It was indeed a long ride from Rowena’s fortress to the Western Sea.
As we approached the Coast I could not believe my eyes. There, moored and anchored, was a beautiful golden Boat. It was a very small replica of the great Ship that Rowena’s Father, Hengist the Saxon, had originally rowed to Briton in, complete with a Horse’s head carving jutting out from its prow and banners of many colours waving in the Wind. Flying highest of them all, as its first standard, was the Pen Dragon banner, in honour of Arthur. Just below it, the banner of her own blood, the two standing Horses of Hengist and Horsa, flew proudly. After these were the banners of Gwynedd and the Snowy Mountains. But the most spectacular thing about this tiny Ship was that it was almost completely covered with thinly hammered gold. Gold! The mast, the railings, the Horse’s head prow, the Helmsman’s rudder, everything!
There was one thing added to this small boat that had not been on Hengist’s Ship – Rowena had added a sail. Mind that by this Time, many Saxon Ships have sails, but in Hengist’s youth, most had not. In the middle of this boat with no oars was a raised pallet, the pedestal of which was covered in gold as well, but the top of which was covered in Wolfs’ pelts, which appeared to be over a great bed of straw.
We stopped at the quay, near the entry plank. She smiled brightly at me and had one of her guards pull a beautiful short sword and a battle ax from the trappings of one of her splendid Horses. An exquisite wool mantel was placed around her shoulders. “A gift from Morgan” – she said.
She was helped from the wagon and over to her two Horses where she kissed and stroked the sides of their faces tenderly.
“Walk with me, Gwyddion, to examine my beautiful boat. Will you?”
“Of course, Lady.”
I looked around at her entourage of softly weeping women, three Archers, and four guardsmen. Princess Rowena carried a small box in her hand. She said, “What is held in here is to quicken my voyage and to state in writing my final wishes – which I will entrust to you, my dear friend.”
We boarded along with the Guardsman who held her sword and battle ax. A foreboding – no, a horror – filled me. It showed on my face.
“Oh, no, my dear old friend – this is a joyful voyage I take. Please do not be sad.”
I understood…
“My dear Gwyddion, will you give me your blessing and pray to your Gods for my Spirit’s joy?”
I choked out, “Of course I will.”
She laid herself upon the Wolfs pelts and had the Guard lay her battle ax at her side.
She opened the box and withdrew a page of vellum bound with ribbon and gave it to me.
“This you must keep to ensure that the other copies, which are in the proper hands, are rightfully administered.”
Then, from within this same box, she withdrew a vial of poison. The vial she held in her left hand whilst her loyal Guardsman opened it. Then he laid her sword across her belly at an upward slant and laced the fingers of her right hand in a clasp around its hilt. He withdrew his own sword and carefully clanged it against Rowena’s.
So she was to die a Warrior’s Death, with sword in hand, to be taken to her Gods by the Valkyries.
Ravens were circling above her. She smiled at that.
“I assure you, Gwyddion, this is a sleeping potion which brings Death quickly and painlessly. Goodbye, my dear friend.”
She drank the contents of the vial. No pain. No struggle. She just closed her beautiful eyes and went to sleep.
“Quickly” said her Guardsman with a heavy voice and ushered me off her boat.
He raised the message flag. We jumped off. The anchor was cut away, the moorings released and the Wind and current pulled her out to Sea. Shortly thereafter, the Archers – with pitch-dipped arrows – lit them and let fly to her boat. Silver birds with golden Fire. The Flames caught. The boat was soon engulfed and Princess Rowena sailed to her Ancestors in full Saxon honours and dignity.
Then a Scald played his harpy and sang a heroic saga – a dirge of his people. A clear and beautiful voice had he – such a contrast to the coarse spoken Saxon language.
I whispered “Thank you Rowena, for enriching my life. Perhaps we will meet again someday.”
