Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Cedric handed the letter back to Modred who tossed it into a wooden box on the floor behind him and sat heavily in his chair once again.

  “My spies inform me that Arthur has sent men south to open a new front against me in Powys,” Modred said.

  Myrddin started at that, the pit forming in his stomach and the chills running down his spine telling him that Modred’s attitude towards him had changed in the time he’d been gone. Myrddin gritted his teeth, fighting back the cold certainty. Despite what Modred had said earlier about not harming him because he’d killed Wulfere, he must have decided Myrddin would never leave Rhuddlan or he would not have spoken openly of this.

  Myrddin was a walking dead man.

  “I’ve heard that Lord Gawain is marshalling a force to threaten Brecon,” Cedric said.

  “You wish to be relieved of your duties in the north, then?” Modred said. “To deal with this new threat?”

  Myrddin couldn’t tell if he was mocking Cedric or asking a serious question. Cedric treated it as genuine.

  “If it please you, my lord. A strong hand is needed at Brecon or my lands might fall to Arthur’s army. That would serve neither me nor you.”

  Modred contemplated Cedric’s face. Cedric, for his part, kept his back straight, looking forward, even if it might cost him Modred’s favor. Modred tapped one finger to his lips, as was his habit, and spoke.

  “I will not have a repeat of the Anglesey disaster. I had ordered Wulfere to delay his attack. It is fortunate for him that our friend, here, killed him before I could myself.”

  “I understand completely, my lord,” Cedric said. “If I offended you in any way, it was not my intent.”

  “Is that so?” If anything, Modred grew more still. No doubt he was thinking, as Myrddin was, of that long ago war. “It is I, and I alone, who will determine that.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Cedric’s jaw was set, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “I have further news, sire, that might interest you. Lord Edgar has sent a letter to Arthur, inviting him south. If the king wasn’t already resolved to lead his men himself, this will confirm his intent.”

  Was there anything the Saxons didn’t know?

  Modred leaned forward, apparently truly interested for the first time. “The king has agreed to this meeting?”

  “I know not, my lord.”

  Modred sat back, sneering. “Arthur will agree. I am sure of it. He is that desperate—and naïve. The notion that Edgar would side with a rebel such as he is laughable.”

  Cedric didn’t respond to Modred’s assertion any more than Myrddin did, even if Cedric’s mind had to be revolving with the same calculations as Myrddin’s. Did Modred know that Edgar’s resentments were as great as Cedric’s own, for all he was younger and less experienced? Did Modred know of Edgar’s anger at being denied his inheritance?

  “May I go, my lord?” Cedric said.

  “Go.” Modred waved his hand dismissively. “When we meet next, Arthur will be dead, and I will have all Wales in the palm of my hand.”

  Cedric bowed one more time and turned for the door. He held Myrddin’s gaze as he walked the thirty feet between them. Myrddin couldn’t read his expression but felt he was trying to tell him something. Cedric’s eyes flicked to the door and then back to Myrddin.

  Flee now?

  If Arthur died, Wales would be left rudderless. Arthur had no sons to come after him, and his death would solidify Edgar’s station with Modred. The thought could not have been comforting to Cedric. He had to despise Modred’s vision of the future of Wales. For Myrddin’s part, he didn’t like Modred’s confident power. He didn’t like it at all.

  Chapter Ten

  13 November 537 AD

  The hours after midnight can be bleak. Certainly, the dungeon under the southwest tower of Rhuddlan Castle was not an enjoyable location in which to spend them. The castle was new, true, but the walls seeped water, which came from either the moat or the river—it hardly mattered which one, but given Myrddin’s location, he suspected the river—and mold had formed in the corners of his cell. From his fixed position on the wall, he could smell it, although not see it, since darkness shrouded his cell. The sole light came from the torch in a sconce on the wall in the guardroom on the other side of the door.

  A hole, bifurcated by a single bar, had been cut in the door. Beyond, shadows and the occasional figures of Myrddin’s guard, passed. Representing almost a greater threat than the guards were the three rats that had found their way to a far corner. Those, Myrddin could see as well as hear, and they ensured that any notion of dropping off to sleep in such an uncomfortable position was squashed before he took it seriously.

