Fire in the Soul

By Al Woods

Do you know who you really are?

Ionan thought he did. King of the West, that’s who he is. Though, having been sent to Camelot to grow up under the care and protection of his uncle, Uther Pendragon, being a king doesn’t count for much. Especially when your cousin Arthur is very much bigger and stronger than you are. But still, he is a King. Mostly. It is undeniably more exciting to be able to transform yourself into a wolfhound or eagle when you want to. Provided your uncle doesn’t catch you. So, that is who he is: Ionan, King of the West.

Until he reaches his majority, manages to reclaim his throne from his sister and is presented with the Staff of Bran ap Idris. Now he is more than a mere changeling who can become a wolf should he wish; now he can become a winged horse or even a dragon.

Though that, as it turns out, is only part of what he has inherited and so he still does not know who he really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398452558

Al Woods

Al C. Woods is an army veteran, GM retiree, a small scale singer, songwriter,record producer, who dwells in Detriot Michigan

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About the Author

Born in Warwickshire but leading an itinerant childhood, Al hated writing anything whilst at school, undiagnosed dyslexia being common at the time. Thankfully the invention of personal computers meant handwriting illegible even to the author is no longer a hindrance and the 2020-21 lockdowns provided ample free time for an active imagination to flow freely.

Al lives in Somerset and enjoys long walks with dogs and other friends.

Dedication

Wales, for giving me the dream on which this is based,

And Barbara, without whom this book would never have got this far.

Copyright Information ©

Al Woods 2024

The right of Al Woods to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398452541 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398452558 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Canary Wharf

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E14 5AA

Acknowledgments

I have read many books, watched many television series, even a few films. Each and every one have fed me ideas, motifs, themes or tropes. Thank you to all authors, script writers, screen writers, producers, directors, professors, lecturers, actors, costumiers, props wranglers and every other creative mind involved in generating those things. Inspiration is infectious. I hope I might pass a little on.

Prologue

Before there was Time, there was darkness, and the Darkness was all that there was.

When Time began and the Laws came into being, the twins Earth and Fire were born and all the matter that is, was and ever will be was flung into the emptiness and all the energy that is, was and ever will be sang in the atoms as they spun through the void. But still there was Darkness. Out of that darkness came the sisters Air and Ice to bring balance to the universe, lightness and cold to the brothers’ solidity and heat.

All across infinity, the four exist in harmony, bounded by the Laws and bringing order to the skies.

Slowly, so slowly, Earth pulled the matter into clumps and clouds, coils and clusters and he called upon his brother to aid him in his labour and Fire touched the spheres and ignited the first stars. Rejoicing in his cleverness and revelling in his power, Fire danced across the universe in the light he had created, laughing at the Darkness as it sped away before him. Every cloud of atoms his brother toiled to garner, he burned in the furnace of his own light and heat, until atom merged with atom to make the brightness ever brighter. Such fires are not eternal and as their embers flickered, the stars were blown asunder and from their dying hearts came the dust, the stardust, from which the living things are made.

Only here, here on this one particular Earth, is there a creature who looks up into those skies and asks the ‘Why’ of things and, in the asking, gives the Four a name.

So it was for eons before we came to be and so it will continue long after we are gone. Earth and Air, Fire and Ice will endure for millennia yet, to create and change, collect and disperse, nurture and destroy until Fire has burned all there is to burn and the last stars fade.

After Time, there will be darkness, and the Darkness will be all that there is.

Fire in the Soul

Foretelling the return

They have found shelter in an open-fronted barn, hunched low and tucked into the hillside as if it were seeking its own shelter, and it is welcome relief from the rain drenched open road. For such a humble building, three solid stone walls and then four stout posts to support the rough timber joists of the roof, the view out from it is stunning, even in this weather. Good green sward slopes steadily away down the valley to the stream, not lush but abundant and well mixed with healthy herbage and almost ready for hay making, though it will now need some days of clear weather to dry before any dare cut it.

On this gentle scoop of land, everything is neatly divided into enclosures bounded by stone walls, as good a way as any to clear the fields of rocks, with fold-houses or barns like this one at regular intervals, their slate roofs glossed and polished black with the wet. Where the rough road meets the stream the ancient bridge is matched by a good ford for the livestock and on the opposite side, above a similar stretch of fields, the open moor shades from the vivid green into the brown green of the tougher grasses and the heather and is just touched with purple before it is lost to view in the mist.

As the latest shower clears and the sun reaches out from behind the billowing cloud, every surface is gilded with its reflected gold and decked with a diamond glint. The sun is nearing the western horizon and what, at midday, might have been a shocking brilliance is mellowed to a richness of russet and ruby and Ionan cannot help but smile and ask, Is my land not the most beautiful in all the world, Suleiman?

Looking doubtfully at his companion’s back, the reply comes, If your taste is for wet wool and peat fires, then aye, my Lord, it is, but for those of us not born to it… he shrugs and turns down the corners of his mouth. He has been shaking out his cloak to rid it of as much water as he can and now searches out the remains of their rations from his pack. You should eat and rest while we can, we still have some miles to walk yet and it will be a long night no doubt.

Taking the proffered chunk of loaf and handful of slightly squashed cherries, it is a rueful. Not exactly how I had imagined celebrating my eighteenth birthday—stale bread and bruised cherries.

Nor I, my Lord, nor I, he passes the water flask across, "but you must return tonight because tonight is the right time. With Bleddyn installed in your place, he and Angharad will be expecting you and dreading you in equal measure."

