The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  “Events have overtaken us all,” said the monk. “Who would have foreseen the destruction of the abbeys and the complete suppression of the true religion?”

  “It was inevitable, I suppose,” agreed the archbishop, wearily. “I saw it coming, but made the wrong decisions.”

  “And the people must accept new beliefs.”

  “You are one of the displaced monks, I presume.” Wolsey squinted at the intruder in the candle-light. “The troubles are not my fault, you know. My eyes are not so good, but I recognise your Franciscan habit. Presumably you have a pension to live on? I was told that the houses were suppressed peacefully.”

  “Most of the canons at my abbey retired,” said the monk, “but there were some who challenged the theft of our treasures and relics. They were slaughtered by the bailiffs.”

  The archbishop sat up. “Outrageous,” he said. “Is the Law going to do nothing about that?”

  “The Law has been misled. I saw the records,” said the monk. “They state there were ten canons in my house, and all people present were granted pensions. In fact there were more; I knew those brothers who resisted. They were brave men. But that will get lost in history I expect.”

  “History is written by the victors and the powerful,” agreed the archbishop. “I wonder what they’ll say about me... if I get a mention after the king has finished with me.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said the monk, “but I sense you are ready to leave this life. You are weary.”

  “I cannot see that I will survive long, once I get to London. If I don’t get as far as the block, the Tower is not a pleasant place for one of my advanced years.”

  “You wouldn’t consider ending your life earlier?”

  “That would be a sin against God,” exclaimed the archbishop. “Would that I could, but I cannot.”

  “I can help you,” the monk suggested.

  “Murder me, you mean?” The man groaned. “As I suspected. They don’t want me to get to London.”

  “Not exactly murder,” said the monk.

  “You would be a wanted man.”

  “I don’t think anyone will bother. Consider, are you sure you want to die?”

  “And cheat the King Hal of his entertainment?” The archbishop scratched his head. “Hah, most certainly. Do it now. With luck the king will be accused of murder; sweet revenge. Here, stab me quickly. I expect it will hurt, but I will not cry out.”

  “It will not hurt, my lord. Lie back on your bed. There will be no mess. I need no weapon.”

  “Grammercy,” said the archbishop. “You must indeed be an angel of compassion.”

  The monk reached out. A soft glow surrounded them both, as he gently absorbed the life essence. The old man smiled and closed his eyes. The monk breathed deeply as he garnered a few more months of life.

  “I understand,” he said as he gazed at the peaceful expression on the archbishop’s face. “I have a choice. I can steal life to continue, or I can take it when given willingly. Either way, I have to survive. The lady will need me.”

  Present Day

  A

  nkerita’s gleaming old Ford ate up the miles along the motorway. George had insisted on completely filling the tank with petrol, despite Ankerita’s protests. After all, this was still the Chariot, wasn’t it? It didn’t need fuel.

  The music on the player sent her into a haze of concentration, as she avoided caravans and lorries travelling barely faster than the other caravans and lorries they were overtaking. She tried to use the power of her mind to move the drivers out of the way, but the best reaction she got was the occasional suggestive hand signal.

  Visibility became worse as she headed west, with a steady drizzle, and spray from the larger vehicles, but she pressed on regardless. Ankerita was on a mission.

  In a plush office on the thirteenth floor of a very tall building in the City, a darkly, handsome woman in her mid-thirties suddenly came to attention. Fantasia M. W. Stanhope, as it said on the door to her suite, was the CEO of the Stanhope Security Empire.

  Fantasia scanned a bank of images on a huge flat-screen at the end of her sumptuous office, and brought one of them into the fore. She could see a car on a motorway, as picked up by one of the traffic cameras her systems were monitoring. She couldn’t make out the number-plate because of the spray, but she could see the life-force of the girl within. She was tuned to this energy. In all her connections to the vast network of surveillance, speed and traffic cameras, this one creature stood out like a supernova.

