Bernard Cornwell - The Winter King

In late autumn, when most armies are thinking of greasing their weapons and storing them through the cold months, the might of Powys marched. Britain was at war.

IGRAINE TALKS TO ME of love. It is spring here in Dinnewrac and the sun infuses the monastery with a feeble warmth. There are lambs on the southern slopes, though yesterday a wolf killed three of them and left a blood trail past our gate. Beggars gather at the gate for food and hold out their diseased hands when Igraine comes to visit. One of the beggars stole the maggoty remains of a lamb carcass from the scavenging ravens and sat there gnawing at the pelt as Igraine arrived this morning. Was Guinevere really beautiful, she asks me. No, I say, but many women would exchange their beauty for Guinevere's looks. Igraine, of course, wanted to know if she herself was beautiful and I assured her she was, but she said the mirrors in her husband's Caer were very old and battered and it was so hard to tell. “Wouldn't it be lovely,” she said, 'to see ourselves as we really are?"

“God does that,” I said, 'and only God."

She wrinkled her face at me. “I do hate it when you preach at me, Derfel. It doesn't suit you. If Guinevere wasn't beautiful, then why did Arthur fall in love with her?”

“Love is not only for the beautiful,” I said reprovingly.

“Did I say it was?” Igraine asked indignantly, 'but you said Guinevere attracted Arthur from the very first moment, so if it wasn't beauty, what was it?"

“The very sight of her,” I answered, 'turned his blood to smoke.“ Igraine liked that. She smiled. ”So she was beautiful?"

“She challenged him,” I answered, 'and he thought he would be less than a man if he failed to capture her. And maybe the Gods were playing games with us?" I shrugged, unable to come up with more reasons.

“And besides,” I said, “I never meant to say she was not beautiful, just that she was more than beautiful. She was the best-looking woman I ever saw.”

“Including me?” my Queen immediately demanded.

“Alas,” I said, 'my eyes are dim with age."

She laughed at the evasion. “Did Guinevere love Arthur?” she asked.

“She loved the idea of him,” I said. “She loved that he was the champion of Dumnonia, and she loved him as he was when she first saw him. He was in his armour, the great Arthur, the shining one, the lord of war, the most feared sword in all of Britain and Armorica.”

Igraine ran the tasselled cord of her white robe through her hands. She was thoughtful for a while. “Do you think I turn Brochvael's blood to smoke?” she asked wistfully.

“Nightly,” I said.

“Oh, Derfel,” she sighed and slipped off the window-sill to walk to the door from where she could stare down into our little hall. “Were you ever in love like that?” she asked.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Who was it?” she demanded instantly.

“Never mind,” I said.

“I do mind! I insist. Was it Nimue?” she asked.

“It wasn't Nimue,” I said firmly. “Nimue was different. I loved her, but I wasn't mad with desire for her. I just thought she was infinitely…” I paused, looking for the word and failing to find it. “Wonderful,” I offered lamely, not looking at Igraine so she would not see my tears. She waited a while. “So who were you in love with? Lunete?”

“No! No!”

“Who, then?” she persisted.

“The story will come in time,” I said, 'if I live."

“Of course you'll live. We shall send you special foods from the Caer.”

“Which my Lord Sansum,” I told her, not wanting her to waste the effort, 'will take from me as unworthy fare for a mere brother."

“Then come and live in the Caer,” she said eagerly. “Please!” I smiled. “I would do that most willingly, Lady, but alas, I took an oath to stay here.”

“Poor Derfel.” She went back to the window and watched Brother Maelgwyn digging. He had our surviving novice, Brother Tudwal, with him. The second novice died of a fever in the late winter, but Tudwal still lives and shares the saint's cell. The saint wants the boy taught his letters, mainly, I think, so he can discover whether I really am translating the Gospel into Saxon, but the lad is not bright and seems better suited to digging than to reading. It is time we had some real scholars here in Dinnewrac for this feeble spring has brought our usual rancorous arguments about the date of Easter and we shall have no peace until the argument is done. “Did Sansum really marry Arthur and Guinevere?” Igraine interrupted my gloomy thoughts.

“Yes,” I said, 'he really did."

“And it wasn't in a great church? With trumpets playing?”

“It was in a clearing beside a stream,” I said, 'with frogs croaking and willow catkins piling up behind the beaver dam."

“We were married in a feasting hall,” Igraine said, 'and the smoke made my eyes water." She shrugged.

“So what did you change in the last part?” she asked accusingly. “What story-shaping did you do?” I shook my head. “None.”

“But at Mordred's acclamation,” she asked disappointedly, 'the sword was only laid on the stone? Not thrust into it? Are you sure?"

“It was laid flat on top. I swear it' — I made the sign of the cross' on Christ's blood, my Lady.” She shrugged. “Dafydd ap Gruffud will translate the tale any way I want him to, and I like the idea of a sword in the stone. I'm glad you were kind about Cuneglas.”

“He was a good man,” I said. He was also Igraine's husband's grandfather.

“Was Ceinwyn really beautiful?” Igraine asked.

I nodded. “She was, she truly was. She had blue eyes.”

“Blue eyes!” Igraine shuddered at such Saxon features. “What happened to the brooch she gave you?”

“I wish I knew,” I said, lying. The brooch is in my cell, hidden there safe from even Sansum's vigorous searches. The saint, whom God will surely exalt above all men living and dead, does not allow us to possess any treasures. All our goods must be surrendered to his keeping, that is the rule, and though I surrendered everything else to Sansum, including Hywelbane, God forgive me, I have Ceinwyn's brooch still. The gold has been smoothed by the years, yet still I see Ceinwyn when, in the darkness, I take the brooch from its hiding place and let the moonlight gloss its intricate pattern of interlocking curves. Sometimes no, always I touch it to my lips. What a foolish old man I have become. Perhaps I shall give the brooch to Igraine, for I know she will value it, but I shall keep it a while for the gold is like a scrap of sunshine in this chill grey place. Of course, when Igraine reads this she will know the brooch exists, but if she is as kind as I know her to be, she will let me keep it as a small remembrance of a sinful life.

“I don't like Guinevere,” Igraine said.

“Then I have failed,” I said.

“You make her sound very hard,” Igraine said.

I said nothing for a while, but just listened to the sheep bleating. “She could be wonderfully kind,” I said after the pause. “She knew how to make the sad happy, but she was impatient with the commonplace. She had a vision of a world that did not hold cripples or bores or ugly things, and she wanted to make that world real by banishing such inconveniences. Arthur had a vision, too, only his vision offered help to the cripples, and he wanted to make his world just as real.”

“He wanted Camelot,” Igraine said dreamily.

“We called it Dumnonia,” I said severely.

“You try to suck all the joy out of it, Derfel,” Igraine said crossly, though she was never truly angry with me. “I want it to be the poet's Camelot: green grass and high towers and ladies in gowns and warriors strewing their paths with flowers. I want minstrels and laughter! Wasn't it ever like that?”