The Winter King Part 9

"Poor Derfel." She went back to the window and watched Brother Maelgwyn digging. He had our surviving novice, Brother Tudwal, with him. The second novice died of a fever in the late winter, but Tudwal still lives and shares the saint's cell. The saint wants the boy taught his letters, mainly, I think, so he can discover whether I really am translating the Gospel into Saxon, but the lad is not bright and seems better suited to digging than to reading. It is time we had some real scholars here in Dinnewrac for this feeble spring has brought our usual rancorous arguments about the date of Easter and we shall have no peace until the argument is done. "Did Sansum really marry Arthur and Guinevere?" Igraine interrupted my gloomy thoughts.

"Yes," I said, 'he really did."

"And it wasn't in a great church? With trumpets playing?"

"It was in a clearing beside a stream," I said, 'with frogs croaking and willow catkins piling up behind the beaver dam."

"We were married in a feasting hall," Igraine said, 'and the smoke made my eyes water." She shrugged.

"So what did you change in the last part?" she asked accusingly. "What story-shaping did you do?" I shook my head. "None."

"But at Mordred's acclamation," she asked disappointedly, 'the sword was only laid on the stone? Not thrust into it? Are you sure?"

"It was laid flat on top. I swear it' - I made the sign of the cross' on Christ's blood, my Lady." She shrugged. "Dafydd ap Gruffud will translate the tale any way I want him to, and I like the idea of a sword in the stone. I'm glad you were kind about Cuneglas."

"He was a good man," I said. He was also Igraine's husband's grandfather.

"Was Ceinwyn really beautiful?" Igraine asked.

I nodded. "She was, she truly was. She had blue eyes."

"Blue eyes!" Igraine shuddered at such Saxon features. "What happened to the brooch she gave you?"

"I wish I knew," I said, lying. The brooch is in my cell, hidden there safe from even Sansum's vigorous searches. The saint, whom G.o.d will surely exalt above all men living and dead, does not allow us to possess any treasures. All our goods must be surrendered to his keeping, that is the rule, and though I surrendered everything else to Sansum, including Hywelbane, G.o.d forgive me, I have Ceinwyn's brooch still. The gold has been smoothed by the years, yet still I see Ceinwyn when, in the darkness, I take the brooch from its hiding place and let the moonlight gloss its intricate pattern of interlocking curves. Sometimes no, always I touch it to my lips. What a foolish old man I have become. Perhaps I shall give the brooch to Igraine, for I know she will value it, but I shall keep it a while for the gold is like a sc.r.a.p of sunshine in this chill grey place. Of course, when Igraine reads this she will know the brooch exists, but if she is as kind as I know her to be, she will let me keep it as a small remembrance of a sinful life.

"I don't like Guinevere," Igraine said.

"Then I have failed," I said.

"You make her sound very hard," Igraine said.

I said nothing for a while, but just listened to the sheep bleating. "She could be wonderfully kind," I said after the pause. "She knew how to make the sad happy, but she was impatient with the commonplace. She had a vision of a world that did not hold cripples or bores or ugly things, and she wanted to make that world real by banishing such inconveniences. Arthur had a vision, too, only his vision offered help to the cripples, and he wanted to make his world just as real."

"He wanted Camelot," Igraine said dreamily.

"We called it Dumnonia," I said severely.

"You try to suck all the joy out of it, Derfel," Igraine said crossly, though she was never truly angry with me. "I want it to be the poet's Camelot: green gra.s.s and high towers and ladies in gowns and warriors strewing their paths with flowers. I want minstrels and laughter! Wasn't it ever like that?"

"A little," I said, 'though I don't remember many flowery paths. I do recall the warriors limping out of battle, and some of them crawling and weeping with their guts trailing behind in the dust."

"Stop it!" Igraine said. "So why do the bards call it Camelot?" she challenged me.

"Because poets were ever fools," I said, 'otherwise why would they be poets?"

