Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “You sew him up,” Myrddin said. “You’ve the finer hand.”

  She nodded, while adding, “Riverside medicine. Not my favorite.” With a hand that didn’t tremble, she threaded her needle.

  Myrddin leaned in to hold together the edges of Cedric’s skin above his right knee while she sewed. Then he lashed the bandages around Cedric’s thigh and, with his stronger hands, tied them. About the time Myrddin finished, Cedric opened his eyes.

  “I know you.” Cedric looked into Nell’s face. “Am I in heaven?”

  “I’m a nun, not an angel—although I’m not even that anymore.” With a swipe of her hand she removed her headdress. Her thick braid swung loose, the end tied with a leather thong.

  Cedric turned his head as he sensed Myrddin on the other side of him. “It’s you.” He blinked.

  “Myrddin, again, my lord. I’ve come with Huw, my son.”

  “Ah,” Cedric said. “He found you, then.”

  “He did.”

  “Help me up.”

  Nell opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. Riverside medicine was not subject to the conventional rules of healing. The man needed to stay prone, but the sun had set and the light was fading. None of them wanted to be caught out at the windy ford once it grew dark, fair game for marauders, both animal and human.

  With Nell’s help, Myrddin levered him to his feet. Upright, Cedric surveyed his dead companions. “Did any of my men survive?”

  “None that I know,” Myrddin said. “One of the enemy fled, and we chose to care for you rather than follow him.”

  “Under the circumstances, I can hardly protest,” Cedric said.

  Nell was glad to see that his dry humor was still in evidence, despite his pain. “Are we going to talk about whose men they were?” She studied the man Myrddin had felled, still lying by the river. He’d begun to moan, and he put a hand to the back of his head.

  “Their colors tell me they belong to Arthur,” Cedric said, matter-of-factly, “but your presence here makes me question it.”

  “Thank you for that.” Myrddin walked down the bank, his boots sliding in the mud, to the injured man-at-arms. At his approach, the man opened his eyes.

  “Just because a man wears certain colors, doesn’t mean they belong to him,” Nell said. “Remember Modred at Shrewsbury.” At the battle where Cedric’s father died, Modred had deceived him by raising a friendly standard. He’d allowed Modred’s men to get too close and ultimately trap his entire army.

  “Such was my thought.” Myrddin’s tone was as flat as Cedric’s had been. He squatted beside the injured man and spoke in Welsh. “What’s your name?”

  The man didn’t answer, and his eyes remained unfocused. Myrddin repeated the question in Saxon.

  “Carl.” The man’s face had been flushed when Myrddin first crouched beside him, but now it paled, and he twisted towards his left side, his pain evident.

  “Was it truly your mission to kill Cedric ap Aelfric?”

  The man didn’t answer. All of a sudden, he just ceased to be.

  Myrddin checked his pulse. “He’s dead. I didn’t think I’d done enough damage to kill him.”

  Nell refused to chastise herself for the fact that she didn’t seem to care that another man had died and turned to Cedric, all business. “You shouldn’t be able to stand, but given that you’re doing it anyway, can you ride?”

  “Of course,” he said, and then amended, “with help.”

  Just then, Huw returned, leading a single horse: his own. His face said, I’m sorry.

  Myrddin sighed and stood.

  Cedric’s own horse had strayed along the river bank, cropping the short grass along its fringe. Huw and Myrddin retrieved it, along with another, whose owner no longer needed it, for Myrddin. Between the three of them, they managed to get Cedric astride with Nell behind him, to hold him should he weaken.

  “You all right?” Myrddin asked her, once she was seated.

  She gazed down at him, warring between disbelief and humor. “I held you like this. I’ve been around you long enough to get used to wounded men.”

  Myrddin grinned back at her, and then he mounted the extra horse himself.

  Despite their efforts, it was immediately clear that Cedric couldn’t ride one mile, much less the eight that would bring them to his castle at Brecon. His head lolled back onto Nell’s shoulder.

  “Is there anywhere else we can go?” Nell said.

  Myrddin had brought his horse closer so he could brace Cedric with his right hand.

