Dear Reader:
A lot of you here have come late to the party.
So this is the start of my King Arthur story. Think of Hal Foster’s Prince Valiant and it might make more sense to you. Maybe, like me, you read Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, or maybe Mallory’s, Le Morte D’Arthur? Or even Dumas? Then maybe you might like this? A serial Adventure unlike anything you’ve ever read before. If you like your knights to be rough and tumble drunkards, and womanizers, thieves, or just all around unlike anything you’ve imagined before, you might like this.
And as a SUBSCRIBER you have access to it…
I first posted this last year at around this time. March 29th to be exact. I had 129 Subscribers. The Follower category hadn’t been developed yet. That wouldn’t be initiated until around July. When I put this behind the paywall, the Archives, unknown to me, were also paywalled. I decided to leave as it was; I thought readers might feel inclined to up-grade.
A few of you have, and I’m grateful.
This is probably going to be a long story. (I call all my books, stories. I don’t know why, I just do.) This is PART ONE. It’s a total of Fourteen chapters. I have five parts planned out it seems. You see, this doesn’t have a plot. I have a general idea of what I want to do with it, but I haven’t really worked it out yet. I’m basically going by the TABLE OF CONTENTS down below, which is something I wrote out in my 20’s. I just turned 66 at the beginning of this month.
I haven’t finished it because I’ve been busy.
I will be writing PART TWO, but I’m going to put it up behind the PAYWALL. And I’m doing it for good reason. Let’s say you find yourself reading this, and liking it, would you buy it from a BOOK STORE? Would you pay $30 because you feel the story is worth it? Would you buy it knowing you’re helping the writer print up a book he can send to you in the mail?
I’d like to encourage some of you to up-grade to PAID status, and help me to print up copies of my stories that I can send to you in the mail. I’ve dropped the price of admission to as low as Substack allows…and it’s in Canadian funds. You can do the $5/month thing, which is $3.65 US, or you can do the math and pay $30/year, which is $22 US. I think it works out to be 8¢/day.
I think I need at least 80 Paid subscribers so that I can print my novella THE BASHFUL COURTESAN by a PRINT ON DEMAND publisher here in town, and mail them out to you. Just up-Grade your subscription and send me a post card with your return address. Besides, I think it would be cool to collect post cards from around the world.
PROLOGUE
i
IN THE BEGINNING page 7
ii
TEN YEARS AFTER page 14
PART ONE
THE BEGGAR’S KNAVE
CHAPTER ONE page 21
ON THE ROAD TO CAMELOT
CHAPTER TWO page 29
AT THE INN OF THE RED LION
CHAPTER THREE page 35
THE ORKNEY KNIGHTS
CHAPTER FOUR
THE QUEEN’S GAMBIT
i THE LADY GWENELLYN page 41
ii IN THE CAMP OF THE QUEEN page 44
iii THE QUEEN’S BREAKFAST page 49
iv KING PELLINORE’S TALE page 53
v THE BEGGAR’S KNAVE page 55
CHAPTER FIVE page 60
OF PLOTS DEVIZED
CHAPTER SIX page 68
THE MORNING OF THE NEXT DAY
CHAPTER SEVEN page 74
THE BRIDGE AT HOLLYBOURNE
CHAPTER EIGHT page 81
PALOMIDES, THE PAGAN KNIGHT.
CHAPTER NINE page 88
THE KNIGHT’S SQUIRE
CHAPTER TEN page 95
THE CASTLE IS A KEEP
CHAPTER ELEVEN page 106
CAPTIVES
CHAPTER TWELVE page 116
THE QUEEN MORGANA LeFAY
CHAPTER THIRTEEN page 123
THE LADY GWENELLYN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN page 135
THE WOMAN IN WHITE
prologue
I
In the beginning
Locksley watched as the first of the flaming arrows streaked across the night sky, trailing smoke and hissing in the heavy rain. But flaming nonetheless, a voice inside his head told him. He pressed himself against the thick wall of the palisade, his large eyes frantic, searching out a place to hide—any place where this nightmare could dissolve into itself and slip away, he told himself. He jumped at the sudden sound of an arrow hitting the wall behind him, and ran back across the muddy yard without thinking of where he was going. He slipped, fell, and picked himself back up, ignoring the mud he felt seeping through his clothes. All he knew was that he had to get away. He could see the structured silhouette of the Castle his father was building on the crest of the hill in front of him. Invermere. The flames inside looked like a beacon standing at a distance.
