Chronicle of Ages

The One Begotten Son

This was to be the last festival that Aurelius Caninus would attend, as his old bones were getting beyond journeying. To the next great meeting of the alliance Aurelius would send his son, Conan. The old ruler expected his boy to return home from Ravenna, the capital of Justinian’s empire in the north of Italy, any day now. Despite Aurelius’ assurances that his son would not fall short of the allied kingdoms expectations, it worried Aurelius’ fellow leaders that Conan was not of the native faith.

‘Once he hast witnessed all the wonders I have seen since meeting thee, Dragon, Conan too shall be inspired to the cause of the Goddess,’ Aurelius Caninus assured his allies at the pre-festival conference. ‘How could he not, when our pact has brought my kingdom ten years of peace and prosperity?’ The old ruler became short of breath and broke into a coughing fit.

Tory, who was the only woman present, rose to pour him a fresh glass of water and then aided him to drink it.

‘We all greatly look forward to meeting him,’ she told Aurelius, although glancing around at the other leaders assembled, Tory could tell they did not share her sentiments.

Aurelius was thankful for the water, but knowing his limits, decided to retire and leave the younger rulers to their agenda.

As King of Gwent Is Coed, Aurelius Caninus had maintained a good trade between his kingdom and Italy in the wake of the Roman retreat from Briton. Aurelius was particularly fond of their wine. At the time Conan had been born, Aurelius had yet to be acquainted with most of the rulers of his neighbouring kingdoms, with whom he was now allied. Thus, at that time, Aurelius had accepted the advice of his religious advisors to have Conan raised in the Roman faith, as he himself had been. It was arranged that Conan be taken to Ravenna to learn all that a great ruler should.

Twenty years later, Aurelius realised in retrospect that his son would have been better tutored by the Bards who taught the children of the royal families of Prydyn. Aurelius, raised in the Holy Roman faith, had only re-embraced the Old Ways of his people since meeting and joining forces with Maelgwn Gwynedd. Yet, in converting back to the way of the Goddess, Aurelius had not ostracised those of his kingdom who wished to maintain their Christian beliefs and allowed the Bishops and monasteries to continue to flourish in his kingdom - much as Catulus of Dumnonia had.

‘The lad shall be a cocky young upstart disposed toward the Roman faith and their way of doing things,’ King Brockwell of Powys grumbled, as soon as Aurelius had left the room.

‘Sounds rather like someone else I met once.’ King Catulus of Dumnonia turned his eyes Maelgwn’s way. ‘Hey, Dragon? Sounds like thee and Aurelius Conan could have a thing or two in common.’

‘We were all young and deluded once, Catulus,’ Maelgwn conceded with a smile.

‘Conan wast a good lad before he departed for Ravenna.’ Vortipor vouched for Aurelius’ word. ‘Perhaps our fears art in vain.’

‘Of course they art,’ Tory emphasised. ‘I feel sure that Aurelius Conan will want the best for his kingdom, as do we all.’

‘Aye, but will he recognise what be in the best interests of Gwent?’ Fergus MacErc, the Scot of Dalriada, folded his arms, clearly ill-at-ease.

‘I say we drag young Conan up to Llyn Cerrig Bach for an inauguration.’ Brockwell grinned, revealing the dimple on his chin. ‘Let the Goddess decide if he is worthy.’ He raised his brow, his blue eyes sparkling as he relished the thought.

Ten years a king, and Calin Brockwell was still as mischievous and audacious as ever.

‘Calin!’ Tory wasn’t surprised at him, but she made it sound as if she was. ‘Hopefully that will be the last step of the many it will take to right this situation.’

‘Ahh.’ Brockwell detected her doubtfulness and sought to exploit it. ‘So even thou dost concede that young Conan could be a threat to the alliance?’

Tory avoided Brockwell’s vexing question, suspecting that he had an ego-based motive for disliking the soon-to-be king. ‘Why doth thee persist in calling him young Conan, when the man be only a few years thy junior?’

The question shut Brockwell up, and gave the older members of the council something to chuckle about.

