfel, then I have just reproved you angrily. I have cursed you, even struck you.’

  I laughed. ‘I forgive you the blow, Lord.’

  ‘Consider yourself reproved,’ he said, ‘and consider yourself,’ he went on, ‘the second luckiest man in Britain.’

  The luckiest in the world, I thought, for I had my soul’s desire.

  Or I would have it, the Gods preserve us, when Merlin had his.

  I stood and watched the spearmen go. Arthur’s banner of the bear showed briefly in the trees, he waved, hoisted himself onto his horse’s back and then was gone.

  And we were alone.

  So I was not in Dumnonia to see Arthur’s return. I should have liked that, for he rode back a hero to a country that had dismissed his chances of survival and had plotted to replace him by lesser creatures. Food was scarce that autumn, for the sudden flare of war had depleted the new harvest, but there was no famine and Arthur’s men collected fair taxes. That sounds like a small improvement, but after the recent years it caused a stir in the land. Only the rich paid taxes to the Royal Treasury. Some paid in gold, but most paid in grain and leather and linen and salt and wool and dried fish that they, in turn, had demanded from their tenants. In the last few years the rich had paid little to the King and the poor had paid much to the rich, so Arthur sent spearmen to inquire of the poor what tax had been levied of them and used their answers to make his own levy of the rich. From the proceeds he returned a third of the yield back to the churches and magistrates so that they could distribute the food in the winter. That action alone told Dumnonia that a new power had come to the land, and though the wealthy grumbled, none dared raise a shield-wall to tight Arthur. He was the warlord of Mordred’s kingdom, the victor of Lugg Vale, the slaughterer of Kings, and those who opposed him now feared him. Mordred was moved into the care of Culhwch, Arthur’s cousin and a crude, honest warrior who probably took small interest in the fate of a small and troublesome child. Culhwch was too busy suppressing the revolt that had been started by Cadwy of Isca deep in Dumnonia’s west, and I heard that he led his spears in a swift campaign across the great moor, then south into the wild land on the coast. He ravaged Cadwy’s heartland, then stormed the rebellious Prince in the old Roman str
onghold of Isca. The walls had decayed and the veterans of Lugg Vale swarmed over the town’s ramparts to hunt the rebels through the streets. Prince Cadwy was caught in a Roman shrine and there dismembered. Arthur ordered parts of his body to be displayed in Dumnonia’s towns, and his head, with its easily recognizable blue tattoos on the cheeks, to be sent to King Mark of Kernow who had encouraged the revolt. King Mark sent back a tribute of tin ingots, a tub of smoked fish, three polished turtle shells that had washed up on the shores of his wild country and an innocent disavowal of any complicity in Cadwy’s rebellion. Culhwch, in capturing Cadwy’s stronghold, found letters there that he sent to Arthur. The letters were from the Christian party in Dumnonia and had been written before the campaign that ended in Lugg Vale, and they revealed the full extent of the plans to rid Dumnonia of Arthur. The Christians had disliked Arthur ever since he had revoked High King Uther’s rule that the church was to be exempt from taxes and loans, and they had become convinced that their God was leading Arthur to a great defeat at Gorfyddyd’s hands. It was the prospect of that almost certain defeat that had encouraged them to put their thoughts into writing, and those same writings were now in Arthur’s keeping. The letters revealed a worried Christian community who wanted Arthur’s death, but also feared the incursion of Gorfyddyd’s pagan spearmen. To save themselves and their riches they had been ready to sacrifice Mordred, and the letters encouraged Cadwy to march on Durnovaria during Arthur’s absence, kill.Mordred and then yield the kingdom to Gorfyddyd. The Christians promised him help, and hoped that Cadwy’s spears would protect them once Gorfyddyd ruled.

  Instead it brought them punishment. King Melwas of the Iklgae, a client King who had sided with the Christians who opposed Arthur, was made the new ruler of Cadwy’s land. It was hardly a reward, for it took Melwas far away from his own people to a place where Arthur could keep him under close watch. Nabur, the Christian magistrate who had held Mordred’s guardianship, and who had used that guardianship to raise the party that opposed Arthur and who was the writer of the letters suggesting Mordred’s murder, was nailed to a cross in Durnovaria’s amphitheatre. These days, of course, he is called a saint and martyr, but I only remember Nabur as a smooth, corrupt liar. Two priests, another magistrate and two landowners were also put to death. The last conspirator was Bishop Sansum, though he had been too clever to let his name be put into writing, and that cleverness, together with his strange friendship for Arthur’s maimed pagan sister, Morgan, saved Sansum’s life. He swore undying loyalty to Arthur, put a hand on a crucifix and swore he had never plotted to kill the King, and so remained as the guardian of the shrine of the Holy Thorn at Ynys Wydryn. You could bind Sansum in iron and hold a sword to his throat, and still he would slither free.