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Chapter 18

“This is Addas, my husband’s curate,” Forina said, introducing me to the slender fellow before me. Ten years or so older than me, the cleric was lanky, with a heavy pelt of thick black hair, deep dark eyes, and a wide mouth the curved up at the ends giving him an unfortunate smirk. I regarded my new travelling companion doubtfully. He was dressed in coarse-woven dun-colored short robe, with trousers to cover his bare legs. The robe was cinched by a wide belt of woven leather strands; he had heavy, thick-soled shoes on long feet, a bulging cloth bag over one shoulder and a cloak folded over the other. “Aurelia,” he said, repeating my name in his thick accent. He gave me a little bow. “I am happy to meet you.”

“Glad to meet you,” I replied, and wondered how we would get along together.

Having leaped up from the table the moment Heddwyn had gone, we had fled up the road a little way to a wooden house where Flori told me to wait in the yard. She disappeared inside and came out a short time later with this brown-robed cleric in tow. While he strapped on his shoes, she explained that we were to leave Aberdyfi at once and not look back.

“Addas will take you as far as Caer Gwyn where you’ll meet the road to Deva.”

“And then?”

“And then he will see about finding a wagon or carriage from there.” She gave her husband’s curate a sharp look. “Will you not, Addas?”

“It will be my privilege.” The young man beamed as if this was his sole heart’s desire.

“There, then,” continued Flori. “You two best be on your way before Heddwyn returns or you’ll never get away.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, renewing my original complaint. “Why not go to Cadwgan?”

Flori was already shaking her head. “I do not trust our chieftain as much as does my husband. Heddwyn sees only the good in folk—for all, he’s a priest. But it makes him over trustful, if you know what I mean.”

“Cadwgan Call,” said Addas with a sniff. “There are those who call him Cadwgan Cuall.”

I glanced sharply at him, struggling to make sense of the words.

“Cadwgan the Wise,” he explained, “is more like Cadwgan the Oaf.”

Flori gave him another sharp look and wagged a warning finger. “Never let Heddwyn hear you say that—nor anyone else, either, come to that.” She turned to me and explained, “There is no help to be had from Cadwgan. God forgive me if I demean the man, but he is only interested in what is best for Cadwgan. I greatly fear you would fall foul of one of his schemes.”

“If this Cadwgan is so bad, why does Heddwyn want me to see him?”

“Because our chieftain is liberal to those who honor him and pay him compliments. He gives lavishly and with both hands. He supports clerics in lonely places that would have none otherwise, and he has given lands and money to build churches.” She lowered her voice. “Mind, there are plenty around who say for all his preening, it is the wife of Cadwgan who inspires this abundant generosity.”

She stole a glance behind us on the road. Seeing no one, she continued. “Two summers ago Cadwgan dusted off the old shipwreck and indigent laws and vowed to enforce them. And he does! Oh, yes, he does—for the benefit of none other than Cadwgan himself.”

I had heard of these laws—or at least a rumor of such from my father, but only that. “We don’t have shipwreck laws in the south.”

“Thank the Good Lord and all your lucky stars,” she said, leading me further along the road, leaving Addas to trail a step or two behind. “We are that close to Ireland,” she said, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the sea. “Those rascals come across the Narrow Sea in their coracles to steal sheep and cattle and anything else they can get their filthy hands on. Well, often enough the sea gets the better of them and the rogues wash up on shore—shipwrecked, see. They have no people, no money, starving, half-naked and mostly dead. So, they go around begging and pestering people, stealing when they think no one is looking.”

“They’re a very plague,” Addas confirmed. “I’ve known one or two.”

“We used to try to move them on,” Flori said, “take their trouble somewhere else. But folk around here got tired of having their things pilfered and then peddled in the markets. The cry went up and Cadwgan’s shipwreck law was the answer. So, now anyone found shipwrecked and without money to support himself, or anyone found begging, come to that, is declared indigent.”

I nodded as understanding slowly took shape in me. “I have no money and my ship is gone . . .,” I said. “Am I a shipwreck indigent?

“Oh, you are a clever little thing,” Flori said. “This is my very fear. If you were to go before Cadwgan he maybe would not see a lorn soul abandoned by her travelling companions. No, our top-lofty chief would see a beggar and would sooner declare you indigent than find you another way to Deva.”

“What would happen then?”

“You would be bonded over to someone who paid right handsome for your labor.”

“I’d be sold as a slave?”

“You’d be a bondmaid.”

Slave, bondmaid—all the same in my mind. “You said this Cadwgan was a Christian!”

“He is a Christian, yes, but he is a bad Christian,” she retorted. “Only ever thinking about how to pinch a little more wealth or power for himself.”

“Would he really sell me into bond?”

Flori shook her head. “I honestly don’t know, girl. But if I stood aside and let that happen . . . well, God might forgive me, but I could not. Hard as it will be, this is the better way, believe me.”

