Warlord 2 Enemy of God (35 page)

The King of Kernow had a jowly face blotched by broken veins. His beard was thin and white, his shallow breath rasped in his fat throat and his small eyes seeped rheum. He waved Arthur to his feet, then struggled out of his chair and on thick, unsteady legs followed Arthur to the largest of the huts. It was a warm day, but Mark’s thick body was still draped in a sealskin cloak as though he found it cold. He put a hand on Arthur’s arm to help him walk into the hut where two chairs had been placed. Culhwch, disgusted, planted his bulk in the hall’s doorway and stood there with a drawn sword. I stood beside him while, behind us, black-haired Iseult wept.

Arthur stayed a full hour in the hut, then emerged and looked at Culhwch and me. He seemed to sigh, then walked past us into the hall. We did not hear what he said, but we heard Iseult scream. Culhwch glared at Kernow’s spearmen, begging just one of them to challenge him, but none moved. Cyllan, the champion, stood motionless beside the gate with a great war spear and his huge long-sword. Iseult screamed again, then Arthur suddenly emerged into the sunlight and plucked my arm. ‘Come, Derfel.’

‘What of me?’ Culhwch asked defiantly.

‘Guard them, Culhwch,’ Arthur said. ‘No one is to enter the hall.’ He walked away and I walked with him.

He said nothing as we climbed the hill from the hall and nothing as we walked along the hill path, and still said nothing as we walked out onto the cliff’s high peak. The headland’s stone jutted into the sea beneath us where the water broke high and ragged to shatter its spume eastwards on the undying wind. The sun shone on us, but out to sea there was a great cloud and Arthur stared at the dark rain falling on the empty waves. The wind rippled his white cloak. ‘Do you know the legend of Excalibur?’ he suddenly asked me.

Better than he did, I thought, but I said nothing of the blade being one of the Treasures of Britain. ‘I know, Lord,’ I said, wondering why he had asked me such a question at such a moment, ‘that Merlin won it in a dream contest in Ireland and that he gave it to you at the Stones.’

‘And he told me that if I was ever in great need then all I had to do was draw the sword, plunge it into the earth and Gofannon would come from the Otherworld to aid me. Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘Then, Gofannon!’ he shouted into the sea wind as he drew the great blade. ‘Come!’ And with that injunction he rammed the sword hard into the turf.

A gull cried in the wind, the sea sucked at the rocks as it slid back to the deeps and the salt wind gusted our cloaks, but no God came. ‘The Gods help me,’ Arthur said at last, staring at the swaying blade, ‘but how I wanted to kill that fat monster.’

‘So why didn’t you?’ I asked harshly.

He said nothing for a while and I saw there were tears running down his long hollow cheeks. ‘I offered them death, Derfel,’ he said. ‘Swift and painless.’ He cuffed at his cheeks, and then, in a sudden rage, he kicked the sword. ‘Gods!’ He spat at the quivering blade. ‘What Gods?’

I pulled Excalibur from the turf and wiped the earth from its tip. He refused to take the sword back, so I laid it reverently on a grey boulder. ‘What will happen to them, Lord?’ I asked. He sat on another stone. For a time he did not answer me, but just stared at the rain on the far sea while the tears trickled down his cheeks. ‘I have lived my life, Derfel,’ he said at last, ‘according to oaths. I know no other way. I resent oaths, and so should all men, for oaths bind us, they hobble our freedom, and who among us doesn’t want to be free? But if we abandon oaths then we abandon guidance. We fall into chaos. We just fall. We become no better than beasts.’ He suddenly could not continue, but just wept.

I stared at the grey heave of the sea. Where, I wondered, do those great waves begin and where do they end? ‘Suppose,’ I asked, ‘that the oath is a mistake?’

‘A mistake?’ He glanced at me, then looked back to the ocean. ‘Sometimes,’ he said bleakly, ‘an oath cannot be kept. I could not save Ban’s kingdom, though God knows I tried, but it could not be done. And so I broke that oath and I will pay for it, but I did not break it willingly. I have yet to kill Aelle, and that is an oath that must be kept, but I have not yet broken the oath, merely delayed it. I have promised to take Henis Wyren back from Diwrnach, and I will. And maybe that oath was a mistake, but I am sworn to it. So there is your answer. If an oath is a mistake then you are still obligated because you are sworn to it.’ He wiped his cheek. ‘So yes, one day I must take my spears against Diwrnach.’

