Cold My Heart: A Novel of King Arthur Read online

  Arthur took a sip from his goblet and put it down. “Anxious?” he said, once she’d seated herself on his left.

  “Yes,” she said, opting for the truth. She felt confident that Myrddin himself would live through this battle if he was to fight for the King in a month’s time. The King had few enough men, however, that the loss of even one was a tragedy.

  “Myrddin is one of my best men,” Arthur said. “There is less need to worry for him than for most. He was a stripling when he came to me and I took him on despite the reservations of some of my counselors. I’ve not regretted it.”

  “He’s not as young as he once was,” Nell said.

  “Nor are any of us,” King Arthur said, with a laugh. “But there will be little enough fighting today, by my reckoning.”

  “How’s that, my lord?” Nell said.

  “The Saxons don’t know the Straits like we do,” Arthur said. “We take its temperamental nature for granted, but Wulfere has only been here a few months. He’s arrogant. His bridge won’t hold.”

  “I admit it’s an odd construction,” Nell said. The Saxons had hammered boards over the top of their bridge of boats to make a makeshift road from Anglesey to the Eryri shore. Even at low tide, the bridge wouldn’t provide an easy crossing.

  “It’s not so much the bridge, but the tides,” King Arthur said. “Slack water occurs four times a day: an hour before high or low tide. Geraint’s got a boy severing the ropes and pins that hold the bridge together. Either the Saxons will discover the damage and it will delay them past the optimum time to cross and they’ll have to wait six hours for the next slack water, or they won’t, and the bridge will break and dump them into the Straits.”

  “And you think that Wulfere plans to cross this morning?”

  “Yes. That’s what the girl said.”

  Nell had been shredding the remains of a biscuit that a servant had set in front of her and now glanced over at the King. “Girl?”

  The King gazed at her over his goblet and then set it down. “Wulfere’s new doxy wasted no time in finding a way to reach one of my men. The Saxon camp is full of followers and hangers on. I’ve at least a half a dozen men and boys among them who confirm her information.”

  Nell’s heart was in her throat and she could barely speak around the lump. “Do you know her name?”

  King Arthur’s forehead wrinkled in thought, and then he turned in his seat. Bedwyr was just entering the hall from the corridor beyond and Arthur called to him. “Do you know the name of the new girl in Wulfere’s bed?”

  Nell clamped her teeth together, trying to keep them from chattering at the casual way he asked the question. The girl meant nothing to him but as a source of information.

  “Bronwen, I think.” Bedwyr didn’t even break stride as he headed towards the front of the hall.

  “That’s it.” Arthur snapped his fingers. “Bronwen.”

  Nell placed her palms together and her fingers to her lips, but instead of prayer, she was trying to force back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. All she could think of was the sweet-faced, sharp-tongued girl Bronwen had been in the convent. Now she was Wulfere’s whore, but had enough courage behind that pretty face, despite everything she’d endured, to defy him and spy for Arthur. “That poor child.”

  “Bronwen is a common enough name,” Arthur said. “You don’t know that she was one of your sisters.”

  “Perhaps,” Nell said, pretending for Arthur that she wasn’t certain, although inside she knew the truth.

  “And what about you?” Arthur said. “You’re welcome to stay at Garth Celyn as long as you choose. Your knowledge of herbs and healing is a most welcome addition to the castle, but surely you would prefer a different haven? Perhaps the convent in Gwytherin?”

  “No, my lord,” Nell said. “Thank you, but I can’t go back to that life.”

  “Can’t,” Arthur said. “Or won’t?”

  Nell tipped her head in acknowledgement of the King’s distinction. “Won’t.”

  “As you wish.” Arthur kept his voice level, but she could tell he was curious as to her reasons. Fortunately, he was too polite to ask.

  Just then, Bedwyr reentered the hall, leaving the front door wide. The sun had risen and the grey dawn filtered through the scattered clouds, revealing an unusually clear day that would give the watchers a fine view of the Menai Straits and Anglesey beyond.

  “My King!” Bedwyr strode towards Arthur. “The Saxons are delayed, but there is no doubt they intend to come today!”

  Arthur’s eyes lit and he stood. Nell stood with him. “Excellent.”