"No, Derfel! What was special about Camelot? Tell me."

"It was special," I answered, 'because Arthur gave the land justice." Igraine frowned. "Is that all?"

"It is more, child," I said, 'than most rulers ever dream of doing, let alone do." She shrugged the topic away. "Was Guinevere clever?" she asked.

"Very," I said.

Igraine played with the cross she wore about her neck.. "Tell me about Lancelot."

"Wait!"

"When does Merlin come?"

"Soon."

"Is Saint Sansum being horrid to you?"

"The saint has the fate of our immortal souls on his conscience. He does what he must do."

"But did he really fall to his knees and scream for martyrdom before he married Arthur to Guinevere?"

"Yes," I said and could not help smiling at the memory.

Igraine laughed. "I shall ask Brochvael to make the Mouse Lord into a real martyr," she said, 'then you can be in charge of Dinnewrac. Would you like that, Brother Derfel?"

"I would like some peace to carry on with my tale," I chided her.

"So what happens next?" Igraine asked eagerly.

Armorica is next. The Land across the Sea. Beautiful Ynys Trebes, King Ban, Lancelot, Galahad and Merlin. Dear Lord, what men they were, what days we had, what fights we gave and dreams we broke. In Armorica.

Later, much later, when we looked back on those times we simply called them the 'bad years', but we rarely discussed them. Arthur hated to be reminded of those early days in Dumnonia when his pa.s.sion for Guinevere tore the land into chaos. His betrothal to Ceinwyn had been like an elaborate brooch that held together a fragile gown of gossamer, and when the brooch went the garment fell into shreds. Arthur blamed himself and did not like to talk about the bad years.

Tewdric, for a time, refused to fight on either side. He blamed Arthur for the broken peace and in retribution he allowed Gorfyd-dyd and Gundleus to lead their war-bands through Gwent into Dumnonia. The Saxons pressed from the east, the Irish raided out of the Western Sea and, as if those enemies were not enough, Prince Cadwy of Isca rebelled against Arthur's rule. Tewdric tried to stay aloof from it all, but when Aelle's Saxons savaged Tewdric's frontier the only friends he could call on for help were Dumnonians and so, in the end, he was forced into the war on Arthur's side, but by then the spearmen of Powys and Siluria had used his roads to capture the hills north of Ynys Wydryn and when Tewdric declared for Dumnonia they occupied Glevum as well.

I grew up in those years. I lost count of the men I killed and the warrior rings I forged. I received a nickname, Cadarn, which means 'the mighty'. Derfel Cadarn, sober in battle and with a dreadful quick sword. At one time Arthur invited me to become one of his hors.e.m.e.n, but I preferred to stay on firm ground and so remained a spearman. I watched Arthur during that time and began to appreciate just why he was such a great soldier. It was not merely his bravery, though he was brave, but how he outfoxed his enemies. Our armies were clumsy instruments, slow to march and sluggish to change direction once they were marching, but Arthur forged a small force of men who learned to travel quickly. He led those men, some on foot, some in the saddle, on long marches that looped about the enemies' flanks so they always appeared where they were least expected. We liked to attack at dawn, when the enemy was still fuddled from a night's drinking, or else we lured them on with false retreats and then slashed into their unprotected flanks. After a year of such battles, when we had at last driven the forces of Gorfyddyd and Gundleus out of Glevum and northern Dumnonia, Arthur made me a captain and I began handing my own followers gold. Two years later I even received the ultimate accolade of a warrior, an invitation to defect to the enemy. Of all people it came from Ligessac, Norwenna's traitorous guard commander, who spoke to me in a temple of Mithras, where his life was protected, and offered me a fortune if I would serve Gundleus as he did. I refused. G.o.d be thanked, but I was always loyal to Arthur.

