The Realms Thereunder aet-1

by Stephen Lawhead

  “I give that word now. Put the plan into action.”

  Ploughwright turned his head slightly and regarded the man on the throne. He was obviously in earnest-he was always so drearily in earnest. “Very well, it will be as you say.”

  The man on the throne made a gesture, permitting him to leave.

  Robin had walked a few steps when he turned. “With respect,” he said, “I know I shouldn’t question-never have before, but I must ask . . . why not simply kill them or detain them in a more conventional manner?” He held his breath to await reply-or punishment-from perhaps the only man in the world whom he truly feared.

  The man on the throne raised a hand to his chin. Robin nearly flinched at the action. “Really, Robin,” he said. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”

  Robin bowed and turned. He didn’t expect an answer anyway. He never should have said anything.

  He retraced his steps quickly and drew the watch out of his pocket once more. Good, the door would still be open. No need to make other arrangements.

  Exiting the hill, he swiftly made his way through the blue door and back into George Street Mews. And since there was still no one in sight, he stretched out his arms and scaled the wall. Slinking along the rooftops, he made his way back to the rooms he occupied where he lived under the disguise of a human.

  3

  At a quarter past two, Freya started off for her tutorial. She left the coffee shop and made her way to her tutor’s room using the most populated streets. She ran into Julie, the other student she was to take her tutorial with, just outside the college. Freya was angry with herself for arriving on time; if she were just a little earlier, she would have been able to enter and reenter the doors and arches. The arches especially upset her.

  Fighting anxiety, Freya mounted the stairs ahead of Julie. Reaching the door of the tutor’s room, she knocked and reached into her bag for her tutorial gown. She pulled it out, deliberately bringing some papers with it. She bent down to collect them as they heard, “Come in, please,” from inside the room.

  “You go ahead,” Freya said to Julie, deliberately picking her bag up the wrong way around to spill some of her books onto the floor.

  “I’ll help,” Julie said, bending down.

  “No! That’s fine, I’ve got it,” Freya said, harsher than she had meant.

  Julie nodded, stood, and entered.

  Freya stuffed the books in her bag and then took a bottle of pills out of an inner pocket. She dry-swallowed a couple and then went to a window in the hallway. Where was the sun? The sky had become overcast, but it wouldn’t set until around five thirty this time of year. Surely the tutorial wouldn’t drag on that long . . . but it might.

  She took a deep breath. One crisis at a time. She opened the door and went in and out of it as fast and as silently as she could, seven times. That did absolutely nothing to calm her-she had gone through too many arches already. The only thing that could help was if she went back to the street and started again fresh. She closed her eyes and started to massage her forehead.

  The door clicked shut behind her, making her jump.

  “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

  “A little . . .” Freya saw Professor Stowe, her tutor, standing just inside the doorway.

  His face was concerned. “It’s okay. I’m a little anxious because I thought I would be late.”

  “No, dead on time, as usual. Shall we start?” He gestured to the sitting room where Julie was already settling herself.

  Freya bustled into the next room and sat on a small, uncomfortable wooden chair next to Julie, facing Professor Stowe’s leather wing-backed chair.

  The next fifty minutes were dedicated to the discussion of Freya’s and Julie’s essays on determinism. Julie got high praise for hers, while Freya had all the flaws and bad reasoning pointed out in hers. She stopped taking notes when he started critiquing her sentence structure. Eventually, Stowe got down to the end of the paper and paused long enough for her to assume that he’d finished.

  “Alright,” she said, her voice quavering just slightly, feeling very much under attack. “You’ve told me all the things I shouldn’t do, what are the things that I should do?”

  The professor smiled at her. “Address the essay title,” he said, tossing her back her essay. It was creased and glossed over completely in red ink. “Stay focused, be relevant. Do better.”

  Freya was fuming. She ostentatiously checked her watch.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Stowe said. “We’re finished now.” He set the reading and essay titles for next week and rose from his chair as Julie and Freya packed up.

  “Freya, if I could have a word in private with you.”

  The two students made eye contact.

  “I’ll wait for you outside,” Julie said and left.

  “I just wanted to say,” Professor Stowe said, standing behind his wing-backed chair and leaning forward on it, “that you are, without a doubt, one of the smartest students in your current year-perhaps the smartest-and that is why I was so tough on you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Professor Stowe turned his head rather theatrically to gaze out of the window and said, “The problem with your essays is that you are trying to advance the reasoning of the field, trying to arrive at some conclusion, whereas your only goal is to display an evidence of having read the material and, to some degree, retained it and understood it. We’re not looking for a breakthrough. We don’t want to revolutionise the field”-he slid his eyes away from the window and back to her-“just yet.”

  Freya considered this. “So . . . ?”

  “So for now, you need to toe the line. I never want to discourage original thought, but the truth is that this is the wrong forum for that. You’ll want to save all that for your doctoral thesis. But in order to get there, you need to finish your graduate degree, and for that you’ll need to, barbaric as it sounds, simply follow the herd- or lead it, if you can. This isn’t the time for individual thought-it is the place for it, but not the time, yet. Do you follow?”

