Cold My Heart: A Novel of King Arthur

by Sarah Woodbury

  “That’s how you come to terms with the killing?” Nell said. “By telling yourself it’s necessary?”

  “Yes,” Myrddin said.

  “You can ask for absolution . . .” Her voice trailed off, perhaps because she realized how ridiculous that sounded.

  “Absolution is for those who regret their offense and swear they will refrain from committing it in the future. Much of the time, neither is possible for me.”

  “That’s partly why I can’t be a nun,” Nell said. “I no longer have either the certainty or the grace.”

  Myrddin pondered that, unspeaking, for another half a mile, at which point, he could no longer tolerate his own uncertainty. If he’d brought a snake into Garth Celyn, he needed to know. “What were you really doing at St. Asaph?” He kept his voice low and deceptively gentle.

  “I . . . I told you,” Nell said.

  “You told me you traveled on your own, but to what end? What haven did you ultimately hope to reach?”

  “I—” She stopped. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Scotland,” Nell said. “I fear King Arthur is going to lose this war and I will not watch it happen. I will not live in a Gwynedd ruled by Modred.”

  Those were strong words, forcefully spoken. He’d never heard anyone give voice to his own fears as clearly as this. “And if I were to accuse you again of spying for the man himself?”

  Nell took in a sharp breath. And then, unaccountably, she began to laugh. “You really believe that? You still doubt me enough to ask such a question?”

  Myrddin didn’t reply and she laughed all the harder, burying her face in Myrddin’s back and clutching at his cloak with both fists to keep her seat on the saddle bags.

  They’d garnered some curious glances as their conversation had progressed, but with Nell’s laughter, the looks turned to open smirks. Myrddin slowed Cadfarch and smiled back at his friends, covering for Nell. In truth, they were both well beyond their prime. Whatever was going on between them—whatever it was—had little import, other than the oddity of Myrddin’s interest in any woman beyond a single night. Myrddin’s companions turned away, all except Ifan who gave him a knowing smirk before straightening in his seat. Myrddin made a mental note to cuff him upside the head later.

  “It isn’t funny,” Myrddin said.

  Nell sobered enough to speak. “Yes, it is.”

  “You’ve not answered my question.”

  Nell swallowed hard, the laughter gone. “I’m not a spy, Myrddin. Whatever else I may have been or might become, never think that.”

  Myrddin nodded, somewhat mollified and yet more curious than ever. When they reached Garth Celyn a few minutes later, men and horses filled the bailey and they jostled against one another as Myrddin dismounted from Cadfarch. Just as his feet hit the ground, Ifan bumped into his back, unbalancing both Nell and him such that he clutched her to his chest.

  “Whoops.” Ifan shot Myrddin a wicked grin. “Looks like you don’t need the King’s help finding yourself a wife.”

  Myrddin’s face froze and Nell stiffened. Myrddin had his arm around her waist to hold her upright, but now she turned in the circle of it and poked him in the chest. Her laughter had turned into a more manageable anger. “Wife? What’s he talking about?”

  Her eyes snapped in her upturned face. Myrddin hastened to appease her. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

  “Then just tell me what this is about,” she said. “You’re avoiding the question.”

  “When we arrived at Garth Celyn—could that only be two nights ago?—King Arthur told me that I appeared different to him. He has begun to trust me more since the war was renewed and I’ve earned some honor in his eyes. I’m penniless, as I told you, and he said that he will give me the land to support a wife in the new year.”

  “Myrddin!” Nell’s anger melted. “That’s quite an offer, especially when he’s besieged on every side.” Together they observed Arthur’s retreating back as he entered the castle’s great hall.

  “But perhaps a hollow one, too,” Myrddin said. “Many battles stand between this moment and that promise. As you yourself said, there is reason to fear for his life and for the future of Wales.”

  Nell’s eyes narrowed, surveying the bailey and the activity around them. “I’ve lived shut away from the world too long,” she said. “How could I have forgotten that I couldn’t ride or dine or spend any time in your company—any man’s company—without causing talk?”

