He had lost count how many times he
had been lashed. All he knew was that each lash represented every Wessex
soldier that had been killed by his men. Cerniw’s losses had been far higher,
but no one paid for their deaths.
Life was never fair, though; he did not need a lost battle and hundreds dead to
tell him that much.
The year had been horrendous.
Cerniw, with its rugged moorlands, its vast forests and beautiful coasts, had
been struck with one pestilence after another. The people started to talk about
moving, and some already had. Those who had stayed loyal to the land and, of
course, to him, no doubt now wished they had not, for when Cerdic’s Saxons
came, they purged the kingdom, making it look like the hell the bishop preached
of in his Sunday sermon. Alden, unlike God, had been powerless to do anything
about it. Oh yes, he had fought, but the numbers he fought against had
overwhelmed his army, for who could fight the devil, without God on their side,
and think to win?
Alden hung his head in shame, his
shoulder-length dark hair falling into his face. He cursed his naivety and
worse still, his arrogance. His younger brother had warned him, but he had not
heeded the warning; instead, he believed the useless treaty that Cerdic of
Wessex had offered him only months before. He should have seen where Cerdic was
going with it then, only he had been blinded by grief, by guilt. The
responsibility for what happened, therefore, was his and his alone. He knew
that, and he took the blame. He deserved to be tied to a post waiting for
death.
Alden closed his pain-filled grey
eyes as the image of his homeland in flames scorched his mind. He could hear
the screams, the begging for mercy, and the cries for help. He could taste the
terror in the air and feel the heat of the flames. Dear God, what had he done?
He had been left with no
alternative. Even now, with the clarity of hindsight, he could see no other
choice. He had ridden towards the enemy, carrying the white flag of truce and
hoping — sweet Lord, how he had hoped — for clemency, not for himself, but for
his people.
Instead, Cerdic’s soldiers had
pulled him unceremoniously from his horse and taken him prisoner along with at
least eighty of his kinsmen. Of their fate he was uncertain, but his was
assured. If he did not die tonight from exposure then an axe awaited him at
dawn. It was a terrifying thought, and he prayed to God for courage. He felt no
warm, welcoming presence and he feared what all men secretly feared, that on
the morrow, he would not die well.
Snow began to fall softly from the
night sky, not enough to settle, just enough to plummet the temperature
further. He began to shiver. He tried thinking of a warm fire and his large bed
covered in thick furs. It did not help. After all, when last he saw his fort it
was in flames.
“Are you still alive, du Lac?”
Alden kept his head down, pretending
to be unconscious, and hoped the bastard would leave him alone to die in peace.
Draca, the guard in charge of the prisoners, was not fooled. He lived for
terror and he had no intention of allowing the former ruler of Cerniw an easy
death. He grabbed Alden’s chin roughly and forced his head up.
Alden opened his eyes and stared
with contempt at the soldier in front of him. Draca was a huge man, with a
shiny bald head, tiny eyes and a big fist, whose breath stank of stale beer and
his body of gone-off fish mixed horribly with the smell of fresh blood — not
his own, but someone else’s.
“Not quite dead yet, are you? Won’t
be long, though.” Draca chuckled deep in his throat. “I’ve never killed a King
before. I’m looking forward to it. Try and stay alive till morning, won’t you,
for I want to be the one who takes your last breath.”
Alden stared past him, trying for
indifference, refusing to give the man any satisfaction by showing fear at his
words. Damn him to hell, he would die well, he would. He had to.
Draca continued to mock him; he
tried to pay him no heed, for Draca could not make him feel any worse than he
already did. He had thought himself a good and fair King, but no matter what he
had done in the past, he had lost the kingdom and that made everything good he
had done inconsequential.
Maybe it was a good thing that
Cerdic had ordered his death. When his eldest brother found out about his
failings he would be far less generous. Still, what he would give for his
brother’s army to be marching on Wessex now. Not that that was going to happen,
for Budic was safely tucked away in Brittany, oblivious to all that had
transpired. And Alden knew he would be long gone from this world when Budic
found out.
A shadow caught his eye. It was
there for a moment and then gone. A ghost no doubt, and fear struck him, not
for the supernatural and their haunting, but for his own fate. Dear God, please don’t let me stay all
eternity locked inside these four walls, forever looking for a way out. Draca
dropped his hand, satisfied when he saw the fear in his prisoner’s eyes. They
all felt fear in the end; he made sure of it. What he needed now was a woman.
He always needed a woman before and after a kill. There was a new serving girl,
a petite little thing from the village, that he had not had the pleasure of
introducing himself to yet. His Lord’s orders were very specific: not to leave
the former King of Cerniw alone, but it wasn’t as if du Lac was going anywhere
and what he was planning would not take long.
Alden closed his eyes and hung his
head. A sennight ago nothing would have induced him to humble himself in such a
way, but that was then. Anyway, it hurt too much to keep his head upright, and
he didn’t want to see his future coming. He would rather be blind. He heard
Draca march away, whistling a merry tune that seemed out of place amongst so
much suffering.