‘Thee should praise the Goddess, my friend.’ Catulus, the oldest of the rulers remaining in the room, slapped Brockwell’s back. ‘It will give the rest of us someone new to pick on.’ He ruffled Brockwell’s mass of dark unruly curls, until the warrior cast him off.

‘Laugh if thee will.’ Calin was well accustomed to not being taken seriously; he’d been the youngest member of the alliance for ten years. ‘But this kid will be trouble. I smell a battle brewing.’

The frowns on the faces of his fellow rulers told Tory that most of them agreed with Brockwell’s premonition. Only Vortipor chose to laugh off the comment.

‘Stop it, Calin, thou art scaring me,’ their burly host teased, cowering to play scared. ‘Well, I smell a celebration brewing!’ He stood, dispersing the doom and gloom from the room. ‘And if ye girls have quite finished imagining our fate, I would like to get festive.’

‘I second that motion.’ Maelgwn slammed his hands down on the table, bringing their meeting to a close.

Under the guise of an advisor to Aurelius, Conan moved through the banquet room, observing the rowdy pagans that his father had fallen in with.

He could hardly compare this raucous feast with the Roman banquets he was used to. The music and drunken laughter made any civilized conversation impossible. The orgy of sexual intercourse that would take place all over the countryside tonight seemed to be getting off to a fine start over dinner. And it wasn’t just the commoners who were submitting to their desires in public; the chieftains were openly flaunting their affections also.

Backward heathens, one and all, thought Conan, seating himself at one of the many long tables laden with food.

‘Some mead, sir?’

Conan turned to find a tall, slender maiden awaiting his word with a large jug of mead in hand. Her smile, so welcoming, took his breath away as he momentarily mistook her for a lady he had known in Ravenna. ‘Please,’ he said finally. The woman looked fragile, yet she had no problem handling the heavy jug and managed to fill his goblet without spilling a drop. ‘Thou dost serve thy mistress well.’ He acknowledged her servant’s skill.

Although Cara bowed to accept his intended compliment, she couldn’t help but giggle at his misconception. ‘I am the mistress of this house.’ Again she was amused by the bewildered look on the man’s face.

‘The hostess serving mead -’ Conan near choked with shock.

‘There be no better way to meet all my guests,’ she explained with glee. ‘I am the Lady Cara, and thou art . . .?’

‘An advisor to Aurelius Caninus.’ Conan stalled as he thought up a name for himself. ‘Sir Eldred.’ He borrowed a deceased uncle’s name.

‘I am pleased to meet thee, Sir Eldred.’ Cara gave a slight curtsy, although her social standing meant she was not bound to do so. ‘As an advisor to Aurelius, hast thou met his allies?’ Cara motioned to the main table where her honoured guests were seated.

Conan glanced at the main table in the grip of Beltaine revelry. ‘They appear to have their hands full at present.’ His attention returned to Cara.

Vortipor Conan remembered from childhood. The Protector of Dyfed had done well for himself. The Lady Cara was a vision of loveliness. Dark copper brown curls fell over the milky white skin of her shoulders and down her back in large orderly ringlets. Her eyes of hazel sparkled, full of life, and the luscious lips of her tiny mouth seemed, in Conan’s opinion, perfectly crafted for kissing.

‘Hast thou not got better things to do, woman?’ Vortipor grabbed up his wife from behind and hauled her away, squealing and giggling.

Conan stood, concerned by how the Lady was being manhandled. He watched as Vortipor relieved her of her pitcher and backing her up to the main table, proceeded to seduce her on it.

‘Take it outside, Vortipor,’ Tory whacked his shoulder to get his attention, and then referred him to her son. Rhun was eleven years of age and watching Vortipor’s seduction technique with great interest.

‘Little dragon, why art thou not in thy bed?’ Vortipor let his wife up from the table.

‘I have a headache,’ he announced, and as soon as his mother’s attention was diverted, Rhun grinned broadly.

‘Thou art a headache,’ Vortipor grumbled as he watched his wife return to their guests.

