Copyright Matthew Burden, 2001
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~43~
“I’ve had enough of these Druids or brigands or
whoever is behind all this,” Malcolm muttered as he continued the slow
elbow-climb up the pipe. Several times
he almost slipped, but he knew he would not have fallen far before his own
girth would have stopped the descent. He coughed, taking quick breaths through his
cloth filter.
He shook his head. “How many times have I been taken prisoner
since I left? Three? When I get home, I’m never leaving Melrose again. I’ll get up early every day to sit on the
bank with Edward and then go and work the fields. Maybe I should resign my commission to the
King, too.” He thought a moment, then
shook his head. “No. Actually, when I get home, I’m just going to
sleep for a month.”
As he was talking, his head
bounced painfully against something directly above him in the shaft. He spread his feet against the sides so
he could free one arm, then carefully reached up and felt above him. Not a blockage--the pipe was turning.
He reached around until he could feel the new passage, praying that it
would not be any narrower than the one he was already wedged in. He did not relish the thought of having to
make a return trip into the fire below.
The opening was opposite of the direction he was
facing, so he had to shift his weight slowly and rotate his position until he
was facing the other side. It was still
as black as the blackest night, but at least this new passage was not
vertical. Rather, it was nearly
horizontal, and, once he had worked himself into it, he found that it was even
slightly wider than the previous shaft.
The smoke around him grew thicker, and he realized that they must have
put on wood that would produce heavier, oilier fumes.
He was able to move faster
now in a prostrate crawl, shoving himself ahead with his hands and
his knees. It took him a few minutes,
but before long he had the distinct impression that the tunnel was widening
more and more. The smoke clung to the
top of the passage, so Malcolm kept his face pressed near the bottom. Suddenly, he emerged into an open space that
was swamped with smoke. After feeling
around for a few moments, Malcolm realized that it was a junction of several
shafts, and that the increased smoke was produced by other fires burning
throughout the manor in an effort to evict him.
He began to cough and his
eyes were watering heavily, so he shut them.
Without any light, he really had no need of his vision anyway. After feeling the walls for a few minutes, he
discerned that there were two types of shafts in the junction: the horizontal
ones, that brought smoke in, and four others that led upward at an angle. When he placed his hand in these pipes, he
could feel a slight draft against his skin.
“Lord, help me choose the
right one,” he whispered, then shoved his body into the shaft on the far
right. It was as narrow as the first
shaft had been, but he quickly began to make his way upwards. The smoke seemed to be much thinner in that
tunnel, but the draw from outside also seemed to be weaker. He could still see no light when he opened
his eyes, but he was confident that it would lead him outside eventually. He felt a warm trickle on his chest, and
stopped to trace it to its source: his elbows were chafed and bleeding
heavily. He paused for a moment, and,
freeing one limb at a time, he bandaged both arms before continuing
on.
His body cried out against
the protracted effort, but he forced himself to go on. He was a soldier, a Scot. Conquer or die. But whatever would come, he had a deep comfort
that fell over his soul. Be at peace, it whispered to him, I hold your future in the palm of My hand.
He opened his eyes, and at first he thought
he was imagining it, but—wasn’t that light?
It was merely a faint glimmer a fair ways up the shaft, but it was there
nonetheless.
~ ~ ~
The cell they had been
placed in was walled off on two sides by the stones of the manor and on the
other two sides by massive iron bars, as if two great portcullises had
fashioned the room. Hannah was sitting
in a corner, still dazed by their change of fortune, Oswald was gazing quietly
through the iron barrier, and Alfred was trying to bend the massive bars with
his own strength. Stephen and Thomas
were standing close to the door, ready to leap at anyone who dared to come
close enough to unlock it. Edward was
calm, knowing all too well what this was about.
Alfred shook his head in
anger after realizing that he could not budge the bars. He gave them one parting blow before joining
his brother in the center of the cell.
“It’s my fault we’re here,” said Edward, loud enough for his companions to
hear.
Alfred grumbled. “This is no time for a pity session, Ed. We’re in this mess; let’s try to see if we
can get out.”
“But I should have seen it
coming. Last night when I went to the nobleman to
speak to him about Hannah’s situation, I saw something.”
“What was it?” asked Oswald
“A ring. And on it was the symbol of the
Druidae. You remember it, don’t
you? We’ve seen enough of them before. I should have warned you,
but I fell asleep. So yes, I’m afraid
it’s my fault.”
Alfred almost swore, but was
able to hold it back. “How did we get
stuck with Druids again? Surely they
don’t hold sway over every noble in the country.”
