Darkwitch Rising (39 page)

Monck stepped forward first and, stunningly, for none had expected this, dropped to his knee before Charles and kissed his ring before raising his face to the king and welcoming him with words of both loyalty and honour. Charles drew him gently to his feet, kissed him on either cheek, and spoke soft words of gratitude and admiration to him which made Monk’s face flush with pleasure.

Then, once the mayor had greeted Charles, the ordnance of Dover Castle roared into life, and after that, in quick succession, the ordnance of every military establishment, camp and castle that lined the roads and sat upon the hills. At the deafening sound of cannon and gun, huge bonfires, set on the hilltops stretching from Dover all the way to the Tower in London leapt into life, so that the entire south-eastern corner of England roared and shook and thundered and flamed in honour of their king.

Charles was home.

C
harles and Catharine rested the night in Dover, both with terrible headaches from the noise of the cannon. Next morning, their headaches dissipated, they proceeded by open coach through the port town and thence onto the road to Canterbury. Again, Charles and Catharine were dressed with considerable splendour as well as gaiety; they were happy, and they wanted all to see it. James rode just behind their coach, almost as richly dressed as Charles, and behind him came a great train of courtiers and nobles and soldiers, both mounted and on foot.

They travelled slowly. In part this was, again, because Charles wished to delay his arrival into London until his thirtieth birthday, but in part it was also necessity.

The roads were lined by local militia, resplendent in their uniforms, along with the people come to see their returning king; at times the crowds were so thick it was impossible for Charles’ coach to proceed at anything faster than a walk. As the militia saluted, the people shouted and waved, sang and danced, and everywhere maidens threw handfuls of herbs onto the road before Charles’ coach.

Charles appeared the epitome of gracious happiness. He smiled and called out good-naturedly to the crowds, thanking them for their grace in
welcoming him. Sometimes he stood, and took Catharine’s hand, and introduced her to the crowd as his “most divinely beautiful and gracious beloved, my wife, Catharine, your queen”, and the crowds loved it as Catharine flushed.

By the night of the 26th they had reached Canterbury, where Charles and Catharine attended service in the ancient cathedral and the king met for the first time with his Privy Council. Charles took the opportunity to once again thank General Monck for his support and wisdom and advice, and present him with the Order of the Garter. They spent the night in Canterbury, then proceeded in much the same manner the following day, the crowds and joy no less thick, to the town of Rochester.

From Rochester they made their way on the 28th of May to Blackheath, the windy plateau rising above Greenwich and only an hour or so by a fast horse from London. Charles was increasingly nervous, although he hid it well. At night, alone with Catharine, he worried that he’d not heard from Louis, or even from Marguerite and Kate who he had expected to be among the first to welcome him to England.

“They may be in London,” Catharine had tried to reassure him.

“Damn it, Catharine! Louis knows I will be ill with worry!”

“Then perhaps he has Noah safely, but cannot move for fear of discovery.”

“I pray it be so,” Charles said.

At Blackheath, Charles and Catharine took (or were offered on bent knee, rather) the house of a local dignitary that stood on the ridge of the heath and overlooked London in the distance. That evening, having somehow managed to extricate themselves from all the hangers-on, servants,
courtiers, clerks and sundry other officials that forever crowded about a king, Charles and Catharine stood at the window on the first floor gallery which looked north-westwards.

It was a clear, calm evening, the setting sun silvering the gentle sweep of the Thames, and touching with gold the green trees and flowered gardens and meadows that stretched from the edges of Blackheath to the banks of the river some two miles distant.

Charles stood behind Catharine, gently cradling her against his body. He was almost physically ill with worry, but standing there, looking at what had been unattainable for so long as it lay in the far distance, feeling Catharine’s gentle warmth suffuse his body, he could almost forget his troubles.

“Catharine…” he said, nuzzling his mouth against her neck.

She smiled, leaning her body even more firmly against his. “And wouldn’t it be a tragedy, beloved, if Noah were to suddenly burst through those doors behind us right now?”

He laughed, his breath fanning out against her skin, making her shudder. “Noah would understand.”

