A Long Cloud (The Lion of Wales Book 4)

by Sarah Woodbury

  They were standing in an abandoned portion of the town, to the north of Modred’s palisade and fifty yards from Wroxeter’s exterior fortifications. Most of the wall here was ruinous, some portions as low as six-feet high, a fact which explained the need for the palisade that surrounded the main hall.

  Myrddin had spent the early evening scouting out the area and felt he had a grasp of its dimensions. The houses were much smaller in this quarter, indicating that the poorer members of Roman society had once lived in this area of the city, and it was from here that waterworks that had fed the baths had been controlled and maintained. Although Myrddin would have chosen the task for himself, he’d allowed other men to keep an eye on the prison house for him, though their attention had needed to be sporadic so they wouldn’t call attention to themselves. Godric had pulled them all back within the last half-hour in preparation for the rescue.

  Myrddin stepped closer to the entrance, sniffing with distaste. A hundred and fifty years of neglect had left the tunnel, which had clearly once been an outtake for the sewer system, dripping in grime and smelling of mold. Myrddin sneezed violently three times.

  Gareth put a hand on Myrddin’s chest and pushed him away from the entrance. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know.” Myrddin sneezed three more times, and his eyes streamed with tears. The first sneeze had caught him by surprise, but he’d managed to stifle the subsequent ones in the elbow of his coat. He didn’t need Gareth’s restraining hand on his chest to know not to approach the tunnel again, and he blew his nose into the dirt beside the road, trying to eject the vile smell of mold from his nostrils.

  Gareth was disgusted by Myrddin’s weakness. “I can tell you right now that the whole plan would end in an instant if we sent you in there.”

  Myrddin shook his head. “I can go if I have to, if it’s the only way to rescue— ” Another sneeze overtook him.

  “As I said.” Gareth gave a low laugh. “You would have been the perfect man to send too because you still need to remain hidden from Modred and his men. But as it is, it’s impossible.” He turned on his heel to survey the rest of the men, who’d gathered in a semi-circle around him. And then he sighed. “Maybe I should be the one to go, since my presence in the rescue party will be a way to prove to the king that I have not defected to Modred.”

  “No, my lord. We need you out and about, in case Modred demands your presence. I’ll send two of my own men,” Godric said. “They can reassure the king of your allegiance, and that in speaking of Myrddin’s death, you were acting on Myrddin’s own advice.”

  Though he’d been willing to go, Gareth looked so relieved it was almost comical.

  “So what am I supposed to do?” Myrddin said.

  “Keep watch?” Godric said.

  Keeping watch went against Myrddin’s nature, and he kicked at the cobbles beneath his feet in frustration. It wasn’t as if Godric wasn’t right, however. Myrddin never would have imagined that he could be undone by a few sneezes, but that certainly seemed to be the case. His eyes had failed him quite some time ago, and he’d learned to live with it. His friend Ifan’s back was starting to go and was the main reason Myrddin hadn’t considered bringing him on this journey, though he would never tell his friend that. It was disturbing to discover that Myrddin’s breathing had failed him too—and like Gareth’s relief, it would have been amusing if the situation hadn’t been so serious and his family and King Arthur in such peril.

  In short order, two men chosen by Godric for their smaller size disappeared down the tunnel with a torch to light their way and a spare in case the first one went out. According to Gareth, they would soon be crawling on all fours, a fact which made Myrddin somewhat less regretful that he wasn’t among them. Godric sent an additional two men to wait in the tunnel, staged at intervals, so that the rescuers would have light and companionship to follow home. Then he went to see about the disposition of the rest of his men, who were spread out around the waterworks in an effort to keep watch and not be taken unawares in case a stray guard of Modred’s wandered by.

  “I can’t believe a rescue of King Arthur, Nell, and Huw can really be accomplished this easily,” Myrddin said to Gareth in an undertone.

  “I wouldn’t say this is easy. Have you had a vision that tells us otherwise?” Gareth said with apparent interest.

  “No.”

