Excalibur Rising (28 page)

     “Don’t leave us,” Jenny said.
      “I won’t,” he promised. 
      “When are we going home?” Michael asked.
      “In the morning,” said Ryan. 
      “Will you come with us?”
      “Of course,” said Ryan. 
      He sat on the floor beside the children and watched as their eyelids drooped.  Jenny opened her eyes one last time, checking to see if he was still there.  He smiled at her.  She closed her eyes again and moved closer to her brother.
      Ryan looked at the sleeping children.  He could not remember ever having sat that way with his own children.  His quest for treasure had taken him to every corner of the globe except the place where his children lived.  He had never sat this way watching his own children sleep, and now he never would.
     S
ounds from the chapel became muted as the short night progressed towards dawn.  Soon there was little to be heard except the murmur of a hundred sleeping people and the occasional wail of an infant, or the short, sharp exclamation of a person gripped by dreams.  Ryan had no intention of sleeping but as the darkness closed in around him, his eyelids started to droop.  He renewed his hold on the golden cross, gripping it so tightly that the sharp edges of the stones dug into his fingers. The pain kept him awake, and in his wakefulness his mind turned to wondering where Violet was spending the night.  If she had come through the same portal, then surely she was somewhere close.  He had promised to take the children home, so how was he going to find Violet?
     The monk shook him awake. 
     “I’m not asleep,” he muttered, shaking his head and blinking his eyes to clear his vision. The cross had fallen onto the ground beside him.  The little room was still in darkness but through the open door he could see faint slivers of light showed through the tanned hide that was tacked over the chapel’s window openings.
     The villagers were on their feet and moving quickly to open the doors in response to the sound coming from outside, a commanding knocking of a sword hilt wielded by someone with authority.
     “Aperi Portum.” The command to open the door was loud enough to be heard even through the stout oak.
     “It is the prince,” said Anselm.
     “The prince?”
     “Prince Mordricus.  He has come for you.”
      “Suppose I don’t want to go with him?”
     “I will not hide you,” said Anselm.  “You presence here is part of God’s plan, and I will not stand in God’s way.”
     “Will you hide the children?” Ryan asked.
      “I will not tell the prince they are here,” Anselm said looking down at the brother and sister who were beginning to stir in their sleep, “but when you leave, what shall I do with them?”
    Before Ryan could think of an answer to the monk’s question, the doors were flung open, and Mordricus entered on horseback, followed by Bors, and a contingent of armed horsemen.  The peasants pressed back against the walls of the chapel as the horses crowded in with tossing manes, stamping hooves, and wild, battle hungry eyes. 
     “Pax, pax,” Anselm shouted, running out of the little room and in among the horses.
     Ryan did not move from the doorway.  Maybe Mordricus knew he had the children, or maybe Mordricus thought the children had died in the burning of the longhouse.  He would have to think of a way to get them back through the gate, and find a guardian to take them. 
     He stepped out into the chapel and closed the door behind him.  He could see Mordricus now, and he bore very little resemblance to the man he had known as Christopher Peacock.  Mordricus’ dark curls were matted with sweat and blood, his face streaked with ash from the burning huts, and his pale blue eyes that had seemed so languid and harmless were now bloodshot and wild, roaming across the faces of the peasants even as his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
     “Well, old bean,” he said, his eyes coming to rest on Ryan, “you certainly have caused me a lot of trouble.” 
     The voice was still the same, redolent of English boarding schools, and careless country weekends. “I was sure that the dear old griffin would get you and save me a lot of trouble, and a lot of tedious explaining, but it seems you have a charmed life.”
     He nodded his head at the monk and switched to Latin. “Thank you, Brother Anselm, for saving this man. We will take him now.”
     He turned back to Ryan. “Bors has brought a horse for you,” he said. “I assume you can ride.”
     “I can ride,” said Ryan.
     The black horse that Bors rode tossed his head wildly setting his bridle and harness jingling as he forced his way through the throng leading a riderless grey mare.
     “Bors is grateful to you,” said Mordricus.
     Ryan looked at the one-eyed man trying to discern any gratitude or softening in his dirt streaked face or malevolent single eye.
     “Yes,” said Bors, his English accent as startlingly out of place as that of Mordricus, “the kid, the one you saved, is one of mine. So I owe you one.”
