The death of King Arthur spread through Albion like a firestorm in a drought. Nobles and peasants alike wailed in sorrow and shed tears of pain. The melancholy spread across the land was infectious. No king, no Round Table, no Defender of the Realm. Never had the death of one man crushed the hope and pride of a nation as Arthur's did.
Rumors rode the coattails of Arthur's death. Tales spread of the many deaths among the Knights of the Round Table, of Merlin's flight with the body of the dead king, of invading creatures, and of the Holy Grail's return to the Heavens. None could be considered truth, yet none were truly a falsehood. The king lay dead and the realm was cast into turmoil.
Time is said to heal all wounds; some wounds run so deep that the injury heals, but the memory remains. Albion would continue, but no man or woman would ever be the same. These differences were made apparent in the pulse of the people. Eyes were cast about in suspicion and fear. Villages began patrolling their woods and inhabitants were locking doors. Children were never allowed to stray and hustled in before twilight. Gossip and tales of raiding hordes passed the lips of men once prone to dismiss such fanciful talk. People even began to avoid the shadows, fearing the darkness and the unknown that might be lurking within.
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A thick forest of oaks and lesser trees surround a small and barely discernable dirt road. It took a great amount of effort for sunshine to reach through the canopy of branches and leaves. What light reached the small dirt path was not enough to show the thicket and roots that covered the ground. A small band of a dozen or so men moved as quickly and quietly as they could. All were on foot, moving at a pace that could almost match the trot of a horse. Most held long, elegantly curved bows with an arrow knocked. A few had long swords drawn in hand. All looked ready to use their weapons, glancing often behind them, searching for pursuit. They would have moved more swiftly had it not been for the wooden wagon that held a cage.
By themselves, the wagon and cage would not have been a burden. It would have been simply abandoned for speed. The burden came from the slumped figure in the cage. The party found out soon after his capture his noncompliance. Two of the group had learned this lesson at the cost of their lives. The prisoner's clothing was almost the color of the earth from being so dirty. The once fine livery was white once. Occasionally, the captive tried to roll or moaned. He was beginning to finally come around.
As consciousness returned, he first noticed the pain in his head and muscles. His hands were still bound tightly with rope behind his back and it cut into his wrists. His knees were pulled up to his chest in a fetal position. The holding cage was too small to lay down and too short to stand. It rocked back and forth as it was being taken along the uneven dirt roads. Trying to open his eyes was futile. His captors still kept him hooded. Breathing was labored. Bruises and half-healed wounds covered his body. Human thoughts eluded him. Rising from animal instinct, coherent thoughts rose to the surface. Ignoring the screams from his body, one thought came through.
I have failed them all!
Despair filled his soul. He began to weep in his darkness, his body shuddering. Extreme pain began to rack his body with spasms he could no longer control. One of the captors moved to the cage, reached through the bars with his sword, began to beat the man on the head with the hilt. The first hit cut the skin and began to trickle blood.
NO! No more! I can take no more! No more pain, no more failure�no more!
The second landed close enough to the first to open the wound further and blood began to flow freely. The third was the lightest. As he began to slip away again, he whimpered to himself �My Lord, please! Please�
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Water splashed into the cage, waking the prisoner with a start. He gasped and tried to survey his surroundings. His hood remained. Ignoring his pain, he managed to arrange himself on his knees. The water felt good, despite its brief duration. He knelt there in the cage, swaying with the rocking, and letting the water soak into his skin.
His captors had spoken rarely, and when they did, it was a tongue unknown to him. Their voices were light and quick, but stern and commanding, even to one another. He no longer tried to fathom their meaning. He only understood their punishment.
I am going to die.
He said it to himself with defeat. He no longer lied to himself. Fate seemed to have chosen his death.
Please Lord, let me live.
His sobs came more slowly this time. He feared for his death.
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Sleep had become untouchable. He needed sleep desperately, but no longer felt the will. Nothing mattered anymore to the caged man. Tears would no longer flow and his pain had become his only companion.
Not once had they removed his hood. Once or twice a day, maybe two, the wagon would stop and his bindings were checked. There had been no real need for it anymore. He had long ago ceased his attempted to loosen his bindings. To the captors, it seemed not to matter. They doused him with water, checked his ropes, and continued.
He had been beaten several more times. For what, the man did not know. He only knew they could not beat him forever.
Home! Please Lord, I want to go home!
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The wagon had stopped. The man tensed in preparation for another beating that did not come. His head rose as he heard the door to the cage open. He felt a hand grasp his legs and drag him out of his prison to the ground. He was picked up roughly and dragged for quite a distance.
