Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

Nell had known that. Modred’s intent was to open two fronts in Eryri, splitting King Arthur’s forces and attention. Wulfere would attack from Anglesey, and Modred himself from the east, along the very road on which Nell and Myrddin had traveled. But while the army on Anglesey had been in position for months, Modred had faced resistance all along the border between Mercia and Gwynedd, which had delayed the combined assault.

  And then, at the very moment Modred had been ready to advance across the Conwy River, Archbishop Dafydd had intervened. Loath to have uncle and nephew fighting each other and despoiling Wales between them, he suggested the possibility of a peace settlement. King Arthur and Modred had agreed to try, and they’d been working on it since the middle of October. Lord Aelric had merely delivered the latest missive.

  “Indeed,” Myrddin said. “Archbishop Dafydd has not given up, but I have no news beyond that. We met no Saxons on the road, once we headed west from St. Asaph.”

  “I’ll tell the captain.” Rhodri stood and departed, leaving Nell and Myrddin alone with their simple meal of bread, cheese, boiled onions, and sweet mead. Myrddin ate the fresh food with gusto. Nell, in contrast, picked at hers.

  “Are you all right?” Myrddin asked between mouthfuls.

  Nell pushed the trencher more towards him, having eaten only three or four bites. Over the last two days, it seemed the nervous pit in her stomach had become permanent. It wasn’t going to go away just because she was behind stone walls and ostensibly safe. “I’m more tired than hungry.”

  Myrddin nodded and hurried through the rest of the meal. Rhodri hadn’t returned by the time he finished so, once again, Nell followed Myrddin out of the hall. This time, he led her up a staircase to the sleeping rooms set aside for guests. On the floor of one room lay six pallets, each with a folded blanket on its end.

  “You may sleep here,” Myrddin said.

  Nell took a few hesitant steps into the room and then looked to where Myrddin lounged in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame. “What about you?”

  “I’ll bunk in the barracks across the courtyard.” He tipped his head to indicate their general direction.

  “No!” The word burst from Nell, and once said, she didn’t want to take it back.

  Myrddin dropped his hands to his sides and straightened. “What?”

  “I can’t stay here without you. Please don’t leave me alone.”

  Myrddin gaped at her. “You ask the impossible, Nell. I can’t sleep in the same room as you!”

  “Please, Myrddin. I can’t—” Nell choked on the words. Once again, the terrors of the last three days which she’d been holding at bay threatened to overwhelm her, and she buried her face in her hands.

  “All right; all right.” Myrddin held one hand out to her. “I don’t mind. I can sleep anywhere, but you must be certain. Last week you were a nun, and today—” He stopped.

  Nell let the silence stretch between them while she took several deep breaths to calm herself. “Today I’m not.” She walked to one of the pallets which was set against a far wall and sat down on it, before pointing to a second pallet near where Myrddin stood. “Could you shut the door and move the pallet to block it? If you sleep across it …?” Her voice trailed off.

  After a final, long look, Myrddin nodded. “I can sleep here,” he said, although his expression told her otherwise. It was as if he was concerned, curious, and amused all at the same time.

  Comforted that he would stay, regardless of what he really thought, Nell lay down, turned her back on Myrddin, and pulled the blanket to her chin.

  *

  Myrddin breathed in the high moorland air, pungent with the smell of dried grass, juniper, and agrimony, patches of which grew all along the road. They’d reached a point where they were well above the farmlands of the Aber river valley and could see all the way to the Irish Sea. The water showed grey-blue and reflected the clouds that had begun to blow in from the west.

  “It’s so peaceful up here. Not like down below.” Nell removed a hand from Myrddin’s waist and gestured towards the island of Anglesey, which squatted in the distance. “The Saxons plan to conquer Eryri next, and we can’t let them. They will move soon.”

  Myrddin squinted, but to him the island wasn’t anything more than a grey smudge on the horizon. “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “The ferryman at Bangor took me across the Menai Strait on the evening of November 2nd, not long after Wulfere’s men—” Nell swallowed and then continued as if the words weren’t poisoning her heart, “—found my sisters. But he only helped me because he was ferrying himself across. He felt an ill wind blowing and didn’t want to be caught in the middle of it. He didn’t intend to return to the island until it was over.”

