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- Herausgeber: Clink Street Publishing
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Sacred Band Trinity
- Sprache: Englisch
The Sacred Band Trinity concludes with the remaining Red Dragon members in a race against time to prevent Lady Morgan Worthington and her White Dragon acolytes fulfilling an ancient prophecy that would reshape the world. Luke Allen possesses the fabled blade of Excalibur, but must understand its true nature in order to wield it, whereas younger brother Adam conflicted by grief and duty as a Sacred Band warrior. The mysteries of King Arthur and the Round Table unfold before them both, and to prevent centuries worth of history repeating once more, they and their allies must stand and confront the power of the Trinity - the foundation of many faiths - and be prepared to do whatever is necessary to protect those they love. Even if this means making the ultimate sacrifices.
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Seitenzahl: 226
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
Continental Europe
8th Century AD
Writings of Sir Galahad – Day 1
What greater honour can there be than to have your king bestow upon you a task of the gravest importance? I begin these musings from the northern coast of Europe, where I, Sir Percival and Sir Gawain arrived in the middle of the night from the Wessex shores. The seas were mercifully calm, and we arrived without detection, though Gawain noted his concerns about possible Saxon raiders operating nearby. Indeed, we heard coarse shouts in a foreign tongue as we camped by a fallen tree, prompting Percival to extinguish the modest fire he had struck. But the rest of the night passed by uninterrupted.
I’ve already spent many an hour contemplating the nature of this quest. My king has held his resolve over the years through war, peace or love. It is this very integrity that binds his Knights of the Round Table, the Thirteen, to his service. Knowing not one of us alone could match Arthur’s strength has undoubtedly sealed our bond to him and each other. But perhaps also the awareness that should one of us ever dare attempt an act of treason, to truly lead, he would 2have to be committed to lowering himself to the level of his kin, not soaring above them like an eagle on high. Not one of the Thirteen – even the revered Sir Lancelot – could achieve such a feat. I believe it is this very fact that enables the King of Britons to wield the mighty Excalibur, a weapon so powerful that foes of all creeds cower before it. What would such power be capable of in the wrong hands, I often wonder? Not the sort of thought one cares to dwell upon for too long.
But no one can deny it… our king grows old and is beset with ill health. And increasingly, vivid dreams haunt his beloved Lady Guinevere – dreams of searing pain and anguish, as if Arthur himself had been ripped away from her bosom. We knights know full well our king has called upon the services of the great wizard Merlin for his counsel, the force that forged our trusty blades from the thorns of Avalon, but for reasons unknown, he appears reluctant to interpret the visions our lady has. It is this desperation that has drawn the wizard’s young apprentice, she of the wilderness, of deepest green to rival that of the lushest of trees during the height of the sun – Morgan le Fay.
None can question the unequalled talent of this would-be sorceress. Her beguiling charms have certainly turned the heads of many a man, including those in closest company to our king…perhaps even the king himself. For it was she that whispered an interpretation of our lady’s dreams into Arthur’s ear one night, sharing visions of grandeur and power the likes of which no man has ever witnessed. The ability to not only raze enemies to the ground, but to build upon their bones an empire like no other, one that would never die, surely such a power is irresistible? Such sweet words to an ailing man must have been like nectar to a bee. The very next day, Percival was summoned, and he together with Sir Gawain and I were to travel to the far reaches of the continent in search of the most modest of tokens – a statue. Nothing more.
Writings of Sir Galahad – Day 6
We made good speed across northern Gaul into the heart of the Frankish lands. The king had charged us to stop at Aachen and 3pay homage to Emperor Charlemagne, a ruler who has been an ally to Britain in the wars against the Saxons. Our host gave us a hearty welcome at court, even preparing a lavish feast in honour of King Arthur and his victories over our common enemy. It came as no surprise, however, to hear the subject of Christianity discussed while seated at the banqueting table, this perhaps being the only stumbling block between our realms. The three of us were warned by Arthur to expect a little politics, being compared to heathens who still worshipped trees and birds over their ‘one true god’. Gawain looked distinctly rattled at times, but bit his tongue.
What caught all our attention however was the inquisition regarding our quest itself. It was clear that our host was not wholly ignorant of such mythical wonders, despite his obvious piety. We had sworn an oath to our king not to reveal the true nature of our travels to anyone, but if questioned, to use the cover story of a search for an item of recognisable value to our allies across the continent – the holy cup of life, the ‘grail’.
