The words of their monarch made little impression on the idle lords and earls clustered at the back. They stayed where they were.
Ealdstan turned fully toward them and raised his staff, bringing it down in front of him three times, pounding the floor with its tip. His eyes flashed with a fierce light and he gave a long look to each of the lords in turn.
One by one, they left.
The king, more at ease now in only Ealdstan’s company, pulled a couple stools away from the wall and sat on one, gesturing for Ealdstan to sit in the other.
“Thank you,” he said.
“No, thank you,” said Stephen. “I’ll make it up to them later. They haven’t had a very easy time of late. These are uncertain days. They are saying that Christ and His saints and angels are asleep and will not waken again during my reign. Maude is still playing at foxes and hens with me. . and this after I allowed her to escape from Oxford last year. I thought that if I showed her mercy, then that would be the end of it. But no, she continues. She has a son, Henri is his name. Nine years old, and already his strength and power are boasted of by the house of Anjou. They say he is as strong as a full-grown man, and comely to boot. I do not believe their reports entire, of course, but it twists the knife to think they are more united by the character of a young boy. I look around and I can see no one able to wield the power of the nation after me-no one I can trust.”
He gazed up at Ealdstan with a piteous, beseeching gaze that should never be found in any king. Were those tears in his eyes? Ealdstan was repulsed. Here was a weak man, an ineffectual ruler. But his sister and her son. . he himself had heard many of the reports Stephen had mentioned. Perhaps they would make stronger rulers, and be grateful to him in return.
He bit back a sigh. Cultivating. Was that all any of this was? Just choosing the best from what was available? Trying to limit intrusion from the worst? Christ and His angels sleeping? Yes, he hoped so. He feared what would happen when they awoke.
“You can trust me,” Ealdstan said, smiling at the king from the opposite end of the aisle. “I will help you in this, but I will need your best men.”
“Need them to do what?”
“No, you misunderstand,” said Ealdstan. “I mean I will need them. That is, I will need to keep them.”
II
Ni?ergeard
1214 AD
Breca climbed the wooden platforms erected around the large stalagmite that they were so very carefully hollowing out. The sound of their many chisels pounding into the rock around the structure made an oddly beautiful and soothing chorus. In a land of silence and darkness, it was refreshing to hear noise, of any type. For a moment the warrior stood looking up at the workers perched upon the scaffolding, working by the light of silver lanterns.
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.”