by Ross Lawhead
His heart was pounding and his throat had constricted. His brain seemed to be split into two parts. One part of him was helpful and in charge of talking and breathing and everything involved in trying not to fall over. The other part of his brain just stood to the side, observing and asking unhelpful questions like, Did you really just say “diseases and bacteria” to the first naked woman you’ve ever met?
“I don’t think I could live if I wasn’t able to swim,” the woman said. “Could you?”
“I guess I—I don’t—” His words were getting jumbled. He was trying to recall exactly how long it was since he last swam. About two years ago, on a school trip, he thought. But then, why would it possibly matter?
The woman, and that she was a woman was now very apparent, for she shifted in the water, arched her back, and swam back a couple feet, twisting and swirling as if the sludgy, stinky water was really something beautiful and refreshing. Through the brown film of water, he saw her breasts, her waist, her thighs, and her feet float past him like something in a feverish dream. His heart stopped beating and his breath caught. It was as if the whole world stopped for just that moment.
She moved her arms around her to steady her movement. He watched the taut muscles slide underneath the clear, smooth skin of her shoulder. He wondered what that movement would feel like if he were to touch it—if he was to move his hands over it, and over the rest of her body.
Her lips moved and the song continued, buzzing in his mind and imagination.
Your face is young and so handsome,
Your limbs are soft and so fine,
Come down to me in the river,
I’m yours and you’ll be mine.
Your breath is near and so warming,
Your blood is quick and so hot.
It’s deathly harsh in the dry air,
But here in the water it’s not.
Rian was entranced. He felt as if he were asleep and dreaming. Suddenly, staying in just one place for the rest of his life wasn’t so bad, so long as the one place was with her.
She raised her arms and held her hands out to him. “Don’t you want to come in and swim with me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
“Then come to me.”
He took one step and then fell forward into the canal. For a terrible, awful moment, he thought that he wouldn’t reach her hands, that he would fall too short, or that she would pull away from him, but as his face hit the water, he felt her hands close around his wrists and felt her tug at him, pulling him farther and farther down with her, her body rippling against his in a way that made him want to laugh and cry and sing and shout and dance and be still, all at once.
The canal had to be fairly shallow, and yet he had the sensation that they were going deeper and deeper. It was getting darker and darker, and colder and colder, and still he went down, down, down. Into the deep.
Into oblivion.
Into death.
And the last words he heard were those at the end of the hauntingly beautiful song:
Come down with me, my lovely,
Come dance with me in the waves.
For all the lovers I dance with
Find cool and comforting graves.
CHAPTER FIVE
Stone Leaves
_____________________ I _____________________
Abingdon
Winter, 1142 AD
Ealdstan stood near the altar rail of the stone church and spent some time peering up at the carvings. He recognised the work of the carver, an almost supernatural master at forming stone, one he’d persuaded to join the stonemasons of Niðergeard nearly a hundred years earlier. Even now the man spent his days shaping and decorating what he intended to be an outer defensive wall.
He waited.
At length, there was the sound of horses and the many calls and orders that entail the arrival of a retinue of the king, which served to remind Ealdstan just in time: Norman. I keep forgetting that the new kings speak Norman. He wondered if he had time to produce a language enchantment but decided his own language skills were more than adequate.
The entourage entered. Though Ealdstan had only seen the king once, as a young prince—and even with them all dressed in a similar fashion—the old wizard was able to pick out the king. He was thin, with wavy, shoulder-length hair. He had sharp features and a long, straight nose that tilted downward. There was a harried, hangdog expression in his eyes, and his face seemed older than it should be, his once straw-coloured hair now a platinum white.
“Faire bele, sorcier,” the king said, and Ealdstan began inwardly translating. Good greeting, wizard.
“Good greeting, my king.”
Étienne 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 _____________________
Niðergeard
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 Niðergeard.”
“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.”
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 ye
t 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.”
