Chronicle of Ages

by Traci Harding

  ‘We have tried everything, Majesty. He won’t eat,’ the knight stated in his defence.

  Maelgwn gave Leoline the benefit of the doubt, as he had always served Maelgwn’s ally well. ‘Aurelius. Can thou speak with me?’

  ‘Dragon?’ The old man mumbled.

  ‘Aye, Aurelius, I am here.’ Maelgwn moved to kneel beside his old ally, so that he could view him without straining. Old wrinkled eyelids opened to reveal large bulging eyes, yet even this simple movement seemed to take a huge amount of effort on Aurelius’ behalf.

  ‘I knew thee would come, Dragon. I have failed the Great Goddess …’ he paused, short on breath. ‘The kingdom that I have ruled for sixty years I have allowed to fall into the hands of a marauder. Conan shall rape Gwent and abandon her … my family’s rule of this wondrous kingdom will end with me.’

  Maelgwn looked to Leoline to catch his reaction.

  Leoline shrugged, and whispered. ‘I fear his sensibilities art failing him, Majesty.’

  As Aurelius kept mumbling, Maelgwn looked back to him.

  ‘I have been too ashamed to tell anyone that he hast raided the city treasury …’

  ‘Be this true?’ Maelgwn queried the first knight.

  ‘I shall check at once.’ Leoline hurried off to do so.

  ‘Dost thou know what Conan plans to do?’ Maelgwn beseeched his dying friend.

  Aurelius gave a slight nod. ‘I am sorry, Dragon. The blessing be that he will not plague thee long.’ Then the old man attempted to reach out to Maelgwn, so the King took up his ally’s old, frail hand. ‘In his wake, promise me thou shalt claim Gwent and set her right.’

  ‘Thou hast my word,’ Maelgwn assured the old ruler calmly, although inside he grew increasingly alarmed. ‘Go to thy otherworldly abode at peace, Aurelius. Thou art a brave and righteous man. Thy vow to the Goddess be intact, for thee swore to honour her until thy dying day and that promise hast been kept.’

  A tear of relief trickled from Aurelius’ eye. ‘Bless thee, Dragon.’ Aurelius Caninus smiled and breathed his last.

  ‘Goddess go with thee.’ Maelgwn eased the ruler’s weary old eyelids closed.

  3

  Whisked Away

  Prince Bryce managed to persuade his father, King Brockwell, to let him accompany him on the Dragon’s errand to Dyfed. For the first time, the young Prince truly felt like a warrior, leading the great army from Powys across country to the aid of their ally.

  Their party maintained a good steady pace during the daylight hours, but as night fell they were forced to slow to a walking pace.

  With the gentle sway of the horse beneath him, and the night dulling all visual stimulation, Bryce began to doze on his mount.

  ‘Bryce?’ Brockwell noticed his boy collapsing forwards.

  ‘Aye, Father,’ Bryce snapped to attention.

  ‘Dost thou think we should rest?’ Brockwell questioned, seeking an honest reply. ‘Naturally, I would like to make Dyfed as soon as possible … but these troops will be of no use to Vortipor half dead.’

  Bryce took a moment to consider his response. ‘As I am the youngest warrior here, I think that as long as I can keep going, so should our troops manage.’

  ‘But thou art on horseback and many of the men art on foot?’ Brockwell furthered the debate.

  ‘Then I shall walk.’ Bryce pulled up his horse and climbed off.

  ‘Good idea.’ Brockwell followed his son’s example. ‘It shall help keep us awake.’

  With this, all of the nobles and knights of Powys who were on horseback climbed off their mounts. Bryce suggested that the foot soldiers could take turns to ride for a spell to help keep their force rested.

  That was the thing about the young Prince; he was great for morale. The soldiers adored and respected him, as Bryce had helped train much of their force in the Goddess’ way of battle. He had begun his training with the Queen of Gwynedd at the age of five, making him her longest standing student outside her circle of twelve Masters. Bryce was tipped to become the next to join but, unfortunately, a position had to become vacant before Bryce could achieve his ultimate goal.

  ‘So …’ Brockwell strolled alongside his son. ‘What shall we talk about?’

  ‘Women?’ suggested Bryce.