  “Got you at last, bitch.” She brought up the list of her road agents. “Now who’s nearest?”

  The Stanhope Securities organisation that Fantasia headed up, provided finance and insurance for many small businesses in and around the City. It had begun when Fantasia’s grandfather arrived years ago, illegally, from the Eastern Bloc with a few trusted lieutenants. He was escaping one of the many persecutions levelled at stopping entrepreneurs earning, what he called, ‘an independent income’ out there.

  The gang had begun by visiting a number of corner shops, offering to make sure that nothing ‘unfortunate’ happened to their businesses. As time went on, their benevolent view of insurance provision, and their ability to make sure that these businesses continued trading without suffering the overburden of normal tax and insurance premiums, led to word getting round, and an alternative economy started to emerge.

  Fantasia’s father, born in the old country, but brought up in the UK, had been a modern thinker. After paying an obliging British drug addict to marry him, he locked her away in a room for six months until she was free of the habit and fell in love with her. He changed his name to Stanhope, it being loosely an anagram of the village his family had come from, and became a full British citizen.

  During this time, Fantasia’s grandfather had passed on, and her father, after achieving a qualification in business administration, took a closer look at the ‘firm’. He calculated that, by using the income to provide a genuine alternative to conventional insurance, he could undercut all the standard premiums, and develop a legitimate enterprise.

  He knew that honest people were being made to pay inflated insurance rates, to counter those who were dishonestly scamming the system, so he put together a team of military-trained insurance ‘investigators’. His clientele rapidly realised that ‘dishonesty’ in their claims was not an option. Any attempt at deceit would be dealt with firmly, and other goods would be confiscated to compensate for the cost of supplying the enforcers. The service was extended to suppliers and contractors, which had the effect of ensuring that the service industries improved their quality and performance, until the badge ‘Approved by Stanhope’ became a glowing accolade. It also made sure that Stanhope clients paid their premiums regularly, and claims were only made and paid in genuine circumstances.

  The word got round, and in the areas the shopkeepers became members, petty crime against them disappeared altogether. Any attempts at extortion by alternative factions were suppressed quickly and efficiently, and the word got round that if a shop had the ‘Stanhope Security’ badge in the window, it was off-limits to any crime. Petty pilfering and shoplifting became a thing of the past. The thieves were always caught, and shown the error of their ways, usually through dislocated limbs.

  When Fantasia was old enough, her parents retired to a remote Scottish island, and left her with a thriving and (mostly) legitimate business. She took it to new heights by diversifying into electronics, surveillance, security systems, private insurance investigation, and many other legally reportable ventures. The Business did not lose sight of its original roots, but it became less important to maintain a standing army, and those who were retained became roving investigators. Other insurance companies started to use them, because of their reputation for tracking the truth in suspicious claims, and the way the clients quickly dropped the petition, if it proved to be anything less than sincere.

  It was two of these ‘
investigators’, patrolling the motorway, searching for motorists attempting insurance scams by driving in an ‘uncaring’ way, who received the call.

  The face of Fantasia’s agent appeared on the internet link. “Ah, Mr Jones,” she said. “Good to see you again.”

  “You too, Boss,” said the passenger. There was no question the driver would be distracted. Stanhope teams were fanatical about staying within the law (mostly).

  “Guess who’s turned up again.”

  “Not our lady, Anna?” Jones smiled and rubbed his chin. “I can still feel where that thug of hers hit me.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” said Fantasia. “I’ve no idea how she managed to avoid detection, but she has shown up on the monitor at last.”

  “There are still areas where people can go, without being seen by the cameras, I guess.”

  “Yes,” mused Fantasia. “We must do something about that. I’m patching you into the current location of our eye-catching friend. Please could you invite her to come over and see me for an interview? Be gentle.”

  “Of course, Ma’am. Send me the link.” Jones connected the feed with the sat-nav in the car, and Ankerita’s current location locked in. “Got it. We’re about 50 miles away. I might have to make a detour to avoid this hold-up.”

