The Dark Chronicles Ch. 03

Part Three - The Knife in the Rock.

I was there.

When a solitary boy, just breaking man, pulled a knife from a tight rock and found himself king, I was there.

I wasn't the only one of course, as one might expect for a coronation. Both fate and conjure meant there was quite the cavalcade of characters, even if some of them were uncertain of their true roles and their place in the affairs of men. I trust that I keep my wits about me to tell it all in roughly the right order. Somewhat right, at least, or the essence of it, barely. They've left me to tell it, the Sisters, for they have gone. But I get ahead of myself.

Uthur pen Dragen returned from the field with the head of a northern prince, a pretender, skewered on his lance. Thus Duke Gorloys was revenged, and the small mystery of his passing of the watch, that very same night, was forgotten. Or at least, only dimly remembered except by those intimately involved. I was able to recover Uthur's horse before the unusual saddle pommel was recognised. The horse, sensible beast, knew its own way back to the meadow, so I only had to sneak it out in the dark of night, bags of straw over its hooves to stop its clop, and slap it on its rump. It made its own way home.

The guard and watch, convinced they had seen Duke Gorloys return to the fort for to fuck his wife and make her squeal, then contrive to get himself killed the very same night; they were harder to confuse. My solution, and it cost me a sore head over several nights, was to join the men and make merry with good wine and honey mead. I made them so legless and my stupid head too, that by the end of it they were convinced a man lived upon the moon, or the moon was made of cheese, one of the two. Any suggestion that the Duke entered Tyntangel that night, other than on a hearse the next morning, became no more than a stupid drunken story.

I think it must have been cheese, for I've heard that theory told more recently. I don't have the heart to tell those believers I made it all up. Some people are like priests, they're so credulous they will believe anything told with conviction.

Uthur might have pondered for a moment the diplomacy and the nicety of entering Tyntangel fortress so soon after the death of Gorloys. If he did think ont, it was only a tiny moment, possibly no longer than the pause in which to catch his breath as he dismounted the horse he rode in on. He mayhaps decided that the triumphant entry of a vengeful prince, satisfied with the head of another man's foe, made good theatre; and it naturally followed that a declaration of a kingdom, made by uniting his own realm with that of the Duke, was good practice. Suffice it said, Uthur King, pen Dragen, was crowned that next night. Nym Nymue, being his advice and counsel and the land's high witch besides, blessed a crown and placed it on his head. Nymue held a secret smile on her face for the plan, her pivot for a turning world, was speedy beyond all expectation.

Nymue. I shall return to her, as I always want to do.

The little doxy Caitlyyn, the practical maid, became ever more practical and pleasing with me. It seems she liked my height but more the proportionate length of me; and liked it to fill her asshole up, her womb being out of bounds for sensibility's sake, and because she liked it. I did not mind it, not at all. Her squeeze was tight and reminded me of Greek boys from my youth with their thin cocks, more seed than sense. It was an easy change to reach under a firm young body and find soft, warm breasts instead of a flat chest and a hard prod. Mayhaps as I get older my tastes change, or mayhaps I just can't make my mind up. I don't know it.

The vantage too, of keeping Caitlyyn the maid favoured and friendly, her ass upfucked, was her access to the Lady Ygraine's moods and thoughts. My, they changed upon change promptly after Gorloys' death, I could barely keep up. Ygraine wore the widow's black for almost a respectable time, but then her belly began to show and it became a matter of what was tasteful in terms of a new marriage to a new king. Uthur, knowing the Lady's belly was his in truth, encouraged the suggestion that the old Duke, in the nights before his unfortunate battle, had mustered a final fuck.

"Let's hope the child looks like its mother," Uthur said. "Whatever sex it be."

"Yeay, Lord, we wait. Time will tell whether we need another tale to make. A child strapping fair like its mother would be no shame. You could pamper your own babe, and folk will credit you. 'Look yon King, he loves the child like 'twas his own.' It will not harm thy good name."

All seemed well, then, with the pivot and the plot. All well, except the child Morgayne. Too young to reason with, too young to make drunk and forget, the dark child became even more silent and ever more watchful. Morgayne never cried, not once, not since she slid against the wall with my ankle blood on her lips. She had the taste of me, and I feared her like a bat.

