by Ross Lawhead
Ealdstan frowned. And that frown became hard and set. How dare he?
“So be it,” Ealdstan said. “You brought this on yourself.” He raised his staff high, almost to the ceiling, and then brought it down on King Henry VI’s head.
The king groaned and rolled onto the floor. Ealdstan restrained himself from issuing more blows and knelt beside the figure, pressing a hand to the prone man’s chest and whispering an incantation of stopping.
Henry grimaced in pain. Or was he smiling? Was that a gasp or a laugh? His lips were moving. Ealdstan halted his incantation. “What is it?”
“I see. . I see. .” the king whispered.
“What do you see, old man?”
Henry swallowed, throat dry, almost choking. “I see. .”
“What? What?”
His eyes swivelled sightlessly. “Golden skies.” And then he died.
Ealdstan rose and looked out the window. It was dark.
“God save me from pious kings,” he said.
Save me, in fact, from all kings, he thought.
He knocked on the door and the guard let him out.
III
Freya’s head dropped and it almost knocked against the table before she jerked it back up again. “How long this time?” She unclenched her hand and let her pen drop. Her fingers ached. She began massaging her palm.
Vivienne, standing at a bookcase, wrangled with the books in her arms and checked her watch. “Five hours.”
“Five? This is taking forever, and it’s so exhausting. Please, no more.”
“But we’re getting valuable material.”
“Vivienne-I didn’t get to tell you about the mirrors. There’s a room in this tower, and it-”
“Contains mirrors that allow you to see past, future, and possible versions of yourself. Yes, I am aware.”
Freya was stunned. “How?”
“I told you, I’ve explored the Langtorr before,” Vivienne said, flipping open a book.
“How many times?”
“Just once. I didn’t come too far-just down to this room, in fact. I took only the briefest of looks around and heard a noise, which I now know must have been Frithfroth. I got spooked and ran back up the tower. Ecgbryt was there-he was the only one who could keep the doorway open past dusk-”
“What else is here that you haven’t told me about?”
“Let’s keep cracking on, shall we? Come on, these are from the seventeenth century.”
Freya rubbed her eyes. Using the pansensorum was mentally exhausting, but not physically. “Okay, in a second. But, Vivienne-if what you’re not telling me about is important. . you’d have let me know, right?”
“Correct. I believe this is the best way we can help our cause right now. Far more than further exploration of the tower.”
“Okay,” Freya sighed. “Start it up again.”
IV
London, Whitehall Palace
1 December 1653 AD
Ealdstan paced the corridors of the massive palace. It truly was enormous. More than fifteen hundred rooms meant it could hold the population of a town. It was not as magnificent as his own realm, he reminded himself, but it represented an idea that had been growing in the surface world over the past few hundred years. An unconscious desire, more than an idea-a desire for separation, which was now becoming assumed and ingrained. The magnificence of the palace existed in sharp contrast to the poverty of the citizenry around it. There was none of that in Ni?ergeard, he noted with pride. The smithies lived in rooms as fine as his own-much better, in fact.
He wondered what it meant. He couldn’t imagine all these rooms were actually needed or vital to the running of the nation. They were an excess, and an excess meant things were running inefficiently. It was good, then, that he had found Cromwell. Indeed, if he hadn’t come across Cromwell, then it would have been necessary to invent someone. As a rule, Ealdstan hated instability and revolution, but the nation had been wobbling on its axis for the last couple hundred years. Kings were hard to control, even in the best of circumstances. Republics had potential, though they’d need more attention.
It was then that Cromwell found him. He walked into the courtyard where Ealdstan sat, his ruddy face beaming, his oddly unmilitary build-narrow shoulders and protruding gut-gangling into view.
“Ealdstan, you old relic, how are you this morrow?” He clasped the wizard on his shoulder as he stood, giving it a vicelike squeeze.
“I am well, and seem to have found you in high spirits.”
