Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Tell me that Lord Cedric wasn’t present at the time!”

  “He was not,” Myrddin said. “I spoke with him at length earlier in the evening. We were dining together when the guards took me away.”

  “I have always found Lord Cedric to be fair and honorable,” Huw said.

  “We know.” Myrddin flapped a hand in his direction and managed not to laugh at him openly. “Stand down.”

  Arthur turned to Nell. “Perhaps you could find our young man some food and drink.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Nell released Myrddin’s hand, which she’d been holding tightly. Myrddin nodded at Huw and hoped that Nell understood that it was not she who was being dismissed, but Huw.

  The boy made to leave too, but Myrddin held out a hand to stop him. “Wait.” With one hand on the table in front of him for support, he got to his feet so he could stand face to face with his son. They possessed similar coloring and were of a height, although Huw was perhaps a half inch taller. The boy had Myrddin’s straight nose but his mother’s blue eyes, where Myrddin’s were hazel. Myrddin settled a hand on each of Huw’s shoulders and gripped them. “I’m glad you came to find me. Any man would be proud to claim you as his son.”

  Huw held Myrddin’s arms, his fingers tight around his biceps. “Thank you, sir.” He still carried himself with a tenseness that kept his shoulders back and his jaw firm, but some of the anxiety seemed to have left him.

  “Nell is a good friend,” Myrddin said. “She’ll take care of you.”

  “Yes, Father.” With a last, direct look, Huw left the room with Nell.

  Myrddin sank back into his seat, his head in his hands. King Arthur, having lost his usual chair to Myrddin, perched on the edge of the desk. Bedwyr found a seat on the bench under the window.

  “I’d be delighted to know what’s going on,” King Arthur said.

  Myrddin looked up. “Damned if I know, my lord. Huw—” Myrddin made a helpless gesture towards the door. “I didn’t know.”

  Bedwyr spoke from his corner. “Didn’t your mother neglect to divulge the identity of your father before she died?”

  “Yes,” Myrddin said. “At least Tegwan gave the boy my name and encouraged him to find me, once her husband was dead.”

  “What was your mother’s name again?” Bedwyr said.

  Myrddin glanced at him, not sure why he wanted to know. “I don’t know that I’ve ever told you. Her name was Seren ferch Gruffydd.”

  “An unusual name, Seren,” Bedwyr said.

  “Did you know her?” Myrddin checked Bedwyr’s face again, but Bedwyr kept it blank. Lord Cedric could take lessons from him.

  “I never met her,” Bedwyr said.

  Myrddin nodded and clutched at his hair. Arthur had risen from the table while Bedwyr and Myrddin talked, and now he moved to stand at the window, looking out at the flickering lights of the torches in the bailey, his hands clasped behind his back. “I did.”

  Myrddin’s jaw dropped.

  “Her father was an ally of mine until he defected to King Icel of Mercia the year before my uncle died. His action left his daughter alone, here at Garth Celyn, as one of my Aunt Juliana’s ladies.”

  Towards the end of the 490’s, King Icel of Mercia had appeared unstoppable. He’d wooed many a Welsh lord away from Ambrosius with promises of land and power, were he to conquer Wales once and for all. Instead, King Ambrosius and Arthur had defeated the allied Saxon forces in the summer of 500 AD at Mt. Badon. Unfortunately, Ambrosius had died in February of 501, followed six months later by Arthur’s father, Uther. This left a gap in authority, filled instantly—if inadequately—by Arthur himself, then aged twenty-one.

  Myrddin had been born into Madoc’s household in September of 501—into a year of upheaval and strife. Each of the remaining Welsh lords, along with all of the Saxon barons, saw themselves as possible heirs to Ambrosius’ throne. They’d fought among themselves for control of Wales. Though it was Arthur, of course, who triumphed. It was to avoid that horror again that many Welsh lords supported Modred now, preferring an orderly transition to possible war.

  “I didn’t know that,” Myrddin said. “I thought my mother had grown up in Madoc’s charge.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Speak to me of Cedric,” King Arthur said.

