Chronicle of Ages

by Traci Harding

  ‘Then how dost thou know he still lives?’ Bryce gripped his head; the sad plight of this soul just got worse and worse.

  ‘He mumbles to himself sometimes.’ The warden scratched his head, a bit dazed by the sudden concern for his charge. ‘And he farts once in awhile,’ he concluded, then finding his wits, he humbled himself. ‘No offence to ye, Majesties.’

  ‘Oh Goddess.’ Bryce took a deep breath to fetch up some courage. The last time they’d met, he’d killed Conan. It seemed ironic that now he was here to liberate him. ‘I want thee to wait here for me,’ he advised the boy.

  ‘Thou art not of the mind to go down there, Majesty!’ The warden was mortified. ‘Please,’ he grovelled on the ground at Bryce’s feet, ‘let me go!’

  ‘I know this man,’ Bryce explained. ‘Please, just stay with the lad.’

  Not surprisingly the warden was happy with Bryce’s instruction. ‘I cannot say how right he be in the head, Majesty,’ the warden yelled after Bryce, who didn’t respond.

  Water trickled down the walls of the old stone passageway. Bryce trod warily, as the ground beneath his boots was slippery. The tunnel was lit by a single torch, which he dislodged from its support in the wall to see his way by. The large cavernous chamber at the end contained only a heavy metal grate in the floor, the lever that raised it, and a few resident rats. To wind the old, iron-chain lever, Bryce placed the torch aside. The archaic mechanism took a bit of muscle to get moving, but after winding it one full rotation, it eased up and moved with less effort. With the heavy grille raised high, Bryce secured the lever, and taking up the torch, he moved toward the opening in the floor.

  The stench that flowed from the darkened pit was too overwhelming to breathe through one’s nose — even inhaling through his mouth made Bryce gag. ‘Aurelius Conan?’ he called down into the void, gasping quietly for the want of fresh air. There came no response but Bryce did hear something moving about below. He didn’t want to shine the torch down there for fear of blinding the prisoner, who had obviously not seen light for twenty years. ‘If thou art unable to speak with me, please make some sound to confirm thou art alive?’

  ‘Vortipor?’ a quiet husky voice strained to call.

  ‘The Protector hast died. It be Prince Bryce of Powys who addresses thee, Conan. Dost thou remember me?’

  ‘Kill me,’ the prisoner wheezed.

  ‘Aye, I did,’ Bryce confirmed, misinterpreting Conan’s response. ‘I believed Vortipor had killed thee also and yet here thou still art.’ Bryce thought this was a sure sign from the Goddess that this man, for whatever reason, was meant to live. ‘Art thou repentant for thy crimes against thine homeland and her people, Aurelius Conan?’

  The sound of weeping came from the pit below. ‘I am,’ he announced finally, in an agonised cry. ‘Please take pity. Kill me.’

  ‘I am not here to kill thee.’ Bryce crouched lower, although his sense of smell begged him not too. ‘I am offering thee thy freedom, Conan.’

  ‘Nay!’ he screeched, horrified by the notion. ‘Kill me, please! Please, please, mercy sake’s please!’ His pleas trailed off as he again collapsed into exhausted tears.

  ‘Alright.’ Bryce agreed, as the prisoner was going into hysterics. ‘I am coming down there. Art thou well clear of the hole?’

  ‘Aye,’ he confirmed between straining for breath.

  ‘Warden!’ Bryce called. ‘Some rope.’

  As Bryce lowered himself into the pit, the foul stench increased tenfold and as his boots made contact with the floor they slid and sank into the filth that covered it. Bryce had instructed the warden to shine the torch over the pit but not in it. Beyond the slim beam of light in which he stood, nothing could be seen in the darkness of the surrounding dungeon. The rodent population was bigger down here, however. The rats’ incessant chatter was almost deafening. ‘Where shall I find thee?’ Bryce questioned and heard the sound of something heavy being dragged through the sludge behind him. When he turned to find a slimy, slug-like thing dragging itself towards him, Bryce moved to be of aid.

  ‘Stay clear of me,’ Conan insisted.

  In the outer shadow of the torchlight the prisoner raised his head. Only the whites of his eyes could be seen for the muck and hair that covered his body. It was difficult to assess his physical condition, beyond that he’d lost the use of his legs.

