Cold My Heart: A Novel of King Arthur

by Sarah Woodbury

  “My lord,” Nell said in Saxon, curtseying, “I’ve brought you a meal.”

  Cedric glanced up. “I didn’t ask for—” He cut off the sentence when Nell met his gaze with a sharp look she couldn’t help. It had been far sharper than he’d probably received from anyone since he was in his nurse’s care. “I see,” he said, after a quick scan of her face and clothes. “Put it there.”

  “My name is Nell ferch Morgan,” Nell said, abandoning the pretense that she was a boy. She gestured to Ifan, “and this is Ifan, from Garth Celyn.”

  “You’re Myrddin’s rescue party, are you?” Cedric said, his mind discerning the truth faster than Nell could have hoped. “Are there more of you?”

  “No.” Nell paused. “Unless you’re willing to help us?”

  “Now why would I want to do that?”

  Nell gazed at him, her expression calm while she thought furiously for an answer.

  But it was Ifan who spoke. “Because you’ve got bigger ceilliau than Modred.”

  Cedric smiled.

  * * * * *

  “We’re getting you out of here,” Nell said.

  Myrddin swam upwards towards the faint light in his cell, coming to himself with his arms around Nell and his head on her shoulder.

  “You,” he said, feeling marvelous all of a sudden.

  Ifan crouched at Myrddin’s feet, working at the chains that bound his ankles. Myrddin imagined they too were blood-rimmed, but his lower extremities were so numb from the cold and being forced to stay in one position for so long, he couldn’t feel them.

  A voice growled from behind Nell. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  Myrddin lifted his head to squint towards the form in the doorway.

  Cedric lounged against the frame, his arms folded across his chest. “Hurry up,” he said. “We haven’t much time.”

  “Not like his lordship couldn’t help,” Ifan muttered in Welsh, under his breath.

  “I grew up in Wales,” Cedric said, his voice mild. “I learned Welsh in my nurse’s arms.”

  Nell lifted a hand to Myrddin’s face. With shaking fingers, she touched his eyebrow. “It’s the only part of you that isn’t wounded,” she said, trying to jest, although her voice wavered.

  At last Ifan fitted the key into the final lock and opened it. “We need to move.”

  “I’m fine.” Myrddin took a step. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Just because the manacles were loose, however, didn’t mean he could walk. If Nell hadn’t still been holding him, he would have fallen. Seeing Myrddin’s peril, Ifan came up on his other side, his arm around Myrddin’s waist. Together, they hobbled towards the door, Myrddin’s feet tingling as the blood rushed into them. Myrddin feared for guards, but Cedric kept a smirk on his face, unconcerned about the treasonous act in which he was openly participating. He turned at their approach, led the way across the stones of the foyer where Myrddin had seen guards earlier, and up the stairs.

  They came out of the stairwell into a larger room containing three soldiers, all unconscious. One sprawled across the table at which he’d been sitting at dice, while his companion’s head lolled against the right hand wall. The third guard had fallen off his bench onto the floor. He lay on his side, legs splayed in front of him. Like the others, his eyes were closed.

  “Drunk.” Cedric strode past the table at which they sat, not looking at them but at the same time not even attempting to be quiet.

  “The poppy juice I brought helped,” Nell said.

  Myrddin swiveled his head, searching for his weapons, but Ifan had taken care of the problem. “Your sword’s right here.” He patted his waist. “We recovered it first, in case we had to leave in a hurry. I left mine outside the castle with the horses.”

  “Thanks,” Myrddin said, the sound coming out more as a grunt than a word.

  A moment later, they were through the far doorway and into the outer bailey. The dungeon—or at least Myrddin’s dungeon—was situated in the basement of the southwest, square, guard tower that overlooked the Clwyd River. The guardroom door sat at the base of the tower wall, effectively in a ditch, looking up to the inner wall, over two hundred feet away. If Modred had held Myrddin in one of the six towers that defended the inner bailey, he’d never have escaped.

