The Dark Age

by Traci Harding

  He wasn’t speaking modern English, but what sounded like an obscure form of Welsh. Tory was able to discern this as Welsh and its ascendant Brythanic were like second languages to her. Her father’s passion for the old tongues of his people was such that he persisted in using them most of the time.

  Tory stopped some distance away from the men as they appeared a rather ominous bunch: unshaven and unwashed, their armour tainted with blood.

  ‘What say thee, Majesty?’ One of the younger men commented to the dark-haired man beside him. ‘She be a feisty challenge, and I could use the exercise.’ His request was met with much encouragement from his companions.

  Tory didn’t like his tone of voice, yet the word ‘majesty’ played on her mind. She turned to the one the young man had addressed thus; he did seem to possess a certain regal disposition that set him apart from the others. He sat quietly, observing Tory’s attire with a very curious expression, before placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder to advise him. ‘This woman doth employ a tongue and dress the like of none we have seen before. Caution Brockwell, a witch be said to haunt this place.’

  ‘What!’ Tory exclaimed.

  ‘I am not afraid,’ Brockwell said. ‘If she be a witch, thou shalt have her head.’

  The dark-haired man looked at Tory and, with some encouragement from the rest of the men, smiled to give Brockwell his consent.

  The hair on the back of Tory’s neck stood on end. She stepped away as Brockwell dismounted. These guys are serious … ‘Now hold on,’ Tory cried out. ‘Could I speak to the man in charge for a moment, please?’ She made her way towards them hoping to appease the situation.

  ‘I would start running if I were thee.’ Brockwell moved to intercept her.

  ‘Brockwell, one moment,’ the dark-haired man said, gravely. This woman bore a vague resemblance to his deceased mother, so he allowed her to voice her protest.

  Tory nodded politely, grateful for the chance to reason with him. ‘Why, may I ask, dost thou think me a witch?’

  Brockwell began to answer but his superior held up a hand and replied, ‘If thou art not a witch, then why dost thou appear so uncouth?’

  ‘Uncouth!’ she repeated. ‘Ye all appear very strange to my eyes, I assure thee. Doth this mean that I should conclude that thou art involved in demonic practices and deserve to die? With no proof, no means to defend thyself.’ Tory realised she was being a little over-dramatic, but she had him thinking. ‘Be this thy concept of justice?’

  Brockwell went for his sword. ‘Who art thou to question a Prince of Gwynedd! I shall sever thy head from thy shoulders for such insolence.’

  The Prince waved him to silence, but with a smile this time. ‘Brockwell, I do believe I see her point.’ He paused to consider her words. ‘What dost thou suggest I do, give thee a weapon to slay one of my own men? This would seem rather absurd, would it not?’ With this his men broke into laughter.

  Tory held her tongue until they had finished. They’ll all be laughing on the other side of their faces by the time I’m finished with them. ‘May I suggest a solution that I consider to be fair?’

  ‘Please,’ the Prince implored her, rather intrigued by her manner.

  ‘If thy friend here removes his sword and protective armour, I would like to fight him for safe passage.’ Tory chose her words carefully. ‘If thou art agreeable, I would consider that a good show.’

  Again the Prince and his knights, including young Brockwell, fell about laughing. The Prince had to question this further. ‘Am I to understand, that thee wishes to fight Brockwell with thy bare hands?’

  Tory was not fazed and pretended to ignore their mocking good cheer. ‘Why?’ she asked, giving Brockwell the once over, ‘dost thou not think him up to it?’

  With this the Prince and his knights were beside themselves, however Brockwell’s humour was dwindling. The Prince wiped a tear from his cheek as he caught his breath. ‘I think it be only fair to warn thee, Brockwell be my champion, he hast never been defeated in game or battle.’

  This announcement made Brockwell even more smug, and he stripped off his armour to reveal a sweaty, muscular body. His long dark hair, a mass of knotted curls, clung to his bare skin. He reminded Tory of her brother, as their eyes were the same piercing blue. He was no taller than her but looked to be twice her body weight in muscle alone. All the better, she concluded. It will slow him down.

  ‘I am not worried,’ Tory assured them.

