The hall was full of men at their evening meal. Myrddin and his escort by-passed them, however, and headed down a corridor to Modred’s receiving room. The metal fittings of Myrddin’s boots clacked loudly on the stones as he paced along the corridor, a match to the pounding of his heart. His stomach seemed to rise farther into his throat with every step.
Then he told himself that if he was to turn aside the fate set for Wales in the dream, if he was to become the man Arthur needed him to be, he’d have to do better.
When facing down an enemy, whether Deiniol as a boy or a hated upstart nobleman, confidence was everything. Much as Nell had done when she’d first spoken to King Arthur back at Garth Celyn, Myrddin replaced uncertainty with pride. Straightening his shoulders, Myrddin nodded at the man who’d brought him. The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners, acknowledging the transition Myrddin had affected, and nodded back.
The man threw open the door to Modred’s receiving room. It was the same size as the great hall at Garth Celyn, but as it was only a third as large as the hall Myrddin had just come through, Modred used it for his private meetings. Not that this was going to be private. Myrddin had walked into a room full of people and had their immediate attention. Deliberately ignoring everyone but the man in charge, Myrddin strode towards Modred. He no longer had a sword at his waist but he held a missive of defiance close to his heart, which was almost the same thing, and perhaps better.
His heart caught in his throat, however, at the sight of Archbishop Dafydd standing to Modred’s right. Myrddin hadn’t realized, even with all the discussion of peace lately, that the two men were so close—and that Modred had this level of support from the Church. For his part, the Archbishop observed Myrddin as he came to a halt five paces from Modred’s throne, with its gilt frame, raised dais, and thick rug. Myrddin bowed, straightened, his hands at his sides, and looked straight at Modred.
“Come,” Modred said. “Let’s see what my beloved uncle has to say to me today.”
Modred appeared exactly as he should, which was to say, like a king. He was forty years old, into middle-age, but he didn’t look it. He had a full head of dark hair, broad shoulders, and eyes that Myrddin would have avoided if he could. It was hard not to think that they saw right through him.
Christ, I hate him.
Still upright, refusing to allow his thoughts to show, Myrddin advanced towards Modred’s throne. He removed the letter from his breast pocket and with a second, short bow, held it out to Modred.
“My lord,” Myrddin said. “King Arthur greets you and hopes that his royal nephew is well.”
“How kind of him to inquire.” Modred took the letter, watching Myrddin out of the corner of his eye as he did so, and broke the seal. He unrolled it and read for no more than a count of ten. Without re-rolling it, Modred handed the letter to the Archbishop, who took it. Myrddin kept his hands relaxed at his sides, wondering what would happen next. He didn’t like the feeling he was getting from Modred or his lackeys, many of whom were watching him like he was a rare beast in a cage. Or a chicken intended for slaughter.
While the Archbishop read Arthur’s letter, Modred sat still, his only movement the tapping of his forefinger on the arm of his chair as he waited. He didn’t appear disturbed or angered by King Arthur’s words, just impatient. The letter seemed no more or less than what he had expected.
“And Cai’s response?” Modred said.
Myrddin had that letter too. He didn’t know precisely what it said, but he suspected it was far less polite than Arthur’s. “Here, my lord.” Myrddin pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Modred.
Modred took it, split the seal, and passed it off to the Archbishop so quickly he couldn’t have read more than three words. Instead, he revealed that he had other things on his mind. “And what was your role in the battle at the Strait?”
Myrddin blinked, nonplussed. And then he decided that the question wasn’t so surprising. Very few of Modred’s men had survived the battle, and perhaps he hadn’t yet had a good first-hand account.
“I am one of the knights in my king’s household guard,” Myrddin said, deciding there was no harm in telling him this bit of truth. Eventually he’d hear it from someone else. “I was at the forefront of the initial charge.”
“Tell me what you remember,” Modred said.
Myrddin took in a breath. Modred would hate what he had to say, but then, it was unlikely Myrddin’s explanation could make it worse for him. “The Saxon forces crossed the Strait at noon on November 6th. Once the cavalry reached the beach and the foot soldiers were marching on the bridge, we unleashed our arrows.” Myrddin stopped.
