The Ravenmaster's Revenge- The Return of King Arthur

by Jacob Sannox

  ‘He will return when we have greatest need of him. His spirit is bound to these lands, and his body is preserved.’

  And they gasped as they saw that it was so. Arthur’s wounds healed, and he appeared to be sleeping.

  Merlin stood and addressed them.

  ‘He will have need of you again,’ he said, his voice grave. ‘Will you hold to your oaths and go with him into the long dark, awaiting the day when you are called back to serve him once more?’

  ‘I hold to my oath,’ said Tristan.

  ‘As do I,’ said Agravain, and one by one the others echoed the promise.

  ‘Then let it be so. We will bear him away to a place where he may rest, and you can lie beside him until the time comes.’

  Merlin pulled a pouch from within his robe and tossed it to Tristan.

  ‘A sprinkle into wine, and you will join him,’ said Merlin. The knight nodded that he understood.

  And so King Arthur, the man, passed away, and over time, the story of his life became embellished into legend, and history forgot him.

  Chapter Three

  October 2019

  Arthur cradled the steaming mug before him, and once more lifted it to sip. A brief, sharp pain on his lips and the tiniest drop of black coffee, tasting of cigarette ash, reached his tongue. He set the mug back down on the plastic table cover, leaning on his forearms and savouring the warmth through the wool of his fingerless gloves, and the urgent heat on his bare fingertips.

  He kept his eyes on the old man queuing at the counter. He’d barely changed at all since last they’d seen one another, a long, long time ago, his long grey beard, his whiter hair tied back into a pony tail, which hung down to his waist. The old man wore a faded shirt with yellow patches under the arms. Baggy, brown corduroy trousers hung low thanks to a broken leather belt, held together – just – by a safety pin. Arthur could see that the old man wore another pair of trousers underneath. His skin was dirty, and not a hard day’s work kind of grubbiness. This was the deeply ingrained unwashed sort, which blackened his pores. Two tables back, Arthur was too far away to smell the man, but the odour rising from his coat, thrown over the back of the chair opposite him, pockets bulging, was redolent of many unwashed weeks, if not months, of urine, body odour and alcohol. The old man was not out of place amongst the ragtag clientele of the café, and no one reacted to him, not so much as leaving him a little space in the queue.

  Arthur stood out in that place, surrounded by life’s waifs and strays, Seventies décor, the scent of eggs swimming in oil, and the sound of blown noses and coughing. His neatly trimmed beard, suit coat, starched shirt, polished shoes and composed, confident demeanour were incongruous.

  Finally, the large woman in the chequered blue tabard at the till took the old man’s order, screeched it back to the harried, skinny boy working the grill. The old man strolled back to the table with an ease belying his age. He dropped down opposite Arthur, who managed not to grimace as the stench redoubled.

  The old man sighed and sat back in his chair, smiling and rubbing his filthy hands together.

  ‘Just wait, Arthur, just wait,’ he said, his every word a promise, knowing eyebrow arched.

  ‘Good?’ said Arthur.

  ‘Doesn’t cover it, boy. Just wait,’ said the old man.

  And they did. Arthur’s coffee finally reached the ideal temperature, just a little too hot, and he kept the mug under his nose between sips. The coffee was bad, but its aroma was definitely preferable to the others nearby.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Arthur. ‘It’s been, what, seventy years?’

  ‘Seventy-four,’ said the old man. ‘And just anywhere you’d expect me to be. I spent as much time in London as I could bear, but I can do no good there. Look at me, Arthur. I’ve been ushered away from Westminster with a flea in my ear at least three times.’

  ‘They do say “dress for the job you want”,’ said Arthur, and his face betrayed a smile, but the old man frowned.

  They said nothing more until the food arrived, plates set down with a thump, chinking against the napkin-swaddled cutlery.

  Arthur winced as the old man made a pincer motion, snatched up a rasher of bacon between his filthy fingers and sandwiched it between two triangular pieces of toasted white bread. The old man was too fixated on his food to notice the younger man’s reaction, and Arthur watched him fondly, warmth kindling in his heart at seeing the old man once more.

