Cold My Heart: A Novel of King Arthur

by Sarah Woodbury

  “And that makes you angry?”

  Myrddin halted and turned to her, forcing down the anger and the memories that had formed a film over his eyes.

  The rain drips down my neck into the collar of my linen shirt. Ripped and torn after my struggles in the woods over the last hour, it provides little protection anyway. If I ever reach the safety of the castle, I will leave it in the rag pile on my way in.

  I shiver. “Come on, Myrddin, you spineless bastard,” I say. “Move!”

  But I cannot. I bend aside a branch of the bush in which I’m cowering and peer though the murk, looking for my pursuer. I see nothing but the rain and the muddy track separating me from the gatehouse of the castle.

  Bracing myself, I leave the safety of my bush. In ten quick steps, I’m through the gatehouse and cross the bailey at a run, heading for the stables. I reach it and then press my back against the wall beside the open doorway. I listen for movement, to calm myself and become one with my surrounding as I’ve been taught, but my beating heart and the pounding rain overwhelm my senses.

  At last, I risk entry. I slip through the doorway and head for the shadow of the horse stalls. A horse whickers a gentle greeting and I touch his nose to quiet him. From the door at the far end of the stables, it’s a dozen yards to a side door of the keep. Once there, I’ll be safe. For now. I reach the last stall and quicken my pace, sensing freedom. Instead, the door swings open and I’m face to face with Deiniol. He grins.

  I back away.

  A single lantern lights the expansive space between the doorway and the horses. The light glints off a knife Deiniol holds. He shifts it from one hand to the other as I watch. Deiniol is a seasoned fighter, full grown and strong. Even though I’m already sixteen, I’m still a scrawny half-child, speaking in a voice that breaks instead of the low voice of a man.

  Deiniol has always been bigger than I, possessing a cruel streak I’d discovered before I could talk. There are more ways to hurt than through physical pain and Deiniol has tried them all on me at one time or another. He’s hounded me all afternoon and it’s as if this moment is the culmination of a lifetime of animosity. I’ll have one chance to escape him, if I’ve any chance at all.

  Between one second and the next, Deiniol moves forward and I spring to my right, only to find myself caught between two large hands that grip my arms and twist them behind my back. A booted foot comes around my legs and pinions them. I twist and jerk my body, but cannot break free.

  “Aeden,” I spit out, recognizing this new foe as Deiniol’s cousin on his mother’s side. “Why do you help him?”

  Aeden laughs. “Drop the weapon, Deiniol. I’ll hold the rat while you hit him.”

  Deiniol’s eyes glint alarmingly. They’re almost more frightening than the knife he carries. Deiniol takes a step forward, knife outstretched; then tosses it aside into one of the stalls. I smirk. Instantly, I know I’ve made a mistake and try to tame my expression, but it’s too late.

  Deiniol’s face twists in hatred. He rushes forward and drives his shoulder into me. Aeden has already backed away and Deiniol and I go down: me underneath and Deiniol straddling my abdomen. I rock my hips trying to throw him off. I scrabble my hands on either side for a fistful of hay to throw into his face, but the stable floor is unaccountably clean and smooth. I can feel the restlessness in the horses, as they, in turn, sense my distress. They cannot help me, however, and Deiniol ignores both them and my struggles. He grasps my wrists so tightly my hands go numb and pulls them above my head.

  We glare at each other. There’s blood on my lip where I bit it and my belly aches from Deiniol’s pummels. Still, I don’t look away, and at long last Deiniol sees something in me that gives him pause. His eyes narrow and we still.

  I can’t breathe. Suddenly, Deiniol tips his head back and screams his frustration to the sky. Only then does help come, in the form of Deiniol’s mother.

  “Boys!” she says, insulting all three of us without thought. “We leave for Mercia tomorrow and yet all you can think to do is scuffle in the dust!”

  “So it’s true,” Aeden says. “Cai has defected to Modred.”

  “And we with him,” my foster mother says.

