Cold My Heart: A Novel of King Arthur

by Sarah Woodbury

  “He is a vicious man, Myrddin,” Nell said. “You do understand that if you ever cross paths with him again, you’re dead.” She held his eyes, like she once might have focused on one of the novice nuns, unsure if he was really listening. Myrddin went his own way, with a strong sense of rightness that Nell trusted, but she feared might cost him his life.

  “I know it,” Myrddin said.

  “You say that so casually,” she said, “but I don’t want you to die.”

  Myrddin mouth twisted. “Nor do I.” He glanced away.

  Nell studied his profile and then turned away herself. Her back to him, she rummaged among her vials in the cupboard behind her. After the deaths of all her family, she’d carefully buried that part of her heart that cared too much—loved too much. But despite her best efforts to suppress it, she’d started caring for this man from the moment he’d stormed into the clearing to rescue her at St. Asaph, even before she knew him as the Myrddin from her dreams. That she’d loved that man since she was eight years old didn’t help.

  “Are you well?” Myrddin said.

  Nell found herself smiling, her back still to him, studying the label of each of her jars in turn. “I am well, Myrddin. Thank you for asking.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  24 November 537 AD

  The feast showed all the signs of fading into drunkenness. It was growing late—or rather, early, as midnight had come and gone—and the hall remained full of drinkers and diners, many of whom would be returning to their homes tomorrow with a fine headache.

  The lords of Wales had met one more time that afternoon, to give final approval for the wording of the letter to Modred. If the Welsh were anything, they were lawyers and the national pastime was suing each other over the smallest issue. A man moved a boundary stone, his opponent moved a fence, and they went to court to dispute their differences. They would settle them and then repeat the process the following year—sometimes over the same stones and fences. It was a wonder it had only taken three days with clerks and vellum to agree on the wording of the letter to Modred. There were years when it would have been too thorny an issue and tabled.

  Bishop Anian had read it aloud, to the general approval of the hall:

  The people of Wales, for their part, state that even if their King desired to give his nephew rule of them, they themselves would not do homage to any Saxon, of whose language, customs and laws they are utterly ignorant. For by doing so, they would be brought into perpetual captivity and barbarously treated . . .

  King Arthur had retired from the hall long since; Cai had been absent since before the last course. His behavior at the Council, once again, had been patriotically Welsh. How could Myrddin accuse him of betrayal when all eyes saw differently?

  “I need you to help me with something.” Nell plopped herself between Myrddin and Huw.

  “Help you with what?” Myrddin said.

  “I’ve felt something. Again.”

  “Felt, or seen?” Myrddin said.

  “Not seen.” Nell turned her body to shield them both from Huw’s eyes, put her hand on Myrddin’s, and gently squeezed. “I can’t explain it. It’s like when you went to Rhuddlan. Ever since we overheard Cai speaking to Gruffydd, I’ve been afraid. I can’t articulate it, but something bad is going to happen tonight.”

  “All right,” Myrddin said, intrigued.

  “Tunnels lie underneath Garth Celyn. Will you poke around them with me? I thought you’d be angry if I followed one of the passages and didn’t tell you, especially after what happened at Llanfaes.”

  “I surely would,” Myrddin said, glad that at long last she was paying attention to what was good for her without him having to tell her.

  Huw, whose mental image of himself definitely included tunnel exploring, perked up too. Huw and Myrddin followed Nell out of the great hall, past Arthur’s receiving room, to one of the towers that buttressed the administrative building. This particular tower was the most northwestern; the garrison used it to watch the sea for enemy ships and to store equipment, beyond what was regularly kept in the barracks across the courtyard by the gatehouse.

  When they entered, two men sprawled in chairs on either side of a table set against the far wall. They’d been drinking, but were sober enough to think of duty as Myrddin entered.

  “Sir,” said the first, a man named Tristan.

  “We thought we’d see to the security of the sea tunnel,” Myrddin said, working hard to keep a straight face.