  Given the trauma of the last few days, as well as her wish (that she’d expressed) and Myrddin’s (which he hadn’t) never to marry, Myrddin opened his mouth to apologize. “Nell—”

  She cut him off. “Leave it. It’s not your fault. Besides, if everyone thinks I belong to you, so much the better. It will give me the freedom to come and go as I please, unremarked. I would prefer to avoid attention from any other man.”

  “Are you sur—?”

  She cut him off again. “I’m long past having any interest in sitting in the solar amongst the other women, Myrddin.” She turned to face him. “You helped me before. You protected me before. Will you help me again?”

  Oh, yes, I think so. Myrddin nodded.

  “Good,” she said, “I’ll find us a place to sleep.” She set off for the great hall. Myrddin, leaving Cadfarch once again in Adda’s care, followed, more bemused than surprised. Nell might not be a spy, but she was something, knew something, that was out of the ordinary. Myrddin had a mind to find out what that was.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Seven

  8 November 537 AD

  “Myrddin! Get over here!”

  I obeyed, riding toward Gawain, my captain. At his grim look, I pulled up beside him, reaching for my sword—not to fight him, but because he already held his.

  “The Saxons are here!” he said.

  I squinted in the direction he pointed, but could see nothing beyond movement in the branches opposite. “I’ll root them out, my lord.”

  Within minutes, I gathered my men together and we crossed the creek to the north of the church where King Arthur waited even now to meet with Lord Edgar. I knew it was a trap. It was always a trap. I struggled to turn aside but we rode relentlessly on, across the creek, up the bank, and through the trees. Once we left the protection of the woods, the arrows flew and Ifan shouted that we must turn back.

  “Myrddin! No!” As I charged the Saxon line, a woman screamed. The screaming grew louder but I ignored it, instead spurring my horse forward, my heart racing. “Myrddin! . . .”

  Nell sat up with a start, her breath coming in gasps. She could still see the dream, hanging before her eyes like a veil, even as Myrddin sprang from his pallet and came towards her through it.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a dream.” Nell put a hand to her chest in hopes that it would ease her racing heart.

  “Of . . . St. Asaph?” Myrddin crouched before her.

  Nell took in a breath and let it out. “No,” she said. She lifted a hand to him and he took it, warming it in his two larger ones. “Not that. It was one I often have. It’s nothing.”

  “Is it?” Myrddin said.

  Nell froze, hearing the change of tone in his voice, and looked into his face. She’d asked that he leave a candle burning in its dish and it still guttered, within minutes of going out but still giving off enough light to show his expression. “Yes. Why?”

  “You called my name,” he said. “Or rather, cried it.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m curious that if it was a dream you’ve often had, that you would have dreamt of me before you met me.”

  Nell twitched her shoulders. For so many years she’d longed to tell someone of the dream, but now that it came to it, she couldn’t. He would think her—no, know her—crazed. She gazed into Myrddin’s face, warring with herself, unable to answer. “It—” She stopped. “I didn’t—”

  Myrddin sat back on his heels. “It’s all right. You d
on’t have to tell me right now if you don’t want to.”

  Nell didn’t know if that was really better or not. If not for the screaming, he’d probably have thought she was dreaming of him in a romantic way but was too embarrassed to admit it. It irked her how wrong that was but had no way to fix it. Under his gaze, she forced herself to relax and lie down. But she didn’t turn her back to him as she had earlier. Instead, she studied him as he was studying her.

  He’d made sure, once she’d found space for them in one of the small, closet-like sleeping rooms in the manor house, that this was truly what she wanted. The room had been empty as they’d entered. He’d closed the door to lean against it while she shifted one of the pallets so it no longer abutted any of the others.

  “After this, there’s no going back, Nell,” he’d said.

  Nell had laughed, the sound coming more harshly than she’d intended. “It’s not very nun-like is it?” she said, and then arrested her movements to focus on him. “It’s better this way, Myrddin. I slept that first night amongst the other women, ten of us strewn across the floor. My dreaming woke them three times. They don’t want me there and I don’t want to lie among them.”

