by Jacob Sannox
In March 1603, Branok received word that Queen Elizabeth had died, and at that moment, he knew that his plans had come to fruition and his predictions come to pass. Sure enough, James VI of Scotland was declared King of England and Ireland, and before long, the king came south, as Branok had known he would.
London – 4th of November 1605
The Loneliest Moment
In the undercroft below the House of Lords, a single figure waited silently in the gloom beside thirty-six barrels of gunpowder, disguised with firewood. In a cloak and hat, Guy Fawkes waited.
The months of planning, of brotherhood, of rallying cries and the secret confidence of men working together were over. Suddenly, and finally, it all came down to him, Fawkes thought, one man sitting beside not only enough ordnance to send King James VI & I to hell with all his lords, but a pile of evidence so large that should it fall on him, he would never lever it off.
The waiting was interminable, listening to the rats scurrying around his feet and water dripping from the vaulted ceilings. Minutes turned to hours while Fawkes waited, all the time battling with himself, fighting the urge to abandon this plan and escape while he still could. And yet in the light of day how would he justify his actions to his co-conspirators? He could not stand the shame.
Time passed. Fawkes set a trail of gunpowder from the barrels in the direction of his way of escape. He stood and began to leave then stopped short and cursed aloud. Fawkes returned to his seat, cold sweat beading his forehead. He pinched the bridge of his nose and said a silent prayer.
Shortly after midnight, Fawkes stepped out of the cellar to stretch his legs and there saw a band of men searching beneath the Houses of Parliament. Fawkes reached out with his left hand and seized the man closest to him and it looked as though the man would draw his knife, but instead he cried out, hurling Fawkes onto his face. The party set about searching him, and Fawkes knew that all was lost.
‘Sir,’ said Branok and the leader of the men turned to look at him. Branok held out a slow match that Fawkes had discarded before being taken, the instrument with which he was to have set the gunpowder alight. Branok handed it over and moved into the cellar. Sure enough, the intelligence his familiar had gathered was correct. Barrels of gunpowder.
Fawkes was dragged away, and once the body of men was clear of the tunnels, Branok took the earliest opportunity to break away from the group, and wandered to a place beside the river from where he could look upon the Houses of Parliament, thinking of disaster averted and the now estranged king whose life he had saved.
Branok sensed his familiar was near. He looked down and a saw a brown rat, sitting on its hindquarters looking up at him.
Branok stooped and lifted the creature. It crawled up his arm and came to rest upon his shoulder. Branok looked around to ensure he was alone and then spoke softly to it.
‘You have done well, and will be rightly rewarded, my child,’ he said. ‘but first we must seek out the conspirators. Come away with me to some quiet place, and you must tell me all that you have learnt.’
Slipping his familiar into his pocket, Branok walked towards his lodgings, casting his eyes up towards Parliament with a bitter feeling growing in his heart.
Branok returned to Sir Robert Carey’s estate after news of the foiled plot had been announced to the wider world.
He visited Carey’s wife, Elizabeth, and her young charge just as soon as he had relinquished his outer clothing.
Charles, Duke of York, but four years old, skirted the room using furniture for support, boots of Spanish leather supporting his weak ankles. Branok went to the boy and knelt beside him.
‘Charles,’ he whispered when first they had a moment alone together.
The boy who would be king looked into Branok’s eyes.
‘I have brought you a present,’ Branok said, and the prince’s eyes lit up as the warlock handed over a box secured with a ribbon.
Branok seated himself in a comfortable chair by an open fire and revelled in the boy’s pleasure as he revealed his treat.
Chapter Seven
The English Civil War: 1642
War between the forces of Parliament and Charles I.
Merlin sat upon a log, running his eyes over a patch of deadly nightshade while he waited, contemplating its uses and its perils. A stag wandered into the glade and it froze, staring straight at Merlin, but he gave it a little nod and the animal relaxed and went about its business without further concern.
Merlin leaned on his staff and closed his eyes, drifting off for a time. He woke suddenly and saw the stag bolting across the glade. It leapt into the air and disappeared between the trees just as a flock of birds took to the skies.
‘Subtle as ever,’ Merlin muttered and straightened up, stretching so that his back cracked. He stood and, closing his eyes again momentarily, reaching out, he turned to face the direction from which he knew the newcomer would emerge.
Sure enough, Branok stepped into the glade and looked around, as though expecting some kind of ambush.
The two practitioners watched each other carefully as Branok drew near. Then, as former pupil or as someone who just wanted something from him, Merlin could not yet decide which, he bowed low in a gesture of respect.
Merlin nodded to the other man, leaning on his staff, an eyebrow raised, waiting for the reason for this reacquaintance to become apparent, though he had suspicions.
‘You’re looking well,’ said Branok, shooting Merlin a nervous smile.
‘Shall we address the business at hand,’ said Merlin, frowning. ‘I’ve better things to do than pretend we like one another, child.’
Anger flashed across Branok’s face though Merlin’s smile was genuine.
‘Go ahead,’ said Merlin. ‘I’ll hear you out.’ The wizard sat back down on his log.