  ‘End this.’ He shaded his eyes against the glare of the light. ‘And leave me here to feed the rats,’ he strained to request.

  Bryce drew his sword, although only to give the prisoner false comfort. ‘I cannot in good conscience take thy life without first informing thee that thou hast a son … living, breathing and ruling in Gwent.’

  Conan’s eyes opened as wide as they were able, before he bowed his head for shame. ‘Vortipor’s queen,’ he uttered, sounding devastated by the revelation.

  ‘Aye,’ Bryce replied, ‘she fell pregnant to thee and died in birthing. But the fruit of her labour hast healed thy Kingdom of all its old wounds, Conan. Thy boy’s name be Urien.’

  ‘Urien,’ he mumbled, curling up into a ball as he was reduced to tears once more.

  Bryce gave Conan some time to accept this change of circumstance and become somewhat calm, but eventually the stench compelled him to ask the pertinent question. ‘Doth thee still wish to die this day?’

  ‘I do,’ Conan conceded without a second’s thought. ‘But clearly, God hast made other arrangements.’

  To move the prisoner to the main part of the fortress proved a major exercise, as his cell had not been designed for release. A blindfold protected Conan’s eyes from the light, and several guards aided Bryce to strap him on a stretcher and raise him out of the pit. A large area in the servants’ quarters was set up as a bathing and swabbing room for the patient. As Conan was in such a horrifying physical state, only the most senior staff were recruited to tend him in a minimal amount of light — for both the comfort of the patient and his carers.

  Vortimor had taken a decided interest in the proceedings and was waiting patiently outside the tending area to meet the prisoner once he was considered presentable. The patient’s clean-up was obviously causing Conan pain, even though the staff had been instructed to be as gentle with the fragile man as possible. Cries of agony had been resounding out of the area all afternoon, but the clean-up campaign must have nearly concluded, as all had gone quiet.

  ‘He sure did smell bad,’ commented the boy as he wandered across to the kitchen area where Bryce was nibbling on some food that had been laid out ready for supper.

  ‘Well, thee would smell bad too … stuck down a hole for twenty years.’ Bryce passed the boy a piece of pheasant and noted that he’d got Vortimor thinking.

  The boy shook his head to reject the food. ‘Why did father do it?’ Clearly Vortimor felt for Conan and was glimpsing a side of his late father that he had never before imagined.

  Bryce lifted the boy to a seat on the bench, where he could address him face to face. ‘This man committed some very grievous crimes against Dyfed, Gwent, and more importantly, the Goddess. Thy father arranged this punishment for Conan, so that he might see the error of his ways, given time. Conan assured me he hast repented and I believe him.’ Bryce looked questioningly at Vortimor to see if he agreed with his judgement.

  Vortimor raised his eyebrows and gave a shrug. ‘Well, he surely won’t pose much of a threat, even if he hast not.’

  Bryce smiled, finding the boy’s reasoning quite sound and he was surprised to find he felt rather proud of him. Bryce had always wanted a son, but due to complications with Chloe, Aella had yet to conceive again. So, without any pain to his good wife, the Goddess had graced them with this fine lad, whom any man would be proud to call son.

  ‘He will be deformed,’ said Vortimor surely, saddened by the fact now.

  Bryce nodded. ‘But with time and care, who knows? He may yet mend.’ He ruffled the lad’s hair to raise his spirits. ‘We shall wait and see how bad the damage, and then do all wit
hin our power to help him heal.’

  Vortimor nodded, the smile returning to his face. ‘We shall see to it personally.’ He took the piece of meat from Bryce and ripped into it.

  ‘We will,’ Bryce assured him, as the head maidservant, Elsie, finally emerged from the screened-off area with her assistants.

  She alone approached the nobles to give them the diagnosis, bowing to both the Prince and the heir apparent.

  It was clear that Elsie barely knew where to begin to list the man’s ailments. The patient was weak and thin from malnutrition, and, unable to hold himself upright, had lost the use of his legs. His body was covered by scores of festering sores that were slowly eating away at his skin and bone. The staff had dressed the worst of these wounds to prevent them from smelling. The patches of Conan’s skin that were not open wounds, were covered with bites. The staff had managed to remove most of the parasites from his body when they cut all the hair from Conan’s head and face. Hopefully, having exhausted three tubs of water bathing the man, the rest of his infestations had drowned and been washed away.