He looked over his shoulder, back at where he’d come from. It’s only a matter of time before the wooden walls become a curtain of flames, he thought, his breath coming in a grunting pant as he coughed through the smoke. He watched in terror as another flight of arrows buried themselves deep inside the thatched roofs of the small huts stacked against the wall—most of them recently built and using the inside walls of the palisade. He watched the huts smouldering. It wouldn’t be long before they burst into flames as well; he knew he’d have to find another place to hide.
He could hear voices crying out in the cold night as panic swept across the fort’s open yard. Soldiers—who just moments before were farmers seeking shelter from the invaders—were now running to the ramparts as arrows laced through the darkness. Old men and women were lumbering about, filling wooden buckets with water in a vain attempt to put out the numerous fires. Shadows leaped and jumped in the growing light of the flames—the long, graceless caricatures of the men and women tossing water on the leaping, cavorting, flames, were splashed against the rough timbers of the walls about them. The smoke grew, threatening and thickening, until it was billowing and folding in on itself. Several of the fort’s citizens had already fallen under its deadly spell.
A singular bell was still ringing out the alarm as the desperate men and women attacked the flames with their buckets.
The wooden palisade, with its tar-soaked logs, was quick to ignite. The logs used were as thick as a man was wide, and it would take hours before they fell, but fall they would. Men screamed as they burned, and the night air grew heavy with the choking smoke hanging about the bailey like a fog—mixing with the sweet stench of burning flesh. Locksley could feel the sting of smoke in his eyes as he made his way up the stairs to the ramparts.
As he reached the ramparts, he could see the silhouette of four huge siege engines inching their way across a now desolated landscape. They were huge monstrosities that seemed to lumber on with the uncertainty of a toddler’s first steps. Standing on his toes, he looked out over the flames licking at the walls, when the battering ram began punching at the weary walls with determined ferocity.
A thousand thousand sparks and cinders danced with each echo of the ram’s pounding resolutions. The hides and timbers covering the battering ram seemed to glisten with the stains of battle under the light of the growing flames. He watched as three full cauldrons of boiling fat were spilled out over the timbered walls. Someone threw a torch down hoping to ignite it. Another cauldron was moved into place, and a torch thrown into it as it was tipped. Locksley stood transfixed as the fat streaked like a flaming waterfall down the wooden walls. It touched the pools of fat from the first three cauldrons and ignited the muddy ground. The night came alive with screams, but still, there was the dull echo of the battering ram. The walls shaking as the massive logs groaned.
One…two…three…WHOMP! One…two…three…WHOMP!
Locksley felt a hand on his thin shoulder as Galen dragged him out of the way. Another wave of arrows slivered through the night. The old man pulled him behind the merlon—a wooden structure that was a large tree trunk serving as part of the parapet. Arrows punched the massive logs, sounding like hail on a wooden shield. They made their way back down the set of crude stairs notched into the wall, but not before Locksley saw Hakon Harroldson. The man came at the head of a small army, the tips of his bronze beard flashing with bits of silver and brass that caught the light of the flames—even at this distance, he thought. They came rushing the walls with their crude ladders—two, three, four thousand strong—their efforts hampered by the muck and havoc brought on by the rain and steaming cauldrons of liquid fat. Behind them, Lot and his sell-swords numbered at least a hundred; they were mercenaries willing to sell their services to any petty king looking for conquest—as long as they were paid. There was little honour counted among them.
“Are we going to die?” Locksley asked the old man, unable to tear his eyes away from what he could see of the battle.
“Die? Not if I have anything to say about it,” the old man replied. “Now shut up and think about staying alive,” he said, dragging the boy across the muddy yard. They made their way to a narrow doorway where Galen picked up the staff he’d left leaning against the wall. He pushed the boy ahead of him as he paused to light a torch.
“How did you know where to find me?” Locksley asked, waiting, watching the soldiers on the wall prepare to meet the enemy. He could see ladders being pushed back—each one replaced by a second, and a third—each one smashing up against the wall as the the first of the enemy breeched its heights.
“I was sent to watch over you.”
“By who?” Locksley demanded. “I didn’t see you,” he added softly, his heart racing as he looked at the sturdy door.
