Trials of Gideon Book 1: The Cursed Blade

Chapter 1: Hi! It's me again!

My face smacks cold cobblestones. I struggle to push myself up, but a blade presses firmly against my neck. I sigh, spitting out blood. There's the tramp of feet behind me as the rest of my pursuers catch up to us.
"It's the end of the line, Gideon Saint," the Templar snarls, the blade pressed hard enough against my throat that I feel a warm trickle of blood.
"I don't know who that is," that is my name. I shift to kneel painfully. "You've got this all wrong."
"Do you truly think we would mistake you for another?" The Templar asks, shaking off her hood. She traces another rapier across my cheek.
"I was hoping, yeah," I say, slowly raising my hand to my neck.
"No more tricks, Saint. You've got no magic. Don't even move," she says, pressing both swords against my throat.
"Tricks? What tricks? I don't know what his Saint person is must be a real piece of work best of luck to you—,"
"Has this ever worked for you?" Another one asks, I'm now fully surrounded.
"Me because I'm innocent of everything yeah I'll keep a look out for someone with identical very significant facial scarring as mine, good luck finding him you're doing good work," I say, trying to move again. Another uses magic to pin me in place. And I'm powerless to stop it.
"Is that really what you wish to be your last words?" The Templar asks, curling her lip in distaste for who I've chosen to be. Her muscles tense as she prepares to slice my throat open.
I sigh, "I commend my soul to God." And then I rip the necklace from my throat. The Templar raises her sword to slash my head from my shoulders.
I guess I should explain myself.

Hi. I'm Gideon Saint, despite what I just said. When I was fifteen years old I was working as an intern at a museum where I found a magic ring that transported me to 1432 Wales, alternate timeline where magic exists, and Wales hadn't fallen to English rule. Shenanigans ensued, I became Wales' court wizard, died, resurrected myself, it was a whole thing. I nearly died a few dozen more times primarily courtesy of the King of England, Henry V, who in this timeline artificially extended his life through demonic means, in order to continue being a scourge upon basically everyone to come in contact with him. Several adventures and complications later, I discovered that I'm not the only magical being haunting the realm. No, the Templars are an organization of wizards who seek to 'right' the timeline, from their point of view. That unfortunately has proved hazardous to people I like and King Henry, and put me at odds with the Templars a time or three or four. I admit time should go as planned, but I do not accept death for my countrymen, so yeah, we tend to be at odds. Also due to complications (me being a noble dumbass) I'm sworn to protect the english royal family and the english royal family is sworn to get into trouble at every available opportunity. That's about eight books worth of tomfoolery in one paragraph you're very welcome.
Gideon, you say, that doesn't explain why a group of Templars are about to behead you in the middle of Hyde Park at two am?
No, quite, right, getting there. Ahem.
Two weeks earlier.
Two weeks ago life was mostly going as planned, as it ever does for me. I was putting my daughter to sleep by letting her watch Horrible Histories on a tablet, laying on my chest. She'd been sick so I brought her back to the 21st century for you know, modern medicine. Only about three people from the past are aware I literally time travel, but they have the general idea that if I disappear for a while I wind up healed.
Yes, I have two children, well I'm semi responsible for several more but. Biologically I have a son and a daughter. Aforementioned tomfoolery and shenanigans involved me being active in the Welsh Royal court, namely nearly dying with the King and Queen, and other equally bonding activities like escaping from the Tower of London on a dragon (like just read the book this is as summed up as you're gonna get). Anyway. King Elis of Wales is infertile, and they needed heirs. Queen Rhiannon is one of my best friends ergo. I'm the father of her children. I'm completely cool with the arrangement, my job description is 'nearly dies every other week for magic related reasons' so it's all well and good the kids have parents with something approximating normal jobs, and I'm happy like this. They know I'm their biological father and both are wizards like me, so fun, I handle the magical education. Myrddin our eldest is fair and looks reasonably like his supposed father. Kat, our baby? Not so much, she's nearly as swarthy as I am. So she sadly can't pass as their child. Ergo we've introduced her as my illegitimate child (I mean, she is, I'm not married to her mother), and so she's consistently at court for that reason, in the 1400s that's not hard to get away with, simply put, and obviously the inner circle knows the truth.
