The Oaken Door (The Lion of Wales Book 2)

by Sarah Woodbury

  Myrddin arrived in Cedric’s doorway, knocked, and then took a step back so as not to crowd the threshold. Booted feet echoed on the floor and Cedric himself opened the door. Beyond, the room was empty.

  “Lord Cedric.” Myrddin bowed and pretended he hadn’t overheard him. “Lord Modred requests your presence.”

  At the sight of Myrddin, Cedric’s face transformed from rage to a blank and expressionless façade—all except for his eyes, which glinted, the sole indication of the fire behind them. He glared at Myrddin and then slid the sword he’d been brandishing at his unseen listeners into the sheath at his waist.

  “Finally,” he said. “Is the Archbishop beside him?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Myrddin said.

  “And who are you?” He pointed his chin at Myrddin. “By your features, you are a Welshmen, yet your Saxon is perfect.”

  “Myrddin. A knight in the retinue of King Arthur ap Uther.”

  That got Cedric’s attention. He examined Myrddin through narrowed eyes. Then he tipped his face to study the rafters above him and spoke in a low voice. “Why does Modred send you to me? What is it that I don’t know?”

  “I came to Rhuddlan because I bore a message from my king to Modred.” Myrddin answered him even if the question had been rhetorical—and then decided that he would take advantage of the opportunity Modred had given him. Maybe there really was a way to prevent Arthur from meeting Lord Edgar at that damned church a month from now. “But it is well that Lord Modred sent me here, for I have a query for you on behalf of my king.”

  Cedric’s head came down at that, and he looked at Myrddin warily. He pushed past Myrddin to look both ways down the hall, and then gave Myrddin a curt nod. “Tell me quickly.”

  “You and King Arthur have been at odds,” Myrddin said. “He would rather you were allies.”

  Cedric pursed his lips and looked away. He contemplated the hilt of his sword, on which he rested his left hand, and tapped a staccato with one finger at its end, in a thinking pose similar to Modred’s. Then, without looking at Myrddin, he strode into the corridor.

  Unable to read Cedric and wondering how big a mistake he’d made, Myrddin followed. He assumed that Cedric expected him to walk behind him, given Myrddin’s nationality and as befitting Cedric’s rank, which was so much higher than Myrddin’s, but Cedric motioned impatiently for Myrddin to come abreast. Myrddin did as he asked and the two men walked together down the passage. Or rather, Myrddin walked, and Cedric stalked.

  “What is his mood?” Cedric didn’t need to explain whose mood he meant. Apparently they were going to ignore King Arthur’s supposed message.

  “I have no idea,” Myrddin said. “The Archbishop stood beside him and said nothing either. I can’t imagine Modred was happy with Archbishop Dafydd’s attempts to mediate a peace settlement, but he would never reveal what he is thinking—to anyone perhaps, but certainly not to one of King Arthur’s men.”

  Cedric grunted, but whether that meant agreement or disapproval, Myrddin didn’t know. Then, as they approached Modred’s receiving room, Cedric slowed. “You have served King Arthur for many years?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he strike you as a man with a temper?”

  Myrddin glanced warily at him, not sure where this was leading. “No. He has one, of course, but when it rises he turns cold, not hot.”

  Cedric nodded. “Lord Modred is not one to cross. For me to do so would have ramifications for generations to come. You tell that to your lord.”

  Uncertain, Myrddin stood frozen to the floor for an indrawn breath—as long as it took Cedric to push open the door leading to Modred’s rooms. Then, galvanized by Cedric’s retreating back, Myrddin hurried after him as Cedric crossed the twenty feet to where Modred sat, no longer on his throne but behind a desk that was set under one of the windows to the left of the central fireplace.

  Modred had emptied the hall in Myrddin’s absence. Now, Archbishop Dafydd was the only other man present. Both Archbishop and Lord Modred had been bent over a piece of paper, which the Archbishop now folded and slid into a hidden pocket beneath his robes.

  It was warmer in the room than before, despite the fewer bodies to heat it. The fires had been stoked and blazed brightly. Like Arthur, Modred had the best of everything. The remains of dinner lay on the corner of his table. The Archbishop held a goblet of wine and a hint of spice wafted from it.

  Cedric reached Modred and bowed at the precisely correct angle that was required. In contrast, Myrddin’s feet stuck to the floor just inside the doorway, near the bench where his untended weapons lay. For a heartbeat, Myrddin considered grabbing his sword and making a run for it. One glance at the guards by the open door who had shifted to more ready stances had him biding his time a while longer.

