Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Unfortunately for Wulfere’s men, it was by now almost one in the afternoon—high tide—and the most dangerous time to cross the Strait. The bridge of boats bucked and bent from the strain of so many men and horses.

  Then, with only an ominous creak as warning, the bridge snapped. The two ends of the break swung apart, moving away from each other at a speed of two and a half knots. The separation occurred so suddenly, few men were able to stay upright. Within a count of five, the Saxon army had fallen into the treacherous waters of the Strait, with just a few men hanging onto the wooden planks, face down and gripping the wood as if their lives depended on it. Which they did.

  “By all that is holy, I’ve never seen the like.” Geraint came to stand beside Myrddin, his sword pointed down and blood dripping off it into the sand.

  “We could retake Anglesey.” Gareth halted on Myrddin’s other side. Blood stained his sword too, and he’d lost his helmet at some point in the battle, but he appeared otherwise undamaged. He was a twenty-five-year-old, bachelor knight and a child of a long and powerful lineage. It wouldn’t have done for him to die just yet.

  “We don’t need the lands they hold until the spring planting.” Geraint looked past Myrddin to Gareth, his gaze piercing. “And I say that, even with the knowledge that your lands languish in the hands of your cousin.”

  “He’s down.” Gareth’s voice carried no emotion. One glance showed an iron set to his jaw. It occurred to Myrddin that Gareth might have taken on his traitorous cousin himself. Both men were grandsons of a great warlord who’d been steward to Arthur’s uncle, Ambrosius. That family had been torn in pieces by this war, half fighting for Modred and half for Arthur. And this cousin had come down on Modred’s side. To his loss.

  Geraint nodded. “I will give the order to kill any Saxons who wash ashore.” He slapped his hand on Myrddin’s shoulder. “You are the king’s favorite messenger. Ride to him and tell him of the victory.”

  “Today is your reward for all those times you’ve brought bad news.” A smile hovered around Gareth’s lips despite the grimness of the carnage before them.

  Geraint shot Myrddin a grin. “And once again, you’ve shown yourself in possession of the Devil’s own luck. I saw you vanquish Wulfere. It was well done.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Myrddin said.

  His legs moving stiffly in the aftermath of the fight, Myrddin returned to Cadfarch. When he’d leapt from the horse’s back to bring down Wulfere, Cadfarch had stayed close by in case Myrddin needed him, unafraid of the smell of blood or the clash of weapons.

  Myrddin was glad to see Ifan on his feet not far away, his head resting against his horse’s neck.

  Ifan waved a hand half-heartedly in Myrddin’s direction. “You’re off to see the king, then?”

  “As I am bid,” Myrddin said.

  “Better you than me, friend,” Ifan said. “I’ve a mind to lay down right here in the sand.”

  “You do that,” Myrddin said, more glad than he could say that Ifan still lived.

  Myrddin mounted Cadfarch and directed him towards the road from Bangor to Garth Celyn, skirting the manor house at Penrhyn to which they’d bring the wounded. They’d lost no more than two or three men-at-arms and a dozen foot soldiers, but many more had surface wounds that could suppurate if they weren’t treated. Over the years, more out of chance than design, the doctoring of the company’s wounds had fallen to Myrddin, who’d found himself more adept at it than he might have expected. Gareth and Geraint would need every healer of whatever skill today. Myrddin intended to aid the men as soon as Arthur gave him leave to return.

  The north coast of Wales was endlessly green, even in the middle of winter. The beauty of it drew Myrddin forward, easing the tension of the battle and draining away the adrenaline that had allowed him to fight it. By Myrddin’s calculation, at least a dozen Saxon knights and an equal number of squires had died, in addition to the hundreds of Saxon foot soldiers. It wasn’t a staggering total, but would be devastating to Modred, if only because of the knights he’d lost. Many were of his own household, his and Arthur’s close kin.

  From some distance away, Myrddin spied the towers of Garth Celyn and noted the great number of people atop the battlements. They were watching for him. He raised a hand, knowing they would understand what it meant. If they’d lost, he would have been moving faster—if he’d been able to come at all. As it was, the gates opened while Myrddin was still fifty yards away. He rode inside and was instantly besieged by questions. Myrddin glanced up from his inquisitors to see King Arthur standing on the top step to the hall, Nell beside him.