  “You speak of Wulfere. Does he still head the Saxon forces?” Myrddin said.

  “Yes,” Nell said. “The people of Anglesey call him ‘the pig’.”

  As before when Nell had spoken of the atrocities at the convent, Myrddin sensed that if she were less well-bred, she would have spat on the ground rather than speak Wulfere’s name.

  “If anyone deserves it, Wulfere does,” Myrddin said. “He once chopped off a man’s hand for failing to give him his carafe of wine as quickly as he liked.”

  “May he burn in hell for what he did to my sisters,” Nell said.

  “I will see to it if I can,” Myrddin said. “Before I left yesterday morning, King Arthur’s scouts were reporting unusual activity on and near the bridge of boats. When they come, we’ll be ready.”

  In fact, one of Arthur’s many spies had told him that Wulfere, frustrated by the delay, had openly commented that Modred lacked sufficient courage to fight King Arthur when it came to it and sought a way to force Modred’s hand. Arthur believed that soon Wulfere would order his men across the Strait, hoping for a surprise attack and a swift victory. Instead, he would find himself facing an army of Welshmen.

  Myrddin could already hear the screams of dying men, blood coating them and him, taste salt and sand on his lips as the wind spit surf into his face, and feel again the slick thrust of his sword through an enemy’s flesh.

  Nell and Myrddin made their way out of the mountains and into the forests and fields that surrounded Garth Celyn, following the Roman road. An hour later, they approached the gates to the castle. Arthur’s banner—the red dragon of Wales on a white background—flew from the flagpole. A shiver went through Myrddin at the knowledge that if he couldn’t stop Arthur from going to the church by the Cam River, that flag might never fly in Wales again. While Myrddin never had any intention of allowing that to happen, it was dawning on him only now—so late he was embarrassed to admit it—that it was he who would have to see to it.

  The certainty of Myrddin’s new knowledge grew in him—along with his fear. All his life, he’d lived as other men had directed and been content with that. His lord pointed, and he went. How was he going to change course so late in life? How was he to face the oncoming storm when he couldn’t tell anyone his thoughts, his fears, his dreams? How was he to stand his ground against this fate?

  A head popped over the battlements. It was Ifan, Myrddin’s old compatriot. Myrddin waved a hand.

  “You’ve returned.” Ifan rested his forearms on the wooden rail at the top of the wall so he could see Myrddin better. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Nell but didn’t comment, for which Myrddin was grateful. Through the arrow slits, the shadows of other men paced along the wall-walk.

  “You expected something different?” Myrddin said.

  Ifan laughed. “When one rides among the Saxons, one can never be too sure of one’s safety.” He lifted his chin. “The garrison at Caerhun is secure?”

  “It is,” Myrddin said, “and the mead excellent.”

  Ifan snorted laughter and waved them in as the guards below pushed open the gate.

  Two torches in sconces lit the front of the gatehouse. Garth Celyn was much more a fort or manor house than a castle, for all that a high palisade surro
unded it. It perched on a slight hill overlooking the farmland and sea to the north and had a line of sight in all directions so the defenders could see the Saxons coming before they reached the castle—in order to give them time to flee.

  Which they would need to do since Garth Celyn wasn’t defensible. It lacked both the height of most of King Arthur’s bastions and the elaborate ditch and rampart construction that were mandatory for flatland castles. It did contain many buildings, including a great hall and kitchen, behind which sat a two story house with many rooms for guests. A barracks lay near the gatehouse, along with the armory, chapel, and craft halls.

  At Nell’s convent, the tunnel which King Arthur had repaired had been intended as an escape route for early Christians who’d worshipped under an edict of death when the Romans ruled Wales. Garth Celyn, in turn, had two tunnels. One headed north, leading to the sea, and the other emptied into a meadow near Aber Falls. A grown man could walk easily along the underground passages.

  Myrddin’s stomach clenched at the thought of Nell navigating the tunnel underneath Llanfaes Abbey, leading her sisters to what she hoped was safety, only to find that her Abbess had compromised her safe haven. Such courage was rare, even in a soldier. He would not have expected to find it in a nun. Or rather, former nun. That she’d asked to share a room with him at Caerhun still stunned him. They’d slept apart, but nobody else knew that. He still couldn’t believe she’d wanted it.

