Cold My Heart: A Novel of King Arthur

by Sarah Woodbury

  “Where is the proof?” Gruffydd said.

  His challenge hung in the air; then other men shouted. A few spilled from the tower in which the trap door was located.

  A man called. “They’ve reached the door!”

  “We need more men!”

  Arthur hissed. “There’s your proof.” He threw a leg over his horse’s back. “Now is the time to make clear where your loyalties lie. I tell you there’s no room in my country for the Saxons or their Welsh spies who betray us.” Arthur gathered the reins and stood in the stirrups. He called to the men around him. “We ride to the sea! Let all who will, follow me! We will show no mercy for those who would have none for us!”

  Men cheered, as men do when they are fired up, and two guards pulled open the gate. Ifan joined Huw and Myrddin and they followed Arthur and Cai through the gate and down the old Roman road, three abreast, moving faster than was reasonable in the dark, but trusting to their horses’ sight. They followed that road for a short way before turning onto a smaller track that took them the last quarter mile to the sea.

  At that point the three companions trotted their horses along the side of the column until they reached Gareth, who nodded at Myrddin as he approached, having been expecting him. They’d worked well together when they’d fought at the Straits. Huw and Ifan fell in behind.

  “We’ll keep the men out of sight until the Saxons issue from the tunnel’s exit,” Gareth said. “Then we will fall upon them.”

  “That sounds nice and simple,” Myrddin said, “provided they aren’t expecting exactly that.”

  “Even if they are, they won’t be able to do anything about it,” Gareth said. “Bedwyr sent men ahead of us the instant Huw sounded the alarm. We’ll know soon where we stand.”

  Myrddin glanced back at Huw, who gave him a sickly smile, just visible in the half-light of the waning moon.

  Gareth noted Myrddin’s attention and smirked. “This is a battle we can’t lose. We have over a hundred men on horseback—far more than Garth Celyn’s normal garrison. The Saxons intended a lightening raid, not a siege. As we saw at the Straits, when the enemy is on foot, a cavalry charge across open terrain is impossible to turn aside or survive.”

  “I don’t understand why the Saxons are taking this risk,” Huw said. It was the first time he’d referred to their enemy as the Saxons, as if he was no longer one of them. He didn’t seem to notice what he’d said, and continued, “Even with a hundred men, they couldn’t have hoped for more than a few minutes of surprise.”

  “Where’s the risk?” Gareth said. “At worst they’ll lose a company of men. At the Straits the commitment was much greater, and thus the loss. Any lives lost here are a small price indeed, compared with the opportunity to kill three dozen Welsh noblemen—and King Arthur. Their captain had no reason to think Owain couldn’t have brought them successfully into the castle. It’s only because of you that we hold a position of strength now.”

  Gareth paused, with a glance at Huw, and then turned to Myrddin. “Do not think the King is unaware of your role in this. You will be well rewarded.”

  Myrddin tipped his head in acknowledgement.

  Ifan spoke for the first time. “Myrddin didn’t do it for a reward.” Myrddin turned to glower at him and Ifan shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

  “All the more reason to acknowledge your loyalty.” Then Gareth caught his breath at a shout from the head of the line. Arthur had raised his sword above his head. With Cai beside him, he charged forward.

  The Saxons had abandoned their attempt to enter the castle through the trap door, admitted their defeat, and turned back the way they’d come. As Gareth had supposed, the cavalry caught them on the beach, just short of the water.

  Huw and Myrddin raced towards the ranks of Saxons with a dozen of their companions, spread out across the length of the Saxon line. His eyes wide and face pale, Huw killed his first man with a slash across the neck, blood soaking him and his sword. Myrddin moved with him, his arm rising and falling with a deadly monotony, while Myrddin tried at the same time to keep his eyes on Arthur who fought just ahead of him. But Arthur and Cai were working together, fighting side by side, first one slicing through an opponent and then the other. All the while, Cai buttressed his brother with his own horse, body, and shield.

  With Ifan emitting a steady stream of curses beside him, Myrddin, for his part, killed four Saxons in succession. When he had no more opponents, he turned to come at them again. But there was no need—so many men had already fallen.

