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Chapter 54

The first of the wounded arrived almost immediately. Those who could not be moved were treated up in the military camp; those who could walk made their down to the followers’ camp. I was busy applying a soothing salve made from pig fat and honey to Tatiana’s burns, when Vitus and his company arrived. They had been rounding up the loose horses and dragging away the barbarian dead whose corpses were to be piled into a heap and burned. Any wounded barbarian was quickly dispatched to join their kinsmen wherever it is they go in the afterlife.

“But it’s over?” I said, hope rising once again.

“For us, aye.” He regarded me carefully. “Riothamus and two other legions from the east are giving chase and will continue on to secure the border. Are you certain you’re unharmed?”

“I am,” I assured him and, gripping Uther’s arm, added, “Thanks to Tatiana’s quick thinking. Her hands are burned, but I can help her with that.” I followed his gaze across the camp. “There are not many wounded,” I suggested.

“There will be more,” Vitus said. “Be ready to receive them.”

Indeed, a wagon arrived a short time later carrying five bleeding men, and I suddenly found myself stretched in every direction at once. As the former legate’s wife, I became the person others looked to in organizing relief—a notion aided, I suppose, because it was also known that I had some skill or knowledge of treating wounds. God knows, I had done enough of it in the past. Vitus directed cloaks and skins to be spread on the ground for the injured men so their injuries could be treated in an orderly manner. The first of these wounded soldiers suffered from lacerations of one kind or another; slashes produced by a blade. Three of the mounted legionaries had suffered cuts to their lower legs. Two of these were easily bandaged and the soldiers given water and bread and, after a little rest, sent back to their camp; the third man’s wound was sufficient to lay him low for a while, so he remained with us in camp. Of the two remaining, one had sustained a deep cut to the inside of his thigh that was not only bleeding profusely—just staunching it was fraught—but even bandaged threatened to reopen at the slightest movement. And the fifth was a foot soldier who had suffered a blade thrust through his hand that had cut deep and broken several bones.

Thus, it began. Those first were joined by others, and all too soon what started as a trickle became a steady stream of wounded men coming for aid. The few able to walk hobbled down the hillside, leaning on the shafts of their spears; others were brought by one of the wagons, fresh blood seeping through the cracks. One wagon and then another, leaving a sticky crimson trail all down the slope.

Tatiana, her hands bandaged, helped as much as she was able. Once, we paused to look up from our work and saw a long double row of wounded men lying on the ground. Dear God, there were so many—and still they kept coming.

“We’ll soon run out of places to put them,” I told her.

“Then we’ll make more places,” the young woman, ever practical, replied. She looked around at yet another oncoming wagon, and then at me. “What else can we do?”

All through that long day we worked—battling pain and death and fatigue. There was no escape—save, for some, in the empty oblivion of unconsciousness, or the finality of death. Benumbed by the suffering around us, we did what we could to relieve it. Our own relief would not come until the wounded stopped coming and even then it would go on for some time after. I remember stepping away from the side of a dying soldier to stand blinking in the full bright light of a brilliant sunset. It had been early morning when we returned to the camp from our survey of the battlefield. Where had the time gone?

I looked up the hillside towards the legion camp, expecting to see the yet another wagon coming to deliver more battle casualties. But there was no wagon in sight—only a trio of soldiers limping wearily down the hill to us. Tired as I was, I hurried to meet them. “Where is it?” I blurted, without thinking what I was saying. “Where’s the wagon?”

The soldier—wincing in pain, but still resolute—looked groggily around. “There’s just us,” he said.

“You’re the last?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Ahh!” He pressed a hand to his side as a spasm gripped him; his hand came away sticky and wet.

Taking his arm, I sat him down. “Let me see it,” I ordered, and sent one of the women nearby to fetch some cloths and vinegar to bind the gash. That done, I helped him to his feet and found him a place to lie down. Weary to the bone, I turned again to the trail leading up to the legion camp and saw only a single rider. A few moments later, Vitus was beside me. He had been up to the soldiers’ camp to confer with the commanders who confirmed there were no more injured or wounded soldiers coming down to us.

There was no more blood to staunch, or wounds to bind. Sadly, for some, these ministrations would be the last kindness they would know in this worlds-realm. And it breaks my heart to say that more than one wife received the cruelest shock when she stooped to tend a soldier only to see her husband lying there. That rude reunion might be their last. But the worst was over.

