There was a lull in activity as the men rested between patrols. Grayle and Daniel sat with Gawain in the mess area, the three of them bent over one of the rough tables the men used for meals. A large leather bound book lay open in front of Gawain. Grayle and Daniel sat to either side of him, with all three intent on the writing in front of them.

"A... M... O... R," Gawain's finger traced the ornate letters of Bishop David's Bible. "Amor?"

"Good man," said Daniel leaning back with a smile on his face. "That's the Latin word for love. 'God is Love' is the whole phrase, but you're doing well. Not bad for a man who normally gets hit in the head too much."

"That's hardly fair," said Grayle. "He usually gets his shield in the way first. Then he hits his head on that instead."

"Honestly you two, I am trying you know," said Gawain as the other two dissolved into fits of giggles.

"Aye, we know, just pulling your leg, anyway we..."

Whatever else Grayle was about to say was lost in a sudden commotion as one of the miners, a youth called Jago, ran into the camp at full tilt. Seeing the three seated at the table, he sprinted towards them and skidded to a halt, using the table to prop himself up, as breathless, he grinned at the three of them. As his breath started to return, he spoke haltingly.

"King... Mark. Where?... News... old shaft... found way in..."

"You've found a way into the mound?" demanded Grayle, shooting to his feet. The boy nodded, still grinning.

"Run back and tell Merlin and Cadan that I'll find Mark, we'll be up shortly, thank you."

The boy ran off back up the hill and Grayle turned to his colleagues with a bright smile on his face. "We've found it, I can feel it. Come on you two, let's find Mark and Percival and get up that hill."

A short time later, a large circle of onlookers peered into the shaft Cadan and his miners had cut into the top of the hill. The circular shaft was approximately ten feet deep and, as the few men in the bottom of the shaft cleared away the soil, it was evident they had found something other than soil.

"Well, what do you think we have here?" Mark addressed Merlin, causing an immediate cessation of noise from the circle of onlookers as they waited for the old magician to speak.

"Well, my King, I would suggest this is a shaft cap. There is evidence of a circular stone wall there, it looks a little like the edge of a water well, so I think this shaft was built up as they built the hill. It's perfectly round and neatly constructed. Where the lads are now in the base of the Pit is a mound of rubble, but I suspect that is the top of the cap, below which we will hopefully find an open shaft to the centre of the mound."

Merlin looked up and over at Cadan who was helping the men out of the hole to enable the onlookers to get a better view.

"Cadan," he called. "I suggest getting your men on ropes, if I'm right, I think what we'll find is a relatively small amount of rubble, and then an old oak tree."

Cadan nodded, motioning his men to manoeuvre the wooden framed crane into position.

"A tree?" muttered Gawain. "He's finally lost the plot."

"I'm sure he knows what he's doing," said Grayle, "he's rarely wrong on these things."

"When you children have finished gossiping behind me," Merlin turned and glared at them, "I will explain."

Daniel, grinned at Grayle and Gawain, wagging an admonishing finger mockingly.

"That includes you too church boy," said Merlin, his back to the three of them.

"How did he do that?" whispered Daniel, his face red with embarrassment.

"Maaaaagic," drawled Gawain, wagging his finger back at him with a grin, as Merlin continued.

"The traditional way to block shafts like this is to cut down a tree, tie down the branches, and lower it into the hole. You then send down a small boy, like one of these three idiots behind me, with a sharp knife. The rope is severed and the branches spring out, wedging into the side of the shaft. Once the tree is firmly wedged into place, the boulders are piled in on top to seal it, and it's topped off with other materials. The ropes will be there as a precaution in case the tree gives way as we're trying to clear the debris off the top of it. Ideally, we want to clear the materials away from above, and pull most of the tree out in one go. That will allow us to get to the base of the shaft more easily, and not drop anything on what might be below."

Merlin looked at Mark. "We're going to have to take this very steadily sire, but hopefully, the end result will be an open shaft straight to the centre of the mound."

Mark smiled, nodded at Merlin and turned to look at the crowd of spectators. "Right you horrible lot, why are you all standing around doing nothing!" he shouted. "You all have jobs to do. This is not a spectator sport, so unless you feel like hauling rocks or doing some digging I suggest you find something useful to do." He grinned as everyone bustled away, looking at Percival who stood next to him, wincing in pain from the bellowing in his ear. "I do like to see people busy," he said and wandered off down the hill smiling broadly.

