Bernard Cornwell - The Winter King

“No, Lady,” I said.

“But she learned with Nimue, did she not?”

“No,” I said. “She was never allowed in Merlin's rooms. She had no interest.”

“But you were in Merlin's rooms?”

“Only twice,” I said. I could see her breasts and I deliberately dropped my gaze to the black pool, but that only mirrored her beauty and added a sultry sheen of dark mystery to her long, lithe body. A heavy silence fell and I realized, thinking about our last exchange, that Lunete must have claimed some knowledge of Merlin's magic and that I had undoubtedly just spoiled that claim. “Maybe,” I said feebly,

“Lunete knows more than she ever told me?”

Guinevere shrugged and turned away. I raised my eyes again. “But Nimue, you say, is more skilled than Lunete?” she asked me.

“Infinitely, Lady.”

“I have twice demanded that Nimue come to me,” Guinevere said sharply, 'and twice she has refused. How do I make her come to me?"

“The best way,” I said, 'of making Nimue do anything is to forbid her to do it.“ There was silence in the room again. The sounds of the town were loud enough; the cry of hawkers in the market, the clatter of cart wheels on stone, dogs barking, a rattle of pots in a nearby kitchen, but in the room it was silent. ”One day,“ Guinevere broke our silence, ”I shall build a temple to Isis up there.“ She pointed to the ramparts of Mai Dun that filled the southern sky. ”Is it a sacred place?"

“Very.”

“Good.” She turned towards me again, the sun filling her red hair and glowing on her smooth skin beneath the white shift. “I do not want to play childish games, Derfel, by trying to out-guess Nimue. I want her here. I need a priestess of power. I need a friend of the old Gods if I am to fight that grub Sansum. I need Nimue, Derfel, so for the love you have for Arthur, tell me what message will bring her here. Tell me that and I will tell you why I worship Isis.”

I paused, thinking what lure could possibly attract Nimue. “Tell her,” I finally said, 'that Arthur will give her Gundleus if she obeys you. But make sure he does," I added.

“Thank you, Derfel.” She smiled, then sat in the black, polished stone throne. “Isis,” she told me, 'is a woman's Goddess and the throne is her symbol. A man might sit on a kingdom's throne, but Isis can determine who that man is. That is why I worship her."

I smelt the hint of treason in her words. “The throne of this kingdom, Lady,” I said, repeating Arthur's frequent claim, 'is filled by Mordred."

Guinevere mocked that assertion with a sneer. “Mordred could not fill a pissing pot! Mordred is a cripple! Mordred is a badly behaved child who already scents power like a hog snuffling to rut a sow.” Her voice was whip-hard and scornful. “And since when, Derfel, was a throne handed from father to son? It was never thus in the old days! The best man of the tribe took the power, and that is how it should be today.” She closed her eyes as though she suddenly regretted her outburst. “You are a friend of my husband?” she asked after a while, her eyes open again.

“You know I am, Lady.”

“Then you and I are friends, Derfel. We are one, because we both love Arthur, and do you think, my friend Derfel Cadarn, that Mordred will make a better king than Arthur?” I hesitated for she was inviting me to speak treason, but she was also inviting me to speak honestly in a sacred place and so I gave her the truth. “No, Lady. Prince Arthur would make the better king.”

“Good.” She smiled at me. “So tell Arthur he has nothing to fear and much to gain by my worship of Isis. Tell him it is for his future that I worship here, and that nothing that happens in this room can cause him injury. Is that plain enough?”

“I shall tell him, Lady.”

She stared at me for a long time. I stood soldier straight, my cloak touching the black floor, Hywelbane at my side and my full beard gold in the shrine's sun. “Are we going to win this war?” Guinevere asked after a while.

“Yes, Lady.”

She smiled at my confidence. “Tell me why.”