  “There’s a small manor house not far ahead, perhaps a quarter of a mile,” Huw said. “I’ve ridden by it a time or two.”

  “Its owner was one of my men,” Cedric said, his voice a rasp. Was, meaning dead.

  They plodded forward, Nell clutching Cedric around the waist, Myrddin with one hand out, holding Cedric’s shoulder, and Huw leading the way. The horses picked their way along the road and then, within a dozen yards, they reached a trail and turned onto it, following it north. A half-mile on, they found the house of which Huw and Cedric had spoken, squatting in a clearing amidst the trees.

  It wasn’t quite what Nell expected for a manor house, although it was a cut above the huts that dotted the countryside, in which lived families like the ones who’d worked her father’s land. Still in good condition, despite being abandoned, the house was roughly built, one story and a half high, with a wooden door and one shuttered window. Beside it sat an empty paddock, fenced with wooden poles, and a barn. The house might even have a wooden floor instead of dirt.

  Anxious to get Cedric to safety, they approached the house, ghostly in the moonlight that filtered through the shrouding trees. They arrived at the deserted front door, and Myrddin dismounted to allow Cedric to slide off the horse into his arms.

  Despite the possible indignity of it, Myrddin bent forward and threw Cedric over his shoulder. Huw lashed the reins of their horses to the stockade fence to prevent them from escaping, while Nell reached around Myrddin and lifted the latch to allow them to enter the house.

  Nell and Myrddin pushed at the door simultaneously, with Myrddin nudging the bottom of the door with the toe of his boot. When it didn’t immediately give way, he shoved it hard. It opened halfway but then stuck on something behind it.

  They froze on the doorstep. “Mary, Mother of God,” Nell said.

  The smell of blood and death, oppressive in such a small and enclosed space, wafted over them. Huw, who’d had a hand on Cedric’s back to keep him in place—and perhaps because he didn’t quite believe he was still alive—stepped to the corner of the house and retched. Myrddin backed away from the door, swallowing hard.

  “Let’s get him into the barn,” Nell said. “We can deal with this later.”

  She led the way across the paddock and through the barn door, which was open. The barn was bare in a way the house was not. Hay had drifted across the floor to pile near a broken shovel a past resident had left on the floor near the door. Myrddin followed Nell and, after a bit, Huw came as well, holding his belly, but recovering. Once inside the barn, Huw kicked at a bed of straw to make sure it wasn’t moldy, and Myrddin laid Cedric on it. Nell knelt beside him to check his leg wound and feel again at his head.

  “He’s not fevered,” she said.

  “Maybe he’ll get lucky,” Myrddin said.

  She shot him a look, a cross between hopeful and skeptical, and then turned back to her patient. “He needs warmth, or he’ll go into shock.”

  “If we could get into the house, we could make a fire,” Myrddin said.

  Nell and Huw looked at him in disbelief.

  Myrddin held out his hands. “All I’m saying is that it would be preferable.”

  “But not possible,” Nell said. “Even if we moved the bodies, we couldn’t stay in there with the stink. We need to build a fire here.”

  “I’ll get the flint and start it,” Huw said. “If I build it at the entrance, we won’t choke on the smoke.”

/>   Nell nodded, glad that Huw was capable. Then Myrddin put a hand on Nell’s shoulder. “Can you manage if I find us firewood?”

  “I’m as fine as I can be.” She grasped his hand, squeezed once, and let go.

  As Myrddin turned away, Cedric opened his eyes. “Thank you. You could have let me die.”

  “No.” Nell leaned in to better assess his wounded leg. “We couldn’t.”

  *

  With a last check of Nell’s face, and Cedric’s pale one beyond her, Myrddin stepped out of the barn and set off towards the house. Huw was already gathering handfuls of straw. Myrddin worried that the light might alert an enemy to their presence—whether Saxon or Welsh, the choices were near limitless—but a night out here without a fire might well mean Cedric’s death.

  Holding his nose and without entering the house, Myrddin latched the door to the manor, not wanting to draw wild animals to the smell of blood. Shutters blocked the window in the lower level, meaning that an animal couldn’t have strayed inside and died. The remains were human.