  “I’m not saying it’s uncommon,” Myrddin said. “It’s done all the time. Most of the men here haven’t married their women, but none of those women spent the last ten years in a convent. This is going to ruin your reputation.”

  “Or yours?” She looked up at him, truly worried about the arrangement for the first time. “The King—”

  “Couldn’t care less,” he said. “His concern, like mine, would be for you.”

  “This is my choice.”

  “If you say so.” He gestured to a spot against the opposite wall from where she sat. “I gather my pallet is over there.”

  “You gather correctly.” She shot him a grin. “If another woman catches your eye, just tell me and I’ll make myself scarce.”

  “Damn it, Nell. ” He’d turned on her, his hands on his hips. “This isn’t funny.”

  “Isn’t it?” she said. “I have to look at it this way. Otherwise, the only other choice is despair.”

  Now, Myrddin invoked that earlier conversation. “I know about despair, Nell.” He eased backwards onto his pallet. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but last night when you spoke to me of it, you weren’t speaking just about what happened at St. Asaph, or even Llanfaes, were you?”

  “No,” Nell said. “Despair is a companion with whom I’m long acquainted.”

  Myrddin matched her, lying on his side with the blankets pulled to his chin. “I have dreams too, Nell.”

  Nell nodded, but still wasn’t ready to reveal her true thoughts: Not like mine, you don’t.

  * * * * *

  Myrddin slept past the dawn and awoke, his brain churning, thinking about Nell, knowing that she’d dreamt of him even if she wouldn’t admit it. He hoped the dream was a good one but somehow doubted it.

  Nell’s auburn hair cascaded off the edge of the pallet, having come loose from her braid in the restless night. She turned her head, met his eyes, looked away, and then looked back. “Thank you for understanding.”

  Myrddin sat up. “I didn’t say I understood,” he said. “I just decided not to press you right away. At some point soon, I’m going to ask you to tell me what is going on behind that sweet smile.”

  “Oh, is that it?” she said, giving him the smile he wanted. “Well, not this moment anyway.” She got to her feet. “While you wait, you can help me dress.”

  Myrddin took that for what it was—a chaste invitation. Well bred women wore elaborate skirts that scraped the ground, got in the way, and forced women to walk in a mincing fashion. At Arthur’s insistence, Nell had given away both the homespun dress which the men had ripped at St. Asaph before Myrddin had rescued her and the coarse dress from Caerhun that blood-stains had irreparably damaged. In exchange, she now wore the fashionable gown of a lady, which was a bit harder to get into.

  By the time they arrived in the great hall, it was full of people and rumors. A rider from Modred had arrived and the inhabitants of Garth Celyn were abuzz with what the letter he carried contained. Myrddin pulled Nell to a seat near Ifan, who (after a knowing look that encompassed them both and what he assumed had gone on between them in the night) shrugged when Myrddin queried him.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Ifan said. “Lord Aelric carried a letter from King Arthur to Modred; I assume this is Modred’s response. It won’t change anything.”

  “But with the battle at the Straits . . .” Nell said.

  Myrddin shook his head. “Modred won’t even mention it. He believes he has the better of King Arthur; such is his arrogance that he believes it is our king who is in rebellion and in danger of excommunication. By his lights, our only recourse is to beg for mercy.”

  “Bollocks to that,” Ifan said.

  Myrddin caught Nell’s eye. “What do you think Archbishop Dafydd has told him?” Nell said.

  “It’s what Modred has promised the Church, more like,” Ifan said, the same sour expression on his face.

  Before they’d finished their breakfast, Gareth appeared at the table. He put his hands flat on the wood and leaned heavily on them, the weight of the world on his back. “The King wants you.” He looked directly at Myrddin.

