Chapter One

8 November 537 AD

“Myrddin! Get over here!”

I obeyed, riding toward Gawain, my captain. At his grim look, I pulled up beside him and reached for my sword—not to fight him, but because he already held his.

“The Saxons are here!” he said.

I squinted in the direction he pointed, but could see nothing beyond movement in the branches opposite. “I’ll root them out, my lord.”

I gathered my men together and we crossed the creek to the north of the church where King Arthur waited even now to meet with Lord Edgar. I knew it was a trap. It was always a trap. I struggled to turn aside but we rode relentlessly on, across the creek, up the bank, and through the trees. Once we left the protection of the woods, the arrows flew, and Ifan shouted that we must turn back.

“Myrddin! No!” As I charged the Saxon line, a woman screamed. The screaming grew louder, but I ignored it, instead spurring my horse forward, my heart racing. “Myrddin!”

Nell sat up with a start and her breath came in gasps. She could still see the dream hanging before her eyes like a veil, even as Myrddin sprang from his pallet and moved towards her through the lingering image.

“What is it?”

“Just a dream.” Nell put a hand to her chest in hopes that it would ease her racing heart.

“Of St. Asaph?” Myrddin crouched before her.

Nell took in a breath and let it out. “No.” She lifted a hand to him, and he took it, warming it in his two larger ones. “Not that. It was one I often have. It’s nothing.”

“Is it?” Myrddin said.

Nell froze, hearing the change of tone in his voice, and looked into his face. She’d asked that he leave a candle burning in its dish and it still guttered, within moments of going out but still giving off enough light to show his expression. “Yes. Why?”

“You called my name,” he said. “Or rather, cried it.”

“Oh.”

“I’m curious that if it was a dream you’ve often had, that you would have dreamt of me before you met me.”

Nell twitched her shoulders. For so many years she’d longed to tell someone of the dream, but now that it came to it, she couldn’t. He would think her—no, know her—crazed. She gazed into Myrddin’s face, warring with herself, unable to answer. “It—” She stopped. “I didn’t—”

Myrddin sat back on his heels. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me now if you don’t want to.”

Nell didn’t know if that was really better or not. If not for the screaming, he probably would have thought she was dreaming of him in a romantic way but was too embarrassed to admit it. It irked her how wrong that was, but she had no way to fix it. Under his gaze, she forced herself to relax and lie down. But she didn’t turn her back to him as she had earlier. Instead, she studied him as he was studying her.

He’d made sure, once she’d found space for them in one of the small, closet-like sleeping rooms in the manor house, that this was truly what she wanted. The room had been empty as they’d entered. He’d closed the door to lean against it while she shifted one of the pallets so it no longer abutted any of the others.

“After this, there’s no going back, Nell,” he’d said.

Nell had laughed, the sound coming more harshly than she’d intended. “It isn’t very nun-like is it?” She arrested her movements to focus on him. “It’s better this way, Myrddin. I slept that first night amongst the other women, ten of us strewn across the floor. My dreaming woke them three times. They don’t want me there, and I don’t want to lie among them.”

“I’m not saying it’s uncommon,” Myrddin said. “It’s done all the time. Most of the men here haven’t married their women, but none of those women spent the last ten years in a convent. This is going to ruin your reputation.”

“Or yours?” She looked up at him, truly worried about the arrangement for the first time. “The king—”

“Cares not a whit,” he said. “His concern, like mine, would be for you.”

“This is my choice.”

“If you say so.” He’d gestured to a spot against the opposite wall from where she sat. “I gather my pallet is over there.”

“You gather correctly.” She shot him a grin. “If another woman catches your eye, just tell me, and I’ll make myself scarce.”

“Damn it, Nell.” He’d turned on her, his hands on his hips. “This isn’t funny.”

“Isn’t it? I have to look at it this way. Otherwise, the only other choice is despair.”

Now, Myrddin invoked that earlier conversation. “I know about despair, Nell.” He eased backwards onto his pallet. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but last night when you spoke to me of it, you weren’t speaking just about what happened at St. Asaph, or even Llanfaes, were you?”

“No,” Nell said. “Despair is a companion with whom I’m long acquainted.”

Myrddin matched her, lying on his side with the blankets pulled to his chin. “I have dreams too, Nell.”