  ‘I can see that.’ The Prince looked down at her, shaking his head. ‘Still, I fear Brockwell will snap thy tiny frame like a twig.’

  Tory found this comment rather charming and smiled as she reminded him, ‘Only a moment ago thee gave Brockwell leave to violate me in whatever way he saw fit. Be there a difference?’

  The Prince acknowledged this to be true, realising that he may have been a bit rash.

  ‘She shall bewitch thee, Majesty. Speak to her no longer.’ Brockwell stepped forward to draw the Prince’s attention away from Tory. ‘I am more than happy to rip her limb from limb with my bare hands.’

  The Prince was now rather reluctant to give him leave, but his men would indeed think him bewitched if he did not. ‘So be it.’

  ‘Safe passage, remember.’ Tory received a nod of confirmation from the Prince before she backed up to prepare herself. She took off her jacket and wrapped her hair quickly into a bun to prevent it from being pulled. Where on earth am I? Tory found some tape in her bag and bound her hands as she did for competition, managing the task within minutes. She decided she must find out who this prince claimed to be; if there was one thing she knew thoroughly it was British history.

  She walked towards Brockwell and, after rolling up her sleeves, turned her cap around backwards so that she could see clearly. ‘So, might I ask thy name before I meet my fate?’ Tory said to the Prince.

  ‘No Majesty. Do not answer.’ Brockwell intervened, his fiery eyes fixed on Tory.

  ‘I must also insist,’ the eldest knight added.

  The Prince was obliged to heed the advice of his men. ‘Afterwards perhaps.’

  ‘There will be no afterwards,’ Brockwell assured him.

  Tory pretended to be indifferent. ‘Alright then, if that be the way of it.’ She resumed her dry, confident tone of voice. ‘I will just have to beat it out of thy boy here.’

  Tory purposely turned her back on her opponent, walking slowly and confidently into the circle of stones to take her place. She could feel Brockwell’s rage build to breaking point when she called him a boy, as this was obviously something he worked hard to disprove. Seconds later, and with a total disregard for chivalry, Brockwell came charging at her from behind. She stopped to time the impending impact and turned her body slightly to take the great weight of his body over her right shoulder.

  He was mumbling something to the effect of, ‘I will teach thee some respect …’ before he’d even realised he was airborne.

  Tory brought him crashing to the ground on his back. She went down on one knee and buried an elbow deep into his solar plexus before darting backwards to a safe distance.

  It was clear that Brockwell had no idea what had happened. The other knights, who were laughing at Brockwell’s misfortune, began teasing him from their mounts. ‘Good show!’ the Prince commented to Tory in encouragement, surprised that she was not dead already.

  It didn’t take Brockwell long to recover. He got back to his feet, and was seething with humiliation. ‘I shall rip thy heart out and rape thee while thy body be still warm,’ he taunted, stalking her.

  Tory kept her humour. Brockwell was seeming more and more like her brother who had made worse threats over the years to frighten her into retreat. ‘My, my, that be a vivid picture, still I do not think so somehow,’ Tory replied. Brockwell lunged forward to grab her neck but she pulled his arms to either side of her, kneeing his stomach. This sent him stumbling backwards, and before he’d had a chance to recover, Tory spun a full 360 degrees to finish him off
with a kick to the side of his head. Her adrenalin was pumping now and it felt good. She looked back to the Prince, who appeared rather wonderstruck. ‘Champion indeed,’ she said. ‘What dost thou think, three points and I win?’

  The Prince merely motioned behind her.

  Tory turned to find Brockwell on his feet, blood oozing from the side of his face where her steel-capped boot had hit. With no time for her to fend off the blow, he punched her in exactly the same place, putting the full force of his body behind it. As she hit the ground it felt as if he had shattered her cheekbone. There is no pain, she told herself as she saw Brockwell approaching to finish her off.

  ‘My dreams are filled with better than the likes of thee,’ Brockwell spat in disgust, bending down to pull her to her feet.

  Tory instinctively went into a tuck position. She grabbed hold of Brockwell’s arms as he leant down, and used her feet to propel him over her and onto his back. She flipped herself onto her stomach, taking hold of Brockwell round the front of the neck to temporarily paralyse him by applying pressure to the vital points located there. She maintained a firm hold, pointing to the Prince with her free hand. ‘Very soon he will be dead. Dost thou yield to spare this boy’s life?’

