“What would you have us do, brother, that we have not already done? Did I not write to Modred that we spoke with one voice? Did not you? Did I not say that even were I willing to acknowledge Modred as my heir, the people of Wales would be unwilling to do homage to one such as he who has no respect for their laws and customs?”
A murmur of approval swept through the hall.
“I say we do not write it,” Cai said. “I say we shout it! From the highest peak of Yr Wyddfa, we must cry aloud as one people and keep crying it until Modred heeds our words. I say we take what is ours for Wales and only for Wales! I say we tell Modred what we think of his rights and his armies! I say we are a free and independent people and I, for one, am tired of living at Modred’s sufferance!”
Cai’s eyes were alive with triumph. He seemed to tower over the company with his power and eloquence.
Arthur, however, remained unmoved.
“To deny his claim to the throne will only spur Modred to greater heights of aggravation,” he said. “He will take it as we mean it—as an open declaration that our people will never abide a half-Saxon overlord, even if he is also half-Welsh and my nephew. It treads hard on his divine right to rule.”
Cai shot back. “We are already at odds with him. We thwart him and his church at every step. What more can he do to us that he has not already done? If you fear to place yourself at the head of such an endeavor, I do not!”
His shout rang throughout the hall. Then, silence settled, and it was as if everyone was holding his breath—Myrddin and Huw among them—waiting for Arthur’s answer.
“You are not afraid to renew the fight, brother?” Arthur said.
“I am not afraid, brother,” Cai said. “For the good of her people, I would stand tall and never again bend to a Saxon lord or allow Modred to set his boot on the back our necks.”
Another pause. The energy hummed among the men, just below the surface, threatening to come out.
Arthur released it.
“Then, so would I. I will take that chance.” For the first time, Arthur’s voice boomed out to every corner of the room. “Who will stand with me against Modred and his Saxon toadies, now and forever? Who would see the Kingdom of Wales renewed?”
Bedwyr shot his fist into the air. “Aye!”
A half second behind him came Cai, and almost in the same instant, Myrddin was one of dozens of others who matched him. Even Deiniol, who must have been taken up in the excitement and Myrddin feared would find himself with second thoughts by the time the doors to the hall opened, thrust his fist into the air.
Everyone shouted together. “Aye! God is with us!”
Arthur focused on his brother, who met his eyes. Cai’s glowed with exhilaration and something else that Myrddin read as deceit. Then Arthur nodded, straightened, and turned from the table. Leaving Bedwyr to sort out the other lords, he strode from the hall.
*
“I hear that the barons have promised Arthur more money and men,” Nell said, when Myrddin found her in her herb hut, boiling a concoction on the brazier. “Is it true? I didn’t dare believe it until I heard it from you.”
“That is what they’ve pledged. That’s what King Arthur has sworn. He promised to push Modred out of Powys by Christmas.” He paused as their eyes met. “If we live that long.”
“What does Huw think?” Nell said.
“He has discovered what it means to be Welsh,” Myrddin said.
“We all feel it.” Nell forcefully set down the jar she held, and it almost tipped over. She righted it and then put it on the shelf above her head. “If the lords of Wales would stop fighting among themselves and unite, as they did at Mt. Badon, we would have the peace we need—not the peace that Modred wants.”
“Modred has more men at his disposal than we do,” Myrddin said. “This won’t be easy.”
“He is a vicious man, Myrddin. You do understand that if you ever cross paths with him again, you’re dead.” She held his eyes, like she once might have focused on one of the novice nuns, unsure if he was really listening. Myrddin went his own way, with a strong sense of rightness that Nell trusted, but that she feared might cost him his life.
“I know it,” Myrddin said.
“You say that so casually,” she said, “but I don’t want you to die.”
Myrddin’s mouth twisted. “Nor do I.” He glanced away.
