by Jacob Sannox
‘Defeat the general and the troops will scatter,’ said Arthur.
‘Or in this case, dissipate, their bonds to this world broken,’ said Merlin. ‘The dead may finally sleep.’
‘Branok does require shelter, rest and sustenance,’ said Arthur.
‘And he is a creature of habit,’ said Merlin. ‘A disciple of a craft akin to my own. If he dwells in a city or a town, it will not be his permanent lodgings, but if I know Branok, he will not wander as do I. He has not the care for the land, only its institutions. He will have a home, and we will seek him there.’
‘And what do you suppose he is planning?’ said Arthur. ‘If one wished to save the monarchy in a land filled with many who wish to bring it down, where would one begin?’
‘Two roads, he has before him, and both lead to loyalty,’ said Merlin. ‘He will persuade and coerce.’
‘He has neither the imagination nor the inclination to persuade,’ growled Arthur.
‘History would bear you out on that, boy, for sure,’ said Merlin. ‘He will strike fear in the heart of the people and make them run back to the monarchy as frightened children run to their mothers.’
‘But how?’ said Arthur, despairing. Merlin’s words made sense to him, and yet he felt no closer to an answer.
‘Plague, war, assassination,’ said Merlin, ‘just off the top of my head.’
‘Assassination,’ said Arthur. ‘Of whom? Those who drive the republican movement?’
‘Aye, perhaps, perhaps,’ said Merlin, ‘but we can be sure of one thing, any action taken will be so that the people are forced to turn to the Crown for leadership and hope. Think back on the last war, Arthur, of how the Royal family stayed in London during the Blitz, of how the king would fly to meet with his troops around Europe and North Africa. They were never so beloved even if they did not direct the war effort themselves.’
Arthur said nothing, brooding on Branok’s likely moves.
‘By your arts, can you aid me further, Merlin?’ he asked eventually.
The old man looked up at him, and Arthur saw the old twinkle in his eye.
‘I have some ideas, boy,’ said Merlin. ‘Did you doubt it?’
‘And I take it you won’t be sharing them?
The wizard smiled. Arthur sighed, and Merlin swatted his leg.
‘For now, boy, do as I do. Read the signs. Your own signs, in your own way,’ said Merlin.
Arthur nodded.
‘We will learn all we can before we quest after the Ravenmaster and his children,’ he concluded, thinking of the stack of newspapers outside his bedroom door.
‘Come, Merlin, let’s head for home.’
Arthur rode with Merlin walking beside him and listened amused to the wizard wittering on about the trees they passed.
The old man came to a dead stop suddenly, bowing his head.
‘Branok,’ he said. ‘He is near.’
Arthur hesitated momentarily, then realising the danger, he called out,
‘Merlin!’
Arthur extended his hand, and the wizard allowed himself to be hauled up behind him. He wrapped his arms around Arthur’s waist as Arthur spurred Hunter into a gallop.
‘It may not be as you fear,’ said Merlin quietly, the words resonating in Arthur’s mind. ‘He has never moved against you before.’
‘The sword that strikes also parries,’ Arthur shouted back over his shoulder. ‘We have forgotten that all good generals know the best defence is a good offence.’
Arthur rode hard despite the snow, but Hunter kept his footing. They charged onward, crossing the main road, now marred by tyre tracks, and Arthur reined up only when he reached the driveway to his home.
The great gates were broken.
Chapter Twelve
Friday 3rd of September 1658 – Palace of Whitehall
The Interregnum – England has no king. Oliver Cromwell rules as Lord Protector
England, Scotland and Ireland have been without a monarch since 1649, and Cromwell has ruled since 1653. It is a time of hard principles and puritanism, when Catholics and other religious folk practise their faith in secret if they have any desire to go without persecution. A time of secret conflagrations, hidden chapels and priest holes, many that would never be discovered even after the need for them had passed.