  Brockwell tried to shake loose of her grasp, his face red from the strain.

  ‘I yield and pronounce thee victorious this day,’ the Prince told her.

  ‘And thy name?’ Tory asked, as Brockwell began to squirm harder.

  The eldest of the advisers whispered quietly to the Prince, ‘Majesty, I beseech thee …’

  ‘I swear I will kill him,’ Tory yelled impatiently.

  Little did she know that the life she held in her hand belonged not only to the Prince’s Champion and best friend, but to his cousin who was a duke no less. The Prince was not about to let him die.

  ‘I am Maelgwn, son of King Caswallon of Gwynedd,’ he shouted. ‘And if thee would kindly release my knight, I will be greatly indebted to thee.’

  Tory let Brockwell go; it would take him at least a few minutes to recover. She got to her feet, her mind in motion. Maelgwn, a Welsh king, she recalled. Tory guessed him to be around the same age as herself. Now then, when was he supposed to have been born? Around the late fifth century if memory serves. ‘So what year be this?’ she asked. ‘Around five twenty?’

  The Prince, though surprised by the question, answered. ‘Five nineteen, to be exact.’

  Tory held her face where Brockwell had hit her. Maelgwn, Maelgwn? Damn, what did they call him? A cold chill ran down her spine as it dawned on her. ‘Prince Maelgwn, Dragon of the Isle. I believe our meeting may have been intended.’ Tory removed her cap to reveal the Dragon on her forehead. ‘Recognise this?’

  Upon seeing the mark there was a rumbling of discontent among the knights. The Prince, appearing a mite stunned himself, raised the shield from the side of his horse and turned it to face Tory; it bore the same Dragon.

  Tory squealed with amazement. ‘Dost thou know who put it there?’ she asked.

  ‘Nay, who?’ the Prince mistook her meaning.

  ‘Well, I am afraid I don’t know,’ she explained, mildly disappointed. Tory stopped mid-thought, feeling the cold steel of a sword at her throat; she could only assume Brockwell had recovered.

  ‘No common woman possesses such skills, thou art in cahoots with demons.’

  ‘I agree.’ A heavyset, red-headed knight spoke up. ‘Do it, Brockwell.’

  ‘This doth not say much for thy word,’ Tory squeezed out, looking to Maelgwn. She dared not move, to save cutting her own throat.

  ‘Brockwell, withdraw thy sword,’ Maelgwn ordered.

  ‘But Majesty, hast she caused thee to take leave of thy senses. Did thee not see?’

  ‘Calin!’ Maelgwn’s voice thundered, shocking Brockwell to silence. ‘I ordered thee to yield!’

  Tory was beginning to see why they called Maelgwn the Dragon. Brockwell reluctantly slid the sword away, making sure he nicked her neck in the process. She touched her throat to discover he’d drawn blood. ‘Thee did that on purpose,’ she accused him, angered by the scar it would leave.

  ‘Aye.’ He glared at her a moment, his wild blue eyes ablaze with hate and fear. He replaced his sword in its scabbard and moved to retrieve his armour.

  ‘Majesty,’ the eldest knight pointed behind them, where a single rider made haste towards the group.

  ‘Now what?’ Tory grumbled, nursing her wound.

  ‘Cadogan,’ the red-headed knight announced with good cheer, riding off to meet him halfway.

  As the party seemed more interested in their comrade, Tory backed up quietly to collect her gear. Fairly confident that she knew where she was, she’d definitely decided that she wanted to be elsewhere. Why me? Tory slipped on her jacket and zipped it all the way up. Because you always wanted to come here. She hoisted on her backpack, looking over at the knights to see that the horseman had reached them.

  A few torrid words passed between Cadogan and the others, before the Prince ordered them all to move out at once.

  Something has got them worried. What would these men fear? Tory watched as the knights rode off ahead of the Prince who turned and rode towards her direction, his expression grave.

  Brockwell, who had taken off after the others, pulled up when he noticed. ‘Nay Majesty, please. She will only slow thee down.’