“I tell you, man,” Cromwell said, “these are-” He was interrupted as a door into the courtyard burst open and a flock of harassed-looking men-armed soldiers as well as politicians and a couple clergy-entered.
“My lord-”
“Sir, if I may-”
“Your honour-”
“Permission to-”
“Out! Out you beasts, all of ye!” Cromwell shouted at them. “Quit the doorway! Shut that! Quit my presence and my sight. Give me peace for just a half of an hour or I’ll loose dogs upon ye!”
Faces blanched, a few arms saluted, and a penitent clerk closed the French door. Faces peered in at them from behind the rows of glass panes.
Cromwell shook his head. “A bevy of badgers.”
“Let us walk this way. . eh?” Ealdstan faltered. “I seem to be at a loss for a title for you.”
“For me?” Cromwell turned back to Ealdstan with a grin. They began to walk a path in the courtyard. “Why, I am just a lowly MP in the service of his country. Call me Oliver.”
“Not just that, also a general and. . more, if I am to believe what I hear of the feelings in the Parliament.”
“So?” Cromwell said, his face brightening once more. “News does reach you in that hole you occupy. Yes, this nation may finally come around to some sort of order, God willing. These are blessed days, my friend. The plans and schemes that we discussed in our-or at least my youth,” he said, looking Ealdstan up and down, “are bearing more fruit than even I had dared to imagine. I had thought, even at times of triumph, to be a sort of holy failure. A martyr, if God willed it. But now”-he took a deep breath and swung his arms around him-“can you smell it? There is something in the air. Men’s hearts have changed. We have moved closer to the Divine; we are climbing out from the ditch of sin that the kings and monarchists have steered us into. Through God’s grace, my ability granted through Him, and your good counsel, my friend. It is a new age of enlightenment-moral, spiritual, political. Holy times, my friend. Holy times.”
“I am glad you are pleased. With you ends the era of kings, and their confused, misguided folly.”
“In truth, Ealdstan,” Cromwell continued rapturously as they started a circuit around a rectangular reflecting pool, “when you and I talked and laid plans of revolution, I doubted. I was an unbeliever. Forgive me my foolish youth, friend.”
“Enough of that,” Ealdstan said. “Let us talk of next steps. What would you consider to be your fiercest regiment?”
“We will talk of payment later. First I must discuss my campaigns against the Irish and the Scots. You believe it is vital that we bow them to our rule?”
“Bow or break,” Ealdstan answered. “They must join. As must the Continent.” Ealdstan was drawn back hundreds of years by his thoughts. It once seemed possible-the Dane lands, the Frankish lands. . ties had been made with them that were to last until the end of the world. But the map was fragmented now. He had thought that familial bonds would strengthen ties between nations, but that was an error. Where there used to be family ties, there was only enmity. All the houses of the royals-boiled down to one big, ugly string of family disputes. This new return to a meritocracy, the way it used to be when England was young, was the way forward.
“This is the start of a golden age. I envision a union of nations across the earth. A commonwealth of spiritual holiness.”
Ealdstan blinked and bowed his head. “And then we may be able to weather the storm I see coming.”
Cromwell pur
sed his lips and nodded solemnly. Then he smiled and gripped Ealdstan’s shoulder with his massive soldier’s hand. “Such an ambitious vision, and one I doubt will be realised in my time,” he said. “I will try not to let you down, but this new order of government-it is a delicate thing and needs much protection. I will need all resources at my command.”
“Be not intractable,” Ealdstan said to him. “You would pay a man for giving you a house; would you not pay me for giving you a kingdom?”
Cromwell laughed. “Cursing me with one, you mean. In truth, I pay for nothing these days. What I need, I am given or I take. But worry not, old friend, due payment will come in due time, as my mother was well used to saying.”
Ealdstan bit his lip and tried to hold back a sneer.