  Nell’s arms clenched Myrddin’s waist.

  “What is it?” He hoped his thoughts hadn’t influenced hers. When she didn’t answer, he added, “There’s nothing to fear.”

  “I—” Nell stopped. “I am not at home here.”

  “You worry needlessly,” he said. “The king will not hold the news of the Saxon depredations against you.”

  Once inside the walls, Myrddin dismounted onto packed earth, dryer than at Caerhun thanks to today’s limited sunshine. Looking around, Myrddin was pleased to be a part of the bustle and activity of the castle. Nell caught him smiling.

  “I see soldiers.” She pulled her cloak close around her and put up the hood. “I see war. Death. You must see something different.”

  Myrddin surveyed the courtyard. Three men-at-arms slouched near the smithy, waiting for their horses to be reshod. A handful of men watched two others wrestle by the stables, and a host of peasants—servants in the kitchen and the hall—moved in and out of the huts that sat hard against the palisade. A boy holding a stick urged a pig towards its stall while another ran towards Myrddin and reached for Cadfarch’s reins.

  “My lord!” he said. “All is well?”

  “It is, Adda.” Myrddin tousled his hair. “I’ll be in to see Cadfarch later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nell watched the exchange through narrowed eyes. “You are a knight,” she said, as if there had been some doubt on that score.

  “I am.” Myrddin turned to look at her, surprised she hadn’t known it.

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “I should have guessed it since you were charged with the welfare of Lord Aelric. But you traveled alone …” Her words tapered off.

  “And my cloth is poor, for all that I wear mail armor. I know. I have the look of a man-at-arms but, in truth—” he spread his arms wide like a bard preparing to sing a paean to Arthur, “—I’m an impoverished knight.” Myrddin laughed and tossed a small coin to Adda. “We do what we can with what we are given.”

  Nell didn’t respond, still embarrassed perhaps, so Myrddin grasped her elbow and steered her towards the great hall. Despite her fears, she would have to speak to the king about the events at Llanfaes and the desecration of his wife’s grave, as well as confirm that the populace on Anglesey believed the Saxons would move across the Strait soon in hopes of striking here, at Garth Celyn.

  The guards who watched the entrance to the great hall pulled open the eight-foot doors at the top of the steps to allow Myrddin and Nell to enter. A wave of warmth enveloped them, along with that familiar musky smell of damp wool, herbs, and humanity. Nell relaxed beside him. Often in winter, it was cold enough to see one’s breath in the hall, but darkness had fallen and it was dinner time, so men—eating, drinking, and talking—filled the room. The fire in the hearth blazed.

  King Arthur sat at the high table at the far end of the hall, as was his custom, and it was so warm next to the fire that he’d shed his cloak. Two senior advisors flanked him: Geraint, one of his foremost commanders, and Bedwyr, his seneschal. Bedwyr was a grizzled, thick-set man of Arthur’s generation who had supported Arthur since the early days of his reign. It was Bedwyr who kept order in Eryri when Arthur was away. More often than not, the two of them could communicate without speaking.

  Myrddin stared at the king, feeling the familiar punch to the gut that seeing him alive after having dreamed of his death always gave him. Myrddin was sick of the dreams, terrified of the waking vision he’d had the day before, but there was no denying that King Arthur had acted as the beacon of Myrddin’s existence in a world gone mad for his entire adult life. Myrddin may have long denied the future that stared him in the face; he might not know what it was going to take to change that future; he didn’t know how he was going to become other than he was. But he knew, somehow, that he had to find a way. By God, there has to be an answer here.

  As Myrddin urged Nell forward, pushing through her hesitation, Arthur noted their appearance and beckoned them to him.

  “You’ll do fine,” Myrddin said. “Come.”

  And then before his eyes, Nell transformed herself from an insecure girl to the confident nun who’d taken charge of her sisters when nobody else would. She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, as aware as Myrddin that if everyone in the room hadn’t noticed them at first, they watched them now. They threaded their way between the closer tables, many of which had been added because of the increased number of men in the garrison, and then walked up the aisle to King Arthur’s seat. They stopped before him. Myrddin bowed while Nell curtseyed.

