Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I have none to give you.” Before Myrddin could elaborate on that lack of knowledge, he received another thrust to his abdomen. The pain was intense. His ears still rang from the previous blow, and his eyes no longer saw straight. A black mist rose across his vision. Myrddin fought it, blinking and struggling to stay conscious, even though the blackness would have been a relief. “A doxy. A fisherman. A ferryman. A nun. They all told us.”

  Modred eased backwards. Myrddin had a brief hope that he’d leave, but Modred got to his feet and came around the chair to stand in front of Myrddin. “You can do better than that.”

  Myrddin tried to focus on his face, but there appeared to be several of him now. “You have two noses.” He found the idea amusing, but the words came out slurred and his eyes blurred from tears he couldn’t stop from falling. They hadn’t even left him the dignity of wiping at them with the back of his hand.

  Modred snorted his disgust. “He’s done. For now.” He turned away, followed by the guards who pulled the door closed behind them and left the cell in darkness.

  Chapter Eleven

  14 November 537 AD

  “You are well and truly out of your mind!” Ifan followed Nell down the hall towards Lord Cedric of Brecon’s quarters, a stack of logs in his arms for stoking the fire in Cedric’s room.

  Nell glanced back at him, careful not to tip her tray of food and drink. “Am I? And what was your plan for getting Myrddin out of prison? A straight assault?”

  They’d arrived at Rhuddlan in time to see Myrddin hauled away from Cedric’s table—and the protest, albeit slight, that engendered from Cedric—and then spent the rest of that night and the next day mingling among the lowlier members of the castle. They both spoke Saxon, Nell better than Ifan, but only Welsh had been required so far, which was engendering a quiet rage in Nell. Her people had done far more to betray Arthur than the Saxons ever could. Well, except for his looming death at the church by the Cam River.

  “Better than all this sneaking around,” Ifan mumbled, not so low that she couldn’t hear him.

  At the same time, he hadn’t protested more than that, and so far had not objected to her taking charge of this aspect of the endeavor. Clearly, she’d spent far too many years in the company of women, and her confidence was out of place in a castle run by men.

  “You got us safely to Rhuddlan,” she said. “Trust me to manage this.”

  Ifan had caught her coming out of her room back at Garth Celyn, dressed as a boy. At first, Ifan hadn’t recognized her, which was all to the good as far as she was concerned. Then he’d grabbed her arm and hissed, “What are you doing?”

  “Going after Myrddin,” she said.

  “Alone? Are you mad? Myrddin told me what happened at St. Asaph; what he’d arrived almost too late to stop. You’d risk that again?”

  “Better than staying here and allowing him to go into danger alone,” Nell had said. “To die at Modred’s hands. I don’t—I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  That had brought Ifan up short. He’d looked at her, suspicious. Nell gazed back. Unfortunately, it was no less than the truth, although as always, not all of it. Myrddin went off on his own all the time. The difference today had been her dream last night. Frighteningly, instead of dreaming as Myrddin as she always had, she’d watched the battle from above, looking down on the king’s death. Myrddin wasn’t even there. Nell’s breath had caught in her throat at what that might mean.

  And yet, she’d told Ifan more of the truth than she liked to admit. Her visions of Arthur’s death took her only so far. Sometimes she simply had a feeling that she should do something, or that something wasn’t right—as if she could sense the currents and emotions of the people around her and they all added up to a conclusion that she couldn’t explain. She’d felt that way in the first moments of Wulfere’s attack on her convent. To her regret, she hadn’t felt it when she’d left her sisters alone in the barn. But she’d learned not to ignore her sense of wrongness when it came.

  Ifan nodded. “Neither do I. But this is not a task for a woman. I’ll go.”

  “No!” Nell had said. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”

  “I’ll tell the king—”

  Nell cut Ifan off with a finger to his lips. “Don’t you dare. Besides, I’m a free woman, with no husband or obligations to anyone but myself.”

  “Except to Myrddin?”

  “That is my choice,” Nell said.

  Ifan had stared into her face for a long moment, and then nodded. “I’ll talk to Geraint.”

