“Our only hope is to seek concealment and remain hidden and tonight to slip away.” Seward shouted.
“Seward, I leave everything to you including my finely inlaid sword. Use it well.” The sword a gift from King John. To Morgund it was like no other the sword, so finely balanced so beautiful. It felt like an extension of his arm. Morgund looked jolly. “I don’t deem I will need it, hereafter.”
Noting his composure, Seward wondered if anything did worry him. Considering, if the events of the battle had left Morgund in a permanently unhinged state of mind, or whether his friend had developed an extreme sense of fatalism, believing himself destined to overthrow Alexander. They climbed castle stairs, only to discover the path densely packed with men. “Another way we must find. We must go,” Seward said, grabbing Morgund, “Quickly.”
“Pray there is another way.” Morgund replied.
Seward knew of a passage leading to the dungeons. Darkness might protect them. “Follow me!” he shouted.
A group of the King’s men reached the passage first and met them. Seward and Morgund unsheathed their blades. To resist this many skilled warriors was tantamount to suicide. Surrounded, Morgund shouted a warning. “I am a ward of the King. If either myself or my companion is harmed, you will answer to His Majesty!”
A knight stepped forward “Hand me your sword and I will take you to him.”
Morgund surrendered his sword. Seward doing so with a sneer. The leader among the troops ordered them bound, a command fulfilled with little regard to Morgund and Seward’s welfare. Their arms were fastened behind their backs, the cords painfully tight, and were urged along with the occasional prod of sharp metal.
“Almighty father protect us,” Morgund whispered. He looked at Seward. “In prayer lies our only hope.
They entered a large central hall and there were made sit. John engrossed in other matters appeared to take no notice of them. After a while he ordered they be brought over to him. King John intended to carry the war into Scotland and needed Morgund’s help to divide the Scots. The King pointed his sword at Morgund’s breast and said with a profound sense of gravity, “What shall I do? Kill you with this sword or, knight you with it?”
This was unexpected, John must be gaming with him. Morgund had anticipated protection from the King. Not the offer of knighthood. The King was serious. To be granted passage into the realm of knighthood was utterly unexpected. Morgund looked to this king. Likewise he knelt, hands bound and under duress, but wore a charmed, serene smile. Morgund felt an odd, sense of revulsion. “Knight me with it, of course!”
Morgund, kneeling and still bound, held his head high. As if in defiance of the king. Morgund gazed into John’s eyes as an equal, heedless of the sword poised to either elevate him or bring him low. John’s supporters, and John himself, were taken aback by the young man’s impudence. The court waited expectantly in silence for the King’s response. It was well known that King John could be mercurial. The sword was raised, and not once did Morgund’s eyes waver.
Many were to later say that in all the time they knew him, only this once, did they see the King laugh so heartily. John addressed Morgund. “A brazen boy. A very brazen boy, indeed.” His head rocked back in laughter. “I can identify with that.” Then with a more serious tone, “You shall be rewarded for your audacity.” John touched one shoulder and then the other. Arise, Sir Morgund MacAedh.”
Morgund felt the grace of knighthood. That it happened so quickly and unexpectedly stunned him. Morgund was cut from his bindings. As he stood, an almost palpable lightness of being. All at once he could do great things and felt indebted to John. He was a product of his age and knighthood was honourable in the extreme. John handed Morgund a chalice full of wine. “Your young squire shall share our wine,” John said.
King John assessed Seward, his face displaying pleasure. Of late assured of his success in battle. That worked to Morgund’s favour, and now it seemed, to Seward’s. “He is a good looking fellow. Looks like a hardy warrior, Morgund.”
“That he is, sire,” Morgund said.
King John smiled good naturedly at Seward and motioned that he accept a cup of wine. Here was a very different John; engaging, placid, mannerly. Could he finally have come to terms with his tormented soul? Whilst Morgund savoured his new title and trappings, Seward remained sceptical. The fact betrayed by his suspicious expression.
