Cold My Heart: A Novel of King Arthur

by Sarah Woodbury

  “King Arthur wants to unite Wales as its King,” Nell said. “Cedric wants his bit of land secure and to stop having to fight either Arthur or his own supposed allies for the right to it. He wants more land too, but it’s unlikely that Modred is going to award him any more—not any time soon.”

  “The land would be at the expense of Agravaine, Aelric, or Edgar,” Myrddin said, “staunch allies of Modred.”

  “Well, except possibly for Edgar,” Nell said.

  “And you say that . . . why?”

  “Because Edgar’s . . .” Nell paused and pursed her lips, uncertain as to whether or not she should say more.

  “Edgar’s . . . what?”

  “Edgar does not prefer women,” Nell said, as delicately as she could. “To my mind, this is why Modred has withheld Edgar’s inheritance since his father died. None of the Mercian barons think Edgar is a fit heir, but it is his right.”

  “And how do you know all this?”

  Nell stared at the floor, biting her bottom lip. She had so many things to tell him; so many things he might not forgive or understand.

  Myrddin waited through the silence.

  Finally, Nell waved a hand, apologetically, unable to avoid revealing to him this bit of the truth. “My husband served as a man-at-arms at Wigmore Castle.”

  Myrddin gaped at her. “He was part of the garrison? For Edgar’s family?”

  Nell couldn’t mistake the anger and distrust that rose in his face—the same distrust he’d felt that first night on the road from St. Asaph. “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Because you’re a staunch supporter of Arthur!” Nell’s voice went high and tears pricked at her eyes in her anxiety. “You thought I was a spy! How could I tell you my husband served a Saxon lord?” A lone tear fell across her cheek and she angrily brushed it away with the back of her hand.

  “I already suspected the worst,” Myrddin said. “It would have confirmed my suspicions.”

  “And you still have them now.” Her heart sank.

  “No man can ever truly know what is in another’s soul,” Myrddin said, unrelenting. “Was your husband Saxon?”

  “No.” Nell crossed her arms and stared at the floor. “Many of the men-at-arms who serve the Saxons are Welsh.”

  “So who was he?”

  Nell closed her eyes. “His name was Rhys,” she said. “He was ten years older than I, the younger son of a landowner who held lands to the south of my father’s.” She’d been such a child when she married him. Not so much foolish, but innocent, in love with the handsome soldier she barely knew, even if she’d known him from infancy, but sure of her future with him. “Fifteen years ago there was peace between Wales and Mercia and my father didn’t object to the marriage.”

  “But you didn’t want to stay?” Myrddin said. “Once your husband and children died?”

  “No,” Nell said. “I didn’t. I told you that before and it was nothing but the truth. It was Edgar, in fact, who helped me return to Wales.”

  “And you haven’t been back since?” Myrddin said.

  “No.”

  “And Edgar?” Myrddin said. “Have you a further thought, then, about his message to King Arthur?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Nell said. “It’s Agravaine who has the real power. Modred put him in charge of all his forces, including Edgar’s, for a reason. I wouldn’t be surprised if the letter to the King was Agravaine’s idea, and Edgar was only going along with the deception because he wanted to prove to Modred his loyalty—to force him to acknowledge that he is his father’s rightful heir.”

  “That is my thought too,” Myrddin said. “If Arthur goes to meet Edgar, I fear he goes to his death.”

  Nell had been studying her toes, not looking at Myrddin as he interrogated her. Now she glanced up, surprised that he would say such a thing so openly and surely. “I feel that too,” she said. “Can you think of a way to stop him? I will help you if I can!”

  Myrddin studied her face and she let him, not looking away. His lips twisted. “We’ll see.” With a last nod, he spun on one heel and left the hut.

  Nell stared after him. When his footsteps had faded, she leaned her head back against wall and closed her eyes. In twenty years of dreaming, nothing she’d tried had turned out right. This was obviously not working either. Perhaps she shouldn’t have allowed Myrddin to bring her to Garth Celyn after all.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Nine

  12 November 537 AD

  As he stared up at the battlements of Rhuddlan Castle, Myrddin felt for the letter from King Arthur to Modred one last time, as reassurance. Arthur had selected him to bring it as he’d promised. Myrddin had come alone because in the end, the King had determined that it was better to lose one man to an early grave or Modred’s dungeon than a company of them.

