29. Hell fire

Arthur woke when something wet and sticky kept dripping on his cheek.

He brushed it off and his fingers came back red. Confused, he looked up - and jumped to his feet with a scream.

The man on the plank bed was still warm, the blood still dripping from his throat. But there was no doubt that Erec was dead.

"Gods" Arthur breathed as he shrank back from the corpse until the iron bars in his back stopped him.

"Good to see the old Gods have not been forgotten by everyone in Camelot" somebody said, and Arthur darted round. Something stirred in the shadows in front of the cell, but the captive couldn't make out who it was until the man stepped into the light of a torch.

Jeffrey wagged a finger. "You better keep your real beliefs to yourself when you meet the Black Duke. You will, eventually."

"Tell me what has happened" Arthur ordered sharply.

"Everybody sold out anybody to everybody" Jeffrey said. "Erec was too smart for his own good, I had the last laugh, and Lancelot was the only honest fool in this game. One isn't enough to make a honest game."

"Where is my family?" Arthur repeated, the knuckles that grabbed the bars standing out white.

"That is not my business. I've got my pound of flesh. Or rather, my pound of steel and scabbard."

Jeffrey looked pointedly at the prisoner's hip, and reflexively, Arthur's hand reached for his sword belt.

Naturally, it wasn't there.

"Yes, it's only too true" the old man said, insincere remorse laid on with a trowel. "The blade is bewitched. Our most august Duke didn't dare to touch it, and the Saxons had the fright of their lives, poor buggers, when it charred their hands like glowing coal. But I asked a girl to sheath it and wrap it up. Unlike warriors' hands and gloves, kitchen maids and towels hardly ever take a human life, you see?"

Arthur's frown was ample proof that he had no idea what the other was talking about. Since Merlin's disappearance, all servants and squires were forbidden to touch Excalibur. Nobody had ever told Arthur what the blade did to those who couldn't withstand temptation.

The old clerk looked him over with narrowed eyes. "You never knew" he stated. "You wielded the blade, but you never even guessed its true powers."

"Forget about the sword. Tell me what has happened to my family!"

"Believe it or not, I'd pity you, had I not more important things to think of. I came to take my leave, Sire. But first – look at me. Very carefully."

Arthur reminded himself that so far this peculiar scoundrel was his only connection to the outside world. He had to humour the man, if he wanted to learn anything about Gwen and Galla. "Come closer" he therefore said. "Into the light."

Jeffrey stepped closer, taking great pains to stay out of the prisoner's reach. Yet even so, his face was clearly visible now and Arthur fought the impulse to run away. Never before had he felt such irrational, instinctive revulsion for a man. When he had been eager to find his family he had hardly noticed it, but now the disgust was overwhelming.

Patiently, Jeffrey stared straight ahead, his cadaverous face blank, his eyes shimmering in the firelight. He stood absolutely still and gave Arthur all the time in the world to stare at him.

The eyes gave Arthur the first clue. But it was impossible…. after all these years … "Ravenclaw" he finally muttered, dumbfounded. Then he corrected himself. "Armand of Morgwyn. It can't be …"

"Yes, it is me" the former High Master confirmed. "The years have been gentler to you than to me. Until now, that is. Your treacherous, or perhaps just foolish, past is about to catch up with you, Prince Arthur."

"You betrayed me" Arthur shouted, shocked by the sudden revelation.

"I fought for what was right and good in the world" Armand retorted coldly. "You let me down, you betrayed the Isle of the Blessed, you and that foolish young devil Merlin."

"If it hadn't been for you, Merlin would still be alive."

"And if it hadn't been for the Pendragons, my home would still be paradise" Morgwyn said harshly, before he turned on his heels and walked away.

"Armand, wait ..." Arthur yelled despairingly. "Jeffrey! Please!"

But the sorcerer's steps faded away, and then they were gone.

Arthur screamed and raged until he no longer could, but no one came. As the dungeon was deep underground, with no windows, it was completely still.

Silent enough for the ears to make up sounds that weren't there.

No matter how often the prisoner paced from one end of the cell to the other, probing the wall, the bars and anything else in his reach, there was no way out.

It was maddening.

Guinivere, Galahad - he had held them in his arms, felt the warmth of their trembling bodies, and now they were gone, out of reach, like ghosts, for ever kept away from him.

Again, he kicked against the bars, and screamed his heart out.

But nobody cared.

Finally, Arthur surrendered to his fate.

He could do nothing but wait.

After a while, the torch burned out, and the room fell into total blackness.