Only later, was Morgund to realise that it was like a sunny day in winter, appreciated, and persuasive in the hope that the night would be pleasant. But soon to discover when the night came and with it misery and bitter cold. Winter nights were always thus, always.
John was a dangerous man, and in time would revert to his true nature. The reprieve from the caprices of his harshness was nothing more than a whim.
The days passed and two courtiers of note beset England’s court, Seward and Morgund, who were determined to avoid to king John’s attention, as much as possible. All dreaded John’s temper. Seward was persistent in reminding Morgund of this fact, and that Morgund had surrendered his allegiance all too willingly to a man untrustworthy. In time Morgund would see the reality of his friend’s words, for the King’s cruelty was becoming all the more apparent.
Morgund was kitted in the trappings of a knight. Thereafter, the owner now of shield emblazoned with the ancient boar emblem of Scotland, white on silver, which he intended to carry into battle against Alexander. But the anticipated invasion of Scotland never eventuated. King John died suddenly of an unknown cause. Poisoned, many thought. Morgund was again fates hostage. King John left behind a son too young to rule. William Marshall governed in his stead.
Morgund had an audience with Marshall. “I have no wish to pursue a tangled game with Scotland Morgund, sanity must prevail. We need peace. You will be kept in safe custody until King Alexander advises us what he desires done with thee.” Marshall said to Morgund.
Marshall’s voice sounded like so many blades to Morgund who visibly sagged, if only briefly. Morgund wondered why his life was one endless series of confinements and captures, hopes and disasters. His eyes reflected this, but something else also, toughness, a swelling pride. He pulled himself together quickly and looked at Marshall unflinchingly. It was the same look he gave King John on the day John knighted him.
It disturbed Marshall so much that he softened his attitude. “You’ll suffer no ill treatment, close confinement perhaps, but your friend shall share it with you, if he will. No dark dungeon, it is a river you will see if you’ve a mind to.” Marshall couldn’t relent further. Affairs of state had to take precedence over a troubled conscience.
Seward and Morgund found themselves conveyed to the Tower. There, kept in captivity. Fed well, treated with as much dignity and respect as their station allowed. Neither Morgund or Seward knew much of Marshall, and did not know what to expect. They did know, however, that if they fell into Alexander’s hands a swift execution would be theirs.
The jailers admired Seward and Morgund therefore, their vigilance, inconsistently prompted, and reinforced by their superiors, did not last long. Prisoners couldn’t escape from the tower, so why watch them too closely? The only one way out which was to fly from a high window, an oft-told jibe spoken by the guards. Such a leap and subsequent survival, was of course an impossibility.
Practising leisurely eating habits, plates and knives were left behind with them and when they were, they were hidden. Salt air had loosened fastenings on the metal grill to their cell. After two weeks working on them, they weakened. One good reef and the whole grill would come out making enough space for a man to crawl through. Complaining about noise coming from the cell above Seward and Morgund learned that this cell above was vacant. The cell above was to carry them onto a section roof not too far away.
Waiting upon a dark suitable night for their escape. Two weeks on, such a night came, and their attempt was made. The grill was levered out. Balancing on a ledge, Seward wedged a knife into a gap in stonework, above. Seward was
on the outside of the building. Going up, using more knives to extend his footholds. Seward the stronger of the two, ascended first to achieve the difficult task of wedging the knives. Having seen eroded mortar on the facing walls, they judged that similar would be above … they were right. Seward pushed the cell-grill, bars and framework, into one such. He had twisted bed linen into a rope, weighted down at one end with a brick, carried it on his shoulders.
From outside his jail-cell, onto the wall higher, Seward threw it, trying to catch on something above. The weight snagged. Seward held the sheet fast testing to see if it would hold him. It did. He pulled himself up onto a piece of battlement. From the battlement he sent the rope out again. Again, the rope caught tight. Then back and forth, swinging and kicking off the walls to get further along to a skirting wall, a footway. There, on the footway, he was. With his final objective sighted below him, the roof of an outer building, next to the river, he ran swiftly and threw himself … landed nimbly quickly and skilfully.