“And then?” Modred watched Myrddin’s face. The silence in the hall was complete.
“And then we charged,” Myrddin said.
“Who killed Wulfere?” Modred said.
Myrddin hesitated. “I did.”
A pause. Unaccountably, Modred smiled. Then he began to laugh. He continued, tears spilling out of his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. After a moment of stunned silence, the rest of the people in the room began to laugh too, even if they, as Myrddin, had no idea what their lord thought was so funny.
Myrddin remained standing in front of Modred. He shared a quick look with the Archbishop, who was the only other person not in hysterics. Then he glanced at the stars beginning to show through the glass in the window to his left. As in the courtyard, the wealth on display in the hall was palpable, from the glass in the windows, to the dual fireplaces, one on each side of the hall, to the tapestries that adorned the walls.
Myrddin wished he was gone already but until the king dismissed him, he had to stay.
Finally, Modred calmed enough to explain himself. “Your king has quite a sense of humor. He sends his letter with the one man he knows I won’t touch. He probably thinks I should thank you for doing to Wulfere what I would have done myself, except that you robbed me of my pleasure.”
“My lord, my apologies if I displeased you, but Wulfere attacked me.” Myrddin bowed again, for lack of anything better to do or say. Wulfere had disobeyed a direct order. If he hadn’t lost his life at the Strait, if Modred was angry enough, he might have hanged him from the tallest tower at Rhuddlan and afterwards stuck his head on a pike for display. On the whole, given Modred’s cruel streak, Myrddin had done Wulfere a favor.
Modred barked another laugh. “No regrets, eh?” He fingered his lip. “To repay the loss of my prize, you can render me a small service while you’re here, especially as you appear so adept at delivering messages.”
“If I can, my lord,” Myrddin said.
“Lord Cedric of Brecon awaits my pleasure,” he said. “I think I’ve kept him waiting long enough. Bring him to me.”
“Certainly, sir,” Myrddin said.
He turned on his heel, his mind racing. What a gift! The very man he’d wanted to meet! Nell would have his head if he didn’t take advantage of the opportunity—he almost wished he’d brought her with him to help him think of what to say. Myrddin marched towards the door, the space between his shoulder blades tingling with the force of the glare that he felt Modred was directing at him. He would have run from the room if he could, but as it was, the instant Myrddin cleared the doorway, he heaved a sigh of relief.
Myrddin had no idea where Modred was keeping Cedric, whether in the dungeon, a tower, or a private suite. It was a simple matter, however, to ask a servant, who gave him directions and informed him, as a by-the-way, that Cedric had arrived just after dawn and had been cooling his heels in his rooms ever since, waiting for Modred to send for him.
To give Modred credit, he was treating Cedric as an honored guest, which was somewhat surprising given the disaster at the Strait and the fact that the two men hated each other. Still, Cedric had remained overtly loyal to Modred and was a high ranking nobleman—and Modred’s cousin—even if every task he performed for Modred was accomplished with great loathing.
As Myrddin approached Cedric’s rooms, a di
sturbing amount of mumbling and shouting began leaking through the half-open door into the passage. He fought his instinct to run into the room to quiet the man. Didn’t Cedric realize he was in enemy territory? Didn’t he see the need to bury his emotions and keep his thoughts more private?
“Fools!” Cedric’s voice echoed down the corridor. “The indignity of being forced to wait in my rooms! To have my honor called into question!”
Myrddin arrived in Cedric’s doorway, knocked, and then took a step back so as not to crowd the threshold. Booted feet echoed on the floor and Cedric himself opened the door. Beyond, the room was empty.
“Lord Cedric.” Myrddin bowed and pretended he hadn’t overheard him. “Lord Modred requests your presence.”
At the sight of Myrddin, Cedric’s face transformed from rage to a blank and expressionless façade—all except for his eyes, which glinted, the sole indication of the fire behind them. He glared at Myrddin and then slid the sword he’d been brandishing at his unseen listeners into the sheath at his waist.
“Finally,” he said. “Is the Archbishop beside him?”
“Yes, my lord,” Myrddin said.