  Myrddin blinked, not wanting to leave the subject of his mother, but unable to disobey. “I don’t know if you’re going to like what I have to say, my lord. I took some liberties—”

  “And paid for them, by the looks.” Bedwyr’s lips curved into a smile.

  Myrddin coughed and laughed at the same time. “You could say that. Although as I told you before, these wounds were courtesy of Modred.” Myrddin took a breath, his abdomen aching at the effort. “After I gave Modred your letter, he directed me to bring Lord Cedric of Brecon to him. Thus, Cedric and I had a few moments of privacy in his room. I took the opportunity to suggest that you, my lord, would be open to a discussion of the disposition of various lands in Wales if Cedric reconsidered his allegiance.”

  King Arthur swung around to stare at Myrddin.

  “I apologize, my lord,” Myrddin said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, and the odds of him agreeing, or of anything coming of it at all, seemed worth the slight risk to my neck.”

  “It was obviously worth far more than that to Cedric,” Bedwyr said. “And the fact that he had already heard your name from Huw sheds new light on the entire matter.”

  “It does,” Myrddin said, although he was having a hard time figuring out what exactly it told him. He was feeling more and more wobbly and desperately wanted a drink, a bed, and Nell’s gentle hand on his forehead, not necessarily in that order. “One more thing. Modred knows that you’ve sent Lord Gawain to Powys to marshal men against the Saxon lords there. Worse, Cedric told him of Edgar of Wigmore’s letter to you. I don’t know how he knew of it, except if Edgar himself told him.”

  The two men observed Myrddin, unspeaking, too well-practiced at absorbing bad news to show it openly, but clearly nonplussed. Bedwyr put down his cup of wine and leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “They are convinced, both of them, that Edgar is not sincere in his desire to ally with you and intends to lure you into an ambush, my lord king,” Myrddin said, and then ventured to assert his own opinion. “I would think that likely.”

  “Thank you, Myrddin,” Bedwyr said, implying he wasn’t at all thankful for his advice, and then continued, half under his breath to the king—“The uncertainty in the air reminds me of the days after your uncle and father died, before you fully grasped the reins of Wales, my lord.”

  “Go to your son.” King Arthur’s expression softened at Myrddin’s evident distress. He canted his head towards the door. “I don’t want to see you in the hall tomorrow.”

  “And watch Huw closely,” Bedwyr said.

  Myrddin looked up, dismayed at the warning in Bedwyr’s tone—and yet understanding it, for he’d had the same uncomfortable thought.

  “He is Cedric’s man,” Bedwyr said. “He’s already seen too much. I would be wary of allowing him to return to Brecon.”

  “Yes, sir.” Myrddin didn’t like Bedwyr’s observation but knew he was right. He also didn’t want the presence of his son to jeopardize Arthur’s new found trust in Myrddin himself.

  Still, Myrddin didn’t move. His head felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Before he knew it, Arthur and Bedwyr were on either side of him. They pulled him up, just as the guards had done in the hall at Rhuddlan, but more gently, and half-dragged, half-carried him down the hall, out the door and across the courtyard to the sleeping quarters in the guest house. The small closet space in which Nell and Myrddin had slept before was vacant. The pallets lay on the floor, beckoning Myrddin with their softness and warmth. He reached an arm towards one. Bedwyr and Arthur laid him down.

  “I’ll find Nell,” Bedwyr said.

  It seemed Myrddin nodded agreement, but he couldn’t be sure because a
n instant later, he was asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  17 November 537 AD

  “Myrddin, damn it, get over here!”

  “Coming, sir!” I hurried towards Gawain, my boots slipping in the snow, and we met in the center of the clearing by the church. In the growing darkness, the temperature had dropped, and snowflakes had begun to drift down from the sky, filling in our footprints. I would have been happier to have had four more eyes in order to see in all directions. The Saxons were coming. I sure as hell wanted to be ready when they did.

  “The king is inside, waiting, but I’m impatient with Edgar. I expected him here by now,” Gawain said. “I think we need to leave this place.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ll tell King Arthur.”

  I strode towards the door to the church, glad that Gawain had decided to follow his instincts. I reached the bottom step and was just beginning to mount the stairs when the world blew apart. An arrow whipped by my left ear. I ducked and spun around, my sword in my hand.