  Deiniol rolls off me. I get to my feet and meet his gaze. “I will remember this, mochyn,” he says. It is the word for ‘pig’, but means bastard. “This is only the beginning.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” his mother says, brushing straw from Deiniol’s shoulders. “Myrddin, I expected better of you.”

  The unfairness of that leaves me speechless and unable to defend myself. Deiniol smirks at me from behind his mother’s back. He tips his head to Aeden and prances after his mother, leaving me alone in the stables.

  What Deiniol doesn’t realize is that this time, the lesson I’ve learned is the opposite of the one he intended. When we meet next, four years later, Arthur is in the ascendancy and it is Deiniol, not me, whose stands downcast on the losing side.

  “I find that I must travel to Caerhun in the company of my foster father’s son. I spoke to you of him yesterday.”

  Nell’s look was sympathetic. “I wish I could come with you instead,” she said. “I’m useless here.”

  “That isn’t true,” Myrddin said. He reached out and smoothed the hair near her forehead. “Besides. It’s impossible. You know that.”

  “This is all new to me,” she said. “I’m at loose ends.”

  “There’s an herb garden behind the kitchen,” Myrddin said, “and a drying shed beyond. Perhaps you can be of some assistance there.”

  “Don’t—” Nell broke off, swallowing the rest of the sentence. Myrddin watched her carefully as she looked away, took a deep breath, and turned back to him. “I’ve already found it,” she said. “You’re right. They have need of me here.”

  Unsure what her cut-short comment would have been but glad that Nell would make an attempt to be content, at least for today, Myrddin inspected the mustering men in the courtyard. The clouds hung low and the rain fell so hard it was like they were standing in a waterfall. He sighed and set out into it. It would be a hideously cold ride to Caerhun.

  “You,” Deiniol said, as his initial greeting.

  They stood beneath the gatehouse archway while a stable boy used a cloth to dry Myrddin’s saddle. Deiniol had already mounted and wore his hood pulled tight around his head to counter the rain. Regardless, even wearing wool cloaks, it wouldn’t take long for the rain this heavy to soak everyone through.

  “Deiniol,” Myrddin said.

  “I see you haven’t changed,” he said. “Still a sniveling child with a snotty nose and a craven look about you.”

  “Sweet Mary,” Nell said, her words sincere, having pulled up her hood and come to see what kind of man Myrddin despised.

  “Is that your woman?” Deiniol lifted his chin and pointed it at Nell. “I heard men speak of her in the hall.”

  Myrddin had an overwhelming urge to drive his fist into Deiniol’s face. Nell, perhaps sensing this, moved closer.

  “I hear she used to be a nun,” Deiniol continued. “You’ll have a cold bed to come home to, won’t you?”

  Now, Nell caught Myrddin’s elbow and held on. “I’m a grown woman,” she said. “I’ve heard worse, and experienced worse, as you well know. Don’t get in trouble on my behalf.”

  Ifan muttered under his breath, turning towards Myrddin and pretending to inspect the length of his stirrups. “Does he rehearse these insults? A man could take lessons from him.”

  “It’s been many years since I was forced into his company,” Myrddin said.

  “No doubt this was far too soon for a reunion,” Ifan said.

  “Twenty miles we’ve to go today,” Myrddin said, “and each one will seem like an eternity.”

  “He hates you,” Nell said.

  Myrddin looked into her concerned face, her eyes flicking from Deiniol to him. Fortunately, Deiniol had turned his horse’s head and urged him out from under the gatehouse, into the rain.
Myrddin had a vision of the tower coming loose and crushing him as he rode beneath it.

  “He does,” Myrddin said. “I’ve never known why.”

  “Some men don’t need a reason.” Ifan straightened his saddle bags. “Did you say that he’s your brother?”

  “Foster brother. Don’t remind me,” Myrddin said.

  “No wonder you rabbited about when you first came to the King, jumping at every shadow,” Ifan said. Two years older than Myrddin, Ifan had been a squire in Lord Bedwyr’s retinue when Myrddin had arrived at Garth Celyn. “I gather it was he who gave you those bruises that were just fading when you came to the King?”