~

Percival sat in a quiet corner of the mess tent, deep in thought. Most of the men had finished their meal, the camp cooks and pot boy were clearing up, and only a patrol who'd come in late were still eating, the men animated in their discussions. Sat in the shadows, Percival watched them absently. Morholt had taken him aside earlier in the day, concerned about the leader of the group of twelve men, a man called Tomas, noting that his patrol had come in late on several occasions or had taken a route different from that scheduled. Of the group, Tomas and several others were talking loudly, the other half of the group, a mixed selection of men from Camelot and Tintagel, were eating silently, seemingly determined to finish their meal and move on as quickly as they could.

A pot boy moved carefully around the men, collecting the wooden salvers the soldiers had left untidily stacked around the tent from earlier in the day. But, as he moved past the men, a gesturing arm caught the precarious stack of platters, sending them clattering to the floor. The boy bent hurriedly to pick them up but found himself clipped across the back of the head by Tomas who stood angrily over him, nursing the hand that had smacked into the wooden plates.

"Stupid boy, watch what the hell you're doing."

The boy stood up and turned on the man, anger in his eyes. "You knocked them over, not me," he retorted and turned back to pick up the dishes again. As several of the patrol laughed in amusement at the plucky lad, Percival watched in growing alarm as the man's expression darkened. Tomas lashed out with a foot, sending the boy tumbling into a nearby bench, dropping the recently retrieved platters. Percival stood, his expression dark, but as he started to move towards the man, one of the group stood up from the table, placing himself between his patrol leader and the boy on the floor.

"That's enough Tomas," he said quietly, "he's just a boy."

"Well, you're not," spat Tomas and thundered a sudden fist into the other man's jaw, sending him reeling across the table behind him. As Tomas moved in to follow up his attack, the downed boy bounced to his feet, and punched hard and fast into the groin of his attacker, doubling him over with a gasp of pain.

Tomas fumbled at his belt for a dagger as the boy stood defiantly in front of him, his face a mix of pain and rage, but stopped as a sword touched his neck.

"I think I've seen enough," said Percival quietly. "You men, report to Morholt, now." He pointed at the dark-haired man who had been punched, and the pot boy. "You two, stay there."

Still with his sword at Tomas' throat, he leant against a nearby table, causing the timber to creak alarmingly. "Do you often pick on defenceless children?"

"You're the coward with a blade to a man's throat," retorted Tomas angrily.

"I'm a coward?" said Percival incredulously.

"You think you'd stand a chance if you didn't have a sword in your hand?"

Percival sheathed his sword and smiled. "Why don't we find out?"

The dark-haired soldier watched as the knight put his sword back in its sheath, unbuckling it to lay it on the table beside him, watching warily as Tomas straightened up. He rubbed his jaw where Tomas had struck him, and smiled painfully at the pot boy who stood beside him, noticing the anger still very much alive in his eyes.

"I think we ought to stand back," he said quietly. The boy nodded but didn't look at him, his eyes intent on Tomas as the man faced Percival.

Percival watched the patrol leader carefully as he straightened up, taking in the broad shoulders and ale-induced paunch. He'd caught the brief whiff of beer as the man had exhaled, and knew the man was a problem that had to be dealt with.

Tomas cracked his knuckles and rushed at Percival swinging a massive roundhouse as he came. Percival danced to his left, ducked under the blow, and jabbed a precise fist into the man's solar plexus, prompting a whoosh of air from the man's lungs. As Tomas doubled over, Percival followed up with a left punch to the man's kidney and kicked a foot into the back of the man's knee sending him to a kneeling position on the floor. Tomas looked up with hatred in his eyes only to find himself looking into the eyes of the much-abused kitchen lad. Before Percival could act, the pot boy grabbed a wooden platter and smashed it with all the force he could muster across the man's head, sending him sprawling unconscious to the ground.

"Nice shot lad," said Percival. The boy bobbed a quick bow and turned to run from the tent. As he did, Percival called out to him and flicked him a coin. Like a snake striking, the boy's hand flashed out to catch it, smiling his gratitude at the knight. Percival grinned back at him, and the boy ran into the night, leaving Percival and the soldier alone.

"What's your name?" asked Percival.

"Joss, sir knight," said the man kneeling.

