A Long Cloud (The Lion of Wales Book 4)

by Sarah Woodbury

  Then, as they walked quickly away from the house, Edgar said, “We can’t be concerned about our exposure. Finding King Arthur tonight is the important thing. Modred assures me that unless he is named heir at the evening meal tomorrow, King Arthur will not live to see the following sunrise.”

  Chapter Ten

  14 December 537

  Nell

  Upon leaving the house, in order to ensure they weren’t being followed, they first lost themselves in the maze of houses in the abandoned quarters of Wroxeter before finally wending their way to the waterworks.

  Nell was draggingly tired, and she kept her eyes on her feet, afraid that a loose cobble or fallen stone from one of the houses would trip her up. At one point, Myrddin caught her elbow to help her. She felt for his hand, and they walked the last hundred yards to the waterworks with clasped hands.

  “When Gareth said you’d died, I thought I’d died too,” she said in the lowest undertone she could manage that would still reach Myrddin’s ears.

  “Gareth told me what he was going to say, but I could think of no way to gain him admittance without that untruth.”

  “I forgive you,” she said, “as long as you never do that to me again.”

  “To any of us,” Huw said from Myrddin’s other side.

  As they came down the alley towards the entrance to the waterworks, clear relief crossed the young captain’s face at the sight of Nell and Huw, though his brow furrowed at the appearance of Edgar beside Gareth.

  “He’s with us,” Gareth said shortly.

  “Where are Heard and Oswin?” Godric said. “My men came through the tunnel but their understanding of the situation was somewhat confused.”

  “Heard and Oswin are coming,” Gareth said. “They were standing guard at the house until we got clear.”

  And even as Gareth spoke, the two soldiers came huffing up from the east, having apparently taken the same circuitous route their friends had. Oswin leaned over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. “We weren’t followed. I’m sure of it.”

  “No cry has been raised either,” Heard said. “I told the two guards who came to relieve us that I’d checked the house and you two were asleep. We didn’t stick around to make sure they took me at my word.”

  “Meanwhile,” Edgar said, “King Arthur is missing, and we have to find him.”

  “The guard will change at dawn,” Gareth said to Edgar, “and if the new men check on Huw and Nell, they’ll discover they’re gone too. By the time that happens, we need to be out of Wroxeter.”

  “Even then, we should be safe from Modred,” Edgar said. “He drank more than usual and went to his bed with two doxies.”

  Godric frowned. “I’d heard he was usually more circumspect than that.”

  “Not on the day King Arthur is brought to his hall and he learns of Myrddin’s death,” Edgar said, implying that he had something to do with Modred’s inebriation too.

  “Those guards would know who ordered King Arthur removed from the house,” Huw said.

  “We can’t go back there—any of us.” Myrddin turned to Edgar and Gareth. “Who has the authority to alter Modred’s commands other than Modred? Do we have another ally or an enemy?”

  Edgar shrugged. “It must have been Modred, though I didn’t hear him give the order, and I sat next to him all evening.”

  Nell took in a breath to brace herself for what she had to say next. She’d been dreading telling the others about her vision, afraid they wouldn’t understand—and how could they? She didn’t herself. “I may know.”

  All of the men swung around to look at her. “I thought you said the guards didn’t tell you?” Gareth said.

  “The guards who took the king away didn’t say anything to me, but—” she hesitated just for a heartbeat and then allowed the words to rush out of her before she lost her nerve, “—I had a vision.”

  Myrddin put his hands on her shoulders. “When did this happen, and what did you see?”

  Nell looked into Myrddin’s face, though she couldn’t make out much of his expression where they stood in the shadows, other than a certain brightness to his eyes and the flash of white teeth. “It was earlier, on the ride from Buellt. In the vision, I stood beside you, though you couldn’t see me, and you fought against Saxons.” She indicated the men behind Myrddin. “You fought with Saxons too.”

  “Where?” Myrddin’s voice couldn’t have been more urgent.

  “We stood before a bell tower, which I remember tolling long and low.”

