I had not seen Merlin all that day, and that night Galahad told me the Druid had already left the valley, going north. I had found Galahad standing beside Cuneglas’s balefire. ‘I know Cuneglas disliked Christians,’ Galahad explained to me, ‘but I don’t think he would object to a Christian’s prayer.’ I invited him to sleep among my men and he walked with me to where they were camped. ‘Merlin did give me a message for you,’ Galahad told me. ‘He says you will find what you seek among the trees that are dead.’
‘I’m not sure I’m seeking anything,’ I said.
‘Then look among the dead trees,’ Galahad said, ‘and you’ll find whatever it is you’re not looking for.’
I looked for nothing that night, but instead slept wrapped in my cloak among my men on the battlefield. I woke early with an aching head and sore joints. The fine weather had passed and a drizzle was spitting out of the west. The ram threatened to dampen the balefires and so we began collecting wood to feed the flames, and that reminded me of Merlin’s strange message, but I could see no dead trees. We were using Saxon battle axes to chop down oaks, elms and beech, sparing only the sacred ash trees, and all the trees we cut were healthy enough. I asked Issa if he had noticed any dead trees and he shook his head, but Eachern said he had seen some down by the river bend.
‘Show me.’
Eachern led a whole group of us down to the bank and, where the river turned sharply west, there was a great mass of dead trees caught on the half exposed roots of a willow. The dead branches were matted with a tangle of other debris that had been washed down river, but I could see nothing of any value among the scraps. ‘If Merlin says there’s something there,’ Galahad said, ‘then we ought to look.’
‘He might not have meant those trees,’ I said.
‘They’re as good as any,’ Issa said, and he stripped off his sword so that it would not get wet and jumped down onto the tangle. He broke through the brittle upper branches to splash into the river. ‘Give me a spear!’ he called.
Galahad handed down a spear and Issa used it to poke among the branches. In one place a stretch of frayed and tarred netting from a fish trap had been snagged to form a tent-like shape that was thick with dead leaves, and Issa needed all his strength to heave that tangled mass aside. It was then that the fugitive broke cover. He had been hiding under the net, poised uncomfortably on a half-submerged trunk, but now, like an otter flushed by hounds, he scrambled away from Issa’s spear and tried to escape up river. The dead trees tripped him, and the weight of armour slowed him, and my men, whooping on the bank, easily overtook him. If the fugitive had not been wearing armour he might have thrown himself into the river and swum to its far bank, but now he could do nothing but surrender. The man must have spent two nights and a day working his way up the river, but then discovered the hiding place and thought he could stay there until we had all left the battlefield. Now he was caught. It was Lancelot. I first recognized him because of his long black hair of which he was so vain, then, through the mud and twigs, I saw the famous white enamel of his armour. His face showed nothing but terror. He looked from us to the river, as if contemplating throwing himself into the current, then he looked back and saw his half-brother. ‘Galahad!’ he called. ‘Galahad!’
Galahad looked at me for a few heartbeats, then he made the sign of the cross, turned and walked away.
‘Galahad!’ Lancelot shouted again as his brother vanished from the bank above. Galahad just kept walking.
‘Bring him up,’ I ordered. Issa jabbed at Lancelot with the spear and the terrified man scrambled desperately up through the nettles that grew on the bank. He still had his sword, though its blade must have been rusty after its immersion in the river. I faced him as he stumbled free of the nettles. ‘Will you fight me here and now, Lord King?’ I asked him, drawing Hywelbane.
‘Let me go, Derfel! I’ll send you money, I promise!’ He babbled on, promising me gold beyond my dreams’ desires, but he would not draw the sword until I prodded his chest hard with Hywelbane’s point and at that moment he knew he must die. He spat at me, took one pace backwards, and drew his blade. It had once been called Tanlladwr, which means Bright Killer, but he had renamed it the Christblade when Sansum had baptized him. The Christblade was rusted now, but still a formidable weapon, and to my surprise Lancelot was no mean swordsman. I had always taken him for a coward, but that day he fought bravely enough. He was desperate, and the desperation showed itself in a series of slashing quick attacks that forced me back. But he was also tired, wet and cold, and he wearied quickly so that when his first flurry of blows had all been parried I was able to take my time as I decided on his death. He became more desperate and his blows wilder, but I ended the fight when I ducked under one of those massive cuts and held Hywelbane so that her point caught him on the arm and the momentum of his swing opened the veins from the wrist to the elbow. He yelped as the blood flowed, then his sword fell from his nerveless hand and he waited in abject terror for the killing blow.
I cleaned Hywelbane’s blade with a handful of grass, dried her on my cloak, then sheathed her. ‘I don’t want your soul on my sword,’ I told Lancelot, and for a heartbeat he looked grateful, but then I broke his hopes. ‘Your men killed my child,’ I told him, ‘the same men you sent to try and fetch Ceinwyn to your bed. You think I can forgive you for either?’
‘They were not my orders,’ he said desperately. ‘Believe me!’
I spat in his face. ‘Shall I give you to Arthur, Lord King?’
‘No, Derfel, please!’ He clasped his hands. He shivered. ‘Please!’
‘Give him the woman’s death,’ Issa urged me, meaning that we should strip him, geld him and let him bleed to death between his legs.
I was tempted, but I feared to enjoy Lancelot’s death. There is a pleasure in revenge, and I had given Dian’s killers a terrible death and felt no pang of conscience as I enjoyed their suffering, but I had no belly for the torture of this quivering, broken man. He shook so much that I felt pity for him, and I found myself debating whether to let him live. I knew he was a traitor and a coward and that he deserved to be killed, but his terror was so abject that I actually felt sorry for him. He had always been my enemy, he had always despised me, yet as he dropped to his knees in front of me and the tears rolled down his cheeks I felt the impulse to grant him mercy and knew there would be as much pleasure in that exercise of power as there would be in ordering his death. For a heartbeat I wanted his gratitude, but then I remembered my daughter’s dying face and a shudder of rage made me tremble. Arthur was famous for forgiving his enemies, but this was one enemy I could never forgive.
‘The woman’s death,’ Issa suggested again.
‘No,’ I said, and Lancelot looked up at me with renewed hope. ‘Hang him like a common felon,’ I said.
Lancelot howled, but I hardened my heart. ‘Hang him,’ I ordered again, and so we did. We found a length of horsehair rope, looped it over the branch of an oak and hoisted him up. He danced as he hung, and went on dancing until Galahad returned and tugged on his half-brother’s ankles to put him out of his choking misery.
We stripped Lancelot’s body naked. I threw his sword and his fine scale armour into the river, burned his clothes, then used a big Saxon war axe to dismember his corpse. We did not burn him, but tossed him to the fishes so that his dark soul would not sour the Otherworld with its presence. We obliterated him from the earth, and I kept only his enamelled sword belt that had been a gift from Arthur. I met Arthur at midday. He was returning from his pursuit of Cerdic and he and his men rode tired horses down into the valley. ‘We didn’t catch Cerdic,’ he told me, ‘but we caught some others.’ He patted Llamrei’s sweat-whitened neck. ‘Cerdic lives, Derfel,’ he said, ‘but he’s so weakened that he won’t be a problem for a long time.’ He smiled, then saw I was not matching his cheerful mood. ‘What is it?’ he asked.