Lancaster: The King in the North

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 20: A Recovery, of sorts​

The Bishop of Halton was not a patient man. Having served under various members of what was now the Lancaster family, he suffered through their rule mostly be virtue of their treasure. They were excellent moneymen and soldiers and, up till the reign of this new Earl or Duke as he now styled himself, were content to simply protect and fund the Church within their lands. Elfwine however, upstart that he was, rolled back on many ancient privileges, threatened many a new tax and tariff on not merely town churches but the bishoprics themselves! Halton had grown rich enough with the Lancasters, but there was really no such thing as ‘enough’. Now the self-appointed great lord of the land had locked himself away in his hall for over two weeks. Mourning was one thing, but business needed to be done. He could not raise another war tax if there was no new war to be getting on with.

Walking through the inner gates of the family’s hold in Lancaster City, the Bishop glared at servants and guardsmen alike till he was intercepted by the Bailiff. He had no time for interruptions today however and so barged past, leaving the other man shouting after him.

“He ordered not to be disturbed.”

“Oh, he shall be disturbed, and by God’s right too!” Halton fired back, bursting into Elfwine’s chambers where the lord knelt over some prayer for the departed. “For Heaven’s sake man, get up and be about yourself! We were in the middle of planning for further campaigns against the heathen Irish.”

Elfwine rose, glancing over at the Bailiff who stood awkwardly in the open doorway before setting his own glare straight back at the bishop. “Are you suggesting I am remiss in mourning my dead wife?” he said.

“No, but time does not heed her anymore than it heeds you. This realm of yours is held together by force alone. You cannot simply vanish whenever fancy takes you!”

Elfwine stared at him, long enough for Halton to bow his head. “Let us walk,” the Duke said.

The family seat was hardly large, yet the city was already expanding far beyond initial expectations. Still, it did not take long for the pair to stroll down from the high hill, through the streets and onto the wall overlooking the sea. Halton breathed in the fresh air and relaxed a touch, and decided to throw an olive branch at his silent companion. “The air is excellent here. No doubt it has aided you in your sickness?”

Elfwine’s mouth curled upwards, “For the most part, yes. I fear I shall be inconvenienced for but a little while longer.”

“Most excellent news,” Halton said with false cheer. “Perhaps now we might discuss the situation in Ireland, and the funding?” Now, with his desires in the open, the bishop was content for the Duke to plan his attack and, more importantly, his taxes.

“Ireland shall keep. Our steadfast friend Lord Lindsey has sent his condolences wrapped around a gift, a new bride for…I.” Elfwine looked away briefly before continuing, “She is young yet, so who can tell these things but she seems intelligent. And the claimage she brings is considerable.”

Halton huffed. “Oh yes, you still believe you can expand eastwards? Even after all the easy picking elsewhere?”

“York is not elsewhere,” Elfwine said firmly. “Whilst I do not desire it to be my capital, there is no denying that it has been the finest city in the North for many centuries. The Archbishop warms to our cause. The local lords are weak or children. To secure York is to secure the future of my realm in the North. So yes, I shall be expanding eastwards.”

Halton would not be deterred. “And Ireland?”

Elfwine looked out to sea, and there across from Lancaster lay the land in question. Beautiful, practically untouched by large-scale habitation. It was, he supposed, what the Romans must have found, so long ago when they arrived upon these shores. Here and now, he saw the same possibilities and complications they too must have grasped.

“Two chieftains remain in our concerns, and they are the strongest. We shall begin by defeating the last tribe unaffiliated with either they or us, and then take them down together. Of the two, I am most wary of Meath. They have actual settlements, with walls and fortifications if our spies are to be believed. Flann is by all accounts a cunning and strong warrior. If he can convince his friends and allies to follow him, it may well be a rough fight. I shall win of course, but still he concerns me.”

Halton smiled, “That sounds agreeable to me. I have already taken the liberty of noting down some ideas for funding amongst the city elites. The Church of course shall be of use in quelling these awful riots we seem to be having.”

“No doubt,” Elfwine said, still looking westwards. “Tell me, do you know why the people seem to be so angry with the Church?”

Halton bristled. “This has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with their own damn moral failings. In fact,” the Bishop stepped forward, “I happen to find I have been most useful in stopping more outbreaks of this treachery! Why, I have not only doubled the revenue for the realm these past few months but also had several peasant leaders hanged by my authority. The mob understands force better than any other mistress.”

“I see. Surely we are blessed for such patronage as your good self.”

“Indeed, but it is a mere trifle my lord. Of course, some reward for the Church would not go unappreciated by my flock, or by I.”

“Naturally,” Elfwine said, suddenly turning to face the bishop. “I must think on what you could possibly deserve for such triumphs.”

“My lord, I am at your service as ever,” the Bishop bowed. “I shall go now to the local prayer house. The priest there asked me to drop in on him. May I await you further on this week?”

“You may await,” Elfwine said, waving him off. He considered the retreating back of Halton for some time, before the Bailiff ran up to him in a huff. “Yes?”

“The Uprising Sire! They are but two hours march from here!”

Elfwine breathed in deeply, shutting his eyes to the world and sinking into the depths of his mind. Slowly he opened them and smiled toothily at the older soldier.

“Excellent.”

The sky was black by time of Elfwine’s return to the hall. In the end it had been a fairly decent battle, though the enemy commanders were ill-suited to much more than tavern brawling. It gave good excuse for his men to become bloodied again, and he sent riders to each of the Saxon lands in his thrall, preparing them for the coming adventure into Ireland.

Removing his gloves, he was surprised to find an unexpected visitor at his hearth, sat next to the great body of Secret. The good Bishop of Burton was supposed to be in Leeds, sounding out key locals to the idea of Lancaster rule and illicitly forging documents to prove his right to it.

“Thurfrith? Is all well?” he asked. The man was, outside of his chancellor and pet criminal, a personal friend.

“Oh, my lord,” Burton rose from his seat, “well…yes and no. I am pleased to say that Leeds is rightfully yours and that many officials are quite insistent you take up your place with haste.”

“Why, this is wonderful news,” Elfwine smiled. Secret rumbled and nudged closer towards the fire. “But what is the matter my friend, you seem out of sorts?”

“Something terrible has happened, my lord…it’s Elfweard.”

“The Bishop of Halton? I spoke to him just this morning.”

“He’s dead! Died in his sleep, so the doctor says.”

“Alas,” Elfwine said, moving to stand by the hearth, “he was by all accounts an excellent moneyman. Perhaps the air here took to him wrong.”

“Perhaps,” the Bishop commiserated. “And…dare I ask, how are you? I was sorry to hear of Agnes, and now all this with Halton and the heathens. And your health! Elfwine, you must know things will improve. We shall be better, all of us.”

Elfwine sighed. It had been quite the day. “Do you know,” he said warmly, “I believe we shall be fine.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 21: Meditations on the Future​

A man sat alone in the small stone chamber, dimly lit only by the faint moonlight. He sat still, silent, solemn, his eyes closed to the world and outer influences. Within his meditations, Elfwine thought on his sins, his ambitions, his realm as it was, and as he wished it to be. Records at this time were less than reliable, the infrastructure of good governance simply wasn’t there in the North to account for all the trade and goods that flowed through its borders. So, it was kept safely away within his head instead, and that required concentration, and not a small amount of solitude. He was blessed that he lived in an age where most did not question great men locking themselves away for hours at a time to ‘pray’. Elfwine did of course think on God, but he would not spend so much time in retreat if it were not worthwhile. If he was honest with himself, and Elfwine strove to at least be that, the self-reflection was also good for his soul. Not only had it given him time to memorise his realm but to mourn his wife. A ruler, he had learned through study and thought, was only as good as his worst vices. The downfall of many a realm was not in fact Godsent retribution or Fate but the stubbornness or the idiocy or the sloth of its ruling classes. Wroth, so useful in small doses in battle, was dangerous for its uncontrollability. Better to be stoic, and thought of as heartless than passionate, and mad.

Elfwine frowned, but kept his eyes closed. His anger had proven troublesome but had yet to truly betray him. Halton needed to die anyway, a brainless thug who thought to break his lease was a threat that needed squashing. Halton died so suddenly however, in truth, because he had gotten to Elfwine, insulted his wife, himself. It was fortunate that he had remained in control enough to not simply shove the bishop off the wall. That would have made an impact, in more ways than one.

Enough! He berated himself for wandering down paths already trodden. Halton was dead, his new steward was a pliable and clever idiot, a most excellent moneyman given careful handling. And Ireland was settled. Just that morning in fact the ship carrying Meath back to his lands had returned safe and sound. The clans were with him now, after a struggle yes but not an altogether destructive one on either their terms or his. All for the better, for he could make use of their armies now.

And he would, should his spies return and confirm the rumours that the King of the Picts was indeed grievously wounded from a great civil war. Whilst he had initially dismissed the seemingly distant power from his plans, upon arrival in Ulster he had been dismayed to see how close the Picts and Scots were to Ireland. And indeed, the local clans on both sides of the narrow sea traded and warred with great intensity. So, it seemed, to avoid the inevitable interference from the one true kingdom on this island, he would have to strike first.

For now, however, domestic issues came first. The economies of various cities and towns and even small villages were booming. Trade was thick along the roads of Lancaster, and Elfwine noted he would soon have to fund and build a better network of bridges and roads for landed transport. The sea routes were…a longer-term project. He had gravely underestimated the complexity and cost of a decent naval force. Ports would have to be built and expanded all along the Welsh and Irish coasts. Pirates did not vanish simply because the land now held allegiance to one man. Neither did fishing villages magically have the capacity to provide their own ships for combat whenever and however he wished. No, this was going to take time; in truth, he suspected that until such a time came that he and his descendants actually annexed all that territory, his navy would be as large as the city of Lancaster alone could manage. No more. Then again, he consoled himself, it was not as though he needed a large body of ships. One landmass at a time, of course.

Lancaster’s own lands were enriched, and for now that was what mattered. This still created problems of course, the Clergy especially disliked tellers in the Temple. In this case, it was the church squares. Having pushed the Church as a whole fairly hard with a firm but fair tax policy (as opposed to none at all under Old Chester and son, and very little under his own father), Elfwine was inclined to demur at their request. After all, it gave him the excuse to insist on a proper marketplace or market hall in every settlement larger than a village. That should encourage even more commercial ventures. Not that the smaller villages were discounted. Elfwine was aware that happy peasants were productive, loyal and useful. To that end he took care to ensure that local customs, especially in the Welsh hamlets, were honoured and even supported to a reasonable degree. Honestly, most worthy of note were festivals that involved many villages collaborating in a partially commercial, partially cultural venture to promote marriage, good feeling and such. Why on earth would a ruler not encourage such practices?

Smiling to himself, Elfwine opened his eyes and rubbed them. He stood and stretched, before searching around for the one bit of parchment he had brought with him. Upon it were the most important figures: the annual tithes and taxes of his lands. The Lancaster family were quite wealthy, and would continue to be off the proceeds of their own lands. The cities however had already eclipsed them, with the Church providing small yet welcome additions, mostly in the form of upkeep to the few bridges and roads Lancaster did possess, not coincidentally all within Church lands. The tribute however had soared with his uniting of Welsh and Irish lords under his belt. He was pleased at the amount, and yet also pleased he would not be dependent upon it. As things stood, his was an empire built upon sand, or rather, the unsteady foundation of his own life. Should anything happen to him, no doubt the tributaries would flitter away (or at least attempt to) much like they had with his father’s demise. Elfwine was determined to build a more robust system, and a strong dynasty to rule it.

As things stood now, he was Elfwine of Lancaster, Overlord of the Welsh and Irish. But this did not satisfy him. A petty kingdom was yet petty. He, who could and would command nations, would not be halted by death but carry forth a legacy across centuries! His blood would hold power and respect, and all who came after himself, who bore his name and his lineage, would be powerful and respected. In time, they would make the world bow. In turn, he must make the North bow. All of it. Every Saxon, every man upon this island would pledge to the throne of Lancaster or be buried beneath it. Yes…Pictland would be first, and then York would complete his own holdings. And then? Then he would be a king in full, and go about writing the next page of his great destiny!

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 22: Lessons with Father​

It had taken, from Elfwine’s point of view, an unacceptable amount of time to get his…tendencies in check. Six years of meditation and self-examination to stop him simply killing everyone who irritated him. Still, he was more in control now, and he hadn’t killed that many people. Halton was the only one of any note, fortunately he was not a man many would miss. As things stood, Elfwine was now twenty-two years of age. He was in control of all his faculties. He was soon to be wed, again. He fought down a twitch of melancholy at the thought. All was well within his realm, there was nothing he should be saddened or ashamed of.

“Father! Father!”

Then again…

“You interrupt me, Edward, yet again.” Elfwine did not turn around or open his eyes. He was in the midst of organising his finances for the month. There would be no distraction.

“But Mary-Anne brought me a ship!” A rough carving was thrust in his face.

It was times like these that made the years-long quest for tranquillity insufferably tedious.

“I see.” Elfwine sank deeper into his coldness, letting it frost over his voice and nerves. It was that, or give into the fire…and he had but the one son at present. “You are aware of what was agreed the last time you burst into this chamber.”

Edward shrank back. “Yes, father.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, my Lord. I recall exactly.”

Opening his eyes, he pierced his son to the wall with a glare. “Yet here you stand. I am almost inclined to wonder why you dare to presume, even after all this time. Unfortunately, for you, I understand it is really because of your incapableness…and this reminder displeases me.”

“I apologise my Lord. I will except any and all punishments for my foolishness.” The boy was almost completely toneless now. As was to be expected really, for he was reciting a long-worn speech.

Elfwine was silent for a moment, and then stood from his knees. “Well, at least you make a decent whipping post. Hardly desirable but at least useful, to a degree.” He towered over the child. “Who am I, boy?”

“My Lord Duke of Lancaster, Master of these lands and far beyond.”

“Who are our enemies?”

“We have none, for they are all defeated.”

“Whom have we defeated?”

“Owain the Quarreller, Lord of the Western Isles. Tarla, King of the Picts and Scots.”

And what is the wealth of this land?”

“Boundless, for human greed will never be sated.”

“And what is the count of this wealth?”

The boy paused, winched horribly and spoke again. “Our lands draw sixty a year, the cities…seventy. The Church provides a mere score but their support is hardly measured in-”

“The new tribute?”

Edward was silent.

“You don’t know?” Elfwine’s hand dropped down onto Edward’s shoulder.

“…the prior tribute was sixty-five-”

“The prior tribute,” Elfwine interrupted, “was seven months ago. It is now a full ninety a year. It is a blessing for the realm you are not in charge of the treasury.”

“I…I’m sorry Father.”

“Indeed.” Elfwine paused. He sighed. “You are, ostensibly, my heir. This land was built upon the backs of our family and their constant, terrible struggle against far more powerful and numerous enemies than they could manage. It is only in the last ten years that we have finally emerged from the shadow of Mercia. It is less than fifty years since the days of servitude under Offa’s ilk.” He grasped the boy by both shoulders. “We will never submit again. This land needs nothing less than a great revolt against the current order. It needs me to unite it! Rule it. Drag it out of the pits of barbarism and poverty we are surrounded by. This land is filled with monsters, devils, witchcraft and all manner of creatures. All of them desperate to feast upon the bones of men and boys. Only a strong kingdom, with the power of Lancaster and the mind of a great ruler behind it, can keep them at bay. Only this can drive them back into the darkness and there put them down.”

Elfwine pushed off Edward and paced in front of him, warming to his topic. “All this I see, and all this I will do. But it is pointless, worse than pointless, if you cannot take up my banner in my stead. So, you will take your boat, and your boyhood, and you will go to your room and throw both upon the flames as you drive. Theses. Figures. Into. Your. Skull.” Each word subjected Edward to a tap. “I have a realm to build, my son. You…have a father to live up to. To exceed, if possible. Else all of this…is meaningless.”

Edward sniffled; his toy forgotten at his feet.

“Leave me now. It will not be long before my new bride arrives. A new…mother, perhaps. Perhaps that will help you. Perhaps that will help us see…eye to eye. Go now, and remember this lesson.”

The boy bolted, slamming the door behind him.

Elfwine stared after him. It was times like these, he thought, that the monster came to the surface the easiest. He stared into his son’s heart and saw…everything he was not. Kind, careless…but it mattered little. Eventually, with enough hammering, all metal bent into shape. Or broke. But then again, a new wife was coming. Elfwine did not particularly like intercourse, or women for that matter. People in general disgusted him. It was why, he supposed, it was so easy to rule them with detachment. Easier to fight, easier to control. Even easier to feed. Elfwine took pains to ensure as few people as possible starved in Lancaster. A hungry worker is…volatile.

Goodness, he thought. The boy had knocked his thoughts more than expected. All he had to do was sleep with this woman a few times, it was hardly worthy of summoning murderous thoughts.

Then again, he had ordered a few accidents that morning. Necessary, of course. The continuing religious disorder amongst the commoners in Lancaster and Chester had led to a multitude of busybody chaplains and priests wandering around, preaching to the masses. Irritatingly, rival powers had leapt upon the chance to send their own agents into Elfwine’s domain. The chancellors of two paltry earls in Northumbria with delusions on Lancaster itself were going around collecting ‘evidence’ for their masters. Or they were. They were dead now.

Still, it was a reminder that his work was nothing approaching done. Northumbria remained an obstacle, even something of a threat. He had little in the ay of a legacy to give his son that would survive his death, and in any case his son was hardly capable of seizing the reins of power. York would have to be taken. It would give him the prestige to declare himself a king above kings, provide at least the foundations for a greater realm. Whether or not he could take the next steps after that however, the surprisingly difficult task of building a competent dynasty…well, that remained to be seen. His new wife had better survive childbirth, and be good at raising children. Otherwise the Lancaster line was in real danger of being smothered whilst still a small flame.

It was increasingly clear however that Edward would have to buck up, or be replaced.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 23: The Jewel of the North​

In truth, Elfwine admitted, Britannia had no true cities. To compare London to Rome, let alone Constantinople, was absurd. Chester was even smaller. Lancaster, for all his hopes of future greatness, was little more than a supremely well-built village. There were no great settlements of Men on the island, despite a Roman occupation. The lands of the Anglo-Saxons were divided mostly into farming hamlets, with the odd larger village here and there on a trade road or at the seat of a Lord. The Welsh were even worse, aside from the fairly populated northern coastline now dominated by Lancaster. Outside of the south, where Winchester, London and Canterbury held decently sized denizens, only one place captured the hearts of many.

York.

Surrounded by dense forests and bisected by a mighty river, the Capital of the North stood proud and strong in a desert of civility. Here, Constantine was proclaimed Emperor. Here, Hadrian made his court before driving the Picts back into the highlands. Here, no matter what the southlanders said, was the heart and soul of Christianity in the British Isles. The Archbishop held the ear and loyalty of every priest and monk in Wales, Ireland and Pictland. Alcuin, right hand of Charlemagne, whom codified the Latin alphabet across the Frankish Empire, came from York. The City was mighty for its people, but also its fortifications. More complete than Chester’s own, the Roman walls of brick and stone encircle the place on all sides and have been well-kept since. Wooden palisades and battlements had since been added to further enhance its invincibility.

Elfwine had to steal this jewel, but to do so was generally regarded as impossible. To attack the place at all would be a grievous sin to all good Christians, and the resulting loss of life both for besiegers and the besieged would be horrific. He’d probably have to burn the entire place to the ground and slaughter most of the populace to get in, and even besieging the place would leave a few thousand innocents and their Archbishop trapped within, staring to death.

Yet, Lancaster had to expand. Whilst Elfwine was undisputedly the Overlord of the Welsh, it was unofficial, sustained by force and awe. And that would simply not do in the long term. For Lancaster to survive and thrive, it had to grow to encompass what were now her neighbours. Wales had been brought to heel for now, and could be safely disregarded for another day. Northumbria however, was primed for rebirth through fire. Her star had waned far since the glory days of the previous century. Once she was so powerful that Mercia had to beg aid from the Britons to merely match her might. A mere child ruled now. The petty kingdom was penniless, and had been known to be such for many years. Her last king had seen the rot coming and tried to reverse the decline with a successful invasion into Pictland. It might have worked had he lived to see it through. As it was, the army remained looting their new lands in the north, whilst the impoverished south practically called out to Elfwine to encroach. Indeed, the Archbishop himself had sent a missive to that respect, couched in flowery religious imagery. Truthfully, it was such permission that turned any potential campaign from impossible to simply improbably difficult. This, of course, Elfwine could work with.

He had distracted himself enough. Dawn was fast approaching and with it, his new bride. The wedding would be a relatively modest affair, given that it would be his second, and few dared argue for a lavish ceremony. Besides which, his choice of officiator was unable to arrive (the Archbishop sent his regrets along with that pointed invitation of his own) due to politics, and it seemed Lord Lindsey would not make it either. This was rather concerning, given that Elfwine’s spies had led him to believe of all his children, he loved his only daughter the most. If the Earl was dying or facing trouble at home, the last noble supporter of Lancaster within Mercia would be lost. Elfwine sighed, and offered up a quick prayer to his dearly departed. Then, a little guilty despite himself, gave another pleading for this match to be more fruitful.

“My Lord shall, I think, find more than one use for me. And I for him.”

Those were the first words out of Leofrun’s mouth in private following the wedding.

“We are well met my Lady,” Elfwine replied, “I hope your father finds himself in good health?”

“He finds himself less and less so, more’s the pity. Hence this arrangement was struck before my brothers began eating us both alive.”

“Lindsey has no love for his sons?”