The young man leans against the great stone pillar that forms the front corner of the barn, four times the thickness of the wall to give strength and buttressed on the outer face where once it has shown signs of sliding away, and chews at a piece torn from the stub of loaf. I hope you know what you are talking about, Suleiman.

I do. He looks up from his comfortable crouch against the back wall, tucked between a heap of old hay and the slow collapse of an unused cart, as he takes a similar piece from the other half of the loaf. I am no magician but I have had to study your mother and her kind since I was sent to guard you fourteen years ago. She had power, great power, so I had to get great knowledge in order to protect you. She never read anything, I read everything. I know the Laws and I have read the books of prophecy. Tonight, you become King absolute, whether you or any other like it or not, and all your sister’s meddling cannot stop that now, not unless you are killed.

"And what is to stop that, Suleiman, seeing as I carry no sword?" He falls silent as his companion has laid a finger across his lips and pulled the end of his turban over his face, trusting to the older man’s judgement though he senses nothing. There must have been faint vibrations in the ground and in the wall, for a few seconds later, Ionan can also hear the sound of hooves coming from the road that runs up behind the barn and he flicks his hood over his head and steps back into the shadow of the corner.

A patrol of half a dozen horsemen slow as they come around the back corner of the barn, one glances in but the Arab is now only one dark shadow amongst the others at the back of the old building where fodder and equipment decay together. Ionan holds his breath, standing as he is pressed against the meagre cover of the stonework, but the drab buckram cape attracts no notice and such an open shelter does not warrant a thorough ransacking, what is the point when all is laid there to see? The horse is turned and the group trot away down towards the river. Well, someone is with us, he breathes.

Also relaxing out of his cover, "It is important you have no sword; you must return unarmed."

So you keep telling me. All his life, all his life that he can remember, Suleiman has been at his side as mentor, protector, teacher, guide and friend but it is still hard to trust when you are told you should retake a castle single-handed and unarmed.

As the sun sets, he watches it and asks, Suleiman, do you ever have a sense you should really be somewhere else?

You are missing Rhiannon? he smiles sympathetically for a first love can be the most painful.

Looking a little embarrassed, he had not realised it was that obvious to others. Yes, but it is not that.

A danger elsewhere you should be fighting?

No, not that either. The last rays are gilding the underside of the clouds, making them glow pink. "It is something else, something even stronger. Somewhere I really should be."

The only place you should be tonight is in Caerseren.

Brief respite over he rises to his feet. Come, we must reach the castle before full darkness. Suleiman leads them out into the dusk, around the side of the barn and up onto the road as it slopes up the hillside at the back of the building.

Well used and ancient the track has been cut into the earth until it found the native rock beneath and there it has become a solid base under the ruts in the mud, ruts which channel the rain down to the river. They trudge through the skim of mud, slipping occasionally on exposed stones greased by the wet, Suleiman leaning on his tall ironwood staff, until the way flattens out at the brow and the top of castle is clearly visible, touched by the last rays of the setting sun, two miles away at the head of the ridge. As they approach the final rise to the twin drum towers and fortified gateway they leave the road and find their way through the fields below the houses which huddle in the lee of the castle.

Caerseren occupies the end of a long ridge where the last and hardest outcrop rises like a heel from an upturned sole and overlooks the junction of the river and the upland tributaries that run down the valleys beside it. Built out of local stone, with massive round towers protruding at each corner, most of the end of the hillside has now been encompassed in a long curtain wall which encloses what was originally the village and now comprises all the castle stores and workshops.

At the heart of the fortress lies the earliest part of the construction, a four-square mass of rock with the central courtyard levelled not by cutting the promontory down, but by building the sides up so inside, under those thick walls, is a warren of rooms and passageways. Dominating the front wall of this old part is the main gate, which has a double keep, two huge drum-shaped towers with another pair mirroring them on the inner side, so anyone breaking through the outer gate is faced with a duplicate challenge before they can gain entry. Any army fool enough to try would find themselves pinned in a box with troops stationed above to pelt them with anything that comes to hand. Leading up to this gate the hillside has been cut away to leave only a narrow neck of level ground as a bridge from the main hill to the castle outcrop, a land bridge now enclosed within the wall of the forecastle.

To one side of the castle walls no such effort to create any additional challenge was required by man for nature has provided steep slopes where even the grass struggles to keep its grip and patches of bare rock show through and, at the far end, there is a sheer drop of over one hundred feet to the small strip of land between the rocks and the curve of the river below. Only on the northern side of the castle is there a narrow opportunity for an intruder for a track did once lead from the new village along the foot of the wall here. There are times when even such a strong fortress as this needs an escape route for those trapped inside and, if you know where it is, that escape route can be found from the outside as well as the in.

After fighting through the scrub now springing up around the outer curtain wall, they find themselves edging along the precarious join between earth and stone where footings of the old castle have been anchored to rock and it is hard to tell the native from the dressed. Now each of the massive foundation blocks is carefully touched with the steel ferule at the base of Suleiman’s ironwood staff as if sounding it for something. Step after step has to be placed and checked before weight is transferred to that foot for the narrow path has not been maintained and is yielding to eight years of neglect and the pull of gravity.

At each move the next block is tested and they have edged all the way past the first great round tower and a significant way along that wall towards the next before one stone does not ring true, though the granite looks no different from the rest. As the ironwood touches it again the enchantment is distorted so the door can be seen and he turns to the young man who follows:, Here.

