The Dark Age (2 page)

T
ory woke the next morning, bathed by the warmth of the sunshine. She squinted at the blue sky above, shielding her eyes from the glare, then stretched to relax the kinks in her body after sleeping on the hard earth.

The ball of light!
She sat up so abruptly her head spun.

All her bags were accounted for, and as far as she could tell she hadn't been harmed in any way. ‘Was that for real?' She rested her head in her hand, recalling the previous night.

Tory felt a gritty paint smeared on her brow and looked at her fingers that were smudged with blue. ‘What the hell is this?' She pulled a small mirror from her backpack. Stamped on her brow was the image of a dragon. In Celtic mythology this symbol represented
the guardian spirit of Ancient Britain. Why had she been marked with it? Tory decided that although it was rather cute, the dragon had to go. She began rummaging through her bag for a tissue when she remembered that they were in the glove compartment of the car. ‘It's time I got moving anyway.'

It wasn't until Tory stood up that she realised there were a few things amiss. ‘What's happened to the car?' She ran towards the road that was now nothing more than a dirt track. ‘Where's the fence, and the road for that matter? What the hell's going on here?' She looked about her noticing that although the landscape was more or less the same, the landmarks had all changed. The trees not only differed in height and location but also in species, and there were many more of them.

‘Stay calm,' she told herself. ‘I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation.' But when Tory turned back towards her bags she was dumbstruck.

The stones, which had been crumbled and broken the day before, now stood over two metres tall and were fewer in number. The peace of the field enveloped her, there was no distant rumbling of traffic, no power-lines, planes, anything! Tory's mind went blank; she couldn't even begin to fathom the possibilities of what might have befallen her.

She became aware of a growing rumble. The ground beneath her began to vibrate before any sound reached her ears. In the distance she spied eight men on horseback, racing down across the open field towards her. She snapped out of her daze and pulled a cap from her bag to cover the mark on her forehead.

The men drew their horses to a halt outside the circle and were all, rather curiously, dressed in authentic suits of armour. I knew the Poms were old-fashioned, but this is ridiculous, she thought. ‘Hey there, what's happening?' She waved in greeting as she walked casually towards the perimeter of the circle. Her greeting was not met with any reaction from the group, it was as if they hadn't understood a word she'd said.

‘By the Goddess,' one of the knights exclaimed with playful delight. ‘It be a woman.'

He wasn't speaking modern English, but what sounded like an obscure form of Welsh. Tory was able to discern this as Welsh and its ascendant Brythanic were like second languages to her. Her father's passion for the old tongues of his people was such that he persisted in using them most of the time.

Tory stopped some distance away from the men as they appeared a rather ominous bunch: unshaven and unwashed, their armour tainted with blood.

‘What say thee, Majesty?' One of the younger men commented to the dark-haired man beside him. ‘She be a feisty challenge, and I could use the exercise.' His request was met with much encouragement from his companions.

Tory didn't like his tone of voice, yet the word ‘majesty' played on her mind. She turned to the one the young man had addressed thus; he did seem to possess a certain regal disposition that set him apart from the others. He sat quietly, observing Tory's attire with a very curious expression, before placing a hand on the young man's shoulder to advise him. ‘This woman doth
employ a tongue and dress the like of none we have seen before. Caution Brockwell, a witch be said to haunt this place.'

‘What!' Tory exclaimed.

‘I am not afraid,' Brockwell said. ‘If she be a witch, thou shalt have her head.'

The dark-haired man looked at Tory and, with some encouragement from the rest of the men, smiled to give Brockwell his consent.

The hair on the back of Tory's neck stood on end. She stepped away as Brockwell dismounted.
These guys are serious …
‘Now hold on,' Tory cried out. ‘Could I speak to the man in charge for a moment, please?' She made her way towards them hoping to appease the situation.

‘I would start running if I were thee.' Brockwell moved to intercept her.

‘Brockwell, one moment,' the dark-haired man said, gravely. This woman bore a vague resemblance to his deceased mother, so he allowed her to voice her protest.

