Bernard Cornwell - The Winter King

“I don't know, Lord.”

“Because a short sword stabs better than a long one, that's why,” he said, 'not that I'll ever persuade any of you to change your swords, but even so, remember to stab. The point always wins, always.“ He turned away then suddenly whipped back to stab at me and somehow I managed to knock his blade aside with the clumsy single-stick. Owain grinned. ”You're fast,“ he said, 'and that's good. You'll make it, boy, so long as you stay sober.” He sheathed his sword and stared eastwards. He was looking for those distant grey smears of smoke that betrayed the presence of a raiding party, but this was harvest time for the Saxons as well as for ourselves and their soldiers had better things to do than cross our distant frontier. “So what do you think of Arthur, boy?” Owain asked me suddenly.

“I like him,” I said awkwardly, as nervous of his question as I had been of Arthur's about Owain. Owain's great shaggy head, so much like his old friend Uther's, turned to me. “Oh, he's likeable enough,” he said grudgingly. “I've always liked Arthur. Everyone likes Arthur, but the Gods alone know if anyone understands him. Except Merlin. You think Merlin's alive?”

“I know he is,” I said fervently, knowing nothing of the sort.

“Good,” Owain said. I came from the Tor and Owain assumed I had a magical knowledge denied to other men. The word had also spread among his warriors that I had cheated a Druid's death-pit, and that made me both lucky and auspicious in their eyes. “I like Merlin,” Owain went on, 'even though he did give Arthur that sword."

“Caledfwlch?” I asked, using Excalibur's proper name.

“You didn't know?” Owain asked in astonishment. He had heard the surprise in my voice, and no wonder, for Merlin had never spoken of making such a great gift. He sometimes talked of Arthur whom he had known in the brief time Arthur spent at Uther's court, but Merlin always used a fondly disparaging tone as if Arthur was a slow but willing pupil whose later exploits were greater than Merlin had ever expected, but the fact that he had given Arthur the famous sword suggested that Merlin's opinion of him was a great deal higher than he pretended it to be.

“Caledfwlch,” Owain explained to me, 'was forged in the Other-world by Gofannon.“ Gofannon was the God of Smith-craft. ”Merlin found it in Ireland,“ Owain went on, 'where the sword was called Cadalcholg. He won it off a Druid in a dream contest. The Irish Druids say that when Cadalcholg's wearer is in desperate trouble he can thrust the sword into the soil and Gofannon will leave the Otherworld and come to his help.” He shook his head, not in disbelief, but in wonderment. “Now why did Merlin give such a gift to Arthur?”

“Why not?” I asked carefully for I sensed the jealousy in Owain's question.

“Because Arthur doesn't believe in the Gods,” Owain said, 'that's why not. He doesn't even believe in that milksop God the Christians worship. So far as I can make out Arthur doesn't believe in anything, except big horses, and the Gods alone know what earthly use they are."

“They're frightening,” I said, wanting to be loyal to Arthur.

“Oh, they're frightening,” Owain agreed, 'but only if you've never seen one before. But they're slow, they take two or three times the amount of feed of a proper horse, they need two grooms, their hooves split like warm butter if you don't strap those clumsy shoes on to their feet, and they still won't charge home into a shield-wall."

“They won't?”

“No horse will!” Owain said scornfully. “Stand your ground and every horse in the world will swerve away from a line of steady spears. Horses are no use in war, boy, except to carry your scouts far and wide.”

"Then why' I began.

“Because,” Owain anticipated my question, 'the whole point of battle, boy, is to break the enemy's shield-wall. Everything else is easy, and Arthur's horses scare battle lines into flight, but the time will come when an enemy will stand firm, and the Gods help those horses then. And the Gods help Arthur too if he's ever knocked off his lump of horseflesh and tries to fight on foot wearing that suit of fish-armour. The only metal a warrior needs is his sword and the lump of iron at the end of his spear, the rest's just weight, lad, dead weight.“ He stared down into the fort's compound where Ladwys was clinging to the fence that surrounded Gundleus's prison. ”Arthur won't last here,“ he said confidently. ”One defeat and he'll sail back to Armorica where they're impressed by big horses, fish suits and fancy swords.“ He spat, and I knew that despite Owain's professed liking for Arthur there was something else there, something deeper than jealousy. Owain knew he had a rival, but he was biding his time as, I guessed, Arthur was biding his, and the mutual enmity worried me for I liked both men. Owain smiled at Ladwys's distress. ”She's a loyal bitch, I'll say that for her,“ the big man said, 'but I'll break her yet. Is that your woman?” He nodded towards Lunete who was carrying a leather bag of water towards the warriors' huts.

“Yes,” I said and blushed at the confession. Lunete, like my new beard, was a sign of manhood and I wore both clumsily. Lunete had decided to stay with me instead of going back to what was left of Ynys Wydryn with Nimue. The decision really had been Lunete's and I was still nervous of everything about our relationship, though Lunete seemed to have no doubts about the arrangement. She had taken over a corner of the hut, swept it, screened it with some withy hurdles, and now talked confidently about our joint future. I had thought she would want to stay with Nimue, but since her rape Nimue had been quiet and withdrawn. Indeed, she had become hostile, speaking to no one except to turn away their conversation. Morgan was tending her eye and the same smith who had made Morgan's mask was offering to make a gold ball to replace the lost eyeball. Lunete, like the rest of us, had become a little frightened of this new, sour, spitting Nimue.

“She's a pretty girl,” Owain said grudgingly of Lunete, 'but girls live with warriors for one reason only, boy, to get rich. So make sure you keep her happy, or sure as eggs she'll make you miserable.“ He fished in his coat's pockets and found a small gold ring. ”Give it to her," he said. I stammered my thanks. Warrior leaders were supposed to grant their followers gifts, yet even so the ring was a generous gift for I had yet to fight as one of Owain's men. Lunete liked the ring which, with the silver wire I had unwrapped from my sword's pommel, was the beginning of her treasure hoard. She incised a cross on the ring's worn surface, not because she was a Christian, but because the cross made it into a lover's ring and showed that she had passed from girlhood into womanhood. Some men also wore lovers' rings, but I craved after the simple iron hoops that victorious warriors hammered from the spearheads of their defeated enemies. Owain wore a score of such rings in his beard, and his fingers were dark with others. Arthur, I had noticed, wore none.

Once our own harvest was gathered from the fields around Caer

Cadarn we marched all over Dumnonia to collect the tax crops. We visited client kings and chiefs, and were always accompanied by a clerk from Mordred's treasury who tallied the revenue. It was strange to think that Mordred was now King and that it was no longer Uther's treasury we filled, but even a baby king needed money to pay for Arthur's troops as well as all the other soldiers who were keeping Dumnonia's borders secure. Some of Owain's men were sent to reinforce the permanent guard in Gereint's frontier fortress at Durocobrivis while the rest of us became taxmen for a while. I was surprised that Owain, that famous lover of battle, did not go to Durocobrivis nor back to Gwent, but instead stayed with the commonplace work of assessing tax. To me such work seemed menial, but I was just a wispy-bearded boy who did not understand Owain's mind.