  Myrddin had known where Modred had put him, of course, and now that he was being rescued, it seemed more suspicious than lucky to be so far from the central workings of the castle. Then again, maybe Modred didn’t like to disturb the castle inhabitants, including his beloved wife, with screaming. Cedric led them along the curtain wall that fronted the river to the river gate. The drawbridge was up, as it had been when Myrddin had arrived, but the postern door was unguarded. As Cedric drew it open, a moan sounded from further along the wall in the shadow of the tower.

  “He sent him a whore.” Nell whispered to Myrddin as she and Ifan dragged Myrddin through the opening.

  Cedric didn’t come with them. “I leave you here.” He halted in the doorway. “You may retrieve your horse at Brecon Castle, my home, should you care to do so.”

  Myrddin pulled his right arm over Nell’s head and held it out to Cedric. “Thank you.”

  Cedric grasped Myrddin’s forearm, nodded stiffly, and shut the door in Myrddin’s face. He’d gone before Myrddin realized he’d never responded to Arthur’s message.

  But then, on second thought, perhaps he had.

  Nell, Ifan, and Myrddin staggered down the sharp bank that descended from the postern gate to the river. They could have crossed at a low spot half a mile upstream, but it wouldn’t do to walk under the walls and expose themselves on the castle side of the Clywd, even at this hour of the night. The sooner they left the vicinity of Rhuddlan the better.

  “Can you swim?” Nell said.

  “He’s a fish when his arms work,” Ifan said.

  “I’m here,” Myrddin said. “I can speak.”

  “In,” Nell said.

  Obediently, Myrddin plunged into the water and struck out for the opposite bank. At worst, if he couldn’t have made it, he could have let the current carry him north to the ford that he’d ridden across on Cadfarch. Determined to succeed and not put Ifan or Nell into any further danger, Myrddin forced himself to stroke and kick long enough to reach the muddy bank. He crawled up it, bedraggled and soaking wet, although the cold water made his wounds feel a bit better. Myrddin could even sense his feet and for the first time was happy not to have worn boots. Nell and Ifan had kept theirs on and would have to stop once they were clear of the castle to empty them of water.

  “How far?” Myrddin said, once they’d clawed their way out of the brush, onto the road, and then across it into the ditch on the other side.

  “We left the horses close by.” Nell grasped Myrddin’s arm and lifted him out of the scrub. “You can make it.”

  “I’m not sure that I can do anything anymore without you.” The words were out before he could censor them. Nell had her head up, watching the road, and didn’t respond, for which Myrddin was grateful. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him.

  ‘Close by’ wasn’t quite as close as he’d hoped. Another twenty minutes passed, Myrddin hobbling on tender feet, before they reached the copse of beech trees in which Ifan had tied the horses. They’d only brought two, so once again, Nell and Myrddin would share. Ifan passed Myrddin his water flask but Myrddin’s hands were so cold and he was so tired, he couldn’t remove the stopper. Nell pulled it out, but even then, his hands shook so much that the water spilled out the top. In the end, Nell placed both of her hands on either side of his and helped Myrddin tip it up. Then she had to help him out of his wet clothes and into loose breeches and shirt.

  “From Caerhun again?” he said as she fastened the cloak around his neck.

  “Rhodri laughed when I asked for them,” she said, “but gave way. It was better to be safe than sorry.”

  Finally, when they were all dressed, Myrddin had to face the notion of climbing on the horse. The saddle
looked miles away.

  “Come on, lad,” Ifan said.

  Myrddin rested a hand on Nell’s shoulder while Ifan steadied him. With his foot in a stirrup, they shoved Myrddin hard upwards, shooting him towards the saddle. He sprawled across the horse’s withers, exhausted. With some more pushing from Ifan, Myrddin managed to swing his leg over the horse’s back and straighten. His forearm was one of the few limbs that didn’t hurt, so Myrddin offered it to Nell. She grasped it, clambering into place behind him.

