Chapter 3 - The Long Road Out Of Eden

Goewyn and her companions approach the king's hall cautiously, their w orn leather boots crunching softly on the gravel path.  The building stands tall and imposing, a testament to King Aethelberht's wealth and power. Its large, thatched roof looms above and the flickering torches cast eerie shadows on the walls. The sun has sunk below the horizon by now and the night is dark,  the moon obscured by thick clouds. Inching closer to the hall, Goewyn approaches the back where the kitchens are located. The smell of burning wood and cooking meat wafts through the air, carried by the night breeze. The faint clattering of pots and pans, and the occasional laughter of the kitchen staff can be heard as they prepare the evening meal for the king and his court. The infiltrators slip behind a stack of wooden crates, hidden from the view of any guards or servants who might be nearby. The kitchen entrance is just ahead, a large wooden door slightly ajar, flickering torchlight spilling out from within.

"We may yet be able to sneak by. I think I have an idea," Muireann says quietly. She closes her eyes, crouching down so her fingers are touching the earth. She begins to trace symbols into the dust, eyes still closed and a low hum builds in the back of her throat. The symbols glow softly, then fade away and the doorway to the kitchens is slowly obscured by heavy fog. She stands up, looking at the others. "Move now. While we have cover."

The kitchen fills with fog and a clamour of confused yells goes up amongst those working in the room, making it almost impossible to make out the soft pitter-patter of Goewyn, Egon and Muireann's hurried footfalls. So far, they have escaped notice. However, t he door into the king's hall is hidden in the thick fog.

The fog is like an old friend, and despite losing the visual of the door, she can recall it's placement precisely, and is able to find it without difficulty. 

Following Muireann's lead, Goewyn and Egon slip through the door after her and into the corridor on the far side. Egon recognises this passage and knows the ins and outs of the palace, but does not know where the children are being kept.

"Let's try the guest rooms," Egon says quietly. "If not there, then the servant's quarters. This way." He motions ahead and begins walking carefully forward.

Egon guides his companions through the hall of the king, taking care to avoid the dining area and the sounds of revelry emanating from the main hall. Outside one of the sleeping chambers set aside for guests of the king sits a man robed in the brown cassock of Christian clergy. He appears to have nodded off. 

Goewyn leans closer to her companions. "A guard set to prevent the children from escaping, no doubt. We should subdue him, to prevent him from raising any alarms."

Muireann nods, tapping her fingers on her thigh. "Best not to kill him, though. A body raises too many questions and alarms."

Hrothgar idly leans against the doorway his companions entered. The fog was a mixed blessing, covering him and Calix from passing view, but it made looking out for danger just as complicated. The large man was uncomfortable, to say the least. Being left helpless in a hostile city, and with no protection, was maddening. "Make sure you keep an eye out over there!"  Hrothgar snaps to Calix,  "I can pass as a porter, but I need someone who can speak to these people."

Goewyn nods at Muireann with a silent frown, but draws her warseax from it's sheath at the small of her back as she moves silently forward. Like a ghost stalking the halls, she makes no noise beyond the wet thunk of metal pummel against skull as she hammers a blow into the man's temple hard enough to knock him unconscious. She motions the others forward as she begins to open the door he was guarding...

Muireann creeps up beside the unconscious man, leaning him against the wall, positioning his hands and head so that it appears as though he has simply fallen asleep. She steps back to admire her handiwork. "Hopefully people will think he's just asleep," she murmurs, making to follow Goewyn into the room. 

Goewyn cracks the door and peers through the gap. The room is filled with many cots and a similar number of children - presumably those from the church. They've changed from the Christian choir clothing back into ordinary tunics and appear to be either sleeping or quietly talking amongst themselves.

Goewyn spots several children in the room, back in their cultural clothing and she cannot help but feel a flutter in her chest as her heart hammered away. She had finally found him after all this time! "Gruffyd! It's Gloyn! Where are you?" She whispers loudly from the doorway, hoping that if he was one of the ones sleeping, that another might wake him. 

Goewyn's urgent whisper echoes through the dimly lit room and the children stir, their eyes widening with a mix of fear and confusion. Some huddle closer together in the flickering candlelight, clutching blankets tightly around them, while others sit up, blinking away the remnants of sleep.  One boy, a bit older than the others, with tousled hair and worn clothing, looks toward the doorway. Across the room, Gruffyd stirs on one of the beds  in response to Goewyn's whispered call . His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, focus on her silhouette in the doorway. A mix of surprise and relief crosses his face and he hurriedly rises, careful not to wake the other children.  Those who are awake watch the siblings with a mix of curiosity and trepidation,  still uncertain of the situation. "Gloyn?" he murmurs, his voice a blend of disbelief and joy. He crosses the room with a hurried yet cautious gait, a hint of gratitude in his eyes. "How did you find me? Is it really you?"