  So here they were, thirty miles from Garth Celyn, in the very belly of the Saxon beast. Nell raised a hand to knock at Cedric’s door.

  “Come in.”

  Nell pushed the door open and entered the room, followed by Ifan. The room was less rich than some she’d seen in the castle. She’d flitted in and out of many over the last hours, always accompanied by Ifan and his logs. Nobody had to know that those were the same three pieces of wood he’d carried all day. They’d simply moved from room to room, purposeful and diligent, determining the lay of the land.

  Nobody ever questioned them or wondered at their actions. Far more than at Garth Celyn, servants here were invisible—even to other servants, provided she and Ifan kept their heads down. Rhuddlan was so huge that it was impossible for any one person to keep track of all the comings and goings.

  “My lord,” Nell said in Saxon, curtseying, “I’ve brought you a meal.”

  Cedric glanced up. “I didn’t ask for—” He cut off the sentence when Nell met his gaze with a sharp look she couldn’t help. It had been far sharper than he’d probably received from anyone since he was in his nurse’s care. “I see,” he said, after a quick scan of her face and clothes. “Put it there.”

  “My name is Nell ferch Morgan,” Nell said, abandoning the pretense that she was a boy. She gestured to Ifan, “And this is Ifan, from Garth Celyn.”

  “You’re Myrddin’s rescue party, are you?” Cedric’s mind discerned the truth faster than Nell could have hoped. “Are there more of you?”

  “No.” Nell paused. “Unless you’re willing to help us?”

  “Now why would I want to do that?”

  Nell gazed at him, her expression calm while she thought furiously for an answer.

  But it was Ifan who spoke. “Because you’ve got bigger ceilliau than Modred.”

  Cedric smiled.

  *

  “We’re getting you out of here,” Nell said.

  Myrddin swam upwards towards the faint light in his cell, coming to himself with his arms around Nell and his head on her shoulder.

  “You.” He felt marvelous all of a sudden.

  Ifan crouched at Myrddin’s feet, working at the chains that bound his ankles. Myrddin imagined they too were blood-rimmed, but his lower extremities were so numb from the cold and being forced to stay in one position for so long, he couldn’t feel them.

  A voice growled from behind Nell. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  Myrddin lifted his head to squint towards the form in the doorway.

  Cedric lounged against the frame, his arms folded across his chest. “Hurry up. We haven’t much time.”

  “Not like his lordship couldn’t help,” Ifan muttered in Welsh, under his breath.

  “I grew up in Wales.” Cedric’s tone was mild. “I learned Welsh in my nurse’s arms.”

  Nell lifted a hand to Myrddin’s face. With shaking fingers, she touched his eyebrow. “It’s the only part of you that isn’t wounded.” She was trying to jest, but her voice wavered.

  At last Ifan fitted the key into the final lock and opened it. “We need to move.”

  “I’m fine.” Myrddin took a step. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Just because the manacles were loose, however, didn’t mean he could walk. If Nell hadn’t still been holding him, he would have fallen. Seeing Myrddin’s peril, Ifan came up on his other side, his arm around Myrddin’s waist. Together, they h
obbled towards the door, Myrddin’s feet tingling as the blood rushed into them.

  Myrddin feared for guards, but Cedric kept a smirk on his face, unconcerned about the treasonous act in which he was openly participating. He turned at their approach, led the way across the stones of the foyer where Myrddin had seen guards earlier, and up the stairs.

  They came out of the stairwell into a larger room containing three soldiers, all unconscious. One sprawled across the table at which he’d been sitting at dice, while his companion’s head lolled against the right hand wall. The third guard had fallen off his bench onto the floor. He lay on his side, legs splayed in front of him. Like the others, his eyes were closed.

  “Drunk.” Cedric strode past the table at which they sat, not looking at them but at the same time not even attempting to be quiet.

  “The poppy juice I brought helped,” Nell said.

  Myrddin swiveled his head, searching for his weapons, but Ifan had taken care of the problem. “Your sword’s right here.” He patted his waist. “We recovered it first, in case we had to leave in a hurry. I left mine outside the castle with the horses.”

