Another sample chapter from the Arthurian tale The Killing Sword.
© 2011 asotir.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License.
II. The Promise
THE BEGINNING of Balyn’s tale lies in darkness. For it was in the darkness of the pit, condemned to death in the deep prison of the King, that Balyn looked for the first time within his own heart, and made his dreadful promise.
He had come to Camelot seeking vengeance upon his enemies. Balyn did not know that Sir Kay the Seneschal, Arthur’s foster-brother, had sworn that he would put down all rebel knights without regard to justice or any laws of the land. And to this end Sir Kay the Seneschal had sent spies throughout England, and promised them rich bounties if they would only tell him the names of all rebels.
Among these spies was the poor knight Sir Brisance, who thought to himself, that if he could gain Sir Kay’s bounties he might pay off his debts and keep his wife and children in better estate. And when Sir Brisance saw a stranger knight in the streets of the town, he ran to tell Sir Kay the Seneschal that he had found him a rebel. It was Balyn, but Sir Brisance did not even know his name. Sir Kay the Seneschal sent his soldiers to the hostel, and there they took Balyn and dragged him off to prison.
Meanwhile Sir Kay the Seneschal held out the money-bag to Sir Brisance. ‘Tell me then,’ said Sir Kay, ‘what reason you had for accusing this northern knight.’ And poor Sir Brisance cast about in his heart, and he recalled him how King Arthur’s own cousin had been killed a few weeks back. So he said, ‘This same northern knight killed the king’s cousin. I don’t know his name, but I know his face and I saw him walking from the deed.’ And for that lie Sir Kay the Seneschal gave him a second bag of gold, and left Balyn in a cell deep under the prison yard.
But the truth was that Balyn was no rebel, and had never seen King Arthur’s cousin in his life. And the knights-judges would have proven this, but Sir Kay the Seneschal had sent down the knights-judges and suspended the law-courts. ‘For I will put terror into the hearts of rebels,’ he said, ‘and I deem it better that ten innocent men should hang, rather than that one rebel go free. Let justice wait, for now I will have order in this land.’
So Balyn joined the other men condemned upon the word of Sir Kay’s spies.
He made no complaint. He knelt in the pit and rested his heavy hands upon his upright knee. He let his head hang low. There was no light within that cell, save for a little flickering gleam that stole in through the crack beneath the great door up the steps to the passageway beyond. Day or night was darkness there. In time his eyes grew large, and he could see a sort of warp and weft of gloom, and it might have been the stone walls and stone floors cut out of the granite of the earth, and it might have only been the inconstancy of his eyes.
His eyes were starved, but his ears were feasted in that place. He heard the voices of the dying, the doomed, and the damned. They cried out, the traitors and the forsworn and the unjustly accused men, the men whose enemies ranked higher in the court and could send them to this place.
He listened in stillness and did not move himself. He knelt on one knee with his big hands upon his knee.
When the food was put through the slot in the door, he ate a mouthful and left the rest, but drank deep of the water and licked the bottom of the cup.
When his need came he squatted in the lowest corner where the filth piled high. The stench of the prison was foul but a man abides many things when he must and complaints make burdens double.
He lay upon the pallet in his cloak. He must have slept for he was walled up there for six months and no man may go so long without sleep. But the sweet sleep of dreams he did not take in all his time there. He lay upon his back and looked up at the stone. His look was solemn and slow. He lay upon his back a while and then he rose and knelt upon one knee and rested his big hands upon his knee.
Many thoughts came to him. He was minded of his childhood and of his mother who had smiled and kissed him when he was a babe. That was his first memory in his life and it brought tears to his eyes now. He faced that memory with the same patience that he faced the stone walls and the food shoved through the slot and the rats and the filth in the corner.
For six months he looked back upon his life. And he wondered, slowly in his heart, What was it for? What did I achieve? What good came into the world because I lived and drew breath?