“They have no love for him. For myself, they are in my way, and thus now in yours. Through me, my father bequeaths you his lands, his titles, his estate. His price is my good treatment. Mine is the disposal of those ingrates.”

Elfwine considered her for a moment. “A Lancaster heir for your land. Most definitely a war with Mercia to reclaim it before then. You ask for men, money and time. Are you so worthwhile?”

“I am worth as many children you can put in me and then some. It is not merely my father’s lands I hold sway over. I have hardly been idly cavorting all my life, much unlike the pigs who share my house. I have secrets, contacts, spies within Mercia. Merchants who owe me, soldiers who will die for me. All this I can give you.”

“All that I already have in multitude. You have a better prize within your eyes, I see that. You may be the smartest woman in Mercia but you move in Lancaster now. Do better.”

Her eyes flashed. “I have every respect for your achievements my new husband, and your family’s. You are a born leader, warrior, schemer and crowd-pleaser.”

“But?” Elfwine asked, gesturing for her to be seated as he poured wine.

“That is enough to forge an empire, but not near enough to sustain a realm.” She accepted the cup and gestured to it, “Your family are good merchants, you pay your debts in full and promptly. You can plan and build and fund great projects, wars, armies, even this very hall. But ultimately it is a shell. You can make a palace but cannot run one properly. And it is even harder to run a city.”

“We have made progress, and our wealth is unquestionable.” Elfwine stated firmly. He was interested in what she spoke of, but would not take such talk lying down.

“Yes, but where is your support staff? I entered here today with my retinue, guard, handmaidens, secretary and aides. Our party nearly matches your whole court. Who runs the numbers in this city? Where is the council, where are the trusted men and women who help run your estate?”

She stopped in her tirade and looked at him questionable. Suddenly she asked:

“How much did Lancaster make in revenue last month?”

“Three hundred and two gold in value, most of which consisted of hide, cattle, fish and stone masonry, and several dozen men sworn into service.”

“Such a mind…” she tailed off. “I understand why you might prefer to handle these matters yourself, but simply put: There is no possibility of one man running a household by himself, let alone a village, let alone a kingdom. You must place your trust in others. You must place your trust in me, and a council of your choosing at the very least. Fortunately, I have experience in running my own estates, which includes farms, villages and even a small port. Your holdings are greater still, and your ambition I’m sure is to increase them exponentially, but you cannot do it alone.”

“Great men forge empires, and good men keep them,” Elfwine murmured. Leofrun nodded cautiously. “I find it galling to seem so inept on my wedding night,” he said finally.

She laughed. “Hardly, my lord. Just inexperienced, which is fine by me. Honestly, I was concerned that you would be of a kind that would strike at any mouth that conflicted with a consummate belief in superiority.”

Elfwine narrowed his eyes. “Make no mistake Leofrun, I am extremely displeased at my apparent foolishness, and…irritated at your presumption. Even wary of a foreigner who comes into my hearth and home and attempts to usurp it with her first breath. But,” he held up a hand forestalling her reply, “I am also aware that you could be right, or at least partially correct. Despite my reputation, which I am sure you are aware of, I do listen to advice from time to time. And your fate is, as of today, tied inextricably to my own. I doubt you would betray my confidence, as you seem to enjoy speechcraft, and a woman can hardly perform without lungs in her chest.”

Leofrun stiffened but did not back down from his glare, which raised his opinion of her as much as it frustrated him. This one was, he admitted, a viper in the fields and a cunning fox looking for a meal. Far better to be her mate than her enemy.

“I think,” he said, at last, “that we should be friends. You have within you a mind that I suspect is as sharp as your tongue and all sorts of potential to be unleashed. If you will be a companion to me, I shall endeavour to be one to you, though it goes against my nature. And…I shall fight for your lands, and your right to rule, as you shall with me. Are we agreed, Leofrun?”

“We are agreed, Elfwine.” She smiled at him. “Would you like to attend to chamber business now? Or perhaps I can offer you something more tantalising…”

Elfwine raised an eyebrow, “You have indeed been well-informed about my habits. Please, enlighten me with your offer.”

“Consider it a conditional gift for your promise of security.”

“Oh?” Elfwine’s gaze sharpened.

“Old Offa’s holdings. His personal lands. I have them in my grasp.”

The room was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire in the corner.

“I have claims, documented and signed, forged and actual. I can deliver you Mercia’s heartlands on a platter whenever you so wish…after you have installed me upon my seat.”

The pair stared at each other unblinkingly.

“These papers, presumably kept in trust by an incorruptible abbot?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm.” Elfwine closed his eyes and recalculated his plans for the next few decades. Mercia suddenly opened up before him? He desperately tried not to cackle. He was sure he was at least smirking, despite himself. “This will require some rearranging to my plans but…my goodness, this is quite the opportunity, I must admit. We are soon to be warring with Northumbria for their southern holdings. York cries out for my aid. Following their defeat, I shall march my army south and secure your birth right. Following that…well, I’m sure you might advise me,” he finished dourly, though with a hint of a smile.

“No doubt. That is acceptable to me.” She smiled at his narrowed eyes. “Oh, I realise you are fully capable of doing all that without me but with my help it will be faster. Easier. And certain to come to past. Let us be friends my husband, as we agreed. I will serve this realm far better as a trusted wife and empowered Duchess than a servile wench.”

“I appreciate the sentiment though I am told I am difficult to live with, and I hear more quietly that I am barely less trouble than I’m worth.”

She laughed at that. “I expect I shall manage. As a further present, aside from myself of course, I will gift you my talent. What have you need of? What struggles trouble your mind?”

Elfwine resisted to roll his eyes, barely. He would hardly answer that question honestly to his own sainted father, let alone this bizarre new creature that promised much and yet seemed to him the most dangerous thing he had come across in a long while.

“I have been writing a manuscript,” he said finally. “Your input would be most…appreciated, especially with your apparent talent for logistics.”

There, a simple and fairly honest test, and she would see it as such, if she was worth a damn.

“Lovely, I look forward to it.” She smiled again, more assuredly. Elfwine mentally marked her up a few notches higher in his esteem. And further still when she rather bluntly said, “So, shall you bed me now?”

He decided to grant a little more honesty to their marriage from the beginning. “I’d really rather not, unless your need is so great? Whilst I am fully capable, love is quite beneath my interests.”

If anything, her smile widened. “Oh, my good husband. We shall get on like a house on fire. Still, come to our chambers now. We shall talk further of ourselves, our abilities, our desires and how together we might bring them about. Come.”

She made for the door but turned before reaching it, “If it makes your more comfortable, I shall only bring one dagger into the bedroom tonight.”

Elfwine grinned despite himself. If nothing else, he thought, this was surely the start of something interesting.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 1: The Rebirth of Madness​

An old man slumbered. His life had been long, and full of difficulty. Some he had defeated through great skill and ingenuity. Some through great loss and pain. Almost all had been his own making. Such was the lot of a Conqueror of Men. At eight score and seventeen, he was ancient. None but one could remember a time before his reign, before he touched the world and warped it forever. Whatever came for Lancaster in the future, it was grown and fertilized by the decades of blood and toil he had sewn into the very fabric of the land.

Elfwine Lancaster gave a last gasp of breath. He would not awaken. And so Death took his Champion.

Elsewhere​

Elfwine Wiglafing breathed sharply once, and awoke with a start. His eyes, far sharper than they had been in so many years, cut across the darkened chamber so rapidly they seemed to disturb the curtains. He breathed again, slowly, experimentally. He took in the feeling, the absence of rasp, of effort and pain involved. Another breath followed, more assuredly than the last. On the fourth breath, Elfwine tried to move.

It was deceptively, almost exquisitely effortless. Smoothly his hand rotated, his arm arched and touched his unblemished, equally perfect other limbs.

Breath number five and six were rather rapid, before those eyes shut again and breathed again. Seven was calmer, controlled with years, nay decades of experience with taming a mind many considered unhinged.

Alright, he thought. Here I am within my bed, wherever that is, in a body must peculiar.

The importance of stating the obvious to force oneself to recognise reality was important, at least for him. It had taken far too long and so much loss of a painful and personal nature to understand, but Elfwine believed he did now. He was quite mad, at times, and not always to be trusted, even with himself. This current situation however, was quite unlike anything he had experienced before. Traditional hallucinatory insanity was actually, he supposed, quite welcome, contrasted to the veritable mountain of twisted things he had done in the past.

Alright, he thought. I am apparently here. I am apparently…he looked at his body again…a young child. Alright. I can accept this for now.

It was not, he supposed, the strangest thing to ever happen to him. Not yet at least.

“Is this Purgatory?” he said aloud, testing his voice. Higher pitched certainly, and not unlike the yaps of his own chil-

Oh.

Blinking rapidly, Elfwine was quite overcome with emotion. He had experienced such things all his life of course but in his later years they came far more easily and, almost, apparently, normally. It was a bitter irony perhaps that in his twilight years he had finally become human enough to recoil with horror at himself. Still, it made him a better husband and father.

Oh.

They were gone now. He knew that somehow, with a certainty of feeling. Whether this be Hell, or some other place, he was gone from his world. They were gone from him.

He idly wondered how many would mourn.

Elfwine was torn from his own head by the sound of footsteps echoing from the corridor outside. Flagstone meeting boot, he thought. It almost sounded like Old Lancaster Hall, before the place had been stripped, dismantled and rebuilt. He was nostalgic again for a moment in time, then shook himself. Wherever he was, he was about to be tested, he supposed. That meant he had to prepare for whatever came through that door. Unarmed and small he might be, but he was Lancaster. Master of these islands. King of the North. Whatever came through that door, he would face, whether it be a mighty dragon or his own children’s corpses.

The door swung open, and Elfwine was stunned.

“My boy? Ah, good. You’re awake already.”

Elfwine beheld his father, dead these past eighty years, and burst into tears.

...

He was twelve years old. It was the day of his formal introduction to his father’s court in Lancaster. Elfwine could hardly comprehend it. What spawn of madness was this? His father, blessed be his memory, had come to the throne of Lancaster and indeed, been a great warrior. His grandfather may have taken the lands upon which Lancaster stood but it was Wigberht who built this hall and much more besides. It was he who had stormed the north of Wales and tamed the fierce bears that lived there. It was he – breath caught in Elfwine’s throat – it was he who presented his first and only son with a small bear cub called Secret.

Secret! Carless of the surprised maid whom was laying out his dress, Elfwine burst through the Hall, running with the vigour of youth. His feet hit the open dirt and kept going, through more surprised and faceless gatherers and petty nobles his father had summoned. Through the streets. Through the gates guarded by tall men in cloaks. He ran until he stopped, dead, in front of the original Bear Pit. Before his own rise to power, the Bear Guard was smaller and rather wilder in nature. They resided within a cavernous pit outside the walls of Lancaster, lined with holes and caves. But Elfwine cared little for such things, for he could not see his friend anywhere. He slowly sank to the ground as his strength left him, and his sweat mixed with tears as he cried into his knees for the second time that dreadful day.

A heavy and yet gentle prod hit his head. Once, twice and on the third he dared look up into a face he feared he had lost forever.

“You, who walked with me when no one else would, have not forsaken me even now.” A small child’s hand, his own, came to rest on the great grey snout. “And for you, I walked through fire and hell to reclaim.”

Secret blinked at him, and licked his cheek. You were never alone, he seemed to say, for I was with you always.

“Oh, my friend,” said Elfwine quietly into his fur, “what on earth are we to do here?”

…​

The hall was full of everyone save the one they had all come to see. A few were already grumbling or laughing at the capriciousness of youth. Wigberht himself seemed relatively stoic upon the dais, yet the woman next to him was rather more frantic. Her son had vanished at the crack of dawn in nought but his sleeping clothes. She steadied herself and glanced at her husband. Yes, his hands and he tightness around his eyes showed his worry too. This was not one of his tricks.

And she had told him, she thought darkly. Elfwine was not ready. He was too quiet, too young yet for such a display. She came from powerful blood yes, and this family were of surprising and often astonishing strength and spectacle. But she knew her child, and within her heart feared that too much pressure would snap the boy in a way unsalvageable.

“Say something,” she murmured to her lap. Wigberht stilled and darted a look towards her. “Anything. I don’t know, just get them gone so we can look for him.”

His face closed into a weary sigh, and when his eyes opened worry shone more visibly from them. He nodded and made to rise. The audience however, were not looking at him.

They were looking at his son, who sat astride a gigantic white bear, and following which was every other such creature in the Bear Guard. They strode in, with such authority that no Man could ever hope to acquire. The great bear, Secret, he recalled, turned at mounted the dais with Elfwine still sat on its back. The hall was silent.

“My lords, my Ladies,” the boy began, “I apologise for your wait. It is my habit of late to spend a few hours each morning with my good friends here, that they might serve my father better.” The bears, to a one, growled in approval. “My father is a good man, a rare trait in one who rules over so many and so well. I…I would doubt I could bear half his heart. My talent lies in other areas. Nonetheless I pledge before you all today that I have and shall dedicate my whole life to the people and ki-relam of Lancaster. With your own efforts and loyalty, my family shall through trial and tribulation bring forth great prosperity and glory for all. Now, please join me in a toast to our noble ruler.”

Wigberht hardly managed to raise his hand in acknowledgement of the cheering. Apparently, all of that had actually just happened. He looked at his wife, rather openly bewildered. She seemed similarly nonplussed.

Elfwine himself rubbed Secret’s neck. They had decided that, if indeed they now resided within madness, to indulge in a little themselves.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 2: Building up Lancaster​

Elfwine paced through the streets, nodding and smiling at the many workmen and master craftsmen he had invited/swindled/stolen away to his father’s hold. A servant struggled to keep up despite his relative stature.

“We need more smithies and carpenters before we can think about re-equipping the men. Oh, and more cooks and polishers. If a herald comes back saying he’s found the cheesemakers I asked for, send him right straight to me.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” the servant scribbled away. “Anything else?”

“Did the builders manage to drain and check the wells yet? They might need expanding before too long if this place is anything like…oh, yes, bricklayers and smelters, have their kit set up downwind of everyone else, next to the charcoal makers and leathercrafters. Don’t want to make people ill. How’s our funding?”

“Trade is booming, my lord,” the servant smiled and frowned when Elfwine was no longer there. “And,” he hastened, “y-your father wishes to see you shortly.”

“I’m sure I can find time today. Thank you, Jan. Go check on the newborn, alright?”

“Y-yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

And so the day went, much as it had for the last few weeks. Lancaster was bursting at the seams with all the new bodies rolling around inside of it. Elfwine resisted the urge to giggle like the child he…was? He frowned, then shrugged. Since accepting the madness, he found it far easier to simply go with the flow of it all. For as long as he was here, he saw no reason not to transform Lancaster into what he knew it could be.

It kept him out of the house too.

Elfwine paused after ducking under a plank of wood. Whenever he saw his father, the niggle of doubt that whispered this was all real got to him. Frankly, he found it unacceptable at the moment, and so had elected to ignore it and…him. But he wasn’t lord of this city really. A child, no matter how extraordinary has leeway only so far as a parent grants.

Unfortunately, his father wasn’t even the biggest issue.

“Elfwine!”

She was.

The woman was convinced she was his mother. Certainly, Elfwine took after her. He had inherited her eyes, far bluer than his old metallic grey, and her redder, fairer hair. Elfwine didn’t really want to think about being related to the Karlings, it sounded so inherently silly. Yet apparently, yes, the two brothers remained alive and well, and still trying to kill one another. Subsequently they married out their children to anyone remotely powerful or influential that might grant them an edge in battle. Lancaster apparently followed Elfwine’s own policies of ignoring Europe however, for which he certainly approved.

“My dear,” a gentle but firm hand lifted his chin up. He beheld her face, still fresh and youthful despite four pregnancies. His respect for her for such a feat, especially carrying twins on the last occasion, was high. Elfwine knew well the pain of children himself.

“Forgive me, I was elsewhere,” he shrugged her off and took a step back. He winced as his back impacted the wall behind him.

“Are you alright?” she asked, crouching down before him and touching him again, this time on the shoulder.

“I think so, it wasn’t too hard.” He rubbed his head.

“So, I see,” she said, with a little humour. “Your father was asking for you again. Are you avoiding him?”

“I think we somehow keep managing to miss one another,” Elfwine replied, looking around for an escape.

“My son,” she said, and repeated after catching his face again. “Whatever it is that troubles you, we wish only to help. Why do you hide from us? Your sisters miss you.”

And that, Elfwine thought miserably, was one thing he had no reply for.

He had never truly had a sibling. His mother died giving life to him. His father dallied around and remarried but with little further fruit, save for a few quiet bastards. It…confused him, to be in such a position as this. It was the aspect of this world that made him feel truly mad, and alone.

“I will redouble my efforts.”

She sighed. “That is not what I was hoping for. Just remember, alright?”

“Alright.”

He needed to find Secret. It was time for this madness to end.

…​

“Stop sulking.”

Secret huffed, and did not look around.

“You are sulking. You know we have to visit Him. Would you rather we meet up after dark?”

The bear shuddered beneath Elfwine’s legs and kept walking.

“I wish it were not so, you know. I wish…I’m not sure what I wish.”

Did he want it to end? Did he want this to be real? What did it mean if it was, for him and for his apparent new family? Was he supposed to live his life again, or differently? How did any of this gain access to Heaven?

There were few beings in the world who could grant such knowledge. Unfortunately, Elfwine knew of only one that had any interest of talking to ‘lesser mortals’. Still, it did not stop him hoping as they rounded another corner on the path and a waterfall came in sight, that they would find no one at home.

“We’re here,” he whispered. “Thank you, old friend, you need come no closer.”

Secret snorted and butted his head against Elfwine’s sore back. They went forward through the water together.

The cave beyond was fairly well lit by the simmering sunlight through the veil of water, and the various growth that glowed blue along the walls. Further in they went, leaving behind the sounds of the outside world, and eventually fellow cave dwellers such as rats and bats.

Suddenly a worn and filthy door appeared in front of them. Upon the frame read:

‘Do come in,’

Elfwine entered into the pitch blackness beyond. Secret came to rest beside him and endeavoured to keep breathing normally. After a while in darkness, the kind so deep it is solid, the body begins to invent what its senses cannot detect. However, Elfwine knew he was not imagining things when a soft green glow began to appear in the distance.

“WHO DARES DISTURB MY SLUMBER?”

“Oh good,” Elfwine said, “He’s still here.” Patting Secret, he said, “Don’t worry, it’s only Rambunctious the Wizard.”

“I,” screamed the voice grandly, the lights appearing again in a flash of white and green, “AM RAMBUNCTIOUS THE WIZARD!”

The pair stared at the figure before them. Secret coughed.

“Hi,” Elfwine said. “Nice to meet you…again.”

“Do you know me then?” the wizard said in a scratchy voice. He was a short man, sturdily built with a beard and hair that seemed to explode outwards from his face.

“Potentially,” Elfwine said. “In this situation, you told me to tell you that I should not worry for being a Shepard amongst sheep.”

“And?”

“I replied, did that mean I had to shag a sheep eventually?”

“ANNNNNNNND?”

“You said, ‘Ewe’ve never been to Belgium.’ And laughed. I din’t get it.”

“Neither do I.”

“What is Belgium?”

“Sounds a bit like a tavern. I think it’s a tavern.”

“Oh.” Elfwine filed that away for later. In six months, Lancaster’s largest and most popular public house was born.

The wizard Rambuctious scratched his nose for a bit and then sat down in front of the boy and his bear. They made quite a sight. A large polar bear with the hint of undeath about him, a young boy with eyes of a shark and the smile of an eagle, and a small, strange man in lime green trousers.

“Enough with the foreplay,” Rambuctious said, “I am the Great-”

“Yeah, we know,” Elfwine said. “I’m…I used to be the King of Lancaster, ninety-seven years old and very much not a small child. You’ve been part of my court since that Cup of Life incident fifty years ago.”

“THE CUP OF LIFE! THE MOST SACRED OF-”

“Yeah, that one. Didn’t turn out to exist in the end. Quite disappointing for me. Three weeks in Ireland wasted. Anyway, you told me to come to you if anything weird happened.”

“Has something strange happened?” The man asked earnestly.

“…I’m ninety-seven,” the boy said.

“And he is a large example of Ursus Martimus. In common tongue, a gigantic bloody bear. Normal is clearly relative my boy, do keep up.”

This was one of the reasons why Elfwine had a love/hate relationship with Rambunctious.

“Well, this never happened before. I’ve died or been transported here and changed-it does not matter which. What I want to know is what to do about it?”

“What to do about it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you dislike being a young child at ninety-seven? Do you hate your family? Your kingdom? What are you wanting me to say here?”

“But…I can’t just accept this! My mother is a stranger to me. My father…can’t be alive again? Did I die or…did everyone else?” He finished softly. “Are my children gone? Their children? Their children’s children?”

Rambunctious sighed and took out a pipe from somewhere. “My boy-er, man, you will never know. I certainly do not. How on earth could we ever come to a satisfactory answer without doubting it? If it is true that you are realm-shifted, that you were and then not, and now are again, then apparently space is warped and time is bendable and reality is someone’s plaything.” He threw up his hands. “Not a clue. If you came for advice, mine would be…well, I would probably come here and carry on with whatever I was doing but I suspect that doesn’t apply. In terms of the world…you have to believe that we are real, for your own sake. Everyone around you is a person, just like you, that sort of nonsense.”

He sniffed. “I hate pep talks. I’m going somewhere else to read.” He clattered away, making far too much noise in an apparently empty cave.

Secret relaxed finally, and nudged Elfwine. The boy nodded but sat quietly for a while next to the bear. “I’m not sure I can do this, Secret.”