“Aye,” Catharine whispered, her eyes now closed, her head tilted back so that Charles could run his mouth teasingly up and down her neck, “Charles—”

The doors behind them suddenly burst open and Charles and Catharine sprang apart, as if someone had thrown a pail of icy water over them, before spinning about to face the door.

“My God,” Charles whispered.

Louis de Silva stood there, his hands held out at his side, palm outwards, his face the epitome of despair, explaining his failure more than ever words might.

“Louis,” Catharine said, reaching out a silk-clad arm to him.

“I couldn’t save her,” Louis said, his voice breaking. “Weyland has her, now.”

They sat, the three of them, on the window seat, looking out to London. Louis told them as best he could of what had happened: how he had missed Noah because the giants Gog and Magog had spirited him away to the Guildhall, there to tell him that Noah needed to go to Weyland, and that Louis had no right to stop her.

“
I
had no right,” Louis said. “Me. No right.”

“Louis—” Charles began.

“The giants showed me a vision,” Louis said, and as he spoke, he raised eyes filled with what looked like resentment. “They showed me the Stag God, lying in a glade.”

Charles’ face went expressionless, and, imperceptibly, he leaned back, as if putting distance between Louis and himself.

“He lay on the floor of the glade, cruelly injured. And then
you
walked in, Charles, in all your majesty as England’s king, and there came a blinding flash, and when it had cleared the Stag God stood there, healed and pulsing with a glorious ancient power.”

Catharine felt Charles’ hand tighten across her shoulders.

“The Stag God will rise, the giants told me, and nothing else matters save that. Nothing. Not even Noah’s torture at Weyland’s hands. She shall be saved, aye, but it will be the Stag God who shall rescue her. Not me. The Stag God, Charles. You.”

“Do you mind?” said Charles, very softly, and after a long moment’s silence, his eyes steady on Louis.

Louis returned the stare, and then suddenly all the resentment and bitterness seemed to drain from him and his body sagged.

“No.” Louis managed a small and infinitely sad smile. “Not truly. I would rather it were me…but you…I can accept that. Save her, Charles. Please.”

“The Stag God shall save her, and together he and Eaving shall save the land,” said Charles.

He reached out his hand from Catharine and put it on Louis’ shoulder. “Get some rest now, Louis. We have a great day before us tomorrow. London.”

“And somewhere within London,” Louis whispered, still clearly distraught, “Noah. What shall
she
think when we ride past in golden, laughing glory, and she imprisoned in hell?”

Much later, when Charles and Catharine were in bed, Charles sighed, and spoke sadly.

“Louis truly should learn to read visions better.”

Her head nestled against Charles’ naked chest, Catharine managed a small smile. “Louis was ever poor at reading vision, beloved. It is not the most widespread of arts.”

Charles smiled, and kissed the top of her head.

“What shall you do?” said Catharine.

He was quiet for a moment.

“There is a crown to accept,” he said, finally, “and I shall take it with glad heart.”

N
ight intensified over Blackheath. All was still. As Charles and his entourage slid deeper into their dreams the heath beyond the windows appeared to ripple. For an instant—so fleeting that had you blinked you would have missed it—the heath vanished and infinite rolling wooded hills replaced it. And then the heath was back. Still. Silent.

But altered.

Charles lay next to Catharine. Both moved restlessly, tangling the sheets about them.

In a chamber a little distant from the newly returned king and queen lay Louis, solitary in his bed, dreaming of Noah.

Still asleep, Louis began to weep.

Coel? Coel
?

He woke, startled.

There was no one in the chamber save for himself. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then rose from the bed, tugging irritably at the sheets as they tangled about his legs.

“Coel,” said a voice, and he looked at the Sidlesaghe who stood by the window.

“What is happening?” said Coel—for it
was
Coel, his body now returned to that finer and darker one he’d worn so long ago.

“See,” said the Sidlesaghe, “the Realm of the Faerie awaits you.”

Coel looked through the window.

Blackheath had vanished. Now the gentle wooded hills of the Faerie stretched into infinity beyond the windowpanes.

