Excalibur Rising--Book Four, page 8
part #4 of Four Series
Mordred ran his hand through his hair. He knew that explanations would soon be required.
“How is it moving?” Brabin asked. “It has no mast, no sails, no oars, how does it move? Where has it come from? How can such a thing exist in Albion?”
Mordred turned his back on the ship and looked down at the deserted courtyard. “How indeed?”
Brabin crossed himself and even Mordred’s hand sketched a faint salute to the Carpenter god.
Mordred’s mind was racing as he went back down the steps and into the guard room where a fire blazed in the hearth.
“Out.”
The men who had been lounging by the fire rose to their feet in bleary eyed confusion.
“You call yourselves guards? What do you expect to guard in here by the fire? Get out.”
The sergeant bullied his men into a reasonably straight line. “Where should we go, Sire?”
Mordred waved a dismissive hand. “Go to the battlements. It’s cold as a witch’s teat out there. That should keep you awake.”
The men shuffled towards the door, reluctance in every step. He knew what they were thinking. Why guard the battlements? What danger could come from the sea?
“Wait.” He couldn’t let them see it; not yet. For the time being he would have to keep them looking at the landward side of the castle.
The sergeant crashed to attention, thumping his pike on the stone floor. “Sire?”
“Double the guard at the outer bailey, and send someone to find Roland of Thornfield. I will be in my bedchamber.”
He wrapped his borrowed cloak around him and took a seat on the fender before the fire. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee, but coffee trees did not grow on Albion’s chilly mountain sides.
He had to think. He had to sort through his confusion. Was it possible that everything he knew about Albion was wrong? He scratched his beard stubble. Could he really have been mistaken or misled for all these years?
He stared into the fire. He was an educated man. He had spent much of his life beyond the portal. He had attended the best schools in England. He could read and write in English, he maintained a bank account with Lloyds of London, he could drive a car, use a smart phone, operate a computer. Of course, all of these skills were useless in Albion, and he doubted he would ever find a way back into England, but that was not the point. He was not an ignorant peasant, or so he thought, and yet he had apparently been as blind and stupid as the lowest swineherd. He had fallen for the magic of Avilion; it was the only explanation.
They had wrapped Albion in mist and obliterated the memory of all other lands. He had been as gullible as anyone else. He had believed that Albion was alone; that Albion was all that existed. How long had this been going on? How many centuries had Albion been hidden?
A long time, he thought. The magic had existed long before the reign of Arthur. Nine hundred years had passed since Arthur had been wounded at the Battle of Carleon and in all that time, no one had ever suggested that another world existed beyond the mist.
He could hardly contain his whirling thoughts. His first reaction was anger. He was living the cold, hard life of a medieval monarch while somewhere else in the world steamships sailed the oceans. What else did these people have?
Anger gave way to elation. Something earth-shattering had happened. Something had ripped the fabric of Albion. The Great Magic had failed. The power of Avilion was no more. He sprang to his feet. There was one easy way to find out. He bounded up the stairs, eager to test his theory.
Roland Castilian of Thornfield
Roland, climbing the stair to the king’s bedchamber, stood to one side to allow a weeping girl to descend. He took note of her nakedness beneath the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and of her long blonde hair. Once again, King Mordred had found a girl with a passing resemblance to Meleanore of the Far Isles.
The king’s obsession with finding his missing bride had become a problem for those who would secure the new king’s reign. By now he should have found himself a queen. In five years she could have spawned a handful of children, preferably boys, and secured the succession. Instead of marrying the daughter of one of his nobles, the king spent his time deflowering and abusing any maiden who bore a passing resemblance to the woman who had stolen a boat and escaped from him.
Roland knew better than to make any mention of this to Mordred himself. He had no wish to remind Mordred that Meleanore had been his ward and that he was the one who had pledged her to marry the king.
He entered the royal bedchamber, expecting to find Mordred still wrapped in the warmth of his bedclothes, but the king was not in bed. The king was on his knees rummaging around in the painted chest that contained the artifacts that he had brought from beyond the portal.
“You sent for me, Sire?”
Mordred looked up. “What? Oh, yes, what took you so long?”
“I came as soon as you called.”
“Have you looked out across the ocean this morning?”
“No, Sire.”
Having retrieved a small object from the chest, Mordred sat back on his heels. “No fog this morning.”
Roland stared down at the king. How could there be a morning with no fog? Such a thing was not possible.
“You know what that means, don’t you?” Mordred said.
Roland’s mind was blank. In all the time he had been in Camelot, he had never seen a morning without fog. He had no idea what such a phenomenon would mean.
Mordred rose to his feet still holding the object he had retrieved from the chest. He dangled it in front of Roland’s face.
“Do you know what this is?”
Another question he could not answer.
“No, Sre.”
“It’s a timepiece; something from the other world. It should not be working, but it is.”
Roland examined the supposed timepiece and saw a leather strap attached to a silvery disc. The disc glowed with a faint blue light.
“It’s working.” The king was evidently delighted by his timepiece and its ability to glow.
“If you say so, Sire.”
