Long ago, Morgan, you asked me to keep and write my history. I was so very reluctant to do so, yet since I left Briton I have kept a journal of all the events, feelings, and learned Wisdoms of my life. These I will keep for myself. But beginning with this writing, it will all be for you. Has some of your “sight” rubbed into me? For, somehow, I sense that the value of my history is not over.
Day five of the Sea voyage...
We are crossing the length of the “Mare Nostrum.” Did you know that some refer to this as the ‘Sea in the Middle of the Earth’?
Calm and sunny it has been every Day so far. The blue of the Sky reflects onto the clear Waters. “The paradise of Neptune,” the Shipmen call it, although it is not always such. Many large ships have been swallowed by her waves when Jupiter sends his storm bolts to rouse her temper. On this sailing, I have seen Dolphins dance and play beside our ship. A peaceful and uneventful passage it has been so far – which has left Time for me to wonder how you, Morgan, and the Isle of Apples are faring.
I have heard you are troubled by Saxons, Jutes, and Angles. Worrisome thoughts are as useful to me as sand in my hands, and do me no better to pay heed to them. No, instead I will daydream of your Mists and the Standing Stones, the floating bridges of the Marsh Folk, and of you, Morgan, and your Bees. I close my eyes and see the Sacred Wells and the groves of ancient Oaks and Apple orchards...
My Forefathers, the earliest Romans who invaded the ancient Britons, fearing the power that the Druids held over the people, tried to destroy them. A good job they made of slaughtering and plundering their Sacred places and Universities. Yet the core Wisdoms and secret meanings have still survived to this Day, I am told. They communicate like a fisher’s net across the lands. I wonder if still they choose a Merlin – surely so. Very glad am I that the Imperial Romans did not perceive your Order as a political threat. I pray that the Teutons respect the Order as well.
News has reached Rome – be it propaganda or not – that the Church regains some of its strength and numbers which had fallen in tatters when the Romans abandoned Briton. When I lived in Briton with Arthur, almost all had reverted to the Old Gods and native traditions.
No religion or Gods can be forced upon people and yet reach their hearts. I remember many conversations with you about this, Morgan.
Correspondences from old allies in Briton have told me that more and more Druids have become hermits and Monks, bringing their old Wisdoms with them and teaching them in the name of the Christ and that a steady flow of the old Druidical thought is accepted as a constant now – by more and more Christians of the Cymru. Yet this is nothing new – this sounds very much like the Days of Pelagius again, does it not?
I sent a letter to a friend there – an old King who had been allied with Arthur’s confederacy. His name was Cadwallon ab Einion of Gwynedd. His son, King Einion of Lleyn replied, “I am sad to say that our Father has gone to his Ancestors. But please, do come to our fortress when you arrive in our land. It is very comfortable. We look forward to your staying with us for as long as you will while in Gwynedd. My brothers’ and my fortresses, as well as our hunting lodge, are in the Snowy Mountains, not too far from where your old friend, Gwyddion, The Merlin’s Cave was.”
His brother Cereiod, he wrote, had – like himself – been but a boy when I left Briton. He is also a King now, Cereiod of Rhos.
“But you have never heard of our youngest brother. He is far younger than we by twenty four and twenty six years years. Our Father married a much younger girl when our Mother died, and indeed, they did Love each other. But she died in childbirth. Our brother Seiriol lived and grew strong. He was a wondrous child. His thoughts always were of the Gods. I forget, Lucian, are you a Christian? Well, no matter. Seiriol, by the Time he became a man at fourteen, was already a ‘Seer’ and an ‘Oak Knower.’ He was taught by a very old man who had been the Grandfather of his wet nurse. The two were inseparable. The old man died upon the Day of Seiriol’s fourteenth year-turn. Seiriol always believed the old man clung to life to see him a man.
