“Given that the king has never said any such thing, you took a risk,” she said. “Suppose King Arthur doesn’t want to talk to him?”
“Why wouldn’t he? The king is willing to talk to Edgar, and he’s far less likely a turncoat than Cedric. Cedric, at least, has a history of rebellion. Edgar is the son of the only Saxon lord with interests in Wales never to waver in Modred’s cause, for all Modred has angered him now.”
“What are you going to tell King Arthur?”
“The truth. Even your part of it—provided you do not object?” He studied her face. She had a smudge on her nose and a second along one cheek.
Nell lifted her hands and dropped them in an expression of resignation and helplessness. “Ifan and I made our choice. I don’t regret it. Given that we rescued you, I’d hope King Arthur wouldn’t either.”
Myrddin nodded. “I’m glad you’ve told me everything now. I’m glad you know that you can trust me.”
Nell sat silent for a long count of ten. “You weren’t asleep.”
“No.”
Nell stayed frozen, her legs in front of her and her back against the wall.
“You have visions,” Myrddin said, not as a question. “You’ve had them of me.”
Nell swallowed hard. “Since I was a girl.”
“Back at Garth Celyn, you cried my name in the night. You’ve done so often in the nights that followed.”
“You’ve haunted me all my life,” she said. “The story I told you was a waking dream—my first and only. It’s why I’ve always known that you were real, even when all I had were dreams.”
Myrddin nodded.
“You’re not upset by this.” Nell canted her head to one side, looking at him curiously. “Why aren’t you afraid of me? Or at the very least, suspicious?”
“On December 11th, a month from now, if we do not stop it, King Arthur will die at the hands of a Saxon soldier, near a church by the Cam River,” Myrddin said.
“That’s what I see in my dreams,” Nell said. “I just told you that story last night. That’s what I dream nearly every night now. It’s changed a bit in the last few days. But—”
Myrddin interrupted. “That’s my dream, ever since I was twelve years old.”
The relief he felt in admitting it to Nell—and that she would understand everything he felt—filled him. His was a true seeing, and they’d been given this vision for a reason. It appeared to be their job—his and Nell’s—by what means he didn’t know and couldn’t imagine from where he lay—to ensure that his king did not meet Edgar by the Cam. He met Nell’s eyes as understanding entered them: their vision; their task; their destiny.
Nell stared at him. “It isn’t just me, then!”
Myrddin shook his head. “It isn’t just you.”
Chapter Seven
16 November 537 AD
Myrddin slept again, woke in the early evening, and then slept in fits and starts throughout a second night at Caerhun. Every time he tried to roll over, he awoke in pain, but either Ifan or Nell was there to ease him into a more comfortable position. Ifan had a soldier’s ability to watch or sleep in whatever situation he found himself, but the times Nell sat beside him, she talked. Some of what she said Myrddin remembered, but mostly he let the sound of her voice wash over him as she related a story from her girlhood, or another from the tales of the Dôn. She didn’t speak of the dreams again, but then, Myrddin knew that story too well himself.
At dawn, Myrddin came to himself enough to realize that he couldn’t delay any longer, and neither Nell nor Ifan protested that they should stay. They knew as well as he that King Arthur awaited word of Myrddin’s journey. Soon, the king would begin to fear that Myrddin would never return. Most importantly, Myrddin had information for him and Myrddin didn’t want him doing anything rash because of lack of knowledge.
In the pouring rain, which was a match to the companions’ low mood, they made their slow way out of Caerhun. By late afternoon, they had reached the last stretch, descending down the road from the standing stones to Garth Celyn. The men-at-arms on the battlements saw them coming and opened the gates, welcoming them home.
In the muddy bailey, Nell slid off the horse. Myrddin climbed down with Ifan’s help, his body stiff and a hand at his ribs. Even though they’d walked the horses the whole way, Myrddin could barely move from the effort the journey had cost him. Most of the day was gone, as slowly as they’d taken it.
“Your face looks much worse.” It came out as a matter-of-fact comment as Nell steered him towards the hall. “I have something inside to help with the bruising.”
“It’s my ribs that ache the most,” Myrddin said. “I’m glad Modred’s lackeys didn’t puncture a lung.”
