A Long Cloud (The Lion of Wales Book 4)

by Sarah Woodbury

  At one point, Nell had contrived to collapse on the ground on the other side of a tree from where they’d thrown down the king, and she’d managed a few words with him, but he had ordered her not to risk herself or Huw for him. After that, they’d had no choice but to obey.

  For now.

  She had no intention of doing nothing for King Arthur. While it might turn out to be a far more difficult task to free the king from within the walls of Wroxeter than it had been to free Myrddin from Rhuddlan, Nell thought she had the measure of her enemy now. She recognized Beorhtsige as a typical second-in-command: gruff, very good at following orders and relaying them, but not nearly as good at coming up with plans himself. The brutal exterior masked an insecurity about who he was and his place in the world that Edgar, for all that he’d been ridiculed throughout his life for his size and inclinations, didn’t exhibit.

  “What’s going to happen to us, Mother?” That Huw would ask such a question revealed how worried he was. He wasn’t bothering to hide his fear behind a brave show.

  “So much depends upon Modred, Huw. I honestly don’t think he will kill us. He knows, as does Edgar, that Myrddin will move heaven and earth to rescue us.” Even if Nell hadn’t guessed it already, the conversations around her during the night had made it clear that if there was anyone Modred hated more than King Arthur, it was Myrddin, odd as that seemed.

  Her new husband had said more than once that he was the least of the knights in the king’s company. Except … Even Myrddin himself didn’t believe that anymore—and Modred’s hatred of him proved that Myrddin’s most pernicious enemies didn’t either. Modred would keep her and Huw alive if there was the slightest chance that their captivity meant Myrddin might fall into his clutches again.

  By the time they reached the river crossing that would take them into Wroxeter, the sun had risen well into the sky and shone starkly down on the old Roman city, once known as Viriconium. The stronghold acted now as a symbol of the power that Modred held in Mercia, and which he hoped soon to hold in Wales. Once upon a time, the city had encompassed an unimaginable number of people, but under Saxon rule it had been reduced to a tiny fraction of its former size. Modred’s hall squatted in the middle of the city and even though, in another setting, the Saxon fortifications would have appeared formidable in size, they took up less than a tenth of what had once existed here.

  The bards sang of the Romans—how they’d conquered Britain in bloody battle after bloody battle. They killed the druids and cut down the sacred groves on Anglesey and brought Christianity to the island. But Rome had fallen to barbarians; the soldiers who’d kept the peace for four hundred years had been called home; and Britain had been left wide open to the Saxon hordes, who’d attacked in wave after wave almost from the moment the last Roman soldier had set sail.

  The first invaders had ravaged Kent and the whole eastern shore of Britain, raiding and pillaging wherever they went. The most successful of these made themselves overlords of the Britons and married local women, as the Romans had done in their time, binding their lines to native families, but never becoming British. Then the Saxons had discovered the rich farmlands of southern England. The next waves of invaders, once they’d pillaged the countryside and murdered those who fought back, sent for their families.

  Mile by mile, Britain had been taken over by Saxons, such that few even remembered that the whole of the Island had once been British, and that the British had been pushed west and then farther west into the mountains of Wales and had become Welsh.

  The Welsh had fought back, but it was King Arthur’s belief that four hundred years of peace under the Romans had left them soft. It was only after many generations of loss that they’d learned to fight again. King Arthur himself—though he hadn’t been king then—had turned the Saxon tide at the battle of Mt. Badon, after which he’d held off the Saxons for nearly forty years.

  But Modred presented an unanticipated threat. He was Arthur’s nephew, his sister’s child, half-Saxon/half-Welsh, and to many the perfect man to bring peace to Britain. He straddled the line between two peoples, and if he’d been anyone else but Modred, the Welsh might have welcomed him with open arms as their king.

  But he was Modred—cruel, remorseless, and more power hungry than all of his Saxon forbears combined. With his rule, many Welsh feared that their country would be overrun entirely and that they would lose their language, their laws, and their very right to exist.

