[The Lion of Wales 01.0] Cold My Heart

by Sarah Woodbury

  As before when Nell had spoken of the atrocities at the convent, Myrddin sensed that if she were less well-bred, she would have spat on the ground rather than speak Wulfere’s name.

  “If anyone deserves it, Wulfere does,” Myrddin said. “He once chopped off a man’s hand for failing to give him his carafe of wine as quickly as he liked.”

  “May he burn in hell for what he did to my sisters,” Nell said.

  “I will see to it if I can,” Myrddin said. “Before I left yesterday morning, King Arthur’s scouts were reporting unusual activity on and near the bridge of boats. When they come, we’ll be ready.”

  In fact, one of Arthur’s many spies had told him that Wulfere, frustrated by the delay, had openly commented that Modred lacked sufficient courage to fight King Arthur when it came to it and sought a way to force Modred’s hand. Arthur believed that soon Wulfere would order his men across the Strait, hoping for a surprise attack and a swift victory. Instead, he would find himself facing an army of Welshmen.

  Myrddin could already hear the screams of dying men, blood coating them and him, taste salt and sand on his lips as the wind spit surf into his face, and feel again the slick thrust of his sword through an enemy’s flesh.

  Nell and Myrddin made their way out of the mountains and into the forests and fields that surrounded Garth Celyn, following the Roman road. An hour later, they approached the gates to the castle. Arthur’s banner—the red dragon of Wales on a white background—flew from the flagpole. A shiver went through Myrddin at the knowledge that if he couldn’t stop Arthur from going to the church by the Cam River, that flag might never fly in Wales again. While Myrddin never had any intention of allowing that to happen, it was dawning on him only now—so late he was embarrassed to admit it—that it was he who would have to see to it.

  The certainty of Myrddin’s new knowledge grew in him—along with his fear. All his life, he’d lived as other men had directed and been content with that. His lord pointed, and he went. How was he going to change course so late in life? How was he to face the oncoming storm when he couldn’t tell anyone his thoughts, his fears, his dreams? How was he to stand his ground against this fate?

  A head popped over the battlements. It was Ifan, Myrddin’s old compatriot. Myrddin waved a hand.

  “You’ve returned.” Ifan rested his forearms on the wooden rail at the top of the wall so he could see Myrddin better. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Nell but didn’t comment, for which Myrddin was grateful. Through the arrow slits, the shadows of other men paced along the wall-walk.

  “You expected something different?” Myrddin said.

  Ifan laughed. “When one rides among the Saxons, one can never be too sure of one’s safety.” He lifted his chin. “The garrison at Caerhun is secure?”

  “It is,” Myrddin said, “and the mead excellent.”

  Ifan snorted laughter and waved them in as the guards below pushed open the gate.

  Two torches in sconces lit the front of the gatehouse. Garth Celyn was much more a fort or manor house than a castle, for all that a high palisade surrounded it. It perched on a slight hill overlooking the farmland and sea to the north and had a line of sight in all directions so the defenders could see the Saxons coming before they reached the castle—in order to give them time to flee.

  Which they would need to do since Garth Celyn wasn’t defensible. It lacked both the height of most of King Arthur’s bastions and the elaborate ditch and rampart construction that were mandatory for flatland castles. It did contain many buildings, including a great hall and kitchen, behind which sat a two story house with many rooms for guests. A barracks lay near the gatehouse, along with the armory, chapel, and craft halls.

  At Nell’s convent, the tunnel which King Arthur had repaired had been intended as an escape route for early Christians who’d worshipped under an edict of death when the Romans ruled Wales. Garth Celyn, in turn, had two tunnels. One headed north, leading to the sea, and the other emptied into a meadow near Aber Falls. A grown man could walk easily along the underground passages.

  Myrddin’s stomach clenched at the thought of Nell navigating the tunnel underneath Llanfaes Abbey, leading her sisters to what she hoped was safety, only to find that her Abbess had compromised her safe haven. Such courage was rare, even in a soldier. He would not have expected to find it in a nun. Or rather, former nun. That she’d asked to share a room with him at Caerhun still stunned him. They’d slept apart, but nobody else knew that. He still couldn’t believe she’d wanted it.