Tory nodded politely, grateful for the chance to reason with him. ‘Why, may I ask, dost thou think me a witch?'

Brockwell began to answer but his superior held up a hand and replied, ‘If thou art not a witch, then why dost thou appear so uncouth?'

‘Uncouth!' she repeated. ‘Ye all appear very strange to my eyes, I assure thee. Doth this mean that I should conclude that thou art involved in demonic practices and deserve to die? With no proof, no means to defend thyself.' Tory realised she was being a little over-
dramatic, but she had him thinking. ‘Be this thy concept of justice?'

Brockwell went for his sword. ‘Who art thou to question a Prince of Gwynedd! I shall sever thy head from thy shoulders for such insolence.'

The Prince waved him to silence, but with a smile this time. ‘Brockwell, I do believe I see her point.' He paused to consider her words. ‘What dost thou suggest I do, give thee a weapon to slay one of my own men? This would seem rather absurd, would it not?' With this his men broke into laughter.

Tory held her tongue until they had finished.
They'll all be laughing on the other side of their faces by the time I'm finished with them.
‘May I suggest a solution that I consider to be fair?'

‘Please,' the Prince implored her, rather intrigued by her manner.

‘If thy friend here removes his sword and protective armour, I would like to fight him for safe passage.' Tory chose her words carefully. ‘If thou art agreeable, I would consider that a good show.'

Again the Prince and his knights, including young Brockwell, fell about laughing. The Prince had to question this further. ‘Am I to understand, that
thee
wishes to fight
Brockwell
with thy bare hands?'

Tory was not fazed and pretended to ignore their mocking good cheer. ‘Why?' she asked, giving Brockwell the once over, ‘dost thou not think him up to it?'

With this the Prince and his knights were beside themselves, however Brockwell's humour was dwindling. The Prince wiped a tear from his cheek as he
caught his breath. ‘I think it be only fair to warn thee, Brockwell be my champion, he hast never been defeated in game or battle.'

This announcement made Brockwell even more smug, and he stripped off his armour to reveal a sweaty, muscular body. His long dark hair, a mass of knotted curls, clung to his bare skin. He reminded Tory of her brother, as their eyes were the same piercing blue. He was no taller than her but looked to be twice her body weight in muscle alone. All the better, she concluded. It will slow him down.

‘I am not worried,' Tory assured them.

‘I can see that.' The Prince looked down at her, shaking his head. ‘Still, I fear Brockwell will snap thy tiny frame like a twig.'

Tory found this comment rather charming and smiled as she reminded him, ‘Only a moment ago thee gave Brockwell leave to violate me in whatever way he saw fit. Be there a difference?'

The Prince acknowledged this to be true, realising that he may have been a bit rash.

‘She shall bewitch thee, Majesty. Speak to her no longer.' Brockwell stepped forward to draw the Prince's attention away from Tory. ‘I am more than happy to rip her limb from limb with my bare hands.'

The Prince was now rather reluctant to give him leave, but his men would indeed think him bewitched if he did not. ‘So be it.'

‘
Safe
passage, remember.' Tory received a nod of confirmation from the Prince before she backed up to prepare herself. She took off her jacket and wrapped
her hair quickly into a bun to prevent it from being pulled.
Where on earth am I?
Tory found some tape in her bag and bound her hands as she did for competition, managing the task within minutes. She decided she must find out who this prince claimed to be; if there was one thing she knew thoroughly it was British history.

She walked towards Brockwell and, after rolling up her sleeves, turned her cap around backwards so that she could see clearly. ‘So, might I ask thy name before I meet my fate?' Tory said to the Prince.

‘No Majesty. Do not answer.' Brockwell intervened, his fiery eyes fixed on Tory.

‘I must also insist,' the eldest knight added.

The Prince was obliged to heed the advice of his men. ‘Afterwards perhaps.'

‘There will be no afterwards,' Brockwell assured him.

Tory pretended to be indifferent. ‘Alright then, if that be the way of it.' She resumed her dry, confident tone of voice. ‘I will just have to beat it out of thy boy here.'

