by Jacob Sannox
But Daisy did not pass unnoticed. Merlin watched her go from the shadows and set out after her. He followed her as she turned left and right, seemingly at random through the streets. Merlin rounded a corner and could see the girl no more, but arrived in time to watch a raven take flight from the ground ahead of him and power skyward. Merlin watched her go.
10.00am – Tuesday 30th of January 1649
The following morning, Branok joined the assembling crowd before the Banqueting House at the Palace of Whitehall. The scaffold was complete and the block in place on the sand-strewn boards. Hundreds of people crammed in as close as they could to witness the unthinkable, to see the death of a king. Branok moved as near as the soldiers would allow, but they maintained the cordon at such a distance that it would be impossible to hear anything from the scaffold. He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to shut out the many voices and the weight of sorrowful, excited expectation in the air. He reached out to his familiars, heart beating fast. The time had come.
Arthur, employed as a soldier, lifted the black cloak and draped it over Charles’s shoulders, feeling as much a traitor as a man can, escorting a fellow king to a premature death.
‘Thank you,’ said Charles.
‘Your Highness,’ said Arthur, stepping back and bowing his head.
They set out from St James’s Palace and walked through the park, the king, his attendant and a bishop surrounded on all sides by soldiers, namely Arthur, Percival, Tristan, Dagonet and Gawain whose upper left arm was tied round, as ever, with a green band.
Together they walked the route to the Palace of Whitehall, from where they would receive the final summons.
Arthur said nothing to his men, for they knew their duty. He strode ahead of the king, his eyes searching out hiding places and likely points for the ambush that he was certain Branok intended. Ravens cawed all around while they walked and then, suddenly…
They fell silent.
Arthur paused and readied himself, dropping a hand to the hilt of his sword.
And then he saw them. Six ravens coming in fast, bearing down on the party from the treetops. They made no call as they swooped.
Arthur removed his helm and held up his fist, calling a halt to the march.
‘Away,’ said Arthur under his breath, holding out his hand.
And that was all it took. The ravens recognised Charles’s escort and wheeled away, cawing once more and returning to the trees. Here, Arthur was sure they knew, was a battle that they could not win.
‘Why do we delay?’ asked the king.
‘A precaution, sire, but all is well,’ said Arthur.
‘Then lay on, Macduff,’ said the king, his voice weary.
Branok’s vision snapped back so that he once more saw the dull light behind his own closed eyelids. He breathed hard and looked about him.
If Arthur is here…
A hand took hold of his shoulder, and Branok staggered under its weight. He tried to turn but the force used against him was more than a hand could exert.
‘Be at peace, Branok,’ said Merlin, speaking into his ear so that the warlock could feel the old man’s breath on his ear and neck.
‘We must save him,’ said Branok, still unable to turn.
‘It is not a decision allotted to the likes of us, my friend,’ he said. ‘Arthur has decided to let this situation unfold naturally.’
‘The King will be dead by sunset!’ Branok objected and began to exert his own concentration. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned to face Merlin. He saw only pity in the old wizard’s face, and he understood.
‘Arthur sent you,’ said Branok.
Merlin nodded. ‘But I would have come unbidden, my friend. Nothing we can do here will benefit England or the Crown.’
‘We can keep the blood alive, Merlin. Help Charles escape again,’ Branok protested.
‘And he will be recaptured. The people must learn this lesson for themselves. And as for the blood,’ he took hold of Branok by both shoulders now, ‘the blood will go on. Arthur has sent Kay and Ector abroad to watch over the king’s children. They will return again one day, when the people will it.’
Branok said nothing. His spirit reached out for his familiars, but Merlin invaded his mind and suppressed his desire, broke his concentration.
‘I cannot allow it, Branok. These wars have spilled too much blood. They end today,’ Merlin said, and fury rose in Branok at how casually the words came, how untroubled Merlin seemed by Branok’s efforts to contest his will. The older man dominated him, and Branok thrashed, his powers confined within the limits of his skull. Merlin shook his head and closed his eyes. Branok felt the ravens responding to the lightest touch of Merlin’s will.