Nell nodded, but she still wasn’t ready to reveal her true thoughts: Not like mine, you don’t.

* * * * *

Myrddin slept past the dawn and awoke, his brain churning, thinking about Nell, knowing that she’d dreamt of him even if she wouldn’t admit it. He hoped the dream was a good one, but he somehow doubted it.

Nell’s auburn hair cascaded off the edge of the pallet, having come loose from her braid in the restless night. She turned her head, met his eyes, looked away, and then looked back. “Thank you for understanding.”

Myrddin sat up. “I didn’t say I understood. I just decided not to press you right away. At some point soon, I’m going to ask you to tell me what is going on behind that sweet smile.”

“Oh, is that it?” she said, giving him the smile he wanted. “Well, not this moment anyway.” She got to her feet. “While you wait, you can help me dress.”

Myrddin took that for what it was—a chaste invitation. Well-bred women wore elaborate skirts that scraped the ground, got in the way, and forced women to walk in a mincing fashion. At Arthur’s insistence, Nell had given away both the homespun dress which the men had ripped at St. Asaph before Myrddin had rescued her and the coarse dress from Caerhun that blood-stains had irreparably damaged. In exchange, she now wore the fashionable gown of a lady, which was a bit harder to get into.

By the time they arrived in the great hall, it was full of people and rumors. A rider from Modred had arrived, and the inhabitants of Garth Celyn were abuzz with what the letter he carried contained. Myrddin pulled Nell to a seat near Ifan, who (after a knowing look that encompassed them both and what he assumed had gone on between them in the night) shrugged when Myrddin queried him.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Ifan said. “Lord Aelric carried a letter from King Arthur to Modred. I assume this is Modred’s response. It won’t change anything.”

“But with the battle at the Strait—” Nell said.

Myrddin shook his head. “Modred won’t even mention it. He believes he has the better of King Arthur. Such is his arrogance that he believes it is our king who is in rebellion and in danger of excommunication. By his lights, our only recourse is to beg for mercy.”

“Bollocks to that,” Ifan said.

Nell caught Myrddin’s eye. “What do you think Archbishop Dafydd has told him?”

“It’s what Modred has promised the Church, more like,” Ifan said, the same sour expression on his face.

Before they’d finished their breakfast, Gareth appeared at the end of the table. He leaned heavily on his hands, the weight of the world on his back, and looked directly at Myrddin. “The king wants you.”

Nell, who wasn’t invited, wrinkled her nose in annoyance. Myrddin shrugged back at her and got to his feet. He followed Gareth to the rear of the hall and down the corridor to Arthur’s receiving room near one of the towers. When they arrived, King Arthur, Geraint, and Bedwyr were already in the room, along with Lord Cai, whose face was a thundercloud.

Myrddin’s eyes narrowed to see him there. He hated the man—all the more after the exchange the day before. Nell, in her former life as a nun, would have told him that it was wrong to hate at all, but when speaking of Cai, anything less than hatred would have been doing him a disservice. The man begged for retribution, but to his regret, Myrddin would never be the one to give it.

Over the years, Cai had betrayed his brother in many ways and by diverse means, even to the point of conspiring with Modred to wage war against Arthur (twice), and an assassination attempt. Whenever Myrddin was in Cai’s presence, he avoided looking at him at all and worked very hard not to show his disdain. King Arthur’s face didn’t reveal what he thought of Cai either, but then, he’d spent a lifetime masking his feelings towards his brother. Most of the time, it was best not to think on it, especially since Cai stood beside Arthur once again.

Myrddin had arrived in the middle of a conversation between Cai and Arthur, and this time they were in agreement, even if both were angry. Arthur stood, his back to the other men in the room, staring out at the heavily falling rain which was making muddy puddles in the courtyard.

Cai, for his part, snorted his derision, disgust in every line of his body. “At least he offers you a plot of land in Mercia in exchange for Eryri. Modred’s letter to me states that ‘peace’ means I must take the cross, travel to the Holy Land, and never return to Wales. I’ll give him peace! He is a fool.”

Arthur turned to his brother, his expression mild. “If we deny his requests, he will see to it that the Archbishop excommunicates us. He states his intention boldly.”

