The Hidden King

By David Morrin

A small ship is wrecked during a perilous crossing in the Middle Sea. A baby is born as the ship sinks in the storm and is sealed in a barrel by its parents, who are then drowned. The child is rescued by the wreckers who lured the ship to its doom and a chain of events whose roots reach back down the centuries is set in motion…

 

The Dalnin are a dispossessed and wandering tribe living on the margins of society, persecuted and reviled by most. They yearn for the prophesied return of their royal bloodline who will restore them to their true heritage.

 

In a small fishing village lives an orphan youth, Jarla. His birth and true parentage are unknown and he grows up unhappy, estranged from the world and the people around him. He befriends a mysterious stranger from the wild and sets off on a journey of discovery that will lead him through danger and hardship to a true understanding of who he really is and what he must do to fulfil his destiny. The challenges he overcomes and the resources he finds inside himself and in the world around him mould him into the person he was born to be. Most of all he finds the friendship and connection that he has always yearned for but never known.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Morrin
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224556038

David Morrin

David Morrin is an artist, musician and writer with a deep interest in religion and spirituality. Inspired by reading Tolkien at a young age he went on to study English Literature and has worked in mental health crisis intervention. He currently resides in Totnes, Devon in the UK.

Book preview

Prologue

1

The ship pitches and tosses in the swell like a toy, the wind is up and dark clouds pile high in the sky as night begins to fall. The journey has been hard and would never have been undertaken if there had been any choice. It is too late to worry now though, it is done and cannot be undone. They are here on the high sea and the storm is coming, that’s all there is to it. Ever pragmatic, she now has only one concern, the child in her swollen belly who has been kicking and squirming all day as they have sailed further and further into the Middle Sea. It is the same sea that is now also swelling around the ship like her belly itself and threatening to overwhelm it more and more by the minute.

She settles deeper into the pile of blankets and sheepskins she has made in the corner of the deckhouse. The captain they paid to bring them across proved treacherous and brought the guards down on them. It was only by a combination of quick thinking and good luck that they made it out of the harbour at all but there had been no pursuit as far as they could tell and now here they are, doing their best to cross the Middle Sea at the worst time of year, with only a fraction of the crew that the ship should really have. They had stolen the boat, none of them really know how to sail it. By all sensible reckoning they are doomed but she is not going to surrender to such thoughts. There are powers at work here, she is sure of it. Everything that is has to be as it is, that’s the rule, there can be no doubt. If it is happening then it is happening for a reason and cannot be gainsaid. This is how she lives because she has been taught that this is the way of her people and she is not going to abandon her heritage now.

The ship lurches over the crest of a wave and, as it plunges down into the trough, she feels a sudden tightening in her belly. There is sharp pain, then it eases. The baby is coming. She knows it with a certainty beyond anything she has been certain about in her life before. Another tightening, another pain. Her husband is pulling on a rope to bring down a sail. She shouts but her voice is lost above the wind. ‘The baby, the baby!’ she cries again, louder, and he hears her now, signals for someone to take over. The sail flaps like a crazy thing in the gale and they struggle to control it. It is so unjust, all this, but if they had stayed she would have been taken, most likely killed and the baby thrown out on the rubbish heap, if it had ever been born at all. Desperate people will do what they must to find a place of safety and this boat is filled with people she doesn’t know, has never met before but who are united in the flight from oppression and persecution just as she and her husband are.

She sees the woman at the helm battling for control of the rolling ship and then the rain begins, lashing across the deck like a fury. This corner of the deckhouse is the only shelter but now she feels the very timbers shake around her. The forces at play on this little wooden ark are huge and threaten to tear the hull apart momentarily. Her husband is at her side. He grasps her hand and talks into her ear to encourage and assure her that everything will be alright. It won’t be alright, she knows. The ship lurches again and with it comes another contraction, this time agonising and deep and longer than the others. Eventually it lets go of her and she collapses back into the blankets as the ship tries hopelessly to right itself in the maelstrom.

‘The shore,’ comes a shout from from the helm. ‘Lights on the shore, I can see them, we are not far now, we can make it, follow the lights.’ All have seen them now, beacons shining out across the bay, but the waves are high and the wind and rain keep driving in to the ship as if from the very Hells themselves. The baby is near, she knows it, very near now. Her husband is there between her open legs. Lightning flashes across the heavens and the savage clap of thunder follows almost straightaway. It is directly overhead, the storm is on them and then comes an awful grinding from the depths of the vessel, a scraping and a crashing. The ship veers suddenly sideways as though to capsize but somehow stays afloat.