As the Arab pushes on past the false stone, Ionan steps forward to the doorway where he stops. There is so much he wants to say but all he can manage is ‘Thank you’ and that will have to do for all the things he would like to say on the assumption he will be dead within the next half hour. Reaching for the door, wondering how to open it as it seems to have no handle, nor even a keyhole, he is mildly encouraged by the fact it opens for him, opens inward as if the castle itself wanted to welcome him.

Once inside, however, it closes with just as much alacrity and Ionan is plunged into complete darkness. Reaching out his left hand he finds the wall and steps forward as confidently as he can, keeping that light contact of skin against stone, until there is nothingness there and he has to put his faith in the instructions given and continue on regardless, still with his hand outstretched. Two paces later and the first doorway is passed, the return of the roughness is reassuring to his fingers and now, as forecast, the floor is starting to slope gently upwards. Another doorway gapes under his left hand and, once he has crossed and found the other side he stops, moves sideways and reaches to find the righthand wall. Onwards and still upwards until the wall ends abruptly and he checks, contacts the wall again, turns and now moves along the passageway to his right with great care.

Step by step, pace by pace he moves seeking… yes, here, a staircase. Still with a hand on the wall, he climbs for five, ten, twenty treads on a gentle curve until he finds his way blocked. A thread of light shows below the door and he can hear the voices of men on the other side and he hesitates, heart pounding, how can he possibly walk in? Gripped in fear he stands motionless, listening to the muffled sounds of the crowd beyond, trying to assess how many that crowd contains but even if it is only a dozen he is impossibly outnumbered.

Roaring laughter jolts him out of his trance and he tells himself there should be absolutely nothing to stop him from going anywhere in this place because it is his castle and he steps forward with the conviction of ownership. Taking hold of the great iron ring, he gives it a firm twist and pushes the door.

Escape

A black horse steps out into the night yet makes no sound, its feet unshod and swathed in cloth, its harness simple and unadorned to lie still and silent against its hide. Upon its back the rider is nothing more than a billow of black, his coal dark cloak all around and about him and the cloth of his turban covering his head and his face and spilling down to fold with the fall of the fabric. In the crook of his arms, held firm in the front of the high saddle, an indistinct bundle is cradled carefully; as he stoops low to pass under an archway he shelters it delicately and leans it aside to avoid the stonework. They slip through another arch barely wide enough for the horse and the thick wooden door is eased slowly closed behind them on well-oiled hinges, any grating glide of the bolt smothered by grease and any hint of it driving home being muffled by a wad of wool in the hasp. The path along here is so narrow he must lift his foot, stirrup and all, over the withers so it does not ring against the stonework and trust to his horse to step safely until they are clear of the last corner tower.

Now, he sits properly astride again and leans back as they dip down into the ditch ready for the climb on the other side, up which he can offer little assistance to his steed, hampered as he is by his load. But he is out and on his way and must neither stop nor look back, nor flee too fast and risk attracting notice against the surrounding stillness but slip in silent softness as one shadow among all shadows. For the first half mile, the rider keeps close to the walls of the shuttered houses and the horse steps softly along edge of the well-worn road where it is thick with the dust of heavy traffic, though they are alone now for all is under curfew. As they reach the edge of the village he can barely breathe he is so tense, and the thundering of his heartbeat becomes to him the drumming of so many furious footfalls in pursuit. In such fear, he raises a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening that they may bless his path across the open ground ahead and let him reach the woods.

Yet the starlight is too bright, he feels, too bright with so many million betraying lights to point at his shadowy shape moving across the meadow. Holding the steady pace despite every nerve in his body desiring fast flight the horseman sets out into the open, a short ride now distorted by projected tension to appear so many miles. Relief from the sickening anxiety comes within the truth of a few hundred yards where the welcoming trees spread their branches wide and enfolds them within the deeper darkness. In such relative safety as the gloaming affords, the rider spurs on to a steady canter, this may be a deeper dark, but it is not dangerous to hasten here for the road is still broad and well-worn and stretches before them as a clear band of pale earth, soft and silent under them. Now the rider’s hopes dare to reach further forward, running on even as far as the great river. Down the first hill, the horse stretches out each stride and the stream at the bottom of the valley is but one small hurdle to be sprung so easily that the short slope upwards on the other side is taken in three strides.

But beyond this initial rise, each lengthening climb exceeds successive descents and the horse’s flanks soon heave and his nostrils flare in his struggle for breath. Urgent to extend any lead they may have over potential pursuers the rider still urges his mount onwards for they have the great expanse of the moor to traverse yet, and that they must do before moonrise. The trees end abruptly and now the starlight almost dazzles as they burst out onto the open hillside where the land levels at last. Here the road has dwindled to a grass padded path and the horse finds a second wind and lunges on, the rags on his muffled feet finally falling away and freeing him to relish the spring of the turf. The rider wishes he could smile and delight in the race, but still he imagines he hears the screams behind him, the accusations, the rage, the call for the chase and the avenging hunt. As the horse slackens his pace at last the spurs do not press him for more effort, there are many miles to cover yet and the rider eases back to a gentle jog as they start to descend on the far side of the moor and enter another tract of trees.

