The Ravenmaster's Revenge- The Return of King Arthur

by Jacob Sannox

  Branok plagued his dreams, and he suspected not as mere phantoms of his own mind. But Merlin did not acquiesce to the growing child’s demands as the years went on, as Branok sought to persuade him that the thrones of England and Scotland could be united by the creation of his own contribution to legend, the breeding of his very own equivalent of Arthur.

  And then, some three years after they had parted in the copse, word reached Merlin that another royal child had been born, who had been named Margaret.

  It was at this time that Branok fell silent and quested for Merlin no more.

  The wizard grew fearful.

  Henry VII was a cautious, wily character, eager to secure his throne. He was a dour, frugal man, and wary of war with the Scots. Branok began by visiting the king in his dreams, cultivating the fear and positing possible solutions, and one chief among them.

  Branok infiltrated the court itself and in time, manoeuvred himself behind the throne, so that he could, discreetly, whisper in the king’s ear.

  In January 1502, England and Scotland signed the Treaty of Perpetual Peace, and the marriage between Henry’s daughter, Margaret Tudor, and James IV of Scotland was agreed, the result of Branok’s whispering.

  Branok could not yet rest, knowing full well he must support the couple over the years to come, for they would lose many children in infancy. In 1512 Margaret, Queen of Scots, gave birth to James, who would later become James V, and father Mary, Queen of Scots, who would give birth to King James VI of Scotland.

  That James, when Queen Elizabeth I, the last Tudor monarch, died without an heir, would become King James VI of Scotland and James I of England, uniting Britain with one Royal bloodline.

  Branok, his goal achieved, sought out the infant king and began a lifetime of service to both him and his descendants.

  Chapter Five

  October 2019

  Arthur waited in the hall for Tristan to return, and only once he had a hot mug in his hand did he unlock the door to the drawing-room, wood-panelled, with windowless walls and an imposing fireplace. Arthur set his mug down on a table beside his favourite leather wingback chair then proceeded to build a fire in the grate. Once the flames had taken hold, he straightened up and stood a while, running his eyes along the lines of the great sword, mounted with its blade vertical, a few inches above the fireplace.

  He lost track of time, and his reverie was only broken by the old man’s voice behind him.

  ‘How long has it been, boy?’ he said.

  Merlin stood in the doorway, a comical figure swathed in a white dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘How long has what been?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Since you took it up. Since you wielded it,’ said Merlin.

  ‘In battle?’ Arthur ushered Merlin towards the other chair by the fire, and the old man made his way to sit.

  ‘Coffee? Wine? Water?’ asked Arthur, but Merlin shook his head as he settled back into the chair.

  Arthur lifted his mug to his lips.

  ‘The last time I wielded Excalibur,’ he said, as though to himself, staring into the flames. He cast his mind back over the years then nodded.

  ‘Naseby. Summer of 1645,’ he concluded.

  ‘June 14th,’ said Merlin, shaking his head. ‘Near enough four hundred years.’

  ‘A long time,’ said Arthur.

  ‘A long time to be idle,’ said Merlin.

  ‘Not idle, Merlin,’ said Arthur, restraining his temper as best he could, yet not enough it seemed. Merlin raised an eyebrow in amusement, casting a sidelong look from his chair.

  ‘Excalibur is of a bygone age,’ said Arthur. ‘Like us.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, boy. I’m yet to hit my prime,’ Merlin snapped. Arthur ignored him.

  ‘A great sword was no use in the age of sabres and muskets, and is of even less with every passing year,’ Arthur said.

  ‘No use?’ Merlin spat. ‘The sword of legend, bound to the land? No use?’

  Now it was Arthur’s turn to raise his voice.

  ‘Must you be so contrary? You know full well what I mean. A great sword is heavy to wield and its length can be a disadvantage. Excalibur may well cleave a man in half, but that’s no use if you’ve been stabbed or shot full of holes between blows. Its time has passed.’

  Merlin returned his gaze to the fire.

  ‘We shall see in time,’ was his knowing reply, distorted by a long yawn.