Anyway, Kat stays with me a bit more because she looks like me. But obviously her mother misses her and wants her about and I spent 90% of my time in the Welsh court anyway so it all works out. But Kat was feverish so I took her to the 21st century for modern medicine, like you do. She's five so not terribly delicate but, best to be safe. And I haven't been in my original time period for a minute. It's just the start of fall so Rhiannon was going to take the kids to Harlech, where's it's private and quiet enough she can heap attention on her baby girl. It's not like, that out of the ordinary that she'd spend time with my daughter, but like nobody needs to guess it's her daughter. So. I'm going to meet them there in the morning to drop Kat off for a few weeks of undisturbed mummy time. When they're busy with royal engagements and the like, Kat primarily will stay with me, which I'm completely fine with, but I know Rhiannon likes having them both under one roof for a bit. And it's not like I don't perpetually have magic related tasks the five year old probably shouldn't tag along to. Give them a few years, before the wonderful child-endangerment knighthood portion of their education kicks off. Fun. Anyway.
So I was laying with my kid falling asleep on my chest, letting her watch something with headphones and staring at my own phone, because I'm a really good parent. Oh whatever she gets zero screen time in the Middle Ages. Not a big deal, the part of her life when I'll definitely let her become involved in the 100 years war makes me such a worse parent.
And my step sister, Mariah, called. The only family member I speak to in this century, she's pretty cool. We keep in touch as a general rule, through of course I'm bouncing through time so it's usually just messages.
"Hey, what's up?" I asked, answering.
"I saw you were online, I wanted to say happy birthday."
"To who?"
"You, idiot, we always celebrate your birthday in the fall."
Oh yes. My birthday. I was abandoned as a baby so we don't know my birthday but we did always celebrate it in the fall. I'm twenty eight years old. And I can't keep pretending I'm twenty seven she's right. It's over.
I laugh it off and we go on with the conversation. I face time her so Kat can say hi, and after that it's mostly questions, like "What happened to your face again?" (I fell off a dragon), and other weird ones like "Why is your Christmas tree already up?" (The kid wanted to put it up) and "Why is there a picture of Henry the Fifth on top of your Christmas tree?" (I don't have a good answer).
I most stumble through answers and we hang up. The next morning I return to Wales to drop Kat off with the rest of the family.
"I miss you so much," Rhiannon says, rocking Kat back and forth. I smile, watching them. Myrddin is already sealed around my neck. That's pronounced 'mer-thin', or 'mur-th-Yn' really, it's the Welsh of 'Merlin' so replace the l with a th and you've about got it.
"You being good?" I ask, kissing his dark hair.
"No," Myrddin is at least honest I guess.
"Not particularly, are you staying?" Rhiannon asks, studying my face. We've known each other for thirteen years now. She can usually guess my thoughts before I have to voice them.
"No, I've ah, got a lead on some stuff with the Templars," I say, shrugging a little, "You know Dancer and I were chasing something last week?"
"Yes, but all's been quiet," Rhiannon says, rightfully guessing something else is troubling me. I know what it is and how to voice it. But I don't know how she would help. She'd tell me everything is fine, and that won't make me feel better.
"Yeah well, best to keep on top of it, and they'll get plenty of magic lessons over the harvest festival," I say. I usually occupy the little magical children while their royal parents are busy with their actual jobs. A decent trade off, for now she's not busy she might as well give them one on one time.
"Yes," she says, looking at Myrddin, "You want to tell your father what you did?"
"Set a barrel of wine on fire," Myrddin, proud.
"You're pure chaos you know that? You shouldn't cause the staff more work," I say, trying not to be amused.
"Gideon stop laughing. I told him you'd be cross, everyone else thought it was funny."
"I mean, probably was. We'll muck about with fire in a couple of weeks, eh?" I ask, petting his hair, "Gonna play nice with your sister?"
"Probably," he nods.
Rhiannon rolls her eyes, still hugging Kat, "Thanks."
I smile a little. She knows something is still troubling me. I hug both the kids and say goodbye, bidding them to be good for their mother (they won't) and not cause too many magic related shenanigans (they won't). They're just over a year apart, so they have the nearly twin thing going on which is great, they can be partners in crime.
