Of Men and Dragons (The Lion of Wales Book 3)

by Sarah Woodbury

  Nell and Myrddin pushed at the door simultaneously, with Myrddin nudging the bottom of the door with the toe of his boot. When it didn’t immediately give way, he shoved it hard. It opened halfway but then stuck on something behind it.

  They froze on the doorstep. “Mary, Mother of God,” Nell said.

  The smell of blood and death, oppressive in such a small and enclosed space, wafted over them. Huw, who’d had a hand on Cedric’s back to keep him in place—and perhaps because he didn’t quite believe he was still alive—stepped to the corner of the house and retched. Myrddin backed away from the door, swallowing hard.

  “Let’s get him into the barn,” Nell said. “We can deal with this later.”

  She led the way across the paddock and through the barn door, which was open. The barn was bare in a way the house was not. Hay had drifted across the floor to pile near a broken shovel a past resident had left on the floor near the door. Myrddin followed Nell and, after a bit, Huw came as well, holding his belly, but recovering. Once inside the barn, Huw kicked at a bed of straw to make sure it wasn’t moldy, and Myrddin laid Cedric on it. Nell knelt beside him to check his leg wound and feel again at his head.

  “He’s not fevered,” she said.

  “Maybe he’ll get lucky,” Myrddin said.

  She shot him a look, a cross between hopeful and skeptical, and then turned back to her patient. “He needs warmth, or he’ll go into shock.”

  “If we could get into the house, we could make a fire,” Myrddin said.

  Nell and Huw looked at him in disbelief.

  Myrddin held out his hands. “All I’m saying is that it would be preferable.”

  “But not possible,” Nell said. “Even if we moved the bodies, we couldn’t stay in there with the stink. We need to build a fire here.”

  “I’ll get the flint and start it,” Huw said. “If I build it at the entrance, we won’t choke on the smoke.”

  Nell nodded, glad that Huw was capable. Then Myrddin put a hand on Nell’s shoulder. “Can you manage if I find us firewood?”

  “I’m as fine as I can be.” She grasped his hand, squeezed once, and let go.

  As Myrddin turned away, Cedric opened his eyes. “Thank you. You could have let me die.”

  “No.” Nell leaned in to better assess his wounded leg. “We couldn’t.”

  * * * * *

  With a last check of Nell’s face, and Cedric’s pale one beyond her, Myrddin stepped out of the barn and set off towards the house. Huw was already gathering handfuls of straw. Myrddin worried that the light might alert an enemy to their presence—whether Saxon or Welsh, the choices were near limitless—but a night out here without a fire might well mean Cedric’s death.

  Holding his nose and without entering the house, Myrddin latched the door to the manor, not wanting to draw wild animals to the smell of blood. Shutters blocked the window in the lower level, meaning that an animal couldn’t have strayed inside and died. The remains were human.

  Myrddin was tempted to return with a torch and discover who was dead, but the pressing needs of the moment had him skirting the corner of the house and heading for the woods beyond it.

  Once among the trees, Myrddin slowed, allowing the darkness to envelope him. The luminescence of the snow in the mountains had given way to dark earth and fallen leaves of the more balmy lowlands. Still, the moon was playing cat and mouse with the clouds, which were not as thick as before, so Myrddin wasn’t blind.

  As he moved from tree to tree, picking up every likely piece of wood—wet or dry—he listened hard to the forest. Once he’d circled around to the far corner of the barn, he stilled and let his senses expand. The smell of smoke from Huw’s fire filtered towards him, mixing with the scent of pine, but otherwise he was alone in the world.

  It had been a long time since he’d stood this way. He could be anywhere in Wales, at any time in his life. He felt as young as the twelve-year-old who’d had that first vision, and as old as the man in his dreams, whose only thought was the cold certainty of death as the Saxons closed in around him.

  He’d always thought it strange that his seeing showed him the end of his life but never what it might take to avert it. He’d never seen this location before and had no prior knowledge of rescuing Cedric. Myrddin didn’t know what was going to happen tomorrow. He tipped his head back to look up at the familiar stars and breathed in the cool, moist air.