He thought, If it is granted me to leave this place, then I will do a great thing. I will do a deed of greatness or I will die in the attempt. And when that deed is done, O you Devils of the dark, dank Earth, then you may wreak upon me all the torments your dark hearts delight in. So much I swear.
And when he had taken that oath something gave way in his heart so that he was taken aback. For a moment he even wandered near the edge of fear and it came to him that he might withdraw it for he had not said the words aloud.
But I will not withdraw it. I meant it. I will do a great thing, then come what may come.
Long after he had lost hope to see the light again, the gaoler took it upon himself to speak. The Devils of the Earth had heard Balyn’s promise and meant to make him keep it.
‘Prisoner of the North,’ the gaoler said, not knowing even Balyn’s name, ‘you do not cry out.’
‘No.’
‘You do not beg for freedom or regret your sins. You do not cry, Mercy for I am innocent.’
‘No.’
‘Prisoner of the North, you alone in these pits have held fast to your manhood. If there is any grace I can do for you, saving only that it does not betray my office, I will do it for you.’
‘There is one thing you can do.’
‘Ask.’
‘In the town, at the hostel of the Red Drake, my squire will be waiting. Tell him where I am and what has befallen me. He is a tall man of fair sparse hair, and a mustache that falls to his chin.’
‘I will seek him out and tell him when I am relieved of my post this day. I promise you that.’
‘No promises! Do not promise anything to me. Men who are entombed in the darkness of the Earth can enforce no oaths or promises from men that are free. Do it, or do not. But promise nothing.’
‘Prisoner of the North, you are a strange man. Let it be as you wish.’
The slot fell shut and the little lurid gleam of light failed. Balyn felt the blood thud in his wrists and knuckles upon his upright knee. He felt a strain across his back. It angered him. Hope already, vain and foolish, and for so little! Slowly he watched himself until it drained away.
When weariness came to him he did not seek the pallet but held himself kneeling upon the one knee. He thought to himself, Stones do not move, no more shall I.
‘Prisoner of the North.’ The slot was open and the little lurid gleam wandered back into the pit.
‘Yes.’
‘I have met your squire and told him what you asked.’
He watched the blood in his wrists and the sinews of his back, lest they betray him again. But he had beaten them.
‘Prisoner of the North, did you hear?’
‘I heard.’
‘And will I have no word of thanks from you?’
‘You did me a turn for your own blessing and not for mine. I have no thanks for you. I have gone beyond thanks.’
‘Prisoner of the North, you are a strange man.’
‘Be it so.’
The slot fell and the light failed again.
Balyn let his senses sink down with his heavy blood, down into his foot where he set it on the stone, down deep into the Earth. O Devils, what will you? O Devils, what game is this?
It was no game.
‘Prisoner of the North, I bring you great tidings on this day!’
‘Is it day then.’
‘Your squire has told your tale to your people in the North, and they have sued the barons of the King, and you are to be freed.’
There came a creaking, that was torment to his ears. But the heavy oaken door shook and pulled away and the blinding glare of a small candle stabbed into the pit.
‘Come forth, rejoice, for today you are free.’
‘Is it so?’
And for the first time in weeks he tottered to his feet.
He walked up the passageways. Back and forth they led, up to the surface of the earth. The light that cut at him was agony but it was nothing to what awaited him outside the gate. For it was day and the Sun burned in the sky.
He stood at the edge of a square in the town. Cattle and horses grazed in the square. Men and carts passed by. He paid them no heed. He looked up at the Sun.
Men stared at him, a strong man pale from half a year’s time in the grave, filthy from the pit. He did not see them.
An hour in the grave is worth a month in life.
After a time he bent his legs and knelt on one knee. He reached to the dirt of the road. He held a clot of dried mud in his fist and his big fingers tightened until the clot burst into dust and crumbled to the ground.
I have outlived the pit, therefore I will seek what great thing I may do. O Devils, I have not forgotten.
He saw for the first time that men walked in the square. They were marching up to the castle on the hill above the town. They were knights and barons and men of arms, all weaponed men going to the King.
He went with them.