“God be thanked,” I sighed, almost collapsing with relief. “Tell me what happens next.”

He nodded, and said, “I need a drink first.”

Aurelius came galloping up with Uther right behind him. “It’s all over!” he shouted. Uther whooped a victory cry, and Aurelius raised a fist and shouted in triumph. “We won! You should have seen it, Mother! We won!”

Vitus leapt forward and seized the reins of Aurelius’ horse. “We won?” He shouted, his voice an accusation. “Just what do you think we won?”

Aurelius sat there stunned, unable to speak.

Instantly angry, Vitus roared, “We won nothing! Nothing! Do you understand?” He flung out a hand and pointed up the hill. “There are no winners lying out there on the battleground—only losers! Those who lost their lives, yes—but many another not here to witness the loss. Mothers who have now lost a son, fathers who have lost an heir, wives who have lost husbands, children now without a father.”

Red-faced now, spittle flying from his mouth, he raged, “And all of them—every single one of them will reckon the loss for years to come! We lost fewer than the barbarians, as may be, but we lost all the same.” He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and continued on. “We defended our lands and drove off the enemy—that is all. Good men lie dead on that accursed field. Damn the man who calls it winning!”

Aurelius shrank down into himself under the heat of Vitus’ rage. Humbled, humiliated to be shouted at in front of the others, he nevertheless took the bitter draught and swallowed it. My heart went out to him, of course, but Vitus was right: there are no winners in war—only those who lose and, those who live to bear the loss.

Vitus sent a chastened Aurelius back up the hill to help the with clearing the battlefield, to retrieve weapons and armor from the fallen and bury the dead—for many would forever lie in the ground they had shed their blood to protect.

Uther knew well enough to keep his mouth shut. He hesitated, looking to Vitus and me for a word of absolution, but did not get it. He wheeled his mount and galloped after his brother. Vitus turned to me, somewhat shamefaced, and apologized for his outburst.

I had never seen him so enraged, but this flare-up was entirely justified. I told him so, and I told him that he was right to be angry. “If they are to be the leaders of men that you and I expect them to be,” I said, “they must learn that lesson, however hard they find it.”


Merlin and Aurelia

“Did you never think of marrying Vitus?”

Aurelia smiles demurely and I catch a fleeting glimpse of the young woman she must have been. “Marry Vitus?” She considers the question for a moment, then replies, “I did—once. Yes, I did. But only for a season. He never knew because I never told him, never let on.”

“He would have welcomed the prospect, would he not?” I suggest. “Perhaps, when he asked you to stay and share the villa with him, he was proposing something more.”

“Perhaps,” she allows, “but we never spoke of it. In my heart I knew it would only be a union of convenience, and I knew it would not work in a way that would please either of us in the end. I loved Aridius so very much. That is, I grew to love him more than I could have thought possible. I love him still. And though I did esteem Vitus greatly, there was nothing like the great affection I had for Aridius. I could not imagine ever giving his place in my heart to another.”

“I think that is often the way of it,” I say. “For me also. After Ganieda there will never be another. She will be forever part of me.”

Aurelia nods in affirmation of this sentiment, then continues, “In any event, marriage to me would not have been fair to Vitus. He deserved so much more than that—” She laughs suddenly, adding, “Not that I didn’t try to procure for him what I could not supply.” I raise my eyebrows at this and she hoots. “Time and again, I introduced him to women I thought he would like.” Smiling, she shakes her head at the memory. “It always ended in disaster. I was a pathetic matchmaker.”

She smiles at the memory and continues, “No, no, that life was not for Vitus. Anyway, he was legate now and he had more than enough to do without a wife to please. The demands of a garrison, you would not believe! I think he little guessed what rough waters he had plunged into when he became the legion’s legate. If he had, he would have deserted the post altogether—and I, for one, would not have blamed him.” She laughs again and it cheers me to hear that happy sound. But her laughter ends in a rattling cough that dispels any gladness.

Aurelia dabs at her mouth and glances at her hand where a glistening spot of bright red blood has appeared, and I see both pain and resignation in her look as she rubs it quickly away before I can see it.

“I was happy enough to order my own little house in the town—the only one I had ever owned. Tatiana and I moved into Alba House a day or so after that appalling battle with the Saecsens. We furnished it well with this and that, and it became our happy home. Aurelius and Uther would stay there when they were not required up in the garrison, and it was a boon to live somewhere that held no memories of my life with Aridius.