  “Could that mean King Arthur is being held in a tower?” Myrddin released Nell and turned back to the others. “The gatehouse tower at the palisade is inside the city walls. We’ll never get to him there.”

  Nell drew his attention back to her with a hand to his arm. “I think it might have been a church—in my vision I thought it was a church—though built from huge Roman stones like these on the ground. I didn’t connect my vision with the guards taking King Arthur away until now.”

  “Is there a church within the city?” Myrddin asked Edgar.

  “Yes.”

  Nell gripped Myrddin’s arm. “You-you didn’t see anything like that?”

  He shook his head.

  Gareth cleared his throat. “It was Myrddin who saw you kneeling at King Arthur’s side.”

  “That’s what made Geraint and me check on the king’s wellbeing after the battle,” Myrddin said. “That’s when we’d discovered he’d been taken. I’ve seen nothing since then.”

  “In my vision, we were horribly outnumbered,” Nell said, deciding this wasn’t something she would ever lie about again. “It was like the church by the Cam River all over again.”

  Myrddin made a guttural sound deep in his throat. “Has anyone seen Archbishop Dafydd lately?”

  Gareth met Myrddin’s eyes, and Nell saw something pass between them, a sign of recognition perhaps, as if they’d had a conversation about the archbishop earlier.

  “He was at Modred’s side in the hall earlier when I told Modred of your death,” Gareth said.

  “The archbishop appeared genuinely overjoyed to see King Arthur when we arrived this morning.” Nell canted her head. “Who else among all of Modred’s men would be obeyed as a matter of course? Who has the authority to move the king without Modred’s knowledge or consent?”

  “We can’t know if he’s in the church until we go,” Gareth said. “We have no other leads, and I, for one, feel horribly exposed out here. We need to move now or not at all.”

  “Now,” Myrddin said.

  According to Edgar, the church lay a quarter of a mile to the southwest of the town center, very near the Severn River. The waterworks were located on the northeast corner of Wroxeter, as far from the church as it was possible to be and still be in the city. In order to reach the church, if they hoped to avoid crossing the main street that led from the city entrance to the palisade, they would have to skirt the whole of the city to the east.

  The fight in front of the palisade had dispersed, and since it was well past midnight by now, they hoped they could travel without calling attention to themselves. They took it at the closest thing they could to a run, but they numbered more than a dozen, so they couldn’t help but make noise. Here on the edges of the city, however, there were few guards. Before they were halfway there, Huw was clearly flagging.

  “What’s wrong, son?” Myrddin said.

  Huw had a hand on his lower ribs. “It hurts to breathe.”

  “Several of Edgar’s guards hit him hard. I think his ribs are bruised.” Nell pressed her lips together, forcing herself not to complain again about Edgar’s treatment of them.

  But Edgar was loping along nearby—by accident or design she didn’t know—and sensed her unspoken admonition anyway. “I haven’t apologized, because I still believe I did the right thing, but I never intended for Huw to be hurt, and I am sorry.”

  “I’ll heal,” Huw said, with a glare at the Saxon lord. “I can still fight.”
r />   “We hope it doesn’t come to that because you can’t,” Myrddin said shortly.

  Once they were clear of the last guard station and had left the palisade far behind, they made directly for the church. Built of Roman stone, it was almost as large as Modred’s hall and was surrounded by its own low wall. The winter moon had broken through the cloud cover again and shone thinly down. Four Saxons occupied the church yard, guarding the entrance, though without real attention being paid. Three men were gambling with dice. A fourth man snoozed on a bench with his legs stretched before him and his back braced against a gravestone. A fire blazed in a brazier at his feet, effectively ruining the night vision of the three men who were awake.

  Myrddin spread his fingers wide, signaling that the men should spread out, circling around the church to come at the guards from the rear. As Godric passed Myrddin, he put a hand on his shoulder. “You stay with them. We’ll handle this.”

  He was past them before Myrddin could protest, and so Myrddin, Nell, and Huw hunkered down together in the abandoned garden of a nearby building, a good hundred feet from the church.

