A Hero's throne tae-2

by Ross Lawhead

  “Faire bele, sorcier,” the king said, and Ealdstan began inwardly translating. Good greeting, wizard.

  “Good greeting, my king.”

  Etienne de Blois, or King Stephen, as he was known to the people, approached him. He threw a gesture behind him, and those who entered the church with him paused in the doorway-either slinking along the back wall of the church or wandering outside.

  Now relatively alone, Stephen seemed to relax. “They never leave me a moment’s peace. Everybody wants something of me.” The king sighed and eyed him. “And you, Ealdstan, what do you wish of me?”

  “I do not wish to impose,” Ealdstan began, wondering which tack to take with this ruler and what his temperament was. “But I may remind you of the debt your family owes me. Your aunt, Queen Emma-”

  “Yes, yes-I know of the debt. There is no need to remind me of debts. I owe everyone everything, it seems. And I try to give it, by God, if it is in my power to do so. And so I ask you again, sir,” he said, with lowered brow, “what do you wish of me?”

  Ealdstan fixed him with a cold stare. He was just opening his mouth to speak when a young man in leather battle gear walked through the church doors.

  “Your pardon, sire,” he called from the other side of the building. “Only you said that you would give my men their rest once we had reached the encampment.”

  “And so I did, but we are not at the encampment.”

  “No, we’re not at the encampment, sire,” the apparent commander answered in an insolently didactic manner. “But we would be at the encampment if only my lord hadn’t insisted on making this detour on short notice. The men feel it is unfair to-”

  “Yes, yes,” said the king with an annoyed wave of his hand.

  “If your highness must change his plans from moment to moment, it is only to be expected that his men may feel the inconvenience of it. With only a little more notice, they could have-”

  “Take them, take them away,” the king snapped at the man.

  “My lord.” The young warrior nodded, turned, and then left.

  “The rest of you,” the king called to the others lounging around the door and in the back. “You may go too, if it is your will to do so.”

  The words of their monarch made little impression on the idle lords and earls clustered at the back. They stayed where they were.

  Ealdstan turned fully toward them and raised his staff, bringing it down in front of him three times, pounding the floor with its tip. His eyes flashed with a fierce light and he gave a long look to each of the lords in turn.

  One by one, they left.

  The king, more at ease now in only Ealdstan’s company, pulled a couple stools away from the wall and sat on one, gesturing for Ealdstan to sit in the other.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “No, thank you,” said Stephen. “I’ll make it up to them later. They haven’t had a very easy time of late. These are uncertain days. They are saying that Christ and His saints and angels are asleep and will not waken again during my reign. Maude is still playing at foxes and hens with me. . and this after I allowed her to escape from Oxford last year. I thought that if I showed her mercy, then that would be the end of it. But no, she continues. She has a son, Henri is his name. Nine years old, and already his strength and power are boasted of by the house of Anjou. They say he is as strong as a full-grown man, and comely to boot. I do not believe their reports entire, of course, but it twists the knife to think they are more united by the character of a young boy. I look around and I can see no one able to wield the power of the nation after me-no one I can trust.”

  He gazed up at Ealdstan with a piteous, beseeching gaze that should never be found in any king. Were those tears in his eyes? Ealdstan was repulsed. Here was a weak man, an ineffectual ruler. But his sister and her son. . he himself had heard many of the reports Stephen had mentioned. Perhaps they would make stronger rulers, and be grateful to him in return.

  He bit back a sigh. Cultivating. Was that all any of this was? Just choosing the best from what was available? Trying to limit intrusion from the worst? Christ and His angels sleeping? Yes, he hoped so. He feared what would happen when they awoke.

  “You can trust me,” Ealdstan said, smiling at the king from the opposite end of the aisle. “I will help you in this, but I will need your best men.”

  “Need them to do what?”

  “No, you misunderstand,” said Ealdstan. “I mean I will need them. That is, I will need to keep them.”