  Arthur tucked in too, and by God, the old man was right. The two men made inroads across their plates with military efficiency, working in silence, consuming and savouring in a comfortable silence. Fork and knife clashed, bean juice dripped and was promptly swabbed up. Stab, cut, devour.

  The battle of breakfast drew to a close, and none remained standing on the field.

  The old man unfurled his napkin and dabbed around his moustache and chin, and Arthur did the same. He returned to his coffee and, satisfied, sat back with one elbow resting on the back of the chair beside him.

  ‘Your judgment is as honed as it ever was,’ Arthur conceded then raised his fist to his mouth to disguise a small burp.

  ‘You doubted it?’ snapped the old man. ‘I told you, boy. There was a time when you heeded my words.’

  ‘Frequently, but never consistently,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Impetuous fool,’ the old man grumbled.

  Arthur stood, picking up his cane, but the old man caught his wrist.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To relieve myself,’ said Arthur, ‘if you must know.’

  The old man nodded and released his grip.

  ‘I thought you were about to pay,’ he confessed, then, straightening up, he added without making eye contact, ‘And why not? Go ahead, boy.’

  Arthur declined to mention that he had made no such offer, but paid on the way back from the toilet nonetheless. And why not, he thought? He owed the old man enough.

  ‘I live nearby,’ said Arthur, returning to the table.

  ‘I am well aware, thank you,’ said the old man. ‘Lay on, Macduff.’

  Arthur called his driver while the old man was pulling on his coat.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said the old man. ‘You should be ashamed.’

  Arthur was prepared.

  ‘It’s electric. And you’d prefer we walk? It’s a good ten miles, home,’ said Arthur.

  The old man shrugged the coat over his shoulders.

  ‘Nearer eight, I think you’ll find. And yes, I’d walk rather than spout any more poison into the air.’

  And yet you arranged to meet here, thought Arthur, but he held his tongue.

  The sleek silver sedan pulled up at the kerbside, and Arthur ushered the old man out of the café ahead of him. Windswept leaves of gold and brown drifted all around, and Arthur felt their fallen brothers crunch beneath his feet as he crossed the pavement, limping and leaning on his cane.

  His driver, fully decked-out in a Savile Row suit and cap, opened the door and without acknowledging him, the old man disappeared into the rear seat.

  ‘Thank you, Gareth,’ said Arthur as he climbed in, too.

  The drive to Arthur’s home took no more than half an hour. To begin with, the old man stared out of the window and harrumphed whenever he saw something or someone that displeased him, but once they were clear of the traffic at the centre of town, the houses and shops gave way to hedgerows, hemming in fields, and bare hillsides in the middle distance. The old man fell silent, content to simply watch the world go by. Arthur eyed the old man up and down, reviewing the state of his clothing once more. He schemed.

  Before long the winding road passed through woodland and the car turned into a short drive barred by gates that prevented access to Arthur’s walled estate. They swung open, and the car passed through. Arthur heard the old man grumble something under his breath.

  ‘Thank you. I like it,’ said Arthur, and the old man harrumphed without turning to look.

  Gareth parked the car before t
he front door in the shade of an old oak that stood at the centre of the courtyard. The old man stood looking up at it, nodding, before he followed Arthur to the door, where they were met by a pair of suited men.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Morning, Tristan,’ Arthur replied. ‘Would you be so good as to ask the kitchen to send a pot of coffee to me in the drawing room?’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ replied Tristan, bowing his head.

  The other man closed the door behind them and, Arthur noted, he offered to take the old man’s wretched coat without hesitation. The old man shrugged him off, removed his coat and handed it to the suited man then looked him up and down.

  ‘What have you been reduced to?’ he snapped.

  ‘I am ever his humble servant, Merlin,’ replied the man through gritted teeth.

  ‘Servant is right,’ muttered the old man.

  ‘Percival, please run our guest a bath,’ said Arthur, causing the old man to turn and glare at him, but Arthur raised a hand.

