Chapter One

21 November 537 AD

“Has it occurred to you that any one of these men could be your father?”

Myrddin turned his gaze on his son, amused to find the boy’s eyes alight with mischief. “No,” but then he amended, “not for many years.”

“Since my step-father’s death, I wondered about you often,” Huw said. “My mother told me that you served in Arthur’s forces when she knew you, but that wasn’t to say you still did. Or were even alive. I’m sure there are many Myrddins throughout Wales who wondered at the boy who questioned them about their activities when they were younger.”

“I wish I’d been there, son.” Myrddin rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I can’t say it often enough.”

“You’re here now,” Huw said.

“So who looks most like Myrddin, Huw?” Nell sidled over to Huw and looked with him. “Huddled in the corner are those cousins named Rhys and there’s three Gruffydd’s over by the high table.”

The other great men of Wales had come far for the meeting. Many had vacillated between Arthur and Modred over the years, depending upon who had the upper hand. Could it be that position now belonged to King Arthur?

“Stop it, Nell,” Myrddin said. “My mother dabbled with a pig farmer. If he were noble, she would have named him.”

Nell laughed, ignoring his protest. “I hate to say it, but I think you resemble Modred a bit.” At Myrddin’s glare, Nell laughed again. “I doubt, however, that he’s your father, as he was just four years old when you were born and even for him, that would have been mighty precocious.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Myrddin said. “How would I ever live that down?”

They surveyed the company a while longer, and then Bedwyr and Geraint appeared. It was almost time to start the meeting. Men began filling the seats around the tables in expectation of King Arthur’s arrival.

“Modred would murder half the people in this room, given the chance,” Nell said.

“And how many of them will turn to him anyway, seeing an opportunity, whether tomorrow, next week, or—” Myrddin glanced at Huw, who had moved a few feet away in response to another man’s query, “—if Arthur falls?”

Nell met his eyes, showing sympathy for what could be, squeezed his hand, and headed for the rear of the hall and her herb hut. She’d made noises about dressing in her male garb so she would be allowed to stay in the room, perhaps to serve as a page, but Myrddin had dissuaded her of it. Whether she remembered it or not, these men knew her as a former nun, and all hell would break loose if someone exposed her as a woman when she was thus disguised.

The commotion subsided. King Arthur had ordered the tables arranged in a large square, and a sense of equivalence, if not equality, permeated the room. The king took his seat with Geraint and Bedwyr on either side of him as was his custom. Cai sat opposite Arthur, some twenty feet away, more in the position of a rival than a brother.

As a mere knight, Myrddin was lucky to be in the hall at all. With Huw, who was doing his best to make himself as unremarkable as possible, Myrddin found a place against the wall where they could see the faces of both brothers. Unfortunately, their spot turned out to be two spaces down from Deiniol. It was too late to move, so Myrddin stayed where he was and resolved to focus on the proceedings.

King Arthur had designated Anian, the Bishop of St. Asaph, as convener of the Assembly. Anian had spent as many years opposed to Arthur’s rule as for it, but when he’d greeted the king upon his arrival at Garth Celyn, he’d said that he’d come to his own conclusions about who should rule in Wales and that the excommunication to which he’d been a party was not the Will of God. In matters of faith, he would follow his conscience as he always had.

Anian began with an opening prayer, calling the assembly to silence. At its completion, he made a show of unrolling the letter to the Council that King Arthur had received back from Modred on November 8^th and read it aloud. The letter was short and said, in a nutshell, that Modred wouldn’t discuss what had happened on Anglesey or the status of the four cantrefs of Wales, nor would he offer the council any promises in exchange for peace other than that he would deal with them mercifully as befitted an overlord. Anian then read the secret terms Modred had conveyed to Arthur and Cai, to which they had already responded.