I opened the vellum page that she had given to me as per her instructions. The page told that she was leaving a large share of her vast wealth to her three grandsons with some stipulations: that the first female child of their blood to live safely to adulthood be named Rowena – that she be legally considered her own great-grandchild – and that while growing up this Rowena would never lack for anything. Then, when her adopted great grand-daughter, Rowena, reached the age of sixteen years, she would receive one quarter of Princess Rowena’s wealth and be the sole heir of her fortress and that she be declared “A woman in her own right,” meaning that she could marry, or not, as she chose. Regardless, the fortress and her fortune would remain her own – still leaving half of Princess Rowena’s wealth – with the exception of her fortress – to be divided amoungst the three grandsons. Furthermore, if these qualifications were not met – if there be no female heir or if the girl should ever die of unnatural causes, all of her fortune then left to her grandsons would be forfeited and bequeathed in equal portions to her dear friend Tudno, who had built a place of worship near his hut and Well at Cyngreawdr Fynydd “there beside the Druid’s swinging Stone of Judgment,” to the Order on the Isle of Apples – for charitable works, and to the local Bishopric – also for charitable works. The fortress itself and the lands immediately surrounding it would then be given to the Clan Chieftain of the area, that he and his descendants might maintain and protect it.
The young Rowena’s wealth was to be held in assurance by Tudno until she reached her majority. He would disburse all necessary funds to the grandsons, as needed to keep the fortress, village and grounds in good repair – again, until the younger Rowena’s majority. In return for his help, she gave to Tudno two hundred acres of prime Sheep lands.
She trusted this man well, of course, yet Princess Rowena – being who she was – had the fail-proof plan that Tudno – or his successor – must give an accounting of her fortune to the Bishop nearest the fortress.
I left with the strange sensation that the world had somehow lost some of its brightness.
Chapter 32
A Dream Realised
Gwyddion
Back to my Cave...
Chronos, the second – as I had named him in honour of my old companion – seemed to be perfectly comfortable in my Cave. He went straight away to old Chronos’ perch. Funny, that.
Now I had Time... Time to think about my life... Time to read my books again and to write my histories for Morgan, my lovely girl. Time to rest and to sleep as long as I wished of a morning on my warm pallet. Although, by then, I was of an age that my bones were beginning to get a bit stiff on occasion and so it seemed that I must rise with the Cock anyway. Yes... Time steals away youth and beauty. It moves us inexorably toward Death. It is the golden Times we must recognize and live to the full, for all of our golden situations stay so briefly. Things change. We can no better hold fast those golden Times than a handful of Water, so fleeting do they seem when looked back upon. Yet, although we know this, we do not always recognize those Times whilst in the midst of them. We let them pass us by... slip through our fingers. Years go by that should have been wondrous, pleasurable, treasured, but were spent in mediocrity – worried over or involved with things that, in the end, were unimportant. These are the thieves of life – the not savoring of life fully but only in flashes of memories gone by.
This I will write in my letters to Morgan, for it is a Wisdom that would do her well to follow. I wondered how she was. Fine, I was sure, for I would have felt something or somehow known if anything was amiss.
I lay awake that Night thinking of Bronte with these words playing over and over again in my thoughts – and when I slept, in my Dreams:
How it makes me cry
When I think of all the Golde
n Chances
That have passed me by...
Longing so to Love you
But too proud, too shy...
Longing so to tell you, that I feared to die...
Golden Chances slipped right through my fingers...
Why?
Bronte – your name means “Bestower” – is this another Wisdom you have bestowed upon me?
I awoke the next morning feeling better. I made a promise to myself to seize what moments of Love and joy come to me – if ever they come again…
One more Moon’s Dance in blissful peace passed. Then one Night, I had exactly the same Dream as I had had so many years ago when I was to escort Gwenyfar to Dumnonia. Brennos was calling to me. Why had I not gone straight away to him before settling into my home? He was dying and calling to me!
I awoke and rode swiftly to his Cave. But when I got there – not the first, but – the second Dream unfolded exactly as I had Dreamt it so long ago.
