“They’re there all right,” one of them said without preamble. “They took many short rests, and we took fewer, so we caught them ten miles before Wroxeter. We didn’t approach for fear of spooking them.”
“You have done well,” Godric said.
Myrddin clenched his hands around the reins. He imagined himself driving a fist into Modred’s nose, a pleasure he would surely never have. He ached to have Nell’s arms wrapped around his waist, where they belonged, and he was glad he hadn’t had the opportunity to sleep for fear of seeing her battered face looking up at him again.
Of course, the vision of King Arthur had been a waking dream, and part of him prayed he’d have another sooner rather than later because he needed to know where Modred was keeping his wife and son. Myrddin knew that he should be thinking first and foremost about the king’s welfare, but even King Arthur might accept that he couldn’t.
The company cantered across the bridge that spanned the Severn River. Myrddin’s Saxon helmet, with its long nose guard, almost completely blocked his face, and while his sword remained belted at his waist and he wore his own mail shirt, he carried a round Saxon shield and bore a spear. His tunic also proclaimed him as one of Cedric’s men. All in all, he looked utterly unremarkable, but he kept his gaze averted from the guard, who stopped them at the gate and listened intently to the credentials of both Gareth and Godric. He glanced at the men accompanying them too, but after a cursory assessment said, “Quite a day we’re having.”
“How is that?” Gareth said.
“King Arthur is within, captured by Lord Edgar of Wigmore.”
“Is that so?” Gareth said. “The king might be glad of my news, as well.”
“Which is what?”
Gareth laughed. “What kind of servant would I be if I told you first?”
The guard laughed too. “You may be Welsh, but you understand our lord well.”
“Modred is half-Welsh too,” Gareth said.
And with that—perhaps unwise—rejoinder, they walked their horses along the cobbled road towards the entrance to the palisade. Here in the late afternoon, that gate had been left open. Given the comings and goings of Modred’s forces, it might only be during an attack by an enemy force that the guards would close it, for the palisade was a secondary defense, intended to provide protection if the gatehouse was breached.
The stable wasn’t located inside the palisade, and it was full anyway, with all the stalls set aside for the use of Modred’s horses and those of a few of his highest ranking captains. Other horses were picketed all around the southern side of the fort, and thus everyone dismounted in front of the gate.
Myrddin had never been here before, so he couldn’t tell if the number of men gathering around them was usual, or if they were on particular alert because Modred was preparing for King Arthur’s army to come thundering towards them from the west. Regardless, Myrddin hadn’t ever been in the company of quite as many men and horses as Modred had gathered to him.
“What news are you going to bring to Modred?” Myrddin said in an undertone to Gareth.
“I was planning on telling him that you’re dead,” Gareth said matter-of-factly. “I will say that you were killed at the end of the battle, after King Arthur left the field, which is why he hadn’t yet heard of it.”
Myrddin let out a surprised laugh. “That news will surely gain you admission.”
Gareth wrinkled his nose for a moment. “Now, however, I’m having second thoughts. It is likely that Nell and Huw will be in the hall.”
Myrddin’s stomach clenched to think of how his death would affect them, but he answered the way he had to anyway, “You can’t worry about them.”
“If I am able, I will pull them aside and tell them the truth,” Gareth said.
Myrddin shook his head. “It would be better if you allowed them to believe I’m dead, at least at first. Their acceptance of it will go a long way to reassuring Modred that you’re speaking the truth.”
“In which case, the sooner we get them out of here, the better,” Gareth said.
Myrddin turned to the others and motioned that they should gather around him. “Godric and Gareth will enter the hall, which will leave the rest of us free to fraternize here. Nobody will suspect us of being anyone other than what we are unless we make a show of ourselves. Our mission is to find King Arthur. If he is still alive and in no immediate danger, we will confer as to a possible plan for getting him out tonight.”
“In and out and gone by dawn,” Godric said. “That is my preference.”