In the pitch dark, Arthur heard little claws scampering across the stone floor. The creatures cheeped excitedly, then they were still.

When Pendragon understood that the rats had begun to feast on Erec's corpse, he buried his head in his arms.

And yet, nature demands her right even under the most dire of circumstances.

When nailed boots stamped the ground and harsh voices shouted in an unfamiliar language, Arthur woke with a start from sleep.

The door opened, and he found himself in the grip of two bulky Saxons whose fur and leather clothes stank abominably of animal fat, fresh ale and old sweat.

Arthur's heart was racing, and in his ears rushed a non-existent gale, but the thought that they might take him to those in charge made him compliant.

They bound his hands and arms behind his back, but otherwise did him no harm. On the contrary, he had the impression that they were holding back deliberately. Armed to their teeth and in what to them must be full armour they looked intimidating enough and yet they seemed apprehensive rather than aggressive.

They were talking to each other in what Arthur presumed was their native gibberish while they led him out of the dungeon. Once he tried to ask them where they were taking him, but when one of the brutes threatened him with a dirty scarf, he shook his head and looked down. The mere thought of having this slimy rag stuffed into his mouth made him nauseous.

The light was blinding when they left the building and stepped into what had to be the stronghold's main yard. Pendragon stumbled when his guards forced him up a few steps that led to a wooden stand.

Arthur winced when someone grabbed his chin and forced his head back. All he could see was a blurred shadow against the glaring sky.

"Yes, it's him" a guttural voice growled, the accent so heavy that Arthur barely understood the man. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a bearded, weathered face, reddish hair, a surprisingly fair skin, a broad jaw firmly set and a pair of eyes of greyish green, like the sea in winter.

The fine linen shirt, the splendid gold jewellery and the expensive armour were those of a Saxon Prince.

Or, much rather, those of an extremely successful Saxon thief.

"Who are you?" Arthur demanded to know.

The Saxon let go of his chin. "I'm Hengist" he gnarled irritably. "And no need to tell me, I know who you are. Let's get it over with."

Resisting the Saxon's rough grips was out of the question. To Arthur, much leaner, a head shorter and with bound hands, the grip on his arms was that of a giant handling a dwarf.

Hengist pushed the captive forward and held him there. For the first time Arthur could see what was happening in the yard.

Bewildered he beheld two mighty pyres. To the stakes in their centres, two straw dolls were tied.

Only when one of them raised their head, Pendragon understood that he was looking at two condemned people.

A man and a woman.

Two mops of tangled black hair.

Arthur jerked, struggled grimly to break free from the restraining hands.

A third, big paw took him by the throat, choked him, dragged him back. He tried to fight, but he couldn't breathe. He kicked and fought, until he hung in the Saxons' grip like a half-strangled dog.

"Don't!" Hengist ordered. "She doesn't know you're here. She's blind. Don't let her know you're watching."

Arthur panicked as a Saxon warrior went towards the pyres with a torch in his hand "Please, she's done nothing wrong, she's innocent" he pressed out.

"I know that. My brother Horsa knows that. What does it matter?"

The second man behind Arthur grunted his consent.

"No good, you see?" Hengist said. "The Duke says she's a sorceress, so that our army could not win the battle. The men believe it. Want to believe it. And that's the end of her."

"Let me talk to your Duke. He does not know what he's doing. My army is only hours away."

"Your people know you're here. They won't budge." Hengist shrugged. "The Duke will see you tonight. Not before. You anger him, and your son will burn. You do as he says and the boy might live."

Arthur froze. He shuddered. "You would burn a child to make your point?"

"We make better use of our prisoners" an even deeper voice barked. "But the Duke must have his bonfires from time to time." Horsa, for it must be him, leaned towards Arthur without easing his grip on the younger man's throat, and pointed at the black figure that had just entered the balcony and raised his arms in a call for silence.

The Duke's face was hidden behind jet black metal. The voice was strange. Distorted. Hollow and inhuman.

But the speech he gave, the words he used, were only too familiar.

He spoke about the evils of magic, about what crimes he had suffered from sorcerers, and how he had been forced, again and again, to fight this greatest sin of all.

When the speech ended, the condemned man on the pyre screamed aloud. "You are the ones who'll burn in hell for this. All of you. God can have no mercy on you after today!"

Perhaps Lancelot would have said more. But he died with a Saxon arrow in his heart, much quicker than his real murderer had meant him to.

The crowd, waiting for the spectacle to begin, murmured angrily. Many eyes looked daggers at the two Saxon Princes on the stand who had ordered the shot that had robbed them of half their entertainment.

