Beyond the Crimson (The Crimson Cycle) (4 page)

He shook his head, looking at me w
ith a playful smile on his lips and eyes twinkling. “What many people don’t know is that even though Arthur pulled the sword from the stone, he wasn’t made High King right away. The other kings would not hear of a boy in his adolescence becoming king of them all. To appease the small kings, Merlin agreed to make Arthur the Battle Duke of Britain. Younger knights and friends from his childhood, like Brendelon, Gawain, Lancelot, Kay, Bedivere, Bors the younger, and so on all agreed to follow him. The young knights fought with such valor and soon they were winning victory after victory, making peace in the land. The kings could not turn a blind eye from the success of this young Battle Duke, who made peace with Saxons of all people.” He smiled as he crossed his arms over his red knitted vest, remembering the stories. “Brendelon helped him fight in these early battles and would have gone on to the very end, except…” He paused looking at me as though unsure if he should reveal any more information.

“Except what?”
I pressed; he couldn’t leave me hanging like this. 

He looked back at the book, tracing the old cover, “Well
, see, Morgaina, Arthur’s half-sister, hated Arthur and all that his knights stood for so she vanquished him…”

“Why?” I cut in, clutching my camera a bit too tightly, fighting against the desperate feeling to check on the painting again to make sure it was still intact.

“She was a very wicked person, a sorceress to be specific. The most powerful one Britain had seen since Alaricus during the Roman rule. She was jealous and angry, scornful that her mother had married Uther—who not only fathered Arthur, but also was the man who killed her own father. She carried a grudge till the end of her days. She hated Arthur and his knights with such vigor that she did everything she could to destroy them.”

It was frustrating to hear of that witch destroying such a gorgeous creature. “If Brendelon and Arthur were cousins, wouldn’t that make Brendelon and Morgaina cousins as well?”

“No, Brendelon is the son of Uther’s younger sister, Ravenna. Morgaina’s father was Gorlois, Lord of Tintigal.”

For a moment
, I forgot myself. I was so entwined in the story that I found myself actually believing it. Arthur
was
a legend and so were all of his knights for that matter. Brendelon was not real, and the conclusion wound my heart into a tight ball.

“Isn’t it all just myth and legend?” I asked.

“Depends on what you believe.” He smiled slyly at me and his eyes twinkled with secrets. “There definitely was a time where black magic, sorceresses, and mystical creatures existed. The realm was very different—from the people and creatures that roamed to even the layout of the lands. As Arthur and his knights crusaded to put an end to these evil doings, the supernatural sphere became smaller and smaller until it almost completely perished along with all that was in it, paving the way for the Britain that you now read of in history books.”

“Why don’t people believe Arthur was real then?”

“When he was killed by Mordred, his body was sent to Avalon—the last place to remain in the mystical realm—and all that is left are his stories. The world changed, and the land he lived in has become unfathomable, becoming nothing more than a
myth
as you would say.”

I wished I could believe him; I felt like a child with a heart that still wanted to believe in Santa Claus but whose brain argued the facts that could not support such silly fantasies. 

Mr. Riley’s phone rang. He put up one finger, motioning for me to give him a quick minute. “Hello,” he answered. He listened for a brief moment. “Sure, sure,” he mumbled before ending the call. “Sorry Katarina, I have to help Melissa with something in the front. You’re more than welcome to look around. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Sure, no proble
m.” I smiled because I knew exactly where I’d be looking. I pretended to look through some of the artifacts as he walked away, quickly glancing to my side to make sure he was gone before I headed down to the familiar hallway, so excited I could hardly contain myself.

I stared at the tattered curtain that hid the secret prince, and it felt like I was about to open a present. I slowly pulled it back to expose that
glorious face. And there he was, same as before: dark eyes glooming with that contradicting grin that held secrets I couldn’t even fathom. It still mystified me, and unbelievably his face was more beautiful than I had remembered. I imagined him fighting with grace and ease in some heroic battle like I had heard in stories, distracting his enemies with his looks and charm, and somehow I felt comforted at the thoughts of him being lively, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of it.

“So you found him.”

I spun around coming face-to-face with Mr. Riley. My face burned bright red; I hadn’t expected him to meet up so soon or perhaps I had been lost in that daydream longer than I had known. He gave me a gentle smile, as he put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels still staring at the portrait. For a moment, he looked like he was a younger man, but I supposed it was due to him moving with such ease, or perhaps it was the boy-like smile on his face.

“I actually saw him the other day,” I confessed, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, looking at him sheepishly.

He smiled. “So your grandfather never told you anything about Brendelon,” he looked at the picture almost as captivated as I had felt, “and yet here you are,” he added quietly, glancing down at me with the smile tugging on his lips again. “The first time he visited my museum he was drawn to this portrait too…” He nodded his head, keeping his eyes on the portrait.

“Really?”
I asked, scrunching my eyebrows, intrigued.

“Yes, that was how we met actually. He had come to see the medieval exhibit, as he was very interested in the time period as well. He saw the picture and demanded to see me
.” He chuckled at the memory. “Sure, we had a few heated debates on our different views, but we became friends ever since.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe that was only a decade ago.”

I smiled. “H
e never told me that story.” It made me miss him, so I decided to change the subject. “Why is the portrait over here instead of with the other artifacts?”

He tilted his head, s
crunching his eyebrows together. “Well, about seven years back I was going to sell it to a buyer in Colorado, but the deal fell through last minute; the whole thing was rather bizarre. I guess I never moved it back to its proper place.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It seems safer away from the other relics,” he added strangely.

He was hiding something
, and I was itching to reveal it. “So you never said how he died…” I started.