During a moment of more heated debate over the role of religion when ruling, Gawain let slip the name of the sacred statue – known to Morgan le Fay as the ‘Palladium’ – to a scholar who sat by his side. Both Percival and I heard it. We intervened quickly but feared the damage had been done. Later that evening, as we enjoyed copious wine and mead, the emperor took our ears and shared with us a more intimate perspective. It would appear even Charlemagne’s own position on the papacy was not as resolute as one might have imagined, with him too having heard stories of those before him, recounting the rise of the world’s greatest empires, including that of Rome itself, and the teat upon which they sucked. He described a maiden, immortalised in stone in Ancient Greece, protected by the Sons of Mars, and long an object of fervent desire by would-be rulers.
The emperor’s openness took us all by surprise. It may well have been influenced by the length of the night’s festivities, but there was something about an item around the great man’s neck that caught my eye. A red jewel, unlike anything I’ve ever seen, in a sense alive, shimmering brightly with every word spoken by its bearer. Hypnotic. 4
Writings of Sir Galahad – Day 9
I write now from the borders of Bavaria. A bitter cold atop the teeth of the earth, air fresh but thin. In exchange for stronger steeds, Percival agreed with Charlemagne that we three would divert our route to the Holy Lands and receive a blessing from His Holiness in Rome, Pope Leo III, rumoured back in Britain to be the ‘emperor’s puppet’. Percival had no intention of losing precious time heading south into Lombardy, instead insisting we move forward across the Kingdom of the Slavs. Gawain had raised yet more concerns about Saxon scouts, as well as the disposition of the Slavs towards strangers… But Percival was certain the emblems of the emperor, granted with honours on our breastplates, would provide a level of protection. After all, the Slavs found themselves squeezed between the swollen empires of both the emperor’s Carolingian movement and his rival, the Byzantine. To offend either would surely be a death sentence.
A knight would find it hard not to admire these new gilded breastplates, with intricate blooms wrought in gold against burnished silver, ‘stars from the heart’ in defiance of any ‘Saracen heretic,’ the goldsmith called them. My knowledge of the peoples of the East was limited, but enough vitriol was spilt by the goldsmith to suggest it was not just the people of Britain that took issue with the teachings of Rome. Perhaps a greater war was coming, and those of the West considered it wise for all to carefully choose a side now? We therefore rode from Aachen hailed as Paladin Knights, worshippers of the Lord of the Heavens and his one true son, the man they call Christ, to return with the cup that treasured his blood. The title of ‘Paladin’ perhaps went unnoticed by the court sycophants.
As I write these words, Gawain and Percival are sketching in the gravelly mountain earth potential routes towards the Greek lands. Gawain prefers the more direct route along the Danube, suggesting we would go unnoticed through the valleys and forests. Percival favours the coastal path farthest away from the tribes deep in the continent, a more time-consuming option. A comical argument 5now breaks out between the two as to what they both have to look forward to upon our return to Britain, Gawain going as far as to mock Percival’s abstinence, squared with his own desire to see his adoring maidens once more. Percival mocks Gawain’s title ‘defender of women’, frightened that the knight’s bounty will be ransacked in his absence. The two have thankfully now settled their differences. We shall head for the coastal path upon first light.
Writings of Sir Galahad – Day 13
We arrived at the Coast of Dalmatia in the early hours, our progress hindered by uncharacteristically poor weather upon descent from the mountains. After convincing the natives that we were not Slavs or Saracens – our breastplate armour serving us well – an immediate welcome was given to us by the Palace of Diocletian. It is the grandest of courts I have ever cast my eyes upon, pastel orange like the sun itself, and corridors stretching as far as the eye can see. Its name comes from a Roman emperor perhaps more famed for his care of cabbages than his military – in fact, our first meal there consisted mostly of coarse root vegetables and broth, much to Gawain’s dissatisfaction!
We had the pleasure of meeting an interesting ship merchant going by the name of Tylos, short in stature, with skin and hair colour far darker than most. He described himself not as Roman or Byzantine, but Phoenician, a people long associated with trade across the Middle Sea. He shared with me his knowledge of the Ancient Greeks and their ways, including tales not dissimilar to those of Charlemagne’s court – a Band of warriors fed from the Well of Ares, a citadel known as Cadmea standing proud over the lands of Thebes. I struggle to keep a firm grip on all the names of deities and peoples, especially when these alternate depending on whom you converse with, ‘Ares’ and ‘Mars’ for example.