  “That’s an ironic comment to come out of an essay on determinism.”

  Professor Stowe laughed, his eyes creasing merrily. “See, you’re obviously brilliant. All things in their places, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Professor Stowe straightened and went to stand by the window. “I believe you’ve got a shining career ahead of you-you’ve an excellent academic mind, but you have to maintain distance. We’re scholars of philosophy and theology, not practitioners, after all.

  You must maintain the perspective of the outsider.”

  Freya didn’t agree with this at all and opened her mouth to protest, but Professor Stowe held up a hand and turned his face to the window.

  “Now, the other thing I wanted to talk to you about-come over here for a second, please. Look down there.”

  Freya cautiously crossed the room to the window that looked down on the street.

  “See that man opposite us, sitting on the pavement?”

  Freya craned her neck. There was a form huddled against the wall of the house across from them that looked to be . . . Daniel.

  “Do you know him?”

  Freya nodded. “Yes, that’s . . . an old friend of mine I was at school with.”

  “His name is Daniel, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know he was following you?”

  “No.”

  “I first noticed him sitting outside here three weeks ago. He’s quite a notorious figure in Oxford. I used to volunteer at the night shelter a few years ago. He was banned for violent behavior. A couple weeks ago I saw him walking down the street with blood on his face. Has he approached you?”

  “Yes. Like I said, we were at school together.”

  “I would never advise a student on their personal life, but I would ask you to consider your involvement with him very carefully and treat him with great trepidation. There is little doubt in my mind that he will want to e
xploit your past friendship. It won’t seem like that initially-he’ll want to earn your confidence at first-but gradually he’ll make more and more demands of you, which you’ll find increasingly difficult to refuse.”

  Freya felt anxious. She thought about her agreement to meet Daniel later on that day.

  “If you like, I can ring the police and have them caution him.”

  “No,” Freya said. “That’s fine. I’ll-keep an eye on him.”

  “Have you planned to meet him again?”

  Freya was going to deny that she had but then felt childish. She nodded her head. “We arranged to meet in a church . . . St. Michael’s in Summertown.”

  “I don’t think that’s wrong but if I might advise you-miss the appointment. Just this once, to let him know that you have your own schedule.”

  “Okay, I’ll consider that.”

  “Good. I just want you to be safe, that’s all.”

  “I know, thanks.” Freya shouldered her bag and moved to the door. She waved good-bye and then joined Julie outside in the hallway.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “Nothing, he just wanted to give me a little more feedback.”

  “More? He was pretty harsh in there.”

  “No, he’s okay, really.”

  They walked off into the Oxford gloom.

  4

  Daniel spied the police officers when he was already mostly down St. Michael’s Street. They were standing outside of the Gatehouse, and although that wasn’t a common sight, it wasn’t particularly rare either-it just meant that he wouldn’t be able to nag the staff about getting in.

  The coppers were talking to some of the guests while the staff stood in the doorway. Someone turned-Daniel now recognised him as Scouse Phil-and called out.

  “Johnny! Johnny Boy! Wait up!”

  Daniel slowed and looked behind him. There was no one around him, but Phil was definitely talking, and walking, directly to him.

  “Keep walking,” Phil said in a lower voice once he was nearer.

  “Don’t look around, just smile and greet me.”

  Daniel jerked his head upwards and slapped Phil on the arm as he came to walk alongside him. One of the police officers turned her head to study Daniel and Phil. Her face registered them disinterestedly and then turned back to the group.

  “Are you in trouble, like, Danny? Those officers there want to talk to ya. Thought ya’d want to be told. Have ya done anything any of us should know about?”

  Daniel only frowned and shook his head.

  “We’s got to stick together, right? I wouldn’t tell them about you-just like you wouldn’t tell them about me, right? I scratch your back, and we wash each other’s hands, right?”

  “Of course,” Daniel said, trying to sound reassuring.

  “Champion. Well, best lay low awhile, and stay out of the usual haunts, just for a few days-that’s as long as the pigs usually stay interested.”

  “Sure. Cheers, Phil.”

  “Be seein’ ya, Danny Boy.”

  They had reached the end of the street and they split. Daniel headed towards George Street, planning a route of escape, and then realised with a start that today was the day he had arranged to meet Freya. He had to make his way up to Summertown and dodge the police that were prowling for a vagrant matching his description. At all costs he would have to avoid the canal where he’d made his kill, which would have been an ideal route otherwise. That left Jericho as a possibility, though not a great one. He was just going to have to stick to the side roads and chance it.

  A couple nerve-racking hours later, he made it. He tried to stick to streets with a lot of parked cars on them for cover. Of course that thinned out the farther he went into affluent North Oxford, but there was more street parking as soon as he crossed Marston Ferry Road into Summertown.

  Now he pushed open the wooden lych-gate of the church of St. Michael and All Angels and stepped into the churchyard. Passing row after row of worn, weathered tombstones, he thought, All these people came before me, with lives nearly as big as my own . . .