  Huw gazed up at the bell tower, which was all they could see from this angle. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “The like doesn’t exist in Wales,” Myrddin said in an undertone. “It’s a church fit for a king to worship in, which I’m sure is what Modred intends.”

  At Myrddin’s words, Huw gave a gasp. “He doesn’t know who he is, Mother.”

  Nell put a hand to her mouth. In all the excitement of their escape, she’d forgotten to tell Myrddin about his parentage.

  Gareth scoffed as he moved to crouch next to Myrddin, looking with him through a crack in the wall that allowed them a narrow window on the churchyard. “Tell him quick, Nell.”

  “What are you talking about?” Myrddin said. “Tell me what?”

  Gareth turned his head, looking appraisingly at the three of them, and then he gave a low laugh. “Myrddin, you are Ambrosius’s son. Now … can we get back to the task at hand?”

  Chapter Eleven

  14 December 537

  Myrddin

  “How did you know that when we only found out today?” Nell said to Gareth in a hoarse whisper.

  Myrddin was barely listening, and could hardly credit what Nell and Gareth were talking about anyway. It was absurd to think he was Ambrosius’s son. He glanced towards the churchyard in time to see Godric and six of his men rise out of the grass and fall upon the Saxon soldiers. Cursing under his breath, knowing he had taken far too passive a role in this adventure ever since he’d arrived at Wroxeter, he turned to the others, gesturing impatiently. “Enough. Tell me what is going on, in as few words as possible.”

  Gareth’s expression turned smug. “After Ambrosius’s death, Juliana discovered that Seren, your mother, who’d been her maid and Ambrosius’s mistress, was with child. Juliana asked my mother to make arrangements for Seren to live with that Madog fellow in Powys. Neither Juliana nor my mother wanted to call the succession into question any more than it already was by introducing Ambrosius’s bastard into the mix. Later, Juliana told my mother that you’d died at birth, along with your mother.”

  “She told King Arthur the same,” Huw said.

  “Why would she do that?” Nell said.

  Gareth shrugged. “What wife wants to raise the bastard son of her husband? She probably figured you’d die before the age of five anyway. Many children do.”

  “And then Juliana died,” Nell said, “and there was nobody to say different, especially if Madog didn’t want to answer to anybody for Myrddin’s care.”

  “How did you come to learn this?” Huw said to Gareth.

  “My mother told me the story on her deathbed. She’d kept the secret, but it seemed a silly piece of information to take to her grave since the child had died.” As Gareth spoke, he looked very pleased with himself.

  “Then why tell it at all?” Nell said.

  “I think a small part of my mother never believed Juliana had told her the whole truth. It was too easy an end, and since Arthur was still without an heir, she thought she should tell someone.”

  “And yet you failed ever to mention it,” Nell said.

  “I was ten years old!” Gareth said with some heat in his voice.

  “Why didn’t you tell the king?” Nell said.

  “What was there to tell? Myrddin is ten years older than I and, until recently, we moved in different circles. I never questioned his origins, and it wasn’t until a few weeks ago when I met Deiniol, Myrddin’s foster brother, that it occurred to me that this unknown bastard of Ambrosius might be very much alive—and that he and Myrddin could be one and the same.”

  It was an incredible story, but he heard truth in Gareth’s voice, and for all that the man could lie with the best of them, Gareth believed what he was saying.

  “My father was a landless knight who’d died before I was born,” Myrddin said. “Or a pig keeper. That’s what Madog told me.”

  Gareth scoffed. “That’s what he wanted you to believe. Maybe he believed it, though he wouldn’t have wanted you on the throne of Wales any more than Juliana did, seeing how he was loyal to Cai, who, as long as Arthur remained childless, was as much Arthur’s heir as Modred.”

  “Why didn’t someone tell me?” The question sounded pitiful, even to Myrddin, but it rose out of him before he could stop it. “Why didn’t my mother tell someone before she died?”

  Gareth barked a laugh. “Telling anyone—Madog included—that you were Ambrosius’s child would have marked you for death. At the very least everyone had much to gain by your ignorance, Myrddin. Until now, that is.”

