| |
12 December 537
Myrddin
––––––––
AS GARETH HAD FORMULATED his initial plan, all he’d been thinking about was secrecy and speed. Now, however, they rode in a company of fifteen, thirteen of them Saxons, which gave them the ability not only to take the high road, but to ride openly along it.
As Myrddin had suspected, the Saxons who’d taken King Arthur were easy to track, because of the snow and the fact that they were riding hard so as to enter England before they were caught. The only drawback now was that the sun was going down, and if King Arthur’s captors turned off the trail or found shelter for the night somewhere along the way it would be easy to miss them in the dark.
Myrddin’s vision had shown him King Arthur with his hands bound, but it hadn’t given him any guidance as to where he and Nell had come into contact. Best case, it was at Edgar’s manor, because Beorhtsige had sought shelter there—the worst, it was in Wroxeter, in which case Myrddin would have words with Edgar when next he saw him, because that would mean that Edgar had betrayed them.
And yet, the knowledge that Nell was with the king was comforting. It was just too bad (and annoying) that his sight was so unreliable that it hadn’t told him about the danger to King Arthur before it happened.
Myrddin didn’t know this part of Wales well, so he was forced to rely on the others for guidance. He’d spent his life doing exactly that but, somehow, without him realizing it was happening, since the fight at the Strait he’d grown used to making important decisions for himself and the men he led. But even if he had to rely on others here, he could still track, and he held up his hand to stop the company.
“The tracks go both west, and on,” he said to Gareth and Godric. “Do either of you know where the western path leads?”
“To a manor owned by Lord Edgar of Wigmore,” Godric said, as if Myrddin should have known that already—and perhaps he should. “It’s about a quarter mile in.”
Myrddin heart skipped a beat, and he had to refrain from raising his hands to the heavens in thanks. “Edgar was supposed to ride there with Nell and Huw last night. Perhaps they are still there. Perhaps we are not too late!” Myrddin jerked his head at Gareth. “Stay with the men. Godric and I will have a look.”
“I should go,” Gareth said.
“No,” Myrddin said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice and undoubtedly failing, “you are memorable and that’s the last thing we want right now. If Nell and Huw are there—and by some miracle the king too—we can take a quick look around without drawing undue attention to ourselves and then return here to formulate a plan for rescuing them.”
Mollified, Gareth gave way. Myrddin’s intent hadn’t been to butter him up. Gareth was memorable, and the last thing they wanted, if King Arthur was being held prisoner at Edgar’s manor, was to worry the defenders of the fort with the appearance of a Welsh nobleman whom the Saxons might not quite trust—no matter whose side he claimed to be on.
Godric waved a hand to his men to indicate they should stay with Gareth, and then he and Myrddin rode on ahead, cantering the promised quarter of a mile in hardly any time at all, even if Myrddin’s heart was in his throat the whole time. Edgar’s manor house was protected by a ten-foot-high palisade. The wide gate was currently closed, and the snow in front of it had been trampled, indicating that a large company had passed through it since the snow had stopped falling.
With calm assurance, Godric tipped up his chin to call to the sentry on duty. “I wish to speak to Lord Edgar of Wigmore. I am sent from Lord Cedric of Brecon.”
A man leaned down. The descending darkness was hiding all of his features but his chin and half his face, which were visible in the torchlight that shone from the guard tower. “He is not here.”
Godric looked appropriately puzzled. “Where has he gone?”
“To Wroxeter.”
“To Lord Modred?” Godric said. “Why?”
The man shouted laughter. “Because in the aftermath of the battle at Buellt, King Arthur was captured by Beorhtsige and his men. They came here looking for provisions, and my lord aided them.”
Myrddin cleared his throat and tried for a Saxon accent in mimicry of Godric. “Do you have there with you a woman and a young man, who rode in with Lord Edgar last night?”
The guard made a motion with his head that came off as to mean both yes and no. “They were here but they left with Edgar. Something about presenting them as a prize to Modred. I didn’t understand why Modred would care.”
Myrddin’s face darkened with a sudden boiling anger that threatened to burst out of him, and it was just as well that it was too dark for the guard to see him properly. Godric put out a steadying hand to Myrddin, while at the same time calling up to the guard, “We’ll be on our way to Wroxeter then. Did they take the high road?”
