Sorm lies awake for most of this final night. Only now and then does he doze off for a little while. It feels like he is living someone else’s life, as if he doesn’t belong here right now. However, he has worked through the events of this approaching day in his mind so many times that he knows what to do and what to expect.
So many times has he imagined the events of this day that he can smell the aromas and feel the textures in advance. He even knows exactly what the clothes of the ceremonial guards who will come to fetch him, will look like, with all the fine needlework down the front panel of their coats. As he lies there in his bed he works through the day ahead of him in his mind, making sure that everything has been covered. It may feel unreal, but it is important and thousands of people depend on him to play his part well.
Finally he gets up out of his rather rudimentary bed of straw and skins, with his feet standing on the cold stone floor. He hangs a mantle of skins over his shoulder, fastens it with his leather girdle and attaches his short sword. Finally he puts on soft moccasins rather than those noisy leather boots. It is very early in the morning. The fire in the hearth of this small sleeping hall has burnt down to a few embers. It is very cold.
The time has come to commence with the business of this important day. Someone is lying in the bundle of skins at the foot of his bed and this person rises quickly when he takes his first step. It is Krijger, the loyal and formidable soldier. He has worn half of his war-suit during the night in order to be ready at the drop of a hat. He is taller than Sorm, with very broad shoulders, and he wears his black hair cropped short like that of his lord.
“You don’t have to walk with me now, Krijger,” says Sorm and places a hand on one broad shoulder, “rather tend to the dying fire as we shall need it soon.”
“Yes, my lord,” comes the reply in a sleepy but very gruff voice.
However, when Sorm walks out of the door and down the corridor of stone and wood, he can hear the footsteps of his ‘shadow’ following a few yards behind him as always. Krijger bundled another soldier out of bed to tend to the fire so that he can be with Sorm.
Sorm has taken his bed lantern with him. He walks through one of the more beautiful and well constructed parts of this ancient castle, to his special room. Even here though he can see that the castle is not ideally constructed for the kind of war that could ensue after today.
He reaches and steps into a small room and closes the door. He can hear Krijger assuming a guard position outside and a short clanging of a weapon against the stone as he does.
Sorm has selected this room for himself long ago. It is small and does not even have a window to the outside. It contains a rough but sturdy table and an equally rustic chair. A cross made of glazed clay adorns the one wall. A pillow in a shades-of-autumn cloth covers the seat of the chair. Two woven mats in the rich colours of a far-away land, one on the floor and one on the wall, finishes off the furnishings of this room. Two torches on brass hooks are supposed to supply the lighting, and Sorm lights one with his lantern. Then he places the lantern on the table.
The only other object on the table is his old leather-bound Book. He sits down on the chair and picks up the Book. His hand thoughtfully caresses the assuaging old cover. “The magenta Bible,” is what his dad used to call it. The church fathers could not have been very pleased with the monk who made this copy. The hand-drawn decorations in the Book are extraordinarily flamboyant and colourful. It is an exotic work of art. The drawings are often magenta, a colour not favoured for the Bible. The very first page has space for only the first verse of Genesis 1 because of the extravagant curls and decorated figurines.
“Father,” he thinks as he touches his chalcedony necklace containing his essential remains, “you went away too early, and I am not ready for this yet.” He had not even gotten to know his own father properly in that time of constant strife and skirmishes.
Sorm remembers little of his childhood. It is as if he has to rely on what others tell of it because he wasn’t really there. He was a sickly child initially, and somehow grew too slowly or something, leaving him smaller than his age group. Eventually he could not leave home and join the army for training at the customary age of twelve. He could just as well have been nine then, judging from how he looked at the time.
So in stead he was sent to Edburg, the monastery town on the furthermost point of the peninsula in the north-western side of the country, for safety and for academic education. There he got to know their small and dilapidated fleet, and at least the marine troops got to know him. He learnt a little bit about war and fighting from them.
Sorm always did his best to gather some supporters to help him with burden that was to fall on his shoulders. His writings and letters at the monastery impressed some of the church-leaders and royals. He also invented some ingenious modifications for the ships to make them faster and more manoeuvrable.
Much later he eventually joined some army units for a few weeks on patrol and inspection of the border towers. In that time he got through to some soldiers and officers in his own way, and gathered some supporters amongst them. Krijger and his friends left their units to follow him when the news of his father came and he had to hurry back to the castle. Some marine troops met up with them there. Most of his supporters have slept with him in the small sleeping hall for the past few days.
One thing about which he has not been totally honest with anyone, is his private espionage network. This he has slowly put together during his preparations for this time. Here it was a loyal supporter in a far-off town, and there it was a young monk who had read his writings, or a soldier he saved from some trouble and arranged to be transferred to a border post, or a family member of Krijger. He did not live like others of his standing would, because he used his allowance to fund the setting up and maintenance of this network of informants.
That is something he has learnt from Krog, his teacher at the Edburg monastery: “Always know more than you’re letting on. Only a fool flaunts knowledge that he does not even have.”
Unfortunately he already knows way too much. He regularly receives reports about what is going on, from the far north of the country to the holy city Chalcedonum in the south and beyond…
Sorm falls down on his knees beside the chair. It is a combination of fear of, and excitement about what is to come, that has kept him awake at night lately. He feels too young and weak for the role that he has to play. Can’t it rather be someone else’s burden?
Then he remembers some else the wise old monk taught him: “Fear and excitement go together, because you must use the excitement to overcome the fear.”
He can hear Krijger moving his weight to the other foot outside the door. Sorm opens his Book and reads: “No-one should dare look down on you for your youth, but you should rather be an example to them…”
Then he gets up, puts out the torch, picks up his lantern and opens the door. Krijger looks at him with many questions in his eyes.
“Krijger, I place great value on you and your loyalty,” says Sorm quietly, “stay close to me today.”