‘You have no oath to Mark,’ I said bitterly.

‘None,’ he agreed, ‘but Tristan does, and Iseult does.’

‘Are their oaths our business?’ I asked.

He stared at his sword. Its grey blade that was chased with intricate whorls and long-tongued dragon heads reflected the far slate-dark clouds. ‘A sword and a stone,’ he said softly, perhaps thinking of the moment when Mordred would become king. He stood suddenly, and turned his back on the sword to stare inland at the green hills. ‘Suppose,’ he said to me, ‘that two oaths clash. Suppose I have sworn to fight for you and sworn to fight for your enemy, which oath do I keep?’

‘The first given,’ I said, knowing the law as well as he.

‘And if they were both given at once?’

‘Then you submit to the King’s judgment.’

‘Why the King?’ He quizzed me as though I was a new spearman being taught the laws of Dumnonia.

‘Because your oath to the King,’ I said dutifully, ‘is above all other oaths, and your duty is to him.’

‘So the King,’ he said forcefully, ‘is the keeper of our oaths, and without a King there is nothing but a tangle of conflicting oaths. Without a King, there is chaos. All oaths lead to the King, Derfel, all our duty ends with the King and all our laws are in the King’s keeping. If we defy our King, we defy order. We can fight other Kings, we can even kill them, but only because they threaten our King and his good order. The King, Derfel, is the nation, and we belong to the King. Whatever you or I do, we must support the King.’

I knew he was not talking about Tristan and Mark. He was thinking of Mordred and so I dared to speak the unspoken thought that had lain so heavily on Dumnonia for all those years. ‘There are those, Lord,’ I said, ‘who say you should be the King.’

‘No!’ He shouted the word into the wind. ‘No!’ he repeated more quietly, looking at me. I looked down at the sword on the stone. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I swore an oath to Uther.’

‘Mordred,’ I said, ‘is not fit to be King. And you know it, Lord.’

He turned and looked at the sea again. ‘Mordred is our King, Derfel, and that is all you or I need to know. He has our oaths. We cannot judge him, he will judge us, and if you or I decide another man should be King, where is order then? If one man takes the throne unjustly, then any man can take it. If I take it, why should another not take it from me? All order would be gone. There would just be chaos.’

‘You think Mordred cares about order?’ I asked bitterly.

‘I think Mordred has not yet been properly acclaimed,’ Arthur said. ‘I think that when the high duties are put on him then he may change. I think it more likely that he will not change, but above all, Derfel, I believe he is our King and we must endure him because that is what we have to do whether we like it or not. In all this world. Derfel,’ he said, suddenly sweeping up Excalibur and swinging her blade about the whole horizon, ‘in all this world there is only one sure order, and that is the King’s order. Not the Gods. They’ve gone from Britain. Merlin thought he could bring them back, but look at Merlin now. Sansum tells us that his God has power and so He might, but not for me. I see only kings, and in kings are concentrated our oaths and our duties. Without them we would be so many wild things scrambling for place.’ He rammed Excalibur back into its scabbard. ‘I must support kings, for without them there would be chaos and so I have told Tristan and Iseult that they must stand trial.’

‘Trial!’ I exclaimed, then spat on the turf.

Arthur glared angrily at me. ‘They are accused,’ he said, ‘of theft. They are accused of breaking oaths. They are accused of fornication.’ The last word twisted his mouth and he turned away from me to spit it across the sea.

‘They’re in love!’ I protested, and when he said nothing I attacked him more directly. ‘And did you stand trial, Arthur ap Uther, when you broke an oath? And not the oath to Ban, but the oath you swore when you betrothed yourself to Ceinwyn. You broke an oath, and no one put you in front of magistrates!’

He turned on me in a flaring rage and for a few heartbeats I thought he was about to drag Excalibur free again and attack me with the blade, but then he shuddered and went still. His eyes glistened with tears again. He said nothing for a long while, then he nodded. ‘I broke that oath, true. Do you think I haven’t regretted it?’

‘And you will not let Tristan break one oath?’

‘He’s a thief!’ Arthur snarled at me in fury. ‘You think we should risk years of border raids for a thief who fornicates with his stepmother? You could talk to the families of the dead farmers on our frontier and justify their deaths in the name of Tristan’s love? You think women and children should die because a prince is in love? Is that your justice?’

‘I think Tristan is our friend,’ I said, and when he did not answer, I spat at his feet. ‘You sent for Mark, didn’t you?’ I accused him.