Secret huffed and looked at Elfwine. You know that you can, he seemed to say, but you are not sure whether you want it. Or deserve it.

“People rarely get what they deserve,” Elfwine muttered. That perhaps, was the very problem.

…​

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 3: Sins of the Father​

The Lord of Lancaster was widely renowned for his wisdom and for his kindness. Both of course pleased him greatly, though in the matter of his eldest son, he often found himself lacking.

Elfwine had always been reclusive. Not exactly quiet but hardly rambunctious either. He had a cleverness to him, yes, and the ambitious nature that came from a family of rebels. Recent events however had revealed a different side to the child. He walked as though the world walked in step with him. He had the manner and bearing of a veteran warrior, whom had survived a thousand blizzards and slain as many enemies. And his requests-or rather, orders, to the people surrounding him. Peculiar though some were, people listened. Elfwine had the ear of the mercenaries and housecarls, and spoke with them often. Trained with them too, and in a way that demonstrated he was not merely precocious but experienced in the Art of War. Several times Wigberht saw men saddled with dozens of missives riding out to who knows where, bringing back a steady stream of workmen, builders, craftsmen, suppliers, carnival freaks and Heaven knew what else.

He shook his head. The boy asked for a pittance after the event with the Bear Guard, and had since somehow returned back to the treasury multiple chests of coin, wax, hides, land treaties and all manner of assorted items Wigberht had never seen before. In truth, the tyrant that resides inside all men of power rankled that his son was presumptive enough to run his own enterprise, and worse still do it well. Yet Wigberht and his own father both agreed on Lancaster being a home for the homeless, as their family was when they cast themselves out of Mercia. In fact, that Elfwine was by accounts welcoming and encouraging to the new arrivals, as well as the original inhabitants of the city, warmed the father’s heart considerably.

It did however make the boy’s complete dismissal of family rather more alarming.

Amaudru was beside herself. Whilst Wigberht could well understand a young man coming into his own finding some way to be angry with his father (indeed had he not done much the same in his own youth?), to shut out the mother was unheard of. There had been no argument, no parting of ways between Elfwine and anyone of his House. Yet…he was absent. Out of everything peculiar going on in the realm of Lancaster these days, this was the thing that vexed Wigberht most rightly. And it was this that meant that he was finally going to confront his son on his issue, and discover what troubled him so.

Of course, it was at the moment he decided this course that Elfwine changed course and availed himself upon him, citing the sanctity of confession of all things!

The Lord of Lancaster was no monk, though he adopted their habits as his own and indeed was a father of the Church in Lancaster. Still, very few had ever found their need so great to come to him and not their parish, least of all his own blood! The sanctity had been invoked regardless. Thus, he duly placed his palm on his son’s head and bade him come forth and confess.

“Thank you, father,” Elfwine said, seating himself before the table. “This may take a while and I anticipate you will have may questions. I beg you to hold them until I am done. You may wish to write a reminder to that effect.”

Curious and curiouser. Wigberht sat and wrote the vow, promising to himself to hear the boy out. “What is it that you would like to confess?”

His father’s gentle probing elicited a small smile from Elfwine. “Everything.”

Everything? Wigberht forced himself not to react. Of all the sinister words…

“Well then, my son…you may begin.”

Elfwine’s smile became fixed.

“I am Elfwine Lancaster, and until recently I was the King of this realm of Lancaster. Husband to three dearly departed, Father to many more.” His hands tensed into fists. “When I died, I was ninety-seven years old, by our reckoning. I awoke to a world I did not recognise…and a father I did.” It was easier to speak, once begun. “I do not recognise my siblings or your wife. Nor does the recent history of the world match my own. However, through various means I have been advised to accept that you are, that is to say…my family.”

Elfwine dropped his head and paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. Wigberht ached to reach out towards his son and yet kept his seat. He had been rendered quite powerless by revelation, though of what kind still eluded him. He also knew the look of a man about to confess to his worst crimes.

“This place is alien to me, after so long,” the boy whispered. His gaze had still yet to rise higher than the table. “There is no hall where I married my last. No chamber where my grandchildren breathed their first. No hill upon which snowdrops weep and under which my son doth sleep.” He shuddered, and Wigberht saw the light catch the small tears. “I am undone in this place, if it is not a fantasy. For if it is not, then it surely is my punishment. I have slaughtered many in my quest for power. My kingdom was legion across all the lands of the Saxons. Many were killed so that many were fed. There was not a place in these lands or abroad that had not felt the roar of my Guard, or the shudder of my presence or the hunger that was sated. Many, amongst them my people, my children, paid the price of my desires. I wanted to be God, and I made sure that I was.”

He slowly looked into the white face of his father and spoke his last, “It was only as I lay eviscerated upon this very floor, the blood of my son upon your mace, that I awoke to my madness. I lay convalescent in bed, whilst my wife attended to me and my realm burned in the chaos I had so generously sown. I awoke, and so my second form was chosen. I had been the Great Destroyer and so now too I could be the People’s Saviour.” He chuckled between two sobs. “It was another lie. Another delusion of being the Almighty. And so much harder to dispel for it worked. The realm was quietened, the country was peaceful, the children were fed and the people were happy. And I was quite full of myself once again. And then again, I nearly destroyed my own son. Riches upon riches, duchy after duchy, till the lad could take no more. I wanted-needed him to replace his mother and myself all at once. And then they were both dead, and again I was alone in a great palace with children who feared me and a realm that worshipped the false idol of my vanity.”

Elfwine sniffed and wiped himself clean. “My salvation came yet again, undeserved as much as the life that yet clung to me like a disease. Again, I was placed in the heart of a family. Again, I raised my children, kindly I hoped though now I am plagued with doubt once more. I saw to their needs and wants. Instead of war, I helped build my neighbours into safer realms of their own. On these islands, at least for the last decade or so…things were…good there.” He shrugged. “It is of little consequence. There is no pit black enough for my torment. No doom that can reply to that which I dished out so liberally onto others.”

The room was quiet for a long time, save for some sniffling from the boy.

“Do you think, my child, that God sent you here to be punished?”

Elfwine looked at his father, first blankly, and then with incredulity. “Is there another purpose so obvious?”

A quite sigh and a little laugh launched from Wigberht quite unintentionally. “I see now what you mean about delusions of Godhood,” he said quietly.

Elfwine blinked. “Yes?”

“My boy,” Wigberht straightened up and leaned across the table, “you cannot presume to know the mind of the Creator, nor any Man for that matter. What is written upon your heart and soul is between you, and God. But your actions, including words, exist in the mortal realm.”

The boy edged around on his seat, struggling to maintain eye contact with the older man. “What does that mean?”

“That you were not sent here to be judged,” his father said, decidedly. “How on earth could I do such a thing? There is no,” he paused for the word, “set of law that fits your crimes, whether real or no. What you seek is not within my power to give, though I wish it were.”

“Then what else is there?”

“My dear boy,” his father said, almost fondly, “in your many years, did you neglect your Christian teachings?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you know of Christ’s great purpose.”

“To save us from our sins – you must be joking.”

He smiled at the suddenly infuriated young man. “Oh yes, I think it makes a great deal of sense, if what you say is true. Why send you back to the world of Men, if not to learn to be as us? Revelation and Repentance, that’s your quest, unless I’m very much mistaken. I would like to consult the articles of faith on this but I have an innate sense of rightness when I say it thus. You may yet have your reckoning with the Almighty of course, but this is not then.”

Elfwine looked at him wordlessly.

“You might begin by speaking with your siblings, and apologising for your atrocious manner to your mother,” Wigberht said, pointedly.

“You would place me amongst children now?”

“Why, are you going to kill them?” Wigberht said lightly, and then turned his face somewhat stonier, “Of course, you won’t. You will never inflict such or any pain on anyone whilst I am Lord in Lancaster.”

“Yes father,” Elfwine said immediately, surprised at how cowed he felt.

His father apparently was more amused by that fact however. “So, there is still a child within you, somewhere. That suggests more to me that there is a Man there too. Both the Great and the Good have their hearts, dear Elfwine. Look to it. Find it in yourself and your fellow Men.” He noted the disconsolate face on his child and continued. “I have done terrible things too, to keep the peace in Lancaster, to keep the people protected and fed. Indeed, by some within the Church, I rather enjoy my wife a little too much.” He smiled again, “What you carry, you must let go. The feelings of Greatness, the guilt over past sins, all of it must go. Give yourself the freedom to fail, and fall, and rise again.”

He realised he was going too quickly. “Elfwine, hear what I propose. You will make amends with your family, for they are your brothers and sisters. You will seek out my wife and speak with her before I do. And then…” he thought for a moment, “and then, go and take Secret, the bear of yours, and simply be present. Be here in this world, not your own. Play in the fields, or take in the flowers, or look at the sky. Spend a day of rest with your friend and look for me at evening. Go and be at peace my son. I cannot give you what you seek, but I might set you on the right path to it. And...know that I love you, always.”

A small hand came into his, and did not let go.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 4: The New Normal​

“Not bad. A little steadier, a little more strength.”

Beor nodded, fingers stinging. He breathed carefully, aligned his target, and released. The arrow hit the target with a thud.

“Good.” His brother smiled at him. “Very good, for your age.”

Beor frowned a little. He was happy to have hit the target, and for the arrow to have stuck. His last five attempts had missed or bounced weakly off the wood. “It’s quite hard, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Archery is an art, and not one for the weak. It takes strength to draw a bow, skill to aim, confidence to strike. Luck plays a roll too of course, but we are Lancasters. We make our own fortune, as much as we can.”

Boer nodded eagerly. “You said much the same about ruling, right?”

“In a sense. Your father does rule with strength, skill and confidence, though whilst archery might be considered a sport at time, ruling should never be thought of as such. Our lives, and the lives of all Lancaster lie upon his shoulders. Livelihoods as well. Competence and luck make an able monarch but knowledge is the key really. Your father rules wisely, and with great kindness as well as competence, and that is why he is beloved.”

“But how do you become wise?”

“With difficulty. But it can be learnt, and taught to a degree. Kindness is actually the harder challenge, or so I have found.” His brother turned his intense gaze upon him, and Beor was pinned to the spot, as he always was. “Power tempts you Beor, as soon as you grasp it, it grasps you. And yet, the greatest power a man might gain is that which is freely given to him out of love, and trust. Remember this Beor, and try again.”

“My fingers hurt.”

“Such is the way,” Elfwine opened his hand and demonstrated the notches worn into his fingers by constant practice. “Everything you do leaves a mark, one way or another. Remember that too.”

Beor nodded again, reluctantly placing another arrow. He loved practice really, as it was a chance for he and Elfwine to be together without his pain of a sister. Pain for being a year older, a bit taller and, Beor sometimes suspected, Elfwine’s favourite.

She got away with a lot more in his presence than anyone else, even that morning she had, before he managed to escape her clutches. Even the Great Bear spoke to her.

“What are you doing?” Wilfred asked, loudly bursting in on Elfwine as he was writing something at his desk.

Wilfred was second eldest, and constantly took charge whenever she could. Beor thus often found himself dragged along on whatever scheme she had in mind.

“We’re trying to remember the recipe for our favourite mead mix,” Elfwine said absently, scribbling away whilst Secret looked over his shoulder, nodding or shaking every so often.

“How could you forget something like that?”

“Er…honestly we were more consumers than producers in this regard,” Elfwine replied, looking up. Secret snorted. “Yes, I know you were the best drinker in the kingdom, hush.”

Wilfred giggled in that annoying way of hers. “It’s silly that you talk to him so much.”

“Well, it would be rude to ignore him. And ignoring him in no way shuts him up,” Elfwine said with a grin. Secret snorted again, butting his head atop Elfwine’s.

“You must teach me how then,” she said, raising her chin. Elfwine looked at her and laughed. She frowned fiercely at him for that but he waved her off.

“No, I know you’re in earnest. It’s just, I actually don’t know how to explain it. He just…speaks.” He looked at Secret, who gave a bear shrug. It was much like a human shrug, except not.

“Father wouldn’t like us drinking.”

Elfwine shot a look at her. “We are not drinking. We are planning where the tavern is going to be and someone got distracted thinking about strong booze.”

Secret blinked and sent a sorrowful look at Wilfred, who sighed in sympathy.

“Hmph, you’re a natural,” Elfwine muttered. “Or,” he said, getting back to work, “He’s getting better at manipulation.”

Beor, quiet up to that point, suddenly burst. “Why is he called Secret?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Why?”

“Because Father said so.”

“Why should we listen to him?”

“Because he is the Lord of Lancaster. You have to obey the lord.”

“Why?”

“Because so long as Mankind requires society, there need be rule of law.”

“Why?”

“Because Natural Law does not suit our purposes. We have stared into the abyss and found it wanting.”

“…what?”

Elfwine cracked a grin. “A jest. Honestly? People have needs and wants. They need to live; they want to do so as comfortably as possible. Thus, society. Many working as one can do more of anything. Keeping them as one, however, is a constant struggle. So, we make rules and we keep them. That is a gross simplification but you need not concern yourself with much more than that.”

“Why?”

Elfwine sighed. His brother always seemed rather tired. “Because this is the way things are. For whatever reason, people hate changing what they are doing, unless they are completely miserable…and sometimes not even then. You need to come up with good reasons for changing something, not carrying on. Carrying on is easily argued for.”

“So…so, you’re saying that Father doesn’t really need to tell us why we have to obey, but we need to give him a good reason to tell us?”

“Er…” Elfwine thought for a moment. “I suppose you could say that. Of course, when you are older and…wiser,” he chuckled, “that will hold less of an effect on you.”

“But El, you are older and wiser, right?”

“Right.”

“So why do you listen to Father?”

“Because he is a good man, a wise ruler and…he knows better than me.”

“Even now you’re twelve?” Beor was incredulous.

“Yes, even now.” Elfwine chuckled to himself over some private jest.

“Urgh, you two follow Father around like ducklings!” Wilfred said, jumping off from where she sat on the table’s edge. “I’m going to do something fun, away from you.”

She went off, leaving Beor shyly looking at the ground whilst his brother worked quietly at the table.

“Elfwine?”

“Hm?”

“Could you teach me swordplay?”

“Not yet, your body is too small and weak to handle drill.” Elfwine looked up. Perhaps he realised how harsh that sounded. “You may ride with Secret and I later though, if you promise to be careful.”

“I suppose I’m too little for horses too,” Beor muttered.

Elfwine smiled and patted his shoulder. “Just so. But I’m hardly tall yet. We shall both be giants before long, you’ll see.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Ok then. Show me that bow again?”

And so it went. And really, Beor thought as his next arrow shot through the air and hit the target dully, things were pretty good as they were now. Wilfred being the most aggravating thing in his life was actually not so bad. He certainly never wanted to be as burdened as Father was, or even Elfwine.

…​

Amaudru smiled as Maud finally settled off to sleep. Twins truly were exhausting. Oh, children were exhausting, everyone had told her that. Twins doubly so. But Lancaster babes were a force of nature unto themselves. Two of them…well, they were sleeping now at least.

It was a blessing really, to have such strong and clever children. But at the same time, in seemed a judgement on her. The twins were safe now, but in a few months, they would be walking and talking as much as the rest of her brood. At least for the last two years, Elfwine had taken upon himself to partially control the excesses of Wilfred and answer Beor’s questions. Now however, her eldest son was hurting in a way she didn’t understand and apparently couldn’t heal. He had never treated the family like lepers before, unlike her own childhood where the older boys often did straight up abandon the youngsters whenever they felt like it. Her father raised hell and fury whenever he caught them doing it of course, but Wigberht was a gentler sort, and she agreed with him for the most part. Elfwine was troubled, that much was clear, but he was also exploring the city and the reigns of power in a way he never had before. In some regard, they had to let him find himself in his tasks, for one day he would have to be comfortable in the role of leader. However, she thought firmly, he was also a child still, and required guidance of all kinds before he was ready.

Her husband had spoken to him a few days ago, and apparently, he had spoken back in full. Subsequently Elfwine was more present, at least with his siblings. And she was relieved it was so. Then again, it was clear, no matter how much Wigberht hid it, that the lord was shaken by what had been discussed. He had buried himself in parchment and books, sending off many letters and spoke extensively with the local priests, monks and abbot. She had also caught him meditating far more often, with a troubled look on his face and an unfamiliar grimace upon his lips.

It seemed Elfwine’s troubles had not been dealt with, but merely passed on.

Wigberht made his way through to her chambers whilst she was still lost in thought. He seemed tired.

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll live,” he said. He laid his papers down and collapsed into a seat.

“I have been in talks with Selyf.”

“Ah, and how is he?”

“Worse.” Wigberht sighed. The old man’s mind came and went with further regularity these past few weeks. It was a sorry sight for such a friend and man as the Bishop.

“Did you speak much?”

“Of sorts. He was the only man who could have helped. Elfwine I mean.”

Amaudru stiffened. “I don’t understand.”

Wigberht looked solemn. “Come sit with me, my love. I shall tell you all I know and all that I can guess. To begin,” he said, pouring wine for the two of them, “Elfwine came to me late one night a few days ago…”

And so, husband and wife discussed how their eldest child was effectively dead. He had been replaced by phantoms of madness, or some even darker power that had seen fit to tear an elderly and psychotic tyrant from his deathbed into their boy. In the end, the effect was the same, Elfwine believed in the experience enough, and clearly had been changed enough to grant knowledge and experience beyond his years.

“I-I can’t believe this,” she cried. Not yet. Perhaps never. The innocence of youth had burnt out of Elfwine’s eyes, replaced by a fierce and utterly alien fire that scared her. Now she knew why that was. “What…how can we go on?”

“We must,” Wigberht said firmly. “We must,” he repeated, quietly. “I can think of no reason for this to befall him, and us all, save for a great purpose. There can be none greater than snatching a soul fresh from the hellfires themselves.”

Amaudru murmured indistinctly. Her husband was often right on such matters, but she could not help but feel that God would not have plucked a demon-spawn into the heir of Lancaster indiscriminately. If her son, or what was left of him, was speaking the truth, in everything, a reformed monster would take the throne of Lancaster. One did not do that unless whatever was coming was far worse than the cure that was…Elfwine.

And what did she think of all this? She could see in him something of her son. Aspects remained, forgotten or perhaps submerged beneath a surface of age-strengthened wit and sharpness. In some ways he seemed very much a twelve-year-old boy crying out for his mother over many hurts. Amaudru wondered whether that was heartening or disturbing.

“I told him, come what may, that love would see us through this ordeal together,” Wigberht said, having finished explaining all, and what he and the mad bishop theorised. “I hope it was the right thing to say.”

She sighed. “It was,” she decided. “I will always fight for my children. Elfwine is…he needs us, whatever he is.” Her heart broke all over again as she both thought and spoke, “He didn’t mention me, did he? I wasn’t his mother, in his tale.”

Wigberht was quiet. “No, I don’t think so.”

“That doesn’t matter either.”

It did. Oh, her chest ached with it. But to save him, she would tear out her heart. Unfortunate, she reflected, that it may well come to that.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 5: Life and Death go on​

Wilfred and Beor were fighting in the yard again. Fortunately for everyone, they were allowed to. Elfwine watched as his siblings methodically circled each other and brawled. They would then switch to grappling with daggers before duelling with swords. Throughout the process, they were not allowed to stop, nor speak. Inciting a foe into committing a fatal mistake through a few clever jests were legendary in song and poem, but on the battlefield, one was lucky if one heard anything except screaming. Especially a Lancaster battlefield, given the presence of war-bears.

Beor was taller than his sister now, and had the advantage in strength also. This had not aided his speed or reflexes however, and so he was, like many of his age, all over the place. Wilfred meanwhile was swift and accurate in her punches, her skill with the short and long dagger sure to defend her for many years to come. This was quite necessary, because out of all Wigberht’s children, she was to be the one to leave Lancaster for marriage, and to the byzantine court of the Romans no less! Elfwine’s own court dripped a constant stream of bloody tales but Constantinople breathed chaos.

He had been most put out when told what was happening to his sister, but his father had, eventually, explained that this was an amazing match. And in truth, it was, if the husband to be lived long enough to matter. Christophorous was heir to the Imperial Throne, brother to two emperors and a Grand Duke. He kept the strange beliefs of his family of course but still, such a match was such that Elfwine would have struggled to make at the start of his own reign. His own bride to be was nothing to scoff at either.

Princess Ida of Francia, the young, beautiful and clever daughter of Karloman, or as many were calling him, Karl the Great. He had finally decidedly trounced his brother, also called Karl, in Francia and ruled a great empire of his own. West-Francia was now split in twain, with Ida’s parents ruling from the Channel to the Mediterranean. Elfwine could hardly believe he was to become grandson to the Karling brothers, after all this time. It sounded ridiculous, even to him.

Another strange event was the usurpation of Mercia by Aefflaed. Elfwine wryly remembered she being the one who began the rebellion that led Lancaster taking most of the kingdom for themselves. Now it seemed, she had gotten her wish to rule an intact Mercia all of her own.

Somehow during his musings, Beor had disarmed Wilfred and was pounding her into the dirt. Elfwine sighed and signalled the fight to end. The two remained work-in-progress, but by anyone else’s standards they were fairly handy by this point. A commotion drifted along the breeze, causing the three Lancasters to turn expectantly towards the main street. As might be expected by such noise, it was the wizard Rambunctious, though strangely enough accompanied by a rathe excited Secret.

“Congratulate me, why don’t you,” the wizard said, coming to a stop before them. “My genius TRULY knows NO BOUNDS!”