“Yes, my lord, like a shadow,” he replies, slightly embarrassed, with a bit of a grin.
“When we are alone, please call me ‘Sorm.’”
“But...,” protests the giant warrior.
“I am more in need of another friend than of another soldier,” says Sorm.
“Yes….Sorm.”
They walk further down the passage and reach a rickety wooden stairway. Sorm leads the way up two flights to a heavy door. He knocks, throws back the cape of his mantle to expose his short blonde hair, and walks into the room, leaving Krijger to stand guard outside.
It is warm inside the room with a huge fire in the fireplace. As usual, the curtains in front of the lead glass window have been tied up so that his mother can see the sun rise. A servant girl curtsies and scurries out through a second door. He sits down on the old bed in the middle of the room and looks down at his mother. She looks very pale and gaunt and lies with her eyes closed, yet she is breathing slowly and shallowly. He takes her weak hand in his own. She looks tired as ever but briefly opens her eyes in a hard-fought smile.
The door where the servant exited, opens and his little brother and sister enters the room. They quietly sit down next to Sorm. He hugs each one of them and then gets up with a new determination, his hand resting on his sword. With one last look at them he walks to the door and outside to where his ‘shadow’ patiently awaits.
They walk in silence back to the sleeping hall. From a few feet away they can hear that things have changed inside. The men are up and about with their preparations.
Sorm pauses for a moment and then it hits him: All the sounds, smells and colours, just like he has imagined it, almost as if he is watching his own life from a distance. Then they enter the hall, smelling the aroma of the salted meat that some of the men are grilling in the fire-place. Others are busy folding their bedding to put it away for the day. Sorm walks through them, making time to make eye contact, greeting them and touching some shoulders. He pauses to warm his hands at the fire with them. Then he goes to sit down on his own at a table at the far side of the room. He calls out to a tall thin man that has been waiting by the wall.
Khula, son of the Earl of Sean, is the only other nobleman in the room. As a child he was hidden away in an old castle for a few years because he is dark-skinned. Rumours spread quickly about the Earl, his sickly blonde wife and the dark-skinned baby. He lived as a loner until he got to know Sorm. Ever since he has slowly but surely been accepted by the group that has gathered around Sorm. Khula has been taught well by a soldier and a monk appointed bus his father for that purpose.
“Khula,” says Sorm, “here is an example of the letters that must be handed to representatives of the various noblemen and other dignitaries after the ceremony today. I have decided to also give an invite to Radcliff, the Red Prince, therefore we have prepared too few letters. I have also changed the invitations to the revival of the committee of Uther, my great-great grandfather. I do not want to make it seem like I think I am the chairman or anything. The invitations to my Castle Committee are worded more firmly. Please help getting the letters and paperwork in order so that only the royal seal can be added later on.”
“Yes, my Lord,” says Khula with obvious satisfaction. He only calls Sorm “Lord” when they have company.
They work until three helpers begin to carry out bowls of food for breakfast. As requested, it is a simple meal. There is no wine, just amphorae of fresh water and some left-over beer from the previous day. There are two bowls of salted meat, some of which has been fried again over the hearth this morning. In addition there are a few bowls with apples and a few bowls of small freshly baked bread.
Sorm washes his hands in a bowl of water and then takes an apple and a piece of warm bread. He takes care to select this randomly from the bowls. Krijger and he have worked out a system for eating and drinking to eliminate the risk of poison. If Sorm cannot take random pieces of food, then Krijger would taste it first before Sorm eats.
Sorm makes the sign of the cross and then breaks open the piece of bread. He closes his eyes and inhales the wonderful aroma and the steam that comes out. He would like to hold on to the satisfying and earthy smell of the fresh bread throughout this testing day. The men around him talk quietly while they eat, everyone having grabbed the closest chair – Sorm requires no protocol in this gathering of people.
Sorm pushes aside the letters and papers to make place for a helper who hasn’t found a chair yet, to sit beside him. It is a young boy, and he hesitantly joins them. Once seated, however, he eats hungrily, having worked since early morning. Once finished with his bread and water, Sorm takes the apple and eats it in his customary manner: Slicing it bit by bit, careful to not spill even one precious pip. The boy watches this process in astonishment until Krijger starts taunting him.
“Eat some meat, boy, so that one day you would at least be able to lift a sword,” he says smilingly.
The boy blushes and takes a piece of salted meat. He would spend the rest of the day behind the kitchen telling his mates how he sat next to the imposing warrior and how Sorm sliced the apple methodically.
A commotion at the door follows immediately after this short meal. A short and muscular monk with greying hair enters. He greets and shares jokes with various soldiers as he makes his way towards Sorm’s table. Sorm greets him by getting up and grabbing his arms with excitement.
“Krog! Am I glad to see you!” says Sorm.
“I have come to show to you that some of the common people are also here on this auspicious day!” replies the ageing but once powerful monk, his teacher during his stay in Edburg.
“I hear you’ve been appointed Cardinal of the monasteries of Edburg and the North West,” replies Sorm.
“I am much too short for such a title,” parries the monk with a smile.
“Rather a case of the title being too long for you,” says Sorm and laughs. They used to play with words like this for hours at the monastery.
“The Red Prince has sent an unknown businessman as observer, the Earl of Duncan is represented by an army sergeant, every town has at least sent some token of interest,” relates Krog and then he continues: “Every Earl is represented in some or other fashion today.”
“My father would’ve come if at all within his means, but at least I am here,” interjects Khula.
Krog winks at Khula and then delivers the coup de grace: “The Bishop of Chalcedonum has brought with him the seal ring of the Pope.”
“That must’ve cost a major tussle within the church,” thinks Sorm and smiles gratefully at the new Cardinal.
“The architect of Edburg…,” says Sorm inquisitively.
“Also here,” replies Krog.
“And ordinary citizens….townsfolk,” asks Sorm.
