“I fear you are correct,” Myrddin said. “But I must try.”
“Wait a while,” he said. “Dine with me. After the meal, I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Myrddin doubted he could trust him, but believed the guards would prevent him from walking out the front gate. So Myrddin went to the great hall with Cedric. Full darkness had descended shortly after he’d arrived at Rhuddlan, and by now they’d missed the bulk of the meal. But like Modred, Cedric got to eat whenever he wanted.
The hall was still full of men, all of whom would have been hostile to Myrddin if they’d known who he was. But since he entered as Cedric’s new-found companion, if not friend, nobody approached them. Cedric was known for standing on ceremony and insisting on the comforts and accolades of his office—much like King Arthur.
A servant appeared with trenchers for their food and goblets for wine, which she laid before them. She wore the garb of a Saxon girl and was perhaps one of the villagers whom Modred had imported to Rhuddlan for this purpose. Although she was young and lovely, in a blonde, Saxon way, Cedric didn’t spare her a glance. It supported the rumors Myrddin had heard that he was faithful to his wife—an unusual trait among noble men. And something else he didn’t share with Modred, although Modred apparently did love his wife to distraction.
Myrddin shifted in his seat, peering around the room. “Is Agravaine here?” He’d never met the man and wanted to see what he looked like.
“No,” Cedric said, without looking around. He ate with small, dainty bites, as if he wasn’t quite sure as to the safety or spicing of the food. “He’d sleep in a barn rather than stay at Rhuddlan.”
“Why is that?” Myrddin said.
“The man’s a ghost; flitting in and out among Modred’s possessions, never stopping anywhere for more than a day if the castle belongs to someone other than himself. Agravaine trusts no one. Modred puts up with it because he wins battles and does as he’s told. Half the time it seems he can see the future before it happens.”
Myrddin didn’t like the sound of that and would have inquired further, but Cedric was done with the subject, taking a sip of wine and then gesturing to the servant for more turnips. Myrddin went back to surveying the hall. Plenty of Welshmen were scattered among the diners—both men who’d sided with Modred from the first and recent defectors. Beyond Cedric’s left shoulder, two monks whom Myrddin thought he recognized sat at a far table.
A quick inspection of their undyed robes and cloaks confirmed his suspicions: they were the brothers Llywelyn and Rhys, cousins to Gareth, and brothers to the Hywel who’d died at Penrhyn after the battle at the Straits. Brother Llywelyn was the prior of the monastery at Bangor, and Rhys was the friar of St. Deiniol, the cathedral church, also in Bangor.
As Hywel had explained, it was Llywelyn who’d talked his brothers into betraying King Arthur. Myrddin’s disgust for him and that loathsome act hadn’t abated in the intervening years. Perhaps feeling the intensity of Myrddin’s stare, Llywelyn glanced up, caught Myrddin’s eye, and glowered. Once Rhys noted Llywelyn’s attention, he turned to look at him as well. Myrddin didn’t glance away, but returned their glares. It was childish of him but he refused to back down.
“What are you looking at?” Cedric said, noting Myrddin’s odd behavior. He twisted in his seat to glance behind him.
“I know those two monks over there.” Myrddin pointed at them with his chin.
Cedric pursed his lips, turning back to his food. “I don’t like traitors. Not even ones on my side.”
“I suppose it’s a matter of perspective,” Myrddin said. “One man’s traitor is another man’s loyal subject.”
“Edgar won’t betray Lord Modred.” Cedric spoke as if they’d had a conversation about Edgar already which had been interrupted, even though they hadn’t. “If Modred keeps Agravaine on a tight leash, Agravaine keeps an even tighter one on Edgar. He will do nothing of his own accord.”
“Would that be true for you as well?” Myrddin said.
Cedric pointed his knife at Myrddin. “Don’t let King Arthur come south.”
Myrddin canted his head to the side. “And leave your lands alone?”
Cedric chuckled deep in his throat, but then cut it off. “I’d prefer it.”
“What would Modred think of your warning?”
Cedric gave Myrddin a hard look. “He’s the one who allowed you to hear of the danger that awaits your King in Powys. Weren’t you paying attention earlier? I’ve not said anything that he hasn’t already made clear.”
