Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Geraint hesitated, and then nodded. They returned to the hall, Geraint walking several paces behind Myrddin. By the time Geraint lowered himself onto a bench near the fire, a cup and carafe in front of him and Myrddin settled across the table, his intensity had lessened. He took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Let’s try this again.” A twinkle appeared in Geraint’s eye that told Myrddin he didn’t believe a word he’d said, and for that, Myrddin was almost grateful. Geraint might treat him like a lunatic from now on, but not so much that he’d hang him as a traitor. “I’d like to hear the rest.”

  Geraint’s expression was such as a man might wear when he was settling in to hear a bard’s tale of how Gwydion, son of Dôn, brought pigs to Math ap Mathonwy when he ruled Gwynedd as its king, or how Gwydion and Math conspired to make a wife for Gwydion’s nephew out of flowers. They were stories that he didn’t believe but, at the same time, thought might provide good entertainment for an evening.

  Myrddin folded his hands around his cup, took a sip, and set it on the table in front of him. “On the 11th of December, King Arthur will go to St. Cannen’s church at the request of Edgar. It is a trap, as I told you before, and he and the eighteen men of his personal guard will die. The Saxons will remove King Arthur’s head and send it to Modred.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Since I was a boy, I’ve dreamt it. I have fought and died for our king more times than I can count—always at the church by the Cam River; always straddling the fallen body of the king. Lately, I’ve had the visions even while awake.”

  “So you’re what? A saint? A seer? A wizard?” Geraint’s amusement of before was gone.

  Myrddin leaned forward across the table, determined to defuse Geraint’s skepticism before it turned to anger if he could. “This is me, Geraint. Myrddin. I’ve ridden with the king for twenty years, and I tell you I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. This is what is coming, and it has haunted me my whole life!”

  “And you’ve kept these visions hidden all this time?” Geraint said, mocking. “I’m the first to know?”

  “If this is your response, is it any wonder I’ve told no one?” Myrddin said. “Look what happened when I tried to tell the king about something I saw with my own eyes! I only tell you now because we are so close to the end.”

  Geraint rubbed his chin with one hand. “All right. Say I believe you. What do you propose?”

  “It’s as if I’ve had a path laid before my feet—like footsteps in the snow—that I’ve followed time and again to my death. I refuse to follow that path any longer. We must forge a new one.”

  Geraint leaned back in his chair, ran his fingers through his hair, and then scrubbed his face with both hands. “Christ, Myrddin.” He dropped his hands to rest them helplessly in his lap. “I don’t want to know this. I don’t want to hear this.”

  “I know,” Myrddin said. “As long as you protect the king, I don’t care if you believe me, but you mustn’t stop me from doing whatever I can to help him and Wales.”

  “I will protect the king,” Geraint said, “but perhaps it would be best if you do as you suggested and ride south to Brecon and Buellt.”

  “So I don’t embarrass you with my delusions?” Myrddin said.

  Geraint looked straight at Myrddin, meeting his eyes, his jaw set. “No. That’s not it at all. You must ride south so that what you describe never comes to pass.”

  *

  “I need you to get up, Huw,” Nell said.

  Huw rolled over, and his eyes met hers. Instantly, he was awake and attentive. “What’s wrong? Father—”

  “Myrddin’s fine. He’s getting the horses. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Brecon. And Buellt after that if we have time.”

  Nell was already moving away. Huw, fortunately, had slept close to the door and had been easy to find. The other men were used to Nell by now and nobody else, even if awake, had stirred to stop her.

  Huw caught up with her by the time she reached the door, shrugging into his coat and cloak. “I’ll need my armor.” He slept with his sword, as befitting a newly dubbed knight.

  “Your father has it,” she said. They left the barracks and trotted across the courtyard towards the stables.

  “And you’re coming with us?” Huw said.

  Nell glanced up at Huw. “Yes. Don’t you dare take Myrddin’s side in this!”

  “He’s trying to stop you,” Huw said, not as a question.

  “Of course he is, but he’s wrong to. I can help. I’ve cobbled together a nun’s habit. If I wear it as we travel, it will provide an adequate ruse for our journey.”