“Many of them are not that much aware, nor interested, my Lord,” replies Khula with a sign, “and the mayor of Castle Town and the Secretary of State have ordered the castle gate closed to prevent too many of them from entering.”
Sorm nods and says: “Khula, here is the list of our preparations and decisions for the day. Please read them to us so that we can finally consider whether everything is ready. The time for thinking ahead and preparing is almost over.”
Sorm sighs, because the time for having any life of his own with his friends and family has also almost run out. He involuntarily thinks of fair Elisabeth, the girl who caught his attention back in Edburg. She was tall with long black hair, and she moved gracefully as a deer. He remembers how she blushed when she caught him staring at her. But there will be no time for dreams of a life with her. He also remembers another lesson taught by Krog:
“Focus on present challenges, rather than looking for challenges in fantasies and games.”
The discussion around their tables continues in quiet voices for a while, echoing the slight murmur of voices from the tables around them. Krog leaves after a short while to go finalise preparations of his own.
“TAN-TARAA!” A trumpet blows the ceremonial salute. The men scurry around to tidy up and to ready themselves for what is to come.
A loud knocking is heard on the main door of their quarters, almost like the handle of a spear thudding against the solid wood. Then a priest, a helper and two ceremonial pike-men enter the room. The priest is dressed flamboyantly, in all manners of purple and gilded furls, with various expensive gold crosses hanging around his neck. He also wears a heavy purple headpiece that miraculously manages to stay on top of his head despite being top-heavy.
The ceremonial pike-men are clothed exactly as Sorm had imagined: Even the finely embroidered cuffs on their royal blue coats are as he had known it would be. They carry two extraordinary weapons: Their long pikes are like lances with combined battle axe and spear points. They are made of the modern shiny and strengthened iron. Sorm wished that the weapons and armour of the all the soldiers could be made of that material. The equipment of the army and marine soldiers are outdated and leave much to be desired. The helper carries a neatly folded stack of clothes.
Sorm slowly stands up, kicks off his shoes and lets his girdle and buckle fall to the ground.
“The time has come,” he thinks, “and from now on my life and my time are not mine. I must hold my head high no matter what.”
He also remembers another of Krog’s teachings: “You can be what you believe, and you can believe what you truly hope. Therefore hope always for the best and always aim higher.”
The priest stands right in front of Sorm, looks at him critically and thinks: “How am I supposed to make him look important with such short hair, no beard and no beer-belly?”
Sorm also lets his mantle fall to the ground. Now he stands before them in only his underclothes of white wool beneath a basic armour of linked iron mail around his chest. He wears similar armour over his forearms. He has a very flat tummy and his torso is slightly more powerful than one would suspect having seen him walk around in loose unrefined linen and skins. His short blonde hair shines above his clean-shaven and tanned face, and his nose wrinkles at the irritating smell of the priest’s perfume.
The priest washes Sorm’s hands in perfumed water and instructs the helper to do the same with the bare feet. Then he hangs a long gold-coloured shirt over Sorm’s body. Next he hangs a royal blue mantle around Sorm’s shoulders and fastens it with a shiny new leather girdle with a golden buckle. Finally he puts a chain and cross of gold around Sorm’s neck.
The priest frowns when he sees the worn-out leather band with the green stone around Sorm’s neck. He reaches out to pluck it off, but Sorm firmly takes his hand and moves it away.
“No. That is my father.”
Krijger hands the short sword and sheath to Sorm to the further chagrin of the priest.
“Under NO circumstances may he be armed!” The priest quivers with irritation.
“I carry my sword and take my own decisions, Padre. Continue or risk delaying the ceremony,” says Sorm with finality in his voice.
The priest shrugs his shoulders and instructs the helper to put fancy leather boots with gold inlays on Sorm’s feet. Then he steps back, surveys the result of their work, clicks his tongue and turns around towards the door.
Sorm lets the two pike-men walk in front of him. His back is covered by Krijger and four of his best soldiers. They all wear swords and light armour. Each carries a shield on his back, decorated with the bright colours of the various warrior families: Green, blue and ruby red.
They exit through the larger door into the main corridor of the ancient castle. The stone floor has been worn out over the years so that the surface is slightly rounded, rising at the edges. They walk down the corridor until they reach a huge wooden door which has been strengthened with iron bars.
A smaller door next to the large one leads to another, smaller corridor. The priest turns that way, but Sorm says:
“I want to walk outside and over the wooden bridge.”
Krijger and the priest both protest that this is a bad idea, but Sorm opens the big door and walks to the courtyard outside. The rest of the procession hurries to join him there.
The courtyard has been partitioned to close off this part from the public, and the ceremonial guard, all pike-men, are waiting outside. They are all dressed like the two who are with Sorm. He walks to them and greets each of them in turn by the hand. The priest whines about this waste of time, but Sorm wants to look each guard in the eye to see what they think. He knows most of the older men from playing in the courtyard as a small child, and he has tried to get to know the younger ones since coming back to the castle.
Then Sorm briskly climbs up a rickety spiralling staircase to the wooden bridge that connects the roof of the sleeping hall to another building in the middle of the castle. He must face the malevolence that he knows is about to meet him, head on.
Having reached the top he can now see the townsfolk standing in the courtyard on the other side of the partitioning. Some of them applaud him while others grumble. He goes to stand by the worn balustrade on the bridge to look more closely at them while he waits for the panting priest to finish climbing. Many of the people look so tired and worn-out, and some don’t even have warm clothes of blankets for the cold. Some of them look up animatedly at him and he waves. He tries to look closely at as many of the faces as possible.
Somehow he knows what has to happen next. Someone shouts out something to him, and he turns towards the sound so that the armour on his chest protects him. He senses something rushing towards him, piercing the cold air. He quickly lifts both arms with the armour on the forearms turned to the front and then chops downwards with them. His left arm hits the arrow downwards and it ricochets harmlessly against his chain-mail. Sorm looks down at the arrow that lies broken on the bridge at his feet. It is a scarce and modern weapon with a point furnished of the strongest metal. It shines in the bleak sunlight.