“Come,” said the Sidlesaghe, “it is time. The king has returned.”

Coel stepped forward, pausing briefly as he suddenly realised that, although he’d slept in a linen nightgown, he now wore trousers made of a fine, fitted leather. He walked through the open window, the Sidlesaghe directly behind him.

They climbed The Naked, and as Coel climbed, so the grass to either side of him, all over the hill, flattened itself in homage. Coel slowed as he observed this, shaken. He saw then that it was not merely the grasses which paid him homage, but as he climbed, so also did the trees at the corresponding height on the other hills dip their branches in deference.

As he climbed, so a wave of deference dipped and swayed over all the hills of the Faerie.

“Over
all
the land,” said the Sidlesaghe, seeing the direction of Coel’s eyes, and the shock on his face. “In the mortal world so also do all the trees and grasses, as well as the beasts of field and forest, pay their respects.”

“How can I deserve this?” said Coel.

“Because you were born to it,” said the Sidlesaghe, “but also because you have earned it, first as Coel, then as Harold, and finally now, as you live this life.”

Coel shook his head, and they continued the climb in silence.

Just before Coel reached the top of the hill, the giants Gog and Magog loomed up before him, blocking his vision.

Coel stopped dead. “You stopped—”

“We had to,” said Magog. “Surely you understand that?”

Again Coel shook his head. “It is so hard—”

Long Tom now appeared at Gog’s shoulder. “Coel, if you wear the crown of the Realm of the Faerie, you must leave behind all your ties and promises to Eaving, as to the mortal world. Your
first
allegiance must be to the Faerie. Nothing else,
nothing
, must come first.”

“If you cannot accept this,” rumbled Magog, “then return to the world of the mortal, and to your dreams of Noah.”

Coel stood, hands on hips, head dipped a little, thinking. Leave behind his ties to Noah? Oh, that would hurt. For so long he had been tied to her, loving her, wanting to protect and aid her. Even more than the land, she had been his life…although he knew she would understand.

“Don’t you see?” said Gog softly. “Don’t you know you can help her more as the Lord of the Faerie than you ever could as Coel, or as the man you are in this life. The Lord of the Faerie will be her rock in the turmoil ahead.
You
can be her rock.”

Coel stood, still thinking. Eventually he raised his head. “I accept this for the Faerie,” he said. “Not for Noah, even though I know this decision shall aid her. But this is for the Faerie, and for the land. My first allegiance shall be to the Faerie, and to the land.”

As he said this, a great weight fell from his heart, and Coel knew he had made the right decision, and for the right reason.

All three of the creatures looking down at him grinned. Then Long Tom bowed, followed closely by Gog and Magog, and they all stepped back, affording Coel a clear view of the summit of the hill.

It was filled with the throng of the Faerie: Sidlesaghes and badgers, shadows and dapples,
cavelings and sprites, sylphs and giants. All manner of creatures packed the grassy space, all with their faces turned towards Coel as he ascended the final steps to the flat summit, all eyes huge with elation.

As Coel finally set foot on the summit, every single one of them dropped to their knees in homage.

As they sank to their knees, so the sunlight strengthened over Coel, illuming him in a shaft of gold.

“This day is but a formality,” said Long Tom softly at Coel’s side. “You were, in truth, crowned that day you mounted Pen Hill to go to Caela. Do you remember?”

Coel nodded. “I was sick at heart and distraught, for I knew that death lay not far ahead of me. But even so, there was a great peace that came over my soul as I saw Caela. I thought she was my home.”

Long Tom gave a very slight shake of his head. “
You
were her home, and her lord,” said Long Tom. “
You
made her that day. Never forget it.”

There came a soft footfall behind Coel, and he looked, and smiled.

The reborn souls of Erith, Ecub, Matilda and Brutus walked up the hill, and were now but a few paces from him. Each looked about them incredulously, and each of their faces, as their eyes alighted on Coel, softened into delight.

“He is a king,” said Long Tom to them as they came to stand a pace away. “He is the Lord of the Faerie.”