Nell studied his profile and then turned away herself. Her back to him, she rummaged among her vials in the cupboard behind her. After the deaths of all her family, she’d carefully buried that part of her heart that cared too much—loved too much. But despite her best efforts to suppress it, she’d started caring for this man from the moment he’d stormed into the clearing to rescue her at St. Asaph, even before she knew him as the Myrddin from her dreams. That she’d loved that man since she was eight years old didn’t help.
“Are you well?” Myrddin said.
Nell found herself smiling, her back still to him, studying the label of each of her jars in turn. “I am well, Myrddin. Thank you for asking.”
Chapter Seventeen
24 November 537 AD
The feast showed all the signs of fading into drunkenness. It was growing late—or rather, early, as midnight had come and gone—and the hall remained full of drinkers and diners, many of whom would be returning to their homes tomorrow with a fine headache.
The lords of Wales had met one more time that afternoon, to give final approval for the wording of the letter to Modred. If the Welsh were anything, they were lawyers and the national pastime was suing each other over the smallest issue. A man moved a boundary stone, his opponent moved a fence, and they went to court to dispute their differences. They would settle them and then repeat the process the following year—sometimes over the same stones and fences. It was a wonder it had taken only three days with clerks and vellum to agree on the wording of the letter to Modred. There were years when it would have been too thorny an issue and tabled.
Bishop Anian had read the letter aloud to the general approval of the hall:
The people of Wales, for their part, state that even if their king desired to give his nephew rule of them, they themselves would not do homage to any Saxon, of whose language, customs and laws they are utterly ignorant. For by doing so, they would be brought into perpetual captivity and barbarously treated …
King Arthur had retired from the hall long since; Cai had been absent since before the last course. His behavior at the Council, once again, had been patriotically Welsh. How could Myrddin accuse him of betrayal when all eyes saw differently?
“I need you to help me with something.” Nell plopped herself between Myrddin and Huw.
“Help you with what?” Myrddin said.
“I’ve felt something. Again.”
“Felt, or seen?” Myrddin said.
“Not seen.” Nell turned her body to shield them both from Huw’s eyes, put her hand on Myrddin’s, and gently squeezed. “I can’t explain it. It’s like when you went to Rhuddlan. Ever since we overheard Cai speaking to Gruffydd, I’ve been afraid. I can’t articulate it, but something bad is going to happen tonight.”
“All right,” Myrddin said, intrigued.
“Tunnels lie underneath Garth Celyn. Will you poke around them with me? I thought you’d be angry if I followed one of the passages and didn’t tell you, especially after what happened at Llanfaes.”
“I surely would.” Myrddin was glad that at long last she was paying attention to what was good for her without him having to tell her.
Huw, whose mental image of himself definitely included tunnel exploring, perked up too. Huw and Myrddin followed Nell out of the great hall, past Arthur’s receiving room, to one of the towers that buttressed the administrative building. This particular tower was the most northwestern; the garrison used it to watch the sea for enemy ships and to store equipment, beyond what was regularly kept in the barracks across the courtyard by the gatehouse.
When they entered, two
men sprawled in chairs on either side of a table set against the far wall. They’d been drinking, but were sober enough to think of duty as Myrddin entered.
“Sir,” said the first, a man named Tristan.
“We thought we’d see to the security of the sea tunnel,” Myrddin said, working hard to keep a straight face.
“It’s dusty down there.” Tristan walked to the trap door, set in the exact middle of the floor, knelt, and stuck his fingers through the recessed iron ring. He yanked on it. As the trap door came up, Myrddin grasped the edge to help him lift it. Below, a stairway led downwards.
Myrddin met Nell’s eyes and she mouthed, thank you.
“It’s been a long time since I trod these steps,” Myrddin said.
“There’s another tunnel that leads into the mountains behind us,” Tristan said. “It empties into a meadow below Aber Falls.”
“We’ll have to try that next,” Nell said.
Myrddin swallowed a sarcastic reply about unbecoming behavior in an ex-nun, not wanting to squash her enthusiasm and because her concern was forcing him to reassess how seriously to take this.
