Warlord 2 Enemy of God by Bernard Cornwell Page B

particularly like me either. She knew of my aversion for Lancelot, and that doubtless prejudiced her against me, but she would not have thought my dislike significant, for she doubtless dismissed me as merely one of her husband’s war leaders; a tall, dull, flaxen-haired man who lacked the civilized graces that Guinevere so valued. ‘An obstacle?’ Guinevere asked me dangerously.
    ‘Lord Prince,’ I said, insisting on talking to Arthur and not to his wife, ‘I am oath-sworn to a lady.’ I thought of the bone in my pouch. ‘I have no claim on her, nor can I expect anything from her, but if she does claim me then I am obligated to her.’
    ‘Who?’ Guinevere demanded immediately.
    ‘I can’t say, Lady.’
    ‘Who?’ Guinevere insisted again.
    ‘He doesn’t need to say,’ Arthur defended me. He smiled. ‘How long can this lady claim your loyalty?’
    ‘Not long, Lord,’ I said, ‘only days now.’ For once Ceinwyn was betrothed to Lancelot then I could consider my oath to her voided.
    ‘Good,’ he said vigorously, and smiled at Guinevere as though inviting her to share his pleasure, but Guinevere was scowling instead. She detested Gwenhwyvach, finding her graceless and boring, and she desperately wanted to marry her sister out of her life. ‘If all goes well,’ Arthur said, ‘you can be married in Glevum at the same time that Lancelot marries Ceinwyn.’
    ‘Or are you demanding these few days,’ Guinevere asked acidly, ‘to conjure up reasons why you should not marry my sister?’
    ‘Lady,’ I said earnestly, ‘it would be an honour to marry Gwenhwyvach.’ That, I think, was the truth, for Gwenhwyvach would doubtless prove an honest wife, though whether I would prove a good husband was another matter, for my only reason for marrying Gwenhwyvach would be the high rank and great wealth she would bring as her dowry; but those, for most men, were the purpose of marriage. And if I could not have Ceinwyn, what did it matter who I married? Merlin ever warned us against confusing love and marriage, and though the advice was cynical, there was truth there. I was not expected to love Gwenhwyvach, just to marry her, and her rank and dowry were my rewards for fighting that long bloody day in Lugg Vale. If those rewards were tinged with Guinevere’s mockery, they were still a rich gift. ‘I will marry your sister gladly,’ I promised Guinevere, ‘so long as the keeper of my oath does not call on me.’
    ‘I pray she does not,’ Arthur said with a smile, then whipped round as a shout sounded uphill. Bors was crouched with his spear. Lancelot was beside him, but was glancing down the slope towards us, perhaps worried that the animal would escape through the gap between us. Arthur gently pushed Guinevere back, then gestured for me to climb the hill and plug the gap.
    ‘Two of them!’ Lancelot called to us.
    ‘One will be a sow,’ Arthur called, then ran a few paces upstream before starting to climb uphill.
    ‘Where?’ he asked. Lancelot pointed with his white-shafted spear, but I could still see nothing in the bushes.
    ‘There!’ Lancelot said petulantly, prodding his spear towards a tangle of briars. Arthur and I climbed another few feet and then at last we could see the boar deep inside the undergrowth. He was a big old beast with yellow tusks, small eyes and humps of muscle under his dark scarred hide. That muscle could move him at lightning speed and make him hook his sword sharp tusks with a fatal skill. We had all seen men die from tusk wounds, and nothing made a boar more dangerous than to be cornered with a sow. All hunters prayed for a boar charging in open ground so that they could use the beast’s own speed and bulk to drive the spear into his body. Such a confrontation demanded nerve and skill, but not nearly so much nerve as when a man had to charge the boar.
    ‘Who saw him first?’ Arthur asked.
    ‘My Lord King did.’ Bors indicated Lancelot.
    ‘Then he’s yours, Lord King.’