  Nell, who wasn’t invited, wrinkled her nose in annoyance. Myrddin shrugged back at her and got to his feet. He followed Gareth to the rear of the hall and down the corridor to Arthur’s receiving room near one of the towers. In the room already were King Arthur, Lord Cai, his face a thundercloud, Geraint, and Bedwyr. The figure of Cai drew Myrddin’s attention and his eyes narrowed.

  Myrddin hated the man—all the more after the exchange from the day before. Nell, in her former life as a nun, would have told him that it was wrong to hate at all, but when speaking of Cai, anything less than hatred would have been doing him a disservice. The man begged for retribution, but to his regret, Myrddin would never be the one to give it.

  Over the years, Cai had betrayed his brother in many ways and by diverse means, even to the point of conspiring with Modred to wage war against Arthur (twice), and an assassination attempt. Whenever Myrddin was in Cai’s presence, he avoided looking at him at all and worked very hard not to show his disdain. Arthur’s face didn’t reveal what he thought of Cai either, but then, he’d spent a lifetime masking his feelings towards his brother. Most of the time, it was best not to think on it, especially since Cai stood beside Arthur once again.

  Myrddin had arrived in the middle of a conversation between the Cai and Arthur and this time, they were in agreement, even if both were angry. Arthur stood, his back to the other men in the room, staring out at the heavily falling rain which was making muddy puddles in the courtyard.

  Cai, for his part, snorted his derision, disgust in every line of his body. “At least he offers you land a plot of land in Mercia in exchange for Eryri. Modred’s letter to me states that ‘peace’ means I must take the cross, travel to the holy land, and never return to Wales. I’ll give him peace! He is a fool.”

  Arthur turned to his brother, his expression mild. “If we deny his requests, he will see to it that the Archbishop excommunicates us. He states his intention boldly.”

  “Archbishops have not always spoken for God to our kings,” Cai said, spitting out his response. “If we are excommunicate for protecting our country and our people, then so be it.”

  The stance was a brave one and for the first time in his life, Myrddin found himself agreeing with Cai. He had more fire behind his words since he’d started this war. It almost made Myrddin think that he had concern for something or someone besides himself.

  “And these messengers bother me,” Arthur said. “They bear a white flag of truce, but they wear Agravaine’s colors, not Modred’s.”

  At the mention of Agravaine, every man in the room hissed under his breath. Everywhere Arthur had turned of late, there Agravaine had been. He was the key coord
inator of military activity in Wales for Modred. He’d gained this position over the heads of all the other barons who supported him, including Lord Edgar of Powys and Lord Cedric of Brecon, Modred’s cousins.

  “These riders will do what they can to spy on us,” Bedwyr said. “We don’t want them running around Eryri unobserved.”

  “That’s what I need you for, Myrddin,” Arthur said, finally noting him in his corner. “Follow them as far as the Conwy River and then return to me this evening. Take Ifan. When I’m ready, you will carry my answer to Modred.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Myrddin said.

  “Take Deiniol with you as well,” Cai said, halting Myrddin’s progress towards the door. “He’s your brother, I believe.”

  His stomach roiling, Myrddin inwardly corrected him: foster brother. “Yes, my lord,” he said instead, and turned away.

  Did he know how much Myrddin hated him? He being Cai, and him being Deiniol, who knew damn well that Myrddin despised him down to his ugly boots.

  “What’s wrong?” Nell caught Myrddin as he walked stiff-legged across the hall, heading towards the front doors, which opened as another soldier left the room, exposing the hall to the elements.

  It was cold, even for November. A dozen men and horses were preparing to ride on similar missions—to other lords and barons whose estates were within a few days’ ride of Garth Celyn. Modred had sent a letter to the Council of Wales, as well as one each to Cai and Arthur. The Council needed to see it, discuss it, and respond, just as Arthur and Cai did. Raindrops reflected off the links of the men’s mail which were just visible beneath the thick wool of their cloaks. Myrddin didn’t envy them even as he acknowledged that he would soon be one of them.

  “I’m sent to follow the Saxon riders who brought the messages to the King,” Myrddin said. “To make sure they return to their side of the Conwy.”