What I told Rhiannon is true. I am on the trail of something Templar related. Dancer, my best friend who is also a wizard and works for the Welsh court, and his father who lives in the 21st century but is one of our few time-related allies, did intercept some Templar communications (never mind how, our spy network cannot be compromised at the time of publication we're still using it). It's just a message but it's regarding some sort of code. And the thing is, I can't crack it. I've been trying. But it makes no sense I can't figure out what it is. I've shown it to everyone, we can't crack it. But it was important and it definitely related to the 1400s, it says 'Lancaster' which is never a good sign. But the riddle itself? It makes no sense.
"Find us where the four saints meet, six apostles gather, behold the six that lie above the lion down below, find the seventh and I'll sleep no more. Hands joined in rest below the sun, Where angels dance, there your heart lies,"
So it's driving me mad.
That, plus my 28th birthday, are weighing heavily on my mind. And all my friends have said something like 'you'll figure it out you're the smartest person we have'. And the thing is I'm not figuring it out. And I know it's a mental block. But I don't know how to mentally unblock. So I wind up where I always do when I'm this troubled, my personal version of therapy.
"I'm twenty eight years old. And that sounds like such a stupid thing to complain about. I know it's young. But the thing is, I never expected to live to be twenty eight years old. For a lot of reasons, including you, I thought I was going to die long before I got here. And now I am here and I don't expect to live another twenty eight years. I have seen my daily routine that is not likely to happen. And what have I done with it? And if I do die tomorrow, what am I leaving behind? Like, I've had more time than I expected I would, and yet it's not near enough. I feel like I'm running out of time and I don't even know what to do with it," I sigh, rubbing my face with my hand. I'm sitting on the floor of Westminster Cathedral, talking to Henry the Fifth's tomb.
"I just—I wish I could be you sometimes. You're confident about everything, let's face it eighty percent of your plans should not have worked they only did because you were too stubborn to quit. And even though you didn't know you didn't have much time and you thought you'd live forever, you made every single minute count. And even though you didn't mean to die so young, you still set your son up for success in a way nobody else ever has. No other child king could expect to keep hold of a throne, especially not one so ill suited to politics, if you hadn't left England the way you did, with your brothers and followers so loyal, your son would have died, and even though he never met you you still protected him—and I have no idea how to do that. If I die my children will, not have me that's it, I can't figure out what to do that everything won't fall apart, or worse will it all be better if I'm gone? Or okay? Or do I just not want to believe that? See, every single way I go I doubt myself, I doubt my plans, I think I'm selfish to have the kids, I think I'm selfish to do what I do because I love the adventure—every single way I go I feel like it could be the wrong move and you made a ton of wrong moves but you didn't doubt them so what I'm asking is how do I have this removed? Second guessing myself, hating myself for not solving everything, because it looks like so much more fun to believe you're god's gift to the planet, and that you are awesome and everything you do is divinely perfect," I sigh, lying back down on the stone floor. It's late in the day most of the tourists are gone. I still have my headphones in, listening to 'Never Enough' which should be Henry's damn theme song.
"Do I just pretend everything is according to plan? Fake it till you make it? But to whom? My friends think I can figure this out, that I'm gonna be able to solve the next puzzle, and win, but I don't. I don't mind dying that's not it, I've spent most of my life assuming I'll die here soon. But. Now I'm not okay leaving them, and that makes it harder," I say, tugging the paper from my pocket to stare at it again, "And this is probably some convoluted plan to attack Wales and my kids, or your son, and I can't figure it out either. And no I'm not asking you, either of you. For one thing you blocked my traces on you again. For another remember how annoying and self serving you are," I mutter. Yes he's still alive in my timeline, despite literally everyone's best attempts. He's not in England (thank god) he's pursuing his true passion of sieging places and being annoying across Europe, headed towards Jerusalem but he's easily distracted by fire and money. Last I checked his permanent shadow, also entombed here, Bishop Richard Courtenay, is with him. I did bring a sticky note to put on Courtenay's part of their shared tomb. Yes they share a tomb, you know, like straight men do sometimes despite one of them having been married with a child, it's perfectly heterosexual just like the matching ruby rings they both had.
I roll over, studying the paper in my hand.