“Because Gwent stands like a rock to our north,” I said, 'because the Saxons fight amongst themselves like we do and so they never combine against us. Because Gundleus of Siluria is terrified of another defeat. Because Cadwy is a slug who will be squashed when we have time to spare. Because Gorfyddyd knows how to fight, but not how to lead armies. Most of all, Lady, because we have Prince Arthur."

“Good,” she said again, then stood so that the sun flooded through that fine white linen shift. “You must go, Derfel. You've seen enough.” I blushed and she laughed. “And find a stream!” she called as I pushed through the curtain at the door. “Because you stink like a Saxon!” I found a stream, washed myself, then took my men south to the sea. I do not like the sea. It is cold and treacherous, and its grey shifting hills run endlessly from the far west where the sun dies each day. Somewhere beyond that empty horizon, the seamen told me, the fabled land of Lyonesse lies, but no one has seen it, or certainly no one has ever returned from Lyonesse, and so it has become a blessed haven to all poor seamen; a land of earthly delights where there is no war, no famine and, above all, no ships to cross the grey lumpy sea with its wind-scoured white-caps whipping down the grey-green slopes that heaved our small wooden boats so mercilessly. The coast of Dumnonia looked so green. I had not realized how much I loved the place till first I left it. My men travelled in three ships, all rowed by slaves, though once we were out of the river a wind came from the west and the oars were shipped as the ragged sails dragged the clumsy ships down the long waves' swooping sides. Many of my men were sick. They were young, mostly younger than myself, for war is truly a boys' game, but a few were older. Cavan, who was my second-in-command, was close to forty and had a grizzled beard and a face cross-hatched with scars. He was a dour Irishman who had taken service with Uther and who now found nothing strange in being commanded by a man only half his age. He called me Lord, assuming that because I came from the Tor I was Merlin's heir, or at least the magician's lordly child whelped on a Saxon slave. Arthur had given me Cavan, I think, in case my authority should prove no greater than my years, but in all honesty I never had trouble commanding men. You tell soldiers what they must do, do it yourself, punish them when they fail, but otherwise reward them well and give them victory. My spearmen were all volunteers and were going to Benoic either because they wanted to serve me or, more likely, because they believed there would be greater plunder and glory south of the sea. We travelled without women, horses or servants. I had given Canna her freedom and sent her to the Tor, hoping Nimue would look after her, but I doubted I would see my little Saxon again. She would find herself a husband soon enough, while I would find the new Britain, Brittany, and see for myself the fabled beauty of Ynys Trebes.

Bleiddig, the chief sent by King Ban, travelled with us. He grumbled at my lack of years, but after Cavan growled that I had probably killed more men than Bleiddig himself Bleiddig decided to keep his reservations about me private. He still complained that our numbers were too few. The Franks, he said, were land-hungry, well armed and numerous. Two hundred men, he now claimed, might make a difference, but not sixty.

We anchored that first night in the bay of an island. The seas roared past the bay's mouth while on the shore a ragged band of men shouted at us and sometimes fired feeble arrows that fell far short of our three ships. Our shipmaster feared a storm was coming and he sacrificed a kid that was on board for just that purpose. He drizzled the dying animal's blood on the bow of his ship and by morning the winds had calmed, though a great fog had crept over the sea instead. None of the ships' captains would sail in the fog so we waited a full day and night, and then, under a clear sky, rowed southwards. It was a long day. We skirted some dreadful rocks that were crowned with the bones of ships that had foundered, and then, in a warm evening, with a small wind and a rising tide helping our tired rowers, we slid into a wide river where, beneath the lucky wings of a flight of swans, we beached our craft. There was a fort nearby and armed men came to the river bank to challenge us, but Bleiddig shouted that we were friends. The men called back in British, welcoming us. The setting sun was gilding the river's swirls and eddies. The place smelt of fish and salt and tar. Black nets hung on racks beside beached fishing boats, fires blazed under the salt pans, dogs ran in and out of the small waves barking at us and a group of children came from some nearby huts to watch as we splashed ashore.