  Huw and Myrddin came to themselves simultaneously and sighted three Saxons heading up the beach, looking for safety in the woods that lined its edge. Myrddin spurred Gwynfor after them with Huw, who’d reacted a heartbeat sooner, just in front of him. Huw had his sword raised high, ready to thrust it into the neck of the first man he came upon. When he reached him, however, he hesitated—only for a heartbeat, but it was enough.

  The man sensed Huw’s approach and didn’t waste his opportunity. As Huw aimed a blow at his head, the man stopped abruptly, spun on a heel, and swung his sword two-handed. He would have sliced right through Huw’s arm if Myrddin hadn’t reached him in time to grasp the man’s wrist with his left hand, preventing him from completing the downward stroke. While Myrddin had arrested the man’s movement, his own overbalanced him and he went down, falling off Gwynfor and pulling the man with him.

  The Saxon fell at an awkward angle and Myrddin heard—and felt—an ominous crack when he landed on top of him. Unfortunately, Myrddin’s momentum also brought him in contact with the Saxon’s sword and it sliced through Myrddin’s leather armor into his thigh above the knee. As Myrddin rolled off the dying Saxon, Ifan arrived, his eyes wide and staring at the blood soaking Myrddin’s leg.

  “It hurts,” Myrddin said. “Christ.”

  “You might as well call on Him,” Ifan said. “He’ll be more forgiving than Nell. She’s going to be very put out that you’ve given yourself another injury.”

  The sight of the wound brought spots to Myrddin’s eyes. The fire that had rushed through him—through all of the warriors—died and he breathed heavily, curling inward on the pain. At the sight of Myrddin down, a Welsh man-at-arms ran over with a lighted torch. Huw threw himself from his horse to crouch beside his father. In the flickering light, Huw’s face showed more white than its usual Celtic pale.

  Myrddin caught his eyes. “Is that what is taught among the Saxons?”

  Huw bit his lip, unable to avert his eyes from Myrddin’s wound. “No, sir.”

  Ifan unbuckled Myrddin’s armor to get at the wound and pulled the torn fabric of his pants aside. Gritting his teeth, Myrddin straightened. With Huw supporting his shoulders, they both looked at the damage. Ifan’s hands shook as he tended the wound. Myrddin’s eyes blackened but Huw’s grip kept him conscious as he fought the buzzing in his head. Fortunately, the cut was not deep, just bloody.

  “That man was as much our enemy as any other, Huw,” Myrddin said, after all three had regained some measure of control. “Why did you hesitate?”

  “I meant to kill him . . .”

  Ifan ripped a strip from a scrap of cloth he kept in his scrip and began to bind the wound so Myrddin could no longer see it. That was all to the good. Myrddin had doctored many wounded men in his time, but he’d never been quite as sanguine about his own injuries.

  Myrddin took a deep breath, still staring down at his leg. “I know you did, son. You fought well, up until the end.”

  “I’d already killed three men,” Huw said. “As I chased this last one down, he was one too many. I didn’t want to kill him, not from behind. If he’d been facing me, I wouldn’t have cared, but from the back . . .”

  “It’s not wrong to regret the loss of a life or to show mercy,” Myrddin said, “but this war we’re fighting . . .” he trailed off too as Ifan wound the last cloth around his leg and pulled it tight. Myrddin felt like puking.

  Ifan finished for him. “This war isn’t about honor
or justice or mercy. Only winning matters, by whatever means necessary. Neither side is going to have any honor left by the end of it.”

  “The one with honor is going to be the one that’s lost?” Huw said. “That’s what you mean?”

  “We didn’t make the rules,” Myrddin said.

  “You don’t mean what you’re saying.” Huw gripped Myrddin’s hand. “Not you.”

  “He doesn’t.” King Arthur had dismounted ten paces behind Huw, who now jerked around to face him.

  Myrddin reached a hand out to Ifan. “Help me up.”

  “Father!” Huw turned back to Myrddin. “You can’t! You’re wounded!”

  “I’ve had worst cuts than this,” Myrddin said. It was no less than the truth. Besides, he wasn’t going to get back to Nell any quicker by lying in the sand. Ifan grasped Myrddin’s forearm and with the help of his sword, Myrddin levered himself to his feet. He was shivering badly now, most likely from shock as well as the cold November air. He grasped Ifan’s shoulder with his left hand to stay upright.