  Although Brockwell could not see the expression on Bryce’s face, he could hear a hesitancy in his voice. ‘One of my favourite subjects.’ Brockwell seconded the choice of topic. ‘Any particular facet?’

  ‘Actually, Father, I was wondering if thee might tell me what my mother wast like. Wast she beautiful?’

  Bryce had not been born of Brockwell’s queen, Katren, but of a young and willing whore from Aberffraw. Brockwell had never really broached the subject of Bryce’s real mother with him, as in truth he remembered little of the girl.

  I only ever saw her the once, in a blur of Beltaine revelry. It wast dark, I wast drunk. Brockwell rehearsed the true story in his mind, but that was not what his son needed to hear. ‘Aye, she wast a fair one, alright,’ he told him, ‘and innocent.’ Brockwell tried to sound ashamed about what he’d done. ‘If it wast not for the fact of thee, I would regret that I stole that innocence from her, for by so doing I sealed her fate.’

  The latter part of his tale was true enough, for the girl had died giving birth to Bryce. But she was not so innocent, as it had been she who had seduced him. That much Brockwell did remember. Still, the King had a special place in his heart for the nameless, faceless girl who had died in giving him the most precious gift of his firstborn son.

  ‘Why did thee not marry her?’ Bryce startled his father with the question.

  ‘Well, eh?’ Brockwell prayed he’d find some diplomatic response. ‘I wast young, like thee. Would thee like to marry before thou hast experienced all that women have to offer?’

  ‘I would marry Tory Alexander,’ Bryce replied surely, to his father’s great amusement.

  Brockwell had once had a crush on the Queen of Gwynedd before his good lady wife had stolen his heart. ‘I had the pleasure of partaking of our Sensei’s kiss once,’ Brockwell boasted, knowing the tale was sure to get them off the subject of Bryce’s mother.

  ‘Nay, I do not believe thee.’ Bryce jumped to the bait.

  ‘Understand, this wast before the Dragon claimed her for his queen …’ he began.

  The King’s slightly exaggerated account of his brief encounter with Tory Alexander completely disrupted Bryce’s original train of thought. ‘If I had touched her breast, I would never have washed my hand again,’ Bryce proposed in the wake of his father’s confession.

  ‘Then thee would have had precious little chance of touching her breast again,’ Brockwell chuckled, as he inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

  The force from Powys rested once the moon had begun its descent towards morning. At dawn they resumed their march and reached Castle Dwyran before noon that day.

  The foot soldiers dispersed to relax in the outer bailey grounds, whilst the nobles escorted their King and Prince to the inner bailey of Vortipor’s stronghold. Here, the Protector was waiting to greet them.

  ‘Hast a war erupted that I should know about?’ Vortipor made jest of his ally’s surprise visit.

  ‘Let us talk indoors.’ Brockwell dismounted, his expression conveying the gravity of his mission. ‘But why war with me?’ Vortipor posed, having been informed of Conan’s activities. ‘There be nothing I have that he could not obtain peacefully, via trade, just as his father hast always done.’

  The question puzzled Vortipor and Brockwell a second, whereby they both recalled Rhun’s truthsaying during Beltaine.

  ‘Except —’ Brockwell began.

  ‘My wife.’ The Protector of Dyfed went white with shock and then red with rage.

  ‘Control,’ Brockwell urged his fellow ruler. ‘Where shall we find thy wife at present?’

  ‘Ah.’ In his agitated state, Vortipor’s mind went blank. ‘Oh Goddess!’ he cried as her whereabouts dawned on him. ‘She hast taken Brid
git on a picnic beyond the outer bailey. As a Master of the Goddess, Cara will not tolerate a guard —’

  ‘Do you know where she would go?’ Brockwell’s forthright manner stifled Vortipor’s panic.

  As the Protector thought, his worry was momentarily overcome by sadness. For he realised it was so rare that he made the time to accompany his wife and daughter on a picnic, he had never learnt their favourite spots. At last, he could only shake his head in response to Brockwell’s query.

  Bryce sat quietly in an out-of-the-way corner, so that he might not be sent from the room before learning all about the Dragon’s cause. Now that all had been said, however, the Prince felt it safe to make himself known. ‘Excuse I —’

  The lad gave Vortipor and his father quite a start. Brockwell was immediately annoyed at himself for having forgotten to dismiss his son. ‘Thou art well aware that thee should not be in here.’