‘Rocks,’ comes a shout. ‘We’ve hit rocks.’

‘The lights are a lie,’ cries the helms-woman. ‘They have lured us to our doom, we are undone.’ The baby is coming. The pain is agonising, searing, like nothing she has ever known. The wind rages, the rain pours down like the end of times and the ship is sinking, she knows this. The hull has been stoved in and the boat will go beneath the roiling sea very soon. A sickening lurch forwards takes the stern way up into the heavens and it is as much as she can do to hold fast as the cabin goes almost vertical. It reaches its peak, she feels one last movement in her body and the baby is out. The ship falls back to something resembling level and her husband is holding the baby in his arms. She has done what she must, she can do no more. He holds the newborn child as gently as he can as the ship grounds again on the reef and then all resistance is over. The hull is breaking apart beneath them, the waters are rising. The ship is destroyed and is going down. In the chaos that is upon them as the waters surge across the deck she sees her husband take hold of a barrel. He pulls a blanket and a sheepskin from the pile on which she lies and puts them inside. She knows what he will do and is glad. There is nothing that can save them now. Her dear husband and herself, and the diverse collection of strangers who have made this fateful journey with them at the last are now done. Each had their own reason for the journey, their own desperate plight forcing them to leave everything they had ever known and seek a new life free from persecution and oppression. There is no hope now though. All has come to nothing. The depths await them and she goes willingly to her fate knowing that she has done her best and that all is in the hands of that which determines all. Of the future that lies ahead of this new-born child she knows nothing but it is beyond her control and a kind of peace comes over her as the waters rise around the cabin. The ship has but moments now and she sees her husband acting with determination and resolve. He will not let her down at the last, he will do what must be done. He takes the barrel with its lining of sheepskin and places the baby inside. She watches with love and surrender as he brings the barrel near and holds her child to her. She kisses the dear soft skin of the newborn head and lies back as her husband seals the lid on the barrel. The last thing she knows as the seas rise to take them all is that her child lives.

2

She is last to the beach, plenty of others are there before her. They’ll get the best stuff, it’s always the same, nothing left by the time she gets there. It has been an age, she thinks, since the last wreck, but that had been rich pickings to be sure. They’d had all manner of stuff from the merchantman they had brought down with their false fires, guiding the way as if to harbour but in truth onto the sharp rocks and reefs that lie just off the shore along this stretch of coast. And now there’s another one, unusual at this time of year. She knows enough to know that not many chose to make the crossing in winter. They must have had a reason for such foolishness but that’s their own look-out, no concern of hers; all she wants is to get to the beach to grab her share of the spoils as they wash in on the tide.

It had been a truly terrible storm, of that there was no doubt, the worst she could remember. She notices a group of the villagers standing looking down at something that lies on the beach at their feet. Odd, she thinks. She had expected to see people rushing about trying to get to whatever it was that had washed up, or was floating on the surf, as quickly as they could. No-one ever knew what was going to come in and most were ready to fight for it as it came. She draws near and then sees. It is a body, the body of a woman. As she pushes through the circle she understands why all are standing still and silent around the corpse that lies there on the beach. She has never seen such beauty and such tragedy before and there it is at her feet, sandy and salt-whitened, lying in the sunshine now flooding the coast after the storm of the night before has passed. The woman’s long, gently curling fair hair lies soft and shining around the fine delicate features of her face. It is as though the hair has been placed there by a loving caress, not the harsh waves and wind that has brought about the demise of this unknown stranger on her unknown journey. She wears a simple blue dress, a white shawl around her shoulders, a plain gold ring on her finger the only adornment. There is a radiant beauty to her skin and the serene glow of her final repose has captured everyone standing there.

‘Looks like she’s asleep, poor dear,’ says one.

‘Not seen the like of her before,’ says another. ‘And tell the truth don’t expect to see such again.’ The villagers stand in a reverence that is drawn almost unwillingly from them, thoughts of spoil and plunder somehow banished by the presence of this dead woman lying on the rippling sand.

‘The ship was a poor thing by looks on it, not built for the journey, judging by what’s washed up so far. It was little more than a fishing smack. Dunno why they would think they could make the crossing in it anyway.’

‘They might have done, without the fires,’ says a red-haired man, taking off his cap as though in respect.

‘No good saying sorry now, it’s us as brought ‘em to their fate. We hadn’t lit the fires they’d like as not have made it to Salthaven, the Gods save us. Dunno why the Gods should though, after what we’ve done here.’ There is a solemn mood as the enormity of what they have done strikes the wreckers.

