A Hero's throne

Then he blinked and reminded himself of the urgency of his message, definitely the first, possibly the only of its sort in history.

He spotted Ealdstan in the entryway, consulting with the master builder and the head of the stone carvers, standing over a series of sketches scratched into the ground with chalk.

“. . which formed flowstones that give strength to the outer edges,” the master builder was explaining, pointing with a stick to a diagram. “These would be greatly strengthened if we were to alter the kitchen thus”-a pause as he bent down and etched an alteration-“and the upper levels following suit in this way.” More scratching followed.

“How deep can be dug downward?”

“Ah,” the builder said, his face brightening. “As to that-”

“Beg pardon, my lords,” Breca said, breaking into the conversation. The three turned to him. “Ealdstan, you are. . summoned.”

The eyebrows of the two craftsmen raised while Ealdstan’s lowered. “Summoned? How am I summoned? By whom?”

Breca swallowed. He could feel sweat on his brow. “You are summoned by the king.”

“By the king? Ridiculous. The king is in Normandy. I will see him when he gets back. What nonsense. How did he get a message to you?”

“Your forgiveness, Ealdstan, but the king is not in Normandy.”

“Hmm.” Ealdstan pursed his lips. “Flown to France? As prisoner perhaps? Does he need ransoming? But why send for me?”

Breca was nearly panting with exasperation. “No, he is here.”

“In England? Westminster?”

“No, here. In Ni?ergeard.”

“What?” In a swirl of robes, Ealdstan was up and out of the entryway. Breca rushed after him. “Where?” Ealdstan barked, and Breca pointed the way.

A little ways off from the workers’ dwellings stood the king and his entourage, beneath a canopy of yellow light cast by torches that spewed black smoke up into the air. There were eighteen of them altogether, two of them apparently nobles, one of them a bishop, and the rest servants who wore heavy packs or pushed handcarts loaded with provisions, including barrels of paraffin for the torches.

Ealdstan slowed, not wanting to be seen rushing to meet any summons, especially that of a king.

“Fire?” he bellowed as he strode toward them. All the heads of the royal party turned. “Have you any notion of the danger you bring when you carry fire under the earth?”

The king squared himself to the approaching wrath, shrugging his cloak over his shoulder and placing his hands at his hips. “Not to worry, wizard. We do not intend to stay long. Our time of departure is contingent only on the speed of your answers.”

“‘Answers?’ You demand answers of me? How came you here?”

The king sneered and did not make to answer. The bishop, perhaps emboldened by his king’s example, or else eager to intercede before blows were traded, replied, “You are not the only keeper of secrets ancient, Ealdstan. The church has many hidden resources and recorded knowledge.”

Ealdstan turned fierce eyes on the speaker, but was beaten to a reproach.

“Silence, cleric. I did not bring you here for your skill in debate.”

“But, John.” He gulped, blanching. “That is, my glorious king and most majestic master, I meant no-”

“I said, silence. Now”-the king levelled another glare at Ealdstan-“you. .” He raised a finger accusingly. “You!”

That was all he managed to say. All eyes turned to him, but the only thing they saw was a man’s face bunched up in rage, like a fist, his mouth writhing, too many insults and oaths crowded onto his tongue to speak. The tension was awful, but none of the retinue dared make a sound. Their monarch gave a roar of frustration, turned, and snatched a flat object from one of the footmen. He unfolded it into a small chair and thrust it down violently. Then he sat on it.

“So. . how was Normandy?” Ealdstan asked after a time. “Was it fair weather?”

King John snorted. “No,” he growled. “It was miserable.”

Ealdstan nodded and waited.

“Ealdstan,” the king said, after much chewing of his lip, “when last we talked, we spoke of empire-one to rival that of the Holy Roman, or even the original Roman one. The like that was never seen since Alexander’s time. And it seems as if I am to do all of the work myself. The world is in tumult these past ten years-Byzantium has fallen, the Muslim nation grows by the week, all of Europe has been drained of money and men in the dry, dusty sinkhole that is Jerusalem. The Norman barons are so spun around they don’t know which way to face, and no doubt it is only that the Picts are so violent tempered that they leave us largely alone. I have been abandoned by the Angevine, Philip seizes my lands, Scotland strives daily to tear itself off the map, and I have been excommunicated by the pope. The whole world is a whirlwind, and I run atop it like a dog on a ball, scarcely knowing where to put my feet.”

He paused for breath, fuming.

“And here you sit.” He made an irritated gesture. “In your hole. Untouched by the foul misfortunes that pound this island like a hail, carving stone leaves upon stone branches. Well should you ask if the weather was fair!”

Ealdstan frowned and opened his mouth, but King John was only pausing for another breath. “Civil war, old man. That is what our land is faced with. Can you comprehend that?”

“I can.”

“I wonder. I truly wonder if you do. Dark powers in this century are rising that would threaten Christendom, my rule lies in shards at my feet, and where is Ealdstan? Ealdstan, the man in the shadows, the power behind the throne, the long-lived, the embodiment of the wisdom of Britain? Is he uniting the barons? Is he diplomat to foreign powers, to allay and align? No. He is here, hidden beneath the rocks, digging. Burrowing. Shifting sand. Behind the throne? Beneath the throne, I say.”

The bishop laughed and then choked himself silent.

Ealdstan nodded sympathetically. “When first I made myself known to you,” he said, “I was more than forthcoming that the road you would walk with me would be difficult.”

“But you gave the impression it would at least be passable,” the king whined. “And that you would walk it with me.”

“It was a road that your brother Richard was unwilling to walk. He saw the world as rightly as you saw it, and yet he chose a different path-that of facing threat full-on. He was not wholly misguided, or fruitless, and yet his victory will be fleeting. Ours will last the ages.”

“Ours? Or yours, I wonder.”

“Allow me to ask, why is it you are king? What import is it, and of what motivations are you driven?”

King John drew himself upright in his chair. “Seek not to look into my heart, wizard. You ask by what right I rule? By God’s. He has made this body.” He gave his chest a stern thump. “He has given me this crown.” He gave no less a thump to the diadem on his head. “He has given me the ability and opportunity to rule, and by the weeping eyes of His tortured Son, that is what I plan to do. Is that ‘import’ enough for you?” John eased forward, a challenging look on his face.

“I wonder at your piety sometimes,” Ealdstan mused out loud.

“And I wonder that you wonder.”

They stared intently at each other in the darkness, two players at a game of chess.

“You spoke of questions I must answer,” Ealdstan said. “Before you leave.”

“They are few,” the king replied. “Here is the first: my very deputies seek to pull my imperial body apart. What aid or resources will you give to enable me to appease them?”

“What aid can an earthworm give a lion? I am as you meet me.” He opened his palms and arms in a gesture of openness.

“Nothing, then.”

Ealdstan clasped his palms together.

John shifted his weight. “Arms, then. I want some of your warriors. Any amount, and on any terms you