  “It’s dusty down there,” Tristan said. He walked to the trap door, set in the exact middle of the floor, knelt, and stuck his fingers through the recessed iron ring. He yanked on it. As the trap door came up, Myrddin grasped the edge to help him lift it. Below, a stairway led downwards.

  Myrddin met Nell’s eyes and she mouthed, thank you.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve trod these steps,” Myrddin said.

  “There’s another that leads to the mountains behind us,” Tristan said. “It empties into a meadow below Aber Falls.”

  “We’ll have to try that next,” Nell said.

  Myrddin swallowed a sarcastic reply about unbecoming behavior in an ex-nun, not wanting to squash her enthusiasm and because her concern was forcing him to reassess how seriously to take this.

  Tristan handed Myrddin a lantern and in a file they walked down the surprisingly broad treads. Huw and Myrddin had to duck their heads so as to not hit the floorboards above them as they descended. Fifteen steps down, they arrived in a small room, much like the foyer in front of the cells at Rhuddlan, except there were no cells with prisoners, just a closed door.

  Myrddin didn’t recall a door there at all from his forays with Ifan or other boys as a youth, but admittedly, it was a long time ago. He raised the lantern high to inspect the stones around the door and the dust at its base.

  “Look, Father.” Huw pointed to fresh footprints in front of the door. Myrddin crouched to inspect them with him.

  “Someone got here ahead of us,” Nell said.

  Huw lowered his voice. “Do you think something’s really wrong? The hinges on the trap door were oiled and the stairs were swept clean. Everybody knows about the tunnels.”

  “I realize that,” Myrddin said. “But whoever swept the stairs, pushed the dust right onto the floor here. Everything would have been cleaned in preparation for the Council meeting, up to and including the stairs. That means that these footprints are very recent.”

  Nell, her arms folded across her chest, stared down at the footprints. Myrddin glanced at her and then beyond her, up the stairs to Tristan who still stood at the top.

  “What is it?” Tristan said.

  Myrddin straightened. “Did someone come through here tonight before us?”

  “Not on my watch,” he said.

  “Keep your eyes open.” Myrddin lifted the latch on the door and a gust of air wafted through it. “And you might tell Lord Geraint where we’ve gone.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tristan said.

  “I can smell the sea,” Nell said.

  Huw loosened his sword in its sheath. Myrddin took Nell’s hand and led the way into the tunnel. It was five feet wide. Every six feet along it, a stone archway supported the wooden roof, which itself was at least six and a half feet high. Both Huw and Myrddin could walk comfortably along it. Water seeped through cracks in the walls; eventually the wood in the roof would rot, given the wet climate, but it was still solidly holding up the tons of earth that pressed down from above.

  Huw stared around them. “Who built this, Father?”

  “I believe the Romans started it.”

  “You can see the footprints again.” Nell pointed at the ground.

  Huw had his sword in his hand now. “Do we go on?” He stepped past Myrddin and Nell and along the corridor.

  “Yes,” Myrddin said, his eyes straining to see beyond the rim of the circle of light thrown out by the lamp.

  Huw gestured at the floor with t
he tip of his sword. “There are two sets of footprints. One man walked behind the other, and over there where the tunnel widens, the footprints go side by side.”

  He paced ahead of them, his left hand on the wall. Myrddin gripped Nell’s hand more tightly and put his head close to hers. “How did you know, Nell?”

  “I didn’t.” Nell shook her head. “It’s like when you left for Rhuddlan. I can’t believe . . .” She broke off.

  “Well, feeling or not, you may have saved all of us.”

  The smell of the sea grew stronger. After twenty minutes, the tunnel curved to the left. As they came around the corner, a light flickered, reflecting off the moisture on the stone pillars. They retreated back around the curve and Huw doused the lamp. It wasn’t entirely dark, as the light in front of them continued to flare. Myrddin peered around the corner, making sure he stayed low to the ground in case someone looked their way. The light came from a source a short distance outside the entrance to the tunnel. The sound of the surf was louder now, but with it, when he stayed still, voices echoed.

  Myrddin listened, trying to understand what they were saying. Then Nell moaned. “Oh, no.”

  “What?” Huw and Myrddin spoke together.