“If I say so! Fool! Of course I say so.” Mordred ran his hand through his hair until it stood out in a halo of grey-brown curls. “I would give half my kingdom for Bors of Griffinwood.”
Finally a statement that Roland could understand. The king had scoured the countryside for any sign of his former companion, but he was not to be found.
“We are still searching, Sire.”
Mordred turned on him. “Bors would understand what this is.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Roland allowed a long silence to elapse before he spoke again.
“It is a fine timepiece, Sire.”
“It’s not only fine; it is also working. Do you understand? No, of course you don’t. This is technology from beyond the portal. It should not be working but it is. It all fits together. God in heaven, how could I have been such a fool?”
Roland felt that he should reassure the king that he was not a fool, but Mordred gave him no chance.
“We are not alone,” he declared.
Roland surveyed the chamber, expecting to find another girl somewhere.
“I think we are.”
“We are not alone in the world. Albion is not alone. There are other countries out there.”
The king’s words were beyond Roland’s comprehension. How could he say that Albion was not alone? Everyone knew that nothing existed beyond the eternal fog. Albion was all that existed this side of the portal, and the portal was closed forever. Thus, they were alone.
“This morning,” Mordred said,” I saw beyond the fog. I saw a ship.”
Roland decided to remain silent.
Mordred looked at him impatiently. “Go up and look for yourself if you don’t believe me. There is no fog, and I saw a ship on the horizon. Do you know what that means?”
Roland shook his head. He had no answer.
“It means that the Great Magic has failed. Albion is free of those bitches from Avilion.”
Roland struggled to keep up with the king’s leap of logic. “The Lake Maidens?”
“Yes, the Lake Maidens. They’ve finally done it. They’ve taken their blasted island back into the mist it came from and they’ve left us in peace. And that means that this will work.”
Once again, Mordred held up the glowing disc. “We are free to use everything I know, but we have to hurry, because if we are free, so are our enemies.”
Mordred threw an arm around Roland’s shoulders. “So, what we have to do is take advantage of technology that already exists. This morning I saw a steamship.”
Roland tried to speak but Mordred silenced him. “I know you have no idea what a steamship is, but you will soon. We have no harbors on this part of the coast. If we are to be visited by people from another land, they will come inland along the Arwen. We must assess their strength. We must decide what to do about them before our enemies decide for us.
“You have no enemies, Sire.”
“Of course I have enemies. Every king has enemies.”
“Nothing but rumors,” Roland insisted.
Mordred’s face was grim. “Rumors that Arthur named an heir.”
“He has not been found.”
“Not yet.”
Mordred, still with his arm around Roland’s shoulders, began to pace the room dragging Roland with him.
“If he was being protected by Avilion’s magic, his protection is gone and he will have to make himself known. We must find him before these newcomers find him. Send out messengers, bring in the levy of fighting men, and then you, yourself, go to the mouth of Arwen and bring me a report of any ships that you see. Report to me and no one else.”
Roland bowed and was turning to leave when his exit was interrupted by a thunderous knocking at the door followed by the appearance of Sir Brabin.
Brabin’s made a sketchy bow before he blurted out his news. ”Sire, we have reports of beacons.”
Mordred’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. ”Where?”
“They are burning in the north and the east. It can mean only one thing.”
Mordred nodded his head. “Arthur’s heir is calling his troops.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nobbly the Peddler
Nobbly set his pack down on the bench outside the roadside tavern and shouted through the open door for someone to bring him ale.
His pack was as heavy as always, but his pockets were even heavier. Despite the winter weather, he had come across a number of travelers on the road, all making their way south. As a man who had lived most of his life on the road, he had very little curiosity about the travelers he encountered but today’s travelers had piqued his interest. Last night he had watched the flaring of beacon fires to the north and east. Today the travelers came. The two things were not unrelated. They traveled in small groups with plain homespun cloaks to hide their identity but he knew what they were. They were fighting men, knights and squires and armed retainers and beneath their homespun cloaks they wore armor and bright surcoats and they were all far from home.
Although they attempted to shroud their identity it was revealed in so many ways; in the quality of their mounts, the proud set of their shoulders, and the grim determination on their faces. He read the other small clues that were available to him. The harness of a horse bearing the stamped impression of the double headed eagle of Agravaine; a glimpse of a saddle cloth embroidered with the lion’s heads of Dinidan. As each small group passed him on the road, he added to his store of knowledge. These were the ancient and loyal families of the Round Table. Arthur’s knights were on the move. For a bright coin he would point to the safest roads. “Camelot lies in that direction, but if you don’t wish to go there, you should take the road through the forest. The road to the east is rough but not well guarded, if you wish to go where none will see you. Of course I am just a peddler. I know nothing”
He watched them ride away and tried to forget what he had heard; to forget the name that had been whispered by one traveler to another; Dristan Ambrosius. He would not think of this. It would not do to know such a name; not when so many armed men were on the move.
He sat on the bench in the last of the evening light. There would be frost again tonight but he knew of a cottage and a woman abandoned by her husband. For the cost of a copper coin she would keep him warm until morning.