  The exit was a long way away, through the great hall and two well-guarded gatehouses. If Myrddin was going to reach it, it wasn’t going to be at a flat-out run. Stealth would have to be the order of the day.

  “You summoned me, sire?” Cedric said.

  Modred leaned back in his chair and for a count of ten sat unmoving, elbows resting on the arms, seemingly relaxed. Cedric’s words hung in the air as Modred left his question unanswered. Cedric waited with what appeared to be patience for his lord’s response.

  “Tell me of the defeat at the Menai Strait,” Modred said, finally, as if discussing the dreadful weather, and as if he hadn’t just asked Myrddin the same question half an hour before.

  “My lord—” Cedric began.

  Modred cut him off, leaning forward to punctuate his next words with a pointing finger. “Explain to me why so many of my men are dead: Wulfere, Golm, Halfric, Dane, not to mention the equipment and horses that are now at the bottom of the sea! Do you understand the huge expenses I am incurring in this business? Of the criminal waste that this defeat has entailed?” By the end of his query, Modred’s voice had risen to the point where the sound buffeted Cedric like waves.

  “Wulfere refused to listen to me.” Cedric lifted his chin, aiming to withstand the onslaught. “He, not I, was the commander in the field. He, not I, is to blame for the loss of so many of our men.”

  “And he, not you, paid for his error with his life.” Modred sat back in his chair as if he’d never raised his voice. “By the sword of our friend, here.” He gestured with one hand towards Myrddin. Cedric’s eyes met Myrddin’s. The corner of Cedric’s mouth twitched before his face blanked, and he turned back to his lord.

  “As you say, my lord.” Cedric bowed his head and then raised it to meet Modred’s eyes. “I tried to convince Wulfere and the others that you would not countenance an attack on that day, not with the Archbishop in the middle of negotiations and hoping for a settlement between you and King Arthur. Wulfere thought he could ensure that a settlement was unnecessary. He supposed that a great victory could convince Arthur to submit to you, or at best, he could capture the king by driving down the coast to Garth Celyn, once he’d navigated the bridge. Regardless, he refused to listen to my cautions.”

  From what Myrddin knew of both Cedric and Wulfere, he believed Cedric’s story. Myrddin had to wonder, however, how hard Cedric had tried to get Wulfere to change course. He must have despised Wulfere—everyone did. Even Modred couldn’t have admired the man as a person. He had put Wulfere in charge of his troops because he could be trusted to get the job done.

  That alone had to have been a huge sore point for Cedric, whom Modred had overlooked from the start of the war in favor of Agravaine in particular. To have put Wulfere in charge of the men on Anglesey added insult to injury. To Cedric’s mind, if Wulfere had won the battle, Cedric could have gone along with it; if Wulfere made a fool of himself, Cedric wouldn’t have been at fault. Nobody but King Arthur himself had foreseen the total disaster the battle had become for the Saxons.

  “On the day of the attack, a fault in the bridge of boats delayed us,” Cedric said, continuing his story. “Wulfere had intended to cross at dawn but ended up cross
ing at noon. It was the optimal time, with the water high, but as we traversed the bridge, we failed to surprise the Welsh forces. They caught us on the beach, low ground, between the trees and the water. When we retreated, the swift waters of the Strait and the weight of the horses and equipment on the bridge ensured our near total defeat.”

  “And gave Arthur new reason to resist me.” Modred surged to his feet. Myrddin would have said he was furious, but as always, his eyes remained cold, revealing nothing of the man inside. “He sits in his eyrie in Snowdonia, mocking me, as if I haven’t the power to root him out! I will accept nothing less from that bastard king than complete submission!”

  If the back of Myrddin’s knees had not been resting on the edge of the bench, he would have taken a step back at the king’s vehemence. Even Cedric, for all his confidence, thought better of any reply. Myrddin decided not to mention that Arthur, of all the Welsh lords, appeared to have been born legitimate.

  For Modred’s part, he wasn’t done. “Arthur is arrogant! Impossible! Look at the letter he sends me!” Modred leaned over the desk and shoved one of the pieces of parchment towards Cedric who just managed to catch it before it fell from the table. Unrolling the paper, he studied the words in silence, but Myrddin knew well what they said:

  ... we are ready to come to the Archbishop’s grace, if it is offered in a form safe and honourable for us. But the form contained in the articles which were sent to us, is in no particular either safe or honourable ... indeed, so far from it that all who hear it are astonished, since it tends rather to the destruction and ruin of our people and our person than to our honour and safety ... for never would our nobles and subjects consent in the inevitable destruction and dissipation that would surely derive from it …

  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 Four

  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.