Faerie Tale Medley, Part the 2nd: A Rebel's Head

At long last I am able to continue the Faerie Tale Medley series. There was a slight mishap with a series of destroyed files a few weeks back, stalling the process rather effectively, but now I am able to present...well, read the title if you want to know what it's called.

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The morning dawned undecided and misty over Nottingham. Though the torrential rains of the previous night had faded, they had left in the absence a damp drizzle that drifted down over all.

            Sprawling down the rise from the outskirts of the castle walls down to the forest’s edge, the dwellings of the town of Nottingham huddled together as though to find protection from the rain in numbers.

            The castle itself stood tall and dark against the leaden sky, turrets climbing like the spearheads of a horde. The pennant bearing the device of King John snapped in the low wind from the main tower; a black gryphon on a white ground, the cloth darkened to a dull gray by the elements.

            The King himself stood looking out on the courtyard from the window of his lofty bedchamber. King John stood magnificently arrayed in a nightgown of purple silk and gold brocade, its hem brushing the lushly carpeted floor. His long dark curls hang to his shoulders and atop his head sat the crown of Albion, a simple thin circlet of spiky gold, gleaming dully in the dim light that shone through the window.

            The King’s skin was pale, contrasting unnervingly with the jet black of his trimmed beard and the deep green of his eyes. These eyes watched now as the gates leading out from the courtyard below swung open and a figure garbed in black deep as the charger on which he rode trotted into the courtyard. Dragging from a rope lashed to the saddle of the horse, what appeared to be a bundle of rags tumbled this way and that as it was dragged behind the charger across the cobblestones of the courtyard.

            King John was not unduly alarmed. He had become accustomed to such sights in the past months. The Warden of Nottingham was just such a man.

            John turned from the window and stared instead into a full-length silver mirror, considering his reflection. Which robes would he wear today? The black robes perhaps? They would go nicely with the darkness of the day. But no, perhaps something with a dash more color. The red robes? Yes, those would do nicely and the topaz ring. Yes. Yes, that would be perfect.

            King John pulled on a purple-sink bell cord to call his servants to dress him.

§§§

Utter silence reigned in the throne room of King John save for the faint sputtering of the torches in the wall-brackets.

            The light was dim and the tones dark and eerie. The room was fashioned from black stone, though of what type John had never felt inclined to discover. The stone reflected almost no light from the torches, further increasing the overall air of serenity.

            The tall stained-glass windows which had once upon a time cast fractured beams of multicolored light in upon the throne room now stood curtained and shuttered, their beauty now utterly cut off from the hall.

            Skillfully woven wall-hangings rain along both walls, depicting scenes from the past of Albion, conquests, marriages, banquets and tournaments, their rich colors illumined by torches set into sconces on the walls below the tapestries.

            A single long carpet ran from the great oaken double-doors that led in, down the center of the great hall, up the seven low steps of the throne’s dais and to the foot of the throne itself. If the rest of the hall had been opulent, than throne of Albion itself was darkly magnificent.

            Two meters tall at its highest point and carved from the same dark stone as the hall itself, the throne towered above all. The arms of the great seat were supported by twin stone Gryphons with eyes of gleaming black onyx.

            Twin silver spiraling candelabras, each bearing several dozen tapers of beeswax, cast an uncertain golden glow over the throne, the light running down over the steps of the dais but proceeding no further into the darkness of the hall.

            The throne was itself part of the castle, hewn from the same stone as the hall in which it sat, it sat immovable, carved from the floor up, a symbol of Albion royal power.

            Carved deep into the high back of the throne was a verse old as the throne itself that had been there since the first King of Albion had walked the halls of that castle:

Enthroned here, the King by blood,

To rule to Common Folk,

To lead in both drought and flood,

And bear the Kingdom’s yoke

            
At that particular moment the King was neither leading his people through hardship, or bearing any type of yoke, physical or metaphorical.

            King John, resplendent in robes of deep crimson, lounged on the cushioned black throne, watching the doors intently, awaiting the arrival of one who would surely soon enter the hall. His hair and beard gleamed in the candlelight, oiled and combed and a delicate chain of gold and rubies hung about his neck.