“From my examination, all your bones are whole,” she said. “Not to diminish the pain, but I felt you all over when you were unconscious and you’re only bruised.”
“Only,” Myrddin said.
Nell tsked through her teeth. “Infant.”
They’d taken one step up the stairs to the double doors that guarded the hall when one of the doors opened to reveal King Arthur. Nell and Myrddin froze, their heads tipped up, looking into his face. He pursed his lips and then took two steps down to where they stood. Without saying anything, either admonishment or praise, he placed Myrddin’s arm over his shoulder. Taking most of the weight off Nell, he hobbled with Myrddin into the hall, across it, and down the corridor.
“I need to rest.” Myrddin’s breath came in gasps.
“In here.” Arthur maneuvered him through the door to his receiving room and onto his own padded chair. He motioned to Nell to shut the door behind them. “Better to talk in private.”
The room contained two more men: Bedwyr, as always, since he never left King Arthur’s side while he was at Garth Celyn except to sleep, and a much younger man standing with him, a youth, no more than sixteen or seventeen, albeit full grown—tall and well built—with shoulders used to wearing armor. Arthur straightened as Myrddin collapsed into the chair, and Nell put a hand to his upper arm to keep him from falling out of it.
Not giving Myrddin a chance to catch his breath, King Arthur held out a hand to the boy, who took a step closer. “Myrddin.”
Myrddin looked up. Arthur’s tone had been abrupt, but now an uncharacteristic smile—one Myrddin might even call gleeful—covered his face.
“Meet Huw ap Myrddin. Your son.”
The boy looked straight at Myrddin, staring with an unrelieved intensity, and gave Myrddin a slight and very stiff bow. “Father.”
“Wha—” Myrddin gaped at the boy, his head empty of any thought with which to work. “Who?”
“Huw ap Myrddin.” The boy’s spine matched his words, taut, like a bow string set to loose its arrow.
Myrddin’s eyes ranged from the top of the boy’s head to his boots, stunned speechless.
“My mother was Tegwan. From Brecon,” Huw said, still quivering.
Tegwan. Dear God. He stared at the boy, this unexpected gift, and managed a nod. He remembered her—if the vague image of shape and form could be called a memory. Then Myrddin caught Huw’s choice of words. “Was? She was called Tegwan?”
“My mother died two months ago,” Huw said. “I’ve been looking for you ever since.”
“I do remember her,” Myrddin said, not exactly lying.
Huw released a long breath, and his shoulders sagged.
It was as if Myrddin had passed a test he hadn’t known he was taking. If he’d had the strength to pace, he would have, but as it was, Myrddin shifted in his chair, hot and uncomfortable. “She never told me about you. I would have acknowledged you as my son had I known you existed. Surely Tegwan knew that?”
“My mother married someone else.” Huw paused, swallowed hard, and continued, “A Saxon. He knew I wasn’t his son because she was already pregnant by the time they married, but he preferred to say I was his. I grew up thinking that he was my natural father. They had no other children, and when my father died
two years ago, my mother told me the truth.”
Myrddin waited for more. He could hardly accuse Huw of neglecting to search for him sooner, given that Huw knew nothing of Myrddin or where he was. And he’d been raised half-Saxon. That wasn’t easily put aside.
“My mother was ill herself by then, a wasting disease, and I couldn’t leave her beyond my regular duties to my lord,” Huw said. “I came north to Gwynedd as soon as he gave me leave to find you.”
“And who is your lord?” Myrddin said.
Huw bit his lip and glanced at Arthur, who nodded. Huw hemmed and hawed for a few more moments, and then blurted it out. “Lord Cedric of Brecon.”
“Ho!” Nell said from beside Myrddin. “Well, that’s a tangle, isn’t it?”
“Did you tell him my name?” Myrddin said. “And that I served King Arthur?”
“Of course,” Huw said. “For what it was worth, as you go only by your first name. My lord Cedric had less need of me during these few weeks of the Archbishop’s truce. He didn’t want me to come with him to Anglesey so he gave me permission to search for you.”
And to act as his spy in the Welsh camp? The thought rose unbidden, but once admitted, couldn’t be ignored. Myrddin looked at the king. “It was Cedric, with Nell and Ifan’s assistance, who freed me from Rhuddlan’s dungeon.”