“And who are you?” He pointed his chin at Myrddin. “By your features, you are a Welshmen, yet your Saxon is perfect.”
“Myrddin. A knight in the retinue of King Arthur ap Uther.”
That got Cedric’s attention. He examined Myrddin through narrowed eyes. Then he tipped his face to study the rafters above him and spoke in a low voice. “Why does Modred send you to me? What is it that I don’t know?”
“I came to Rhuddlan because I bore a message from my king to Modred.” Myrddin answered him even if the question had been rhetorical—and then decided that he would take advantage of the opportunity Modred had given him. Maybe there really was a way to prevent Arthur from meeting Lord Edgar at that damned church a month from now. “But it is well that Lord Modred sent me here, for I have a query for you on behalf of my king.”
Cedric’s head came down at that, and he looked at Myrddin warily. He pushed past Myrddin to look both ways down the hall, and then gave Myrddin a curt nod. “Tell me quickly.”
“You and King Arthur have been at odds,” Myrddin said. “He would rather you were allies.”
Cedric pursed his lips and looked away. He contemplated the hilt of his sword, on which he rested his left hand, and tapped a staccato with one finger at its end, in a thinking pose similar to Modred’s. Then, without looking at Myrddin, he strode into the corridor.
Unable to read Cedric and wondering how big a mistake he’d made, Myrddin followed. He assumed that Cedric expected him to walk behind him, given Myrddin’s nationality and as befitting Cedric’s rank, which was so much higher than Myrddin’s, but Cedric motioned impatiently for Myrddin to come abreast. Myrddin did as he asked and the two men walked together down the passage. Or rather, Myrddin walked, and Cedric stalked.
“What is his mood?” Cedric didn’t need to explain whose mood he meant. Apparently they were going to ignore King Arthur’s supposed message.
“I have no idea,” Myrddin said. “The Archbishop stood beside him and said nothing either. I can’t imagine Modred was happy with Archbishop Dafydd’s attempts to mediate a peace settlement, but he would never reveal what he is thinking—to anyone perhaps, but certainly not to one of King Arthur’s men.”
Cedric grunted, but whether that meant agreement or disapproval, Myrddin didn’t know. Then, as they approached Modred’s receiving room, Cedric slowed. “You have served King Arthur for many years?”
“Yes.”
“Does he strike you as a man with a temper?”
Myrddin glanced warily at him, not sure where this was leading. “No. He has one, of course, but when it rises he turns cold, not hot.”
Cedric nodded. “Lord Modred is not one to cross. For me to do so would have ramifications for generations to come. You tell that to your lord.”
Uncertain, Myrddin stood frozen to the floor for an indrawn breath—as long as it took Cedric to push open the door leading to Modred’s rooms. Then, galvanized by Cedric’s retreating back, Myrddin hurried after him as Cedric crossed the twenty feet to where Modred sat, no longer on his throne but behind a desk that was set under one of the windows to the left of the central fireplace.
Modred had emptied the hall in Myrddin’s absence. Now, Archbishop Dafydd was the only other man present. Both Archbishop and Lord Modred had been bent over a piece of paper, which the Archbishop now folded and slid into a hidden pocket beneath his robes.
It was warmer in the room than before, despite the fewer bodies to heat it. The fires had been stoked and blazed brightly. Like Arthur, Modred had the best of everything. The remains of dinner lay on the corner of his table. The Archbishop held a goblet of wine and a hint of spice wafted from it.
Cedric reached Modred and bowed at the precisely correct angle that was required. In contrast, Myrddin’s feet stuck to the floor just inside the doorway, near the bench where his untended weapons lay. For a heartbeat, Myrddin considered grabbing his sword and making a run for it. One glance at the guards by the open door who had shifted to more ready stances had him biding his time a while longer.
The exit was a long way away, through the great hall and two well-guarded gatehouses. If Myrddin was going to reach it, it wasn’t going to be at a flat-out run. Stealth would have to be the order of the day.
“You summoned me, sire?” Cedric said.
Modred leaned back in his chair and for a count of ten sat unmoving, elbows resting on the arms, seemingly relaxed. Cedric’s words hung in the air as Modred left his question unanswered. Cedric waited with what appeared to be patience for his lord’s response.