  “I’m not too happy about this either, Nell,” Myrddin had said, standing in Garth Celyn’s courtyard that morning. Nell had held Cadfarch’s bridle and fed him carrots while Myrddin adjusted his saddlebags. “Nor is the King.”

  “Take me with you,” she said. “Nobody will know or care if I leave here, or what happens to me.”

  “I will care,” Myrddin said, remembering her tears from yesterday and their effect on his heart. “The road I’m taking passes right through St. Asaph. You don’t need to ride through there again.”

  “Maybe I do need to,” Nell said.

  “Nell—”

  “I wouldn’t be alone this time,” Nell said. “I’d be with you, and I’d pretend to be your little brother. Nobody would give me a second look.”

  “In boy’s clothes?” Myrddin said.

  “Of course.”

  “No,” he said, more firmly than before. “You’re a nun.”

  “Not anymore,” she said, “and I have no intention of ever being one again.”

  “The law—”

  “The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God,” Nell quoted. “Give me credit for knowing at least that. But with Eryri about to fall to Modred, wearing a boy’s discarded breeches is surely a small matter.”

  She gazed at him, disconcerting him because a vision of her lifeless and abused body had risen before his eyes. He blinked to clear them before she realized he’d seen it. That she’d experienced attempted rape and murder even once was unconscionable. She was crazed to think Myrddin would let her near the scene of the crime again.

  “It wouldn’t work.” Regardless of his opinion, the request was ludicrous and she had to know it. But Myrddin understood it, too. She was vibrant and competent woman, adrift in the middle of a war; little wonder that she was struggling with it. But riding with him wasn’t the answer.

  “It isn’t because you don’t trust me, is it?” she said. “It’s not because you still believe that I spy for Modred?”

  “That’s not it,” Myrddin said, acknowledging at last, albeit grudgingly, that the idea had always been unlikely.

  “Besides.” Nell changed tack. “Masterless men didn’t attack me. Those men were knights. I just happened to get in their way.”

  Myrddin snorted under his breath. “Don’t you think I know that? Modred would never allow marauders so close to Rhuddlan. His men are disciplined and he would have taken care of any such men who’d dared roam his territory. But who’s going to be at Rhuddlan? Those very same men! The thought of you left to your own devices at Rhuddlan Castle sends chills down my spine.”

  Nell studied his face and then sighed, backing down. “Yes, my lord.”

  Myrddin’s eyes narrowed at her uncharacteristic use of his title.

  Her shoulders fell for a second, but then she poked him in the chest. “But I’m holding it against you.”

  “I can accept that,” Myrddin had said. He’d glanced back once as he left the castle to see Nell and Ifan standing on the battlements, watching him rid
e away. Nell had tucked herself into her cloak, with the hood up, but Ifan stood bareheaded, his crop of short, blonde hair unmistakable. Each had lifted a hand to wave him down the road. Myrddin had responded with a salute.

  Now, at sunset, he followed the western side of the Clwyd River, past the drawbridge and its lesser gate, to the ford. Cadfarch splashed through the river, came up the bank, and stopped in front of the main defensive tower in the outer palisade. Myrddin waited, hoping that the archers who peered at him from the battlements would remain patient. He was Welsh but that didn’t mean that he was an enemy. Sad, but true.

  A guard called to him from the walkway above the gatehouse. “Give me your name and your purpose.” The man, tall and helmetless, spoke in heavily accented Welsh.

  “I come at the request of Arthur ap Uther, King of Wales,” Myrddin said, answering him in Saxon, the language in which he was sure to be most comfortable. “I have a letter for Lord Modred.”

  The man studied Myrddin and then nodded. “You may enter,” he said, now in flawless Saxon, confirming Myrddin’s assessment, “provided you surrender your weapons.”