Here they walk for a while as the path becomes narrower still, the rider trusting to his steed’s surefootedness and night vision for he cannot see where they must tread, but imperceptibly the night pales and eventually a soft silvery light picks out the trace of the track beneath the cleft in the canopy above. The moon has risen, she will know now. Grimly satisfied that they have these past two hours and all those miles head start on any pursuit the rider spurs on once more and they canter between colonnades of ancient oak and beech. Up and down they bowl along the rolling road until the downs begin to outweigh the ups and the steady descent brings an air of hope, perhaps they do have time to reach the great river.

After such exertion, the horse tires more quickly now, but still the rider urges it on for his ear picks out an echoing tremor through the trees and fear snatches at his heart. What is that? A hundred hooves? A thousand voices? He strains to identify the murmuring. No. No! It is a smooth, steady rumble with no vindictive edge and with elation he realises it is sound from neither man nor beast, it is the waterfall; they are near the great river. With immense relief, he allows his horse to slow to its own pace and they amble towards the comforting sound, for although much energy will be needed before they are free, for a few minutes at least they may ease their flight.

And then there it is, glimpsed between the trees, the glistening sheet glinting as it glides over the rocky edge to fracture into a foaming force of white water on the boulders below, all shrouded in a milky mist in the moonlight. Wheeling the horse left he heads upstream towards the hills where the people of times long past had travelled and made their way safe across this broad barrier. Still he keeps well within the thick belt of trees alongside the river for though the going may be easier along the bank where the main path lies it is too exposed in the clear moonlight, and this border will be watched. But he knows there is a ford, well-guarded but still a ford, where the old road of the ancients comes down from the mountains, he just needs to find it. The rider keeps his ear pricked for the slightest footfall in the night, a footfall that would betray the pursuing hordes, but for now there is only the murmur of the water and the frightened scuttling of small animals in the leaf litter.

Slowly and subtly, the voice of the river changes from the gentle murmuring of deep water occasionally sucking at the bank to an insistent susurration over shingle for it is flowing faster, faster and shallower. They are near the ford, but are they near enough? For the air carries the first faint shimmer of shrilling cries and the bell-mouthed baying of the hounds and the horns away to the west. There is fresh urgency, but he knows he cannot fly too fast for as great a danger lies in their way ahead and he hastens on as best he can through the snagging of the woods. He would have chosen a safer crossing over the mountains if speed had not been so essential to their flight, the shortest route was theirs by force. Others might make their way by higher or more roundabout routes but he, and his burden, must be gone beyond the border tonight.

At last the river starts to loop away, they emerge from the shelter of the trees and there is the old road and the ford, broad and wide and well maintained. But there also is the beast, wakeful in the night, wakeful and waiting for them for its senses have known of their approach though it cannot have seen them in the darkness. The keeper of this gateway to the kingdom is no ordinary guard-dog, though it be chained to the bank by its neck, for it stands its watch alone through the years and needs no living master to control it. Nor is it any common beast of magic such as the trolls who patrol the bridges in the high passes, it is a much more magnificent monster with a tremendous tail which coils and curls and lashes at the water and no fur would glint in the moonshine as if made of burnished bronze.

As the horse strides down the sloping track, the great neck uncoils and hoists the mighty head into the air, the mane of spikes around it silhouetted against the silver sliver of the moon and the small eyes burning in their sockets. Those eyes are near useless in the night, but several yards of tongue flick out to scent them and the snout rears higher, the nostrils flare open, air is sucked in and a deep and distant roar trembles through the heaving chest. A brief warning spurt of flame blasts from the gaping jaw as the dragon defies any to cross his path, for although he does not serve any willingly he is indiscriminate in his duty, and all who try to cross are his fodder whether they attempt to enter, or to leave.

Reining in the rearing horse and grasping his priceless load against his chest, the rider raises his right arm and breaks his silence. A thousand salaams, O Great One! The damp sand on the shore hisses and spits as it cools. Honour to you, Draig Efydd; in the name of Wolfram, I beg you—let me pass!

The dragon lowers its head and strains at its leash to peer closer at the intruder, the tongue flicks out almost close enough to brush the nose of the horse, which shivers and sits back on its haunches wishing to sprint away. A steadying hand soothes the dark neck and calves close tight against the horse’s ribs to stay the flight and the rider keeps his eyes upon those of the guardian, praying he and his precious bundle are not roasted in the next few seconds. The sound of air being sucked into the cavernous chest chills the rider’s heart and the moment hangs in the air for an eternity.

You speak the name of Wolfram and I spare you, but it does not fill my stomach, Man.

The words are not so much spoken as slipped, slithering, straight into the soul and both man and horse feel as nothing but so much raw meat ready to be fried. Reaching into one of his saddlebags, the rider brings forth a heavy cloth bag which rings softly as it is moved. Using the forward swing to gain momentum, he murmurs, I have but a mere morsel to offer, though it be a king’s ransom, tosses it high into the air and, as the dragon swings around to catch it, he urges the horse from a standing start to a full gallop to cross whilst the gold is snatched and swallowed.

Great plumes of water splash up from the ford as the hooves hammer down, grasping at the gravel for the grip to propel them forward and on and up the shallow bank and into the trees beyond. The rider needs no use of spur for the horse has a greater natural instinct to flee as fast as muscle and sinew can reach than it has ever known, and it stretches itself as never before as it strains for the shelter ahead. Steam billows behind them as fire hits water and two more blasts scorch the shore where they passed, but they are ever just ahead and the stinking cloud hides their path and they are gone. One more plume of fire, blasted out at the night sky in pure rage and frustration, seems to sear the stars before the beast quiets again.