  Arthur studied Myrddin as he wove in front of him on his one good foot, nodded, and then gestured with his sword to Huw. “Kneel before me.”

  Huw hesitated, blinking, and then walked stiff-legged to within five feet of the King.

  “Give me your sword.” Arthur pointed the tip of his own sword at Huw.

  Eyes wide, Huw turned his sword, bloody as it was, and presented it hilt out to the King. King Arthur, in turn, gave it to Cai, who grinned as he cleaned the blade with quick, efficient movements. He handed it back to his brother, who gestured to Myrddin. Finding that his pain had faded, and by using Ifan as a crutch, Myrddin took short hobbling steps to stand beside Arthur. Myrddin grasped the sword and drove it tip down into the sand in front of the kneeling Huw.

  “I would have your oath,” Arthur said. “Are you man enough to give it?”

  Huw stared up at King Arthur and Myrddin, standing side by side before him. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Do you swear to fear God, to obey His laws, to serve your lord, to protect the weak, and to be honorable, chivalrous, generous, and truthful in all things?” Arthur said.

  “I swear.” Huw’s voice cracked as it hadn’t for months.

  Myrddin tried to take a step towards Huw, but before he’d moved his foot three inches, his leg buckled underneath him. Ifan grabbed Myrddin’s arm to keep him from falling and it was Arthur who stepped forward and backhanded Huw across the face. Huw rocked from the blow, and then straightened, letting no emotion show on his face, knowing that was expected of him as a man. Arthur pulled Huw’s sword from the sand and held it out to him. Huw took the hilt, astonishment clear on his face.

  “Stand as a knight, Sir Huw ap Myrddin,” King Arthur said.

  Huw popped to his feet as only a sixteen year old can, his initial nervousness transformed from disbelief, to astonishment, to joy. He crossed the sand to Myrddin in two strides, a smile a mile wide on his face. Myrddin put a hand to the side of Huw’s head and pulled him closer. He grinned, no longer feeling the pain in his leg. Suddenly, they found themselves in the center of a ring of men, cheering and pummeling them, jubilant in their victory.

  Ifan wrapped his arm around Huw’s shoulders. “You’re a good man.”

  Huw laughed, and everyone laughed with him.

  Into the midst of the joviality, rode Gruffydd. “Where is my son? I don’t see him among the dead.”

  Cai and Arthur had stepped out of the ring of men, once it became raucous, and now it was Cai who strode forward to stand at Gruffydd’s stirrup. The rest sobered, recalling the seriousness of the morning’s events.

  “He is not among the Saxons,” Cai said. “My brother sent men through the tunnel, as well as overland to Garth Celyn, to inform those who guard the trap door that it should be safe to open. We should have news soon of those who never left the tunnel.”

  Gruffydd didn’t look satisfied, but within ten minutes, Cai’s word proved true. One of Arthur’s personal guards jogged from the entrance. “If it pleases you, my lords, Lord Bedwyr asks that you return to the castle. Owain ap Gruffydd lies at the foot of the stairs.”

  Myrddin stared up at Gwynfor’s back, sure he was never going to be able to mount her. Still, between Huw and Ifan, they got him astride and heading home. They entered Garth Celyn through the main gate and Myrddin dismounted awkwardly. Along with many other men, he limped to the top of the stairs that led to the tunnel.

  King Arthur was just ahead. “This way, sire,” Bedwyr said, his expression grave.

  He and Arthur walked down the stairs and through the door at the bottom. Nobody stopped Myrddin from following, although the bandage around his thigh received more than one look. The activity had him bleeding through the cloths. Nell was not going to be happy.

  Owain lay just inside the doorway to the tunnel, propped against the wall and alive—barely. A body sprawled on the other side of him, a knife thrust through his midsection. Myrddin didn’t recognize him, but Cai did. He stood at the man’s feet with his hands on his hips, staring down at the body, his eyes narrowed in recognition and disgust.

  Owain was speaking to Nell as Myrddin arrived. “Don’t try to save me. If I survive until dawn, I’m for the gallows.”

  Nell had been pressing hard on his wound to stop the flow of blood, but now he pushed at her hands and she removed them. Owain rested one hand on the spot just above his left hip. The blood began to flow freely through the cloth. Choking on a sob, Nell got to her feet. Just as she moved away, Gruffydd rumbled up and fell to his knees in the place Nell had vacated.