Branok’s lodgings within the Tower of London, provided by Charles I, were no longer available to him, and so he withdrew to his secret room within the Palace of Whitehall. He roamed the corridors, pale and gaunt, his hair unkempt and his long beard was grey. He walked unsteadily, drained and abused, exhausted from his constant efforts.
Safe within his chamber, he collapsed on his bed in the corner and rested for an hour, unable to sleep but lying with his eyes closed. He forced himself into a sitting position and ate the remainder of an earlier meal which still sat upon the table. His reserves bolstered as much as was possible without leaving the room again, Branok returned to work.
He mustered what remained of his energy, retrieved his besom from the corner of the room and began to sweep the floor in the centre of the room. The effort made his head swim, but he persisted until the area was devoid of dust and detritus.
He took a cedar flask and, pouring salt from within, he drew a circle with a nine-foot diameter, going over it twice until he was properly secured within it.
Using his old tinder box, Branok lit a blue candle.
‘West, for water, the passage to the Underworld,’ he intoned.
He lit a green candle, marking the north.
‘North, for the Earth, to which the dead return.’
Next, a yellow candle.
‘East, for the air, where the spirits reside.’
And finally, a red candle.
‘South, for the fires in which we burn.’
Branok moved to the centre of the circle and drew his athame, his ritual knife. He pointed the tip of the blade towards the salt just beyond the west candle, where he had begun pouring and, closing his eyes, he turned slowly. He traced the circle, visualising his life energy flowing out along his arm and discharging through the athame’s tip, forming a barrier between the world and the inside of the circle.
‘The circle is cast,’ said Branok, opening his eyes and sheathing the athame.
The room thrummed with power, or at least it felt as though it did to Branok, whose hands trembled and whose ears perceived a high-pitched whine emitting from some unknown source.
‘I ask for the strength to sustain myself,’ he said, as he collapsed to sitting. He crossed his legs and shifted the satchel that hung over his shoulder, the strap running across his chest.
Branok closed his eyes and waited, willing himself to reenergise, hopeful that the magick drawn in to the circle could provide.
His heart rate slowed, and his breathing came easier, and he knew he was ready to begin.
From within his robes he withdrew a lock of hair, tied with a piece of black ribbon. He held it up on his open palm and began his incantation, picturing the face of the man from whose head the hair had been carefully, delicately snipped some months before. Branok pictured Oliver Cromwell, the Lord Protector of England, the crags and features of his face, and while he did so, he spoke words of malady, pestilence and sickness. He called down death and sent it out into the world, but not very far.
The door to Branok’s chamber creaked open, and Joseph slipped inside, dressed in the attire of one of the serving staff within the palace. He paid little heed to Branok, who did not even acknowledge he had noticed the intrusion. Joseph moved to the table and drew out a quantity of herbs, dropped them into a small pouch and then, as quietly as he had entered, he departed, leaving Branok to his work.
Joseph took the most discreet path through the palace, passing silently down stairs until he neared the kitchens. In one of the lower corridors, he ducked into an alcove and stood to attention there as though he was a soldier lining the route to the throne room. Only a few minutes passed before he heard footstep
s coming from the direction of the kitchens. A cook stepped into view as though she was expecting somebody waiting within. Martha held out her hand and Joseph, expressionless, dropped the pouch of herbs into her palm. She nodded once and left without a word, returning to the kitchens.
Joseph returned to the less functional, but more decorative, corridors of the palace and went about his daily tasks.
Each of the ravens had its duty. Martha stirred the herbs into a pot of soup and, when it was done, she prepared a bowl to be taken to the Lord Protector in his sickbed. Faith swept into the room and took it away without a word, proceeding at haste through the palace towards Cromwell’s chamber. The guards opened the doors for her and once inside, the raven handed the tray upon which the bowl of soup was perched to the nursemaid sitting by the Lord Protector’s side. Daisy stirred the soup and when the old man’s head turned and his filmy eyes fell upon her, she sipped from one of the two spoons provided.
