Sansum turned and faced Lancelot. ‘Lord King,’ he called loudly enough for those of us on the other bank to hear, ‘come now! Come now to the waters of life, come now as a little child to receive your baptism into the blessed church of the one true God.’
Guinevere slowly turned to watch as Lancelot walked into the river. Galahad crossed himself. The Christian priests on the far bank had their arms spread wide in an attitude of prayer, while the town’s women had fallen to their knees as they gazed ecstatically at the handsome, tall King who waded out to Bishop Sansum’s side. The sun glittered on the water and slashed gold from Sansum’s cross. Lancelot kept his eyes lowered, as though he did not want to see who witnessed this humiliating rite.
Sansum reached up and put his hand on the crown of Lancelot’s head. ‘Do you,’ he shouted so we could all hear, ‘embrace the one true faith, the only faith, the faith of Christ who died for our sins?’
Lancelot must have said ‘Yes’, though none of us could hear his response.
‘And do you,’ Sansum bellowed even louder, ‘hereby renounce all other Gods and all other faiths and all the other foul spirits and demons and idols and devil-spawn whose filthy acts deceive this world?’
Lancelot nodded and mumbled his assent.
‘And do you,’ Sansum went on with relish, ‘denounce and deride the practices of Mithras, and declare them to be, as indeed they are, the excrement of Satan and the horror of our Lord Jesus Christ?’
‘I do.’ That answer of Lancelot’s came clear enough to us all.
‘Then in the name of the Father,’ Sansum shouted, ‘and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, I pronounce you Christian,’ and with that he gave a great heave that pushed down on Lancelot’s oiled hair, and so forced the King under the Churn’s cold water. Sansum held Lancelot there for so long that I thought the bastard would drown, but at last Sansum let him up. ‘And,’ Sansum finished as Lancelot sputtered and spat out water, ‘I now proclaim you blessed, name you a Christian, and enrol you in the holy army of Christ’s warriors.’ Guinevere, uncertain how to respond, clapped politely. The women and priests burst into a new song that, for Christian music, was surprisingly spritely.
‘What in the holy name of a holy harlot,’ Culhwch asked Galahad, ‘is a holy ghost?’
But Galahad did not wait to answer. In a rush of happiness caused by his brother’s baptism he had plunged into the river and now waded across so that he emerged from the water at the same time as his blushing half-brother. Lancelot had not expected to see him and for a second he stiffened, doubtless thinking of Galahad’s friendship for me, but then he suddenly remembered the duty of Christian love that had just been imposed upon him and so he submitted to Galahad’s enthusiastic embrace.
‘Shall we kiss the bastard too?’ Culhwch asked me with a grin.
‘Let him be,’ I said. Lancelot had not seen me, and I did not feel any need to be seen, but just then Sansum, who had emerged from the river and was trying to wring the water from his heavy robes, spotted me. The mouse-lord never could resist provoking an enemy, nor did he now.
‘Lord Derfel!’ the Bishop called.
I ignored him. Guinevere, on hearing my name, looked up sharply. She had been talking to Lancelot and his half-brother, but now she snapped an order to the ox driver who stabbed his goad at his beasts’ flanks and so lurched the cart forward. Lancelot hastily clambered onto the moving vehicle, abandoning his followers beside the river. Ade followed, leading his horse by its bridle.
‘Lord Derfel!’ Sansum called again.
I turned reluctantly to face him. ‘Bishop?’ I answered.
‘Might I prevail on you to follow King Lancelot into the river of healing?’
‘I bathed at the last full moon, Bishop,’ I called back, provoking some laughter from the warriors on our bank.
Sansum made the sign of the cross. ‘You should be washed in the holy blood of the Lamb of God,’ he called, ‘to wipe away the stain of Mithras! You are an evil thing, Derfel, a sinner, an idolater, an imp of the devil, a spawn of Saxons, a whore-master!’
That last insult tripped my rage. The other insults were mere words, but Sansum, though clever, was never a prudent man in public confrontations and he could not resist that final insult to Ceinwyn and his provocation sent me charging forward to the cheers of the warriors on the Churn’s eastern bank, cheers that swelled as Sansum turned in panic and fled. He had a good start on me, and he was a lithe, swift man, but the sopping layers of his weighty robes tangled his feet and I caught him within a few paces of the Churn’s far bank. I used my spear to knock his feet out from under him and so sent him sprawling among the daisies and cowslips.