  He twisted the oversized iron ring that hung on the large double doors of the church, which responded with a half turn and a sharp clack. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.

  The church was rather plain, as churches go. He was still cold, but warmer for being out of the wind and the rain. He slid into a pew and closed his eyes. He was tired and began to nod off.

  There was the thump of something flat hitting the stone floor. Daniel turned and saw a thin old man with dusty grey hair standing near the door of the church. He clutched a handful of narrow slips of paper and was inserting them into a stack of order of service books. He smiled, made an apologetic face, and bent to pick up the book he’d dropped.

  Daniel studied him for a moment. Was this man going to make him leave, or was he just keeping an ostentatious eye on him? This man could make trouble for him if he wanted to. Perhaps it would be better to wait for Freya outside.

  He stood and started to make his way out. To do so, he passed the old gentleman, who looked up, smiling. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m just leaving,” Daniel said.

  “That’s not what I asked. I said, can I help you?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Daniel said, and turned to go.

  “Hold up a bit,” the old man said, reaching into his back pocket. He withdrew a wide leather wallet, removed a bank note, and gave it to Daniel.

  “No thanks, I’m fine,” Daniel said, looking at the square of paper.

  The old man took Daniel’s wrist and shoved the money between his fingers. Daniel kept his eyes on it-there was something odd about the way it looked.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “What?” Daniel asked.

  “You didn’t come in here to ask for money.”

  Daniel couldn’t work out if the note was for five pounds or ten.

  The colours, in this low light, seemed to be somewhere between.

  Was it for fifty? The man’s words registered then. “Sorry?”

  “What did you come here for?”

  “I was waiting for someone.”

  “Oh, do they attend this church?”

  Daniel examined the note more closely. The shapes didn’t seem to add up. He pulled it tight and held it steady.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is their name?”

  There was something wrong with what he was holding. His arm stiffened as he thrust the money back at the man. “Here, take this, I don’t want it.”

  “But you asked me for it.”

  “No, I don’t need it. It’s too much.”

  “Too much? I don’t understand . . .”

  “Take your money!” Daniel yelled at the old man.

  “But I didn’t give you money.”

  “What?” Daniel looked down at his hand. He was holding one of the slips of paper-a notice sheet-that the man had been inserting into the books. “Oh.” He tried to read it but couldn’t.

  “Come back and see me if you like. I’ll be here.”

  “Okay-thanks.” Daniel shoved the paper in his pocket and left. He hurried down the church path, towards the street. He looked past the wooden lych-gate and to the street. There was a familiar figure approaching him-Freya. He raised a hand to greet her and saw a shape slide out from behind a privet hedge behind her.

  “No!” Daniel shouted, breaking into a run. He barrelled through the wooden gate and suddenly felt himself falling forward. The ground was no longer where it should have been. He didn’t fall far, but landed with a jolt that knocked the air from his lungs.

  When he raised his head, he saw that the sky was clear now and the sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. He was lying in the middle of a wide field of green grass and there wasn’t a building in sight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Knights of Ni?ergeard

  1

  Before . . .

  “I’m not going,” said Freya, gazin
g into the dark, fathomless, anonymous blackness that stretched in front of her. “You can’t make me.”

  Daniel looked into the new opening and licked his lips. He saw a fantastic opportunity before him. This was escape-he could run away with these two . . . knights, or whatever they really were. He felt the pull in his chest-the tug of adventure, of the unknown, of danger-and it was exciting to him. He turned to Freya.

  “What other choice do we have?” he asked her in a meek yet reasonable voice. “I think we have to go with them,” Daniel coaxed, taking her arm and pulling her along through the gap in the wall and into deeper, darker tunnels. She felt dread from the very first heavy foot that she put forward. Each step was a step further into darkness and uncertainty. Each step was a step into fear.

  “Where are you two from?” Daniel asked. “Are you Vikings?”

  “God’s teeth,” moaned Ecgbryt. “That he would call me such!”

  “What makes you ask if we are Vikings?” asked Swi?gar.

  “Well . . . ,” said Daniel slowly, “you speak strangely; the weapons, your hair . . . you don’t seem English.”

  “We are the very flesh of England!” Ecgbryt exploded. “The dust of the land is in our blood just as our blood is in its dirt! We are its arms, its teeth!”

  “Much will have changed since we were put to rest,” Swi?gar said, in a more measured fashion. “But we were born here and have lived all our lives without stepping a foot off Britain’s shores.”

  “How come we can understand you?” Freya asked. “Shouldn’t you be talking a different type of English?”

  “And so we are,” said Ecgbryt.

  “So, how . . . ?”

  “It is one of Ealdstan’s devices. There was an arch that you passed under which read:

  I, the word-worker of Ni?ergeard, Give to all who pass beneath this arch The gift of free speech- If he be truly friendly.

  “The enchantment was such that all who pass beneath it would not be hindered in understanding of our words due to ignorance of our language. Now wait, what is this here?”