Tory purposely turned her back on her opponent, walking slowly and confidently into the circle of stones to take her place. She could feel Brockwell's rage build to breaking point when she called him a boy, as this was obviously something he worked hard to disprove. Seconds later, and with a total disregard for chivalry, Brockwell came charging at her from behind. She stopped to time the impending impact and turned her body slightly to take the great weight of his body over her right shoulder.

He was mumbling something to the effect of, ‘I will teach thee some respect …' before he'd even realised he was airborne.

Tory brought him crashing to the ground on his back. She went down on one knee and buried an elbow deep into his solar plexus before darting backwards to a safe distance.

It was clear that Brockwell had no idea what had happened. The other knights, who were laughing at Brockwell's misfortune, began teasing him from their mounts. ‘Good show!' the Prince commented to Tory in encouragement, surprised that she was not dead already.

It didn't take Brockwell long to recover. He got back to his feet, and was seething with humiliation. ‘I shall rip thy heart out and rape thee while thy body be still warm,' he taunted, stalking her.

Tory kept her humour. Brockwell was seeming more and more like her brother who had made worse threats over the years to frighten her into retreat. ‘My, my, that be a vivid picture, still I do not think so somehow,' Tory replied. Brockwell lunged forward to grab her neck but she pulled his arms to either side of her, kneeing his stomach. This sent him stumbling backwards, and before he'd had a chance to recover, Tory spun a full 360 degrees to finish him off with a kick to the side of his head. Her adrenalin was pumping now and it felt good. She looked back to the Prince, who appeared rather wonderstruck. ‘Champion indeed,' she said. ‘What dost thou think, three points and I win?'

The Prince merely motioned behind her.

Tory turned to find Brockwell on his feet, blood oozing from the side of his face where her steel-capped boot had hit. With no time for her to fend off the blow, he punched her in exactly the same place, putting the full force of his body behind it. As she hit the ground it felt as if he had shattered her cheekbone. There is no pain, she told herself as she saw Brockwell approaching to finish her off.

‘My dreams are filled with better than the likes of thee,' Brockwell spat in disgust, bending down to pull her to her feet.

Tory instinctively went into a tuck position. She grabbed hold of Brockwell's arms as he leant down, and used her feet to propel him over her and onto his back. She flipped herself onto her stomach, taking hold of Brockwell round the front of the neck to temporarily paralyse him by applying pressure to the vital points located there. She maintained a firm hold, pointing to the Prince with her free hand. ‘Very soon he will be dead. Dost thou yield to spare this boy's life?'

Brockwell tried to shake loose of her grasp, his face red from the strain.

‘I yield and pronounce thee victorious this day,' the Prince told her.

‘And thy name?' Tory asked, as Brockwell began to squirm harder.

The eldest of the advisers whispered quietly to the Prince, ‘Majesty, I beseech thee …'

‘I swear I will kill him,' Tory yelled impatiently.

Little did she know that the life she held in her hand belonged not only to the Prince's Champion and
best friend, but to his cousin who was a duke no less. The Prince was not about to let him die.

‘I am Maelgwn, son of King Caswallon of Gwynedd,' he shouted. ‘And if thee would kindly release my knight, I will be greatly indebted to thee.'

Tory let Brockwell go; it would take him at least a few minutes to recover. She got to her feet, her mind in motion. Maelgwn, a Welsh king, she recalled. Tory guessed him to be around the same age as herself.
Now then, when was he supposed to have been born? Around the late fifth century if memory serves
. ‘So what year be this?' she asked. ‘Around five twenty?'

The Prince, though surprised by the question, answered. ‘Five nineteen, to be exact.'

Tory held her face where Brockwell had hit her.
Maelgwn, Maelgwn? Damn, what did they call him?
A cold chill ran down her spine as it dawned on her. ‘Prince Maelgwn, Dragon of the Isle. I believe our meeting may have been intended.' Tory removed her cap to reveal the Dragon on her forehead. ‘Recognise this?'

Upon seeing the mark there was a rumbling of discontent among the knights. The Prince, appearing a mite stunned himself, raised the shield from the side of his horse and turned it to face Tory; it bore the same Dragon.