11 December 537 AD
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THE STORM HADN’T LESSENED by dawn. Myrddin lay on his back, listening to the wind howling around the castle, not wanting to face the morning. The king couldn’t see the chasm opening at his feet, but Myrddin had already fallen into it and, with only ten hours between now and the rendezvous, there was no way he and Nell were going to get everything done that needed doing.
“It’s time,” Nell said from the doorway to their room. As they’d agreed, she wore her habit. That was going to be a surprise to the priest if he saw her before they left. “Huw’s got the horses ready.”
“I’m coming.” Now that Myrddin was awake, he noted the stamping of the two dozen horses in the castle bailey, just on the other side of the wall. “How did you sleep?”
“Did I sleep?” She smiled. “When this is over, they’ll be plenty of time for sleeping.”
Myrddin got himself upright, kissed Nell on his way out the door, and walked with her into the bailey. He had some hope that the snow wouldn’t be falling quite as hard as yesterday, but once they left the shelter of the castle walls and were again on the road to Buellt, the wind picked up. It shrieked down the canyon through which the road ran and into their faces.
They bent forward into the storm, cloaks clutched and shoulders hunched. Myrddin pulled his cap more securely over his ears and his scarf tighter around his neck. He’d tied his helmet to his saddlebags. He would put it on only in great need, since metal and cold were synonymous in a snowstorm.
As Cedric and Myrddin had agreed, they said goodbye to Cedric’s men at a crossroads. The company turned northwest to St. Cannen’s church where they would wait for Arthur—or for Myrddin once he’d finished his business with Edgar. Nell, Huw, and Myrddin carried on the last miles alone.
Myrddin had hoped to have easily reached this point the day before. He’d wanted plenty of time to determine the lay of the land, even if it meant sleeping in a ditch or an abandoned barn last night. But they’d run out of time for maneuvering. The eight miles to Buellt took them long hours of hard slogging, pushing on past the point they wanted to stop and refusing to give up. Thus, noon had come and gone by the time they reached the castle.
“We have to find a way to talk to Edgar,” Nell said as they approached the gates, which rose up black before them. Agravaine had a small army outside the walls, but the encampment showed no signs of imminent movement, which was a great relief.
“We’re walking in like blind men,” Myrddin said. “I don’t like it.”
“Aww. This is what makes it fun,” Huw said, parodying Ifan and trying to cheer up his dour elders.
“No question of that, son,” Myrddin said. “Go on, then. Your face and Cedric’s colors can get us inside.”
Myrddin hoped the garrison and its leaders were so busy with the threat of Arthur’s approaching army that they’d not question Myrddin’s presence. In contrast to Huw, he wore a deep green surcoat that claimed allegiance to no lord. Nell said his tunic brought out the green in his hazel eyes. It occurred to Myrddin that, if it pleased her so much, he would wear only this color from now on, even if it clashed with Arthur’s crimson and white—and if he still had leave to wear those colors.
As they hoped, at such a busy hour of the day and with all the coming and going through the gatehouse, few marked their presence, and those who did were appropriately dismissive. The man-at-arms who allowed them through the gate looked them over and then waved a hand to let them pass.
Given that the snow still fell unrelentingly, a man would have had to be pretty hardened to turn away a nun and her escorts—one of whom wore Cedric’s crest—under those conditions. They found housing for their horses in the sprawling stable complex and then made their way to the great hall.
“This needs to be quick if we are to reach the church in time,” Myrddin said. “We are already too late to warn the king before he reaches it.”
“That’s what Cedric’s men are for,” Nell said.
“I spoke with a stable boy,” Huw said. “He told me that no one has seen Edgar since he arrived. Could he have returned to Wigmore Castle or left already for Brecon?”
“No. If he’d gone to Brecon, we would have passed him on the road. Edgar is here.” Nell tipped her head to indicate a man-at-arms walking from the barracks to the stables. “Those are his colors.”
“I would have to agree,” Myrddin said. “Modred finally approved Edgar’s inheritance. He’ll want to be in the thick of things to emphasize that Modred chose right in restoring his lands to him.”
“Which is why we don’t think Edgar ever intended to betray Modred in the first place,” Nell said. “Or if he did for a fleeting moment, he certainly doesn’t now. There’s too much at stake for him to risk Modred’s disapproval.”