  Amidst his fear for King Arthur’s life, there was an excitement, and a joy, in that fact.

  Chapter Six

  7 December 537 AD

  Throughout the night, Myrddin, Huw, and Nell took turns with Cedric, staying near him and checking his breathing and pulse every hour to make sure his concussion wouldn’t settle him into too deep a sleep.

  As dawn approached, while Myrddin was sitting by him and Huw and Nell were sleeping, Cedric woke fully for the first time. Myrddin had just tended to the fire, so it burned hot and gave off enough light to see the outline of the ceiling of the barn, the rusting farming implements and equipment that hung on the walls or were stacked along them, and the shapes of his companions.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept in a barn.” Cedric’s voice was strong enough for Myrddin to note the amusement in it. “I must have been no older than nine.”

  “How do you feel, my lord?” Myrddin rested the back of his hand on Cedric’s forehead, trying to sense whether he had developed a fever. He was cool enough.

  “You’ve fought for Arthur your whole life.” Cedric shifted and then winced as pain shot through his leg. “I’m sure you know how I feel.”

  “True,” Myrddin said. “In fact, I have a new scar on my leg that mirrors the one you will have on yours. I received it a few weeks ago when a Saxon company tried to take Garth Celyn.”

  At that, Cedric, who’d been gazing up at the ceiling, turned his head to look at Myrddin. “You say, ‘tried’. I’d heard your enemies burned the castle to the ground.”

  Myrddin stared at him. “Why would you say that?”

  Cedric pursed his lips. “Because that’s what the messenger told me.”

  Myrddin had a sudden fear that the Saxons had attacked Garth Celyn since they’d left—that the first attempt had been a ruse to make them think they were secure.

  Warily, Myrddin said, “On the 24th of November, a fortnight ago, Owain ap Gruffydd and a company of Saxon soldiers attempted to enter Garth Celyn through a tunnel that runs from the beach, north of the castle, into Garth Celyn. We stopped them.”

  Cedric pushed up on his elbows, trying to straighten enough to sit up. Myrddin grasped him under his arm to help him.

  “You tell me truly?” Cedric said. “The date is correct, but the outcome is not what I was told.”

  “Did the rider say who’d been killed?”

  “He said that Arthur’s daughter was captured and taken to Mercia, and a host of the king’s personal guard killed, although King Arthur himself escaped.” Cedric paused. “I can see from your face that this is not true.”

  “None of it,” Myrddin said. “Not even a morsel. Whom did the messenger serve?”

  Cedric pressed into his forehead with two fingers, his eyes closed. “Agravaine.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Myrddin said. “Why lie?”

  “To counter your victory at the Strait, of course,” Cedric said. “To convince all of us who’ve wavered at times to stay true to Modred.”

  “But eventually you’d find out ...” Myrddin’s voice trailed off at the subversive logic. With helpless understanding, he nodded. “By then, Agravaine assumed he’d have killed King Arthur or severely weakened his cause. Agravaine isn’t worried about you learning of his deception next year or even next week. He wants you steadfast now.”

  “News of a Welsh defeat could stiffen the spines of the lords in Modred’s cause long enough for Agravaine to achieve his aims.” Cedric settled back into the straw, a look of satisfaction on his face at learning the truth. Then he changed
the subject. “So Huw’s been blooded?”

  “He has,” Myrddin said. “More than once. He’s had some adventures since you sent him to me.”

  “He and I must have a long speech together.”

  When Myrddin didn’t answer him, just allowed his eyes to meet Cedric’s, Cedric nodded. “Ah. His allegiance isn’t what it was.”

  “He was the first to wade into the fight at the ford,” Myrddin said. “It was four against one and yet he didn’t hesitate. He thinks of you as a father.”

  “But you are his true father and have claimed him.” Cedric nodded again. “It was a risk I thought worth taking.”

  “You saved my life at Rhuddlan,” Myrddin said. “I owe you that.”

  “Then we are now even.” Cedric gestured to indicate his wounded leg.

  Perhaps we are, at that. “Do you remember the events of the day before we arrived? Why were you at the ford?”