By the time Anian’s voice fell silent, the room was in an uproar. Many of the lords had heard rumors of what the letters contained. Cai had made no secret of his (false) new-found hatred of Modred, but Arthur hadn’t shared the exact wording with any of his barons since that first day, wanting them all to hear it at the same time. Now, King Arthur himself had to rise to his feet to silence them.

“I’ve already responded to Modred’s letter, as has my brother.” Arthur nodded his head to Cai, who raised a hand, in acknowledgement of his action. “As the bishop has just explained, Modred demanded that we, in exchange for peace, give up all claim to our lands in Wales and our patrimony, and to leave our subjects in the hands of the Saxons. We have, of course, refused.”

Again the uproar and King Arthur raised his hand to settle the room. Every man perched on the edge of his seat, even those who’d never wanted to listen to the king before.

“As a council, we must respond to Modred’s letter with one voice,” Arthur said, “but before we do, it is important that each man be allowed to air his opinions, grievances, and suggestions freely, in the company of his peers. From this hour, we all rise, or we all fall, together.”

That calmed the assemblage somewhat. The Welsh were a more egalitarian people (at least among the elite) than many peoples, and everyone was used to this method of resolving problems. Thus, each of the lords stood in turn to state what he had won or lost in the war with Modred since the council had last met, and what he thought of Modred’s letters. Nobody was happy; the list of grievances against the Saxons grew longer with every man who spoke. Once these preliminaries were over, Anian stood again.

“King Arthur has asked me to open discussion regarding the future of Wales,” he said. “If she is to have a future, now is the time to speak of it.”

Utter silence fell. Then, to no one’s surprise, it was Cai who rose to his feet. “I have something to say.”

“By all means.” King Arthur gestured that he had the floor.

“What I want to know,” Cai said, his voice level and conversational, “is why the Council has not disowned Modred long since?” He lifted his hand to show the scroll of paper he’d received from Modred. “Is this any kind of letter to send to a member of his own family?”

“No!”

Myrddin craned his head to see who’d spoken, whether a supporter of Cai, or just one of the many men who knew injustice when he saw it. A number of men shook their fists, presumably at Modred.

Huw leaned in to whisper. “That was Owain ap Gruffydd.”

Myrddin glanced at Huw. “You don’t like him.”

“I don’t like traitors, even when they’re on my side.”

Myrddin smiled, hearing the echo of Cedric in Huw’s voice.

“I say we throw off that yoke, once and for all,” Cai said. “It is well and good that we defeated the Saxons at the Strait, but Modred doesn’t yet believe himself defeated. He thinks us beholden to him, a people in rebellion. He is already measuring his head for the crown. He has called my brother a usurper, when it is he who seeks to take the crown from us!”

“Excommunicate, by God!” That was Gareth, whom Myrddin had never pegged as one for spontaneous outbursts.

Cai nodded. “What gives Modred the right to stand between us and our God?”

“No right!”

Far more heads nodded and there were more clenched fists than before. Even Huw was moved, his hands gripping his knees and his back stiff as he hung on every one of Cai’s words.

“I say no! I say we should be free of the constraints that Modred imposes upon us. No half-Saxon lord has a right to our throne!” Cai gestured to his brother. “King Arthur has no heir of his body, but that is not to say that he doesn’t have an heir of his heart!”

At those final words, the men around Myrddin swallowed hard, Cai paused, and Arthur gripped his goblet so tightly his knuckles whitened. Cai leaned heavily on the table, supporting his weight on both hands, and Arthur stood. When he spoke, his voice was gentle.

“What would you have us do, brother, that we have not already done? Did I not write to Modred that we spoke with one voice? Did not you? Did I not say that even were I willing to acknowledge Modred as my heir, the people of Wales would be unwilling to do homage to one such as he who has no respect for their laws and customs?”

A murmur of approval swept through the hall.

“I say we do not write it,” Cai said. “I say we shout it! From the highest peak of Yr Wyddfa, we must cry aloud as one people and keep crying it until Modred heeds our words. I say we take what is ours for Wales and only for Wales! I say we tell Modred what we think of his rights and his armies! I say we are a free and independent people and I, for one, am tired of living at Modred’s sufferance!”