‘She’s alright,’ says a woman, looking down at the body.

‘What d’you mean alright? She’s dead as doornails, so she is.’

‘Don’t mean that. Course she’s dead but look at her face. She’s smiling, she’s happy about something, you can see it clear as day.’ It is true. As she stands looking down at the corpse she sees a faint smile on the dead woman’s face. It is just a suggestion as much as anything but she sees it there and understands. This woman has has left in peace.

‘We have to get out of here,’ says one. ‘They’ll hang us for this sure as day is day.’

‘A barrel,’ comes a shout. ‘There’s a barrel on the waves, we have to catch it.’

All look and out there on the surf is indeed a barrel, bobbing and dipping as the swell rises and falls around it.

‘Quick now,’ another says, ‘or the tide’ll take it. Bring it in while we still can.’

‘We haven’t time, the Yeomanry will be coming.’

‘It’s nearly in, won’t take but a minute to grab it.’

‘There’s nothing in it,’ says a woman, holding her skirts up as a wave washes across the beach. ‘Look how it floats on the top. If it was full of anything it would sit deeper in the water. Don’t waste your time boys, there’s no worth in it.’

‘You don’t know, you never know ’til it’s in. We have to get it.’ Already men are wading out into the waves. Grappling lines are being cast, others are now swimming. By degrees the barrel is brought under control and managed one way or another towards the gently shelving sandy beach.

‘Here we are,’ goes the shout as the barrel is rolled up out of reach of the breaking waves.

‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’ The barrel is stood upright and an iron bar produced from amongst the wreckers.

‘Crack it open, come on now, we could be well in here.’

‘Be apples or dried mutton or ship’s biscuits, you watch,’ scoffs another. ‘Never nothing any good in a barrel like that.’

‘Well we might get a bit a breakfast out on it then,’ laughs someone from the crowd. The lid of the barrel is broken and pulled quickly away.

‘Gods preserve us.’ She walks over to the throng around the barrel, a strange sensation in her chest. A memory, painful and unexpectedly present, fills her mind.

‘Well there’s a thing and no doubt at all. Didn’t see that coming, don’t mind saying.’

‘A baby,’ she hears a woman cry. ‘It’s a baby.’ And it is true. Inside the barrel is a tiny infant, newborn she knows it to be, so small and crumpled and helpless it is. She knows without a single doubt that the beautiful dead woman lying just a few yards away is the mother, was the mother. The baby boy, for such it is, begins crying, a guttural scream of such depth and intensity it can only signal the greatest distress and, she is sure, a killing hunger. The child is close to death and needs feeding. She knows what she must do, the feeling in her breast means only one thing.

‘Give him here,’ she says. ‘He needs milk.’ She unbuttons her bodice and there on the beach in front of all reveals her chest. The moment she has longed for is here at last, her lost baby calling to her through the voice of this stranger’s child, but no matter, it is a child in need and she cries with relief as she holds the boy to her breast and he begins suckling.

‘They’re here, run for it.’ Screams of fear and panic break out amongst the crowd as mounted militia appear over the dunes and charge along the beach. Plunder so recently won is abandoned as nothing on the sand and the wreckers scatter in all directions. Flight is in vain, though, as they are outrun and either cut down or captured. Desperation drives some into the sea but to no avail as expertly aimed arrows make short work of the swimmers. The captain rides up as she holds the baby to her. She hears the spurs jangling, sees the drawn sword in his hand. Sand is kicked up and settles again as the horse shuffles and stamps, breath steaming from its nostrils in the chill morning air. The captain looks down, brass buttons on his jacket glinting in the sun. Gold braid speaks of his authority, his power. He understands what has gone on.

‘Magistrates’ll give you ’til the baby’s weaned,’ he says. ‘Then you’ll hang with the rest of ‘em.’ The incoming tide washes around her feet, the child suckles at her breast. The future can take care of itself, the tears of love in her eyes and the child she holds are all that matter now.

‘Jarla,’ she says, gazing out across the waves. ‘I’ll call him Jarla.’

Chapter One

Another wave hit against the rock, throwing spray over his head as he sat and watched and waited. That was the fiftieth wave. Soon he would be able to jump across the inlet to the ledge six feet away that was being uncovered by the receding tide. And then he would be able to clamber around the headland out of sight of the town. He liked to sit there where nobody could see him and gaze out across the waves. ‘Where have you been all this time?’ his aunt would scold him when he returned home at dusk. ‘We thought you’d fallen into the sea or run off into the wilds.’ He could never really explain that he had been sitting all day watching the waves and scrambling about amongst the pools and gullies along the rocky shoreline. Nor could he say that he knew she would be happier if he had fallen into the sea and drowned. Or run off into the wild lands.