  Myrddin was tempted to return with a torch and discover who was dead, but the pressing needs of the moment had him skirting the corner of the house and heading for the woods beyond it.

  Once among the trees, Myrddin slowed, allowing the darkness to envelope him. The luminescence of the snow in the mountains had given way to dark earth and fallen leaves of the more balmy lowlands. Still, the moon was playing cat and mouse with the clouds, which were not as thick as before, so Myrddin wasn’t blind.

  As he moved from tree to tree, picking up every likely piece of wood—wet or dry—he listened hard to the forest. Once he’d circled around to the far corner of the barn, he stilled and let his senses expand. The smell of smoke from Huw’s fire filtered towards him, mixing with the scent of pine, but otherwise he was alone in the world.

  It had been a long time since he’d stood this way. He could be anywhere in Wales, at any time in his life. He felt as young as the twelve-year-old who’d had that first vision, and as old as the man in his dreams, whose only thought was the cold certainty of death as the Saxons closed in around him.

  He’d always thought it strange that his seeing showed him the end of his life but never what it might take to avert it. He’d never seen this location before and had no prior knowledge of rescuing Cedric. Myrddin didn’t know what was going to happen tomorrow. He tipped his head back to look up at the familiar stars and breathed in the cool, moist air.

  Amidst his fear for King Arthur’s life, there was an excitement, and a joy, in that fact.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  7 December 537 AD

  Throughout the night, Myrddin, Huw, and Nell took turns with Cedric, staying near him and checking his breathing and pulse every hour to make sure his concussion wouldn’t settle him into too deep a sleep.

  As dawn approached, while Myrddin was sitting by him and Huw and Nell were sleeping, Cedric woke fully for the first time. Myrddin had just tended to the fire, so it burned hot and gave off enough light to see the outline of the ceiling of the barn, the rusting farming implements and equipment that hung on the walls or were stacked along them, and the shapes of his companions.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept in a barn.” Cedric’s voice was strong enough for Myrddin to note the amusement in it. “I must have been no older than nine.”

  “How do you feel, my lord?” Myrddin rested the back of his hand on Cedric’s forehead, trying to sense whether he had developed a fever. He was cool enough.

  “You’ve fought for Arthur your whole life.” Cedric shifted and then winced as pain shot through his leg. “I’m sure you know how I feel.”

  “True,” Myrddin said. “In fact, I have a new scar on my leg that mirrors the one you will have on yours. I received it a few weeks ago when a Saxon company tried to take Garth Celyn.”

  At that, Cedric, who’d been gazing up at the ceiling, turned his head to look at Myrddin. “You say, ‘tried’. I’d heard your enemies burned the castle to the ground.”

  Myrddin stared at him. “Why would you say that?”

  Cedric pursed his lips. “Because that’s what the messenger told me.”

  Myrddin had a sudden fear that the Saxons had attacked Garth Celyn since they’d left—that the first attempt had been a ruse to make them think they were secure.

  Warily, Myrddin said, “On the 24th of November, a fortnight ago, Owain ap Gruffydd and a company of Saxon soldiers attempted to enter Garth Celyn through a tunnel that runs from the beach, north of the castle, into Garth Celyn. We stopped them.”

  Cedric pushed up on his elbows, trying to straighten enough to sit up. Myrddin grasped him under his arm to help him.

  “You tell me truly?” Cedric said. “The date is correct, but the outcome is not what I was told.”

  “Did the rider say who’d been killed?”

  “He said that Arthur’s daughter was captured and taken to Mercia, and a host of the king’s personal guard killed, although King Arthur himself escaped.” Cedric paused. “I can see from your face that this is not true.”

  “None of it,” Myrddin said. “Not even a morsel. Whom did the messenger serve?”

  Cedric pressed into his forehead with two fingers, his eyes closed. “Agravaine.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Myrddin said. “Why lie?”

  “To counter your victory at the Strait, of course,” Cedric said. “To convince all of us who’ve wavered at times to stay true to Modred.”

