“I figured I was the best choice, since the dogs would smell my fear and come for me.”
Huw gawked for a moment, and then he laughed in appreciation of Alan’s bravery. “My father says real courage is doing what must be done despite your fear.” He shook Alan’s shoulder. “You are a brave man.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Huw faltered at Alan’s use of his title. He still hadn’t quite gotten his head around the fact that his father was the heir to the throne of Wales, which meant that he was too. Inside, he was still just Huw.
Nell looked up from inspecting the damage to Alan’s heel and gave Huw a rueful smile. Though she would never show it to anyone but him or Myrddin, he thought she might be feeling the same uncertainty. By marrying a knight, she’d become a lady, but that was still far and away different from being a queen.
Huw transferred his hand to Nell’s shoulder and squeezed. “You two stay here. I’m off to help the others.”
“Hey! Wait for me!” Alan struggled to rise, but Nell was still holding his foot, so he didn’t get very far.
Huw couldn’t wait, and since Nell didn’t try to stop him, he set off at a run, avoiding the path and thinking it would be better not to come at the battle directly. He ran flat out for only fifty yards before the distinctive sound of clashing swords and cursing men came to him. Their location wasn’t far from the barn.
Within heartbeats, the terrain turned from flat ground to rock and, before he could catch himself, he sprawled face down, tripped by a small tree growing out of the rock but hidden beneath the snow. Cursing, Huw pushed himself up, thankful for the gloves that protected his hands but wincing at the pain in his right knee and at his ripped pant leg.
The fighting continued ahead of him, and the longer it lasted, the more likely it was that his father and Huw’s companions were outnumbered. Huw was near to panic at the thought—but he’d learned something since finding his father, and that included a healthy respect for the sharp edge of a blade and a dose of caution when facing the sword of an enemy.
Knife in hand and moving a little more slowly and warily, Huw struggled to the top of a rocky outcrop. Trees grew out of the rock in places, and their leaves would have hidden him from view had it been summer. As it was, nobody was looking for him or up at him, and he crouched above the fight. His father and the others had squared off against a dozen of Modred’s men.
Huw took in the whole of the battle as a single scene, as if it were a tapestry on the wall of a castle, and then he launched himself from the top of the rock onto the back of the man King Arthur was fighting. The man went down in a heap beneath Huw, who recovered enough an instant later to thrust his bared knife into the unprotected area at the back of the man’s neck. It was just as well that Huw didn’t have a sword to use, since it was all but useless for fighting in such close quarters.
On his feet a moment later, hardly stopping even to breathe, he spun around and drove the knife to the hilt into the back of another Saxon—and then had a moment of utter panic that he’d killed one of Godric’s men by mistake. But no, the man he’d killed had been fighting one of Godric’s men, a Saxon named Leofwine, who gave Huw a sharp nod and a relieved smile.
And just like that, the battle was over. Looking around at the dead men on the ground, Huw acknowledged that his friends had been facing stupid odds: seven men against twelve, and only one better after Huw had joined the fight. But the little Welsh band had been afforded the element of surprise—and they’d had one more fighter in Anwen with her bow. Half of the enemy dead had an arrow sticking out of them in one place or another. Most of her shots hadn’t been fatal, but any arrow wound, whether to torso or limb, could slow a man—enough to have allowed one of Godric’s warriors to finish the enemy soldier off.
Unfortunately, Godric had lost two of his company. Though these men hadn’t been close friends with Huw, he’d known them from the time he’d joined Lord Cedric’s forces, and it was a shock to see their blood mingling in the snow with that of the men Modred had sent. Huw’s little company was down to six fighting men: King Arthur, Myrddin, Huw, Godric, Leofwine, and Osgar. The latter two were strong fighters in their mid-twenties. But then, so had been the two who’d fallen. They also had Nell and Alan, of course, but he was wounded and had to be considered out of the fight.
Anwen swung down from her tree and landed in the snow a few feet from Huw. Her face was pale but impassive. He had to assume, however, that being young like him, she was struggling with what she’d just done. He stepped closer to her. “You did well. I wouldn’t have known that you had never fought before if you hadn’t told me.”
