Forbidden Magic

I
t was told that long ago in the mountains of Helvellyn in northern England, a small, weak sparrow was cast aside from the nest, rejected, scorned, unwanted. Too young to fly, it tumbled to the hard ground and lay near death, its heartbeat faint, its will to survive gone. Warm sunshine turned to cold blackness of night and by morning light of the second day the tiny creature lay Stiff, unmoving, victim to the fox heavy on the scent. With steely quiet the reynard advanced, hunger gleaming in his eyes, unaffected by the shadow that flew across his path. Crouched low, he moved closer, teeth bared as he stalked his prey ready to pounce. Again the shadow darkened his way and the fox raised amber-hued eyes skyward. Anger clouded them when he saw the silver falcon circling high above him. Though none were in attendance who could later claim the truth, it was written that the falcon had been put upon earth by the gods to bring the nestling back to life, to spare the helpless sparrow from its foe, and when the reynard tensed its muscles to spring, the falcon dropped down upon him as the wrath of gods, burying sharp claws in the creature's neck to carry him away.

Daylight faded and when the sun began to slip beyond the hillside, a dark shadow crossed the muted stream of light falling on the sparrow. The falcon had returned and with fierce talons swooped down to gently pluck the tiny bird from the ground. Swiftly, the mighty bird of prey carried it high into the bluffs never to be seen again.

Years passed and the story died until one night, when unrest ruled the lands and the meek were humbled to their knees, once again a silver falcon stalwartly glided overhead, black eyes blazing, claws open wide. He hovered, fervently watching those whose swords were drawn against the ones brought low before them until a single blade was raised to split the weakest asunder. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared in the heavens. But above it all, the scream of the falcon was heard. And in a great gust of chilling wind, he swooped down upon the oppressors to gouge and blind the foe, leaving them bloody on the ground. When the fight had ended, the falcon flew to the top of the highest tree, there perching to survey his work in quiet resolution. The storm calmed and the winds were gentle, but left behind was the blackest of skies. Yet, silhouetted against this ebony backdrop, those who had been spared looked upon the proud and savage messenger of the gods and knew he would return again when injustice ruled the countryside.

Harcourt Castle, Surreyshire, near London, England.

December 11, 1192

W
inter bore a chill in the air, and roaring fires blazed in the hearths to chase away its bite. Torches were lit to ease the darkness and, on this eventide, fifty knights galloped boldly onward, faces shadowed, eyes piercing beneath the nose guards of their helms. Only the clanking of armor and thunderous pounding of hooves broke the quiet, for no others sought the nigritude to mask their journeys but instead remained cloistered in their homes, whether simple hut or mighty castle. No cry of battle rang out; there was no fierce enemy to slay, yet these warriors did hasten in their cause, determined, undaunted, brave. Before them rode their lord, a decadent knight with sword and shield now silent as he led his army over muddy road. One single purpose filled his thoughts: to be the victor of a minor skirmish with the promise of greater ends. A vague smile, one rarely seen, pulled at the hard line of his mouth, then vanished. Yea, a sweet reward, he mused. Soon all of England would know his name, respect it, envy it, fear it. He would rule this countryside and all its people and be summoned by the dowager queen to hear her praise.

Silver streams of moonlight, long, ashen fingers, stretched earthward and held the gray stone manor in their icy clutches. The orb from which they stemmed shone hazily in the fog as atop the last hill the army paused, gathering in quiet to view their destination: Harcourt Castle, property of Lord Alcot, neighbor, friend, but one who spoke against King Richard. A foolish tongue had proved him thus and before the morning sun streaked hues of pink against the sky, his blood would spill upon the earth in shades of crimson to dry before the first flight of the meadow pipit. In the name of justice, they would tell k, though in truth it would be an evil, heartless deed, for ail who lived within these walls would fall beside their lord, both young and old, honored knight and fair damsel.