Myrddin shook his head at the complexity of it all. His visions were incomplete and by now, nearly useless. He’d accepted that he had to take action, but while the dreams told him that Arthur shouldn’t come south to meet with Edgar, they didn’t tell him what would need to happen instead. To have Cedric informing him of what he already knew—even though it hadn’t yet happened—was disconcerting.
Cedric pushed away his plate, the food on it half-eaten. He was gathering himself to get to his feet when Modred strode into the room, trailed by the Archbishop. He, in turn, was flanked by two more churchmen whom Myrddin didn’t recognize, and said as much to Cedric.
“Bishop Anian of St. Asaph.” Cedric rose to his feet as they always did in the presence of Modred. “The other is the Archdeacon of Anglesey.”
Myrddin’s heart sank into his boots, for he knew what was coming, just as King Arthur had predicted to his brother. At Modred’s raised hand, the room quieted. Modred lifted his voice so that it carried to the far corners of the hall.
“I present to you Archbishop Dafydd. Listen well and take heed of his words.”
The Archbishop stepped forward, a piece of paper in his shaking hands. Maybe it was because he suffered from palsy, even though he couldn’t have been much older than Myrddin, but Myrddin was willing to believe he understood the significance of what he was about to do and half-regretted it. Myrddin briefly felt sorry for him. Dafydd spoke in Latin, and then again in Saxon so everyone in the room would understand:
Arthur ap Uther, along with his brother, Cai, notwithstanding the formal canonical warning of 17 June last and the repeated appeals to desist from their intentions, have performed a schismatical act of disobedience and have therefore incurred the penalty of excommunication latae sententiae. The priests and faithful are warned not to support the schism of Arthur and Cai, otherwise they shall incur ipso facto a similar punishment.
There it was. Arthur was a devout believer, and would care—fearing for his soul—but this pronouncement would change nothing. The churches in Gwynedd—as opposed to those Archbishop Dafydd oversaw in the south of Wales—would continue to administer to the faithful: marrying, baptizing, and seeing to their spiritual needs, in defiance of the injustice of this act.
“This will make it easier for those who are so inclined to betray King Arthur.” Cedric sat down again as Modred left the hall and the priests found seats at the high table.
Myrddin shrugged. “Or the opposite. The excommunication of their leader at the behest of a despised usurper might only confirm the rightness of their choice in their eyes.”
“Did you say ‘despised usurper’?” Cedric said. “You are too bold.”
“A man must live by his conscience,” Myrddin said. “When men say that they speak for God, in pursuit of their own power, it calls their words into doubt.”
Cedric’s hard look was back. Myrddin thought better of further conversation, but even if he’d wanted to speak, he wasn’t given a chance. Two men-at-arms appeared, one on either side of Myrddin, grasped him under the arms, and lifted him bodily over his bench. Before Myrddin had a chance to do more than sputter, they had him up against the wall, his back braced and his legs spread.
“What’s this?” Cedric gestured with his knife. “We were eating.”
The man on Myrddin’s right spoke. “Our apologies, my lord. Lord Modred has given orders.”
In those first minutes of his captivity, his face already bruised fr
om the guard’s fists, Myrddin had hoped he could withstand their treatment and not submit. It was clear fairly quickly, however, that they didn’t want any information from him. Perhaps they beat prisoners—and King Arthur’s men—as a matter of course.
Five hours later, Myrddin’s body was stiff from the cold, his wrists and ankles chained, and he had an almighty headache. The one positive note was that the blood along Myrddin’s upper lip had dried and was no longer dripping onto his clothing and the floor. He didn’t want to attract those rats to his toes, which absent his boots, were too easily accessible. Myrddin wiggled them, trying to increase their circulation.
A light flickered through the small window in the wooden door that blocked the entrance to Myrddin’s cell. Myrddin shifted, awkward, the shackles digging into his wrists. A rime of blood seeped around the metal band every time he moved, the edge cutting further into his skin. Then the door opened to reveal Modred himself and two guards, one of whom carried an upright, wooden chair. He set it in the middle of the cell. Modred turned it around and sat facing Myrddin, his arms resting along the top rail.