  “You never said anything about them,” Myrddin said. “I’d hoped nobody noticed. It wouldn’t do for a future knight to reveal so clearly how unable he was to defend himself.”

  Ifan shrugged, embarrassed perhaps to have brought them up. “You survived, didn’t you?” he said. “Sometimes a man wears bruises because he’s the last one standing.”

  That made Myrddin smile. It was odd to think that he’d spent nearly twenty years in Ifan’s company and this was the first Ifan had mentioned the day he’d arrived. It had been a cold day in March, with snow in the mountains. Myrddin had come down the road to Garth Celyn all on his own, with little more than a broken down horse he’d taken from Madoc’s stables and his sword, a not-insignificant inheritance from his mother.

  The news of Cai’s stunning defection had just hit and Garth Celyn had been in upheaval. Arthur had barely glanced at Myrddin, just informed his captain to find him a place to sleep in the barracks, a better horse, and decent armor if he was to be of any use to him at all. King Arthur had needed men and Myrddin had found being treated like a man to his liking.

  “By the balls of St. Mari!” Deiniol swore as the rain turned to sleet, and then the first flakes of snow began to coat his shoulders.

  Even Ifan blinked twice at that bit of blasphemy and reluctantly mounted his horse. “Would King Arthur be upset if I killed him? We could run him through and throw him into a chasm. No one would be the wiser.”

  “We’ll do it on the way back if we’re truly desperate.”

  “I’ll watch his back, miss.” Ifan nodded at Nell, and then turned his horse’s head towards the sea to follow Deiniol.

  Myrddin lifted Nell’s hand from his coat. “I’m five years younger than Deiniol and the last time we spent more than ten minutes in company was the evening I ran away. He wanted to kill me. It was only the sudden arrival of his mother than stopped him.”

  “At least Ifan is with you,” she said.

  Myrddin laughed. “I would have said he would act as a barrier to me killing Deiniol today. But now I’m pretty sure I’ll have to get in line.”

  Nell wrinkled her nose at him. If they hadn’t had that conversation the day before about him sleeping across the room from her, Myrddin would have called it coquettish. “You be careful.”

  “Let’s go, mochyn!” Deiniol had stopped some forty feet away for Ifan to catch up, and they both twisted in their seats to look for Myrddin. “The Saxons ride away.”

  Because it was urgent and he was right, Myrddin did as he was asked, telling himself that he was doing the King’s will. Myrddin gave a final nod to Nell; then spurred Cadfarch forwards. The three men rode out of Garth Celyn, heading towards the southern pass.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eight

  11 November 537 AD

  Nell perched on her stool, leaning over the narrow wooden table in front of her. Dried plants hung from the ceiling while herbs and spices crowded the shelves. In short order, she’d made the gardener’s shed that lay across the herb garden from the kitchen a haven, installing a warming brazier and cushioned stool, taking Myrddin’s advice and making the idea her own. The only light, other than from the brazier, shone from a pewter candelabra in front of her which held three glowing candles. A hole in the roof let out the smoke, but other than that, the room allowed no exterior light. Admittedly, a window would have done her little good, as it was four o’clock in the afternoon and already nearly dark.

  “How are you doing?”

  Nell looked up as Myrddin entered the hut. She’d been writing on a scrap of vellum, detailing the dream she’d had the previous night. If she closed her eyes, she could see it running in an endless loop behind her eyelids. It came so often now, night after night, that she sometimes felt she was more awake when she was dreaming than the other way around.

  “Fine.” She straightened, running through the last few minutes in her mind to see if she’d given anything away. She wasn’t fine, of course. It was hard to see how she was ever going to be fine again. Myrddin, for his part, watched her warily, as if he knew she was lying to him. She hated feeling so vulnerable. She missed those high convent walls, keeping out the world. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to watch you fill the page,” Myrddin said. “I heard a few phrases that could have been curses, too.” He smiled. “You haven’t been spending time among the garrison in my absence, have you? At least Deiniol isn’t here to bother you.”