Branok came to stand before him and for a moment, their dynamic mimicked that of years before they had drifted apart.
‘Bring him back,’ said Branok. ‘The time has come, Merlin.’
‘Oh, indeed?’
‘I believe so,’ said Branok. ‘Do you not see what is going on in this country? King Charles has fled London and set up his court in Oxford. There is war between Parliament and the throne.’
‘I am well aware, thank you,’ Merlin snapped. ‘What do you take me for?’
Branok did not answer.
‘The people are divided. Brothers fight brothers. Fathers fight sons. Men die for vagaries of religious interpretation. Charles has made some unfortunate decisions,’ said Branok, ‘but…’
Merlin’s laugh interrupted him.
‘King Charles has signed his own death warrant, mark my words, boy,’ said Merlin.
Branok stalked towards him, but restrained his temper.
‘That is not a foregone conclusion. Bring Arthur back. I’ve read the legends. And you taught me how he could rally and inspire the people. He could quell this rebellion and return to slumber,’ said Branok.
Merlin brooded on Branok’s words, and could not deny that something stirred within him at the thought of seeing Arthur again.
He sighed and tapped the far end of the log with his staff. Branok took the hint and came to sit beside him.
‘Are you still practising the forbidden arts?’ asked Merlin.
‘Hardly forbidden. You simply disapprove, and in truth, Merlin, you are not above using them yourself!’
‘Only in great need, and out of desperate love, and I will only do so once more,’ said Merlin, conceding the point, but feeling the need to qualify it.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Branok.
Merlin studied the deadly nightshade and clicked his tongue against his teeth.
‘The world is a very different place. A millennium has passed since Arthur walked in the world. It was a time when one man could lead an army to change the country; a time when a strong leader might make a difference. In this era of courts and parliaments, of intrigue and rebellion, I am not sure what role Arthur would play.�
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Merlin smiled wistfully to himself.
‘I acted in haste at Camlann and have burdened us all with a great weight of expectation. He must come again, and perhaps it should be now, before the world grows any more alien, lest he cannot cope at all.’
He looked across at Branok.
‘I can offer you no assurance that he will assist the House of Stuart, or even if he can assist,’ said Merlin. ‘Arthur is no mere puppet to be controlled through sorcery.’
‘Influenced, maybe,’ he said under his breath, to himself.
‘If he will not assist the House of Stuart, I am sure he will not thwart us, he who was himself a king!’ said Branok.
‘Do you also remember, in your excitement, of how he came to fall through his own actions, by Mordred’s hand?’ asked Merlin. ‘Do not be hasty-minded, Branok.’
Branok said nothing, thinking only of Arthur’s ability as a war leader, of how he could take the mastery of Charles’s armies and lead them to victory.
Merlin sighed and stood.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let the prophecy work its power. Let us draw this matter of wizards and kings to a close, for good or ill. Follow.’
And together teacher and student made their way back to the place where they had last seen one another, over a century before.
They reached Stonehenge in the early hours of the morning, when the way was lit only by the light of the moon and stars. Both men sensed a tension in the air as they approached the great standing stones in their looming circle.
Merlin closed his eyes, reaching out to discern if there were any nearby, but, satisfied that there was no one, he opened them again and stood beside a stone. Branok drew in beside him, wringing his hands.
Merlin caught the fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. He turned on Branok, taking him by the shoulder and spoke stern words to him.
‘You are going to be disappointed, boy. Arthur is just a man, for the most part. Do not think we are summoning Thor or Mars. Put that notion out of your mind,’ said Merlin. Branok frowned and looked back to the circle.
Merlin reached out with his staff, and laying his other hand upon the stone beside him, he began to speak in that same ancient tongue he had used at Camlann, finishing the verse he had begun a millennium before.
Nothing happened.
Merlin leaned on his staff from the exertion, nearly in a swoon, and Branok steadied him.
‘What now?’ said Branok, and Merlin scoffed.
‘I forgot you would be unable to see,’ he remarked and waved his hand over Branok’s eyes. ‘There are two powers at work here; one to seal the entrance and another to disguise it.’
When the warlock looked back across the circle, he saw what looked like a single open grave in the very centre. Merlin led him towards it and, standing at one end, began to descend a steep set of stairs downwards. They ended abruptly and a corridor sloped even further down. There was no light at all to see by and yet Merlin walked on as confidently as if he was strolling in a field under the noon sun. Branok felt his way along the wall, trying to keep up, stumbling here and there. The passage began to spiral downwards.
Finally a faint light became visible up ahead, and Merlin strode towards it at a renewed pace.
He stepped into a cavernous hall with earth walls, around which stood crude statues of men who held ancient broadswords at their chests, tips pointed towards the ground. In the centre of the room stood an immense round table, which looked to be made of English oak.
Atop it lay Arthur and his knights, laid out on their backs a little distance apart with their feet at the table’s centre. They wore simple clothing, all save Arthur who also wore a silver circlet upon his brow and whose hands were clasping the hilt of Excalibur in the same manner as the statues around the room.
Branok stood beside Merlin and looked around in awe.
