I laughed, not at him, but with him, for his ambitious prophecy had been so matter of fact. “How do you know?” I asked.
“Because Cuneglas has offered the peace terms, of course, and you’re not to tell that to anyone, Derfel, otherwise it might not happen. Even his father doesn’t know yet so this is a secret between you and me.”
“Yes, Lord,” I said, and I felt hugely privileged to be told such an important secret, but of course that was just how Arthur wanted me to feel. He always knew how to manipulate men, and he especially knew how to manipulate young, idealistic men.
“But what use is peace,” Arthur asked me, ‘if we’re fighting amongst ourselves? Our task is to give Mordred a rich, peaceful kingdom, and to do that we have to make it a good and just kingdom.” He was looking at me now, and speaking very earnestly in his deep, soft voice. “We cannot have peace if we break our treaties, and the treaty that let the men of Kernow mine our tin was a good one. I’ve no doubt they were cheating us, all men cheat when it comes to giving their money to kings, but was that reason to kill them and their children and their children’s kittens? So next spring, Derfel, unless we finish this nonsense now, we shall have war instead of peace. King Mark will attack. He won’t win, but his pride will ensure that his men kill a lot of our farmers and we shall have to send a war-band into Kernow and that’s a bad country to fight in, very bad, but we’ll win in the end. Pride will be settled, but at what price? Three hundred dead farmers? How many dead
H5 cattle? And if Gorfyddyd sees that we’re fighting a war on our western frontier he’ll be tempted to take advantage of our weakness by attacking in the north. We can make peace, Derfel, but only if we’re strong enough to make war. If we look weak then our enemies will swoop like hawks. And how many Saxons will we face next year? Can we really spare men to cross the Tamar to kill a few farmers in Kernow?”
“Lord,” I began, and was about to confess the truth, but Arthur hushed me. The warriors in the hall were chanting the War Song of Beli Mawr, beating the earth floor with their feet as they proclaimed the great slaughter and doubtless anticipated more slaughter in Kernow.
“You mustn’t say a word about what happened on the moor,” Arthur warned me. “Oaths are sacred, even to those of us who wonder if any God cares enough to enforce them. Let us just assume, Derfel, that Tristan’s little girl was telling the truth. What does that mean?”
I gazed into the frosted night. “War with Kernow,” I said bleakly.
“No,” Arthur said. “It means that tomorrow morning, when Tristan returns, someone has to challenge for the truth. The Gods, people tell me, always favour the honest in such encounters.”
I knew what he was saying and I shook my head. “Tristan won’t challenge Owain,” I said.
“Not if he has as much sense as he seems to have,” Arthur agreed. “Even the Gods would find it hard to make Tristan beat down Owain’s sword. So if we want peace, and if we want all those good things that follow peace, someone else must be Tristan’s champion. Isn’t that right?”
I looked at him, horrified at what I thought he was saying. “You?” I finally asked.
He shrugged under his white cloak. “I’m not sure who else will do it,” he said gently. “But there is one thing you can do for me.”
“Anything, Lord,” I said, ‘anything.” And at that moment I think I would even have agreed to fight Owain for him.
“A man going into battle, Derfel,” Arthur said carefully, ‘should know that his cause is right. Perhaps the Blackshield Irish did carry their shields across the land unseen by anyone. Or maybe their Druids did make them fly? Or maybe, tomorrow, the Gods, if they take an interest, will think I fight for a good cause. What do you think?”