“Archbishops have not always spoken for God to our kings.” Cai spat out his response. “If we are excommunicate for protecting our country and our people, then so be it.”

The stance was a brave one and, for the first time in his life, Myrddin found himself agreeing with Cai. He had more fire behind his words since he’d started this war. It almost made Myrddin think that he had concern for something or someone besides himself.

“And these messengers bother me,” King Arthur said. “They bear a white flag of truce, but they wear Agravaine’s colors, not Modred’s.”

At the mention of Agravaine, every man in the room hissed under his breath. Everywhere Arthur had turned of late, there Agravaine had been. He was the key coordinator of military activity in Wales for Modred. He’d gained this position over the heads of all the other barons who supported him, including Lord Edgar of Powys and Lord Cedric of Brecon, Modred’s cousins.

“These riders will do what they can to spy on us,” Bedwyr said. “We don’t want them running around Eryri unobserved.”

“That’s what I need you for, Myrddin.” King Arthur had finally noted him in his corner. “Follow them as far as the Conwy River and then return to me this evening. Take Ifan. When I’m ready, you will then carry my answer to Modred.”

“Yes, my lord,” Myrddin said.

“Take Deiniol with you as well.” Cai halted Myrddin’s progress towards the door. “He’s your brother, I believe.”

His stomach roiling, Myrddin inwardly corrected him: foster brother. “Yes, my lord,” he said instead, and turned away.

Did he know how much Myrddin hated him? He being Cai, and him being Deiniol, who knew damn well that Myrddin despised him down to his ugly boots.

“What’s wrong?” Nell caught Myrddin as he walked stiff-legged across the hall, heading towards the front doors, which opened, exposing the hall to the elements as another soldier left the room.

It was cold, even for November. A dozen men were preparing to ride their horses on similar missions—to other lords and barons whose estates were within a few days’ ride of Garth Celyn. Modred had sent a letter to the Council of Wales as well as one each to Cai and Arthur. The Council, made up of the highest ranking barons and lords in Wales, needed to see it, discuss it, and respond, just as Arthur and Cai did. Raindrops reflected off the links of the men’s mail, which were just visible beneath the thick wool of their cloaks. Myrddin didn’t envy them even as he acknowledged that he would soon be one of them.

“I am sent to follow the Saxon riders who brought the messages to the king,” Myrddin said. “To make sure they return to their side of the Conwy.”

“And that makes you angry?”

Myrddin halted and turned to her, forcing down the anger and the memories that had formed a film over his eyes.

The rain drips down my neck into the collar of my linen shirt. Ripped and torn after my struggles in the woods over the last hour, it provides little protection anyway. If I ever reach the safety of the castle, I will leave it in the rag pile on my way in.

I shiver. “Come on, Myrddin, you spineless bastard. Move!”

But I cannot. I bend aside a branch of the bush in which I’m cowering and peer through the murk, looking for my pursuer. I see nothing but the rain and the muddy track separating me from the gatehouse of the castle.

Bracing myself, I leave the safety of my bush. In ten quick steps, I’m through the gatehouse and across the bailey at a run, heading for the stables. I reach it and then press my back against the wall beside the open doorway. I listen for movement, to calm myself and become one with my surrounding as I’ve been taught, but my beating heart and the pounding rain overwhelm my senses.

At last, I risk entry. I slip through the doorway and head for the shadow of the horse stalls. A horse whickers a gentle greeting, and I touch his nose to quiet him. From the door at the far end of the stables, it’s a dozen yards to a side door of the keep. Once there, I’ll be safe. For now. I reach the last stall and quicken my pace, sensing freedom. Instead, the door swings open and I’m face to face with Deiniol.

He grins.

I back away.

A single lantern lights the expansive space between the doorway and the horses. The light glints off a knife Deiniol holds. As I watch, he shifts it from one hand to the other. Deiniol is a seasoned fighter, full grown and strong. Even though I’m already sixteen, I’m still a scrawny half-child, speaking in a voice that breaks instead of the low voice of a man.