She looked down at the ground, perhaps unused to praise or not thinking she deserved it for killing men, and didn’t answer.
Meanwhile, Godric pulled off his helmet and dropped it to the ground, and King Arthur leaned against the rocky outcrop from which Huw had jumped. Arthur’s blade dripped blood into the snow. “You saved my life, Huw.”
Huw looked down at his naked blade, as bloody as the king’s. He’d acted on instinct and without thought. “I suppose so, my lord.”
“Knighting you appears to have been one of my better decisions.”
Huw gazed wide-eyed at the king, unsure of how to take that comment, but then Myrddin put his arm around Huw’s shoulders. “As opposed to when you knighted me, my lord.”
King Arthur laughed. “Oh yes. I’ve come to regret that.” The king held out his hand to Huw, who stepped forward to shake the king’s forearm. It was only then that Huw recognized what the banter had been for: it was a way to dissipate the rage and fear that had come with battle. Godric’s men, even as they were going through the belongings of the dead men, were making similar jests, though in English.
“Nell and Alan are well?” Myrddin drew Huw’s attention back to him.
“Alan was bitten in the ankle,” Huw said.
Myrddin tipped his head to indicate the barn. “Run back and tell Nell we’re coming. We’ll gather the horses and follow in a moment.”
“He doesn’t have to, Myrddin. We’re here.” Nell appeared in the pathway ahead, leading one of the dead Saxon’s horses with Alan on its back. “How many more horses are there—” She stopped at the sight of the dead men on the ground, her face turning nearly as white as the snow falling around her.
“There should be twelve in total,” Myrddin said. “Modred sent more men than I expected.”
Huw looked at his father. That was one thing Myrddin might have to change about himself when he became king: he admitted fault or ignorance too easily. Then again, these men—Saxon men, no less—had followed him into battle without hesitation, and maybe Myrddin’s ability to consult and to admit fault was part of the reason why they did. King Arthur had become a legend unto himself, which their escape from Wroxeter would do nothing to diminish. But Myrddin had lived as one of them, fought as one of them.
The question that Huw knew his father was asking every hour, because Huw was asking that question of himself, was if it would be enough. That which garnered him the respect of men-at-arms and foot soldiers was not what would gain him the allegiance of the other barons of Wales. King Arthur’s heir Myrddin might be, but to become high king of Wales, crowned by the council, wasn’t entirely a matter of heredity. Myrddin, and Huw by extension, would have to lead men into far larger battles than this—and win.
Chapter Four
14 December 537
Nell
Since Cador had helped Arthur defeat the Saxons thirty years ago at Mt. Badon, he’d maintained the defenses at Caer Caradoc and held the fort as the first line of defense against the Saxon threat. Located ten miles southwest of Wroxeter, Caer Caradoc stood on the leading edge of a line of hills that tracked westward to Wales.
Northward, the fort overlooked the field of Camlann and the long stretch of farms and pastureland that the Saxons wanted for themselves. It was Britain’s rich land that had encouraged the Saxons to take Britain from the Britons i
n the first place. The invaders had come from a barren country across the water, with land too poor to sustain their people, and they viewed the blood they’d shed in taking Britain as a consecration of sorts, even a covenant between them and the land. Now that they had it, they would fight to the death to keep it, just as the Welsh would do to keep what was left to them and prevent Wales from being overrun.
Cador had enlarged Caer Caradoc beyond its pre-Roman size until its palisades and ditches were a maze of defenseworks that even the ten thousand Saxons from Nell’s dream would find hard to penetrate. That was all very well and good, but winning this war did not mean staying within the safety of the walls. King Arthur would have to come out and face Modred eventually.
“Brace yourself, Myrddin,” King Arthur said as they approached the main gate into the fort. “This will be the first test.”
“A test of what?” Huw said.