Then I drew Hywelbane and put her blade to his throat. ‘I did not quite hear, Bishop,’ I said, ‘the last name you called me.’
He said nothing, only glanced towards Lancelot’s four companions who now gathered close. Amhar and Loholt had their swords drawn, but the two Druids left their swords scabbarded and just watched me with unreadable expressions. By now Culhwch had crossed the river and was standing beside me, as was Galahad, while Lancelot’s worried spearmen watched us from a distance.
‘What word did you use, Bishop?’ I asked, tickling his throat with Hywelbane.
‘The whore of Babylon!’ he gabbled desperately, ‘all pagans worship her. The scarlet woman, Lord Derfel, the beast! The anti-Christ!’
I smiled. ‘And I thought you were insulting the Princess Ceinwyn.’
‘No, Lord, no! No!’ He clasped his hands. ‘Never!’
‘You promise me now?’ I asked him.
‘I swear it, Lord! By the Holy Ghost, I swear it.’
‘I don’t know who the Holy Ghost is, Bishop,’ I said, giving his adam’s apple a small blow with Hywelbane’s tip. ‘Swear your promise on my sword,’ I said, ‘kiss that, and I will believe you.’
He loathed me then. He had disliked me before, but now he hated me, yet still he put his lips to Hywelbane’s blade and kissed the steel. ‘I meant the Princess no insult,’ he said, ‘I swear it.’
I left Hywelbane at his lips for a heartbeat, then drew the sword back and let him stand. ‘I thought, Bishop,’ I said, ‘that you had a Holy Thorn to guard in Ynys Wydryn?’
He brushed grass off his wet robes. ‘God calls me to higher things,’ he snapped.
‘Tell me of them.’
He looked up at me, hate in his eyes, but his fear overcame his hate. ‘God called me to King Lancelot’s side, Lord Derfel,’ he said, ‘and His grace served to soften the Princess Guinevere’s heart. I have hopes that she may yet see His everlasting light.’
I laughed at that. ‘She has the light of Isis, Bishop, and you know it. And she hates you, you foul thing, so what did you bring her to change her mind?’
‘Bring her, Lord?’ he asked disingenuously. ‘What have I to bring a Princess? I have nothing, I am made poor in God’s service, I am but a humble priest.’
‘You are a toad, Sansum,’ I said, sheathing Hywelbane. ‘You are dirt beneath my boots.’ I spat to avert his evil. I guessed, from his words, that it had been his idea to propose baptism to Lancelot, and that idea had served well enough to spare the Silurian King his embarrassment with Mithras, but I did not believe the suggestion would have been sufficient to reconcile Guinevere to Sansum and his religion. He must have given her something, or promised her something, but I knew he would never confess it to me. I spat again, and Sansum, taking the spittle as his dismissal, scuttled off towards the town.
‘A pretty display,’ one of the two Druids said caustically.
‘And the Lord Derfel Cadarn,’ the other said, ‘does not have a reputation for prettiness.’ He nodded when I glared at him. ‘Dinas,’ he said, introducing himself.
‘And I am Lavaine,’ said his companion. They were both tall young men, both built like warriors and both with hard, confident faces. Their robes were dazzling white and their long black hair was carefully combed, betraying a fastidiousness that was made s
omehow chilling by their stillness. It was the same stillness that men like Sagramor possessed. Arthur did not. He was too restless, but Sagramor, like some other great warriors, had a stillness that was chilling in battle. I never fear the noisy men in a fight, but I take care when an enemy is calm for those are the most dangerous men, and these two Druids had that same calm confidence. They also looked very alike, and I supposed them to be brothers.
‘We are twins,’ Dinas said, perhaps reading my thoughts.
‘Like Amhar and Loholt,’ Lavaine added, gesturing towards Arthur’s sons who still had their swords drawn. ‘But you can tell us apart. I have a scar here,’ Lavaine said, touching his right cheek where a white scar buried itself in his bristling beard.