  He was still cursing himself as to how in the hell he’d ended up here in the first place.

  After Modred had dismissed Cedric, Myrddin had snatched up his weapons and followed Cedric out the door. With a confidence he didn’t really feel, Myrddin moved along the hallway, buckling on his sword and intending to make a quick getaway. Cedric heard his steps behind him, however, and pulled Myrddin aside.

  “Modred won’t let you leave.”

  “I fear you are correct,” Myrddin said, “but I must try.”

  “Wait a while,” he said. “Dine with me. After the meal, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  Myrddin doubted he could trust him, but believed the guards would prevent him from walking out the front gate. So Myrddin went to the great hall with Cedric. Full darkness had descended shortly after he’d arrived at Rhuddlan, and by now they’d missed the bulk of the meal. But like Modred, Cedric got to eat whenever he wanted.

  The hall was still full of men, all of whom would have been hostile to Myrddin if they’d known who he was. But since he entered as Cedric’s new-found companion, if not friend, nobody approached them. Cedric was known for standing on ceremony and insisting on the comforts and accolades of his office—much like King Arthur.

  A servant appeared with trenchers for their food and goblets for wine, which she laid before them. She wore the garb of a Saxon girl and was perhaps one of the villagers whom Modred had brought to Rhuddlan for this purpose. Although she was young and lovely, in a blonde, Saxon way, Cedric didn’t spare her a glance. It supported the rumors Myrddin had heard that Cedric was faithful to his wife—an unusual trait among noble men. And something else he didn’t share with Modred, although Modred apparently did love his wife to distraction.

  Myrddin shifted in his seat to see past Cedric to the rest of the room. “Is Agravaine here?” He’d never met the man and wanted to know what he looked like.

  “No,” Cedric said, without looking around. He ate with small, dainty bites, as if he wasn’t quite sure as to the safety or spicing of the food. “He’d sleep in a barn rather than stay at Rhuddlan.”

  “Why is that?” Myrddin said.

  “The man’s a ghost; flitting in and out among Modred’s possessions, never stopping anywhere for more than a day if the castle belongs to someone other than himself. Agravaine trusts no one. Modred puts up with it because he wins battles and does as he’s told. Half the time it seems he can see the future before it happens.”

  Myrddin didn’t like the sound of that and would have inquired further, but Cedric was done with the subject, taking a sip of wine and then gesturing to the servant for more turnips. Myrddin went back to surveying the hall. Plenty of Welshmen were scattered among the diners—both men who’d sided with Modred from the first and recent defectors. Beyond Cedric’s left shoulder, two monks whom Myrddin thought he recognized sat at a far table.

  A quick inspection of their undyed robes and cloaks confirmed his suspicions: they were the brothers Llywelyn and Rhys, cousins to Gareth, and brothers to the Hywel who’d died at Penrhyn after the battle at the Strait. Brother Llywelyn was the prior of the monastery at Bangor, and Rhys was the friar of St. Deiniol, the cathedral church, also in Bangor.

  As Hywel had explained, it was Llywelyn who’d talked his brothers into betraying King Arthur. Myrddin’s
disgust for him and that loathsome act hadn’t abated in the intervening years. Perhaps feeling the intensity of Myrddin’s stare, Llywelyn glanced up, caught Myrddin’s eye, and glowered. Once Rhys noted Llywelyn’s attention, he turned to look at him as well. Myrddin didn’t glance away, but returned their glares. It was childish of him but he refused to back down.

  “What are you looking at?” Cedric said, noting Myrddin’s odd behavior. He twisted in his seat to glance behind him.

  “I know those two monks over there.” Myrddin pointed at them with his chin.

  Cedric pursed his lips, turning back to his food. “I don’t like traitors. Not even ones on my side.”

  “I suppose it’s a matter of perspective,” Myrddin said. “One man’s traitor is another man’s loyal subject.”

