Cold My Heart: A Novel of King Arthur

by Sarah Woodbury

  “And paid for them, by the looks.” Bedwyr’s lips curved into a smile.

  Myrddin coughed and laughed at the same time. “You could say that. Although as I told you before, these wounds were courtesy of Modred.” Myrddin took a deep breath, his abdomen aching at the effort. “After I gave Modred your letter, he directed me to bring Lord Cedric of Brecon to him. Thus, Cedric and I had a few moments of privacy in his room. I took the opportunity to suggest that you, my lord, would be open to a discussion of the disposition of various lands in Wales, if Cedric reconsidered his allegiance.”

  King Arthur swung around to stare at Myrddin.

  “I apologize, my lord,” Myrddin said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, and the odds of him agreeing, or of anything coming of it at all, seemed worth the slight risk to my neck.”

  “It was obviously worth far more than that to Cedric,” Bedwyr said. “And the fact that he had already heard your name from Huw sheds new light on the entire matter.”

  “It does,” Myrddin said, although he was having a hard time figuring out what exactly it told him. He was feeling more and more wobbly and desperately wanted a drink, a bed, and Nell’s gentle hand on his forehead, not necessarily in that order. “One more thing. Modred knows that you’ve sent Lord Gawain to Powys to marshal men against the Saxon lords there. Worse, Cedric told him of Edgar of Wigmore’s letter to you. I don’t know how he knew of it, except if Edgar himself told him.”

  The two men observed Myrddin, unspeaking, too well-practiced at absorbing bad news to show it openly, but clearly nonplussed. Bedwyr put down his cup of wine and leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “They are convinced, both of them, that Edgar is not sincere in his desire to ally with you and intends to lure you into an ambush, my lord King,” Myrddin said, and then ventured to assert his own opinion. “I would think that likely.”

  “Thank you, Myrddin,” Bedwyr said, implying he wasn’t at all thankful for his advice, and then continued, half under his breath to the King—“The uncertainty in the air reminds me of the days after your uncle and father died, before you fully grasped the reins of Wales, my lord.”

  “Go to your son,” Arthur said, his expression softening at Myrddin’s evident distress. He nodded his head towards the door. “I don’t want to see you in the hall tomorrow.”

  “And watch Huw closely,” Bedwyr said.

  Myrddin looked up, dismayed at the warning in Bedwyr’s tone—and yet understanding it, for he’d had the same uncomfortable thought.

  “He is Cedric’s man,” Bedwyr said. “He’s already seen too much. I would be wary of allowing him to return to Brecon.”

  “Yes, sir,” Myrddin said, not liking his observation but knowing he was right. He also didn’t want the presence of his son to jeopardize Arthur’s new found trust in Myrddin himself.

  Still, Myrddin didn’t move. His head felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Before he knew it, Arthur and Bedwyr were on either side of him. They pulled him up, just as the guards had done in the hall at Rhuddlan, but more gently, and half-dragged, half-carried him down the hall, out the door and across the courtyard to the sleeping quarters in the guest house. The small closet space in which Nell and Myrddin had slept before was vacant. The pallets lay on the floor, beckoning Myrddin with their softness and warmth. He reached an arm towards one. Bedwyr and Arthur laid him down.

  “I’ll find Nell,” Bedwyr said.

  It seemed Myrddin nodded agreement, but he couldn’t be sure because a second later, he was asleep.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  17 November 537 AD

  “Myrddin, damn it, get over here!”

  “Coming, sir!” I hurried towards Gawain, my boots slipping in the snow, and we met in the center of the clearing by the church. In the growing darkness, the temperature had dropped and snowflakes had begun to drift down from the sky, filling in our footprints. I would have been happier to have had four more eyes in order to see in all directions. The Saxons were coming. I sure as hell wanted to be ready when they did.

  “The King is inside, waiting, but I’m impatient with Edgar. I expected him here by now,” Gawain said. “I think we need to leave this place.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ll tell King Arthur.”