Morgayne hated me, I knew it. As years passed on I could see her little black mind connected me with the loss of her father and the removal of her mother to the new king's bed. I could not veil the truth with lies, not with the child Morgayne. She grew uneasy on me, and I kept caution with her. I felt a deep foreboding come with Morgayne, but conjure as I might, I could not tell it. Just a blackness in my mind. Like poison, she would fill a dark cup. The dark Morgayne was only a child, but I did not doubt her malice.

Nymue? Nay, not yet. Suffice to say this old fool, besotten, is besotted. Having been naked with her, for the command of sex magick and its quick force in the minds of men, made it worse for me, and better. She torments me, and I crave witch and woman both.

* * * *

About half way through the time just told, about the time when Ygraine knew a child was coming but before the world saw, she summonsed me.

"Maer Maerlyn, what knowledge you of this woman Nym Nymue, who has the ear of Uthur?" Ygraine gazed upon me forthright, and hearkened for my truth.

So I lied. "I have heard tell of her, Lady, a powerful Sister of Glas, but I know not whence she came, nor how Uthur found her." I could not tell the good Lady that Nymue found Uthur, and Ygraine too, with their human frailties of lust and desire, perfect fodder for her longer plan. And my place in Ygraine's seduction by Uthur? Best a secret kept, truth untold, the better to dissemble when required. "Why ask, Lady?" A little knowledge of motive travels far and is always useful.

"I know not. Some feeling, something in my bones, I don't know it." Ygraine struggled with her presentiment, to articulate some hidden knowledge clumsily arrived at, for she was no witch. She was unskilled and untutored in those arts, and best that it was so. Meddling was bad enough when one knew what to do and when to stop; so if the woman didn't know it, she couldn't influence it.

My problem is not knowing when to stop. I just keep on and on at it and fall into trouble often. Or perhaps it's mischief, which is a lighter handed thing.

It was a shame in a small way that Ygraine had a nervousness about her unborn child, for I liked the Lady. Whilst she yearned a lusty cock between her legs and did not reliably get one with the old Duke, she was artfully woman enough to wile the new Uthur and to be his match. The Lady Ygraine would sit well beside pen Dragen's throne and would, methought, be reliable as his consort. Her elder daughter Morgayse was Ygraine in miniature, whilst Morgayne was not. Ygraine had at least one marrying daughter, but I wasn't sure of two.

"How to cope with your little one, Lady, if she has a sister or a brother?" Even though I did not warm to Morgayne, she was but a toddle and I should try to be kinder.

"I don't know it, Maerlyn, she is so quiet and observes us too well, she uneases me." Ygraine looked at me and didn't judge, I hoped, for my careless reaction in the corridor. Ygraine carried her guilt too for her daughter, sending the little babe from her breast that night. "I don't know it. Mayhaps when the new babe suckles, I bring Morgayne back to my tit, in penance." She sat thoughtful, and whispered, "Morgayne is a difficult child to love, but I must, I'm her mother."

I looked upon Ygraine and for once in my prattling life was silent. Morgayne, then, uncertain with her mother, yet so small. It was a wrongness, but I wasn't certain it could ever be made right. Cursed, just for being the dark Morgayne.

* * * *

"Sire, what thoughts you on the timing of a marriage?" Having something of Ygraine's ear, I thought it wise to secure the new king's too. I'm turning into a meddling old woman, I'll be at my thimble next.

"The respectful time, I think," replied Uthur. "When my Lady shows, I'm content to let folk think the old Duke did well just before he died, and bring the child up as his."

We looked at each other straight. "I guess, Maer, that the child itself be the payment demanded by Nym Nymue and yourself for services that night." A wry smile curled Uthur's lip. "It suits me, therefore, to be one distant from the child, to say it not mine, if I do not know its destiny and do not control it." He studied me close. "You do not want the child to die, you want its life, I sense that."

"Yeay, Uthur, I know not all the white Lady's plot; but life, yes, is central to it. I swear on my unreliable soul, sire, that I shall look to the child with care whilst I can, and watch over it."

"Swear, Maerlyn? Thou commit that much of your soul to my child? I scarce believe that. Are you doting as you get older?"

"As unreliable as always, Lord, you know it."

Uthur laughed. "So it's a promise then, Maer?"

"Yeay, sire. Yet unclear in my head whom I promise it to."

Perfectly clear, but not to be said. Nymue commands me, she always did.

"The marriage then, sire. One year and one day, to the night, and the babe be born a year's three-quarter done."