Percival has interjected upon hearing of the Theban culture, clearly having paid more attention to Morgan le Fay’s teachings than either myself or Gawain had. He requests more information about this 6place, and if possible, safe passage across the seas. Tylos agrees in exchange for a suitable remuneration in gold and will take us aboard his vessel in two nights’ time. The journey will take near nine days, with stops in several southern ports in places none of us had ever heard of, including Carthage, a ruined city, as well as the northern coasts of the fabled Egyptian tribes. While Percival is insistent that none of us stop or disembark from the vessel at any time, my curiosity is piqued by this great adventure to such lands… and I tell him now, I can make no such promises!
Writings of Sir Galahad – Day 16
The Middle Sea has glistened sapphire blue these past few days, a glorious sight. The weather has been most favourable and Tylos noted he has never seen the waters so calm. He claims the three of us must indeed be ‘blessed by the gods’ to allow him such a smooth passage. Food has been plentiful, not only with fresh produce collected from Carthage including ripe fruits and meat, but also succulent fish I have now learnt to catch with a line tied to my thorn staff. A morsel of mutton appears to be the most successful bait!
I have found ample time to quiz our seafaring host on his knowledge of the Ancient Greeks and their ways. He tells me of their mighty gods, Zeus, Hera and Hades… but most compelling is Athena, the goddess of wisdom and strength, revered to the point of naming the mightiest city in Greece after her. I whisper a word of the Palladium out of earshot from Percival and Gawain, and Tylos’ face freezes like stone. Tales of Cadmus, ruler of Thebes, come to light and the curse of jealousy that was cast upon him by Ares in retribution for the killing of his sacred dragon – an act that would have been seen as noble by us knights. His taking of the fairest maiden Harmonia and the jewel that bears her name were instrumental in Cadmus’ downfall. The sacred statue of Athena was taken by others eager for empires of their own, from Alexander the Great to Julius Caesar himself – legends that had made their way into historical texts as far away as Britain, and were immortalised 7in many a mosaic. I wonder whether Morgan le Fay knew of these deeds as she urged our own king to pursue this quest, and whether she brought its consequences to his attention. It would appear that both this statue and this Necklace are fatefully entwined: to possess one is to possess the other, to rise only to fall. A cycle witnessed by the likes of Tylos and his Phoenician kin, but not yet learnt by so many others. In a few days, we three will perhaps witness and take part in a similar fate.
Writings of Sir Galahad – Day 21
The soft white sands of eastern Greece greet our sea-weary legs as Tylos bids us farewell after seven nights. His skilful piloting between many islands landed his ship at Sounion, just southeast of Athens. At the temple Tylos offered a libation to the God of the Oceans, Poseidon, for our safe passage and urged us to travel north for approximately two nights to reach the Theban lands and the Citadel of Cadmea. I asked how we would know when we’ve reached these lands, to which he simply replied, ‘How all great men have known.’ I could not decipher whether this was praise or warning.
During our final night together, Percival was more engaged in Tylos’s tales and asked more about these Warriors of Ares, and whether they would pose a threat. Tylos went on to explain that these soldiers were actually born out of love, not war, but how such connections to one another could bring about the fiercest of human impulses. He gave the example of Gawain and his love of women, and what our own king would be prepared to do protect our Lady Guinevere. Such visceral impulses even the sterile Percival could comprehend. That said, Tylos proceeded to relate that no such warrior had been written of since the times of Philip II of Macedon, father to Alexander the Great, who seemingly wiped them out after a battle referenced as Chaeronea. Percival took some comfort in this, but remained resolute and begged me and Gawain to take nothing for granted.
As a parting gift, Tylos presented us with three steeds. We ride to Cadmea upon first light.
8Writings of Sir Galahad – Day 23
Navigation of the Greek lands proved trickier than we first thought, made all the worse for blazing heat beating down upon our armour like a mace. We rationed our water stores, and a few rivers along our route offered welcome refreshment, but our usual stoicism had been sapped from us like blood from a smitten boar. It was at dusk when a weary Percival pointed to the ominous shadow of a mound belching up through a layered sky. Sitting proudly atop it were the remnants of what appeared to be a place of worship. The land was not however completely abandoned, with the flickering of lights pooled in the distance suggesting this was still an inhabited region of Greece. Gawain insisted we first search for water and shelter from any locals before attempting to enter the ruins, but Percival overruled him on the grounds that anything either precious or sacred held within these crumbling walls would likely be protected, and the element of surprise was on our side.
