by Jacob Sannox
Men on horseback had formed a line along the ridge, men in long black boots and soldiers’ coats with Roundhead lobster helms on their heads and cavalry sabres at their sides.
One man only had dismounted, clad in similar fashion, but with a red officer’s sash around his waist and a broad-brimmed hat instead of a helm. He was girt with an ancient broadsword, which hung from his belt in a battered leather scabbard, quite out of keeping with his immaculate uniform.
His blue eyes were keen and a brown beard flecked with grey disguised his lower face.
‘Are you injured, Branok?’ said Arthur, standing before the fallen man and offering his hand.
Branok leapt to his feet.
‘You fought for Parliament?’ he shouted, once more balling his fists. ‘You of all people?’
In seconds, four more of the men had dismounted and were advancing on him, swords drawn, but Arthur checked their progress with a wave of his hand.
‘You know me better than that, Branok,’ said Arthur. ‘but Parliament did win the field this day, and we have no desire to be caught as Royalists, though I am full aware of the irony. We must needs escape the field to advance our cause elsewhere,’ he concluded.
Arthur reached out and grasped Branok’s wrist then hauled him to his feet.
‘What renders you as naught but a bundle of sobbing rags in the dirt?’ Arthur asked.
Branok took control of his breathing and wiped away tears with his forearm. He almost rebuked Arthur for his stark words, but saw only pity in the man’s face.
‘Boye,’ he said, quiet so only Arthur could hear.
Arthur frowned.
‘I cannot offer you sympathies for your loss, Branok. That business is beyond my understanding and, in truth, I cannot condone it. Perhaps Merlin would better understand your motives and your grief, but alas, he is not amongst us,’ said Arthur.
Branok laughed, a cruel and humourless sound.
‘So says Arthur, whose legacy utterly depends on the antics of a wizard in ages past!’
‘Whatever Merlin may be, he is no witch,’ said Arthur. The words fell with weight.
Branok shrugged, wanting nothing more than to be free of this man and this place, to find comfort elsewhere.
‘Where now then?’ said Arthur. ‘We would be willing to escort you to safety.’
‘I go wherever Prince Rupert goes,’ said Branok. ‘If you will not take up arms, then he may be King Charles’s only hope of victory.’
‘So be it. Our paths lie in different directions,’ said Arthur.
‘Unless you can be persuaded,’ said Branok.
‘I am resolute,’ said Arthur.
‘You could unite the people, Arthur. End this war,’ Branok pleaded, admonishing himself silently as he did so. Would he truly allow himself to be drawn into this once more.
At this Galahad spurred his horse on and looked down at Branok, diminutive and sullen in his mud-covered cloak.
‘Did you look out upon the field today?’ he asked.
Branok looked up to meet his gaze, making no answer.
‘I saw, what,’ Galahad looked at Arthur for assistance, ‘Thirty, maybe forty thousand English troops making war against one another today?’ Arthur made no response and Galahad returned his attention to Branok.
‘I did not see a people that is prepared to be united. Today the people won a battle against their king, who believes he rules over them by divine right, despite their discontent. And you would ask Arthur to add to this anarchy?’
‘They would pay heed to Arthur!’ Branok shouted, almost shrieked.
‘They would not,’ said Arthur. ‘The world has moved on. We were summoned in vain, Branok. England is not ready, and may never be.’
‘What then? You will turn coat to blend in with the victors at the close of every battle? Watch your own backs and raise your banner if and when it suits you?’ spat Branok.
Tristan stormed forward and seized Branok by his coat.
‘You speak boldly, witch, and against one you claim to support. Have a care,’ said Tristan. Branok smiled, seeing the knight attempting to master his temper.
‘Arthur has made his position quite clear, lapdog, but my duty is to Charles and his line. Where does your duty lie, Arthur?’ Branok pulled back against Tristan’s tightening grip as he turned, feeling the knight’s breath breaking against his cheek.
