“How are you?”
Nell looked up as Myrddin entered the hut. She’d been writing on a scrap of vellum, detailing the dream she’d had the previous night. If she closed her eyes, she could see it running in an endless loop behind her eyelids. It came so often now, night after night, that she sometimes felt she was more awake when she was dreaming than the other way around.
“Fine.” She straightened, hoping she hadn’t given anything away. She wasn’t fine, of course. It was hard to see how she was ever going to be fine again.
Myrddin, for his part, watched her warily, as if he knew she was lying to him. She hated feeling so vulnerable. She missed those high convent walls, keeping out the world.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to watch you fill the page. I heard a few phrases that could have been curses, too.” Myrddin smiled. “You haven’t been spending time among the garrison in my absence, have you? At least Deiniol isn’t here to bother you.”
She found that she couldn’t smile back. It was no laughing matter that Deiniol had ridden with Myrddin and Ifan only as far as the pagan stones before taking a track south into the mountains. They’d let him go alone into the wilderness, rather than lose the Saxon messengers they’d been sent to follow.
Myrddin walked to her and peered over her shoulder, resting one hand on the table beside the inkpot. Nell hunched her shoulders and covered the page with one hand so he couldn’t read her words. It was just like him to be able to read too: he pretended to be a bachelor, journeyman knight, but every now and then he would evidence some new, unexpected skill that belied his claim. He couldn’t fool her anymore.
He stood at her shoulder, refusing to take the hint. After another count of ten, he sighed and eased away from her. But he didn’t leave her alone as she wanted—or part of her wanted, and the rest didn’t.
“What is it, Nell? Tell me what’s bothering you. You can trust me.”
She glanced up at him. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you.”
“Isn’t it?” he said. “I would like to think that you’re telling me the truth this time, but it’s hard to tell. I share a room with you, and meals, but you never talk of anything more momentous than the weather. The world is falling in around us. We’re in the middle of a war. Why won’t you speak of it?”
Nell bowed her head.
Endlessly patient as always, Myrddin leaned against the counter on which she prepared her herbs and ointments.
Finally, she pushed away the paper and turned in her seat to face him. “I’m tired, Myrddin. I’m thirty years old, and I feel a hundred.”
“You don’t look it.” He tried to coax a smile. This time, she obliged, although it quickly faded.
“Why did you come to find me, Myrddin?”
“We have news from Powys,” Myrddin said. “Lord Edgar has sent word that he might be persuaded to change sides, given the proper incentives.”
Nell stared at him, her stomach sinking into her boots while a vision of the church by the Cam River rose unbidden before her eyes. “That couldn’t possibly be true. His family has ever been faithful to the kings of Mercia—and now Modred. Does King Arthur believe it?”
“King Arthur has said nothing to me, but just this morning he sent a captain south to prepare to open a second front against the Saxons—on our terms this time, not Modred’s. Geraint told me that given this new approach from Edgar, the king will want to lead his men himself.”
Nell shook her head, an iciness taking over her limbs. Ten heartbeats ago she was alone with her dreams and her fears, and now the dream was a reality. “I don’t think this is a good idea. Surely the king must see that?”
“The king needs to change the balance of power, and perhaps making Edgar an ally is the way to do it.”
“What about—” Nell thought desperately for anything—any idea—that could divert this folly. Twenty years of dreaming, and she’d never been this close to the king—or to complete failure. “You have the king’s confidence. What if you suggested to the king that he look to someone else to turn aside from Modred. Someone like Lord Cedric of Brecon. He hates Modred.”
In 521, Cedric’s father had fought against Modred and Icel, the King of Mercia at that time, in a war over the border territory between Mercia and Wessex. Cedric’s family had allied with Arthur, who had some stake in the outcome, though not a large one. But Cedric’s father had died of the wounds he received at Shrewsbury, and Cedric himself, only sixteen at the time, had witnessed his father’s wounding and subsequent death while in Modred’s custody.