  “Thank you.” The sound came out more as a grunt than a word.

  A moment later, they were through the far doorway and into the outer bailey. The dungeon—or at least Myrddin’s dungeon—was situated in the basement of the southwest, square guard tower that overlooked the Clwyd River. The guardroom door sat at the base of the tower wall, effectively in a ditch, looking up to the inner wall, over two hundred feet away. If Modred had held Myrddin in one of the six towers that defended the inner bailey, he’d never have escaped.

  Myrddin had known where Modred had put him, of course, and now that he was being rescued, it seemed more suspicious than lucky to be so far from the central workings of the castle. Then again, maybe Modred didn’t like to disturb the castle inhabitants, including his beloved wife, with screaming.

  Cedric led them along the curtain wall that fronted the river to the river gate. The drawbridge was up, as it had been when Myrddin had arrived, but the postern door was unguarded. As Cedric drew it open, a moan sounded from farther along the wall in the shadow of the tower.

  “He sent him a whore.” Nell whispered to Myrddin as she and Ifan dragged Myrddin through the opening.

  Cedric halted in the doorway. “I leave you here. You may retrieve your horse at Brecon Castle, my home, should you care to do so.”

  Myrddin dropped his right arm from Nell’s shoulder and held it out to Cedric. “Thank you.”

  Cedric grasped Myrddin’s forearm, nodded stiffly, and shut the door in Myrddin’s face. He’d gone before Myrddin realized he’d never responded to Arthur’s message.

  But then, on second thought, perhaps he had.

  Nell, Ifan, and Myrddin staggered down the sharp bank that descended from the gate to the river. They could have crossed at a low spot a half-mile upstream, but it wouldn’t do to walk under the walls and expose themselves on the castle side of the Clywd, even at this hour of the night. The sooner they left the vicinity of Rhuddlan the better.

  “Can you swim?” Nell said.

  “He’s a fish when his arms work,” Ifan said.

  “I’m here,” Myrddin said. “I can speak.”

  “In,” Nell said.

  Obediently, Myrddin plunged into the water and struck out for the opposite bank. At worst, if he couldn’t have made it, he could have let the current carry him north to the ford that he’d ridden across on Cadfarch. Determined to succeed and not put Ifan or Nell into any further danger, Myrddin forced himself to stroke and kick long enough to reach the muddy bank.

  He crawled up it, bedraggled and soaking wet, although the cold water made his wounds feel a bit better. Myrddin could even sense his feet and, for the first time, was happy not to have worn boots. Nell and Ifan had kept theirs on and would have to stop once they were clear of the castle to empty them of water.

  “How far?” Myrddin said, once they’d clawed their way out of the brush, onto the road, and then across it into the ditch on the other side.

  “We left the horses close by.” Nell grasped Myrddin’s arm and lifted him out of the scrub. “You can make it.”

  “I’m not sure that I can do anything anymore without you.” The words were out before he could censor them. Nell had her head up, watching the road, and didn’t respond, for which Myrddin was grateful. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him.

  Close by wasn’t quite as close as he’d hoped. More time passed, Myrddin hobbling on tender feet, before they reached the copse of beech trees in which Ifan had tied the horses. They’d brought only two so, once again, Nell and Myrddin would share. Ifan passed Myrddin his water flask, but Myrddin’s hands were so cold, and he was so tired, that he couldn’t remove the stopper.

  Nell pulled it out, but even then his hands shook so much that the water spilled out the top. In the end, Nell placed both of her hands on either side of his and helped Myrddin tip it up. Then she had to help him out of his wet clothes and into loose breeches and shirt.

  “From Caerhun again?” he said as she fastened the cloak around his neck.

  “Rhodri laughed when I asked for them,” she said, “but he gave way. It was better to be safe than sorry.”

  Finally, when they were all dressed in dry clothing, Myrddin had to face the notion of climbing on the horse. The saddle looked miles away.

  “Come on, lad,” Ifan said.