Sagramor was also loyal, and it was he who initiated me into Mithras's service. Mithras was a G.o.d the Romans had brought to Britain and He must have liked our climate for He still has power. He is a soldiers' G.o.d and no women can be initiated into His mysteries. My initiation took place in late winter, when soldiers have time to spare. It happened in the hills. Sagramor took me alone into a valley so deep that even by late afternoon the morning frost still crisped the gra.s.s. We stopped by a cave entrance where Sagramor instructed me to lay my weapons aside and strip naked. I stood there shivering as the Numidian tied a thick cloth about my eyes and told me I must now obey every instruction and that if I flinched or spoke once, just once, I would be brought back to my clothes and weapons and sent away. The initiation is an a.s.sault on a man's senses, and to survive he must remember one thing only: to obey. That is why soldiers like Mithras. Battle a.s.saults the senses, and that a.s.sault ferments fear, and obedience is the narrow thread that leads out of fear's chaos into survival. In time I initiated many men into Mithras and came to know the tricks well enough, but that first time, as I stepped into the cave, I had no idea what would be inflicted on me. When I first entered the G.o.d's cave Sagramor, or perhaps some other man, turned me about and about, sunwise, so quickly and so violently that my mind reeled into dizziness and then I was ordered to walk forward. Smoke choked me, but I kept going, following the downwards slope of the rock floor. A voice shouted at me to stop, another ordered me to turn, a third to kneel. Some substance was thrust at my mouth and I recoiled from the stench of human dung that made my head reel. "Eat!" a voice snapped and I almost spewed the mouthful out until I realized I merely chewed on dried fish. I drank some vile liquid that made me light-headed. It was probably thorn-apple juice mixed with mandrake or fly-agaric for though my eyes were tight covered I saw visions of bright creatures coming with crinkled wings to snap at my flesh with beaked mouths. Flames touched my skin, burning the small hairs on my legs and arms. I was ordered to walk forward again, then to stop and I heard logs being heaped on a fire and felt the vast heat grow in front of me. The fire roared, the flames roasted my bare skin and manhood, and then the voice commanded me to step forward into the fire and I obeyed, only to have my foot sink into a pool of icy water that almost made me cry aloud from fear that I had stepped into a vat of molten metal.

A sword point was held to my manhood, pressed there, and I was ordered to step into it, and as I did the sword point went away. All tricks, of course, but the herbs and fungi put into the drink were enough to magnify the tricks into miracles and by the time I had followed the tortuous course down to the hot, smoky and echoing chamber at the heart of the ceremony I was already in a trance of terror and exaltation. I was taken to a stone the height of a table and a knife was put into my right hand, while my left was placed palm downwards on a naked belly. "It's a child under your hand, you miserable toad," the voice said, and a hand moved my right hand until the blade was poised over the child's throat, 'an innocent child that has harmed no one," the voice said, 'a child that deserves nothing but life, and you will kill it. Strike!" The child cried aloud as I plunged the knife downwards to feel the warm blood spurt over my wrist and hand. The heart-pulsing belly beneath my left hand gave a last spasm and was still. A fire roared nearby, the smoke choking my nostrils.

I was made to kneel and drink a warm, sickly fluid that clogged in my throat and soured my stomach. Only then, when that horn of bull's blood was drained, was my blindfold taken away and I saw I had killed an early lamb with a shaven belly. Friends and enemies cl.u.s.tered about me, full of congratulations for I had now entered the service of the soldiers' G.o.d. I had become part of a secret society that stretched clear across the Roman world and even beyond its edges; a society of men who had proved themselves in battle, not as mere soldiers, but as true warriors. To become a Mithraist was a real honour, for any member of the cult could forbid another man's initiation. Some men led armies and were never selected, others never rose above the ranks and were honoured members. Now, one of that elect, my clothes and weapons were brought to me, I dressed, and then was given the secret words of the cult that would allow me to identify my comrades in battle. If I found I was fighting a fellow Mithraist I was enjoined to kill him swiftly, with mercy, and if such a man became my prisoner I was to do him honour. Then, the formalities over, we went into a second huge cave lit by smoking torches and by a great fire where a bull's carca.s.s was being roasted. I was done high honour by the rank of the men who attended that feast. Most initiates must be content with their own comrades, but for Derfel Cadarn the mighty of both sides had come to the winter cave. Agricola of Gwent was there, and with him were two of his enemies from Siluria, Ligessac and a spearman called Nasiens who was Gundleus's champion. A dozen of Arthur's warriors were present, some of my own men and even Bishop Bedwin, Arthur's counsellor, who looked unfamiliar in a rusty breastplate, sword belt and warrior's cloak. "I was a warrior once," he explained his presence, 'and was initiated, oh, when? Thirty years ago? That was long before I became a Christian, of course."