  Gareth plucked at his lower lip. “It’s why Modred is keeping King Arthur in a fine house that concerns me. Back at Buellt, Beorhtsige should have killed King Arthur so Modred could declare himself King of Wales immediately. Why didn’t he?”

  Myrddin kicked at some debris between two cobbles, thinking. “Maybe Archbishop Dafydd has something to do with it. He wouldn’t countenance the murder of a sitting king in cold blood, even if he has become one of Modred’s lackeys.”

  In fact, the more Myrddin thought about it, the more it seemed likely that Modred’s conciliatory attitude, as had been the case a month ago before the Battle at the Strait, was a result of Dafydd’s influence. The archbishop had excommunicated Arthur and Cai at Modred’s behest and forbidden the holding of services and rites in Wales until Arthur surrendered to the Church’s authority. The fact that Dafydd had taken that action did not mean, however, that he had given up all hope of reconciliation. Quite the opposite—he was still hoping to push King Arthur into giving way before Modred.

  “Since it was you who escorted Lord Aelric across the Conwy River only last month and were present for the excommunication at Rhuddlan,” Gareth said, “I suppose if any of us should know the archbishop’s mind, it’s you. Modred has always wanted to appear kingly and that has meant appeasing the archbishop—perhaps up to and including today.”

  Wishing now that he’d been given the opportunity to sleep because he actually wanted a vision to overtake him if it would help them rescue King Arthur, Myrddin left Gareth to his musing and went looking for Godric, who had paced down a narrow alley to the next street, which was closer to the center of the city. At the intersection, Godric had stopped, his hand on his sword hilt, as if in anticipation of drawing it. Myrddin came to stand beside him.

  He didn’t have to ask what had drawn Godric’s attention: angry voices rose faintly from the central square of the town where the entrance to the palisade was located. Myrddin gave Godric a wary look. “We should find out what’s happening.”

  “I will stay here to wait for my men to return,” Godric said.

  Myrddin loped back to Gareth, who’d remained at the entrance to the tunnel. As Myrddin clapped the Saxon helmet on his head again and pulled up the hood of his cloak to hide his features, he related to Gareth what he and Godric had heard.

  Never one to need something explained to him twice, Gareth went with Myrddin through the maze of abandoned buildings between the tunnel and Modred’s hall. From the position of the moon it had to be nearly midnight by now and, as dark shadows, they flitted from the corner of one building to another, avoiding main streets, until they reached a point where they were within hailing distance of the palisade gate.

  A small circle of men had gathered around two soldiers who were arguing, each held back by two friends. The crowd watching grew larger with every moment that passed.

  From what Myrddin could decipher from the shouted words, two factions within Modred’s army were on the opposite sides of an argument, though for the life of him Myrddin couldn’t figure out what they were arguing about. They were all well soaked in beer, however, so it could have been about anything. Then the two combatants simultaneously wrenched themselves away from the men trying to hold them and attacked each other, punching and grappling and trying to gain an advantage. The argument had progressed to a brawl.

  “The time is now to free King Arthur from his prison,” Gareth said, immediately seeing how they could turn the situation to their advantage.

  But before he could set off in the direction of the house where the king was being kept, Myrddin grabbed his arm and said, “Look!”


  Edgar of Wigmore edged himself out the back of the crowd and walked swiftly around the north side of the palisade, in the same direction they’d intended to go.

  Myrddin had been trying not to think about Edgar’s betrayal all day. He longed to find the Saxon lord alone in one of these deserted alleys. It would have been absurd of him to confront Edgar, however. A man didn’t become a leader of men by following his heart as much as his head.

  “What does he think he’s doing?” Gareth said under his breath, and he started off after him, though at such a distance that Edgar wouldn’t notice. “I spoke with Beorhtsige about the bruises on King Arthur’s face, and he told me that Edgar himself gave them to the king.”

  Myrddin didn’t answer because he couldn’t speak since his hatred for Edgar was clogging his throat. He followed quickly after Gareth, again staying in the shadows and trying to both stay with Edgar and to keep out of his line of sight in case he looked around. Edgar followed the palisade, moving at a steady pace that didn’t draw attention—neither too fast nor too slow—and headed, as Gareth and Myrddin had intended, for the house which served as Arthur’s prison.

