Sean considered telling the Warden the whole story, unburdening himself of the truth, but he could not afford the time. Already the sky was black outside the cell.
“Can I see her? We were to be married next spring, and she is more settled when she is with me.”
The big Warden laughed, a deep booming thing that sent echoes round the cell.
“Settled? That would be as in ‘battered and rolled up in bedding and laid over the back of a pony’. Aye, that’ll be right. I can tell that you have concern for her, but I think I’ll keep you two apart until such time as I know what is going on.”
“Can a man and his wife not have a fight?” Sean said.
“Oh, I’ve seen many a lady after a man has put her in her place. But I don’t think you are that kind of fellow. No. You must stay here until I have the truth of it.”
Sean was about to remonstrate with the man when there was a commotion from the room beyond. A door banged loudly and a voice called for the Warden.
The big man looked at Sean.
“Not more of your doing, I hope?” But Sean shook his head
“How could it be? I’ve been out cold all day.”
“That you have, young sir, but you have the air of someone who carries trouble around with him. I will be watching you closely.”
He turned and left. Sean tested the strength of the iron bars, but there was no give in them. He hit the door hard in frustration.
There were raised voices in the room beyond. Sean couldn’t make out any words, but he could tell that the Warden was angry with someone, and he was a man that Sean would not like to see angered.
Heavy footsteps crossed the room beyond, and once more the massive figure of the Warden appeared in the doorway. His face was flushed, and there was a cold fire in his eyes that made Sean glad there was a locked iron door between them.
“It seems you were right. Your lady has gone wandering. What you didn’t tell me was that she is a murdering bitch. One of my men is dead, and the doctor here…” he said, motioning to a small man who came into view behind him. “He has almost had his eyes scratched out. And now I have to go out on a god forsaken night and find your lady, before she does any more damage.”
“She is not herself,” Sean said.
“I don’t much care,” the big man said. “She has left a widow and three fatherless children, and for that she will pay—whoever she may be.”
The Warden handed the keys for the cells to the doctor.
“In case she gets me too. We wouldn’t want our inmate to starve to death. Not before we hang him anyway.”
The big man stormed out of the room, and Sean felt the door slam as he left the building. He looked across the cell, seeing the doctor for the first time.
The man looked like he had been in a fight with a wildcat, and lost. Deep gouges ran the length of his face on both sides of his nose and, although they had been treated and cleaned, the runnels looked deep, red and very painful. He was a thin, almost frail man, with only a few stray strands of hair on his head and a small straggly beard right on the point of his chin. He looked like an ancient ram—the kind Sean had often put out of its misery when he was a herdsman. The doctor looked like he was in his own special kind of misery.
“Tell me what happened,” Sean asked, and the old man sighed loudly before answering.
“Let me get some of Thomas’s fine ale and a seat, and we’ll tell stories into the night,” he said. “I am likely to get little sleep this night anyway.” He shuffled off to the next room.
To Sean’s surprise, the old man returned with a pitcher and two mugs of ale, one of which he passed through the bars.
“Never drink alone. Rule one of living to a ripe old age,” the doctor said, and drained half the mug before putting it down.
Sean took a sip from his to buy him time to think. He had to get out of here and find Mary before the Warden did, otherwise they could both be dead by morning. But first he needed to hear what had happened to the doctor, and to the Warden’s man.
“That’s a feisty girl you’ve got there,” the doctor said, fingering his cuts and wincing at the pain his touch brought. “Although I fear she has marked me so that the ladies will not look me again.”
He said it with such sincerity that Sean was forced to laugh.
The old man feigned mock outrage.
“You don’t think I was a great ladies’ man in my day? I’ll have you know I had my pick of the young women around here—although to tell you the truth there wasn’t much choice.”
He took a silver flask from his coat and poured a liberal measure from it into his ale.
“Brandy. Purely medicinal,” the old man said and dropped a long slow wink.
Sean was getting impatient. “What happened? What did she do?”
And still the old man took his time, taking a long draw from his tankard before replying.
“They brought her to me this morning,” he said, wiping foam from his lips. “I thought she was dead at first, but she was breathing perfectly normally. I tried to use the salts on her, but she didn’t even blink. It was only when night fell that she turned into a hell cat.”
“Come on, man,” Sean said, almost shouting. “Tell me what happened.”
The doctor took another sip from his flagon, and Sean had to stop himself from screaming in frustration.
“I was in the other room, trying to find a potion that might revive the lady, when I heard a scream from next door. I thought it was coming from her at first, so high and shrill it was, but when I entered the room, I found it was the guard the Warden had placed there.”
The doctor stopped to drink more ale, finishing the mug and re-filling it to the brim from the pitcher.
“She had that guard by the balls, and she seemed intent on pulling his manhood out by the roots. He was squealing like a stuck pig, and the pair of them were staggering and falling about the room like alehouse drunkards. And then he tripped over a fallen chair, and she fell on him.”