“Still, they were difficult times, precarious times. Barbarian raids continually taxed our survival—almost daily, it seemed. And if that was not enough, divisions within the imperial court and elsewhere grew ever more fraught and fractious. So many times I recalled the words of Emperor Honorius all those years ago—words repeated by Procurator Constantine in Viroconium: ‘Look to your own defenses.’ That is what we did. We knew well enough that we could expect no help from anyone but ourselves alone—and this was proven time and again.”

“The trials of life are what make us,” I tell her.

“Ah, now, that’s just what Brother Theo was fond of saying,” Aurelia recalls. For me, it was another—my old friend and teacher, Blaise—so long ago it seems another life entirely.

“I thought that we had weathered the worst of it,” she sighs. “In truth, we had not even begun to sound the depths.”

“You endured,” I tell her. “You survived.”

She folds her hands, entwining her fingers. “We did, yes . . . we survived—when so many others did not. I don’t know why . . .”

“You were telling me about the battle—the first for Aurelius and Uther.”

“Ah, yes, well, Autricum . . .” Her voice falls and her gaze softens as the memories come winging back. “Our return from that bloody battle was more akin to a funeral procession than any kind of triumphal march. I was riding in a wagon with some of the wounded too ill to be left unattended. We came trailing a long-shadow of grief for those we had lost.

“Something about that day has remained with me ever since. Maybe it was seeing Constantia sprawling before us, spreading up the low hills—an untidy straggle of houses, small holdings, little more than hovels some of them, and that’s being kind—and the garrison fortress sitting squat in the center. Not what anyone would call attractive but, for us on that day, a welcome sight all the same, and it lifted our doleful spirits.

“I remember feeling a great surge of relief sweep through me as the carriage crested the hill and started rolling down the long, stone-paved road into the town. Nothing there had changed at all. How could it? We had not been away very long—or even very far away, come to that. That first glimpse cheered my heart the all the same. If I had travelled the length and breadth of the empire, I don’t imagine I would have felt any different. I remember thinking, ‘Here is where I belong.’”

Aurelia glances at me as if I might take issue with this. “Unlikely, I know, for a girl born in proud south Britain. Yet, Constantia had become my home: where I was married, where I raised my boys, where I owned my first house . . . and where, in the graveyard of my church, I will have my resting place.”

“I know well how you feel,” I murmur, thinking of my home in Celyddon.

Aurelia has not heard me, but knows I have spoken. She taps her ear as she must have done ten thousand times, her gestured request that I speak clearly. I shake my head. “It was nothing,” I tell her. “Please, continue.”

“All the same, the move to Armorica was not easy. When I left Deva, I thought I would die of longing for home. Indeed, there is that part of me that will always remain as deep-rooted in Britain as any oak. Nothing will change that.” I hear again, the echo of the old complaint she voiced when first we met.

“Armorica is part of Britainnia,” I point out.

“You know what I mean,” she says. “But, following that gruesome battle, just seeing the welcoming walls of Constantia inspired a feeling of homecoming like no other I had ever known—so strong that it removed any further thought I might have had of leaving. At the crossroads of the town, as I remember, I waved a brief farewell to Aurelius and Uther, and the boys continued on up to the garrison with the other soldiers. I lingered a moment, watching until they passed through the garrison gate. In that moment, I knew the garrison was where they belonged—as I knew where I belonged as well.”

“They were soldiers—legionaries now,” I observe. “And, from what I have seen, among the finest of their kind.”

“True enough. Of course, they benefitted mightily from Vitus’ especial attention. After that regrettable incident where he lost track of them at the Theng, he remained ever vigilant.” She pauses, and adds, “Hardly a day went by that I did not thank the Good Lord for that dear man.”

A simple enough sentiment. Oh, but there is more to it than the humble thanks of a poor widow—far more than that. If our hopes are proved true, then all Britain will owe Vitus a debt of gratitude. For if Aurelius and Uther have any portion in the saving of our land and its people, we may thank Vitus for his diligence and faithful watchcare.

“Yet, I did wonder sometimes. . . .” She drifts off in her thoughts.

“About them becoming soldiers?” I prompt.