  II

  Ni?ergeard

  1214 AD

  Breca climbed the wooden platforms erected around the large stalagmite that they were so very carefully hollowing out. The sound of their many chisels pounding into the rock around the structure made an oddly beautiful and soothing chorus. In a land of silence and darkness, it was refreshing to hear noise, of any type. For a moment the warrior stood looking up at the workers perched upon the scaffolding, working by the light of silver lanterns.

  Then he blinked and reminded himself of the urgency of his message, definitely the first, possibly the only of its sort in history.

  He spotted Ealdstan in the entryway, consulting with the master builder and the head of the stone carvers, standing over a series of sketches scratched into the ground with chalk.

  “. . which formed flowstones that give strength to the outer edges,” the master builder was explaining, pointing with a stick to a diagram. “These would be greatly strengthened if we were to alter the kitchen thus”-a pause as he bent down and etched an alteration-“and the upper levels following suit in this way.” More scratching followed.

  “How deep can be dug downward?”

  “Ah,” the builder said, his face brightening. “As to that-”

  “Beg pardon, my lords,” Breca said, breaking into the conversation. The three turned to him. “Ealdstan, you are. . summoned.”

  The eyebrows of the two craftsmen raised while Ealdstan’s lowered. “Summoned? How am I summoned? By whom?”

  Breca swallowed. He could feel sweat on his brow. “You are summoned by the king.”

  “By the king? Ridiculous. The king is in Normandy. I will see him when he gets back. What nonsense. How did he get a message to you?”

  “Your forgiveness, Ealdstan, but the king is not in Normandy.”

  “Hmm.” Ealdstan pursed his lips. “Flown to France? As prisoner perhaps? Does he need ransoming? But why send for me?”

  Breca was nearly panting with exasperation. “No, he is here.”

  “In England? Westminster?”

  “No, here. In Ni?ergeard.”

  “What?” In a swirl of robes, Ealdstan was up and out of the entryway. Breca rushed after him. “Where?” Ealdstan barked, and Breca pointed the way.

  A little ways off from the workers’ dwellings stood the king and his entourage, beneath a canopy of yellow light cast by torches that spewed black smoke up into the air. There were eighteen of them altogether, two of them apparently nobles, one of them a bishop, and the rest servants who wore heavy packs or pushed handcarts loaded with provisions, including barrels of paraffin for the torches.

  Ealdstan slowed, not wanting to be seen rushing to meet any summons, especially that of a king.

  “Fire?” he bellowed as he strode toward them. All the heads of the royal party turned. “Have you any notion of the danger you bring when you carry fire under the earth?”

  The king squared himself to the approaching wrath, shrugging his cloak over his shoulder and placing his hands at his hips. “Not to worry, wizard. We do not intend to stay long. Our time of departure is contingent only on the speed of your answers.”

  “‘Answers?’ You demand answers of me? How came you here?”

  The king sneered and did not make to answer. The bishop, perhaps emboldened by his king’s example, or else eager to intercede before blows were traded, replied, “You are not the only keeper of secrets ancient, Ealdstan. The church has many hidden resources and recorded knowledge.�
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  Ealdstan turned fierce eyes on the speaker, but was beaten to a reproach.

  “Silence, cleric. I did not bring you here for your skill in debate.”

  “But, John.” He gulped, blanching. “That is, my glorious king and most majestic master, I meant no-”

  “I said, silence. Now”-the king levelled another glare at Ealdstan-“you. .” He raised a finger accusingly. “You!”

  That was all he managed to say. All eyes turned to him, but the only thing they saw was a man’s face bunched up in rage, like a fist, his mouth writhing, too many insults and oaths crowded onto his tongue to speak. The tension was awful, but none of the retinue dared make a sound. Their monarch gave a roar of frustration, turned, and snatched a flat object from one of the footmen. He unfolded it into a small chair and thrust it down violently. Then he sat on it.

  “So. . how was Normandy?” Ealdstan asked after a time. “Was it fair weather?”

  King John snorted. “No,” he growled. “It was miserable.”

  Ealdstan nodded and waited.