He jingled the change in his pockets. The coins were a mongrel assortment of copper and silver, the older ones bearing the face of King Arthur, and the newer ones with the face of King Mordred. Only once had he ever seen a coin with a woman’s head. The girl who gave it to him declared it to be the image of the ruler of the Far Isles. He regretted that he hadn’t tried harder to persuade that girl to leave her brother, if he really was her brother
He drank his ale and looked back down the road. Two more people approached, a man and a woman walking slowly, obviously weary. The woman was muffled in a brightly colored blanket. As she walked he caught glimpses of a blue dress swirling around her ankles. Surely it could not be the dress of a Lake Maiden. He had never seen a Lake Maiden simply walking along a road. The Maidens possessed magic. They had no need to walk, and this one was not merely walking, she was stumbling and holding onto the man.
The man wore a dark jacket of some kind of leather decorated with metal ornaments that glinted in the light of the setting sun. He was tall and walked with the confidence of a warrior but Nobbly could see no sign of a sword at his belt.
They came closer and he saw desperate weariness in their faces. How far had they walked? Where were they going? Mto kill this man and set Dristan on the throne but now he was not sure of his skill. Mordred was an accomplished ost importantly, did they want to make a trade? He liked the look of the man’s jacket and the woman’s blanket, and if she was indeed wearing a stolen Lake Maiden’s dress, he could offer her a good price for it.
He stepped out into the road. The travelers came to a weary halt and the man looked down at Nobbly.
“Are you buying?” he asked.
He was tall and lean with a dark beard flecked with grey and fierce dark eyes. His arm remained protectively around the woman whose lips were blue with cold.
Nobbly looked down at the woman’s feet, and saw that she had worn her soft slippers to rags. Once again he remembered the boy and girl on the road to Camelot and the sandals he had sold to the girl to replace her fine lady footwear. That was the day that the boy had given him the strange coin, and the girl had said it was a coin of the Far Isles.
Nobbly opened negotiations. “What are you selling?”
The woman removed the blanket from her shoulders. Beneath the blanket she wore some ragged peasant clothing, and beneath that a blue dress that he coveted and feared in equal amounts.
The women held the blanket out to him and Nobbly, who prided himself on his ability to drive a hard bargain, gave himself away by drawing in a sharp breath. This was not the work of a goodwife by her fireside; this was a work of magic.
“Avilion,” he said softly.
“A funeral pall,” the man replied, “for a Lake Maiden.”
The man’s speech had an unusual cadence. He was easy to understand but Nobbly thought that he was not a local man. He had learned his speech in some other place. The blanket dazzled him and he could not follow his thought to its logical conclusion. Albion was alone in the world, there was no other place.
“Where did you get that?” Nobbly asked.
“Why does it matter? Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”
Nobbly was awed by the possibilities. The woman wore the dress of a Lake Maiden and such dresses were said to contain magical properties. Obviously she was not a Lake Maiden; Lake Maidens did not walk the dusty roads of Albion. So, the strangers had the dress of a Maiden and the funeral pall of a Maiden. Had they robbed a grave? Did they know the secret burial place of the Lake Maidens?
The question came before he could stop himself. “How much do you want?” He had never asked such a question before. He had lost control of the negotiations before they had even begun.
The man named a price. Nobbly thought about the coins in his purse. He would have almost nothing left, but what choice did he have?
“Throw in that dress, and you have a deal.”
“No!”
The look on the woman’s face belied her weariness and Nobbly knew that the dress would never be his.
He turned his attention to the man’s jacket.
“I’ll take that jacket instead.”
The man and woman looked at each other for a long moment and then the man slipped his arms out of the coat and held it out. Nobbly had never seen such a garment. His fingers told him that it had been fashioned from cowhide, but that was the only thing he knew for certain. The tall stranger demonstrated the fastenings of the jacket; metal teeth that bit into each other creating a smooth metallic joint that could not be pulled open, and there was not just one of these fastenings but many. They closed the pockets and shaped the sleeves, they fastened the inner lining and the outer covering. The jacket was even more marvelous than the blue dress and the funeral pall. There was only one explanation; this garment had come from beyond the portal.
“Well?” The stranger loomed over him, waiting. “Do we have a deal?”
“We do.”
Nobbly handed over almost all of his money and he was left with just a few coins to pay for the hospitality he expected to find a few leagues down the road.
While the man counted the coins and Nobbly stuffed the blanket and jacket into his pack, the woman lingered in the doorway of the inn. She was obviously cold, tired and maybe hungry but Nobbly noticed the way her eyes, wide and violet, were fixed on the stranger. Nobbly was unfamiliar with violet eyes, but he was familiar with the promise these eyes held. This woman wanted more than a warm meal and some new shoes; she wanted to be taken to bed.
Nobbly thought warm thoughts of the woman who awaited him and gathered up his possessions. Tomorrow he would be back on the road, but tonight he would be in a warm bed with a willing woman. He looked back at the inn and saw the man and woman going in through the door. Rich or poor, nobleman or peasant, some things were universal.
