The Ravenmaster's Revenge- The Return of King Arthur

by Jacob Sannox

  The Ravenmaster’s Revenge

  The Return of King Arthur

  Jacob Sannox

  Copyright © 2019 Alan O’Donoghue

  All rights reserved.

  Terms and Conditions:

  The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, by any method, nor make copies of it, nor any part of it, to distribute freely.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

  Cover by BetiBup33 - https://twitter.com/BetiBup33

  Typeset by Polgarus Studio – www.polgarusstudio.com

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you for reading The Ravenmaster’s Revenge: The Return of King Arthur.

  I would love to keep you updated about my new releases, so if you would like to hear more about my work, please consider signing up for my Readers’ Club at www.jacobsannox.com.

  I’ll also be running giveaways for my members.

  It would be fantastic (and much appreciated) if you would leave me a review wherever you bought or downloaded your copy, as it’s one of the best ways for new readers to find out that my books exist.

  I look forward to hearing from you!

  Jacob Sannox

  ‘You profess to love your country, but what does that mean? Do you love the land, its ruler or its people? To honour all three at once is often no mean feat.’

  - Captain Arthur Grimwood

  Chapter One

  September 2019

  The Tower of London, England

  Six ravens stood in a row upon the lawn. An unkindness.

  They stood still with their backs to the river, facing the White Tower. It was as though the birds could see through the stone wall and into the building, focusing on some unknown point.

  Their keeper, the Ravenmaster of the Tower, tried to engage with them, but they ignored him and ate nothing, even when he tried to bribe them with blood biscuits.

  The Tower was open to visitors, and the ravens drew more than their fair share of attention on that chilly Wednesday morning. Schoolchildren on trips asked their teachers why the ravens weren’t moving, and if they were even real. Adults speculated about the cause of the birds’ strange behaviour, and, more towards the end of the day, as the light failed, a sense of disquiet fell upon the Tower.

  ‘Legend goes that if the ravens leave the Tower, first the White Tower then England will fall,’ was heard in various forms, thousands of times that day.

  The ravens watched and waited.

  The time came for them to return to their aviaries, and for the first time during his six years in the job, the Ravenmaster felt perturbed by his charges and feared how they would react to him when he approached. Yet he need not have worried. They hopped quietly onto his glove one at a time and allowed themselves to be carried home, never taking their eyes from the Tower. The first raven sat upon its perch in silence and continued its vigil, and, one at a time, the Ravenmaster carried the birds home, each one joining its companions in staring up at the White Tower.

  Silent and taking no food, the ravens looked up at the White Tower.

  Branok, the true Ravenmaster, was awake again.

  September 2019

  Hertfordshire, England

  The children had died instantly.

  Carol never regained consciousness but the hospital kept her alive for a few days. David felt as though his wife had slipped from a ledge and he'd caught her by the fingertips. Frantic, desperate moments ensued during which his hopes for Carol’s survival defied the certain reality that, inevitably, she'd fall.

  She fell.

  The last time they all spoke was a typical Wednesday morning. David got up later than he should have and skipped breakfast so that Peter and Alice could have theirs.

  Carol and David got the children ready with only minimal bickering then, pausing to give his wife the briefest of pecks on the cheek, David hurried them out of the house and into the car, still just about on track for the school run before work.

  Carol picked Peter and Alice up at the end of the day and her car was the last to join a queue in the nearside lane of the M1 on the way home.

  Carol had been stuck in traffic, reading messages scrawled in the dirt on the filthy rear doors of a van while the children chatted in the back, when Simon Renfrew, texting while he drove, failed to notice that the vehicles in front had stopped.

  The lorry didn't so much hit the car as flatten it.

  David never went home during the period Carol was in hospital. He finally returned on the day she died, but on arrival, he looked upon the house with new eyes.

  The curtains were still drawn upstairs in the front bedrooms, the children's bedrooms. David stood in the street, leaning on the gatepost and looking over the driveway towards the living-room window. He could just make out the grandfather clock and the dining table.

  Before him, the last moments his family had spent together were preserved. The bad news had not been through the gate, had not walked the path or unlocked the door. The tragedy had not packed up Peter's cars or Alice's crayons from their bedroom floors. The plates on the draining board had yet to be informed of the loss. Carol's half-finished coffee would be waiting patiently for her return, just where she had left it on top of the piano, leaving a ring on the varnish.

  The Bolton family's life was waiting for them. And if he turned the key and let in the air from a world in which his wife and children were dead, if he crossed that threshold?

  David's keys sat on his open palm, and he held them up, scrutinising them. He returned them to his trouser pocket and walked away from the house, from his Pompeii.

  Chapter Two

  England – The Fifth Century A.D.