'Twas the plan, this dark, forbidding eve, to hold out a hand of friendship and gain entrance to the castle. A simple plot since Alcot, lord of Harcourt, knew his visitors well and would not hesitate to bid them enter. Yet something in this knight's stomach turned bitter in his mouth and he scowled as he stared upon the great doors now closed and barred against all foes. Twould be no contest for a man of noble rank to raise his sword against another whose own was set aside. A coward's scheme, he thought, to strike the lord as he offered food, drink, his home. Yea, many had called him so when he had refused to fight, to bear arms and march in the Crusade that had left both England and its people without a king.

"But no more," he sneered. "Before the eve of Christmas,
all will know I fear no man."

Clenched, gauntleted fist raised high, he ordered his men to advance and the web of death slowly descended upon the unsuspecting people. A shout rang out and was answered without haste to identify those who came, the heavy bar was lifted from the iron-bound door made of strong oak, and the huge portal swung wide. The army marched two abreast until all filled the courtyard and Lord Alcot stood before them in fur-lined mantle, good tidings on his lips and hand extended to bid them enter the great hall and warm themselves with ale and heat from the fire. But when none would dismount, Lord Alcot frowned, a prickling doom chilling him through the layers of his cloak, and he opened his mouth to question their purpose for such late night travel through the cold. The invader before him remained silent as he flung the wool mantle back over his shoulder and laid a hand upon the hilt of his sword. The mail of his armor gleamed in the light of the torches held by those who had followed their lord into the courtyard, and an unspoken sentence of death was mirrored in the dark depths of his eyes. Suddenly Lord Alcot saw the foolishness in trusting any man. His gaze locked on the face shadowed by the helm, Lord Alcot displayed no fear, for he was a gallant knight who had fought bravely in many past battles and now stood waiting to defend himself as best he could.

A tense coldness enshrouded them and each held fast, for neither would turn and play the coward.

"What have you to say," Lord Alcot bade, "that you find yourself here under a falsehood of friendship while in good sooth do plan to strike me dead?"

His foe stiffened with the spear of the old man's truth and wisdom. His palms grew moist beneath his gauntlets and, without speaking a lie both to himself and his lifelong friend, he drew his mighty sword. Confusion ruled the turf as those who had accompanied the dark knight armed themselves with their weapons and advanced in a flurry to see their cause fulfilled. Few screamed the pain they endured when arms and hands were severed as Lord Alcot's men sought to pull their enemies from the chargers' backs to battle them face-to-face. Their useless efforts ended abruptly as enemy blades pierced their ribs and the red stain of their lifeblood transformed the dirt beneath them. The clash of battle ended quickly, and among the fallen, Lord Alcot stood untouched, head held high, amber eyes glowing his hatred.

"Slay me, bastard, as is your want," he hissed. He gestured toward the great hall now barred against the invaders. "But know this. The price for such betraying deeds will be high. No easy contest lies within. Even now they arm themselves and by morning light England will know of your spineless ways. Spill my blood, but know this too: no amount of cleansing will ever wipe it from your blade."

The knight frowned, the muscle of his cheek flexing as he considered the old man's words. He had called him "bastard," while only six months past he had seen his father buried. Had sanity fled him to say such lies? Anger swept over him when he saw Lord Alcot pull a dagger from his jeweled kirtle and raise it high in a senseless gesture. Did the fool not realize a dagger was of little use against a sword? The old man lunged, a vow to die as bravely as had his people trailing from his lips. He would scar his murderer and leave the mark to haunt this coward's mind. But the knight understood his intent and without hesitation, only a glimmer of remorse flashing in his eyes, he lifted the sword high and brought it down, burying it deeply in the old lord's skull.

Unearthly quiet reigned once more as weapons fell silent, and though the scene was commonplace to warriors, many felt a strange sickness claim their hearts. All looked upon their leader, knowing that only women, children, and old men waited for them inside the manor. Yet it had been decided that all would die, and when the knight raised his bloody sword in an unvoiced command to advance, the men dismounted and charged the sturdy oak door. The crack of splintered wood mingled with the smell of death as huge battle axes were thrown against the barrier. Within moments the way had been cleared and the clash of steel rang a second time. Screams of terror filled the air and the dark knight raised his eyes toward the heavens. A bitter chill encased him, for it seemed the moon now glowed with a scarlet hue. He quickly looked away.