There's a message, apparently the Templars got it somewhere? But it has made no sense.
Find us where the four saints meet, six apostles gather, behold the six that lie above the lion down below, find the seventh and I'll sleep no more. Hands joined in rest below the sun, Where angels dance, there your heart lies.
"Wait a minute," I frown, staring up at the chantry. "Four saints on your chantry—, and there are six figures at the coronation—,"
I sit up. "Why are you my cypher?"
I start to write on my paper, tugging my phone from my pocket.
"It's you, it's your chantry, so you designed it, hence Courtenay being here," I mutter, googling images. The chantry chapel isn't open to the public. But there are images of it online. The chapel sits sort of above the tomb, it's all ornately decorated.
"Yes, there are six effigies inside, but no seventh, you're the seventh I'm assuming you're never not self referential—what in hell?" I mutter. And why are the Templars messing with this?
"Okay, got the lion, four saints, six apostles, so the first line means your chantry telling us to wake you up? We've met you we're not going to do that," I say, despite being the number one person ready to reenact the plot of the Mummy in downtown London with a Middle Ages warlord king, on the side of the warlord king who is trying to resurrect his boyfriend. Actually forget the rest of the book that would make a great movie. Seriously though, Henry V gets resurrected as a once and future king in an apocalypse situation, then half the damn plot is him trying to resurrect Courtenay with him. Forget it, one of these days I'm gonna have to stop getting chased and kidnapped every other week and actual write that book it would be funny.
"Hands joined, Catherine's buried here, but you didn't know that," I frown. Henry VII moved her here to be nice I guess and emphasize his non-existent relationship to the crown. Henry V made no arrangements for her burial I mean he wouldn't they weren't married that long so win for feminism? Anyway, he's buried here with Courtenay but he never wrote that down he just buried Courtenay here then himself, in two completely separate decisions he acted like had no bearing on the other, self-confidence king. Anyway.
"So what are you talking about? Your chantry doesn't have a sun—and you pretend you weren't related to your dad," I mutter, staring at the chantry.
"Richard, you reburied him," I turn and walk back through the Abby, toward's Richard II's tomb. Henry V reburied Richard not long after Henry got the crown. Richard had prepared a tomb for himself and his beloved wife Anne, one of the first joint tombs, and unlike any other royal effigies it showed them holding hands, so sweet. The hands are now broken off. But anyway Richard designed it after her death, so they'd be together. And Henry V, mysteriously at the time, honored that moving Richard to be buried with her. Less mysterious when you realize that Henry too wanted to be buried with someone he loved, and went to great pains to hide Courtenay's crypt so they wouldn't be parted. Odd sentimentality from one of the meaner people to walk the earth? Definitely, but at least he did that for Richard.
I jog back over to Richard's tomb. Which has sunburst detailing on Richard, and of course his symbol of the hart.
"Heart, hart lies, Richard's symbol was the hart—and they were originally holding hands," I frown, "What do you want me to do with this, Henry?" It's telling us to find you both but why? I mean, I'm not not down for grave robbing at the request of the occupant, it's not like the English haven't robbed plenty of other people's graves. But. I'm really not seeing a point. Where did the Templars get this? And why? And are they planning on following the commands?
"Find me where the four saints me, six apostles gather, behold the six that lie above the lion down below, find the seventh and I'll sleep no more. Hands joined in rest below the sun, Where angels dance, there your heart lies," I read it quietly, looking up at Richard's grave, "D'you know what he was playing at?"
Did he bury something with Richard, that is somehow a key to something hidden in his own crypt? Why? Henry didn't do anything that didn't benefit Henry. And even in this world where there's no real magic (thanks to the burning of the Library of Alexandria) Henry devoted some of his spy network to monitoring witchcraft and his stepmother and brother (long story) both practiced witchcraft. I'm not saying he believed in it, but I'm saying there's the chance he might have thought he was Arthur reborn, couple of traumatic brain injuries later he might have gotten that egotistical. I'm just saying. It's not out of character for the man to decide to plant little legends about himself for future generations.