“Did he now?” Arthur scanned Myrddin’s wounded body. It was impossible to hide the damage to his face or the awkward and uncomfortable way in which he was sitting. Every square inch of him, hurt, except perhaps his eyebrow, as Nell had noted.
Huw, too, perked up at the mention of his patron’s name. “My lord freed you? But who did this?” Uncertainty entered his eyes for the first time. “Surely not Modred!”
“Surely it was Modred,” Myrddin said. “Or rather, Modred’s guards on his behalf.”
“Tell me that Lord Cedric wasn’t present at the time!”
“He was not,” Myrddin said. “I spoke with him at length earlier in the evening. We were dining together when the guards took me away.”
“I have always found Lord Cedric to be fair and honorable,” Huw said.
“We know.” Myrddin flapped a hand in his direction and managed not to laugh at him openly. “Stand down.”
Arthur turned to Nell. “Perhaps you could find our young man some food and drink.”
“Yes, my lord.” Nell released Myrddin’s hand, which she’d been holding tightly. Myrddin nodded at Huw and hoped that Nell understood that it was not she who was being dismissed, but Huw.
The boy made to leave too, but Myrddin held out a hand to stop him. “Wait.” With one hand on the table in front of him for support, he got to his feet so he could stand face to face with his son. They possessed similar coloring and were of a height, although Huw was perhaps a half inch taller. The boy had Myrddin’s straight nose but his mother’s blue eyes, where Myrddin’s were hazel. Myrddin settled a hand on each of Huw’s shoulders and gripped them. “I’m glad you came to find me. Any man would be proud to claim you as his son.”
Huw held Myrddin’s arms, his fingers tight around his biceps. “Thank you, sir.” He still carried himself with a tenseness that kept his shoulders back and his jaw firm, but some of the anxiety seemed to have left him.
“Nell is a good friend,” Myrddin said. “She’ll take care of you.”
“Yes, Father.” With a last, direct look, Huw left the room with Nell.
Myrddin sank back into his seat, his head in his hands. King Arthur, having lost his usual chair to Myrddin, perched on the edge of the desk. Bedwyr found a seat on the bench under the window.
“I’d be delighted to know what’s going on,” King Arthur said.
Myrddin looked up. “Damned if I know, my lord. Huw—” Myrddin made a helpless gesture towards the door. “I didn’t know.”
Bedwyr spoke from his corner. “Didn’t your mother neglect to divulge the identity of your father before she died?”
“Yes,” Myrddin said. “At least Tegwan gave the boy my name and encouraged him to find me, once her husband was dead.”
“What was your mother’s name again?” Bedwyr said.
Myrddin glanced at him, not sure why he wanted to know. “I don’t know that I’ve ever told you. Her name was Seren ferch Gruffydd.”
“An unusual name, Seren,” Bedwyr said.
“Did you know her?” Myrddin checked Bedwyr’s face again, but Bedwyr kept it blank. Lord Cedric could take lessons from him.
“I never met her,” Bedwyr said.
Myrddin nodded and clutched at his hair. Arthur had risen from the table while Bedwyr and Myrddin talked, and now he moved to stand at the window, looking out at the flickering lights of the torches in the bailey, his hands clasped behind his back. “I did.”
Myrddin’s jaw dropped.
“Her father was an ally of mine until he defected to King Icel of Mercia the year before my uncle died. His action left his daughter alone, here at Garth Celyn, as one of my Aunt Juliana’s ladies.”
Towards the end of the 490’s, King Icel of Mercia had appeared unstoppable. He’d wooed many a Welsh lord away from Ambrosius with promises of land and power, were he to conquer Wales once and for all. Instead, King Ambrosius and Arthur had defeated the allied Saxon forces in the summer of 500 AD at Mt. Badon. Unfortunately, Ambrosius had died in February of 501, followed six months later by Arthur’s father, Uther. This left a gap in authority, filled instantly—if inadequately—by Arthur himself, then aged twenty-one.
Myrddin had been born into Madoc’s household in September of 501—into a year of upheaval and strife. Each of the remaining Welsh lords, along with all of the Saxon barons, saw themselves as possible heirs to Ambrosius’ throne. They’d fought among themselves for control of Wales. Though it was Arthur, of course, who triumphed. It was to avoid that horror again that many Welsh lords supported Modred now, preferring an orderly transition to possible war.