Tristan handed Myrddin a lantern, and in a file they walked down the surprisingly broad treads. Huw and Myrddin had to duck their heads so as to not hit the floorboards above them as they descended. Fifteen steps down, they arrived in a small room, much like the foyer in front of the cells at Rhuddlan, except there were no cells with prisoners, just a closed door.
Myrddin didn’t recall a door there at all from his forays with Ifan or other boys as a youth but, admittedly, it was a long time ago. He raised the lantern high to inspect the stones around the door and the dust at its base.
“Look, Father.” Huw pointed to fresh footprints in front of the door. Myrddin crouched to inspect them with him.
“Someone got here ahead of us,” Nell said.
Huw lowered his voice. “Do you think something’s really wrong? The hinges on the trap door were oiled, and the stairs were swept clean. Everybody knows about the tunnels.”
“I realize that,” Myrddin said. “But whoever swept the stairs, pushed the dust right onto the floor here. Everything would have been cleaned in preparation for the Council meeting, up to and including the stairs. That means that these footprints are very recent.”
Nell, her arms folded across her chest, stared down at the footprints. Myrddin glanced at her and then beyond her, up the stairs to Tristan who still stood at the top.
“What is it?” Tristan said.
Myrddin straightened. “Did someone come through here tonight before us?”
“Not on my watch,” he said.
“Keep your eyes open.” Myrddin lifted the latch on the door and a gust of air wafted through it. “And you might tell Lord Geraint where we’ve gone.”
“Yes, sir,” Tristan said.
“I can smell the sea,” Nell said.
Huw loosened his sword in its sheath. Myrddin took Nell’s hand and led the way into the tunnel. It was five feet wide. Every six feet along it, a stone archway supported the wooden roof, which itself was at least six and a half feet high. Both Huw and Myrddin could walk comfortably along it. Water seeped through cracks in the walls; eventually the wood in the roof would rot, given the wet climate, but it was still solidly holding up the tons of earth that pressed down from above.
Huw stared around them. “Who built this, Father?”
“I believe the Romans started it.”
“You can see the footprints again.” Nell pointed at the ground.
Huw had his sword in his hand now. “Do we go on?” He stepped past Myrddin and Nell and along the corridor.
“Yes.” Myrddin’s eyes strained to see beyond the rim of the circle of light thrown out by the lantern.
Huw gestured at the floor with the tip of his sword. “There are two sets of footprints. One man walked behind the other, and over there where the tunnel widens, the footprints go side by side.”
He paced ahead of them, his left hand on the wall. Myrddin gripped Nell’s hand more tightly and put his head close to hers. “How did you know, Nell?”
“I didn’t.” Nell shook her head. “It’s like when you left for Rhuddlan. I can’t believe—” She broke off.
“Well, feeling or not, you may have saved all of us.”
The smell of the sea grew stronger. The tunnel curved to the left in front of them and, as they came around the corner, a light flickered, reflecting off the moisture on the stone pillars. They retreated back around the curve and Huw doused the lantern. It wasn’t entirely dark, as the light in front of them continued to flare.
Myrddin peered around the corner, making sure he stayed low to the ground in case someone looked their way. The light came from a source a short distance outside the entrance to the tunnel. The sound of the sea was louder now, but with it, when he stayed still, voices echoed.
Myrddin listened, trying to understand what they were saying. Then Nell moaned. “Oh, no.”
“What?” Huw and Myrddin spoke together.
“Listen,” she said. “Those are Saxon voices.”
Myrddin didn’t need to hear them himself to believe her. He pushed her towards Huw. “Relight the lantern and run as fast as you can to Geraint. Tell him there are Saxons outside the sea tunnel, who are being aided by two men from Garth Celyn.”
Huw hesitated, but Nell understood immediately.
“It’s better if just one of us stays, Huw. Myrddin speaks Saxon just as well as we do, and better Latin, if it comes to it. Someone needs to warn the king so he can plan our defenses. They must think to sneak into the castle with us unaware. Come!”
