Warlord 2 Enemy of God (47 page)

‘Our oaths,’ he said resentfully, and I am sure he was thinking of the words we had spoken above the sea beside which Iseult was to die. ‘Our oaths,’ he said again.

But oaths were all we had now, for oaths were our guide in times of chaos and chaos was now thick across Dumnonia. For someone had spilt the Cauldron’s power and its horror threatened to engulf us all. 

Dumnonia, in that summer, was like a giant throwboard and Lancelot had thrown his pieces well, taking half the board with his opening throw. He had surrendered the valley of the Thames to the Saxons, but the rest of the country was now his, thanks to the Christians who had blindly fought for him because his shield displayed their mystical emblem of a fish. I doubted that Lancelot was any more of a Christian than Mordred had been, but Sansum’s missionaries had spread their insidious message and, as far as Dumnonia’s poor deceived Christians were concerned, Lancelot was the harbinger of Christ. Lancelot had not won every point. His plot to kill Arthur had failed, and while Arthur lived Lancelot was in danger, but on the day after I arrived in Glevum he tried to sweep the throwboard clean. He tried to win it all.

He sent a horseman with an upturned shield and a sprig of mistletoe tied to his spear-point. The rider carried a message that summoned Arthur to Dun Ceinach, an ancient earth fortress that reared its summit just a few miles south of Glevum’s ramparts. The message demanded that Arthur go to the ancient fort that very same day, it swore his safety and it allowed him to bring as many spearmen as he wished. The message’s imperious tone almost invited refusal, but it finished by promising Arthur news of Guinevere, and Lancelot must have known that promise would bring Arthur out of Glevum. He left an hour later. Twenty of us rode with him, all of us in full armour beneath a blazing sun. Great white clouds sailed above the hills that rose steep from the eastern side of Severn’s wide valley. We could have followed the tracks that twisted up into those hills, but they led through too many places where an ambush might be set and so we took the road south along the valley, a Roman road that ran between fields where poppies blazed among the growing rye and barley. After an hour we turned east and cantered beside a hedge that was white with hawthorn blossom, then across a hay meadow almost ready for the sickle, and so we reached the steep grassy slope that was topped by the ancient fort. Sheep scattered as we climbed the slope, which was so precipitous that I preferred to slide off my horse’s back and lead it by the reins. Bee orchids blossomed pink and brown among the grass. We stopped a hundred paces below the summit and I climbed on alone to make sure that no ambush waited behind the fort’s long grassy walls. I was panting and sweating by the time I gained the wall’s summit, but no enemy crouched behind the bank. Indeed the old fort seemed deserted except for two hares that fled from my sudden appearance. The silence of the hilltop made me cautious, but then a single horseman appeared among some low trees that grew in the northern part of the fort. He carried a spear that he ostentatiously threw down, turned his shield upside down, then slid off his horse’s back. A dozen men followed him out of the trees and they too threw down their spears as if to reassure me that their promise of a truce was genuine.

I waved Arthur up. His horses breasted the wall, then he and I walked forward. Arthur was in his finest armour. He did not appear here as a supplicant, but as a warrior in a white-plumed helmet and a silvered coat of scale armour.

Two men walked to meet us. I had expected to see Lancelot himself, but instead it was his cousin and champion, Bors, who approached us. Bors was a tall black-haired man, heavily bearded, broad-shouldered, and a capable warrior who thrust through life like a bull where his master slid like a snake. I had no dislike of Bors nor he of me, but our loyalties dictated that we should be enemies. Bors nodded a curt greeting. He was in armour, but his companion was dressed in priest’s robes. It was Bishop Sansum. That surprised me, for Sansum usually took good care to disguise his loyalties and I thought our little mouse-lord must be very confident of victory if he displayed his allegiance to Lancelot so openly. Arthur gave Sansum a dismissive glance, then looked at Bors. ‘You have news of my wife,’

he said curtly.

‘She lives,’ Bors said, ‘and she is safe. So is your son.’

Arthur closed his eyes. He could not hide his relief, indeed for a moment he could not even speak.

‘Where are they?’ he asked when he had collected himself.

‘At her Sea Palace,’ Bors said, ‘under guard.’

‘You keep women prisoners?’ I asked scornfully.

‘They are under guard, Derfel,’ Bors answered just as scornfully, ‘because Dumnonia’s Christians are slaughtering their enemies. And those Christians, Lord Arthur, have no love for your wife. My Lord King Lancelot has your wife and son under his protection.’

‘Then your Lord King Lancelot,’ Arthur said with just a trace of sarcasm, ‘can have them brought north under escort.’

‘No,’ Bors said. He was bare-headed and the heat of the sun was making the sweat run down his broad, scarred face.

