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Part Four
Constantia


Merlin and Aurelia

The peace of Avallach’s island realm is all-pervading and, as always I am loath to leave it. To leave the Fisher King’s realm is enter a world of turmoil and conflict, a world where peace finds little purchase. But, Pelleas has returned from his errand with news that the upheaval resulting from Fox Vortigern’s overthrow is now effectively quelled. Word of the traitor Morcant’s swift and certain removal from the field of claimants to the High Kingship has spread sufficiently and with such speed that none of his ilk among the northern lordship has been willing or able to mount a serious challenge to Aurelius’ path to the throne. Lords Coledac and Gorlas might possess a portion of Morcant’s ambition, but lack his wealth and might; also they are at least canny enough to know when to retreat. Others, like King Dunaut, only ever had one solitary hope: ally with other more able lords, keep his head down, and emerge as the sole survivor of any ensuing battles. Such weakness of character, such cowardice. I pity the people who must live beneath his reign.

I might have found the will to call down a curse upon all their ignorant heads, but for the fact that, whatever else they may be, they are battlechiefs and we will need them strong and able to aid Aurelius in the war against Hengist and Horsa’s Saecsen hordes—a war that cannot be held off much longer. As ever and always, there is much work to do and I must be about it. Rallying stiff-necked kings to support someone they view as inferior to themselves is not the easiest chore I can think of, nor the most pleasant. The western lords and chieftains, to their credit, are somewhat easier to persuade. With men of Tewdrig’s stamp on our side, others will surely follow—would that we had ten more like him.

But wrangling contrary kings is a task for another day. Now that I am here, short as my errand may be, I will savor the tranquility of this sacred. I feel that peace as I go in search of my mother.

“Ah, there you are, Merlin,” says Avallach when I meet him on the path leading down to the reed-fringed lake. “I’ve been looking for you. How long has it been since you caught a fish?”

Unprepared for this question, I laugh. Not for nothing is he called the Fisher King. “Too long,” I tell him. “So long ago I cannot remember.”

“Then come along,” he invites. “We will do what we can to put that right.”

“I was on my way to find my mother,” I say. “Have you seen her?”

“She is at the abbey just now. She goes there most days. You’ll likely find her there.” He indicates the lake, blue beneath the cloud-dotted sky, a light breeze riffling the surface of the water. “It is a good day to be paddling about in a boat. Are you sure you won’t join me?”

“I would like nothing better, believe me,” I tell him. “We’ll go fishing once again when all this throne-chasing is over. That is a promise.”

“Well, you go on then—and tell.” He turns toward the little wooden dock where his boat is waiting. “The fish are calling,” he says—and I hear again the voice from my childhood.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” I say and finish the thought, “you go and liberate a few of them.”

With a smile and a wave, he hurries off and I watch as he climbs into the boat and pushes away from the dock. Then, I make my way to the abbey that sits on the other side of the lake beneath the rising Tor. Always small as such places go, the abbey has nevertheless had grown somewhat since its earliest years. Over time the church has been enlarged and a collection of tiny monk’s cells have been added, along with a small, barn-like building to shelter the sick and injured who find their way there for healing. I make my way to the path leading up to what has become a compound to stand to observe the latest change: a square stone foundation has been laid and walls are being raised—another chapel? A house of healing? A scriptorium, perhaps?

I find her, as I expected at the healing house as she emerges from the tending a patient. We greet one another with a kiss and she hands me the bowl she was carrying—the remains of some broth-soaked bread she has been feeding to one of her charges. We talk a little about the building work at the abbey as we make our way to the cook house to return the bowl and spoon. Then she stops on the path and says, “Something is troubling you, son of mine. I can see it on your face. What is it?”

At first I think to offer a dismissive answer, but at the look of motherly concern in her eyes, I reply, “So much has changed since I was . . .” I falter on the hateful words. “Since my return from the hills, and so much to be done. I hardly know where to start, much less where or when that work will end—or how.”

She smiles knowingly. “This is my boy—taking the whole world in his arms and wondering why his load is so heavy.”

Her answer falls somewhat short of cheering me. “Not the whole world,” I allow, “only this one island realm—and that is weighty enough.”

“We are mortals, Merlin,” she chides gently. “We tend to forget that this is not our work alone—we have a Heavenly helpmate standing ready to aid our labors. It is His work, too. Let him help.”