“See me? Why would you? It looked to me like you were looking to hide, anyway,” the old man said with a smile, opening the door and looking into the darkness. Locksley looked inside where he could see steps fashioned into the rock and fading into the depths.
“You could see that?”
“I didn’t have to see your face to know what you were hiding from. I remember my own childhood and Harroldson’s father,” he said. “Are you ready?”
He pushed the boy into the tunnel..
Galen followed, and Locksley moved into the dark stairwell as Galen pulled the door closed. He dropped the small bar down into place, knowing it would be almost impossible to open the door without tearing it off of its leather hinges, which were on the inside as well. The door was also large, and heavy. It would be more than enough time for them to reach the end of the stairwell.
“Who was his father?” Locksley asked, the sound of his voice muffled by the closeness of the tunnel.
“Who?” Galen asked, turning around and pushing the boy aside, leading the way through the tunnel, the torch held high.
“Harroldson. Who was his father?”
“Oscapar Bluetooth.”
“You knew Bluetooth?”
“I didn’t know him! No. I was a child, much like you yourself,” he said, pointing the torch into the darkness ahead.
Locksley put a hand out and pressed it against the cold wall. Galen, looking over his shoulder, listened to the sounds of the battle fading. The torch’s light leaped around them, splaying unearthly shadows up the walls. Galen grabbed Locksley by the collar of the muddy cape he was wearing and pulled the boy through the dark hallway. There were screams echoing through the bailey as the curtain wall crumbled, sounding as loud as thunder through the descending stairwell. There was a clash of swords—the honed sounds of pain and fear, with chaos and pandemonium balanced on the edge of every scream. As the siege engines hit the walls, the first of the invaders crested the ladders and topped the battlements.
The screams seemed to falter the deeper they went. Galen only paused long enough to pick up a new torch, dip it in a bucket of pitch, and then ignite it. And then they were moving through darkened hallways carved into rocks by an unknown force of nature. The torch smoked thick and heavy, crackling in the silence around them, the flames licking the ceiling whenever Galen paused at a junction where other tunnels met.
The Dragon’s Lair they called it, long snaking tunnels leading underground and away from the castle. Legend had it that dragons burrowed underground and the strange glowing walls were the slime they left behind. Locksley couldn’t help thinking how the walls were cold and damp—appearing slick in the reflection of Galen’s torch; the damp floor stinking of withered age. It made him think of the stables, and he found himself swallowing a sob as he thought of his horse. He could only hope it had bolted into the night.
They came to a vaulted room ill lit by torches where the old and infirm lay; women and children stared at them with terror in their eyes—the terror that comes with knowing—because they knew the fate awaiting them if the castle fell. Those few who recognized Locksley as the Prince bowed their heads, while an ancient priest stood in the middle of the floor, intoning Scripture. Locksley half expected to see his mother among the crowd listening to the priest.
Galen passed through the vaulted chamber without a second thought, only pausing long enough to pull a knotted cord from about his neck and push the ancient key it held into the rusted gate at the end. It gave way with a protest of age. He turned to push the gate shut and lock it, but Locksley put his hand on Galen’s and looked up at him with a plea. The old man looked down at the boy, his mouth a straight line as he shook his head slowly, turning the key in the lock.
“And what’s to become of us, young Prince?” a child’s voice called out, and Locksley looked up at Galen, looking for an answer he did not have.
Galen hesitated before he unlocked and pushed the gate open again.
“You’ll be safe here with your God to protect you,” Galen said into the silence, and Locksley wondered if that was true. He knew the price that people paid when it came to battle. Every man, woman, and child, would be put to the sword—the sell-swords would be paid well for their headcount. It was the reason his father refused to hire such men.
“Trust to God you say? Would it were so, Master Galen,” a woman said gently as she stood up, forcing a strained smile. She was holding a child’s hand as she walked toward the gate and looked at the old man. “But you go. You get the young Prince away from here, so that one day he might have his revenge.”
Galen narrowed his gaze and looked at her through thick brows.
“Vengeance will be a long time coming,” he said at last. “The boy’s but nine summers past.”
“And in nine more he will be a man,” one of the old men called out. “Time moves fast enough when you’re young, and faster still when you die.”
“You are safe enough here. Lot and his Orkney brood will not find you.”
“Would that it were so, Master Galen,” the woman said with tears in her eyes.
“You must learn to trust in your God.”
“Do you?” she asked. “Have you put your Druid ways behind you?”