  “Will you go to see it, my lord?” she said.

  “No,” Arthur said. “I will not undermine the authority of Geraint and Gareth. My faith in my men is not misplaced.”

  That showed remarkable patience. Nell, for her part, couldn’t keep still. Instead of trying to tame her emotions, she curtseyed to Arthur and left the hall for the battlements. Nell told herself she was going outside again so she could see what had become of Llanfaes. It wasn’t necessarily that she was going to spend the day watching for Myrddin.

  The sun shone and the wind was calmer than in the pre-dawn hours so it was warmer than before. Nell paced along the wall-walk, stopping every few feet to look over the rail at the sea sparkling in the sunshine less than a half a mile away. Penrhyn Castle, Gareth’s hereditary estate, lay between Garth Celyn and the bridge of boats, but she could see it in her mind’s eye.

  Sweet Mary, mother of God, keep him safe! She sent another prayer to Saint Jude, patron saint of fools and desperate causes. And then she laughed because she didn’t know if she was praying for Myrddin, or for herself.

  * * * * *

  Wulfere’s men did discover the break in the ropes that bound the bridge together. Repairing it delayed them past their intended, early starting time so it was exactly noon when Wulfere ordered his men to march. It was the perfect opportunity. The Straits were as calm as they ever got.

  “Here they come.” Ifan broke the expectant silence that had seeped among the men over the long hours of waiting.

  “Nervous, are you?” Myrddin said to his friend as they watched the horsed Saxon knights navigate their engineering marvel.

  “They’d better make it quick, is all I can say,” Ifan said. “I’m tired of sitting doing nothing.”

  “And your back aches,” Myrddin said.

  “Worse this week than ever,” Ifan said. “Must be this rotten weather.”

  Although from Myrddin’s perspective, the weather wasn’t that bad for November. It was just that Ifan was nearing forty and so many years of fighting had given him aches and pains no remedy could ease. Myrddin counted himself lucky that while his eyes were failing him, his body so far hadn’t.

  Twenty minutes later, the lead riders had cleared the mainland end of the bridge. They rode across the sand, with Wulfere as one of the foremost knights, recognizable by his black head plume and matching beard. Nell had shuddered at the mention of his name. Given his composure and presence, Myrddin couldn’t blame her.

  Myrddin’s fellow knights and men-at-arms stayed in the trees on the edge of the beach, waiting for the fifty archers on the hill above them to loose their arrows. Geraint held their fire until the cavalry were almost to the woods and the entire company of Saxons foot soldiers marched on the bridge. Then he gave the signal.

  “Fire at the horses!” Geraint shouted, his voice carrying all the way down to Myrddin’s position.

  The arrows flew from the bows in a hail of metal and wood, turning the beach into chaos in seconds. Six of the Saxon horses went down in the first volley. Saxon knights knew about archers, having encountered them in battle with the Welsh many a time (to their loss), even if they hadn’t employed any of their own in this venture. Therefore, instead of retreating, they did the smart thing, which was to charge. Holding their shields high to protect their chests, they urged their horses to close the distance to the woods. Perhaps they
thought they’d find safety there. If nothing else, their action ensured that the tops of the trees restricted the archers’ angle of fire.

  Gareth commanded the cavalry in this battle and took Geraint’s words as a signal to move.

  “Charge!”

  The Welsh cavalry came out of the woods in a phalanx, fifty feet wide, Myrddin among them. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning all sound but the relentless beat and making him oblivious to anything but the Saxons soldiers in front of him. Christ, I’d forgotten! Directing Cadfarch with his knees because he needed his left arm to hold his shield and his right hand held his sword, Myrddin plowed through the front rank of the opposing force.

  His momentum carried him past a knight sporting an ostentatious, red plume on his helmet. When the man swung around to face Myrddin, his horse’s hooves sank into the soft sand, throwing him off balance. Myrddin slid the tip of his sword along the man’s blade and with a flick of his wrist, disarmed him. Myrddin then shifted the other way. Using his left arm, he hit the Saxons soldier full in the face with the flat surface of his shield.