  ‘I promised safe passage. I cannot leave her to Saxon mercy. Go with the others, I will catch thee up by nightfall.’ Maelgwn was angry at his knight’s incessant disrespect. He had his reasons for wanting to spare this girl and his decision would be questioned by none bar his father. ‘Go!’ He stressed the urgency.

  The thundering sound of horses’ hooves and wagons, perhaps hundreds of them, rose to a deafening roar as they approached from the hill behind them. Brockwell had to move now, or he would never make it round the ridge unseen.

  ‘Saxons,’ Tory whispered, knowing them to be one of the more barbaric tribes of the time.

  ‘Climb on,’ the Prince said. ‘I shall take us around the other way, through the forest.’

  Tory backed away; he was an important historical figure and she would not be responsible for getting him killed. ‘Nay, thee will never outrun them with me …’

  ‘Do not argue with me woman, get on,’ the Prince snapped, short on patience and time.

  The Saxon tribe emerged over the crest of the hill and a few of the riders bolted on ahead in pursuit of the Prince’s party.

  ‘They must have spotted Brockwell.’ Tory took hold of the Prince’s arm, and with one almighty heave Maelgwn lifted her, bags and all, onto the saddle behind him.

  ‘Hold on,’ he cautioned as he turned the horse around and headed off down the ridge towards the forest.

  3

  THE PACT

  The Prince rode hard for well over an hour, but the forest had become so dense that he was forced to slow his steed down to a walking pace.

  Tory wasn’t too fond of horses and had found the ride a rather harrowing experience. Still, she was calm now, as she sat in silence, resting her head against her escort’s back.

  Her rest was interrupted as the horse came to an abrupt standstill. Tory opened her eyes and withdrew her arms from around the Prince. They had reached a stream, which was a welcome sight indeed for it had been a long time between drinks. The Prince threw a leg over the horse and slid off, turning to help Tory.

  She could feel herself blushing; she’d never received this kind of treatment back home. Most of the guys Tory had hung out with were her brother’s friends who’d never wasted any airs and graces on her. If they had, she probably would have found it patronising and decked them.

  ‘I believe we have reached a safe distance,’ he assured her, leading his horse to the stream.

  When the Prince crouched down to take a drink, splashing his face and neck, Tory took off her cumbersome backpack and followed suit. The water relieved her aching cheek. Over the past few hours it had constantly re
minded her of how cocky she’d been, and how stupid — turning her back on an opponent during a fight. The slice Brockwell had made on her neck stung like a paper cut, and became even more irritated when she washed it. Tory then let her hair loose and brushed out the knots, before tossing the brush back in her pack.

  Only then did she notice that the Prince had taken a seat and was watching her with some amusement.

  ‘Thou art so extraordinary,’ Maelgwn said. ‘By what name art thou known?’

  ‘Tory Alexander,’ she answered, feeling slightly embarrassed. ‘Tory, to my friends.’

  ‘And, where art thou from?’

  This was a tricky question and she didn’t want to pause too long to consider it, in case he thought she was concocting a lie. ‘My home be far away, in a country known as Australia.’

  The Prince seemed perplexed by her answer. ‘Then how can it be that I, who consider myself to be fairly well learned, have no knowledge of this place? And how be it that thee speaks my tongue if thou art not from these parts?’

  ‘Ah well, my country will not be discovered for another twelve hundred years. As for speaking thy tongue, my father teaches British history and language. He was born a Briton himself, or Welsh as they be known in my time.’

  The Prince was taken aback a moment. ‘Thou art from the future?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Tory looked him straight in the eye, hoping he wouldn’t think her mad.

  ‘What year doth thou claim to be from?’ Maelgwn asked. ‘The truth now,’ he added firmly.

  ‘I was born in the year nineteen sixty-six,’ she began. ‘Yesterday, for me, was the year nineteen ninety-three.’

  The Prince rose in fury, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  It was only now that Tory realised how tall he was. He stood at a little under two metres and towered over her. This was unusual for one of his race in this period in history, as most of the Britons were more akin to her height, as Brockwell was.

  Tory held out her hand to calm him. ‘I think I can prove it, if thee will just hear me out.’