  I strode towards the door to the church, glad that Gawain had decided to follow his instincts. I reached the bottom step and was just beginning to mount the stairs when the world blew apart. An arrow whipped by my left ear. I ducked and spun around, my sword in my hand.

  “The King! The King!” . . .

  The first time Myrddin woke, Huw sat beside his pallet. A low candle guttered in a dish on the floor, the light flickering and reflecting off the walls of the room. Someone—Nell, perhaps—had removed his boots and covered him with a wool blanket or three; Myrddin was warm enough, even if his nose was cold since the room was one of the few in the manor house without a fireplace. He rolled onto his back, noting that someone had also taken his cloak. He spared a thought for his armor, left behind at Rhuddlan, and reconciled himself to the knowledge that it was gone forever. He trusted that Arthur would see him properly protected when it came to it again.

  Pushing aside the changing dream and what it meant, Myrddin turned his head to study his son. Huw sat upright against the wall, his eyes closed. At Myrddin’s movement, Huw opened them.

  “Hello, Father.” He didn’t appear to mind saying it; Myrddin certainly wouldn’t ever grow tired of hearing it. He still couldn’t believe that Huw could be his.

  “What is the hour?” Myrddin said.

  “The chapel rang Matins not long ago,” Huw said. “Your friend, Nell, said she’d relieve me at Lauds.”

  “You don’t have to stay,” Myrddin said.

  Huw shrugged. “After the events of the day, I doubt I could sleep anyway.” He smiled. “It’s an honor to watch over you.”

  His obvious admiration—a sharp contrast to his earlier near-hostility—confused Myrddin, until he considered a possible source. “Someone’s been talking.”

  “You have many friends,” Huw said. “Ifan, certainly, but Lord Geraint joined us for the evening meal. They spoke of you at length.”

  “Do not believe everything they say.”

  Huw laughed. “Ifan said you’d say that.”

  “He was there when your mother and I met. Did he speak of it?” Myrddin said.

  “Only that you were a squire in King Arthur’s company. You came to Brecon in the fall of 520,” Huw said. “But I knew that already from my mother.”

  “I was nineteen,” Myrddin said. “Older than you, but in no way ready to be a father.” He looked at Huw. “Your mother must have known it.”

  “I believe she did,” he said. “Else, why keep you a secret? It’s not as if you ever came looking for her again.”

  Christ. What do I say to that? “I did love her,” Myrddin said. “I was careless with my heart and hers.”

  “And that’s your excuse?” Huw’s voice rose and the admiration of a moment ago was forgotten in favor of long-suppressed resentment.

  “Is that why you came to find me?” Myrddin said. “To accuse me of abandoning your mother? Of abandoning you?”

  Huw looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap so tight his knuckles whitened. Then he relaxed them, smoothing the palms on the fabric of his breeches. “Yes. My anger just now caught me unawares, but I’ve felt it ever since my mother told me the truth.”

  “I served my King,” Myrddin said. “I was with your mother in the fall and winter but even with the upheaval in Brecon the following year, King Arthur never called me south of Buellt again. It’s my fault that I never asked leave to go.” He paused, hesitating. The real truth shamed him; yet, at this late date, it was a truth from which he should not hide and which his son deserved. “And I’d not asked to go because I was afraid to see your mother—I was afraid that she would ask for a commitment from me which I felt unable to give.”

  �
��Did you ever think of her?” Huw’s voice didn’t reveal anger now so much as pain.

  “I was a coward, Huw,” Myrddin said. “The longer I waited to see her, the worse the guilt. And after a year or two, I told myself that your mother would have forgotten me; that it was better for both of us if I didn’t return.” Huw didn’t answer straight away and then Myrddin added, his voice as gentle as he could make it, “For all that our acquaintance was short, your mother and I enjoyed each other’s company.”

  “My mother said as much to me,” Huw said.

  “But she still never wanted you to know about me.”

  Huw shifted, discomfited. Myrddin sensed he’d only added to his questions. “My father’s family has served Lord Cedric for many years. My . . .” He licked his lips, “ . . . father was a knight to his grandfather.” He paused, and glanced at Myrddin, a rueful smile on his face.