“Tell me of the defeat at the Menai Strait,” Modred said, finally, as if discussing the dreadful weather, and as if he hadn’t just asked Myrddin the same question half an hour before.
“My lord—” Cedric began.
Modred cut him off, leaning forward to punctuate his next words with a pointing finger. “Explain to me why so many of my men are dead: Wulfere, Golm, Halfric, Dane, not to mention the equipment and horses that are now at the bottom of the sea! Do you understand the huge expenses I am incurring in this business? Of the criminal waste that this defeat has entailed?” By the end of his query, Modred’s voice had risen to the point where the sound buffeted Cedric like waves.
“Wulfere refused to listen to me.” Cedric lifted his chin, aiming to withstand the onslaught. “He, not I, was the commander in the field. He, not I, is to blame for the loss of so many of our men.”
“And he, not you, paid for his error with his life.” Modred sat back in his chair as if he’d never raised his voice. “By the sword of our friend, here.” He gestured with one hand towards Myrddin. Cedric’s eyes met Myrddin’s. The corner of Cedric’s mouth twitched before his face blanked, and he turned back to his lord.
“As you say, my lord.” Cedric bowed his head and then raised it to meet Modred’s eyes. “I tried to convince Wulfere and the others that you would not countenance an attack on that day, not with the Archbishop in the middle of negotiations and hoping for a settlement between you and King Arthur. Wulfere thought he could ensure that a settlement was unnecessary. He supposed that a great victory could convince Arthur to submit to you, or at best, he could capture the king by driving down the coast to Garth Celyn, once he’d navigated the bridge. Regardless, he refused to listen to my cautions.”
From what Myrddin knew of both Cedric and Wulfere, he believed Cedric’s story. Myrddin had to wonder, however, how hard Cedric had tried to get Wulfere to change course. He must have despised Wulfere—everyone did. Even Modred couldn’t have admired the man as a person. He had put Wulfere in charge of his troops because he could be trusted to get the job done.
That alone had to have been a huge sore point for Cedric, whom Modred had overlooked from the start of the war in favor of Agravaine in particular. To have put Wulfere in charge of the men on Anglesey added insu
lt to injury. To Cedric’s mind, if Wulfere had won the battle, Cedric could have gone along with it; if Wulfere made a fool of himself, Cedric wouldn’t have been at fault. Nobody but King Arthur himself had foreseen the total disaster the battle had become for the Saxons.
“On the day of the attack, a fault in the bridge of boats delayed us,” Cedric said, continuing his story. “Wulfere had intended to cross at dawn but ended up crossing at noon. It was the optimal time, with the water high, but as we traversed the bridge, we failed to surprise the Welsh forces. They caught us on the beach, low ground, between the trees and the water. When we retreated, the swift waters of the Strait and the weight of the horses and equipment on the bridge ensured our near total defeat.”
“And gave Arthur new reason to resist me.” Modred surged to his feet. Myrddin would have said he was furious, but as always, his eyes remained cold, revealing nothing of the man inside. “He sits in his eyrie in Snowdonia, mocking me, as if I haven’t the power to root him out! I will accept nothing less from that bastard king than complete submission!”
If the back of Myrddin’s knees had not been resting on the edge of the bench, he would have taken a step back at the king’s vehemence. Even Cedric, for all his confidence, thought better of any reply. Myrddin decided not to mention that Arthur, of all the Welsh lords, appeared to have been born legitimate.
For Modred’s part, he wasn’t done. “Arthur is arrogant! Impossible! Look at the letter he sends me!” Modred leaned over the desk and shoved one of the pieces of parchment towards Cedric who just managed to catch it before it fell from the table. Unrolling the paper, he studied the words in silence, but Myrddin knew well what they said:
… we are ready to come to the Archbishop’s grace, if it is offered in a form safe and honourable for us. But the form contained in the articles which were sent to us, is in no particular either safe or honourable … indeed, so far from it that all who hear it are astonished, since it tends rather to the destruction and ruin of our people and our person than to our honour and safety … for never would our nobles and subjects consent in the inevitable destruction and dissipation that would surely derive from it …
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