  She found that she couldn’t smile back. It was no laughing matter that Deiniol had ridden with Myrddin and Ifan only as far as the pagan stones before taking a track south into the mountains. They’d let him go alone into the wilderness, rather than lose the Saxon messengers they’d been sent to follow.

  Myrddin walked to her and peered over her shoulder, resting one hand on the table beside the inkpot. Nell hunched her shoulders, covering the page with one hand so he couldn’t read her words. It was just like him to be able to read too: he pretended to be a bachelor, journeyman knight, but every now and then he would evidence some new, unexpected skill that belied his claim. He couldn’t fool her anymore.

  He stood at her shoulder, refusing to take the hint. After another count of ten, he sighed and eased away from her. But he didn’t leave her alone as she wanted—or part of her wanted and the rest didn’t.

  “What is it, Nell? Tell me what’s bothering you. You can trust me.”

  She glanced up at him. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you.”

  “Isn’t it?” he said. “I would like to think that you’re telling me the truth this time, but it’s hard to tell. I share a room with you, and meals, but you never talk of anything more momentous than the weather. The world is falling in around us; we’re in the middle of a war. Why won’t you speak of it?”

  Nell bowed her head. Endlessly patient as always, Myrddin leaned against the counter on which she prepared her herbs and ointments. Finally, she pushed away the paper and turned in her seat to face him. “I’m tired, Myrddin,” she said. “I’m thirty years old and I feel a hundred.”

  “You don’t look it.” He tried to coax a smile. This time, she obliged, although it quickly faded.

  “Why did you come to find me, Myrddin?”

  “We’ve news from Powys,” Myrddin said. “Lord Edgar has sent word that he might be persuaded to change sides, given the proper incentives.”

  Nell stared at him, her stomach sinking into her boots while a vision of the church by the Cam River rose unbidden before her eyes. “That couldn’t possibly be true,” she said. “His family has ever been faithful to the kings of Mercia—and now Modred. Does King Arthur believe it?”

  “King Arthur has said nothing to me, but just this morning he sent a captain south to prepare to open a second front against the Saxons—on our terms this time, not Modred’s. Geraint told me that given this new approach from Edgar, the King will want to lead his men himself.”

  Nell shook her head, an iciness taking over her limbs. Ten heartbeats ago she was alone with her dreams and her fears, and now the dream was a reality. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said. “Surely the King must see that?”

  “The King needs to change the balance of power, and perhaps making Edgar an ally is the way to do it.”

  “What about—” Nell thought desperately for anythi
ng—any idea—that could divert this folly. Twenty years of dreaming and she’d never been this close to the King—or to complete failure. “You have the King’s confidence. What if you suggested to the King that he look to someone else to turn aside from Edgar. Someone like Lord Cedric of Brecon. He hates Modred.”

  In 521, Cedric’s father had fought against Modred and Icel, the King of Mercia at the time, in a war over the border territory between Mercia and Wessex. Cedric’s family had allied with Arthur, who had some stake in the outcome, though not a large one. But Cedric’s father had died of the wounds he received at Shrewsbury and Cedric himself, only sixteen at the time, had witnessed his father’s wounding and subsequent death while in Modred’s custody.

  Myrddin laughed. “He’s none too fond of Arthur either,” he said. “And he’s as mercenary as Cai.”

  “True,” she said. “But he’s more open about it. You never have to wonder at his motives. You just need to make sure your goals align with his. And from what I know of the man, he’s always been up-front with his allegiances. If he walks away from an alliance with Modred, he’d probably tell him about it in advance, rather than stab him in the back.”

  “Yes,” Myrddin agreed. “But it isn’t he who has sent a message to King Arthur.”

  “But— ” Nell stopped. A curious look had passed across Myrddin’s face. Could I have said something right? “It was his family who sided with King Arthur sixteen years ago. They might do it again.”

  “Modred forgave Cedric’s family their treason.” Myrddin nodded as he thought it through. “But the death of a father due to the mercilessness of one’s lord is not something any man can easily forget, or forgive, especially one arising from as ancient a lineage as Cedric.”