Seward signalled to Morgund that it was his turn. A series of grips as Morgund followed in Seward’s wake until his feet stopped. Morgund looked across at Seward who was beckoning him to continue. This was hard work for Morgund who found he had a terrible fear of heights. Discovering his breathing fast. Holding the wall all of a sudden Morgund stopped moving. Morgund recoiling at the horror of it couldn’t move.
Seward told Morgund to stay calm, that he was coming back for him. Seward’s call alerted a guard who raised the alarm. Seward would either return, or escape. Morgund was readying to climb back towards his cell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Seward with the rope coming for him. Morgund could see his friend would return. They would be captured together. Morgund couldn’t let that happen. He closed his eyes. When he opened them he ignored the cries of men-at-arms, and climbed.
Reaching the knotted bed sheet, thereafter, across Morgund went, and landed well on the battlement, but it had been sickeningly stressful. Although, beset by shaking legs, Morgund leaped onto the building Seward was on. Seward didn’t notice how badly affected Morgund was. “Come on hurry, we must find a way off this roof,” Seward said. “The guards know we are here.”
So sapped of energy was Morgund that he sank down on his knees. For moments only. He resurrected himself as he had done so many times before and as he would continue to do until his life’s end. They believed, there might be an easy way down, but there wasn’t. One way down only 40 or 50 feet into the river. Winter and the water was freezing. They agreed to hang from the building, to gain, if only slightly, a shorter drop, the length of their body. Hanging from the stonework looking down, it seemed a frighteningly long way to Morgund and he felt to certain death. He shrank from it, there was such an impermanence to life, these last moments he wanted to savour.
After a time Seward asked. “Are you letting go?”
“No … not on this fine day. “
“You’re going mad, Morgund.”
“Yes, but I’m not going down there, not yet, a least, and you can’t change my opinion. Its still a fine day.”
Another few moment of maddening exertion.
“What are you doing Morgund?” Seward said.
“Hanging on, until I can’t.” The exertion was starting to make Morgund’s voice low.
“Then what?” Seward asked.
Morgund looked down, thereupon his face grew whiter. “Hanging on longer,” he gasped out, “until I can’t.”
“This I know Morgund. Cowards die a thousand deaths not one.”
Seward looked too serious, Morgund couldn’t allow that. “At least a better phrase than such tiresome nonsense?”
“Its something we all know Morgund.”
Morgund smiled. “Yes, it’s true, but if I hold on a little longer what difference does it make?”
“None.”
“You’re a good friend Seward.” Morgund said and let go.
Morgund plummeted downward, arms and legs flailing. The water was visible only in part, shrouded by a thick blanket of mist. The river rushed up to meet him, it seemed, and the very moment before he hit the water. Morgund felt the jarring impact and the icy cold of those chill waters. The confrontation was sufficient to force the air from his lungs, in a pain wracked gasp that left a wake of bubbles. Seward hurtled into the water, feet first, narrowly missing his companion. To an observer above, the pair had simply let go, fallen, and been swallowed by the fog. No wave nor wake through the veil to reveal the evidence.
The layer of vapour filtered the first of the morning sun’s rays through the miasma depths. That very same fog cloaked a small craft, it’s oarsman stroking in silent obedience. The boat was empty save for one other figure, who stood impressively tall, despite its crooked back, gauntness and air of antiquity which not even the voluminous robes could disguise. The figure twisted its ancient head from side to side, glaring at the waters surface. Eventually it extended a gnarled, talon-like finger to point. “There, I see a face above the water,” the ancient crone croaked, and the colourless slit of a mouth twisted into an approximation of a smile.
She scowled at the oarsman as the boat neared the unconscious, floating form. “I spoke they should be here.” She reprimanded him in a voice that sounded like old parchment being unravelled. “And ye had the gall to doubt me.” The hooded oarsman making even strokes made no reply. “Thee doubted me.” Her ugly head shook releasing a slobbering cackle.