A sweet reward? he pondered acidly, his gaze surveying those who had fallen in the heat of battle, his nostrils flaring. Battle? Twas no battle but deceit which had brought these men to meet their end. Spineless ways, the old man had claimed and the knight knew the truth of it. Thinking of the lord again, he stared down at the mangled body of his foe. A dishonor to have died without sword in hand, yet most courageous since he had stood his ground and had met the enemy with shoulders squared and no plea for mercy on his lips. Yea, of them all, Lord Alcot had been the bravest.

" Tis done, m'lord," a deep voice pledged and the knight lifted his eyes to look at the man before him.

"Then mount and let us leave before the stench drives us off," he ordered.

"Yes, m'lord," the first replied, turning slightly to wave the others out before he came to stand next to his leader. "Have you set the trap?"

"Nay," the knight answered in nearly a whisper, his eyes averted.

"But you must or all will be for naught," his companion cautioned, sensing the other's pain. "I will do it in your stead, if that be your desire."

The knight's hard features softened. "Always by my side should I stumble," he replied, then lifted his heavy sword to return it to its sheath, halting abruptly when moonlight fell upon the blade to reveal Lord Alcot's blood already dried upon it. He thrust the hilt of the weapon at the other in a sudden change of mood. "Wipe it clean," he growled and swiftly swung a leg over the wide back of his destrier.

He stood before the lifeless body of the lord of Harcourt, feet apart, clenched fists at his sides, and glared down at the figure of a man with whom he had once shared food and drink and stories of great battles long ago. There would be no more tales, no laughter, and this knight would from this point on look upon Harcourt Castle as a nightmare plaguing his dreams. A stream of moonlight flickered against the pale hand of the lord and he knelt down to take the signet ring from his finger, clutching it to his chest as if a token of God's forgiveness.

"Mine," he whispered. "This land and its people are mine."

Suddenly a distant gleam shone in his eyes as if he felt an inner justice that what had come about was as it had been meant to be, and without delay he reached up for the tiny chain clasped around his neck. Grasping the object dangling from it, he yanked down yard, breaking it free. In the silvery glow of the moon, he unfolded his fingers and stared at the emerald ring in the palm of his left hand.

"Another will pay for your death, Lord Alcot, but I will claim your lands. You shall be avenged and I shall taste sweet victory."

Resting on one knee, he took the old man's wrist and pulled the fingers open, there to place the gem and seal the devious act. By morning's light, Lord Alcot, his wife and children, and all who lived within the castle would be found and Sir Amery of Wellington would feel the barb of a well-conceived plan as sharply as if cold steel had been thrust into his heart.

"We must hasten, m'lord, before the vassal wakes."

The knight glanced up at the one who spoke, a wicked grin twisting his mouth. "Yea, we must return to our beds and wake with sleep heavy in our eyes to greet the heralder of this news." His hand swept out to indicate the dead. "We shall cry an outrage done and swear to find those guilty. It shall prove a game worth playing, I think."

"Yea, m'lord," the other agreed, a smile upon his lips. "But greater still when the King's favorite knight is held to blame."

"Yea, the king's favorite," he sneered, coming to his feet. "And from the rumors passed on loose tongues, the dowager queen's as well."

Two voices joined in evil laughter as the knight easily swung himself up into the saddle of his charger and spun the steed around. He looked upon the castle and its grounds once more, the guilt he felt only moments before gone. Cruelly jabbing his heels into the destrier's ribs, he bolted off, his men following close behind.

A gray swirling fog, which had hidden within the forest to await the peace the army had disturbed, floated outward to blanket the dead and claim the earth once more.