  “Simple scouting mission,” Cedric said. “I try to ride with my men when I can. I’m not an old man just yet—younger than you I warrant—and we were about to cross the river when men I thought were Arthur’s set upon us. I admit to entertaining dark thoughts about your lord. And yet, you came in on my side.”

  “They couldn’t have been King Arthur’s men,” Myrddin said. “But whose they were—Cai’s? Agravaine’s?—I couldn’t tell you. This move makes even less sense to my mind.”

  “Does it?” Cedric said. “You know as well as I that we border lords wage war against each other when we aren’t allied with one another to fight the Welsh or perhaps our own Saxon allies.”

  “But why would anyone want to kill you?” Myrddin said, and then added with a smile, “beyond the obvious that is.”

  “Who knows of your journey? Could someone want to prevent you and me from speaking?”

  That got Myrddin thinking grim thoughts. “Definitely. But it’s more than that. Many would gain by your death. Your son is only six. You would die without a strong heir.”

  “My God, man,” Cedric said as Myrddin’s assessment sunk in. “I’m of the royal house of Mercia! This is unconscionable!” In his agitation, he struggled to return to a sitting position, even to go so far as to bend his good knee to get to his feet. His voice woke Huw, who hurried to his side.

  “My lord,” he said. “You’ll start the leg bleeding again.”

  “I can’t sit here,” Cedric said. “I have to return to my castle!”

  Myrddin put out a hand to stop him from rising. “We have a slight problem to deal with first.”

  Cedric spied an overturned wooden bucket and snapped his fingers at Huw to get it for him. Huw brought it, and Cedric lifted himself onto it, his wounded leg outstretched. “I’m not going to like this either, am I?”

  By now, Nell had also risen and come to sit on the overturned water trough to re-braid her hair. “Not much, my lord.”

  A hint of a smile flickered at the corner of Cedric’s mouth as he took in her clothing, still the nun’s habit, and loose hair. Then he turned back to Myrddin. “What is it?”

  “Something lies dead in the manor house, just there.” Myrddin pointed at the house with his chin. “The stench is oppressive.”

  Cedric sighed. “You say ‘something’. You don’t know who or what?”

  “We’ve not yet found out,” Huw said. “Whoever it is wasn’t going anywhere, and we couldn’t sleep in the house even if we knew. Better to wait until the sun rose.”

  Myrddin checked the sky. It was still dim in the barn, but the sun shot rays that glittered on the puddles in the paddock. The temperature had dropped over the last hours and their breath hung in the air in front of them.

  “None of my men came through here in the night?” Cedric said.

  “No,” Myrddin said.

  “I pray Brecon isn’t under siege,” Cedric said.

  “Surely not,” Huw said.

  “I wouldn’t have thought the ford would prove dangerous either.” Cedric turned back to Myrddin. “Let’s see this, then.”

  With Huw on one side and Myrddin on the other, Cedric hobbled across the snowy paddock to the front door. Myrddin lifted the latch and pushed the door open. The smell was the same. Cedric pulled a handkerchief from his scrip and put it to his nose. In a row, they stepped into the main room, angling so they’d all fit through the door, and surveyed the chaos inside.

  Two men lay on the lower floor, the first behind the door. It was his body that had kept it from opening all the way. Black boots, smaller than the ones Myrddin himself wore, stuck out, but the rest of the man remained hidden by the door. The second dead man lay in plain sight, leaning against the wall underneath the loft, his legs sprawled in front of him. Someone had skewered him through the gut.

  “Check the loft,” Myrddin said to Huw, who obeyed, heading towards a ladder on the right side of the room.

  Nell remained in the doorway, hovering on the threshold without entering. “They’re all dead?”

  Myrddin turned to her. “Yes. There’s nothing you can do.”

  She nodded and stepped outside again, moving out of sight and smell of the dead men in the house.

  Huw called down to them. “There’s another one up here.”

  “What are the man’s colors?” Cedric said.

  “Gold lions on blue,” Huw said. “Same as the others.”

  “Christ’s bones,” Cedric blasphemed. “Mine.”

  “But who killed them, and why?” Myrddin said.