“No doubt,” Elfwine said, glancing at Secret for a clue. The bear was fixated on a small vial being waved around Rambunctious’ head.

“What have you done now, devil worshipper?” Wigberht approached the group wearily. Elfwine shrugged at him. Rambunctious didn’t appear to have exploded a house. Or turned a bear pink. Or re-animated all the chicken at dinner, causing them to run at the wizard madly. He still feared the sound of clucking.

“I have transcended mortality. I have pulled aside the veil and touched the face of GAWD HIMSELF!”

That, surprisingly, did not narrow it down very much. What-

“Wait, is that…?” Elfwine gestured to the little bottle, eyes widening. Secret hummed excitedly.

“Indeed, it is so, noble Lord,” the wizard said proudly. “This…miracle given form, this elixir of ultimates, this succour of Heaven, this balm of EDEN-”

“Get to the point,” Wigberht cut in, eyes narrowing.

“This,” Rambunctious finished, holding the little vial in front of himself lovingly, “is BEAR JUICE!”

The courtyard was silent.

Secret stared at the vial, as did Elfwine, in disbelief. In excitement. In rapture.

“It is…bear juice?” Wigberht said.

“Bear juice,” Elfwine said, taking the vial carefully. “My word…” How long had they tried for it? How many hours burnt in hot pursuit of this little thing? Secret was quivering now, and suddenly lunged forward and snatched the bottle neatly out of his hand. Elfwine seized his siblings by their shirts and pulled them back several feet, and then firmly behind himself.

Wigberht cautiously turned to him, “Elfwine, what-?”

Secret damn-near exploded in a shock of fur and fang, as the gigantic bear leaped into the air and down again. His fur gleamed with unholy fires, his eyes glowed, his mouth burst open in flames. He was already strong yet now he possessed the strength of the earth itself, crushing and shattering it underpaw. Rambunctious leapt up from where he had been flung by the enhanced bear and began cackling madly.

“That,” Elfwine pointed, “is Bear Juice. Highly toxic to anything smaller than the larger of our bears. Highly noxious, quite volatile, suspected to be combustible. It also makes bears…better. It is the insight, the…concept of Bear, given liquid form. I spent decades trying to get a drop of the stuff. I never believed I’d ever…” Elfwine’s face paled considerably, before heating up rather red.

“My son?” Wigberht asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I…may have offered something to whomever could make the Bear Juice.”

“Ah,” Wigberht frowned. The Lancaster of Elfwine’s days was a rich and powerful land. They could surely promise much more than he himself could deliver. Still, an oath is an oath. “What is it you promised, my son?”

Elfwine looked away from his father, and very quietly said, “Yorkshire.”

As Rambunctious and the half-crazed Secret cavorted through the town, Wigberht sat down heavily on a bench, his son quickly joining him. “This could be a problem.”

…​

“Let the feast, begin.”

Wigberht’s calm invitation was accepted readily by the hungry revellers. All week the festival had turned the city upside down. The churches were filled and emptied several times a day, the marketplaces overflowed with wine and occasionally even food. The Harvest was complete, and a very good year it had been too. The weather had turned in the last few hours, and the Heavens opened upon the great hall, cold rain battering away at the steady wood and stone. Roaring fires and happy people warmed the insides however, and everyone seemed happy this eve. Elfwine was, as ever, sat with a gathering of the children, all of them it seemed, and telling them stories of the night and of the seasons to come. And how the trees could be used to tell the severity of the winter storm, and how the animals fed and slept comfortably on a night like this.

“Then, with a sweep of Pegasus’ wings, Perseus flew to safety, the princess in his arms.” A round of cheering erupted from the table, and some children begged for more whilst others took their fill of food. Elfwine made sure they all did so before continuing. There were children here, despite his family’s alms, that would not eat so well again for some time.

Things were going well, Wigberht thought. He had even stood to allow the wizard in his hall, after he promised to leave his staff at home. Rambunctious was, as he had been for weeks, surrounded by bears, and idiots trying to convince him to let them prove their masculinity by drinking of the Juice. Wigberht shook his head in amusement. These were the people he fed, protected and enriched. He would have it no other way.

The yells from outside the door, the appearance of two guardsmen and a sopping wet man between them, all timed to the thunder, rather put a damper on the evening. All eyes were on the trio as they argued and jostled each other. The stranger was wild-eyed and struggling to get through. “My Lord Wigberht,” he screamed, “Please in the name of God!”

“Let him pass,” the Lord of Lancaster said. He could never refuse such pleas. He had barely batted an eye before the man was streaking down the hall and would have surely been upon him had not Elfwine intercepted him. His son gently lowed the heavily breathing man to the ground before quietly speaking to the guards that had run up from the door. They nodded and ran back out the hall. Wigberht made his way down, sending reassurances and kind looks to those he passed in his wake. Secret, another bear…Sunny, he believed, and Rambunctious joined his son.

“Elfwine, are you alright?”

“I’m fine. This, however,” he gestured to several leaking wounds on the man’s torso that had a peculiar yellow pus lining them, “this is sorcery. Or very powerful Faith induction.” He took from his pocket a crucifix of clever and silver make. The reaction was immediate from the stranger; he stilled in his ramblings, and then shrank back in horror from the cross. It was then that the sinister nature of the situation hit Wigberht.

“Can he be helped?”

“I will try. The horror within him is not of his own making.”

“Will he die?

“I will not let him.”

The pair lapsed into silence as Elfwine grabbed a goblet of wine from a table and poured it slowly over the largest of the scratches. Scratches? Yes, very clearly, they were from some beast or animal. Wigberht found himself compelled to pray quietly over the man’s body, which Elfwine seemed to approve of.

“Hold him,” he said, and the bears softly placed a paw each atop the man. “This will be extremely painful, cover your ears.” With that, the crucifix was brought down upon the wound, and the man screeched a most unnatural concoction of sound, hardly man and yet quite clearly so. Wigberht doubled his efforts, his concentration momentarily stymied by the noise. Suddenly the cross retracted, and the wound looked shockingly burnt, the silver somehow having left the artifice behind and entered the man’s body. It was a hellish sight.

“Good,” Elfwine said.

“Good? By Almighty God-”

“Had the impression of the cross remained on his body outside the wound, he would be lost to us. Better to cut his throat at that point and take his chances in the next life.” His son sped up his ministrations now he knew the man still clung to…whatever it was he was in danger of losing. For several long minutes, the hall was practically silent save for the occasional wail of babes and the murmuring of the man. Many onlookers were crossing themselves and their children repeatedly. Wigberht could hardly blame them.

A sharp breath released from his son caught his attention. Looking up for the first time, Elfwine glanced at him before saying, “He is safe.”

The gathering let out a collective breath.

“Put him up in St. Peter’s. Assign a guard. And a priest,” Wigberht ordered to his men. “Now then, where did he come from?”

“He wore the remains of a habit, so an outlying monastery perhaps? St. Benedict’s is the closest. I’m more concerned about what he left behind, that was no ordinary monster that made those cuts.”

“A summoning?”

“Possibly. There was certainly some curse behind his actions, but he must have decided to come here himself.”

“We must help then!”

Elfwine hummed, and cleaned his hands. “We’d need some protections. Gambeson won’t save you from this. In my…previous encounters,” he said quietly, looking around, “I had leather and hide made ready for such things. Perhaps a tanner or blacksmith might have protections thick enough for our quarry?”

“And what is it we hunt?” Wigberht asked, having nodded the order away onto other guards.

“The living dead. The question is, who awakened them, and why?”

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 6: The Curse of Agnes Moor​

The villagers of Agnes Moor were starving. The crop had failed three summers ago, and now had failed again. By the time of what should have been Harvest, the barns were emptied of stock and the animals were weak with hunger, much like their masters. The milk was running dry and the surrounding woodlands had been stripped of victual in an effort to keep the children alive. It soon came to pass that this too was failing, and there was not the skill within the place to hunt for everybody.

The local monastery, upon hearing the cries of the downtrodden, opened their stocks to the people as much as they could allow. Still, it was a good day’s walk from one to the other, and the monks had themselves to feed. The Abbot, a man of great piety, forswore all food for himself in order to sustain the parish, but it was not enough. The local lord was Northumbrian, and thus away at war against the Picts. Both the Abbot and the people had heard of the Promise of Lancaster, yet hardly expected the lord there to travel many miles out of his country to spare them food. By September-time, the people were quite desperate.

By October, some men of the village were willing to do anything to feed their families.

It was said that the coming of Christ to these shores saved it from damnation. That might well be the case. Who can say? But religion was never simply a protection against what awaited a soul in the next life, but a shield against the dangers of the present. So it was that in ancient times, and even in their grandfather’s days, the men of Agnes Moor would have been realities of the world that they must abide by if they wished to live within it. They would have been warned, repeatedly, by the wise and the old, to never attempt what they were about to do. To never carry it out on consecrated ground. And certainly not this time of the year, when the veil between the worlds was thinnest.

But the men were hungry, and they were desperate. And they were ignorant. And so, they went to St. Agnes graveyard, and despoiled the remains for trade goods.

They made off with the loot, leaving the site defiled and open. They were weak with hunger, and anxious to make back with their new hope to town. But in so doing, they made it obvious what they had done. The Abbot, upon hearing what the people he had risked the ruin of the monastery for had done, broke. The good and righteous man burnt with an anger he had never before or since felt, and swore greatly and loudly a damning oath, cursing the whole town and everyone within for their crimes. Upon so doing, he collapsed in a daze and was rushed off to bed by the good brothers of the Church.

That night, a fog descended upon the gravesite, blanketing the bodies, the markers and the ground itself in a coat of white. The monks slept soundly within their cots as the dead began to awaken from their disturbed rest. Fingers tightened by rot and dry burst open and closed. Empty sockets found their way to the entrance of the yard. Shambling, broken and glowing with the luminosity of fog, limbs long dead moved down the road towards Agnes Moor. They moved with the slowness of ages, yet steadily like the tides.

The villagers had gone looking for death and so were sure to find it.

…​

“No.”

“But why, brother!” Beor whined.

“No.”

“Elfwine!”

He turned from packing supplies onto Secret’s back. “Beor, you are not ready. I am taking Secret and Rambunctious. Father is coming because I may require a man of strong faith with a stronger stomach. There is no room for more, especially not a child.”

This was very much the wrong thing to say. Beor swelled with fury hitherto unknown. “Elfwine-!”

“Beor, you will do as I say.”

“You are not my father!”

“But I am, son.” Wigberht said, coming up behind the pair. “A scratch from these fiends is death. Elfwine goes because he is our guide in this matter. I go because I am Lord of Lancaster, and would never allow such a dangerous quest without my involvement. If there is devilry afoot, we need our own wizard to counter its powers. And Secret is the fastest steed on the island.” He put a hand on Beor’s shoulder and shook him gently. “I will not risk more than I must, my son. Go to your sisters and protect them as you will. Your time to do battle and defend your family will come. Do not be so eager to embrace it before you are ready.”

Beor sniffed and nodded, averting his gaze from his family. He retreated off into the dark, towards the hall.

“He will be alright, Elfwine,” Wigberht said calmly, “and he was correct in one matter. You are equals in my house. No more, no less.”

Elfwine blinked and awoke from the petrification his brother’s words had cast. “Knowing and accepting are different. I have been a father to many, brother to none. He is so young…”

“So are you, in his eyes.” Wigberht chuckled. “In mine too, sometimes. Is everything ready?”

“Yes. We ride for St. Agnes.”

“Not St. Peter’s?”

“The man was bloodied underfoot, soaked to the skin and exhausted by infection and travel. St. Peter’s is only a few miles away and he was hastened by fear and curses. Any farther than St. Agnes and he would be a corpse already, any nearer and we would have seen him hours ago.”

“Very good then, let us be off. This business worries me greatly.”

“And I. This never happened before?”

“Not to my knowledge. Never in the North. Did you ever-?”

The question hung for a moment as the pair mounted Secret and Rambunctious joined them with a huff.

“No, not this close to Lancaster. A small island off the coast of Pictland became similarly cursed but the dead could hardly cross the sea. Only when some fishermen failed to return one night did the locals discover the horror. In that case the solution was fairly simple. Everyone on the isle was dead so we put it to the torch.”

“And here?”

“Depends on the curse. If the dead rose by their own design then there is little you can do to put them back in the ground save smashing them into smaller pieces. If Man’s touch did this, we are in firmer territory.”

Wigberht thought a little as the night air rushed around them at great speed. The rain had dried up to a light speckling on their cloaks, but the wind was picking up. The howls did little for a man’s peace of mind, especially on a night such as this.

“What of their spirits? I will not damn the fallen for a mortal man’s games.”

“Again, depends why they are awakened. If the dead walk themselves, their spirits are present. If forced to animate, some other force might use their bodies like puppets.”

“It is a grisly thing.”

“It is. Remember, do not let them touch you. If they break the skin, you may well die.”

The ride was quiet after that, save for the weather around them continuing to voice the heavens disproval of mankind’s failings.

Rambunctious suddenly cackled. The two fellow riders looked back at him incredulously.

“It is merely a jest,” he said, “but I am reminded of the old tale of three riders.”

Wigberht remained confused but Elfwine sighed. “Really, now?”

“It seemed thematically appropriate,” Rambunctious snapped. “One day, three riders met three others along the road. And these three were dead.”

Wigberht shuddered.

“The corpses supposedly castigated the three young men for wasting their youth and lives in pursuits that would not bring them happiness,” Elfwine continued. “Each man became more and more aware he spoke to the very corpse he would one day become.”

“Then what happened?” Wigberht asked, after a pause.

“It changes with every telling. I suppose it depends what kind of lesson the old and wise are trying to deliver,” Rambunctious answered. “What would you do?”

Secret continued to carry them along the track, and after some time they came across a hamlet, dark and quiet. The moon made out that it was quite late into the night-time, yet to hear no signs of life from a settlement, no animal or babe crying in the dark, this was uncanny. A great fog had descended upon the houses, and the streets were blanketed by it. Were it not for the church, the place would be difficult to place.

“We go forward now, into mystery.” Rambunctious said quietly. The four nodded, and began their descent into whatever horror awaited them.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 8: Coming of Age​

Elfwine looked at himself critically in the glass. It was a marvel of the workshops, a piece of polished glass set onto polished silver. A rather wonderful mirror image, albeit a small one. Elfwine stared into a face that was not his own, and yet had been in his possession four years running now. His sixteenth year was approaching, and his hundred and first. How many men of his age could boast a full head of hair? The golden curls were still distractingly wrong to his eyes, but the beard was far superior to anything he could grow up until extreme old age. It certainly aged him up beyond his childish face, and his build and height added to the effect. He was beginning to look like the age he acted the majority of the time.

Unfortunately, with his majority upon him, and Lancaster, a variety of problems he thought far away were now at hand. Just what did he intend to do within this world? His family, indeed the entire realm, believed him to be the next great heir, and he had certainly acted like the First Lancaster for his entire childhood here. Still, Elfwine within himself was unsure if it was safe. If it was wise.

The fires within him burned still, though dampened by time and the same iron will that stoked them in the first place. He had already decided he would not recreate the Hunters that he had previously. He no longer believed extermination the most desirable or moral thing to do, even regarding the supernatural. The study in Blood would have to be extended, expanded to include all things under and over the sun. He smirked to himself. A Cathedral of Blood, to guard and protect but also to learn and enquire. Yes, that seemed better. And if later rulers found the beings in the dark too unmanageable, they could always do what he no longer could himself.

Returning to the glass, Elfwine examined his body. It was tall, taller than he’d dare hope (he knew well men did not tend to be tall outside the wildest lands in Scandinavia and Africa) and strong. His sight and strength were singular, which was to be expected, but would aid in his subterfuge around others. Tapping the surface with a long finger, Elfwine wryly mused that he looked a far more benevolent presence this time around. Gone were the long dark strands of Lancaster hair, the hair his forebears found so foreboding they shaved off. He was fair headed and…hearted? Was that how it worked?

His father seemed to think so. Despite their differences, he had seemed proud yesterday upon his recital of all he had learnt studying beneath him.

“You have come far, young one.”

Elfwine smiled at his father. “You remain many years my younger, my lord. Old age suits me well, I find.”

“If we should all be so lucky,” Wigberht said. “But do not deny it. You have become a fair-minded judge, a well-balanced steward and negotiator. The people respect you. The children love you. What more can you ask of yourself?”

“Everything,” Elfwine said, without hesitation. And that remained the problem. After all this time, after all this work from his father, the son still believed himself a deity, and felt frustration and guilt in measure for not being such.

“Oh, everything? That’s rather a lot,” Wigberht said, “and why do you think this?”

Elfwine lowered his gaze. “Because I could be better. Because I look at the world and want to seize it for its own good. Because I struggle still the trust any other person with their own lives. Because I,” he paused, “because I hate myself, and yet fear death more than peace.”

Wigberht sat next to him quietly for a while. He didn’t react to Elfwine’s darker thoughts. Elfwine assumed he already knew then, which upon reflection made sense. His father was a wiser man than many believed. Himself included, sometimes.

“Now there is a secret of my own that I must tell you, my son.”

And damn it if it wasn’t hypocritical, but Elfwine suddenly couldn’t bear to hear whatever it was. His father’s voice was soft, and gentle, and sounded like he knew everything.

Which, upon further reflection, he did, Elfwine realised. Wigberht knew, somehow, of everything that had occurred previously. He didn’t know whether to be furious or terrified.

“How?” he asked finally, his throat tight.

“You are not the only one with a gift for the creatures of this land. I have had occasion to speak with him before, but at length I spoke with him on you.”

“Who?”

“Amser, the Great Dragon.”

Elfwine flushed. Of all the beings, it had to be that one. How could he have forgotten that he would be here? And yet, of course he had. He had tried to forget everything to do with dragons for half a century.

“He told you everything?”

“Yes, eventually.”

“Including that I killed him?”

“Him, and every other dragon on the island. Their hatchery, their eggs. Now really, what were you thinking?”

Elfwine was silent.

“He told me everything, so that I would understand. So that I could help you.”

Elfwine looked up, “I don’t understand?”

Wigberht sighed, “Amaudru said once, long ago, that you could only have been sent here for a great purpose. Amser agrees.”

“He forgives me?”

“No, and that is irrelevant. No one could possibly forgive you for what you have done in a meaningful way. But you are certain to be king one day as you were before. You have the power then as you do now. And I suspect it could end the world or save it, in your time or after.”

“Father?”

“This, all this, feels like the setup in a great game between unthinkable players. What our role is to be, I cannot think. Amser himself does not know much, and what he does, he refuses to share. But a power greater than any of us stalks this family, this realm. We are mere pieces in its grasp.”

The pair sat together in silence.

“What should we do?”

“You are a man now…again. You must do what you think is right, not what you think is necessary.”

“That sounds simpler than it really is.”

“It always does. But you know this from ruling already. Help someone. Then another. There is little evil to be done in caring for others my son. Cynical as these past years have made me, I do not regret them much. I really am proud, you know?”

He did. And it made all the difference.

…

​

They sat in council together, father and son. The wealth of Lancaster grew ever-greater, it seemed. Elfwine sat, partially amused, partially horrified, as Wigberht took a councillor to task for a minor misdemeanour.

Halton, one of them anyway. How many men of God had he corrupted over the years, or twisted further from their path? Watching this one be saved from such a fate was a reminder, once again, that his father was a good man as well as a good ruler. Still, he tired easily these days. He was not old, yet the years and perhaps, knowledge, had hung heavily upon his shoulders. More and more he retreated from daily life to his tomes, his prayer and his solitude.

Little Margret did not understand as of yet, why her father vanished for days at a time. She was an insistent little lass, though too young yet to truly comprehend much. Maud was far less obtrusive, but that said little for she was still a Lancaster, and thus extremely capable of raising hell when it suited her.

No wonder Wigberht secluded as he did. The townspeople certainly noticed. They were whispering about him now, calling him ‘the Holy’, as if he were a saintly ghost that had yet to realise it had yet to depart for Paradise. Elfwine knew that his past, or previous life, wore on his father greatly. It had, despite objections, rendered him a cynic of sorts. Wigberht was not the happy man who lived and prayed hard, and died happy, ready for his son to take the throne.

So, when his father quietly announced at dinner that he was preparing for a journey of Pilgrimage far to the East, Elfwine was unsurprised. That did not stop him objecting in private afterwards.

“Why now? With the children still so young?”

“I have a feeling in my bones I am not long for this world,” he replied serenely. “No, do not deny it,” he shushed his son, “I am determined to see the Holy Land before I die, and I have every faith in my regent to handle matters here.”

“Mother will not like this.”

“I will make it up to her, somehow.”

And a few weeks later he was gone, riding off ahead of hand-picked guards and guides. His family watched him leave with a certain amount of foreboding. Elfwine sighed and bowed lightly to his mother.

“He left you in charge.”

“That is not all he left me.”

Elfwine’s brow raised and he smiled.

…

It took mere days for the carrion birds to descend upon Lancaster. With the master gone, the wretches of the island believed his lands would be easy pickings. Elfwine had arrested two and driven off four more agents of ill-repute. The holy men he had to send to his mother. Bribery only worked sometimes however, when death awaited those that failed back home.

Lancaster might well have found itself invaded by a larger threat, but thankfully Elfwine’s careful eye upon the Mercian Queen bore fruit. She was busy preparing for war yes, but it was against Northumbria. The Iceling were still at their old game of unifying the Church underneath their banner. Having been somewhat successful in Canterbury, and York being too hard a nut to crack, they turned to the third Christian site in Saxon lands: The Holy Isles.