She was right, I concede, how easily we forget this simple truth. I thank her for reminding me, and we continue to the church where we are greeted by the current incumbent. “Abbot Elfodd,” Charis calls, “I want you to meet my son. This is Merlin.”

Her introduction takes him by surprise. “Merlin? Myrddin Emrys?” he gasps. “I have heard about you since I was a barelegged brat in Brefi! Can it be?”

“None other,” I assure him. “I hope that at least some of what you heard was true.”

He thrusts out a hand to me and I take it. “Any of my misconceptions were cleared up by your mother long ago,” he continues. “I hope we will have your company for a goodly while. There is much I would ask you.”

At his words, I remember why I have come seeking Charis. “Ah, well, I cannot stay long—not as long as I would like, that is. A day or two, perhaps, nothing more. Duties elsewhere call me away.”

“Well, you’re here now,” the abbot tells me. “Come, let me show you all that we are doing.”

Elfodd is of honest British blood through and through, and he shows it: dark brown hair and eyes in a well-shaped head atop stout frame with sturdy limbs, neither slim nor fat, but made to thrive in fair weather or foul. I had met his like countless times before among blue hills and green valleys of the Cymry.

I find one of those sober, competent, joyful churchmen who give themselves happily to their work. And, as a gentle reprimand, I am chastened by his example and think, it was right to come to here, to bring Aurelia—if only to be reminded why I have taken on the role of kingmaker.

The day passes as Charis and I spend an enjoyable respite at the abbey, and return to the palace as the sun sinks low toward the western hills. I thank my mother for introducing me to Abbot Elfodd and, leaving her to go to see to preparations in the kitchen and cookhouse, I go in search of the mother of the man I hope to see crowned the next High King of Britain.

I find Aurelia dozing in a chair drawn up to the low breastwork of the terrace atop a wall at the rear of the fortress. The day holds a little warmth yet, but I notice the robe across her lap. She does not hear my approach so I have a moment to observe her. Of the illness she has attempted to conceal, I perceive a general fatigue in the slump of her shoulders, and there is a sort of fragility about her that is not due to age—despite appearances, she is not that old. I do not know the nature of her ailment but, surely, in this place if nowhere else, given rest and care, she can recover.

That is heartily to be hoped. After all, here is a woman who witnessed Aurelius’ first breath and herself gave birth to Uther. There are things she can tell me that may well smooth the rough path before me. Her experience is a resource to be treasured, and it would well reward me to hear as much of it as she cares to tell.

At my approach, she turns her head and smiles and lifts a hand to smooth her hair—a womanly gesture as old as time.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I say, “but, I—”

“You’re not disturbing me. I was just thinking . . .”

“About?”

She looks down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Well, if you must know, I was thinking how very tangled the road of life can be—all the different paths, and how a person can never know which one to choose, much less what waits beyond the next bend.” She glances up at me and the light rekindles in her eyes. “Believe me when I tell you it is a hard thing to know if you’ve chosen well. A very hard thing.”

Tangled is a good word for it,” I agree and perch myself on the low wall facing her. “You would know this as well as anyone—and better than some, I would think—for all you’ve seen and done.”

“You couldn’t guess the half of it!” she laughs and, for a moment, her soul rises on the wings of fond memory. “To think that I was once the wife of a Legate, the commander of a frontier garrison. A thousand soldiers would have leapt to fulfil my least request. Seven servants, two young boys, and a busy husband lived beneath my roof. My table served bishops, lords, and chieftains.”

“You mentioned the garrison just now,” I say. “Which garrison was that?”

“Don’t you know? It was the Flavia Gallicana at Constantia in Armorica—near the western coast,” she replies. “It was home to the First Legion.”

“I know of the place, but I have never been there. Tell me about it—about your life there.”

Aurelia’s glance becomes skeptical. “You really want to hear about all that?”

“It is of some interest to me.” Indeed, I have long regretted the slow and steady migration of Britons to lands across the Narrow Sea to escape the barbarian predation, but I had never spoken to anyone with more intimate knowledge than the one who sat before me now. “I’d be happy to hear anything you’d care to tell me.”

She puffed out her cheeks. “Well, there is so much. I hardly know where to begin.”