“But then why isn’t he in evidence?” Huw said. “We have to find him—for Lord Cedric’s sake, if not for King Arthur’s.”
The rescue of Cedric had done nothing to dampen Huw’s admiration of his former lord, and Myrddin couldn’t blame him. What most concerned Cedric was his own power, but you had to admire the man for making it this far, given what had happened to his father at Modred’s hands.
Like the bailey, the great hall was full of soldiers. Huw led the way to a spot on the end of one table. But before they could sit, a jovial shout split the air.
“Huw!” A young man rose from his position on the other side of the hall and walked towards them.
Huw smiled, somewhat sickly Myrddin thought, and held out his hand. The two grasped forearms, and then Huw introduced him. “Father, this is Peter, one of my companions growing up. Lord Cedric sent him to Agravaine as a squire several years ago.” Huw turned to Peter. “I’m glad to see you are well. You’ve found a place here.”
“That I have.” Peter slapped Huw on the back. “Come. Eat!” Then, Nell’s habit registered, and he turned fully to her, his face flushed with embarrassment at his lapse. “Madam.” He gave a slight bow. “Might I be of some service to you?”
Nell stuck her nose in the air and sniffed. “I wish to speak with Edgar of Wigmore. On a private matter.”
At the mention of Edgar’s name, Peter reacted swiftly, moving closer and waving his hand at her in a shushing movement. “You cannot see him! Don’t say his name.”
Huw studied his friend. “Why? What’s happened?”
“Lord Agravaine believes him a traitor to Lord Modred!” Peter said, relishing his role in imparting the news. “Supposedly, Edgar is unwell and confined to his bed at the top of the keep, but in truth, my lord leaves men to guard his door.”
Nell opened her mouth to speak but Myrddin put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Thank you, Peter. We appreciate the news.”
Myrddin caught Huw’s eye, and he tipped his head at his son. Catching on, Huw said, “I’m starving. I’ll sit with you, and we can catch up.”
“For a short while only. I’ll be riding out soon.” Peter winked. “We have a mission.”
Huw shot Myrddin a look of pure dismay, and Myrddin caught his arm before Peter could lead him away. “Watch your back, son.”
“I can do this, Father,” he said. “Trust me.”
Myrddin nodded, reluctance sickening his gut, but he let him go. As soon as Peter and Huw had turned away, Myrddin steered Nell towards the back of the hall, to the stairwell that led down to the kitchen or up to the apartments above.
“That boy is one of the men Agravaine is sending to the church,” she said.
“I know,” Myrddin said. “We can’t stop them now. Given that we’ve made it here at this hour, Cedric’s men should have reached the clearing too. The king will have allies, and it won’t be the uneven fight for which Agravaine is hoping.”
“But what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to speak to Edgar,” Myrddin said. “Agravaine distrusts him and that’s good for King Arthur. Then we’re going to get out of here as quickly as possible. If Modred’s dungeon was bad, the one here would be catastrophic.”
Nobody stopped them from climbing the stairs to the rooms above, although when they reached the landing on the second floor, intending to continue to the third, a guard confronted them. He dropped a pike to block the way, looking apologetic once he took in Nell’s apparel.
Myrddin had to give Nell credit. Bringing her along on this journey dressed as a nun had been one of her better ideas.
“I have orders to let nobody pass.”
Nell opted for her cloak of meekness, rather than authority; all Myrddin could do was admire it. “Please, sir. I had word that Edgar requested someone with whom to pray. Since it is uncomfortable for me in the hall, the priest sent me here. My former husband served the old lord before both of their deaths. I believe Lord Edgar would want to see me.”
The man gaped at her. “I’ve had no orders—” He stumbled over the words.
Myrddin looked at him with his best how foolish do you want to be? stare.
“Yes, Madam.” The guard recovered enough to shrug his shoulders. “Tell the two men on the door that Walter sent you.”
“Thank you,” Nell said, befuddling him further with an uncharacteristic giggle, and moved past the guard, Myrddin hard on her heels.
“You simpered at him,” Myrddin said as they circled the stairs to the uppermost rooms.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Myrddin couldn’t argue with her, although surely it was unbecoming conduct in a nun, not to mention his wife. He shook his head and remembered Ifan’s laughter. Myrddin with a wife. He prayed they’d have more than just this one day together.
