The Lion Cubs
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Extract from the only extant letter of Arzulu
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"From: Arzulu, least of the Lion's pride.
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To: Kurtarmak, and all of the cubs in Tashbaan, greeting.
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My cell in the Governor's palace is comfortable and, thanks to my family name, I am allowed to read and write. I expect to be moved to Tashbaan by the spring but I doubt I will live that long…"
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Holbrook Manor
(Year 741)A
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The east tower of Holbrook Manor overlooked a small courtyard and - beyond the boundary wall -was a jousting paddock. Its latest occupants considered themselves very fortunate indeed to be housed there. "Hush," said Cecil, fingers to his lips, impressing the need for secrecy upon his drowsy brother. He loomed over the other's bed, his overlong nightshirt pooled about his ankles.
"Whassup?" Cedric asked groggily. "It's still dark," he complained loudly.
"Hush! It's Father riding out."
The smaller boy sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. "Is he alone?"
"Come and have a look." Cedric, being younger, still slept with a light very near his bed. Candleholder in hand, he made his way to the window. A draught seeped through the ill fitting glass making the candle gutter. "Watch out; we'll be seen," Cecil objected. The courtyard was illuminated by torchlight; the sky was clear and the moon full. Sir Harold Holbrook had already mounted his grey and the groom tended to two unknown visitors. All three gentlemen wore similar cloaks that appeared white in the moonlight. Each man was well armoured. It was impossible to see the devices (if any) on their shields from that side. "The Lion Cubs," Cecil said reverently.
"Do you really think so," Cedric squealed excitedly, "the Lion Cubs!"
"Hush! Yes, the Lion Cubs; I'm sure! Oh!" Both lads jumped guiltily as the door opened unexpectedly.
They could just make out their mother, in silhouette, in a pool of candlelight. "What's going on? Why are you both out of bed?" she demanded.
"Oh! Sorry Mama!"
"Yes, sorry Mama!"
"So I should think so indeed! What are you doing?"
"We're just watching Father," Cecil offered.
"Well you've no business to. It's too late for little boys to be out of their beds, now get back in."
"Mama, is Father in…" Cedric began. His older sibling nudged him but it was too late for he'd begun. "…The Lion Cubs," he finished.
"Is your Father in what?" their mother asked briskly. "What foolishness is this? Now get back into bed." She watched them clamber into their narrow beds and she tucked the bedding in tightly to secure them. "The Lion Cubs - that old wives' tale – there's no such thing. Who has been filling your head with this nonsense?"
"Betsy said that there's a group of knights that secretly protect Narnia."
"Only silly little boys listen to foolish little girls, who eavesdrop on servants' tittle-tattle," the lady reproved them. "Now, stay in bed and don't even think of moving until breakfast." Lady Cecilia Holbrook returned to her private parlour, frowning. Small boys telling tall tales of a secret order might be harmless but gossip spreads. She hoped it was just children's chatter; as a girl she'd heard the same tale. The one thing she was sure of was that her husband wasn't a Lion Cub.
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Christmas preparations
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Christmas for the Holbrooks was generally spent at the great Castle of Cair Paravel. Sir Harold frequently complained of "that damned draughty barracks," in anticipation of harassed servants, hard beds and childish entertainments. He was a keen sportsman though who secretly looked forward to acquitting himself well in the tourneys, hunting field and wrestling ring. King Osric I might have a schoolboy's sense of humour but he was just as fond of sports as Harold. The two men actually got on very well.
Many of the gentry and nobility of that era would have left young children home over Christmas but not the Holbrooks. Lady Cecilia in particular had good reason to keep them at hand. A guardian of many secrets, she might have to flee if the unwelcome light of day was ever shone upon them. The staff of Holbrook Manor (although deprived of Sir Harold's body-servant and Cecilia's maid) would make merry at Christmas, relieved of many of their usual duties. The festive season would be well and truly kept. Tom and Linnet never complained about missing the fun and both had a very particular reason for staying close to their mistress.