“Let’s start with Aridius’ decision to leave Deva,” I suggested. “You said that it was a following Valentinian’s effort to secure his throne in the west that Aridius decided to follow—Riothamus, was it?—to follow the dux to Armorica and take up the position offered to him there.” I regard this remarkable woman whose iron-clad spirit still shone bright and undimmed. “That must have been a difficult move for everyone.”

“Difficult!” she hoots. “You might well say that. From Deva in the north, all the way to Armorica—each so very different from the other—the problems we faced . . .” She shakes her head in disbelief, “I don’t know how we survived.”

I consider my mother, Charis, who survived and thrived in two very different worlds. “I can well imagine,” I tell her.

“I think I was happiest in Deva—at least, as happy as I have ever been,” she says, a hint of wistfulness in her tone. “I would have given anything to have stayed there.” Aurelia shakes her head and her eyes seem to look through me and beyond to the memories taking shape in her mind. “But, like all forlorn hopes, that was not to be.”

She looks at me and I see again something of the young woman who left the known comforts of Deva for the unknown trials of Constantia. “Those first days in Armorica were difficult, as you might guess. But there were some good times, too. Yes, there were.” She smiles to remember, then quickly amends, “True, those times were few and far between—at least at the beginning when we were settling in. The garrison! It was enormous—over a thousand legionaries in those days, with upwards of five-hundred horses, and then all the aides and servants and officials of one sort or another, it was two thousand if not more. Finding my feet in a place so big was hard enough. And what with all the men and shouting and horses and everyone marching everywhere all the time, and forays and sorties and patrols coming and going, it did take some getting used to, I can tell you. But, God is good, and as the years passed and we grew accustomed this new life I came to appreciate the rightness of it. There is happiness of a sort in that, too, I think.”

She nods at the memory, falling silent as she gazes into a past only she can see. The moment passes, she sighs, and continues. “Ah, but happiness always comes at a price, does it not? For me, that price was nothing less than the life of my dearest friend.”

I hear in her gently quavering voice an ache that pains her still. “You haven’t spoken of that before,” I suggest lightly.

Her gaze grows a little misty. “I mostly avoid speaking of that time—”

“Helena’s death must have been a terrible blow.”

She nods sadly. “I suppose because the hurt was so great I could not bear it. I don’t know how I carried on without her. She had been my sister, my soul mate, and more; she had been my heart’s truest friend. And I was bereft—more than bereft. I was lost.”

She looks to me for understanding, and I assure her I know such sorrow. My own loss drove me to insanity. How well I know the burden of grief.

“How did Helena die?” I ask.

Aurelia gives her head a simple shake. “I don’t think I’ll ever know. That is the way of it sometimes. The birth of Aurelius was difficult, as I say, but afterwards she did recover something of her old vigor. She was thriving, the baby was hale. It seemed her health had returned.”

“But it hadn’t.”

“No.” Aurelia shakes her head gently. “You know how, as autumn fades, you might enjoy a last, bright blaze of summer just before the gales of winter arrive? Well, that was the way of it. Helena shined with health and fine spirits for a season, and then came the hard, cold winter. At first it was only the odd complaint—strange pains, headaches, cramps, tingling sensations in her arms and legs. Then nausea and dizziness. The garrison had a impressive young physician, a Gaul—Setonius, was his name—and he had an able assistant called Marius, and another called Linus.

“Medicines, potions, healing waters, prayers . . . they tried everything . . . absolutely everything. I there was an herb or unction of promise, we tried it.”

“But nothing helped?”

“Nothing helped.” Her voice falls on a note of defeat as Aurelia relives those dark, unhappy days. “Oh, Helena railed against her illness, fought it. She was so brave! But nothing helped.” Aurelia shakes her head sadly. “It nearly killed me, too, just to see her diminished day by day, her ferocity, her strength, her spirit—ebbing slowly away.

“Eventually, Helena took to her bed. She began sleeping most of the day, and then, at the last, refused food—complained she had no appetite. I used to try to feed her. I’d sit with her, sometimes far into the night, wheedling, insisting, spooning broth into her mouth until she refused to even try. And just as often as not she vomited up anything she had managed to swallow. Then, we’d start all over again.

“Aridius, bless him, summoned the priests from the nearby church and arranged for prayers to be said throughout the day and night. There was someone with her every moment, and I stayed by her bed as much as I might—what with a house and infant to care for, it was always a struggle . . . I was always torn and the pieces scattered. . . .”