No! I do not want to die!
One set of hands pushed him to his knees while another pulled the hood off.The darkness of twilight was easier on his eyes than full daylight would have been, but it was still a shock to his senses. He had to shake his head and blink to make sense of the sights before him.
Glowing, oval eyes surrounded him in the darkness, just beyond the edge of the firelight. Unintelligible voices began all at once. Feet shuffled in the dirt and a form entered the clearing of the fire.
Piercing eyes on a small head stared at him, framed by long and tapered ears. Arms reached for the man with long and delicate fingers. The creature's lips parted in a snarl.
"Slek hu eldew maswi?" The face drew closer. "Slek hu eldew maswi � dos Hibernia!?"
The tilted his head back in fear, tears steaming once again down his face. A long low moan escaped and he dropped his head to his chin.
Please! Please, no! Sir Orrick, I want to come home!
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CHAPTER 1
"Marrel, no! You are still but a child!" The young Marrel stood with his head bowed. "You know as well as I that your place at the stables. There is too much for you to learn and you must start at the beginning. Every knight has a steed and you must learn to care for a steed properly. Son," said Sir Orrick with a condescending tone, "a squire is not made overnight."
Sir Orrick was an impressive knight. His lectures were almost as harsh as a beating. He was a large man, adept with the sword and pious in his loyalty to the Knights of the Round Table. His omission from the circle of knights did not trouble him. He was never ashamed of his position.
"Yes sir. I will go." Marrel turned and shuffled his feet as he went for the stable. It's just not fair, thought Marrel. I am ready to be a TRUE Squire!
"And Marrel�" quipped the knight.
"Yes Sir Orrick?" replied Marrel.
"The King and the other knights are busy with strategy for the upcoming battle. Do not spread your foolishness amongst their ranks."
Marrel turned again for the stables. He kept his head bent down looking at his dirty smock and worn sandals. He shuffled his feet, occasionally kicking at a stray stone that littered the courtyard of the castle. Being the home of the King and the Round Table, Camelot was the largest castle in Albion. Marrel had often been told it was the largest structure in the known world. There were literally hundreds of people throughout the castle. Most were servants and maids and others that kept the castle functioning. Many were hurrying across the courtyard, busy with errands of their own. As Marrel slowly made his way across the open yard, he felt as if everyone's eyes were watching him.
Some of the younger people in the courtyard were watching Marrel walk away from his tongue-lashing. Of the others his age, it seemed to be of constant importance seeing who was in trouble with whom and what punishment was received. The eyes that followed him saw a young boy who could easily be mistaken for younger than his true age. Light brown hair covered his head in disarray and wiry limbs carried him towards the stables. His clothing was similar to everyone else's; hard sandals, wool hose, and a dirty and worn brown smock tied around the waist with rope that looked just as bad.
Marrel's head lifted at the sounds of swords ahead and to his right. Men were grouped in pairs, flailing about each other with wooden practice swords. All wore new coats in the king's colors. They were green as a spring twig and being instructed by Durth Helworth, the captain of the king's castle guard, in the basics of using a sword. He was moving among the guardsman, giving instruction or helping hand as needed. He was bulky and large from his life as an armsman. Black hair and a closely trimmed beard of the same color surrounded a very hardened face. His eyes were black opals and almost lifeless. It was said Captain Helworth was on the battlefield when tragedy stuck the army of Arthur Pendragon. Some say he even saw the blow that had mortally wounded the king. Gossip agreed that from that day on, Captain Durth Helworth changed.
Glancing across the practice field and towards the courtyard, Captain Helworth noticed the young Marrel glancing wishfully. He gave a small nod and wink that made Marrel's face break out into a huge grin. Marrel raised his head and quickened his step towards the stables. No matter what was going on, Captain Helworth always managed to find time for Marrel.
Arriving at the castle stables, Marrel found Squire Derk in charge and groaned. He had hated Derk since he first met him. Only one season differed between them, yet Derk had been made squire while Marrel was just learning to be a stable boy. On becoming a squire, Derk had become even more arrogant.
"Come Marrel," Derk said with hands on his hips, "time is wasting and the sun doesn't plan to shine all day!"
Marrel deflated in an instant.
"Yes Derk."
"That's Squire Derk to you scrub! You can begin by shoveling the manure pile into the wheelbarrow and taking it to the gardens." He kept his hands on his hips the whole time and directed Marrel with his chin held high and a near snarl on his lips.
"Squire Derk," managed Marrel.
This is going to be a long day, he thought to himself.
END CHAPTER 1. CHAPTER 2 COMING SOON!