He nodded. ‘Yes. I sent a messenger from Isca.’

‘Tristan is our friend,’ I shouted at him.

He closed his eyes. ‘He has stolen from a King,’ he said stubbornly. ‘He has stolen gold, a wife and pride. He has broken oaths. His father seeks justice and I am sworn to justice.’

‘He is your friend,’ I insisted. ‘And he is mine!’

He opened his eyes and stared at me. ‘A King comes to me, Derfel, and asks for justice. Am I to deny Mark justice because he is old and gross and ugly? Do youth and beauty deserve perverted justice? What have I fought for all these years, if not to make certain that justice is even-handed?’ He was pleading with me now. ‘When we travelled here, through all those villages and towns, did people run away because they saw our swords? No! And why? Because they know that in Mordred’s kingdom there is justice. And now, because a man beds his father’s wife, you would have me toss that justice away like an inconvenient burden?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘because he is a friend, and because if you make them stand trial they will be found guilty. They have no chance at trial,’ I protested bitterly, ‘because Mark is a Tongued One.’

Arthur gave a sad smile as he acknowledged the memory I had deliberately provoked. That memory was of our very first meeting with Tristan, and that meeting too had been a legal matter, and in that case a great injustice was almost done because the accused was a Tongued One. In our law the evidence given by a Tongued One was incontrovertible. A thousand people could swear the opposite, but their evidence was nothing if it was contradicted by a Lord, a Druid, a priest, a father speaking of his children, a gift-giver speaking of his gift, a maid talking of her virginity, a herdsman speaking of his animals or a condemned man saying his final words. And Mark was a Lord, a King, and his word outweighed those of a Prince or a Queen. No court in Britain would acquit Tristan and Iseult, and Arthur knew it. But Arthur had sworn an oath to uphold the law.

But on that far day, when Owain had so nearly perverted justice by using the privilege of a Tongued One to tell a lie, Arthur had appealed to the court of swords. For Tristan’s benefit Arthur himself had fought Owain and Arthur had won. ‘Tristan,’ I now said to Arthur, ‘could appeal to the court of swords.’

‘That is his privilege,’ Arthur said.

‘And I am his friend,’ I said coldly, ‘and I can fight for him.’

Arthur stared at me as though he was only just realizing the true depths of my hostility. ‘You, Derfel?’

he asked.

‘I shall fight for Tristan,’ I said coldly, ‘because he is my friend. As you once were.’

He paused a few heartbeats. ‘That is your privilege,’ he finally said, ‘but I have done my duty.’ He walked away and I followed ten paces behind; when he slowed, I slowed, and when he turned to look at me, I looked away. I was going to fight for a friend.

Arthur curtly ordered Culhwch’s spearmen to escort Tristan and Iseult to Isca. There, he decreed, their trial would be held. King Mark could provide one judge and we Dumnonians the other. King Mark sat in his chair, saying nothing. He had argued for the trial to be held in Kernow, but he must have known it did not matter. Tristan would not stand trial for Tristan would never survive a trial. Tristan could only appeal to the sword.

The Prince came to the door of the hall and there he faced his father. Mark’s face showed nothing, Tristan was pale and Arthur stood with head bowed so that he did not need to look at either man. Tristan wore no armour and carried no shield. His black hair with its warrior rings was combed back and tied with a strip of white linen that he must have torn from Iseult’s dress. He wore a shirt, trews and boots and had a sword at his side. He walked halfway to his father and there stopped. He drew his sword, stared into his father’s implacable eyes, then rammed the blade hard into the turf. ‘I will be tried by the court of swords,’ he insisted.

Mark shrugged and made a lethargic gesture with his right hand, and that gesture brought Cyllan forward. It was plain that Tristan knew the champion’s prowess for he looked nervous as the huge man, whose beard grew down to his waist, stripped off his cloak. Cyllan pushed his black hair away from the axe tattoo, then pulled his iron helmet onto his head. He spat on his hands, rubbed the spittle into his palms, and walked slowly forward and knocked Tristan’s sword flat. With that gesture he had accepted battle.

I drew Hywelbane. ‘I shall fight for Tristan,’ I heard myself saying. I was oddly nervous, and it was not just the nervousness that precedes battle. It was fear of the great gulf that was opening in my life, the gulf that separated me from Arthur.

‘I shall fight for Tristan,’ Culhwch insisted. He came and stood beside me. ‘You’ve got daughters, fool,’ he muttered.

‘So have you.’