In short order, they arrived at the landing of the third floor. Two guards occupied the space. A ladder to the battlements rose from the middle of the floor. A locked door, barred from the outside, lay behind it.
“She’s here to speak with Lord Edgar,” Myrddin said. “I was to tell you that Walter sent us.”
One of the men sneered, but he didn’t argue. He peered through the narrow window in the locked door. “Got a nun to see you.” Myrddin couldn’t hear the reply, but the man nodded. “Go on in.”
Nell smiled and tipped her head. “Thank you.”
The guard unbarred the door, and she slipped past him. Myrddin made to follow, but the guard stopped him with a hand to his chest before he could pass through the doorway.
“You stay here.” He closed the door.
Myrddin had expected as much. He stepped to the side and leaned against the wall, ready for when Nell and Edgar came through the door—if that was indeed what was going to happen. He would find out soon enough. He’d caught a glimpse of Edgar before the guard had blocked the way. He’d been facing away from them, staring out the lone window, which was located high up in the northwestern wall.
Although it couldn’t have been far into the afternoon, the sky was dark, less because the sun was setting than because of the storm clouds that had been their constant companion for the last four days. Blessedly, the rate of falling snow had lessened over the last hour since they’d arrived.
The moments stretched out in silence. The guards returned to their table and their dicing, and Myrddin waited. He couldn’t make out the conversation beyond the door, just low murmurs between Nell and Edgar. Then the voices stopped, booted feet paced the floor, and a strong hand banged on the door.
“We’re done here,” Edgar said.
Earlier, Myrddin and Nell had agreed that if Edgar said those words, then she believed he was on King Arthur’s side, and Myrddin was to do what he could to facilitate his release.
The guards looked up, surprised they were needed again so quickly. One stood and came to the door. The other turned to Myrddin. “Our lord is cleansed of sin, is he?”
“It seems so.” Myrddin returned his smirk.
Myrddin stayed where he was beside the door frame, seemingly unconcerned but inwardly bracing himself for action. The guard unbarred the door and pulled on it. As it began to open, Myrddin moved. Shoving his left shoulder into the gap between the door and the frame, he put the full force of his weight behind it to slam the top edge of the door into the guard’s forehead.
The man stumbled backwards. Before he could recover, Myrddin came around the door, hit him with the heel of his right hand and, with a swipe of his right foot, had the guard’s legs out from under him. The man fell hard on his back and cracked his head on the wooden floor.
Meanwhile, Edgar had bounded out of the room. The second guard had tried to pull out his sword but was still fumbling with it when Edgar drove Nell’s knife into his chest to the hilt. With two downed men between them, Edgar and Myrddin faced each other. Myrddin gave the former prisoner a long look, taking in his short-cropped dark hair, narrow face and black eyes, which, like Cedric’s, gave nothing away.
Edgar raised his eyebrows. “I think we’re done here.”
Walter called to them from the stairs below. “Is everything all right up there?”
“Prisoner’s giving us a bit of trouble,” Myrddin said, in as gruff a voice as he could manage and speaking in Saxon, the language of the guards.
“I’ll come up.” Walter’s feet sounded on the steps. They had ten seconds to prepare.
Without Myrddin having to say anything, Edgar leapt to a position on one side of the archway that led to the stairs while Myrddin occupied the other. Nell stood some ten feet away in the middle of the room, just in front of the ladder that led upwards. For a count of three, she waited, her hands twisting in her skirt. Walter spied her with five steps to go to the top and then bounded up the rest.
“Madam!”
That was all he managed to say before Myrddin wrapped his arm around Walter’s neck. Edgar pressed the knife to his breastbone. In the end, however, he didn’t have to use it. Walter lost consciousness and slumped against Myrddin, who lowered him to the ground.
Then he turned to Edgar. “You sent a letter to Arthur ap Uther.”
“I did.” Edgar had started to ease away from Nell and Myrddin, as if unsure of his safety, but now he arrested his movement.
“Was it sincere?”
Edgar coughed and laughed at the same time. “Was it? Do I even know? It doesn’t matter now. Agravaine sends men to intercept the king. He’s emptying the castle of his knights and men-at-arms in pursuit of this endeavor.”
