‘What conditions?’ I asked.
Emrys shook his head sadly. ‘He wants Dumnonia’s throne, Lord.’
‘He wants what?’ I exploded.
Emrys held up a plump, chapped hand to still my anger. ‘He says that Mordred is unfit to rule, that Arthur is unwilling to rule, and that Dumnonia needs a Christian king. He offers himself.’
‘Bastard,’ I said. ‘The treacherous, lily-livered little bastard.’
‘Arthur can’t accept, of course,’ Emrys said, ‘his oath to Uther ensures that.’ He sipped the mead and sighed appreciatively. ‘So good to be warm again.’
‘So unless we give Meurig the kingdom,’ I said angrily, ‘he won’t help us?’
‘So he says. He insists God will protect Gwent and that, unless we acclaim him king, we must defend Dumnonia by ourselves.’
I walked to the hall door, pulled aside the leather curtain and stared at the snow that was heaped high on the points of our wooden palisade. ‘Did you talk to his father?’ I asked Emrys.
‘I did see Tewdric,’ the Bishop said. ‘I went with Agricola, who sends you his best wishes.’
Agricola had been King Tewdric’s warlord, a great warrior who fought in Roman armour and with a chill ferocity. But Agricola was an old man now, and Tewdric, his master, had given up the throne and shaved his head into a priest’s tonsure, thus yielding the power to his son. ‘Is Agricola well?’ I asked Emrys.
‘Old, but vigorous. He agrees with us, of course, but. ’ Emrys shrugged. ‘When Tewdric abdicated his throne, he gave up his power. He says he cannot change his son’s mind.’
‘Will not,’ I grumbled, going back to the fire.
‘Probably will not,’ Emrys agreed. He sighed. ‘I like Tewdric, but for now he is busy with other problems.’
‘What problems?’ I demanded too vehemently.
‘He would like to know,’ Emrys answered diffidently, ‘whether in heaven we will eat like mortals, or whether we shall be spared the need for earthly nourishment. There is a belief, you must understand, that angels do not eat at all, that indeed they are spared all gross and worldly appetites, and the old King is trying to replicate that manner of life. He eats very little, indeed he boasted to me that he once managed three whole weeks without defecating and felt a great deal more holy afterwards.’ Ceinwyn smiled, but said nothing, while I just stared at the Bishop with disbelief. Emrys finished the mead. ‘Tewdric claims,’
he added dubiously, ‘that he will starve himself into a state of grace. I confess I am not convinced, but he does seem a most pious man. We should all be as blessed.’
‘What does Agricola say?’ I asked.
‘He boasts of how frequently he defecates. Forgive me, Lady.’
‘It must have been a joyous reunion for the two of them,’ Ceinwyn said drily.
‘It was not immediately useful,’ Emrys admitted. ‘I had hoped to persuade Tewdric to change his son’s mind, but alas,’ he shrugged, ‘all we can do now is pray.’
‘And keep our spears sharp,’ I said wanly.
‘That, too,’ the Bishop agreed. He sneezed again and made the sign of the cross to nullify the ill-luck of the sneeze.
‘Will Meurig let Powys’s spearmen cross his land?’ I asked.
‘Cuneglas told him that if he refused permission then he would cross anyway.’
I groaned. The last thing we needed was for one British kingdom to fight another. For years such warfare had weakened Britain and had allowed the Saxons to take valley after valley and town after town, though of late it had been the Saxons who fought each other, and we who had taken advantage of their enmity to inflict defeats on them; but Cerdic and Aelle had learned the lesson that Arthur had beaten into the Britons, that victory came with unity. Now it was the Saxons who were united and the British who were divided.
‘I think Meurig will let Cuneglas cross,’ Emrys said, ‘for he does not want war with anyone. He just wants peace.’
‘We all want peace,’ I said, ‘but if Dumnonia falls then Gwent will be the next country to feel the Saxon blades.’
‘Meurig insists not,’ the Bishop said, ‘and he is offering sanctuary to any Dumnonian Christian who wishes to avoid the war.’
That was bad news, for it meant that anyone who had no stomach to face Aelle and Cerdic need only claim the Christian faith to be given refuge in Meurig’s kingdom. ‘Does he really believe his God will protect him?’ I asked Emrys.
‘He must, Lord, for what other use is God? But God, of course, may have other ideas. It is so very hard to read His mind.’ The Bishop was now warm enough to risk shedding the big cloak of bear fur from his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a sheepskin jerkin. He put his hand inside the jerkin and I assumed he was scratching for a louse, but instead he brought out a folded parchment that was tied with a ribbon and sealed with a melted drop of wax. ‘Arthur sent this to me from Demetia,’ he said, offering me the parchment, ‘and asked that you should deliver it to the Princess Guinevere.’
‘Of course,’ I said, taking the parchment. I confess I was tempted to break the seal and read the document, but resisted the temptation. ‘Do you know what it says?’ I asked the Bishop.
‘Alas, Lord, no,’ Emrys said, though without looking at me, and I suspected the old man had broken the seal and did know the letter’s contents, but was unwilling to admit that small sin. ‘I’m sure it is nothing important,’ the Bishop said, ‘but he particularly asked that she should receive it before the solstice. Before he returns, that is.’
‘Why did he go to Demetia?’ Ceinwyn asked.
‘To assure himself that the Blackshields will fight this spring, I assume,’ the Bishop said, but I detected an evasion in his voice. I suspected the letter would contain the real reason for Arthur’s visit to Oengus mac Airem, but Emrys could not reveal that without also admitting that he had broken the seal. I rode to Ynys Wydryn next day. It was not far, but the journey took most of the morning for in places I had to lead my horse and mule through drifts of snow. The mule was carrying a dozen of the wolf pelts that Cuneglas had brought us and they proved a welcome gift because Guinevere’s timber-walled prison room was full of cracks through which the wind hissed cold. I discovered her crouched beside a fire that burned in the centre of the room. She straightened when I was announced, then dismissed her two attendants to the kitchens. ‘I am tempted,’ she said, ‘to become a kitchenmaid myself. The kitchen is at least warm, but sadly full of canting Christians. They can’t break an egg without praising their wretched God.’ She shivered and drew her cloak tight about her slender shoulders. ‘The Romans,’ she said,
‘knew how to keep warm, but we seem to have lost that skill.’
‘Ceinwyn sent you these, Lady,’ I said, dropping the skins on the floor.
‘You will thank her for me,’ Guinevere said and then, despite the cold, she went and pushed open the shutters of a window so that daylight could come into the room. The fire swayed under the rush of cold air and sparks whirled up to the blackened beams. Guinevere was robed in thick brown wool. She was pale, but that haughty, green-eyed face had lost none of its power or pride. ‘I had hoped to see you sooner,’ she chided me.
‘It has been a difficult season, Lady,’ I said, excusing my long absence.
‘I want to know, Derfel, what happened at Mai Dun,’ she said.
‘I shall tell you, Lady, but first I am ordered to give you this.’
I took Arthur’s parchment from the pouch at my belt and gave it to her. She tore the ribbon away, levered up the wax seal with a fingernail and unfolded the document. She read it in the glare of the light reflected from the snow through the window. I saw her face tighten, but she showed no other reaction. She seemed to read the letter twice, then folded it and tossed it onto a wooden chest. ‘So tell me of Mai Dun,’ she said.