Though Myrddin nodded at Gareth and Godric, and he’d approved of Gareth’s plan—even encouraged him in it—he found his mouth going dry. While Gareth had sworn that he was loyal to Arthur, and Arthur had believed him, the ease with which Gareth moved among these Saxons had Myrddin reconsidering this entire plan.
What if Arthur’s capture had been at Gareth’s behest? What if he had been felled by a blow from Beorhtsige that was just hard enough to draw blood and look convincing, but not hard enough to do him real harm? During the ride, Gareth had shown virtually no ill-effects of his injuries.
Fortunately for Myrddin, at that moment Gareth turned away in response to a signal from one of the men on the palisade, who indicated that Modred had agreed to see him, and he didn’t notice Myrddin’s dismay. For his part, Myrddin kept his face averted, though his eyes searched the faces of the men who surrounded him, suddenly distrustful of them all. While they’d fought for Arthur at Buellt, and even Gareth hadn’t revealed Myrddin’s presence in Wroxeter to the guards, none here were truly Arthur’s men. They were all Cedric’s men. What Myrddin didn’t know was how many of them might also be loyal to Modred and resent their lord’s new found allegiance.
Anxious and exhausted, Myrddin walked Cadfarch to where the other men had gathered, off to one side of the palisade in the shelter of what might have once been a fine house but which no longer had a roof. He was a Welshman in a sea of Saxons, and the only people in the whole of the fort he knew absolutely he could trust were captive to Modred.
Chapter Eight
13 December 537
Nell
Gareth marched down the long corridor and came to a halt at Modred’s seat. “Myrddin is dead.”
An icy coldness began in Nell’s belly and spread throughout her body. Huw put his arm around her shoulders and his face into her neck, his shoulders shaking, though he didn’t make a sound.
At the initial sight of Gareth walking into the hall, Nell had been heartbroken at the thought that he’d been captured too. Then when she realized that he was accompanied by Godric, and that both men willingly made their obeisance to Modred, she’d been consumed with a rage that had her hand clenching Huw’s arm so tightly she might have left a bruise. So much had gone wrong, at the very moment she had thought everything would be all right.
Nell kept her head up and her eyes fixed on Modred’s seat, ignoring curious eyes turned towards her, not willing to share her grief with these people. King Arthur, who sat just to Modred’s right, held himself very straight, as if he had an iron rod up his spine.
Nell felt for Myrddin’s cross, which she’d worn constantly since her marriage, and clenched it in her fist, her whole body curving around it. The cross and Huw were all that she had left of him. She had lost everything when her sons had died. She had joined the convent because she’d never wanted to feel as sad again—and then Wulfere had come to her convent. She had intended to travel to Rhuddlan to kill Modred, giving her life in the process, because it had been all she had left to lose. Or so she had thought. She’d been wrong.
With the sorrow that her world had ended came a further realization that she and Myrddin had gotten it all wrong. They’d meddled with the future—and by doing so, they’d only made things worse.
Meanwhile, Modred sat with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his hands folded before his lips, studying Gareth. “You tell me truly?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Modred dropped his hands and sent a sardonic glance in the direction of King Arthur, who was sitting to his right. “I am almost disappointed that he could have met such an unremarkable end.” He tipped up his chin. “I gather Buellt is lost, however.”
“Yes, my lord. Though—I understand that the Welsh victory was short-lived.” Gareth nodded towards King Arthur.
“We are coming to an understanding,” Modred said without looking at Arthur.
That wasn’t true, in fact. Arthur had slept most of the day alongside Nell and Huw, and while the rooms were richly furnished, they were still a prison. It was tomorrow that Modred had promised the king free run of Wroxeter. They’d all wondered what might be happening tomorrow that wasn’t happening today. King Arthur had muttered that Modred would be spending the day making sure that there would be nothing objectionable to find among his records. But without knowledge of what was beyond their prison walls, it was difficult to formulate any kind of plan.