  ‘Will we? Do you expect Queen Elizabeth to ride out against Al Qaida holding Excalibur high? Perhaps when the newspapers demand that Charles abdicate in favour of William, they can each attempt to draw the sword from the stone?’ Arthur barked. Merlin’s only reply was inaudible, grumbled under his breath.

  The two men warmed themselves by the fire amid a brooding silence, each on their own side of a wall that could never be quite dismantled. Arthur knew that Merlin had never understood.

  ‘Why have you come, Merlin?’ asked Arthur eventually.

  ‘They are calling for a referendum to abolish the monarchy,’ said Merlin.

  ‘I’ve seen as much in the newspapers,’ said Arthur, sipping his Jamaican blend coffee. The taste was far superior to that at the café. This glorious brew from a noble bean of the new world never failed to transport Arthur over the sea and to those lands discovered in his absence. Every breath of its aroma called for him to take to the sea, or the air he supposed, and seek for those new places.

  But no.

  Here he was, as he had ever been, with the odd exception, in England.

  ‘Did you also see,’ pressed Merlin, ‘that the ravens have left the Tower?’

  This was news, and Arthur’s eyes widened. He set down his mug and all thought of adventure.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Thursday,’ said Merlin. ‘No one knows how.’

  Arthur jumped up and paced back and forth before the fireplace.

  ‘This is ill news. Do you believe…?’ he said, but Merlin cut him off.

  ‘That Branok is awake. Aye. For certain.’

  ‘And all of them have left? You’re sure?’ said Arthur.

  ‘All six.’

  ‘But even during the Blitz, one remained,’ said Arthur, incredulous.

  Merlin nodded. ‘Grip. Ridiculous name for a bird.’

  ‘All six,’ Arthur repeated it to himself.

  ‘All six,’ said Merlin. ‘Upped and left.’

  ‘Or summoned,’ said Arthur, his face grim. ‘What do you suppose they are up to?’

  ‘Who can tell?’ said Merlin. ‘But I believe with the talk of doing away with the monarchy, Branok may be moving against the people once more. I can but guess.’

  Arthur leaned against the fireplace, looking up at Excalibur.

  ‘Would you hear my counsel, boy?’ said Merlin. ‘Or will you snap at an old man for speaking his mind?’

  Arthur turned and saw the old wizard’s face broken by a lopsided smile.

  ‘I’ll hear you, you meddlesome imp,’ Arthur sighed, ‘but don’t think I’m oblivious to the pleasure you’re taking in this.’

  ‘If the ravens are gone, Branok is surely awake and has deployed his familiars. You must send out your knights against them, Arthur, lest they do us all great harm. And Branok must be put down, forever this time,’ Merlin intoned, all humour gone from his voice.

  Arthur locked eyes with the old man and searched for the truth of the matter. Eventually, he let out a breath and nodded.

  ‘I’ll send word for everyone to return in the morning,’ he said, returning to his chair. He drank from his coffee once more.

  ‘What do you suppose he’s doing?’ said Arthur.

  ‘Branok will do whatever it takes to maintain the royal line, Arthur, and the monarchy has never been weaker. The people are turning their back on them. It’s neither here nor there to me, understand. These daughters and sons of Norman invaders have no more right to sit on the throne than did the Saxons when first you rode to war.’ The old man shifted in his seat, leaning for
ward towards Arthur. ‘But I’ll concede, I’ve taught you well, boy. You’ve some wisdom in you. What is England? The land, the Crown or the people? The land can look after itself well enough, it will endure. The Crown? The throne has been taken by whoever liked the look of it and was strong enough to take it for centuries, and the people aren’t those you ruled over, Arthur, the people – Saxons, Britons, Normans, immigrants from all over the world. England is the land and the people, whoever may dwell upon it. Branok will never recognise that. All that matters to him is the blood. Stuart, by preference, but Windsor will do in the interim. He’ll do whatever it takes to ensure the people don’t get what they want, even if it means killing every last one of them.’

  ‘We’ll stop him,’ said Arthur.

  ‘You haven’t yet,’ said Merlin. ‘How many have died because of him?’

  ‘This time we’ll stop him,’ said Arthur.