Krijger is EXTREMELY upset! He has drawn his sword and wants to take it out on someone. Sorm pacifies him with a hand on his shoulder, and asks him to pick up the arrow for later scrutiny.
Sorm gestures to the over-excited crowd to calm down. He waves towards them one last time and then climbs down the stairs at the end of the bridge into a small walled garden that leads to a large gilded door. There is a well under an old tree in the middle of the garden, the strategic water source of the castle. He makes a mental note to make sure that a guard is placed there at all times. He caresses the trunk of the tree where his name has been carved out long ago. They have reached the end of their journey. It is much shorter this way as opposed to the long roundabout way inside the corridors of the back part of the castle.
The hall, in front of which they now stand, is one of the newer and more beautiful buildings of the castle. Sorm has always thought it would serve well as a church. It unfortunately still has a wooden roof, which makes it less useful as a military building. It will take fire too easily.
Krijger and the priest are at odds again. The priest is refusing to allow the junior officers and soldiers to enter the hall. Sorm simply pushes open the door, gestures for the priest to lead the way, and says:
“Except if you want my bodyguard to precede your eminence.”
The priest hastily leads them inside. All of them come to a standstill once inside the hall.
The scene inside is reminiscent of a dream of Sorm’s. Banners of the castle and of the surrounding counties flourish magnificently beneath the ceiling. A kaleidoscope of light shines through lead-glass windows, illuminating a colourful congregation. Those who are held in sufficient esteem by the Bishop and his officials, all male, stand around in groups. They wear better and grander clothes than those waiting outside. They are richly garmented, wearing gaily feathered hats. Their starchy white cravats are embroidered with gold and even more glitter is produced by their glistening jewellery.
Sorm smiles bitterly and contemplates the probability that quite a few of these gentlemen were irritated by his father while he stubbornly refused to succumb to wounds and poisons. He waited until his eldest son reached 16 years of age and thereby became eligible according to the Laws of Uther. A regent was not appointed beforehand, so civil war might have ensued, had a minor inherited the throne.
The priests and church officials in the hall mostly wear long black or purple gowns adorned with gold and jewels. The Bishop himself is clothed most extravagantly. He is a purple apparition and glitters of gold. His bodyguard, mainly soldiers drafted from the castle, are clothed like the two pike-men who accompany Sorm. Some of the men in the hall are also armed
The priest leads Sorm to his place in front of the ominous stone altar in the middle, and then scurries to his position behind the Bishop. A muttering arises when Sorm’s own bodyguard take position in a half-circle around him amongst the gentry.
Sorm must stand or kneel for the whole ceremony. Suddenly he does not feel up to this. Then he notices that two women were, after all, allowed in amongst the men. They are hidden away in a corner by the back door, where the church officials do not have to look at them. His dear mother is in a carry-chair with helpers supporting her. Next to her stand his little brother and sister. Of course he must go through with this. He also notices Krog standing behind the Bishop. Krog nods encouragingly at him
The Bishop begins the Mass, with his thin voice assisted by a choir of priests. There is a slight disturbance as the Bishop reaches out to put the bread on Sorm’s tongue. Dear old Krijger wants to test it first, but Sorm gestures for him to desist. The dry little piece of holy bread cannot contain a fatal poison. The Bishop himself takes the first sip of the bitter cup of herb wine, so that must be safe too.
“The first of many bitter cups,” thinks Sorm as he takes his turn. Then a priest ushers him to the purple pillow in front of the altar and the eternal Flam of Uther, where he must finally kneel down...
The Bishop and a priest carrying a small casket approach him. Another priest waves a smoking incense burner. The overly sweet smell of it is nauseating. The Bishop produces a small glass bottle containing holy oil, from his attire. He drips a drop of it on the heavy gold signet of the Pope. He presses this cold, wet jewel against Sorm’s forehead, makes the sign of the cross and begins his incantation:
“In nomine Patre...”
Sorm closes his eyes for a moment to steel himself. He suppresses the thought that this is all too big and weird for such a young and simple young boy as himself. He opens his eyes when the Bishop falters, as if he is waiting for something to happen.
Krijger and his colleagues stand ready with their hands on their swords. The hairs on Krijger’s powerful back rise. There is a palpable tension in the hall, but then the strange moment passes over.
The Bishop continues with a rather insulting sigh of dissatisfaction. He opens the casket held by the priest. From it he takes a simple crown of solid gold. A single stone, a chalcedony, adorns the front of this impressive symbol of royalty. A golden sceptre with the ring of Uther accompanies the crown.
“Sorm Iannus,” says the Bishop of Chalcedonum in an officious voice as he places the golden crown on Sorm’s head, “I crown you as King Iannus the Second.”
The Bishop’s herald trumpets a royal salute!
“It has been fulfilled,” is Sorm’s first royal thought as he smiles gratefully there on his knees with the crown of Uther the Great on his boyish head.
*****
Storm dreams of riding a horse in the snow under ominous dead trees. The snow gnashes under the hooves. He is encroached by dark riders, all dressed in black gowns that cover their alien faces. Crows screech from the tree-tops. He senses that something is wrong and then sees a burning rook through the gnarled branches of the surrounding trees. The riders turn their unseen heads to him. He remembers to force himself to touch the reassuring amulet. The cold stone on it glitters unrelentingly green in the light of the winter moon. Then the nearest rider removes the mantle from his head and he recognises Krog. With a puzzled expression Sorm asks of him: “Krog, why do you wear those medieval clothes?” Then he awakens of the sweat dripping off his chin and tickling down his neck to his chest. He sees that it is an hour too early to dress for school, so he decides to go jog in the brisk breeze of the dusk. Hopefully the cobwebs will blow clear from his jumbled thoughts.