Cromwell lay on his back, his head propped up on a stack of pillows watching to see if his nursemaid would keel over from a dose of some poison, administered by some unknown assassin. Daisy did not die, and nodding his head, Cromwell allowed her to feed him.
He shivered, sweat dripping down his forehead as he slurped from the spoon. The soup escaped his maw and dribbled down his face. Cromwell swallowed, and for a time he felt well enough, but very soon he began to cough, his eyes widening and his brow furrowing as he frowned, his bowels beginning to cramp.
Daisy waited patiently, spoon poised, regarding Cromwell with dispassionate eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, she fed him as much of the poisoned soup as he would take, just as she had done over the course of weeks and months, even while Branok directed his malice against the Lord Protector, this man who had taken up the mantle of leadership for a country that had overthrown and beheaded its king.
On Friday 3rd of September 1658, Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland and Ireland succumbed to his illness.
In 1660, Parliament invited Charles, son of Charles I, to return home to England having decided to proclaim him king. Escorted by Nathaniel and Isaac, Charles returned from the Netherlands and was crowned as King Charles II.
And Branok, sick as he was, paid homage.
In 1661 the ravens found their permanent lodgings in proximity to the home of their master. They became the famed ravens of the Tower of London.
Charles kept close counsel with the Ravenmaster, knowing, as his grandfather had known, that he owed Branok for his very existence and yet choosing, unlike his grandfather, to offer him due reward. The warlock took up lodgings within the White Tower, quietly and unacknowledged publicly, and yet close enough to keep watch and give counsel. The bloodline was restored, and the king had returned once more.
All was well, but Branok sat in his chamber high in the White Tower and his mind festered, unable to break away from rumination on things past, of the little boy in stiff leather boots, trying to walk despite the frailty of his legs. He remembered taking Charles I in his arms when he was still a small boy, of their many walks, rides and lessons. He pushed aside the bitter memories of the distance that grew between them during Charles’s adolescence and the actions which led to the Civil War. Branok remembered the sight of the executioner’s axe hacking Charles’s head from his shoulders. He heard the groan of the crowd in every quiet moment, saw the blow every time he closed his eyes.
The people of London went about their business as the city sighed, and breathed, and grew. Branok looked out from the top of the White Tower and raged at the normality he saw all about him. They, like spoiled children, had their moment of rebellion, their time running the household and had failed. And now? The executed king’s son sat on the throne and the House of Stuart was restored, but at what price to the people of England, thought Branok. At what price? Scarce any at all.
The new king seemed unconcerned with vengeance, but Branok, having dwelled on sickness and death and vengeance for the many long years of the Interregnum, could think of nothing else. He tasked the ravens with cultivating networks of spies and informers, sending them forth under the cover of night. They were his connection to the outside world while he sequestered himself in the Tower, and considered how best he could strike out at the people of England.
He brooded on the slow worrying away of Cromwell’s health and spirit, the toll it had taken. Yet the more he considered it, the more convinced he became that he could do it again with the proper rest, and recuperation. If he hardened himself and drew all power to him. If he could muster all of his reserves and all of the aid that his arts could summon.
Chapter Thirteen
October 2019
Arthur dismounted and ran through the broken gates across the courtyard, limping as he went. The front door was open, and he charged inside, hands raised ready to shield himself or strike as need dictated.
He met no one in the lobby, but crashing and shouts came from upstairs. Arthur considered charging straight up there, but instead ran to the drawing-room. He found the door smashed from its hinges and lying between the armchairs by the fire.
It was as he feared. Excalibur was gone.
Cursing, Arthur snatched down a sabre and his Colt revolver, which he stuffed in his coat pocket, not worrying how easy it would be to draw.
He ran out of the room, unsheathing the sabre and hurling the scabbard to the floor as he burst up the stairs, ignoring the pain in his leg.