  Every bone, muscle, and nerve in Myrddin’s body screamed at him. The only reason he was even upright was because Nell held him on the horse. It had been a long time since he’d felt this terrible. If it wouldn’t end up hurting him more, Myrddin would have rubbed his face to hide the tears—of pain and the frustration that he couldn’t control—that threatened to spill from his eyes.

  Myrddin swallowed hard. “Talk,” he said, once they urged the horses out of the brush and had given them their heads.

  “We followed you,” Ifan said, giving Myrddin a chance to gather his wits. “I got permission from Lord Geraint—more or less—and we were gone within an hour of your own departure. As we knew where you were going, we hardly needed to trail you closely.”

  “Where’d you get the boys’ clothes?” Myrddin asked Nell.

  “From a stable boy,” she said. “He’d outgrown them and his mother’d been saving them for his younger brother.”

  “And then?” Myrddin said, when neither wanted to continue.

  “We followed you all the way here.” Ifan shrugged.

  “There was a chance you’d rest with the garrison at Caerhun,” Nell said, “but Rhodri said they hadn’t seen you.”

  “Or rather,” Ifan added, “they’d seen you but you’d crossed the ford instead of turning in at the fort.”

  “Because we took time at Caerhun and had to hide the horses, we reached Rhuddlan a few hours behind you. It was full dark, but the villagers were still up and about.”

  “We entered the castle in the back of a hay wagon,” Ifan said.

  The tag-team story telling was giving Myrddin a headache, but they were in full spate and Myrddin chose not to stop them. “Go on.”

  “Hundreds of people work in that castle,” Ifan said. “As I left my weapons and armor with the horses on the other side of the Clywd, it was a simple matter to pretend to be other than what we are.”

  “What I want to know, more than anything, is about Cedric,” Myrddin said. “How did you convince him to free me?”

  “That was my idea,” Nell said. “We dined in the hall at the same time you did—after you’d met with Modred. To our eyes, Cedric didn’t object to your company; although we didn’t know how you’d met, it seemed fortuitous, given the discussion you and I had at Garth Celyn.”

  “So when the guards hauled you away,” Ifan said, “and Cedric protested, albeit not loudly and not to Modred, we decided to take a chance on him.”

  “What did you do? Walk up to him and say, ‘Greetings. We’re with Myrddin. Will you help us free him from the dungeon?’”

  Ifan laughed from deep in his chest. “Yes. If I’m ever in a tight place, I’d prefer to have Nell with me. She was as bold as Queen Gwenhwyfar herself.”

  “He deliberated only briefly before he agreed to help you escape,” Nell said. “We watched for Modred to come to you again, but he didn’t. He went to his bed and then we acted.”

  “Thank you for freeing me.” Myrddin realized he hadn’t yet said it. “It was quite a chance you took.”

  “I hope Cedric doesn’t suffer for it,” Nell said, “once Modred realizes you’re gone.”

  The crisp air, along with their story, had perked Myrddin up considerably, even as his muscles stiffened from the cold. “He’s Cedric ap Aelfric,” Myrddin said. “He gave the guards wine and women, and if they remember what passed in the night, it will be a miracle. When Cedric tells Modred that he had nothing to do with my escape, if it even comes to that, it will be good enough for Modred.”

  “Cedric said he wouldn’t leave Rhuddlan until the guards discovered your absence,” Ifan said, “after which he and his men would travel south to Brecon.” He paused, thinking. “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

  “As in, the why of it?” Myrddin said. “Why did he risk his own neck to free me?” The sight of Cedric in the doorway was fresh in Myrddin’s mind and he felt a weight lifting from his shoulders. “He is willing to consider an alliance with King Arthur.”

  “He said that?” Nell said.

  “He showed it,” Myrddin said.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  15 November 537 AD

  “Can you hear me, Myrddin?” Nell leaned over Myrddin’s inert form.