  Here at Wroxeter, Modred had showed himself to be more Saxon than the Saxons themselves, building himself a Saxon fort that rivaled any of those which the kings of old had built before him. And, unlike those great kings, his fort was protected by the Roman stone walls and gate. Looking up at them, Nell understood that by claiming Wroxeter as his seat, Modred was declaring himself the heir to the Romans as well as Arthur, as if somehow his line was the legitimate heir to what they’d once created.

  But as they passed through the gate, with much jubilation on the part of the Saxons who admitted them, Nell was struck by the extent to which the apparent mightiness of the fortress was a façade—a false-front for crumbling walls surrounding a space far too large for Modred’s army to protect. Behind the gate lay a cobbled road, which led to Modred’s seat. Again, like the walls, it was larger than any she’d seen before, consisting of an enormous stone hall with mighty doors, each at least eight-feet high. But it sat in the center of a traditional Saxon wooden palisade, which was the only real fortification at Wroxeter.

  Nell had never seen any structure as large as Modred’s stone hall. Even Rhuddlan Castle could fit inside it. And yet, proving again how vain Modred’s imaginings truly were, the open gates of the palisade also revealed dozens of wattle and daub Saxon huts and craft halls that had been built up against the sides of the stonework and around the inside of the wooden palisade. The magnificence of Modred’s seat was dwarfed by what had once been, and the farther they progressed inside the ruined city, the more the truth of Modred was revealed: he was a stunted offshoot of a once-noble house, now brought low by ambition and avarice.

  They passed within the palisade and received the same jubilant and jeering reception as at the front gate, and then the whole lot of them crossed the courtyard and were admitted into the hall, which could have held a thousand people. Modred sat on a throne at the far end and waved a hand, commanding that they should come forward. Archbishop Dafydd had a seat in front of the step leading up to Modred’s chair, and the hall was lined with other Saxon noblemen, all come to Wroxeter to pay their respects to Modred and take part in what they believed to be the coming conquest of Wales.

  Beorhtsige himself held King Arthur, his arms still tied at the wrists, and marched him towards Modred’s seat. Edgar caught Nell’s elbow and urged her forward too. “Come on.”

  “Traitor,” Huw muttered in Welsh under his breath.

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Edgar said in Latin, a language which Huw didn’t understand. Nell didn’t know if Edgar realized that she did, or if he was speaking only to himself.

  For her part, Edgar’s words had Nell trembling with sudden hope, even if in his ignorance Huw remained unforgiving. Whether intentionally or not, Edgar had just told her that his course had not changed: he had brought them to Modred to give himself instant credibility in Modred’s eyes. Edgar was playing a long game, and while he’d said that he was loyal to Arthur and he promised Myrddin that he would see to her and Huw’s safety, it wasn’t clear if the show he was putting on for Modred would extend as far as forfeiting Nell’s and Huw’s lives entirely. If he still adhered to the sense of honor Nell detected in his eyes, he would view both prior promises as binding.

  Leaving Nell and Huw under guard twenty paces from Modred’s chair, Edgar walked the last few feet to stand at Beorhtsige’s side. Beorhtsige might demand the reward for capturing Arthur, which Nell couldn’t disagree that he deserved, but Edgar wasn’t going to give him any more accolades than that.

  “We can’t trust Edgar, if that�
��s what you’re hoping,” Huw said in Nell’s other ear.

  “We can’t trust anyone,” she said in reply.

  “What of your vision of Father?” he said.

  Nell shook her head, her eyes on the men in front of them. “He is coming, but we have to assume that you and I are King Arthur’s only hope.”

  Beorhtsige was assuming there was no hope, and he was triumphant in his victory. “I bring you King Arthur, my lord!”

  Modred sat with a finger to his lips, not quite smiling. “Well done, Beorhtsige. I gather you have Lord Edgar to thank for this achievement?”

  “Er—”

  Nell had never seen Modred before, never heard him speak, but according to Myrddin, the question was typical for him. She didn’t think Modred could yet know what had happened, but somehow he’d cut through what should have been Beorhtsige’s great moment and deflected his glory to someone else.

