Warlord 2 Enemy of God by Bernard Cornwell Page A

by right and I plan to make you its tenant. I’ll grant you other land, too, for your own, but you can make a hall on Mordred’s land and raise him there.’
    ‘You know the estate,’ Guinevere said. ‘It’s the one north of Gyllad’s holding.’
    ‘I know it,’ I said. The estate had good river land for crops and fine uplands for sheep. ‘But I’m not sure I know how to raise a child,’ I grumbled. The horns sounded loud ahead and the huntsmen’s hounds were baying. Cheers sounded far to our right, signifying that someone had found quarry, though our part of the wood was still empty. A small stream tumbled to our left and the wooded ground climbed to our right. The rocks and twisted tree roots were thick with moss.
    Arthur dismissed my fears. ‘You won’t raise Mordred,’ he said, ‘but I do want him raised in your hall, with your servants, your manners, your morals and your judgments.’
    ‘And,’ Guinevere added, ‘your wife.’
    A snapping of a twig made me look uphill. Lancelot and his cousin Bors were there, both standing in front of Ceinwyn. Lancelot’s spear shaft was painted white and he wore tall leather boots and a cloak of supple leather. I looked back to Arthur. ‘The wife, Lord,’ I said, ‘is news to me.’
    He clasped my elbow, the boar hunt forgotten. ‘I plan to appoint you Dumnonia’s champion, Derfel,’
    he said.
    ‘The honour is above me, Lord,’ I said cautiously, ‘besides, you are Mordred’s champion.’
    ‘Prince Arthur,’ Guinevere said, for she liked to call him Prince even though he was bastard born, ‘is already chief of the Council. He can’t be champion as well, not unless he’s expected to do all Dumnonia’s work?’
    ‘True, Lady,’ I said. I was not averse to the honour, for it was a high one, though there was a price. In battle I would have to tight whatever champion presented himself for single combat, but in peace it would mean wealth and status far above my present rank. I already had the title of Lord and the men to uphold that rank and the right to paint my own device on these men’s shields, but I shared these honours with two score other Dumnonian war leaders. To be the King’s champion would make me the foremost warrior of Dumnonia, though how any man could claim that status while Arthur lived, I could not see. Nor, indeed, while Sagramor lived. ‘Sagramor,’ I said carefully, ‘is a greater warrior than I, Lord Prince.’ With Guinevere present I had to remember to call him Prince once in a while, though it was a title he disliked.
    Arthur waved my objection aside. ‘I am making Sagramor Lord of the Stones,’ he said, ‘and he wants nothing more.’ The lordship of the Stones made Sagramor into the man who guarded the Saxon frontier and I could well believe that the black-skinned, dark-eyed Sagramor would be well content with such a belligerent appointment. ‘You, Derfel,’ he prodded my chest, ‘will be the champion.’
    ‘And who,’ I asked drily, ‘will be the champion’s wife?’
    ‘My sister Gwenhwyvach,’ Guinevere said, watching me closely.
    I was grateful that I had been forewarned by Merlin. ‘You do me too much honour, Lady,’ I said blandly.
    Guinevere smiled, satisfied that my words implied acceptance. ‘Did you ever think, Derfel, that you would marry a Princess?’
    ‘No, Lady,’ I said. Gwenhwyvach, like Guinevere, was indeed a Princess, a Princess of Henis Wyren, though Henis Wyren was no more. That sad kingdom was now called Lleyn and was ruled by the dark Irish invader, King Diwrnach.
    Guinevere yanked the leashes to subdue her excited hounds. ‘You can be betrothed when we return to Dumnonia,’ she said. ‘Gwenhwyvach has agreed.’
    ‘There is one obstacle, Lord,’ I said to Arthur.
    Guinevere yanked on the leashes again, quite unnecessarily, but she hated all opposition and so she took out her frustration on the hounds instead of on me. She did not dislike me at that time, but nor did she