The Holbrooks chose to go to Cair Paravel by horse, with Linnet, children and baggage sent ahead in the carriage. Narnian roads were never good and had been particularly bad for some years through neglect. "I'd rather be wet, grimy and swift," Cecilia agreed with her husband. They had the same conversation each year and always reached the same conclusion. Harold and Cecilia arrived a little before the shortest day. They'd be in attendance at that minor feast which presaged the great festival of Christmas. "Your usual chamber, Sir Harold," said Mrs Claplock, the housekeeper, ushering them down a corridor. Harold shot his wife a look and grimaced. "I'll have baths and water sent up to you as soon as possible."
"Now, there's a surprise," said Harold sardonically, examining the curtains, when Mrs Claplock had bustled away. "The rail is four inches off the wall and there's a draught whistling in through the windows like a boiling kettle; just like last year."
Lady Cecilia meanwhile had opened the adjoining door and poked her head into the next chamber. "Linnet and the boys are out," she said.
"I don't blame them; it's a worse room than ours." Harold experimentally plumped himself down on the bed. "Hard as a tax collector's heart still," he observed, "it'll be like sleeping on a wooden plank."
"Hush now," his wife soothed, "you'll feel better after a bath."
"I'll feel better in twelve days time when we can go home."
There was a tap on the door; a maidservant with a message. "His Majesty would see Sir Harold in the stables in an hour if you please." Lady Cecilia nodded, aware that her husband must be groaning silently. "And a note for you, m'lady," the maid said in a barely audible whisper.
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The Lion Cubs
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The Ladies' picnic was a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance. To the dismay of some, the shortest day promised to be fine for once. The younger maids and keenest horsewomen would doubtless attend. Matrons and unmarried older women might excuse themselves or choose to follow some part of the way. Cecilia made one of her occasional appearances, accompanied by her old friend Lady Caroline Riverbank (who was of more mature years). "I'll see you as and when," Cecilia promised her husband, vaguely. She'd seemed hopeful of reaching the picnic site but, after just six miles, Caroline complained greatly of her hip. Cecilia made their apologies to the Queen and – accompanied by her husband's manservant – turned back. Her Majesty would have been greatly surprised to see them follow an entirely different path than that leading to the castle.
Costard Cot had originally been a simple cottage but considerably extended over the years. The ground-floor windows were all shuttered and only a smoking chimney revealed someone was at home. A new, sizeable barn to the rear was out of all proportion to the modest, farmed strips of land nearby. Perhaps its principal advantage lay in how many horses could be discreetly stabled there. A rat-a-tat upon the lion's head doorknocker announced the arrival of the newcomers. "Come in, ladies," said the elderly householder. She was diminutive, aged about seventy and had a tendency to gaze about her through downcast eyes. It was a useful skill she'd learned during many years in domestic service.
Caroline, Cecilia and Tom (the manservant) took their places at the dining table in the 'best parlour'. The room was full of old, good quality furniture and knick-knacks that had once graced Cair Paravel. There was hardly a speck of dust or dirt to be found, despite the best efforts of a recalcitrant chimney. Mrs Parslow had worked at the castle for fifty years, from the age of ten, finally marrying the (late) Henry Parslow at an advanced age. Her all too brief marriage had at least left her in comfortable circumstances. Mrs Parslow took her place at the head of the table and looked at the thirteen others assembled, "Welcome; the Lion Cubs are in session…" As many as possible were in attendance.
At this point it might be helpful to look back at the origins of this secret order. In the mid fifth century (by Narnian reckoning) a group of exiles had made their way to Narnia, from Calormen. They'd variously come directly by boat, via the Lone Islands, or made the desert crossing. They were all followers of Arzulu Sik, known as the 'Vaiz'. It is that Arzulu who authored the banned, heretical text the 'Good News of Arzulu' that came to him by revelation. A prolific letter writer, it took the fanatical Observances Bureau centuries to find and destroy all but one copy of those missives. The sect known as the 'Lion Cubs of Calormen' rejected the demon Tash and put their faith in Aslan and His father (the Emperor Over-The-Seas). With Arzulu in captivity it had proved expedient to let his followers flee Calormen. Their relatives had traded that freedom with the Orvam in Tashbaan for the unopposed passing of an Enslavement bill.