Elfwine knew that the monks of Lindisfarne could not fall to the Mercian army, and so drew a plan of attack that would hopefully allow a ruinous war between Lancaster’s two rivals whilst ending in to stalemate. His mother, aware of the risks not only of war but also of doing nothing, agreed after consultation with the churchmen of the city, who begged an intercession.

Mercia was a much greater threat militarily than their would-be enemies in Northumbria, and so Elfwine waited for their army to cross the river border into Yorkshire before pouncing on the undefended Mercian capital in the Trent valley. The war was short, bloody and brutal, effectively snapping the neck of the kingdom before they could muster any defence. Their queen agreed to respect Lancaster’s land claims, and gifted them tribute of a smattering of goods annually.

Having defanged Mercia for now, Elfwine was reasonably secure in the belief that Lancaster was adequately protected. Now he began the second phase of his campaign. He needed to ascertain the lay of the land outside Saxon territory, introduce Lancaster as a powerful and benevolent neighbour and potential friend in Ireland and Pictland, and reaffirm its bonds with the Welsh peoples.

By the time Wigberht returned from his pilgrimage, Elfwine wished for the entirety of Britannia to know the name Lancaster, and recognise their authority as a true power of the islands.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 9: Ventures Aboard​

It had been a year of adventure, Beor decided.

His brother seemed to come alive as never before when their father went off on his travels. With Lancaster in the safe hands of Amaudru, Elfwine gathered an odd assortment of soldiers, bards, servants and advisors, spending days at a time in confidential talks with them. Upon the fifth day of the regency, his brother came to his door.

“We’re going on an adventure of our own, you and I,” he said. His eyes sparkled in excitement as he described how their party would travel the land, meeting with the chiefs and rulers of all the peoples of the islands. Trading with them, revelling with them, Lancaster would push its influence outwards towards its neighbours by all the powers at its command.

“We are a land of traders and merchants, shopkeepers and craftsmen,” he said. “Let us go out and sell them our wares, find out more about their own lives, perhaps aid them with small difficulties they are having. I want to push the map outwards and ensure we at least know rather than know of these peoples.”

“That sounds a grand plan indeed,” Beor replied in a daze, enchanted by the visions laid out before him. “Exploring the land, righting wrongs, fighting monsters!”

“Yes, I expect all of that in time,” Elfwine replied. “It grants us the opportunity to remind the Welsh that Lancaster is here to stay also, and whilst we have little interest in fighting them and conquering their land unlike Mercia, we will defend our interests just as fiercely.”

Beor frowned. “Is that really necessary? So far as I know, most of the welsh have been fairly decent to our own men, and there hasn’t been any incident with any of their princes since Father defeated them many years ago.”

Elfwine flicked his hand, “It is a possibility that I am aware of, now that Mercia has been cowed and contained at least for the moment. I simply wish to ensure that the peace that existed between our realms out of fear of Mercian attack will stand following their loss.”

Beor nodded slowly, but still thought that his brother was far too worried over nothing. “I’m sure they will see reason. And I certainly wouldn’t want to march down in their midst spear and shield raised on the off-chance of their hostility.”

Elfwine shrugged. “We shall see who is right, when it comes to it. I suspect we shall have to fight some in our travels but our goal is hardly evil, we do not mean to replace and subjugate our fellows across the seas. Pictland is chaotic and dangerous at the best of times however, so there may be some difficulty there.”

“So long as we adopt the best of intentions, and are honest in our dealings, I doubt much evil will befall us. As for the rest, we can handle it.” Beor was confident of that. His brother was, if stubborn, usually a good judge of these things.

And so, they went with much fanfare from the city. The Welsh did revolt just a little, though not as much as Elfwine expected. Beor took pains to meet and greet as many as he could in his time in the south, an area he had never been before. The best part of the adventure was unquestionably next however. A short and stormy trip across the seas saw them landed in an incredibly lush and green land of forest and beast. The tribes who lived there were hardy, handy folk who lived extremely close to the land and waters. Aside from some trouble with pirates, and some raiders that troubled the Leinister fishing port, Ireland was a wonderful place. The monsters there were fearsome but kept mostly to themselves, and the people further into the interior of the country had little to do with the coastal tribes. Even Elfwine, though curious, did not see much reason to go off the beaten track too much.

Most of the men and women they encountered were awed by the displays from Lancaster, a rather legendary place for most. A city that had, from their stories, sprang from nowhere yet burst forth with gold, treasure and might. The bears attracted great attention, especially from children. Secret enjoyed himself immensely, being one of the few whom had left Lancaster before to this wilderness. Their gifts of cloth and baubles were returned tenfold by locals of all description, from great mounds of mead and fish sent back to Lancaster or strange yet beautiful carvings and artwork. At a large meeting of several tribes that lined the coastline facing Saxon lands, Elfwine agreed enthusiastically to a treaty of mutual aid and protection surrounding the Irish and Lancastrians. They would work together against external threats, and even minor ones such as the perennial issue of raiders and pirates that so dotted that sea.

If Ireland was a triumph, Pictland was cold, wet and miserable. The weather turned almost as soon as the boat hit the land, and the omens did not improve afterwards. There was a war of some kind within the country, and Elfwine fought off many groups of bandits and armies from various local lords and chiefs. Even the King’s forces encountered them on occasion, though Beor was proud to say they showed them off thrice. Somehow, they did manage to meet and interact with some friendly faces, and Elfwine through some great effort did in the end get a similar treaty agreed upon as with the Irish chiefs, though he did not hold out much hope of it ever bearing fruit.

“A note we must remember Beor,” he said as the party finally descended from the harsh lands of the Picts, “this place is utterly unruly as of yet. There is little to be got out of it.”

Still, by every other measure the adventure had been a great and grand one. They returned to Lancaster in triumph, with even some Irish guests and dignitaries already present and working with their mother to patrol the new trade routes established.

All in all, Beor felt quite pleased with his year. Still regrettably young, as Elfwine put it, he had taken part in his brother’s great diplomatic overture, and seen his city welcome many more people into its bosom. It would have been better had he taken part in the battles, he supposed, but Elfwine was rather firmly of the opinion that he remained too young for such matters yet. Soon however, he would be a man in full, and one that had already seen and done many things of import.

…​

Wigberht of course, viewed things a little differently when he returned from his voyages. He was greatly surprised that he was greeted in Wessex by a guard of honour, and a fawning number of servants to answer his every whim. His suspicions grew to certainty when the local king was complimentary of his and his heir’s work in the past year.

Lancaster had in his absence expanded its necessary franchise of ‘understanding’ between itself and the welsh princes (the understanding being that they were free to do as they would, provided they pay for the privilege) to apparently everyone under the sun. Quite how his son had gotten away with such blatant statecraft he did not know but events were in motion that distracted his attention.

First and most importantly, as soon as he landed in Lancaster, he was greeted by panicking maids about his wife’s labour. In the sprint back to the hall, he cycled through the various emotions of astonishment of unexpected parenthood, joy at the prospect once again, dread at the threat of childbirth upon his wife and child, anger at Elfwine’s daring and presumption…wonder at why his son had not met him at the dock.

Judith Wiglafing of Lancaster was born several hours later, with difficulty. Neither he or his wife were had youth on their side, and the child struggled to cling to life. A sailor surgeon he had grown close to on the voyage back worked tirelessly to bring vigour and blood into his daughter, and at last succeeded in keeping her warm and happy. For this, he humbly accepted little reward, but the offer of court physician held his attention.

After the turbulent emotional highs and lows of Judith’s birth out of the way, he finally collapsed into bed with his recovering wife. He leapt out of it again moments later. Elfwine was not in Lancaster. Elfwine was in Northumbria, fighting a supposedly large force of men sent down from the Pictland wars to invade Lancaster. Messengers had already reached the city that the danger of attack was past, the army had been defeated and little remained but to negotiate restitution. Still, Wigberht fumed. Still, again, his son had gone out into the world and brought back a bloodied carcass as a prize.

What he would have done was, alas, never to be known, even to himself. The nervous energy he had carried with him all day overcame him, and he collapsed in front of a terrified Amaudru. His recently appointed doctor, and new Mayor of Malpus, helped him to bed and examined his body.

It made for a grim telling. Wigberht’s body was riddled with the pestilence. At two score and two, it seemed his life was already up upon the scales of Fate.

…​

Elfwine smiled atop Secret as his army marched victoriously out of York yet again. This time however, he grinned not for the conquest of land but the promise of Lancaster. His mother was due her time for birth, and soon a new Lancaster child would grow up safe within her walls. His new bride was also due to arrive any day now from Francia, along with, apparently, half the courts of Europe to attend what promised to be the wedding of the year (late though it was) and be close to the two Karls as they once more tried to garner support from Lancaster.

A messenger nearly falling off his mount in exhaustion cut through such thoughts cleanly. Secret bounded forward and butted heads with the other bear in concern, whilst Elfwine hoisted the boy to his feet.

“Sorry sir…my lord,” the lad was quite faint.

“Deep breathes son,” he commanded. “Now, what is your missive?”

“Return at once. My Lord Wigberht is gravely ill. He is…” the youth gulped, “not expected to last many morns hence.”

Elfwine nearly dropped the boy. Secret whirled around and threw the two men together onto his back before racing off over the countryside, leaving the army far behind.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 10: A Grim Fairy-tale​

Once upon a time I sing,

of man who thought himself a king.


A young man came into fortune for himself, and so, as is the way of things, sought to spend it attaining that which he desired most. He bought himself an army and, with guile and effort, forged a kingdom of his own, and gold enough to rest upon, and crown his brow.

The land he made was beautiful, for that was what he desired. The people were fed, the people were happy. Their king was good, and generous, and had built for them a land wherein their children could play, for the monsters had all gone away.

Did they know, I wonder, what their monarch had done for them?

Upon their land, so fertile because beneath which the bodies of a thousand dead and buried lay. All these the king had slain for they would threaten his people, and Man and Monster he tossed together into the pit for his beasts to feed upon, or into great holes then covered over with new turf. And the people were so well-fed, and so happy, that what little did they care or notice when, upon occasion, their friend went missing in the night? Or a fatal accident struck down a poor preacher? Or when several brigands were burnt alive in the street? They were protected. They were safe.

The king was good.

And so on, and on, life went for the young man. The young monarch in time became a seasoned one, with a beautiful knife for a wife and a knight for a son. The people were happy and the kingdom was rich.

And yet…

Desire feeds itself, as though never sated. The king, who once dreamed of kingship, of power over mortal Man, found himself atop the world and made the mistake of looking down. What he saw, was what all there ever was. His kingdom was a land of Death, built by it and ran upon its bones. His hunters roomed freely, cutting down any promise of life within the realm, and his son the worst of the lot.

But this was surely no difficulty. He was a smart man, a clever man. He had forged a kingdom! What was this thing called Mortality to presume itself invincible? He would cut it down himself.

And so on, and on, life went. The people aged, as did the man. The people remained happy, but he was not. Colder and colder became the walls of his house. Many quests that he had began to find a cure, a salvation for his great enemy, all ended in failure. The Cup of Life was a fable he now no longer believed in. And yet, he had decreed it. Death had to die.

So, the man decided that if he could not cure it, he would prevent it. Departing his realm that was once so dear to him behind, he wandered in search of that thing that people spoke of in whisper and murmur. Eventually, after much trial and toil, he came across a most-aged fellow of remarkable constitution.

“Look here,” he said. “Surely you are Death, or His servant to be left so old and not wither. Tell me then where He is, or announce yourself forthwith, so I might meet with He and vanquish Him.”

The other fellow smiled at him and shook his head. “Why do you seek Death, my son? He knows where you are, and will come in Time.”

“No, no, I shall not wait for Death. I am the King, man! You will speak or see how far your master will go to protect you.”

The fellow smiled wider. “Very well,” he said. “You have had your chance.” He extended a knobbly finger and pointed. “Over there, by that stream, you will find a Fisher. He does not wait for Death, but He will be along presently.”

The king enthusiastically made good speed to the stream, which was rather more a river in size. It was a singular thing though, the ebb and flow most irregular in speed and motion. The king did not trouble himself with it for long however, for he had spotted the fabled Fisher of which the fellow spoke.

“I say! I am told Death is coming here soon?”

“Oh yes, yes, He is coming.” The Fisher looked up from his rod and smiled at the sight of the king. “Why do you ask?”

“I wish to meet with him.”

The Fisher laughed. “Well, you know where the river is,” and with that he turned back to the waters.

The king, angered by the man’s dismissal, drew his sword, only to find it stuck in its sheath. No matter how hard he tugged, it would not answer his summons, as it always had eagerly in the past.

“It’s no use trying for that,” the Fisher said cheerfully. “Death may well be coming along this river but He will not appear whilst I’m at work.”

“You repel him then?”

“Oh no, there is no way to keep Him back when the Time is right,” the Fisher said. “Of course, if you are still trying for a meeting, and you don’t want to try the river, I would make best speed to go home at once.”

“Oh? Will you speak to Him?” The king was suspicious.

“No need. He is already on His way.” The Fisher’s face dropped as he looked around again. “Tragic business, I must say.”

“You promise this is the case?”

“I do swear it, upon whatever deity you happen to name.”

The king, mollified yet confused, did turn around and did make best speed for home. He arrived back exhausted, and waved off all welcome. He had an important visitation that night, he said, and was not to be disturbed. Then he emptied his hall, and sat on his golden chair.

He waited.

And so, he might have waited many years hence, were it not for his son and his knights entering. He ordered them out, did they not see he was awaiting company. They said he would suffer their company, only as long as it took for him to die.

And when they and he lay upon the crimson floor, their life leaking from every crack made in the remarkable artwork of their bodies, Elfwine Lancaster kept his appointment with the Reaper-man.

…​

Elfwine awoke from the vision, aware it had been no dream of his own conception. Above his prone and shivering body, on that cold winter’s night, towering above the forest clearing they had found respite in, Amser was.

How many men in ages past would have given their right hands for such a sight? Amser had been worshipped by Mankind ever since they first dwelt within the forests and hills of this country. Perhaps even before then, for Amser was a powerful thing indeed.

He was the Lord of All Dragons, and the embodiment of Time made physical.

“You mock me, now at the hour of my Father’s death.” Elfwine whispered, head bowed. He had before tonight been resigned to whatever terrible fate the Last Serpent had in store for him, when he finally came calling for it. But tonight, of all nights, was a cruelty Elfwine could only imagine one being committing.

“I am not you, King Lancaster,” Amser said, his quietest words still like a gale suddenly whipping the trees before vanishing as quickly as it arrived.

“Then why do you haunt my dreams and block my path?”

“Unless you planned on sleepwalking to Lancaster, I was not in your way.”

Elfwine scowled. “You may kill me. You may torture me for eternity as is your right and as is within your power. But I must see my Father first. His life carries worth yet.”

Amser hummed, and the sound caused Elfwine’s skull to vibrate. “Revenge…is the most worthless of causes, King Lancaster. And yet, you are filled with nothing but thought of it.”

“I rather thought,” Elfwine shot back, “of the vengeance sure to be delivered unto myself.”

“Because that is what you would do, to those who wronged you.”

Elfwine glared silently upwards. “Get out of the way, or get to the point.”

“Very well, you have had your chance,” Amser said quietly, his voice now a ripple across a still pool. “Wigberht will not live to see you step foot in Lancaster.”

Whilst that possibility had occurred to him, it still knocked Elfwine to his knees. “Then it was all for nothing,” he said, “I failed again, and again, and again. Now once more I have enriched my realm but burnt away another strand of family. And for what?”

“Indeed, it is most unfortunate,” Amser said. “That is why I have come to aid you both.”

Elfwine dropped his gaze to a slumbering Secret. The messenger boy was long gone, having been sent back to the army to tell them of what occurred. “Leave my friend out of this game you play. And my Father too. His soul is too bright an object to be enshrouded by our business.”

“You are wrong,” Amser replied, “to think his soul was not darkened by your presence in his life. And wrong also to think he did not do such a thing willingly in service to you. I will place you both together, that you might speak on matters of importance.”

“Just like that.”

“Yes.”

The dragon and the human stared at each other unblinkingly. Elfwine slowly rose from his knees. “Agreed.”

…

Elfwine blinked, and was in a cavern. No, he was in a cavern, and the suddenness surprised him such that he blinked. Amser, now in a place that truly encapsulated his majesty, stretched his wings and winked, before turning his mighty head towards the comfortable bed on an outcrop of rock and mineral, so very far up from the cave floor. So very high that, for once, Elfwine was nearly at eye level with the dragon, if Amser would but stoop his neck a little.

“That is, he?” Elfwine pointed to the bed, but found he could not bring himself to move over.

“It is. Now be about yourself, King Lancaster. Your own master is calling fast.”

Elfwine grimaced, unable now to look away from the rising and falling blankets that contained the broken remains of his father.

He could smell the blood from where he stood.

“Come along, my dear boy,” his father’s voice rang out around the cavern, weak as it was. “I suspect I do not have long.”

“And I cannot believe you hired a Sea-Devil of your own, a man whom has lopped off his own limbs, and willingly placed yourself under his knife.”

“Well…he did much better the second time through.”

Elfwine rolled his eyes, that threatened to fill with tears. “You know, Ida was meant to be coming soon.”

“Ah, yes. I shall be sorry to miss it,” Wigberht sighed. “She seemed such a nice girl too. You must promise to look after her, you know? And your mother.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

The pair lapsed into silence. Elfwine traced the lines of blood, red skin and bandages. The butcher must have half-gutted the poor man. “How deep was the tumour?”

“Immensely. I was surprised he found it. And more so when he removed it.”

“One thing to his favour when I string him up. You won’t die of cancer.”

Wigberht made to straighten up in bed, but coughed and found he couldn’t. “Do not…do not do it, son. It isn’t worth it, and he is owed much for Judith’s sake.” He wheezed, but seemed determined to defend his killer.

“Of course, you are so,” Elfwine breathed deeply in once, closed his eyes when the blood infused his senses, and struggled to relax. “I will…try to be merciful.”

“Good. I think you may find it easier than you believe.” Wigberht’s mouth curved upwards, and he readjusted himself upon his pillows. “I thank our host for his kindness. Most of the pain is gone.”

“It is mostly the failing of your body, your Majesty,” Amser said regretfully, “though I did what I could.”

“Ah. Well, thank you regardless. I suspect this little stage in the Grand Plan had me dead with Elfwine away?”

“The intricacies of the universe, and the why or wherefore of Fate, these things are not for you to know,” Amser replied gently. “The helping out part however, was my initiative.”

“Thank you,” Elfwine said slowly, the enormity of the dragon’s mercy hitting him. “But…why?”

Amser looked at him, two suns in the darkness of the cavern burning golden light down upon him. “You think, little Lancaster, that you are the only Dragon-slayer in all the world? Many amongst Man sought and seek to challenge themselves with that which is strongest or seems immutable. My brethren are mighty and easily found, and so make war with these types eternally. But for us, we are different from you. Humans are, and then are not. We go on, never beginning but also never ending. It is like trying to destroy a number by destroying the mark of it.”

“So…did I actually-”

“Oh yes, you killed many serpents in your time. And you have suffered for it. But you have done far harder and meaner things. And you have suffered for those as well. Be at peace.”

Elfwine looked back down at his father, only to grasp him in alarm. The man was fading rapidly.

“I love you, and I love my family.” Wigberht said, no louder than a whisper. “Do not…be…” He looked at his son, one last time. “Forgive him,” he said, “forgive yourself.”

So it was that Wigberht, the Lord of Lancaster, and the best man Elfwine ever knew, succumbed to his sleep. Elfwine knelt beside the bed and gave himself permission to weep for a while. And so, he did, reflecting and remising on all that had been done, and all that had been said, and all that had been given to him by so blessed a man as this.

The sound of Amser shifting slightly in the background stilled Elfwine’s grief. He grasped his father’s hand and rose. Staring down at the body of his twice-deceased parent, he spoke aloud, “Take me instead, please.”

He turned and bowed to the silent shadow that now took up much of the rock. “Take me in his place, my Lord Death.”

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 11: Deathmatch​

Elfwine brought down the mace with his remaining strength. Once. Twice. The light and much of the structure of his son’s face had long gone, yet he raised the maul one last time before it fell from trembling fingers, and he collapsed in a heap next to the corpse.

Secret’s roar and the cries of the guard sprang burst through the hall doorway, yet it was all too late. The two would-be-kings lay next to each other, cold in death.

This, Elfwine thought, is no less than I deserve.

He thought back, as his vision turned to black, to standing his boy up in front of everyone and proclaiming him his heir. Of the joy and pride in his face, which he knew mirrored his own. The jubilation was doubled when later that week, his wife gave birth to his second son Eadric. What a fine man he turned out to be, in spite of his lineage.

He remembered the day he finally broke Edward upon the floor, watched as the burn and fire he so desired entered his eyes and swore that he would better his father in every way. Elfwine remembered how pleased he had been. How proudly he moulded the child into his preferred killer.

By the time he came of age, Edward was a man of ice and iron. He knew, flawlessly, the account books of Lancaster. He knew the weight of gold in his hand, as much as he knew how to crush a skull with it. And he was filled with such yearning for destruction that he gave Elfwine himself pause. Multiple times he had to be confined to bed for injuries upon himself, multiple times punished for his…bloody indiscretions with commoners and House staff.

Eventually, the King of Lancaster had to rein in his monster. The people were talking, and not all of it good. Edward was the Knight of Lancaster, a thug, a brute, and rode about with twelve companions destroying everything they came across, friend and foe. After twice forestalling a decree of excommunication (the last of which for killing a priest in the middle of Mass), Elfwine brought his son before him.