Myrddin laughed. “He’s none too fond of Arthur either. And he’s as mercenary as Cai.”
“True,” she said. “But he’s more open about it. You never have to wonder at his motives. You just need to make sure your goals align with his. And from what I know of the man, he’s always been up-front with his allegiances. If he walked away from an alliance with Modred, he’d probably tell him about it in advance, rather than stab him in the back.”
“Yes,” Myrddin agreed. “But it isn’t he who has sent a message to King Arthur.”
“But—” Nell stopped. A curious look had passed across Myrddin’s face. Could I have said something right? “It was his family who sided with King Arthur sixteen years ago. They might do it again.”
“Modred forgave Cedric’s family their treason.” Myrddin nodded as he thought it through. “But the death of a father due to the mercilessness of one’s lord is not something any man can easily forget, or forgive, especially one arising from as ancient a lineage as Cedric’s.”
“Arthur wants to unite Wales as its king,” Nell said. “Cedric wants his bit of land secure and to stop having to fight either Arthur or his own supposed allies for the right to it. He wants more land too, but it’s unlikely that Modred is going to award him any more—not any time soon.”
“The land would be at the expense of Agravaine, Aelric, or Edgar,” Myrddin said, “staunch allies of Modred.”
“Well, except possibly for Edgar,” Nell said, “which is, of course, why King Arthur can believe he might change sides.”
“And you say that, why?”
“Because Edgar is—” Nell paused and pursed her lips, uncertain as to whether or not she should say more.
“Edgar is what?”
“Edgar does not prefer women,” Nell said, as delicately as she could. “To my mind, this is why Modred has withheld Edgar’s inheritance since his father died. None of the Mercian barons think Edgar is a fit heir, but it is his right.”
“And how do you know all this?”
Nell stared at the floor, biting her bottom lip. She had so many things to tell him, so many things he might not forgive or understand.
Myrddin waited through the silence.
Finally, Nell waved a hand, apologetically, unable to avoid revealing to him this bit of the truth. “My husband served as a man-at-arms at Wigmore Castle.”
Myrddin gaped at her. “He was part of the garrison? For Edgar’s family?”
Nell couldn’t mistake the anger and distrust that rose in his face—the same distrust he’d felt that first night on the road from St. Asaph. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because you’re a staunch supporter of Arthur!” Nell’s voice went high and tears pricked at her eyes in her anxiety. “You thought I was a spy! How could I tell you my husband served a Saxon lord?” A lone tear fell across her cheek, and she angrily brushed it away with the back of her hand.
“I already suspected the worst,” Myrddin said. “It would have confirmed my suspicions.”
Her heart sank. “And you still have them now.”
“No man can ever truly know what is in another’s soul.” Myrddin was unrelenting. “Was your husband Saxon?”
“No.” Nell crossed her arms and stared at the floor. “Many of the men-at-arms who serve the Saxons are Welsh.”
“So who was he?”
Nell closed her eyes. “His name was Rhys. He was ten years older than I, the younger son of a landowner who held lands to the south of my father’s.” She’d been such a child when she married him. Not so much foolish, but innocent, in love with the handsome soldier she barely knew, even if she’d known him from infancy, but sure of her future with him. “Fifteen years ago there was peace between Wales and Mercia and my father didn’t object to the marriage.”
“But you didn’t want to stay?” Myrddin said. “Once your husband and children died?”
“No,” Nell said. “I didn’t. I told you that before, and it was nothing but the truth. It was Edgar, in fact, who helped me return to Wales.”
“And you haven’t been back since?” Myrddin said.
“No.”
“And Edgar?” Myrddin said. “Have you a further thought, then, about his message to King Arthur?”
“I don’t know about that,” Nell said. “It’s Agravaine who has the real power. Modred put him in charge of all his forces, including Edgar’s, for a reason. I wouldn’t be surprised if the letter to the king was Agravaine’s idea, and Edgar was only going along with the deception because he wanted to prove to Modred his loyalty—to force him to acknowledge that he is his father’s rightful heir.”