Oswald shook his head. “Of course not. This was planned. Don’t you see? You told me that you left the boy, Michael,
as he was. No doubt he arose and called
in his reinforcements from the area.
They were looking for us, and that woman was lucky enough to run into us
first. It all makes sense.”
Edward tilted his head. “I suppose.
Still, it makes me wonder what they’re going to do to us.”
“And where Malcolm is,” Oswald
said.
“I’d say it’s a good sign
that he’s not locked up with us,” Alfred said grumpily. “Maybe he was smarter than the rest of us and
escaped.”
“I hope so,” the Scot
replied.
They heard footsteps coming
from the stairwell near their cell, so they lined up against the iron bars to
see who it was. It was not long before
the servant, Henry, and the noblewoman walked into view, discussing something
that commanded their full attention. As
they approached, Edward was able to pick up some bits of the conversation.
“…up the smoke shaft…not
since dawn this morning.”
“He hasn’t?”
“No,” Henry replied. “…fires going all over…positioned at the
exit…shoot on sight.”
She shook her head and
clucked her tongue as if a great tragedy had befallen them. By that time, they were close enough to the
cell that they halted their conversation to approach the prisoners.
“Henry!” Edward called from
behind the bars. “What’s going on? Why have we been taken prisoner?”
The servant shrugged
helplessly. “A messenger came by and
told us to. I told you, if the Master’s
friends have been looking for you…”
“Henry!” the lady
snapped. “Keep quiet! Your tongue will be your death, boy!”
“Your Grace,” Edward turned
his attention to her. “You must know we
have done nothing against your husband.
Have mercy on your guests, whom you invited into your house. Don’t you remember that we saved you from the
brigands in London? Have you no sense of gratitude?”
She sighed, a hand placed
against her chest. “My dear sir, do not
assume that I had anything to do with this.
Mark my words, my husband did send me out looking for a group of
outlaws, but I never took him seriously!
Even after meeting you, I never assumed for an instant that you were the
ones he was looking for!”
“Outlaws! Your Grace, what have we
done? What charges can you bring against
us, any of us? We are simple travelers
and devout Christians. I beg you, in the
name of our Lord, release us!”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, casting
a glance toward Henry.
“Don’t you know who these
men are, Your Grace?” he persisted. It
was his last hope of escape, for he doubted that he would find any sort
of mercy at the hands of the Druids.
“The men who control your husband are the Druids, my lady.” At this, Henry’s gaze came up and locked with
Edward’s. “They are evil, pagans, bent on
returning this Christian land to its former demonic oppression beneath the yoke
of their power. They lust only for their
own goals! You cannot for a moment
believe that you are doing what is right by turning us over!”
The noblewoman sighed and
shook her head. “I do not agree with
what has happened, but I have no power to change it.” Before Edward had a chance to object, she
continued. “My husband could be hurt if
he does not follow. Perhaps one day he
will be able to throw off their hold, but it will not be today. I’m
sorry.”
She turned on her heel and
made her way back to the stairs. “Come,
Henry. We must tend the fires.”
“Please, Your Grace,” Edward
shouted until her image was lost from his sight.
~ ~ ~
“I don’t understand,” Justin
said, scratching his head.
“We had agreed to meet here, at this inn. I would think at least one of them would be
waiting for me here."
“Well, perhaps the keeper
knows whether or not they came,” the Count suggested.
When Justin asked the keeper
about his companions, he frowned distastefully.
“Oh, yes, yes,” the innkeeper said, touching a bruise on his face. “Your friends were here last
evening, but they had to leave—rather quickly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some visitors came looking
for them. Big brutes, swords. I
think your friends got away, but I’m not sure.”
Justin frowned. “Brigands.
Well, that complicates things. It
appears that Alfred’s lieutenant was able to follow us from Northampton.”
The Count nodded. “And so now what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we could check with the gateposts of
the city and inquire about any unusual happenings.”
They were about to exit the
inn when a large man appeared with a silly grin on his face. He leered close to Justin’s face, close
enough for him to catch the strong scent of liquor.
The man ran a hand down his
scraggly beard and burped loudly. “What
is this, an invasion?” he shouted.
Justin rolled his eyes and
was about to leave when the man spoke up again.
“Hey, you! Watch yourself! Whole blunch—bunch—of men down by the bridge,
just saw ‘em. Big swords, and not too
happy! Nope! Steer clear o’ there!”