  Myrddin rested a hand on Nell’s shoulder while Ifan steadied him. With Myrddin’s foot in a stirrup, they shoved him hard upwards, shooting him towards the saddle. He sprawled across the horse’s withers, exhausted. With some more pushing from Ifan, Myrddin managed to swing his leg over the horse’s back and straighten. His forearm was one of the few limbs that didn’t hurt, so Myrddin offered it to Nell. She grasped it, clambering into place behind him.

  Every bone, muscle, and nerve in Myrddin’s body screamed at him. The only reason he was even upright was because Nell held him on the horse. It had been a long time since he’d felt this terrible. If it wouldn’t end up hurting him more, Myrddin would have rubbed his face to hide the tears—of pain and the frustration that he couldn’t control—that threatened to spill from his eyes.

  Myrddin swallowed hard, fighting for control. “Talk,” he said, once they urged the horses out of the brush and had given them their heads.

  “We followed you,” Ifan said, giving Myrddin a chance to gather his wits. “I received permission from Lord Geraint—more or less—and we were gone within an hour of your own departure. As we knew where you were going, we hardly needed to trail you closely.”

  “Where’d you get the boys’ clothes?” Myrddin asked Nell.

  “From a stable boy,” she said. “He’d outgrown them and his mother’d been saving them for his younger brother.”

  “And then?” Myrddin said, when neither wanted to continue.

  “We followed you all the way here.” Ifan shrugged.

  “There was a chance you’d rest with the garrison at Caerhun,” Nell said, “but Rhodri said they hadn’t seen you.”

  “Or rather,” Ifan added, “they’d seen you but you’d crossed the ford instead of turning in at the fort.”

  “Because we took time at Caerhun and had to hide the horses, we reached Rhuddlan a few hours behind you. It was full dark, but the villagers were still up and about.”

  “We entered the castle in the back of a hay wagon,” Ifan said.

  The tag-team story telling was giving Myrddin a headache, but they were in full spate, and Myrddin chose not to stop them. “Go on.”

  “Hundreds of people work in that castle,” Ifan said. “As I left my weapons and armor with the horses on the other side of the Clywd, it was a simple matter to pretend to be other than what we are.”

  “What I want to know, more than anything, is about Cedric,” Myrddin said. “How did you convince him to free me?”

  “That was my idea,” Nell said. “We dined in the hall a
t the same time you did—after you’d met with Modred. To our eyes, Cedric didn’t object to your company; although we didn’t know how you’d met, it seemed fortuitous, given the discussion you and I had at Garth Celyn.”

  “So when the guards hauled you away,” Ifan said, “and Cedric protested, albeit not loudly and not to Modred, we decided to take a chance on him.”

  “What did you do? Walk up to him and say, Greetings. We’re with Myrddin. Will you help us free him from the dungeon?”

  Ifan laughed from deep in his chest. “Yes. If I’m ever in a tight place, I’d prefer to have Nell with me. She was as bold as Queen Gwenhwyfar herself.”

  “He deliberated only briefly before he agreed to help you escape,” Nell said. “We watched for Modred to come to you again, but he didn’t. He went to his bed, and then we acted.”

  “Thank you for freeing me.” Myrddin realized he hadn’t yet said it. “It was quite a chance you took.”

  “I hope Cedric doesn’t suffer for it,” Nell said, “once Modred realizes you’re gone.”

  The crisp air, along with their story, had perked Myrddin up considerably, even as his muscles stiffened from the cold. “He’s Cedric ap Aelfric. He gave the guards wine and women, and if they remember what passed in the night, it will be a miracle. When Cedric tells Modred that he had nothing to do with my escape, if it even comes to that, it will be good enough for Modred.”

  “Cedric said he wouldn’t leave Rhuddlan until the guards discovered your absence, after which he and his men would travel south to Brecon.” Ifan paused, thinking. “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

  “As in, the why of it? Why did he risk his own neck to free me?” The sight of Cedric in the doorway was fresh in Myrddin’s mind and he felt a weight lifting from his shoulders. “He is willing to consider an alliance with King Arthur.”

  “He said that?” Nell said.

  “He showed it,” Myrddin said.

  Chapter Twelve

  15 November 537 AD

  “Can you hear me, Myrddin?” Nell leaned over Myrddin’s inert form.