She had an agent in the castle but didn’t tell him that was how she knew they’d be here, she would have him to believe it was by means of supernatural power, which, although he’d like to scorn, he could not totally discount. The boat drew nearer to the two figures drifting. With difficulty, they were dragged aboard.
MUCH LATER, SEWARD awoke under clean, stiff linen, to the pleasant aroma of cooking food. He knew not where he was, but at least it was as far from drowning. He was indoors, the room’s small fire illuminating Morund in a nearby cot. Seward’s observation of the room was cut short by movement. Seward closed his eyes so nearly as to imitate sleep but yet remain with sight. He watched as a girl entered the room bearing pitchers of hot, rich soup. She set it down and approached Seward cautiously, as if fearful of waking him. He remained as he was, silent and feigning sleep. The girl was pretty, with red hair and grey eyes and could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen years. Silently she touched Seward’s cheek before moving to Morgund.
Seward watched with something akin to a pang of jealousy when he saw the girl touch the cheek to only to stoop and kiss Morgund upon his resting lips with a reserve only enough to prevent him waking. She obviously admired the sleeping form. She admired the youthful but powerfully aligned chest, with its downy hair, noble head set upon shoulders well-toned, even in slumber. The sleeper had strongly defined arm strength. He met her every standard of beauty. His head hair fell in a way that kept her staring at it. All of him was good.
The shape of his lips so kissable. He would be hers in every way and soon, she would see to it. Disturbed by a noise outside, the girl shied away from these thoughts. Mixtures she administered to dampen inner cold. Although a young girl, yet, with those eyes they said she had felt her loins from as early an age. A beautiful smile. He smiled seemingly responding to her. Morgund’s teeth, they were as perfect as his perfect face. Her morning duties over she intended to sit near a fire and enjoy thinking about the beautiful young stranger, yes, that is what she would do. First, to pass on information on to her mistress. In the fog between sleep and waking, Seward drifted off again into a profound slumber thinking only of falling, water, and a girl with red hair and grey eyes.
Late afternoon brought conscious movement and a peeling back of eyelids. The room was clean and light, flooded in through large open shutters. The day allowed a hint of warmth before spring. A deep sense of well being filled them. When they were both awake they ventured a few words.
“I didn’t think to wake up, Seward.” Morgund sighed. “Have they moved us to another part
of the tower?”
“No. Hear those noises from the street? We are no longer within the tower. But soon word will get out that we’ve escaped, and like as not a reward will be posted for our capture and these people who hold us, will turn us in.” Seward said. They ate what they could of the broth left warming by the fire.
Later an older woman, ugly but seemingly, kind, entered. She watched them sleeping. Turning, a door, closing it, silence.
Neither could move as pain assaulted them at each small suggestion of it. Whatever fate awaited them they could not now avert it. Accepting this, they lay back and soon slumbered. The next morning a physician arrived and began testing, prodding, poking. The doctor asked them many questions. Finally he advised them that no permanent injury existed, and rest, a great of it, would restore them. When he left, they fell into that state where the body is refreshed and the mind enters another world, free from conscious cares. The, deep sleep. The old crone had accompanied the physician.
Somewhat later, she told them kindly, “You are very safe with me. I know that you are escapees from the Tower, but I do not care. Many innocents are unjustly lodged there.” She was cross in her disproval and said, “I will protect you.” Her direct gaze dispelled ill humour. Her eyes were convincing and as they were in no fit state to attempt another escape they chose to accept what she said.
Nothing untoward happened. The days passed easily. Meanwhile the hag waited, summoning them, they would come. Magic would ensnare the two. In a room nearby, insulated from the bitter February weather Seward and Morgund were content to wait it out. Thereafter, they intended to be away. Their main diversion, every day the beautiful young girl came. It was obvious to both that he held a fascination for her. It was not a case of being smitten by his good looks, although she admitted to herself, she had been, initially. Far more existed than mere looks, her soul opened up to his vulnerability, to his warmth.
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