My Horse came sliding upon the rocks up to the entrance of Brennos’ Cave. There was the woman, placing Stones upon his grave. She was standing with her back to me. My heart was full of more oppositional feelings than I had ever experienced in my life. Brennos! I was too late! My worthy and learned mentor, Druid of the highest degree and the only Father I had ever known, was dead. But what had he said?
“Walker, come, find me in the Otherworlds. I will be waiting for you.”
“I do trust that you will always be with me, but – oh, Brennos...”
Tears flooded my eyes. But then, she spoke... “Are you Gwyddion, The Merlin?”
She turned to face me. There she was, the woman in my Dreams – she who was to be the Love of my life. There was no denying what I felt. She saw right through me, her green eyes overpowering my thoughts and feelings.
“Come,” said she, “I have made a cauldron of stew for you and we have mead, or I can make hot honey-Water if you prefer.”
My head, my whole Spirit was spinning. I looked at Brennos’ grave... His two oldest Ravens were perched atop it.
“They will not leave him to hunt,” said she. “They will soon die. But this one, Chance, has chosen life. She will stay with me.”
The still, smaller Raven was upon her shoulder. She had a leather contrivance covering her shoulders for Chance to safely perch upon.
“Come inside the Cave, Merlin. It is for the living. Brennos lives on within it; you will feel him there. Be comforted: he was not afraid or sorry to die. He left a letter for you.”
My Dream unfolding... I went in with her.
“Who are you? In my Dreams you told me, but I could not hold your name in memory.”
She said; “Why Merlin, I am Nimue, Enchantress of the Order of the Isle of Apples, Daughter of the Lady Vivianne, Walker through the Worlds, and as you already know, Dragon Caller. I am the one to bring you solace and passionate Love for the rest of your life.”
I marveled at her words. We had just met moments ago, yet she could speak so openly and frankly of passionate Love – to me who had never allowed myself to experience this kind of Love at all! She arose from her chair across the table and came toward me.
“Yes, Gwyddion, The Merlin, we have only met in the land of Dreams, now we meet in the flesh; but I have Loved you in my Dreams, and I think, in many lives past. I am the gift of great value that Brennos has left for you; me and his Dragon.”
“That is right!” I exclaimed, “The Dragon!”
Nimue touched me. Stars burst in my head and their fragments fell to Earth all around me. I felt a heat rising in my loins, and a weakness – a dependency – and a longing for another, which I had never known. But I was not losing myself; I was gaining her. I thought, “Am I now entwined in a Thorn Tree whose thorns awaken my senses with every prickling? Are these the pangs of Love – the sensual pains of Love?” If now I was lost to the Creature I had been, so be it! I will never look back.”
In that moment, when she touched me first, I lived forever… forever in the eternal present.
“Love... Was it the Gods’ Spell?” She had read my thoughts, and laughing – not a demeaning laugh but a laugh of tenderness and of knowing – she said, “Gwyddion, The Merlin, highest in renown of all the Druids – I have a riddle for you.”
She held a basket of loaves and cheese before me and asked, “What is stronger Magic than Mistletoe?”
I was awash with images of the Ritual of the cutting of the Mistletoe with the golden sickle, with the pomp and ceremony of it. Mistletoe is, to us, the most Magical of all Creatures of the Earth, a thing of naught... neither Herb nor Tree nor Grass nor Root, neither in the Earth nor in the Sky, hanging in a Tree, but not a part of it. I had been taught that the strongest of all Magics were bound up in the Mistletoe.
“What is stronger Magic than Mistletoe?” I repeated like a child. “I do not know.”
Nimue leaned in toward me allowing me to see the full roundness of her breasts, her lips held so close to my ear as if to brush it with their softness.
The answer, she whispered in a husky voice: “Desire.”