"You don't know do you? You'd roll your eyes probably," I say. Richard was fond enough of his young cousin, by all accounts, and he took him to war in Ireland, which was like ten Christmases for our Henry. Richard was a fun guy, on one hand he was gay-passing and dramatic, liking to wear long flowy robes and referring to himself in the third person, sitting in his throne room for hours on end listening to the same song over and over, and his best friends were women. On the other he was the Black Prince's son, six feet tall with striking brown eyes and red gold curls, eerily similar to his namesake Richard the Lionheart, shrewd with great military bearing, so tall and commanding that when Henry IV deposed him he had to seat Richard on a donkey so he'd be shorter than Henry, and the crowd still cheered Richard's name, and so threatening even without a weapon his captors figured the easiest way to kill him was to quit feeding him, rather than lose the lives of (more) would be assassins, rumor is he kept overpowering would be murderers, that gets into Shakespeare's play as well. Anyway, Richard wasn't the cleverest man alive but he was a fair one. Similar to Henry VI he preferred to avoid outright violence, but unlike Henry VI he was good at finishing fights.
Point is, I don't think he had anything to do with this note. This feels deeply like a Henry thing, if anything. Or someone later? Some wizard or other wrote it hide something in both tombs? Doesn't say where and again I'm not opposed to grave robbing. But grave robbing Westminster is a bit much and I don't strictly know why. And history shows that doing things Henry wants you to do, does not decrease the amount of chaos in any given situation.
"Why? Why are you leading us to your grave?" I mutter. To be clear, at this point in my life, ANYTHING leading back to Henry V, specifically anything he left behind, is the equivalent of silence, when you have a five and six year old playing in the other room. That thing that never should have been left to it's own devices, was, and it's chief talent is 'unthinkable chaos'. Henry's plans don't work out well for anyone but Henry and occasionally not even him.
I feel a sharp tug. The magic gradually leaving me.
Templars.
Here's the thing. There's a spell you can do to stop your and a rival wizard or sorcerer's magic. Only works if the other wizard isn't using magic, and you have to give up your magic to do it. It's complicated, a bit painful, and wears you out. The obvious problem with it is, when the spell wears off you're crippled and weak, and the other guy is pissed off and now can use magic. I've used it a couple of times, okay only once did I use it against a rival wizard every other time was to mess with exactly one person who cursed a good friend of mine and nearly killed us all like seven times. Gideon, you ask, why are you mildly inconveniencing this person who has clearly endangered you and your friends? Because his over protective boyfriend would draw and quarter me if I actually harmed him. Yeah it's Courtenay. That's not important information right now but whatever.
I run, stuffing the note in my pocket. I'm memorized it by now anyway. And I don't need the Templar's cracking what I just did. They might have gotten to Henry's grave, but a chief piece of the puzzle from Richard's, the holding hands, was missing. Also it said 'find us' and most people don't even know that Henry is buried with someone. And I knew both those things and it took me like six weeks and literally staring at Henry's Chantry to put it together.
But, Gideon, you ask, they'll notice you were there staring at the tombs? Yeah I do that. Like a lot. See previous where I cited it as my main source of therapy. I talk to them all the time. It's completely fine.
I run down the length of the Abby. A couple of guards yell at me, by name. They know me here. That's a bad thing probably? Ah whatever.
I clear the Abby and head to the street. I've got no magic, which is costly. The main reason they'd pull the 'No magic' thing? Because they plan on killing me without me ever getting it back. Templars are my usual villains in these little things, and I've killed a few of them in the name of protecting my friends, so I get why they want to kill me. I do.
I am halfway down a block when I see two coming towards me, raising their hands to summon magic. Usually magic is a no-no downtown London. They want me bad. Damn it. Them using magic, means the one who is depriving me of mine is somewhere else. Probably somewhere else safe, again they're doing that to lower my attack value, so that they can end me. Then the other wizard can end the spell. From what I've read if you die under that, it might damage or even kill the other wizard because we are bonded. But the Templars aren't overly concerned about the loss of one life to end me. I'm pretty sure I'm something like public enemy number one at this point.
Now I know medieval London like the back of my hand at this point. Modern London? Not quite so much. But I tend to go jogging around Westminster. I'm just going to head for familiar territory AKA one of the few places I know from both timelines. The tower. It's on down the Thames from here but, unfortunately I know the tower like the back of my hand. I'm guessing whoever is stealing my magic, can't keep this up too long. Also there are weapons in the Tower of London I could borrow. I mean you're not supposed to do that but I can smash the case and defend myself. London PD might understand that.