‘Which he took at Lugg Vale,’ Dinas said. Like his brother he had an extraordinarily deep voice, a grating voice that did not match his youth.
‘I saw Tanaburs at Lugg Vale,’ I said, ‘and I remember Iorweth, but I recall no other Druids in Gorfyddyd’s army.’
Dinas smiled. ‘At Lugg Vale,’ he said, ‘we fought as warriors.’
‘And killed our share of Dumnonians,’ Lavaine added.
‘And only shaved our tonsures after the battle,’ Dinas explained. He had an unblinking and unsettling gaze. ‘And now,’ he added softly, ‘we serve King Lancelot.’
‘His oaths are our oaths,’ Lavaine said. There was a threat in his words, but it was a distant threat, not challenging.
‘How can Druids serve a Christian?’ I challenged them.
‘By bringing an older magic to work alongside their magic, of course,’ Lavaine answered.
‘And we do work magic, Lord Derfel,’ Dinas added, and he held out his empty hand, closed it into a fist, turned it, opened his fingers and there, on his palm, lay a thrush’s egg. He tossed the egg carelessly away. ‘We serve King Lancelot by choice,’ he said, ‘and his friends are our friends.’
‘And his enemies our enemies,’ Lavaine finished for him.
‘And you,’ Arthur’s son Loholt could not resist joining in the provocation, ‘are an enemy of our King.’
I looked at the younger pair of twins; callow, clumsy youths who suffered an excess of pride and a shortfall of wisdom. They both had their father’s long bony face, but on them it was overlaid by petulance and resentment. ‘How am I an enemy of your King, Loholt?’ I asked him.
He did not know what to say, and none of the others answered for him. Dinas and Lavaine were too wise to start a fight here, not even with all Lancelot’s spearmen so close, for Culhwch and Galahad were with me and scores of my supporters were just yards away across the slow-flowing Churn. Loholt reddened, but said nothing.
I knocked his sword aside with Hywelbane, then stepped close to him. ‘Let me give you some advice, Loholt,’ I said softly. ‘Choose your enemies more wisely than you choose your friends. I have no quarrel with you, nor do I wish one, but if you desire such a quarrel, then I promise you that my love for your father and my friendship with your mother will not stop me from sinking Hywelbane in your guts and burying your soul in a dungheap.’ I sheathed my sword. ‘Now go.’
He blinked at me, but he had no belly for a fight. He went to fetch his horse and Amhar went with him. Dinas and Lavaine laughed, and Dinas even bowed to me. ‘A victory!’ he applauded me.
‘We are routed,’ Lavaine said, ‘but what else could we expect from a Warrior of the Cauldron?’ he pronounced that title mockingly.
‘And a killer of Druids,’ Dinas added, not at all mockingly.
‘Our grandfather, Tanaburs,’ Lavaine said, and I remembered how Galahad had warned me on the Dark Road about the enmity of these two Druids.
‘It is reckoned unwise,’ Lavaine said in his grating voice, ‘to kill a Druid.’
‘Especially our grandfather,’ Dinas added, ‘who was like a father to us.’
‘As our own father died,’ Lavaine said.
‘When we were young.’
‘Of a foul disease,’ Lavaine explained.
‘He was a Druid too,’ Dinas said, ‘and he taught us spells. We can blight crops.’
‘We can make women moan,’ Lavaine said.
‘We can sour milk.’
‘While it’s still in the breast,’ Lavaine added, then he turned abruptly away and, with an impressive agility, vaulted into his saddle.
His brother leapt onto his own horse and collected his reins. ‘But we can do more than turn milk,’ Dinas said, looking bale-fully down at me from his horse and then, as he had before, he held out his empty hand, made it into a fist, turned it over and opened it again, and there on his palm was a parchment star with five points. He smiled, then tore the parchment into scraps that he scattered on the grass. ‘We can make the stars vanish,’ he said as a farewell, then kicked his heels back.
The two galloped away. I spat. Culhwch retrieved my fallen spear and handed it to me. ‘Who in all the world are they?’ he asked.
‘Tanaburs’s grandsons.’ I spat a second time to avert evil. ‘The whelps of a bad Druid.’
‘And they can make the stars disappear?’ He sounded dubious.
