By the time they arrived in the great hall, it was full of people and rumors. A rider from Modred had arrived, and the inhabitants of Garth Celyn were abuzz with what the letter he carried contained. Myrddin pulled Nell to a seat near Ifan, who (after a knowing look that encompassed them both and what he assumed had gone on between them in the night) shrugged when Myrddin queried him.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Ifan said. “Lord Aelric carried a letter from King Arthur to Modred. I assume this is Modred’s response. It won’t change anything.”
“But with the battle at the Strait—” Nell said.
Myrddin shook his head. “Modred won’t even mention it. He believes he has the better of King Arthur. Such is his arrogance that he believes it is our king who is in rebellion and in danger of excommunication. By his lights, our only recourse is to beg for mercy.”
“Bollocks to that,” Ifan said.
Nell caught Myrddin’s eye. “What do you think Archbishop Dafydd has told him?”
“It’s what Modred has promised the Church, more like,” Ifan said, the same sour expression on his face.
Before they’d finished their breakfast, Gareth appeared at the end of the table. He leaned heavily on his hands, the weight of the world on his back, and looked directly at Myrddin. “The king wants you.”
Nell, who wasn’t invited, wrinkled her nose in annoyance. Myrddin shrugged back at her and got to his feet. He followed Gareth to the rear of the hall and down the corridor to Arthur’s receiving room near one of the towers. When they arrived, King Arthur, Geraint, and Bedwyr were already in the room, along with Lord Cai, whose face was a thundercloud.
Myrddin’s eyes narrowed to see him there. He hated the man—all the more after the exchange the day before. Nell, in her former life as a nun, would have told him that it was wrong to hate at all, but when speaking of Cai, anything less than hatred would have been doing him a disservice. The man begged for retribution, but to his regret, Myrddin would never be the one to give it.
Over the years, Cai had betrayed his brother in many ways and by diverse means, even to the point of conspiring with Modred to wage war against Arthur (twice), and an assassination attempt. Whenever Myrddin was in Cai’s presence, he avoided looking at him at all and worked very hard not to show his disdain. King Arthur’s face didn’t reveal what he thought of Cai either, but then, he’d spent a lifetime masking his feelings towards his brother. Most of the time, it was best not to think on it, especially since Cai stood beside Arthur once again.
Myrddin had arrived in the middle of a conversation between Cai and Arthur, and this time they were in agreement, even if both were angry. Arthur stood, his back to the other men in the room, staring out at the heavily falling rain which was making muddy puddles in the courtyard.
Cai, for his part, snorted his derision, disgust in every line of his body. “At least he offers you a plot of land in Mercia in exchange for Eryri. Modred’s letter to me states that ‘peace’ means I must take the cross, travel to the Holy Land, and never return to Wales. I’ll give him peace! He is a fool.”
Arthur turned to his brother, his expression mild. “If we deny his requests, he will see to it that the Archbishop excommunicates us. He states his intention boldly.”
“Archbishops have not always spoken for God to our kings.” Cai spat out his response. “If we are excommunicate for protecting our country and our people, then so be it.”
The stance was a brave one and, for the first time in his life, Myrddin found himself agreeing with Cai. He had more fire behind his words since he’d started this war. It almost made Myrddin think that he had concern for something or someone besides himself.
“And these messengers bother me,” King Arthur said. “They bear a white flag of truce, but they wear Agravaine’s colors, not Modred’s.”
At the mention of Agravaine, every man in the room hissed under his breath. Everywhere Arthur had turned of late, there Agravaine had been. He was the key coordinator of military activity in Wales for Modred. He’d gained this position over the heads of all the other barons who supported him, including Lord Edgar of Powys and Lord Cedric of Brecon, Modred’s cousins.
“These riders will do what they can to spy on us,” Bedwyr said. “We don’t want them running around Eryri unobserved.”
“That’s what I need you for, Myrddin.” King Arthur had finally noted him in his corner. “Follow them as far as the Conwy River and then return to me this evening. Take Ifan. When I’m ready, you will then carry my answer to Modred.”