  “The king! The king!”

  The first time Myrddin woke, Huw sat beside his pallet. A low candle guttered in a dish on the floor, the light flickering and reflecting off the walls of the room. Someone—Nell, perhaps—had removed his boots and covered him with a wool blanket or three. Myrddin was warm enough, even if his nose was cold since the room was one of the few in the manor house without a fireplace.

  He rolled onto his back, noting that someone had also taken his cloak. He spared a thought for his armor, left behind at Rhuddlan, and reconciled himself to the knowledge that it was gone forever. He trusted that Arthur would see him properly protected when it came to it again.

  Pushing aside the changing dream and what it meant, Myrddin turned his head to study his son. Huw sat upright against the wall, his eyes closed. At Myrddin’s movement, Huw opened them.

  “Hello, Father.” He didn’t appear to mind saying it. Myrddin certainly wouldn’t ever grow tired of hearing it. He still couldn’t believe that Huw could be his.

  “What is the hour?” Myrddin said.

  “The chapel rang Matins not long ago,” Huw said. “Your friend, Nell, said she’d relieve me at Lauds.”

  “You don’t have to stay.”

  Huw shrugged. “After the events of the day, I doubt I could sleep anyway.” He smiled. “It’s an honor to watch over you.”

  His obvious admiration—a sharp contrast to his earlier near-hostility—confused Myrddin, until he considered a possible source. “Someone’s been talking.”

  “You have many friends,” Huw said. “Ifan, certainly, but Lord Geraint joined us for the evening meal. They spoke of you at length.”

  “Do not believe everything they say.”

  Huw laughed. “Ifan said you’d say that.”

  “He was there when your mother and I met. Did he speak of it?” Myrddin said.

  “Only that you were a squire in King Arthur’s company. You came to Brecon in the fall of 520,” Huw said. “But I knew that already from my mother.”

  “I was nineteen. Older than you, but in no way ready to be a father.” Myrddin looked at Huw. “Your mother must have known it.”

  “I believe she did, else, why keep you a secret? It isn’t as if you ever came looking for her again.”

  Christ. What do I say to that? “I did love her. I was careless with my heart and hers.”

  “And that’s your excuse?” Huw’s voice rose, and the admiration of a moment ago was forgotten in favor of long-suppressed resentment.

  “Is that why you came to find me?” Myrddin said. “To accuse me of abandoning your mother? Of abandoning you?”

  Huw looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap so tightly his knuckles whitened. Then he relaxed them, smoothing the palms on the fabric of his breeches.

  “Yes. My anger just now caught me unawares, but I’ve felt it ever since my mother told me the truth.”

  “I served my king,” Myrddin said. “I was with your mother in the fall and winter but even with the upheaval in Brecon the following year, King Arthur never called me south of Buellt again. It’s my fault that I never asked leave to go.” He paused, hesitating. The real truth shamed him; yet, at this late date, it was a truth from which he should not hide and which his son deserved. “And I did not ask to go because I was afraid to see your mother—I was afraid that she would ask for a commitment from me which I felt unable to give.”

  “Did you ever think of her?” Huw’s voice didn’t reveal anger now so much as pain.

  “I was a coward, Huw,” Myrddin said. “The longer I waited to see her, the worse the guilt. And after a year or two, I told myself that your mother would have forgotten me; that it was better for both of us if I didn’t return.” Huw didn’t answer straight away and so Myrddin added, his voice as gentle as he could make it, “For all that our acquaintance was short, your mother and I enjoyed each other’s company.”

  “My mother said as much to me.”

  “But she still never wanted you to know about me.”

  Huw shifted, discomfited. Myrddin sensed he’d only added to his son’s questions. “My father’s family has served Lord Cedric for many years. My—” he licked his lips, “—father was a knight to Cedric’s grandfather.” He paused and glanced at Myrddin, a rueful smile on his face.

  “Go on,” Myrddin said. “I know the history.”