  Huw pursed his lips in thought. “That’s a good idea, actually.” They turned into the stables and came to a halt in front of the horses. Myrddin was adjusting the stirrups on the last.

  “No it isn’t.” Myrddin straightened and glowered in Nell’s direction.

  Nell whirled on him, finger pointing. “You don’t get to decide this! I already cleared it with Geraint.”

  They glared at each other for a count of five, and then Myrddin gave way. “I don’t like it.”

  “I know you don’t,” Nell said. “But you won’t regret it.”

  Regardless of his doubts, Myrddin had saddled three horses, not two, one for each of them. As she grabbed the bridle of her horse and prepared to mount, Nell smiled inwardly, not so much at his capitulation or that she’d won, but because he respected her enough to bring her even when every fiber in him protested.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Nell had half-pulled herself into the saddle when the curse came from behind her. She swung around to see Myrddin, his hands up and helpless, with Deiniol behind him pressing a knife to Myrddin’s throat.

  “Well, well. You’re leaving Garth Celyn in the wee hours, mochyn? Have I caught myself a traitor?”

  “You would know far more about that than we would!” Nell took a step towards the pair but arrested her movement as Deiniol tightened his grip on Myrddin’s hair. The knife pressed far enough into Myrddin’s skin to draw blood.

  “Stay back, love.” Myrddin had placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but could do nothing more than that. Huw had moved beside her but was helpless as she, staring at Deiniol and Myrddin.

  “What do you want?” Nell said.

  Deiniol gazed at her through narrowed eyes and then spit out the truth—maybe for the first time ever. “I’ve caught him now. He can’t get away with his treachery this time. He’s always had it easy—the one touched by God, the one everyone always trusted and believed, and for whom everything came easy. He’s a nobody! He took from me what was mine!”

  That was such a different perspective from the one that Myrddin had expressed, Nell couldn’t reconcile the two. She met Myrddin’s eyes, trying to speak without speaking and discover a way out of this predicament in which Myrddin’s throat didn’t end up cut.

  “Let him go, Deiniol,” Huw said.

  Huw was drawing his sword, despite the danger to Myrddin when, a finger to his lips, Gareth appeared out of the darkness of the stalls. He approached silently from behind Deiniol, his sword out, and he pressed the tip into Deiniol’s back. “That’s enough.”

  Deiniol started.

  “Your grievances have no place here,” Gareth said. “Let Myrddin go.”

  Deiniol clenched and unclenched his hand in Myrddin’s hair, and then eased up on the knife. He straightened and slipped it into the sheath at his waist. “My lord.” He bowed stiffly in Gareth’s direction.

  Myrddin swung around to face him. “The next time you touch me, I will run you through, even if it would anger my lord and yours!”

  “Why are you here, Deiniol?” Gareth placed a hand on Myrddin’s chest and stepped between the two men.

  “Lord Cai believes we have a traitor among us. He charged me with discovering his identity.” Deiniol gestured towards Myrddin. “Who but a traitor woul
d leave Garth Celyn in the middle of the night?”

  “You know what Modred did to me,” Myrddin said, “and what it took for me to escape.”

  Deiniol smirked. “I admit, to suffer those wounds simply to put on a show would imply an unprecedented devotion to duty, even for you, Myrddin.”

  “There are men among the king’s company who are more deserving of your knife than I. Including your own lord.”

  Gareth shot Myrddin a quelling look. “How long have you been following Myrddin?”

  “Long enough,” Deiniol said.

  “Be off.” Gareth threw out a hand and stepped back. “Your duties lie elsewhere.”

  Deiniol gave Myrddin an evil look but turned away, disappearing through the far doorway of the stables.

  Gareth turned back to Myrddin. “I heard what happened with King Arthur. I’m sorry.”

  “You set me up,” Myrddin said.

  “Myrddin—” Nell took his arm. She’d never seen him this angry. Gareth’s appearance, instead of easing his temper, appeared to have increased it. He was vibrating with the effort it took to contain it.