  Myrddin agreed with reluctance to what the soldier asked. Men wore weapons as a matter of course and for a man not to wear his sword was unusual—and insulting to the unarmed man, which is of course why the soldier intended to strip Myrddin of his. It wasn’t that he feared Myrddin would use his sword against Modred, but because he sought to humiliate him, and by association, King Arthur.

  Myrddin urged Cadfarch under the gatehouse and into the outer bailey. Once inside the curtain wall, a cobbled path led to the massive double towers of the second gatehouse which protected the great hall behind it. Modred’s fort was impregnable. No one had ever taken it by force, although not for lack of trying. Cai had attacked it after taking down one of Modred’s more eastern castles the previous spring, but other than causing some damage from fire, he’d gone away unsatisfied. It might be possible to starve the defenders out, but Myrddin wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Modred had built an escape tunnel under his castle, just like at Garth Celyn. Then again, he had less experience in losing wars and so perhaps hadn’t thought he needed one.

  Torches flared in sconces—dozens of them—lighting the bailey almost as if it were day. Like everything else about Rhuddlan, the expansive light was a display of wealth and power that the local populace would surely notice. Compared to any of King Arthur’s castles, which tended to be coldly utilitarian, even if their castellans did everything they could to make them comfortable, Rhuddlan was a palace. Modred’s image of himself had only grown more resplendent as his victories had increased in number.

  Myrddin dismounted and instantly three men were upon him, two gripping his upper arms while a third disarmed him. He patted Myrddin down, finding one knife in his boot and a second tucked into the bracer on his forearm. Myrddin had hoped they’d miss that one and kicked himself for not having a maid sew a smaller knife into the lining of his cloak. A true spy, he wasn’t. Perhaps it was time he learned.

  Just as they finished, another man—of obvious rank, given his clothing and the artistry in the hilt of his sword—came out from under the secondary gatehouse. Even his walk was purposeful and distinctive. The men sitting outside the stables with doxies on their laps hastily put them aside to stand at his approach. The man didn’t indicate that he noticed, although Myrddin guessed that if he was a captain worth his salt, he would confront them later. When the man reached Myrddin, he gave Myrddin a curt nod and said, “Lord Mordred will see you now.”

  Myrddin hadn’t expected anything different in terms of courtesy, although it would have been nice to brush the dust from his clothes and polish himself up so as to represent Arthur better. With no help for it, he allowed a stable boy to lead Cadfarch away and then trailed after the man, followed by one of the men-at-arms carrying his weapons. Even Modred knew he couldn’t have his men toss them in a corner—that Myrddin wouldn’t countenance it. They were his livelihood and the value of the sword alone was that of an entire village.

  Rhuddlan’s walls and towers loomed even larger from the ground than on horseback. As Myrddin followed the knight through the second gatehouse, the second bailey, and into the great hall, he had to shake his head over the amount of time and treasure it had taken to build it. Modred’s people must be suffering greatly to have given him so much in such a short time.

  The hall was full of men at their evening meal. Myrddin and his escort by-passed them, however, and headed down a corridor to Modred’s receiving room. The metal fittings of Myrddin’s boots clacked loudly on the stones as he paced along the corridor, a match to the pounding of his heart which seemed to rise further into his throat with every step. Then he told himself that if he was to turn aside the fate set for Wales in the dream, if he was to become the man Arthur needed him to be, he’d have to do better.

  When facing down an enemy, whether Deiniol as a boy or a hated upstart nobleman, confidence was everything. Much as Nell had done when she’d first spoken to King Arthur back at Garth Celyn, Myrddin replaced uncertainty with pride. Straightening his shoulders, Myrddin nodded at the man who’d brought him. The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners, acknowledging the transition Myrddin had affected, and nodded back.

  The man threw open the door to Modred’s receiving room. It was the same size as the great hall at Garth Celyn, but as it was only a third as large as the hall Myrddin had just come through, Modred used it for his private meetings. Not that this was going to be private. Myrddin had walked into a room full of people and had their immediate attention. Deliberately ignoring everyone but the man in charge, Myrddin strode towards Modred. He no longer had a sword at his waist but he held a missive of defiance close to his heart, which was almost the same thing, and perhaps better.