“Yes, my lord,” Myrddin said.
“Take Deiniol with you as well.” Cai halted Myrddin’s progress towards the door. “He’s your brother, I believe.”
His stomach roiling, Myrddin inwardly corrected him: foster brother. “Yes, my lord,” he said instead, and turned away.
Did he know how much Myrddin hated him? He being Cai, and him being Deiniol, who knew damn well that Myrddin despised him down to his ugly boots.
“What’s wrong?” Nell caught Myrddin as he walked stiff-legged across the hall, heading towards the front doors, which opened, exposing the hall to the elements as another soldier left the room.
It was cold, even for November. A dozen men were preparing to ride their horses on similar missions—to other lords and barons whose estates were within a few days’ ride of Garth Celyn. Modred had sent a letter to the Council of Wales as well as one each to Cai and Arthur. The Council, made up of the highest ranking barons and lords in Wales, needed to see it, discuss it, and respond, just as Arthur and Cai did. Raindrops reflected off the links of the men’s mail, which were just visible beneath the thick wool of their cloaks. Myrddin didn’t envy them even as he acknowledged that he would soon be one of them.
“I am sent to follow the Saxon riders who brought the messages to the king,” Myrddin said. “To make sure they return to their side of the Conwy.”
“And that makes you angry?”
Myrddin halted and turned to her, forcing down the anger and the memories that had formed a film over his eyes.
The rain drips down my neck into the collar of my linen shirt. Ripped and torn after my struggles in the woods over the last hour, it provides little protection anyway. If I ever reach the safety of the castle, I will leave it in the rag pile on my way in.
I shiver. “Come on, Myrddin, you spineless bastard. Move!”
But I cannot. I bend aside a branch of the bush in which I’m cowering and peer through the murk, looking for my pursuer. I see nothing but the rain and the muddy track separating me from the gatehouse of the castle.
Bracing myself, I leave the safety of my bush. In ten quick steps, I’m through the gatehouse and across the bailey at a run, heading for the stables. I reach it and then press my back against the wall beside the open doorway. I listen for movement, to calm myself and become one with my surrounding as I’ve been taught, but my beating heart and the pounding rain overwhelm my senses.
At last, I risk entry. I slip through the doorway and head for the shadow of the horse stalls. A horse whickers a gentle greeting, and I touch his nose to quiet him. From the door at the far end of the stables, it’s a dozen yards to a side door of the keep. Once there, I’ll be safe. For now. I reach the last stall and quicken my pace, sensing freedom. Instead, the door swings open and I’m face to face with Deiniol.
He grins.
I back away.
A single lantern lights the expansive space between the doorway and the horses. The light glints off a knife Deiniol holds. As I watch, he shifts it from one hand to the other. Deiniol is a seasoned fighter, full grown and strong. Even though I’m already sixteen, I’m still a scrawny half-child, speaking in a voice that breaks instead of the low voice of a man.
Deiniol has always been bigger than I, possessing a cruel streak I’d discovered before I could talk. There are more ways to hurt than through physical pain and Deiniol has tried them all on me at one time or another. He’s hounded me all afternoon, an
d it’s as if this moment is the culmination of a lifetime of animosity. I’ll have one chance to escape him, if I have any chance at all.
Between one heartbeat and the next, Deiniol moves forward, and I spring to my right, only to find myself caught between two large hands that grip my arms and twist them behind my back. A booted foot comes around my legs and pinions them. I twist and jerk my body, but cannot break free.
“Aeden,” I spit out, recognizing this new foe as Deiniol’s cousin on his mother’s side. “Why do you help him?”
Aeden laughs. “Drop the weapon, Deiniol. I’ll hold the rat while you hit him.”
Deiniol’s eyes glint alarmingly. They’re almost more frightening than the knife he carries. Deiniol takes a step forward, knife outstretched. Then he tosses it aside into one of the stalls.
I smirk.
Instantly, I know I’ve made a mistake and try to tame my expression, but it’s too late.