  ‘No arguments,’ said Arthur, and, still grumbling, the old man allowed Percival to show him up the broad staircase before them, turning up the smaller set of steps to the left when they reached the top.

  When he was sure they were out of earshot, Arthur turned back to Tristan.

  ‘While he’s bathing, retrieve his clothes, get his sizes, and send Gareth out to replace them, will you?’

  Tristan grinned.

  ‘Something amusing?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘All the trials we have faced together, and yet you send me alone to complete the most perilous task, sir?’

  ‘We all must prove our worth,’ laughed Arthur. ‘I suggest holding your breath.’

  ‘Duly noted, sir. I’ll see to your coffee first, in case I meet my demise in the attempt.’

  Chapter Four

  19th of January 1486

  The Second Year of the Reign of King Henry VII of the House of Tudor

  ‘It is done,’ said Merlin to the boy as he opened his eyes. The boy yawned and stretched, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  The wizard knelt within the stone circle of Stonehenge, the boy sitting cross-legged before him.

  ‘Do you see?’ Merlin asked. The boy cocked his head to one side. The wizard sighed and, reaching out, rapped the boy’s forehead with his knuckles.

  ‘The marriage is complete, Branok. The wedding night has passed,’ Merlin snapped.

  ‘King Henry VII of the House of Lancaster has married Elizabeth of the House of York,’ Merlin prompted. ‘And what does this mean?’

  Branok rubbed at the sore spot on his forehead and chewed at his lower lip. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘The white rose and red rose are united, Merlin,’ said Branok, hesitantly. He drew back a little, as though expecting to be swiped, but Merlin nodded, smiling.

  ‘Good, good,’ said the wizard. ‘Indeed, the War of the Roses is over. And…?’

  Branok hesitated then ventured,

  ‘The war for the throne of England is over?’ asked Branok.

  ‘Quite right, boy,’ said Merlin, groaning as he clambered to his feet. ‘I have brought peace to the land.’

  ‘To England,’ said Branok. Merlin froze then turned to regard his young pupil, a mere boy. Branok twirled blades of grass around his fingers and pulled at them until they snapped. The wizard frowned.

  ‘What?’ said the wizard, quietly and cautiously, sensing something, he knew not what, from the child.

  Branok raised his eyes to look up at his mentor.

  ‘The land is not yet united. King Henry rules over England and Wales, but still a lion dwells in the north untamed,’ said Branok, and Merlin, seeing that the child was close to being in a trance, felt a cold shiver run up his spine. He stooped down and took the boy by the shoulders.

  ‘Branok,’ he said, shaking him slightly.

  The boy started, drawing in a breath, and grasped Merlin’s wrist.

  ‘Tell me about Arthur again,’ he said. ‘Tell me of the king who slumbers.’

  Merlin frowned and pulled Branok to his feet then brushed grass and dirt from his robes, buying himself time to think.

  ‘How did you know what Arthur would become? How did you know which parents to give him?’ Branok persisted, as though hungry.

  Merlin turned to walk from the circle, and Branok trotted to keep up with the old wizard’s pace.

  He said nothing as foreboding arose in him, bile swilling in his stomach, for the boy had touched on a hidden thought. They reached a copse, and only when Merlin had reached its centre and found a fallen tree to sit upon did they speak again.

  ‘Merlin!’ Branok insisted with impetuousness that Merlin did not recognise in the boy. It was as though this new thought had kindled a fire within him.

  ‘How could you know that King Uther would beget Arthur by the lady, Igraine?’

  ‘You speak of it,’ said Merlin slowly, ‘as though I had advance knowledge of the outcome,’ said Merlin, and as he finished speaking, he saw Branok’s face fall in realisation that his mentor was not as all-knowing as he had supposed. Perhaps, thought Merlin, because the boy sees more than I do, his abilities outstripping my own.

  ‘But you chose Uther and helped him trick Igraine into lying with him so that Arthur would be born, the king who would become legend and unite the land,’ Branok insisted, but Merlin shook his head.