‘I knew, but I didn’t believe, I can see that now,’ said Branok in a hushed tone.
‘Welcome to an old man’s folly,’ said Merlin and then, louder, he spoke a single word in an ancient tongue. And Branok listened well.
The men on the table let out a collective gasp, causing Branok to jump. Arthur and his knights started where they lay, breathing fast. As they came to their senses, they sat up, looking around at one another.
Kay caught sight of Merlin.
‘How long has it been?’ he said.
‘A long time,’ said Merlin, and Branok noticed tears were streaming down the wizard’s cheeks. He advanced upon the table and clasped the hands of the knights as he passed them by as he made his way round to Arthur.
The former king sat with his knees up to his chest, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. He shuddered as Merlin and Branok, standing a little behind Merlin, stopped before him.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Arthur. ‘I slipped into dark water. I don’t know this place.’
‘It is well, for if you were aware of the passage of time here, I fear you would be quite mad,’ said Merlin. He stepped forward and took Arthur’s hand.
‘It has been a long, long time, my boy,’ he said and drew Arthur towards him. The younger man, puzzled, took the wizard to him in an embrace, his white hair pressed against Arthur’s chest.
‘Merlin?’
‘Do not ask me too many questions, boy. I haven’t the heart to answer them. You passed on, but you are back now. For now, that is all that matters,’ said Merlin, drawing back and smiling.
‘There is much work to be done,’ said Branok. ‘I need your sword.’
Arthur looked down at Excalibur.
‘He means in the abstract sense, boy,’ tutted Merlin. ‘Well, mostly. I see a millennium at rest has done nothing to consolidate your meagre wits.’
A ripple of quiet laughter around the table, and the knights gathered to Arthur, obviously overcome with relief at seeing him intact and breathing once more.
When he had greeted them all, embraced them all, he turned his attention to Branok.
‘I don’t remember you,’ he said.
‘I am Branok. I asked Merlin to bring you back now because England is in great need of the legendary King Arthur.’
‘Legendary?’ said Arthur.
‘Hmm,’ said Merlin.
Arthur’s stomach growled, and he looked around for water.
‘There will be time for business later, Branok. For now, let’s get you all above ground, fed and watered. We must find you attire and lodgings. Then we will talk,’ said Merlin.
‘There is much to discuss,’ said Branok.
Arthur looked into the man’s eyes, and he felt his spirits dampen.
Merlin waved a hand towards the passage to the surface.
‘Lay on, Macduff,’ he said.
‘What?’ asked Arthur.
Merlin sighed.
‘There is much I will need to teach you.’
Chapter Eight
The English Civil War: The Battle of Marston Moor – 1644
Branok awoke with a start, cold sweat soaking his hair. The battle had gone ill, the Royalist forces were defeated. And Boye? Prince Rupert had tied him up at camp before the battle, but Branok knew now that his familiar, now in the shape of a dog, was in danger itself. It had broken free. It had followed Rupert into the battle and now…
Branok watched Prince Rupert of the Rhine and his cavalry retreat through his familiar’s eyes, his fingernails cutting into the flesh of his palms until blood coursed between his fingers and dripped to the summer grass, his body shaking.
At least Rupert has survived, thought Branok. At least all is not lost.
He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind to his familiar, but Boye could not hear him, caught as he was in a frenzy of pain and terror.
Branok concentrated, and his knees buckled so that he sunk down upon them before collapsing on his side. He heard the thumping cannon and the screams with the dog’s ears now, though they were miles distant. He smelt the burnt gunpowder as the smoke drifted across t
he field.
Boye was surrounded, Branok saw, the white curls of his fur matted with blood from the multitude of wounds he had suffered whilst trying in vain to reach his master.
And for what? Prince Rupert did not need our protection today, it seems.
The Parliamentarian soldiers pricked Boye, slashed at him with their swords, laughing and howling with a ferocity that could only been driven by fear. They knew the white hunting poodle for what it was; he had after all accompanied Prince Rupert constantly through every battle of the conflict. They had heard the rumours that if a musket ball was about to hit the general, Boye could snatch it from the air with his mouth, that he could hunt out treasures, and they had heard of his fiendish capabilities, wrongly believing him to be Rupert’s familiar, some spirit or even the devil himself in animal form, summoned by the prince’s witchcraft. They had heard how Boye could not be killed. Branok saw the fear in their eyes, their wild faces and their desperate attacks. They did not seem to see the dog whimpering and snarling, weakening and failing, how he had ceased lunging and biting.
‘Kill it,’ screamed one man as he levelled his musket and pulled the trigger.
And then, like a candle extinguished by a winter gust, Boye was gone, and Branok was lying in far-off mud, weeping and alone on the hillside.
He lay there for what seemed like hours, disconnected and abandoned, until he heard the sound of hooves approaching up the slope from the battlefield.
‘Is he dead?’ said a voice.
‘Use your eyes, Percival,’ said another, and many others shared the speaker’s chuckle.
‘Hush,’ said another, more familiar voice.
Branok, bereft as he was, finally paid attention to the present and pushed aside his grief as he heard someone drop from their saddle into the mud just yards from where he lay.