Myrddin turned to his son. “Of us.” He lifted his chin. “Of me. I am King Arthur’s heir, but nobody but we few know it. If Cador accepts me, then likely the other lords of Wales will too. If not—”
“If not, when I die, Wales’s leaders will fall to bickering among themselves regarding who shall be High King,” Arthur said, “and in so doing, they will allow themselves to be picked off one by one by the Saxons. I could defeat Modred here and still die from my wounds. In that instance, the battle will only delay our defeat for a time, rather than ending the threat.”
Nell bent her head. What King Arthur described had been exactly the rationale behind her dream of Modred’s camp. Thus, it was with real trepidation that she gazed up at the towers as they approached the entrance. For his part, Myrddin kept his back straight and his head high, as well he might. This was the first test of his new identity, and like every other test he’d ever faced, he intended to meet it head on.
Caer Caradoc, unlike Modred’s stronghold at Wroxeter, or King Arthur’s at Garth Celyn, had not been built on Roman ruins. It was to Caer Caradoc that Nell’s ancestors had retreated during their war with the Romans. For ten years, Cador’s ancestors, led by Caradoc himself, had held off the Roman legions, struggling to maintain the British way of life in the face of the invasion. They’d lost, of course, as the Britons always lost, up until King Arthur had stood on Mt. Badon and rallied his troops as no British general had managed since before even the time of Vortigern.
It wasn’t until Modred decided that he couldn’t wait for his inheritance and claimed supremacy over the Saxon kingdom of Mercia—promising the other Saxon lords lands in Wales if they gave him men—that the Saxons presented a significant threat. It was the first instance in over thirty years.
The master of the gate, a short red-bearded man in middle age, leaned over the top of the palisade to look at them. Anwen, who’d spent most of the journey riding at Huw’s side, urged her horse forward so she could speak to him. “I am Anwen, Lord Cador’s niece, and I request admittance.” She gestured behind her. “I ride with King Arthur.”
“Who rides with his cousin and heir, Myrddin ap Ambrosius!” King Arthur’s voice echoed around the hill.
Nell hadn’t expected such a grand announcement, and she gaped at the king in the same manner as the gatekeeper. Then he recovered, waving a hand to the men behind him. “Yes, my lord!”
The gate swung open, and as Nell entered, for the first time in days, she took a genuinely full breath and let it out, feeling her shoulders relax. If she wasn’t careful, she could fall asleep right here on her horse. But that wouldn’t do at all. She was Myrddin’s wife and a lady now, so she took another breath and dismounted along with everyone else. Someone must have immediately run to fetch Lord Cador because he came out of the hall.
At the sight of him, King Arthur strode across the courtyard, his arms outstretched, and the two men embraced. It was a degree of affection Nell hadn’t seen the king display to anyone before, and the sight of the two men grinning at each other had her grinning too.
“I apologize for not coming to Buellt, my friend.” Cador was a few years older than Arthur, but still with the shoulders of an ox and full-bearded. “With Modred sitting at Wroxeter, I didn’t dare leave these lands undefended.”
“We didn’t need you, as it turned out,” Arthur said.
“The rider who brought word of the victory said that it was due in large part to Myrddin. They never said, however, that he was your cousin and Ambrosius’s son.” Cador looked past Arthur. “Where is he?”
Myrddin, who was standing with Nell a few feet away, took a step forward. Cador spied him and, advancing forward, gave him a low bow. “My lord. Welcome to Caer Caradoc.”
Myrddin opened his mouth to reply, and Nell had a moment’s intuition that he was going to make a self-deprecating comment, perhaps minimizing his role in the victory at Buellt. But then he seemed to stop himself and simply bowed his head. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.” He straightened and held out a hand to Anwen, who had returned to Huw’s side. “May I commend you for teaching your niece to shoot. There might not be so many of us standing here now if not for her.”
Anwen flushed to the roots of her honey-colored hair and looked completely discomfited, but Nell gently urged her forward. “You did well. Go hug your uncle.”
With a smile she failed to suppress, Anwen did as Nell bid and allowed her uncle to wrap her up in his arms.
They released each other, and Cador looked past her to everyone else. “Please come inside. If we are to conference, we’ll be warmer doing it in my hall than on the stoop!”
