CHAPTER SEVEN

At dusk, three days after they had set out from Dunara, James and Helen entered Mersea. Before them the dark foreboding mass of the main gate loomed oppressively in the half-light. The two had already changed into grey cloth capes which the Mersea inhabitants wore. Forged amulet-like passes were shown to the visored guard at the massy door. The gates creaked open: they were inside. As the spy’s report had prepared them to expect, it was silent within these walls, very silent. No joyous laughing no busy chatter, no human sociability. Ghost-like hooded figures flitted like automatons down the straight streets, neither turning around or looking up. James and Helen knew what their mission was: to regain possession of the Holy Nails. James now realized that it was these, so sacrilegiously stole from the main church of Dunara, the church dedicated to the Magdalene. Just how were they to achieve their goal? Where would they stay the night without being seen, without arising suspicion?

As they walked down the high street they had a feeling already of being followed.

“Let’s turn round down this alley. Perhaps we can see if we are really being followed,” suggested Helen.

And indeed they were being followed by one of the nameless grey cloaks who seemed to be gesticulating to them to stop.

“How do we know if it’s a friend or foe” asked James.

“We’ll have to stop,” said Helen. “Carrying straight on and trying to ignore them could make us really suspect.”

They turned round to greet the figure, which took off the cape of its cloak to reveal an attractive looking olive-skinned woman in her late twenties.

“I am glad you stopped,” she said in a soft voice, full of sympathy. “I know who you are. I am here to help you. Come with me.”

They followed her down some further alleys until they entered a low doorway in a side wall built of massive stone blocks. The doorway led to a passage dimly lit by waxen tapers at the end of which they found themselves in a small chamber with a rush-strewn floor punctuated by brightly embroidered cushions.

“You must be hungry,” said Tamara, (for that was her name). “Here’s some buttermilk and toasted oats for you to eat.”

James and Helen, ravenous after their long day, set to eating and drinking. Helen thought of her palfrey, which had been left at the manor. She hoped it would be well-looked after and not miss her.

Tamara began to speak:

“It is well that we have met so soon after your entry into this town of dreadful night. There are many guards patrolling the streets and, although I know that your passes look so much like the real thing – the craftsman was adept at imitating them I see – you could have so easily come to an unfortunate conclusion so soon. In brief, the situation in Mersea is becoming ever more desperate. Mortan intends to spread his kingdom of evil throughout the eastern coast. He has imported Greek fire and now knows how to make it for himself. We have tried to steal the formula but it is too well concealed. Nightly he and his minions perform necromantic rites and abuse the holiness of the relics. They hope, thereby, to achieve greater physical and supernatural powers, for they’re all drunk on power, crazed by it.”

Helen and James had now polished off their meal and were all ears to Tamara’s narrative.

“Mortan’s ambition is to wield absolute power, I have said. To support his forces and artillery he needs rations and he has now almost entirely turned the entire population of Mersea into slaves working on the salt marshes near Maldon. He exports the salt to the Frankish kingdoms and to the Norsemen who highly prize its quality. I have seen them, entire family doing back-breaking work in the marshes, for ever wading in the malarial damp. Disease afflicts them: few live beyond the age of thirty. It is hopeless back-breaking work. The once proud dignity of our citizens has been trampled underfoot. Their eyes are dulled, their smiles are gone and now worse is coming. Indeed, worse has already come. To remove dissidents, to remove simulation, to destroy uprisings Mortan has instituted a new process: ‘Personal Systematization’ he calls it. You will be horrified and completely disgusted to know what this so-called ‘personal systematization entails. He calls it the 3-M program: eMasculation, eMuting, eMentalisation. Weak or diseased males are emasculated, their virility cut off to prevent from even accidentally breeding. All yes, all are now having their tongue removed so that dissidence may not have a tongue, literally, and new ideas may not be generated by conversation and all social intercourse will be cut. In short, any gathering of more than one will be considered a conspiracy.”

James and Helen listened with increasing concern to Tamara’s seemingly hopeless narrative.

“You really are placing too much reliance on us,” complained Helen.

“Indeed you are,” echoed James.

“No matter,” said ‘Tamara. “They must have chosen you two for a special, a very special reason, in Dunara. Wulfstan knows how critical the situation; has become; he would not act foolishly.”

Embraced in each other’s arms James and Helen had little wish to express their love passionately. Their minds were too full of the horrors they had heard, of the dangers they would be facing on the morrow. James remembered one phrase which had been mentioned in his context when he had first stumbled into this situation in the eastern kingdoms. “The fool,” he remembered. “The perfect fool.” What was it about this perfect fool that was so precious? What could the perfect fool perform that no other human could undergo? Why was he a perfect fool? He somehow felt, justifiably he though, somewhat offended by the appellation. But then he thought of other perfect fools: Parsifal, for example.

It clicked with him. He should no longer question the unfolding of events. A greater hand than his was at work. The web of redemptive resolution was being spun by the spider of inevitability. He should only trust in the working out of this Master plan. Resistance could be fatal. In any event things were too far gone. He could now change little or nothing:

The reed candle was flickering its last. In the stone chamber giant shadows projected on the walls. In his arms Helen, beautiful, lovable Helen. He stroked gently her downy cheek. He looked into her fathomless eyes. She was still awake. “I love you,” he murmured to her. “Me too,” said Helen. She continued: “if love is for us who can be against us?”. Imperceptibly, their thoughts, their bodies merged with the unknown night, the night of uncertainty, the night of hope preceeding a new dawn.