"And this' - I waved about the cave where the bull's severed head had been hoisted on a tripod of spears to drip blood on to the cave's floor 'is not contrary to your religion?" Bedwin shrugged. "Of course it is," he said, 'but I would miss the companionship." He leaned towards me and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I trust you will not tell Bishop Sansum that I am here?" I laughed at the thought of ever confiding in the angry Sansum who buzzed about war-shrunken Dumnonia like a worker bee. He was forever condemning his enemies and he had no friends. "Young Master Sansum," Bedwin said, his mouth full of beef and his beard dripping with the meat's b.l.o.o.d.y juice, 'wants to replace me, and I think he will."

"He will?" I sounded aghast.

"Because he wants it so badly," Bedwin said, 'and he works so hard. Dear G.o.d, how that man works!

Do you know what I discovered just the other day? He can't read! Not a word! Now, to be a senior churchman a fellow must be able to read, so what does Sansum do? He has a slave read aloud to him and learns it all by heart." Bedwin nudged me to make certain I understood Sansum's extraordinary memory. "Learns it all by heart! Psalms, prayers, liturgy, writings of the fathers, all by heart! Dear me." He shook his head. "You're not a Christian, are you?"

"No."

"You should consider it. We may not offer too many earthly delights, but our lives after death are certainly worth having. Not that I could ever persuade Uther of that, but I have hopes of Arthur." I glanced round the feast. "No Arthur," I said, disappointed that my Lord was not of the cult.

"He was initiated," Bedwin said.

"But he doesn't believe in the G.o.ds," I said, repeating Owain's a.s.sertion. Bedwin shook his head. "Arthur does believe. How can a man not believe in G.o.d or G.o.ds? You think Arthur believes that we made ourselves? Or that the world simply appeared by chance? Arthur's no fool, Derfel Cadarn. Arthur believes, but he keeps his beliefs very silent. That way the Christians think he is one of them, or might be, and the pagans believe the same, and so both serve him the more willingly. And remember, Derfel, Arthur is loved of Merlin, and Merlin, believe me, does not love unbelievers."

"I miss Merlin."

"We all miss Merlin," Bedwin said calmly, 'but we can take comfort in his absence, for he would not be other where if Britain was threatened with destruction. Merlin will come when he is needed."

"You think he isn't needed now?" I asked sourly.

Bedwin wiped his beard with the sleeve of his coat, then drank wine. "Some say," he said, dropping his voice, 'that we would be better off without Arthur. That without Arthur there would be peace, but if there's no Arthur, who protects Mordred? Me?" He smiled at the thought. "Gereint? He's a good man, few better, but he's not clever anH he can't make up his mind and he doesn't want to rule Dumnonia either. It's Arthur or no one, Derfel. Or rather it's Arthur or Gorfyddyd. And this war is not lost. Our enemies fear Arthur and so long as he lives, Dumnonia is safe. No, I don't think Merlin is needed yet." The traitor Ligessac, who was another Christian who saw no conflict between his avowed faith and Mithras's secret rituals, spoke with me at the feast's end. I was cold towards him, even though he was a fellow Mithraist, but he ignored my hostility and plucked me by the elbow into a dark corner of the cave.