“It isn’t too late to warn him,” Myrddin said to Nell. “If we leave now, I can ride hard to the church.”
“It is too late,” Edgar said. “Agravaine has been communicating with King Arthur in my name for three days. The meeting will occur in less than an hour’s time. He told me of it last night. As Nell entered my room, I saw that Agravaine’s second-in-command had gathered his men in the bailey of the castle. They left in the time we were occupied in talking.”
Myrddin spun on his heel and strode through the open doorway to Edgar’s cell and then to the window. “The devil take him. We are too late.” He swung around to Edgar. “Has Agravaine gone too? Does he lead them?”
“Does the man fight himself? Ever?” Edgar gave a laugh that came out an ironic snort. “Of course not. He’s too important to tarnish his sword with Welsh blood.”
Myrddin had heard enough. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“And damn the consequences?” Edgar said. “Yes. I never intended, as Agravaine does, to murder my uncle. I do not want his death on my conscience.”
“Then let’s go.” Myrddin covered the distance to the stairwell in a few steps, glad he didn’t have to kill the Saxon lord.
They hurried down the stairs to the second floor, and then to the first. Before they continued to the kitchen, Myrddin held out a hand to stop his companions. Huw had been dining in the great hall but, if Peter had left with the rest of the garrison, there was no telling where Huw’d got to.
Myrddin peered around the doorway that led to the hall, looking for his son. The tables were deserted as Edgar had warned they would be. Only two men remained: Huw—his back to the fire—and another man. The man’s voice had risen, berating Huw while Huw shifted from one foot to another, pained and uncomfortable. Myrddin recognized the tone. Damn it! Agravaine.
Huw didn’t acknowledge Myrddin other than with a flicked finger, held down low at his side. Understanding, Myrddin waved him off and retreated around the corner, furious at the cock-up this mission had become, and running through potential ways to rescue his son. “Huw needs help.”
“Let me see.” Nell peered around the corner before he could stop her. Almost immediately, she popped her head back, her face drained of all color.
“What is it?” Edgar said.
“That man.” Her breath choked her.
“You recognize him?” Myrddin said. “Have you seen him?”
“No.” Nell switched to Welsh. “I didn’t have to. But I know him. He’s one of the men at St. Asaph. He was one of the knights who escaped.”
Christ.
Meanwhile Edgar, not understanding their words, even if their tension was evident, had taken a quick glance through the doorway. “It’s Agravaine. It would be better if he didn’t see me.”
They needed to get out right now. “Go through the kitchen,” Myrddin said. “Bring the horses into the bailey. I’ll send Huw to join you, and then I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”
Nell grabbed his arm. “No, Myrddin! We can’t leave you here!”
“I’ll be fine.” Myrddin spoke in Welsh as she had, for her ears, not Edgar’s. “I don’t wish to die. I have a life with you to look forward to. I’ll meet you. I promise.”
Nell clasped his hand tightly. “I’m not ready for this. We’ve had so little time!”
“What are you going to do?” Edgar said.
“Rescue Huw.” Myrddin looked at Edgar over Nell’s shoulder. “And maybe kill Agravaine.”
Edgar appeared amused at that, but not Nell, who’d regained control of herself again. “Don’t be an idiot. King Arthur is more important now.”
She was right, of course. Myrddin pulled her to him in a brief hug and then let her go. Edgar grasped her arm. “I’ll take care of her.”
They turned from Myrddin, hurrying down the stairs to the kitchen. Once they moved, Myrddin strode from the stairwell. Agravaine was focused on Huw but Myrddin hadn’t walked five paces before he drew Agravaine’s attention.
For his part, Agravaine paled at the sight of Myrddin and stopped speaking in mid-sentence. He stood with his mouth open, staring. “You!”
Myrddin checked his stride. Agravaine stepped backwards towards the fireplace, distancing himself from both Huw and Myrddin. He yanked his sword from its sheath and held it out, keeping them both at bay. Meanwhile, Huw sidled sideways towards Myrddin.
“What are you doing here?” Agravaine said. “You shouldn’t be here!”
“Have we met?” Myrddin came to a halt ten paces from Agravaine.