I did believe her. And, looking at the rutted road stretching over the hills before me, I thought that however hard the journey, it was better than being a slave to some Aberdyfi pig farmer, or fish monger. And, with the cleric Addas as my protector on the road, I imagined I would not fare so badly.

“If we had more time I could maybe make a better plan. This is the best I can think to do. Now, off with you while you have a chance. I don’t expect they will spend much time looking for you, but you never know.” She leaned close and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Fare you well, child.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Flori,” I told her. “You and Heddwyn have been most kind. I am in your debt, and I will not forget it.”

“Shush, girl. I would do the same for any niece of mine.” She gave me a hug and then stepped away. Addas and I put our feet to the road. I looked back and gave her a wave. Kindly Flori waved back and called, “God with you, Aurelia.”


Merlin and Aurelia

Aurelia proved herself master of a storehouse of local knowledge and our talk ranged as wide as the coastal hill country around us. But as we neared the Venta, Aurelia grew more reticent and, upon approaching the old civitas, she lapsed into silence—contemplating, I suppose, the great collection of memories residing beyond those walls.

The town gates were open. Indeed, they were hardly worthy of the name at all: roughly patched, and mended as if by chance, I doubted the two huge doors even closed at all. There was a gateman—a straggly youth leaning against a spear—he eyed us without interest and waved us along. The carriage rolled into the little town, and Aurelia stirred herself. “That gate is a disgrace,” she tutted. “Such disrepair would never have been tolerated in my father’s day.”

We passed one street and then another, and stopped, climbed from the carriage to stand a moment in the town square where a gang of boys suddenly appeared. No more than seven or eight summers old, they beseeched us for anything we could give them. I directed Pelleas to dispense a coin or two for them to share, and then sent them off. Aurelia watched them run away. “And that would not have been tolerated, either.”

She turned her gaze to the houses and buildings around the square. Some of these were occupied; others were little more than ruins: doorways without doors, without shutters, without tiles, and at least one with a staved-in roof. What was once a busy bakery was now mostly rubble around the cracked, hollow shell of a large oven. There was rubbish of one kind and another piled up against the buildings and half-starved dogs skulked around, heads down, looking thoroughly beaten and miserable. Oddly, aside from the begging boys and the sleepy youth at the gate, there was not another soul to be seen.

My companion sighed and I saw her shoulders slump as she took in the waste of the town that occupied a more exalted place in her memory. “Where was your home?” I asked.

Glancing around, she pointed to a street across the square and started toward it. “Just up the there,” she said.

I directed Pelleas and Mairenn to have a look around to see if they could find refreshment of some kind for the drivers. Then Aurelia and I entered a narrow lane at the north end of the square, passing along a row of houses, most of which were more-or-less better maintained than those fronting the square. Near the end of the lane, we came to a large house with a rusty iron gate. A wide wooden door opened onto the street but, from the look of its warped, dilapidated exterior, that door had not been opened in years. Stepping to the gate beside Aurelia, I could see a courtyard with what must have been a small pool with a stone bench beside it. One pedestal of the bench was broken and the seat lay collapsed on the courtyard flagstones. The pool was empty of everything except weeds.

“Tullius’ official chambers were through there,” Aurelia said, indicating the unused door. “That’s where I spent most of my days.” She looked to the house. Many of the old red roof tiles were missing and had been replaced by slate brought up from somewhere on the coast—the same with many of the buildings within sight. “I wonder who lives here now?”

She had but voiced the question when a little woman appeared in the courtyard carrying a bowl covered with a cloth. The woman did not see us watching, so I called out to her. She glanced toward us. I saw fear sweep across her pinched features, and she almost dropped the bowl. “Peace, good woman,” I said quickly, and gave her a smile. “We did not mean to startle you.”

“What do you want?” she demanded, suddenly angry. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

“We’ll not ask for anything,” I told her, “save a little information. And then we’ll leave you to your work.”

She regarded us warily, but took a few steps closer, clutching her bowl to her breast as if she feared we might try to snatch it away. “What do you want to know?”

“This lady used to live here,” I replied, indicating Aurelia, who was studying the woman closely. “She grew up in this house.”

“Oh, aye?”

“My father was magistrate of Venta,” Aurelia told her. “His office and workroom were through that door.” She nodded towards the weathered door. “I worked for him.”

The woman relaxed somewhat and took another step or two closer. “Did you now? I imagine, you must have been quite young. Your father—what was his name?”

“Tullius Paulinus. Did you—”

Before she could finish a man’s voice called out across the courtyard. “Woman! Where’s that glaze? I’m waiting!”

“Coming!” the woman shouted back over her shoulder. To us, she said, “I never heard of him.”