“I didn’t know that,” Myrddin said. “I thought my mother had grown up in Madoc’s charge.”
“No.”
“But—”
“Speak to me of Cedric,” King Arthur said.
Myrddin blinked, not wanting to leave the subject of his mother, but unable to disobey. “I don’t know if you’re going to like what I have to say, my lord. I took some liberties—”
“And paid for them, by the looks.” Bedwyr’s lips curved into a smile.
Myrddin coughed and laughed at the same time. “You could say that. Although as I told you before, these wounds were courtesy of Modred.” Myrddin took a breath, his abdomen aching at the effort. “After I gave Modred your letter, he directed me to bring Lord Cedric of Brecon to him. Thus, Cedric and I had a few moments of privacy in his room. I took the opportunity to suggest that you, my lord, would be open to a discussion of the disposition of various lands in Wales if Cedric reconsidered his allegiance.”
King Arthur swung around to stare at Myrddin.
“I apologize, my lord,” Myrddin said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, and the odds of him agreeing, or of anything coming of it at all, seemed worth the slight risk to my neck.”
“It was obviously worth far more than that to Cedric,” Bedwyr said. “And the fact that he had already heard your name from Huw sheds new light on the entire matter.”
“It does,” Myrddin said, although he was having a hard time figuring out what exactly it told him. He was feeling more and more wobbly and desperately wanted a drink, a bed, and Nell’s gentle hand on his forehead, not necessarily in that order. “One more thing. Modred knows that you’ve sent Lord Gawain to Powys to marshal men against the Saxon lords there. Worse, Cedric told him of Edgar of Wigmore’s letter to you. I don’t know how he knew of it, except if Edgar himself told him.”
The two men observed Myrddin, unspeaking, too well-practiced at absorbing bad news to show it openly, but clearly nonplussed. Bedwyr put down his cup of wine and leaned forward. “Go on.”
“They are convinced,
both of them, that Edgar is not sincere in his desire to ally with you and intends to lure you into an ambush, my lord king,” Myrddin said, and then ventured to assert his own opinion. “I would think that likely.”
“Thank you, Myrddin,” Bedwyr said, implying he wasn’t at all thankful for his advice, and then continued, half under his breath to the king—”The uncertainty in the air reminds me of the days after your uncle and father died, before you fully grasped the reins of Wales, my lord.”
“Go to your son.” King Arthur’s expression softened at Myrddin’s evident distress. He canted his head towards the door. “I don’t want to see you in the hall tomorrow.”
“And watch Huw closely,” Bedwyr said.
Myrddin looked up, dismayed at the warning in Bedwyr’s tone—and yet understanding it, for he’d had the same uncomfortable thought.
“He is Cedric’s man,” Bedwyr said. “He’s already seen too much. I would be wary of allowing him to return to Brecon.”
“Yes, sir.” Myrddin didn’t like Bedwyr’s observation but knew he was right. He also didn’t want the presence of his son to jeopardize Arthur’s new found trust in Myrddin himself.
Still, Myrddin didn’t move. His head felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Before he knew it, Arthur and Bedwyr were on either side of him. They pulled him up, just as the guards had done in the hall at Rhuddlan, but more gently, and half-dragged, half-carried him down the hall, out the door and across the courtyard to the sleeping quarters in the guest house. The small closet space in which Nell and Myrddin had slept before was vacant. The pallets lay on the floor, beckoning Myrddin with their softness and warmth. He reached an arm towards one. Bedwyr and Arthur laid him down.
“I’ll find Nell,” Bedwyr said.
It seemed Myrddin nodded agreement, but he couldn’t be sure because an instant later, he was asleep.
Chapter Eight
17 November 537 AD
“Myrddin, damn it, get over here!”
“Coming, sir!” I hurried towards Gawain, my boots slipping in the snow, and we met in the center of the clearing by the church. In the growing darkness, the temperature had dropped, and snowflakes had begun to drift down from the sky, filling in our footprints. I would have been happier to have had four more eyes in order to see in all directions. The Saxons were coming. I sure as hell wanted to be ready when they did.
The Oaken Door (The Lion of Wales Book 2) Page 7