Up on the high moor, the sky scorching fire-stream is seen and the pursuers gladden at the sight; their quarry has been halted, surely, if not already destroyed and they surge towards their prize.

Many more miles behind the pursuing pack, the flicker of orange light in the far darkness of the eastern horizon is noticed by those who take care they are not seen to look for it, and the watchers silently pray it might be a good omen.

Under the shelter of this new forest, the rider reins to a halt, calms his sweating, panting steed and looks back. This is, as yet, hardly more of a safe haven than the western shore, but the ruler of these lands would move swiftly and savagely against any other fool enough to cross without his explicit leave, even her. Especially her. He bows his head to rest beside that of his passenger, still so deeply asleep despite his near roasting, and is relieved, the flower of Morpheus has kept you innocent, let it shelter you a little longer yet. Then he turns the tired horse away and lets it idle forward through the trees, not such an urgent path to seek and the occasionally glimpsed eye of Aldebarn to guide them on their way.

Some days earlier…

Uther Pendragon, King of Wessex, Lord of Camelot, fearless warrior and fearsome foe, now in his mid-forties and somewhat set in his ways, is settled on his great oak throne holding court in the great hall of the castle. A man who has inherited his throne through the unexpected loss of two older brothers, and held onto it by strength and shrewd manoeuvre. He is not given to show nor great flamboyance, his dark hair is kept trimmed short under the broad, jewel studded circle of the crown and he is clean-shaven and plainly clad in dark blue trousers, shirt and cloak. Only the fact his suede jerkin is decorated with a finely hammered pattern of two dragons face to face across his chest, his tall black boots are well-heeled and constructed of the best leather and his cloak trimmed with sable show him for the king he is.

Not overly tall, he nonetheless appears to fill the old oak throne from sheer force of character for, having fought alongside his brother in the battles to regain it, that face declares he would fight again to keep it and dares any to challenge. That face with the scar from chin to cheekbone and up into the hairline where it is still defined by a stubborn patch of pure white amongst the slightly grizzled black. Not a classic chiselled profile for handsomeness, but fine enough and, on those rare occasions he does so, warming and softening to gentle comeliness when he smiles. There is no smile today, even with the high pointed back shielding him from draughts and the solid arms comfortable under his elbows, his scarred chin is cupped in one hand and he is looking decidedly bored.

The great hall of the castle is but half full, the knights and household having been sent about their business leaving only those who have cause to be there present and they stand around in small groups, patiently waiting their turn. With routine matters becoming frankly wearisome he listens to yet another petty dispute between neighbours, which he feels they should resolve themselves without recourse to him, and is struggling to concentrate, already looking forward to the end of the session. Light lances in through lattice paned windows, the dance of the dust in the sunbeams is the most animated thing in sight, when an unremarkable man in plain working clothing is brought into the hall with two guards as escort and the sergeant leading. At such a potentially interesting diversion, he halts the thoroughly uninteresting business of the day and demands, Who is this?

The sergeant halts, gives a smart fist-to-chest salute and declares, My Lord, he says he is a messenger from your brother Owen’s court but will tell no more to us, and is urgent that he speaks to you.

Turning his attention to the visitor, Well, now you are here who are you and how do I know your urgent message is genuine? I have had no request from my brother to admit any envoy.

The man bows deeply and introduces himself, I am John Falconer, your majesty, I was keeper of the hawks for King Owen, I have been sent by his council and I have here proof of the verity of my message, he holds forward a signet ring, which the sergeant takes and passes to the king, but it is no good mission.

He takes a deep breath to settle nerves, Your majesty, you have had no request to admit any envoy because I bring the sad news that your brother, King Owen of the West, is dead.

The king looks up sharply from examining the ring and the mark he recognises very well, and frowns down at the man before him, Killed?

No, sire, a fall out hunting. He tries to make it a bland statement of fact, but even so his voice betrays some doubt over the claim.

There is no doubt? No sign the Lady Alwen acted against him?

None that has been found, sire. Though it is clear that many have looked.

My brother is foolish but is not fool enough to ride out on an inexperienced horse and risk his neck, Uther snaps.

Indeed, he was not, sire. The messenger lays a slight emphasis on ‘was’. He rode out on his own favourite, but there is no guarantee with any horse and it was startled, shied and reared and he fell hard against a tree bole. A fall anywhere but there he might have worn, but the great root broke his back when he fell across it. We could get him home, but there was no more could be done.

Uther is clearly shocked, saddened and unconvinced. Nonetheless, it is possible it might have been her doing; what caused his horse to start? Did others also or his alone? With her skills, she could have enchanted the beast.

Trying to neither agree nor disagree, the messenger assays, "He led the field, sire, no other ahead to shield and as his horse jinked others started away but no other fell. When riders did search the area, no cause could be found, it might have been no more than a startled bird or animal, long gone by the time they sought it. However, she might have had an influence, no certainty has been found. And then moves swiftly on. Before his life ebbed, your brother charged his council with the safekeeping of his son and bade them deliver him to you until he be of an age to rule alone." Another slight emphasis, this time on ‘alone’.

Still twiddling the ring in his fingers, thoughtful and resolutely unconvinced, Aside from his wife my brother keeps, he hesitates, kept a good council at least. The adjustment from present to past tense causes a pain he is careful to hide.

Wanting to get a positive answer as quickly as he might, the man presses, He was urgent that it should be so, made those of us with him at the hunt swear it as we bore him home, for he knew he was so wounded he would not live many days more.