“Enough that I’ll leave the gate open so you can make your escape of you needs must,” he said, turning and walking with the boy in tow. The walls glistened under the light of the torch. There was a dankness in the air that was soon replaced by the smell of the sea.
“Where is my mother?” Locksley asked.
“She’s waiting at the end of the tunnel. She refuses to leave without you,” Galen said over his shoulder.
More the fool, she, Galen thought, holding the torch closer to the wall and looking for the carved notch in the wall. He was looking at the tunnel ahead of them, trying to remember where he was supposed to turn. He had studied the maps earlier, when Lot’s army had first appeared and Ambrose had sent out an envoy. Lot sent the man’s head back in reply.
There’s supposed to be a juncture up ahead.
“And my father? Where is the king?”
Galen turned to look at the boy in the torch light. His face was black with soot from the flames and smoke. There were tracks running down his face where tears had spilled, and the old man wondered if they were because of the smoke. He wondered how it was possible for an army of five thousand to lay hidden for a week, and where the rest of it waited. Lot was said to have an army three times the size. Their appearance had made it impossible to send for help – every rider had been captured, every bird hunted.
Three thousand civilians, half of them women and children, against an army of five thousand. Why would I think they might survive? he wondered.
He could have just as easily led them to safety through the tunnels, he knew. But there were too many wounded. The king would not have allowed it. The Prince had to be saved above all else. Was that why he left the gate unlocked?
“He’s to be sent south, with his mother. To her uncle’s lands,” Ambrose had told him.
“Where?” Galen asked.
“Inverness.”
Inverness.
It had been years since he had been to Inverness. Standing on top of a cliff overlooking the Ness, it was a low, circular mound with a tree-clad rampart around the summit; the wide, surrounding ditch crossed by an entrance causeway. It was nothing more than a wattle and daub village with a wooden palisade. The last place anyone would look for a Prince, he knew. He had seen a hundred such places in his travels.
He was the last of the Druids, cast out by the White Christ. He had come to Ivanore ten years past, but had already lived a lifetime by then. He watched the last of the Romans take ship and had become a wanderer, always going north. He begged for food when he could not sell his services, but there were always calves to be brought forth, crops to bless, and fortunes to tell. The White Christ had not reached beyond the Wall.
Not yet, he thought.
“Where is my father?” Locksley asked again.
“Being a King.”
They moved along in silence, the torch sputtering as it began to die. Galen waved it once or twice and paused as he held it upside down, letting whatever pitch was left melt into the flame.
“Why don’t you use your magic?”
“I don’t need magic to keep a torch alight.”
“You could have used magic against the Orkneys.”
“That’s not the kind of magic I do.”
“Then what’s the use in it?”
“I’ve asked myself the same question. Now be still. I can see the door.”
He dropped the torch and stepped on it, dousing the flame, and the tunnel was lost to a Stygian darkness. They paused and he listened, approaching the door and placing a hand upon it. He listened closer, willing himself to breathe slower. He could sense something wrong.
You do not need magic for that, either.
He could feel the heat of the door as he pressed his hand against it. His heartbeat slowed along with his breathing. The door was old—Druid old—he could feel that in his hand as he let himself slip into it, letting himself fall through it. It only took a moment before he could see outside, and then he pulled himself back, falling against the stone wall at the shock of it.
“Can you open it?” Locksley asked.
He looked at the boy and nodded slowly.
“Then why don’t you?”
He looked at Locksley closely, wondering how the boy might react once he learned that his mother was not waiting for him. He could still see her lifeless body, violated and crucified to a tree. The dozen guards Ambrose sent with her dead as well.
Is that what a life is worth, or is that what the Lothian king thinks of the White Christ?
He tried to smile as he held a hand out.
“Help me up.”
Let me show you what kind of magic I can do, and he reached out for the boy, letting him fall into his thin arms.
He placed his right hand against the door, and pushed, blowing the door off its hinges like a dead leaf in the wind. Bending down, he picked the boy up and carried him from the tunnel.
As he crested the hill, he allowed himself one final look at the castle. More wood than stone, Ivanore fell in on itself and the flames leapt into the night sky. He could hear the din of battle, punctuated here and there by a blood-curdling scream that told him the business of slaughter was at hand.
The War of the Twelve Kings had begun.
I'm finally getting to read Locksley! This is a great start and I'm looking forward to the story. Well done Ben.
That is a very interesting beginning