  “Ealdstan,” the king said, after much chewing of his lip, “when last we talked, we spoke of empire-one to rival that of the Holy Roman, or even the original Roman one. The like that was never seen since Alexander’s time. And it seems as if I am to do all of the work myself. The world is in tumult these past ten years-Byzantium has fallen, the Muslim nation grows by the week, all of Europe has been drained of money and men in the dry, dusty sinkhole that is Jerusalem. The Norman barons are so spun around they don’t know which way to face, and no doubt it is only that the Picts are so violent tempered that they leave us largely alone. I have been abandoned by the Angevine, Philip seizes my lands, Scotland strives daily to tear itself off the map, and I have been excommunicated by the pope. The whole world is a whirlwind, and I run atop it like a dog on a ball, scarcely knowing where to put my feet.”

  He paused for breath, fuming.

  “And here you sit.” He made an irritated gesture. “In your hole. Untouched by the foul misfortunes that pound this island like a hail, carving stone leaves upon stone branches. Well should you ask if the weather was fair!”

  Ealdstan frowned and opened his mouth, but King John was only pausing for another breath. “Civil war, old man. That is what our land is faced with. Can you comprehend that?”

  “I can.”

  “I wonder. I truly wonder if you do. Dark powers in this century are rising that would threaten Christendom, my rule lies in shards at my feet, and where is Ealdstan? Ealdstan, the man in the shadows, the power behind the throne, the long-lived, the embodiment of the wisdom of Britain? Is he uniting the barons? Is he diplomat to foreign powers, to allay and align? No. He is here, hidden beneath the rocks, digging. Burrowing. Shifting sand. Behind the throne? Beneath the throne, I say.”

  The bishop laughed and then choked himself silent.

  Ealdstan nodded sympathetically. “When first I made myself known to you,” he said, “I was more than forthcoming that the road you would walk with me would be difficult.”

  “But you gave the impression it would at least be passable,” the king whined. “And that you would walk it with me.”

  “It was a road that your brother Richard was unwilling to walk. He saw the world as rightly as you saw it, and yet he chose a different path-that of facing threat full-on. He was not wholly misguided, or fruitless, and yet his victory will be fleeting. Ours will last the ages.”

  “Ours? Or yours, I wonder.”

  “Allow me to ask, why is it you are king? What import is it, and of what motivations are you driven?”

  King John drew himself upright in his chair. “Seek not to look into my heart, wizard. You ask by what right I rule? By God’s. He has made this body.” He gave his chest a stern thump. “He has given me this crown.” He gave no less a thump to the diadem on his head. “He has given me the ability and opportunity to rule, and by the weeping eyes of His tortured Son, that is what I plan to do. Is that ‘import’ enough for you?” John eased forward, a challenging look on his face.

  “I wonder at your piety sometimes,” Ealdstan mused out loud.

  “And I wonder that you wonder.”

  They stared intently at each other in the darkness, two players at a game of chess.

  “You spoke of questions I must answer,” Ealdstan said. “Before you leave.”

  “They are few,” the king replied. “Here is the first: my very deputies seek to pull my imperial body apart. What aid or resources will you give to enable me to appease them?”

  “What aid can an earthworm give a lion? I am as you meet me.” He opened his palms and arms in a gesture of openness.

  “Nothing, then.”

  Ealdstan clasped his palms together.

  John shifted his weight. “Arms, then. I want some of your warriors. Any amount, and on any terms you dictate. Even a small number of your supernaturals would be worth a large number of my own men.”

  Ealdstan’s eyes dropped thoughtfully.

  “Whatever you lose in human resources, I promise to return tenfold in my own best men.”

  “No.” Ealdstan’s head rose. “No.”

  The king’s flinty face studied Ealdstan’s. Then, with sudden speed, he rose and kicked his chair away. He snatched a torch that one of his retinue was carrying and flung it to the ground before the old wizard. It flapped and flared in the darkness.

  “So, it seems that we will hardly be stopping at all,” John bellowed to his company of men. “But know now, old leech,” he said, stepping closer to Ealdstan. “You are removed from the gracious kindness of this nation’s kings!” John thrust a finger beneath Ealdstan’s bearded chin. “No more will you sap the lifeblood of this nation!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “By thunder, if I could remove you bodily from this sphere, I would, had I the power. But since I have not, due to your hollow support, I hereby exile you to your hollow realms. Lift your head but an inch into the daylight and I promise by these hands, there will be swift punishment!”