  “Myrddin,” Arthur said, with that particular, dry tone he often used when addressing him.

  “My lord.”

  “Lord Aelric reached home safely?” King Arthur’s eyes tracked from Myrddin to Nell.

  “He did,” Myrddin said. “Neither he nor Lord Modred can have any cause for complaint.”

  “And yet, you come back in one piece.” A smile twitched at the corner of King Arthur’s mouth.

  “As you say, my lord,” Myrddin said. “For all Modred’s perfidy, the Archbishop would countenance nothing less.”

  “Good.” The king turned to Nell. “Welcome to Garth Celyn, madam. I remember your attention to the details of my wife’s funeral.” Somehow it didn’t surprise Myrddin that Arthur recognized her. She was certainly memorable, and he was the King of Wales. It was his job to remember faces. “I confess I’m concerned to see you here, however, dressed as you are.”

  “The convent is dissolved, my lord,” Nell said.

  At Nell’s words, the air in the room turned icy cold as Arthur’s face darkened. When the king became angry, he rarely shouted or overtly lost his temper. Instead, he grew still, and his voice became lower and deceptively gentler.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  Nell enumerated the Saxon crimes while King Arthur sat, still and silent, his jaw clenched and bulging. Once she finished, Myrddin took the liberty of stepping into the conversation before King Arthur’s heart gave out.

  “My lord,” Myrddin said. “Nell has heard that the Saxons intend to cross the Strait soon.”

  “So my scouts at Penryhn tell me,” Arthur said. “Modred attacks me despite the peace.”

  “Or rather, Wulfere does.” Myrddin swallowed hard at his impertinence in correcting his king. Still, he didn’t take it back. The man he needed to be wasn’t going to come without taking risks.

  “Certainly.” Arthur looked amused rather than angry at Myrddin’s interjection. “But we aren’t supposed to know that, are we?
”

  “Modred isn’t interested in peace, regardless of what Archbishop Dafydd hopes,” Geraint added, from Arthur’s left.

  Nell shifted from one foot to another beside Myrddin, and he glanced at her. Her clear skin had gone paler than its usual white. Concerned, he slipped an arm around her waist to support her.

  Also noting her distress, Arthur waved a hand to one of the ladies of the court who came forward. He looked into Nell’s eyes. “You have a home here as long as you want it. If there is anything you need, ask Myrddin, here, or Bedwyr.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Nell said. “Thank you.”

  To the lady, the king said, “See to our guest’s comfort.”

  Meanwhile, Myrddin murmured under his breath to Nell, “Will you be all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Nell looked up at him, placed a hand on his chest, and patted once. Myrddin released her, and Nell followed the girl without wavering on her feet. When she reached the door to the stairs, she looked back at Myrddin, her face expressionless. Myrddin liked that even less than her show of weakness. He nodded his encouragement, and she disappeared.

  Myrddin focused again on King Arthur.

  “I hope you weren’t planning to sleep tonight,” the king said.

  “No, sir,” he said. “I slept at Caerhun.”

  All the way down the road from the standing stones, Myrddin had been thinking of the battle that was to come. He’d drawn his sword yesterday in defense of Nell, his muscles moving in their remembered patterns, but it wasn’t the same as a real battle. Myrddin hadn’t fought in formation since the brutal defeats of the previous year after which King Arthur was forced to surrender far too much to Modred and confine himself to his lands in Eryri. Myrddin wasn’t glad to have killed a man yesterday, but it gave him confidence that he still knew how to fight, even at thirty-six. He needed to get his head in the right place if he was going to be the knight upon whom his companions depended. Myrddin touched his sword at his waist, reassured at its comforting weight.

  The king had turned to speak to Bedwyr. Because King Arthur had not yet dismissed him, Myrddin remained standing on the opposite side of the table from the king’s seat, trying not to shift from one foot to another in awkwardness and impatience. Geraint, who’d remained on Arthur’s left throughout the conversation, winked at Myrddin in a rare moment of camaraderie, his eyes alight with amusement. Myrddin bowed gravely back.