  ‘May we see him now?’ Vortimor looked to Bryce for permission, and Bryce looked to Elsie.

  ‘He hast been dressed in a large hooded cloak.’ She put to rest the fear that his appearance might disturb the noble child. ‘And hast been given soup, bread and mead. I have done all I can for today.’

  ‘Most well done, Elsie, we greatly appreciate thy pains,’ Bryce excused her.

  ‘All in a day’s work, Highness.’ She bowed to them both and departed for the kitchen to catch up on other chores.

  Behind the curtain, the area was now mopped clean, and Conan sat at a small table, savouring mead from a cup. Most of him was hidden by the hooded robe. Only his hands protruded and even they were a mass of bandages, for he had several fingers missing.

  ‘If thou art feeling up to it, we have come to see thee to some sleeping quarters, where thee might rest properly,’ Bryce said.

  The hooded figure waved a finger at the lad. ‘This cannot be …?’

  ‘Nay.’ Bryce quickly corrected Conan’s misconception. ‘This be the young heir of Dyfed, Vortimor. The lad thou art mistaking him for be a man, twenty years upon this earth.’

  ‘Twenty years,’ Conan repeated, sounding both amazed and bewildered. ‘Time plays tricks in the dark … every moment lasts an eternity and in a heartbeat twenty years vanish.’

  Vortimor left Bryce’s side and took a few steps towards Conan. ‘As thou hast endured thy punishment honourably and art of noble birth, we have arranged to have thee stay in one of the guest quarters, until thou art well again. We hope —’ The lad ceased to speak as Conan gave a slight chuckle.

  ‘Forgive me young Protector, I do not mock thee,’ he explained, forced to take a moment to regain his breath. ‘I fear this body will not recover, but if it serves me long enough to speak with my son, I shall die a happy man.’

  ‘Then we will fetch thy son to thee.’ Vortimor looked to Bryce.

  ‘I have already sent word for him to return, and I have sent for the Lord Bishop Samson, also.’ Samson had been Conan’s childhood tutor and Bryce felt sure he would want to see him.

  ‘I do not wish my boy to know who I am, just yet,’ Conan stated.

  ‘I have not mentioned the reason why I requested their presence, Conan, but I took the liberty of making haste on thy behalf.’ Bryce didn’t understand how this man was still alive, but he was certain Conan did not have long to wait before he would finally be rid of his diseased earthly vessel.

  Conan’s head bowed low as he silently began to weep again.

  ‘Why art thou crying?’ Vortimor moved closer and gently placed a hand on the ailing man’s arm.

  ‘Thy goodness overwhelms me,’ he mumbled. ‘’Tis more than I deserve.’

  ‘All men art deserving of kindness, Conan,’ said Vortimor, ‘but not all men understand that.’ The lad handed him a cloth to dry his eyes. ‘We shall keep thy secret and thee shall see thy son, thou hast our word.’

  Conan didn’t have a chance of regaining his composure, as the boy was breaking Bryce’s heart with all his goodwill. The poor lad couldn’t work out why, for all his reassurances, his patient wouldn’t stop crying.

  Bridgit had been eight years old when Conan kidnapped her mother during his brief reign of terror, and although she didn’t exactly know what had transpired during that terrible time, she did know that her mother had never recovered. Bridgit had been sent off to convent school in Brittany soon after Conan was apprehended, and her mother died whilst she was away. Needless to say the High Queen freaked when she discovered that Conan had surfaced this day and was resting peacefully in quarters close by.

  ‘Why did thee not kill him?’ she demanded to know, rocked by the after-supper conversation around the fire in the Great Hall, where only the noble family were gathered.

  ‘Well, I offered —’ Bryce justified.

  ‘What dost thou mean, thee offered! Give me a sword and I shall run him through myself!’ she decreed, getting up on her high horse.

  ‘Run him through for what, Majesty?’ Her resolve angered Bryce and he snapped from his placid mood into full attack mode.

  It was so rare an occurrence for Bryce to lose his cool that everyone paused to take a breath.

  ‘Thou dost not know the extent of his crimes, nor the time he hast spent in hell to atone for them. I was there and I believe that he hast served his due.’