‘My duty is to England,’ said Arthur. ‘And I can do only what I can. Release him, Tristan, we must be away. There is nothing we can do here.’
Branok backed away.
‘Aye, ride away, Arthur. Ride fast and do not look back. I will not forget you abandoned Charles in his time of need,’ Branok promised. He stood silently as Arthur’s men returned to their saddles and rode off down the hillside once more.
Merlin’s boy, he thought. A dream and nothing more.
Branok did not follow Prince Rupert immediately. The word in the surrounding villages was that he had retreated to York with the remaining Royalist forces. Instead, Branok spent several days sleeping under hedgerows and in abandoned buildings while he waited for the aftermath of the battle to settle into nothing. On the third night after the battle, he returned to the desolate moors and walked out upon the scarlet grass, the souls of the thousands of newly dead crowding round him, breathing on the back of his neck and clawing at him in vain. He paid them no heed, though for the most part, they had fought for his king and for that, he knew, he owed them courtesy. But his mind was taken up with other matters for the present.
This was the first decisive loss for Prince Rupert and deep in his guts, Branok feared it heralded many more, that this war would end as had no other. That the throne would sit empty and another would rule. He knew it, he foresaw it.
There, making use of the items within his satchel, Branok drew his circle. He placed his tokens, and he began the ritual. The spirits of the dead rushed him and trampled his will. He fought back, pushing his way through them and clawing for air, though his body remained perfectly still within the circle. He spoke with them, vetted them and selected from among them. And then his will gave out, and Branok collapsed within the circle, knowing nothing more.
He awoke at dawn to the sound of ravens cawing as though within his own head. He opened his eyes, seeing only dew-covered grass. He shivered and ached, but moved slowly until he was sitting up.
Six ravens, one standing at each point of the pentagram within the circle and one at the very centre. Branok laughed and nodded to each in turn. The ravens lowered their heads one by one then called out in unison.
Branok closed his eyes and reached out for them, still shivering.
‘Branok,’ a voice rasped.
He opened his eyes. The ravens were gone and in their place were six naked people, three men and three women. They each smiled and then let out a caw. The sound resonated behind Branok’s eyes, and his vision blurred. For a moment, he saw them as ravens once more. Ravens taking flight. Flying south.
Then Branok lost consciousness once more.
He awoke a short time later and was alone. He reassembled his satchel and set out back to his lodgings in Long Marston to prepare for his journey to York.
Chapter Nine
October 2019
Bare branches swayed in the chill wind, and leaves swirled around Branok as he strolled along the Serpentine in Hyde Park, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, collar turned up.
He frowned as the sound of a wailing siren became audible even above the rushing sound of traffic and shook his head as he turned down towards Hyde Park Corner, walking along tarmac paths bordered by neatly kept grass. He crossed over Knightsbridge and stopped for a few minutes to take in the war memorial then snorted with contempt and turned his back. Branok passed through Wellington Arch before walking on along Constitution Hill with the wall to Buckingham Palace gardens to his right.
He reached out and allowed the soft pads of his fingertips to trail against the rough stone as he walked, savouring his closeness to the
occupants of the palace beyond. Ahead of him, a figure bundled with coats, scarves and a hat, legs in a sleeping bag, sat up against the wall. A plastic cup weighed down with a few coins sat on the adjacent ground.
The figure did not move as Branok drew closer. The warlock reached down and laid a hand on the figure’s shoulder. She looked up at him, slowly, and her eyes, irises as black as her pupils, held an agelessness and nobility that belied her grubby skin and the reek that surrounded her. She peered up at him through greasy, tangled black hair.
Branok smiled, squeezing her shoulder, and she acknowledged him with the smallest of nods.
‘The others?’ asked Branok.
‘We are watching, as we have ever done,’ Daisy replied.
Branok crouched beside her, his coat puddling around him as he did so.
‘My dear, you have done far more than that,’ he said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Daisy, maintaining eye contact, a smile hiding just below the surface of her placid face. She lit a cigarette and offered one to Branok, who shook his head.