  ‘No, boy, such a thing was beyond my ken,’ Merlin admitted. ‘Uther was the strongest and if the land was ever to unite, I believed he was the king to achieve it. Uther wanted Igraine, and it was against my better judgement that I used my arts to deceive her.’

  Branok leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

  Merlin watched the boy musing on his words.

  ‘Have I disappointed you, Branok?’ said Merlin after a while.

  The boy said nothing, just kept rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Branok,’ Merlin said again. ‘What have you seen?’

  At this the pupil took heed of his teacher and turned to him.

  ‘A possibility,’ said Branok.

  ‘For?’ asked Merlin.

  ‘To secure peace for the land. The marriage yesterday united the royal houses of England, and yet Scotland remains apart. I have seen my purpose, Merlin. One land. One bloodline,’ he said.

  ‘I see,’ said Merlin. ‘You would have us unite the thrones of England and Scotland.’

  Branok’s eyes began to glaze over, and when he spoke it was as though the voice of an older man emerged from between his lips.

  ‘The queen will give birth to two sons and two daughters,’ said Branok.

  He laughed and shook his head.

  ‘The first son will be called Arthur,’ he managed to say when the mirth had subsided, ‘and yet he will not live to become king.’

  Merlin gripped his staff so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

  ‘The second son will grow to be King Henry VIII, and though he will have many children, three of whom will take the throne after him, his line will fail.’

  Branok shuddered, and his eyes returned to normal.

  ‘But there is a way, Merlin.’

  ‘A way?’ asked the wizard as his suspicion grew.

  Branok said nothing.

  ‘You have been meddling with the dark arts,’ said Merlin. ‘Such foresight is not granted to practitioners of the true magick.’ The wizard got to his feet.

  ‘There is no such thing as the dark arts, Merlin,’ Branok implored, dropping to his feet and approaching his mentor, but Merlin shook his head.

  ‘You are deluded, or have been beguiled,’ he said. ‘and I will teach you no more, Branok.’

  The boy stopped, dropping his hands to his side.

  ‘Merlin,’ he said and the hurt in his voice pained the wizard.

  ‘No, Branok,’ the wizard shouted. ‘This is witchcraft, plain and simple, of the blackest kind. Who has taught you?’ He stormed forward, rea
ching to seize the boy, but as he did so, he felt as though his hand was pushing through gelatinous matter that irritated and burned. He drew back his hand.

  Whatever it was, it was not coming from the boy, Merlin knew.

  ‘The King’s Coven,’ Merlin whispered.

  ‘Merlin, don’t be angry. I’m sorry!’ said Branok. ‘Please, Merlin!’

  But Merlin could hear them now, whispering and swarming around him, his cloak hitching and twitching as their ethereal fingers groped at him. His skin rippled with gooseflesh.

  ‘Will you come away with me, if you are truly sorry?’ Merlin asked without moving his lips, speaking directly to Branok’s mind.

  The boy hesitated, looking up at the sky as though listening.

  ‘They showed me how to see, Merlin. I can heal the land and unite the thrones,’ Branok insisted, and Merlin saw the first tear fall.

  But the wizard shook his head.

  ‘My arts derive from the land and the will of the people, Branok. Such sorcery as theirs is an unnatural, grasping thing that seeks to hew and change the fates with the aid of things summoned. You are in danger, my boy. You should know that, if I have taught you anything at all. We can pursue your ideas, but not with their assistance,’ said Merlin.

  Branok stood looking at the wizard, clutching his arms about him as though against a cold wind that did not blow.

  Then he turned to run between the trees. Merlin watched him go.

  Merlin took to his wandering once more, abandoning his apprentice. The realm was at peace as much as it ever could be, to the wizard’s mind. In September of 1486, Merlin was lodging in the New Forest when he heard that the queen had given birth to a son, and that the young prince was named Arthur. The old wizard had set down his wine, feeling quite faint.

  So, he thought, the boy has true sight, and he mourned for the prince whom he knew now was doomed to die before ever he inherited the throne, at least if Branok’s vision was correct.