Deiniol’s face twists in hatred. He rushes forward and drives his shoulder into me. Aeden has already backed away and Deiniol and I go down: me underneath and Deiniol straddling my abdomen. I rock my hips trying to throw him off and then scrabble my hands on either side for a fistful of hay to throw into his face, but the stable floor is unaccountably clean and smooth.
I can feel the restlessness in the horses, as they, in turn, sense my distress. They cannot help me, however, and Deiniol ignores both them and my struggles. He grasps my wrists so tightly my hands go numb and pulls them above my head.
We glare at each other. There’s blood on my lip where I bit it, and my belly aches from Deiniol’s pummels. Still, I don’t look away and, at long last, Deiniol sees something in me that gives him pause. His eyes narrow, and we still.
I can’t breathe. Suddenly, Deiniol tips back his head and screams his frustration to the sky. Only then does help come, in the form of Deiniol’s mother.
“Boys!” she says, insulting all three of us without thought. “We leave for Mercia tomorrow, and yet all you can think to do is scuffle in the dust!”
“So it’s true,” Aeden says. “Cai has defected to Modred.”
“And we with him,” my foster mother says.
Deiniol rolls off me.
I get to my feet and meet his gaze.
“I will remember this, mochyn,” he says. It is the word for ‘pig’, but means bastard. “This is only the beginning.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” His mother brushes straw from Deiniol’s shoulders. “Myrddin, I expected better of you.”
Her casual unfairness leaves me speechless and unable to defend myself. Deiniol smirks at me from behind his mother’s back. He tips his head to Aeden and prances after his mother, leaving me alone in the stables.
What Deiniol doesn’t realize is that this time, the lesson I’ve learned is the opposite of the one he intended. When we meet next, four years later, Arthur is in the ascendancy, and it is Deiniol, not me, who stands downcast on the losing side.
“I find that I must travel to Caerhun in the company of my foster father’s son. I spoke to you of him yesterday.”
Nell’s look was sympathetic. “I wish I could come with you instead. I’m useless here.”
“That isn’t true.” Myrddin reached out and smoothed the hair near her forehead. “Besides. It’s impossible. You know that.”
“This is all new to me,” she said. “I’m at loose ends.”
“There’s an herb garden behind the kitchen,” Myrddin said, “and a drying shed beyond. Perhaps you can be of some assistance there.”
“Don’t—” Nell broke off and swallowed the rest of her sentence. Myrddin watched her carefully as she looked away, took a deep breath, and turned back to him. “I’ve already found it. You’re right. They have need of me here.”
Unsure what her cut-short comment would have been but glad that Nell would make an attempt to be content, at least for today, Myrddin inspected the mustering men in the courtyard. The clouds hung low, and the rain fell so hard it was like they were standing in a waterfall.
He sighed and set out into it. It would be a hideously cold ride to Caerhun.
“You,” Deiniol said, as his initial greeting.
They stood beneath the gatehouse archway while a stable boy used a cloth to dry Myrddin’s saddle. Deiniol had already mounted and wore his hood pulled tight around his head to counter the rain. Regardless, even wearing wool cloaks, it wouldn’t take long for the rain this heavy to soak everyone through.
“Deiniol,” Myrddin said.
“I see you haven’t changed,” he said. “Still a sniveling child with a snotty nose and a craven look about you.”
“Sweet Mary.” Having pulled up her hood and come to see what kind of man Myrddin despised, Nell spoke sincerely.
“Is that your woman?” Deiniol lifted his chin and pointed it at Nell. “I heard men speak of her in the hall.”
Myrddin had an overwhelming urge to drive his fist into Deiniol’s face. Nell, perhaps sensing this, moved closer.
“I hear she used to be a nun,” Deiniol continued. “You’ll have a cold bed to come home to, won’t you?”
Now, Nell caught Myrddin’s elbow and held on. “I’m a grown woman. I’ve heard worse, and experienced worse, as you well know. Don’t get in trouble on my behalf.”
Ifan muttered under his breath, turning towards Myrddin and pretending to inspect the length of his stirrups. “Does he rehearse these insults? A man could take lessons from him.”
“It’s been many years since I was forced into his company,” Myrddin said.