"Arthur's going to lose. You know that, don't you?" he said.

"No."

Ligessac pulled a shred of meat from between the remains of his teeth. "More men from Elmet will come into the war," he said. "Powys, Elmet and Siluria' he ticked the names off on his fingers' united against Gwent and Dumnonia. Gorfyddyd will be the next Pendragon. First we drive the Saxons out of the land east of Ratae, then we come south and finish off Dumnonia. Two years?"

"The feast has gone to your head, Ligessac," I told him.

"And my Lord will pay for the services of a man like you." Ligessac was delivering a message. "My Lord King Gundleus is generous, Derfel, very generous."

"Tell your Lord King," I said, 'that Nimue of Ynys Wydryn shall have his skull for her drinking vessel, and that I will provide it for her." I walked away.

That spring the war flared again, though less destructively at first. Arthur had paid gold to Oengus Mac Airem, the Irish King of Demetia, to attack the western reaches of Powys and Siluria, and those attacks drained enemies from our northern frontiers. Arthur himself led a war-band to pacify western Dumnonia where Cadwy had declared his tribal lands an independent kingdom, but while he was there Aelle's Saxons launched a mighty attack on Gereint's lands. Gorfyddyd, we later learned, had paid the Saxons as we had paid the Irish and Powys's cash was probably better spent for the Saxons came in a flood that brought Arthur hurrying back from the west where he left Cei, his childhood companion, in charge of the fight against Cadwy's tattooed tribesmen.

It was then, with Aelle's Saxon army threatening to capture Durocobrivis and with Gwent's forces occupied against both Powys and the northern Saxons and with Cadwy's undefeated rebellion being encouraged by King Mark of Kernow, tlfet Ban of Benoic sent his summons. We all knew that King Ban had only ever permitted Arthur to come to Dumnonia on condition that he returned to Armorica if Benoic was ever in jeopardy. Now, Ban's messenger claimed, Benoic was in dire danger and King Ban, insisting that Arthur fulfill his oath, was demanding Arthur's return. The news came to us in Durocobrivis. The town had once been a prosperous Roman settlement with lavish baths, a marble justice hall and a fine market place, but now it was an impoverished frontier fort, forever watching east towards the Saxons. The buildings beyond the town's earth wall had all been burnt by Aelle's raiders and were never rebuilt, while inside the wall the great Roman structures crumbled to ruin. Ban's messenger came to us in what remained of the arched hall of the Roman baths. It was night and a fire burned in the pit of the old plunge bath, its smoke churning about the arched ceiling where the wind caught and sucked the smoke out of a small window. We had been eating our evening meal, seated in a circle on the cold floor, and Arthur led Ban's messenger into the circle's centre where he scratched a crude map of Dumnonia in the dirt, then scattered red and white mosaic sc.r.a.ps to show where our enemies and friends were placed. Everywhere the red tiles of Dumnonia were being squeezed by the white stone sc.r.a.ps. We had fought that day and Arthur had taken a spear cut on his right cheekbone, not a dangerous wound, but deep enough to crust his cheek in blood. He had been fighting without his helmet, claiming he saw better without the enclosing metal, but if the Saxon had thrust an inch higher and to one side he would have rammed his steel through Arthur's brain. He had fought on foot, as he usually did, because he was saving his heavy horses for the more desperate battles. A half dozen of his hors.e.m.e.n were mounted each day, but most of the expensive, rare war horses were kept deep in Dumnonia where they were safe from enemy raids. This day, after Arthur had been wounded, our handful of heavy cavalrymen had scattered the Saxon line, killing their chief and sending the survivors back east, but Arthur's narrow escape had left us all uneasy. King Ban's messenger, a chief called Bleiddig, only deepened that gloom.