“Our family is close of heart, Lucian. But Seiriol, our brother, is much younger than our own children. Cereiod and I have always been both brother and Father to him. So when he, at fourteen, told of his determination to go to the old Druid’s Isle – Ynys Mon – to live as a hermit in a Cave cut into the side of a Hill, we were shocked, although in retrospect we should have seen this in him.
‘I will spend my life in solitude,’ said he, ‘prayer and meditation. I will walk in the Otherworlds to Heal my fellow Britons.’
“Will you not be lonely, brother?” we asked.
‘I am never alone. Fear not for me. This is what I must do.’
And that is what he did.
He sought his place of solitude on the Druids’ Isle from whence he could look Southward across the narrow expanse of Sea toward the Snowy Mountains where he had been born. The old man who had been his teacher told him where to look for this place. He found the Well with the Stone beside it, as he knew that he would. It had been a place of worship of the old God Nodens. Nearby, he fitted out the Cave to sleep in – but with no comforts at all, not even a stool to sit upon.
“We begged him to accept our help, but he refused at first. Then, because he feared that we would worry too much about his safety, he finally relented.
“So we sent a group of workers to help him build a humble hut, with a proper roof and a little space in which to live. After our prompting, he finally allowed us to furnish him with six books, much vellum, writing instruments, a table, a bench, straw and pelts for a pallet, warm clothing, blankets and boots, and enough food and mead to last until we could get more to him, but other than these few things, he would accept nothing.
“I must learn to make my own way here,” said he.
I saw the Wisdom in that. He did say that we were welcome to come – whenever we wished to see him.
Still, my brother Cereiod and I could not bear the worrying over him. So, when we heard that many people were coming to ask for his prayers and Healing, we contrived to build a Priory House for him with an Altar and some benches for prayer not far from his hut, the Well and the Stone. When he saw that more and more people needed his care and that three other young men wished to live the life he was living and to learn under his tutelage, he relented.
“The Priory has been in operation for three years now and its reputation grows. People call him Brother, Father, and Mage. Most of those who come to him follow the Christ – and so Seiriol set up a cross above the entrance to the Priory. He is of the thinking that there is but one God with many faces. Yet, now people call him a Christian.
“However, Seiriol still goes to the Well most every Day to pray by himself. Sometimes he leaves offerings for the ancient God there. Some of the folk, who still follow the Old Ways, leave food offerings there for the God of the Well – and for Seiriol, as they seek his counsel too.
“He is a good man of God – or as we would say, the Gods. So what does it matter?”
Indeed, Morgan, this I have wondered, as well. Does it really matter at all?
I remember the beauty and the sanctity of your Order of the Goddess. I remember the wonder of it all. Ancient Rites enacted in the same ways for countless generations, with the Ancestors looking on. By comparison, Rome seems a pale, demoralized, and materialistic culture, riding upon the fleet wings of her past – which even then was but a shadow of the greatness that was Greece. Oh yes, Rome gave the world an Empire, an order, strategic warfare, law, magnificent roads, bridges and the like, but on your sweetest of Isles, in the Inland Sea, life is Art.
I tremble in anticipation.
Day nine of my voyage...
Wilhelm and I have been playing a board game called ‘Tali and Tropa.’ It is interesting and pleasant – sometimes challenging. It keeps the boredom at bay.