  The phone rang during dinner, and Tristan went to answer it. He was gone for only a short time.

  ‘Everyone can be back by morning except Bedivere.’ said Tristan. ‘And, of course, Agravain is still at Her Majesty’s pleasure for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Good news,’ said Arthur. ‘Everyone is to meet in here at 9am sharp for briefing.’ He smiled.

  ‘I sound like a captain in a 1950s war film,’ he laughed.

  ‘To be fair, sir, you’ve a good excuse,’ said Kay, also laughing as he pushed back his plate.

  ‘Speaking of films, I believe I’ll watch one then have an early night,’ said Gareth.

  ‘Count me in,’ said Percival.

  ‘Me too,’ said Tristan. ‘How about you, sir?’

  Arthur shot a wicked smile at Merlin.

  ‘Care to join us?’ he said.

  The old man frowned.

  ‘Not if this is going to be a jest at my expense, no,’ he said. ‘I wearied of such japes in the 6th century. None of you ever grow up.’

  Suppressing grins, Arthur and the others led Merlin into the small cinema located at the rear of the house.

  Merlin sat through Excalibur, albeit sulking and muttering throughout, but left during the first animation in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

  ‘Children,’ he railed as he disappeared, shutting the door behind him.

  They waited as long as they could before the room filled with laughter.

  ‘What’s got his goat?’ asked Bors, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  ‘He’s just annoyed he’s not in it,’ said Tristan.

  ‘He had a stupid metal cap and talked funny in the first one, and he sat through that,’ exclaimed Kay.

  ‘You have bro-ken, what could not be bro-ken,’ intoned Arthur, in a passable impression of Nicol Williamson in the John Boorman epic.

  ‘Seriously though, where do they get those ideas from?’ said Kay.

  Arthur shook his head.

  ‘It’s beyond me,’ he said.

  ‘Spill the beans, sir. Who’s this Guinevere then?’ said Tristan, elbowing Arthur in the arm.

  ‘I’m more interested in who this Lancelot represents…’ Arthur pointed at Tristan, Bors and Percival in turn, a stern look upon his face.

  ‘Sir, I’d never…’ said Percival.

  ‘He’s poking fun, you idiot,’ said Tristan. ‘Catch up.’

  ‘Every time,’ Kay rolled his eyes as Percival’s cheeks reddened.

  The following morning Arthur entered the dining room shortly before nine to find all of his knights seated at the round oak table, each groomed to within an inch of their lives and wearing their best suits. Merlin paced the edge of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, no longer looking homeless. He wore a tweed three-piece suit, and his white hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

  Arthur stood behind his chair and told them all that he knew.

  ‘And so,’ he concluded, ‘we’ll need to call on all our contacts, pool our resources and begin an investigation. We must find Branok, find the ravens and stop them, but we must also identify their targets and protect them if we can.’

  He sat down with his men.

  ‘I’ll need six volunteers to seek out Branok’s familiars,’ said Arthur, producing a notepad and pen from his inside pocket. He opened the book and made ready with the pen then looked up at them all.

  They all put themselves forward, even if their words were lost in the commotion. Arthur tapped the nib on the paper and then scrawled across first one page then the next.

  ‘Right, I’ll have Kay, Tristan, Gawain, Dagonet, Lucan and Ector on the ground. The rest of you will start by working the phones, reading the papers and talking to our friends in Westminster,’ said Arthur.

  He turned to Merlin.

  ‘Would you like to add anything?’

  The old wizard lowered his brow as he crossed the room to stand beside and just behind Arthur’s chair. He looked up and fixed each of them with a stare one at a time.

  ‘I will aid you in this task, but on one condition,’ he said, his voice grave.

  ‘State it,’ said Kay.

  Tristan was already beginning to grin.

  ‘I will not, under any circumstances, sit through any film in which Richard Gere plays a knight of Arthur’s court,’ he said and then, as they began to laugh, he pointed straight at Percival.

  ‘I saw the cover of the DVD, do you think me a fool?’

  And as Percival leapt to his own defence, Arthur sat back in his chair, watching the scene play out, all too conscious that the time for merriment would soon be at an end.