Cai’s eyes were alive with triumph. He seemed to tower over the company with his power and eloquence.

Arthur, however, remained unmoved.

“To deny his claim to the throne will only spur Modred to greater heights of aggravation,” he said. “He will take it as we mean it—as an open declaration that our people will never abide a half-Saxon overlord, even if he is also half-Welsh and my nephew. It treads hard on his divine right to rule.”

Cai shot back. “We are already at odds with him. We thwart him and his church at every step. What more can he do to us that he has not already done? If you fear to place yourself at the head of such an endeavor, I do not!”

His shout rang throughout the hall. Then, silence settled, and it was as if everyone was holding his breath—Myrddin and Huw among them—waiting for Arthur’s answer.

“You are not afraid to renew the fight, brother?” Arthur said.

“I am not afraid, brother,” Cai said. “For the good of her people, I would stand tall and never again bend to a Saxon lord or allow Modred to set his boot on the back our necks.”

Another pause. The energy hummed among the men, just below the surface, threatening to come out.

Arthur released it.

“Then, so would I. I will take that chance.” For the first time, Arthur’s voice boomed out to every corner of the room. “Who will stand with me against Modred and his Saxon toadies, now and forever? Who would see the Kingdom of Wales renewed?”

Bedwyr shot his fist into the air. “Aye!”

A half second behind him came Cai, and almost in the same instant, Myrddin was one of dozens of others who matched him. Even Deiniol, who must have been taken up in the excitement and Myrddin feared would find himself with second thoughts by the time the doors to the hall opened, thrust his fist into the air.

Everyone shouted together. “Aye! God is with us!”

Arthur focused on his brother, who met his eyes. Cai’s glowed with exhilaration and something else that Myrddin read as deceit. Then Arthur nodded, straightened, and turned from the table. Leaving Bedwyr to sort out the other lords, he strode from the hall.

* * * * *

“I hear that the barons have promised Arthur more money and men,” Nell said, when Myrddin found her in her herb hut, boiling a concoction on the brazier. “Is it true? I didn’t dare believe it until I heard it from you.”

“That is what they’ve pledged. That’s what King Arthur has sworn. He promised to push Modred out of Powys by Christmas.” He paused as their eyes met. “If we live that long.”

“What does Huw think?” Nell said.

“He has discovered what it means to be Welsh,” Myrddin said.

“We all feel it.” Nell forcefully set down the jar she held, and it almost tipped over. She righted it and then put it on the shelf above her head. “If the lords of Wales would stop fighting among themselves and unite, as they did at Mt. Badon, we would have the peace we need—not the peace that Modred wants.”

“Modred has more men at his disposal than we do,” Myrddin said. “This won’t be easy.”

“He is a vicious man, Myrddin. You do understand that if you ever cross paths with him again, you’re dead.” She held his eyes, like she once might have focused on one of the novice nuns, unsure if he was really listening. Myrddin went his own way, with a strong sense of rightness that Nell trusted, but that she feared might cost him his life.

“I know it,” Myrddin said.

“You say that so casually,” she said, “but I don’t want you to die.”

Myrddin’s mouth twisted. “Nor do I.” He glanced away.

Nell studied his profile and then turned away herself. Her back to him, she rummaged among her vials in the cupboard behind her. After the deaths of all her family, she’d carefully buried that part of her heart that cared too much—loved too much. But despite her best efforts to suppress it, she’d started caring for this man from the moment he’d stormed into the clearing to rescue her at St. Asaph, even before she knew him as the Myrddin from her dreams. That she’d loved that man since she was eight years old didn’t help.

“Are you well?” Myrddin said.

Nell found herself smiling, her back still to him, studying the label of each of her jars in turn. “I am well, Myrddin. Thank you for asking.”