‘Fetch your brothers and sisters, and bring them to the Banqueting House. We will assemble there,’ said Branok. ‘There, where it ended.’
Daisy nodded, and Branok stood then walked on along Constitution Hill. He looked back only once and saw that Daisy was gone. The plastic cup full of coins remained, sitting abandoned on the pavement. A raven’s caw faded as the bird flew west towards Kensington.
Branok walked on, pausing for a short while to cast his eye over Buckingham Palace when he reached the front. He stood by the railings, accompanied only by tourists and the odd courting couple. He surveyed the many windows and noted the Coldstream Guards in their red tunics and towering bearskin hats. The palace was impressive, for certain, and Branok had no concerns for its security. How different it was to the Palace of Whitehall where the Stuart kings had ruled, now long burned to the ground, only the Banqueting House still standing.
He walked on down the Mall then cut along a path through St James’s Park and Horse Guards Parade, through the arch in the grand buildings of Horse Guards themselves.
Branok stood on Whitehall, now nothing more than a road with as much traffic as any of those nearby. He looked up at the Banqueting House then crossed the road, darting between oncoming taxis to stand before the building. Near the corner, mounted on the wall above head height was a bronze bust, the sight of which forced Branok to choke back tears of rage and loss. He read the plaque below, which began:
King Charles I
1625 – 1649
Branok shivered as he looked up at the statue as though in expectation that the likeness of his friend and king would look down to meet his gaze.
Passers-by paid Branok no heed, for he was dressed as one of them, just a man looking up at yet another historic building. He clasped the railings while he waited, thinking back on the day when he had stood in this very place, how he had come to prevent the king’s execution. How his best efforts had been foiled.
‘My lord,’ said Daisy, and Branok stepped back to greet her, mastering his building emotions, but not so much that the dull ache in his chest disappeared.
His six familiars stood before him. The ravens of the Tower formed a tight semi-circle a few paces behind him.
Daisy with her black eyes and hair, studded leather jacket and boots. She wore a T-shirt with a band logo. Daisy appeared no more than nineteen, cigarette in hand, a fog of smoke about her.
Joseph, taller than the rest, black of beard, eyes of pure white though he was not blind, but he did carry a white cane nonetheless.
Faith, plaited red hair with jet beads tied within, a long brown coat hanging down by her booted feet. Shocking red eyes, and a guitar case in hand.
Martha, tinted glasses disguising golden eyes, wearing a pinstripe trouser suit and holding a briefcase.
Isaac, lithe and dressed in a green paramedic jumpsuit. His eyes were shocking blue and his hair was blonde.
Nathaniel, appearing no more than five. His irises were silver, and his fingers grasped Faith’s coat.
Branok cleared his throat, resisting the urge to clasp his familiars to him.
‘I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible Crown, where no disturbance can be,’ he recited Charles I’s words with ease, as they had haunted him for centuries.
‘An incorruptible Crown,’ he repeated as if to himself before stepping forward into their semi-circle.
They tilted their heads, out of sync with one another, turning, snapping their heads round, he supposed out of habit, to look at him from the corners of their eyes. He half expected them to caw when first they spoke.
‘Better a corruptible Crown than no Crown at all,’ said Nathaniel in his high, child’s voice.
The rest nodded once, as one.
‘The Crown may have been stripped of its political power, but it has endured and is more stable than it ever has been. The blood endures, and yet the people of this Great Britain would turn the monarch and her kin out into the street. I will not allow it, my children,’ said Branok. He reached out and caressed Martha’s jaw with the back of his fingers. ‘Not again.’
‘The people must be made to see their worth,’ said Daisy.
Joseph snorted a laugh.
‘The only time they see their worth is when one of them marries, one of them dies or when the country is under threat,’ he said. ‘They adore a spectacle.’
Branok moved to stand before Joseph, looking into his white eyes.
‘Insightful as ever, Joseph,’ he said, smiling, and the raven understood.