"Up you get soldier, you've no need to kneel to me. Why did you step in then?"

"I'm sorry Sir Percival, but I'd just had enough of him. He's a bad leader, beats people up for fun, and seems to delight in the misery of others. He's a bully, a drunkard, and a fool. I don't like bullies and I thought it was perhaps about time someone stood up to him. Looks like the boy agreed with me."

Morholt walked into the tent forestalling any further conversation and glanced at the man on the floor. "Well, I wondered when that was going to happen," he said bluntly. "Who knocked him out?"

"The pot boy," said Percival smiling faintly.

"Indeed? Tough kid. What do you want me to do with this idiot?"

"Stick him in the brig, he's no good to us. Let him sober up and then get rid of him. Strip him of his uniform and issued equipment, then kick him out. Do you have any recommendations for a patrol leader to replace him?"

"Joss," said Morholt without hesitation. "If of course you're up to the task?"

Joss nodded, "I'd be honoured Captain Morholt."

"Good man. Right, your first job is to get this lummox into the brig, then report to me and we'll get you up to speed." Morholt bowed to Percival and left the tent.

"He's all yours Joss, and congratulations on your promotion." Percival nodded at the man and took his leave, hurrying to catch up with the rapidly retreating form of Morholt, and rubbing his recently grazed knuckles.

~

"Something is wrong!" Merlin appeared through the flaps of the command text abruptly, interrupting a conversation between Grayle, Gawain, and Percival who were discussing troop movements and supply routes. A map lay spread on the table in front of them, and various small flags had been employed to pinpoint the various units out in the field. It was several hours after the discovery at the top of the hill, and the initial excitement had worn off to be replaced by a grim determination to get on with the job at hand. Thus it was that Merlin's abrupt appearance caught the three men by surprise.

"Merlin?" said Percival.

"Something is wrong," Merlin repeated. His face was grim and there was an aura of tension about him, his obvious agitation unsettling the men in the tent as they sought answers.

"Has something gone wrong with the dig?" Gawain asked.

"No boy. Something is happening somewhere that isn't right. There is a game afoot being played out, and all I know is that there is something wrong, and we stand to lose a great deal if we don't act now."

The three men watched, unsure what to do as Merlin paced the room restlessly. Abruptly, he stopped; on the table was a slate Mark had been using to tally up some figures.

"Mark's?"

Percival nodded.

Merlin snatched the slate from the table and closed his eyes, his eyebrows pinching together in concentration. "Where is he?" he demanded, opening his eyes.

"He's gone out on patrol, "said Grayle. "The scouts found some signs of Saxon incursion to the southeast, and Jowan suggested perhaps he'd like to come along. You know how much he idolises Mark, and Mark was itching for an excuse to get out and have a ride. Carne, Camlan and a couple of soldiers went out with them to make numbers up to a half patrol group."

"We need to find them now; they are all in great danger."

~

All Mark could feel was pain. He lay strapped to a tree, arms spread-eagled across a couple of branches, legs tied together along the main trunk of the fallen oak. Lifting his head, he looked along his arm and moaned in distress, the pitch soaked stump looked darkly back at him, pain spiking in tingling agony along his left arm, the red skin puckered angrily around the recent wound.

"Hold his head."

The voice of his torturer spoke once more as rough hands forced his head to the bark of the tree, a leather belt quickly applied to his forehead to keep his head still.

"Now then, my liege, I believe you have some information which might be valuable to me. You tell me what Merlin is planning, and I let you live. You don't, and we will continue to take you apart. I am skilled, my King. I have sealed your wound, and so far you have lost very little blood. So far. I can keep you alive for days if necessary. I enjoy the screams and will enjoy seeing you beg for every second of your miserable little existence. It could be so easy though. All you have to do is give me the information I seek."

"Rot in hell," managed Mark through clenched teeth.

"One day perhaps," came the silky tones. "But first, I believe we should restrict your vision slightly."

The cruelly beautiful visage of Morgause swept into view, and she caressed his arm with the glowing tip of a poker, the white-hot point sizzling its way along the delicate flesh of his left forearm as Mark clenched his teeth against the sudden pain. She leaned in close to him, filling his vision and then smiled slightly.

"Which eye first my lord?"

The glowing iron point moved inexorably towards his left eye, and Mark's agonised screams of rage and despair echoed through the woods.