Bernard Cornwell: Enemy of God

‘One more feast?’ I asked dully, my mind fuddled with tiredness and from the lingering effects of whatever Merlin and Nimue had given me to drink on Dolforwyn’s peak. Arthur clapped my shoulder. ‘Lancelot’s betrothal, Derfel. Then back to Dumnonia. And to work!’

He sounded delighted at the prospect and he enthusiastically told me his plans for the coming winter. There were four broken Roman bridges that he wanted rebuilt, then the kingdom’s stonemasons would be sent to finish the royal palace at Lindinis. Lindinis was the Roman town close to Caer Cadarn, the place of Dumnonia’s royal acclamations, and Arthur wanted to make it the new capital. ‘There are too many Christians in Durnovaria,’ he said, though he hastily, and typically, added that he had nothing personal against Christians.

‘It’s just, Lord,’ I said drily, ‘that they have something against you.’

‘Some do,’ he admitted. Before the battle, when Arthur’s cause had seemed utterly lost, a party opposed to Arthur had grown bold in Dumnonia and that party had been led by the Christians, the same Christians who had the guardianship of Mordred. The immediate cause of their hostility had been a loan that Arthur had forced from the church to pay for the campaign that ended in Lugg Vale, and that loan had sparked a bitter enmity. It was odd, I thought, how the church preached the merits of poverty, but never forgave a man for borrowing its money.

‘I wanted to talk to you of Mordred,’ Arthur said, explaining why he had sought my company on this fine morning. ‘In ten years,’ Arthur went on, ‘he’ll be old enough to take the throne. That’s not long, Derfel, not long at all, and he needs to be raised well in those ten years. I le must be taught letters, he must learn to use a sword and he must learn responsibility.’ I nodded agreement, though not with any enthusiasm. The five-year-old Mordred would doubtless learn all the things Arthur wanted, but I did not see what business it was of mine. Arthur had other ideas. ‘I want you to be his guardian,’ he said, surprising me.

‘Me!’ I exclaimed.

‘Nabur cares more about his own advancement than he does about Mordred’s character,’ Arthur said. Nabur was the Christian magistrate who was the child King’s present guardian, and it was Nabur who had plotted most vigorously to destroy Arthur’s power; Nabur and, of course, Bishop Sansum.

‘And Nabur is no soldier,’ Arthur went on. ‘I pray that Mordred will rule in peace, Derfel, but he needs the skills of war, all kings do, and I can think of no one better than you to train him.’

‘Not me,’ I protested. ‘I’m too young!’

Arthur laughed at that objection. ‘The young should be raised by the young, Derfel,’ he said. A distant horn sounded to signal that game had been started from the valley’s end. We hunters entered the trees and stepped over the tangles of briar and the dead trunks that were thick with fungi. We advanced slowly now, listening for the terrifying sound of a boar crashing through the brush. ‘Besides,’ I went on, ‘my place is in your shield-wall, not in Mordred’s nursery.’

‘You’ll still be in my shield-wall. You think I would lose you, Derfel?’ Arthur said with a grin. ‘I don’t want you tied to Mordred, I just want him in your household. I need him to be raised by an honest man.’

I shrugged that compliment away, then thought guiltily of the clean, unbroken bone in my pouch. Was it honest, I wondered, to use magic to change Ceinwyn’s mind? I looked at her, and she glanced my way and gave me a shy smile. ‘I have no household,’ I said to Arthur.

‘But you will, and soon,’ he said. Then he held up a hand and I froze, listening to the sounds ahead of us. Something heavy was trampling in the trees and we both instinctively crouched with our spears held a few inches above the ground, but then we saw that the frightened beast was a fine stag with good antlers and we relaxed as the animal pounded past. ‘We’ll hunt him tomorrow, maybe,’ Arthur said, watching the stag run past. ‘Give your hounds a run in the morning!’ he shouted to Guinevere. She laughed and came down the hill towards us, her hounds straining at their leashes. ‘I should like that,’ she said. Her eyes were bright and her face flushed by the cold. ‘The hunting’s better here than in Dumnonia,’ she said.

‘But not the land,’ Arthur said to me. ‘There’s an estate north of Durnovaria,’ he went on, ‘that is Mordred’s by right and I plan to make you its tenant. I’ll grant you other land, too, for your own, but you can make a hall on Mordred’s land and raise him there.’

‘You know the estate,’ Guinevere said. ‘It’s the one north of Gyllad’s holding.’

‘I know it,’ I said. The estate had good river land for crops and fine uplands for sheep. ‘But I’m not sure I know how to raise a child,’ I grumbled. The horns sounded loud ahead and the huntsmen’s hounds were baying. Cheers sounded far to our right, signifying that someone had found quarry, though our part of the wood was still empty. A small stream tumbled to our left and the wooded ground climbed to our right. The rocks and twisted tree roots were thick with moss.

Arthur dismissed my fears. ‘You won’t raise Mordred,’ he said, ‘but I do want him raised in your hall, with your servants, your manners, your morals and your judgments.’

‘And,’ Guinevere added, ‘your wife.’

A snapping of a twig made me look uphill. Lancelot and his cousin Bors were there, both standing in front of Ceinwyn. Lancelot’s spear shaft was painted white and he wore tall leather boots and a cloak of supple leather. I looked back to Arthur. ‘The wife, Lord,’ I said, ‘is news to me.’

He clasped my elbow, the boar hunt forgotten. ‘I plan to appoint you Dumnonia’s champion, Derfel,’

he said.

‘The honour is above me, Lord,’ I said cautiously, ‘besides, you are Mordred’s champion.’

‘Prince Arthur,’ Guinevere said, for she liked to call him Prince even though he was bastard born, ‘is already chief of the Council. He can’t be champion as well, not unless he’s expected to do all Dumnonia’s work?’

‘True, Lady,’ I said. I was not averse to the honour, for it was a high one, though there was a price. In battle I would have to tight whatever champion presented himself for single combat, but in peace it would mean wealth and status far above my present rank. I already had the title of Lord and the men to uphold that rank and the right to paint my own device on these men’s shields, but I shared these honours with two score other Dumnonian war leaders. To be the King’s champion would make me the foremost warrior of Dumnonia, though how any man could claim that status while Arthur lived, I could not see. Nor, indeed, while Sagramor lived. ‘Sagramor,’ I said carefully, ‘is a greater warrior than I, Lord Prince.’ With Guinevere present I had to remember to call him Prince once in a while, though it was a title he disliked.

Arthur waved my objection aside. ‘I am making Sagramor Lord of the Stones,’ he said, ‘and he wants nothing more.’ The lordship of the Stones made Sagramor into the man who guarded the Saxon frontier and I could well believe that the black-skinned, dark-eyed Sagramor would be well content with such a belligerent appointment. ‘You, Derfel,’ he prodded my chest, ‘will be the champion.’

‘And who,’ I asked drily, ‘will be the champion’s wife?’

‘My sister Gwenhwyvach,’ Guinevere said, watching me closely.

I was grateful that I had been forewarned by Merlin. ‘You do me too much honour, Lady,’ I said blandly.

Guinevere smiled, satisfied that my words implied acceptance. ‘Did you ever think, Derfel, that you would marry a Princess?’