‘Rhun.’ Maelgwn called for his son’s attention and waved him in close. ‘See that man over there, sitting on his own?’ Rhun nodded in accord. ‘I do not recall ever seeing him before.’

‘Shall I find out his identity for thee, father?’ Rhun offered enthusiastically.

‘Do that.’ Maelgwn whacked his boy’s behind and sent him on his way.

‘Maelgwn!’ Tory caught onto their game. ‘What art thou asking him to do now?’

‘Nothing,’ Maelgwn lied, knowing his wife didn’t like him exploiting their son’s talents in such ways.

Tory watched Rhun like a hawk as he wandered up to the stranger across the room and struck up a conversation. Conan wasn’t very interested in talking to the lad, but that was no matter. Rhun was more interested in what the man was not saying and he only needed to be touching his victim to find out.

After Rhun had annoyed him with a few unimportant questions, the stranger up and left the room, so the young Prince of Gwynedd returned to his father to report.

‘He claims to be an advisor to Aurelius, one Sir Eldred,’ Rhun informed his father, but Vortipor and Brockwell took an interest in the boy’s truthsaying as well. ‘He lies,’ Rhun announced. ‘He is really the son of Aurelius, Conan, here to assess us.’

Brockwell smiled upon learning of Conan’s deception. ‘I would say we art doing a better job of assessing him.’ Brockwell ruffled Rhun’s hair, well proud of him. ‘Thou art an excellent spy.’

‘One more thing,’ Rhun addressed Vortipor. ‘He hast taken an interest in thy wife.’

‘What! How dare he . . .’ The information near sent the Protector into a drunken rage.

‘Vortipor!’ Maelgwn stood and grabbed hold of both Vortipor’s shoulders to get his full attention. ‘He has done naught but think thy wife attractive, which I am sure many men have done.’

Vortipor saw reason and settled.

‘Well, actually father, he thought -’

Maelgwn clamped a hand over Rhun’s mouth to silence the lad and prevent an incident.

‘See why I tell thee not to put him up to these things?’ Tory scolded her husband ever so slightly, and Maelgwn nodded to concede that he was in the wrong.

‘Let the boy speak,’ Vortipor insisted, until Tory stood to end the subject.

‘The boy,’ she stressed, glaring her son down, ‘be going to bed, before he starts a war.’ She motioned with her eyes for Rhun to take his leave, and he did so without further argument.

‘Well now.’ Brockwell slapped his hands together resolutely. ‘I think I will go find our dear Sir Eldred.’

‘I shall join thee.’ Vortipor moved to accompany his ally.

‘Oh no.’ Tory blocked the departure of the two stocky warriors. ‘I shall go.’

‘Aw, Tory, thou dost spoil all our fun,’ Calin whined.

‘I wast under the impression ye both had better things to do this evening?’ Vortipor and Calin couldn’t argue with that.

‘I wast under the impression that so did we?’ Maelgwn contested her ruling instead.

‘I shan’t be long,’ she advised them all, turning and fleeing before any could protest.

Tory found Conan cringing in disgust at the cavorting masses that were gathered around the Beltaine fires of the outer bailey.

People were dancing and chanting praises to Beli, the Lord of the harvest. Offerings were tossed to the flames in his honour as prime cattle were driven between the fires for purification and fertility.

‘Sir Eldred, I presume.’ Tory greeted him warmly, and was surprised when he backed up a few paces, wary of her.

This woman Conan had heard much about. If even half of what his father had told him of the Dragon’s queen was true, it was dangerous to be anywhere near her. For it was said that Tory Alexander was the instrument of a Goddess who channelled supernatural power through her. She was also the trainer of a handful of key warriors in Briton who had become known as the twelve Masters of the Goddess, or the Dragon’s circle. Their combined feats over the past ten years and their prowess in battle had become so legendary that even in Ravenna he’d heard the reports.

‘I did not mean to startle thee.’ Tory took a step toward Conan, and he again stepped away.

‘Thee did not.’ Conan informed, and bowed as an afterthought. ‘Majesty.’