The familiars settled themselves atop the palace and cawed, watching the scene below.
Merlin turned Branok to face the scaffold once more.
‘We will watch fate take its course, and you will do nothing, then I will take you away from this place, and you can recover while the world moves on,’ said Merlin. ‘Nothing more can be done for Charles Stuart, by my hand or thine. He has sealed his own fate.’
Hours passed, and still the executioner could not be found. Knocking at his door went unheeded.
Desperate, discreet enquiries were made for volunteers and when they reached his ears, Arthur felt he owed his brother king the honour. He left his knights to guard the king’s chamber, still fearful of Branok’s meddling, taking only Tristan with him.
‘Are you sure, Arthur?’ said the knight. ‘This cannot be God’s will.’
‘None of this is God’s will, Brother,’ Arthur replied as he pulled the executioners mask over his head. He watched as, after a moment of hesitation, Tristan did the same.
They walked out into the din of the crowds, and Arthur led the way up the steps to the scaffold, axe in hand. He frowned when he saw that a raven strode back and forth atop it, but the bird made no move against him.
Finally the time came, and King Charles I of England, Scotland and Ireland, still cloaked, came to stand atop the scaffold where he would surely die.
Branok visualised powerful arms reaching into Merlin’s mind, tearing at the thoughts therein, beating at his will, but to no avail. He saw Charles appear before the crowd and called out to him, but his words were lost in the noise of the crowd. Someone raised his hand, and the crowd fell silent.
The king was speaking, but so far away Branok could not hear a word. He reached out to the raven to listen with its ears, and, perhaps in a moment of mercy, Merlin allowed it.
‘I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible Crown, where no disturbance can be,’ said King Charles.
And Branok never forgot it.
The king removed his cloak and handed it away. His hair tied up in a white nightcap, he lay upon the scaffold, his neck across the block.
Arthur breathed hard as the king looked up at him.
‘I will offer up a prayer and signal when ready,’ Charles said.
Arthur tried to reply but choked on the words. He nodded and Charles faced forward once more, his hands on the block.
Arthur watched and waited as the king prayed, wondering if he was ever to be the instrument of the people and whether he would always suffer for it. His own death as king was not enough it seemed, he must take the life of another.
He watched, and he saw King Charles stretch out his hand.
Arthur hefted the axe and beheaded him with one clean blow.
The crowd groaned as one. A man passed out and dropped back into Branok, but Merlin held him steady.
‘You see? England is still here, Branok,’ said the old man’s voice inside his mind. ‘Now come away with me, and you may rest awhile. You have laboured hard these years past.’
‘The words come easy for one whose boy still breathes,’ said Branok.
‘Is that so? And was Branok the Ravenmaster by my side on the field of Camlann when Arthur fell? Do you think the words came easy that day? You are young, Branok, at leas
t in the eyes of the world. You will see how things come around, in time,’ said Merlin.
Branok walked as though drugged, allowing himself to be steered through the dispersing crowd as the tears rolled down his cheeks, and the blood of King Charles I soaked into the sand on the scaffold.
Chapter Eleven
October 2019
Thick snow fell during the night. Arthur opened his bedroom curtains to survey his morning garden and looked out over an untouched canvas, save for the footprints of birds and squirrels. The trees beyond bore white coverings like ill-fitting tablecloths. Arthur lifted the sash window with some effort, sending a little avalanche over the brink. He ducked under the window and leaned out into the morning air, the dawn yet to break, and the amber glow of the estate lights illumining the snow drifts. Birds sang, but otherwise the world was silent, muffled by the broad white strokes of nature’s brush.