  “Go on,” Myrddin said. “I know the history.”

  “After Badon, Lord Cedric’s family lost Brecon to King Arthur, but not their interest in it. My step-father was often in the area,” Huw said. “He’d had his eye on my mother for some time. She was with you, and then she was with him. She wouldn’t tell me more than that.”

  Myrddin sighed, not even remembering the nineteen-year-old he’d been. It was so long ago, he had to wade through misty memory to catch a glimpse of those long ago battles. All Myrddin truly remembered of Tegwan was the hint of a laugh when he touched her, and his own eagerness.

  “I was a fool to let her go,” Myrddin said, noting the sturdy lankiness of his son and knowing how different all their lives would have been if he’d had as much courage in his personal life as on the battlefield.

  “I loved my father—my mother’s husband,” Huw said. “But I’ve always been half-Welsh.” He turned his head to look at Myrddin, his face intent. “I have resented you, it’s true, but it is my hope that I will no longer have to be torn in two.”

  Myrddin had been a father to Huw for half a day and already he needed counseling. Myrddin didn’t know that he was the right one to give it, but as he was the only one available, he had no choice. “Help me sit up.”

  Huw grasped Myrddin’s hand and hauled him to a sitting position. Myrddin swung his legs over the edge of the pallet so he could rest next to Huw, their backs to the wall. Myrddin reached for the water cup and took a long drink.

  “The world is not divided as simply as the lines between countries make us think,” Myrddin said, setting down the cup. “You are full Welsh, by blood, but you were raised by an Saxon.”

  “Yes,” Huw said.

  “A man who loved you,” Myrddin said.

  “Yes.” Huw paused and Myrddin let him say what he was feeling, not at all offended. “And I loved him.”

  “I’m glad,” Myrddin said. “If I wasn’t a father to you all these years, I would much rather you had a different father, than none at all.”

  “Was that how it was for you?” Huw asked. “You have no paternal name; you are just Myrddin.”

  “My mother took the name of my father to her grave,” Myrddin said. “Apparently, she never told him either—or he was dead too, before my birth.”

  “That must have been hard,” Huw said.

  Myrddin was a bit surprised that Huw would speak to him of it. “It certainly made it difficult to dress me down as my betters would have liked.” Myrddin smiled. “Nobody could say, Myrddin ap Geraint ap Bedwyr, get over here!” As Myrddin hoped, Huw smiled too. “I was not unique, certainly. Many of my companions growing up had lost their fathers early in life.”

  “But they knew who they were,” Huw said.

  “Yes,” Myrddin said, “but as I had no choice, I didn’t dwell on it.” Myrddin paused. “Although, admittedly, I learned to fight almost before I could walk.”

  “And nobody seems to have any difficulty remembering who you are,” Huw said.

  Now Myrddin laughed. “Apparently not.”

  “When I began my search, I still called myself Huw ap Tomos, after my . . . father,” Huw said. “But as I approached Gwynedd, I met more people who knew you, or had heard of you. They mentioned one battle in particular, many years ago in the south, along the border with Mercia. You saved King Arthur’s life that day.”

  Myrddin nodded at his son. “The King knighted me after that. It’s his way to choose one man after each battle upon whom to confer the honor, and that day it was mine.”

  “I would like that for myself,” Huw said. “Or, at least, I always saw myself serving in my lord’s retinue. But now, I don’t know what I’m meant to do; whom I’m meant to be or which lord I should serve.”

  “If you live honorably within yourself, it doesn’t matter so much whom you serve,” Myrddin said. This was Huw’s real concern, and what had hovered over their conversation from the first.

  Huw turned his head to look at Myrddin. “You believe that?”

  Myrddin’s eyes crinkled and his mouth twitched with sudden laughter, because Huw had caught him out. “Except in this case. If King Arthur loses this war, our country will fall to the Saxons. Modred cares only for himself and his own power—despite the fact that he himself is half-Welsh. He desires to completely subjugate my people—your people too—and all evidence suggests that he will settle for nothing less. Your lord, Cedric, knows this.”

