Bernard Cornwell – Warlord 1 – Winter King

Bernard Cornwell – Warlord 1 – Winter King

Bernard Cornwell – Warlord 1 – Winter King

The Winter King

By: Bernard Cornwell.

Category: Fiction Historical Adventure

Synopsis:

These are the tales of the last days before the great darkness descended. These are the tales of the Lost Lands, the country that was once ours but which our enemies now call England. These are the tales of Arthur, the Warlord’; the King that Never Was, the Enemy of God and, may the living Christ forgive me, the best man I ever knew. How I have wept for Arthur… Fifth-century Britain lies on the edge of darkness. Memories of Roman civilization! are fading; the pagan Gods are retreating before the spread of Christianity; the Saxons are snapping and snarling at the borders. Only fragile bonds unite the unruly kingdoms of Britain against the invaders, bonds cemented by the vigour of the High King, Uther Pendragon. But the Pendragon is failing, and his heir is no strong leader but a child, born on a bitter winter night.

Only one man could keep Uther’s throne safe,-only he could hold the warring kingdoms together to face their true enemy, the Saxons. That man is Arthur: soldier, statesman, Merlin’s protege, Uther’s illegitimate son. But he has been banished, exiled by his own father to Brittany. Derfel, one of his spearmen, narrates the story of Arthur’s return and of his quest for peace: embattled, bloody and, finally, triumphant.

The Winter King is a magnificent tale of the Dark Ages and the reality of war and political strife in a land where religion vied with magic for the souls of the people. It portrays Arthur the man rather than the legend, a military genius who, with a small band of warriors bound to him by loyalty and love, struggled to keep alive a flicker of civilization.

PART ONE

A Child in Winter

ONCE UPON A TIME, in a land that was called Britain, these things happened. Bishop Sansum, whom God must bless above all the saints living and dead, says these memories should be cast into the bottomless pit with all the other filth of fallen mankind, for these are the tales of the last days before the great darkness descended on the light of our Lord Jesus Christ. These are the tales of the land we call Lloegyr, which means the Lost Lands, the country that was once ours but which our enemies now call England. These are the tales of Arthur, the Warlord, the King that Never Was, the Enemy of God and, may the living Christ and Bishop Sansum forgive me, the best man I ever knew. How I have wept for Arthur.

It is cold today. The hills are deathly pale and the clouds dark. We shall have snow before nightfall, but Sansum will surely refuse us the blessing of a fire. It is good, the saint says, to mortify the flesh. I am old now, but Sansum, may God grant him many years yet, is older still so I cannot use my age as an argument to unlock the wood store Sansum will just say that our suffering is an offering to God who suffered more than all of us, and so we six brethren shall shiver in our half-sleep and tomorrow the well will be frozen and Brother Maelgwyn will have to climb down the chain and hammer the ice with a stone before we can drink.

Yet cold is not the worst affliction of our winter, but rather that the icy paths will stop Igraine visiting the monastery. Igraine is our Queen, married to King Brochvael. She is dark and slender, very young, and has a quickness that is like the sun’s warmth on a winter’s day. She comes here to pray that she will be granted a son, yet she spends more time talking with me than praying to Our Lady or to her blessed son. She talks to me because she likes to hear the stories of Arthur, and this past summer I told her all that I could remember and when I could remember no more she brought me a heap of parchment, a horn flask of ink and a bundle of goose feathers for quills. Arthur wore goose feathers on his helmet. These quills are not so big, nor so white, but yesterday I held the sheaf of quills up to the winter sky and for a glorious guilty moment I thought I saw his face beneath that plume. For that one moment the dragon and the bear snarled across Britain to terrify the heathen again, but then I sneezed and saw I clutched nothing but a handful of feathers clotted with goose droppings and scarcely adequate for writing. The ink is just as bad; mere lamp-black mixed with gum from apple-bark. The parchments are better. They are made from lambs’ skins left over from the Roman days and were once covered with a script none of us could read, but Igraine’s women scraped the skins bare and white. Sansum says it would be better if so much lambskin were made into shoes, but the scraped skins are too thin to cobble, and besides, Sansum dare not offend Igraine and thus lose the friendship of King Brochvael. This monastery is no more than a half-day’s journey from enemy spearmen and even our small storehouse could tempt those enemies across the Black Stream, up into the hills and so to Dinnewrac’s valley if Brochvael’s warriors were not ordered to protect us. Yet I do not think that even Brochvael’s friendship would reconcile Sansum to the idea of Brother Derfel writing an account of Arthur, Enemy of God, and so Igraine and I have lied to the blessed saint by telling him that I am writing down a translation of the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ in the tongue of the Saxons. The blessed saint does not speak the enemy tongue, nor can he read, and so we should be able to deceive him long enough for this tale to be written.

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