Bernard Cornwell - The Winter King

“Mulch the next tree,” I advised him. “Let the roots stay damp while it settles in. And don't transplant a tree in flower, Bishop, they don't like it. That's been the trouble with the last few thorns you planted here; you dug them out of the woods at the wrong time. Bring them across in winter and dig them a good hole with some dung and mulch and you might get a real miracle.”

“Forgive them, Lord!” Sansum said, dropping to his knees and gazing into the damp heavens. Arthur wanted to visit the Tor, though first he stood beside Norwenna's grave that had become a place of veneration for Christians. “She was an ill-used woman,” he told me.

“All women are,” Nimue said. She had followed us to the grave that stood close beside the Holy Thorn.

“No,” Arthur insisted. “Maybe most people are, but not all women any more than all men. But this woman was, and we still have to avenge her.”

“You had your chance of vengeance once,” Nimue accused him harshly, 'and you let Gundleus live."

“Because I hoped for peace,” Arthur said. “But next time he dies.”

“Your wife,” Nimue said, 'promised him to me."

Arthur shuddered, knowing what cruelty lay behind Nimue's desire, but he nodded. “He is yours,” he said, “I promise it.” He turned and led the two of us through the pouring rain to the Tor's summit. Nimue and I were going home, Arthur to see Morgan.

He embraced his sister in the hall. Morgan's gold mask shone dully in the stormy light, while round her neck she wore the bear claws set in gold that Arthur had brought her from Benoic so very long ago. She clung to him, desperate for affection, and I left them alone. Nimue, almost as though she had never been away from the

Tor, ducked through the small door into Merlin's rebuilt chambers while I ran through the rain to Gudovan's hut. I found the old clerk sitting at his desk, but not working for he was blinded with cataracts, though he said he could still make out light and dark. “And mostly it's dark now,” he said sadly, then smiled. “I suppose you're too big to hit now, Derfel?”

“You can try, Gudovan,” I said, 'but it won't do much good any more."

“Did it ever?” He chuckled. “Merlin spoke of you when he was here last week. Not that he stayed long. He came, he talked with us, he left us another cat as if we didn't have enough cats already, and then he left. He didn't even stay the night, he was in such a hurry.”

“Do you know where he went?” I asked.

“He wouldn't say, but where do you think he went?” Gudovan asked with a touch of his old asperity.

“Chasing Nimue. At least I suppose that's what he's doing, though why he should chase that silly girl, I don't know. He should take a slave!” He paused and suddenly seemed on the edge of tears. “You know Sebile died?” he went on. “Poor woman. She was murdered, Derfel! Murdered! Had her throat slit. No one knows who did it. Some traveller, I assume. The world goes to the dogs, Derfel, to the dogs.” For a moment he seemed lost, then he found the thread of his thoughts again. “Merlin should use a slave. Nothing wrong with a willing slave and there are plenty in town who oblige for a small coin. I use the house down by Gwlyddyn's old workshop. There's a nice woman there, though these days we tend to talk more than we bump about the bed. I get old, Derfel.”

“You don't look old. And Merlin isn't chasing Nimue. She's here.” Thunder sounded again and Gudovan's hand found a small piece of iron that he stroked for protection against evil. “Nimue here?” he asked in amazement. “But we heard she was on the Isle!” He touched the iron again.

“She was,” I said flatly, 'but isn't now."

“Nimue…” He said the name almost in disbelief. “Is she staying?”

“No, we all go east today.”

“And leaving us alone?” he asked petulantly. “I miss Hywel.”

“So do I.”

He sighed. "Times change, Derfel. The Tor isn't what it was.

We're all old now and there are no children left. I miss them, and poor Druidan has no one to chase. Pellinore rants to emptiness, while Morgan is bitter."

“Wasn't she always?” I asked lightly.

“She has lost her power,” he explained. “Not her power to tell dreams or heal the sick, but the power she enjoyed when Merlin was here and Uther was on the throne. She resents that, Derfel, just as she resents your Nimue.” He paused, thinking. “She was especially angry when Guinevere sent for Nimue to fight Sansum about that church in Durnovaria. Morgan believes she should have been summoned, but we hear that the Lady Guinevere wants no one but the beautiful around her and where does that leave Morgan?” He chuckled at the question. “But she's still a strong woman, Derfel, and she has her brother's ambition so she won't be content to stay here listening to the dreams of peasants and grinding herbs to cure the milk-fever. She's bored! So bored that she even plays throw board with that wretched Bishop Sansum from the shrine. Why did they send him to Ynys Wydryn?”

“Because they didn't want him in Durnovaria. Does he really come here to play games with Morgan?” Gudovan nodded. “He says he needs intelligent company and that she has the cleverest mind in Ynys Wydryn, and I dare say he's right. He preaches to her, of course, endless nonsense about a virgin whelping a God who gets nailed to a cross, but Morgan just lets it roll past her mask. At least I hope she does.” He paused and sipped from a horn of mead in which a wasp was struggling as it drowned. When he put the horn down I fished the wasp out and squashed it on his desk. “Christianity gains converts, Derfel,” Gudovan went on. “Even Gwlyddyn's wife, that nice woman Ralla, has converted, which probably means that Gwlyddyn and the two children will follow her. I don't mind, but why do they have to sing so much?”

“You don't like singing?” I teased him.

“No one loves a good song better than I!” he said stoutly. “The Battle Song of Uther or the Slaughter Chant of Taranis, that's what I call a song, not this whining and moaning about being sinners in need of grace.” He sighed and shook his head. “I hear you were in Ynys Trebes?” he asked. I told him the tale of the city's fall. It seemed an appropriate story as we sat there with the rain falling on the fields outside and a gloom lowering over all Dumnonia. When the tale was told Gu-do van stared sightlessly through the door, saying nothing. I thought he might have fallen asleep, but when I rose from the stool, he waved me down. “Are things as bad as Bishop Sansum claims?” he asked.

“They're bad, my friend,” I admitted.

“Tell me.”

I told him how the Irish and the Cornish were raiding in the west where Cadwy still pretended to rule an independent kingdom. Tristan did his best to restrain his father's soldiers, but King Mark could not resist enriching his poor kingdom by stealing from a weakened Dumnonia. I told him how Aelle's Saxons had broken the truce, but added that Gorfyddyd's army still posed the greatest threat. “He's assembled the men of Elmet, Powys and Siluria,” I told Gudovan, 'and once the harvest is gathered he'll lead them all south."

“And Aelle doesn't fight against Gorfyddyd?” the old scribe asked.

“Gorfyddyd has purchased peace from Aelle.”

“And will Gorfyddyd win?” Gudovan asked.

I paused a long time. “No,” I finally said, not because it was the truth, but because I did not want this old friend to worry that his last glimpse of this life would be a flash of light as a warrior's sword swung towards his blinded eyes. “Arthur will fight them,” I said, 'and Arthur has yet to be beaten."

“You'll fight them too?”

“It's my job now, Gudovan.”

“You would have made a good clerk,” he said sadly, 'and it is an honourable and useful profession, even though no one makes us lords because of it.“ I thought he had not known of my honour and I suddenly felt ashamed of being so proud of it. Gudovan groped for his mead and took another sip. ”If you see Merlin,“ he said, 'tell him to come back. The Tor is dead without him.”