  “I did not foresee this outcome,” Gareth said. “But I do not believe all is lost. Cedric could be a valuable ally. Even Edgar might turn out to be sincere—I find it more likely now than before I knew of the alliance between Cai and Agravaine, since Edgar despises them both. I take comfort in the fact that you, of all people, are going south to determine the truth.”

  Myrddin’s jaw remained set. “I, at least, will do my duty. We will see you along the Cam at the king’s camp—or I will see you in hell.” With that, he threw himself onto his horse and urged her out of the stables.

  Gareth moved to help Nell mount, and she opted not to shake him off. Still, she couldn’t quite be civil. “I don’t trust you. You are far too concerned about your own neck.”

  “And your man is too noble for his own good.” Gareth paused. “I’m glad of it.”

  Nell looked at him for another heartbeat, and then pulled at the reins, turning her horse’s head to follow Huw and Myrddin. Geraint waited for them by the wicket gate, having apparently missed the exchange in the stables entirely. It was by his power that they were leaving, and he’d sworn to assuage Arthur’s anger when the king discovered their absence.

  “May God go with you,” Geraint said, as they passed through.

  Chapter Twenty

  6 December 537 AD

  “You were right not to leave her behind.” Huw leaned across the space between him and Myrddin to murmur the words. “It’s always better to do as Nell suggests.”

  “I heard that.” Nell gave Huw her sweetest smile. “But you are correct.”

  The three of them were jogging along well down the old Roman road to Brecon. The weather had eased, turning warmer and bringing overcast skies and threatening rain instead of the snow of the past days. Huw and Myrddin flanked Nell, as her escort and protectors. Even masterless men would find the prospect of attacking two armed men and a nun daunting.

  The eastern slopes of the Cambrian Mountains were as rugged and barren as their northern counterparts, but as they followed the road eastward, towards the farmlands along the Welsh border, the air warmed further. The snow was reduced to pockets, mostly tucked into the northern slopes of the hills.

  Nell was looking forward to reaching Brecon not long after nightfall, which always came too early this time of year. They’d slept safe but not overly warm in a series of castles and hunting lodges that linked Eryri with Powys and whose castellans were loyal to Arthur. She was cold, tired, and smelled of horse—and they hadn’t even arrived at the hard part yet.

  They’d skirted the hill of Yr Allt to the north of the Usk river valley and were continuing east, expecting nothing untoward, when up ahead a horse whinnied, the desperate pitch carrying through the still air. The sounds of men shouting and swords clashing followed.

  Huw slowed to listen. “That can’t be good.”

  “Definitely not,” Myrddin said.

  The two men shared a glance and then spurred their horses forward. Nell hung back, knowing that she would only hinder the men in a fight. Twenty yards ahead, Huw outpaced Myrddin, his sword held high. In that formation, they rode around a corner, heading towards the ford of the fast-running Cilieni River, swollen from the autumn rains. Another eighty yards farther on a dozen men battled—or what remained of them. One group had caught another in an ambush at the ford.

  Dead men and horses lay in the water. A cry rose in Nell’s throat at the sight of a lone man in Cedric’s colors standing astride another, who sprawled on the ground, unmoving. The knight held off four others in red and white surcoats from a good position, even if a desperate one. In order to reach him, his enemy had to climb the bank leading up from the river.

  In the excitement of the fight, only one of the men noted them coming and half-turned in his seat. He had a single heartbeat to register Huw’s approach, without even time to raise his shield to defend himself, before the boy swung his sword in a mighty sweep of his arm and severed the man’s head from his body.

  “Huw!” Nell found her voice, afraid Huw would barrel right into the other men and fall under their combined assault. The taste of fear was sour in her mouth.

  But Huw was a good soldier and, while his horse carried him another few steps down the bank, he was able to recover. Before he went into the water, Myrddin caught up with him. In parallel formation, the two men charged towards the three remaining soldiers, two of whom were struggling to turn their horses in the river. The third was still intent on running the lone defender through.

  One of the attackers danced around Myrddin. Their swords connected. To Nell’s eyes, it was the same as she imagined any other fight: hack, slash, twist, each trying to gain advantage over the other. Then Myrddin’s horse found a hole, and her leg twisted. Going down, Myrddin threw himself from her back, barreling into the man he was fighting to bring him off his horse and into the water.