Deiniol has always been bigger than I, possessing a cruel streak I’d discovered before I could talk. There are more ways to hurt than through physical pain and Deiniol has tried them all on me at one time or another. He’s hounded me all afternoon, and it’s as if this moment is the culmination of a lifetime of animosity. I’ll have one chance to escape him, if I have any chance at all.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Deiniol moves forward, and I spring to my right, only to find myself caught between two large hands that grip my arms and twist them behind my back. A booted foot comes around my legs and pinions them. I twist and jerk my body, but cannot break free.

“Aeden,” I spit out, recognizing this new foe as Deiniol’s cousin on his mother’s side. “Why do you help him?”

Aeden laughs. “Drop the weapon, Deiniol. I’ll hold the rat while you hit him.”

Deiniol’s eyes glint alarmingly. They’re almost more frightening than the knife he carries. Deiniol takes a step forward, knife outstretched. Then he tosses it aside into one of the stalls.

I smirk.

Instantly, I know I’ve made a mistake and try to tame my expression, but it’s too late.

Deiniol’s face twists in hatred. He rushes forward and drives his shoulder into me. Aeden has already backed away and Deiniol and I go down: me underneath and Deiniol straddling my abdomen. I rock my hips trying to throw him off and then scrabble my hands on either side for a fistful of hay to throw into his face, but the stable floor is unaccountably clean and smooth.

I can feel the restlessness in the horses, as they, in turn, sense my distress. They cannot help me, however, and Deiniol ignores both them and my struggles. He grasps my wrists so tightly my hands go numb and pulls them above my head.

We glare at each other. There’s blood on my lip where I bit it, and my belly aches from Deiniol’s pummels. Still, I don’t look away and, at long last, Deiniol sees something in me that gives him pause. His eyes narrow, and we still.

I can’t breathe. Suddenly, Deiniol tips back his head and screams his frustration to the sky. Only then does help come, in the form of Deiniol’s mother.

“Boys!” she says, insulting all three of us without thought. “We leave for Mercia tomorrow, and yet all you can think to do is scuffle in the dust!”

“So it’s true,” Aeden says. “Cai has defected to Modred.”

“And we with him,” my foster mother says.

Deiniol rolls off me.

I get to my feet and meet his gaze.

“I will remember this, mochyn,” he says. It is the word for ‘pig’, but means bastard. “This is only the beginning.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His mother brushes straw from Deiniol’s shoulders. “Myrddin, I expected better of you.”

Her casual unfairness leaves me speechless and unable to defend myself. Deiniol smirks at me from behind his mother’s back. He tips his head to Aeden and prances after his mother, leaving me alone in the stables.

What Deiniol doesn’t realize is that this time, the lesson I’ve learned is the opposite of the one he intended. When we meet next, four years later, Arthur is in the ascendancy, and it is Deiniol, not me, who stands downcast on the losing side.

“I find that I must travel to Caerhun in the company of my foster father’s son. I spoke to you of him yesterday.”

Nell’s look was sympathetic. “I wish I could come with you instead. I’m useless here.”

“That isn’t true.” Myrddin reached out and smoothed the hair near her forehead. “Besides. It’s impossible. You know that.”

“This is all new to me,” she said. “I’m at loose ends.”

“There’s an herb garden behind the kitchen,” Myrddin said, “and a drying shed beyond. Perhaps you can be of some assistance there.”

“Don’t—” Nell broke off and swallowed the rest of her sentence. Myrddin watched her carefully as she looked away, took a deep breath, and turned back to him. “I’ve already found it. You’re right. They have need of me here.”

Unsure what her cut-short comment would have been but glad that Nell would make an attempt to be content, at least for today, Myrddin inspected the mustering men in the courtyard. The clouds hung low, and the rain fell so hard it was like they were standing in a waterfall.

He sighed and set out into it. It would be a hideously cold ride to Caerhun.

“You,” Deiniol said, as his initial greeting.

They stood beneath the gatehouse archway while a stable boy used a cloth to dry Myrddin’s saddle. Deiniol had already mounted and wore his hood pulled tight around his head to counter the rain. Regardless, even wearing wool cloaks, it wouldn’t take long for rain this heavy to soak everyone through.

“Deiniol,” Myrddin said.

“I see you haven’t changed,” he said. “Still a sniveling child with a snotty nose and a craven look about you.”

“Sweet Mary.” Having pulled up her hood and come to see what kind of man Myrddin despised, Nell spoke sincerely.