  “Edgar won’t betray Lord Modred.” Cedric spoke as if they’d had a conversation about Edgar already which had been interrupted, even though they hadn’t. “If Modred keeps Agravaine on a tight leash, Agravaine keeps an even tighter one on Edgar. He will do nothing of his own accord.”

  “Would that be true for you as well?” Myrddin said.

  Cedric pointed his knife at Myrddin. “Don’t let King Arthur come south.”

  Myrddin canted his head to the side. “And leave your lands alone?”

  Cedric chuckled deep in his throat, but then cut it off. “I’d prefer it.”

  “What would Modred think of your warning?”

  Cedric gave Myrddin a hard look. “He’s the one who allowed you to hear of the danger that awaits your king in Powys. Weren’t you paying attention earlier? I’ve not said anything that he hasn’t already made clear.”

  Myrddin shook his head at the complexity of it all. His visions were incomplete and by now, nearly useless. He’d accepted that he had to take action, but while the dreams told him that Arthur shouldn’t come south to meet with Edgar, they didn’t tell him what needed to happen instead. To have Cedric informing him of what he already knew—even though it hadn’t yet happened—was disconcerting.

  Cedric pushed away his plate, the food on it half-eaten. He was gathering himself to get to his feet when Modred strode into the room, trailed by the Archbishop. He, in turn, was flanked by two more churchmen whom Myrddin didn’t recognize, and said as much to Cedric.

  “Bishop Anian of St. Asaph.” Cedric rose to his feet as they always did in the presence of Modred. “The other is the Archdeacon of Anglesey.”

  Myrddin’s heart sank into his boots, for he knew what was coming, just as King Arthur had predicted to his brother. At Modred’s raised hand, the room quieted. Modred lifted his voice so that it carried to the far corners of the hall.

  “I present to you Archbishop Dafydd. Listen well and take heed of his words.”

  The Archbishop stepped forward, a piece of paper in his shaking hands. Maybe it was because he suffered from palsy, even though he couldn’t have been much older than Myrddin. Myrddin was willing to believe the archbishop understood the significance of what he was about to do and half-regretted it. Myrddin briefly felt sorry for him.

  Dafydd spoke in Latin, and then again in Saxon so everyone in the room would understand:

  Arthur ap Uther, along with his brother, Cai, notwithstanding the formal canonical warning of 17 June last and the repeated appeals to desist from their intentions, have performed a schismatical act of disobedience and have therefore incurred the penalty of excommunication latae sententiae. The priests and faithful are warned not to support the schism of Arthur and Cai, otherwise they shall incur ipso facto a similar punishment.

  There it was. Arthur was a devout believer, and would care—fearing for his soul—but this pronouncement would change nothing. The churches in Gwynedd—as opposed to those Archbishop Dafydd oversaw in the south of Wales—would continue to administer to the faithful: marrying, baptizing, and seeing to their spiritual needs, in defiance of the injustice of this act.

  “This will make it easier for those who are so inclined to betray King Arthur.” Cedric sat down again as Modred left the hall and the priests found seats at the high table.

  Myrddin shrugged. “Or the opposite. The excommunication of their leader at the behest of a despised usurper might only confirm the rightness of their choice in their eyes.”

  “Did you say despised usurper?” Cedric said. “You are too bold.”

  “A man must live by his conscience,” Myrddin said. “When men say that they speak for God, in pursuit of their own power, it calls their words into doubt.”

  Cedric’s hard look was back. Myrddin thought better of further conversation, but even if he’d wanted to speak, he wasn’t given a chance. Two men-at-arms appeared, one on either side of Myrddin, grasped him under the arms, and lifted him bodily over his bench. Before Myrddin had a chance to do more than sputter, they had him up against the wall, his back braced and his legs spread.

  “What’s this?” Cedric gestured with his knife. “We were eating.”

  The man on Myrddin’s right spoke. “Our apologies, my lord. Lord Modred has given orders.”

  In those first moments of his captivity, his face already bruised from the guard’s fists, Myrddin had hoped he could withstand their treatment and not submit. It was clear fairly quickly, however, that they didn’t want any information from him. Perhaps they beat prisoners—and King Arthur’s men—as a matter of course.