“You should be at the church!” Agravaine said. “I’ve seen you there!”
Agravaine’s words hung in the air, the echo of them twisting between them—and, in a single heartbeat, upended Myrddin’s world. He’d thought himself unique all these years until he found Nell. And yet, even with their union, it had never occurred to either of them that they were not alone in their seeing. That there could be others like them. The implications were staggering.
“Get the horses, Huw. Get out of here.” Myrddin drew his sword to match Agravaine and pointed it at him.
“But—”
“Now!” Myrddin said. “Nell will explain.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and Myrddin was grateful that he didn’t say ‘father’ and reveal to Agravaine their connection.
Huw walked quickly towards the stairs and disappeared down them.
“You’ve seen me there?” Myrddin said to Agravaine, once they were alone.
Agravaine brought up his chin, his eyes blazing. “You’ve died every night in my dreams since I was a boy.” And then amended, “until recently.”
Dear God, to borrow Nell’s favorite phrase. Myrddin’s stomach curdled with a strange sort of sympathy for Agravaine, which he immediately gagged down.
Agravaine didn’t share it. “You’re nothing but a trouble-maker. I should have known as my dreams became more confused these last weeks, and then ceased to come at all, that something was wrong.”
“If you knew what was to come, why harm the woman at St. Asaph?” Myrddin said. “What did that gain you?”
“Why not take her? I knew the future.”
Myrddin took a step back, involuntarily distancing himself from Agravaine’s amorality. Agravaine had been haunted all his life, just as Myrddin and Nell had been. But in Agravaine’s case, the result had been a life without consequences.
“You’re a child.” Agravaine’s sneer was affixed permanently to his lips. “There is so much you don’t know.”
At that, Myrddin refocused on Agravaine’s words and stepped towards him again. “If that’s true, then we can help each other. We can pool our knowle—”
Agravaine cut Myrddin off, shouting his disbelief. “I need nothing from you!” He brandished his sword at Myrddin, ready to fight even if Myrddin wasn’t.
Realizing that Agravaine was in earnest, and that he couldn’t consider him an ally of any kind, Myrddin met Agravaine’s blade with his own. The swords rang out as they clashed, and then the men backed off from one another.
“So how did you discover who I was?” Myrddin said. “Did Cai tell you?”
Agravaine’s eyes glinted with amusement now instead of anger. “I have always known your name and your allegiance, of course. I just missed you at Rhuddlan. I shouldn’t have talked Cai out of running you through at the first opportunity.”
Myrddin had heard enough. The dreams might have overtaken Agravaine’s reason, but he was still powerful. He still stood between Myrddin and the exit. “The king isn’t going to that church alone, you know.” Myrddin advanced on Agravaine.
Agravaine laughed. “You think you can prevent his death?” His query echoed off the walls of the empty hall. “You can’t. I imagine he’s dead already!”
At these final words, he attacked, driving at Myrddin with all his strength. Myrddin fell back, stepping away from him and allowing him to expend his energy unnecessarily. Every defense a swordsman made should have an attack associated with it, and as Myrddin parried his blow, he positioned himself more strongly.
Then, when Myrddin caught Agravaine’s cross guard with the tip of his own weapon, the movement pulled the sword down and away from Myrddin, and he took the opportunity to close the distance between them. He wanted Agravaine on the ground and his sword in his throat.
But Agravaine was too quick and spun away. The two men clashed swords again—four, five, six times—and with every movement, Myrddin allowed Agravaine to push him closer to the door of the hall. This couldn’t go on much longer before a member of the garrison—one of the few left in the castle—would hear, and then Myrddin would be outnumbered. Anxious to put an end to it, desiring Agravaine’s death, but not willing to die himself to achieve it, Myrddin contemplated making a run for it.
At that moment, one of Agravaine’s boots slid on a piece of abandoned food that a diner had dropped on the floor. The rush mats provided a poor footing, almost as bad as muddy grass. It was ignoble of Myrddin, and he knew it, but as Agravaine went down on one knee, Myrddin moved in, batted Agravaine’s sword to one side with his gauntleted left hand, and drove his own sword through the man’s midsection.