‘No?’ Arthur asked dangerously.

‘I have a message for you, Lord,’ Bors said defiantly, ‘and the message is this. My Lord King grants you the right to live in Dumnonia with your wife. You will be treated with honour, but only if you swear an oath of loyalty to my King.’ He paused and glanced up into the sky. It was one of those portentous days when the moon shared the sky with the sun and he gestured towards the moon that was swollen somewhere between the half and the full. ‘You have,’ he said, ‘until the moon is full to present yourself to my Lord King at Caer Cadarn. You may come with no more than ten men, you will swear your oath, and you may then live under his dominion in peace.’

I spat to show my opinion of his promise, but Arthur held up a hand to still my anger. ‘And if I do not come?’ he asked.

Another man might have been ashamed to deliver the message, but Bors showed no qualms. ‘If you do not come,’ he said, ‘then my Lord King will presume that you are at war with him, in which case he will need every spear he can collect. Even those who now guard your wife and child.’

‘So his Christians,’ Arthur jerked his chin towards Sansum, ‘can kill them?’

‘She can always be baptized!’ Sansum put in. He clutched the cross that hung over his black robe. ‘I will guarantee her safety if she is baptized.’

Arthur stared at him. Then, very deliberately, he spat full in San-sum’s face. The Bishop jerked back. Bors, I noticed, was amused and I suspected little affection was lost between Lancelot’s champion and his chaplain. Arthur looked again at Bors. ‘Tell me of Mordred,’ he demanded. Bors looked surprised at the question. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he said after a pause. ‘He’s dead.’

‘You’ve seen his body?’ Arthur asked.

Bors hesitated again, then shook his head. ‘He was killed by a man whose daughter he had raped. Beyond that I know nothing. Except that my Lord King came into Dumnonia to quell the riots that followed the killing.’ He paused as if he expected Arthur to say something more, but when nothing was said he just looked up at the moon. ‘You have till the full,’ he said and turned away.

‘One minute!’ I called, turning Bors back. ‘What of me?’ I asked.

Bors’s hard eyes stared into mine. ‘What of you?’ he said scornfully.

‘Does the killer of my daughter demand an oath of me?’ I asked.

‘My Lord King wants nothing of you,’ Bors said.

‘Then tell him,’ I said, ‘that I want something of him. Tell him I want the souls of Dinas and Lavaine, and if it is the last thing I do on this earth, I shall take them.’

Bors shrugged as though their deaths meant nothing to him, then looked back to Arthur. ‘We shall be waiting at Caer Cadarn, Lord,’ he said, then walked away. Sansum stayed to shout at us, telling us that Christ was coming in his glory and that all pagans and sinners would be wiped clean from the earth before that happy day. I spat at him, then turned and followed Arthur. Sansum dogged us, shouting at our heels, but then suddenly called my name. I ignored him. ‘Lord Derfel!’ he called again, ‘you whoremaster! You whore-lover!’ He must have known those insults would draw me back to him in anger, and though he did not want my anger, he did want my attention. ‘I meant nothing, Lord,’ he said hastily as I hurried back towards him. ‘I must talk with you. Quickly.’ He glanced behind to make sure Bors was out of earshot, then gave another bellow demanding my repentance just to make certain that Bors thought he was harassing me. ‘I thought you and Arthur were dead,’ he said in a low voice.

‘You arranged our deaths,’ I accused him.

He blanched. ‘On my soul, Derfel, no! No!’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘May the angels tear out my tongue and feed it to the devil if it lies to you. I swear by Almighty God, Derfel, that I knew nothing.’

That lie told, he glanced round again, then looked back to me. ‘Dinas and Lavaine,’ he said softly, ‘stand guard over Guinevere at the Sea Palace. Remember it was I, Lord, who told you that.’

I smiled. ‘You don’t want Bors to know you betrayed that knowledge to me, do you?’

‘No, Lord, please!’

‘Then this should convince him of your innocence,’ I said, and gave the mouse-lord a box round his ears that must have had his head ringing like the great bell at his shrine. He spun down to the turf from where he shrieked curses at me as I walked away. I understood now why Sansum had come to this high fortress beneath the sky. The mouse-lord could see clearly enough that Arthur’s survival threatened Lancelot’s new throne and no man could blithely keep his faith in a master who was opposed by Arthur. Sansum, just like his wife, was making sure I owed him thanks.

‘What was that about?’ Arthur asked me when I caught up with him.

‘He told me Dinas and Lavaine are at the Sea Palace. They guard Guinevere.’

Arthur grunted, then looked up at the sun-blanched moon hanging above us. ‘How many nights till the full, Derfel?’