“That and more,” she replies, coming back to herself. “The life of a soldier I knew well enough, but was there more? Could there be more? Could they better follow their father and grandfather as legate or magistrate and better prove their worth that way? I did often wonder. And as much as I pondered I prayed—for their feet to find the path best suited to their natures and abilities. And so,” she lifts her chin with motherly pride, “when it came time to choose, they chose Britain.”

“What brought that about?” This is something I have wondered about since I heard the two young warriors had returned from their long sojourn Armorica. “Can you tell me?”

Aurelia ponders the question for a moment, then says, “There was a change in the garrison command. I think that must be where it began.” She nods, confirming the notion to herself. “Vitus became legate, you’ll remember—and a good one he was, too. Different from Aridius, of course, but he kept the troops in order and was liked by the townsfolk. He grew into the position, you could say, and served well and wisely. But he had people back in Britain—mother and two sisters, it was, widows both by that time—and he felt he had a duty of care for them, too. At the time, the region was quiet, the borders secure enough. He saw his chance to remove himself gracefully and without too much inconvenience so he did. A smooth handover of responsibilities—that was his plan. And it might well have worked as he hoped. Vitus stepped down. He was feted and honored for his good service, and a new Legatus Legionis was duly appointed. The provincial governor . . .” she pauses, thinking. “Ah, I can’t remember his name. Anyway, the governor promoted an official of his acquaintance that he thought could do the job. And that was that.” She paused and, mouth pursed, shakes her head. “So far as the governor was concerned, all was well. If only it had been that easy. The problem, as I came to see it, stemmed from the fact that this man—Marcellus, his name was—had not been drawn from the ranks.”

“He was not a legionary?”

“Nor a leader of any kind,” Aurelia confirms. “He might have been a competent enough official in the governor’s appraisal—there were those who thought so and argued the point—but this Marcellus assumed he’d been appointed to return the legion to some state of former glory. He acted as if he’d been chosen to impose discipline on an unruly house, to expose corruption, or incompetence, or misconduct, or something.” Her mouth squirms with distaste. “As I say, there were some who agreed with him. ‘The garrison must be saved!’ they shouted. I never understood why. Under Aridius and Vitus, affairs ran honestly, fairly—if not always smoothly. There was never even a hint of corruption. They were scrupulous in all their dealings within the garrison and the town. I tell you truly, Merlin, both those men lived on their proper salaries and never sought or accepted a bribe, or rewarded a friend who did not deserve it with a favor of any kind. Corruption? They would have squashed it like a cockroach without a second thought. And that’s the truth!”

“But Marcellus . . .”

“I don’t know why, but he never bothered to get the measure of the office to which he’d been appointed. He did not know the men, or his generals and commanders. He never paused long enough to learn a thing about the garrison or the town, so far as I could tell. He seemed to me to be a man who wanted to be seen to be doing something important, and desperate to please his superiors. He made changes—not for any purpose other than to be seen making changes. Most of his policies made no sense at all, and of the others . . . let us say the best were of no consequence, and the worst were disastrous.

“Well, the garrison lurched along and it seemed as if every day some new outrage was perpetrated.”

“How long did this last?”

“Too long, if you ask me,” she says. “But the troops, who often bore the brunt of bureaucratic foolishness, did not accept their lot quietly. And when the grumbling grew too loud to ignore, the commanders acted. By then everyone had decided they had finally had their fill of this officious outsider, and they undertook a delegation to the governor. Their pleas fell on deaf ears. The governor backed his man—now, there was corruption, if you ask me—and he demanded complete, unquestioning loyalty to Marcellus and threatened reprisals for even airing complaints.”

“Curious, how often those in power confuse disagreement with disloyalty.”

“Well, the commanders came home, more aggrieved than ever that their case had not been heard. They put another plan in motion and Marcellus was deposed.”

“Assassinated?”

Aurelia laughs at the thought. “Good heavens, no!” She shakes her head. “They sent another delegation—this time to Vitus. See, he may have retired, and was soon to return to Britain, but he eyes in his head and he’d seen what was happening. Lord knows, the generals were not the first to bend his ear! I think he waited until things came to a head.”

“Then he stepped in?”

“Vitus still had the support of the legionaries and influence enough to bring a little power to bear. He gathered the commanders and they met with the legate. I don’t know what was said, but the next day Marcellus packed up and left Constantia for good—he and his household.