"We plan on it, Maer."

"Just the checking of it, sire. Never questioned, always planned."

"I knew it. Is there anything you don't know, Maer Maerlyn?"

Yes in truth. The white Lady and the dark child. Both were veiled and hidden from my eyes, and only one heart known. A dangerous sentiment, mine own.

"I know this, Lord: I know nothing."

* * * *

Thus it happened. A boy was born, fair unto his mother. Artur named and on his mother's tit; and as Ygraine thought it best, his part sister Morgayne beside him.

I looked upon them, and wondered.

"D'ost wonder, Maer, what you see?" Nymue stood beside me, silently, and linked her arm through mine. Like proud parents, we watched upon the little pair and saw the future sleeping there.

"Do you know it, Nymue, have you seen it all?" I was intrigued as to the Lady's prescience, mine being covered by darkness and cloaks, blind even in the brightest light.

"I know the most of it from pen Dragen's blood and the boy, least ways the first of it. But Gorloys' blood, I cannot see it. Morgayne is dark to me, I cannot see her at all."

Morgayne then, unknown to us both and veiled.

"The future lies uncertain, but is always near." No question, but deeds undetermined and both of us blind. For a pair of seers, they say the best in the land, we bumbled worse than clumsy bees, hmmm, hmmm.

"Nym Nymue, now, what you?"

"To find iron and silver, copper and gold, and a hot fire to cook it in and an anvil to make it sharp. The boy will need proof, I must arrange it. You will hear rumours when the time is come, and know it for what it is."

Nymue stood beside me, her arm resting inside mine. I looked down on her cropped white head and wondered at her will, and the absence of mine own. We were silent for a long pass of time, lost in our own thoughts. Then she stirred, and shifted away. As Nymue silently faded into the night, her fingers trailed loosely along my skin, down my arm, trailed down to my finger tips as light as a feather and finally drifted away, as if she'd never been there at all.

* * * *

So Uthur married the Lady Ygraine and the knowledge of Artur their son held secret from the court. Artur became known as the heir of Gorloys, and was like unto his mother, Ygraine. Over time he grew tall and fair like a brother to Morgayse, most unlike his half sister the little Morgayne.

Yet by age there was not much between the dark imp Morgayne and the boy, and to my surprise, the little girl took unto her brother without objection. As they grew and weaned from Ygraine's tit, they became inseparable. The little girl would pull the boy around Tyntangel by his tiny hand. The court became used to the quick shadow of her blackness and his golden sunnyness. They would cuddle together and sleep like wild creatures warm in the night, making small nests of bedding in this room and that.

Even when Ygraine bore two daughters to Uthur proper in quick succession, Claryyne and Arcyfleur, the two older children played on their games and stayed together, growing older, growing up.

Time passed and Gorloys' eldest, the sweet Morgayse, was betrothed to King Lot of Orkney and sent far north. Uthur decided, for reasons I mostly understood but could not properly question, that Artur too would go north with the older girl.

Morgayne was torn asunder from her half brother, and glowered all around her and fell silent again. They were both too young. I could not fathom it, but could not defend it either. It fair broke my heart to see their tears, but Uthur would not be persuaded. It was his punishment on us, Nymue and me, the price of his debt and his silence.

To the north I went, my soul foolishly promised to Uther, King; dragging Artur away from his mother and his sisters and most of all from the little dark Morgayne. I became Uthur's scape and Uthur's goat, and my ankle ached when it was cold.

Time passed and now, aye, the core of it. All else before is preparatory. I must remain with my wits about me, to tell it. The tell is lonely and on my shoulders only. They are all gone, quite gone. This tree, little sparrow, little sparrow. I might be mad, quite mad, tweet, tweet.

* * * *

Artur was five when sent from Tyntangel to the distant Orkney Isles, leaving behind his half sister, Morgayne. The boy did not know who his true father was, so listened to stories from Morgayse about Gorloys and thought them true, when she spoke of their father. In the far north of the land the boy began to know his oldest sister better, and they clung to each other for comfort, the warmth of family strong between them. He became known as Artur son of Gorloys, brother to the Orkney queen.