It was sixty years later when Lady Jasmine Hal Hallim (granddaughter of one of the exiles) founded a secret order, 'The Lion Cubs,' to protect Aslan's legacy in Narnia. The last of the Good Kings Frank lay in his grave and his successors, then supported by cruel or careless sycophants known as the New Order, seemed likely to bring disaster upon the land. King Xavier I, lost beneath the so-called 'Fortress of Thwarted Ambition', had been no great loss to Narnia. His successors proved no better.
"There will be seven upright gentlewomen, seven upright servants, seven upright warriors and one counsellor emeritus," Lady Jasmine Hal Hallim declared in the Cub's founding charter. It was neither an open order nor a military one and all were equal. What mattered were intelligence and a good heart. Gentlewomen elected to the council were of influence. The selected servants were to be the voice of the ordinary working folk. Servants also had an advantage in that they could go about on errands with some degree of anonymity. The warriors were to provide military expertise but not necessarily expected to fight on behalf of the order.
The whole council, when assembled, was known as the Orvam (in recognition of its Calormene roots). There were three vacancies at that time and the debate about potential candidates went on at some length. Two candidates were agreed upon in the end, but the other vacancy remained unfilled. "Now, we move on to the second and perhaps more important matter…" Mrs Parslow, Counsellor to the Orvam, said, "…the Blood Table."
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The Queen's ear
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Thelma, a diminutive and indefatigable woman of four foot eight inches, ruled over her husband, King Osric I, with a rod of iron. To see them together was to see a great yet compliant bear with its handler. That Thelma was part Dwarf was a wholly untrue, yet persistent, rumour. Her charming suite at Cair Paravel was rather like something out of a fairytale as much of the furniture was too dainty for the comfort of visitors. Lady Cecilia perched uncomfortably on the edge of a small, gilded chair, fearful of becoming wedged. For the few days remaining before Christmas a degree of abstinence was observed. Tea with the Queen was therefore a simple affair of tea, seedcake and fingers of buttered bread.
After an exhaustive account of what Cecilia missed at the picnic, the Queen allowed the conversation to be steered into another direction. "Oh, my husband's legacy," she laughed. "Yes, he wants to shore up the castle. It is getting a little dilapidated." She glanced over at the cot in which her unfeasibly large baby slumbered. "Sleep little Bo-Bo," the fond mother called out to him.
"And brave plans for the Blood Table, I understand…"
"The Blood Table: oh, you mean the Stone Table?"
"Yes, that's right."
"It'll look impressive on the hill," the Queen said placidly, then nibbled at a piece of bread with her tiny, pearl-like teeth.
"Yes…" Cecilia said with deliberate hesitation, letting the remark hang in the air.
Thelma, who was quite tenacious, hadn't missed her earlier remark. "You referred to it as the Blood Table?"
"Yes, that's right. It's an old name; have you not come across it?"
"Goodness me, no, it sounds most unpleasant." The Queen had little interest in history and even less in folklore.
"The Centaurs and the Dwarfs still know it as the Blood Table," Cecilia observed, which was perfectly true, if for very different reasons.
"Why?" the Queen was curious. In response Cecilia chose only to tell her the malicious tale prevalent amongst the Black Dwarves. Now the Black Dwarves were those whose ancestors saw the light of Aslan during the creation of the world yet shunned it, out of fear.
During the reign of King Frank IV four wicked brothers lived on the hill. They were bloodthirsty, strong and fearless. Even the King's men feared them for they were skilled in arms and relentless in pursuit of victory. The Brothers Alcuin were reputedly cannibals, turning the Stone Table into a shambles. It would take generations until the rain washed the stones clean. It wasn't just unlucky soldiers that found themselves tied upon the butchers' block for, what the brothers preferred best of all, was the blood of innocents. They stole human and dwarfish babies from the arms of their distraught mothers.
"How perfectly horrid," Queen Thelma shuddered.
"Ghastly," Cecilia agreed.
The Queen found herself compelled to go and peer at her enormous, sleeping baby. "I had no idea!"
"That's why the dwarfs know it to be cursed," Cecilia added, "They have longer memories than we daughters of Eve."
"If my husband thinks I'm looking out at that blood soaked horror every day, he's got another think coming," Thelma determined.