“Well, that created a vacancy in the garrison command. Vitus was asked and agreed to return to the position—but only until a new legate could be chosen and installed. He proposed Aurelius. Many of the legionaries also wanted him for the job. They had fought alongside him, they knew him. But the older command held that he lacked experience—though he was the son a legate and steeped in it from birth. The campaign grew heated, I can tell you. Oh! The things they said about Aurelius . . . and about me! Vile things, awful things, wicked things. . . .”

Here it is again, I think, the source of the complaint she voiced to me the night we first met. The malicious rumors faced by her son must have rekindled the grievances she had labored half-a-life to silence. Great light, the pain of an unjust accusation, I know only too well!

“And Aurelius did not become legate,” I say.

“Aurelius—unlike his brother—is ever the diplomat. Uther may be the better commander, the best when blood is flowing; but Aurelius is much the better peacemaker. When he saw the forces arrayed against him Aurelius chose the wiser path. He was too young still, and he knew it. In the end, he withdrew from consideration and one of the generals was elected.”

“Which then created a place among the elite command,” I surmise.

“Yes, and Aurelius graciously filled that place. As I think on it now, that was what he really wanted. And he was better suited to it in any case.”

“He used the leadership struggle to his ultimate advantage,” I say. “Very shrewd.”

Aurelia nods in agreement. “He was given command of a cohort, and immediately made Uther his second.”

“This legion cohort,” I said. “These are the warriors he and Uther have brought with them to Britain.”

“The same—and likely more. As time goes on, they gain both experience and loyalty among the troops. Soldiers want to follow them. You see how it is.”

Yes, things have fallen into place.

“Ah, but in the years those gangly boys were growing into men, did I ever imagine they would become kings in Britain? Did it once cross my mind that such a thing might happen?” Aurelia gives her head an emphatic shake. “No. It did not. The very idea—it never occurred to me. And if anyone would have suggested such a thing, I think I might have said it was far more likely that they would grow golden wings and fly.”

“Yet, somehow, they did grow those golden wings,” I tell her.

“Yes, and when they flew, it was back to Britain and toward the throne of kingship.” Her smile is touched with sadness as she says, “Another thing I would not have imagined was how the next years would change me. I look back and marvel at the outrageous twists and turns life can take. You know how it is.”

“No one knows it better,” I tell her.

“It’s true! Anyone who sees me now never would believe I was ever that shy waif hiding in my father’s office in that dusty town on the southern coast. How could they? I scarce believe it myself sometimes.

“Of course, I was not the only one to change. The entire world changed around me. Everywhere, it seemed, the old well-ordered realm I had been born into was passing away to be replace by . . . what?”

“That remains to be seen,” I suggest.

“We live in hope, do we not? But it seemed to me that wherever I looked, the world was everywhere in turmoil. Brother Theo used to say, ‘The fires of Hell have been stoked high and rage unchecked throughout the world. God alone is our only hope and refuge.’ Brother Theo . . . that dear, dear man. Once I had moved from the garrison into Alba House, I found myself more taken up with the church and its many doings. This was in no small part due to Theo’s growing influence in the region. He was a good and capable man, yes, and he rose up the ranks of priesthood to eventually become a bishop. Much of his time was devoted to the various duties and concerns of the diocese, to be sure, but he refused to move from the priest house near the church at Constantia.

“Consequently, we came to see much of one another as my own place among the faithful grew ever more firmly rooted.”

“You served the church,” I observe.

“I served God!” she declares, then softens, “and yes, I served that little church—and Theo.” She smiles at the memory. “That man—gentle as a lamb, but stubborn as a ram. It was impossible to say ‘no’ to Theo. So, yes, I took on duties I would not have imagined—some of them I did not even know about until I was given them! He found me one day tending to the graves in the churchyard—pulling away weeds and grass from the markers, placing a few flowers—small chores, out of remembrance for those I loved. The next thing I know I am dressing the altar in the church!

“I told him that I thought only priests were allowed to do that, but Theo said, ‘The brothers might perform the service out of duty. But you, I think, would do it out of love.’ That was Theo, you see? Well, how could I refuse after that? And I suppose I was just a little flattered to be thought worthy to serve in the Lord’s house. Dressing the altar was not much of a task at all—setting out the cloth, cleaning it when necessary, polishing the sconces, arranging the candles and trimming the wicks—and none of it difficult, much less onerous.”

“You took it on.”

“That and more. A simple enough beginning, perhaps, but from that day my involvement in church affairs grew.”