  Nell’s expression told him she understood the magnitude of the betrayal. “Until yesterday, King Arthur himself didn’t know the truth.”

  “Of course he did,” Gareth said. “He kept you close, didn’t he? He knighted you, didn’t he?”

  Nell pulled her necklace from within her bodice. “He saw this cross for the first time at Edgar’s manor. King Arthur wears an identical cross given to him by Ambrosius nine months before you were born.”

  Myrddin stared at it. “Cedric had the same cross, given to him by his mother, who got it from Juliana.”

  “As I said,” Gareth said, “this has been a long time coming.”

  Laughter rose in Myrddin’s chest, dispelling his earlier anguish. He knew exactly why Arthur hadn’t told him—because he hadn’t been worthy of the throne—and he still wasn’t. “I can’t be Ambrosius’s son. I just can’t.”

  “King Arthur says you are,” Nell said gently, “and he ought to know.”

  Gareth made a chopping motion with his hand, in mimicry of Myrddin a moment before. “Myrddin, there’s no point in denying this truth, so I say we don’t. We have a job to do, and we should do it.”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes sense,” Myrddin said.

  And then Gareth ruined it by giving him a deep bow. “My lord.”

  Thankfully, Myrddin was absolved from giving a response by a bird call that came from a spot nearer to the church. Godric signaled the all clear with a wave of his hand. The four Saxon soldiers were nowhere in sight.

  “Stay here,” Myrddin said to Nell, and then he put a hand on Huw’s shoulder. “You too. Protect your mother.”

  Without waiting to see if he was obeyed, Myrddin sprinted for the church door, Gareth a pace behind. He didn’t know where Edgar had gotten to, but revelation or no revelation, they did have a job that couldn’t wait any longer. Myrddin was loath to draw any weapon in church, so he left his sword in its sheath, but he didn’t dare enter unprotected. Once in the sheltering alcove by the door, Myrddin pulled out his belt knife.

  After a glance at Gareth, who gave him a quick nod, Myrddin pushed at the door, which opened on silent hinges. A long nave lay before them, in the middle of which knelt the king. Archbishop Dafydd stood at the altar. Fifty candles flickered, lighting the space, though they almost went out becaus
e of the breeze wafting through the open door.

  Myrddin walked towards the king, who didn’t stir. “Sire?”

  Dafydd left his post, moving around the king, to meet Myrddin and Gareth halfway. “Do not befoul this sanctuary with your weapons.”

  Gareth put away his knife. “We mean no harm. Our only concern is the king’s safety.”

  Edgar’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Your grace, Modred has betrayed your trust. If you do not release King Arthur into our custody, Modred will see him dead before the sun sets.”

  Archbishop Dafydd frowned. “Lord Modred swore to me—”

  “He lied,” Edgar said flatly, his boots thudding dully on the large flagstones that made up the nave. “If Arthur makes Modred his heir before his death, all to the good, but Modred will not allow the king ever to return to his people. I heard these words from the man’s own lips.”

  “He wouldn’t dare—” The archbishop was both affronted and disbelieving.

  Nell and Huw hurtled through the doorway behind Edgar. “Men are coming. Modred’s men. They must have discovered our absence from the house.”

  Arthur finally abandoned his prayers and rose to his feet. “I gave you my word that I would not escape, provided you saw to the safety of Huw and Nell. I will uphold that promise, even to my death, but you must also abide by yours.” Standing in the center of the nave, even without his sword or armor, Arthur looked every inch a king.

  “We have to move now, sire, promise or no promise,” Myrddin said.

  Such was Gareth’s agitation that he strode forward and caught Dafydd’s arm. “Why will you not see? You have before you Arthur, rightfully crowned King of Wales—and also Ambrosius’s own son, who has been kept hidden for his own safety all this time. You would sacrifice them for your own pride—because you refuse to admit that you were wrong to support Modred? No king should be coerced into naming an heir. Kings rule by the Grace of God. Could the Welsh have survived this long without it? God does not support Modred.”