Agravaine fell backwards, his breath guttering as he lost air. Myrddin ripped his sword from Agravaine’s body and then kicked Agravaine’s fallen sword away. It went skidding underneath a nearby table. Without a second look, Myrddin turned to the door, wiping his sword on the edge of his cloak as he did so, and then sheathed it on the run. He didn’t want to reveal to all who might see him that he was fleeing from the aftermath of a fight, and that a Saxon lord lay dying in the muck of the hall.
When Myrddin burst through the great doors and into the bailey, Edgar, Huw, and Nell were passing between the main gates out of the castle. Each sat astride their own horse, while Huw led Cadfarch.
Myrddin called in Saxon, on the off-chance that avoiding Welsh might give him a few more seconds before the guards caught on that he was an enemy. “Wait!”
Myrddin raced down the steps towards the gatehouse and across the courtyard. Nell had turned her head at Myrddin’s call but the others didn’t notice him until he threw himself onto Cadfarch’s back, delighted to have had such a close shave and survived again—and also knowing that the delight was a mirage, a false emotion that would fade as soon as the fire inside left him.
As he’d hoped, the guards had seen him coming but hadn’t known if they should block his path. Usually their charge was to prevent people from entering the castle, not leaving it. Besides, no hue and cry rose from the hall, and Lord Edgar, whom the guards would expect to be able to come and go as he pleased, rode at Myrddin’s side.
At a steady canter, they left the castle, moving into a gallop once they came down from the gatehouse. They traveled the mile between the gatehouse and the bridge across the Irfon River in short order. It was distressingly dark by the time they crossed it, at which point Edgar pulled up.
“I cannot ride farther with you,” he said. “Tell King Arthur, if he lives, that I would talk with him, but not here. Not now. I must first speak to Lord Modred.”
“What was that?” Myrddin’s heart was still beating hard since he hadn’t recovered fully from the fight or his flight from it. He forced himself to take a deep breath and encompass what Edgar was saying. “Do you think Modred doesn’t know of the letter you sent? I assure you he does! Agravaine suspected you of treason. You cannot doubt that Modred does too!”
“Modred confirmed me in my lordship,” Edgar said. “He deserves to hear my concerns from me. He needs to know that Agravaine seeks only his own power.”
“Not anymore,” Myrddin said. “To bring the news of Agravaine’s death will not make you welcome in Modred’s court.”
“And yet I must go,” Edgar said, “and accept the consequences of doing what is right. I am my father’s son.”
The man was too noble for his own good. Turning from Edgar, Myrddin and Nell faced off in the growing darkness. “What would you have me do?” Myrddin said.
She shook her head, looking from him to Edgar and back again without an answer.
Edgar stepped in. “I have a manor house not five miles from here. I will shelter Nell and Huw there until such a time as it is safe to send them to you.”
Nell put out a hand to Myrddin. “We’ll be fine on the road—especially given my habit—while you, a Welsh knight, will not. Find King Arthur. He is alive. I know it. And then we’ll find you. Huw and I will come to the Abbey, as we agreed.”
“I can’t leave you,” Myrddin said. “Agravaine’s men—”
“Were met by ours, Myrddin,” she said, and then switched to Welsh. “The king is alive. Even if he went to the church, even if Agravaine has tricked him into going, Cedric’s men would have arrived in time to save him.”
“All right.” Myrddin nodded, wanting her to be right, wanting to believe that the future they’d envisioned together would really come to pass.
“Did you say Cedric?” Edgar said, catching the reference. “What has he to do with this?”
“We’re not yet sure.” Myrddin turned back to Nell. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I wouldn’t,” she said.
He reached for her, pulling Cadfarch close to her horse so he could kiss her.
Edgar muttered under his breath. “Some nun.”
“They’re married,” Huw said.
“Of course they are,” Edgar said, deadpan.
Myrddin released Nell who shot Edgar an amused look. Then Myrddin held out a hand to Huw, who grasped his forearm as one knight to another. “Take care of each other.” Myrddin wasn’t used to caring so much about the immediate prospects of survival for people other than Arthur, but fear for Huw and Nell roiled his gut.
“I will, Father,” Huw said.
Edgar threw up his hands in mock exasperation.
“I love you, Myrddin,” Nell said.