            The King’s fingers drummed an impatient tattoo on one arm of the throne, his temper rising. Just as he was preparing to do something about the situation, the doors at the opposite end of the hall swung ponderously open, their timbers groaning.

            Standing in the opening leading out into the rest of the castle was the man King John had been awaiting for so long: IL Cané, the Marshall, the left hand of the King.

            Reflexively, the King sat up straighter on his throne, then despised himself for doing so. By all rights it should be the black-clad figure at the other end of the hall acting in this manner, not him, not the King.

            IL Cané strode down the center of the hall silently, his footfalls muffled by the carpet beneath his feet. Even when he came to a halt at the foot of the dais, his black-garbed form was barely distinguishable from the smothering darkness all around. The wolf’s head hood, illumined by the light of the twin candelabras atop the dais, cast the face of the Wolf into even deeper shadow than was usual, totally obliterating all trace of his features save for the two yellow circles that were his eyes.

            There was a pause before either King or Marshall said a word, a space between words, bursting with silence like an old wineskin. Then, IL Cané spoke at last.

            “You summoned me?”

            King John only just managed to keep from flinching away at the voice that emanated from the man. How could one voice hold so much menace and yet such a deep tone of rhythm at the same time?

            King John recovered from the shock, berating himself inwardly for the reaction. He was the King, dash it all! He would not be beholden to the voice of the Marshall of his Kingdom.

            “Yes,” John replied, happy with the steadiness of his voice, “I wish to hear what progress you have made on the matter of this tiresome Red Riding Hood.”

            “The woman’s reach among the commoner’s is long and her influence runs deep. There are few prepared to give information pertaining to her whereabouts.”

            “I did not call you here to listen to your excuses, Marshall!” King John snapped, pounding one arm of the throne with a fist, “What progress have you made on the matter?!”

            Once again there was silence throughout the hall as the King’s words echoed from wall to wall. John’s words suddenly sounded childish to his ears as he listened to them fade away into emptiness.

            Then, after a long pause, IL Cané spoke again.

            “I have managed to track to woman into the Sherwood region. I shall depart presently to give chase. Expect her head in seven days.”

            With that, the Wolf turned and strode to the double doors and departed swinging both doors closed behind him with a resounding boom. King John sat in the darkness on his throne, pondering the demerits of mercenaries.

§§§

Moral in the tavern of the King’s Hound that day was not high. In addition to the visit of the Wolf the evening before, the man Sean was still absent from their number and to crown it all, it was raining.

            Men both at the bar and at separate tables across the tavern sat huddled over their drinks either by themselves or in small groups, muttering softly and smoking.

            Many of the men who had been there the night before had now left and Sean’s Celtic companion, Alan, had packed up his belongings which now lat in a pack at his feet as he had one last drink before his departure.

            The room was far quieter than it had been the night before, but this silence was not to last.

            Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door. All talk died as all eyes turned to the door as it was swung upon to reveal the tall form of IL Cané.

            There was now complete silence in the tavern as all watched the figure in wolf skins, unsure what to expect.

            Without scarcely more than a glance about the room, IL Cané strode to the bar and swung the burlap bag he held in one hand up onto the wooden countertop for all to see.

            “You shall not see me in Nottingham the next few days, but harbor no delusions that I shall not hear of everything that has come to pass in my absence upon my return. Therefore, think on the fate of your late companion of last evening before you act rashly.”

            Silence reigned completely in the tavern. You might have heard a half-crown drop.

            With a final look around at the faces of the men in the tavern, IL Cané strode to the door and out into the rain, leaving the little door open behind him.

            After a few moments, noise returned to the tavern, concerned mutterings and whispers among the groups of men as they discussed this turn of events. Why should the Marshall leave the town? What business could he be about?

            Alan at the bar sat immune to the chatter, removed from it all as he stared at the burlap bag sitting on the bar before him. The filthy stained cloth, or rather, the thing wrapped inside it, had already disgorged a pool of deep red on the counter. A single tear made its way down Alan’s face and mingled with the blood on the wood.

            Standing from his stool, Alan lifted the bag from the counter, swung his pack up onto his shoulder, and departed the tavern, the head of his former friend Sean still oozing blood.