“That is often all it takes,” I say, thinking how things that are meant to be have a way of catching us up one way or another.

“Well, over the next years, as Bishop Theo’s obligations and burdens increased, so did my own. There was no denying it, the barbarian upheavals were everywhere wreaking havoc and more people were moving into Constantia to escape the attacks, but you know? I learned a curious thing: the greater the chaos and confusion of the world, the greater grows the congregation of God.”

How not? I think. Is it any wonder that in times of turmoil and upheaval folk do often lift their eyes to Heaven for the solace and strength offered by the faith? Great Light, it was ever thus. For where else to find the refuge and relief that only the Good Lord can provide?

Clouds have crowded out the sun and a chill has crept into the air. Aurelia pulls the robe around her and reaches out to give my hand a pat. “You are so kind to listen to an old woman ramble on about times often forgotten.”

I hear in her tone a lament for this fast-receding age, for the fading of a promise of what might have been, of a glory fleetingly grasped and now gone. Aurelia is a solid link to a time, not so very long ago, when Britannia was a valued and functioning part of Imperial Rome. Here was a woman whose life bridged the ever-growing chasm between the old world order and the teeming chaos of the present age. The grand-daughter of a British queen, daughter of a magistrate, and wife of a legate of a border garrison, she had known both the stability and strength of the empire and the anarchy and turmoil of a world drifting toward destruction. I remind myself that when Caracalla in desperation proclaimed Britannia’s freedom from Rome, Aurelia was there; when Valentinian helped himself to the throne of empire, she was there; when the first Saecsen settlements appeared on British shores, she was there. Aurelia remembered all of it and more.

I look at the person before me and see not an ailing woman old before her time, but a woman of courage whose steadfast spirit evinces the best of our race. I see before me not a Roman subject, but a true citizen of the Island of the Mighty.

“Rambling?” I say. “Never that. But, I see that I am tiring you just now. I will leave you in peace, and we will speak again later.”

“My boys,” she says, suddenly earnest. “You will look after them, won’t you? They need you, Merlin. There are difficult days ahead.”

“While I have life and breath, my sole work in this world will be to serve them,” I vow, and if ever I meant those words, I mean them now.

A smile flickers across her dry lips. “Then I am content.” She drifts into silence once more. I allow her this moment, and when she speaks again it is from the depths of weariness, and I watch fatigue stealing over her—at the memory of those trying times in the past? At thoughts of the trials ahead? Or, something more?

“What is it, Aurelia?” I ask. “What is in your mind?”

She glances up at me, hesitates, then decides to speak it out. “You know full well that I am dying, Merlin.” She holds up a thin hand quickly, lest I protest this blunt assertion. “It is the real reason I came back to Britain—to see my sons, to visit my home in Venta one last time, just to see if . . .” She shrugs, letting the forlorn thought go. “I have known since we journeyed to Armorica that Constantia was the right place to live, for my boys to grow up, and now I know that it is the right place for me to die. There is no longer any doubt whatsoever; there is nothing here for me.”

“There may be healing,” I object. “Charis and the priests—”

“Your mother and the good brothers here are a balm and a blessing—truly, they are. And Ynys Avallach is a wonderful place. I cherish every moment here. But nature will have her way in the end. You and I both know nothing can prevent that.” She offers a faint, but perceptive smile, and adds, “I am not of your race, Merlin. I’ll not live forever.” With a gentle shake of her head, she turns her eyes to a horizon grown misty in the falling light. “No, my friend, I want to go home while I still can.”

I see how it is with her and do not try to persuade her otherwise. When she turns to me again, there is unflinching honesty in her faded eyes. “I want to die in my own bed. More than anything else, I want to be buried beside my dear husband—not in a solitary grave in the corner of some unknown churchyard.”

“I understand,” I assure her, though it is not at all where my heart is just now. “Aurelius and Uther will be devastated when they learn you are returning to Armorica.”

“You must not tell them!” She reaches out and takes my hand in a hard, bony grasp. “Promise me you will not tell them.”

“They have a right to know, dear lady. I cannot be the one to keep it from them, or they will hate me for it. I care nothing for that—I am loathed and lauded in equal measure, so be it. But if I keep from them such as I know, then neither of those men would ever trust me with a whole heart again, and that would ruin our work before it has rightly begun.”

“Wise words, I’m sure. They have important work to do uniting Britain—yes, I agree. But, hear me. The last thing I want is for my death to become a distraction in their battle for the throne.”

