Warlord 2 Enemy of God by Bernard Cornwell Page B

Gods, Derfel, but do the Gods believe in Britain? This isn’t the old Britain,’ he said vehemently. ‘Maybe once we were a people of one blood, but now? The Romans brought men from every corner of the world! Sarmatians, Libyans, Gauls, Numidians, Greeks! Their blood is mingled with ours, just as it seethes with Roman blood and mixes now with Saxon blood. We are what we are, Derfel, not what we once were. We have a hundred Gods now, not just the old Gods, and we cannot turn the years back, not even with the Cauldron and every Treasure of Britain.’
    ‘Merlin disagrees.’
    ‘And Merlin would have me fight the Christians just so his Gods can rule? No, I won’t do it, Derfel.’
    He spoke angrily. ‘You can look for your imaginary Cauldron, but don’t think I’ll play Merlin’s game by persecuting Christians.’
    ‘Merlin,’ I said defensively, ‘will leave the fate of the Christians to the Gods.’
    ‘And what are we but the Gods’ implements?’ Arthur asked. ‘But I won’t fight other Britons just because they worship another God. Nor will you, Derfel, so long as you’re oath-sworn.’
    ‘No, Lord.’
    He sighed. ‘I do hate all this rancour about Gods. But then, Guinevere always tells me I am blind to the Gods. She says it’s my one fault.’ He smiled. ‘If you’re sworn to Merlin, Derfel, then you must go with him. Where will he take you?’
    ‘To Ynys Mon, Lord.’
    He stared at me in silence for a few heartbeats, then shuddered.
    ‘You go to Lleyn?’ he asked incredulously. ‘No one comes alive from Lleyn.’
    ‘I shall,’ I boasted.
    ‘Make sure you do, Derfel, make sure you do.’ He sounded gloomy. ‘I need you to help me beat the Saxons. And after that, maybe, you can return to Dumnonia. Guinevere isn’t a woman to hold grudges.’ I doubted that, but said nothing. ‘So I shall summon you in the spring,’ Arthur went on, ‘and pray you survive Lleyn.’ He put an arm through mine and walked me back towards the house. ‘And if anyone asks you, Derfel, then I have just reproved you angrily. I have cursed you, even struck you.’
    I laughed. ‘I forgive you the blow, Lord.’
    ‘Consider yourself reproved,’ he said, ‘and consider yourself,’ he went on, ‘the second luckiest man in Britain.’
    The luckiest in the world, I thought, for I had my soul’s desire.
    Or I would have it, the Gods preserve us, when Merlin had his.
    I stood and watched the spearmen go. Arthur’s banner of the bear showed briefly in the trees, he waved, hoisted himself onto his horse’s back and then was gone.
    And we were alone.
    So I was not in Dumnonia to see Arthur’s return. I should have liked that, for he rode back a hero to a country that had dismissed his chances of survival and had plotted to replace him by lesser creatures. Food was scarce that autumn, for the sudden flare of war had depleted the new harvest, but there was no famine and Arthur’s men collected fair taxes. That sounds like a small improvement, but after the recent years it caused a stir in the land. Only the rich paid taxes to the Royal Treasury. Some paid in gold, but most paid in grain and leather and linen and salt and wool and dried fish that they, in turn, had demanded from their tenants. In the last few years the rich had paid little to the King and the poor had paid much to the rich, so Arthur sent spearmen to inquire of the poor what tax had been levied of them and used their answers to make his own levy of the rich. From the proceeds he returned a third of the yield back to the churches and magistrates so that they could distribute the food in the winter. That action alone told Dumnonia that a new power had come to the land, and though the wealthy grumbled, none dared raise a shield-wall to tight Arthur. He was the warlord of Mordred’s kingdom, the victor of Lugg Vale, the slaughterer of Kings, and those who opposed him now feared him. Mordred was moved into the care of Culhwch, Arthur’s cousin and a crude,