  Myrddin dismounted, trotted to where King Arthur stood, and didn’t make him wait for the news. “It is a great victory, my lord. The bridge is broken.”

  “What are our casualties?” Arthur said.

  “Slight,” Myrddin said. “Geraint has their names. I do know there were few, mostly among those who were unhorsed or came to the battle on foot.”

  “Well done,” King Arthur said. “That is good news indeed.”

  Arthur gestured for Myrddin to enter the hall, but Myrddin hesitated to obey. “I must return to Penrhyn, my lord.” Myrddin bowed to indicate his continued respect. “Nell and I can help with the wounded.”

  The king studied Myrddin, eyebrows raised. In the silence that followed, Myrddin realized his error. The man he’d been before St. Asaph would have forsaken the hall for the wounded only when he’d had no choice. He certainly would have taken a drink or two as his reward for surviving another battle, and thought that the following morning was soon enough to take up his duties once more.

  “Of course,” the king said.

  Nell broke in. “I looking through your infirmary earlier, my lord, and made a satchel of herbs and linens in preparation for tending those wounded in the fighting.”

  “Very well,” Arthur said, his puzzlement turning to amusement that Myrddin and Nell had taken matters into their own hands. “You have leave to go. However, I will come as well.”

  While they waited for the king, Myrddin pulled Nell behind him on Cadfarch again. She didn’t resist, and even seemed to take for granted what she’d resisted only yesterday.

  “Are you well?” Without apology, Nell had already inspected Myrddin’s armor, surcoat, and head for damage, and now she patted down his arms and sides, checking for wounds.

  “I took a hard fall with Wulfere beneath me. Otherwise, I am uninjured,” Myrddin said. “Although, I find that I am too old for this.”

  For the first time since they’d met, she gave him a genuine laugh. Myrddin was glad. She’d had little reason for amusement these last two days and there wasn’t going to be much smiling in the coming hours. Regardless of the victory, they had injured men, and dead ones, and loved ones to inform of the loss.

  Arriving at Penrhyn, Arthur strode up the steps to the hall while his company—with the exception of Nell and Myrddin—stayed with their horses. Gareth met him at the entryway. Wounded men lay spread across the floor of the hall in the same chaos that followed every battle. Myrddin swallowed hard at the sight of so much blood. He never got used to it, and it was probably better that he didn’t.

  “I have something to show you,” Gareth said to the king, minus his customary formal greeting.

  Arthur didn’t blink at the impertinence but gestured as if to say lead on! Gareth turned on his heel and led the way to the back of the hall and then through a doorway on the right. Gwen stayed behind, but Myrddin followed, unsure if he should come too but as he wasn’t stopped, came anyway.

  They entered a corridor that had several small rooms leading off of it. Gareth turned into the first doorway on the left, striding straight through it, but Arthur came to an abrupt halt on the threshold. Myrddin, for his part, just managed to stop before he ran into the king’s back. After a few moments of contemplation, King Arthur continued forward, leaving Myrddin hovering in the doorway.

  Gareth’s cousin, Hywel, lay on a pallet on the flo
or. He wasn’t dead, but didn’t appear to have long to live.

  King Arthur directed his attention at the wounded man who stared up at him. “I loved your father and grandfather.”

  “Sir.” Hywel’s voice was stronger than it should have been given the enormous hole in his midsection. Even if the king gave them the opportunity, neither Myrddin nor Nell would be able to do anything for him.

  “I couldn’t leave him on the beach.”

  Myrddin sensed defensiveness in Gareth rather than anger or sadness in his clipped words, but King Arthur didn’t remark on the reasons Gareth had brought his cousin to Penrhyn, despite the order to leave no survivors. Given the difficulties among the members of Arthur’s own family over the years, he undoubtedly understood them.

  “Why?” Arthur aimed his patrician nose at the man on the floor.