As much as Tory didn’t like to judge a book by its cover, she didn’t like this man. He had the look of an elitist snob about him. His fair hair, skin and pale blue eyes would have made him rather attractive had he not been sporting such a sour expression. Tory suspected that his face might crack if he smiled.

‘Can I assist thee in some way?’ Conan inquired, maintaining his distance.

‘Perhaps.’ Tory considered how best to phrase her question. ‘The alliance was informed today that Aurelius Caninus will soon be handing over the rulership of Gwent to his son, Conan. And as an advisor to Aurelius, I thought that perhaps thee might be able to tell us something of our new ally’s character?’

A slight smirk crossed Conan’s face, believing as he did that the great messenger of a supposed Goddess was fooled. So much for otherworldly powers, he thought, looking back to the goings on around the fires. ‘Aurelius Conan will not look kindly upon thy pagan ways, Majesty, that much I can tell thee.’

‘Really?’ Tory folded her arms, immediately irked by the tone of his response. ‘And why might that be? Hast he no respect for the beliefs of others?’ Tory sensed the anger building within him, and suddenly regretted that she’d chosen to wear a dress this evening.

‘What could such an orgy have to do with the pursuit of spiritual perfection and oneness with the Almighty?’ As soon as the statement left his lips, Conan knew that he betrayed the Briton identity that he had assumed; he must divert the Queen’s attention before she questioned him about his religious preferences, for he remembered little of the native beliefs. ‘Look.’ He pointed to a young lad who was vanquishing a woman at least ten years his senior. ‘The corruption of young boys! Why, that lad couldn’t be more than fourteen years on this earth.’

Tory looked twice, realising she knew the lad in question. He was Calin Brockwell’s eldest son. ‘Please excuse me a moment, Sir Eldred.’ Tory headed down to reprimand the Prince. ‘Bryce!’

Bryce cringed as the sound of his Sensei’s voice registered in his brain. He let go of the willing maiden that he’d spent half the night wooing, and resigned himself to the fact that he’d blown it. He should have lured her into the darkness of the fields sooner. As he watched the Queen of Gwynedd stride down towards him, Bryce admired her beauty - what a shame that she wasn’t the woman accompanying him into the fields this night.

‘Doth thy parents know thou art out here?’ she quizzed him.

‘Father dost,’ Bryce was pleased to inform.

‘But not thy mother,’ Tory clarified.

‘Hardly,’ Bryce grumbled. ‘She still believes me a virgin.’

The lad’s statement shocked Tory a little and this must have reflected in her face.

‘Ha, ha,’ Bryce chuckled breaking into a huge smile, ‘I made thee think, Sensei, did I not?’ He winked at her.

Bryce’s gall never ceased to amaze Tory, for he made no secret of the fact that he adored her, and had even informed Maelgwn that he planned to marry her as soon as the Dragon departed this earth.

‘Let the lad be.’

Tory was surprised by the instruction as Taliesin suddenly manifested beside her.

‘All due respect, High Merlin, I shall not let the lad be.’ She took Bryce by the arm, whereby he twisted his hand down to take hold of hers.

‘It be his time.’ Taliesin gently pried their hands apart, receiving more resistance from Bryce than Tory.

The tone of the Merlin’s voice let Tory know that he knew something that she did not, and so Tory complied with his wish.

‘Off with thee, boy.’ The Merlin repressed a smile as the lad could obviously not believe his luck.

‘I shall not forget this, High Merlin,’ Bryce grinned, taking hold of the maiden’s hand and making off with her.

‘Aye, that be true enough,’ he chuckled, looking back to Tory.

‘Alright, Taliesin, out with it.’ Now that they were alone, Tory’s address became less formal.

Taliesin held up a finger, putting her off a moment, and he turned to observe Aurelius Conan who had been watching Tory intently. As Taliesin took a few steps in Conan’s direction, the soon-to-be chieftain backed up and made haste back into the crowds in the inner bailey. ‘He exhibits all the fear of a pawn of Rome.’