She pushes the door open and grabs her little brother in a tight hug, squeezing him hard against her chest as silent tears stream down her face. She kneels down quickly, pressing a finger to his lips to quiet any further inquiries as she gestures towards the nearby priest. She leans in close to whisper in Gruffyd's ear. "It's me, but we must hurry and silent as a hare. I am getting you away from here, but if we are found I think they may try to recapture you. We must move quickly!"

Gruffyd nods in silent understanding. "Are you taking us home?" Another girl with hopeful eyes asks Goewyn in Welsh. "We can't leave them here," Gruffyd tells his sister desperately.

Goewyn stands there dumbfounded for a moment, not sure exactly how to respond. She couldn't lead all these children home, could she? One thing she knows for sure is that she cannot leave them here in hands of these Christians.  She did not know what to do, but Magan would... she had given him her word that she would help him as long as he had helped her rescue Gruffyd. Perhaps she could lead them back to the battlecamp; he might know what to do. The look on Gruffyd's face was enough to tell her what she must do, she felt that tightness in her stomach that told her everything. She gives him a tight-lipped nod. "Quickly and quietly! Just like I taught you. We do not bring anything with other than what they can carry."  She turns back to the others with a grim look. "I wish to ask something of you all..." Her eyes fall upon Egon and Muireann. 

Egon looks about at the children. He had known it would likely come to this. There was no quiet way to get these children out of the longhouse. Not all of them, and not without drawing notice. But...they deserved to choose for themselves whether they would follow the old ways, or Calix's new way.  His eyes meet Goewyn's. "You need not ask," he says. "But...how to get them out?" He strokes his short beard quietly. "We may need to fall back to the distraction we spoke of earlier."

Goewyn smiles brightly at Egon, possibly one of the first times she has ever done so. "Thank you, Egon. I do not have the words to express my thanks. I agree, I think perhaps this time we may need a real  fire to distract the town and the guard. I will usher the children out of here quickly and quietly. Anyone who gets between us and their freedom will face my spear. I figure taking them towards the warband first, back to the stronghold until I can determine where their homes are... and from there... I-I don't know."

Muireann raises an eye at Goewyn. "Where do you propose we set this fire?"

Goewyn pauses and thinks before letting out a resigned sigh. “I do not know. It needs to be something important enough to draw everyone’s attention long enough to get all the children out. I do not want to burn down the entire town, but I also would not be saddened to see these people put out for stealing children and forcing them to convert to whatever this madness is!” She gestures around at the building.

"The common people have little choice in what brand of madness they are served," Egon says. He sighs. "But I do not have a better plan. I will go and inform Hrothgar and Calix. Perhaps they have seen something that will serve."

Egon prowls through the passages of the hall back towards the kitchen, but fails to notice a man coming up behind him from the direction of the dining area. "You there, my good man," an eerily familiar voice calls out.

Egon stiffens, a chill running down his spine. There was nowhere to run, nothing to do now but turn and face the reckoning. He summons what regality was left in his tired bones and turns to face the speaker. He allows his hair to fall back, giving the speaker a clear view of his face. He was bearded now, and surely dirtier, but also just as surely recognizable. 

Eadbald, son of Æthelberht, hesitates as the light falls on Egon's face for the first time. "Anoth... you're not... you're not from the kitchens, are you?" He asks, clearly trying to place a face that he knows from another context.  

Egon freezes, swallowing hard. Had it really been less than a year since he'd seen this boy? And yet, Eadbald looked so different to Egon's tired eyes. He stares at the boy for a moment longer than he should, then bows his head and attempts to speak with an approximation of Hrothgar's rough accent. "No, milord, beggin' your pardon," Egon says. "Just a stablehand."

Eadbald's eyes narrow as his memory crystallises into recognition. "No... no. I know you. From my father's court. Why are you disguised as a servant?" The king's son demands with increasing insistence.