  Hywel, along with his two brothers, Rhys and Llywelyn, both churchmen, had swung over to Modred’s side five years before when Modred had consolidated his alliance with the Mercians and begun pressing his claim to the Welsh throne even though Arthur still lived. That war had ended badly for King Arthur, but not so much that he’d lost his lands entirely. He’d been forced to agree to a treaty with Modred, and subsequently, the brothers had returned to Eryri as if they’d never betrayed Wales. Since then, as one could imagine, their interactions with the king had been stilted, taking place in formal situations where they all avoided speaking to each other.

  Hywel attempted a shrug. “My father was the youngest son. Our inheritance wasn’t enough for the three of us to share. My brothers and I agreed that if one of us joined Modred, we all would.” That didn’t explain everything, of course, as Gareth had many brothers too, and he still stood with Arthur.

  “How noble of you.” Gareth looked down his nose at Hywel, in imitation of the king.

  “I can’t say it was my first choice,” Hywel said, “but Rhys and Llywelyn insisted on it.”

  “Rhys is a supercilious, avaricious snake and a disgrace to the Church and the cloth he wears,” Gareth said, “and Llywelyn is no better. Were they also at Llanfaes?”

  “Yes,” Hywel said, selling out his brothers without compunction.

  King Arthur’s face grew even more rigid. Gareth pursed his lips. Gareth’s family had entangled themselves into a mare’s nest of shifting allegiances, but it looked as if at least one of them was about to be released from his burden.

  “Modred bought you with the promise of land?” King Arthur said. “That was enough to sell out your country? To take up arms against your companions and loved ones? Against me?”

  “I have a family,” Hywel said. “I have to think of them. It is a choice any man would make.”

  Arthur snorted his disbelief. “Inform me when he’s dead.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the room before anyone else could speak.

  Myrddin had ducked through the doorway and into the room before the king reached him, and now he stayed leaning against the wall in case Gareth had need of him. Myrddin shared the king’s loathing for Gareth’s cousin. But he’d been a soldier long enough to turn physician, and it was the latter role that prevented him from leaving the room.

  Hywel tipped up his chin to look at the exposed rafters that formed the frame of the ceiling. “I don’t need your forgiveness,” he told Gareth.

  “Good, because you don’t have it.” Gareth had been gazing out the window into the courtyard of his manor, and now glanced over at Myrddin. “You can go.”

  Myrddin had noted Hywel’s glazed eyes, so didn’t yet obey Gareth, taking a step towards the wounded man. “I can fetch some wine. He doesn’t have to suffer this much.”

  Gareth swung around to face Myrddin full on. In contrast to the anger in his voice, his eyes showed tears he’d so far refused to shed. “Doesn’t he?”

  It was strange to see Gareth in this light. He rarely revealed anything of himself. He’d brushed off the betrayal of his cousins like a man would flick a crumb from his shirt. Gareth appeared different to Myrddin today, more emotional and passionately Welsh. Perhaps I’m not the only one among the king’s men who’s had an epiphany in the last few days.

  Myrddin countered Gareth’s obstinate glare with a calm face and nodded his acceptance of his wishes. “As you say, my lord.” Myrddin left the room, although once he passed through the doorway and was out of sight, he froze in mid-stride at a sudden sound emitting from the open door behind him. Myrddin made to return, and then thought better of it. It wasn’t Hywel in his death throes that he’d heard, but Gareth, choking back a sob.

  “Hold my hand.” Gareth’s boots scraped on the wooden floor as he crouched beside his cousin.

  Myrddin turned away. He could do nothing for either of them.

  Chapter Six

  7 November 537 AD

  “Don’t turn around, but we are no longer alone,” Myrddin said.

  He and Nell had worked through day and night but, despite her exhaustion, Nell still had enough wit to glance up from the man she was tending with a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “You mean we were alone before? There’s two dozen wounded men in front of you.”

  “Lord Cai is here.”

  “And you don’t like him,” she said.

  “I grew up under the roof of one of his men, a man named Madoc. My foster brother, Deiniol, still serves Cai,” Myrddin said.