  “Do your best... within the conditions of the road,” said Fantasia. “Don’t rush. You will catch her eventually. I’ll keep you updated as I make further contact.”

  Before Ankerita realised, her unconscious memories took her off the main highway, and into a network of minor roads towards her destination. The rain was now falling incessantly. She eventually stopped the car in a muddy, field gateway, and took the cover off the crystal-ball.

  As she gazed into its depths, a dull glow appeared. It was as though she was looking through a frosted window, but there was a pinpoint of light reflecting in the glass. It seemed as though the source was in the meadow beyond.

  She got out of the warm car into cold drizzle. She barely noticed the discomfort, as she climbed over a gate and crossed an expanse of stubble in the field beyond. Next to that, she knew she would find the remains of the abandoned village of Siwaldston. “After all these years since the Black Death, the magic must still be holding,” she thought. “Unlike many others, nobody has tried to build on it. Will I find anything?”

  Genet’s voice came to her. “It will be there. You need to find the artefact.”

  What the artefact was, Ankerita had no idea. She imagined it might be another of the Albion Treasures, but having looked them up, could only begin to guess. As the water trickled down her neck, she hoped it would be the Coat of Padarn Beisrudd. This garment, if worn by a righteous person, would be long and warm and keep off all weathers, but if used by an evil person, would be too short, and hopefully embarrass them. “A strange treasure,” she thought. “What next, the ‘Kitten of Patting One’s Head’?”

  “No, the chances of a discovered coat still wearable after being out here for that long are non-existent.” Ankerita shook her head and water flew from her sodden hair. “I’m all wet. This would never have happened back in the day (whenever the was).” She scowled as the water continued seeping down her back. “It’s this shampoo stuff I’ve had to use, taking all the natural oils out of my hair. In those days I’d have been fine and warm, as long as I had my cloak. Clothes these days don’t work properly.”

  After crossing a muddy ditch, Ankerita was standing in a relatively dry field. The sheep it contained looked almost as miserable as she was starting to feel. She sneezed, and they scattered. Where they stood, nibbling the sparse grass, there were a few likely humps, perhaps remains of the footings of buildings, and occasional bare patches revealing small numbers of worked stones. At the far end, the field sloped gently to a small lake.

  Ankerita fished the crystal-ball out again, and peered into it as water ran down the glass. “Come on Genet, you old witch,” she muttered. “Where am I supposed to be looking?”

  “I’ve told you, I’m not a bloody witch,” came a voice in her head. “Look into the ball; you’ll see where to dig.”

  “Dig?” Ankerita exclaimed.

  “Yes, dig. I told you to bring a trowel.”

  “Oh, this thing?” Ankerita drew a device out. “I found it in the kitchen.”

  “No, that’s an avocado slicer.”

  “And you want me to dig with it?”

  “If you have nothing else. How else are you going to discover buried treasures? The clue is in the name.”

  “I don’t know. I thought they’d be lying here to pick up. I’m cold and wet. What do I do?”

  “Calm down, calm down. They are still here... I think. They were buried for safe keeping.”

  “Okay.” Ankerita sighed. “Where do I start?”

  “Look into the ball again.”

  “Of course. I’m so cold, I can’t think straight.”

  Ankerita held the crystal at face height, and gazed into the depths. The location of her dig had changed and the glow seemed to be coming from further across the field. She took a few paces in that direction, until the glimmering seemed to be directly below her.

  “Here?”

  There was no reply.

  Ankerita knelt on the wet grass, and started working at it. The slicer was not much use, but she managed to scrape the ground clear. There were a few larger stones, which the handle of the slicer was able to pry loose. The depression quickly began to fill with rainwater. Ankerita sneezed again, but the exertion was helping to keep her warm, so she kept digging, scraping and levering, scooping the mud out of the way as best she could.