*****
So many times has he imagined the events of this day that he can smell the aromas and feel the textures in advance. He even knows exactly what the clothes of the ceremonial guards who will come to fetch him, will look like, with all the fine needlework down the front panel of their coats. As he lies there in his bed he works through the day ahead of him in his mind, making sure that everything has been covered. It may feel unreal, but it is important and thousands of people depend on him to play his part well.
Finally he gets up out of his rather rudimentary bed of straw and skins, with his feet standing on the cold stone floor. He hangs a mantle of skins over his shoulder, fastens it with his leather girdle and attaches his short sword. Finally he puts on soft moccasins rather than those noisy leather boots. It is very early in the morning. The fire in the hearth of this small sleeping hall has burnt down to a few embers. It is very cold.
The time has come to commence with the business of this important day. Someone is lying in the bundle of skins at the foot of his bed and this person rises quickly when he takes his first step. It is Krijger, the loyal and formidable soldier. He has worn half of his war-suit during the night in order to be ready at the drop of a hat. He is taller than Sorm, with very broad shoulders, and he wears his black hair cropped short like that of his lord.
“You don’t have to walk with me now, Krijger,” says Sorm and places a hand on one broad shoulder, “rather tend to the dying fire as we shall need it soon.”
“Yes, my lord,” comes the reply in a sleepy but very gruff voice.
However, when Sorm walks out of the door and down the corridor of stone and wood, he can hear the footsteps of his ‘shadow’ following a few yards behind him as always. Krijger bundled another soldier out of bed to tend to the fire so that he can be with Sorm.
Sorm has taken his bed lantern with him. He walks through one of the more beautiful and well constructed parts of this ancient castle, to his special room. Even here though he can see that the castle is not ideally constructed for the kind of war that could ensue after today.
He reaches and steps into a small room and closes the door. He can hear Krijger assuming a guard position outside and a short clanging of a weapon against the stone as he does.
Sorm has selected this room for himself long ago. It is small and does not even have a window to the outside. It contains a rough but sturdy table and an equally rustic chair. A cross made of glazed clay adorns the one wall. A pillow in a shades-of-autumn cloth covers the seat of the chair. Two woven mats in the rich colours of a far-away land, one on the floor and one on the wall, finishes off the furnishings of this room. Two torches on brass hooks are supposed to supply the lighting, and Sorm lights one with his lantern. Then he places the lantern on the table.
The only other object on the table is his old leather-bound Book. He sits down on the chair and picks up the Book. His hand thoughtfully caresses the assuaging old cover. “The magenta Bible,” is what his dad used to call it. The church fathers could not have been very pleased with the monk who made this copy. The hand-drawn decorations in the Book are extraordinarily flamboyant and colourful. It is an exotic work of art. The drawings are often magenta, a colour not favoured for the Bible. The very first page has space for only the first verse of Genesis 1 because of the extravagant curls and decorated figurines.
“Father,” he thinks as he touches his chalcedony necklace containing his essential remains, “you went away too early, and I am not ready for this yet.” He had not even gotten to know his own father properly in that time of constant strife and skirmishes.
Sorm remembers little of his childhood. It is as if he has to rely on what others tell of it because he wasn’t really there. He was a sickly child initially, and somehow grew too slowly or something, leaving him smaller than his age group. Eventually he could not leave home and join the army for training at the customary age of twelve. He could just as well have been nine then, judging from how he looked at the time.
So in stead he was sent to Edburg, the monastery town on the furthermost point of the peninsula in the north-western side of the country, for safety and for academic education. There he got to know their small and dilapidated fleet, and at least the marine troops got to know him. He learnt a little bit about war and fighting from them.
Sorm always did his best to gather some supporters to help him with burden that was to fall on his shoulders. His writings and letters at the monastery impressed some of the church-leaders and royals. He also invented some ingenious modifications for the ships to make them faster and more manoeuvrable.
Much later he eventually joined some army units for a few weeks on patrol and inspection of the border towers. In that time he got through to some soldiers and officers in his own way, and gathered some supporters amongst them. Krijger and his friends left their units to follow him when the news of his father came and he had to hurry back to the castle. Some marine troops met up with them there. Most of his supporters have slept with him in the small sleeping hall for the past few days.
One thing about which he has not been totally honest with anyone, is his private espionage network. This he has slowly put together during his preparations for this time. Here it was a loyal supporter in a far-off town, and there it was a young monk who had read his writings, or a soldier he saved from some trouble and arranged to be transferred to a border post, or a family member of Krijger. He did not live like others of his standing would, because he used his allowance to fund the setting up and maintenance of this network of informants.
That is something he has learnt from Krog, his teacher at the Edburg monastery: “Always know more than you’re letting on. Only a fool flaunts knowledge that he does not even have.”
Unfortunately he already knows way too much. He regularly receives reports about what is going on, from the far north of the country to the holy city Chalcedonum in the south and beyond…
Sorm falls down on his knees beside the chair. It is a combination of fear of, and excitement about what is to come, that has kept him awake at night lately. He feels too young and weak for the role that he has to play. Can’t it rather be someone else’s burden?
Then he remembers some else the wise old monk taught him: “Fear and excitement go together, because you must use the excitement to overcome the fear.”
He can hear Krijger moving his weight to the other foot outside the door. Sorm opens his Book and reads: “No-one should dare look down on you for your youth, but you should rather be an example to them…”
Then he gets up, puts out the torch, picks up his lantern and opens the door. Krijger looks at him with many questions in his eyes.
“Krijger, I place great value on you and your loyalty,” says Sorm quietly, “stay close to me today.”
“Yes, my lord, like a shadow,” he replies, slightly embarrassed, with a bit of a grin.
“When we are alone, please call me ‘Sorm.’”