At first, Morgayse curled warm around him in her bed, but over time King Lot brought her to his chamber, and Morgayse left the boy for her man. She bore three boys over a period of five years, and mothering them meant a stop to sistering Artur. So he was thrown onto his own resources, and became solitary and alone. He wasn't resentful, loved his sister still, and respected Lot. He began to learn the duties of a decent courtier, to become a loyal man. Memories of distant Tyntangel grew dim and Artur knew not his true father nor mother. Only the scattered memory of his sister Morgayne stayed with him, but even she faded into dreams.

On occasion the mage Maerlyn travelled to the islands, and once the Lady Nymue, as if to check on him. But neither of them stayed long, and slowly Artur's world settled into a routine of fishing boats and long trips by sea. Each year as he grew, Morgayse would knit for him a corded woollen jumper of unwashed sheep's wool. The greased wool shed water almost like a duck and kept him dry, even in a storm. The pattern was always the same, so if he was found drowned, he would be known. Every wife and mother marked her man and sons that way, elaborate patterns artfully knit, defence against the sea's anonymity.

The sea journeys Artur took became longer, north and west to the island hot with volcanoes and cold with ice, the island edged with high cliffs and few low passages to the sea. There he learned runes and a different speech; and it was there too, near his sixteenth birthday, that he discovered the delights of a girl his own age.

Morgayne returned to Artur in his dreams, and she was older too. Her hands moved slowly.

Older now, Artur commanded boats to the east, making landfall in long fjords and sailing along coasts with high mountains. He began to understand the value of trade and barter, the importance of good will and good trust, and became a fair man. A leader of men, commanding ships carrying trade.

Time passed.

In the south, a dying king lay dying, and had no sons, only daughters. Word travelled slowly. Princes gathered in circles, whispering, wondering what lineage mattered.

Birds flew out of season, white birds soared high and circling, rising on high currents, strange cries catching on the wind.

Rumours grew of a new spring burst forth, a sacred place for the Goddess; and beside it a rock, a clefted rock. It was a strange place, full of half truths. Rumours ran: rocks weeping, stones dancing, tears in the rain, feathers twisting in the air.

* * * *

The problem with passing time is the waiting. I grow easily bored and want to meddle, to prod my finger like a boy with a stick into a wasps' nest. I grow lazy too, and find others to do my work. I'm for the main event, I think, to lie and truth the biggest things, not the dull parts in between. But still, the waiting around had its vantages. I had a pair of new boots made, and boots are made for walking, so I walked.

It's a long way to the north, and time was running now. To get there and back before Uthur the dying king died, or at least to return before it got complicated by a pretender and a topple from the throne. So I acquired a donkey to carry my ass somewhat quicker. Some would say it the other way round, but I don't like carrots. My legs are long, and the donkey's legs shorter, so we scooted along like some six legged beast, my legs doing some of the work like an overgrown child on a toy wooden horse. Snot nosed children ran along beside me, laughing and fooling and urging me on, any old fool but a serious one. Well hidden in plain sight, I've found, is the best way to skulk.

"Why not get a high horse, old man?"

"Less far to fall and break my own neck. When I want to get off, I just stand." I demonstrated, "Walk on, donkey!" Laughter followed me and good jest, and thus I made my way north.

Coming to a harbour, where I needs find plank and sails to carry me on, I remembered a return a long time ago when I also found the sea a barrier, and on the other side processions and the sun rising.

I remembered the first see of Nymue's white - her hair had been so russetty red - and the sight of her standing naked between the stones. The view of the cleft between her legs as the Sun fucked his shafting rays into her cunt, that is in my mind obviously; but it's the memory of her little waist and the sweet curve of her hips that I remember best, as Nymue stood looking away, her arms stretched wide to the stones. And standing beside me watching over the two babes, blond and black, her fingers on my arm like a ghost.

Had it finally come to this, a turning of a page with the book started so long ago? In that moment I understood something of the writing monks in their tiny stone cells, quills and ink and an old story barely remembered and the rest made up; and felt kindred to them. My tell is just as daft as theirs. My embroidery is better, I hope, although I do like their blues and gold. The quill on my pen is white, yeay, one of hers. A spot is on my page; is that rain, blowing in? I meander when I should remember.

The sea was calm as I crossed to the islands, and by comparison my mind flashed back to the heaving oceans and giant waves surged up by the explosion of the earth, so long ago; yet yesterday in the long haul of the shifting world. The dragen stirred then and thundered across the sea. Nymue's blood started and magick was ending and starting now. There was a destiny starting to unravel, yet the destined did not know it. No wonder it was calm, it always is when a storm is coming.