  Nell’s arms clenched Myrddin’s waist.

  “What is it?” He hoped his thoughts hadn’t influenced hers. When she didn’t answer, he added, “There’s nothing to fear.”

  “I—” Nell stopped. “I am not at home here.”

  “You worry needlessly,” he said. “The king will not hold the news of the Saxon depredations against you.”

  Once inside the walls, Myrddin dismounted onto packed earth, dryer than at Caerhun thanks to today’s limited sunshine. Looking around, Myrddin was pleased to be a part of the bustle and activity of the castle. Nell caught him smiling.

  “I see soldiers.” She pulled her cloak close around her and put up the hood. “I see war. Death. You must see something different.”

  Myrddin surveyed the courtyard. Three men-at-arms slouched near the smithy, waiting for their horses to be reshod. A handful of men watched two others wrestle by the stables, and a host of peasants—servants in the kitchen and the hall—moved in and out of the huts that sat hard against the palisade. A boy holding a stick urged a pig towards its stall while another ran towards Myrddin and reached for Cadfarch’s reins.

  “My lord!” he said. “All is well?”

  “It is, Adda.” Myrddin tousled his hair. “I’ll be in to see Cadfarch later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nell watched the exchange through narrowed eyes. “You are a knight,” she said, as if there had been some doubt on that score.

  “I am.” Myrddin turned to look at her, surprised she hadn’t known it.

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “I should have guessed it since you were charged with the welfare of Lord Aelric. But you traveled alone ...” Her words tapered off.

  “And my cloth is poor, for all that I wear mail armor. I know. I have the look of a man-at-arms but, in truth—” he spread his arms wide like a bard preparing to sing a paean to Arthur, “—I’m an impoverished knight.” Myrddin laughed and tossed a small coin to Adda. “We do what we can with what we are given.”

  Nell didn’t respond, still embarrassed perhaps, so Myrddin grasped her elbow and steered her towards the great hall. Despite her fears, she would have to speak to the king about the events at Llanfaes and the desecration of his wife’s grave, as well as confirm that the populace on Anglesey believed the Saxons would move across the Strait soon in hopes of striking here, at Garth Celyn.

  The guards who watched the entrance to the great hall pulled open the eight-foot doors at the top of the steps to allow Myrddin and Nell to enter. A wave of warmth enveloped them, along with that familiar musky smell of damp wool, herbs, and humanity. Nell relaxed beside him. Often in winter, it was cold enough to see one’s breath in the hall, but darkness had fallen and it was dinner time, so men—eating, drinking, and talking—filled the room. The fire in the hearth blazed.

  King Arthur sat at the high table at the far end of the hall, as was his custom, and it was so warm next to the fire that he’d shed his cloak. Two senior advisors flanked him: Geraint, one of his foremost commanders, and Bedwyr, his seneschal. Bedwyr was a grizzled, thick-set man of Arthur’s generation who had supported Arthur since the early days of his reign. It was Bedwyr who kept order in Eryri when Arthur was away. More often than not, the two of them could communicate without speaking.

  Myrddin stared at the king, feeling the familiar punch to the gut that seeing him alive after having dreamed of his death always gave him. Myrddin was sick of the dreams, terrified of the wakin
g vision he’d had the day before, but there was no denying that King Arthur had acted as the beacon of Myrddin’s existence in a world gone mad for his entire adult life. Myrddin may have long denied the future that stared him in the face; he might not know what it was going to take to change that future; he didn’t know how he was going to become other than he was. But he knew, somehow, that he had to find a way. By God, there has to be an answer here.

  As Myrddin urged Nell forward, pushing through her hesitation, Arthur noted their appearance and beckoned them to him.

  “You’ll do fine,” Myrddin said. “Come.”

  And then before his eyes, Nell transformed herself from an insecure girl to the confident nun who’d taken charge of her sisters when nobody else would. She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, as aware as Myrddin that if everyone in the room hadn’t noticed them at first, they watched them now. They threaded their way between the closer tables, many of which had been added because of the increased number of men in the garrison, and then walked up the aisle to King Arthur’s seat. They stopped before him. Myrddin bowed while Nell curtseyed.