“Thank you,” King Arthur said. “We have much to talk about it and all of it is urgent.”
Nell did not move forward with the others, however, and at Myrddin’s inquiring look, she lifted one shoulder. “I need a moment alone.”
Concern furrowed his brows, but Myrddin nodded and went with the others, while Nell climbed to the wall-walk at the top of the palisade that would allow her to overlook the valley below. Somewhere along the way, it had stopped snowing, and the low clouds had given way to patchy blue sky. Only a few hours ago they’d been fighting for their lives against Modred’s dogs and hunters, and now here they were, momentarily safe. Nell almost couldn’t encompass it. She was exhausted—from lack of sleep, certainly, but also from the near constant interchange between fear and hope.
Everything that had happened so far to the good could so easily have gone the other way. She knew from hard experience that things going badly was far more often the way of it, such that the string of successes was both comforting and terrifying. Their luck could turn at any moment. So much had been left to chance, up to and including the encounter with Anwen, which had brought them here instead of sending them to Caer Fawr as in the dream.
She closed her eyes and let her head drop, searching for grace to face what was to come, no matter how terrible.
Between one heartbeat and the next, Modred attacked, leaping the distance between him and King Arthur and bringing his sword down with all his strength. He bore Caledfwlch, King Arthur’s legendary sword, which they’d had to leave behind at Wroxeter.
King Arthur barely reacted in time, grasping his shield and bringing it up to block the blow. They were on the edge of the circle, and the people behind the king moved aside to give him room to stumble backwards as he twisted away from Modred. Then in a flurry of attacking blows, Modred’s sword beat again and again on the king’s shield, such that Arthur had no way to counter the assault and all he could do was retreat around the circle.
Then the king’s wooden shield shattered. Instead of tossing it to the side, however, King Arthur threw it at Modred, who raised his own shield in time to knock it away. Then King Arthur leapt forward, hammering blows of his own, two fists on the hilt of his sword. Modred resisted, retreating as King Arthur had retreated. Just as the last blow fell, King Arthur unexpectedly feinted, and instead of swinging downward onto Modred’s shield with his sword, he sliced under it with the knife that had appeared in his left hand.
&nbs
p; But instead of opening a gash in Modred’s belly, the knife rebounded off Modred’s armor, leaving Modred himself undamaged.
Laughing, Modred pounced on Arthur again. This time, he was invincible, turning aside every thrust of Arthur’s blade as if it were that of a gnat. Even the blows that did fall on him did not hurt him. With each useless blow that Arthur struck, Modred’s men roared their approval, and whether worshipers of gods or the one God, they knew Modred to be protected. The rest of the fight was short and brutal and ended in Arthur’s death.
“I want to thank you for your kindness to me.”
Nell brought up her head and turned to look at Anwen, who’d come up silently behind her. Despite having achieved the safety of the fort, she still wore her breeches and quiver. She was taller than Nell by a few inches, and her bright eyes and earnestness reminded Nell of the novices she used to care for. “Have I been kind?”
“In my experience, other women can be—” Anwen raised one shoulder and let it drop without finishing her sentence.
“They can be mean. And unaccepting,” Nell said. “I suspect you have been ill-treated as a Welshwoman among Saxons.”
“My stepfather was not proud of me. He liked his women to be seen but not heard.” She looked down at herself and gestured to her clothing. “I am not opposed to wearing dresses, but they do hinder one’s legs when one is climbing trees.”
Nell laughed, shaking off the last of the terrible vision. “I imagine they do. Fortunately, King Arthur does not share your stepfather’s prejudices.” Then she sobered and put a hand on Anwen’s forearm. “We are grateful for all you’ve done for us. I don’t know how much Huw has told you, but our need was great indeed.”
“He told me that you were Modred’s prisoners at Wroxeter, and you escaped. Those men chasing you—” She stopped again and swallowed hard.
“They would have killed us if we had not killed them first. You know this.”
“That’s what Huw said.”
Frost Against the Hilt (The Lion of Wales Book 5) Page 3