  They landed with a terrifying clunk, instantly soaked, their boots filling with water and their soaked clothing adding to the weight of their mail. The man’s head hit the stones under the water, and he lay stunned, with the wind knocked out of him. Myrddin pushed up on one knee and, having lost his sword and shield in the fall, drove his fist into the man’s jaw.

  At first the man’s head fell back into the water, but then he coughed and sputtered and tried to rise. Myrddin held his head under the water for a count of ten to subdue him, and then he grasped his arm and began to haul him to the far bank of the river.

  Huw, meanwhile, had dispatched his opponent. Bleeding from a mortal wound, the man lay on the southern end of the ford, before floating off of it, heading downstream. Turning away, Huw urged his horse out of the water and up the bank towards the final enemy soldier.

  That man noted Huw’s approach. Rather than continue to fight a battle he might not win, and having dispatched Cedric’s last knight, he spurred his horse eastward, down the road that led to Brecon. Huw visibly warred with himself as to whether or not he should follow, and then he didn’t. Instead, he dismounted and fell to his knees beside the body of the man who’d had such a staunch defender.

  “It’s Lord Cedric himself!” Huw looked back at Nell, still on the other side of the river.

  Myrddin dragged his combatant up the slope and dumped him half-in and half-out of the water. Forcing herself to push aside the violence she’d just witnessed, even if the memory of it would haunt her forever, Nell trotted her horse into the river and across the ford. Once up the other side, she dismounted and crouched opposite Huw.

  “Let me.” She felt for a pulse, which was hard to discern as her own heart still beat in her ears, her outward calm a false front for the choking horror inside her. “He’s alive. His heart is strong.”

  Soaked, Myrddin limped up the bank. After a brief inspection, he rolled the body of Cedric’s defender off his shins where he’d fallen. “The wound is here.” Myrddin gestured to a slash
across his right thigh, not dissimilar to Myrddin’s own healing injury. The stroke had slid in just under his mail armor, cutting the thick muscle but not the bone or tendon.

  Long ago, Nell’s husband had explained to her why so many soldiers were wounded in the same way when fighting well-armored opponents. A man must direct his attack toward legs or faces, or deliver crushing blows, because it was nearly impossible to pierce an opponent’s mail in hand-to-hand fighting.

  In this case, Cedric’s opponent would have driven his weapon underneath Cedric’s shield while Cedric was astride his horse. The man then hoped to deliver the killing blow once he’d put Cedric on the ground, but Cedric’s man-at-arms had protected him from that.

  “He’s out of his senses. Perhaps he hit his head.” With gentle hands, she removed his helmet, set it to one side, and then felt at the back of Cedric’s head. She glanced at Myrddin who’d slumped beside her on the ground and looked a bit green around the edges too. “Give me a moment to get my supplies.”

  Myrddin sat with his legs splayed in front of him, spent. His horse had righted herself on the far bank and now stood, one leg lifted, on a grassy verge. If her injury was a sprain, they might be able to save her. Otherwise, it would be more humane to slit her throat right now.

  “I’ll see to her.” Huw met Nell’s eyes, acknowledging their joint concern for Myrddin’s well-being.

  “Thank you.” Nell removed her healer’s pouch and flask from her saddlebags and returned to Cedric.

  Myrddin, meanwhile, was regaining control of himself. While she crouched again beside the wounded lord, Myrddin grabbed one of the linen scraps from her bundle and ripped a strip off of it with his teeth. Nell held the flask of alcohol above the wound, hesitating, knowing that if Cedric was at all conscious when she poured it on him, he would leap from the ground, shrieking in pain. As it was, when she tipped the liquid over the wound, Cedric’s body stiffened, his back arching. And then he bucked.

  “Help me hold him!” Nell said.

  Myrddin dropped the bandages on top of her leather pouch and pressed down on Cedric’s shoulders while Nell mopped up the remaining liquid and smeared calendula salve along the length of the wound.