  ‘It’s true, sire,’ said Sir Tristan as he gathered his breath. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head before the king in the dim candlelit tent. ‘Mordred’s army has made camp at Camlann.’

  ‘We must meet him far sooner than I anticipated,’ brooded Arthur.

  A small cough behind him. Merlin stepped up to his side. Arthur cocked his head, and Merlin leant in to whisper.

  ‘Aye, true enough,’ said Arthur. ‘But if we move against him now, perhaps we can catch him unawares.’

  Arthur stood, a towering figure in brown, boiled leather armour over a mail shirt, and with a silver circlet upon his brow, his beard streaked with grey.

  ‘Sir Tristan, pass the word to all of my knights. We march as soon as we can strike camp,’ said Arthur. Sir Tristan bowed and backed out of the tent.

  ‘I fear this will go ill, boy. Why do you never listen?’ said Merlin, gripping his staff.

 
Arthur squeezed the wizard’s upper arm in a comforting gesture and smiled down at him, looking into his ancient grey eyes.

  ‘I cannot forever err on the side of caution, hiding behind my palisades, Merlin. Mordred means to bring us to battle, and it is now inevitable. We will make an account of ourselves, however we may fare in the end,’ said Arthur. He drew Excalibur and examined the blade.

  ‘I can only hope I need not kill Mordred to end the fighting,’ he said, and the wizard could hear the strain in the king’s voice. ‘Perhaps he will listen to reason.’

  ‘I hope so. It would be an evil deed for a father to shed the blood of a son, but then no less than it is for a son to shed the blood of his father,’ said Merlin.

  ‘Your advice is of use, as always,’ Arthur laughed, and muttering, Merlin headed out into the night, leaving the king to his own counsel.

  Arthur fastened his cloak about his shoulders and stepped out into the chill night air. His army was arrayed before him, thousands strong and waiting. Arthur’s squire held the reins to his charger, and the king thanked him as he mounted.

  He spurred the animal into a trot and rode down the line of his knights, acknowledging each of them in turn.

  Tristan, Agravain, Bedivere, Gareth, Kay, Percival, Lamorak, Galahad, Gaheris, Dagonet, Bors, Lucan, Ector and Gawain.

  They rode out together at the head of a great column, which snaked across the moors behind them, trampling the grass into the mud. Tristan rode on his right, and Merlin on his left.

  On through the night rode Arthur, Merlin and the knights.

  Arthur spurred his charger into a gallop, and his army burst forth from the treeline and rampaged down the slope towards Mordred’s camp, before which his army was only now assembling, caught unawares as they were.

  Hooves thundered, and the ground shook as Arthur drew Excalibur then held it aloft. His knights rode in a line beside him, and his infantry roared as they charged.

  They would break Mordred’s forces with this charge, thought Arthur, smashing apart whatever passed for a line in the dim light before the dawn. The king and his knights galloped toward the scantly armoured men who were forming up before them, brandishing weapons and cowering behind shields, no doubt aware that they would shortly be trampled underfoot.

  ‘Cavalry, sire!’ called Gawain, and when Arthur looked off to his left, he saw a large number of horsemen charging at their flank. Mordred’s banner flew above them.

  But it was too late, Arthur was committed and as his knights rode down the first of Mordred’s men, so too did Mordred ride over Arthur’s unprotected foot soldiers.

  ‘For Briton!’ roared Arthur as he brought down Excalibur, cleaving an opposing Briton’s head in two. ‘For Briton!’

  First one man then another fell beneath his sword strokes and then someone hacked through his charger’s leg. The horse let out a terrible cry as it fell, and Arthur crashed to the ground.

  He was up again in mere seconds. Arthur unleashed a flurry of blows, driving back the men who stood to face him, felling them one by one. He wheeled and parried, stabbed and slashed. None could stand before him. Mordred’s soldiers hesitated, giving him space, and Arthur pulled off his helm so he could look directly into their eyes.

  They wavered in the king’s presence and under his gaze.

  ‘Hear me!’ Arthur roared. ‘You follow a false sovereign, who desires naught but power. Hear now the voice of the true king. I pardon your sins, brothers, and call on you now to aid me in throwing down my son, born of treachery. Rise up, my Britons! Take Mordred alive!’

  All those who listened truly heard him. It mattered not what Arthur said, but his voice itself carried a power, imbued with a certainty and steadfast nobility that struck the hearts of those who heard it. Arthur beseeched and ensnared them, and they rallied to him, joining his cause.

  The battle raged on.

  The morning sun was up when finally both Arthur found Mordred, and Mordred found Arthur upon the field of battle.

  The dead and dying lay all around, both armies now depleted to mere companies of men. Only Tristan and Agravain remained by Arthur’s side, and the three men worked closely together, watching over one another and driving their enemies back with both their swordsmanship and their determination. Until, that is, they met Mordred’s household guard, who were clad in iron, and were as disciplined a fighting force as ever Arthur had seen.