‘Arthur,’ he heard Merlin’s call as he reached the landing, but ignored the wizard and ran on to aid whoever was under attack.
Tristan’s body sailed from Arthur’s open bedroom door and smashed into the opposite wall. The knight crumpled, and got to one knee, but before he could regain his feet, Daisy’s foot crunched into his lower left ribs, delivered from a tremendous running kick as she followed him out of the room.
‘Stand down!’ roared Arthur, and Daisy’s head snapped round. She eyed him, and a smile crept across her lips. Daisy took a fistful of Tristan’s hair and raised her right fist, in which she held a dagger.
But Tristan struck out with his left arm, knocking her knife hand aside. He spun and thrust his right knee between her legs, knocking her off balance, and curled his right hand round her neck then followed the motion through to hurl her to the floor. She snarled as she slammed down hard.
Arthur ran forward, seeing that in taking the familiar down, Tristan had let her arm fly free. Arthur dived and, dropping the sabre, grabbed her wrist with both hands and bent it. Daisy cried out and dropped the knife.
To Arthur’s left, Gareth’s door flew open, and Joseph’s colossal frame filled the doorway, his white eyes like unblemished moons. He stopped, surprised by the scene before him, which gave Gareth time to jump on his back, wrapping his arms around the familiar’s throat. The bear of a man staggered back into the room and collapsed back on the knight.
Arthur seized Daisy’s fallen knife and jumped to his feet.
‘Where are the rest of us?’ he shouted. Tristan, still grappling with Daisy, trying to secure her legs, didn’t look up or answer.
‘Arthur!’ called Merlin again, and this time Arthur paid heed. He looked over the bannister and saw what he had missed before in his haste. Percival sat slumped behind the door in a pool of blood, his throat cut wide open, his dead eyes staring through the floor. Merlin stood over him, his back to the open front door.
Arthur took a step back.
‘No,’ he mouthed silently, gripping the knife ever tighter. He was mid-turn, ready to advance on Joseph and bury the dagger in the raven’s heart when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked back, but too late.
Martha stepped in through the open door, wielding Excalibur. She drew back the weapon, and by the time Arthur’s gaze had returned to her she had swung the blade for Merlin’s back.
The wizard sensed her and twisted away, but the blade hacked through his left arm like it was made of air.
The old ma
n screamed as he fell across Percival’s legs, the fallen knight’s blood soaking into his white hair. Arthur’s hands shook violently as he fumbled to switch the knife into his other hand.
He reached into his pocket, took hold of the Colt and hauled at it, but the barrel caught.
He wrenched at it and then, more deliberately, eased it free.
Arthur levelled the Colt and fired.
The revolver bucked in his hand as the boom filled the house. Arthur saw Martha reel backward as the bullet tore through her shoulder. She cried out as she was flung back out of the house into the snow. Arthur vaulted over the bannister and onto the stairs below. He ran down, but Kay appeared in the courtyard and snatched up Excalibur before Arthur reached the door.
‘Arthur! Thank God!’ he said as Arthur reached the ground floor. Martha lay on her back, clutching her shoulder, her body arching as she stared wide-eyed at the sky. Arthur thrust the revolver back in his pocket and cast the knife across the room.
‘The others?’ he called to Kay as he dropped to his knees at Merlin’s side. The wizard clutched the stump of his arm, his disbelief and shock all too apparent. The arm itself lay lifeless on the floor, but the stump was sealed as though seared by a great heat. Excalibur’s work sure enough.
‘Percival is dead. Bors and Dagonet set out after you. Gawain is by the stables. As for the others, I cannot say,’ Kay reported, breathing heavily. He stretched so that his back cracked, allowing the tip of Excalibur to cut into the blood-speckled snow. He stood over Martha, watching her writhe.
‘Merlin,’ said Arthur, for what else was there to say?
‘He’s still near,’ Merlin gasped over and over again. ‘Still…’