That Huw understood. With a quick strike of flint, he relit the lantern and then took Nell’s hand to run back the way they’d come, Nell holding her heavy skirts off the ground with one hand. Myrddin spared them a last glance before swinging back to face the sea. He swallowed hard. He had no doubt that whoever these Saxons were, they would kill him if they caught him. Nevertheless, he hugged the wall and crept around the corner.
As Myrddin moved closer to the exit, the individual voices became clearer. Ten paces from the opening to the tunnel, he crouched low and listened. Several different conversations were going on at the same time, but the one occurring closest to the doorway was in Saxon.
“I will return to the castle overland to ensure that no alarm is raised and that the men I left guarding the exit remain true.” The voice belonged to Owain, who’d evidently decided to continue his stand with Modred. Myrddin shook his head, choking down bile at this betrayal and fearing for the safety of Nell and Huw—and everyone in the castle.
A second man spoke, his voice ringing clearly down the passage even through what had to be clenched teeth. “No! That is not part of the agreement!”
“You dare threaten me?” Owain said. Feet scuffled and Myrddin imagined them facing off against each other, swords drawn. “Modred will hear of this!”
“He certainly shall,” said the second man, “especially when I tell him that our Welsh traitor lost his nerve at the last moment!”
A third man spoke, this time in Welsh. “Be reasonable, Owain. They are looking out for their own interests, just as you are. I, for one, will be glad when this night is over, but we said we would lead them into Garth Celyn, and that we must do.”
The second voice spoke again, still in Saxon. “Enough! I will leave five men with the boats. The rest of the company must march now if we are to have the cover of darkness for our work. Let’s see this tunnel of yours, and then I alone will judge if you are true to your word.”
Myrddin backed away from the entrance. A second later, he was around the corner and running, as fast and as urgently as he’d ever run before. He worried briefly about the echo of his pounding feet, but hoped he would be far enough away when the Saxons entered the tunnel such that the sounds of their movements would mask his own.
Myrddin ran the first quarter mile flat out, brushing his fingers along the right hand wall
to guide his steps in the dark. He settled into a slower jog for the second half of the journey, which brought him into Garth Celyn with breath still in him. Huw had left the door to the tunnel cracked open.
Myrddin hit it with his shoulder and nearly impaled himself on a half-dozen swords, their owners ready for a fight. He skidded to a halt and blinked—and the men-at-arms gave way.
“Pardon, my lord,” Tristan called to Myrddin’s back as he ran past him to take the stairs up three at a time.
Huw waited for Myrddin at the top. “Lord Geraint was still awake. He sent me to Gareth, who is rousting the men in the hall and barracks. He sent Nell to wake the king.”
They crossed the courtyard between the administrative building and the sleeping quarters. Once inside, they jogged up a stairway and turned down the hallway to King Arthur’s room. Nell had just knocked.
Arthur’s deep voice boomed through the oak. “Enter!”
Nell pushed the door open and hovered on the threshold with Myrddin just behind her. The fire burned hot in the room, and a wave of warmth met them. Arthur had been lying on top of his bedcovers, fully clothed. When he saw them, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It seemed likely he hadn’t slept at all.
“My lord.” Myrddin bowed.
Arthur made an impatient gesture, as if to say, ‘you woke me, now tell me what the trouble is’.
“A Saxon company is coming through the sea tunnel as we speak, led by Owain ap Gruffydd,” Myrddin said.
Arthur had surged to his feet before Myrddin finished his sentence. A second later, Geraint brushed passed Myrddin, already booted, cloaked, and in full armor. Arthur’s valet, an old fellow named Daffi, followed immediately behind. He hurried into the room, fixing the ties on his jacket. Geraint flung open the chest in which Arthur kept his armor.
“Keep talking,” Arthur said, with a nod to Myrddin.
“The traitors spoke of allies in Garth Celyn who guarded the trap door entrance.” Myrddin turned to Nell with a questioning look.
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