‘Well, what dost thou expect? Thee did not have to miraculously manifest beside me,’ Tory scolded, not happy that Taliesin had fed Conan’s fear. ‘Could thee not have walked, like any normal person?’

‘The more fear of the Goddess and her people that we instil in that one, the better,’ the Merlin stated, appearing to have a bad taste in his mouth.

‘Tell me what you know,’ Tory demanded, completely unaware that Maelgwn was creeping up behind her. She gasped as her eyes were suddenly covered by his hands.

‘I have come to claim my due bounty,’ he whispered.

‘Maelgwn, please, I was just -’

‘Saying goodbye.’ Maelgwn finished the sentence for her, turning her around and bundling her onto his shoulder.

Tory realised a struggle might dampen Maelgwn’s enthusiasm, and having no desire to do that, she looked back to the Merlin to announce, ‘I want to see thee first thing on the morrow.’

‘Maybe second thing.’ Maelgwn turned back to advise the Merlin.

‘We shall see what eventuates,’ Taliesin said to himself.

In an attempt to avoid witnessing any more of the Briton’s unnatural activities, Conan shied away from the main guest area and crept back into the castle via the kitchen entrance.

‘Sir Eldred?’ Cara spied him creeping through her food preparation area, and moved to inquire as to what was amiss with him. ‘Can I fetch thee something?’

His eyes closed at the sound of her voice, for it had a warmth and joyous tone that reminded him so much of another he had loved. ‘Nothing for me.’ Conan turned to behold the Lady Cara and in the brightly-lit kitchens she appeared even more like the lovely maiden, Olivia, whose affections he had pursued in Ravenna.

Olivia, the daughter of a wealthy Roman senior, had rejected Conan’s advances because of his breeding. But here she was again, transformed into a Briton.

The Lady smelt like a field of spring flowers, and just as all his being had craved Olivia, Conan found his unsatisfied senses of touch and taste wanting to experience this woman more intimately.

‘Art thou sure . . . a drink perhaps.’ Cara began pouring the mead from a barrel before Conan could decline.

‘Thy smile be the greatest feast in this fortress,’ Conan wooed her, to see what kind of reaction he’d get. ‘I retire to my bed a content and happy man.’ He bowed and made to leave.

‘What a lovely thing to say.’ Cara was flattered. After ten years of marriage such comments from her husband were rare. Vortipor went on the theory that actions spoke louder than words.

‘Surely thou hast heard every praise to beauty that ever there was, a thousand times over?’ Conan turned to face her and slowly backed up a few steps. Would she pursue him?

‘Not a thousand times.’ She forced a smile and looked back to her preparations.

As she didn’t really seem all that enthusiastic about going back to work, Conan suggested, ‘Hast thou seen the fires, Lady?’

Cara shook her head. ‘Too much to do.’

‘I think thou dost deserve a break.’ Conan offered her his arm to escort her down.

As charming as this young knight was, didn’t he realise that it would be highly inappropriate for her to attend the fires with anyone but Vortipor? ‘My husband shall come for me soon enough,’ she declined politely, moving back into the main kitchen where servants abounded.

He longed to ask Cara how such a flower as she had ended up married to a rogue ruler like Vortipor. She didn’t seem entirely happy in her role as the first lady of Dyfed and she certainly deserved better than to be ravaged so roughly in public.

Conan began to fancy that he could take the Lady Cara away from all this. He much preferred Ravenna anyway, and never had any intention of staying in this godforsaken part of the world. He would rule Gwent Is Coed; he just planned to do it from as far away as possible. A conquest or two before I go would be desirable, however . . . and to return to Ravenna victorious, with a beautiful heathen convert, would certainly impress.

‘The Dragon be watching thee.’

The caution started Conan and he turned to find the boy who’d been pestering him earlier.

‘Nothing escapes the Dragon’s eyes, Sir Eldred.’

The boy accentuated the name, as though he knew it was a falsehood. He had the look of the Dragon about him, dark hair, dark eyes, dark presence. It made Conan shudder to be near the child, and having seen all that he cared to, he made for his father’s chambers without further delay.