Guinevere stared at the fallen rings, then kicked one aside. “I like King Lancelot,” she said defiantly, thus warning me against any more disparaging remarks. “And we have to look after him. Arthur feels we failed Benoic and the least we can do is to treat its survivors with honour. I want you to be kind to Lancelot, for my sake.”
“Yes, Lady,” I said meekly.
“We must find him a rich wife,” Guinevere said. “He must have land and men to command. Dumnonia is fortunate, I think, in having him come to our shores. We need good soldiers.”
“Indeed we do, Lady,” I agreed.
She caught the sarcasm in my voice and grimaced, but despite my hostility she persevered with the real reason she had invited me to this shadowed, private orchard. “King Lancelot,” she said, ‘wants to be a worshipper of Mithras, and Arthur and I do not want him opposed.”
I felt a flare of rage at my religion being taken so lightly. “Mithras, Lady,” I said coldly, ‘is a religion for the brave.”
“Even you, Derfel Cadarn, do not need more enemies,” Guinevere replied just as coldly, so I knew she would become my enemy if I blocked Lancelot’s desires. And doubtless, I thought, Guinevere would deliver the same message to any other man who might oppose Lancelot’s initiation into the Mithraic mysteries.
“Nothing will be done till winter,” I said, evading a firm commitment.
“But make sure it is done,” she said, then pushed open the hall door. “Thank you, Lord Derfel.”
“Thank you, Lady,” I said, and felt another surge of anger as I ran down the steps to the hall. Ten days! I thought, just ten days and Lancelot had made Guinevere into his supporter. I cursed, vowing that I would become a miserable Christian before I ever saw Lancelot feasting in a cave beneath a bull’s bloody head. I had broken three Saxon shield-walls and buried Hywelbane to her hilt in my country’s enemies before I had been elected to Mithras’s service, but all Lancelot had ever done was boast and posture.
I entered the hall to find Bed win seated beside Arthur. They were hearing petitioners, but Bedwin left the dais to draw me to a quiet spot beside the hall’s outer door. “I hear you’re a lord now,” he said. “My congratulations.”
“A lord without land,” I said bitterly, still upset by Guinevere’s outrageous demand.
“Land follows victory,” Bedwin told me, ‘and victory follows battle, and of battle, Lord Derfel, you will have plenty this year.” He stopped as the hall door was thrown open and as Lancelot and his followers stalked in. Bedwin bowed to him, while I merely nodded. The King of Benoic seemed surprised to see me, but said nothing as he walked to join Arthur, who ordered a third chair arranged on the dais. “Is Lancelot a member of the council now?” I asked Bedwin angrily.
“He’s a King,” Bedwin said patiently. “You can’t expect him to stand while we sit.”
I noticed that the King of Benoic still had a bandage on his right hand. “I trust the King’s wound will mean he can’t come with us?” I said acidly. I almost confessed to Bedwin how Guinevere had demanded that we elect Lancelot a Mithraist, but decided that news could wait.
“He won’t come with us,” Bedwin confirmed. “He’s to stay here as commander of Durnovaria’s garrison.”
“As what?” I asked loudly and so angrily that Arthur twisted in his chair to see what the commotion was about.
“If King Lancelot’s men guard Guinevere and Mordred,” Bedwin said wearily, ‘it frees Lanval’s and Llywarch’s men to fight against Gorfyddyd.” He hesitated, then laid a frail hand on my arm. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Lord Derfel.” His voice was low and gentle. “Merlin was in Ynys Wydryn last week.”
“With Nimue?” I asked eagerly.
He shook his head. “He never went for her, Derfel. He went north instead, but why or where we don’t know.”
The scar on my left hand throbbed. “And Nimue?” I asked, dreading to hear the answer.
“Still on the Isle, if she even lives.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”