  The man fell, no longer a threat, and the noise of battle broke over Myrddin like an unexpected wave, assaulting his senses. He froze for a heartbeat, adjusting to the cacophony. Above him, Geraint’s archers rained their arrows down on the Saxon soldiers on the bridge. To the east, the Welsh foot soldiers who’d come out of the trees at the same time as the cavalry, roared, starting their run towards the Saxons lines, their axes and pikes raised high and their mouths open in the universal cry that gives men courage in the face of death. Fewer than half the Saxon foot soldiers had reached the beach. Thus, the Welshmen outnumbered the initial Saxon ranks and they went down under the onslaught.

  Myrddin turned his attention back to the Saxon cavalry and found himself face to face with Wulfere himself. Myrddin clenched his teeth and almost bit off the end of his tongue. This was the one man he’d most wanted to meet—and the one of whom he was also the most afraid.

  Wulfere’s black beard covered his face from chin to eyes and was split by an unholy sneer. Blood coated Wulfere’s sword and he met Myrddin’s with enormous force—enough to make Myrddin fear he’d lose his grip. They struggled together, neither finding the upper hand but hacking away at each other, all elegance or restraint lost in the desperation of battle.

  “Back! Back! Back!” The words came in both Saxon and Welsh as one of Wulfere’s captains tried to reach everyone who fought with him. Wulfere might have been doing well, but that wasn’t true of many of his companions.

  “No!” Wulfere’s refusal carried across the whole of the battlefield.

  Myrddin took that instant of distraction to launch himself at the Saxon lord. Their brief sword play had shown Myrddin what he’d feared—that he would have trouble defeating this man in a straight fight. At one time in his life, he’d relished the fear and power of exchanging blows, but he was no longer interested in trying. Thirty-six wasn’t twenty-four. Instead, Myrddin wrestled Wulfere from his horse.

  The two men fell to the ground, Wulfere beneath Myrddin. The force of the fall knocked the breath from Myrddin’s lungs, but the jolt dazed Wulfere long enough for Myrddin to rise and straddle him. He stared into Wulfere’s eyes. They were fogged and unfocused. Wulfere moaned, undone by the fall and suddenly human. Myrddin swallowed hard—and with a mighty thrust, forced his sword through Wulfere’s armor and into his heart. Wulfere would never rise again.

  Myrddin, for his part, got unsteadily to his feet. The death left an acid taste in Myrddin’s mouth, but he swallowed it down too. Of all the men he’d killed, this was one he wouldn’t regret.

  Overall, the battle had been short and brutal. By the time Myrddin looked up, a dozen dead Saxons lay on the sand. The rest had begun the retreat. The Saxon foot soldiers had the numbers to push back at the Welshmen but at the sight of their horsed superiors passing behind them to the bridge, they turned as one and ran back the way they’d come. By now it was almost one in the afternoon—high tide—and the most dangerous time to cross the Straits. The bridge of boats bucked and bent from the strain of so many men and horses.

  It seemed the entire Saxon army had taken to its heels and was fighting each other to be the first to reach Anglesey. They appeared oblivious to the fact that the Welsh were less dangerous to them now than the water. Following Geraint’s orders, the Welsh let them go. They didn’t want to get stuck on the Saxon bridge and didn’t have the manpower to fight them on Anglesey, or King Arthur would have tried it already.

  Then with only an ominous creak as warning, the bridge snapped, just as King Arthur had predicted. The separation occurred so suddenly, few men were able to stay upright. The two ends of the break swung apart, moving away from each other at a speed of two and a half knots. Within a count of five, the Saxon army had fallen into the treacherous waters of the Straits, with just a few men hanging onto the wooden planks, face down and gripping the wood as if their lives depended on it. Which they did.

  “By all that is holy, I’ve never seen the like.” Geraint came to stand beside Myrddin.

  “We could retake Anglesey,” Gareth said, as he halted on Myrddin’s other side. Blood stained his sword and he’d lost his helmet at some point in the battle, but he appeared otherwise undamaged. He was a twenty-five year old, bachelor knight and a child of a long and powerful lineage. It wouldn’t have done for him to die just yet.

  “We don’t need the lands they hold until the spring planting.” Geraint looked past Myrddin to Gareth, his gaze piercing. “And I say that, even with the knowledge that your lands languish in the hands of your cousin.”