‘Five?’ I guessed. ‘Six? Merlin will know.’

‘Six days to decide,’ he said, then stopped and stared at me. ‘Will they dare kill her?’

‘No, Lord,’ I said, hoping I was right. ‘They daren’t make an enemy out of you. They want you to come to take their oath and then they’ll kill you. After that they might kill her.’

‘And if I don’t come,’ he said softly, ‘they’ll still hold her. And so long as they hold her, Derfel, I’m helpless.’

‘You have a sword, Lord, and a spear and a shield. No man would call you helpless.’

Behind us Bors and his men clambered into their saddles and rode away. We stayed a few moments longer to gaze west from Dun Ceinach’s ramparts. It was one of the most beautiful views in all Britain, a hawk’s-eye view west across the Severn and deep into distant Siluria. We could see for miles and miles, and from this high place it looked so sunlit, green and beautiful. It was a place to fight for. And we had six nights till the moon was full.

‘Seven nights,’ Merlin said.

‘You’re sure?’ Arthur asked.

‘Maybe six,’ Merlin allowed. ‘I do hope you don’t expect me to make the computation? It’s a very tedious business. I did it often enough for Uther and almost always got it wrong. Six or seven, near enough. Maybe eight.’

‘Malaine will work it out,’ Cuneglas said. We had returned from Dun Ceinach to rind that Cuneglas had come from Powys. He had brought Malaine with him after meeting the Druid who had been accompanying Ceinwyn and the other women northwards. The King of Powys had embraced me and sworn his own revenge on Dinas and Lavaine. He had brought sixty spearmen in his entourage and told us another hundred were already following him southwards. More would come, he said, for Cuneglas expected to fight and he was generously providing every warrior he commanded. His sixty warriors now squatted with Arthur’s men around the edges of Glevum’s great hall as their lords talked in the hall’s centre. Only Sagramor was not there, for he was with his remaining spearmen harrying Cerdic’s army near Corinium. Meurig was present, and unable to hide his annoyance that Merlin had taken the large chair at the head of the table. Cuneglas and Arthur flanked Merlin, Meurig faced Merlin down the table’s length and Culhwch and I had the other two places. Culhwch had come to Glevum with Cuneglas and his arrival had been like a gust of fresh clean air in a smoky hall. He could not wait to fight. He declared that with Mordred dead Arthur was King of Dumnonia and Culhwch was ready to wade through blood to protect his cousin’s throne. Cuneglas and I shared that belligerence, Meurig squeaked about prudence, Arthur said nothing, while Merlin appeared to be asleep. I doubted he was sleeping for a small smile showed on his face, but his eyes were closed as he pretended to be blissfully unaware of all we said.

Culhwch scorned Bors’s message. He insisted Lancelot would never kill Guinevere, and that all Arthur needed to do was ride south at the head of his men and the throne would fall into his hands. ‘Tomorrow!’

Culhwch told Arthur. ‘We’ll ride tomorrow. It’ll all be over in two days.’

Cuneglas was slightly more cautious, advising Arthur that he should wait for the rest of his Powysian spearmen to arrive, but once those men had come he was sure we should declare war and go southwards. ‘How big is Lancelot’s army?’ he asked.

Arthur shrugged. ‘Not counting Cerdic’s men? Maybe three hundred?’

‘Nothing!’ Culhwch roared. ‘Have them dead before breakfast.’

‘And a lot of fiery Christians,’ Arthur warned him.

Culhwch offered an opinion of Christians that had the Christian Meurig spluttering with indignation. Arthur calmed the young King of Gwent. ‘You’re all forgetting something,’ he said mildly. ‘I never wanted to be King. I still don’t.’

There was a momentary silence around the table, though some of the warriors at the hall’s edge muttered a protest at Arthur’s words. ‘Whatever you might want,’ Cuneglas broke our silence, ‘does not matter any more. The Gods, its seems, have made that decision for you.’

‘If the Gods wanted me to be King,’ Arthur said, ‘they would have arranged for my mother to have been married to Uther.’

‘So what do you want?’ Culhwch bellowed in despair.

‘I want Guinevere and Gwydre back,’ Arthur said softly. ‘And Cerdic defeated,’ he added before staring down at the table’s scarred top for a moment. ‘I want to live,’ he went on, ‘like an ordinary man. With a wife and a son and a house and a farm. I want peace,’ and for once he was not talking of all Britain, but just of himself. ‘I don’t want to be tangled in oaths, I don’t want to be forever dealing with men’s ambitions and I don’t want to be the arbiter of men’s happiness any more. I just want to do what King Tewdric did. I want to find a green place and live there.’