I have been thinking of the fact that you, Morgan, have never seen the Seven Hills of Rome. I know that you have heard many first hand des
criptions, but you might find it garish and un-cultured. You see – Rome’s city plan or layout was set many, many hundreds of years ago. It grew from nothing to one of the greatest cities in the world, but the organization and layout of the streets was anything but orderly, for they simply expanded in any and all directions. The myriad twists and turns of small streets and alleys with houses and later buildings built one to another, were and still are in many areas impossible to navigate. Therefore, when the great edifices, such as the Coliseum, the Temples, public buildings, baths, triumphant arches, and amphitheaters – all with their own promenades – were built, whole sections of the city were simply leveled. This was when the famed “order” of Rome was born. Rome has never been shy. The buildings were all copied from the style of the Greeks in their architectural form – and in the way that they are all painted in bright colours, of scarlet, Lapis blue, Carnelian, and intolerably bright greens and yellows. I suppose I should say it is intolerable to my senses, that is – because of my many years of living in Briton in earthly simplicity, where all man-made structures compliment and fold into the Nature of their surroundings. Even by the Time the great Roman building began in Briton – such as fortresses, garrisons and the like – a more utilitarian approach was taken by the Romans – building with natural Stones, found locally. Even the grand Villas were far more conservative in colour than those in Rome. When I compare Sulis-Minerva’s Temple and baths at Aquae Sulis with public bathhouses in Rome, it is like comparing a serene garden with a competitive market place filled with hawkers, screaming their vulgar come-ons to all who pass. Perhaps I have gone too far in taking the other side of Roman society – with its false conservatism – too much to heart. Rome... Nothing is simple about her.
When I left Briton I thought it was to return home. More fool I. My home and heart is in Briton. My great hope is that I have not waited too long to return. I know that the whole Western world is shifting – and so quickly. Constantine changed everything. Now – centuries beyond Constantine, through two hundred years of tyranny and intolerance – the Rome that once was lies in moral ashes. But I do not weep for her. My eyes are set Westward, to the land of my Dreams and the Summer of my youth.
Day sixteen of my voyage...
My eyes behold the land at the far Northwestern Coast of Mare Nostrum. If I am not mistaken, this is not far from the lands of Lady Vivianne’s Mother’s people. This is an exotic land. Many traders of spices and silks travel here. I have heard that even Frankincense and Myrrh, as well as Cedar incense from Aegyptos and points East, can be purchased here – and much more costly than gold by weight are they. I intend to bring some to you. I know that you will enjoy them. I will also keep some. This is a luxury I will allow myself at the end of the Day, when all work is done and it is Time for the simple pleasure of peaceful rest. To be surrounded by the perfumes of the Ancients is as good to me as if I had my own Lyrist plucking the sweetest of tunes upon his or her strings. Do I sound more like a Dreamer than a Warrior? …or even worse, an old romantic fool? Probably so, but I have learned through my years to savor what golden moments come.
Is that not what The Merlin called them? “Golden chances?” As in so many other instances, I have come to treasure the Wisdom of his words.
Morgan, my long Time dear friend, do not think I come to pressure you in any way. You know that I will always Love you. I write this only to relieve the uncomfortable moments that I might cause to you by saying it while looking into your eyes. By the Time you read this, we will be very comfortable old friends again, for I will hold this back awhile. Love is a Goddess with many faces and I will gracefully and thankfully accept whichever face of Love you wish to show me. There has always been a bond between us. Just to be friends as we were, so long ago, would be one of the greatest blessings of my old age. But to be your beloved... to finally – now at the end of my life – sleep in the comfort of your embrace...
This will probably be my last entry until I reach Briton. Oh, yes, although we reach landfall, far South and West of Briton, I feel, for some reason, a calling to the North. I will traverse the lands through Gaul, then sail North-Northwest to the land of the Southern Picti and Alba, above Hadrian’s wall, to Table Rock, there to sit upon that Rock one more Time to relive my memories of Arthur. I hope also to reunite with some of those long ago allies – such as the brother Kings I have written of – who live near the West coast in Gwynedd. I was much younger than many of them and I fear the Time is running out for such reunions. I will stop there on my way to the South, but I will not tarry long, Morgan.
Chapter 53
Other Communications
Rowena
Her second letter...
I do have Time to finish my story.
And so, there I was at the crossroads, my dear Aunt Morgan, betrayed by the snap of a twig!
The two men on Horses abruptly halted in their tracks. They faced me. One of them was a well dressed man who looked as though he could be a Roman Dux. Funny that I would take note of such a thing. He drew his sword so swiftly that I saw nothing but the motion. Then they both held swords out, staring in the direction of where I hid.
“Come out and cast your weapon before you...” one of them called out, with his thick sword pointed toward me. “...or you will be run through in a blink of your eye.”