“No doubt this was far too soon for a reunion,” Ifan said.
“Twenty miles we have to go today,” Myrddin said, “and each one will seem like an eternity.”
“He hates you,” Nell said.
Myrddin looked into her concerned face as her eyes flicked from Deiniol to him. Fortunately, Deiniol had turned his horse’s head and urged him out from under the gatehouse into the rain. Myrddin had a vision of the tower coming loose and crushing him as he rode beneath it.
“He does,” Myrddin said. “I have never known why.”
“Some men don’t need a reason.” Ifan straightened his saddle bags. “Did you say that he’s your brother?”
“Foster brother. Don’t remind me,” Myrddin said.
“No wonder you rabbited about so much all those years ago, jumping at every shadow.” Two years older than Myrddin, Ifan had been a squire in Lord Bedwyr’s retinue when Myrddin had come to Garth Celyn. “I gather it was he who gave you those bruises that were just fading when you came to the king?”
“You never said anything about them. I hoped nobody had noticed. It wouldn’t do for a future knight to reveal so clearly how unable he was to defend himself.”
Ifan shrugged, embarrassed perhaps to have brought them up. “You survived, didn’t you? Sometimes a man wears bruises because he’s the last one standing.”
That made Myrddin smile. It was odd to think that he’d spent nearly twenty years in Ifan’s company and this was the first Ifan had mentioned the day he’d arrived. It had been a cold day in March, with snow in the mountains. Myrddin had come down the road to Garth Celyn all on his own, with little more than a broken down horse he’d taken from Madoc’s stables and his sword, a not-insignificant inheritance from his mother.
The news of Cai’s stunning defection had just hit, and Garth Celyn had been in upheaval. Arthur had barely glanced at Myrddin, just informed his captain to find him a place to sleep in the barracks, a better horse, and decent armor if he was to be of any use to him at all. King Arthur had needed men, and Myrddin had found being treated like a man to his liking.
“By the balls of St. Mari!” Deiniol swore as the rain turned to sleet, and then the first flakes of snow began to coat his shoulders.
Even Ifan blinked twice at that bit of blasphemy and reluctantly mounted his horse. “Would King Arthur be upset if I killed him? We could run him through and throw him into a chasm. No one would
be the wiser.”
“We’ll do it on the way back if we’re truly desperate,” Myrddin said.
“I’ll watch his back, miss.” Ifan nodded at Nell, and then turned his horse’s head towards the sea to follow Deiniol.
Myrddin lifted Nell’s hand from his coat. “I’m five years younger than Deiniol, and the last time we spent any time in each other’s company was the evening I ran away. He wanted to kill me. It was only the sudden arrival of his mother that stopped him.”
“At least Ifan is with you,” she said.
Myrddin laughed. “An hour ago, I would have thought he would act as a barrier to me killing Deiniol. But now I’m pretty sure I’ll have to get in line.”
Nell wrinkled her nose at him. If they hadn’t had that conversation the day before about him sleeping across the room from her, Myrddin would have called it coquettish. “You be careful.”
“Let’s go, mochyn!” Deiniol had stopped some forty feet away to wait for Ifan to catch up, and they both twisted in their seats to look for Myrddin. “The Saxons ride away.”
Because it was urgent and he was right, Myrddin did as he was asked, telling himself that he was doing the king’s will. Myrddin gave a final nod to Nell and then spurred Cadfarch. The three men rode out of Garth Celyn, heading towards the southern pass.
Chapter Eight
11 November 537 AD
Nell perched on her stool, leaning over the narrow wooden table in front of her. Dried plants hung from the ceiling while herbs and spices crowded the shelves. In short order, she’d made the gardener’s shed that lay across the herb garden from the kitchen a haven, installing a warming brazier and cushioned stool, taking Myrddin’s advice and making the idea her own. The only light, other than from the brazier, shone from a pewter candelabra in front of her which held three glowing candles.
A hole in the roof let out the smoke, but other than that, the room allowed no exterior light. Admittedly, a window would have done her little good, as it was late afternoon and already dark.
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