A sudden impulse struck Arthur that he should like to go riding, and he dressed in a hurry. He opened the door to the landing with a gentle, gradual turn to avoid waking the rest of the household. He eased himself out and closed the door behind him. Only then did he notice a steaming mug of coffee on the small table by his door, accompanied by a pile of folded newspapers, bound with string. Arthur was fond of cutting open the parcel himself with a small knife.
Percival, thought Arthur as he reached down and took up the coffee, smiling.
He crept down to the drawing-room where he found a fire already burning in the hearth. Arthur sat in his chair while he drank his coffee, surveying first of all Excalibur and then the other weapons that hung around the room; a selection of cavalry sabres from down the centuries and assorted small arms, ranging from a pair of flintlock pistols to a Colt revolver. The ticking of a grandfather clock and the crackle of the fire were the only sounds. A pleasant tickle ran up Arthur’s backbone as he basked in the warmth of the room.
He took his mug to the kitchen when he was done and pulled on a pair of boots before setting out across the virgin snow to the stables. He saddled his horse, Hunter, and led him towards the main gate. As he crossed the courtyard, the front door to the house swung open, and Percival stepped out onto the mat.
‘A fine morning, sir,’ he called.
Arthur told the knight he would not be long and thanked him for rising so early to meet his needs, that he appreciated it, as he had always done.
The last Arthur saw of him, Percival’s cheeks were blooming red.
The sun was not yet up before Arthur mounted and spurred Hunter into a walk. He rode out on the grass verge at the side of the main road and, having reached the appropriate place, he urged the horse to cross so that they could head up the main drag towards the monument, a tall stone column with stairs running up the interior to the platform at the top, peaked with a green bowl. For the thousandth time, Arthur wondered whether it was actually hollow and, if so, what was concealed inside.
The snow hid the path, but both Arthur and Hunter knew the National Trust estate well, and the horse’s hooves trod the bridleway without much guidance from his rider. Before long they were passing through a wide tunnel of trees, laden branches arching over them. Arthur took a deep breath of cold air and let his mind wander as the snow crunched beneath his mount, enjoying the mystic English autumn while he was at leisure to do so, for he knew there were dark days ahead.
A dog barked up ahead on the path, as yet unseen. Arthur looked for the animal, but the path bent round to the left and trees blocked his line of sight. Curious, and having no reason to do otherwise, Arthur rode on towards the sound.
Before he rounded the bend in the path, the dog, a Rottweiler, came round at a run. Hunter, no warhorse, whinnied and reared up. Arthur attempted to stay in the saddle, but his weak leg betrayed him. A moment of blind panic and he was slipping, falling and crashing down in the snow, coming to rest on his side.
A flash of pain in his bad leg caused Arthur to cry out. The Rottweiler padded over and sniffed at him, licking at his face.
‘Jesus!’ said a woman’s voice.
Arthur rolled on to his back and was confronted by a woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a yellow raincoat and green wellington boots. Under her woollen hat, her brown hair hung to her shoulders. She held a looped leather leash in her hand.
‘Stay still!’ she said, and Arthur found he was obeying her command, which made his grimace give way to a smile.
‘I’m intact,’ he said, sounding far from certain even to his own ears.
‘Stay still,’ she said, an expression of worried concentration on her face, her brow wrinkling into neat little furrows.
‘Where does it hurt?’
‘Left leg,’ said Arthur, ‘but that’s not unusual.’
She looked up to catch his eye, one eyebrow hitching in enquiry.
‘War wound,’ he said.
She nodded and said nothing as she knelt in the snow, commencing an examination of the leg.
Arthur, for the second time that morning, felt a curious tickling sensation run up his spine. He wondered whether she had taken the reference to his wound literally as he examined her face.
‘Nothing obvious,’ she said. ‘How does it feel now?’
‘It’s easing off,’ said Arthur. ‘Really, I’m intact, I assure you.’
Arthur moved as if to stand, and she extended her hand. He paused momentarily, as if this simple touch of his leather-gloved hands to her wool-gloved ones would hold some great significance, then he grasped her hand, and the woman heaved him to his feet.