“But...,” protests the giant warrior.
“I am more in need of another friend than of another soldier,” says Sorm.
“Yes….Sorm.”
They walk further down the passage and reach a rickety wooden stairway. Sorm leads the way up two flights to a heavy door. He knocks, throws back the cape of his mantle to expose his short blonde hair, and walks into the room, leaving Krijger to stand guard outside.
It is warm inside the room with a huge fire in the fireplace. As usual, the curtains in front of the lead glass window have been tied up so that his mother can see the sun rise. A servant girl curtsies and scurries out through a second door. He sits down on the old bed in the middle of the room and looks down at his mother. She looks very pale and gaunt and lies with her eyes closed, yet she is breathing slowly and shallowly. He takes her weak hand in his own. She looks tired as ever but briefly opens her eyes in a hard-fought smile.
The door where the servant exited, opens and his little brother and sister enters the room. They quietly sit down next to Sorm. He hugs each one of them and then gets up with a new determination, his hand resting on his sword. With one last look at them he walks to the door and outside to where his ‘shadow’ patiently awaits.
They walk in silence back to the sleeping hall. From a few feet away they can hear that things have changed inside. The men are up and about with their preparations.
Sorm pauses for a moment and then it hits him: All the sounds, smells and colours, just like he has imagined it, almost as if he is watching his own life from a distance. Then they enter the hall, smelling the aroma of the salted meat that some of the men are grilling in the fire-place. Others are busy folding their bedding to put it away for the day. Sorm walks through them, making time to make eye contact, greeting them and touching some shoulders. He pauses to warm his hands at the fire with them. Then he goes to sit down on his own at a table at the far side of the room. He calls out to a tall thin man that has been waiting by the wall.
Khula, son of the Earl of Sean, is the only other nobleman in the room. As a child he was hidden away in an old castle for a few years because he is dark-skinned. Rumours spread quickly about the Earl, his sickly blonde wife and the dark-skinned baby. He lived as a loner until he got to know Sorm. Ever since he has slowly but surely been accepted by the group that has gathered around Sorm. Khula has been taught well by a soldier and a monk appointed bus his father for that purpose.
“Khula,” says Sorm, “here is an example of the letters that must be handed to representatives of the various noblemen and other dignitaries after the ceremony today. I have decided to also give an invite to Radcliff, the Red Prince, therefore we have prepared too few letters. I have also changed the invitations to the revival of the committee of Uther, my great-great grandfather. I do not want to make it seem like I think I am the chairman or anything. The invitations to my Castle Committee are worded more firmly. Please help getting the letters and paperwork in order so that only the royal seal can be added later on.”
“Yes, my Lord,” says Khula with obvious satisfaction. He only calls Sorm “Lord” when they have company.
They work until three helpers begin to carry out bowls of food for breakfast. As requested, it is a simple meal. There is no wine, just amphorae of fresh water and some left-over beer from the previous day. There are two bowls of salted meat, some of which has been fried again over the hearth this morning. In addition there are a few bowls with apples and a few bowls of small freshly baked bread.
Sorm washes his hands in a bowl of water and then takes an apple and a piece of warm bread. He takes care to select this randomly from the bowls. Krijger and he have worked out a system for eating and drinking to eliminate the risk of poison. If Sorm cannot take random pieces of food, then Krijger would taste it first before Sorm eats.
Sorm makes the sign of the cross and then breaks open the piece of bread. He closes his eyes and inhales the wonderful aroma and the steam that comes out. He would like to hold on to the satisfying and earthy smell of the fresh bread throughout this testing day. The men around him talk quietly while they eat, everyone having grabbed the closest chair – Sorm requires no protocol in this gathering of people.
Sorm pushes aside the letters and papers to make place for a helper who hasn’t found a chair yet, to sit beside him. It is a young boy, and he hesitantly joins them. Once seated, however, he eats hungrily, having worked since early morning. Once finished with his bread and water, Sorm takes the apple and eats it in his customary manner: Slicing it bit by bit, careful to not spill even one precious pip. The boy watches this process in astonishment until Krijger starts taunting him.
“Eat some meat, boy, so that one day you would at least be able to lift a sword,” he says smilingly.
The boy blushes and takes a piece of salted meat. He would spend the rest of the day behind the kitchen telling his mates how he sat next to the imposing warrior and how Sorm sliced the apple methodically.
A commotion at the door follows immediately after this short meal. A short and muscular monk with greying hair enters. He greets and shares jokes with various soldiers as he makes his way towards Sorm’s table. Sorm greets him by getting up and grabbing his arms with excitement.
“Krog! Am I glad to see you!” says Sorm.
“I have come to show to you that some of the common people are also here on this auspicious day!” replies the ageing but once powerful monk, his teacher during his stay in Edburg.
“I hear you’ve been appointed Cardinal of the monasteries of Edburg and the North West,” replies Sorm.
“I am much too short for such a title,” parries the monk with a smile.
“Rather a case of the title being too long for you,” says Sorm and laughs. They used to play with words like this for hours at the monastery.
“The Red Prince has sent an unknown businessman as observer, the Earl of Duncan is represented by an army sergeant, every town has at least sent some token of interest,” relates Krog and then he continues: “Every Earl is represented in some or other fashion today.”
“My father would’ve come if at all within his means, but at least I am here,” interjects Khula.
Krog winks at Khula and then delivers the coup de grace: “The Bishop of Chalcedonum has brought with him the seal ring of the Pope.”
“That must’ve cost a major tussle within the church,” thinks Sorm and smiles gratefully at the new Cardinal.
“The architect of Edburg…,” says Sorm inquisitively.
“Also here,” replies Krog.
“And ordinary citizens….townsfolk,” asks Sorm.
“Many of them are not that much aware, nor interested, my Lord,” replies Khula with a sign, “and the mayor of Castle Town and the Secretary of State have ordered the castle gate closed to prevent too many of them from entering.”
