“By your hand, sire, the impossible became a reality. I fought with you at Petersfield and Romsey. But that was in the old way, on horseback, with sword and shield. It will not be the same to carry a gun at one’s hip and kill a man a hundred yards away—a man maybe who has not even seen you. I will make the guns but I do not think I want to use them.”
“You will not refuse to go with me when we ride south, Hans?”
“No, sire.” He smiled. “I will not do that. Not then or ever. I go wherever you go.”
• • •
I worked hard that winter, drilling and organizing the army, making plans and preparations for the campaign to come. I rose early and rested little through a long day. This was no hardship. In work I could forget my shames, and keep at bay those specters that otherwise filled vacancy to mock and jeer at me. There were hours on end when I did not think of Blodwen, nights when I went to bed so tired that I did not dream.
Cymru remonstrated with me for this unceasing labor, though I think he was impressed by it. He asked me to take things more easily, then begged, at last commanded. This was at the Christmas Feast, which the Wilsh kept far more lavishly even than we had done in Winchester. For twelve days there was a round of feasts and balls, masques and concerts and visitings, a vast gluttony of eating and drinking. Lewin and his minions produced mountains of food, most elaborately prepared, glazed and sauced. On one great table he set up a pyramid, ten feet high, of meats cooked and carved in strange patterns of shape and hue, the whole thing topped by the head of the biggest boar I had ever seen. A polybeast, of course, but that counted for nothing in this land.
On the chief day of the Feast there was a procession of Christians through the streets of the city, ending up at their church, a huge building bearing no fewer than seven large onion domes, which they called the Cathedral. Cymru and his court joined in the procession as it passed the palace and walked the last hundred yards with it, before actually going into the church immediately behind the Bishop.
When Cymru told me of this, taking it for granted that I would go with them, I said in surprise:
“But you are not a Christian.”
“I am not one of the White Witches, either, but I attend their grand coven at midsummer. And preside at the feast the farmers give at harvest, though I am not a farmer. Amongst us the King is father to his people as long as they obey the law. And the Christians do that as well as any.”
“In our lands they give trouble by protesting against war and executions.” I remembered a bitter freezing morning in Salisbury and myself punished as an Acolyte who had disgraced the Seers’ cloth. “Even against men being put into the stocks.”
“They make no protests here,” Cymru said. “And their Christmas worshiping is worth attending for the music.”
So I walked beside him from the palace to the Cathedral. Snow fell lightly and it was cold in the open when one had become used to the heated floors of the palace, but we were well wrapped in furs. So too, I saw, were the Christians. They looked fat and prosperous, quite different from the ragged starvelings I had known in the south. There were fewer than a hundred of them. I said to Cymru:
“Is this their full number?”
“All who can will attend the Christmas worship,” he said. “Their numbers dwindle. Forty years ago, when I walked here beside my father, there were three times as many. But their music is still excellent.”
Listening, I supposed it was. I found it florid stuff, with much contrast between boys’ trebles and deep booming basses: there were almost as many in the choir as in the audience. But I knew nothing of music, anyway. I let my mind wander to watch the others in the church. Sitting on their high-backed benches they looked even fatter and richer than before. I wondered what our Winchester Bishop would make of them. They looked far worthier citizens than his own rabble. And yet, Cymru had said, their numbers dwindled. It was not easy to account for it.
I put the question to their Bishop later, when he came to the feast at the palace. His name was Griffis and I had seen him at court before. For such visits he put off his Christian robes and his elegance outdid the majority of Cymru’s nobles, a notable achievement. He spoke elegantly too; more slowly than was usual among the Wilsh and with what was thought to be great wit. I could not always see the jest myself, but the Wilsh nobles round him were quick to laugh.
He said: “Numbers do not of themselves give distinction.” From a tray proffered by a page he took a small roast bird and crunched it delicately. “It is sometimes an honor to be part of a minority.” He glanced sideways at me, smiling. “Did you not find yourself in this case with the Captains of your city?”
Someone tittered. I had heard this Bishop on other occasions dripping malice from his slightly twisted mouth. The Wilsh nobles were nearly all gossips, but he outdid them in that also. I said coldly:
“You have a merry wit, Bishop.” He inclined his head, smiling still. “I must tell the King that you find treachery a good subject for jesting. Maybe he will laugh with you.”
He looked at me quickly to see if I were jesting in my turn. When I stared heavily back at him he quickly changed his tune. I had misunderstood him, he said, but it was for him to apologize for the misunderstanding. From that he went on fulsomely in flattery of me. It was laid on like the grease which still rimmed his lips from the bird he had been eating, smooth and oily. After a moment or two I nodded, and turned my back. It was discourtesy, but I could stand no more of the man.
I thought of the Bishop of Winchester, talking boldly about forbidden things, speaking up to an Acolyte in the presence of his Prince. And thinking of it I thought of who else had been there that night, saw her again scolding me and then sweetly pleading as she told me whom she had asked to dine with us. And sickness filled my heart as the Wilsh nobles chattered and laughed and gorged themselves all round me. I left the room and went up to the quiet of my chamber. The double windows were shut. I opened them and stepped out onto the balcony. The river was frozen except where it tumbled down its horseshoe falls, barely visible in the darkness. Beyond it lights flickered from the hundred towers of Klan Gothlen, and whispers of music came in on the night air.
The cold was sharp against my skin and memory a knife in my mind. I clenched the freezing balustrade with my fingers. Soon, thanks be to the Great, the feasting days would be over and it would be time to work again.
• • •
At last winter ended, and the army could ride south. We set off with banners and pennants flying in a stiff breeze that blew down from the mountains and still had ice in it. The citizens cheered us from their towers and balconies and thronged the streets to watch us pass. Apart from the scouts, Cymru rode in the van and I beside him.
It was a leisurely progress. We could not travel at any great pace because of the baggage train, which was enormous. I had been for reducing it to the minimum, but on this one point Cymru overrode me. So we went laden with gear of all kinds—tents for the nobles, a pavilion for Cymru himself—and a great store of food and drink. This at least we consumed as we made our way south. But we still took far more than an army in the field needed—and far more, as I pointed out to Cymru, than we should be able to take with us over the pass through the Burning Lands.
We were sitting in his pavilion which had been set up close by the river. Our camp stretched for half a mile along the valley. Had there been any possible enemy I would have wanted it more tightly disposed, but on this side of the Burning Lands there was none to challenge the might of Cymru’s army.
Cymru laughed. “We shall travel lightly when we need to, Luke, but until the need arises we Wilsh will have our comforts. Could Lewin have prepared a dinner such as we had tonight without his mountain of pots and pans and his own army of scullions?”