  ‘But —’ Bryce tried to speak up.

  He knew where the Lady Cara might have taken Bridgit, as he had accompanied the children and the ladies of his kindred on a picnic the day before Beltaine.

  The door to Vortipor’s Room of Court swung open and Sir Queron, Vortipor’s right-hand man, entered. ‘My Lord Protector,’ he bowed. ‘A war band hast been spotted near Dynevor.’

  ‘Dynevor be a stone’s throw away from Craig-y-Ddinas,’ Vortipor commented, concerned and a little confused — perhaps Conan was just out for territory and wasn’t after his wife after all?

  As their situation was fast becoming a state of alert, Brockwell ushered his boy out of the room.

  ‘Father, please listen. I —’

  ‘Do not push me.’ Brockwell’s tone and mood were not to be reckoned with.

  Next thing, Bryce found himself shut out of the meeting. ‘Oh well,’ he shrugged. He would just go fetch the Lady Cara back himself, and save his superiors the trouble.

  The Dragon’s cause was a good excuse to ride his horse at breakneck speed. Bryce followed the road through the common as far as the open fields, where he took off across country towards the bank of the Du River. A little light forest lined the waters edge and provided many a lovely spot for feasting and relaxing. The track through the trees here was wide and well-worn; still, Bryce slowed his pace to search for the ladies, Cara and Bridgit.

  As Cara had chosen the far side of a large oak tree between the track and the water’s edge to lay her picnic, the ladies spied the Prince as he passed them by.

  ‘Prince Bryce!’ Bridgit yelled after him, to alert him to their whereabouts.

  Bryce turned round on his mount, to find the girl leaning over one of an oak tree’s large exposed roots.

  ‘Come join us,’ Bridgit beckoned. At eight years of age, she was most excited by the Prince’s surprise visit.

  ‘The Lady Cara be required back at court at once,’ he advised, dismounting.

  ‘Oh!’ Cara groaned, sitting up to view the young Prince over the oak root. ‘What brings thee back to Dyfed? Be it really so pressing that I must come at once? I just got comfortable.’

  Bryce held out his reins to her. ‘Thee should ride. I shall assist the Lady Bridgit to pack up here and then escort her back on foot.’

  Cara raised herself and wandered over to Bryce. ‘I am not sure that I would trust thee with my daughter after thy escapade the night of Beltaine.’

  Bryce smiled broadly, a little embarrassed yet pleased that word of his conquest was getting around. ‘If thou dost not trust me, Lady Cara, then perhaps the Lady Bridgit should accompany thee back on my horse?’

  ‘Mother!’ Bridgit fretted, having much preferred Bryce’s plan.

  ‘I have a feeling she would rather accompany thee,’ Cara whispered as she took the horse’s reins from the handsome young lad.

  ‘I shall do my best to control myself.’ Bryce winked at Cara, as she got comfortable on her mount. ‘Make the greatest haste to thy husband, Lady. Do not stop for any reason.’ Bryce kept his tone light and easy for Bridgit’s benefit.

  ‘I understand,’ Cara frowned, wondering what grievous news awaited her at home. She dug her heels into the horse and took off to find out.

  Bryce got the picnic packed up quickly and set off back down the track with Bridgit in tow. Whilst the girl babbled on about a dress that was being made for her, Bryce smiled politely not really listening. He was happily following the fresh hoof marks his horse had left in the dirt track as it carried the Lady Cara back to the safety of the stronghold. Then, like a nightmare, from each side of the forest track sprang other sets of fresh hoof marks.

  ‘Nay!’ Bryce cried, dropping everything to sprint into the open field up ahead.

  ‘Bryce?’ Bridgit ran after him and caught him up where he’d stopped in the field. ‘What hast happened?’ Her eyes caught sight of Bryce’s horse grazing nearby and she was immediately thrown into a state of panic. ‘What hast happened to Mother?’

  The way Bryce saw it, he didn’t have any time to waste. ‘Bridgit.’ He grabbed the girl by both her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. ‘I need thee to be brave for me.’

  Bridgit got her horror under control and then nodded to receive her instruction.