Sorm nods and says: “Khula, here is the list of our preparations and decisions for the day. Please read them to us so that we can finally consider whether everything is ready. The time for thinking ahead and preparing is almost over.”
Sorm sighs, because the time for having any life of his own with his friends and family has also almost run out. He involuntarily thinks of fair Elisabeth, the girl who caught his attention back in Edburg. She was tall with long black hair, and she moved gracefully as a deer. He remembers how she blushed when she caught him staring at her. But there will be no time for dreams of a life with her. He also remembers another lesson taught by Krog:
“Focus on present challenges, rather than looking for challenges in fantasies and games.”
The discussion around their tables continues in quiet voices for a while, echoing the slight murmur of voices from the tables around them. Krog leaves after a short while to go finalise preparations of his own.
“TAN-TARAA!” A trumpet blows the ceremonial salute. The men scurry around to tidy up and to ready themselves for what is to come.
A loud knocking is heard on the main door of their quarters, almost like the handle of a spear thudding against the solid wood. Then a priest, a helper and two ceremonial pike-men enter the room. The priest is dressed flamboyantly, in all manners of purple and gilded furls, with various expensive gold crosses hanging around his neck. He also wears a heavy purple headpiece that miraculously manages to stay on top of his head despite being top-heavy.
The ceremonial pike-men are clothed exactly as Sorm had imagined: Even the finely embroidered cuffs on their royal blue coats are as he had known it would be. They carry two extraordinary weapons: Their long pikes are like lances with combined battle axe and spear points. They are made of the modern shiny and strengthened iron. Sorm wished that the weapons and armour of the all the soldiers could be made of that material. The equipment of the army and marine soldiers are outdated and leave much to be desired. The helper carries a neatly folded stack of clothes.
Sorm slowly stands up, kicks off his shoes and lets his girdle and buckle fall to the ground.
“The time has come,” he thinks, “and from now on my life and my time are not mine. I must hold my head high no matter what.”
He also remembers another of Krog’s teachings: “You can be what you believe, and you can believe what you truly hope. Therefore hope always for the best and always aim higher.”
The priest stands right in front of Sorm, looks at him critically and thinks: “How am I supposed to make him look important with such short hair, no beard and no beer-belly?”
Sorm also lets his mantle fall to the ground. Now he stands before them in only his underclothes of white wool beneath a basic armour of linked iron mail around his chest. He wears similar armour over his forearms. He has a very flat tummy and his torso is slightly more powerful than one would suspect having seen him walk around in loose unrefined linen and skins. His short blonde hair shines above his clean-shaven and tanned face, and his nose wrinkles at the irritating smell of the priest’s perfume.
The priest washes Sorm’s hands in perfumed water and instructs the helper to do the same with the bare feet. Then he hangs a long gold-coloured shirt over Sorm’s body. Next he hangs a royal blue mantle around Sorm’s shoulders and fastens it with a shiny new leather girdle with a golden buckle. Finally he puts a chain and cross of gold around Sorm’s neck.
The priest frowns when he sees the worn-out leather band with the green stone around Sorm’s neck. He reaches out to pluck it off, but Sorm firmly takes his hand and moves it away.
“No. That is my father.”
Krijger hands the short sword and sheath to Sorm to the further chagrin of the priest.
“Under NO circumstances may he be armed!” The priest quivers with irritation.
“I carry my sword and take my own decisions, Padre. Continue or risk delaying the ceremony,” says Sorm with finality in his voice.
The priest shrugs his shoulders and instructs the helper to put fancy leather boots with gold inlays on Sorm’s feet. Then he steps back, surveys the result of their work, clicks his tongue and turns around towards the door.
Sorm lets the two pike-men walk in front of him. His back is covered by Krijger and four of his best soldiers. They all wear swords and light armour. Each carries a shield on his back, decorated with the bright colours of the various warrior families: Green, blue and ruby red.
They exit through the larger door into the main corridor of the ancient castle. The stone floor has been worn out over the years so that the surface is slightly rounded, rising at the edges. They walk down the corridor until they reach a huge wooden door which has been strengthened with iron bars.
A smaller door next to the large one leads to another, smaller corridor. The priest turns that way, but Sorm says:
“I want to walk outside and over the wooden bridge.”
Krijger and the priest both protest that this is a bad idea, but Sorm opens the big door and walks to the courtyard outside. The rest of the procession hurries to join him there.
The courtyard has been partitioned to close off this part from the public, and the ceremonial guard, all pike-men, are waiting outside. They are all dressed like the two who are with Sorm. He walks to them and greets each of them in turn by the hand. The priest whines about this waste of time, but Sorm wants to look each guard in the eye to see what they think. He knows most of the older men from playing in the courtyard as a small child, and he has tried to get to know the younger ones since coming back to the castle.
Then Sorm briskly climbs up a rickety spiralling staircase to the wooden bridge that connects the roof of the sleeping hall to another building in the middle of the castle. He must face the malevolence that he knows is about to meet him, head on.
Having reached the top he can now see the townsfolk standing in the courtyard on the other side of the partitioning. Some of them applaud him while others grumble. He goes to stand by the worn balustrade on the bridge to look more closely at them while he waits for the panting priest to finish climbing. Many of the people look so tired and worn-out, and some don’t even have warm clothes of blankets for the cold. Some of them look up animatedly at him and he waves. He tries to look closely at as many of the faces as possible.
Somehow he knows what has to happen next. Someone shouts out something to him, and he turns towards the sound so that the armour on his chest protects him. He senses something rushing towards him, piercing the cold air. He quickly lifts both arms with the armour on the forearms turned to the front and then chops downwards with them. His left arm hits the arrow downwards and it ricochets harmlessly against his chain-mail. Sorm looks down at the arrow that lies broken on the bridge at his feet. It is a scarce and modern weapon with a point furnished of the strongest metal. It shines in the bleak sunlight.