  “After Badon, Lord Cedric’s family lost Brecon to King Arthur, but not their interest in it. My stepfather was often in the area,” Huw said. “He’d had his eye on my mother for some time. She was with you, and then she was with him. She wouldn’t tell me more than that.”

  Myrddin sighed, not even remembering the nineteen-year-old he’d been. It was so long ago, he had to wade through misty memory to catch a glimpse of those long ago battles. All Myrddin truly remembered of Tegwan was the hint of a laugh when he touched her, and his own eagerness.

  “I was a fool to let her go.” Myrddin noted the sturdy lankiness of his son and knowing how different all their lives would have been if he’d had as much courage in his personal life as on the battlefield.

  “I loved my father—my mother’s husband, but I’ve always been half-Welsh.” Huw turned his head to look at Myrddin, his face intent. “I have resented you, it’s true, but it is my hope that I will no longer have to be torn in two.”

  Myrddin had been a father to Huw for half a day and already the boy needed counseling. Myrddin didn’t know that he was the right one to give it, but as he was the only one available, he had no choice. “Help me to sit up.”

  Huw grasped Myrddin’s hand and hauled him to a sitting position. Myrddin swung his legs over the edge of the pallet so he could rest next to Huw, their backs to the wall. Myrddin reached for the water cup and took a long drink.

  “The world is not divided as simply as the lines between countries make us think.” Myrddin set down the cup. “You are full Welsh, by blood, but you were raised by a Saxon.”

  “Yes,” Huw said.

  “A man who loved you.”

  “Yes.” Huw paused and Myrddin let him say what he was feeling, not at all offended. “And I loved him.”

  “I’m glad,” Myrddin said. “If I wasn’t a father to you all these years, I would much rather you had a different father, than none at all.”

  “Was that how it was for you? You have no paternal name. You are just Myrddin.”

  “My mother took the name of my father to her grave,” Myrddin said. “Apparently, she never told him either—or he was dead too, before my birth.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  Myrddin was a bit surprised that Huw would speak to him of it. “It certainly made it difficult to dress me down as my betters would have liked.” Myrddin smiled. “Nobody could say, Myrddin ap Geraint ap Bedwyr, get over here!” As Myrddin hoped, Huw smiled too. “I was not unique, certainly. Many of my companions growing up had lost their fathers early in life.”

  “But they knew who they w
ere,” Huw said.

  “Yes,” Myrddin said, “but as I had no choice, I didn’t dwell on it.” Myrddin paused. “Although, admittedly, I learned to fight almost before I could walk.”

  “And nobody seems to have any difficulty remembering who you are,” Huw said.

  Now Myrddin laughed. “Apparently not.”

  “When I began my search, I still called myself Huw ap Tomos, after my … father,” Huw said. “But as I approached Gwynedd, I met more people who knew you, or had heard of you. They mentioned one battle in particular, many years ago in the south, along the border with Mercia. You saved King Arthur’s life that day.”

  Myrddin nodded at his son. “The king knighted me after that. It’s his way to choose one man after each battle upon whom to confer the honor, and that day it was mine.”

  “I would like that for myself,” Huw said. “Or, at least, I always saw myself serving in my lord’s retinue. But now, I don’t know what I’m meant to do; whom I’m meant to be or which lord I should serve.”

  “If you live honorably within yourself, it doesn’t matter so much whom you serve,” Myrddin said. This was Huw’s real concern, and what had hovered over their conversation from the first.

  Huw turned his head to look at Myrddin. “You believe that?”

  Myrddin’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and his mouth twitched with sudden laughter, because Huw had caught him out. “Except in this case. If King Arthur loses this war, our country will fall to the Saxons. Modred cares only for himself and his own power—despite the fact that he himself is half-Welsh. He desires to completely subjugate my people—your people too—and all evidence suggests that he will settle for nothing less. Your lord, Cedric, knows this.”

  “Which is why he might be willing to ally himself with King Arthur,” Huw said.

  “Possibly,” Myrddin said. “Cedric fears that were Arthur to die, or lose this war, it will embolden Modred. Cedric himself does not possess such a high standing with Modred that he might not lose everything too.”

  “Even though he and Modred are cousins through their fathers.”