  “Myrddin,” Arthur said, with that particular, dry tone he often used when addressing him.

  “My lord.”

  “Lord Aelric reached home safely?” King Arthur’s eyes tracked from Myrddin to Nell.

  “He did,” Myrddin said. “Neither he nor Lord Modred can have any cause for complaint.”

  “And yet, you come back in one piece.” A smile twitched at the corner of King Arthur’s mouth.

  “As you say, my lord,” Myrddin said. “For all Modred’s perfidy, the Archbishop would countenance nothing less.”

  “Good.” The king turned to Nell. “Welcome to Garth Celyn, madam. I remember your attention to the details of my wife’s funeral.” Somehow it didn’t surprise Myrddin that Arthur recognized her. She was certainly memorable, and he was the King of Wales. It was his job to remember faces. “I confess I’m concerned to see you here, however, dressed as you are.”

  “The convent is dissolved, my lord,” Nell said.

  At Nell’s words, the air in the room turned icy cold as Arthur’s face darkened. When the king became angry, he rarely shouted or overtly lost his temper. Instead, he grew still, and his voice became lower and deceptively gentler.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  Nell enumerated the Saxon crimes while King Arthur sat, still and silent, his jaw clenched and bulging. Once she finished, Myrddin took the liberty of stepping into the conversation before King Arthur’s heart gave out.

  “My lord,” Myrddin said. “Nell has heard that the Saxons intend to cross the Strait soon.”

  “So my scouts at Penryhn tell me,” Arthur said. “Modred attacks me despite the peace.”

  “Or rather, Wulfere does.” Myrddin swallowed hard at his impertinence in correcting his king. Still, he didn’t take it back. The man he needed to be wasn’t going to come without taking risks.

  “Certainly.” Arthur looked amused rather than angry at Myrddin’s interjection. “But we aren’t supposed to know that, are we?”

  “Modred isn’t interested in peace, regardless of what Archbishop Dafydd hopes,” Geraint added, from Arthur’s left.

  Nell shifted from one foot to another beside Myrddin, and he glanced at her. Her clear skin had gone paler than its usual white. Concerned, he slipped an arm around her waist to support her.

  Also noting her distress, Arthur waved a hand to one of the ladies of the court who came forward. He looked into Nell’s eyes. “You have a home here as long as you want it. If there is anything you need, ask Myrddin, here, or Bedwyr.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Nell said. “Thank you.”

  To the lady, the king said, “See to our guest’s comfort.”

  Meanwhile, Myrddin murmured under his breath to Nell, “Will you be all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Nell looked up at him, placed a hand on his chest, and patted once. Myrddin released her, and Nell followed the girl without wavering on her feet. When she reached the door to the stairs, she looked back at Myrddin, her face expressionless. Myrddin liked that even less than her show of weakness. He nodded his encouragement, and she disappeared.

  Myrddin focused again on King Arthur.

  “I hope you weren’t planning to sleep tonight,” the king said.

  “No, sir,” he said. “I slept at Caerhun.”

  All the way down the road from the standing stones, Myrddin had been thinking of the battle that was to come. He’d drawn his sword yesterday in defense of Nell, his muscles moving in their remembered patterns, but it wasn’t the same as a real battle. Myrddin hadn’t fought in formation since the brutal defeats of the previous year after which King Arthur was forced to surrender far too much to Modred and confine himself to his lands in Eryri. Myrddin wasn’t glad to have killed a man yesterday, but it gave him confidence that he still knew how to fight, even at thirty-six. He needed to get his head in the right place if he was going to be the knight upon whom his companions depended. Myrddin touched his sword at his waist, reassured at its comforting weight.

  The king had turned to speak to Bedwyr. Because King Arthur had not yet dismissed him, Myrddin remained standing on the opposite side of the table from the king’s seat, trying not to shift from one foot to another in awkwardness and impatience. Geraint, who’d remained on Arthur’s left throughout the conversation, winked at Myrddin in a rare moment of camaraderie, his eyes alight with amusement. Myrddin bowed gravely back.