Lancaster was to be the seat of a new and fantastic palace, a wonder of the modern world. Elfwine prepared a great display of feasting and merriment for the people, whilst the breaking-ground ceremony would be attended by all the lords and mayors of the land. It was here, he thought, he could reintegrate Edward.

The plan was scuppered by his own blood. Edward showed up in a flying rage, cowering most of the crowd in fear. He then challenged the king in front of everyone in a duel for glory. In his own anger, Elfwine accepted, and had brought forth his own father’s signature weapon, a great mace wielded by Wigberht on many an occasion in Welsh lands. He remembered seeing his son actually shrink from such a demand. Such a weapon indicated no mercy, no quarter. Had he, in his own heart, ever felt a flash of empathy, of regret or uncertainty at that moment? He remembered standing firm, and his son’s white face fill again with red.

And so, the greatest warrior Lancaster had ever known squared up against his own son, with a weapon designed solely to shatter the bodies of opponents. In hindsight, it was nothing short of a miracle that Edward lost much little more than his eye. He left his boy bleeding upon the ground, upon the hill that was meant to carry his palace of glory. Instead, he changed the plans so the palace would be its own gigantic mound, squatting as a sort of peninsula out to sea.

As the years went on, Elfwine began, slightly, to soften around his family. Or his newer one, in any respect. Eadric was a joy, as he always was. Poor Eadric…

Edward rallied as best he could. Despite himself, he remained a keen rider, even winning several trials and duels in tournaments. It was becoming clear however that his injuries and mental state rendered him unfit for ruling, and Elfwine made the decision to replace him with Eadric.

His son did not take such a thing well. His rage and his fury drove him to greater and greater extremes, deviancy and devilry that horrified Lancaster and the wider world. When he did enter and proclaim his quest for the throne, following Elfwine’s quest for Death, the king had, he supposed now, no right to be shocked.

And so now they were both to die, and be kinslayers together in death. His realm would not survive such a scandal, such a tragedy His line was ended, and his legacy ruined. Hatred and anger for Edward melted away against shame and sadness, before lighting up again in equal measure.

Elfwine supposed it was the bitterest irony of his life that it was then that Death chose to make its long-awaited appearance.

…​

“You played an excellent game of Chess, for a complete novice,” Death chuckled. It was quite the hollow sound, yet was somehow as warm as Wigberht’s.

“You…let me win, I am sure,” Elfwine replied, lost in reverie.

“True, but you knew that at the time. One cannot play games with myself, and think to win.”

Elfwine rose from his bow. “How many times must we meet? How many must die for my sins and mistakes? I beg you, not one more. Not this man.”

Death, a figure he had long sought after, and afterwards long been acquainted with, and yet never truly understood, came to sit by Wigberht’s bedside. “You know me, and you know the world, my friend. How many mothers have pled for the lives of their struggling babes, crying out into the night? How many good men have pled for the lives of their followers in exchange for their own? And yet there was never any bargain, no matter the cause. There cannot be. What is, is. Humanity may make its play at Justice, but in this matter, there is none.”

“I cannot accept that.”

“That, my son, was always the problem with you,” a voice said quietly behind him.

Elfwine whirled around and beheld his father, blinking up at him, with a wry smile upon his face. “So, there is hope?”

“Always, my Champion,” Death said softly. “Not even I know what lies in wait for you beyond oblivion. That rather goes beyond my remit. In the minds of Men, you know that death comes to all. You know it as a sadness, a tragedy, and also a release from pain, a mercy as well as a punishment. And so, when it came to imagining Death, the Reaper of Mankind, you see an all-encompassing wind, so kind and yet so distant. You are, to my mind at least, a truly remarkable species.”

“I wish I could say I was pleased to meet you,” Wigberht said, “but I find I cannot just yet. My heart aches for your burden however. It sounds like the worst of all fates.”

“It is what it is,” Death replied, patting the man on the shoulder, bone meeting bone, “I do not mind it. As I said, you made me thus, and I would neither have nor allow another to comfort you in your last moments, and carry you over to the Beyond.”

“I suppose, now I am no longer mortal, I might beg for knowledge of Heaven?” Wigberht asked hopefully.

Death took in his face, earnest and yet fearful of what was to come. “Your heart is one that should never have feared what might await it, to be sure. Alas, I must refuse your request, as you are yet mortal still.”

“I am alive?”

“You are still dying. You happen to be lying next to a being of Time however, who has stretched out your last to far longer than usual.” There was no hint of accusation in the voice, yet Elfwine was amazed to see Amser duck his great head and appear somewhat remorseful.

“I thought it best.”

“I’m sure you did,” Death said. “No matter, for I would speak with all three of you.”

“Then I was right?” Wigberht sat up in bed, aches and pains forgotten. “There is a doom upon the land?”

“Of a kind. In this world, there was no Elfwine. No line of Lancaster to descend from. This world needed such a line to survive, and so a higher power intervened. There is a Seal upon this Earth, of all Earths, that contains within such horrors only hinted at in the darkest pages of sacred texts. A being of Power and Benevolence long ago sealed them away, here and now.”

“The Seal can be broken?” Elfwine frowned.

“Yes,” Amser said. “It is one of Time as well as Space. Through cracks and weaknesses, a demon will take the opportunity to break through. Humanity is far too easily swayed, too easily tempted, too easily convinced to be adequate gatekeepers. Not without warning. Not without…you.”

“In a trifle of a game of Chess, you played with Death. You quested and searched the realms, battled foes and killed your offspring in search of ultimate power and knowledge. Time and Fate wore you down, that you could safely be granted an equally trifling amount of Power as Death’s Champion. Yet now, through the machinations of a being beyond even myself, you have come to a place of Doom and Dread, and fought for Life instead. Demanded it, in fact, to my face, out of love and respect. In so doing, you have pledged yourself to another.”

“I am freed from being Death’s Champion?” Elfwine breathed, hardly daring to believe it.

Death shifted, “You will always be my servant, for the things you have done, and the path that you walked. Yet you are no longer damned to be only that. Come what may, and I warn you that you are still fully capable of grievous error and judgement, you are the Champion of Life as well.”

“No! You will not burden him with more than he already must carry!” Wigberht said, leaping out of bed and advancing on Death. “My son is a man, a person of conviction and strength like no other. Yet he has been dogged by demons all his life, of his own making and those of the likes of you, that seek to make him your plaything! You speak of his crimes yet enabled him to make more, many more, in your name! And you Amser, who claims to see all of Time, cannot see a better solution than this? Elfwine should not be sacrifice upon the altar of your infernal machinations.”

Death stared at him in silence. Amser turned his head towards Elfwine with sorrow. “In a way, your father speaks true. I see things so differently from Mankind, that I know not what you would truly find acceptable. Know however that I have seen you in your many forms and histories, and know who and what you are beneath the trappings of your crown. If I or my friend selected you for this terrible thing, it was because we knew you could not help but be-”

“-the man that he is,” Death finished. “He set himself on a path to me, gentle Wigberht. He had his chance to turn back. And were you to turn to him now, and ask him thus, he would say much as I.”

Wigberht raised an eyebrow at his son.

“I regret everything,” Elfwine began, “it is true. I made my own path, cutting through others when necessary. I would change that if I could, for I brought such suffering on my own world and family…but I would not allow anyone else to shoulder this burden but I. I am already damned by my own hand. No one but the worst of people would deserve such a punishment, and I would not trust anyone else with such a responsibility.”

Death nodded. “Be it so,” and withdrew from the folds of a cloak two chalices of ornate and carved wood. “I believe you searched for one of these fruitlessly, my Champion.”

Elfwine caught the cup that was thrown to him. Upon the side, he saw the Red Rose of Lancaster, and within the cup, a lining of glimmering gold. “Life…” he whispered. “The Cup of Life.”

“Just so,” Death said. “So, whomever of your blood that drinks from the Cup shall be blessed and cursed with the traits of Life’s Champion.”

Wigberht was passed the other cup. This was of a paler complexion, with a white blossom upon the side. Within the cup was a lining of darkest material. Light seemed consumed by its depths. “And what is this?”

“Knowledge,” Death answered. “So, whomever of your blood that has been chosen, that has drunk from the other Cup, might drink from this and receive the blessing and curses of Death’s Champion. Be warned however, that once taken, this Cup be absolute. As it was in Eden, the Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.”

Elfwine took the other cup, and nearly dropped it upon seeing the white flower. “Snow drops,” he said, and an image of an empty hill emblazoned with the plant, beneath which his son slept, came to him.

“Just so,” Death said. “A reminder of the cost. This is a burden not just on you, but your family. Whilst any of them might drink from Life’s Cup, one must drink from the other. This is the price you must pay, for the fate of your world.”

Wigberth and Elfwine looked at each other. They both nodded.

“Then it is so, with Amser as witness,” Death said heavily. “I wish it were not needed.” The figure of Death seemed forlorn for a time, staring up into the cavern ceiling as though piercing the very sphere of heaven. “It is time, Wigberht.”

“No!” Elfwine cried, reaching for his father.

“I must go son, it is over for me,” Wigberht smiled at him, moisture alighting in his eyes. “I will look for you, when your own time comes. May you meet your end as nobly as you ever could.”

“I am not ready!” Elfwine’s voice broke, “I am not capable of being the King in the North any longer, nor do I have any wish to be.”

“You will always be King in the North,” his father said, smiling, “but whoever but you said that was a terrible title?”

“Father I…” Elfwine, so old and yet so young within the moment, held Wigberht close to him one last time, “You were everything I ever remembered. I wish I had known you better.”

“I think, my son,” Wigberht said, tears finally falling down his face, “you knew me at my best.”

Arm in arm, the Lord of Lancaster and Death went onwards into mist, leaving Elfwine behind.

…

It was a frozen night, so very far from home. Ida sat alone in the cold open air, watching the twisting and shattering of the waves below. Her father and her uncle had been quarrelling now for hours; even on foreign soil, in a hall guarded by giant bears the Karling brothers had a rivalry that shook the earth.

Her husband-to-be was absent, further away still apparently on campaign. And her new father was supposedly on his deathbed, yet had vanished somehow before the party of Franks arrived. So, Lancaster was a mysterious, as well as a foreboding place.

There was wonder too, she thought. The huge and sprawling bear pit, and the Bear Guard itself, were most magnificent. The creatures were as a rule, shy, peaceful and gentle to her ministrations, yet she knew from reputation and from their mighty claws and teeth what dangers they were to Lancaster’s enemies. Both Karling men were determined of course to utilise them against the other.

And so, her own wedding was to be another duelling match between those two strutting cocks.

She had dared to hope of Lancaster, for the man she was to wed and the whole family were, according to talk, of great mind and body. Ida herself was no fool, and desired more than most to be free to pursue her own interests whilst, naturally, fulfilling the duties of devoted wife and mother. She hoped Elfwine would be kind, if nothing else. It was all anyone could ask in a world such as theirs.

Shouting from the hall had grown louder and louder, and a servant ran up to her with cries of “My Lady! My Lady!” Ida frowned and turned her back on the sea front, only to gasp in astonishment.

There, below the hill and outside the walls and gates of Lancaster City, sat an enormous and fearsome dragon, with scales of midnight blue and eyes of flaming gold. She, as well as other onlookers now gawping at the sight, took in the impossible: the white fur of a bear dismounting from the dragon’s back! As the bear grew closer, passing through the front gates, a cry rang out “It’s the Lord Lancaster! He has returned!” and a great cheer rang out from much of the local contingent.

Their shouts of excitement quietened when they saw that a young man did indeed sit astride the great bear, yet carried another wrapped in the sheet of death beside him. Amaudru, a most kind and gracious lady, burst into tears at the sight, and Ida felt her heart to out to her.

“It is Elfwine,” a boy said next to her. After looking at him, she knew it to be Beor, son of Wigberht. So, her husband was not so far after all. “And…father,” he said, quietly. She reached out and embraced him, his sobs as sudden as his outburst.

It was indeed the pair, and Secret, a bear of infamy across Europe, that trooped into the hall before the gaze of three courts. Elfwine gently place the body of his father down upon the dais, before turning to Amaudru. They said few words to each other before sharing their sorrow as only mother and son could.

Then he came to her.

“My lady, I apologise for the circumstances of our meeting,” he said. His voice rang with grief, yet carried still the strength of his character. “I will in short order meet and make merry with you and your good men of Francia,” he said, looking over at her gobsmacked uncle and father in the corner, then wryly back at her. She managed a small smile of amusement, one he shared back with her. “The State, unfortunately, comes first.”

He went back to the shroud and announced the death of his father, the Lord of Lancaster. “We must mourn the passing of a man whom touched the lives and hearts of all whom reside within our realm, and far beyond. We will then go forward together, as one people, under the legacy of Wigberht the Holy, and the House of Lancaster.”

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 12: The King and His Councils Part 1​

It was not his Lancaster, Elfwine thought. When he had himself made King of Lancaster on the 1st of June 787, he had just marched his army into York. He had been a decade older in body, had been widowed and married again. Now nearly a full century later, it was all starting over.

There were differences, of course. He was not the unquestioned master of Britannia. The wealth of every nation was not piling into his lap…yet. This Lancaster was smaller in many ways, untested and pure of his influence. And yet, because of his experiences, it was already much wealthier in both actual terms and tax revenues.

He remembered his coronation. Ioannes ‘the Cruel’, he of the Lover’s Pox and Secret’s plaything, was the one to crown him that time. Though he had long ago recognised his own failings, Elfwine mused every so often about what path he might have taken had not his peers shown any moral fibre of their own. It denigrated Wigberht’s memory though, for his father, for his sins, was a better man than many.

Elfwine smirked as he thought to the more recent past. In many ways, this world was much the same as before. The wedding ceremony was a bastard and a half to organise. Two rival Houses arguing with each other over every detail, with another caught in the middle mourning the loss of their patriarch. It was a wonder a blood feud had not broken out. They had just got to the point where the two Karls were arguing over which bishop would perform the rites when the Archbishop of Canterbury showed up with an entourage, insisting he would do it. Apparently, things were even worse in Mercia than Elfwine knew, if their most prized possession was begging around Lancaster for recognition.

His smirk grew into a grin as the chaotic planning got even worse. The army had returned finally from where Elfwine and Secret had abandoned them. Thankfully, Cuthbert had taken charge as he usually did. In a previous life, he had been a most useful servant. Apparently, his competence carried over for the solider was canny enough to turn about and retake York, adding the remainder of Yorkshire to Lancaster’s banner without any work of Elfwine’s part.

Cuthbert deserved something nice, he decided.

Unfortunately, for Canterbury and the Karlings, the army came back with a hanger-on: The Archbishop of York. Elfwine himself had to enter the fray to stop a diplomatic incident at that point, pointing out that yes, as the highest-ranking priest of the realm, Beornread really did have to perform the wedding. It did not make Canterbury feel any better when he learnt the Pope was arriving for the coronation. After all that, the marriage ceremony itself was a bit of an anti-climax, though Ida was certainly a lovely person. They had spoken often over the past few days, and they were fast friends, which was a surprising development.

She was to meet with him this morning in fact, along with Beor and Secret, before the addressing of the Wittenmagot that had finally assembled in full today. His full council, all the landowners of the realm, the mayors, the bishops, a few courtiers and the mercenary captains Lancaster had collected under its banner. It was a potent collection. It was important therefore to confer with his actual advisors before ‘consulting’ the mob. Secret lumbered in carrying several maps and charts, breaking Elfwine’s cycle of concentration.

“Thank you, my friend,” he smiled and gestured to the wall, “put them up, would you? I hope…” he tailed off. Honestly, he was hoping to see how far Beor had come with his education, and also how extensive Ida’s experiences were. Secret huffed and gave him a look. “I know, I know,” Elfwine said. He was trying hard not to expect too much too soon. He had driven several sons to early graves through undue pressures.

“So, before we go into the chamber, I wanted to have a quiet word about Francia.” Elfwine got the ball rolling as soon as Ida walked through the door, Beor quick at her heels.

“Yes, I doubt the Saxons care much for the continent,” Ida smiled, “they don’t seem to believe it important.”

“Is it?” Beor asked.

“To them? No, not really,” she admitted. “As it stands, my father and uncle are too busy tearing each other to shreds to have much impact here. But if one were to ever win outright…”

“Exactly,” Elfwine said, winking at Beor. “They don’t have the capacity to build a navy at the moment. If they were to try, it would take them years to gather something effective.”

“So…whilst we can interfere with them, they can’t do anything to us?” Beor suggested.

“Not quite,” Ida said gently, “they practically own the Church between them, which means whoever wins will wield a great deal of authority over our Faith.”

“Our lands have never been what you could call conformist,” Elfwine continued, “still, it would be a complication we would best avoid if, say, Karl made bears out to be pagan demons.”

“So, we pick one then? We would have to be sure they were to win?” Beor said uncertainly.

Ida sighed, “Easier said than done, little one. My father holds the current advantage but past experience has shown that means little.”

Elfwine coughed. “Actually, I know exactly who is to win the throne of Francia.” He looked at Ida, who dropped her gaze as she read his face.

“Father is ill?”

“Very. And Karl will be certain to help him along, if he thinks he can get away with it.”

Ida looked into her lap, eyes closed. She was still for some time. Beor looked worriedly at his brother, but he was waved off. “So be it,” she said steadily. “What is to be done?”

“Nothing yet, aside from favouring Karl on some meaningless issue, perhaps to do with the coronation. He knows what is coming, and probably suspects I know too. We will reach an understanding before he leaves for the continent.”

Ida nodded slowly. “So, the end of the war at last.” She hummed a little and shifted towards the map of Francia. “Uncle will be pleased, though I wonder how long it will last?”

“Who knows?” Elfwine said, “but I for one am glad the bloodshed can end. Pettily competing over power just because you can, seems a frankly terrible use of time, and life.”

“Their mother was to blame, really,” Ida said, “she set the two against each other, and then failed to kill one before they both became kings. Now both have many children, and the cycle will continue upon Uncles death. What a waste. Your mother is so much the kinder soul. I am glad she agreed to stay on as regent.”

“I’m working on it,” Elfwine shrugged. “Francia however, will keep for now. We must look to Lancaster, all of us.”

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 13: The King and His Councils Part 2​

The king and queen of Lancaster entered the Wittenmagot chamber together, before Secret and Beor. The boy looked and saw across the great room his mother, sat poised and controlled at the head of the council. She was the regent of the throne, and respected beyond his father’s death. Seeing everyone was gathered together, she called the wittenmagot to order.

“This Chamber meets for the forty-third session of the Wittenmagot, in the first year of Elfwine’s reign. God save the King.”

As the cry was taken up by the lords, Beor looked around in amazement. He had never been allowed in here before, as had few others. Elfwine had been most insistent that the previous chambers, or rather, the great hall, was totally unsuitable for government business. So, he built this cavernous place underneath Lancaster’s hill, again insisting that it needed to be this big for the future.

“As is custom, the review of the realm’s finances come first. Your report, Lord Steward?”

Beor refocused on the meeting. The steward of Lancaster was one of Elfwine’s rare finds, a commoner from the welsh backwaters. Still, he knew his stuff and was stubborn enough to bluster through the more elitist circles of the city.

In short, the kingdom was wealthy. Wigberht’s final years had seen untold amounts of wealth pour into the realm from all over the islands, and had been well-invested by the city into various projects. The royal demesne and tax from the three cities alone were a mighty sum. The Church contributed much in the way of trade goods and monies, aside from priceless spiritual protection and assurance. The monastery at St. Agnes had recovered from its terrible ordeal with help from Lancaster St. Peters, as well as several other Lancastrian ministries. It seemed the Church in the kingdom was happy, cohesive and rich. Better still, they were grateful to Elfwine for this state, and rewarded him accordingly.

However, the Steward’s report, and then the loud annoyances of the Lord Mayors, revealed how little the land-owners paid towards the realm. Not that there were many, with the House of Lancaster by custom demanding all sovereign turf and field. Indeed, there were no estates on the council, which was, Beor was assured, not the case elsewhere. But in this kingdom, people of good sense ruled, not the landlords.

“They must pay more, or sell their lands to the Crown!” Bishop Halton cried, with many nods of agreement. Beor smiled at the man. Impetuous as he was, he was a loyal retainer of the family, and had served well for many years.

“That is hardly necessary,” Cynan of Caernarfon drawled. “The land-owners by rights do not pay their keep in monies but in men. If we do not call them up, we can hardly expect them to offer restitution.”

Caernarfon was a bit of a mystery. Gossipers called him Lancaster’s spymaster, but everyone knew Secret took that title and was never letting go. More likely, the man handled the running of Elfwine’s spies and agents across the land. Beor knew that he was, despite outward behaviour, loyal to the family however and so would not be bothering with the defence if Elfwine did not desire it. He glanced over at the king, who nodded at him. Seemed he was right.

The rest of the chamber didn’t seem to agree. Shouts of abuse descended upon Caernarfon as he shrugged at sat down. The rabble quietened as Elfwine stood.

“I would suggest to this body that this kingdom does not and will not depend on calling up the sons of Lancaster unwillingly. We do not and will not upend farmers from their crops nor merchants from their stalls, and sons and fathers from their homes. Lancaster has no need of such cruelty. We look to professional soldiers, who have made the sign for their livelihoods, to defend our people and lands. The expense is not so great, yet the savings of lives and manpower are insurmountable. Some, perhaps even within this chamber, would rightly fear the danger of mercenaries. Those who can be bought, cannot be trusted. Fortunately, as our captains here will attest, these good people are hardly true renegades. They have made their homes and lives here with us in Lancaster. We pay them true, but they spend in our city and contribute as much as any other, and all under our laws and customs. I would suggest, therefore, good gentlemen of the wittenmagot, that there is no longer a need nor desire for land-owners to send men to die as in ages past.”