  Five hours later, Myrddin’s body was stiff from the cold, his wrists and ankles chained, and he had an almighty headache. The one positive note was that the blood along Myrddin’s upper lip had dried and was no longer dripping onto his clothing and the floor. He didn’t want to attract those rats to his toes, which, absent his boots, were too easily accessible. Myrddin wiggled them, trying to increase their circulation.

  A light flickered through the small window in the wooden door that blocked the entrance to Myrddin’s cell. Myrddin shifted, awkward, the shackles digging into his wrists. A rime of blood seeped around the metal band every time he moved, the edge cutting farther into his skin. Then the door opened to reveal Modred himself and two guards, one of whom carried an upright, wooden chair. He set it in the middle of the cell. Modred turned it around and sat facing Myrddin, his arms resting along the top rail.

  “So,” he said. “Now that we both are situated more comfortably, perhaps you’ll answer some of my questions.”

  It was a jest, but Myrddin wasn’t laughing. “I answered truthfully before. I would have answered whatever other questions you chose to put to me in your hall.”

  “Perhaps.” Modred flicked a crumb off his sleeve with one finger towards the rats in the corner. The rats scurried to where the crumb had fallen and, after a brief scuffle, the dominant one ate it. Myrddin watched, horrified, thinking of how easily one could take a bite out of him. “But not as quickly or completely.”

  Myrddin moved his eyes back to Modred’s face. “Why would I be any more likely to do as you ask now, since you’re going to kill me anyway?”

  “Ah,” Modred said. “But the manner of your death remains a mystery. It is something to be negotiated.”

  Myrddin had known all along that Modred was a murderous son-of-a-bitch. What Welshman didn’t know that? But, naïvely, Myrddin hadn’t expected him to direct this level of villainy at him. Then again, this was the man who hanged a hundred of his own merchants so he could confiscate their possessions—and pay for his war against Arthur. Nothing was beyond this man. Worse, Modred knew that Myrddin knew it.

  When Myrddin didn’t reply, Modred nodded at one of the guards, who fisted his hand and shot it into Myrddin’s midsection. If Myrddin’s bonds hadn’t held him tightly, he would have gone down and stayed down. As it was, he couldn’t even bend forward to better absorb the blow.

  “Now,” Modred said. “I want the truth. What happened at the Menai Strait?”

  “I told you already.” Myrddin said. “Cedric did too. It was just as he said.”

  The guard backhanded Myrddin across the face, and hi
s head clunked against the stones behind him. Blood formed at the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin. Myrddin turned his head and hunched his shoulders, trying to staunch it on his shirt. He couldn’t reach, however, and fell back, moaning more from frustration at his helplessness than the pain.

  “I want the rest.” Modred said. “There’s more. What haven’t you told me?”

  Myrddin was at a loss, both for something else to give and for what Arthur would think was acceptable for him to say. Myrddin took a stab at a new piece of information. “We sabotaged the boats.”

  “Better,” Modred said. “Whose idea was that?”

  “Mine.”

  Another blow to the kidneys.

  “I want the traitor’s name,” Modred said.

  Myrddin must have looked as blank as he felt because he received another shot to the face. “Traitor? You mean Lord Cai?”

  Modred’s face purpled, revealing a passion that was likely to give him heart failure. In his youth, Modred had been Cai’s squire. They’d remained close companions for many years afterwards, even after Modred began to assert his own claim to the throne over Cai’s. Whatever bond had survived the years had been severed with Cai’s latest actions. Perhaps in Modred—as in Cai—love and hatred were two sides of the same coin.

  Modred and Myrddin stared at each other and, slowly, Modred’s color subsided. He barked a laugh. “I’ll give you that. He betrays both sides as it pleases him. No, I want the traitor in my ranks. The one who informed you that Wulfere would cross the Strait that day. I want to know why you were ready for him.”

  Myrddin opted for a shrug. “We knew. I don’t know all the people who told us, but there were many sources. Wulfere was too open about his plans, at least on the Anglesey side. Not all the people there support the Saxon cause.”

  Another slap, which Myrddin should have known was coming for being cheeky.

  “Names,” Modred said.