“She had his throat torn open with her teeth before I could even step into the room. And when she stood and turned towards the door, there was blood, at her mouth, and all down the front of her clothing, and her eyes stared through me as if I wasn’t there.”
He raised his ale mug and drained it in one gulping motion. Sean would not like to get into a drinking competition with this one—he might be small but it looked like he had hollow legs.
“I tried to stop her. Not for long, though. You can see what size I am, and I’m not the man I once was. Once she had done this,” he said, motioning at the scars on his face, “I let her go, then I came here. The rest you know.”
“And did you tell the Warden which way she went?” Sean asked
“No. I could not. I did not see her leave—I was tending as well as I could to the poor fellow on the floor. But his wounds were too severe—he died in my arms.”
Sean had a chance. The Warden could not know that she always seemed to wander in the same direction, always north. He was about to ask another question when the doctor spoke again.
“Of course, she won’t get far. Not in her condition.”
Sean asked what he meant, and after the doctor told him, he was silent for a long time.
“You are sure?” he asked, and the old man nodded over the top of his beer.
“You look pale, boy,” the old man said. “Are you well?”
Given the opening, Sean didn’t need another chance. He pretended to be in pain from his wound. As he knew he would, the doctor opened the cell gate to come in and it was a simple matter to overpower him. The old man didn’t struggle. Once Sean took the keys off him he sat, quiet, on the bench. Sean left him the remainder of the ale, though. It seemed only fair.
He left the old man there, pouring the last draught from his silver flask into the beer, and headed for the guardroom beyond.
He was looking for a weapon, but he was to be disappointed. There was a thick ledger which had Sean listed as ‘nam
e and origin unknown’, and apart from the furniture, the only other thing in the room was a long woolen coat.
It was obvious when he tried it on that it belonged to the doctor—he could barely get his hands into the sleeves, never mind his arms.
doctor in Sheffield. He could get another musket, but he was loathed to part with the sword—it was the only thing he had ever had of his father’s, and he had resolved always to have it by him. But if it was a choice between that and Mary Campbell, there was only going to be one winner.
Ten minutes later, he was on the outskirts of the town headed north, his mind buzzing with the implication of what the doctor had told him.
He was no longer looking for just a girl. He was looking for a pregnant girl, pregnant with a child of the Others.
Chapter 6
2nd NOVEMBER, 1745 MILECASTLE
Martin dreamed.
The scenes came to him in strange tableaux, where he knew all the names, all their histories, the past that had led up to these moments. They flowed past him, and he was an observer only. Several times he cried out, in recognition, in fear, in horror, but there was no sound, and the tableaux spun on in a seemingly endless stream. The first then...
There is a man, but such a man as has never been seen before—the very air seems to quiver and tremble in his presence. He is thin, almost to the point of emaciation, but there is a life in his eyes, a life that burns with a red fury. It is a wonder he is not consumed from the inside, such is the fire. His skin is like fine white marble, with red throbbing veins running through it, and his hair is so fine it blows in the slightest movement of air.
He stands before a long table, at which twelve men are seated. They are all in light robes, and are heavily bearded. They sit huddled in groups of two or three together. Unlike the one standing, they have features beaten and wrinkled by the sun. There is something of the Levant in their features, and although Martin has rarely seen a person not born in the British Isles, he knows they are Jewish.
In contrast to the others, the one standing is clean shaven, his long hair framing his face, giving him an almost womanly aspect. Martin realises that he has seen these features before, in the Boy King in the ruins of Jedburgh Abbey. The resemblance is striking. While they are obviously not the same man, they could indeed pass for brothers.
But where the Boy King had power, this one obviously is the vessel for something even stronger. He stands with hands outstretched, palms upwards, as if entreating the others to join him. To Martin the scene seems strangely familiar, but the dream has hold of his memory and will not let him remember.
In front of the standing man sits a golden chalice. It is a huge bowl nearly a foot in diameter, cunningly wrought in fine gold. Strange glyphs run in patterns across its surface, glyphs that seem to form swirling patterns of movement as the man lifts it off the table.
“Drink this in remembrance of me,” the man says, and slits his wrist with a single slice of a razor sharp fingernail. There is the sudden smell of copper in the air and the man’s blood flows, red and hot, into the chalice.
The air in the room seems to hum, and the gold flares, bathing the occupants in a deep orange glow. The man’s eyes burn red as his followers make their covenant, each drinking in turn.
And after they have drank from the chalice, they each in turn approach the white one and bend their necks, allowing him to feed from them.
“This is your birthright,” he says, and Martin finally sees that which his mind has been blocking. A young girl lies sprawled naked on the floor, her body heavily pregnant, the belly bulging with life that sends ripples of movement across her skin. The pale man steps forward and lifts the girl onto the table, the motion seemingly causing him no effort despite his frailty.
“Eat this in remembrance of me,” he says. The twelve move forward to surround the girl, blocking her from Martin’s view.
And the feast begins.