  “And from the venom in your voice, those are days you’d prefer to forget,” Nell said.

  Myrddin didn’t answer, instead blanking his expression as Cai came to a halt at the feet of the man they were tending. Cai held his helmet under one arm and appeared to have traveled through the night in order to reach Penrhyn at this early hour. Myrddin stood, more comfortable in this lord’s presence on his feet, and moved to a spot that half-blocked Nell from Cai’s view. He couldn’t help it; he wanted to protect her, even if reason told him that for all Cai’s perfidy—he’d once conspired to murder Arthur after all—the notion that he presented any kind of threat today was more than ridiculous.

  “Will he die?” Cai said.

  They all looked down at the man. Myrddin hadn’t recognized the soldier as a member of Arthur’s company. Cai’s presence revealed that he might be part of his household, much as Myrddin’s foster father had been and Deiniol still was. “I cannot say as yet, my lord.” The title stuck in Myrddin’s throat. “It’s likely.”

  The door to the hall swung open, and King Arthur strode across the floor towards his brother. As he approached the group, he gestured to the soldier on the floor. “Your man fought well, I understand.”

  “So Gareth said.” Cai didn’t clasp his brother’s forearm as would have been customary, and their eyes met for less than a heartbeat before they flicked away. Disconcertingly, Myrddin found Arthur observing him. He hastily half-turned, so as to impose less on the brothers’ conversation.

  “Why are you here, Cai?” Arthur’s voice remained mild, but the question was abrupt.

  “I understand that Modred sits at Denbigh,” Cai said.

  “That is true,” Arthur said.

  “Those are my lands,” Cai said. “My castle.”

  “I’ve said that we will get it back,” Arthur said. “Our recent victory puts Modred in a difficult position, unable to force either the Strait or the Conwy River. When we are ready, we will push him and his Saxon allies out of Gwynedd.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “You promised me this weeks ago.”

  “It was you who lost control of those lands,” Arthur said. “From my castle at Dolwyddelan, you have the power to prevent Modred from advancing on us through the mountains. Our southern allies will see that the winds blow our way, and together we will force Modred out of Wales, once and for all.”

  “You know the solution to our problems.” Cai pushed closer to King Arthur, who stood his ground.

  “We’ve discussed this before. Now is not the time.”

  “Modred must die.”

&nb
sp; Arthur made an impatient movement with his hand, which Cai ignored, pressing on undeterred. He put his face into Arthur’s, so close their noses were a hand span apart. As Arthur was four inches taller, it had the effect of forcing Cai to look upwards, like a boy facing down a man. Myrddin couldn’t help listening, although Nell had the modesty to look away so neither man would see her staring. Again, Arthur caught Myrddin’s eye for a heartbeat and then answered his brother.

  “He is our nephew, Cai. I will countenance no further discussion of the matter.”

  “Then perhaps you don’t have the balls to be the King of Wales,” Cai said. “But then we knew that already, didn’t we?”

  Cai shot these last words at King Arthur in a loud hiss that had the unfortunate effect of carrying throughout the hall. His words sucked all the air from the room. Cai didn’t appear to care—and remarkably, was still breathing himself since Arthur had the restraint to keep his sword sheathed and his brother in one piece. Cai shoved past Arthur, knocking into his shoulder as he strode towards the door of the hall.

  The offensive—and unfair—comment referred to the fact that, in his long life, Arthur had fathered one child, a daughter, and no sons. As a result, it was either Cai or Modred who remained Arthur’s heir, both with two legitimate sons to follow them. Myrddin could understand Arthur’s pain. Myrddin himself had bedded many women, but never fathered a child either—or at least none whose mother had named him. In Wales, a bastard was accounted as legitimate if his father acknowledged him. Therefore, nothing could be gained from hiding his identity. No mother would choose it.

  Well, except mine.

  Arthur didn’t turn to watch his brother go, standing as Cai had left him, hands clasped behind his back, legs spread, and staring at the far wall of the hall. An enormous boar’s head hung above the fireplace; rumor had it that Gareth and his brother Gawain together had brought it down. Myrddin didn’t doubt it.