You speak as though you were among those there, surely you cannot know this? looking down upon the workaday man.

A curl of the lip at the assumption, quite used to being almost invisible to those in power. I was the man who worked the goshawks, my Lord, the court may carry their own pet falcons to the hunt, and did, but ’tis the gos that does the labouring to fill the table and only I hawk them on the hunt. Not with pride exactly, just pride in the abilities of his hawks. I was there and when they ran to help the king, I handed all the birds onto the frame to let them take him up, jury-rig a litter and carry him home. I saw all, I heard all and the five who rode with him all swore to protect the prince and bring him hence.

To keep him from the Lady. Never so much a question as a statement, and a sour one at that.

This time there is a faint smile and a slight inclination of the head in assent. Aye, my Lord, without her son she would have no voice in council. She should be powerless.

Uther snorts his contempt for such short-sightedness. Severely hampered, perhaps, but her powers are not measured in councils. I will take him most gladly and keep him from her sorcery, he spits the word out. Then, thinking on the situation a little, It might be as well to pursue her now and break her while the boy is still young.

Your majesty, he is clearly wary of refusing such a man his wish, but he knows the court of the West better than any other here and must doubt the wisdom of this, King Owen was fond, even to the last, of the Lady Alwen and his son will have no word said against her.

More fool he! Sufficiently angry to be roused from his seat snarling, She is wickedness personified, and an enchantress! And paces the dais on which the throne sits. She had Owen in her power from the moment he set eyes on her I grant, but that was no love to be honoured, that was an enslavement to be broken and destroyed! He has a deep-seated hatred of Alwen for she had come close to winning him into that enslavement and tearing him from the woman he truly loved. Worse yet, when his eyes had been opened to her trap and he had tried to save his young half-brother from the same fate, Alwen had brushed him aside as if he were of no consequence and he did not forgive the slight.

Surprised by such vehemence, But sire, she is still the boy’s mother!

Uther sneers slightly, He will be parted from her when he comes here, he need not know. His cold-heartedness shocks the messenger but does not surprise his court at all.

A little more nervously, but persisting in his objection to the proposal, But sire, he is now King of the West and he knows of his Council’s… distrust. He has decreed she is to be left unharmed.

Then he is as much a fool as his father. Despairing and disappointed.

No, your majesty. He gives a slightly wry smile and the most human and humane response, He is just a boy, and she his mother.

Uther glares at the man before him but eventually sniffs, shrugs and wafts the idea away with, Oh, very well. She cannot cross the border and will keep. As she has kept for years, far enough away ever to be dealt with ‘at some other time’. I will send for him. He moves to end the interview and turns away.

No, sire. Uther turns back slowly, not at all pleased at being spoken to so bluntly, especially by a mere servant, a mere servant who hastens to explain:, It is not safe for any to venture there now and she has all the land and the borders under close watch and guard. She knows what is planned, she always knows, but though she may suspect, she does not know who it will be, nor when, nor how it is to be accomplished.

All of which is met with a dismissive, Hmph. For he suspects such a witch could, indeed would, use her powers to ensure complete dominion. He certainly would in her place.

John Falconer continues, "She knows her power will not be welcomed, she knows the orders the old king gave before he died, and she would defy all to keep her hold on the boy and so on the land. I will send, and he will be brought."

He produces a small cloth bag from beneath his cloak and gently extracts the dove cradled inside, he spreads its tail and cuts short a single feather two in from the edge, then carries it in cupped hands to the open window and throws it free. There are many similar within the castle, one was not missed when it was taken, one will not be noticed when it returns, except by the man who watches for it and the sign it now carries.

After examining the messenger with new regard for such careful arrangements and having another look at the signet ring, Uther queries, If I had refused?

It would return unmarked, sire. Then adds, And the council would seek another sanctuary, though none would be such sure safety for him.

I must admire whoever is behind these plans, he has clear foresight—no! Do not tell me. An unspoken name cannot be betrayed at any distance. He toys with the ring he still holds before tucking it firmly into a pocket of the waistcoat and glances around the court, he cannot think that any here would betray, but distrust is now deeply ingrained. But do tell me, the borders are supposed to be sealed and are closely watched, so how did you escaped?

He has halted and is rubbing the palm of his hand over the carved sphere on one of the posts which form the outer frame of the back of the throne. From the patch of wear, it is clearly a habit for the rest of the timber is dark stained, only this spot shows the pale hue of the oak as it was when felled.

More relaxed now he has the answer so urgently sought, John Falconer tells his story. My Lord, I am of no consequence to the Lady Alwen, nor any other come to that, my face would never be one she seeks in the quicksilver, I am just a falconer who supplies the kitchens. Nobody marks me when I go out or come in, nobody marks me when I go to work or to take my leisure and nobody marks when I take a coracle out on the water. But the one who sent me does not judge a man by such status; I was trusted to bring the message and slipped away as easily as an eel, out onto the river to cast an un-baited line and appear to fish, but instead to slide slowly away downstream to meet the great river and not haul out on the same shore. I could not fish, my catch-bag was already carrying a cargo, though I cannot now return as the dove does. He hopes his final comment is noticed.

Uther does indeed pick up on the note of hope in the final plea and the corner of his lips gives a slight upward twitch. A messenger of no consequence to carry such a consequential message. He swings away and returns to sit on the throne. A falconer as well as a fisher, you say?

Yes, sire.