"You see," Arthur said to Bleiddig, 'why I cannot leave?" He gestured at the red and white sc.r.a.ps.

"An oath is an oath," Bleiddig answered bluntly.

"If the Prince leaves Dumnonia," Prince Gereint intervened, "Dumnonia falls." Gereint was a heavy, dull-witted man, but loyal and honest. As Uther's nephew he had a claim on Dumnonia's throne, but he never made the claim and was always true to Arthur, his b.a.s.t.a.r.d cousin.

"Better that Dumnonia fall than Benoic," Bleiddig said, and ignored the angry murmur that followed his words.

"I took an oath to defend Mordred," Arthur pointed out.

"You took an oath to defend Benoic," Bleiddig answered, shrugging away Arthur's objection. "Bring the child with you."

"I must give Mordred his kingdom," Arthur insisted. "If he leaves the kingdom loses its king and its heart. Mordred stays here."

"And who threatens to take the kingdom from him?" Bleiddig demanded angrily. The Benoic chieftain was a big man, not unlike Owain and with much of Owain's brute force. "You!" He pointed scornfully at Arthur. "If you had married Ceinwyn there would be no war! If you had married Ceinwyn then not only Dumnonia, but Gwent and Powys would be sending troops to aid my King!" Men were shouting and swords were drawn, but Arthur bellowed for silence. A trickle of blood escaped from beneath his wound's scab and ran down his long, hollow cheek. "How long," he asked Bleiddig, 'before Benoic falls?"

Bleiddig frowned. It was clear he could not guess the answer, but he suggested six months or maybe a year. The Franks, he said, had brought new armies into the east of his country and Ban could not fight them all. Ban's own army, led by his champion, Bors, was holding the northern border while the men Arthur had left behind, led by his cousin Culhwch, held the southern frontier. Arthur was staring at his map of red and white tiles. "Three months," he said, 'and I will come. If I can!

Three months. But in the meanwhile, Bleiddig, I shall send you a war-band of good men." Bleiddig argued, protesting that Arthur's oath demanded Arthur's immediate presence in Armorica, but Arthur would not be budged. Three months, he said, or not at all, and Bleiddig had to accept the compromise.

Arthur gestured for me to walk with him in the colonnaded courtyard that lay next to the hall. There were vats in the small courtyard that stank like a latrine, but he appeared not to notice the stench. "G.o.d knows, Derfel," he said, and I knew he was under strain for using the word "G.o.d', just as I noticed he used the singular Christian word though he immediately balanced the score, 'the G.o.ds know I don't want to lose you, but I need to send someone who isn't afraid to break a shield-wall. I need to send you."

"Lord Prince' I began.

"Don't call me prince," he interrupted angrily. "I'm not a prince. And don't argue with me. I have everyone arguing with me. Everyone knows how to win this war except me. Melwas is screaming for men, Tewdric wants me in the north, Cei says he needs another hundred spears, and now Ban wants me! If he spent more money on his army and less on his poets he wouldn't be in trouble!"

"Poets?"

"Ynys Trebes is a haven of poets," he said bitterly, referring to King Ban's island capital. "Poets! We need spearmen, not poets." He stopped and leaned against a pillar. He looked more tired than I had ever seen him. "I can't achieve anything," he said, 'until we stop fighting. If I could just talk to Cuneglas, face to face, there might be hope."

"Not while Gorfyddyd lives," I said.

"Not while Gorfyddyd lives," he agreed, then went silent and I knew he was thinking of Ceinwyn and Guinevere. Moonlight came through a gap in the colonnade's roof to touch his bony face with silver. He closed his eyes and I knew he was blaming himself for the war, but what was done could not be undone. A new peace would have to be made and there was only one man who could force that peace on Britain, and that was Arthur himself. He opened his eyes and grimaced. "What's the smell?" he asked, noticing it at last.

"They bleach cloth here, Lord," I explained, and gestured toward the wooden vats that were filled with urine and washed chicken dung to produce the valuable white fabric like the cloaks Arthur himself favoured.