He sat and waited and watched the waves breaking, hugging himself against the sea breeze. It was the end of winter and the wind was cold on the unprotected shore. Water foamed and surged as the waves broke on the rocks, running through the channels they had worn for themselves, all rough edges smoothed down by the incessant battering. He looked at the heaving mass below and saw faces and figures, and heard the call of the sea spirits telling him to beware their indifferent power, for they would not think twice about catching him and dragging him beneath the waves, never to return as a mortal boy. A fishing boat rose and fell out of sight, and rose again, and the wind blew his fair hair around his face. It really was a bit cold today and he contemplated abandoning his vigil. It seemed a waste to have waited all this time only to give up now although he knew that meant it would be dark by the time he got home. Eventually the water level dropped enough for him to make the jump safely if he timed his leap between waves. His reward was the solitude around the corner of the headland where was nothing but wind and rock and waves and sky. He sat on the ledge above the spray with his back against the cliff and gave himself to the elements, transfixed by the endless movement of the water. He had a strange sense of his own destiny being caught up with the wind and the sea, as though the waves themselves broke and crashed in the depths of his body. Darkness fell around the barren coastline as he rose and began making his way homewards.

‘Jarla.’ A woman’s voice pierced the night air. His aunt was at the door. ‘Jarla, get home at once. Jarla, Jarla.’

‘I’m here,’ he shouted back as he trotted up the broken path to the cottage.

‘This has got to stop, lad,’ threatened his aunt. ‘There’s work to be done here, I can’t have you gone all day doing whatever it is you do out there. Why don’t you think of someone else for a change?’ When he was younger she would have cuffed him on the head as he passed her but now he was taller than she was by at least a head so she satisfied herself with glaring at him as he walked by her into the house.

‘I did my work this morning,’ he said, looking at the stove for something to eat.

‘Well there’s always something else to be done,’ scolded his aunt, hands on her hips, frown on her brow. ‘And it’s no use looking for food because there’s none left. You should have been here sooner if you wanted feeding.’ Jarla knew that there would have been enough food but she had most likely given it to the pigs just to spite him. ‘Your uncle will be home soon and what will he say to you, frightening us all staying out till I don’t know what time?’ His uncle, as Jarla also well knew, would be too drunk to care about anything Jarla might or might not have done. He went to his bed in the attic of the little cottage and daydreamed, as he had so many times before, of sailing away to foreign lands on one of the ships that sometimes called at the harbour in the town. As a young boy he had often sat on the quayside and watched the boats being unloaded, listening to the voices of the sailors shouting and laughing as they worked. He had loved to hear their unfamiliar accents, sometimes they even spoke strange languages but that was very rare as Salthaven was only a small place, and was mostly visited by local ships working up and down the coast. If ever there was a vessel from a foreign port Jarla was sure to be there to see and hear everything he could. He had often thought of stowing away on one of the foreign merchantmen and had sometimes gone as far as to slip on board unnoticed to hide in a dark corner waiting for the ship to sail. He had always come out and left the ship before it did, annoyed with himself for not having the courage to follow it through and vowing that next time he would really do it. He was older now; the threats and scolding of his aunt and uncle carried less weight. He tolerated their cursing and cussing for the empty and meaningless noise that it really was.

Jarla heard his uncle coming in through the door downstairs, stumbling into a chair in his drunken state, cursing whoever had left it in his way. The cottage was small and damp. If he was to leave no-one would miss him, Jarla knew that. His aunt and uncle were not even his real aunt and uncle and his cousins not his real cousins. He had been taken in as a baby and knew nothing of his parents, having long since stopped trying to find out. He was an orphan, he was told, that was all, he should be grateful to have been looked after all these years and what did he do to repay their kindness but disappear off all day and be never there when he was needed.

Jarla pulled out the book he kept wrapped in a piece of sacking next to the mattress. It had been given to him by the schoolteacher as a prize for being top of the class in reading and writing and it was his most treasured possession. The ancient tales and poems transported him to a different world, one far away from the hardship and injustice of his life, just as did the sea and the shoreline where he spent so much time. He loved the world of heroes and adventure that lay in the pages of the battered old book, it was more attractive,