David
“Callum didn’t actually need to shoot Roger Mortimer,” Math said.
“Pity.” David knew before Math turned to look at him that he would see questions in his eyes. “Are you asking where my mercy has gone?”
“No.” Math barked a humorless laugh. “I’m marveling at how patient you’ve been up until now. How was Avalon?”
“Interesting.” David attempted a grin, but his eyes were on Callum and Mark, who were setting C-4 charges around the base of Skipton’s keep. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Then, almost to his regret, a white flag appeared at the top of the keep, and a man David didn’t recognize showed his face.
Thomas leaned in. “That’s Hakkon of Norway, my lord. We can be grateful he speaks French, for my Norwegian is poor at best.”
Now David genuinely smiled. “I will never regret being captured by your uncle.”
“Nor I in setting you free.”
Given the archers present in the bailey, it was remarkably brave of Hakkon to stand alone on the wall-walk, but he must have realized how dire things had become for him and decided to take the bull by the horns, so to speak. David could admire him for that, even as he cut him off at the knees.
Hakkon put up a hand. “I am the Duke of Norway.”
Standing awkwardly in the bailey while Hakkon looked down at him from above reminded him of his interview with Owain Williams. David was at no disadvantage this time, however. His was the greater power, no matter where he stood. “I am David, King of England, whose kingdom you invaded.”
Christopher was standing a little behind and to the right of David and had his binoculars to his eyes. “He looks disconcerted.”
“Good,” Math said. “He should be.”
“I demand free passage to the sea,” Hakkon said. “If you do not grant me this, my brother will come and free me by force.”
“You still don’t understand to whom you are speaking, do you?” James Stewart separated himself from the cluster of men around David. “You think you have something to bargain with, here? You do not. Your brother has already sent word that he never countenanced your invasion and for us to do with you as we please. It would save him the trouble.”
“He did, did he?” David said in an undertone. James was lying through his teeth, but it served David’s purposes for now, and he lifted his chin so his voice would carry. “Erik asked me to spare your life, if I could, so here’s the deal: I am not accepting your surrender without Balliol’s. Everybody in that keep is coming out without weapons and with their hands on top of their heads to surrender to me, or you will come out on a pallbearer’s stretcher.”
“And what will happen to us if we surrender?” Hakkon asked.
Beside David, Math scoffed. “He’s a child to ask that question.”
“But he should know the truth.” David raised his voice again. “If you surrender, then you, Roger Mortimer, and John Balliol will be carted to the Tower of London in a cage, to be mocked and abused by citizens along the way, as an example of what happens to traitors to the crown.” He gestured to the charges being laid around the keep’s base. “Alternatively, I will bring down the keep and send my regrets to your brother that I could not save you from your stupidity. You have one hour to think about it. If you cannot convince Balliol to surrender, then you have one hour to live.”
He turned on his heel and stalked towards the outer gatehouse, where Lili was waiting with Ieuan. He hadn’t even hugged her yet, which he remedied the moment he saw her.
“All of you must be utterly exhausted,” he said to Ieuan, his arms still around Lili. “We should get some food while we wait—”
“They’re coming out, sire!”
David turned to look, almost sorry Balliol was surrendering so soon. He’d had a long night too and had been looking forward to sharing a meal with his wife.
“Eat with Lili.” Ieuan tipped his head to indicate the castellan’s quarters, located in the gatehouse, which had been appropriated for royal use. “Let me handle this. Balliol was once a king, but now he is beneath your notice.”
David licked his lips. “You know I don’t like what I have to do to them.”
Ieuan shrugged. “You’re meting out humiliation, not death. And it must be clear to everyone that your authority cannot be challenged ever again.”
* * * * *
The next morning, James Stewart and Robbie Bruce settled themselves at the table across from David. He’d just said goodbye to Lili, who was heading back to Chester with an escort. She had nearly ninety miles to travel, but knowing her, that would be two days of riding at most. She loved David, but her boys called to her.
“What now for Scotland?” James said.
David eyed him, feeling that this was Robbie’s question more than James’s. James had a wife and son in Ireland, which had become a second homeland to him. He saw himself as straddling the Irish Sea, an adviser to kings, but he wasn’t asking to rule himself. It made him incredibly qualified for the job, but David actually had something else in mind.
“You do intend to take the throne, do you not?” Robbie said.
“How much would you resent me if I did?” David asked.
For a moment, Robbie looked taken aback. Then he relaxed, his elbows on the table. “I wouldn’t. You deserve the crown.”
“Would your grandfather agree?”
“If my father were still alive, it might be different, but my grandfather knows better than to fight you on this, and I am too young to claim the throne myself. Besides, your great-grandfather was King Alexander. How can he object to your claim knowing that? How can anyone?”
David gave a short laugh. “Then it will perhaps come as a relief to you to learn that I have no intention of becoming King of Scots.”
Both James and Robbie blinked and then said in unison. “You don’t?”
“No. My plans are bigger than that—and possibly an even harder sell.”
Robbie narrowed his eyes. “Christopher has used that phrase before. Are you saying we won’t like what you intend? What are you planning if not to take the throne?”
