Copyright Matthew Burden, 2001
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~44~
Henry sat idly, staring at the fire blazing
before him. He poked the embers every so
often, urging every last gasp of smoke that he could up the shaft. In his mind echoed the words of the prisoner,
shouting at the lady of the manor.
He shook his head,
quieting the thought. He was a moral
man, a Christian man. But…how could he
trust them, strangers who came in the night?
And how could he even contemplate turning against his own master?
He frowned. On the other hand, the man’s words made
sense—Druids. It would explain much of
what he had witnessed over the previous months. He rose and stretched, casting a wary glance
over the room. Carefully, he stepped out
into the corridor and began making his way toward the
center of the manor.
He was uncertain
where the nobleman was, and he took great care to move inconspicuously through
the hallways, sometimes meeting fellow servants. After what seemed like a great length of
time, he reached his master’s study and placed his hand against the cool
wood. It swung inward with a creak, and
he breathed a sigh of relief to find the room vacant.
He crept slowly over to
the great table and made his way toward the far end, then eased open
a tiny drawer that had been built into the wooden frame. The room was blanketed in an unearthly hush,
which made him all the more nervous.
With a gentle hand, he lifted the ring of iron keys from its place
and tucked them beneath his belt. He
turned and began to make his way back down the table when suddenly his eye fell
on a figure standing in the doorway.
The nobleman frowned
darkly at him, his fists resting on his hips.
“Henry--just
what are you doing?”
Henry stopped cold, his
throat closing with fear. He squared his
shoulders, though, putting on a brave face in what he knew was coming.
“Give me the keys, my
boy,” he said, and Henry placed them in his palm. “And since you feel so close to our
prisoners, you will be sharing a
room with them until my friends arrive.”
“My lord,” said Henry, “they are innocent, and you know it as well as I do.”
The nobleman slapped
Henry across the face. “Come with me,” he said.
As they walked down the
stairs, Henry could not help but let a single tear escape and trace its way
down his cheek. As he stepped down,
words began coming to his mind, words he had learned long ago as a boy sitting
at his mother’s feet.
“The Lord is my
shepherd,” he whispered. “I shall not be in want. He leads me beside the still waters; he makes
me lie down in green pastures. Yea,
though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,”
he spoke louder now, with conviction, “for Thou art with me.”
Just before they
reached the bottom of the stairs, the master spun him around, glaring in his
eyes. “You think you’re better, don’t
you?” he nearly spat into the servant’s face.
“By all means, you can stand up and do the right thing, and now you
think I’m a consort of evil! Listen to me, I have no choice in the
matter! I must do as I have been told!”
The noble clenched his
teeth in anger and shoved Henry into the corridor that led to the cell. He ran forward and unlocked the door.
“Come on, get in,” he
said, shoving the youth within. As soon
as Henry was inside, the noble slammed the door shut and spun the key
in the lock. “I didn’t want to do that,
Henry, but you must learn to maintain your loyalties.”
The six prisoners smiled at the new addition to their group as the noble retreated
toward the stairs.
“So,” Alfred said
with a chuckle, “you thought you could save us?”
Henry shrugged. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t do better.”
“It’s enough," said Edward. "The Lord honors the heart that is open to His
working. I’m afraid you’re in something
quite over your head, but we’ll try to help you. If we have any chance, that is.”
Oswald looked at the
servant with hopeful eyes. “Do you know
what happened to the Captain—to Malcolm?”
“Oh! Do you mean the
other Scot? Well, he barricaded
his door and then climbed up the smoke-shaft!
As far as I know he hasn’t come out—”
“Ow!” a shout resounded
from the stairs, drawing all seven back to the bars to see what had
happened. In an instant, a figure
appeared, swathed in black garb from head to foot. Even his skin was colored black, like the
stories they had heard of the distant Nubians.
Seeing the five sets of
eyes on him, the man flashed a bright, broad grin. “That man’s got a jaw of iron,” he groaned, cradling his hand gingerly.
“Malcolm!” Oswald
shouted. “How did you get
here?”
“Well, I must admit, it was no easy
task, but I made it.” He held up the ring of keys in one hand. “And it seems I made it back just in time.”
He inserted the
key that Henry showed him and turned it, pleased to see the door swing
noiselessly open.
