Bernard Cornwell - The Winter King

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' livelihoods; 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.

“He's good to me, Lord,” I said, embarrassed by the question. In truth I was still nervous of Owain, though he never showed me any unkindness.

“He should be good to you,” Arthur said. “Every leader depends on having good men for his reputation.”

“But I'd rather serve you, Lord,” I blurted out with youthful indiscretion. He smiled. “You will, Derfel, you will. In time. If you pass the test of fighting for Owain.” He made the remark casually enough, but later I wondered if he foresaw what was to come. In time I did pass Owain's test, but it was hard, and perhaps Arthur wanted me to learn that lesson before I joined his band of men. He stooped again to the lead sheet, then straightened as a howl sounded through the shabby building. It was Pellinore, protesting his imprisonment. “Owain says we should send poor Pell' to the Isle of the Dead,” Arthur said, referring to the island where the violent mad were put away. “What do you think?”

I was so astonished at being asked that at first I did not reply, then I stammered that Pellinore was beloved of Merlin and Merlin had wanted him kept among the living and I thought Merlin's wishes should be respected. Arthur listened gravely and even seemed grateful for my advice. He did not need it, of course, but was just trying to make me feel valued. “Then Pellinore can stay here, lad,” he said. “Now get hold of the other end. Lift!”

Lindinis emptied next day. Morgan and Nimue returned to Ynys Wydryn where they planned to rebuild the Tor. Nimue brushed aside my farewell; her eye still hurt, she was bitter, and she wanted nothing from life except revenge on Gundleus which was denied her. Arthur went north with all his horsemen to reinforce Tewdric on Gwent's northern border while I stayed with Owain who had no taken up residence in Caer Cadarn's great hall. I might be a warrior, but in that high summer it was more important to gather in the harvest than stand guard on the fort's ramparts, so for days at a time I gave up my sword and the helmet, shield and leather breastplate I had inherited from a dead Silurian and went to the King's fields to help the serfs bring in the rye, barley and wheat. It was hard work done with a short sickle that had to be sharpened constantly on a strickle: a wooden baton that was first dipped in pig's grease, then coated with fine sand that put a keen edge on the sickle's blade, though the edge never seemed sharp enough for me and, fit as I was, the constant stooping and tugging left my back aching and my muscles sore. I had never worked so hard when I lived on the Tor, but I had now left Merlin's privileged world and was a part of Owain's troop.

We stocked the cut grain in the fields, then carted vast heaps of rye straw to Caer Cadarn and Lindinis. The straw was used to repair the thatched roofs and to restuff the mattresses so that for a few blissful days our beds were free of lice and fleas, though that blessing did not last long. It was at that time I grew my first beard, a wispy gold affair of which I was inordinately proud. I spent my days doing backbreaking work in the fields but I still had to endure two hours of military training each night. Hywel had taught me well, but Owain wanted better. “That Silurian you killed,” Owain said to me one evening when I was sweating on Caer Cadarn's ramparts after a bout of single-stick with a warrior named Mapon, “I'll wager you a month's wages to a dead mouse that you killed him with your sword's edge.” I did not take the wager, but confirmed that I had indeed sliced the sword down like an axe. Owain laughed, then dismissed Mapon with a wave of his hand. “Hywel always taught people to fight with the edge,” Owain said. “Watch Arthur the next time he fights. Slash, slash, like a haymaker trying to finish before the rain comes.” He drew his own sword. “Use the point, boy,” he told me. “Always use the point. It kills quicker.” He lunged at me, making me parry desperately. “If you're using the sword's edge,” he said, 'it means you're in the open field. The shield-wall has broken, and if it's your shield-wall that's broken then you're a dead man, however good a swordsman you are. But if the shield-wall holds firm then it means you're standing shoulder to shoulder and you don't have room to swing a sword, only to stab.“ He thrust again, making in me parry. ”Why do you think the Romans had short swords?" he asked me.