  “He’s down.” Gareth’s voice carried no emotion. One glance showed an iron set to his chin. It occurred to Myrddin that Gareth might have taken on his traitorous cousin himself. Both men were grandsons of a great warlord who’d been steward to Arthur’s uncle, Ambrosius. That family had been torn in pieces by this war, half fighting for Modred and half for Arthur . . . and this cousin had come down on Modred’s side. To his loss.

  Geraint nodded. “I will give the order to kill any Saxons who wash ashore.” He slapped his hand on Myrddin’s shoulder. “Ride to King Arthur and tell him of the victory. You are his favorite messenger.”

  “Today is your reward for all those times you’ve brought bad news.” A smile hovered around Gareth’s lips despite the grimness of the carnage before them.

  Geraint shot Myrddin a grin. “And once again, you’ve shown yourself in possession of the Devil’s own luck. I saw you vanquish Wulfere. It was well done.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Myrddin said.

  His legs stiff from the aftermath of the fight, Myrddin returned to Cadfarch. When he’d leapt from the horse’s back to bring down Wulfere, Cadfarch had stayed close in case Myrddin needed him, unafraid of the smell of blood or the clash of weapons. The war horses in Wales were bred smaller and more versatile than their Saxon counterparts so as to more easily navigate the rocky and uneven ground on which the Welsh lived and fought.

  Myrddin was glad to see Ifan on his feet not far away, his head resting against his horse’s neck.

  Ifan waved a hand half-heartedly in Myrddin’s direction. “You off to see the King, then?”

  “As I am bid,” Myrddin said.

  “Better you than me, friend,” Ifan said. “I’ve a mind to lay down right here in the sand.”

  “You do that,” Myrddin said, more glad than he could say that Ifan still lived.

  He mounted Cadfarch and directed him towards the road from Bangor to Garth Celyn, skirting the manor house at Penrhyn to which they’d bring the wounded. They’d lost no more than two or three men-at-arms and a dozen foot soldiers, but many more had surface wounds that could suppurate if they weren’t treated. Over the years, more out of chance than design, the doctoring of the company’s wounds had fallen to Myrddin, who’d found himself more adept at it than he might have expected. Gareth and Geraint would need every healer of whatever skill today. Myrddin i
ntended to aid the men as soon as Arthur gave him leave to return.

  The north coast of Wales was endlessly green, even in the middle of winter. The beauty of it drew Myrddin forward, easing the tension of the battle and draining away the adrenaline that had allowed him to fight it. By Myrddin’s calculation, at least a dozen Saxon knights and an equal number of squires had died, in addition to the hundreds of Saxon foot soldiers. It wasn’t a staggering total, but would be devastating to Modred, if only because of the knights he’d lost. Many were of his own household, his and Arthur’s close kin.

  From some distance away, Myrddin spied the towers of Garth Celyn and noted the great number of people atop the battlements. They were watching for him. He raised a hand, knowing they would understand what it meant. If they’d lost, he would have been moving faster—if he’d been able to come at all. As it was, the gates were open while Myrddin was still fifty yards away. He rode inside and was instantly besieged by questions. Myrddin glanced up from his inquisitors to see King Arthur standing on the top step to the hall, Nell beside him.

  Myrddin dismounted, trotted to where Arthur stood, and didn’t make him wait for the news. “It is a great victory, my lord,” he said. “The bridge is broken.”

  “What are our casualties?” Arthur said.

  “Slight,” Myrddin said. “Geraint has their names. I do know there were few, mostly among those who were unhorsed or came to the battle on foot.”

  “Well done,” the King said. “That is good news, indeed.”

  Arthur gestured for Myrddin to enter the hall, but Myrddin hesitated to obey. “I must return to Penrhyn, my lord.” Myrddin bowed to indicate his continued respect. “Nell and I thought we’d help the wounded.”

  The King studied Myrddin, eyebrows raised. In the silence that followed, Myrddin realized his error. The man he’d been before St. Asaph would have aided the wounded only when he’d had no choice. He certainly would have taken a drink in the hall and thought that the following morning was soon enough to return to a battlefield.