_____________________ V _____________________
They were walking underneath the ocean and, contrary to expectations, it was extremely dry. Apart from a general damp in the air, and the odd slippery black slime underfoot and on the walls, there was nary a trickle of water anywhere.
Alex was impressed that the mechanics; while rudimentary, they were extremely effective. The strange diving mechanism involved a pool about four metres in diameter into which a massive framework dangled a greased length of chain attached to a cast iron weight. It was basic enough-you just cranked the weight up, put your feet in the stirrups, and held on to the braces, and then pulled out the locking mechanism. The weight plunged into the pool and dragged you with it-fighting the shock of the cold water and the oppressive pressure-to the bottom of the pool where you let go of the chain and navigated a U-shaped bend and climbed up into the tunnel system. The tunnel was dry since the air was in a closed system, not being able to escape out of either end. It was, however, very unpleasantly like being flushed.
To his credit, one of the Cornish knights volunteered to go first, making pessimistic predictions all the way. They waited for a breathless minute for him to return. The mechanism reset and then activated again, and he bobbed up, back on the chain. He was very wet and rather shaken, but otherwise fine. The rest of the knights pushed each other aside in an attempt not to be the last to so valiantly take this next step of the journey, leaving Alex and Ecgbryt to bring up the rear.
Dry though it may be, it certainly wasn’t pleasant under the ocean floor. The air pressure was almost unbearable; Alex kept having to clear his ears, and his eyes watered and he just felt-foggy, groggy.
Fortunately, the cave itself was well-carved and easy to traverse. It was smooth and fairly straight, yet they hadn’t gone a mile when it split. Ecgbryt made just the slightest pause at the split in the cave openings and then took the left path.
“Wait, hang on,” Alex said, flicking his torch on and wiping condensation off the map covering. “That’s south.”
“Swa swa,” Ecgbryt said, nodding. “Just so.” He and the eight newly awakened knights halted and turned to regard Alex.
“Well, so. . I don’t see this here. Surely we want to bear north if we want to get up to Ireland.”
“We’re not going to Ireland.”
“No?”
“No, we’re going to Cornouaille.”
Alex blinked. “We were just in Cornwall.”
“No, Cornouaille, in the Franks’ land.”
“The Franks’. .? You mean France?”
Ecgbryt nodded. “Just so.”
“There’s a Cornwall in France? How does that work?”
“It is a part of the original kingdom,” one of the Cornish knights broke in. Alex thought his name was Denzell. “Our people were once connected-Brytannica, Armorica, Gallaecia-a series of peninsular outposts and colonies.”
“Peninsular-?”
“I could tell you tales of King Mark and his faithful warrior-”
“Yes!” called Ecgbryt. “I would hear those tales!”
“In a minute,” Alex interrupted again. “About France-’’
“We are closer to it than we are to Ireland, and it seems doubtful to me that any other yfelgop band would make this journey.”
“Also, we can expect no love from the knights of Eire.”
There was a general murmur of agreement among the knights.
“Prickly most of the time, unpredictable at best, they have long memories and most likely would not forgive the licenses of the past. There is much bad blood.”
The knights carried on, chatting merrily, leaving Alex to tread along in a bewildered state. “Bad blood? Do they think France is going to be different?”
VI
Terrified now that she was so far out to sea that she couldn’t see the shore, Gretchen clutched tighter, resolving her dead man’s hold around the seal’s neck. This done, she then concentrated on breathing, which was fairly difficult under the circumstances.
She cursed herself. She was in a world of trouble now, and no mistake. There was a word for her creature-companion and she knew it well: selkie. It was a word she had learned from her great grandmother when she went around to her house as a very young girl. Her great grandmother had just a couple battered children’s books kept in a box with some uninteresting wooden toys. When those stopped amusing, and Gretchen got restless, then Great Grandmother would talk to her. Sometimes it was just about what was going on with the people in the village, but on occasion she would tell one of her stories, one of the old and ancient tales of the area.