  He took Owain’s hand. “What is this, my son?” His voice was gruff. “What are you doing here?”

  Owain’s face twisted into a grimace. His voice came harshly. “I followed your example, Father. All my life we’ve fought against Arthur. You meant me to believe you sided with him this time? I’m afraid that I could not.”

  Gruffydd bowed his head and his shoulders sagged.

  Owain’s next words were for Cai. “I understand you’ve been looking for this man.” He tipped his head towards the fallen traitor.

  Geraint spoke softly in Myrddin’s ear. “He belongs to Cai’s own guard, from the former garrison at Denbigh. Do not forget that we cannot trust this man.”

  As if I could.

  Cai said nothing, merely toed the dead man’s heel and shot a glance at Arthur, who didn’t notice it, as he still watched Owain.

  “What do you want from me?” Owain said.

  “From you, nothing,” Arthur said. “For Wales, peace. That is all I have ever wanted for her. We’ll leave you to say goodbye to your father.”

  Arthur moved towards the door and Myrddin reached for Nell’s hand. He led her away, his vision etched with a picture of Gruffydd, his head in his hands, kneeling beside the failing body of his son.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  27 November 537 AD

  “You’re the last person I’d have expected to see here, Myrddin,” Gareth said. “When was the last time you darkened the door of a church?”

  Myrddin half-turned to look at Gareth, who continued smirking. Myrddin opted not to mention to Gareth that he set foot in a church every night in his dreams, on the way to dying.

  They were standing at the rear of the packed Church of St. Deiniol to honor the date of the church’s dedication. They might be in the middle of a war and all of Wales might be under interdict, but Arthur ap Uther lived a pious life. It was a holy day, and all of Garth Celyn had turned out to celebrate it.

  It had been an amusing scene, in fact, when the King had arrived at the church. Neither Brother Rhys, who ran the church, nor Brother Llywelyn, who led the adjacent monastery, had been prepared for the crowd that had ridden the three miles from Garth Celyn and descended on Bangor at four o’clock on a Friday afternoon in order to celebrate the service before sunset.

  “What is this? What is this?” Rhys had said, running around the sanctuary in a panic
, having been unable to waylay either the King or Anian, who’d accompanied him. Because Rhys then refused to hold the service, Anian himself had ordered the candles on the altar lit.

  Now, they were two hours into the service and Myrddin was tired of standing. But as was increasingly the case, he wasn’t going anywhere without Nell. He lifted his chin, indicating to Gareth where she stood with bowed head, Huw beside her. A few feet beyond stood Cai. He’d found religion, apparently, and no longer left King Arthur’s side. If that wasn’t irritating enough, Arthur had reminded the company a dozen times these last three days how brilliantly Cai had fought. To Myrddin’s mind, it was as if he was spitting into the wind, daring the fates to disagree with him.

  “I see,” Gareth said. “Do you trust your son to see her safely back to Garth Celyn?”

  “Of course.” Myrddin looked at Gareth more closely. “Why?”

  “All may not be as it seems.”

  Myrddin snorted under his breath. He could only agree with that assessment. He despised standing in the same room with so many traitors. While Rhys had disappeared, refusing to countenance the use of the church under these circumstances, Brother Llywelyn had stayed, hovering on the margins of the crowd as if to prevent someone from stealing the candlesticks. It was insulting.

  “Tell your son you’ll be staying behind,” Gareth said.

  Myrddin nodded. Twenty minutes later, as the service ended, he caught Huw’s eye. “I’ve a task to do,” Myrddin said, when they reached him, Nell’s arm in Huw’s. “I’ll see you at the castle.”

  “That will be fine,” Nell said. “One of the villagers from Bangor tells me her niece is laboring with some difficulty. Huw can see me there, and then home when it’s over.”

  Huw nodded, obliging as always, although his eyes on his father were intent. Myrddin clapped him on the shoulder to indicate all was well and watched them leave, heading towards the horses with the rest of the crowd, the bulk of which was easily visible from the dozen torches that lit up the clearing in front of the church steps. King Arthur was among them, bareheaded, half a head taller than most of the men. He mounted his horse and rode away, flanked on one side by Gruffydd and on the other by Bedwyr.