Arthur would usually have been encouraged at such evidence of industry in a decayed town like Durocobrivis, but that night he just shrugged away the smell and touched the trickle of fresh blood on his cheek. "One more scar," he said ruefully. "I'll soon have as many as you, Derfel."

"You should wear your helmet, Lord," I said.

"I can't see right and left when I do," he said dismissively. He pushed away from the pillar and gestured for me to walk with him round the arcade. "Now listen, Derfel. Fighting Franks is just like fighting Saxons. They're all German.;, and there's nothing special about the Franks except that they like to carry throwing spears as well as the usual weapons. So keep your head down when they first attack, but after that it's just shield-wall against shield-wall. They're hard fighters, but they drink too much so you can usually out-think them. That's why I'm sending you. You're young, but you can think which is more than most of our soldiers do. They just believe it's enough to get drunk and hack away, but no one will win wars that way." He paused and tried to hide a yawn. "Forgive me. And for all I know, Derfel, Benoic isn't in danger at all. Ban is an emotional man' he used the description sourly 'and he panics easily, but if he loses Ynys Trebes then he'll break his heart and I'll have to live with that guilt too. You can trust Culhwch, he's good. Bors is capable."

"But treacherous." Sagramor spoke from the shadows beside the bleaching vats. He had come from the hall to watch over Arthur.

"Unfair," said Arthur.

"He's treacherous," Sagramor insisted in his harsh accent, 'because he's Lancelot's man." Arthur shrugged. "Lancelot can be difficult," he admitted. "He's Ban's heir and he likes to have things his own way, but then, so do I." He smiled and glanced at me. "You can write, can't you?"

"Yes, Lord," I said. We had walked on past Sagramor who stayed in the shadows, his eyes never leaving Arthur. Cats slunk past us, and bats wheeled next to the smoking gable of the big hall. I tried to imagine this stinking place filled with robed Romans and lit by oil-lamps, but it seemed an impossible idea.

"You must write and tell me what's happening," Arthur said, 'so I don't have to rely on Ban's imagination. How's your woman?"

"My woman?" I was startled by the question and for a second I thought Arthur was referring to Canna, a Saxon slave girl who kept me company and who was teaching me her dialect that differed slightly from my mother's native Saxon, but then I realized Arthur had to mean Lunete. "I don't hear from her, Lord."

"And you don't ask, eh?" He shot me an amused grin, then sighed. Lunete was with Guinevere who, in turn, had gone to distant Durnovaria to occupy Uther's old winter palace. Guinevere had not wanted to leave her pretty new palace near Caer Cadarn, but Arthur had insisted she go deeper into the country to be safer from enemy raiding parties. "Sansum tells me Guinevere and her ladies all worship Isis," Arthur said.

"Who?" I asked.

"Exactly." He smiled. "Isis is a foreign G.o.ddess, Derfel, with her own mysteries; something to do with the moon, I think. At least that's what Sansum tells me. I don't think he knows either, but he still says I must stop the cult. He says the mysteries of Isis are unspeakable, but when I ask him what they are, he doesn't know. Or he won't say. You've heard nothing?"

"Nothing, Lord."

"Of course," Arthur said rather too forcefully, 'if Guinevere finds solace in Isis then it cannot be bad. I worry about her. I promised her so much, you see, and am giving her nothing. I want to put her father back on his throne, and we will, we will, but it will all take longer than we think."

"You want to fight Diwrnach?" I asked, appalled at the idea.

"He's just a man, Derfel, and can be killed. One day we'll do it." He turned back towards the hall.

"You're going south. I can't spare you more than sixty men G.o.d knows it isn't enough if Ban really is in trouble but take them over the sea, Derfel, and put yourself under Culhwch's command. Maybe you can travel through Durnovaria? Send me news of my dear Guinevere?"