Gretchen always had trepidations about the stories and would never ask for one. That was because the stories absolutely terrified her. There wasn’t one of them that ended well for the little girls (and it was always little girls; Gretchen felt, even at five years old, that the way her great grandmother poked her in the ribs whenever she said “little girl” was needlessly heavy-handed). And, just like the situation Gretchen was in now, the heroines were always such victims of circumstance or innocent desire that there didn’t seem, at any point in the story, a way for them out of the sticky messes they had become mired in. Inevitably, that lead to their death, which her great grandmother would draw out beyond all taste or decorum, even for a five-year-old.
And so while she hadn’t spent much more than a dozen afternoons by herself with her grandmother, and had only actually heard a small number of her great grandmother’s tales, every word of them were etched on her young mind. They were much more memorable than those of the battered children’s books with their toothless pastel colours and safe endings, or indeed any of the books she owned and read repetitively. But she could remember every phrase of her great grandmother’s stories-“The Orphan Girl and the Goblins,” “The Seamstress and the Tricksie Brownies,” “The Changeling and Its Sister,” “Bluebeard’s Young Bride,” and, of course, “The Selkie Mother.”
Yet even with those vivid warnings to deter her, here she found herself being pulled out to sea on the back of a changeling man. She could almost hear her great grandmother say, “I told you so.”
The sky continued to darken, but she could see something on the horizon. It was a grey lump that grew quickly into a black, rocky jag of a windswept island, probably not large enough to provide food or shelter for even one small sheep.
Which is not to say that it was empty. There were shapes moving along the top of it; she could see human silhouettes dancing on the island’s crest. As they drew nearer, Gretchen saw that there were also seals watching them, banging their flippers and tails in time to the beat of the music that now drifted out to them. It was a selkie ceilidh.
They circled the island, slowly coming in where the rocks dipped lower into the sea. As she glided by, she saw that they were all naked, just as the man, Ron Glass, had been on the beach. They danced with a rhythmic, primal swing and sang in a chorus to the accompaniment of pipes.
They came to a shallow inlet and her selkie scraped along the sand. He gave a wriggle and a flap, and then she was holding on to the man, the bit of seal skin flapping between them.
They scampered up onto the slippery rocks, the man rather gallantly helping Gretchen up. For
the briefest of moments Gretchen was impressed by this, before she remembered that he had abducted her.
“There is just one fire on the island,” he explained to her as he led her up the rocks by the hand, “but you may not be allowed very near it on your first night. You may keep my skin tonight,” he said, reaching the top and flinging it over her shoulders. “I should not let you have it, but it will keep you warm on a cold night.”
She followed him up the rock and pulled the seal skin around her very cold and very wet body. It was soft, thick, and warm but no drier than her or anything else on the desolate and windy rock. But it was another layer between her and the elements, and it kept the wind off of her, and she was grateful for it.
She hunched her bulky, awkward frame even further inside the skin as she came nearer to the dancing selkies. They were beautiful-the most beautiful people Gretchen had ever seen. All were tall and lithe and perfectly formed. A large fire pit burned in the centre, and the flames and embers lit their skin with a warm red and yellow glow, making them luminescent and otherworldly. The girls were willowy and soft-skinned with wide hips and long, dexterous hands and feet that they twisted inward and out in time to the rhythm; their long hair, alternately straight and curly, swinging. The men were built similarly to Ron, but some were fair, some were dark, and one or two were red, all with fine, firm, and occasionally sharp, Celtic features. They were uniformly smooth and unadorned by any hair except that which grew on their heads.
They all wove around one another, frenetically spinning and twisting. They did not ever knock into another or trip one another up, but when someone crossed their path, they would reach out and grab that person, sometimes quite intimately, and swing them around and then let them go, and both would continue their whirling jig. Their dance mimicked the path and motion of the sparks that the fire threw up into the night sky.
No one took much of a notice of Gretchen. They were too busy dancing and singing their song.