“He was magistrate here for many years, and—”

“Maybe he was,” interrupted the woman, “but I never heard of him. I’m sorry, I cannot—”

“Celia!” came the call again. “The glaze!”

“I’m needed. I must go.” She turned away just a man in a mud-stained tunic appeared in the courtyard.

“Where’ve you been, you—!” he began, then saw us. “Oh! Ah, yes.” He gave a sheepish smile. “I didn’t know we had visitors. Have you come to buy?”

I explained what we had already told the woman whom I assumed to be his long-suffering wife. “Magistrate, you say?” He pulled a thoughtful expression and rubbed his neck. “I think I remember something about that. Tullius, you say?”

Aurelia nodded. “I’m his daughter.”

“The name wasn’t Tullius,” said the man, shaking his head. “No, it was something else . . . something Roman . . . Lorca, or Lucas, or . . .”

“Lucanus?” suggested Aurelia.

“Aye! That’s it! Lucanus—that’s the one.” He shook his head again. “I heard of him. But that was a long time ago.”

“It would be,” Aurelia agreed. “Can you tell me who is magistrate now and where I can find him?”

The man glanced at his wife, shrugged and said. “There hasn’t been a magistrate here for . . . I don’t know—maybe twenty years or more.” His wife quickly added, “The house was empty when we got it. This is a pottery now. Aled, here, is a potter.”

“Aye,” said the man; by way of confirmation, he pulled out the hem of his tunic to show us the smudges of drying clay. “I’m a potter. If you want to buy something, I could let you in and show you—”

“Thank you, no,” I replied, sensing we’d gleaned all we could from them. “We won’t keep you any longer.” To Aurelia, I said, “Shall we go?”

Aurelia thanked the two for their help, and we retraced our steps to the square.

“Did you want to go inside and see the house?” I asked, thinking I might have been too hasty.

“No, no,” she replied, her voice quietly reflective. “It would have served no purpose.” She thought for a moment, then said, “But I’d like to see the church.” Turning abruptly, she started off. “It’s this way.”

She led me along winding streets to a slightly better kept area of the town; there were a few more people about and they marked us instantly as strangers—some smiled, others frowned, but no one made bold to greet us. We reached the church which, despite a few alterations in evidence—a crude little box of a room had been added to one end of the building, and one section of wall patched with what looked like stones gathered from a riverbed—appeared in better repair than most of the other buildings we had seen. The churchyard was tidy enough, but overgrown and hemmed about with brambles. The church itself stood proud and the carved cross atop the roof seemed to offer some hope that Jesu was yet honored in this place. Aurelia clasped her hands beneath her chin when she saw it. “Oh!” she breathed with relief. “It’s still here. It’s still here. . . .” Her eyes shone with sudden delight. “Let’s go in.”

I opened the low gate and she moved along the path, pausing now and again to look at some of the tombstones. At the arched door, she halted again, reached up and placed her hand flat against the weathered-scarred wood, letting it rest there for a moment as she bowed her head—a prayer? A silent remembrance? The moment passed and she took hold of the latch’s iron ring, turned it, pushed, and . . . nothing. The door was barred. “That is strange,” she said, turning to me. “The church was never locked before. Bishop Bevyn insisted that it remain open at all times—and with a candle burning inside.”

“You there!” someone called. “May I be of service?”

We turned to see an aging priest in a faded brown robe hobbling towards us across the church yard. We greeted him as he neared and he joined us saying, “I’m Brother Sebastian, is there something I can do for you?”

“We are visitors only,” I replied. “We were merely wanting to see inside the church.”

“And you are . . .?” He smiled as he asked, and I sensed a wariness in his manner; I had seen it before—often enough these days when folk encounter strangers.

“I am called Myrddin,” I told him, “and this is Aurelia Paulinus Verica. She grew up here in Venta. Her father was the town magistrate and they belonged to this church.”

Brother Sebastian glanced at the old woman, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “The magistrate you say?”

“Tullius Paulinus,” Aurelia offered. Seeing the man’s look of incomprehension, she added, “Ah, well, it was many years ago. Those I knew are long gone by now—like so much else, it seems.”

“Who was bishop when you lived here?” wondered Sebastian.

“Bevyn was bishop,” replied Aurelia. “Tomos was one of the priests—the one I knew and liked best.”

“Tomos, you say?” Sebastian put a finger to his lips in thought, then agreed, “Yes, that would make sense.”

She leaned close to hear him better. “Do you know him?”

“Oh, indeed I do.”

“You mean he is still here?” she asked, her voice rising in expectation. “He never left?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Sebastian. “Tomos was bishop here for many years, but I knew him only briefly. I came to Caerwent just before he died. His grave is here in the churchyard.”

“Ah,” she sighed, and it was then that the rigors of the journey took their toll and the weight of the past, with its burdens, settled full upon her. She swayed a little, and I moved to closer to keep her on her feet with a supporting arm. Accepting it, she nodded gratefully and asked, “When did he die? How long ago?”