  Arthur spoke another few words, so low Myrddin didn’t catch them due to the hubbub in the room, and then turned to face front again. He sat, slouched a bit in his chair, an elbow on the armrest and a finger to his lips, and studied Myrddin. “There is something different about you today.”

  Myrddin straightened his shoulders. “Is there?”

  “How many years have you served me?”

  “Since I became a man.” In Wales, legally, that was at the age of fourteen, although Myrddin was sixteen when he’d come to Garth Celyn and marked his transition from boy to man by that event.

  “Perhaps it’s time you found yourself a wife,” he said. “Or I did.”

  Myrddin blinked. Nothing could have been further from his mind than that. Wives brought complications that were of no interest to him, both because of the commitment involved and the logistics.

  “A wife, my lord?” Myrddin said. “I have no means to support a wife.”

  “You should,” Arthur said. “In the new year, I will see to it that you are rewarded for your long service.”

  Myrddin’s mouth fell open, just managing not to choke on his astonishment. “Thank you my lord.”

  Arthur smiled and waved his hand, dismissing him.

  Myrddin bowed, still stuttering his thanks, but King Arthur’s attention was again directed elsewhere.

  Geraint grinned at Myrddin and raised his cup in a salute. Myrddin shook his head, simultaneously bemused and appalled. Ever since the dreams had started to come more often, he’d felt himself haunted. He’d kept himself aloof and behind walls no woman could penetrate. He’d long since tallied the cost of letting anyone get inside them and found it too high.

  But now here he stood, among friends he would trust with his life, in the hall of a king for whom he’d willingly die—and had died in his dreams more times than he could count—surrounded by people he knew so well he could recite their conversations for them. Whether he liked it or not, the walls were down. He was going to save them all or die in the attempt.

  With nothing left to say, Myrddin turned away, heading towards a vacant spot at one of the long tables next to where Ifan sat. Ifan moved over to give Myrddin room and handed him a trencher for his food.

  “What was that about?” Ifan said.

  Myrddin poured a cup of wine, studied it, and slaked his thirst, while reminding himself not to drink too much. He wasn’t interested in drinking himself into a stupor. Perhaps if he paid closer attention to his dreams, a
nd dreamed more often, he could identify the necessary details that might give him an edge in saving Arthur. “The king plans to find me a wife. Or, rather, he told me that he would choose one for me if I don’t do the deed myself.”

  Ifan had been taking a drink as Myrddin spoke, and now he choked and laughed at the same time, spraying wine across the table. Coughing, he used the tail of his cloak to dab at his mustache. “A wife?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Shaking his head, Ifan set to his food once more, laughing between bites. “Myrddin with a wife.”

  Myrddin shook his head too and laughed into his cup. Unless he could find a way for Arthur to live into the new year, the entire discussion was moot. It was comical to even think about.

  A wife. Instead, how about a life that lasts beyond the next thirty-six days?

  Chapter Five

  6 November 537 AD

  Nell stood on the rampart above the gatehouse to watch Myrddin, Lord Geraint, and all but a handful of the men-at-arms from the garrison ride away from Garth Celyn in the pre-dawn hush. Myrddin rode among the leaders, just to the left of Gareth, younger brother to Gawain and a commander in his own right. It was a promotion of a sort, apparently, which hadn’t gone unremarked among those left behind.

  Anything that distinguished one man from another—any time a man found favor in the sight of King Arthur—invited comment. The soldiers rode without torches, relying on the moon, which at present was playing hide and seek with the clouds, to guide them.

  Damn all men for their love of battle! Even as Nell thought the words, she knew they weren’t fair. This war had been forced on King Arthur by his brother, Cai, who’d attacked one of Modred’s strongholds without consulting Arthur. Modred had used the ill-advised assault as an excuse to restart the war. The son of one of Arthur’s many sisters, Modred had set his sights on Wales from the moment he realized that he was the eldest nephew and that Arthur wouldn’t produce a son of his own.

  Modred’s Mercian allies, on the other hand, had never forgiven Arthur for defeating them at Mt. Badon on his way to controlling all but the most southern regions of Wales. For thirty-seven years, they’d carried that grudge. By now, even the most die-hard apologists didn’t doubt that Arthur’s choices were few: to fight, to die, or to give up his patrimony entirely.