  ‘Easy for thee to say. It wast not thy family he destroyed!’ Bridgit braved challenging him, which she had never had to do before. ‘I am High Queen of Briton now Bryce, and I order thee to put Conan back in the pit where my father left him to rot and let him do exactly that.’

  Bryce was momentarily drawn between his loyalty to state, from which Bridgit’s new authority stemmed, and his loyalty to the Goddess within — that gut feeling that told him it was important that Conan be freed. ‘If thee can set foot in Conan’s abode of twenty years and to his face condemn him to return there, then I will consider thy judgement well informed.’

  Bridgit held her head high in defiance. ‘Lead the way then.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Vortimor jumped to his feet to trail along, as did the other two children, Cadwell and Chloe.

  ‘Nay princess,’ Aella called Chloe back to her by the fire.

  ‘I think we should all see where our guest has been staying,’ Bryce advised his wife. ‘Thee too, my love.’ He waved Aella after him and she reluctantly complied with his wish.

  As the womenfolk cowered in the tunnel entrance to the cavern, repulsed by the smell and the rodents, Bryce was the only one who ventured inside and he had the torch. ‘Come Majesty, thee can get a fair idea of the conditions from above here.’ He leaned over the opening to the pit.

  ‘I can get a fair idea from here,’ Bridgit gasped, having lost some of her conviction.

  Cadwell and Vortimor ventured a look, with both hands covering their nose and mouth.

  ‘Grotesque, grandpa,’ uttered Cadwell, as he viewed below. ‘Thy father really knew how to torture the bad guys,’ he uttered aside to Vortimor in jest.

  ‘My father wast not like that,’ Vortimor defended.

  ‘Then what be this?’ Cadwell argued. ‘A figment of our imagination?’

  ‘Cadwell …’ Bryce pulled him up. ‘So severe a punishment wast not undertaken lightly, and should not be spoken of lightly.’

  ‘I think thou hast made thy point, Bryce,’ Aella reasoned, rather perturbed by the conditions her husband had led their family into to make a statement. ‘These rats and filth cannot be doing the children any good. Can we please leave.’

  Bryce moved back to the women so that he might view Bridgit by the light of the torch. ‘Have I made my point, Highness?’

  Bridgit’s defiant stare melted into a look of defeat and she nodded. ‘I should not have questioned thy judgement.’ Bridgit took a stab at an apology. ‘For I see it be justified … thanks for sharing,’ she conclud
ed coldly, turning to take her leave of the wretched place, her skirt hoisted high to avoid contact with the slime on the ground.

  The look Aella gave Bryce as she departed with their daughter told him he’d best find a spare bed to sleep in this night.

  Cadwell had a chuckle at seeing a superior in trouble as he headed out after the women.

  ‘At least thee achieved our objective,’ Vortimor reassured his stepfather, as they lagged behind the others.

  As the lad was staggering a little, overdue to his bed, Bryce lifted him up to carry him the rest of the way. ‘That thought will keep me warm tonight.’ He poured on a little cheer for the child’s benefit.

  ‘Me too,’ Vortimor concurred. ‘I think I am going to like running my Kingdom with thee, Bryce … we did good today.’

  Bryce was pleased he thought so, although it still remained to be seen if they had indeed done the right thing in freeing Conan.

  Urien arrived a few days later, in the company of the Lord Bishop, Samson of Glamorgan.

  The young ruler of Gwent was all fired up from the ride. His blue eyes sparkled, his face glowed and his unruly blonde curls were windblown from his journey. He was a good-sized fellow and although Urien was the youngest on the council, he was bold of character. Urien had never found it necessary to exert any kind of force to get his way and, so far as it was known, he’d never raised a fist in anger. His optimistic and charming ways made some men on the council uneasy, as they were used to being wary and defensive — traits Urien didn’t even acknowledge.

  ‘I realise I am irresistible, Bryce, but could thee just try to live without me for a few days?’ Urien pretended to be put out as he approached the Protector of Dyfed, and broke into a smile to shake his hand.

  ‘I am sorry to drag thee back here already, but a situation hast arisen …’ Bryce paused, not wanting to say too much. ‘But before I enlighten thee, I must beg thy patience, for I must first have a word with the Lord Bishop.’ Bryce wanted to wince as he said this, for he knew how odd it seemed.