Myrddin nodded, unable to speak through the knot in his throat. All three turned away. Myrddin watched them until they disappeared around a bend in the road. The ache in his chest flamed higher until it burned him. And then it went out as cold certainty set in. Nell might hold hope in her heart still, but with her absence, Myrddin couldn’t share it.
Turning Cadfarch’s head, he acknowledged that it was better that Huw and Nell were out of it. To the east was Mercia and, for all intents and purposes, peace. The danger was to the west. Alone, he could make better time and approach the church more circumspectly. If Agravaine’s men had attacked King Arthur’s, there was nothing Myrddin, as one man, could do to help them. At this point, he’d just be happy to find the king had stayed in bed, even if all his other plans had come to nothing.
Then Myrddin cursed himself for the questions he had forgotten to ask Agravaine, not that he would have answered: first and foremost, how many of the dangers that faced the king were his doing? The attack on Garth Celyn? On Cedric? Ah well. Too late now. The man is dead.
It was less than two miles from the Irfon Bridge to St. Cannen’s Church. The road kept close to the Cam River and Myrddin followed it. The river rushed by, not quite in flood, and the wind howled in the trees, blowing the snow directly into Myrddin’s face. The weather raged around him, but as he approached the churchyard, the strife of men drowned out all else. Up ahead, shouts came in Saxon and Welsh. As Myrddin got closer, a great column of smoke rose into the air. It flew above his head, a dark smudge blowing east. The smell of death and mortified flesh enveloped him.
Retreating to the safety of the trees that lined the river, Myrddin bowed his head and closed his eyes, a sickening horror in his stomach. Sure enough, after a short wait, a troop of men—thirty at least—marched around the corner, coming from the church. They bore torches that lit up the night as their light was reflected off the snow on the ground and in the air and the white clouds above their heads.
The trees and the darkness beyond the torchlight hid Myrddin. Even without the protective trees, the troop made so much noise they wouldn’t have noticed Myrddin if he’d shouted. Several of the men in the lead whooped and called their triumph.
One call rose above every other, this one in Saxon: “He is dead at last!”
Not all the men were so exuberant. Towards the tail end of the company, five or six men rode straight and solemn. Every so often, one of them glanced upwards and Myrddin gagged at what rose above their heads: A severed head bobbed on a pike, blood matting the dark hair, a grisly testament to their accomplished task.
They passed Myrddin without a glance. He stayed in the trees, doing nothing, too late to save his king. When they’d gone, vanishing into the whirling snow, Myrddin directed Cadfarch towards the ruin of all his hopes. Men and horses had packed the snow in the clearing in front of the church so the blood stains showed clearly where they’d pooled on the icy ground. Here and there, grass poked through the snow where a heel had dug into the earth, evidence that men had dragged other men across it.
It was the first time he’d ever seen the place while he was awake. Myrddin noted the differences and similarities to his dream—and knew they mattered not at all. He followed the signs to a spot to the northwest of the church. The Saxons had built a bonfire, their only tinder the bodies of the men they’d killed.
Upwards of two dozen men burned in the pyre, most marred beyond recognition. The fire hadn’t yet consumed their gear but the torn clothes and disarrayed armor told Myrddin all he needed to know about how they died. His friends lay as they’d been thrown, haphazard and in every direction. Each man wore the dragon crest on his surcoat.
Myrddin walked around the pile in a daze, the smoke stinging his eyes, although he would have been blind from tears regardless. At the far end, he spied the headless and mutilated body of his king, fallen off the edge of the pile and stripped of its fine armor. Choking on the horror of it, he dragged the remains to one side, unable to look more closely at the other bodies for fear he’d find the faces of his friends staring up at him, lifeless and empty.
A lament rose unbidden in his ears. Its relentless rhythm drove Myrddin’s movements as he labored to put out the fire, to throw dirt on bodies, and to provide some semblance of a decent burial for his king, although all that was decent had disappeared from the earth:
––––––––
Can you not sense the turmoil amongst the oaks?
Do you not see the path of wind and rain?
And that the world is ending?
Cold my heart in a fearful breast
For the lion of Wales, that oaken door
our warlord, our dragon-king
Our Arthur ... is dead.
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EXHAUSTED AND SPENT, knowing he’d done his best, and it hadn’t been enough, Myrddin wept over the fallen body of Arthur ap Uther, his lord, and the last hope of his people.