Damn. Egon straightens, abandoning more than the fake accent and the subservient demeanor. The deception was over, and Eadbald of all people had been the one to end it. He had always expected it to be  Æthelberht, or that damnable priest. It mattered not -- not anymore. Farewell, Egon. It was nice to be nobody while it lasted. "Peace, Eadbald," Adelmar says. "I need to speak to your father. It is of the utmost importance."

Eadbald's brow furrows, but he seems to listen to Adelmar. "Your weapon," he states, holding out a hand for the man's seax. "You will not go armed before the king."

With his left hand, Adelmar pulls the seax free of his belt and offers it to the younger man. "Thank you, Eadbald," he says. 

Eadbald indicates for Adelmar to lead the way towards the king's hall and follows on behind. The raucous sounds of revelry can already be heard from outside as the pair approach the large arched door. Inside, a long table runs the length of the hall with a half dozen members of the king's household dining together. The chatter continues on for several moments when Eadbald and Adelmar enter, only falling quiet when Æthelberht's eyes finally fall upon the man that he once cast out. "What is this?" The king demands, his voice low as his son brings the exile before him.

Adelmar drops to a knee before his former friend. "My king," he says. "I would have hoped to have come to you in private." He looks around, thankful for the absence of Augustine -- though  Æthelberht's  wife watches with dark eyes. "But I must speak with you about your priest."

Muireann taps her fingers against her thigh, pacing restlessly. "I don't like this," she says, her voice tight. "He's been gone too long." She paces a few more times, before snapping her fingers decisively. "I'm going after him. I don't like this. And I won't take any argument from you, Goewyn," Muirean looks the women in the eyes. "Protecting family is the most important thing. Because I failed to once. I won't let you fail now ."

The king's regal presence is unmistakeable as he regards Adelmar, his commanding demeanour softened slightly by the warmth in his eyes. Æthelberht's greying hair and finely woven robes glisten in the dimly flickering firelight. Eadbald stands to his right, occasional fidgeting and casting searching glances around the room. His features bear a resemblance to his father's, but there's a hint of mischief lurking behind his serious façade.  On the king's left, sits his wife, Queen Bertha, a woman of grace and poise. Her gentle demeanour contrasts with the strength of her husband, yet there is a quiet resolve in her eyes. Dressed in elegant garments befitting her station, she carries herself with regal dignity. Among the other members of the household are those who Adelmar recognises as trusted advisors and close aides to the king. Wulfstan, the king's chief advisor and confidant, whose weathered face bears the marks of a lifetime of service to the crown. He speaks with a voice that commands respect, his words carrying the weight of wisdom earned through years of experience. Aelfric, a young nobleman from a prominent Kentish family, who serves as a squire to the king. Tall and handsome, with a keen intellect and a quick wit, he is a favourite amongst the courtiers for his charm and affability. Ecgberht, the king's steward, a meticulous and organised man responsible for overseeing the royal household. With a sharp eye for detail and a no-nonsense demeanour, he ensures that the king's affairs run smoothly and efficiently. Eadgyth, the king's niece, a spirited young woman whose lively presence adds a touch of vivacity to the room. Blessed with a sharp mind and a quick tongue, she is not one to shy away from expressing her opinions, much to the amusement of those around her. "Speak,"   Æthelberht tells Adelmar quietly. The thick air is laden with the heady scents of  roasted meats, freshly baked bread and sweet mead, but the king's  voice cuts through  it like a knife. Bertha opens her mouth as though to interject, but quickly closes it once more.

Adelmar swallows. Doubt gnaws at his heart as he stares up at  Æthelberht's face. This man had been his friend, though -- and Adelmar does not miss the warmth in his eyes. With a deep breath, he begins. "Your majesty, I have come back to you not to ask for your forgiveness, nor to join this new church. I come on the behalf of friends that I have made in my exile. This priest,  Augustine, has kidnapped and enslaved children for his little chorus . This much I know. I will not speculate on what else he has done. But he is a poison. I read his book. The Christ he claims to follow would be appalled at his efforts. Your people deserve better. You deserve better." Adelmar takes a breath. "I know you have heard me say much of this before. But please, my friend, heed my words."

Goewyn looks back to  Muirean  from where she was keeping watch on the children and nods. "Go quickly, they are almost ready to depart."

"Your king ," the queen hisses, but Æthelberht raises a hand for quiet. "These are serious accusations, Adelmar," the king replies. "We have rescued those children from slavers. Can you prove otherwise?"