  Although Myrddin didn’t reply, he did open his eyes to look into her face. The room was dark, except for a candle on the table at the foot of the pallet on which he lay. Nell smiled, even though it cost her. Myrddin didn’t smile back, just stared, unseeing, and then let his eyes close. Nell stroked his cheek with one finger. And then she did smile, albeit mockingly, at what he’d think when he discovered that she’d shaved his mustache in order to tend to the gash above his lip.

  It had been a long, grim ride from Rhuddlan Castle. Myrddin had been so much weaker than usual and the last few miles had almost been his undoing. It had been all she could do to hold him on the horse. Modred’s men had wounded him inside and out, though she wouldn’t know how bad the damage was inside him until the rest of him began to heal.

  “Would you like to hear a story?” she said.

  Again, Myrddin didn’t answer. He’d squeezed the hand she was holding earlier, but now his grip softened. She gazed down at his closed eyes, thinking of what story to tell, and whether it was time to tell him a true one. “Once upon a time, there was a little girl . . .

  She was just like any other little girl—shocking red hair, green eyes, pointed chin—doted upon by her father, especially as he’d lost his wife at her birth.

  One day, as she was wandering in the trees along the river near her home, looking for any winter herbs that had survived the snow, she heard voices—men’s voices—very close. They shouted at one another. Hooves pounded on the soft earth and then not ten feet from her, a company of five men wearing King Arthur’s crest rode out of the woods, swords and shields raised high. They splashed through the water and up the bank on the other side.

  The girl was frightened. She ran the opposite way, but instead of running into her father’s field as she expected, she found herself in a clearing, next to a church. All around her men called and horses neighed. She ran for the entrance to the church, but just as she reached it, the door opened. A man appeared, older than her father, his dark hair shot with grey. She’d never seen him before, but somehow she knew he was their king. He pulled his sword from his sheath, shouted at the men behind him, and retreated back inside.

  Oddly, the man didn’t see her. A moment later, the men who’d ridden through the water returned, racing their horses towards a line of Saxon soldiers that had burst from the woods on the other side of the clearing. All around her men fought and died.

  Then, one man in particular caught her attention. He’d lost his helmet and his black hair had come loose. His shield was gone too and between forcing his sword through a Saxon’s belly and turning to race for the front of the church, he thrust his hair out of his face with his free hand.

  In that space of time, she caught his eye. They stared at each other. They couldn’t have been more different: her, small, scrawny, not yet blooming into womanhood; and him, a tall, dark-haired soldier, older, with lines around his eyes.

  Then he broke away, racing to defend his King. She watched him barrel into a Saxon soldier; she watched him fall. She watched the Saxon soldiers celebrate their victory. And it was she who pulled the man to the side, off of the body of his King whose head the Saxons soldiers had taken while they left the rest of him to rot. And it was she who wep
t over his grave . . .

  * * * * *

  “So now you’ve saved me,” Myrddin said. From the way the light reflected from the hallway through the open door, it was late afternoon. He’d slept a long time.

  “Does that make us even?” Nell said.

  “Do you want it to?”

  She smiled and didn’t answer, looking down at her hands. She’d tucked her hair into her cloak, but the end of her thick braid peeked from underneath the hood. Then she looked up. “It hurts me to see you this way.”

  “It hurts me too,” he said, trying to make light of it.

  “I wish we could have gotten to you sooner.”

  “I’ll heal,” he said.

  “Hidden away in my convent, I forgot the horror one man could do to another,” she said. “I’ve been reminded almost daily since then.”

  “Believe me, Modred is capable of much worse.”

  Nell nodded. “I stitched the back of your head while you were asleep. I kept waiting for you to wake in the middle of it and argue with me about the proper method.” She smiled, and then added, “I would have had Ifan cosh you to put you back to sleep.”

  Myrddin laughed and then tried to suppress it, moving his hand to his chest. “Don’t!” He swallowed the mirth and the pain the laughter had caused. “Where’s Ifan now?”

  “He stayed up with you most of the night,” she said. “Did you know he’s in pain nearly all the time?”