The citadel itself bore the wounds of war. Carvings in many languages punctuated each rock and wall. None were clear, but the freshest appeared to be that of a Romulus Augustulus, known in Britain as the Last Emperor of Rome. His torn banner hung over an entrance, all that remained visible that we could translate with our modest Latin being ‘circulus finis’ – the circle ends.
Perhaps it was just me, but the concept of an endless cycle of empires and their demise struck me as a threat more than ever before upon reading this. Why would a great emperor choose to relinquish such a power? Had he had his fill of cautionary tales that perhaps had since manifested as pure fiction, only to become reality, so that the thought of being just another power-hungry ruler was enough to wrench himself away from any such temptation? Was it true also, that such contemporaries as Charlemagne had yet to heed this valuable lesson? Could the same be said of our own King Arthur and Morgan le Fay?
Still. I couldn’t stop Percival and Gawain from prising open the sealed entrance, pushing hard and lifting the fallen boulders with a 9grimace to reveal a small passageway. As night settled in, we trod carefully down a stone path to an opening which revealed a small pool of water, milky grey, with only the slightest trickle of feed from the soils above. All three of us were parched, and Gawain was the first to dip his hand into the pool, scoop up a palm-full of water and down it in greedy gulps. At first he appeared fine, and beckoned both Percival and me over to quench our thirst. I took a few cautious sips, only to feel a burning sensation like no other, which disappeared as quickly as it came. Gawain suffered the same reaction, which he described as a vision of brightest blue flame searing from behind his eyes, and what sounded like men’s cries from all around the chamber. I too heard these cries, but could not connect them to any particular loved one or close companion. The pain, however, was as if all I ever dared care for was ripped from me in an instant. Upon seeing this most frightening reaction in us, Percival declined the waters.
It was, however, Percival who spotted high up upon a ledge the slender statue of a female, small but detailed. Bathed in the pale light filtering down from above ground – the Palladium. It was he that reached for it and grasped it firmly before raising it high above his head proclaiming, ‘My fellow knights, I give you, for King Arthur and Britain, the Grail!’
I write this entry in the comfort of the home owned by a welcoming local in Thebes, warmed by a roaring hearth and red wine. The local knows not of our doings here, only that we are travellers from the West and on pilgrimage to the Holy Lands, her reverence for another goddess named Hestia compelling her to give us shelter for the evening. I watch my fellow Knight Percival, clutching his satchel tightly with the treasure within, wondering what it is we have done.
CHAPTER 2
Cardiff, Wales
29th February 2012 AD
The morning was filled with copious amounts of caffeine for Luke, now on his fourth cup of coffee, pressing every last drop out of the granules in the cafetière. He’d spent the last few hours staring intensely at the short wooden staff now in his possession. The mighty Excalibur, the sword of legends and fairy tales, only a few hands worthy to touch it, arguably answering to no one. Yet here he was, a man of twenty-six, until the previous summer happily settled in Boston with a doting mother and close friends, now seated at a rickety breakfast table with a cheap gingham cloth, holding a weapon of unrivalled power. Given to him by his not-so-dead girlfriend, who was now some sort of elemental spirit living in the Forth River! He pressed his palms deep into his eye sockets – no wonder his head hurt so much!
‘I don’t think staring at it will make it reappear as a blade.’ Violet said, coughing slightly as she battled the splattering frying pan, attempting to cook eggs.
‘No kidding!’ Luke replied through a yawn.
Her father had immediately contacted a fellow pub owner following the events at Edinburgh and Arthur’s Seat, knowing that 11a return to The Bear in Bath would be too risky. In the months after the passing of Violet’s mother, Nick Butcher had become close with another cancer widow, a lady by the name of Beth. During the treatment of their spouses at Cardiff Hospital they’d spent many an hour in support groups for families impacted by the awful disease, eventually deciding that more value could be found in working as a pair when it came to emotional support. Beth lost her husband three months before Nick lost his wife. Both being pub landlords, they shared advice on running such a business single-handedly. Their mutual co-operation had allowed both establishments to continue trading, flourishing even.