“So,” he said. “Now that we both are situated more comfortably, perhaps you’ll answer some of my questions.”
It was a jest, but Myrddin wasn’t laughing. “I answered truthfully before. I would have answered whatever other questions you chose to put to me in your hall.”
“Perhaps.” Modred flicked a crumb off his sleeve with one finger towards the rats in the corner. The rats scurried to where the crumb had fallen and after a brief scuffle, the dominant one ate it. Myrddin watched, horrified, thinking of how easily one could take a bite out of him. “But not as quickly or completely.”
Myrddin moved his eyes back to Modred’s face. “Why would I be any more likely to do as you ask now, since you’re going to kill me anyway?”
“Ah,” Modred said. “But the manner of your death remains a mystery. It is something to be negotiated.”
Myrddin had known all along that Modred was a murderous son-of-a-bitch. What Welshman didn’t know that? But, naïvely, Myrddin hadn’t expected him to direct this level of villainy at him. Then again, this was the man who hanged a couple of hundred his own people so he could confiscate their possessions—and pay for his war against Arthur. There was nothing that wasn’t beyond this man. Worse, Modred knew that Myrddin knew it.
When Myrddin didn’t reply, Modred nodded at one of the guards, who fisted his hand and shot it into Myrddin’s midsection. If Myrddin’s bonds hadn’t held him tightly, he would have gone down and stayed down. As it was, he couldn’t even bend forward to better absorb the blow.
“Now,” Modred said. “I want the truth. What happened at the Menai Straits?”
“I told you already.” Myrddin said. “Cedric did too. It was just as he said.”
The guard backhanded Myrddin across the face and his head clunked against the stones behind him. Blood formed at the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin. Myrddin turned his head and hunched his shoulders, trying to staunch it on his shirt. He couldn’t reach, however, and fell back, moaning more from frustration at his helplessness than the pain.
“I want the rest.” Modred said. “There’s more. What haven’t you told me?”
Myrddin was at a loss, both for something else to give and for what Arthur would think was acceptable for him to say. Myrddin took a stab at a new piece of information. “We sabotaged the boats.”
“Better,” Modred said. “Whose idea was that?”
“Mine,” Myrddin said.
Another blow to the kidneys.
“I want the traitor’s name,” Modred said.
Myrddin must have looked as blank as he felt because he received another shot to the face. “Traitor?” Myrddin said. “You mean Lord Cai?”
Modred’s face purpled, revealing a passion that was likely to give him heart failure. In his youth, Modred had been Cai’s squire. They’d remained close companions for many years afterwards, even after Modred began to assert his own claim to the throne over Cai’s. Whatever bond had survived the years had been severed with Cai’s latest actions. Perhaps in Modred—as in Cai—love and hatred were two sides of the same coin.
Modred and Myrddin stared at each other and slowly Modred’s color subsided. He barked a laugh. “I’ll give you that. He betrays both sides as it pleases him. No, I want the traitor in my ranks. The one who informed you that Wulfere would cross the Straits that day. I want to know why you were ready for him.”
Myrddin opted for a shrug. “We knew. I don’t know all the people who told us, but there were many sources. Wulfere was too open about his plans, at least on the Anglesey side. Not all the people there support the Saxon cause.”
Another slap, which Myrddin should have known was coming for being cheeky.
“Names,” Modred said.
“I have none to give you,” Myrddin said. Before he could elaborate on that lack of knowledge, he received another thrust to his abdomen. The pain was intense. His ears still rang from the previous blow and his eyes no longer saw straight. A black mist rose across his vision. Myrddin fought it, blinking and struggling to stay conscious, even though the blackness would have been a relief. “A doxy. A fisherman. A ferryman. A nun. They all told us.”
Modred eased backwards. Myrddin had a brief hope that he’d leave, but Modred got to his feet and came around the chair to stand in front of Myrddin.
“You can do better than that,” he said.
Myrddin tried to focus on his face, but there appeared to be several of him now. “You have two noses.” He found the idea amusing, but the words came out slurred and his eyes blurred from tears he couldn’t stop from falling. They hadn’t even left him the dignity of wiping at them with the back of his hand.