  And with that he turned and stormed off, his robes billowing behind him. He grabbed a lit torch from one of the servants and led his party away. They scrambled after him anxiously, with only the briefest of backward glances at the immovable and impassable Ealdstan.

  The sounds of the group departing faded into nothing, and then the lights themselves disappeared. The noise of the chisels had stopped. Everyone in Ni?ergeard had paused to witness the meeting, watching from the darkness.

  “Humph,” Ealdstan grunted, heading back to the Langtorr. Breca walked beside him, ready to attend his need. “That’s him dealt with. But are things really such on the continent, I wonder? No doubt a visit would be prudent. I will open the sea tunnel. Breca, ah, Breca, before I forget-send a couple of your men to follow the good king and his men out; find what path they used here. Then tell them to seal it.”

  _____________________ III _____________________

  Freya pushed herself up from the table, drool chilling the corner of her mouth. The notebook was beneath her. She flicked back through the pages to see all she had written. There had to be over a hundred pages of description and conversation-all different time periods and people she’d never heard of. Where was it all coming from?

  “Please, I need another break. I need some food and some sleep. How-how long has it been this time?” She looked at her wristwatch; the hour hand was just a little farther on. But had two hours passed or fourteen? It felt like fourteen.

  “Are you sure you can’t go again? We’re on a fairly tight schedule.”

  “No, please. . how long has it been? I-” Freya tried to stand, but her legs were like rubber. She braced herself by holding on to the table and lowered herself into a crouch.

  Vivienne was up and at Freya’s side. “I’m sorry. Yes, you could use some rest-we both could. It’s just-you understand the importance, don’t you?”

  She helped Freya up, supporting her weight on the back of a metal chair. Then she un
furled one of the bedrolls.

  “Find anything yet?” Freya asked.

  Vivienne’s head jerked up. “Yes, lots, of course.”

  “Anything that will help us. .?” Freya almost said destroy this place, but stopped herself in time. The visions had done nothing to assuage her distrust of Ealdstan.

  “Yes, this is all very helpful. Invaluable, in fact. It gives us some context for what is going on here, at least. Whether by design or circumstance, Ealdstan has kept us in the dark.”

  “Any word on Daniel? I’m worried about him.”

  “I have not strayed from this spot, and Daniel has not poked his nose in here, no.”

  “Are you worried about him?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Vivienne. . when are we going to talk about Gad?”

  “Not right now-go ahead and rest. We’ll talk about it later. Just sleep now.”

  Freya let her leaden eyes shut. And as she drifted into a thankfully dreamless sleep, she tried to think about why she felt she had been in this position before.

  IV

  Gretchen Baker stood on a sand dune, sniffling, sighing, and wiping back tears that the fierce, salt-laden wind did nothing to abate.

  She knew she wasn’t the most attractive girl in the school. She wasn’t even in the top twenty-five (of twenty-eight), but there was no need for everyone else to continually ridicule and tease her. If they could just let her alone, she could cope and get through with no friends. Then she’d leave the highlands and go to university in Edinburgh or Glasgow, or maybe even-and it gave her a thrill just to think about it-London. Anywhere, so long as it was away; and a long way away at that.

  It wasn’t just that she was unattractive; it was that she was conspicuously so. She was big, that was the main thing. Not fat, exactly, but tall-a good four inches taller than the next tallest in her year-and with a blocky form that fell from her wide shoulders straight down. Like a brick privy, she’d constantly heard herself described. The curves that had been promised her during her pubescence had yet to be delivered. And her face as well; blocky, jowly, with a prominent brow that buried her eyes in a squint, and a jutting jaw that gave her a permanent frown. She was constantly being picked out and victimised. She was like a celebrity in the school-an anticelebrity. If anyone thought of a clever new prank or needed the object of a dare, she was found at the butt of it. Always.