Bernard Cornwell - Excalibur

I decided the Gods would forgive an untruth. ‘I bring you greetings, Lord King,’ I said, ‘from Erce, and the filial respect of Erce’s son who is also, to his joy, your own.’

The words meant nothing to Cerdic. Lancelot, who had listened to a translation, again whispered urgently to his interpreter and that man spoke once more to Cerdic. I did not doubt that he had encouraged what Cerdic now uttered. ‘He must die,’ Cerdic insisted. He spoke very calmly, as though my death were a small thing. ‘We have an agreement,’ he reminded Aelle.

‘Our agreement says we shall receive no embassies from our enemies,’ Aelle said, still staring at me.

‘And what else is he?’ Gerdic demanded, at last showing some temper.

‘He is my son,’ Aelle said simply, and a gasp sounded all around the crowded hall. ‘He is my son,’

Aelle said again, ‘are you not?’

‘I am, Lord King.’

‘You have more sons,’ Cerdic told Aelle carelessly, and gestured towards some bearded men who sat at Aelle’s left hand. Those men — I presumed they were my half-brothers — just stared at me in confusion. ‘He brings a message from Arthur!’

Cerdic insisted. ‘That dog,’ he pointed his knife towards me, ‘always serves Arthur.’

‘Do you bring a message from Arthur?’ Aelle asked.

‘I have a son’s words for a father,’ I lied again, ‘nothing more.’

‘He must die!’ Cerdic said curtly, and all his supporters in the hall growled their agreement.

‘I will not kill my own son,’ Aelle said, ‘in my own hall.’

‘Then I may?’ Cerdic asked acidly. ‘If a Briton comes to us then he must be put to the sword.’ He spoke those words to the whole hall. ‘That is agreed between us!’ Cerdic insisted and his men roared their approval and beat spear shafts against their shields. ‘That thing,’ Cerdic said, flinging a hand towards me, ‘is a Saxon who fights for Arthur! He is vermin, and you know what you do with vermin!’

The warriors bellowed for my death and their hounds added to the clamour with howls and barks. Lancelot watched me, his face unreadable, while Amhar and Loholt looked eager to help put me to the sword. Loholt had an especial hatred for me, for I had held his arm while his father had struck off his right hand.

Aelle waited until the tumult had subsided. ‘In my hall,’ he said, stressing the possessive word to show that he ruled here, not Cerdic, ‘a warrior dies with his sword in his hand. Does any man here wish to kill Derfel while he carries his sword?’ He looked about the hall, inviting someone to challenge me. No one did, and Aelle looked down at his fellow King. ‘I will break no agreement with you, Cerdic. Our spears will march together and nothing my son says can prevent that victory.’

Cerdic picked a scrap of meat from between his teeth. ‘His skull,’ he said, pointing to me, ‘will make a fine standard for battle. I want him dead.’

‘Then you kill him,’ Aelle said scornfully. They might have been allies, but there was little affection between them. Aelle resented the younger Cerdic as an upstart, while Cerdic believed the older man lacked ruthlessness.

Cerdic half smiled at Aelle’s challenge. ‘Not me,’ he said mildly, ‘but my champion will do the work.’

He looked down the hall, found the man he wanted and pointed a finger. ‘Liofa! There is vermin here. Kill it!’

The warriors cheered again. They relished the thought of a fight, and doubtless before the night was over the ale they were drinking would cause more than a few deadly battles, but a fight to the death between a King’s champion and a King’s son was a far finer entertainment than any drunken brawl and a much better amusement than the melody of the two harpists who watched from the hall’s edges. I turned to see my opponent, hoping he would prove to be already half drunk and thus easy meat for Hywelbane, but the man who stepped through the feasters was not at all what I had expected. I thought he would be a huge man, not unlike Aelle, but this champion was a lean, lithe warrior with a calm, shrewd face that carried not a single scar. He gave me an unworried glance as he let his cloak fall, then he pulled a long thin-bladed sword from its leather scabbard. He wore little jewellery, nothing but a plain silver torque, and his clothes had none of the finery that most champions affected. Everything about him spoke of experience and confidence, while his unscarred face suggested either monstrous good luck or uncommon skill. He also looked frighteningly sober as he came to the open space in front of the high table and bowed to the Kings.

Aelle looked troubled. ‘The price for speaking with me,’ he told me, ‘is to defend yourself against Liofa. Or you may leave now and go home in safety.’ The warriors jeered that suggestion.

‘I would speak with you, Lord King,’ I said.

Aelle nodded, then sat. He still looked unhappy and I guessed that Liofa had a fearsome reputation as a swordsman. He had to be good, or else he would not be Cerdic’s champion, but something about Aelle’s face told me that Liofa was more than just good.

Yet I too had a reputation, and that seemed to worry Bors who was whispering urgently in Lancelot’s ear. Lancelot, once his cousin had finished, beckoned to the interpreter who in turn spoke with Cerdic. The King listened, then gave me a dark look.

‘How do we know,’ he asked, ‘that this son of yours, Aelle, is not wearing some charm of Merlin’s?’

The Saxons had always feared Merlin, and the suggestion made them growl angrily. Aelle frowned. ‘Do you have one, Derfel?’

‘No, Lord King.’

Cerdic was not convinced. ‘These men would recognize Merlin’s magic,’ he insisted, waving at Lancelot and Bors; then he spoke to the interpreter, who passed on his orders to Bors. Bors shrugged, stood up and walked round the table and off the dais. He hesitated as he approached me, but I spread my arms as though to show that I meant him no harm. Bors examined my wrists, maybe looking for strands of knotted grass or some other amulet, then tugged open the laces of my leather jerkin. ‘Be careful of him, Derfel,’ he muttered in British, and I realized, with surprise, that Bors was no enemy after all. He had persuaded Lancelot and Cerdic that I needed to be searched just so that he could whisper his warning to me. ‘He’s quick as a weasel,’ Bors went on, ‘and he fights with both hands. Watch the bastard when he seems to slip.’ He saw the small golden brooch that had been a present from Ceinwyn.

‘Is it charmed?’ he asked me.

‘No.’

‘I’ll keep it for you anyway,’ he said, unpinning the brooch and showing it to the hall, and the warriors roared their anger that I might have been concealing the talisman. ‘And give me your shield,’ Bors said, for Liofa had none.

I slipped the loops from my left arm and gave the shield to Bors. He took it and placed it against the dais, then balanced Ceinwyn’s brooch on the shield’s top edge. He looked at me as if to make sure I had seen where he put it and I nodded.

Cerdic’s champion gave his sword a cut in the smoky air. ‘I have killed forty-eight men in single combat,’ he told me in a mild, almost bored voice, ‘and lost count of the ones who have fallen to me in battle.’ He paused and touched his face. ‘In all those fights,’ he said, ‘I have not once taken a scar. You may yield to me now if you want your death to be swift.’

‘You may give me your sword,’ I told him, ‘and spare yourself a beating.’

The exchange of insults was a formality. Liofa shrugged away my offer and turned to the kings. He bowed again and I did the same. We were standing ten paces apart in the middle of the open space between the dais and the nearest of the three big fires, and on either flank the hall was crammed with excited men. I could hear the chink of coins as wagers were placed.