“Now,” he said, wiping
some of the soot off his face, “let’s see if we can find our way out of here.”
~ ~ ~
Justin felt ill at ease
as they rode along a safe distance behind the departing brigands. After the spectacle of the strange knights at the bridge, they had made their way to the southern gates of the city, where they managed to spy a few of Jonathan's brigands setting out on a country road. Cautiously and quietly, they followed.
Clouds of dust rose
beneath the hoofs of the lathering stallion, but the Templar pressed on.
“I
wonder how much farther it is,” he muttered, looking up at a sky darkening with ominous thunderclouds. “What about the other riders? Are
they still behind us?”
Justin craned his neck
around, squinting back along the road to the north until he could make out the
forms of at least a dozen horsemen pursuing them.
“They’re still there,” he replied.
“Good,” the Templar
grinned. “Maybe this will work after
all.”
~ ~ ~
Henry raced down the
deserted corridors, squinting his eyes in an effort to block out as much of the
smoke as he could. The others followed
close behind him in a tight formation.
“You’re sure this is a
way out?” Malcolm called up to him, shedding clouds of ash from his
body with each step he took.
“Yes,” said Henry. “It leads through the wine
cellars and then back out near the pond.
It isn’t used much, so maybe no one will be watching it.”
Behind them, Hannah ran
quickly beside Edward, her long hair flying back. “You know,” she gasped between breaths, “I
think I may be getting used to this sort of thing.” Then she laughed. “Not that I enjoy it.”
“Of course not,” said Edward. “But when I get
home, I’m just going to sit around and do absolutely nothing for an entire
week!”
“That sounds wonderful
to me,” she replied.
“You two are both going
soft!” Alfred bellowed, a little louder than prudence would
have dictated. “I used to do
this every day! At least now I’m on the
right side.”
It wasn't long before
the gray blur of stone flying by slowed and consolidated into
individual sections, and they stood before a heavy oaken door.
“This should bring us to the
cellars,” Henry said, pushing against it.
The door didn’t budge, and the youth banged against it in frustration. “I’m afraid it’s locked."
“Then stand back,”
Alfred spoke with authority, and immediately a path was cleared for him. He walked backwards several paces, measuring
the distance it would take him to build up enough force. When he had found the spot, he knelt down,
facing the door with determination gleaming in his eyes. His nostrils flared and his muscles tensed
before sending him springing up and hurtling down the hall. He moved swiftly for a man of his substantial
girth, racing headlong toward the wooden barrier.
In the final moments of
the charge, he tilted his body so that the brunt of his blow would be behind
his shoulder, and he gave a loud shout before slamming into the
wood with a resounding thud. The door remained where it was, but
Alfred sank down to the floor with a groan, cradling his shoulder.
“Yes, it’s certainly locked,” he said, biting
his lip. “Why don’t we find another way
out?”
Edward would have burst
out laughing at the scene if it wasn’t for the look of pain on his brother’s
face.
Henry nodded in
resignation. “All right, then. There are two other exits that we might be
able to reach: the postern and the main gate.”
“I say we go for the
postern,” Oswald volunteered. “If the
Druids are coming soon, my bet is they’ll be coming through the main gate.”
Malcolm nodded,
slapping his fellow soldier on the back.
“That’s my vote, too.”
“It does seem best,”
Henry replied. “Of course, we’ll have to
go back through the main hall.”
Alfred chuckled, still
holding his elbow. “Well, no one ever
told us that escaping from a band of power-mad Druids would be easy. Let’s go.”
They set off again,
matching their earlier pace back down the corridors. The smoke was growing constantly thicker in
the halls, and many of the servants were wandering about aimlessly, uncertain
of what to do with their master nowhere to be found. They turned and looked with upraised eyebrows
at the strange crew racing past them, but no one intervened. They must have appeared particularly frightening
as they flew by, their eyes wild with the danger of the escape.
In a flash, they broke
out into the main hall and were greeted with a terrible sight: Michael, the young Druid, and
Jonathan, Alfred's old lieutenant, were standing at the head of the table, leering at them.
Henry, however, could see no one else in the
chamber, so he pressed on, never slowing his pace for an instant.
“My friends,” Michael
began to say, raising his wineglass, “I’ve been expecting—ho, there! Where are you going?”