Her lips moved to mine and she kissed me with a lingering and moist kiss. Nature compelled me and I arose. She dropped the basket when I pulled her full body close to mine – lips, chest, stomach, loins – even her legs she wrapped around me as she gently writhed like a Serpent against me. My breath was coming in deep gasps. My cock was so hard against her softness. A fleeting thought – was I hurting her? But then she pressed herself harder against me and rocked herself back and forth, side to side. Our kiss had never broken but the kiss became more internal. Our mouths open now and suckling upon each other, my tongue gently exploring her tongue, the insides of her cheeks, and she did the same, but with more fervor. She took my hand and placed it beneath her shift to cup her breast. Her nipple was hard; I had never known... Our kiss apart, she was leading me to the pallet. When, as it seemed, we were torn apart so abruptly, I felt bereft of the intimacy of our embrace and the kissing we had just shared. But even her hand in mine sent waves of feelings and power to my loins. Desire...
At the pallet’s edge, she kissed me again, but briefly. Then, she stripped off her shift and stood naked before me. Oh, Gods, she was so beautiful. She took my hand and rubbed it between her thighs. She was wet and pulsing somehow. Quickly she and I removed my tunic and boots. She appraised the way I looked – up and down. For the first Time, I felt embarrassed – like a trapped Animal. But then she smiled and said, “Remember, you have Loved me in your Dreams.”
“But,” said I, “I have never…”
“Shhh... I will lead you as I must, but your nature as a Man will show you the ways.”
Fully naked now, no more words passed between us as we embraced again, she pulled me to the pallet and laying me on my back, she climbed upon me. She leaned forward so that we were, once again, belly to belly, chest to breast, lips sucking. She moved her head to lick my ear. Oh, my Goddess! She reached down between us and positioned my manhood right at the Gates of Paradise. She thrust her hips forward gently – her hands gripping the front of my shoulders. Then, she began to rock. I entered her completely. We were as one body, one being. “This,” thought I, “was the moment of pure, inescapable, breathtaking Love.” But only for that one, brief moment of Time did I think at all. That moment is seared into my heart forever. Then, the dam broke. Thrashing about like Wildcats, we clawed and moaned for each other. Harder and faster my body jerked into hers as if there were more – what could be more? I swear that I heard the Humming of the Dark Tribes surrounding her. She hissed, “Slowly, my Love. It will last longer.”
“Longer than eternity? For that is what this Magic holds.”
I opened my eyes to see her thus – her face contorted yet smiling, the very image of lustfulness; her beautiful, long, black hair, wet and thrashing about us. I closed my eyes again, “Oh, blackness, blackness, take me. Let me be a being of only feeling.”
But then, as I was about to reach the summit, she cried o
ut and her body jerked convulsively, four, five, six Times and a rush of moisture covered me. This, then, pushed me over the unknown precipice. I believe that my heart stopped once and then pounded like the drums of the Ancient Ones. My head felt as if it would burst from my neck, and the rapture of my very being sent me into a rush of convulsions, as well. The force of it amazed me. Had it hurt her? It seemed not. That was an odd thought. I think too much.
If my semen had had no way to rush from my body, I would have shattered like the Stones of a fortress under siege from Catapults. I chuckled. Then I looked at my Love, my heart, my Nimue, and I wept...
She did not speak. She knew. I had waited for this all of my life. So be it then. If I am changed, if The Merlin’s Magic is lesser, then I am so much more.
She lay beside me and cradled my head against her breast, caressing my hair and kissing my brow.
“I Love you,” I said. “Take care of my heart, Nimue, for you are the one who holds it in your grasp. Yours is the face of the Goddess to me. You are the source, you are the image of my worship, and your body is my Altar.”
Later, in the middle of that Night, I wrote these words:
Lost... without a trace…
There is no Time there is no place
Yet there is nowhere I would rather be
Let your sweet Love wash itself all over me
I am lost...
Lost... beyond concern…
Far past the point of no return
Still I hunger – still I burn
If I am caught within your web then let it be
I am lost...
On a dark and Windswept Sea I drift and I am tossed
Oh, Starless Sky above you are the only light I see
But I am yours no matter what the cost
Although I fear the fatal cost is all of me
I am Lost...
Voices of the Stars Page 49