Krijger is EXTREMELY upset! He has drawn his sword and wants to take it out on someone. Sorm pacifies him with a hand on his shoulder, and asks him to pick up the arrow for later scrutiny.
Sorm gestures to the over-excited crowd to calm down. He waves towards them one last time and then climbs down the stairs at the end of the bridge into a small walled garden that leads to a large gilded door. There is a well under an old tree in the middle of the garden, the strategic water source of the castle. He makes a mental note to make sure that a guard is placed there at all times. He caresses the trunk of the tree where his name has been carved out long ago. They have reached the end of their journey. It is much shorter this way as opposed to the long roundabout way inside the corridors of the back part of the castle.
The hall, in front of which they now stand, is one of the newer and more beautiful buildings of the castle. Sorm has always thought it would serve well as a church. It unfortunately still has a wooden roof, which makes it less useful as a military building. It will take fire too easily.
Krijger and the priest are at odds again. The priest is refusing to allow the junior officers and soldiers to enter the hall. Sorm simply pushes open the door, gestures for the priest to lead the way, and says:
“Except if you want my bodyguard to precede your eminence.”
The priest hastily leads them inside. All of them come to a standstill once inside the hall.
The scene inside is reminiscent of a dream of Sorm’s. Banners of the castle and of the surrounding counties flourish magnificently beneath the ceiling. A kaleidoscope of light shines through lead-glass windows, illuminating a colourful congregation. Those who are held in sufficient esteem by the Bishop and his officials, all male, stand around in groups. They wear better and grander clothes than those waiting outside. They are richly garmented, wearing gaily feathered hats. Their starchy white cravats are embroidered with gold and even more glitter is produced by their glistening jewellery.
Sorm smiles bitterly and contemplates the probability that quite a few of these gentlemen were irritated by his father while he stubbornly refused to succumb to wounds and poisons. He waited until his eldest son reached 16 years of age and thereby became eligible according to the Laws of Uther. A regent was not appointed beforehand, so civil war might have ensued, had a minor inherited the throne.
The priests and church officials in the hall mostly wear long black or purple gowns adorned with gold and jewels. The Bishop himself is clothed most extravagantly. He is a purple apparition and glitters of gold. His bodyguard, mainly soldiers drafted from the castle, are clothed like the two pike-men who accompany Sorm. Some of the men in the hall are also armed
The priest leads Sorm to his place in front of the ominous stone altar in the middle, and then scurries to his position behind the Bishop. A muttering arises when Sorm’s own bodyguard take position in a half-circle around him amongst the gentry.
Sorm must stand or kneel for the whole ceremony. Suddenly he does not feel up to this. Then he notices that two women were, after all, allowed in amongst the men. They are hidden away in a corner by the back door, where the church officials do not have to look at them. His dear mother is in a carry-chair with helpers supporting her. Next to her stand his little brother and sister. Of course he must go through with this. He also notices Krog standing behind the Bishop. Krog nods encouragingly at him
The Bishop begins the Mass, with his thin voice assisted by a choir of priests. There is a slight disturbance as the Bishop reaches out to put the bread on Sorm’s tongue. Dear old Krijger wants to test it first, but Sorm gestures for him to desist. The dry little piece of holy bread cannot contain a fatal poison. The Bishop himself takes the first sip of the bitter cup of herb wine, so that must be safe too.
“The first of many bitter cups,” thinks Sorm as he takes his turn. Then a priest ushers him to the purple pillow in front of the altar and the eternal Flam of Uther, where he must finally kneel down...
The Bishop and a priest carrying a small casket approach him. Another priest waves a smoking incense burner. The overly sweet smell of it is nauseating. The Bishop produces a small glass bottle containing holy oil, from his attire. He drips a drop of it on the heavy gold signet of the Pope. He presses this cold, wet jewel against Sorm’s forehead, makes the sign of the cross and begins his incantation:
“In nomine Patre...”
Sorm closes his eyes for a moment to steel himself. He suppresses the thought that this is all too big and weird for such a young and simple young boy as himself. He opens his eyes when the Bishop falters, as if he is waiting for something to happen.
Krijger and his colleagues stand ready with their hands on their swords. The hairs on Krijger’s powerful back rise. There is a palpable tension in the hall, but then the strange moment passes over.
The Bishop continues with a rather insulting sigh of dissatisfaction. He opens the casket held by the priest. From it he takes a simple crown of solid gold. A single stone, a chalcedony, adorns the front of this impressive symbol of royalty. A golden sceptre with the ring of Uther accompanies the crown.
“Sorm Iannus,” says the Bishop of Chalcedonum in an officious voice as he places the golden crown on Sorm’s head, “I crown you as King Iannus the Second.”
The Bishop’s herald trumpets a royal salute!
“It has been fulfilled,” is Sorm’s first royal thought as he smiles gratefully there on his knees with the crown of Uther the Great on his boyish head.
*****
Storm dreams of riding a horse in the snow under ominous dead trees. The snow gnashes under the hooves. He is encroached by dark riders, all dressed in black gowns that cover their alien faces. Crows screech from the tree-tops. He senses that something is wrong and then sees a burning rook through the gnarled branches of the surrounding trees. The riders turn their unseen heads to him. He remembers to force himself to touch the reassuring amulet. The cold stone on it glitters unrelentingly green in the light of the winter moon. Then the nearest rider removes the mantle from his head and he recognises Krog. With a puzzled expression Sorm asks of him: “Krog, why do you wear those medieval clothes?” Then he awakens of the sweat dripping off his chin and tickling down his neck to his chest. He sees that it is an hour too early to dress for school, so he decides to go jog in the brisk breeze of the dusk. Hopefully the cobwebs will blow clear from his jumbled thoughts.
*****