Beth had welcomed the Butchers to The Blue Hare pub on the outskirts of the City. Nick quickly put himself to good use pulling pints while Violet turned to cooking, not her forte, but she’d always been a fast learner. She prided herself on making a mean bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich and was pleased to report that no customer had contracted food poisoning yet. Both Adam and Luke had joined them under the instructions of Gary, who had wisely decided that it was better for the Red Dragon contingent to split up, to avoid detection by Sir Lawrence and Lady Morgan. Gary had a small house near Newport overlooking the Severn Estuary, and was providing shelter for Graham McCready and his protégé Fernando. Tearing Graham away from his beloved Scottie’s bar was hard, but the circumstances were that extreme, and his broader connections within the Sacred Band were needed now more than ever. Such an asset Gary and Nick could not afford to lose to the White Dragon.
‘Have you tried to wield it at all?’ Violet continued. Luke just shook his head. ‘Why not?’ she pressed.
Truth was, Luke was too frightened. Just gazing upon the smooth grain of the staff sent an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. He thought of Mary, possibly trapped forever in a state of purgatory, not knowing if she was in pain or still wrestling with any sense of anger or guilt. This, combined with the sword’s destructive effects on a sorceress as powerful as Lady Morgan, was enough for him to 12consider throwing the damned object back in the river and be done with all this nonsense once and for all.
It was only Mary’s words that were stopping him. Why was he worthy? Why not his brother Adam? Surely a more suitable candidate and with the same bloodline, from the most noble Sir Galahad? The word ‘sacrifice’. Surely, he was not the only one with experience in that department, everyone had lost or given up something. Nothing was adding up.
Violet shoved a plate of toast and her best effort at fried eggs in his direction. ‘Eat something!’ she instructed. Luke tested her concoction with his fork before taking a bite. ‘I suppose it’s quite fitting that you now have a sword… given Richard lost his. My dad often said a Knight of the Round Table would sooner part with his life than his sword!’ she smiled.
Luke chewed on a tough piece of toast. ‘You must have had some weird bedtime stories when you were growing up,’ he said flippantly.
‘Actually, they were great.’ Violet recalled. ‘Both Mum and Dad did away with all that prissy princess-in-a-tower rubbish, waiting to be saved by a handsome prince on a white horse, slaying a troll and so on. They got right to the point. Knights were about honour, loyalty and of course – adventure!’ she beamed.
‘Well… they’ve not let you down there,’ Luke replied. Violet gave a mild chuckle.
‘How’s Adam?’ she enquired.
‘You’re asking me?’ Luke rolled his upper lip. ‘Tried to talk to him, but he’s not having it right now.’
‘You’ve both lost someone close. Surely he gets that?’ Violet proposed.
‘I don’t think losing Iain was the same as me and Mary,’ Luke said. He cleared his plate and dumped the dishes in the sink. ‘Mary and I often fought, but never to the death!’
Violet nodded in appreciation, then heard what sounded like the back door click open, only to be slammed shut in a tantrum. Adam’s heavy footsteps echoed up the stairwell, he breezed past the kitchen 13and headed straight for his room. Violet and Luke turned to one another and shrugged.
‘You should really try, Luke.’ Violet said with concern. Luke stared at the floor, trying not to engage, but gave in to her. With a huff he followed his brother.
Luke knocked on the bedroom door, trying to be heard over the blaring sound of New Order from within. He shouted Adam’s name twice, no reply. Eventually, he just entered uninvited. Adam was sweaty from his morning run, headphones in despite ambient music playing, grinding out press-ups robotically.
‘Adam – you want breakfast?’ Luke said lightly. Adam gave his brother the courtesy of a pause in his routine to reply with a sharp ‘No’ before continuing. Luke scratched his head, looking for a reason to remain in the room. ‘Do you… do you want me to spot you or anything?’ he tried again. Adam deflected laconically once more. Luke knew he had only one option, and that was to throw himself in at the deep end here.
‘Look bro… you’ve barely spoken a word since Edinburgh. Not to me, or Violet. Not even Gary and Nick.’ Luke crouched by his side.
‘I spoke to Gary yesterday,’ Adam retorted, reaching for a towel to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead.
‘And?’