His eyes twinkled,
and he pulled his hand out of his pocket to point at me. “I never said he
died
.”

“You mean Morgaina didn’t kill him?”

“No, she didn’t kill him, although she might as well have.”

“Well
, surely he died at some point. Where did he go? What happened to him?” I pulled down on my black tank top. I was getting frustrated with Mr. Riley’s enigmas.

He didn’t answer and instead con
tinued to stare at the portrait, looking almost as swept away by the fantasy as I was, intrigued by the beauty of this man. I looked up at it too. “I can’t believe the quality of this painting,” I said, trying for a different approach, “especially coming from the medieval era.” In all truth it was breathtaking; I had never seen a painting look so lifelike.

Finally
, he glanced down at me; he cocked his head to the side, and his light blue eyes lit up with secrets again. “Perhaps that’s because it’s not a painting…”

“Not a painting?” I didn’t understand. It did look too good to be a painting; it was bright, vibrant, and full of life. So detailed that it looked more like a picture than a painting
, but obviously they didn’t have cameras back then.

“It was believed that Morgaina used black magic to trap Brendelon into an endless moment,” he finally continued, “but black magic onl
y works on what is already dark; it cannot penetrate the good. The power of the Lord will always prevail over the dark demons, for those who choose to accept it,” he said matter-of-factly. “Brendelon was arrogant, prideful, selfish, and even cruel in some stories...” He pointed to the inscription of the frame, “but had a face so beautiful it belonged in a painting…”

Oh my
. It hit me. Those eyes: terrifying and unforgiving, and that prideful arrogant smile…

“He’s in the picture,” I choked out.

Mr. Riley smiled. “Clever girl.”

My eyes widened in shock
, and my mouth hung open. Mr. Riley chuckled again.

“Do you really believe that the story is true?” I asked incredulou
sly. It was too much to take in; could the knight really be right here in front of me? And though I knew it was ridiculous, I felt myself to be in his very presence.

Mr. Riley smiled
. “With all my heart,” he said barely above a whisper as he looked back up to the painting of the stunning knight. “Your grandfather believed it too,” he glanced down at me knowingly, “and it terrified him. He argued with me for years about it. He wanted me to destroy it—”

“Destroy it!” I cried out appalled, feeling the over protectiveness take me once again. How could anyone destroy such a beautiful face?

“I felt as repulsed by the idea as you are,” he said chuckling, “but your grandfather insisted that it was cursed and nothing good can come from curses.”

I turned to face the painting. I was shaken to the core. Could this story really be true? Not dead but stuck in an ageless moment? And while my brain shouted no! My heart kept whispering yes. And if the story was true, destroying it would be like murder.

“Many of the knights vowed to keep him safe until the curse was broken. They took care watching him day and night, only much to their own avail, as they never learned what it was that would break the curse, or at least if they did, none of them revealed it.” He crossed him arms, pushing the glasses up again on his short round nose.

“You think they would leave him trapped for eternity?” It made me feel ill thinking of the hundreds and hundreds of years he had been there, especially if he could have been freed. 

“So you believe, do you?” He chuckled again, crossing his arms.

My cheeks flushed. I shook my head, of course I didn’t believe it, but the story was still horrifying.

“I am certain at first they would have freed him, but after so much time had passed releasing him might have been dangerous.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, nobody can know for certain what will happen. Perhaps he would have aged instantly and perished, or been living in a time period he knows nothing about without any friends or family to guide him, or worse, what if it took him back in time? Things with Arthur worked out well for all of Britain. If Brendelon were sent back all of that might have changed. Changing the past will always change the future. Your grandfather was worried about this too.”

I understood what he was saying
, but it seemed malicious, selfish even to leave him locked in a painting just because they feared change. The sacrifice of one for many, I supposed. I stared back up to the face and for a moment the dark eyes looked sad. I blinked, and they were back to callous. Maybe I imagined that. After all, I was on my way to the mental institute. 

“Not that I believe this, but hypo
thetically speaking,” I started. “Why do you think she would go through the trouble of cursing him? Why wouldn’t she just kill him? Or curse Arthur, since he was the one she hated? After all, he went on to be successful without Brendelon anyway.” Not that I wished any ill will to Arthur, but it just didn’t make sense to me. 

“Well
, part of that was because Arthur was pure of heart. He had faith in the Lord, so he couldn’t be destroyed by black magic, and that was her only strength.”

“Oh.
” I felt disappointed thinking Brendelon had a darkness in him that Morgaina was able to use. I shook my head; I wouldn’t think of him like that; it gave me an uneasy feeling.

“Arthur only fell when he let anger and revenge take him after hearing of the affair of his queen, Guinevere, and good friend, Lancelot,” he pointed out. I nodded remembering that tale.

“But why trap him? What was the point? And wouldn’t it have been pointless if he had been freed?” I asked, filled with questions that swirled through my mind, attacking at my brain like a swarm of bees.  

Mr. Riley shook his head.
“I am not sure.” He ran a hand through his thinning white hair. “Maddening isn’t it?” he asked, almost as if he had read my mind.

“Yes,” I agreed, frustrated at the ambiguity of it.

We both stood silently staring into the dark eyes of the portrait. The information was missing and the tale was baffling. My eyes traveled down to the joker’s grin; the key to the riddle was his secret, and he wore it tauntingly.

I sighed, frustrated because these were questions I would never have answers to; they would continue to stay with him forever in that moment. “Do you think I could take some pictures of some of the artifacts?” I asked, and though I was sure I could spend eternity staring at his face, it was time for me to say good-bye to this fantasy and get back to reality.