  “Listen,” she said. “Those are Saxon voices.”

  Myrddin didn’t need to hear them himself to believe her. He pushed her towards Huw. “Relight the lamp and run as fast as you can to Geraint. Tell him there are Saxons outside the sea tunnel, who are being aided by two men from Garth Celyn.”

  Huw hesitated, but Nell understood immediately.

  “It’s better if just one of us stays, Huw. Myrddin speaks Saxon just as well as we do, and better Latin, if it comes to it. Someone needs to warn the King so that he can plan our defenses. They must think to sneak into the castle with us all unawares. Come!”

  That Huw understood. With a quick strike of flint, he relit the lantern and then took Nell’s hand to run back the way they’d come, Nell holding her heavy skirts off the ground with one hand. Myrddin spared them a last glance before swinging back to face the sea. He swallowed hard. They would kill him if they caught him. Nevertheless, he hugged the wall and crept around the corner.

  As Myrddin moved closer to the exit, the individual voices became clearer. Ten paces from the opening to the tunnel, he crouched low and listened. Several different conversations were going on at the same time, but the one occurring closest to the doorway was in Saxon.

  “I will return to the castle overland to ensure that no alarm is raised and that the men I left guarding the exit remain true.” The voice belonged to Owain, who’d evidently decided to continue his stand with Modred. Myrddin shook his head, choking down bile at this betrayal and fearing for the safety of Nell and Huw—and everyone in the castle.

  A second man spoke, his voice ringing clearly down the passage even through what had to be clenched teeth. “No! That is not part of the agreement!”

  “You dare threaten me?” Owain said. Feet scuffled and Myrddin imagined them facing off against each other, swords drawn. “Modred will hear of this!”

  “He certainly shall,” said the second man, “especially when I tell him that our Welsh traitor lost his nerve at the last moment!”

  A third man spoke, this time in Welsh. “Be reasonable, Owain. They are looking out for their own interests, just as you are. I, for one, will be glad when this night is over, but we said we would lead them into Garth Celyn and that we must do.”

  The second voice spoke again, still in Saxon. “Enough! I will leave five men with the boats. The rest of the company must march now if we are to have the cover of darkness for our work. Let’s see this tunnel of yours, and then I alone will judge if you are true to your word.”

  Myrddin backed away from the entrance. A second later, he was around the corner and running, as fast and as urgently as he’d ever run before. He worried briefly about the echo of his pounding feet, but hoped he would be far enough away when the Saxons entered the tunnel such that the sounds of their movements would mask his own.

  Myrddin ran the first quarter mile flat out, brushing his fingers along the right hand wall to guide his steps in the dark. He settled into a slower jog for the second half of the journey, which brought him into Garth Celyn within ten minutes of leaving the beach. Huw had left the door to the tunnel cracked open. Myrddin hit it with his shoulder and nearly impaled himself on half a dozen swords, their owners ready for a fight. He skidded to a halt and blinked—and the men-at-arms gave way.

  “Pardon, my lord,” Tristan called to Myrddin’s back as he ran past him to take the stairs three at a time. Huw waited for Myrddin at the top.

  “Lord Geraint was still awake,” he said. “He sent me to Gareth, who is rousing the men in the hall and barracks. He’s sent Nell to wake the King.”

  They crossed the courtyard between the administrative building and the sleeping quarters. Once inside, they jogged up a stairway and turned down the hallway to King Arthur’s room. Nell had just knocked.

  Arthur’s deep voice boomed through the oak. “Enter!”

  Nell pushed the door open and hovered on the threshold with Myrddin just behind her. The fire burned hot in the room and a wave of warmth met them. Arthur had been lying on top of his bedcovers, fully clothed. When he saw them, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It seemed likely he hadn’t slept at all.

  “My lord.” Myrddin bowed.

  Arthur made an impatient gesture, as if to say, ‘you woke me, now tell me what the trouble is’.

  “A Saxon company is coming through the sea tunnel as we speak, led by Owain ap Gruffydd,” Myrddin said.