“That is my thought too,” Myrddin said. “If Arthur goes to meet Edgar, I fear he goes to his death.”
Nell had been studying her toes, not looking at Myrddin as he interrogated her. Now she glanced up, surprised that he would say such a thing so openly and surely. “I feel that too. Can you think of a way to stop him? I will help you if I can!”
Myrddin kept his gaze on her face, and she didn’t look away. His lips twisted. “We’ll see.” With a last nod, he spun on one heel and left the hut.
Nell stared after him. When his footsteps had faded, she leaned her head back against wall and closed her eyes. In twenty years of dreaming, nothing she’d tried had turned out right. This was obviously not working either. Perhaps she shouldn’t have allowed Myrddin to bring her to Garth Celyn after all.
Chapter Nine
12 November 537 AD
As he stared up at the battlements of Rhuddlan Castle, Myrddin felt for the letter from King Arthur to Modred—as reassurance—one last time. As he’d promised, Arthur had selected him to bring it. In the end, Myrddin had come alone because the king had determined that it was better to lose one man to an early grave or Modred’s dungeon than a company of them.
“I’m not too happy about this either, Nell,” Myrddin had said as they stood in Garth Celyn’s courtyard that morning. Nell had held Cadfarch’s bridle and fed him carrots while Myrddin adjusted his saddlebags. “Nor is the king.”
“Take me with you,” she said. “Nobody will know or care if I leave here, or what happens to me.”
“I will care.” Myrddin wouldn’t soon forget her tears from yesterday and their effect on his heart. “The road I’m taking passes right through St. Asaph. You don’t need to ride through there again.”
“Maybe I do need to,” Nell said.
“Nell—”
“I wouldn’t be alone this time,” Nell said. “I’d be with you, and I’d pretend to be your little brother. Nobody would give me a second look.”
“In boy’s clothes?” Myrddin said.
“Of course.”
“No,” he said, more firmly than before. “You’re a nun.”
“Not anymore,” she said, “and I have no intention of ever being one again.”
“The law—”
“The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God,” Nell quoted. “Give me credit for knowing at least that. But with Eryri about to fall to Modred, wearing a boy’s discarded breeches is surely a small matter.”
She gazed at him, disconcerting him because a vision of her lifeless and abused body had risen before his eyes. He blinked to clear them before she realized he’d seen it. That she’d experienced attempted rape and murder even once was unconscionable. She was crazed to think Myrddin would let her near the scene of the crime again.
“It wouldn’t work.” Regardless of his opinion, the request was ludicrous, and she had to know it. Still, Myrddin understood what she was feeling, too. She was a vibrant and competent woman, adrift in the middle of a war. Little wonder that she was struggling with it. But riding with him wasn’t the answer.
“It isn’t because you don’t trust me, is it?” she said. “It isn’t because you still believe that I spy for Modred?”
“That’s not it,” Myrddin said, acknowledging at last, albeit grudgingly, that the idea had always been unlikely.
“Besides.” Nell changed tack. “Masterless men didn’t attack me. Those men were knights. I just happened to get in their way.”
Myrddin snorted under his breath. “Don’t you think I know that? Modred would never allow marauders so close to Rhuddlan. His men are disciplined and he would have taken care of any such men who’d dared roam his territory. But who’s going to be at Rhuddlan? Those very same men! The thought of you left to your own devices at Rhuddlan Castle sends chills down my spine.”
Nell studied his face and then sighed, backing down. “Yes, my lord.”
Myrddin’s eyes narrowed at her uncharacteristic use of his title.
Her shoulders had fallen, but then she poked him in the chest. “But I’m holding it against you.”
“I can accept that,” Myrddin had said. He’d glanced back once as he left the castle to see Nell and Ifan standing on the battlements, watching him ride away. Nell had tucked herself into her cloak, with the hood up, but Ifan stood bareheaded, his crop of short, blonde hair unmistakable. Each had lifted a hand to wave him down the road. Myrddin had responded with a salute.