‘One star.’ I gazed after the two horsemen. Ceinwyn, I knew, was safe in her brother’s hall, but I also knew I would have to kill the Silurian twins if she was to remain safe. Tanaburs’s curse was on me and the curse was called Dinas and Lavaine. I spat a third time, then touched Hywelbane’s sword hilt for luck.
‘We should have killed your brother in Benoic,’ Culhwch growled to Galahad.
‘God forgive me,’ Galahad said, ‘but you’re right.’
Two days later Cuneglas arrived and that night there was a Council of War, and after the Council, under the waning moon and by the light of flaming torches, we pledged our spears to the war against the Saxons. We warriors of Mithras dipped our blades in bull’s blood, but we held no meeting to elect new initiates. There was no need; Lancelot, by his baptism, had escaped the humiliation of rejection, though how any Christian could be served by Druids was a mystery that no one could explain to me.
Merlin came that day and it was he who presided over the pagan rites. Iorweth of Powys helped him, but there was no sign of Dinas or Lavaine. We sang the Battle Song of Beli Mawr, we washed our spears in blood, we vowed ourselves to the death of every Saxon and next day we marched.
THERE WERE TWO important Saxon leaders in Lloegyr. Like us the Saxons had chiefs and lesser kings, indeed they had tribes and some of the tribes did not even call themselves Saxons but claimed to be Angles or Jutes, but we called them all Saxons and knew they only possessed two important Kings and those two leaders were called Aelle and Cerdic. They hated each other.
Aelle, of course, was then the famous one. He called himself the Bretwalda, which in the Saxon tongue meant the ‘ruler of Britain’, and his lands stretched from south of the Thames to the border of distant Elmet. His rival was Cerdic, whose territory lay on Britain’s southern coast and whose only borders were with Aelle’s lands and Dumnonia. Of the two kings Aelle was older, richer in land and stronger in warriors, and that made Aelle our chief enemy; defeat Aelle, we believed, and Cerdic would inevitably fall afterwards.
Prince Meurig of Gwent, arrayed in his toga and with a ludicrous bronze wreath perched atop his thin, pale brown hair, had proposed a different strategy at the Council of War. With his usual diffidence and mock humility he had suggested we make an alliance with Cerdic. ‘Let him fight for us!’ Meurig said. ‘Let him attack Aelle from the south while we strike from the west. I am, I know, no strategist,’ he paused to simper, inviting one of us to contradict him, but we all bit our tongues, ‘but it seems clear, even surely to the meanest of intelligences, that to fight one enemy is better than two.’
‘But we have two enemies,’ Arthur said plainly.
‘Indeed we do, I have made myself master of that point, Lord Arthur. But my point, if you can seize it in turn, is to make one of those enemies our friend.’ He clasped his hands together and blinked at Arthur. ‘An ally,’ Meu
rig added, in case Arthur had still not understood him.
‘Cerdic,’ Sagramor growled in his atrocious British, ‘has no honour. He will break an oath as easily as a magpie breaks a sparrow’s egg. I will make no peace with him.’
‘You fail to understand,’ Meurig protested.
‘I will make no peace with him,’ Sagramor interrupted the Prince, speaking the words very slowly as though he spoke to a child. Meurig reddened and went silent. The Edling of Gwent was scared half to death of the tall Numidian warrior, and no wonder, for Sagramor’s reputation was as fearsome as his looks. The Lord of the Stones was a tall man, very thin and quick as a whip. His hair and face were as black as pitch and that long face, cross-hatched from a lifetime of war, bore a perpetual scowl that hid a droll and even generous character. Sagramor, despite his imperfect grasp of our language, could keep a campfire enthralled for hours with his tales of far-off lands, but most men only knew him as the fiercest of all Arthur’s warriors; the implacable Sagramor who was terrible in battle and sombre out of it, while the Saxons believed he was a black fiend sent from their underworld. I knew him well enough and liked him, indeed it had been Sagramor who had initiated me into Mithras’s service, and Sagramor who had fought at my side all that long day in Lugg Vale. ‘He’s got himself a big Saxon girl now,’ Culhwch had whispered to me at the council, ‘tall as a tree and with hair like a haystack. No wonder he’s so thin.’