Balin and Columbine (A Children of the May Novella - Book 1.5b)

Chapter One: The Dungeons of Camelot

People spoke in hushed tones of the way Camelot had seemed to spring out of the earth overnight, and talked darkly of the part Merlin’s magic had played in the appearance of the fortress. The castle, with its four weird towers, looked as if it had been grown rather than built – spewed out of the ground in a belch of rock. There was no place in which one could find a join between its bricks, even less detect if one wall had been built before another, or from different stone.

Balin had been astonished when he first saw Arthur’s new city up close. It was quite unlike his home in the isles of Northumbria, where his father Sir Brian ruled. The castle on the isle of Fulfarne was a small place, always in need of patching and mending to help it resist the cold northern sea. Camelot looked as if any damage would heal over, as the skin scabs and seals after a cut.

The dungeons were no different, Balin discovered, as skull-faced lucan the Butler threw him into a large circular cell. The stone room had curves rather than corners. A single high window allowed in a pitiful amount of light, so Balin had to find himself a seat by touch. The walls and floor rippled against his fingers, and Balin knew it would be difficult to find a comfortable place to rest.

Not that his mind would have let him take comfort even if he had a cushioned chair. He had come to Camelot to seek the king’s blessing for a quest that was closer to his heart than any quest could be, and the king had not granted him permission. Indeed, Arthur had not even listened to him make his case. Sir Kay the Seneschal had said that the king was too busy with his new wife, and that he, the king’s underling,would make a judgment on Balin’s case in Arthur’s stead.

Eventually Balin of Northumbria found himself a place to sit in the cell, though a jut in the wall dug painfully into his back, preventing him from sitting straight. It could have been worse, he thought; there were many filthier dungeons in Britain than this one; the northerner had spent time in a few when his hunting expeditions had strayed into the wrong territory and become crimes of trespass rather than good honest sport.

He pondered a new way to make his argument to the king and his servants, and was so deep in thought that he did not notice his vision adjusting to the dim light of the cell, or that there was someone with him in the shadows, watching him with dark brown eyes.

This other man was perhaps Balin’s age, seventeen years or so. He had dark skin – more deeply tanned than anyone ever managed under the weak sun of north Britain – and wore strange clothes that were tattered and torn from long imprisonment. The boy’s beard was dark and unruly, his hair long and frayed.

When Balin’s eyes eventually found his cellmate in the shadows, he stared at the other man for a good long while. His cellmate stared back. Neither of them said anything. The thought went through Balin’s mind that perhaps Sir Kay had placed him in a cell with a spy, in order to catch him in a lie. They said the knights at Arthur’s court were a suspicious crew, much used to treacheries. Balin had no reason to fear being caught out, however, because everything he had told the seneschal was the absolute truth.

‘A companion at last,’ said the dark-skinned young man. Balin had never heard anything quite like the other’s voice: it was not unsweet, but it lacked the musicality of northern voices. It was foreign, monotonous; it stretched British words in odd places.

‘Seems like,’ said Balin.

The other boy seemed as suspicious of Balin as Balin was of him; but the northerner knew he had nothing to hide.

‘Balin of the Isles,’ he said. ‘The isles of Northumbria, that is.’

‘A pretty coast you have there,’ said the other boy. ‘I enjoy your long beaches, though they lack something in terms of warmth compared to my homeland.’