“Oh, I intend to take the throne, just not that one.”
James sat back in his chair. “You mean to become High King of all Britain.”
Callum pulled out a chair and sat. “He does.”
“This dream of yours will never work.” James shook his head. “All these diverse peoples will never be united.”
“They are already united,” David said.
James sniffed. “What do you mean?”
It was Callum who answered. “Who came at David’s call? Do you realize how many different peoples are present in Skipton Castle right now in alliance with the king and each other? Englishmen, Welshmen, Scots, Irish, Danes, even a Frenchman … all working together, united in one cause: to keep David on the throne.” He turned to look at David. “I don’t think we’ve given enough consideration to the future of Aquitaine, by the way.”
David opened his mouth to reply, but Robbie, brow still furrowed, spoke first, “So if you do not become King of Scots, I repeat James’s question. What now for Scotland?”
Callum laughed, and David was pleased to find him as excited about the future as he was. “You tried your hand at democracy four years ago and ended up with Balliol. He’s proposing that you try again.”
“You want us to vote for a new king?” Robbie’s lip curled.
“Not a new king.” David dampened down his enthusiasm and looked intently at the two Scotsmen. If he could make them understand, then others might too. “I want the people of Scotland to vote themselves a Parliament, which will then choose a Prime Minister, with a five year term.” It was the British system, and David could see enough issues with the American one to accept giving it a try. “You’ll need a constitution and probably a Bill of Rights too.”
“You can’t be serious.” James laughed, apparently genuinely surprised and amused.
David fixed his eyes on his friend. “I am completely serious. And you’ll be happy to know that this plan is not just for Scotland. I want the people of Ireland to vote too.” He tipped his head. “And I’m really hoping that one of those prime ministers will be you.”
“Democracy, my friend.” Callum grinned at James’s shocked look and buffeted him on the shoulder. “Welcome to Avalon.”
The End
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He who searches for enlightenment,
Shall find confusion.
He who seeks to slay another,
Shall slay himself.
He who travels to the deepest reaches of the Underworld,
Shall find heaven.
He who has lost his soul and cannot save himself,
Shall save us all.
—Taliesin, The Black Book of Gwynedd
Dinas Bran, North Wales, Kingdom of Gwynedd
634 AD
Water streamed in rivulets down the stone walls as I stood at the kitchen door of the castle, seeking shelter from the weather. I pushed the door open farther, the rain dripping from my hood, and confronted the weeping woman.
“Give the boy to me.”
With tears pouring down her face, a match to the drops of rain on mine, Alcfrith, sister to the great King Penda of Mercia and wife of Cadwallon, the King of Gwynedd, handed me the sleeping child.
I took him and studied the face of his mother. She’d lost her husband and the boy, his father, in battle ten days before, killed far from home in Saxon lands. Although the woman did not yet know, Cadwallon had been struck down by the very man who now sought to marry her. That man would be known forever as Cadfael the Usurper. I didn’t tell her the future I saw or that she would live to regret her choices. As of this moment, the boy, this child of an ancient and powerful lineage, was an orphan and my responsibility.
“Don’t tell me where you’re taking him,” Alcfrith said. “I cannot bear to know.”
“Safer that you don’t,” I said.
And that was that. I turned away from the woman; didn’t even bother to nod at the guard who thought to block my way, just brushed past him. As old as I was, having sought a prophecy my whole life, I could no longer afford to think about anything but the one thing that mattered: is this boy the one?
My brotherhood had searched for him for centuries, but with each child we found, each great man we shaped, we found ourselves disappointed. Human greed, lust, an insatiable quest for power, either in them or in those who pledged to serve them, had always brought them to their knees. For hundreds of years, through the coming of the Romans who destroyed our sacred sites, and then the Saxons, whose gods were strange and barbaric, we’d charted the stars, fought the demons we could, and watched the signs, each time hoping and praying that this boy would be the one.
Would Cadwaladr? His father had ruled with a strong arm, but I’d known at Cadwallon’s birth that despite a vision of great victories that would be his, he too would falter, dying too young to keep either the Saxon menace or the gods at bay. This usurper Cadfael—I found myself snorting under my breath at the thought of his rule. Gwynedd would suffer under that one, although the Council would not see it until it was far too late—and longer still until such a time as the boy in my arms could claim his birthright.
The stars had aligned for this child, more than for any other, even the great Arthur who’d protected his people for a generation. The Dragon stood menacingly in the night sky, one claw outstretched, shining down upon the Cymry—the free people of Wales. The end of one dragon’s life was the beginning of another’s. Would he come to land? Would he inhabit the soul of this boy and lead us to victory as we all hoped he would? In truth, even the gods didn’t know for sure, and the little they told me was not enough.
Alcfrith stood in the doorway of the castle, watching me cross to the postern gate, the light spilling past her into the muddy courtyard. As I reached the gate, rain fell on the boy's head, and he stirred. I was tempted to look back. Instead, I adjusted the boy on my shoulder. The light behind me would illumine his face and give his mother one last look at what she was losing.
I am not without pity.
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