Go to my mews and tell Robert you are his new man.

Arthur and Merlin

Prince Arthur Pendragon, heir to the throne of Wessex, only son of the legendary Uther Pendragon, tall, talented, bold, blonde, blue-eyed, beloved by the populace, a formidable competitor in any tournament, is about to have his handsome head severed from his shapely shoulders by an unfortunate combination of bolting horse and low branch.

Hunting wild boar is excellent sport and splendid training for knights of the realm as facing two hundred pounds of full grown male wild pig charging down on you, with a face full of razor sharp tusks and an attitude to match, is as close to real warfare as you can get without an international incident ensuing. With such challenging prey it is an extremely dangerous sport and a significant part of that danger comes from the well-known fact that horses hate pigs, which seems eminently sensible once you have seen what a boar can do to a horse.

Horses know, somewhere deep in their skittish psyche, that pigs eat anything and that ‘anything’ certainly includes dead horse and for a horse the best way to stay not dead, and therefore avoid becoming pig food, is to run. Direction: vaguely defined as ‘away’; speed: maximum achievable. Arthur’s horse will dodge to avoid the tree but it could not care less about the branch as that is not it’s problem, it can fit underneath. It is not, however, going to jump the enormous stone wall unexpectedly appearing in its path, sits on its hocks, front legs braced and slides to a panting halt, snorting and stamping in confusion as the wall it was sure was suddenly there, just as suddenly isn’t.

Arthur is also panting, but as much in relief as anything for he could see no way of avoiding the impact and, after collapsing onto its neck for a few seconds to get over the shock, sits up and looks around for a reason his steed should come to such an abrupt stop. The only thing nearby is a badly coordinated country boy who comes running over with another shout:, You are safe, sire!

Still short of breath, the prince replies, I didn’t think he was ever going to stop.

He slaps its neck half-heartedly, Stupid colt! and looks down at the boy, Do you know what made it stop? He was flat out and I thought I was for it with this branch. It is within reach and he slaps that too, it is just an arm’s length away and he could not have ducked low enough to avoid. Whatever or whoever had halted his horse was the only thing to save him, and the only thing around is this threadbare peasant.

Knowing he cannot tell the whole truth, he says, I, um… I yelled at him because, I, well, I saw you racing down and I um… I thought perhaps you were going to ask him to jump it and…

Looking down and laughing in disbelief at the nonsense, You’ve never ridden a horse, have you. Not really a question and he swings his steed around and starts to walk to back the way they have come, following the hoofprints in the leaf litter.

Well yes, but only the farm cobs on the way to or from the field. And only if Geoffrey isn’t watching.

In answer to the questioning look, Headman of the village. He says it’s not fair to make them work and carry you when you’ve got legs of your own.

Looking at those legs, lanky and rather longer than the trousers which are attempting to cover them, Very true. The boy seems to have automatically started walking alongside. Your village is where?

Beanacre.

Never head of it. Which does not discourage the lad, You are obviously not going home to it.

No, very firmly.

Mildly curious, So where are you going?

Camelot.

With a laugh, Why, to become a knight? The top half of his new companion is no more substantial that the lower section.

Um, don’t think I’m allowed, but my Ma says they’re always looking for foot soldiers.

Laughing more than before, Seriously?

A shrug, Can’t stay in Beanacre, Ma says my face doesn’t fit any more.

Nor do your trousers. He looks more carefully at the young man, You want to be a soldier, no real sign of conviction and he can see the first of his hunting party racing through the trees towards them, horses left behind so they do not end up with a stampeding herd. See if you can knock any of these men down.

Two well grown men are closing on him at full tilt, either of them on their own could flatten him but he does have the option of getting out of the way at the last minute. Momentum carries the first two safely past, though neither could be counted as knocked down but the third also has the hill assisted speed and a well deployed knapsack takes a knee the wrong way and he somersaults down the rest of the slope. Ignoring the others racing his way he looks up at his challenger, Does that count, sire? and is knocked cold by the fourth man with a single blow to the head.

A little unnecessary, Kay, he was no threat and I was interested to see how badly he wanted to become a soldier.

The slowing, panting crowd all gather around and look at the fallen recruit who can’t be more than a teenager, scrawny and poorly dressed and laugh. That’s no soldier, sire, says one.

Could barely lift a sword I think, from another.

Where’d you find him? from the burly young man who floored the newcomer.

He managed to stop this lunatic, he points at the horse, just before he ran me into a tree branch and killed me. Looking at the body just starting to stir, So, I owe him something.

Too scrawny for a soldier, sire. From another of his companions, very far from scrawny himself for the knights’ table is always well furnished with bread, meat and ale.

You could take him as a replacement for old Bert, suggests Sir Kay.

Hmm, good idea. As the boy sits up, rubbing his sore head, What’s your name, boy?

Looking around the crowd which has formed and finally making four from two and two he realises this must be a group of knights from Camelot and dreads their reaction to:, Ambrosius, sire, as he struggles to his feet, he hates the way men always laugh so hard at his name, he didn’t choose it.

Recovering slowly, Arthur then tries it himself with a certain amount of disbelief. Ambrosius? Why would any parent give a boy a name like that? He can’t help but laugh again, Sorry. He clears his throat and tries again, Ambrosius, no, still can’t manage it without at least a snigger, Am… No, finally. You are not, I think, soldier material. The youth is looking completely crestfallen. But Camelot needs many more than soldiers so come with us, there will be a place for you somewhere.