  Unknown to her, a black Mercedes had turned off the motorway, and stopped in a layby while the occupants discussed the navigation. One of them made a call back to his boss for further directions through the warren of lanes.

  Ankerita felt she was getting close to her goal. One of the stones that came out seemed to be a different colour and weight to the others. It was lighter. It looked like bone. Ankerita dropped it, and the rain washed some of the mud away. She retrieved it, and stood up stiffly to have a closer look. It felt different as she gripped it.

  “Is this it?” Ankerita said to the ball. “An old bone? You got me all this way for an old bone?” She peered into the glass. “Answer me, Genet. I demand it. Is it one of yours?”

  “In a way, yes,” came Genet’s tired voice. “Let me see.”

  Ankerita held it up.

  “That’s right,” said Genet. “Get a good grip while I release the spell.” The ball went dark for a moment, and the voice came again. “Anything happened yet?”

  “Nothing.” Ankerita rubbed more mud off the bone. “Ah...”

  She felt a vibration in her hand, and an electric tingling. She tried to let go, but her grip tightened. She felt the item sucking energy from her, and collapsed, helpless, on the soggy turf.

  “Is this a trick? What are you doing to me?” Thoughts of the witch attempting to swap bodies with her, like Tox used to try, crowded into Ankerita’s mind. “How could I be so stupid as to believe what you told me? Everyone lies to me. Why did I trust you?”

  “Look.” Genet reassured. “You’ll be fine.”

  As Ankerita stared at the bone with helpless fascination, it became a weapon hilt, and the plain surface became intricately carved. Set in to the end was a polished yellow stone. Gradually, a blade grew out of it, diamond shaped, and tapering to a sharp point. Ankerita gasped. “It’s the rondel I stabbed Richard with, all those years ago.”

  “Yes, it is the very same that killed your husband,” said Genet’s voice. “I had a friend hide it from prying eyes all these years. It was a good spell, you must agree? It has fooled treasure hunters for ever.”

  “Of course,” said Ankerita. “Is it also the beautiful dagger that I used to help me see past and present?”

  “Of course not,” said Genet scornfully. “That was only with you because Tox sto
le it from the abbey. Once he was gone, so was the dagger. No, this is the real thing. It is also one of the treasures you seek, the ‘Sword of Rhydderch Hael’...”

  “Miserable small ‘sword’. Isn’t that the one that bursts into flame if drawn by one of noble birth?” She tried to remember her research. “That’s would be an inconvenience in polite society? I could be led to believe that you are playing hot cockles with me.”

  “Yes, and no,” said Genet. “More of a ‘dagger’ really. The scribes only called it a ‘sword’ for greater effect. The sources are not clear, but it could also be the Knife of Llawfrodedd Farchog. People were so fanciful in those days. It’s main property is that if held by a person of good intentions, the blade and point are as sharp as any razor, and they stay sharp. If used by someone evil, it will be as blunt and useless as if it were made of cheese.”

  “That’s it.” Ankerita groaned. “A knife of cheese. I’ve come all this way for a knife of cheese. Can I go home?”

  “No,” said Genet. “I was going to save this artefact for some other time, but you stupidly forgot something to dig with, so I had to let you discover it. That way you can seek the real relic. It’s further down the hill.”

  “Where was your cottage, originally?” Ankerita looked around the field.

  “From what I can see from here, no trace remains,” said Genet. “I buried my other treasure in the village midden.”

  “Yek,” Ankerita scowled. “and you want me to go digging in that muck?”

  “It’s had a few hundred years to become more fragrant. You should use the knife to excavate, deeper this time, not far. Follow the light from the crystal.”

  Ankerita took the ball and gazed into it again. The glow she could see appeared to come from the side of the field. Away from the village would have been a sensible place for waste disposal, not so close to the old settlement. She shivered, and tried to ignore the water soaking her, as she followed the light. She came to the base of a lightning-blasted tree.