The house in which they were being held captive had been restored to much of its former glory and, even in its reduced state, was possibly finer than any Welsh palace from which King Arthur had ever ruled. In all, Nell counted eight rooms, including servants’ quarters, a tiled bathing room with a pool long since empty of water, and three sleeping rooms. Before the guard had closed the rear door, Nell had caught a glimpse of the property behind the house, which appeared to include a kitchen and pens for animals.
The interior of the house also included a courtyard open to the elements, which would have provided the owner a fine place to sit on warm summer evenings, even if they were few and far between in Britain as compared to the sunnier climates where the Romans had originated.
“I’m happy to hear that, my lord.” Gareth bowed again. “It will be a great day when peace comes to Britain.”
“It will,” Modred said shortly, clearly impatient now with the audience and the platitudes.
Gareth and Godric, who hadn’t said a word, bowed one more time and backed away until they were lost among the many men coming and going from the lower tables. Gareth was a Welsh lord, but fairly low down in the hierarchy of Modred’s barons. Edgar, however, sat at the high table a few seats down from King Arthur, next to Archbishop Dafydd, who was the only one among Modred’s nobles who looked stricken at the news of Myrddin’s death. For all his faults, and though Nell thought he was mistaken in supporting Modred’s bid for the Welsh throne, Dafydd was sincere in his hatred of war and the needless deaths that came with it.
At last, the attention of those in the hall was diverted to someone else and other problems, and Nell allowed herself to feel her grief. Tears rolled down her cheeks unashamedly, though she didn’t sob. Once Huw had regained some measure of control, he spent the rest of the meal staring at his trencher.
Finally, she, Huw, and King Arthur were once again escorted from the hall to their prison. When they’d first arrived at the many-roomed, well-appointed house, her thoughts had focused on being rescued, because she still had hope that the king might have been followed from Buellt. Now, however, she swallowed down her grief and looked around her with a new eye. With every ally going over to Modred’s side, they needed to find their own way out of Wroxeter, preferably before dawn when Modred would come for King Arthur.
As before, guards posted themselves at the front and back doors and patrolled the area around the house, at least ten by Nell’s count, but none observed them from inside the house, for which Nell was truly grateful. With sleep elusive, the companions huddled together on a bench in what might have once been the reception room (given its size) to talk in private, far from whatever ears might be listening from the doors or windows.
King Arthur took Nell’s hand. “My dear, I am so sorry.”
Nell took in a trembling breath. “I loved him my whole life, even before I knew what real love was. I had a vision of him on the journey, standing side by side with Saxons fighting Saxons. I don’t feel that he is dead, but Gareth would not be mistaken about something like that—not having come all this way to tell Modred of his death, knowing how important the news would be to him.”
“We are surrounded by traitors,” Huw said.
“Even had our Saxon friends remained loyal, they would not have been able to free us, not with us so well-guarded,” King Arthur said.
“That just means we must rescue ourselves,” Huw said.
“And then what?” King Arthur rose to his feet and walked to the entrance of the room in order to look towards the main door. “We have many hundreds of Saxons between this house and the Severn, and I cannot pass for one of them.” He turned back to Nell and Huw. “You two, however, must try.”
“We will not leave you,” Nell said.
King Arthur made a shushing motion with his hand. “Modred wants me alive—for now, but with Myrddin dead, you are completely expendable.”
“In which case, why are we here at all?” Nell said. “What use could we be to him?”
“It may be that he hopes to use you as leverage against me,” King Arthur took a step towards them. “We cannot allow that.”
Nell had stayed sitting on the bench, but now she stood and approached the king. “Modred can’t possibly think you would value our lives over your throne.”
“No, but he might murder you in front of me as an example of what he will do to many more of my people if I don’t name him as my heir.”
Nell shook her head to emphasize her denial. “You must never bow to Modred’s demands, no matter what he does, no matter what he threatens.”
King Arthur grasped both her hands. “I wish I could agree. Before today, I might have agreed. Unfortunately—and unbeknownst to Edgar and Beorhtsige—by bringing you two here, Edgar has delivered into Modred’s hands the one person whose life I value more than my own.”