An owl hooted overhead and Alden
could not help himself, he shivered, for owls brought out the superstitious
nature in him, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something
else was in the yard. He could sense it. Something dangerous and unworldly and
it was coming for him.
He forced his eyes to open and
raised his head slowly. A figure dressed in black approached him through the falling
snow. He could not see the figure’s face to ascertain if it was human, for it
was hidden by a hood. Perhaps it did not even have a face. Perhaps it was a
demon. He caught a glimpse of a silver blade and braced himself, closing his
eyes, holding his breath, for he realised that death had come to claim him.
Annis of Wessex brought the knife
down hard on the thick rope. It made a small, pathetic fray. Shocked, she
touched the tip of the blade with her finger. It was almost blunt, the edges
ragged. The knife belonged to her brother, and she hated it almost as much as
she hated him, but it was unusual for him not to keep his instruments of torture
sharp. She resisted the urge to throw the knife away from her, because through
its pommel, she fancied she could feel the countless souls that had died by
this weapon. Alas, the knife was all she had; she could not risk going back and
getting another.
She felt sweat trickle down the back
of her neck, despite the cold, as she stepped in closer towards her father’s
enemy. The former King of Cerniw’s eyes had closed again and he did not appear
to be breathing. Fearing she was too late, she gently touched his cheek with
her fingertips and he flinched, as if she had struck him. Mortified, she
quickly withdrew her hand.
Alden took another ragged breath.
“If you are here to kill me, just do it and get it over with.”
He spoke in the strange language of
his own people and she could not understand him. Think, Annis. She looked at the knife and then looked at the rope
and set to work. If the knife refused to cut then it would saw.
It seemed to take an agonisingly
long time to saw through the rope. Annis kept glancing up at the battlements,
but nobody came. They were strangely deserted and she fancied the gods had
decided to freeze this moment in time, to give her a fighting chance. How they
liked to toy with her.
The twines of rope grudgingly began
to fray and snap. A dash of white sliced through the sky and a panicked squeal
echoed around the courtyard as the owl flew away with his prey clutched tightly
in his talons. Death was all around them.
Alden du Lac was free, yet he did
not move, and she wondered if he could. Her brother had boasted that Draca
could break a man’s spirit better than any other man he had ever known. But the
rebellious part of her nature, so carefully hidden until now, refused to
believe that the larger than life King of Cerniw would be thus defeated by a
lowlife such as Draca. If he were not going to save himself, then she would do
it for him. Hastily, she pulled at the ropes that held him to the post, not
caring if she hurt him or inflicted more injuries. He deserved to be in pain if
he had given up. She hadn’t. Every day of her life, she had had to fight. She
had thought he would have had the courtesy of staying alive while she risked
her own neck trying to save his pitiful existence.
Without the support, Alden crumpled
to the hard, bloodstained, frost-covered cobbled ground. The breath whooshed out
of him and he kept his eyes tightly closed, wondering what evil intent this
beast had planned for him now. Die well, he reminded himself, think of
something, anything. Take your mind away from here. He tried to think of the
sea, the surf hitting the white sands of his home, but the image was blurred
and his tormenter was tugging at his arm, trying to make him stand.
He wasn’t responding. She should
leave…now. At least she had tried. She had underestimated the extent that he
had been tortured. He was as good as dead. She tugged pathetically on his arm
one more time, not expecting him to respond, so she was surprised when she felt
him stir beneath her fingers. Encouraged, she tugged hard and at last, he began
to move. He crawled to his knees, muttering something under his breath that
Annis did not understand, and she wished she could speak Cerniw.
Whatever he said, it seemed to give
him strength, for he reached for the post with his other hand. Using the post
and Annis, he managed to heave himself up to his feet.
The world spun and his legs felt
like they belonged to someone else, but death was pulling at his arm, silently
asking him to move. And who was he to argue with death?
Annis wedged her shoulder under
Alden’s arm. He leant heavily on her and she staggered under his weight,
although thankfully, she managed to remain on her feet. She glanced up at the
battlements, where a torch light flickered. The gods had started to play.
“Come on,” she whispered. “We have
to move. We don’t have much time.”
Death had a woman’s voice? Of
course, it would. Why had he ever thought death would be a man? Shame she spoke
with the Saxon tongue, for he understood not a word.
Annis gave a quick prayer to her
favourite goddess Frige. “Alden,
move!” she demanded again.
The voice knew his name and the
voice sounded panicked. Would death panic? It did not make sense. His head
banged in time with his heart and his legs were not cooperating, but somehow he
managed to make his feet move. Death continued to whisper words of what he
thought must be encouragement. She was in a hurry to leave this place and he
for one could not blame her.
She led him towards an old embossed
oak door. He could not focus on the door. The image in front of him was blurry
and he wondered if he was dreaming. It had to be a dream for there was no other
explanation. He watched, trying to focus on his surroundings, as death produced
a key. Death was in such a hurry to place the key in the lock that she dropped
it on the cobblestones with a soft clang. She fell to her knees to search for
it and Alden reached for the courtyard’s rough wooden wall with his hand to
stop himself from falling.