Pot-wash. Is heard from the back of the group and the others laugh, but as far as the boy is concerned, that will do. It is in Camelot and away from the village where he has become too much of a liability.

They all turn and start to wend their way back towards the castle, collecting horses from the hunt staff patiently waiting for the knights to return from recovering the prince, and Arthur calls Sir Kay up beside him, There is no way on earth I can have anyone called Ambro… he has to stop before the laugh takes over, "That, as my servant."

Kay tries it to himself and pulls a face, it would be very hard to use it every day, You could give him a nickname.

Hmm, and soon. He wants to be a soldier but isn’t cut out for it so…

Rabbit. Is a quick suggestion and he hastens to elaborate before it is dismissed out of hand, Like a lucky rabbit’s foot that stopped your horse. Though, in truth, it was the length of the legs and the rather big ears which had brought it to mind.

Arthur juts a lip as he considers but declines with:, Not fair. Some thought. And I don’t want to just give him another name, it should be obviously a nickname.

That’s why I said Rabbit. He looks like a Rabbit, all legs and ears.

I still say not fair. He saved my life, remember. Nearing the gates, he suddenly goes, Got it. And Kay looks askance. Wants to be a hawk but isn’t really up to it. No guess from his companion but his triumphant ‘Merlin’ does not meet with immediate approval, more ‘blank confusion’. You know, tiny little thing that catches dragonflies.

Understanding the reasoning, finding it dubious, but never one to contradict the heir to the throne, Good one, sire!

As horses are lead away by the numerous staff, Prince Arthur has his new acquisition follow him into the castle and has to keep jogging him because he is constantly gawping at everything around him and getting left behind, but at least he can now shout a name which doesn’t make him laugh. Calling for one of the more experienced staff the pair are sent away to find some more respectable clothes that actually fit and for the youth to be shown his basic duties, the first of which is to clean Arthur’s room.

That task complete, he is expected to help his new master into fresh shirt, trousers, boots and jacket to go to dinner in the hall and is sent away with the dirty ones to wash and clean them and lay out new things ready for the next day. Not tasks he has grown used to back in his village, but as the only child of a single mother they are things he does at least know how to do.

At supper Arthur recounts the events of the day to his father, the hunting trip with his elite knights, his Eagle troop, the three boar killed, the whole scene which led to his mount bolting and the encounter with the young boy who stopped the horse and saved his life. In response to the question of what this person was doing in the forest. He was coming here from his village, father, wanted to be a foot soldier.

Always interested in new recruits to the guard, You signed him up?

No, sire, not as a soldier. He is not sure his father is going to approve of his decision so he proceeds with caution. He’s, um, he’s not exactly… built for it.

His food stops suddenly on its way to his mouth and is returned to the plate, Oh, gods, you haven’t recruited some malformed dwarf, have you?

No! Oh, no, definitely not a dwarf, even as underfed as he is, the boy is still above average height. Just… not a soldier.

Good. He relishes the slice of roast pork. A little later, Well, are you going to admit what you’ve done or do I have to find out some other way?

Clearing the throat, I have recruited him as a replacement for old Bert, my servant, father.

What happened to Bert? carefully peeling an apple, He’s been with us for years. You haven’t sacked him have you?

No, father. Rather flatly as he helps himself to cheese, He died a month ago.

Oh. Thinking back, Did I know that?

Yes. Then rather pointedly, You had him executed.

A frown, Oh. And after some thinking, One of the four who were using the necromancer? A nod, Hmph, a shrug and, fair enough. With the next piece of apple ready to eat he asks, What’s this boy called?

Um… Ambrosius. He still can’t manage it without laughing.

Nearly choking. "What?" pure shock and certainly no amusement at the name.

Surprised at the unexpectedly violent response, he said, Don’t worry, I’ve decided to give him a nickname, seeing as he wanted to be one of the Hawks but just isn’t up to it. I’m going to call him Merlin.

Coughing from almost inhaling his piece of apple, Uther goes slightly pale and decrees. You will do no such thing. Firmly.

Having not expected any particular reaction to his choice, he is puzzled by the immediate vehemence of that, What’s wrong with Merlin, sire?

"Do not argue with me!"

Fine. Not a good response, the glare was almost as blunt as a smack around the head so. Very well, sire. I will think of something else. And before very long, and with excessive obsequiousness. Would Kes, short for Kestrel, be acceptable, sire?

Wanting to give his son a thick ear for being rude but resisting the temptation, Childish, but yes.

After the end of the meal, Uther waits until all others have gone to their rooms, waits until even the servants have gone to bed, before taking a torch and heading down into the depths of the castle, down below the main dungeons, down into the tunnels in the rocks beneath the castle. Way down here, out on rock shelf in a natural cavern, in his own private prison with added shackles on his legs, is a man no older than Uther himself but of very different style.

They are much the same height but whereas Uther is muscular and powerful, this man is wiry and has clearly never been either a warrior nor anyone of high status for his dress is plain and unadorned. It is probable he has been provided with a change of clothes from time to time for they are reasonably well maintained, but nobody has come to cut his hair or beard in all the years he has been in this cell and both now reach to his waist in long, neatly combed, locks. Whatever he has done must have severely displeased the king for the cage which he occupies is not large, though the cave in which it sits is enormous, and has no more than a simple bed, a tall stool and an equally tall wooden desk as furniture. The brightness of the torchlight is making him blink and shield his eyes