Bernard Cornwell - Excalibur

By evening the first funeral pyres were burning. I helped lay the corpses of my own men on their pyres, then left their comrades singing their souls to the Otherworld while I retrieved my horse and rode northwards through the long soft shadows. I rode towards the village where our women had found shelter and as I climbed into the northern hills the noise of the battlefield receded. It was the sound of fires crackling, of women weeping, of chanted elegies and of drunken men whooping savagely. I took the news of Cuneglas’s death to Ceinwyn. She stared at me when I told her and for a moment she showed no reaction, but then tears welled in her eyes. She pulled her cloak over her head. ‘Poor Perddel,’ she said, meaning Cuneglas’s son who was now the King of Powys. I told her how her brother had died, and then she retreated into the cottage where she and our daughters were living. She wanted to bind up my head wound that looked much worse than it was, but she could not do it for she and her daughters must mourn Cuneglas and that meant they must shut themselves away for three days and nights in which they must hide from the sun and could neither see nor touch any man. It was dark by then. I could have stayed in the village, but I was restless and so, under the light of a thinning moon, I rode back south. I went first to Aquae Sulis, thinking that I might find Arthur in the city, but found only the torch-lit remnants of carnage. Our levy had flooded over the inadequate wall and slaughtered whoever they found inside, but the horror ended once Tewdric’s troops occupied the city. Those Christians cleaned the temple of Minerva, scooping out the entrails of three sacrificed bulls that the Saxons had left spilling bloodily across the tiles, and once the shrine was restored the Christians held a rite of thanksgiving. I heard their singing and went to find songs of my own, but my men had stayed in Cerdic’s ruined camp and Aquae Sulis was filled with strangers. I could not find Arthur, or any other friend except Culhwch and he was roaring drunk, and so, in the soft dark, I rode east along the river. The air stank of blood and was filled with ghosts, but I risked the wraiths in my desperation to find a companion. I did find a group of Sagramor’s men singing about a fire, but they did not know where their commander was, and so I rode on, drawn still farther eastwards by the sight of men dancing around a fire.

The dancers were Blackshields and their steps were high for they were dancing across the severed heads of their enemies. I would have ridden around the capering Blackshields, but then glimpsed two white-robed figures sitting calmly beside the fire amidst the ring of dancers. One of them was Merlin. I tied my horse’s reins to a thorn stump, then stepped through the dancing ring. Merlin and his companion were making a meal of bread, cheese and ale, and when Merlin first saw me he did not recognize me. ‘Go away,’ he snapped, ‘or I shall turn you into a toad. Oh, it’s you, Derfel!’ He sounded disappointed. ‘I knew if I found food that some empty belly would expect me to share it. I suppose you’re hungry?’

‘I am, Lord.’

He gestured for me to sit beside him. ‘I suspect the cheese is Saxon,’ he said dubiously, ‘and it was rather covered in blood when I discovered it, but I washed it clean. Well, I wiped it anyway, and it’s proving surprisingly edible. I suppose there’s just enough for you.’ In truth there was enough for a dozen men. ‘This is Taliesin,’ he curtly introduced his companion. ‘He’s some kind of bard out of Powys.’

I looked at the famous bard and saw a young man with a keenly intelligent face. He had shaved the front part of his head like a Druid, wore a short black beard, had a long jaw, sunken cheeks and a narrow nose. His shaven forehead was circled by a thin fillet of silver. He smiled and bowed his head.

‘Your fame precedes you, Lord Derfel.’

‘As does yours,’ I said.

‘Oh, no!’ Merlin groaned. ‘If you two are going to grovel all over each other then go somewhere else and do it. Derfel fights,’ he told Taliesin, ‘because he has never really grown up, and you’re famous because you happen to have a passable voice.’

‘I make songs as well as sing them,’ Taliesin said modestly.

‘And any man can make a song if he’s drunk enough,’ Merlin said dismissively, then squinted at me.

‘Is that blood on your hair?’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘You should be grateful you weren’t wounded anywhere crucial.’ He laughed at that, then gestured at the Blackshields. ‘What do you think of my bodyguard?’

‘They dance well.’

‘They have much to dance about. What a satisfying day,’ Merlin said. ‘And didn’t Gawain play his part well? It’s so gratifying when a halfwit proves to be of some use, and what a halfwit Gawain was! A tedious boy! Forever trying to improve the world. Why do the young always believe they know more than their elders? You, Taliesin, do not suffer from that tedious misapprehension. Taliesin,’ Merlin now explained to me, ‘has come to learn from my wisdom.’

‘I have much to learn,’ Taliesin murmured.

‘Very true, very true,’ Merlin said. He pushed a jug of ale towards me. ‘Did you enjoy your little battle, Derfel?’

‘No.’ In truth I was feeling oddly downcast. ‘Cuneglas died,’ I explained.

‘I heard about Cuneglas,’ Merlin said. ‘What a fool! He should have left the heroics to halfwits like you. Still, it’s a pity he died. He wasn’t exactly a clever man, not what I should call clever, but he was no halfwit and that’s rare enough in these sad days. And he was always kind to me.’

‘He was kindness itself to me,’ Taliesin put in.

‘So now you will have to find a new patron,’ Merlin told the bard, ‘and don’t look at Derfel. He couldn’t tell a decent song from a bullock’s fart. The trick of a successful life,’ he was now lecturing Taliesin, ‘is to be born with wealthy parents. I have lived very comfortably off my rents, though come to think of it I haven’t collected them for years. Do you pay me rent, Derfel?’

‘I should, Lord, but never know where to send it.’

‘Not that it matters now,’ Merlin said. ‘I’m old and feeble. Doubtless I shall be dead soon.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said, ‘you look wonderfully fit.’ He looked old, of course, but there was a spark of mischief in his eyes and a liveliness to his ancient, creased face. His hair and beard were beautifully plaited and bound in black ribbons, while his gown, except for the dried blood, was clean. He was also happy; not, I think, just because we had achieved victory, but because he enjoyed Taliesin’s company.

‘Victory gives life,’ he said dismissively, ‘but we’ll soon enough forget victory. Where’s Arthur?’

‘No one knows,’ I said. ‘I heard he spent a long time talking with Tewdric, but he’s not with him now. I suspect he found Guinevere.’

Merlin sneered. ‘A hound returns to its vomit.’

‘I’m beginning to like her,’ I said defensively.

‘You would,’ he said scornfully, ‘and I dare say she won’t do any harm now. She would make you a good patron,’ he told Taliesin, ‘she has an absurd respect for poets. Just don’t climb into bed with her.’

‘No danger of that, Lord,’ Taliesin said.

Merlin laughed. ‘Our young bard here,’ he told me, ‘is celibate. He is a gelded lark. He has forsworn the greatest pleasure a man can have in order to preserve his gift.’

Taliesin saw my curiosity and smiled. ‘Not my voice, Lord Derfel, but the gift of prophecy.’

‘And it’s a genuine gift!’ Merlin said with unfeigned admiration, ‘though I doubt it’s worth celibacy. If I had ever been asked to pay that price I’d have abandoned the Druid’s staff! I’d have taken humble employment instead, like being a bard or a spearman.’