Arthur brushed the snow from his clothes and stepped to Hunter’s side, rubbing the horse’s neck and taking the reins.
‘I’m ever so sorry,’ said the woman.
‘I’m grateful, lady, but there’s no need for apology. You could not have foreseen it any more than could I,’ said Arthur shaking his head. ‘Don’t think any more on it.’
She looked at him with a strange expression on her face. He thought she appeared bemused, and he was about to regain his saddle when a thought struck him.
‘I wasn’t expecting to find anyone else out before dawn, let alone a woman alone in the woods,’ he said.
‘Not alone,’ she said, tipping her head towards the Rottweiler. ‘Samson has my back.’
‘Has your back?’ asked Arthur.
‘He’s pretty off-putting to muggers and rapists. And horses apparently,’ she smiled.
‘You make a fair point,’ he said, then added, ‘Even so, it’s rather early.’
‘I work odd hours so I grab my chances while I can,’ she said.
‘Why odd hours?’ he asked.
‘I’m a doctor.’
‘A physician?’ asked Arthur, and she laughed.
‘I don’t get called that very often.’
Arthur felt his cheeks heating up despite the cold.
‘Right, if you’re sure you’re all in one piece, I’ve got to head off and get ready for work,’ said the woman.
Arthur nodded, finding it difficult to turn away from her. He found her eyes captivating. It was as though they were drawing him in. The woman whistled for Samson, who was sniffing around in the undergrowth, and the dog trotted over. The trance broken, Arthur climbed up into the saddle and made himself comfortable for his continuing ride. He squeezed his heels, and Hunter took a few steps forward until Arthur reined him in.
The woman raised a farewell hand.
‘Do call in to A&E if you find your leg’s not ok,’ she said in earnest.
‘I will, Doctor,’ said Arthur, sitting straight in the saddle.
‘Caitlyn,’ she said, smiling.
‘Arthur,’ he said. And then, as an afterthought, ‘Perhaps we will meet again.’
‘At odd hours in odd places,’ she smiled, waved once more and walked back down the path towards the monument, Samson running ahead of her.
Arthur watched her go, his breathing fast and shallow, any pain quite forgotten for the time being.
Well, he thought. Well, tha
t was unexpected.
‘Am I interrupting?’ said Merlin.
Arthur searched the treeline and saw the wizard in his long green coat, leaning against a makeshift staff, in the shade of an oak tree.
‘Meddlesome goat,’ said Arthur, and the wizard chuckled as he made his way through a patch of nettles to the main path.
‘Are you following me, Merlin?’ Arthur asked.
‘My boy, I live to follow you,’ was Merlin’s solemn reply. ‘Shall we walk?’
Arthur urged Hunter forward and Merlin accompanied him as they passed under the trees.
‘I don’t know where to start,’ Arthur confessed after a few minutes of silence. ‘How does one hunt down a warlock and his familiars?’
‘Warily,’ Merlin advised. ‘Branok may be far stronger now. He had many long years to rejuvenate. I think he will not be overpowered as easily as he once was. And yet he is still a man. Think not of it as a hunt, but as a war with very few troops. What do we know about the enemy, of his strengths and weaknesses?’
Arthur mused on this for a time.
‘Unless much has changed, he is but one man and with six supporters,’ said Arthur. ‘Six supporters who have no need of rest or sustenance, who feel no weariness and do not take sick. Skilled warriors and assassins, driven by his will and to no other end. They can disguise themselves as any living creature.’
Merlin nodded, whittling his staff with a small knife as he walked.
‘And how do you bring such creatures to battle?’
‘I do not know, Merlin. Speak plainly,’ said Arthur.
Merlin sighed and took hold of Hunter’s rein.
‘Nigh on two millennia and still barely a thought between your ears. Devoted troops driven on by a determined general. How to give yourself the advantage, I wonder?’ said Merlin, raising his eyebrows, his mouth hanging slightly open as though beginning to form the answer on his lips.