  “But eventually you’d find out …” Myrddin’s voice trailed off at the subversive logic. With helpless understanding, he nodded. “By then, Agravaine assumed he’d have killed King Arthur or severely weakened his cause. Agravaine isn’t worried about you learning of his deception next year or even next week. He wants you steadfast now.”

  “News of a Welsh defeat could stiffen the spines of the lords in Modred’s cause long enough for Agravaine to achieve his aims.” Cedric settled back into the straw, a look of satisfaction on his face at learning the truth. Then he changed the subject. “So Huw’s been blooded?”

  “He has,” Myrddin said. “More than once. He’s had some adventures since you sent him to me.”

  “He and I must have a long speech together.”

  When Myrddin didn’t answer him, just allowed his eyes to meet Cedric’s, Cedric nodded. “Ah. His allegiance isn’t what it was.”

  “He was the first to wade into the fight at the ford,” Myrddin said. “It was four against one and yet he didn’t hesitate. He thinks of you as a father.”

  “But you are his true father and have claimed him.” Cedric nodded again. “It was a risk I thought worth taking.”

  “You saved my life at Rhuddlan,” Myrddin said. “I owe you that.”

  “Then we are now even.” Cedric gestured to indicate his wounded leg.

  Perhaps we are, at that. “Do you remember the events of the day before we arrived? Why were you at the ford?”

  “Simple scouting mission,” Cedric said. “I try to ride with my men when I can. I’m not an old man just yet—younger than you I warrant—and we were about to cross the river when men I thought were Arthur’s set upon us. I admit to entertaining dark thoughts about your lord. And yet, you came in on my side.”

  “They couldn’t have been King Arthur’s men,” Myrddin said. “But whose they were—Cai’s? Agravaine’s?—I couldn’t tell you. This move makes even less sense to my mind.”

  “Does it?” Cedric said. “You know as well as I that we border lords wage war against each other when we aren’t allied with one another to fight the Welsh or perhaps our own Saxon allies.”

  “But why would anyone want to kill you?” Myrddin said, and then added with a smile, “beyond the obvious that is.”

  “Who knows of your journey? Could someone want to prevent you and me from speaking?”

  That got Myrddin thinking grim thoughts. “Definitely. But it’s more than that. Many would gain by your death. Yo
ur son is only six. You would die without a strong heir.”

  “My God, man,” Cedric said as Myrddin’s assessment sunk in. “I’m of the royal house of Mercia! This is unconscionable!” In his agitation, he struggled to return to a sitting position, even to go so far as to bend his good knee to get to his feet. His voice woke Huw, who hurried to his side.

  “My lord,” he said. “You’ll start the leg bleeding again.”

  “I can’t sit here,” Cedric said. “I have to return to my castle!”

  Myrddin put out a hand to stop him from rising. “We have a slight problem to deal with first.”

  Cedric spied an overturned wooden bucket and snapped his fingers at Huw to get it for him. Huw brought it, and Cedric lifted himself onto it, his wounded leg outstretched. “I’m not going to like this either, am I?”

  By now, Nell had also risen and come to sit on the overturned water trough to re-braid her hair. “Not much, my lord.”

  A hint of a smile flickered at the corner of Cedric’s mouth as he took in her clothing, still the nun’s habit, and loose hair. Then he turned back to Myrddin. “What is it?”

  “Something lies dead in the manor house, just there.” Myrddin pointed at the house with his chin. “The stench is oppressive.”

  Cedric sighed. “You say ‘something’. You don’t know who or what?”

  “We’ve not yet found out,” Huw said. “Whoever it is wasn’t going anywhere, and we couldn’t sleep in the house even if we knew. Better to wait until the sun rose.”

  Myrddin checked the sky. It was still dim in the barn, but the sun shot rays that glittered on the puddles in the paddock. The temperature had dropped over the last hours and their breath hung in the air in front of them.

  “None of my men came through here in the night?” Cedric said.

  “No,” Myrddin said.

  “I pray Brecon isn’t under siege,” Cedric said.

  “Surely not,” Huw said.

  “I wouldn’t have thought the ford would prove dangerous either.” Cedric turned back to Myrddin. “Let’s see this, then.”