  He left Cedric propped against the door frame and went down on one knee near the dead man behind the door to roll him onto his back. He too wore Cedric’s crest. In his left hand, however, he grasped a piece of torn cloth. Myrddin pulled it from his grip and held up the prize. The emblem on the cloth was the same as that worn by the men at the ford: a crimson dragon on white.

  “Gwynedd’s colors again,” Myrddin said.

  “Enemies are friends, and friends are enemies,” Cedric said.

  Huw now came down the ladder. “This becomes more and more strange.”

  “And less and less to my liking.” Cedric’s face was very pale, although Myrddin thought that was less a result of the dead men than from the effort of staying upright. “We must return to Brecon Castle immediately.”

  Nodding his agreement, Myrddin threw Cedric’s arm over his shoulder as before and hobbled with him towards the barn and the horses.

  With Cedric boosted onto his horse and Nell behind him once again, they left the manor, riding south along the trail to the main road, and then east as they’d intended the day before. Cedric didn’t speak until they were within sight of his castle. Myrddin had left him to himself, not wanting to disrupt his focus on staying upright.

  But Cedric had been considering his situation. “When I invited you to retrieve your horse, I could not have predicted the events of yesterday.”

  “No, my lord,” Myrddin said.

  “I am reconsidering your king’s proposal,” Cedric said.

  “He will be pleased to hear it,” Myrddin said.

  Cedric shot Myrddin a quick glance. “I cannot meet with him myself at this time, but perhaps a small gesture on my part wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “A gesture that doesn’t commit you fully, but indicates to the king your goodwill?” Nell said.

  The smile flashed again. “Exactly, my dear.”

  “Give a company of your men leave to ride north with us when we depart from Brecon,” Myrddin said. “As you told Modred last month, Edgar of Wigmore—and Agravaine with him—intend to lure King Arthur into a trap near the Cam River. I fear the king will meet them with too few men.”

  “That I can do,” Cedric said, satisfaction in his voice.

  Myrddin congratulated himself on latching upon the perfect solution. It was a way for Cedric to show support, without showing too much. At worst, if Agravaine accused him of switching sides, Cedric could claim his men had been in the wrong place at the right time and waded in on Arthur’s behalf. Cedric was justif
ied in not wanting to see Arthur, a noble kinsman, struck down, even if he was ostensibly an enemy.

  Agravaine might not believe Cedric. Nor might Modred. But they could prove nothing. If Arthur did die in four days, God forbid, Myrddin wouldn’t have Cedric lose everything just because he’d had honor enough to listen to him.

  Chapter Seven

  8 December 537 AD

  Snow spit arrhythmically against the pane. Nell gazed through the chapel’s unusually large glass window at the accumulation—more than enough for this early in December. It sifted and swirled in the bailey of Brecon Castle. The small chapel was decorated with intricate carvings, stained glass windows with Cedric’s crest, and family tapestries on the walls. All trace of King Arthur, who’d held it for decades, had been erased, not just here but everywhere.

  Myrddin walked to stand behind her. He hesitated—she could sense his tentativeness—and then placed a hand on each of her shoulders. She trembled beneath them. “What are we doing here, Myrddin?”

  “We’ve come a long way from St. Asaph haven’t we?” His hands rubbed gently on her arms to warm her.

  “Do we trust him?”

  “Can we trust anyone at this point?” Myrddin said. “But yes, I do. I have no reason not to, and we’re so close to the end now that the price of failure is no worse than that which already faces us.”

  “Your dreams consumed the whole of last night,” Nell said.

  Myrddin shrugged. “And yours didn’t?”

  She canted her head in acknowledgement of his point, though in truth she’d hardly slept. “And what do you see? Is it still the same dream?”

  “It’s odd. You’ve told me I’m no longer present in yours, which is something in which I find great comfort, but I’m watching from above in my own dreams now too. It’s disconcerting, frankly, and I find myself trying to force the dream into the long-remembered patterns.”

  “But it won’t go,” Nell said.

  “No,” Myrddin admitted.

  “Shouldn’t that mean we’re doing something right?” Nell said.