  Gareth spoke from just ahead of Myrddin. “Am I crazed to think that it was he who started that fight?”

  The front of the manor house was lit by torches shining from either side of the door. Two men guarded it, though they had the look of men who’d rather be elsewhere. They shifted and fidgeted, craning their necks to discover what was causing all the commotion a hundred yards to the west, and one took a dozen steps away from his post in the hopes that his new position would allow him to see the action better.

  Edgar halted in front of the guard at the door, who managed to focus on him long enough to show his respect. “Good evening, my lord!”

  Edgar inclined his head regally. “Good evening. I would speak briefly to the woman and boy, if I may.”

  The man’s eyes flicked past Edgar to the fight, which had to be winding down by now, though from the continued shouting it wasn’t. “We have been given orders to let nobody past us.”

  The moonlight and torchlight were bright enough that Myrddin could see the sneer that passed across Edgar’s face, in an almost direct imitation of Modred, whose sneer was fixed permanently in place. But when Edgar spoke, his tone was reasonable. “I was the one who brought them to Wroxeter. Surely such a rule does not apply to me.”

  “The boy walks as if he’s bruised all over,” the guard said.

  Myrddin frowned. He’d heard that Edgar had bruised the king face, but not that Huw was injured too.

  “He is a prisoner,” Edgar said, as if that was all the explanation required. And maybe it was. He cleared his throat. “Now see here—”

  “Act like my servant, will you?” Gareth said in a whisper to Myrddin, and then he stepped out of the shadows and strode out of the darkness towards Edgar.

  Myrddin followed, albeit a little stiffly, since he’d been told time and again to stay in the shadows, and he was uncomfortable with coming forward, especially with Edgar present. His helmet did cover much of his face, however, so Myrddin acted against instinct and brazened it out.

  For his part, Gareth sauntered towards the front door. Earlier, many more guards had encircled the house, but Myrddin didn’t see them now. Either they were in deep shadow, were no longer needed, or had abandoned their posts sooner than these guards. All soldiers drank, but beer appeared to be a more potent drink than mead, given that over-indulgence had diverted so many of Modred’s men.

  “Let him past, soldier,” Gareth said in his accented English, though he still managed to infuse the words with a lazy drawl that marked him as a man of wealth and privilege.

  The soldier saluted Gareth in a way he hadn’t Edgar. “Yes, my lord.”

  Gareth lifted his chin to point towards the front of the palisade. “Why don’t you two see what’s happening at the gatehouse. My man will stand guard until you get back.” He indicated Myrddin with a tip of his head.

  “Yes, sir!” The first guard patted Myrddin’s shoulder as he passed, muttering his thanks, and the two men disappeared around the palisade.

  Gareth glared at Edgar. “What are you doing here?”

  Edgar’s teeth were clenched. “What are you doing here? I had this well in hand!”

  Myrddin gave a low laugh, having finally realized that his suspicions about these Saxons, half-Saxons, and former traitors who surrounded him had been misplaced from beginning to end. “He’s rescuing the king, just like you are. Now—can we get on with it?” He pushed through the door, ignoring the protests of both lords.

  Nell must have overheard some of the activity, because she stood in the center of the floor, with Huw a half-step in front of her. At the sight of him, she put both hands to her mouth and then ran forward to throw her arms around Myrddin’s neck.

  “I’m all right, cariad.” He reached out an arm and pulled Huw to him too.

  Nell gave a choking sob. “Gareth said you were dead!”

  Myrddin bent to rest his forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry about that, Nell, but we needed safe passage into Wroxeter, and we, unlike Edgar, didn’t have you or King Arthur to barter with.”

  Edgar and Gareth had done a quick search of the house, and now Gareth returned to the foyer. “Where’s the king?”

  “He isn’t here,” Nell said. “Someone came for him a quarter of an hour ago.”

  “That explains why there are so few guards. Who was it, Nell?” Myrddin said.