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The gentleman's gentleman
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"The yellow hose tomorrow, I think," said Sir Langdale Langdale, contemplating the serious business of his outfit. His manservant's cheek quivered noticeably. Alert to nuance, Langdale tried again, "or perhaps the green?"
"Very good, sir," Robin Wayburn permitted himself an approving smile. He had high hopes of disposing of the yellow hose in the near future. He gave an involuntary sniff: his master's guest chamber was near the stables and enriched by a distinctly agricultural smell. Sir Langdale, who spent as much of his life in the saddle as possible, barely noticed it.
"Any more guests arrived?" The knight was looking forward to convivial company over Christmas.
"Master and Mistress Watton…"
"Oh good."
"…and Lamprey, the Dwarfish engineer."
"I don't count him as company," Langdale objected.
"You are, of course, quite right." On the face of that it was merely a polite rejoinder but the servant put a peculiar stress upon the words.
"Is there something wrong with the fellow?"
Wayburn ventured another sniff. "He's not well liked."
"Why not?"
The man had worked for the knight for five years, and Langdale trusted his judgement implicitly. Robin Wayburn, one of the Lion Cubs, had been recommended by another of the order. "He's ambitious – wants to make a name for himself."
"Well, one can't blame a fellow for trying." Langdale was fair minded.
"Yes…"
"Go on."
"Everyone knows about the project to move the Stone Table."
"It's hardly a secret," said Langdale, pulling on his conical nightcap. His bedchamber was no less draughty than that of the Holbrooks'.
"No, indeed, but it's very much Lamprey's project if you take my meaning."
"Well, it's the King's grand design."
"That's not what the staff are saying – or folks in the vicus."
"Really?"
"Lamprey is going to make sure he gets the lion's share of the credit. People are already calling it Lamprey's Stone Table."
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A social influencer
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Godfrey Watton was a very influential man, with the ear of the King. Like his father and grandfather before him, he had one peculiarity. He declined offers to be ennobled, or at least knighted, being unwilling to take on the financial obligations either entailed. A rich man and friend of the king he felt no need of further public recognition. His position was unusual for rarely had a commoner fought in tourneys or been feted by knights.
In just three hours Christmas Eve would dawn and Cair Paravel would, once more, be bustling all day. King Osric I had spent the day hunting, with a select company of friends. Watton, who had brought a case of rich, blackberry wine, was (unsurprisingly) invited to spend the evening with his monarch. The two men lolled comfortably in chairs, either side of the inglenook. A fire blazed merrily in the grate, replenished at regular intervals by the servants. Osric, wearing a most elegant pair of kid slippers, lined with silk, had his feet upon a footstool. His shirt was loose and somewhat sweaty and grimy after a long day. He was wrapped in a fur robe that reached down to his knees. A bowl of nuts rested on his lap and the floor about him was littered with shells.
"I see the Dwarf, Lamprey, is here," Godfrey Watton said whilst languorously stretching a foot towards the fire.
"So I understand."
"Engineer isn't he?"
"That's right." The King yawned, "He's working on a project for me."
"Moving the Stone Table?"
"One can't keep anything confidential in this place," Osric complained.
"It's not a secret, surely?" Godfrey asked. He picked apart a piece of salted fish and flicked a stray bone into the flames.
"No, I suppose not."
"Some sort of legacy thing ain't it?" Watton said, sounding disinterested.
"That's right," Osric agreed.
"Well, it is for Lamprey…"
"What do you mean?"
"It's a good thing for making Lamprey a name."
"And me!" the King objected.
"Well, unless you propose to carry it on your back then, I fear, it'll be Lamprey that'll get all the credit."
"Do you think so?"
"No doubt."
"Hm," Osric was indignant.
"To be honest, I didn't think it was your kind of thing, Majesty."
"Well, it seemed a good sort of thing to do. It was his idea."
"I suppose…" said Godfrey doubtfully. He chewed another piece of fish thoughtfully. "Not really your style though, is it?"
"Isn't it?"
"Well, you're more a man of action: a sportsman, a man at arms."
"That's true, of course…"
"It seems to me that a great feat of arms is a more fitting legacy."