He sat, and there was a pause before cheering rang out from to the rafters. The three captains of companies stood and bowed, once to the king and then to the room. Beor joined in the applause, whilst privately striking off the land-owners existence within the year. Elfwine always got what he wanted in the end.

The marshal rose to begin the summit on Lancaster’s neighbours and strategic concerns. First, because it was the simplest, was Ireland. The Irish were expected to withdraw back into their own with Wigberht’s death, but would, with little effort, be presumed out again if needs be. Of the chiefs, only Mide held any concern for Lancaster, being as it was the largest and directly opposite the sea from the kingdom. It was not expected that any one of the Irish, nor outside power, to change the situation upon that isle any time soon.

Chesterfield glared around the chambers for a moment, demanding quiet. He swiftly got it, as was his way, and broached a rather trickier topic. “The peasants of Northumbria continue to stream over the border, especially into Yorkshire now the war there is over.” It was a credit to his presence that not a single man uttered a sound at an issue that had done several rounds in all the taverns of Lancaster. “These people are for the most part desperate, hungry and without resource. York is already crying out for support and many, including myself, are worried about rioting, revolts or famines beginning over this.”

The Archbishop of York rose quickly before the spell of silence ended. “I share your many concerns. Despite my newness to this good realm, and your goods selves, I like to think I know the nature and character of you all. Lancastrians are a kind, compassionate people, as all good Christians should be. Let us not turn away these refugees of God, for the sins of their wicked rulers. Let us feed them, cloth them, take them into our bosoms and share their woes out till they fade away. I beg for the lives of the children of York, who tonight go hungry in their new kingdom, but for the foolishness of their late lord.”

The generated a buzz of conversation around the room. Faces were grim and taut, some quite disturbed and sorrowful of the whole affair whilst others were worried for their own families and that of Lancaster. Beor felt he needed to speak his own mind. Unfortunately, as he rose, he caught the glare of the Marshal, whom he realised with horror was standing due to speak again.

“Peace,” rumbled Elfwine, and Chesterfield sat down, his eyes still fixed upon Beor.

“My apologies, Marshal,” he ducked his head quickly, “but I must speak, young as I am. It seems to me that this is a call for action, not despair. These people do not feel safe within their homes, and indeed they are not. So, let us make Northumbria safe! Let us take our greater strength and wisdom and press it upon their Queen. Let us resolve this matter now, so that the kingdom can carry on knowing she did her duty, by God and for goodness sake.”

“Such as I was to suggest,” the Marshal said, rising slowly, “We must at once impress upon Northumbria to grant us more land for the arrivals, or stand to and be ruled by our hands. Nothing less will resolve the crisis, as the lad says…it must be war, or by other means, but we must take Northumbria lest Yorkshire be ruined.”

The gathered men nodded amongst themselves. Ida and Amaudru both smiled encouragingly at Beor, who blushed as he sat down in his seat. A hand patted him on the shoulder. “Well said, lad,” Cuthbert said.

“He would have said it all anyway.”

“Aye, but not without argument. Sometimes people need to be dragged towards the right idea rather than simply told it.”

The Marshal made to speak before Beor could respond.

“The Mercians remain strong, if divided. Their new Queen is clever and tough. She knows what she is doing, and is likely to gain full control of the place soon enough. We note with dismay that she has already tightened her grip on Holy Canterbury, and worse still, expanded into Wales itself.”

The wittenmagot stirred uneasily. Wales was not officially or otherwise part of Lancaster, but had been part of her sphere of influence for two generations.

“Her puppet in Hereford is a local Welshman, of tremendous energy and cleverness. By all accounts he is a good ruler and enforcer of law. This implies Mercia will not only stay within those lands but gain popularity, even expand given time. Whilst our monarch,” he dipped his head respectfully, “and his blessed father, may he rest in peace, defeated the Mercians several times in battle, it is my belief that they are far from removed as a threat. Indeed, they seem more dangerous.”

This pronouncement caused severe disruption. Even councillors were on their feet worrying and demanding action, crying about potential invasions or measures to defend Lancaster. Amaudru had to command silence thrice before it finally fell.

“Thank you,” Chesterfield said dryly, “as I was saying, this leads into our concerns in Wales, which shall take up the remainder of our time if I am not mistaken.”

A map was brought out and shown to the gathered nobles and statesmen. Anglesey in the north stood solidly and loyally behind Lancaster, being home to many councillors and members, as well as the source of the Bear Guard. To the south however lay a patchwork of princelings and lords and chiefs, such that it amazed Beor that Lancaster ever got anything worthwhile out of the Welsh. A new arrival, the Mercian-backed Hereford, wedged itself uneasily between this nest of disorder. If nothing else, its presence threatened Hwicce and the Bristol Channel beyond.

“I now put it to the floor as to what is to be done,” Chesterfield said, bowing low to Elfwine and sitting down at last.

Before anyone had a chance to speak, the Bishop of Furness rose with a squeak. “I assume that in a moment everyone is going to start talking about war plans and fighting and all sorts of nasty things.” The court chaplain was a bit of a stick in the mud on first impression, leading many to wonder why exactly Elfwine kept him around. “I’d just like to point out the obvious that we could just threaten the welsh princes with unspeakable acts of violence, take hostages and set fire to a few things in order to keep them with us. Then promise to come back if they join Mercia.”

That was why. The man, outside of being a devout Christian preacher popular with his parish, was an atoningly effective crime lord that effectively ran most of the trade legal and otherwise south of the Trent valley. He was a bit of a disturbing conversationalist when someone got onto the topic of dismemberment or torture but otherwise was a very nice man. He gave Beor and the other children sweets when they met him in the street.

“The problem with this plan,” the bishop continued, to a stunned audience, “is that fear and threats are only effective some of the time, but would be required in this case. Also, Mercia seems determined to interfere with our business in Wales and thus, it seems we have to defend the place anyway. Might as well have them pay all their dues and get all the benefits of being with us rather than against us.”

“That crazy old man is right!” roared Lord Malpas.

“Why aren’t you in prison?” someone at the back shouted.

“I am in prison,” shouted the former sea-devil back, “the good King Elfwine hasn’t decided what to do with me yet.”

“Oh. My mistake. Please carry on.”

“As I was saying,” the one-legged doctor said, beginning to pace up and down, “as I see it, we have a few choices with the Welsh. We can keep ‘em locked in one of our tributary ‘deals’ and hope that keeps them under our thumb and away from Mercia. Or,” he turned to face the crowd, “we ATTACK!”

“There is nothing bar a few forests and mountains in the way of us going south and taking that land for the Crown; nothing save a few good shots and some weak infantry anyway.” That got a few laughs. “The point is, we need to conquer the Welsh before Mercia conquers ‘em. Kick the jumped-up southern shits from Hereford as well. Then we have a lovely, gigantic dyke keeping the Mercians out and the Welsh in! I tell you lads, give it two years and we’ll be running the place as well as anything, we’ll have a nice easily defined border with the bastard Saxons and we’ll never have to negotiate three dozen trade deals with each welsh prince ever again!”

Caernarfon rose after the applause from the last speech. “This would benefit the Anglesey towns considerably. We could split the costs more evenly amongst all the settlements along the coastline, and have a unified squadron rather than two dozen different jobs running.” This was greeted with more approval and nods.

However, several people wore frowns or were shaking their heads. One of them was Rambunctious the Wizard, and he made sure to tell them that, after informing them that he was, indeed, Rambunctious the Wizard.

“I actually agree with most of what the drunk pirate cripple said,” the wizard began, “but we’d have several problems once we invaded and took over the whole of Wales that would be difficult and expensive to resolve.”

“Like what?” the Marshal growled.

“Topography,” Rambunctious replied. “No one goes up or down in Wales. There are too many mountains. Even when we invaded the southern reaches, we went by boat all the way around the coast or walked along the dyke in Mercian lands to get there. If we invaded and took the entire country, the mountains would still be in the way. All well and good for the coastal regions since we’re planning on building ports and vessels there anyway, but for land routes, the big trade road would have to go eastwards through Mercia rather than through Lancaster. We’d lose the tax rights and travel economy on all that commerce, be reliant on the Mercians to allow the trade route to exist and be reliant on the Mercians not having another civil war and setting the trade route on fire.”

A few people seemed convinced but most were either solidly behind conquering the whole country or maintaining the status quo. Amaudru shushed the dissent with a wave. “Do you have an alternate suggestion?”

“Let’s just take the coastline,” the wizard shrugged. “It’s the valuable bit anyway. If the Mercians want to waste time and effort conquering the mountain regions for no reason, let them. Or, tribute Powys and the other central princes anyway to be safe. My point is that we should be focusing on the coastline, not the country.”

There were a few points of order, and then the king rose again.

“I thank you all for your thoughts. We would be interested in your views on these three plans, any other suggestions you might have for dealing with the Welsh Issue, and the kingdom in general. However, I realise the hour grows late, and a feast is waiting for our consumption. So, before we depart for pleasures, I would like to bring one further matter to this chamber’s attention.”

Everyone was listening now.

“My coronation as King of Lancaster is up and coming. I give no secret when I say His Holiness Anastasias of Roma is coming here to crown my brow. My question is, in which city are we to meet him and perform the ceremony? Lancaster is now a land of three great cities. Lancaster, of course, speaks for itself as a choice. Chester, my old family’s seat, has been near and dear to so many of us for over four generations. It carries equal weight of import in Lancaster, Mercia and amongst the Welsh. Surely this would be a benefit as we aim to compete with the latter two and win. York of course is the capital of the North, or it was before that fool ruined her. And it affirms our ties to the North, and all her peoples. As this is a land we are all surely agreed we shall soon be ruling, it bears thinking about here.”

The men of the Wittenmagot sat quietly as their lord finished his speech.

“Food for thought, gentlemen. Now, we shall rise for dinner, and after a week of thought, I would much desire your return to this place, that we might affirm our actions for the good of the realm.”

With that, the Queen Mother brought the Wittenmagot to a close, and led the procession out towards the banquet.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 14: Elfwine becomes a King, again​

Ida sat quite comfortably in her husband’s chambers. He was busily scrawling away at his writing desk, the fire roaring away behind him. That was quite the thing by itself, she thought. After several weeks in Lancaster, still she came across many things that astonished and astounded her. The hall in Lancaster, as well as many of the buildings in the city, all had this curious fireplace, with a tall tunnel above it that sucked the soot and smoke away from the room, whilst retaining the heat. Heavens know how Elfwine found such a design but simple as it was it made everything so much more comfortable in the deep winter that they were in. Especially with her condition being what it was.

“Are you alright?” she asked, observing her husband’s face fall into a frown. He had paused in his letters upon some missive and stared down at it with curious emotion.

“I am fine,” he said, looking up and offering a quick smile. “The Emperor of the Romans is soon to be wed to Wilfred, now she enters her maidenhood.”

Ida gasped. “I can hardly believe such a thing. How on earth did your father manage such a feat?”

Elfwine smiled, a little wider, a little more warmly. “He didn’t, I suspect, mean to do so well as he did. Christophoros comes from a rather unfortunate family, and was a third son of the brother of the Emperor at the time. Still, to go through not one but four emperors in so short a period cannot be good.” He frowned again. “I shall have to send another agent to check on things. Not that I can do much of course but the fate of Christendom rests upon the walls of Constantinople.”

“I am surprised you had already sent one?” Ida queried.

Elfwine turned this time, blinking in surprise. “You are? Do they no longer speak of Secret’s escapades?”

“Yes but,” she laughed, “you can hardly believe them. Otherwise the papacy would…” She tailed off at the smile tugging at Elfwine’s lips. “…it is all true?”

“Oh goodness no, not all,” he laughed. “You should ask him of it sometime, it is quite the adventure. Or series of adventures. I had thought to write them down, once upon a time.” He fell once more into a solemn face, though this was one more familiar to Ida already. It seemed at times the King of Lancaster was prone to incredible bouts of Melancholy.

“He really set alight the Black Sea fleet?” Ida said after a moment. It did no good for a man to become entrapped with such thoughts after all.

“He did, though it was not as it sounds.” He shifted in his seat. “Honestly, his mission to that byzantine court was to provide as much distraction as possible for his underlings to canvas the place and make off with any such knowledge they could get their hands on. He is a most excellent spy, after all. We got so much: medical texts, Socratic dialogues, plays, poems…the formula,” he said under his breath, “and more besides. A most excellent visit, after all. It certainly saved…that is to say, will benefit Lancaster immensely in the future.”

Her head spun with the knowledge. What an amazing assortment of creatures the Lancasters were. She was fortunate to be amongst them now. Her hand rested upon her midriff and she grimaced in shame. Elfwine would best be told, and have it be done sooner rather than later.

“I am with child, Elfwine,” she said.

He turned around again, and raised an eyebrow. “Well, I know I have done no such thing. And I know you have not known anyone since arrival in the city…a development from home then?”

Her gaze dropped, “Yes, she whispered. She did not know where to begin with it all.

A gentle touch met her hair and she stiffened. “It is just as well, but thank you for letting me know. I’m sure we can think of some arrangement, should the child survive.” He raised his other hand in placation when she looked up in alarm. “Calm yourself, I have no designs on their life. I am quite unsure what Frankish customs are, but here in Lancaster, children are quite sacred. Marriage…is less so,” he smiled at some late memory. “My own father was quite unusually monogamous. Grandfather however was censored by no less than the Archbishop of Germania for his proclivities.”

“Surely not!” she said, quite appalled.

“Oh, he was quite the busybody, I know for a fact Northumbria and Mercia got a few disappointed letters as well,” Elfwine chuckled. “We Saxons are a broody bunch, it seems. Speaking for myself, I never saw the appeal.”

“Never?” she could not help but ask, though she had seen how far his disregard went in this area already.

“Well,” he said quietly, “once…” He said no more for a time, turning around to stoke the fire. “I assume you are some way into pregnancy then?” He said from the grate.

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Not enough to show during the coronation, which is for the better. Our ways are one thing, but flaunting a full belly in front of the Pope is one amusement too far. He’ll have enough trouble with Secret.”

She giggled, a little uncertain still what was to be done. “My lord?”

Elfwine turned and saw her fear still lingering in the shadow of the firelight. “Oh really, you worry so. The child will be fine, you will be fine, and soon to be Queen.

Ida released the worry within and sighed. “Thank you sire, you are gracious.”

Elfwine snorted much like his bear and turned back to his desk. “What I am is busy, and worried for my sister. A new child, aside from their health, is no worry but a blessing, regardless of origin. Ah!” he said, pleased at last to see a letter, “the Pope has arrived in Kent and viewing Canterbury for but a while before making his way here. And he took the bribes most favourably. Excellent.”

“Bribes?” Ida said, a little shocked.

“Oh…papal donations, contributions to his cathedral fund, the poor tax, the holy tax, etcetera, etcetera. Really my dear Ida, he is the Bishop of Rome, not Jesus Christ. They’ve been trying to take control of Christianity since the Western Empire fell, and that requires plenty of gold.”

“Yes, but-”

“It isn’t all bribes,” he assured her, “just mostly. To be fair to him, he has to go out of his way, travel for months and handle two competing archbishops to get here. I have plenty of money.” He waved it away. “I just hope he doesn’t mind the Hall being full of bears…”

…

How similar the day was, and yet so different? It was the dead of winter, not the sunny day of promise and delight. It was a different man as pope, a far holier man to be sure. A different bride stood by him too, and for a moment Elfwine took the time to pray for Leofrun and Bertrada, his two former queens. One had stood by him in life and rule for nigh on fifty years, whilst the other brought out something within him long thought lost forever: love.

He was far more open and connected to the people around him than he had ever managed before. Children of all ages seemed to love nothing better than ask for his stories, whilst whenever he walked down the streets of Lancaster, the people spoke to him with great fondness, and he knew them all by sight if not as intimately as he might like. His reorganising of land into his own control and that of regional towns and cities had born great fruit, and at a time such as this all the Mayors flocked to the capital. A new face he had not yet met prior was proving most interesting. Eadweald was an excellent steward and diplomat for his age. The Archbishop of York and the Bishop of St. Peters, the patron saint of Lancaster, were also in attendance and forming ties. This was all to the benefit of the kingdom.

Elfwine shook himself when he realised how happy he was, and how optimistic of the future, in sharp contrast to how he used to be. It seemed such a mood was infectious, as all in Lancaster seemed delirious in pride and joy these past few days. Even the wittenmagot chattered away with each other as friends, and Elfwine found himself much in agreement with his gathering of advisers. The bonds of friendship and family being promoted this day were a boon that would not soon be forgotten.

All too soon, the Hall filled with throngs of cheering crowds, noble and commoner alike. They were barely muted even by the arrival of the Bear Guard contingent, that marched through and lined the central walkway to the dais upon which the alter had been set. A respectful silence for the Papal procession ended with the arrival of the King and Queen of Lancaster, who took the wild cheers and yelling as graciously as one could.

As the crown met his head, and he rose to eye level with Anastasias, Elfwine found himself overwhelmed such as he had not been since his return to childhood. Ida’s hand sneaked into his own as she too rose with her coronet, and smiled a little at him. She was still worried about her child, he realised. And just as suddenly, he found he wished to tell her over and over that she had no need to be. He would love them as his own, and stay true to the teachings of his father in matters of ruling and of the heart. It truly was better, he knew, to be loved than feared. For all the greatness of Old Lancaster, it would struggle to fill a Hall with such cheer as this.

He smiled back at his queen, and as one they turned to face the people of the kingdom they now ruled together.

“It will be alright,” he said quietly to her. “It will all be alright.”

Her hand squeezed his, her delight showed on her face, and in so doing, Elfwine found himself beaming too. Today was a great day to be alive.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 15: Encounter in the Forest​

Styrkur breathed deeply in and out. The forest greeted him back once more into its depths like a beguiling mistress. He smelt fresh water from a stream not a few hundred yards away. He smelt the freshness of the undergrowth, crisp and preserved from weeks of snowfall. He smelt…his eyes narrowed slightly. He smelt a recently put-out fire.

So, there were strangers in the wood.

“Boy,” he murmured.

A youth of no more than seven perked up from a set of tracks driven into the sludge of snow and mud. “Father?”

“There are men in the forest. Be wary.”

“Sir.” He looked back down at the mess, having decided they were useful after all, and then pointed in the direction of, he hoped, deer.

“After it then. Carefully.”

The boy rolled his eyes but nodded dutifully. He was really such a small thing next to his father, who stood a man and a half high, and just the same wide. His glare, his axe and his beard merely affirmed the image of an apex predator who had deigned to babysit a rabbit.

“Who do you think they are?” the child said suddenly, conversationally, as they walked together down the path.

“Who?”

“The strangers.”

“Dangerous, potentially,” Styrkur said slowly. “Do not think on it. Think of deer.”

“There’s a group of them up ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Uh…yes?”

Styrkur hummed.

“Yes, definitely.”

“Good.” He knew it was so already, but the whole point of practice was that the boy was to learn. “Which will you shoot?”

“Uh…the male, like you said.”

“Good.”

The pair continued on, past a camp abandoned not a few hours before. Styrkur was surprised to see that the fire had been well made, well lit and then well beaten down by snow. Whomever wandered the woods, though they be no druid certainly, were clever in their craft. He frowned at the signs of clearly trampled and smoothed away snow. The strangers had covered their tracks as well. Most curious.

“Father, I found them,” his son manged to whisper and yell all at once. Styrkur roused himself from investigation and met his son. Yes, there were deer, quite a few in fact, just beyond them in the bushes.

“Move carefully, as you were shown.”

The boy nodded, and lifted his bow carefully. It was too big for him by half, at least, but he made do. An arrow was notched, a breath was taken, and a shot was fired. Clean, smooth, accurate.

“Yes!”

The cry made him wince, but Styrkur could otherwise find no fault with his son’s method. Until he made his way to the animal’s side and found him still alive. Ah…then the lesson would be far harder, yet more impactful.

“You must finish him,” he said gently, crouching down next to the deer’s neck and holding the dying animal steady. He could see uncertainty, fear and sadness creeping into the edges of his son’s eyes like tears.

“I…”

“Robin,” his father said, “this creature is suffering. End it.”

The youth sank to his knees and tugged at his belt, removing a small knife. It shivered in the cold air. It plunged a little untidily into the deer’s neck, such that a little more blood than necessary would have spat out onto his face. His father’s hands were quick however and spared him that. The lesson was important, but there was no need for rampant cruelty.

“There,” Styrkur said calmly, resting his unbloodied hand on the lad’s shoulder. “It is over. And it is alright,” he held the boy close as a few tears dropped, melting small amounts of snow. He raised his red-filled hand. “Robin, you must look at this,” he insisted, gently. “This is blood, this is life. You took it to feed your own, for your family. And that is alright,” he said, shaking the boy’s shoulder a little, “but never forget the price. Only kill for food, and for self-defence. In time, killing an animal will not seem so hard, but never believe killing men will be easy, even if it is necessary.”

Robin stared up at him with wide eyes.

Styrkur sighed and crouched lower, to below his son’s eye level. “It is not easy, being a man in this world. You will have to fight to survive, by yourself and with trusted others. It will hurt, it will challenge you in every way. But the struggle is worth it. Everyone and everything you meet lives the struggle with you, and you must show respect for that. This creature’s path is over now, respect it.”

The boy nodded, then again more assuredly. “Yes father.”

“Good,” he cupped the small face and wiped a tear trac away. “Now, we can eat.”