Now, at sunset, he followed the western side of the Clwyd River, past the drawbridge and its lesser gate, to the ford. Cadfarch splashed through the river, came up the bank, and stopped in front of the main defensive tower in the outer palisade. Myrddin waited, hoping that the archers who peered at him from the battlements would remain patient. He was Welsh but that didn’t mean that he was an enemy. Sad, but true.
A guard called to him from the walkway above the gatehouse. “Give me your name and your purpose.” The man, tall and helmetless, spoke in heavily accented Welsh.
“I come at the request of Arthur ap Uther, King of Wales,” Myrddin said, answering him in Saxon, the language in which the guard was sure to be most comfortable. “I have a letter for Lord Modred.”
The man studied Myrddin and then nodded. “You may enter provided you surrender your weapons.”
The words came this time in flawless Saxon, confirming Myrddin’s assessment, and Myrddin agreed with reluctance to what the soldier asked.
Men wore weapons as a matter of course, and for a man not to wear his sword was unusual—and insulting to the unarmed man, which is of course why the soldier intended to strip Myrddin of his. It wasn’t that he feared Myrddin would use his sword against Modred, but because he sought to humiliate him, and by association, King Arthur.
Myrddin urged Cadfarch under the gatehouse and into the outer bailey. Once inside the curtain wall, a cobbled path led to the massive double towers of the second gatehouse which protected the great hall behind it. Modred’s fort was impregnable. No one had ever taken it by force, although not for lack of trying. Cai had attacked it after taking down one of Modred’s more eastern castles the previous spring, but other than causing some damage from fire, he’d gone away unsatisfied.
It might be possible to starve the defenders out, but Myrddin wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Modred had built an escape tunnel under his castle, just like at Garth Celyn. Then again, he had less experience in losing wars and so perhaps hadn’t thought he needed one.
Torches flared in sconces—dozens of them—lighting the bailey almost as if it were day. Like everything else about Rhuddlan, the
expansive light was a display of wealth and power that the local populace would surely notice. Compared to any of King Arthur’s castles, which tended to be coldly utilitarian, even if their castellans did everything they could to make them comfortable, Rhuddlan was a palace. Modred’s image of himself had only grown more resplendent as his victories had increased in number.
Myrddin dismounted and instantly three men were upon him, two gripping his upper arms while a third disarmed him. He patted Myrddin down, finding one knife in his boot and a second tucked into the bracer on his forearm. Myrddin had hoped they’d miss that one and kicked himself for not having a maid sew a smaller knife into the lining of his cloak. A true spy, he wasn’t. Perhaps it was time he learned.
Just as they finished, another man of obvious rank, given his clothing and the artistry in the hilt of his sword, came out from under the secondary gatehouse. Even his walk was purposeful and distinctive. The men sitting outside the stables with doxies on their laps hastily put them aside to stand at his approach. The man didn’t indicate that he noticed—although, if he was a captain worth his salt, he would confront them later.
When the man reached Myrddin, he gave Myrddin a curt nod and said, “Lord Modred will see you now.”
Myrddin hadn’t expected anything different in terms of courtesy, although it would have been nice to brush the dust from his clothes and polish himself up so as to represent Arthur better. With no help for it, he allowed a stable boy to lead Cadfarch away, and then he trailed after the man, followed by one of the men-at-arms carrying his weapons. Even Modred knew he couldn’t have his men toss them in a corner. Myrddin couldn’t countenance it. They were his livelihood and the value of the sword alone was that of an entire village.
Rhuddlan’s walls and towers loomed even larger from the ground than on horseback. As Myrddin followed the knight through the second gatehouse, the second bailey, and into the great hall, he had to shake his head over the amount of time and treasure it had taken to build it. Modred’s people must be suffering greatly to have given him so much in such a short time.
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