  They withstood Arthur’s assault, and suddenly he and his company found they were hard-pressed to stand their ground. Mordred’s guard swarmed all around them, and Arthur found that he fought alone on a bare hill, surrounded by his foes.

  He fought on, though his muscles cried out, and he bled from a multitude of wounds, his face bruised and his hair matted with blood. Blow after blow he dealt his enemies, but ever they came on at him, the circle closing in, like wolves surrounding their prey.

  Arthur felled them one by one, growing ever more exhausted, until finally he saw his son standing before him, shield in his left hand and sword in his right, the blade resting against his shoulder.

  Arthur paused, gathering his wits and what was left of his strength.

  ‘Put an end to this, Mordred,’ he rasped. ‘Lay down your arms.’

  Mordred grinned back at Arthur as the guard closed around them.

  A sudden commotion drew Arthur’s attention as Tristan launched an assault from the left, yet his knight could not break through. Mordred engaged Tristan, and he was forced back. Arthur looked away, knowing that he was in great peril, standing there before his son, who was a product of intrigue and incest.

  Where is Merlin?

  Arthur stood alone, and Merlin did not come.

  Mordred raised his shield and took a lazy practice swing with his sword.

  Arthur adjusted his stance, raising Excalibur into a high guard, but hoping it would not come to a fight.

  ‘I will pardon you and your men, if you will unite with us again,’ said Arthur.

  ‘There is only room on the throne for one man, Father,’ said Mordred, and he pointed his sword at Arthur’s head. ‘And only one crown.’

  With that Mordred burst forward. Arthur stepped aside, and Mordred struck out with his shield. Arthur checked the blow with Excalibur’s cross-guard and staggered as Mordred aimed a wicked slash at his face.

  Arthur stepped back and parried as Mordred slashed at his head. Excalibur cut through the iron blade as though it were cutting through air. Mordred staggered back.

  Arthur heard Tristan roaring and Agravain calling his name. Once more Mordred’s men were drawn off to combat the onslaught of his most fearsome knights.

  One of Mordred’s men threw his master a mace, and the second it was in his hand, Arthur’s son charged again, this time running forward with his shield held high.

  Excalibur’s tip burst through the shield as Arthur toppled back into the mud, and Mordred landed atop him. The mace landed beside Arthur’s head, splattering his face with mud. Arthur hauled at Excalibur, trying to work the blade free, and as he did so, slicing through the shield, blood flicked out, following the arc of the blade.

  It took Arthur a moment to realise that he must have stabbed Mordred through the shield. And then he cried out, struggling for breath as something thumped repeatedly into his side, over and over and over. Arthur cried out and threw back his head, tossing the silver circlet to the ground.

  Men hauled Mordred to his feet, and Arthur saw not only that his son was mortally wounded – Excalibur had rent a great gash through his guts – but that he held a bloody knife in his right hand. Arthur fought to breathe, gasping in the mud as Mordred contorted, crying out. He slumped, but his men held him up and Mordred caught his father’s eye. He stared at Arthur for a second until all life went out of him.

  Finally Tristan stepped into view, hacking down the men who had steadied Mordred. Arthur lay back and closed his eyes, as a booted foot crunched into his skull and yet another stamped down on his right hand, its fingers still clutc
hing Excalibur. He felt himself beginning to fade, felt a heavy, dreary sleep coming upon him as pain lanced through his side.

  And there upon the field of Camlann, Arthur, King of the Britons, began to slip from the world to the sound of Tristan’s anguished cries and battle coming to an end.

  Tristan and Agravain stood over Arthur, killing any who dared approach to defile him. When Percival and then Gawain found them, they carried their king from the field while the last of the fighting drew to a close and, both sides leaderless, neither victorious, the armies began to wander away. The moaning of the injured and calls of soldiers looking for fallen friends accompanied the knights as they carried Arthur, bearing him away into the woodland atop the slope. There they laid him upon Tristan’s cloak.

  Merlin appeared from the trees and moved slowly and silently to Arthur’s side, hands shaking.

  He knelt by the king’s battered head and wiped blood from Arthur’s face with the hem of his long robe as the knights gathered in a circle around their fallen leader.

  Merlin cradled Arthur’s face, closed his eyes as Arthur drew his last breath and began to speak in an ancient tongue. The woods shuddered and leaves fell all about them as Merlin fell silent, the rite completed.

  ‘Is there nothing that can be done, Merlin?’ asked Agravain, and the wizard looked up, fury in his eyes.

  ‘No, nothing can be done. To think of all that should have been achieved!’ he spat, but in an instant his angry words turned to tears. He spoke through them, and the gathered knights leant in closer to hear what he had to say.