  His heart caught in his throat, however, at the sight of Archbishop Dafydd standing to Modred’s right. Myrddin hadn’t realized, even with all the discussion of peace lately, that the two men were so close—and that Modred had this level of support from the Church. For his part, the Archbishop observed Myrddin as he came to a halt five paces from Modred’s throne, with its gilt frame, raised dais, and thick rug. Myrddin bowed, straightened, his hands at his sides, and looked straight at Modred.

  “Come,” Modred said. “Let’s see what my beloved uncle has to say to me today.”

  Modred appeared exactly as he should, which was to say, like a king. He was forty years old, into middle-age, but didn’t look it. He had a full head of dark hair, broad shoulders, and eyes that Myrddin would have avoided if he could. It was hard not to think they saw right through him. Christ, I hate him. Still upright, refusing to allow his thoughts to show, Myrddin advanced towards Modred’s throne. He removed the letter from his breast pocket and with a second, short bow, held it out to Modred.

  “My lord,” Myrddin said. “King Arthur greets you and hopes that his royal nephew is well.”

  “How kind of him to inquire.” Modred took the letter, watching Myrddin out of the corner of his eye as he did so, and broke the seal. He unrolled it and read for no more than a minute. Without re-rolling it, Modred handed the letter to the Archbishop, who took it. Myrddin kept his hands relaxed at his sides, wondering what would happen next. He didn’t like the feeling he was getting from Modred or his lackeys, many of whom were watching him like he was a rare beast in a cage. Or a chicken intended for slaughter.

  While the Archbishop read Arthur’s letter, Modred sat still, his only movement the tapping of his finger on the arm of his chair as he waited. He didn’t appear disturbed or angry by King Arthur’s words, just impatient. The letter seemed no more or less than what he had expected.

  “And Cai’s response?” Modred said.

  Myrddin had that letter too. He didn’t know precisely what it said, but suspected it was far less polite than Arthur’s. “Here, my lord.” Myrddin pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Modred.

  Modred took it, split the seal, and passed it o
ff so quickly to the Archbishop he couldn’t have read more than three words. Instead, he revealed that he had other things on his mind. “And what was your role in the battle at the Straits?”

  Myrddin blinked, nonplussed. And then decided the question wasn’t so surprising. Very few of Modred’s men had survived the battle, and perhaps he hadn’t yet had a good first-hand account. “I am one of the knights in my King’s household guard,” Myrddin said, deciding there was no harm in telling him this bit of truth. Eventually he’d hear it from someone else. “I was at the forefront of the initial charge.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Modred said.

  Myrddin took in a breath. Modred would hate what he had to say, but then, it was unlikely Myrddin’s explanation could make it worse for him. “The Saxon forces crossed the Straits at noon on November 6th,” he said. “Once the cavalry reached the beach and the foot soldiers were marching on the bridge, we unleashed our arrows.”

  Myrddin stopped.

  “And then?” Modred watched Myrddin’s face. The silence in the hall was complete.

  “And then we charged,” Myrddin said.

  “Who killed Wulfere?” Modred said.

  Myrddin hesitated. “I did.”

  A pause. Unaccountably, Modred smiled. Then he began to laugh. He continued, tears spilling out of his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. After a stunned ten seconds, the rest of the people in the room began to laugh too, even if they, as Myrddin, had no idea what their lord thought was so funny.

  Myrddin remained standing in front of Modred. He shared a quick look with the Archbishop, who was the only other person not in hysterics. Then he glanced at the stars beginning to show through the glass in the window to his left. As in the courtyard, the wealth on display in the hall was palpable, from the glass in the windows, to the dual fireplaces, one on each side of the hall, to the tapestries that adorned the walls. Myrddin wished he was gone already but until the king dismissed him, he had to stay. Finally, Modred calmed enough to explain himself.