"Mercenaries" Horsa hissed at his brother in their own tongue. "Blasted riff-raff. If they were as bloodthirsty in a fight as they are at the scaffold….."

Arthur didn't even hear them talking. The speech had shocked him into a limbo.

When the Black Duke turned towards them, Hengist bowed slightly in what might have been an apology for the untimely intervention of his archer. Whilst rising, the Saxon spat out scornfully. "When we came, the man Lancelot was our ally. Now he was to burn. A man should die from sword or arrow, not from fire, like a trapped rat!"

The Duke could not have heard the spiteful words and yet he apparently had an idea of the Saxons' state of mind, for he stared down at the group, as if about to give an order and have them restrained. Arthur felt the black clad figure's enraged eyes on his body as if the gaze was something physical that touched his skin. Defiled him. Leaving the stench of sulphur behind.

Finally, the Duke looked away, and raised his hand.

The executioner walked to the woman's pyre and raised his torch.

The crowd's murmuring reached a high pitch.

The woman yelled in fear and struggled against her bonds.

Arthur pushed forward with all his strength and shouted her name. Through all the noise, she did not hear him. "Leave her be, you bastards. Oh Gods, Guinivere…" He couldn't lose her, not like this….

Between them, the two Saxons subdued him. "Gag him" Hengist said. "I'm fed up. Enough is enough."

Guinivere cried out when the flames reached her body, and Arthur renewed his senseless struggling, until Hengist kicked against the back of his knees and forced him down.

Horsa turned away and again, he spat out. "That's no way to die" he repeated growlingly. "She was lovely. Damn shame."

With his face pressed down on his legs, unable to scream, Arthur could not see Guinivere burn to death. But he heard her. And he heard the people who watched her die. Up to the very last second, he heard everything.

"She can't see you" Hengist repeated, as if that was a mercy in itself. "They gouged her eyes out."

Arthur choked on his gag, the bile hurt his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut. He strained his back to get up, but there was no battling the strong fists in his neck and hair.

Finally, the screaming stopped.

No sound was left but the flames' roaring and the murmuring of a crowd in the anti-climax of a great event.

As the two corpses burned to cinder, the audience dissolved. People were now chatting excitedly. This had certainly made their day.

"Take him away" Hengist said and let go of Arthur's head. "See to it that he's fit tonight."

Without any further ado, the same two soldiers brought a limp, unmoving Arthur back to his cell, roughly untied him and locked him up before they went about their search for safer enjoyments.

This Camelot princeling, that much was certain, was not for them to toy with.

Arthur didn't even notice that in the meantime, Erec's body had been removed.

At first, he lay still, unable to move. In the end, he crawled to the wall, and hugged his knees.

Nothing he had lived through before, no battle, not even Osric's ritual, had been like what he was feeling now. The pictures of the execution tortured him, the imagined ones more than the ones he'd really seen. But most of all, the sounds tormented him.

It had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. No time to brace himself for what he was going to see, no time to understand what was happening. The brutal attack had caught him by complete surprise, and all his usual defences, his self-control, his courage, were swept away.

Covered in sweat, his muscles twitching uncontrollably, he stammered in the frenzy of the flashbacks, cried and howled he knew not what.

The guards on duty didn't mind, they were used to prisoners screaming their hearts out. Sooner or later, they all shut up, this bonny blond would be no exception to the rule.

In vain, Arthur fought like a madman when they came for him at the appointed time. The jailers cursed and swore when they were bruised and battered, but in the end, he stood no real chance against the whole lot of them.

"Untie him and then leave us" the Black Duke said when they'd brought him his prisoner.

"No good Sire" the sergeant retorted. "He's lost it, he's dangerous."

"Not to me. Get out."

Reluctantly the soldiers cleared out, muttering angrily to themselves.

Arthur didn't doubt that they would stay close, but even so he weighed his chances. He wouldn't save himself, but at least he would not die alone.

The man in black turned to the sideboard, as easily and comfortably as any host would do in the presence of a favoured guest. "You look as if you could do with a glass of brandy, Arthur."

Disbelievingly the prisoner stared at the straight back turned on him, clad in black cloth and leather armour. Without helmet and breast plate, head and neck were exposed.

Through a door on the left shone the light from a friendly fire. In front of Arthur, the table was laid for three. The sharp, strong knifes shimmered beneath the candelabras.

"You still like grapes as you used to, I hope?" the Duke asked without turning.