"Well, there is that…"
"Perhaps a great tourney – magnificent – the like of which has never been seen…"
"Well, yes, that does appeal…"
"Or," said Godfrey leaning towards the King, earnestly, "what about the Giant of Trumb."
"The…hm… The Giant of Trumb," Osric said, his attention caught.
"Now dealing with him would be a true legacy; not one fit only for an engineer."
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Disappointed
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It was the seventh day of Christmas and the weather continued mild. A steady procession of carts made its way to the castle throughout the morning, carrying fresh supplies of food. A full programme of outdoor activities such as races, hunting, wrestling and boxing had been fulfilled thus far. A tourney was scheduled for the following day. The King, Sir Harold Holbrook and Master Watton were all due to compete and there was many an unofficial wager on the outcome. Every night there was a ball or feast for those with sufficient remaining energy.
"I don't understand it," Lamprey complained. He had loaded his cart, ready to head home, northwards. His nephew patiently stroked the ponies' heads. The engineer had been kept on tenterhooks for well over a week, waiting for word from the king. "He was definitely interested when we met in Blood Month," he said yet again.
"That's man for you," Tomkin reflected, "can't be trusted."
"Nothing was agreed but he was surely interested," Lamprey pursued. "A few weeks later he's positively dismissive!" Lamprey wasn't a Black Dwarf; he didn't actually reject the light of Aslan but gave it no thought at all. There was a growing number of that sort, amongst all races, at that time in Narnia. Both schools of thought were equally dangerous. "That hill is a nice bit o' land an' all – I'd hopes of acquiring it cheap," he admitted.
Uncle and nephew had taken lodgings in a respectable house in the vicus, just a stone throw from the Castles main gate. Bitterly disappointed, they'd given immediate notice and packed up. Caedmon, the Court Astrologer, wanted to catch them before they left. He clattered over to see the Dwarfs off. "Take heart, Master Lamprey, major renovations are still needed. Perhaps we'll see you next year and there'll be better news?"
Lamprey adjusted his hood, "Thank ye kindly Master Caedmon, but work next year ain't going to curl my beard this year."
"Nontheless, I'll send you word when I have definite news."
The engineer gave a rueful smile and nod. "Thank ye, maister, it's appreciated." He gave a final tug on the tarpaulin fastened over the back of his cart. "I don't suppose you know why the King changed his mind, Master Caedmon?"
The steward, being a centaur, had a far deeper knowledge and reverence for Narnia's traditions and past. His people had always regarded the Stone Table as worthy of deep respect and some foretold an important function yet to be revealed. He'd tried to counsel the king accordingly who'd dismissed Caedmon's objections, saying that engineering works weren't a matter for his Astrologer. "No, I don't know," thought Caedmon, minutes later, as he watched the cart disappearing into the distance, "But I wonder; yes, I wonder." He didn't know for certain if there was any truth to the old tale of the 'Lion Cubs' either but he'd long since had grounds for suspicion. "Sir Harold Holbrook? Master Watton?" He shook his head; whatever the truth, a very good decision had been made, for whatever reason.
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THE END
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A: Narnian reckoning
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I must mention 'Narnian Reckoning': a time-line generally accepted by Narnian researchers. It's very difficult to estimate dates by that system. I have a revisionist theory about the accepted first millennium. I believe that events took considerably longer than usually thought; another 470-510 years in total. This is based on:-
The exceptionally long lifespans enjoyed by the 'Good Kings Frank' and,
Calormene documentary evidence
I have however used accepted dating for the purposes of this history and estimated accordingly.
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Glossary
Blood month: Our November; from the Anglo Saxon (a month when cattle might be slaughtered for winter)
Costard: an apple (archaic) from which we derive the word Costermonger
Cot: Cottage (archaic)
Emeritus: a have used a Latin word in place of the obscure, Narnian original
Fortress of Thwarted Ambition: For more on this please see my short story, King Xavier & What Lay Beneath
Orvam: the ancient city council of Calormen from whose number three governing Trisocs were elected
Shambles: a medieval meat market, which would run red
Vaiz: Trans. Preacher (Calormene)
Vicus: the settlement about a Roman fort