Martin calls out in horror, unable to turn his eyes from the foul deeds being perpetrated on the innocent. A red mist fills his vision, like the fine spray of blood from a badly slaughtered boar.
And the scene shifts, to a wooded grove in moonlight. Silver leaves rustle in dry trees, and the ground is dusty underfoot.
The second then.
A woman speaks. She has once been slim, but now she is heavily pregnant, her belly swollen almost to the point of bursting. Martin realises with amazement that it is the same girl he has seen at the supper. She shows no visible signs of wounding, and she shows no signs of fear. They are standing alone under a full moon, her and the pale one, and they are embracing.
They move apart and stare down the hill at the city below. There is a small line of torches heading out from the city, coming towards them.
“The centurions come, my Lord, as you said they would, “the woman says.
The pale man speaks, and his voice is like fine silk being drawn over planed wood.
“Yes. It was foreseen. But worry not. What is to come has to happen.”
“What would you have me do?” the woman says.
“You need do nothing, say nothing. You carry the bloodline, and through you it will continue. If the final sacrifice is needed, then I am ready, but look for me in three days time—if all is well we will have begun the great work, and we will leave together. The blood of my fathers will spring forth anew in a new land, and one day the Romans will see the true strength of a king of the Jews.”
He embraces her tightly, his hand caressing the smooth bulge of her belly.
“You carry the future. Protect him for me.”
They embrace once more before he pushes the woman away.
“Now go, and send Judas to me.”
And Martin calls out, in anger at the blasphemy, but his voice is not heard.
Another figure enters the scene, one Martin has seen at the blasphemous feast.
“Judas,” the pale one says. “Are you ready to meet your destiny?”
“I am, my Lord,” the bearded man says, but he looks worried.
The pale one clasps the other and hugs him tight to him.
“Our people will revile you, but I will always honour your name. Do this for me and you will sit at my right hand in times to come.”
The bearded man nods, tears in his eyes, and moves away to meet the centurions who are just entering the clearing.
“That is him,” he says, pointing at the pale one. “There is the one who calls himself the Son of God and the descendant of the giant-killer.”
The centurions surround the pale one as the red mist descends once more. And through the mist, he hears the noise of stone being moved against stone, and the harsh panting of men exerting themselves.
The third then.
He is in the ruins of a once great building and Martin knows they are in a cave far underground.
Bearded men in white robes are digging among the fallen stones. At first Martin takes them for the twelve he has already seen, but these are not the tough weathered faces of hot climes; these are the white faces of Northerners.
They are digging by the light of huge lanterns set in the roof, the shifting of the air sending shadows swinging violently across the walls. The sides of the cave are rough stone in which are carved characters of great antiquity. And Martin knows that, although he doesn’t understand the meaning, his woodsman friend would recognise these characters immediately.
The robed men look to have been digging for some time, dirt and mud ingrained in their clothing, their hair and their nails, and they are near the edge of exhaustion. Mounds of broken stone and dirt are strewn around the cave, evidence of places where digging has already taken place.
The dream continues, and the men keep digging. And Martin is beginning to wonder why he is being shown this when one of them lets out a cry of triumph and turns to their leader, an object wrapped in a drape of red velvet held reverentially in his hands.
Their leader is a tall man, lean and imperial in bearing. His long beard hang
s low on his chest, his armour shining gold in the reflected light from the lanterns. Martin has seen this armoured man before, but the dream will not allow him to remember as the package is handed into the knight’s hands and he unwraps it. Martin knows before he sees the gleam of the gold that the chalice is inside.
The man’s eyes sparkle as he speaks.
“Baphomet told us true. Now the great work can begin anew and the Bloodline can be reclaimed.”
“Praise the King,” the diggers chant.
“His name will be exalted on high,” the knight says, and is the first to slit his wrist and let the blood pour into the chalice.
The red mist descends again. And the scene shifts, heat turning to cold, the cave roof turning to a black sky outside a circle of stones.
The fourth then, and the last before awakening.
The stones jut proudly against the sky. Their surfaces gleam silver in the streaming moonlight. In the midst of the stones there is a female figure on the altar, and Martin cries out in recognition as he sees Mary Campbell laid out there, the black hair hanging down across the stone and the blue eyes staring at the sky. Around the stones, just outside the perimeter, twelve figures stand, silent and unmoving, mere shadows in the greater darkness, only the red of their eyes betraying their presence.
She is naked, and atop her lies the Boy King, rutting like a dog in heat, his pale body looking grey and slug-like as he thrusts into the girl, again, and again while still she stares skywards.
The stars wheel overhead, spinning in their great dance, and still he ruts, as the moon rises over the tallest stone and the altar is bathed in white. The Boy King cries out, just once, and sends his seed into the body beneath before falling, struck prone over her still body.
Finally he rolls off her, and a long cloak is brought to cover him. The twelve approach and surround him, and he clasps hands with each in turn.
“Go now, and prepare the temple,” he says, and two shadows peel away from the rest.
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