  Arthur had surged to his feet before Myrddin finished his sentence. A second later, Geraint brushed passed Myrddin, already booted, cloaked, and in full armor. Arthur’s valet, an old fellow named Daffi, followed immediately behind. He hurried into the room, fixing the ties on his jacket. Geraint flung open the chest in which Arthur kept his armor.

  “Keep talking,” Arthur said, with a nod to Myrddin.

  “The traitors spoke of allies in Garth Celyn who guarded the trap door entrance.” Myrddin turned to Nell with a questioning look.

  She shook her head, denying any knowledge of it. “When we returned to the stairs, Lord Geraint stood in the tower room, talking to Tristan with four other men.”

  “Tristan had come to find me,” Geraint said, “but I needed more information before I raised an alarm.”

  While they spoke, Daffi helped the King with his armor and boots and then Geraint tightened the sword belt around Arthur’s waist. Arthur nodded, ready to ride. “I’ll see you in the courtyard when you’ve armed yourself. We must ride to the beach if we’re going to catch them, once they discover we’ve barred the way into Garth Celyn.” The Saxons could be back at their boats in half an hour. The King’s company needed to intercept them before they could put to sea.

  The King left the room. Although Huw and Myrddin wore boots, cloaks, and the swords they always carried, neither were dressed in mail armor, which they’d need to fight the Saxons. “Help us arm, Nell?” Myrddin said, as they hustled after the King and Geraint.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Together, they burst through the front door, ran down the stairs, and crossed the courtyard of the castle, heading for the barracks. Myrddin’s new armor lay in a chest in the armory, alongside the equipment belonging to the rest of the men in the garrison. Once in the armory, Myrddin had to brush past Ifan to reach it.

  “A wild night, eh?” Ifan shrugged into his surcoat which he’d pulled over his mail tunic. He stretched his arms to the sides, loosening his muscles. “It feels good!” He shot a smile at Nell, who patted his shoulder as she passed him.

  Huw stripped to the waist and Myrddin tossed him his thin shirt, padding, and mail vest. All of them were rushing. In her haste, Nell fumbled with the fastenings to Myrddin’s bracers.

  “Damn you, Myrddin,” Nell said as she finally managed to buckle them. “Ano
ther battle. More dead men. Haven’t you done enough?”

  “I love you too, Nell,” Myrddin said.

  She stopped, frozen, her hands at his belt and her head bent forward.

  When she didn’t give him the reply he expected and wanted, he gripped her arms. “I feel what I feel,” Myrddin said. “I can live with it if you don’t feel the same.” He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “This fight is not an end in itself. It will be a small battle with a hundred men, perhaps fewer.” He looked over at Huw. “Stay close to me when it comes to it. Get the horses and meet me in the courtyard.”

  “Yes, sir,” Huw said, his eyes bright.

  “Quickly now!” Myrddin said to his retreating back, and then under his breath, “There’s nothing more exciting than a chance to get oneself killed.”

  Nell had her forehead in Myrddin’s chest and was clenching and unclenching her fists around the edges of his cloak. She choked on sob that she turned into a laugh and lifted her head to look into his face. “I don’t want you go.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  She nodded and at last wrapped her arms around him for a hug, which he returned, thankful to have reached her at least that far. “Go with God, Myrddin.”

  Myrddin pushed past the few men still in the armory and out into the courtyard which seethed with men and horses. As he forced his way through the crowd to where Huw stood with Myrddin’s new horse, christened Gwynfor because of her size and color, he searched for King Arthur. He eventually found him near the gatehouse, Cai already mounted beside him. Myrddin gritted his teeth at the sight of him, not wanting Cai within a sword’s length of Arthur.

  Owain’s father, Gruffydd, had stopped Arthur as he was mounting his horse. Gruffydd’s bellow carried over the uproar. “What is it you claim? You accuse my son of treason?”

  “Where is your son?” Arthur said. “He would have us murdered in our beds and the castle fired. Produce him and we’ll see if he has betrayed us. You have spent your life in service to Modred and his Saxons. Is it any wonder that I suspect treachery from your house?”