     “It’s okay,” said Ryan. He waited for Bors to mention the other two children.  Surely he could not have simply forgotten that he had left two children in a locked room in a burning building.
      “I don’t like to owe,” said Bors. “What do you want from me to make us equal?”
     “I’ll let you know,” said Ryan.
     “Now,” said Bors.
     “Carpe diem,” said Mordricus. “Seize the day, Professor.  You won’t get another offer from Bors.  He doesn’t do well with long-term gratitude.”
     “Okay,” said Ryan.  “How about you agree not to kill any more people?”
     Bors threw back his head and roared with laughter.  “One person,” he said.  “Name just one person.”
     Ryan hesitated.  He was formulating a plan for the children. It was already taking shape in his mind.  The plan would depend on Bors having no knowledge that the children had been rescued.  He dared not mention their names but he had another person to worry about. 
        “Violet Chambray,” he said. “Agree not to kill Violet under any circumstances, and we’ll be even.”
     Mordricus looked at him sideways. “Interesting,” he said. “You would have been wiser to suggest that Bors should refrain from killing you. Oh well, the heart does strange things.  You and Violet Chambray, well I never.”
     He turned back to Brother Anselm. “Great events are under way,” he said. “Tell your people to light the beacon. Send up the smoke, the armies are massing at Camlan.”
     Anselm looked at him in wonder.
     “Can this be true?” he asked.
     “Do you doubt me?” Mordricus asked.
     The monk shook his head. “No, of course not, my Prince.  May God speed your footsteps.”
      “Well,” said Mordricus in English, “I’d rather have a couple of tanks and a Humvee, but I’ll take the blessing. Ryan, you had better be telling the truth about being able to ride, we have a long road ahead of us.”
     “What about the griffin?” Ryan asked. “Is that thing still out there?”
     “It’s morning,” said Mordricus, “he’s back in his lair crunching on the bones of some poor chap who wasn’t quick enough last night. Mount up, get on with it.”
     “Not before I pray,” said Ryan.
     “Pray?” said Bors, “Don’t be ridiculous, old man.  You’re not the praying sort.”
      “You underestimate me,” said Ryan.  “I thought it was the custom of all of you to pray before a battle.”
     “Some men do,” said Mordricus, “and some don’t.  Bors is not one for prayers.”
     “I will pray with Brother Anselm,” said Ryan.  “Alone, in the room behind the altar.”
     “Make it quick,” said Bors, “or I might forget my promise.”
     Ryan led Brother Anselm back into the little room and closed the door behind him.  The monk gestured to Ryan that he should kneel, but Ryan shook his head
     “I need you to do something for me,” Ryan said. “You are the only one I trust.”
     He leaned down and placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder.  The boy awoke, and looked at Ryan with wide, scared eyes.  His sister turned in her sleep and continued her dreaming.
     Ryan stumbled to find the Latin words to describe his plan, and he knew he would have to speak twice; once to explain to Brother Anselm and one more time to explain to Michael in English.  He began with Brother Anselm.
     “I want you to take these children home,” he said.
     “Me?”
     “Yes, I want you to go through the gate with them.”
     “I cannot.”
      “Yes, you can.  I will give you a talisman that will allow you to pass.  You simply hold it in your hand.”
     He pressed the Glastonbury cross into the monk’s hand, and heard him gasp.
     “What is this?”
     “I don’t know,” said Ryan, “but it is the key to opening the gate.  You must break it into three pieces.”
     “No,” Brother Anselm protested. “It’s a cross.”
     “It is a means of saving lives,” said Ryan, retrieving the cross impatiently. He held it in both hands and applied pressure, The cross bent but did not break.  He tried again, and was rewarded by a snapping sound.  Three large pieces and one small piece. 
  “Now listen carefully,” he said. “As soon as the coast is clear, you will take the children through the gate.  Once you are through the gate, Michael will use my phone to get in touch with his father.”
     “I don’t understand.”
     Ryan took the phone from his pocket.  The face was an inert black square, bereft of all information.  
      “It is a device that will work on the other side of the gate,” Ryan said, “and the boy knows how to use it.”
     He turned to Michael.  “You do know how to use a smart phone don’t you?”
    Michael nodded his head.
    “And you know your dad’s phone number.”
    “Yes.”