The eight friends flew
by them, leaving the Druid and the brigand looking at their
fleeting forms as they rushed into another set of corridors.
“Jonathan,” Michael said slowly, “they must
be heading for another gate, hoping they can escape. I’ll follow them, and you bring the rest of
the men from the main courtyard to catch them.”
The brigand bowed. “What about the men we saw
following us? They have not arrived
yet.”
The young man
shrugged. “Then we’ll deal with them
when they get here. Go.”
By the time Michael started after them, the eight
friends could see the light of the postern gate ahead.
“Henry,” the guard
called out, astonished. “What’s going
on?”
“I haven’t the time to
explain,” he shouted as he ran. He sped outside, where a light drizzle was beginning to fall. The others followed
him as he turned south, sprinting over the fields toward a set of peasant huts
in the distance. Behind them, they could
hear the shouts of the archers positioned on the walls.
When they were about
halfway to the huts, they felt the dull drumbeat of hoofs pick up behind
them, a terrible staccato that sounded the death of their escape. It was only a few moments before they were
overtaken by a band of two dozen riders, brigands and Druids alike. They formed a tight ring around the eight
escaping prisoners, holding them in with expressionless faces.
Thunder broke out
from the clouds overhead as Alfred looked from one man to another, examining their faces. He had found and trained most of them himself, had inspired them with his very own dream.
“What sort of unholy
alliance is this?” he shouted as the heavens let loose their
fury in cascades of rain.
“We do not hear the
words of a traitor,” Jonathan said slowly, clearly.
“What do you want from
us?” Malcolm asked, his skin now mottled with black as the rain began to wash
away the soot.
“I think we all know
the answer to that question,” a young voice called out. Michael caught up to
them and squeezed his way into the circle.
He walked deliberately up to Edward, stopping just short of his
face. “Give me the robe.”
Edward could not help
but smile. “We were merciful to you
once, Michael. Perhaps this
time you will not get away so easily.”
The young Druid threw
his head back and laughed.
“Now, I think the circumstances are dramatically altered. You have nowhere to run, my friend. Your little quest has ended
here.”
Lightning cracked over the manor,
followed by the slow, resonating boom of thunder.
In the darkness and the
lashing rain, Edward saw the circle begin to close, tighter and tighter. The grim faces of the brigands and Druids gazed
down on him impassively. And in that moment, with the
storm raging around him, he saw not what they appeared to be, nor what they
could do to him. He saw what they really
were, in the depths of their hearts: lost souls crying out for a home,
screaming against the night for a purpose.
“I cannot give a holy thing over for the use of evil," Edward said firmly. "So if we must die, we die for Christ.”
“I will not make a
martyr of you!” Michael screamed.
“Whatever you do, the
world will remember what happens on this field. All the hosts of heaven stand witness this
day, and whether we live or die makes little difference to us. We know where our home is. Do you?”
Michael bit his lip so
hard that blood began to trickle down his chin.
“I will flay you alive,” he growled.
“Michael,” he
responded, his voice soft, calm against the rain. “Christ does love you. He loves all of you. We stand as witnesses to the life He brings. Do you think murdering us will stop that
witness? No, I tell you, it will spread
it even faster, until all of England knows his love.”
No one moved.
“If you intend to kill
us,” Edward said, “then I am willing to lay down my life even now, just as
Christ laid down his own life.”
“You would give up your
lives for that one piece of cloth?”
Edward shook his head
slowly. “But you and I both know that we
have far too much knowledge to just be set free. You fear us now, because we know who you are. And the truth is, you will kill us
anyway. So here I stand,” he spread his
arms. “I have lived for Christ, and I
shall gladly die for Him, with His praises on my lips.”
Michael screamed, as if
some demon had taken possession of him and was whipping him into a
tormented fury. “I will not make a
martyr of you! You die because you dared
to face us, nothing more!”
Thunder rumbled
ominously overhead.
“It’s either martyred
or delivered,” Edward responded. “I
suppose the choice is up to you.”
The thunder continued
its dull roar, never ceasing, sometimes even seeming to rise in volume as it
stretched on.
“I will choose
neither,” Michael said, drawing back a bared blade.
And the thunder broke
out all around them.