‘Could she read?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t remember. Probably not.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘She had very pale skin,’ I said, ‘because she refused to go into the sun. She liked the night, Argante did. And she had very black hair, as shiny as a raven’s feathers.’
‘You say she was small and thin?’ Igraine asked.
‘Very thin, and quite short,’ I said, ‘but the thing I remember most about Argante is that she very rarely smiled. She watched everything and missed nothing, and there was always a calculating look on her face. People mistook that look for cleverness, but it wasn’t cleverness at all. She was merely the youngest of seven or eight daughters and so she was always worried that she would be left out. She was looking for her share all the time, and all the time she believed she was not receiving it.’
Igraine grimaced. ‘You make her sound horrid!’
‘She was greedy, bitter and very young,’ I said, ‘but she was also beautiful. She had a delicacy that was very touching.’ I paused and sighed. ‘Poor Arthur. He did pick his women very badly. Except for Ailleann, of course, but then he didn’t pick her. She was given to him as a slave.’
‘What happened to Ailleann?’
‘She died in the Saxon War.’
‘Killed?’ Igraine shuddered.
‘Of the plague,’ I said. ‘It was a very normal death.’
Christ.
That name does look odd on the page, but I shall leave it there. Just as Igraine and I were talking about Ailleann, Bishop Sansum came into the room. The saint cannot read, and because he would utterly disapprove of my writing this story of Arthur, Igraine and I pretend that I am making a gospel in the Saxon tongue. I say he cannot read, but Sansum does have the ability to recognize some few words and Christ is one of them. Which is why I wrote it. He saw it, too, and grunted suspiciously. He looks very old these days. Almost all his hair has gone, though he still has two white tufts like the ears of Lughtigern, the mouse lord. He has pain when he passes urine, but he will not submit his body to the wise-women for healing, for he claims they are all pagans. God, the saint claims, will cure him, though at times, God forgive me, I pray that the saint might be dying for then this small monastery would have a new bishop.
‘My Lady is well?’ he asked Igraine after squinting down at this parchment.
‘Thank you, Bishop, I am.’
Sansum poked about the room, looking for something wrong, though what he expected to find I cannot tell. The room is very simple; a cot, a writing table, a stool and a fire. He would have liked to criticize me for burning a fire, but today is a very mild winter’s day and I am saving what small fuel the saint permits me to have. He flicked at a scrap of dust, decided not to comment on it and so peered at Igraine instead. ‘Your time must be very near, Lady?’
‘Less than two moons, they say, Bishop,’ Igraine said, and made the sign of the cross against her blue dress.
‘You will know, of course, that our prayers will echo throughout heaven on your Ladyship’s behalf,’
Sansum said, without meaning a word of it.
‘Pray, too,’ Igraine said, ‘that the Saxons are not close.’
‘Are they?’ Sansum asked in alarm.
‘My husband hears they are readying to attack Ratae.’
‘Ratae is far away,’ the Bishop said dismissively.
‘A day and a half?’ Igraine said, ‘and if Ratae falls, what fortress lies between us and the Saxons?’
‘God will protect us,’ the Bishop said, unconsciously echoing the long-dead belief of the pious King Meurig of Gwent, ‘as God will protect your Ladyship at the hour of your trial.’ He stayed a few more minutes, but had no real business with either of us. The saint is bored these days. He lacks mischief to foment. Brother Maelgwyn, who was the strongest of us and who carried much of the monastery’s physical labour, died a few weeks ago and, with his passing, the Bishop lost one of his favourite targets for contempt. He finds little pleasure in tormenting me for I endure his spite patiently, and besides, I am protected by Igraine and her husband.
At last Sansum went and Igraine made a face at his retreating back. ‘Tell me, Derfel,’ she said when the saint was out of earshot, ‘what should I do for the birth?’
‘Why on earth do you ask me?’ I said in amazement. ‘I know nothing about childbirth, thank God!
I’ve never even seen a child born, and I don’t want to.’
‘But you know about the old things,’ she said urgently, ‘that’s what I mean.’
‘The women in your caer will know much more than I do,’ I said, ‘but whenever Ceinwyn gave birth we always made sure there was iron in the bed, women’s urine on the doorstep, mugwort on the fire, and, of course, we had a virgin girl ready to lift the newborn child from the birth-straw. Most important of all,’ I went on sternly, ‘there must be no men in the room. Nothing brings so much ill-luck as having a man present at a birth.’ I touched the protruding nail in my writing desk to avert the evil fortune of even mentioning such an unlucky circumstance. We Christians, of course, do not believe that touching iron will affect any fortune, whether evil or good, but the nailhead on my desk is still much polished by my touching. ‘Is it true about the Saxons?’ I asked.
Igraine nodded. ‘They’re getting closer, Derfel.’
I rubbed the nailhead again. ‘Then warn your husband to have sharp spears.’
‘He needs no warning,’ she said grimly.
I wonder if the war will ever end. For as long as I have lived the Britons have fought the Saxons, and though we did win one great victory over them, in the years since that victory we have seen more land lost and, with the land, the stories that were attached to the valleys and hilltops have been lost as well. History is not just a tale of men’s making, but is a thing tied to the land. We call a hill by the name of a hero who died there, or name a river after a princess who fled beside its banks, and when the old names vanish, the stories go with them and the new names carry no reminder of the past. The Sais take our land and our history. They spread like a contagion, and we no longer have Arthur to protect us. Arthur, scourge of the Sais, Lord of Britain and the man whose love hurt him more than any wound from sword or spear. How I do miss Arthur.
The winter solstice is when we prayed that the Gods would not abandon the earth to the great darkness. In the bleakest of winters those prayers often seemed like pleas of despair, and that was never more so than in the year before the Saxons attacked when our world was deadened beneath a shell of ice and crusted snow. For those of us who were adepts of Mithras the solstice had a double meaning, for it is also the time of our God’s birth, and after the big solstice feast at Dun Caric I took Issa west to the caves where we held our most solemn ceremonies and there I inducted him into the worship of Mithras. He endured the ordeals successfully and so was welcomed into that band of elite warriors who keep the God’s mysteries. We feasted afterwards. I killed the bull that year, first hamstringing the beast so that it could not move, then swinging the axe in the low cave to sever its spine. The bull, I recall, had a shrivelled liver, which was reckoned a bad omen, but there were no good omens that cold winter. Forty men attended the rites, despite the bitter weather. Arthur, though long an initiate, did not arrive, but Sagramor and Culhwch had come from their frontier posts for the ceremonies. At the end of the feasting, when most of the warriors were sleeping off the effects of the mead, we three withdrew to a low tunnel where the smoke was not thick and we could talk privately.
Both Sagramor and Culhwch were certain that the Saxons would attack directly along the valley of the Thames. ‘What I hear,’ Sagramor told us, ‘is that they’re filling London and Pontes with food and supplies.’ He paused to tear some meat from a bone with his teeth. It had been months since I had seen Sagramor, and I found his company reassuring; the Numidian was the toughest and most fearsome of all Arthur’s warlords, and his prowess was reflected in his narrow, axe-sharp face. He was the most loyal of men, a staunch friend, and a wondrous teller of stories, but above everything he was a natural warrior who could outfox and outfight any enemy. The Saxons were terrified of Sagramor, believing he was a dark demon from their Otherworld. We were happy that they should live in such numbing fear and it was a comfort that, even though outnumbered, we would have his sword and his experienced spearmen on our side.