     “Good.  This man is going to take you through the gate.  I know you don’t understand what the gate is or what it does, but when you get to the other side, you will be back in your own world, and the phone will start to work again.  Call your father and tell him that you are at Griffinwood Manor.  He’ll come and get you.”
     “Griffinwood,” Michael repeated.  His eyes were wide with fear and concentration but Ryan felt that he could and would follow the instructions.
     “If we can truly pass through the gate, what will I do with the children when we arrive in your realm?” Anselm asked in Latin.  Ryan knew that the monk had not understood a word of the instructions that he was giving to Michael. 
     “The boy will call, make a signal, for his father,” Ryan said. “His father is a priest of the church.”
     “A married priest,” said Anselm in a shocked voice.
     “You will find many things to shock you,” said Ryan.  “Don’t be afraid, just stay with the children until their father comes.”
      “And then I must come back?” Anselm asked.
     “Not if you don’t want to,” said Ryan. 
     “I have always dreamed that one day…”
      Ryan had no more time to hear about the little monk’s dream.  Mordricus was calling his name.  It was time to leave.   He had given Brother Anselm all but a sliver of the jeweled cross.  He had no idea if it would be enough to allow him to return through the gate.  Perhaps he had marooned himself in Albion.  It no longer mattered.  He was already committed.  He was not going home, he was going to war and saving these two children was the only thing he could do now to make up for abandoning his own children so many times, and for so long. 
     Ryan left Brother Anselm with the children and went out into the chapel.  Bors flung him the reins of the grey mare.  She tossed her head and rolled her eyes as he vaulted into the ornate saddle.  The shape of the saddle was unfamiliar, and the stirrups were too long, and not easy for him to fit his foot in its modern shoe. 
     “So you prayed?” asked Mordricus.
     “Yes,” said Ryan, “God and I arranged everything.”
     “If you say so,” said Mordricus, turning his mount and clomping noisily out of the confinement of the chapel.
      Ryan gave the mare her head and she trotted out of the door and into sunlight of a bright clear morning. 
     Mordricus gestured him to come forward, leaving the other riders behind. 
     “The fires are lit,” said Mordricus. 
     Ryan followed his pointing finger.  Ahead of them lay a range of hills, backed by purple mountains. Fires were burning on the hills sending sparks and smoke up into the clear blue sky and passing a signal from hilltop to hilltop.  Whose fires were these, he wondered.  Did they summon the troops for Mordricus or for Arthur? 
     Bors approached them on foot.  He had removed his breastplate and wore a modern but very well worn leather jacket.  Even without his battered and bloodstained armor he presented a fearsome figure.
     “I will not kill your woman,” he said to Ryan.
     “She’s not my___”
     “I will leave her alive,” Bors said.
     “Leave them all alive,” said Mordricus. “We may need them.”
     “Even the Italian?” Bors asked.
     “Do what you like with him,” said Mordricus. “Maybe he’ll give you a job if you get stuck there.”
     “Stuck where?” Ryan asked.
     “Bors is going back through the gate,” said Mordricus, “to keep an eye on your friends.”
      “Are you saying that Violet is not on this side of the gate?”
      “No, she’s not,” said Mordricus. 
      Ryan breathed a sigh of relief.  He could not imagine Violet being able to cope in the primitive world of Albion, but safely back in her own reality, she might be able to accomplish many things.
      “Not to be too mysterious about this, old boy,” said Mordricus, “but something is happening, powerful forces are at work.  Excalibur is rising.”
     “What? How can you know that?”
     “I am of Arthur’s blood,” said Mordricus. “I have a little of his connection to the sword, and I can tell you that the sword has been found. It has already been touched by someone from Albion, perhaps that wretched girl who has been following you around.”
     Or perhaps by Violet, Ryan thought.  “Where is it?” he asked aloud.
     “That is what Bors is going to discover,” said Mordricus.  “I suspect that it’s just the other side of the gate at Griffinwood.”
     Now Ryan actually prayed in earnest, short and sharp, don’t let Bors see the children.  Make Brother Anselm wait until Bors is through the gate.  Let him keep the children hidden. 
     “They’ll never let Bors have the sword,” said Ryan.
      “Not without a fight,” said Bors, apparently relishing the thought.
      “I’m sending Bors to make sure that the sword ends up in the right hands,” said Mordricus, “and not in the hands of your grubby little gangster boss.”