“They must know, Aurelia. I won’t keep it from them.”

She sinks even further into her chair. The discussion is tiring her. I see it in the lines and creases in her face and know I should let her rest, but I cannot leave before this matter is resolved.

Just then, Brother Ruan appears on the terrace. He has been spending time at the abbey with the priests there, learning something of the healing craft. He smiles uncertainly when he sees us and approaches hesitantly.

“Yes? What is it that cannot wait?” I demand, irritated by the intrusion.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Emrys,” he says. “Pelleas is looking for you. He told me to say that a messenger has come from Lord Tewdrig. He says it is urgent.”

Now I am the one feeling apologetic. “Forgive me,” I mumble quickly. “Of course, I will be there directly—as soon as Aurelia and I have concluded our discussion.” I turn back to her, but already my mind is on Tewdrig and whatever his message may contain. Torn between two competing demands, I quickly weigh the implications of delaying my return to Aurelius’ and Uther’s war camp.

“Well, there it is, you see?” Aurelia says, seizing on the interruption. “You are needed elsewhere. You must go. Do not worry about me. I got myself here and I can get myself home. After all, I am not dead yet.” As she says this, a light kindles in her eyes at a sudden thought. “And that is what you will tell my boys—that I have taken their advice and have gone home to await their victory.”

Here is the solution to our dilemma.

“It will be as you say,” I tell her. “When will you go?”

“Soon—as soon as preparations can be made.”

It would, no doubt, be well for her to remain in Ynys Avallach, but I see her determination, and do not attempt to persuade her otherwise. All the same, I also own the obligation I have taken on to look after her welfare. I dare not leave her alone and I tell her so.

Aurelia counters quickly. “Alone? Hardly that. I’m never alone, Merlin.” She smiles at the thought. “I have Mairenn, don’t forget. She helped me get here, after all.”

“I am certain your maidservant is more than capable,” I reply. “But, if anything happened to you on the way, Aurelius would never forgive me—and rightly so. Indeed, I would never forgive myself.”

“If and if,” she sniffs. “Hear me when I say that if anything barred my son succeeding to the throne that you could have prevented, I would never forgive myself. Or, you, either.”

Well, we are at an impasse. Two willful souls, neither of which can have their way. What to do?

There is a shuffling behind me and Brother Ruan clears his throat. “Excuse me,” he says stepping forward. “Am I to understand that Aurelia wishes to return to Armorica?”

Before I can answer, she says, “That is the nut of it. And the Good Lord willing, that is what I am going to do.”

Ruan regards her thoughtfully. “If you will allow me, I will gladly accompany you. I will see you safely home.”

His offer, unexpected as it is, takes me aback. “You, Brother Ruan? You would do this?”

“Have I not already vowed to be at her service until I am dismissed?” he replies. “Armorica is not unknown to me. My brother and I grew up there, if you recall? I can easily make the necessary arrangements.”

I regard the sturdy young man and again something I noticed the night we met—the span of his shoulders, the breadth of chest and strength of hands, his assured bearing—and I make a guess: “Would I be wrong in thinking you also know your way with a sword and spear, brother?”

“Not wrong in the least!” he laughs, the sound easing the strain we have all been feeling just now. “I rode with Lord Hoel’s warband for two years before taking the cloth. Both Rónán and I trained with Hoel’s warriors.”

“But a life in the saddle was not for you, is that it?”

“I was called to the priesthood and, in short, was sent to Caer Myrddin to begin my service and learn from the bothers there. Rónán followed me,” Ruan explained simply, adding, “My brother rides with Tewdrig’s warband, and I serve in his church.”

“There it is, you see?” exclaims Aurelia happily. “Heaven itself has not only supplied the solution, but smoothed the path. Who are we to object?”

“Who are we, indeed?” I tell her. Turning once more to Ruan, I say, “Thank you, brother. Now, if you would, please go find Pelleas and tell him that I will join him when I’ve finished here. And see that Tewdrig’s messenger is given something to eat and drink, and that the horses are watered and readied. I have a feeling we will be leaving shortly.”

Ruan offers a small bow in acknowledgement, and then hurries away. As soon as he is gone, I return to my place beside Aurelia. “You see how it is. . . .”

“Even the great Emrys cannot be two places at once,” she says lightly, “and I have kept you long enough. You must go.”