And as if the few, simple words were a spell, the prisoner's head cleared, and the fever was gone. This stupid game of power Arthur knew well; every step, every turn was familiar. As familiar as the memory of a flower once collected in a cave, almost at the cost of his own life, only to see it crushed in a wanton, careless hand.

It was all there, like it had been years ago, the feigned indifference, the forced casualness, the artificial good humour.

"You always were too sure of yourself" Arthur said coldly. His hatred and disdain laced the words with acid. "And always the show, the grand gesture. Beats me how I could ever fall for it, admire it even. A second-rate jester in a fleapit playing King."

The Duke sighed and let his shoulders sink. Cumbersomely he fumbled with the glasses and the decanter.

Arthur did not remember the man's diversions to be that obvious in the past. This was not about brandy at all; the bastard just dreaded speaking to his victim face to face.

"No need for insults, my boy" the Duke replied calmly. "The witch is dead, and the cursed sword is gone. Let bygones be bygones. I will forgive and forget. It wasn't your fault."

Again, Arthur's gaze brushed over the gleaming blades on the table. His hands and feet were free. It would be so easy, one step, one strike … What madness drove this man? To take a risk like that …

"Papa!"

Arthur was almost swept off his feet when Galahad jumped at his back and hugged him fiercely. "Pooh, you smell badly, Papa." the youngster said with a wrinkled nose. Like a clumsy half-grown bear in need of affection, he punched his father's rips before he lumbered to the man by the sideboard. Usually the spindly boy's exaggerated masculine behaviour made his father smile, Galahad knew that very well.

Arthur felt all strength drain from his body when Galahad hugged the black waist before he gave his father a huge, radiant smile. "Isn't it great that grandfather has come?" he asked. "Without him, mother and I would still be sitting in that awful room, locked up by this filthy jerk Erec."

"Hey, let go, or you make me spill our drinks" the Duke said fondly to the boy as he finally turned round to face Arthur. As if only Galahad's arrival had given him the courage to do so.

The youngster frowned as he looked from one man to the other. Something was definitely wrong. Why wasn't his father overjoyed?

Oddly enough, Arthur had never told his son anything about his past. Galahad had asked many times before he had given up on the subject, sensing Arthur's awkwardness. There was something that Galahad didn't quite understand. But then, there had always been an aura of secret and mystery around his parents. Part of being King and Queen, the boy had supposed, and, after a while, forgotten all about his grandfather.

But now that grandfather was back and had freed his grandson and daughter-in-law from this idiot Erec, shouldn't Arthur feel some joy?

Perhaps he had not known that Mama had had to go away on a moment's notice? But she had done that before, hadn't she? Some of these days, there would be another letter from her, telling Galahad that he was to visit her in her new place. His parents parted, and reunited, at random.

It had always been like that. And grandfather said so, too.

And yet, Arthur stood there, looking daggers. Bewildered, Galahad looked at his father's face. Papa didn't look quite well, he noticed. The clothes were torn, the skin on his wrists and throat was discoloured. He was tired. And upset.

Perhaps this was one of those situations. The ones after which somebody would tell Prince Galahad that he was incredibly smart for his age on the one hand, but incredibly naïve and stupid for a 12 year old – no, make that almost 14 after all this time of a stupid war - on the other. "Well" this somebody would go on "it is to be expected, Prince Galahad. Many books in a convent, but not much real life experience." Galahad would then be patted on the head - a thing he loathed except from his father – and that was that.

"Your son is a trifle too spontaneous and open-hearted for a Prince of Camelot, don't you think?" the Duke now said.

"There" Galahad thought disappointedly "I knew it!" He looked at his father with hopeful eyes. Perhaps Arthur would now say what he usually said when someone criticized his son. That Galahad was a fine boy and that the High King would not want him to change, not one bit.

But Arthur said nothing. With his eyes glued to the other man's face, he took the brandy offered to him. He held the glass in is hand, as if he did not know what to do with it.

"Come on, my boy, down with it" the Duke said good-naturedly.

Arthur closed his eyes when he gulped the strong liquor down. It burned its way down to his guts. Burned like fire. He put the glass on the table before it fell from his fingers.

He winced when the Duke came for him with two fast strides. The arms in black silk closed around his body and pressed him affectionately. "Come on, Arthur, say that you are glad to see me. Your nightmare is over. It's all in the past, my son."

Arthur coughed, and swallowed painfully. Some invisible weight pressed down on his chest. He felt like suffocating. "Yes" he said, his voice raw with barely controlled emotion. He did not know from whence the words came. His mind was blank, in his ears echoed the agonized screams of a dying woman. "Of course I'm glad to see you. Good evening, father."