‘They’re all married now, at least the more prominent amongst them,’ said Martha.
‘Kill and threaten then,’ said Nathaniel in his sing-song voice, playing at standing on one leg.
Branok frowned.
‘This is no place to plot,’ he said. ‘Go now and make your way in the world as best you can. I will summon each of you in turn, and we will make our plans.’
Faith reached for Nathaniel’s hand, and she led him away, appearing for all intents and purposes a young mother and son. Joseph bade Branok farewell and walked slowly towards the road, tapping and sweeping the pavement with his white cane.
Isaac, Martha and Daisy filtered into the crowds that walked the pavements. Immediately they were lost to Branok’s eyes, but not his vision. He sensed them very well indeed.
He grasped the rails once more and stared up at the cold, immoveable statue, the likeness of Charles staring out across Whitehall, as if through the buildings in the direction of Buckingham Palace.
‘I will do all I can, my friend,’ Branok said aloud, heedless of those around him. A woman took a tight hold on her handbag and gave him a wide berth.
‘I failed you all those years ago, but I have made up for it since,’ Branok hissed. ‘I returned your boy to power and restored the crown to his head. Your family wear it still. Perhaps when I see you again, my successes will merit your forgiveness.’
Charles’s gaze remained fixed above the heads of his people.
As it should, I suppose, thought Branok. As it should.
A gust set him shivering, and his mind turned to more earthly concerns – a roof over his head and food in his belly. But where and how in this infernal place, this abomination of the London he had known?
Branok sought shelter.
Chapter Ten
Monday 29th of January 1649
Charles I is a prisoner of the Parliamentarians. He has been found guilty of treason.
The raven settled on a window ledge of St. James’s Palace and peered in through the glass, shaking out its wings and observing the scene within. Through the raven’s eyes, Branok saw King Charles I embrace the sobbing Princess Elizabeth, just 11 years old, to his breast, fighting back his own tears as he did his best to calm her.
‘Sweetheart, you will forget this,’ said Charles, his voice soothing but trembling ever so slightly.
The raven, Isaac, watched as the king bade his two
youngest children obey their older brother, Charles, soon to be the rightful king, and then the bird flew out across Hyde Park in search of Branok. He found the warlock crouching by one of the river Westbourne’s many ponds. Isaac landed and, the change itself imperceptible, he appeared in the form of a high-born youth with fine clothes and a wispy beard.
‘He is too well guarded,’ concluded Branok before Isaac could give his report.
‘Whether we kill one soldier or a thousand, I do not believe that we can prevent this, lord,’ said Isaac.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Branok. ‘but I will not allow it to go unopposed. Daisy has her task, and there is hope we may free him yet.’
4am - Tuesday 30th of January 1649
Shortly before dawn, Richard Brandon, the public executioner, held out his goblet so a serving girl could fill it with wine. Brandon thanked her and drank deep. He set down the goblet on the desk before him then returned to his diary.
He dipped the nib of a quill in an inkwell and continued writing. He wrote of the task before him the next morning, and of how when tasked with beheading the king, he had refused. He wrote of the threats directed at his family should he fail in his duty, but he never finished recording the thought. Richard Brandon’s eyelids drooped and the strokes of his quill became ever more erratic until finally his head slumped forward so that his chin hit his chest. He dropped his quill, and his flailing arm knocked aside the goblet, spilling the fine red so that it streamed across the oak surface of the desk. It flowed over the edge of the table and stained the floor.
The door to his study opened, and the serving girl entered the room already carrying a cloth. She saw Brandon in his collapsed state and, without hesitation, moved to his side. She righted the goblet, and mopped up the wine and sedative with the cloth. Daisy, Branok’s familiar, looked down upon the executioner, her eyes solid black. She read from his diary over his shoulder then plucked it from the desk and, after a moment of consideration, she threw the book into the fireplace where it kindled to flame. Quietly, she locked the room behind her and left the house to go out into the night.
