The Winter King (The Warlord Chronicles, #1)

by Bernard Cornwell

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.

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.

Are you writing heresy, you toad of hell?’

He did, however, tell me the true tale of Prince Mordred’s death and thus the reason why High King Uther had cursed Arthur. ‘It wasn’t Arthur’s fault,’ Ligessac said as he tossed a pebble on to his throwboard.

‘Derfel,’ she said softly, ‘so long as your hand is scarred and so long as mine is scarred, we are one. Agreed?’ I looked into her eyes and knew this was no small thing, no childhood game, but an oath that would bind me throughout this world and maybe into the next. For a second I was terrified of all that was to come, then I nodded and somehow managed to speak. ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘And so long as you carry the scar, Derfel,’ she said, ‘your life is mine, and so long as I carry the scar, my life is yours. Do you understand that?’

Magic, she said, happened at the moments when the lives of the Gods and men touched, but such moments were not commanded by men.

‘Every minute of every day and every moment of every night you must be open to the Gods, and if you are, then they will come. Not always when you want them, of course, but if you never ask, they’ll never answer; but when they do answer, Derfel, oh, when they do, it is so wonderful and so terrifying, like having wings that lift you high into glory.’