“Straight and fast. With King Arthur among them, Beorhtsige had no intention of stopping for more than a few moments’ rest until he reached Modred’s palace.”
“Thank you.” Godric turned his horse.
The guard disappeared from above the palisade before Myrddin could trust himself to formulate a reply. As he made to follow Godric, however, out of the corner of his eye he saw a crimson splotch on the ground, somewhat off to one side of the main path. Even in the near darkness, the color stood out like a beacon on the patch of white snow. Afraid even more now than before, Myrddin dismounted to crouch low to the ground.
“What is it?” Though Godric had set off from the gate, he returned when he realized Myrddin hadn’t followed him.
Myrddin touched the drop with a finger and brought it to his tongue. “Wine.” He heaved a sigh of relief.
The darkness was growing, but the torches on the wall walk still threw out enough light for him to see another twenty feet in front of him. “There’s another.” He pointed to a spot ten feet away.
“And another,” Godric said, having walked his horse further along the path. “Someone has a leaky wineskin.” He looked back at Myrddin. “Could the leak be intentional?”
“Intentional or not, someone has left us a path to follow.” Myrddin remounted his horse, and the two men cantered back to where Gareth waited with the rest of Godric’s company, who must have heard them coming because they were already mounted by the time Myrddin and Godric appeared along the path.
Myrddin slowed to a stop and snapped his fingers for a torch held by one of Godric’s men. He wanted to find the next drop of wine to make sure they were truly going in the right direction.
Meanwhile, Gareth urged his horse forward and spoke to Godric. “What did you find?”
Godric made a growling sound under his breath. “We were right that King Arthur was captured by a company of Saxons. They came here, to Edgar of Wigmore’s fort. Edgar, Nell, and Huw are riding to Wroxeter with him—Nell and Huw as captives too. According to the guard, they are riding openly and with little rest—and someone has very kindly left us a path.” He pointed to the droplet of wine beside which Myrddin had crouched.
Gareth was appalled. “I thought you said Edgar had shifted his allegiance to King Arthur?”
Myrddin turned to look up at him. “I did, because that’s what he said. I see now that he would have used any excuse to effect his escape from Buellt.” The anger rose in him again, but he swallowed it down. He had to maintain a cool head if he was going to have any chance to save not only the king but his wife and son too. “I fear for whoever is responsible for the leaky wineskin. If he’s caught—”
Gareth shook his head. “The Saxon band has to know we are following—and also that we are well behind them. I’m far more concerned about them luring us into an ambush.”
“Since we know where they’re going,” Godric said, “we should take a different road.”
“What other road is there?” Myrddin said.
“All roads lead to Wroxeter, Myrddin,” Godric said. “The Romans built theirs, yes, but my people have lived in this land for a hundred years, and we have our own pathways.”
Gareth’s jaw was set. “My people lived here for a thousand years before any of you came, and we had ours too.” He looked at Myrddin. “I assure you that from here, the high road is not the only road.”
“As I said.” Godric glared at Gareth.
The two men were no more than a year apart in age, and their training was of a kind, but one had been raised a Welsh lord and the other a Saxon knight. Their minds had been forged in worlds apart—except in this case, they were in complete agreement, even if they couldn’t see it themselves.
Myrddin made a chopping motion to stop their fruitless argument. “We will do as you both suggest. I don’t know this region of Wales, so I need the two of you to work together to find us the best path, whether Welsh or Saxon I do not care—and nor should either of you.”
Gareth and Godric glared at each other for another two heartbeats, and then, as if each had taken the measure of the other and found him not as wanting as initially supposed, they subsided.
“Fine,” Gareth said, “I would say that the best path runs to Castell Collen, where we can strike out due east for Leintwardine.”
“I agree.” Godric’s eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t believe he’d just said that. “The Roman road goes north from there, and then turns east again to Wroxeter.”
“So we go east from there and then north to come at Wroxeter directly from the south,” Gareth said. “If Godric is willing, we should send three or four men to follow Edgar’s company—and the drops of wine—in case he diverges from this road. At least that way, if Beorhtsige lied about where he was headed, we won’t lose them completely.”
Myrddin nodded, satisfied that the pair had become companions in this. He found himself amused as well, which was an odd emotion to be feeling under these circumstances. “I will follow your lead.”