As they trudged home, the young buck strung across Styrkur’s broad shoulders, Robin was solemn. His voice only returned to him when the woods began to clear and the sky shone brighter above.

“Father, do you really think it was right to kill that deer?”

Styrkur’s stride did not pause. “I do. The only thing you did wrong, was to fire before committing to the deed.”

“Huh?”

“You shot the arrow. The deer lay dying. Why did you not kill it at once?”

The boy shuffled his feet awkwardly and said nothing.

“Think of that which you do, Robin. You aim your bow at a creature, man or beast, be prepared to fire and kill him. Do not do so merely because someone told you to, then back away from the deed afterwards. Such things are wicked and cowardly.”

“But you told me-”

“And you listen, not because I am an experienced hunter and we were on a hunt, but because I am your father and you love me.” He paused and looked at his son, “That is not wrong, but you obeyed for the wrong reason.”

“You said listening was important.”

“It is. To good orders and advice from those you trust. To everything else, take an ear but be mindful. Blind obedience, even to a cause you think righteous, has led to greater evil than the truly wicked men of the world.”

“Well said.”

The foreign voice cut through the air like sharpened steel and even amongst Styrkur’s sudden thoughts of surprise and panic, he was proud of his son’s reflexes. An instant after the stranger spoke, a shaft shot through the air towards him.

“Nice shot.”

Fire and ice flowed through Styrkur’s veins as he watched as his boy’s arrow flew true, and was intercepted at the last possible instant from embedding into the hooded stranger’s eye. He had caught it, almost casually, with a flick of the wrist.

Now, Styrkur had travelled far and wide. He had fought many monsters and menfolk from across the lands and seas. He knew what a man could and could not do. It was a somewhat popular carnival trick, amongst some peoples, for an archer and partner of great skill and trust to fire and catch an arrow aimed for the chest. But it was a slowly fired event, at a medium distance with forewarning. No man could effortlessly pluck from afore his left eye a killing shot like that.

He was dealing with something merely cloaked in humanity.

“Boy, run,” he spat out, as he let loose the deer corpse and handled his axe. Robin bolted obediently. He thanked whatever gods there were for that.

“Interesting,” the stranger said, cocking his head. “Now this, I was not expecting.”

“What do you want?” Styrkur growled. “Whatever it is, I do not have it.”

“You do not.”

This was entirely the wrong thing to say, and the stranger paid for it quickly. A mighty blow from a great fist struck at the man’s head. In a flash, the stranger staggered backwards, gasping a little. Styrkur flexed his fingers and frowned. That had been too easy. Still, it was gratifying to know the threat was flesh and blood, at least of a kind.

“That’s a firm hand you have there,” the hooded man straightened. “Perhaps I was mistaken…” He tilted his head again, and as fast as a cold breeze blew across the space between them and smashed an elbow in the other man’s face. Now it was Styrkur who stumbled, stunned at the power behind the blow.

“Impressive,” the figure said carelessly, as his target regained his footing and smeared away a thin dot of blood. “Most impressive,” he said as Styrkur growled at him again.

“You do not want this fight.”

“Fight? My dear sir, this is mere play.”

It was at that point Styrkur began to feel a small twinge of fear. The being was far too confident in stance, in action. Whilst he was fully confident in his ability to kill this creature, he was now no longer sure it would not end him at the same time.

“Please,” he ground out, love for his family overcoming pride, “I have no desire for this fight.”

The hooded stranger laughed. Loudly, coldly, like the ice on a river cracking in springtime heat. “You are everything he ever spoke of,” he said, almost fondly. “Have no fear, you shall not die today. But I would speak with your-”

“Never,” the father sprang into action again, bringing his axe down with almighty strength upon the man’s side, catching his arm that flung out to forestall it. With a roar, he threw the figure through the forest and away with all his power. The man flew through tree and rock, smashing through bush and causing a raucous of bird and beast screams as the peace of the land was disturbed. Finally, he heard the thud and crack of a distant rock ending the shallow flight. An owl, disturbed by the din, drew down upon a nearby branch and ruffled its feathers.

“Sorry,” Styrkur grunted, clearly not so.

The owl glared at him in reproach, before flying off.

A man in impossible white appeared shortly afterwards, his robes practically glowing in vibrance such that the fresh snow seemed dull.

“Was all that strictly necessary?” he asked calmly.

“He threatened the boy.”

“Ah,” the man turned and looked along the path of destruction, with eyes keener than any mortal. “You threw him quite the distance, but not far enough it seems.”

“If he dares return…”

“My dear boy,” the Father Druid said, turning back to him, “do you know who that was?”

“A demon, I think. Some dark and wicked thing.”

A dry, coughing chuckle came from the other. “Indeed,” he replied, “I must tell Rambunctious that one.”

“You know of him?”

“As do you. He was once the King in the North, and soon will be again.”

Styrkur ceased breathing heavily from his exertion, only to sigh in annoyance. “Of course,” he muttered, “it would be He.”

“No, it would be I,” the stranger returned, hood down, strolling through the forest as though his limbs were not dashed to pieces and his innards a pile of mush. “Frightfully good throw,” he shrugged, as he grasped his left arm and cracked it back into place. “If you’ve scarred my face, my wife will be on you like a hawk.” He glanced over at the being in white. “Hi Grumbles.”

Wumble-Grumble, the Father Druid, the last great pagan in the islands of Britannia, smiled and raised an arm in greeting. “Well met Elfwine, although I do wonder how your arm feels?”

“Murder,” the king said drily. “You son is quite safe by the way. Secret should have caught up to him by now.”

It was no comfort to the confused father when moments later the squealing delight of a child could be heard as a bear that dwarfed himself bounded into the clearing. He quickly withdrew Robin from the creature and pulled him safely behind.

“Really now,” Elfwine started, but the Father Druid shushed him. Secret snorted in amusement. “Yes, my arm is fine, thank you ever so,” Elfwine replied. “You kept him alright?”

The bear nodded solemnly, then nodded again at Styrkur before licking Grumble.

“Be off with you,” he swatted, smiling at the great bear. Secret smiled widely at him and sat down comfortably in the snow.

“Anyway, Secret and I were just passing through the woods on our way to intercept an Irish brigand. It seems some amongst their people take exception to Lancaster handling their affairs.”

“Astonishing,” Styrkur said flatly.

“Isn’t it? Anyway, the army left some time ago under Middlesbrough and Macclesfield to the southern crossing with Ireland. I cannot be away long from Lancaster when my wife is swollen with child, but my good brother joined them on their quest as he did once before.” The man smiled, and Styrkur narrowed his gaze on the sharp white teeth and cold eyes of the king that glowed ever so briefly when speaking of his kin. Even the wolf had a heart, perhaps.

“You think to match the Irish on their own?” he said, “and here rather than your own lands?”

“Certainly not!” Elfwine seemed affronted. “This is a Lancaster matter and we will draw them over to our lands first. Then again,” he glanced around the wood, “I am surprised this area is so peaceful. Is there not revolt in these lands?”

“Not here.”

“I see,” the king peered at him with those eyes again, and Styrkur felt surprisingly violated under such a gaze.

“I would advise you to look elsewhere,” the old man said quietly. When Elfwine raised an eyebrow towards him, the Father Druid chuckled. “It seems the Irish are a little more determined than you thought. And organised. Your men are in Ireland but the enemy is over here, running wild through Anglesey.”

Elfwine frowned, “We had heard of a group coming through these parts?”

“They have, and moved south already to Lancaster. You are not so out of place that you cannot catch them before they reach the city, however North Wales is said to be aflame in many areas.”

The king thought a little to himself, then looked at Secret. “No matter, we shall be off. Though it was…interesting as I said, to meet you. And you,” he said to the pair of natives, before nodding to Grumble and setting off back through the wreckage of the forest.

“Bye!” shouted Robin to Secret, and the bear blinked at him softly and huffed a goodbye of his own.

“Well, that went well,” Grumble said happily, before vanishing to wherever it was he went. Styrkur looked after him dourly. Wizards were always so aggravating.

“Father?” Robin tugged at the man’s sleeve as he bent to pick up the forgotten deer. “Did he really know us? How exciting!”

“Yes,” Styrkur said, as they made their way home once again. Elfwine did seem to know…the boy. Now why was that, he wondered. And why did the air claw more icily around his chest at the thought.

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Chapter 16: The Legend of Robin Hood​

Once Upon a Time, in the Days of Old Lancaster…

In days gone by, when the merry Kingdom of Lancaster held sway over the island of Britannia, the people happily lived and served under the protection of many great and noble rulers. And the greatest and noblest of them all was Eadric, Duke of Mercia and Anglia. The King’s second and much beloved son. A gentle and kind man, a fierce warrior of the realm and a keen diplomat not just in foreign affairs but within his own vast family.

Yet his lands were vast. The King in the North entrusted his son and heir much of what Lancaster conquered south of her borders, such that by the time the lad was twenty he was already Duke of Essex. When his mother, the first Duchess of Mercia passed on, his personal holdings encompassed most of what would become Anglia, an entire kingdom onto itself. Adding to his responsibility over thousands of subjects, Eadric was chief advisor to the monarch and chief spokesperson to the Realm. He spoke with the voice of Elfwine Himself, and frequently found himself the peacemaker between his siblings, other members of the Family, and even the King.

In the eightieth year of the life of Elfwine the Bear, when the King and his men were finally in the war to place the failing state of Northumbria within the Kingdom of Lancaster, tales began to emerge from the forests and countryside of Old Mercia of bandits that plagued the roads and toll bridges. They were a curious group, this brigands, as they had, so it was said, a policy of Christian charity amongst them, and their leader made it a point that they were to rob only from the wealthy merchants and nobles that passed through their territory, whilst to the poor they poured down the ill-gotten fruits of their labours. When the Sheriff of Nottingham himself was targeted by these criminals, and then once again on his way back through the wood, Duke Edgar was informed by the irate official…

“Peace, my good sir,” the Duke raised a hand and a smile to the continued ranting of the Sheriff, “I will certainly investigate this matter myself. You say these men occupy Sherwood?”

“Occupy? Infest!” the official blustered, pink-faced. “They sneak around in the dark, stealing from the finest people in the land and rob the coffers out of the taxman’s hands! They must be caught and punished punitively.”

Eadric slouched in his throne and resisted the urge to rest his eyes and head in his hand. T’was always thus regarding the war-torn lands of the Saxons. The coming of Lancaster brought property, peace and security for many, but others slipped through the cracks. He was unsurprised that bandits had again appeared in a corner of his realm, though these thieves seemed to act most unusually for criminals.

He looked over at his serving staff, cleaning the large feasting table to the ide of the hall. “You know of these men, Wulf?”

“Oh, bits and pieces you hear, sire,” the old man shuffled respectfully forwards and bowed his head, “They seem decent folk from what I hear. Folks round these parts and over yon seem to support them, and what they’re doing.”

“They should all be strung up!” roared Nottingham, eliciting a rare scowl, of disproval from Eadric.

“Peace,” he rumbled, pinning the lesser man with a glare cut straight from the King’s cloth. “We will find them and dish out justice as deemed justly, as ever. Though if they are as fleet as you say, it may take some time.”

“I would not worry so, my lord,” the Sheriff sneered a little, “I sent word to His Majesty about these reprobates also.”

Wulf’s gasped echoed around the vacant hall, joined by a dozen or so other onlookers. Eadric had frozen on his throne, before slowly rising from his seat and stalking over to the Sheriff.

“Tell me exactly what you said to the King and how long ago.”

Gone was the friendly and compassionate face, replaced by a man of ice and iron. Stunned by the shift, the official mumbled and stuttered but eventually spilt all he had said on the matter, the constant raiding, the ineptitude of local law enforcement, the twice-timed robbery of his own person and a personal plea for Lancaster’s assistance.

The silence was now deafening. Eadric looked upon the diminished man with an air of great sadness and regret. “I beg you sir, for what may yet occur. Guard!” he shouted for the door, “post a look-out for the King’s message. Same as last time.” He looked back at the now-shaking fellow. “You seem confused. Know that you have embroiled yourself in something far worse than these Merry Men.”

“Sire! The Royal Banner approaches!”

“The King is coming here?” Eadric hissed, “Everyone out! Two guards on the door, two at the gate to escort the party up. Everyone else, clear the street. Clear the Hall. Out, Out!”

He gripped the Sheriff of Nottingham tightly as the servants and guards evaporated, scattering to the four winds in their haste. “I apologise, but it seems His Majesty wishes to speak in-person.”

The sound of yelling, hurried movement and doors banging resonated throughout the holding. Then the only noise that could be heard was a light tapping upon the floor, followed by extremely heavy thuds. Soon afterwards, the taps and thuds entered the Hall and Eadric beheld the sight of his father, noiseless save for the light cane swinging occasionally at his side. What caught his breath, what always caught his breath, was not the absence of footsteps. It was not the blazing fire that roared and spat where two mortal eyes might be. It was the creature that always followed behind the King. The corpse that used to be Secret, the Great Bear Spy, now a gigantic, slightly green furred, milky eyed monster of a thing. It stiffly and blindly followed its Master through the building towards the waiting pair.

King Elfwine certainly did not look his near-eighty years. Without a beard since his last marriage, quite frankly he seemed the same age if not younger than his own son. Dressed in midnight black, the King in the North fixed a terrifying smile upon his favourite child and whispered a greeting.

“My son, so long it has been.” Eadric knelt as no one in Lancaster did save in the presence of He, and kissed his father’s hand.

“Your Majesty, you grace me with your presence.”

Elfwine did not move, though his eyes roamed the refurnished hall with interest. “Yes, I think so. Rise, my good Duke, let us walk together.”

Eadric suppressed a sigh. He had hoped he could remain looking downward whilst his father went about his business. It seemed he was to be blamed after all. He rose however with outward readiness and presented the Sheriff of Nottingham.

“Ah yes, the wordsmith…” Eadric winced as the King plucked the other man up by the neck and inspected him all over. “Frustrating to be called away by such matters but then again, these Merry Men seem so interesting.”

A snap rang out and the Duke closed his eyes.

“My son, we shall go to these woods I think, and seek out Robin Hood and his band of men. A trap of some kind must be concocted. See to it. I will speak to them myself.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I want them alive and unharmed, my son. If necessary, I will have them and their forest burnt to ash but not before they might prove useful. Such skill and ideals might well be directed practically. The North needs more gamekeepers for catching vermin. We seem to have a never-ending infestation of filth up there. See to it,” the King repeated, before abruptly turning and departing the same way he came.

He did not break his stride when he tossed the body aside.

…​

“Well, that was a tad embarrassing.”

Secret snorted. Elfwine scowled at him.

“No, not my arm. It’s fine, as I believe I said not half an hour ago.”

The bear gently licked the offending limb at the wrist. Elfwine looked down at the wet patch for a moment, before muttering a quiet thanks.

“I fear I must beg apology my lord,” Cuthbert said, as he had been saying since day’s beginning. And for the third day in a row.

“Hardly, I too was convinced they would come via Ulster and Northumbria if they came at all. At least Beor’s adventure was brief and successful. We old hands rather have egg on our faces. Outmanoeuvred by the Irish. How humiliating.”

“Still they made mistakes too. Trusting that treachery weasel Owain or whatever his name was as their forward guard was foolish.”

Elfwine smiled. The chieftain was soon pledging his allegiances when Secret had a quiet word with him late at night in his tent. Sadly, for him, his second had already sold a much better offer of leadership, and was much more firmly aware of the consequences of crossing Lancaster and her hungry, hungry bears.

The other Irish rebels learnt soon enough however. The smarter ones stuck to Anglesey and were being dealt with a little less harshly. They would return to their homeland mostly intact. The idiots who banded together and marched on Lancaster City however were a different tale entirely. All their leaders were put down, and the remaining men let go only after paying substantial indemnities. Elfwine did not have much care to rule in Ireland but he would be damned if the Irish did not know who was King in the North.

“Still, I fear we may have tarnished our reputations somewhat. Though then again, it is gratifying that a good half the old tributaries did not decide to stand with their countrymen. We seem to be making progress despite our errors.”

Cuthbert nodded in a half-bow, understanding the intent. There would be no punishment for his men nor himself, and all’s well that ends well. “Thank you sire.”

Elfwine nodded him off and headed through Lancaster’s gates. He was most relieved to see the place in one piece. It seemed the locals were even more so to see him.

Amaudru, the Queen Mother and Regent in Lancaster, met him at the Great Hall.

“My son, my king, we are most pleased to see you in good health.”

“And you as well, dear mother, my regent.” The pair bowed to each other and then, formalities concluded, embraced tightly if briefly. “My wife?” he asked quietly.

“She struggles, but seems fit enough this past week,” his mother replied. She was a little put out still over her first grandchild being…not so, but already loved the mother dearly enough to overlook such things.

“That is…good to hear,” Elfwine decided. “Any pressing matters of import?”

“A missive from Francia,” Amaudru rolled her eyes, “my father is most eager to finally have that alliance off us.”

“Indeed,” Elfwine chuckled. “Any word on his condition?”

He is still king of the world, and quite mad of course. Apparently, he took a fall or some grievous hit and his ulcerous leg came off.”

Elfwine curled his lip but said nothing. It would seem that the continent was about to erupt into war yet again. Bother it all. “Anything else?”

“Your marshal tried to impound a ‘war tax’ on the lower ward again,” Amaudru answered. “I chastised him at length but if you would do anything else…?”

“No, I think that enough for now. If he tries that again however, he will be in chains and in the Bear Pit cleaning sludge. No one messes with my tax system.”

“Of course. Anything interesting on your travels, dear?”

The king smiled and touched his arm. “As it happens, yes.”

…

Weeks past, and the time for Wilfred to depart her home for Constantinople arrived and went. Elfwine missed her rather immensely, and it was fortunate for his state of mind that Beor had just in time made it back from Irish travels to see his sister off.

Chesterfield had run out the King’s patience however and was rather swiftly booted into commanding a retaining force on the Northumbrian border, watching the civil war that blustered there.

Elfwine and Beor, now approaching his manhood and sixteenth year, sat together on the Hall’s steps, overlooking a late-spring sunset shining beautifully over Lancaster’s streets. Beor was telling his brother all that happened in his adventures in new lands and at war, whilst the king smiled indulgently, and tried to ignore the worry in his stomach at his wife’s condition. She was approaching labour, he knew in his gut, as did the midwives, though all knew it was far too soon for birth.

He was unsure how he would feel about yet another tragedy befalling his lot, but was certain it might irreparably shatter his young bride. She loved her baby already, and would not part with them easily.

“It’ll work out fine, you know.”

Elfwine looked over at his brother. “I have no such confidence with children. Especially my own. Past events have repeatedly shown my utter failure of such things.”

Beor chuckled. “Everyone seems to say that, the first time they have a child. That door guard hasn’t stopped panicking ever since his boy arrived.”

The king did not smile, but sat deep in thought.

“Sire! Your wife births a boy child! A boy child, sire!”

The pair bolted through the opened door, past the excited youth of a servant, and would have stormed into the maiden chamber if not for fussing midwifery blocking their path. It was probably for the best, for the child was indeed sickly and struggling for his first air.

“Move!” a deep voice boomed and the women-folk scattered as the Bishop of Bangor Fawr marched through to the babe. Elfwine relaxed ever so slightly, knowing full well that the only other medico with any experience of childbirth within a day’s ride was that Sea-Devil.

Eadbald was a curiosity at court, ostensibly Anglo-Saxon (as the Franks lazily put it) but in truth his mother came from Pictland and her blood ran true. The man was ambitious, loud, cantankerous and dedicated to his craft. He and Elfwine had not spoken too often, due to the Bishop’s reticence of small talk or social nicety. The king was fairly sure however that the man originally hailed from Lothian up north, which only stuck out to him for it was that duchy that began his northern conquests in the other-while kingdom. It was a wilderness of wolf and men, and quite separate from the rest of Lancaster as it was cut off by Northumbria. Curiously enough, it was Robin of Nottingham that was First Duke over those lands…Elfwine still wondered over the significance of the child appearing many moons before he had before. He was sure it was the same person though.

“Everyone out! I must speak with the King.”

His focus snapped back to the horror of the now. Bangor sounded quite strained. That was not a good sign. Elfwine walked into the room cautiously and took in his panting, blood stained wife first. She seemed weak but in no danger, quite unlike her poor baby.

“How bad?” he murmured.

“Considerable,” the Bishop swore softly. “Nothing is working. I can’t understand it. I delivered twins last month that did not put up such struggle.”

“Keep at it,” the King sighed and moved over to his wife, and gently began cleaning her reddened areas. “It will be alright Ida,” he whispered, “it will. I promise.”

Her eyes found his and he knew she did not believe him, but kept at it regardless. Sometimes that was all you could do. A frail but definite wail of life emitted from the bloodied babe, and it seemed the whole city breathed with him.

“Lord have mercy,” the Bishop crossed himself, “but that was a close thing, I confess. This one bears close watching for tonight. Many nights perhaps. I see no obvious ailments however. He may yet live and grow strong.” He rested the boy into swaddling clothes and nestled him in his mother’s arms. “A good date, at least my Queen. The first of July 789. And, your majesty, a name for his Christian rituals?”

Elfwine stilled and looked at the relieved pair in the bed. Given what he knew, it was not really his place to name the child.

“Elfwine,” Ida said softly.

“Yes, my love?” the King leaned closer.

“No,” Ida smiled beautifully, “him.” The couple stared deep into each other’s eyes, before Elfwine nodded.

“Very well.”

That name, he thought afterwards, I pray to be the most of that boy’s worries.