Annis rammed the key into the lock
and prayed the door would open. A woman’s scream pierced the night, followed by
the sound of men’s laughter. She ignored the scream, for there was nothing she
could do. She glanced over her shoulder as she turned the key and saw more
torchlight. The door creaked dreadfully as it swung open. But still, no one
came. Quickly, she wedged her shoulder under Alden’s arm, helping him down the
first few steep steps.
Leaving Alden leaning against the
cold, cobweb-covered stonework of the corridor’s wall, she quickly crept back
outside. There were men on the battlements now and a woman, her dress in
tatters, hanging from her thin body in strips. Annis paused for a moment,
shocked. If she were a man she would have — but she wasn’t a man and she had
just crossed the border from being the protected daughter of the King of Wessex
to an outcast and a traitor.
Holding her breath, she stood on
tiptoes and stretched, her fingers brushing the wood of a flaming torch.
Cursing her lack of height, she just managed to lift the torch from its rusty
sconce on the courtyard wall. Frowning, she glanced back up at the battlements,
but her father’s men were too interested in the woman to notice what was going
on down below. She smiled grimly, knowing that the soldiers would be repaid in
kind. Her father would have their heads when he found his prisoner gone. She
tore her gaze away from the frightful scene above and hurried back down the
steps. Alden had sat down on the floor, his head bowed, his skin a deathly
white and covered in blood. Quickly she closed the door, locked it and then
leant her back against it, taking a few precious seconds to catch her breath
and slow her pounding heart.
***
The alarm bell was shrill and echoed all around them.
Alden, his head already pounding, wanted to cover his ears with his hands, sink
to the floor, curl up in a ball and die. Death didn’t seem to be an option,
however, much as he might desire it, for the woman by his side kept him on his
feet. The floor was cold and hard on his bare feet and exhaustion pulled at all
his senses.
“Almost there.” Annis spoke, more to
herself than the man at her side. Every muscle in her body hurt and burnt with
the exertion she was placing on herself. She began to question herself. Who was she to think she could save a man’s
life? She clenched her teeth together until she felt the ache in her cheeks
and willed herself to relax. She had chosen this path. She had known it was
going to be difficult. But knowledge is only as good as the experience that
goes with it. And nothing had prepared her for this.
The flaming torch was dimming and
would soon extinguish, leaving them in total darkness and she did not know this
part of the castle very well, for it was one of the forbidden places. The
previous owner, a Celtic warlord who went by the name of Arthur, had built this
castle decades ago. He was long dead now. Her father had killed him.
She glanced across at the man by her
side. His head was bent low and his breathing came in frightening gasps. The
last time she had seen Alden du Lac he had kissed the palm of her hand, closing
her fingers on the kiss as if to keep it safe. His grey eyes had sparkled with
amusement when he had looked at her, and his whole face shone with life. With
that one teasing kiss, she had fallen. Her days had been filled with dreams of
him. Impossible dreams, for he was another woman’s husband. She had no right to
think of him in that way and she had tried hard to forget all about him, but no
matter what she told herself, she could not stop herself from dreaming.
She watched with panicked
fascination as the torch glowed brightly, flickered, then extinguished and the
cold darkness engulfed them both.
“I hope you know where you are
going?” His voice came out as a hoarse whisper, but at least he had the clarity
to speak in Latin, the language of the nobility and a language they both
shared.
“I think so,” Annis replied
honestly, as she let the now-useless torch slip from her fingers and clatter to
the floor.
“I feel so reassured,” he said,
trying to bite back the sarcasm, but she had heard it.
“I can always take you back.” Annis
stated, a touch of anger in her soft voice, adding under her breath, “I am
doing the best I can.”
“Will they stop ringing that bloody
bell if you do?”
Annis snorted on a laugh and then
blushed at her unladylike manner and she was glad for the dark. “We can but
hope. I’ll say I apprehended you. I might get away with my life!” She began to
walk forward, forcing him to move with her.
“Who are you? Where are you taking
me?” Alden gasped, as another wave of pain robbed him of his breath
momentarily.
“The last place they would expect to
find you,” Annis stated. “The very last place,” she added bitterly. Her father
thought her worthless. What use was a
daughter? She had been a disappointment to him in all her seventeen years
of life. But he had not forgotten her completely. She was a bargaining tool now
that she had come of age, sold as easily as one would sell a horse. King
Natanleod of Sussex was reportedly on his way to claim her. But she had
promised herself she would be long gone from here before he did, for Natanleod
had a terrible reputation when it came to women and she would be wife number
six What had befallen the other five did not bear thinking about, except they
were all dead and buried. She had tried to argue with her father, reason with
him, but one did not reason with Cerdic of Wessex.
“Are you taking me to Cerdic’s
bedroom? He will be surprised!” Alden jested, although where he found the
strength to jest at a time like this even he did not know.
Annis felt a small sense of relief,
for she feared the torture he had suffered had addled his mind. He still had
his sense of humour, even if it was hanging on by a thread and for that, she
was thankful. “No. Mine. Now save your breath,” she quickly added, “we still
have a long way to go.”
There is a cave – a mystical magical place -
that is situated in the South-West of Britain, underneath the famous Tintagel Castle.
Merlin's Cave and The Pitchfork Rebellion
