Leaving the bustle of the harbour and crowds on the beach behind him, he came to a stile, something he had read about but never seen. The way the planks had been placed through the wall was ingenious, so he sat atop it surveying the scene. To the right was a dell, leading down into a small wood. He could see the top of the castle battlements above the trees. The standing part of the castle was old, dating back to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, but there had been a castle or fortification on this site long before that, as the position guarded the entrance to the natural harbour of Falmouth.
The sea was to the south, and behind him was the narrow meadow atop the cliffs. It was so like his RP world that he almost had to pinch himself.
Having caught his breath, he set off down the path into the woodland. The sun shone through the trees, which rustled in the slight breeze. The dampness of the recent rain gave everything a clean but earthy smell. He smiled, as he felt closer to nature than ever in his life. Idly, he wondered whether his ancestors had ever walked this path.
He turned a corner in the path and stopped dead in his tracks, for there, not twenty yards away, was the tree from his RP game.
The darkened trunk, the mossy forest floor, the gnarled branches with their canopy of leaves, it stood as real as could be. He looked around, but realised that it must be his imagination. For there was no building, no clearing and the sounds of the birds were almost deafening.
He approached the tree, reaching out and touching it with his hands. If only it could speak, he thought. What wonders would it reveal? He wondered how old it was. He imagined it standing here at the time of King Arthur or even earlier. The trunk was enormous; five men would be hard pushed to join hands and link up around it. He could see great wounds where vast branches had been broken, and yet, new ones had grown to replace them.
Several branches had man-made supports holding their weight. He was mildly surprised there was not a barrier preventing people from getting close. He’d have liked to have climbed up it as a child.
He circled the tree, marvelling at its beauty and ancient grace. There was a stone plaque at its foot. He read the inscription and his blood ran cold.
THE TAMSYN OAK.
This oak tree is the oldest in this woodland.
It is believed to be over 1000 years old and is standing on the site of an even older oak tree.
According to local legend, Tamsyn, a local Celtic girl, watched as Saxon invaders killed her family and destroyed her village. Fleeing into the woods, she took refuge under the tree on this spot. A Celtic Warrior God came to her in a dream, giving her a mysterious golden torque, which was endowed with unknown magical powers. The Saxon raiders following her, walked within a few paces of her, and although she was in plain sight, failed to see her. She then embarked on a quest to locate a magic sword, perhaps even Excalibur, the sword of the legendary King Arthur.
Arthur, thought by many to be a British/Roman general, Artorius, has many links with this region. Tamsyn is alleged to have found the sword, gathered a small but loyal band of warriors and avenged the destruction of her people by defeating the Saxons in a battle very close to this woodland.
Mortally wounded, Tamsyn gave the sword and her torque to her small son, telling him to return it to the place she received it. Her body was never found, as the legend claims she was rescued by the same Celtic god and was carried off to a different land to rule as his queen.
The legend further claims that when the torque is found, she will return to locate the sword and ensure it is placed across the waters from which it came.
Nothing else is recorded.
PLEASE DO NOT CLIMB ON THE TREE.
KEEP CORNWALL TIDY - TAKE YOUR LITTER HOME
Allun stared at the plaque, rereading the message time, and time again. He’d chosen the name Tamsyn at random, believing he’d invented it.
“Man, how creepy is this?” he said, aloud. “This is unreal!”
He sat on the mossy bank, trying to get a flavour of what he had just read. He lay back, resting his head on the bark of the tree and closing his eyes.
His imagination was working overtime. His real-life experience may have been somewhat limited, but his imagination knew no bounds. It was in that neither-nor place between sleep and wakefulness, that Allun spent much of his time. He had become so adept at getting there that it was an unconscious act. As soon as he relaxed, he’d be there. He preferred being there than anywhere that was real.
On this occasion, he saw a boy, no more than six or seven, dressed in a coarse tunic and leggings. Leather thongs were wrapped round his feet, with ties going up his legs. He entered the woods, carrying a bundle covered in sacking. He was crying, for his mother had died in his arms only a few hours before. Yet charged with a sacred duty, the boy struggled with his heavy burden right up to the clearing and the tree.
Tears ran down his dirty cheeks, causing streaks across the grime. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, sinking to his knees by the foot of the tree.
He turned as the sound of horses’ hooves came from behind him. His eyes wide with fear, he opened the bundle with shaking hands. The sword fell from his grasp, falling soundlessly to the mossy carpet. Grasping the torque, he looked at it briefly, as if trying to decide what to do with it. Then, with a quick look over his shoulder, he hurled it into the tree.
At that moment, an armoured man on horseback entered the clearing. His horse had froth at the nose and mouth; cruel streaks of blood marked its flanks where spurs had urged it to greater speed. Its eyes were wide with fear and exhaustion, yet the rider seemed unconcerned. He pulled on the reins, slowing his steed to a walk. Man and horse approached the now kneeling boy, who stared afraid but defiant at the knight.
The man’s armour was a strange mixture of leather and chain mail, with a few metal plates placed in appropriate positions. No plumes or crest adorned the helm, which was simply dark iron, dirty and dented from conflict. This was no gleaming relic of Hollywood’s gallant knights, but was a true warrior who wore utilitarian armour for protection and not for show.
No visor marred the rider’s vision, his dark, bearded face flecked with blood and mud. His dark eyes gleamed emotionlessly out at the boy.
When the knight saw the sword on the ground, he dismounted from his horse. As he did so, the leather and metal plates grated as he swung onto the ground.
“Give me the sword, boy!” he said.
It was a guttural language, not English or anything Allun recognised, yet he understood it perfectly. He even knew the man was foreign to these shores.
The boy picked the sword up, pulling it free of the sheath. It was so heavy; he could hardly hold it with both hands.
“What have you done with my mother?” he asked.
The language was the same, but more lilting and less harsh.
“That Celtic witch! She sent over two hundred of my men to their deaths. So when I find her, I'll send her to the underworld."
It was no contest, and Allun gasped in horror as the knight rode away, clutching the very plain sword to his chest. The boy lay on the moss as it started to rain.
Allun opened his eyes with a start, staring at the ground where the lad had fallen. Allun never knew whether the boy lived or died. However, he knew only one thing. The sword was important; no, not important, vital. He knew with a degree of certainty that he had to find and retrieve that sword.