  “Which is why he might be willing to ally himself with King Arthur,” Huw said.

  “Possibly,” Myrddin said. “Cedric fears that were Arthur to die, or lose this war, it will embolden Modred. Cedric himself does not possess such a high standing with Modred that he might not lose everything too.”

  “Even though he and Modred are cousins through their fathers.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re saying that it matters this time,” Huw said. “You’re saying that it has reached a point where I have to decide the greater loyalty.”

  “Yes, if Cedric sticks with Modred. You can’t both be Welsh, and serve him. When Cedric himself freed me from Modred’s grasp, however, he took a step towards shifting allegiance. It is also possible that Modred wanted me free, but wanted me freed covertly.”

  “Lord Cedric ap Aelfric has always dealt forthrightly with his men,” Huw said, back to being a staunch supporter. “He is a good leader.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” Myrddin said. “But I must warn you, my son, that not everyone in this castle trusts your motives.” Myrddin had deliberated with himself as to whether he should mention it, but the time seemed right.

  “They fear I would betray King Arthur?” Huw asked, eyes wide, a typical youth who still saw everything in black and white instead of realizing the world was mottled shades of grey.

  “Think, Huw,” Myrddin said. “This shouldn’t surprise you. King Arthur has been betrayed by family, friends, and hidden foes more times than he can count. Is it any wonder some of his counselors would look askance at my newly claimed son who so conveniently rides to me from Brecon?”

  “I see your point.” Huw nodded, although Myrddin wasn’t sure if he quite did.

  “Just watch yourself,” Myrddin said. “Better to keep silent and your eyes open.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They were quiet a moment, and then Huw spoke again. “It was only chance, you know, that had me risk crossing the Conwy River and entering Eryri.”

  “Chance?” Myrddin said.

  “In a tavern in Ruthin, I came upon a man who claimed to know you—or at least know the man whom the King knighted back in 525—but he told me you were dead. My heart fell. It seemed it was time to turn aside and return to Brecon.”

  “But you didn’t,” Myrddin said.

  Huw shook his head. “Later in the evening, an argument developed between the man to whom I’d spoken and another. That man accused the first of being a liar and a traitor. The latter owed fealty to Arthur while the first had supported his brother, Cai, throughout his years of treachery.” Huw glanced at Myrddin, his eyes thoughtful. “That was the tipping po
int. With my Lord Cedric on Anglesey, I was still free to search. I decided I wouldn’t take the word of one man who did not hold with your allegiance.”

  “Praise God for that,” Myrddin said.

  “So what happens now?” Huw said.

  “Cedric asked me to come to him at Brecon for the return of my horse. He’s not ready to turn wholly away from Modred or turn to King Arthur. He intends, I think, to continue our discussion.”

  “Lord Cedric and his father once fought with Arthur.” Huw tipped his chin upwards and stared at the rafters.

  “They did,” Myrddin said. “God willing, Cedric will again. I hope that once I’ve healed, you and I can journey together to convince him to honor that tradition.”

  * * * * *

  Myrddin thought a single night at Garth Celyn should have been enough to heal him. Nell, on the other hand, was quite happy to have him more contained than usual. Bruised ribs could take weeks to mend. If they were right about what was coming for Wales and the King, Myrddin wasn’t going to have the luxury of that much time. At least he was mobile, even if he looked and felt terrible.

  The second evening back from Rhuddlan, Nell helped Myrddin hobble into the hall to share a meal with Ifan and Huw. The joy of Huw’s very existence filled Myrddin's heart each time he said, my son, as if no man before him had ever had one. She could see it. It brought her nearly to tears every time—for Myrddin’s sake and because her own heart lifted at the thought of one of her long-dead sons walking through the door. Huw was only two years older than her Llelo would have been.

  They were halfway through the meal when instead of a beloved son, Deiniol pushed open the great doors and walked into the hall, an enormous grin on his face. Immediately behind him were Lord Gruffydd and his son, Owain. Cai, who’d been sitting at his place at the high table on Arthur’s right, rose to his feet. “By God, I prayed you’d come!”