I stand and then kneel before her. I take her hands in mine. Her grip lacks strength and her fingers are cold. “It has been an honor to spend time in your presence these last few days,” I tell her, gazing into those pale eyes that have seen so much. “I know how painful it can be to stir up the past, but I thank you for it. Your experience, your knowledge, your memories are gold to me. Know they will be enriching for many in days to come. Thank you, my friend, for entrusting me with such treasure.”

My little declaration embarrasses her and she waves it aside impatiently. “Oh, get on with you. It is nothing of the sort.”

Though she protests, I can tell that some part of her rejoices to have her life so acknowledged. I raise her hand to my lips, kiss it, and return it to her lap. “I must go now,” I tell her. “Unless I am much mistaken, the Island of the Mighty will soon have a new High King. The Good Lord willing, his name will be Aurelius.”

“If anyone can make that happen, it is you,” she tells me. “Thank you, Merlin. I know that Aurelius and Uther are right to trust you. So, I will trust you, too.” Extending her hands to me, she invites a last embrace then pushes me gently away. “You must go. So, off with you. Do convey to my boys my undying love and let them know that whatever happens, I am good hands.”

“As you have been from the beginning,” I tell her. Then, with pangs of regret I have not felt in a very long time, I commend her to the care of Brother Ruan. The events of a wider world are calling me away, and I cannot stay.

“Until we meet again, Aurelia.”

“In this world or the next,” she replies and, raising her fingertips to her lips, wishes me on my way with a kiss. “Go, and may God go before you.”

This is her favorite benediction. It will, I think, also be her last word to me.

* * *

I make my way through the palace to find Charis and take my leave—caught in the traveler’s quandary: anxious to be gone but sad to be going. I suspect Pelleas will soon be waiting for me in the courtyard and with him, no doubt, is Tewdrig’s man bearing whatever urgency has prompted his arrival. That I will learn soon enough. Just now, my thoughts are filled with all that Aurelia has told me.

It breaks upon me that the reason for this dear lady’s survival and long endurance—through attack and plague and slavery and grief and bereavement and every other trial visited upon her—is, like so much else, bound up in the ever-mysterious purposes of God. Why Aurelia, one might ask? Perhaps it was for this: that the feet of those two young men, on whom so much now depends, should remain securely on the path ordained for them. It was for the raising and rearing of Aurelius and Uther—men called to take up the burden of redeeming this time and place, men chosen to keep the flame of civilization alive in this small corner of the world. It was for the saving of whatever is good and worth preserving from the unholy barbarism plundering this worlds-realm that she was chosen.

Aurelia, then was the instrument perfectly crafted and fitted for that very purpose. Aurelia is not only the mother of the next High King, God willing; she is one of the last witnesses to an elder time and also a handmaid of the age to come. One of those specially endowed to receive the virtue of the past, maintain it, and pass it on to those who would have need of its saving grace in the turbulent years to come. And who better?

Who but an unassuming, unpretentious, half-deaf girl from an unimportant backwater on the edge of a fading empire could be trusted to protect the best of her inheritance and ensure its survival? It was not the emperors, God knows! It was not the procurators, the governors, or even the legates and magistrates—forever chasing their own dreams of power and glory—who could be entrusted with such a sacred charge. As all who follow the Way should know by now, it is the humble folk of this world that God chooses to advance his purposes. Amen.

As I consider this—turning it over and over again in my mind like a miller sifting his grain—I begin to glimpse a shape, the form of a tender leading, subtle guiding and directing, occasionally bending the incidents of a lifetime towards an inexorable will. The believing Celts of an earlier age would have called this the undeniable action of the Swift Sure Hand: that steady and steadfast presence, eternally vigilant and endlessly resourceful and, above all, monumentally determined to ensure that its purposes triumph in this world-realm.

In thinking this, I also offer up a prayer that Aurelia—the essential guarantor of our future leaders’ formation and upbringing—will survive long enough to see her work brought to fruition.

Well and well, these are musings to be taken up another time. The day is moving on and we must be moving with it if we are to rejoin Aurelius and Uther in time to make good my pledge to be their counsellor and their guide in the storm-fretted days ahead. I turn my thoughts to the struggle before me—better armed now with the knowledge I have gained from time spent with Aurelia—and more certain than ever that we can prevail and our work at last begun. I turn my thoughts to the next High King of All Britain.



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Framed