  ‘Tell thy father and mine that I am tracking the Lady Cara while the trail be fresh and the daylight good.’

  Bridgit burst into tears, but nodded and moved off.

  ‘Tears will not save thy mother. Run girl!’ Bryce urged her, as he climbed upon his horse. ‘And don’t stop running until thou hast reached thy father.’

  As Bridgit complied, Bryce spurred his horse on in the one direction the Lady Cara’s captors could have fled — downriver.

  As consciousness returned, the first thing Tory became aware of was the sound of swarming insects. Still dozing, she swatted the air around her to discourage any bug that might have an interest in her and was surprised to hear a gaggle of muttered protests.

  Upon opening her eyes, Tory was startled by the multitudes of tiny, brightly coloured lights that thronged around her body — they literally covered every inch of her from the neck down and filled all the air space within a two foot radius of her.

  ‘Shoo!’ she sat upright, brushing the glowing menace from herself. The lights shrank to a safe distance, revealing their work in progress — a gown entirely composed of flowers that had been intricately woven into a creation that hugged Tory’s body like a second skin. Even though Tory was not a very feminine kind of girl, she couldn’t help but admire the magnificent work of art she wore. ‘Dear Goddess …’ She climbed down off the flat mossy mound on which she sat and took a few steps, whereby she discovered a train of flowers flowing behind her. Strangely enough the dress felt as soft as the purest cotton to wear and just as light to carry. ‘This is amazing.’ She gasped in awe, running her fingers gently over the flowers on her belly and the aroma they gave off was heavenly.

  ‘Aw!’ All the tiny lights gave a cry of delight ahead of hurrying back to work.

  Suddenly the dress felt alive, Tory could feel the little beings darting around in the fabric. ‘Stop it!’ She brushed them away, with little success this time. She tried to rip the dress off, whereby every fibre of it tightened around her body; as soon as she let go, the garment loosened once more. ‘Goddamn it! What is going on?’ For the first time, Tory stopped to take a good look around.

  She was in a woodland, akin to only one place she’d seen before. Taliesin had an otherworldly garden that Maelgwn had taken her to once, and it had appeared like this wood did — so picture perfect and lush, it seemed as if it had manifested straight out of a fairytale. Everything around her radiated with such colour it seemed as if they were fed by an ultra-bright light that made them glow accordingly. Tory looked to the sky to find the sun’s golden hue was glowing ultra-blue. ‘Where the hell am I?’

  One of the fairy lights floated up to Tory’s eye level and then began spewing forth a sparkling dust into her face.

  The substance blinded Tory a moment, but as her tears cleared, Tory
could see the winged being inside the tiny light.

  ‘Nearly done,’ it said. ‘Please bear with us.’

  She couldn’t quite make out if the little being was a he or she, even though it was naked. ‘What is this in aid of?’

  ‘The Lord’s orders,’ it said.

  ‘The Lord?’ Tory queried further.

  That would be me.

  Every little spectre suddenly sprang from Tory’s dress and floated clear of her to assume a form the size of your average ten-year-old child, although their ages appeared to vary. All the winged beings fluttered, poised in midair, and Tory turned to observe the man they all revered.

  Oh my! thought Tory, for their Lord was rather large. He stood about eight feet tall, and although he had the physique of a warrior, he controlled the movements of his muscle-bound body with all the grace of a dancer.

  You are more than you seem, Tory, Queen of Gwynedd, he bethought as he circled her, admiring the handiwork of his folk. You are not of the time period I obtained you from, nor are you of the breed you reside with.

  ‘I could say the same of you,’ Tory replied, for if he spoke modern English then he’d obviously been hopping around time as Taliesin did. It was also plainly obvious that he was not of the same species as those folk he governed. He was one of the Goddess Keridwen’s ilk; his large almond-shaped eyes of deep sea green and his pixie-like features were a dead giveaway.

  You, like Taliesin, are a halfling demi-god … a human-otherworld cross. The Lord observed her as if she were some exotic new breed of bug. I must say, I did not expect my compensation to be this perfect.

  As Tory was still preoccupied with the first half of his statement, it took a moment for the second part to sink in. ‘Compensation! Compensation for what … Conan’s fort building?’

  The Lord shook his head and made a slicing motion with his hand towards a nearby tree.