Sebastian tapped his jaw. “It must be just shy of fourteen years, I think. That’s how long I have served here. I never knew Bishop Bevyn, that was before my time.” Reassured by this friendly exchange, he grew more welcoming. “You say you want to see inside the church, yes?”

“Please?” said Aurelia, “It would mean a great deal to me.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Brother Sebastian declared expansively. “Just you wait here while I unbar the door.”

He disappeared around the side of the old stone building and we waited, old memories and blackbird song filling the silence between us. A few moments later, I heard the scrape of a bolt being drawn and a bar being lifted. The door swung open and we stepped into the dim coolness of an unlit church empty as the inside of a discarded shell: no candles, no altar, no cross, nothing. There was not a stick of furniture anywhere to be seen—only dust and cobwebs. There were holes in the roof and a bird’s nest up in the eves.

Aurelia looked around, tears misting her eyes. “Where is—” she lifted a hand to take in the decrepit building, “—everything?”

“I should have told you, we don’t use this building any more. We have a new church at the other end of town near the wall. It’s smaller and easier to keep. There are only two of us priested here now.”

“And the tombs?” said Aurelia, gazing around at the darkened, empty space. “Where are they?”

“I’m sorry to say that, along with most everything else, the tombs were desecrated in the attack. I was not here then, but I assume Bishop Tomos had the remains reburied.” He shook his head. “I don’t know where.”

“An attack you say?” I asked. “What attack was that?”

Sebastian pursed his lips. “Ah, well, I’m told it was during the great Irish raid—a dozen keels or so landed somewhere to the south of here during the night. They came in force and overran the town. Many people were killed and houses burned. The raiders struck at Isca, too. But, as I say, that was some time ago.”

Aurelia nodded sadly, turned, and walked out of the church. I thanked Sebastian for showing us, and left him to lock the door again. She stood in the churchyard, her face raised to the sky, eyes full of unshed tears. “I so wanted to see my father’s resting place once more,” she murmured as I came to stand beside her. “And now I never will.” She sighed again.

“Shall we go back?”

She nodded and we started back the way we had come. Upon reaching the gate, however, Aurelia put a hand to her head and swayed on her feet. “Oh . . . oh!”

Her eyes fluttered in her head. I took her elbow to steady her and keep her from falling over. “Aurelia, are you well?”

Sebastian appeared around the side of the church again and I called to him. “Bring her some water. Hurry!” Supporting Aurelia by the arm, I led her to one of the stone blocks in the yard. “Here, sit down. Rest a little.”

Aurelia waved my help aside. “No, no,” she coughed, “It is . . . it will pass. I am . . .” Her voice faltered and she was overcome by a sudden fit of coughing, collapsing heavily onto the stone. For the next few moments, her body was wracked by a deep and worrying cough; convulsed by it, she was unable to speak.

Gradually, the coughing subsided. She sat, eyes closed, fanning her face with a hand. When she could at last draw a steady breath, she raised her head and was once more herself again. Seeing the expression on my face, she said, “You needn’t look so concerned, Merlin. I expect it was just the heat.”

She and I both knew it was more than that, but she was determined to make light of the incident. She stood slowly and took in a last view of the church—recalling, no doubt, the many services attended with her father—then turned abruptly and started away. She took but two or three steps and stumbled. Instantly, I was at her side and, taking her arm, led her back to her perch on the stone. “Let’s wait for that drink of water,” I suggested. “Look, here is Brother Sebastian.”

The priest hurried to us with a jar and a small wooden cup. He dashed some water into the cup and handed it to Aurelia. She thanked him and drank it down. Handing back the cup, she declared herself much refreshed.

He filled the cup again and handed it back. “Is there anything else you’d like to see?” he asked. “The new church, perhaps?”

“No, no,” replied Aurelia; she drank and returned the cup. “I thank you for the thought—and for the water—but no. I don’t think I want to see anything else.”

I also thanked Sebastian and gave him a silver coin from the purse at my belt, and we left the churchyard. Aurelia did seem better refreshed, but her sudden dizziness raised a worry. “That was not the heat just now, was it?” I said as we passed through the town once more on our way to the carriage.

“I’m an old woman,” she protested. “You know how it is with us.”

There was nothing to be gained in pursuing the matter, so I let it rest. We continued on in silence, each wrapped in separate thoughts and recollections. Upon our return to the town square where the others were waiting with the carriage, Aurelia announced, “I don’t think there’s anything for me here anymore.”

“And your father’s property?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

She sighed, “I don’t know how I’d locate it now—if it existed at all. Venta doesn’t even have a magistrate anymore. . . .”

I thought for a moment. “Come with me to Ynys Avallach. I’d like you to meet my family.”

That is how we came to be on our way to the Summerlands and the Isle of Apples.



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