Bernard Cornwell - Excalibur

‘Then why was Lancelot not victorious last summer?’ Ceinwyn asked.

The priest looked at her with his good eye while the other wandered off into the shadows. ‘King Lancelot, Lady, was not the Chosen One. King Meurig is. It says in our scriptures that one man will be chosen and it seems King Lancelot was not that man.’

‘Chosen to do what?’ Ceinwyn asked.

The priest stared at her; she was still such a beautiful woman, so golden and calm, the star of Powys.

‘Chosen, Lady,’ he said, ‘to unite all the peoples of Britain under the living God. Saxon and Briton, Gwentian and Dumnonian, Irish and Pict, all worshipping the one true God and all living in peace and love.’

‘And what if we decide not to follow King Meurig?’ Ceinwyn asked.

‘Then our God will destroy you.’

‘And that,’ I asked, ‘is the message you have come here to preach?’

‘I can do no other, Lord. I am commanded.’

‘By Meurig?’

‘By God.’

‘But I am the lord of the land both sides of the stream,’ I said, ‘and of all the land southwards to Caer Cadarn and northwards to Aquae Sulis and you do not preach here without my permission.’

‘No man can countermand God’s word, Lord,’ the priest said.

‘This can,’ I said, drawing Hywelbane.

His women hissed. The priest stared at the sword, then spat into the fire. ‘You risk God’s wrath.’

‘You risk my wrath,’ I said, ‘and if, at sundown tomorrow, you are still on the land I govern I shall give you as a slave to my slaves. You may sleep with the beasts tonight, but tomorrow you will go.’

He grudgingly left next day, and as if to punish me the first snow of the winter came with his leaving. That snow was early, promising a bitter season. At first it fell as sleet, but by nightfall it had become a thick snow that had whitened the land by dawn. It grew colder over the next week. Icicles hung inside our roof and now began the long winter struggle for warmth. In the village the folk slept with their beasts, while we fought the bitter air with great fires that made the icicles drip from the thatch. We put our winter cattle into the beast sheds, and killed the others, packing their meat in salt as Merlin had stored Gawain’s blood-drained body. For two days the village echoed with the distraught bellowing of oxen being dragged to the axe. The snow was spattered red and the air stank of blood, salt and dung. Inside the hall the fires roared, but they gave us small warmth. We woke cold, we shivered inside our furs and we waited in vain for a thaw. The stream froze so that we had to chip our way through the ice to draw each day’s water.

We still trained our young spearmen. We marched them through the snow, hardening their muscles to fight the Saxon. On the days when the snow fell hard and the wind whirled the flakes thick about the snow-crusted gables of the village’s small houses, I had the men make their shields out of willow boards that were covered with leather. I was making a warband, but as I watched them work I feared for them, wondering how many would live to see the summer sun.

A message came from Arthur just before the solstice. At Dun Caric we were busy preparing the great feast that would last all through the week of the sun’s death when Bishop Emrys arrived. He rode a horse with hoofs swathed in leather and was escorted by six of Arthur’s spearmen. The Bishop told us he had stayed in Gwent, arguing with Meurig, while Arthur had gone on to Demetia. ‘King Meurig has not utterly refused to help us,’ the Bishop told us, shivering beside the fire where he had made a space for himself by pushing two of-our dogs aside. He held his plump, red-chapped hands towards the flames. ‘But his conditions for that help are, I fear, unacceptable.’ He sneezed. ‘Dear Lady, you are most kind,’ he said to Ceinwyn who had brought him a horn of warmed mead.

‘What conditions?’ I asked.

Emrys shook his head sadly. ‘He wants Dumnonia’s throne, Lord.’

‘He wants what?’ I exploded.

Emrys held up a plump, chapped hand to still my anger. ‘He says that Mordred is unfit to rule, that Arthur is unwilling to rule, and that Dumnonia needs a Christian king. He offers himself.’

‘Bastard,’ I said. ‘The treacherous, lily-livered little bastard.’

‘Arthur can’t accept, of course,’ Emrys said, ‘his oath to Uther ensures that.’ He sipped the mead and sighed appreciatively. ‘So good to be warm again.’

‘So unless we give Meurig the kingdom,’ I said angrily, ‘he won’t help us?’

‘So he says. He insists God will protect Gwent and that, unless we acclaim him king, we must defend Dumnonia by ourselves.’

I walked to the hall door, pulled aside the leather curtain and stared at the snow that was heaped high on the points of our wooden palisade. ‘Did you talk to his father?’ I asked Emrys.

‘I did see Tewdric,’ the Bishop said. ‘I went with Agricola, who sends you his best wishes.’

Agricola had been King Tewdric’s warlord, a great warrior who fought in Roman armour and with a chill ferocity. But Agricola was an old man now, and Tewdric, his master, had given up the throne and shaved his head into a priest’s tonsure, thus yielding the power to his son. ‘Is Agricola well?’ I asked Emrys.

‘Old, but vigorous. He agrees with us, of course, but. ’ Emrys shrugged. ‘When Tewdric abdicated his throne, he gave up his power. He says he cannot change his son’s mind.’

‘Will not,’ I grumbled, going back to the fire.

‘Probably will not,’ Emrys agreed. He sighed. ‘I like Tewdric, but for now he is busy with other problems.’

‘What problems?’ I demanded too vehemently.

‘He would like to know,’ Emrys answered diffidently, ‘whether in heaven we will eat like mortals, or whether we shall be spared the need for earthly nourishment. There is a belief, you must understand, that angels do not eat at all, that indeed they are spared all gross and worldly appetites, and the old King is trying to replicate that manner of life. He eats very little, indeed he boasted to me that he once managed three whole weeks without defecating and felt a great deal more holy afterwards.’ Ceinwyn smiled, but said nothing, while I just stared at the Bishop with disbelief. Emrys finished the mead. ‘Tewdric claims,’

he added dubiously, ‘that he will starve himself into a state of grace. I confess I am not convinced, but he does seem a most pious man. We should all be as blessed.’

‘What does Agricola say?’ I asked.

‘He boasts of how frequently he defecates. Forgive me, Lady.’

‘It must have been a joyous reunion for the two of them,’ Ceinwyn said drily.

‘It was not immediately useful,’ Emrys admitted. ‘I had hoped to persuade Tewdric to change his son’s mind, but alas,’ he shrugged, ‘all we can do now is pray.’

‘And keep our spears sharp,’ I said wanly.

‘That, too,’ the Bishop agreed. He sneezed again and made the sign of the cross to nullify the ill-luck of the sneeze.

‘Will Meurig let Powys’s spearmen cross his land?’ I asked.

‘Cuneglas told him that if he refused permission then he would cross anyway.’

I groaned. The last thing we needed was for one British kingdom to fight another. For years such warfare had weakened Britain and had allowed the Saxons to take valley after valley and town after town, though of late it had been the Saxons who fought each other, and we who had taken advantage of their enmity to inflict defeats on them; but Cerdic and Aelle had learned the lesson that Arthur had beaten into the Britons, that victory came with unity. Now it was the Saxons who were united and the British who were divided.

‘I think Meurig will let Cuneglas cross,’ Emrys said, ‘for he does not want war with anyone. He just wants peace.’