Modred snorted his disgust. “He’s done. For now.” He turned away, followed by the guards who pulled the door closed behind them and left the cell in darkness.
* * * * *
Chapter Eleven
14 November 537 AD
“You are well and truly out of your mind!” Ifan followed Nell down the hall towards Lord Cedric of Brecon’s quarters, a stack of logs in his arms for stoking the fire in Cedric’s room.
Nell glanced back at him, careful not to tip her tray of food and drink. “Am I?” she said. “And what was your plan for getting Myrddin out of prison? A straight assault?”
They’d arrived at Rhuddlan in time to see Myrddin hauled away from Cedric’s table—and the protest, albeit slight, that engendered from Cedric—and then spent the rest of that night and the next day mingling among the lowlier members of the castle. They both spoke Saxon, Nell better than Ifan, but only Welsh had been required so far, which had caused a slow boil in Nell’s chest she was working hard to contain. Her people had done far more to betray Arthur than the Saxons ever could. Well, except for his looming death at the hands of Edgar of Wigmore.
“Better than all this sneaking around,” Ifan mumbled, not so low that she couldn’t hear him.
At the same time, he hadn’t protested more than that, and so far had not objected to her taking charge of this aspect of the endeavor. Clearly, she’d spent far too many years in the company of women and her confidence was out of place in a castle run by men. “You got us safely to Rhuddlan,” she said. “Trust me to manage this.”
Ifan had caught her coming out of her room back at Garth Celyn, dressed as a boy. At first, Ifan hadn’t recognized her, which was all to the good as far as she was concerned. Then he’d grabbed her arm, hissing. “What are you doing?”
“Going after Myrddin,” she said.
“Alone? Are you mad?” he said. “Myrddin told me what happened at St. Asaph; what he’d arrived almost too late to stop. You’d risk that again?”
“Better than staying here and allowing him to go into danger alone,” Nell had said. “To die at Modred’s hands. I don’t—I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
That had brought Ifan up short. He’d looked at
her, suspicious. Nell gazed back. Unfortunately, it was no less than the truth, although as always, not all of it. Myrddin went off on his own all the time; the difference today was her dream last night. Frighteningly, instead of dreaming as Myrddin as she always had, she’d watched the battle from above, looking down on the King’s death. Myrddin wasn’t even there. Nell’s breath caught in her throat at what that might mean.
Even admitting that, she had to acknowledge that her visions of Arthur’s death took her only so far. Sometimes she simply had a feeling that she should do something, or that something wasn’t right—like she could sense the currents and emotions of the people around her and they all added up to a conclusion that she couldn’t explain. She’d felt that way in the first moments of Wulfere’s attack on her convent. To her regret, she hadn’t felt it when she’d left her sisters alone in the barn. But she’d learned not to ignore her sense of wrongness when it came.
Ifan nodded. “Neither do I. But this is not a task for a woman. I’ll go.”
“No!” Nell had said. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”
“I’ll tell the King—”
Nell cut Ifan off with a finger to his lips. “Don’t you dare. Besides, I’m a free woman, with no husband or obligations to anyone but myself.”
“Except to Myrddin?” Ifan had said.
“That is my choice,” Nell said.
Ifan had stared into her face for a long moment, and then nodded. “I’ll talk to Geraint.”
So here they were, thirty miles from Garth Celyn, in the very belly of the Saxon beast. Nell raised a hand to knock at Cedric’s door.
“Come in.”
Nell pushed the door open and entered the room, followed by Ifan. The room was less rich than some she’d seen in the castle. She’d flitted in and out of many over the last hours, always accompanied by Ifan and his logs. Nobody had to know that those were the same three pieces of wood he’d carried all day. They’d simply moved from room to room, purposeful and diligent, determining the lay of the land. Nobody ever questioned them or wondered at their actions. Far more than at Garth Celyn, servants here were invisible—even to other servants, provided she and Ifan kept their heads down. Rhuddlan was so huge that it was impossible for any one person to keep track of all the comings and goings.
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