Another one leaps out from in front of me and I turn around, ah damn it. I'm cornered, down an alley this isn't great.
I run directly at the wall, running halfway up then catching hold of a drain spout. And onto the roof. This hurts so much without magic to cushion the blows. Damn I must be getting old.
I run along the rooftop, leaping to another before parkour in my way back to street level. At this point passerby's are shout 'Oi mate' and helpful things like that. At the moment I don't mind police attention. With no magic I'll happily sit in London PD talking about why we don't run up walls, rather than try my luck with the Templars.
I risk another back alley, only to run into three of them. All int heir robes, looking like escapees from an Assassin's Creed convention. I turn bolt the other direction, but I'm realizing it's rapidly too late. They're gaining on me and they've probably been planning this for weeks.
I chance an overpass, they're coming from either side—and they're on the other side of the bridge. Damn it. Well, I'd usually not attempt this without magic but hell looks like I don't have a choice.
With Templars running at me from both sides, I leap off the bridge.

Anyway. That's what we're doing here.
My face smacks cold cobblestones. I struggle to push myself up, but a blade presses firmly against my neck. I sigh, spitting out blood. There's the tramp of feet behind me as the rest of my pursuers catch up to us. The Londoners are mostly ignoring us now, probably think we're a reenactment. I can hear sirens in the distance, but they won't be here in time.
"It's the end of the line, Gideon Saint," the Templar snarls, the blade pressed hard enough against my throat that I feel a warm trickle of blood. She has light blue eyes and dark hair braided back.
"I don't know who that is," I shrug, as I shift to kneel painfully. "You've got this all wrong."
"Do you truly think we would mistake you for another?" The Templar asks, shaking off her hood. She traces another rapier across my cheek. She holds one in each hand, ambidextrous?
"I was hoping, yeah," I say, slowly raising my hand to my neck.
"No more tricks, Saint. You've got magic. Don't even move," she says, pressing both swords against my throat.
"Tricks? What tricks? I don't know what his Saint person is must be a real piece of work best of luck to you—,"
"Has this ever worked for you?" Another one asks, I'm now fully surrounded.
"Me because I'm innocent of everything yeah I'll keep a look out for someone with identical very significant facial scarring as mine, good luck finding him you're doing good work," I say, trying to move again. Another uses magic to pin me in place. And I'm powerless to stop it.
"Is that really what you wish to be your last words?" The Templar asks, curling her lip in distaste for who I've chosen to be. Her muscles tense as she prepares to slice my throat open.
I sigh, "I commend my soul to God." And then I rip the necklace from my throat. The Templar raises her sword to slash my head from my shoulders.
I lean back into the magic, as the blade sweeps towards my throat. White magic echoes from the amulet clutched in my hand.
"Good timing," Oisin snarls, appearing in the light in front of me, full medieval garb, a long cloak, sword in one hand. Son of the legendary Fionn MacCumhail, Oisin is a powerful wizard, Ireland's sworn protector, and my best friend. We've long held amulets that can summon the other at will if we're in danger. I tend to get in danger so you know, convenient.
"Thank you I thought so," I say, bouncing to my feet and drawing his off hand to fight with.
And we are off. The Templars attack with magic but Oisin can combat that.
"Why aren't you using magic?" He asks.
"Cursed obviously, how's your week?" I ask, cheerfully.
I'm pretty sure he mutters something about needing a leash for me, in Old Irish, then he switches back to English to say, "Hold my arm."
"Sure," I say, blocking a blow from a Templar and holding his arm with my free hand.
He slams his sword into the ground and creates a shock wave, sending all the Templars from their feet. Blood drips from his mouth, but he's not at all spent. in a rush, I feel my own magic return. Oh so my magic thief was in this fight?
I summon an orb of light into my hand, eyes glowing. Now they can't take my magic again. The sirens are getting closer now, London just experienced a small earth quake.
"Well this was fun, gents. Want to talk?" I ask.
"Yes," the one who cornered me stands up, "Let us go elsewhere."
"We're not going places with you," Oisin scoffs.