  Chapter Six

  Edinburgh – 1597

  King James sits upon the throne of Scotland. Queen Elizabeth I yet reigns in England.

  The corridors of Holyrood Palace were lined with armed men and yet they made no move against Branok as he stalked the halls towards King James’s chambers. Instead, they nodded in deference to the man they thought they recognised as a result of his enchantments.

  He entered the king’s bedchamber without knocking and secured it behind him.

  Branok moved to the side of James’s bed and shook the sleeping man’s foot. The king started awake and sat up in bed, pushing himself back against the headboard and blinking.

  ‘Is this how you repay me? You owe me for your very existence, boy!’ hissed Branok.

  King James VI of Scotland eyed the warlock and his gaze shifted to the door as though contemplating calling for help, but Branok held a pamphlet aloft and hurled it toward the king. The pamphlet fell short and landed facing upwards on the bedclothes, its title, ‘Daemonologie’, clear for James to see.

  As he did so, James nodded and composed himself.

  ‘It’s been many years, Branok,’ he said. ‘and much has changed in that time.’

  ‘It would seem so!’ Branok roared, and yet the guards outside did not stir. James sat up a little straighter.

  ‘James, son of Mary, daughter of James, daughter of Margaret, daughter of Henry,’ Branok recited, flicking out a finger as he counted each of the king’s ancestors.

  ‘Each of them knew their place, knew their role. Knew how they came to power.’

  Branok scuttled around the bed and stood over the king, his chest heaving and eyes bloodshot.

  ‘And you have turned against us all! The blood in your veins is precious, and in time you will unite Great Britain and Ireland. And yet it is my doing! By my arts! The very arts you so utterly condemn in that piece of heresy!’ With this final word, Branok slammed his hand down upon the pamphlet and, in so doing, the leg of the king, who remained placid as the warlock raged.

  ‘I sat idly by as you attended witch trials that condemned innocents to death, thinking that it was but a phase, perhaps the influence of your new bride. But years pass and now this? Satanism, necromancy, sorcery and witchcraft, all thrown together and condemned. This is nothing short of a call to arms against what is left of my kind! And why? What did I do, oh king, to offend thee so?’ said Branok, and finally his tirade was at an end. He sat down upon th
e edge of the bed and waited for an answer, for repentance and for succour.

  ‘You are in a pact with the Devil, sir,’ said King James, his voice calm, ‘and your arts are an abomination against the Lord our God. As his representative on this Earth, it is my duty and my pleasure to root out your kind and see them sent back to hell, sir. If I have been fortunate enough to land in this position, it is through God’s work not yours, and you blaspheme by suggesting otherwise. I have broken your coven, Branok, as I will break your hold on my family. It is by my affection alone that you survive, but you will not attend court again. Now leave Scotland, and remember that if I hear of you again, the full might of the law will be used against you.’

  Branok, hands shaking, stood, and he looked down upon James, the king that he had created, the boy who was to be his, as Arthur belonged to Merlin. He backed away a step.

  ‘You will not see me again, boy, and you may go on despising me,’ he said at last, licking his dry lips. ‘but I will be watching over you nonetheless. The blood in your veins is sacred indeed, but not because there is one on high who deems it so. You will have a son, Charles, and perhaps he will know me better than does his father.’

  Branok turned and stalked from the room then on through the castle, his eyes brimming with tears. He fled out into the night and found his horse then rode hard southward towards England as though the drumming of hooves might drown out the recriminations running through his mind.

  The years wore on, and Branok entered the employ of Sir Robert Carey, taking up residence in a small cottage on the family estate. He practised his arts and kept abreast of the news of the day in the dwindling years of the reign of Elizabeth I of England and Ireland. James VI’s queen gave him first a son, Henry, and yet Branok’s divinations told him the boy would not live. A fear grew in him that James’s malevolence against the powers of his making had soured his seed, but, to his great relief, the queen gave birth to another son, Charles, in 1600. As the infant drew his first breath, Branok stirred in his bed and knew that a future king had been born - Charles I of Great Britain.