  Edgar cleared his throat. “If my lord recalls, I sent a letter to Arthur suggesting my willingness to change my allegiance to him and asking him to meet me at the church by the Cam River.”

  “That is the meeting to which I was referring.” Modred’s tone was dry, and Nell had the impression that he thought Edgar was wasting his time by reiterating an obvious point.

  Edgar continued calmly as if Modred hadn’t chastised him. “I was not able to follow through with that meeting because Agravaine took it upon himself to imprison me in my own tower. He suspected me of betraying you. I did not, in fact, betray you, while it seems Agravaine did, to his detriment.”

  “How?” The word came out as an order rather than a question.

  “King Arthur disbelieved in my sincerity, so he sent his brother, Cai, to the church in his stead, where he was subsequently killed on Agravaine’s orders.”

  Even Modred couldn’t hide his surprise at this. “Agravaine ordered Cai killed?”

  “Agravaine did not go to the church, and thus did not know that Cai had been sent in Arthur’s place. Regardless, he’d ordered his captain to kill the Welsh soldiers who did go, and his orders were carried out.”

  The only part of Modred’s body that moved was his eyes, which went first to Arthur, whose head was thrown back in defiance, and then to Beorhtsige.

  “He speaks the truth, my lord,” Beorhtsige said.

  “Where is this captain now?” Modred said.

  “Dead,” Edgar said before Beorhtsige could answer, “killed this morning in the battle of Buellt which followed.”

  Nell didn’t know how Edgar knew this. Perhaps his spy had reported it, but he hadn’t seen fit to mention it during their conversation in the stable.

  “Why isn’t Agravaine here to explain these matters to me?”

  Edgar cleared his throat. “He is also dead, killed in the hall at Buellt by one of Arthur’s men, one Myrddin, whom I believe you’ve met.”

  Modred’s eyes unexpectedly lit. “Myrddin killed Agravaine?” He barked a laugh. “The pure cheek of that man. If even one of my men had his loyalty and intelligence—”

  Every man in the hall flinched at this backhanded compliment to Myrddin and insult to them. Edgar, however, remained unmoved. “What’s more, it was Myrddin who released me from the tower, under the impression, of which I did not dissuade him, that I was willing to swear allegiance to Arthur. He believed in my loyalty to such an extent that he entrusted his wife and son to my care.” Edgar stepped to one side and pointed to Nell and Huw.

  Modred was openly laughing now. “And you brought them here to me.” He shook his head. “Oh, Edgar. Had I known of your ability to prevaricate, I would have confirmed you in your lands long ago.”

  Edgar bowed. “All I asked for was a chance to prove myself.”

  “Which you have done.”

  From beside Edgar, Beorhtsige shifted, seemingly dissatisfied with the conversation. He hadn’t even been thanked for bringing King Arthur to Wroxeter.

  Modred noticed the movement too. “Something wrong, Beorhtsige?”

  “No, my lord.”

  Modred tipped his chin to Arthur. “Why are his hands tied? Release him immediately.”

  “But, my lord—

  In an instant, Modred’s mood transformed from amused to raging. “He is my uncle and the King of Wales!” His voice thundered throughout the hall. “What kind of heir to the throne would I be if I treated my predecessor with less than the utmost respect and cordiality?”

  Beorhtsige took two steps back in the face of the onslaught. “M-m-my lord, I d-d-didn’t realize—”

  “Obviously.” Modred’s voice held nothing but disdain, which was hardly fair. Beorhtsige had done his duty—beyond his duty—and instead of being honored for it, he was being chastised in front of the entire court. It was no wonder he was befuddled by what he’d done wrong. Nobody else in the room understood either.

  Because the room had been frozen into silence by Modred’s tantrum, the half-Saxon pretender to the throne came down from his chair and untied Arthur’s hands himself. “I apologize, uncle, for any mistreatment you may have received at the hands of my men.”

  “It is to the wives and children of my men, who lost their lives today, and to my brother, that you should be apologizing, not to me,” Arthur said.