  Nell shook her head. “I don’t know. It isn’t as if the guards would tell me.”

  A tapping sound came from the recesses of the house, and Myrddin leapt towards the sound before he remembered the Saxons coming through the tunnel. He reached the bathroom in time to see the head of one of Godric’s men poking through a three-foot door in one side of the pool, which maintenance workers had used back when the house had been lived in.

  “That was ugly.” The man swore under his breath in English. “What are you doing here, my lord? Don’t tell me we did this for nothing!”

  Myrddin reached down to grasp his hand while holding his breath at the same time at the smell emanating from the open hatch. “Sorry. Let’s get you out of there.”

  Soon, both of Godric’s soldiers were standing on the floor of the pool, breathing deeply. They were a matched set of curly blond hair and blue eyes, not unlike half the men in Modred’s army, which had been helpful today since they were trying to blend in.

  Nell went to the opening, sniffed once and frowned, and then looked back to Myrddin. “Do we need to leave the same way?”

  “That was the original plan, before Edgar involved himself.” Gareth laughed softly. “Madam, I apologize. I approved the idea.”

  “One of Godric’s men discovered the tunnel, but you are noble, my lord, for taking responsibility,” Myrddin said. “Is there a back way out of here?”

  “That door has been sealed shut,” Huw said. “We tried it, once we realized we were all but unguarded. I didn’t think to leave by the bath.”

  To this point, Edgar had contributed nothing at all, but now he said, “Thus, my plan to bring them out the front is clearly the best one.” He jerked his head towards the door. “We should go now while we still can.”

  Gareth indicated Godric’s two soldiers. “Even better, we have guards to leave behind.”

  The first man, a fellow named Heard, said, “Karl is waiting for us in the tunnel. We should send him back to Godric so he knows we’re coming.”

  While they waited for the Saxon to return, Myrddin edged open the front door and poked out his head. To his relief, the real guards hadn’t returned, even though whatever fight Edgar had started seemed to be winding down. Myrddin felt like they’d been in the house for an hour, but as he thought back, he realized it had been less than a quarter of that time. He could still hear activity in the distance, but nobody was in their immediate vicinity.

  Gareth said to Edgar, “This will be it. B
y entering here tonight, we have exposed ourselves as servants of Arthur.”

  “Is that what he is?” Nell gestured to Edgar.

  It was only then that Myrddin realized that Nell had refused so far to look at the Saxon lord.

  Myrddin motioned that Nell should come to him, and when she reached him, he put his arm around her waist. She was trembling.

  Edgar bowed in their direction. “I did what I thought was necessary.” When he didn’t say more, Myrddin realized that was all the apology they were going to get.

  “You could have left us behind and said nothing,” Nell said. “We would have been safe enough.”

  “Is that what you wanted?” Edgar said. “I couldn’t let Beorhtsige take King Arthur to Wroxeter without me. I assumed you felt the same, or I would have left you behind.”

  Nell gazed at him for a count of three, and she then took in a breath. “No, you’re right. I was glad to go, and I even told Huw at the time that there was no better place for us to be than by the king’s side.”

  Edgar nodded. “It’s the fact that I hit King Arthur that angers you most.”

  “Yes,” Nell said after another breath, “but you had to convince Beorhtsige. I understand that now.”

  Heard and Oswin came hustling back. “We’re ready.”

  “Let’s move.” Myrddin pulled the door wide, but Edgar caught his arm before he could pass through it. “I will leave first. Nell and Huw should have their hands behind their backs as if they’re tied, and you can hold their arms as if they’re prisoners.” He turned to Godric’s men. “Get rid of your cloaks and tunics. That will help with the reek and make you less identifiable. You can stand guard after we’re gone until the real guards get back. If we’re lucky, they won’t check the house, and they won’t think twice about your presence, but simply be glad they didn’t fail in their duty, once they remember it again.”

  Edgar was proving himself to be full of good ideas. Godric’s men took their place, with strict instructions not to get involved in any conversation with Modred’s men, and to meet back at the rendezvous point by the cistern entrance the moment they were free to do so.