“Is that your woman?” Deiniol lifted his chin and pointed it at Nell. “I heard men speak of her in the hall.”

Myrddin had an overwhelming urge to drive his fist into Deiniol’s face. Nell, perhaps sensing this, moved closer.

“I hear she used to be a nun,” Deiniol continued. “You’ll have a cold bed to come home to, won’t you?”

Now, Nell caught Myrddin’s elbow and held on. “I’m a grown woman. I’ve heard worse, and experienced worse, as you well know. Don’t get in trouble on my behalf.”

Ifan muttered under his breath, turning towards Myrddin and pretending to inspect the length of his stirrups. “Does he rehearse these insults? A man could take lessons from him.”

“It’s been many years since I was forced into his company,” Myrddin said.

“No doubt this was far too soon for a reunion,” Ifan said.

“Twenty miles we have to go today,” Myrddin said, “and each one will seem like an eternity.”

“He hates you,” Nell said.

Myrddin looked into her concerned face as her eyes flicked from Deiniol to him. Fortunately, Deiniol had turned his horse’s head and urged him out from under the gatehouse into the rain. Myrddin had a vision of the tower coming loose and crushing him as he rode beneath it.

“He does,” Myrddin said. “I have never known why.”

“Some men don’t need a reason.” Ifan straightened his saddle bags. “Did you say that he’s your brother?”

“Foster brother. Don’t remind me,” Myrddin said.

“No wonder you rabbited about so much all those years ago, jumping at every shadow.” Two years older than Myrddin, Ifan had been a squire in Lord Bedwyr’s retinue when Myrddin had come to Garth Celyn. “I gather it was he who gave you those bruises that were just fading when you came to the king?”

“You never said anything about them. I hoped nobody had noticed. It wouldn’t do for a future knight to reveal so clearly how unable he was to defend himself.”

Ifan shrugged, embarrassed perhaps to have brought them up. “You survived, didn’t you? Sometimes a man wears bruises because he’s the last one standing.”

That made Myrddin smile. It was odd to think that he’d spent nearly twenty years in Ifan’s company and this was the first Ifan had mentioned the day he’d arrived. It had been a cold day in March, with snow in the mountains. Myrddin had come down the road to Garth Celyn all on his own, with little more than a broken down horse he’d taken from Madoc’s stables and his sword, a not-insignificant inheritance from his mother.

The news of Cai’s stunning defection had just hit, and Garth Celyn had been in upheaval. Arthur had barely glanced at Myrddin, just informed his captain to find him a place to sleep in the barracks, a better horse, and decent armor if he was to be of any use to him at all. King Arthur had needed men, and Myrddin had found being treated like a man to his liking.

“By the balls of St. Mari!” Deiniol swore as the rain turned to sleet, and then the first flakes of snow began to coat his shoulders.

Even Ifan blinked twice at that bit of blasphemy and reluctantly mounted his horse. “Would King Arthur be upset if I killed him? We could run him through and throw him into a chasm. No one would be the wiser.”

“We’ll do it on the way back if we’re truly desperate,” Myrddin said.

“I’ll watch his back, miss.” Ifan nodded at Nell, and then turned his horse’s head towards the sea to follow Deiniol.

Myrddin lifted Nell’s hand from his coat. “I’m five years younger than Deiniol, and the last time we spent any time in each other’s company was the evening I ran away. He wanted to kill me. It was only the sudden arrival of his mother that stopped him.”

“At least Ifan is with you,” she said.

Myrddin laughed. “An hour ago, I would have thought he would act as a barrier to me killing Deiniol. But now I’m pretty sure I’ll have to get in line.”

Nell wrinkled her nose at him. If they hadn’t had that conversation the day before about him sleeping across the room from her, Myrddin would have called it coquettish. “You be careful.”

“Let’s go, mochyn!” Deiniol had stopped some forty feet away to wait for Ifan to catch up, and they both twisted in their seats to look for Myrddin. “The Saxons ride away.”

Because it was urgent and he was right, Myrddin did as he was asked, telling himself that he was doing the king’s will. Myrddin gave a final nod to Nell and then spurred Cadfarch. The three men rode out of Garth Celyn, heading towards the southern pass.