She falls silent and, in a moment, I see her lips moving as she whispers, “The end drew near, as we all knew it would, when she would not wake at all—nor could we rouse her save for as long as it takes to drink a few sips of water.” Aurelia lifts an imploring hand and lets it fall. “She lingered long in that state. Too long.”

She lapses into silence again, her eyes closed, remembering. Then, with a little shake, she straightens, clears her throat, and continues. “One morning just as the sun was rising, I bundled up tiny Aurelius to bring to her, which I often did first thing of a morning. When I came into the sickroom—heavy with incense, as I recall—I was surprised to see Helena awake at last and listening to the priest as he prayed over her. She smiled when she saw me and I saw a glimmer of a spark in her eyes. I held out the baby to her.

“By then she was too weak to sit up or hold the child, but she lifted a hand to her son’s head and placed it there, feeling the softness of his hair. She gazed long into that tiny face and then looked to me and whispered. I could not make out what she said, so I put my ear right up next to her mouth . . .”

Aurelia swallows hard, but forces herself to go on. “Helena whispered her last words to me: ‘He is yours now, dear heart,’ she told me in a voice as thin as spider thread. ‘Take care of him and let him remember me.’”

Aurelia sniffs back a tear and shakes her head. “Then my friend, my best and truest friend, my sister closed her eyes. She was asleep again before I left the room.

“I ran at once to wake Aridius. Ari threw on a robe and flew to her side. He sat with Helena, holding her hand while she slept. I waited on a bench outside until Ari came into the courtyard a little while later and told me Helena was gone.”

Aurelia bows her head and we share a silent reverie. After a moment, she continues, her voice stronger, “I was bereft. But poor Ari was devastated—any loving husband would be. He mourned Helena—yes, he did—but there was little Aurelius to think of and an entire garrison to command. I was the obvious one to care for the baby—and I did. Gladly. The little mite was pure joy, I tell you—but the work!

“There were times I swear I could have slept on my feet.” She smiles lightly at the memory. “Ari threw himself into his command, and I threw myself into keeping the house and caring for little Aurelius. This, I think, proved a saving grace for both of us. Together we slowly moved on from Helena’s sad, sad death. We three became a family then,” she concludes. “Ari and I were married two years later.”

“And then?” I ask.

I think she has not heard me, but she is gathering the memories of that time, reviving it all in her mind. Finally, she glances up at me and says, “And then? Well, all this time the tide of imperial unrest was rising around us until we feared we would be swept away. But, God be praised, the tide did what tides always do—it rose and receded, leaving us high and dry. We outlasted Rome’s relentless intrigues. Emperor Valentinian did hold the throne he fought so hard to keep—no surprise that—and, fortunately for Aridius, the province of Armorica suffered no further entanglement in political intrigues and schemes. I expect the emperor had more pressing concerns elsewhere. We heard constantly about clashes with the Goths and Huns and people I never heard of before—barbarians, all of them.”

“Yet, it did not end there, did it,” I say, and it occurs to me that although she might have with the alteration of a few names and order of events, she could well be describing the rise and fall of emperors and imperial fortunes for the last two hundred years or more.

“No.” She shakes her head. “It did not end there—not by a Roman mile. Small mercies—at least the legions of Armorica were left to their own devices. This, I think, is what preserved us. Ari considered it likely that the emperor, weak as he was, realized his rule would meet nothing but resistance from the likes of Riothamus and his commanders so was content to let this particular sleeping hound lie. Armorica kept its own counsel and was left alone for the most part. Oh, every now and then one commander or another would pull men from the western armies to help battle the barbarians tormenting the empire in the north and east. Thankfully, our garrison was never more involved than that. And life in Constantia enjoyed a few years stability and even peace. Aurelius grew strong and healthy, and Ari and I settled into a good marriage—not like Aridius and Helena had been, of course. Good in a different way. We had a fine life together, the three of us. But, like all good things, it didn’t last long.”

“Why? What happened next?

“Uther was born!” she hoots. “My little warrior was born, and my life changed yet again.”

“I can well imagine.”

“Oh! You have no idea,” she laughs. “You should have seen them together—Aurelius and Uther, each as head-strong and boisterous as the other. There were never two like them for striking terror in the heart of a mother. Growing up in a frontier fortress—the things they found to get into you would not believe.”



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