Nell pulled her hands away, shocked. “Not me, surely.”
“No, Nell, not you, as dear as you are to me.” King Arthur lifted his chin to point to Huw. “Him.”
In utter confusion, Nell turned to look at Huw. For his part, Huw stood with his hands loose at his sides, gaping at the king. “Me? Why me?”
King Arthur moved in a wide arc around the youth, studying him as he might a prized stallion. “My disgrace is in believing what I was told.” He threw out a hand. “I wanted an heir of my own body. I didn’t want to need Myrddin.”
Nell’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had no idea what King Arthur was talking about or where he was going with this.
Huw asked the question she couldn’t. “Why would you need Myrddin? He was born out of wedlock to the daughter of a minor lord and raised in the household of one of Cai’s knights. His father was probably a pig keeper.”
King Arthur barked a laugh. “Is that what Myrddin told you?” And then he went on without waiting for an answer. “Typical of the man.”
“What is typical?” Nell said, finding her voice and not liking the king’s mocking tone.
“It is typical of him that he never told you about the conversation he and I had just a month ago about his mother. Before she lived in Powys—before Myrddin’s birth—Myrddin’s mother was lady-in-waiting to my Aunt Juliana, King Ambrosius’s wife.”
“And why is that important?” Huw placed his hands on his hips, not liking the king’s apparent disparagement of Myrddin any more than Nell.
“Her name was Seren,” King Arthur continued as if he hadn’t heard the question. “As she was lovely, she came to the attention of my uncle, though you must realize that I didn’t know of his attentions at the time. I only learned of Seren’s pregnancy after her death when my Aunt Juliana told me of it, on the way to assuring me that the child too had died and that I had no rival for the throne. I never thought to question what she told me, busy as I was with mourning my uncle and father, who also died in 501, and consolidating my own power.
“I can tell you that at the Christmas feast before his death, Ambrosius gave Juliana the queenly gift of a golden cross.
He gave one also to me, his heir.” King Arthur pulled a silver chain from beneath his shirt and held it up so Huw and Nell could see the cross that dangled from the end of it.
Her incipient anger forgotten, Nell found her hands trembling. She clasped them before her lips and looked at the king over the top of them, holding her breath and waiting for him to finish. If they had been speaking about a stranger, or hearing the tale from the lips of a bard, she could have guessed where the king’s story was going but not when he was speaking of Myrddin, her husband.
King Arthur dropped the cross back inside his shirt and looked at Nell, whose own hand had strayed to the cross around her neck. “I did not know until yesterday that Ambrosius also had a third cross made, which he gave to Seren, his mistress, the mother of the longed-for son he would not live to see.” The king took in a deep breath. “Myrddin’s father was no pig keeper. He was Ambrosius, the king of Wales, and Myrddin is his natural son. As Myrddin’s son, Huw has a greater claim to the throne of Wales than I.”
Chapter Nine
13 December 537
Myrddin
Myrddin stood with his hands on his hips, staring with utter horror at Gareth, who was explaining how they would free King Arthur, Huw, and Nell from the clutches of the Saxons. Godric stood nearby, grinning, since it was one of his men who’d discovered the low tunnel and had brought to their attention the possibility of what Gareth now thought was the perfect plan.
“You want us to go in there?” Myrddin peered past Gareth to the opening behind him, which would require someone to travel a hundred yards underneath Modred’s stronghold until he reached the house in which Modred was keeping Nell.
“I do.” Gareth grinned. “I’m impressed at how easily you grasped the concept.”
He was mocking Myrddin again, as was his habit. Myrddin had spent much of the evening doubting Gareth’s allegiance, but after Gareth had returned with the news that Modred had believed without question the news that he was dead, Myrddin had to concede that he had no grounds for suspicion. Gareth had once served Modred, but it truly seemed now that he was staunchly on Arthur’s side.
A Long Cloud (The Lion of Wales Book 4) Page 6