This was not said by the more refined looking Roman officer – or something akin to that – but by the other, rougher looking man who was very large. Was he a giant, I wondered? I swallowed and said, “Please, Sir, I hold no weapon.”
Then the older and finer looking man – who had long, thick, silver hair – raised his hand in front of the other – whose sword was at the ready to kill – in a gesture for abeyance.
“Wait,” said he – who I, by then took as the superior of the two.
“Come out, girl, and show yourself – but no tricks.”
I shakily crawled from behind and somewhat beneath the bush. Prickly branches clutched at my short hair and clothes, one scratched my face and I did feel a drip of blood running down my cheek. When I had untangled myself, I stood and looked into the eyes of the older man, who sat so straight and perfectly on his mount. When he looked at my face, he inhaled a sudden gasp of breath and in his expression there was the look of a question. Or was it recognition?
“Who are you, girl? Speak, have no fear.”
He gestured for the man who was obviously his Guard to sheath his blade.
I stood before them, shivering and terrified. More gently this Time, he asked again – “Who are you? Who is your Mother?”
“My Mother is dead, sir.”
“And your Father?”
It was then that my courage left me and I lost myself. I fell to the ground in a heap, weeping and shuddering from it. I could not speak. The words would not come out. I wanted to scream “No! Do not take me to my Father! He will kill me!” But all I could do was weep. The silver-haired man dismounted. His Guard was speaking a caution to him – to which he paid no heed. He picked me up into his arms and said, “I will ask you no more now child. Know that you are safe with me.”
They wrapped me in both of their fine woolen blankets and my savior placed me upon his Horse, in front of himself, for travel. He gave me Watered wine to drink, to warm and calm me. It was good. It worked...
That Night he found a farmhouse in which we were given a place to sleep and food to break our fast in the morning. I was offered food that Night as well, but I vomited in a basin at its offer. He sat, sleeping off and on at my side, murmuring words of comfort as I kept awakening from my fretful sleep. The last thing I heard him say was “Everything will be well, girl. I will protect you. From whoever you have run, I will not return you, I promise.”
At that, I slept the Night through.
I have a sense of knowing people. I trusted him. But why he would care for me, I did not know. Not until we reached the Snowy Mountains. True to his word, while we travelled, he asked me no more of my past.
W
hen we reached the fortress of King Einion of Lleyn, my savior presented me to him and his family. King Einion looked very carefully at me, squinting his eyes. He asked “Lucian, who is this girl? She is much taller and fairer of skin, but she very much resembles the wife of Rhodri – the fucking bastard.”
This last he said under his breath.
“She who was burned alive – locked in his house all alone, but for her infant child – who burned with her.”
Lucian drew a sharp breath between his teeth.
“Most blame Rhodri. He was a madman. But I believe that both of his older sons had a hand in it. A small force came, under Bedwyr of Dumnonia, to try to prevent his hurting her, but they arrived too late.
“If this girl is who I think she is, she is the heiress of much of Princess Rowena, the Saxon’s, vast wealth. Did you know Princess Rowena, Lucian? She was Queen Gwenyfar’s sister.”
“Yes. But this girl does not resemble princess Rowena or Ribrowst, her daughter.”
“No, no. I forgot. You have been long away. Not Ribrowst – Rhodri’s second wife, the daughter of Morganna Le Faye. It is said that her name was Mahr and that she was as lovely a woman as anyone had ever seen.”
Lucian threw back his head and laughed – long and heartedly.
“Is this true, my sweet girl?”
I lowered my head, ashamed of my Grandmother, and in grief for my Mother. I said, “Yes.”
“I know your Aunt Morgan, child. In fact I travel South soon to see her.”
“Oh please bring me to her!” I pled.
But Lucian told me that he could not bring me to the order – at ten years old and uninvited. He explained that I must be at least fourteen years to become a postulate there. But he promised to speak with you about me.
Voices of the Stars Page 67