Bernard Cornwell - Enemy of God

‘Now we wait,’ Arthur said grimly, ‘and let the bastard come to us.’

He still could not use Lancelot’s name.

Lancelot came two days later.

His rebellion was collapsing, though we did not know that yet. Sagramor, reinforced by the first two contingents of spearmen from Powys, had cut off Cerdic’s men at Corinium and the Saxon only escaped by making a desperate night march and still he lost more than fifty men to Sagramor’s vengeance. Cerdic’s frontier was still much further west than it had been, but the news that Arthur lived and had taken Caer Cadarn, and the threat of Sagramor’s implacable hatred, were enough to persuade Cerdic to abandon his ally Lancelot. He retreated to his new frontier and sent men to take what they could of Lancelot’s Belgic lands. Cerdic at least had profited from the rebellion. Lancelot brought his army to Caer Cadarn. The core of that army was Lancelot’s Saxon Guard and two hundred Belgic warriors, and they had been reinforced by a levy of hundreds of Christians who believed they were doing God’s work by serving Lancelot, but the news that Arthur had taken the Caer and the attacks that Morfans and Galahad were making south of Glevum confused and dispirited them. The Christians began to desert, though at least two hundred were still with Lancelot when he came at dusk two days after we had captured the royal hill. He still possessed a chance of keeping his new kingdom if only he dared to attack Arthur, but he hesitated, and in the next dawn Arthur sent me down with a message. I carried my shield upside down and tied a sprig of oak leaves on my spear to show that I came to talk, not fight, and a Belgic chieftain met me and swore to uphold my truce before leading me to the palace at Lindinis where Lancelot was lodging. I waited in the outer courtyard, watched there by sullen spearmen, while Lancelot tried to decide whether or not he should meet me. I waited over an hour, but at last Lancelot appeared. He was dressed in his white-enamelled scale armour, carried his gilded helmet under one arm and had the Christ-blade at his hip. Amhar and the bandaged Loholt stood behind him, his Saxon Guard and a dozen chieftains flanked him, and Bors, his champion, stood beside him. All of them reeked of defeat. I could smell it on them like rotting meat. Lancelot could have sealed us up in the Caer, turned and savaged Morfans and Galahad, then come back to starve us out, but he had lost his courage. He just wanted to survive. Sansum, I noted wryly, was nowhere to be seen. The mouse-lord knew when to lie low.

‘We meet again, Lord Derfel.’ Bors greeted me on his master’s behalf. I ignored Bors. ‘Lancelot,’ I addressed the King directly, but refused to honour him with his rank, ‘my Lord Arthur will grant your men mercy on one condition.’ I spoke loudly so that all the spearmen in the courtyard could hear me. Most of the warriors bore Lancelot’s sea-eagle on their shields, but some had crosses painted on their shields or else the twin curves of the fish. ‘The condition for that mercy,’ I went on, ‘is that you fight our champion, man on man, sword on sword, and it you live you may go free and your men may go with you, and if you die then your men will still go free. Even if you choose not to fight, then your men will still be pardoned, all but those who were once oath-sworn to our Lord King Mordred. They will be killed.’ It was a subtle offer. If Lancelot fought then he saved the lives of the men who had changed sides to support him, while if he backed down from the challenge then he would condemn them to death and his precious reputation would suffer.

Lancelot glanced at Bors, then back at me. I despised him so much at that moment. He should have been fighting us, not shuffling his feet in Lindinis’s outer courtyard, but he had been dazzled by Arthur’s daring. He did not know how many men we had, he could only see that the Caer’s ramparts bristled with spears and so the fight had drained out of him. He leaned close to his cousin and they exchanged words. Lancelot looked back to me after Bors had spoken to him and his face flickered in a half smile. ‘My champion, Bors,’ he said, ‘accepts Arthur’s challenge.’

‘The offer is for you to fight,’ I said, ‘not for someone to tie and slaughter your tame hog.’

Bors growled at that, and half drew his sword, but the Belgic chief who had guaranteed my safety stepped forward with a spear and Bors subsided.

‘And Arthur’s champion,’ Lancelot asked, ‘would that be Arthur himself?’

‘No,’ I said, and smiled. ‘I begged for that honour,’ I told him, ‘and I received it. I wanted it for the insult you gave to Ceinwyn. You thought to parade her naked through Ynys Wydryn, but I shall drag your naked corpse through all Dumnonia. And as for my daughter,’ I went on, ‘her death is already avenged. Your Druids lie dead on their left sides, Lancelot. Their bodies are unburned and their souls wander.’

Lancelot spat at my feet. ‘Tell Arthur,’ he said, ‘that I will send my answer at midday.’ He turned away.

‘And do you have a message for Guinevere?’ I asked him, and the question made him turn back.

‘Your lover is on the Caer,’ I told him. ‘Do you want to know what will happen to her? Arthur has told me her fate.’

He stared at me with loathing, spat again, then just turned and walked away. I did the same. I went back to the Caer and found Arthur on the rampart above the western gate where, so many years before, he had talked to me of a soldier’s duty. That duty, he had said, was to fight battles for those who could not fight for themselves. That was his creed, and through all these years he had fought for the child Mordred and now, at last, he fought for himself, and in so doing he lost all that he had most wanted. I gave him Lancelot’s answer and he nodded, said nothing, and waved me away. Late that morning Guinevere sent Gwydre to summon me. The child climbed the ramparts where I stood with my men and tugged at my cloak. ‘Uncle Derfel?’ He peered up at me wanly. ‘Mother wants you.’ He spoke fearfully and there were tears in his eyes.

I glanced at Arthur, but he was taking no interest in any of us and so I went down the steps and walked with Gwydre to the spearman’s hut. It must have cut Guinevere’s wounded pride to the quick to ask for me, but she wanted to convey a message to Arthur and she knew that no one else in Caer Cadarn was as close to him as I. She stood as I ducked through the door. I bowed to her, then waited as she told Gwydre to go and talk with his father.

The hut was only just high enough for Guinevere to stand upright. Her face was drawn, almost haggard, but somehow that sadness gave her a luminous beauty that her usual look of pride denied her.

‘Nimue tells me you saw Lancelot,’ she said so softly that I had to lean forward to catch her words.

‘Yes, Lady, I did.’

Her right hand was unconsciously fidgeting with the folds of her dress. ‘Did he send a message?’

‘None, Lady.’

She stared at me with her huge green eyes. ‘Please, Derfel,’ she said softly.

‘I invited him to speak, Lady. He said nothing.’

She crumpled onto a crude bench. She was silent for a while and I watched as a spider dropped out of the thatch and spun its thread closer and closer to her hair. I was transfixed by the insect, wondering if I should sweep it aside or just let it be. ‘What did you say to him?’ she asked.

‘I offered to fight him, Lady, man to man, Hywelbane against the Christ-blade. And then I promised to drag his naked body through all Dumnonia.’

She shook her head savagely. ‘Fight,’ she said angrily, ‘that’s all you brutes know how to do!’ She closed her eyes for a few seconds. ‘I am sorry, Lord Derfel,’ she said meekly, ‘I should not insult you, not when I need you to ask a favour of Lord Arthur.’ She looked up at me and I saw she was every bit as broken as Arthur himself. ‘Will you?’ she begged me.