  “I have been misunderstood, by you, of all people, the most,” Modred said. “I ask only that you give me the opportunity to make amends.”

  “You cannot bring back the dead.”

  Modred dismissed that concern with a gesture. “Sit with me tonight at table; let me show you how I manage my kingdom. Tomorrow, I open my affairs to your inspection. At the end of the day, if you can look me in the eyes and tell me that I have mismanaged my rule and that I am not worthy to be your heir, I will send you on your way. You can renew this war, if that’s what you really want.”

  “I didn’t start this war, Modred.”

  “But you can finish it. We can finish it together.”

  Nell wanted to grab the king’s shoulder and pull him away from Modred. This was a trick. Modred wouldn’t release him in a dozen lifetimes, but King Arthur gazed at his nephew for a count of five and then said, “I have a condition.”

  “Name it.”

  Arthur motioned with his chin towards Nell and Huw. “The woman and boy stay with me.”

  Modred didn’t like that. He wavered for a few heartbeats, but then his jaw firmed. “Of course, uncle. They are of no importance.”

  Of all the things he could have said, nothing else would have been a bigger lie. But Modred gave a clap and spun on his heel, to then wave at one of his men, who was dressed in the gown of a steward and who’d been standing to one side of the hall. “See to my uncle’s comfort.”

  As they were herded out of the hall with King Arthur, Nell grasped Huw’s hand. She understood Saxon—she might even be considered fluent—but that didn’t mean she understood what had just happened in there. There was one thing she did know, however. While King Arthur was no longer bound, the danger facing them had in no way lessened.

  Chapter Seven

  13 December 537

  Myrddin

  They’d fallen far behind, but not for lack of effort. They’d started out from Buellt at least an hour after King Arthur’s abductors, and while they’d worked hard to catch up, the going had been rough. The Saxons and Welsh might have worn roads through the landscape over time, but the Romans had built theirs with rock and sand and, quite frankly, there was a reason they’d done that. Those roads were better.

  “What can you see?” Myrddin said to Gareth, who was known for his perfect vision, which Myrddin no longer could pretend to possess.

  “Wroxeter,” Gareth said.

  Myrddin made a guttural sound in his throat. He’d known that, of course, and Gareth was being deliberately obnoxious. “I mean, what can you see on the walls?”

  Myrddin had worried for the whole journey about the risk they’d taken in following a circular route instead of tracking King Arthur directly. But Gareth had been righ
t that an ambush was well within the realm of possibility, and the consensus when Godric had questioned those in nearby farms and villages was that Modred was indeed at Wroxeter.

  “Nothing that’s going to make rescuing the king with the few men we have any easier,” Gareth said. “We have to go in there. You know we do.”

  Myrddin did know it, but the knowledge didn’t make him any happier. “What about waiting until nightfall and sneaking into the city over the eastern wall. That end of the city is far less well guarded.”

  “You are thinking like a Welshman instead of the Saxon you’re pretending to be,” Gareth said. “Modred has spies in the lands around Wroxeter. Even now we are being watched. If we don’t ride straight to the gate, the guards will know something is amiss.”

  “They could even fear that we have come for King Arthur and tighten their watch on him.” Godric said, having ridden up beside Gareth. The two men hadn’t become friends on the road from Buellt, but they’d learned to respect each other. “It would make it many times harder to free him.”

  Even though riding as a Saxon had been Myrddin’s idea in the first place and he would have much preferred to stay in the shadows, he gave way. With the exception of Gareth, who retained his Welsh garb, though he’d removed the surcoat that proclaimed him to be one of Arthur’s men, they looked like a company of Saxons. Thus, a quarter of an hour later, as the sun was setting behind them, the company turned onto the high road and made directly for the bridge across the Severn River. The bridge would take them to the main gate at Wroxeter, located on the north side of the town. As they did so, to Myrddin’s huge relief, the four men of Godric’s company who had been sent to follow the wine drops trotted out of the trees to the north of the road and joined them.