Justin followed the Count,
then turned to him as they prepared to mount the stallion. “Did you hear what that man said?”
“Who, the drunk one?”
“Who else?”
“Yes, of course I heard
him. He’s obviously had a little too
much to drink.”
“Maybe not,” the knight
replied firmly. “I’d like to go down to
the main bridge and see for myself.”
“Do you think it’s our Northampton acquaintances?”
“It could well be. Anyway, it’s the best clue we have to where
our friends might be.”
They rode slowly through the
congested streets of London, until they broke out of the
final street into the broad avenue that stretched over the bridge. A throng of people had gathered, and in its center was a sight that took the breath away from the two
men.
“What in the name of heaven
is all this?” the Count wondered aloud.
There, gathered in the midst of a crowd, was a set of unknown knights--not brigands, not Druids, not Templars, and not the crown soldiers of London.
"Ah," said Justin with a smile, "I think fortune may be paying us a kinder turn at last."
There, gathered in the midst of a crowd, was a set of unknown knights--not brigands, not Druids, not Templars, and not the crown soldiers of London.
"Ah," said Justin with a smile, "I think fortune may be paying us a kinder turn at last."
~ ~ ~
Malcolm twisted his body
painfully to the right until he was facing the new passageway, once again
proceeding horizontally. Now he could see
the source of the faint glow he had been following, only about
twenty yards away. He quickly crawled
forward and flopped over when he had reached his goal, his chest heaving for
breath in the thin air. He lay there for
several minutes, regaining some small measure of strength before the final push
toward freedom.
When he finally felt ready
to continue, he turned and faced the final few feet of the tunnel. As he approached, the exit looked very, very
small, and he began to worry that he would not be able to make his way
out. He came up against the end of the
tunnel to find that it had been sealed off long ago with a large stone, leaving
only a few small openings--small enough to fit his fist through, but no
more. He groaned heavily. He didn’t want to have to go back down and
face another tunnel, but he had little choice.
But as he lay there looking
at the rock, a thought occurred to him.
If it was a sealed pipe, that probably meant that there would not be an
archer guarding it on the outside. This
thought gave Malcolm one final surge of hope, and he began examining ways he
could move the ponderous stone from its resting place in the manor wall. He breathed a prayer of thanks that he had
been able to recover a short sword from the Templar prison before they left. He drew it out at that moment, and began
using it to pry at the stone.
The rock was at least as
wide as he was at the shoulders. It would take a great effort to persuade that boulder to budge.
He wedged his sword into a crack beneath it and began rocking his weight
against the handle, hoping to move it.
He worked quietly, not wishing to attract the attention of any archers
that might be poised in the area.
He pressed his weight
against it again, but the result was the same.
Nothing. He placed both hands
against the smooth stone face and pushed, but nothing happened. He pushed again and again, until he thought
his muscles were going to fail him from sheer exhaustion. Some smaller rocks had been wedged around the
large stone to keep it in place, so he resolved to work on these first.
The smaller stones actually
moved out of the way fairly quickly, although Malcolm had difficulty finding
room for them in the cramped tunnel. Grunting and groaning,
he pressed all the power of his muscles against the stony face. It wouldn’t budge.
He was about to give up and
try another smoke-filled passage when something within him said, Try again. He tried again, and came up with the same result. Try
again.
“Lord, I’ve already tried many times. It’s not going to move.”
Try again.
He sighed deeply, and bowed his head. “Well, it’s going to have to be in your
strength, Lord, because I have nothing left to give.”
He placed his hands against
the rock, and despite his screaming muscles, he kept on pushing and pushing
until…it moved. He felt it shift
suddenly before him, so he kept pushing, straining. But he didn’t need to anymore. As soon as that boulder moved the first inch,
it seemed to slide the rest of the way of its own accord, as if it had been
greased to slide out of the shaft. With
one great heave, Malcolm shoved it out of the shaft and winced when he heard it
land with a loud thud on the ground below.
He remained lying there for
several minutes, listening for any shouts, footsteps, arrows aimed down the
shaft, anything that would suggest that the boulder’s fall had been
noticed. It seemed inconceivable that
guards could miss something so obvious, but he wasn’t about to argue the point
with them.
As he crawled out to the
ledge of the shaft and looked out over the sunlit fields, he heard the voice
once again within him, calm and quiet. My strength is sufficient when you have
nothing left to give.
Malcolm felt like shouting for joy, but prudence and
wisdom kept him from doing it. He simply
smiled up at the bright sun shining above him and whispered, “Thank you,
Lord.”