With a sharp nod, Muireann darts from the room, beginning to retrace their steps back towards the kitchen, keeping her footfalls as silent as she can. She keeps here eyes and ears wide for any signs of where Egon might have gone.

"If you rescued the children, then show me the slaver leaders in chains, or their heads on pikes," Adelmar says. "Their names were Chad and Edgar. I will know their faces, for they were the same that locked me in chains." He shakes his head. "But, my king, their trip here was prearranged. They came here to Augustine. For him. He wanted the children specifically. For what, I do not know."

"Heads on pikes are not the way of Christ,"   Æthelberht tells Adelmar quietly, but the conviction in his tone is lessened. "Augustine has used his pope's silver to buy the childrens' freedom." "A most holy act," the queen adds, "giving away one's wealth for the good of the meek and downtrodden." Meanwhile, Muireann can hear the sounds of the conversation emanating from the king's hall.

Adelmar rises from his kneeling position to look  Æthelberht  in the eyes. "In my exile, I have witnessed many things. I saw a man -- a warlord -- rise with an arrow in his heart, Vidarr's wrath in his eyes. I saw a Christian -- a man who I call friend -- heal the wounded through prayer. I saw strange magicks that allowed a woman to speak with animals. I have seen the power of the old gods and the new one." He continues, feeling bolder now. "I have no doubts about the power of Christ. My doubts are reserved for Augustine. Why use silver to free these children and let the slavers free to capture more? Why not call on the power of his god to rid the world of that evil?" He spares a glance for Queen Bertha. "And forgive me for saying so, my queen, but generosity is only so when one has aught to lose. Augustine's needs are met, and he wants not for silver."

Muireann pauses for a moment, her heart starting to pound in her chest. Those voices could be anyone, they didn't have to include Egon. But something wasn't settling, and she couldn't shake the feeling that somehow something had gone wrong. She starts forward again, this time turning her attention to the hall, until she's right outside, straining to make out the timbre of the voices within. Is Egon in there? 

"...and I suppose that the convicted heathen would know all about generosity?" Bertha challenges in response, while Æthelberht considers Adelmar's words.  "What exactly is it that you want of our king? Why are you here, Adelmar?"

Adelmar turns to face the queen. He does his best to push back the hatred he feels in his heart for his woman. It was her that had poisoned  Æthelberht's mind into humoring Augustine. It was her who had asked for Adelmar's execution. The suffering he had endured during the past months was all due to her.  But hatred would not get him anywhere. "My queen, I simply ask our king to reconsider listening to Augustine," he says. "I do not even ask for him to abandon his belief in Christ. I do not believe that to be wrong. But Augustine is an evil man. Of this I am sure."

Muireann presses her ear to the door, clearly able to make out Egon's voice. And a sharp-toned woman's. Another mans voice. They were speaking...it was hard to make out, as some of the words were unfamiliar, but she was able to piece together a semblance of what was being spoken about.  Adelmar? Who is Adelmar?  It wasn't a name she'd ever heard before. But Egon was in there. Surrounded by the enemy. The people who had stood by while children had been bought and sold in the name of their so-called Christ. The fury of the Morrigna, the triple goddess, wells up in her chest. It didn't matter who this Adelmar was, Egon had been found out and captured. She glances around for any other possible entrance into the room.  

The king reclines in his chair, templing his fingers in contemplation. "Adelmar is a man of conviction, my dear,"  Æthelberht tells his wife. "Otherwise he would not risk life and limb to appear here before us. If he is convinced that he speaks the truth, then let us call Augustine before us to discuss the matter of the slavers. Surely, you must agree that the bishop would consider it the Lord's work to put them to justice?" Muireann can see no other entrance to the hall on her side of the room. However, at least one other exit is visible to her when she peers through the crack where the door is ajar.

Adelmar breathes a silent sigh of relief, tension leeching out of his spine. "Thank you, my king," he says, trying hard to keep the relief from his voice.

Ecgberht rises to summon Augustine, while Aelfric steps forward to take the still exiled Adelmar aside.

Muireann's heart is beating in her ears. Egon is in trouble, she just knows it. And he's in there. I heard his voice. I know I did. And she knows she has little choice. Steeling herself, she grips her bow, an arrow already nocked, but not pulled back. Not yet. Pointed towards the ground.  Give them a chance to release him. Too aggressive, and they'll kill you on sight.  With a grunt, she shoulders open the door, shouting in Mercian, the closest language she knew. She didn't dare use her native Irish. None of them would understand her anyway. "Let him go!"