Beneath a Dragon Sky: Dragon Skies Book I Incipit

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by James Donaldson

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To my wife Elisabeth, my inspiration and my love

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 1

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 2

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 3

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 4

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 5

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 6

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 7

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 8

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 9

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 1 0

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 11

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 1 2

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 13

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 1 4

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 1 5

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 1 6

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 1 7

To Wake Beneath a Dragon Sky

Introduction

The Dragon Skies legends retell the struggles of the latter part of the sixth century in the realm that will become lower Scotland. The books of the legends preserve my vision of the events that led inevitably to the rise ofNorthumbria. A lone man walks through the pages of this dark tome. Lailoken, who becomes Myrddin, one of the three great bards of the ancient Dark Ages, is shaped by fate. A poet, prophet, and warrior, his life, even the small fragments that have come down to us in legend, so changed the land that his very memory has become entangled with Arthur’s great mage, Merlin.

In the late fourth century, the Roman Imperatur Theodosius quelled rebellion in the North of the British Isles. To insure peace, he instituted a policy that served him well in later years on the continent. Each of the British tribal areas was placed under the control of a prefect with regional control from Eboracum (York), the residence of the Comes Brittaniarum, the Count of the Britains. With the fall of Arthur in the early sixth century, Britain yielded up its Roman spirit reaching back deep into the heart of its Celtic roots. Old enmities, long smothered beneath the laws of the empire, flared.

In the period of quiet following Arthur’s death, powerful men, descendants of the Roman prefecti and local British military commanders, stepped in to seal the breaches. Gildas wrote his scathing letters in this age to condemn these new warlords turned kings and tyrants; but to no avail.

Unlike the Middle Age concept of primogeniture or ‘first born’, the death of a Dark Age king resulted in the division of the lands and power amongst his sons, daughters, and any other relative strong enough to claim a familial right. The problems that Gildas railed against were inevitable. Often, the only road to a secure throne was over the bodies of others with kinship claims. Each generation had to rebuild the strength of the previous. In order to maintain power, a king needed a strong war band but a powerful war band required revenues, moneys that the stagnant economy of the island could no longer provide. To survive, a king must conquer his neighbors and often slay his brother. Alliances were made as convenience and circumstance dictated and just as easily broken.

The last alliance of the Celtic North, Y Gogledd, was balanced precariously on the pedigrees and kinships of Coelesius, perhaps the last official Comes Brittaniarum, and the descendants of the Roman prefects: Alclut on the Clyde, Guotodin in the Lothians, York with the Pennine kingdoms, and Rheged. Just as the Southern power of the island died with Arthur, the Northern alliance was to meet its challenge in the half century following the death of Maelgwn ap Gwynedd, the last dragon of the isle, who perished of the yellow plague in or about 547CE.

In the decades following Maelgwn’s passing, the old Coeling dynasty alliances were being stretched. The Bernician Angles were beginning their rise to power that would transform the land. Rhun sat on the dragon throne of his father while his brother Bridei traveled north to become king of the Picts. The grandsons of Coelesius ruled from the Pennines and dreamed of restoring the influence of York.

In extraordinary times, great men are born. Even with the callousness of time and human design, legends cannot be extinguished. Arderydd is a place of magic and legend even as Camelot. The destiny of the North was decided on the plain before its gates. This is the history of Lailoken, whom I believe was the same individual as

Myrddin ab Morvryn, one of the three great harpers of Britain, who was witness to the battle and in its aftermath and the death of his king, went mad.

I have taken the Dragon Skies legends from the fragments ofDark Age poetry and legend, blending history and Celtic and Grail myth with my beliefs of the possible. I have attempted to use the history of the period, using proper names and places where possible, actual historical events, as well as archaeological data where such usage is important. In some cases, I have used more modern variations to make the reading easier. However, I solicit my readers to worry less about the way in which a name is spoken and more on the heart and soul of the characters.

Prologue

The smoke from the village below the fortress rose on stagnant wings, a foul stench of burning cloth and flesh mixed with the resins of the Scottish pine, sweet and sickening. It was an odour that wrenched one’s stomach and churned what little breakfast Kentigern had managed to swallow. It had been a breakfast laced with fear, taken in haste and prayed over with all the fervency the young monk could muster.

Death and sickness clothed the landscape in grays more sullen than the last of the winter’s snow. He had barely slept during the night wrapped in a single blanket near the fire. The flames had licked his face and yet he had shivered with a frosty chill that penetrated up from the stone floor making his night one long misery. He could hear the moans of the sick welling up from the town but they were nothing compared to the grating moans of the dragon. For that is how Kentigern regarded the king, Maelgwn, Dragon Lord of the Blessed Isle. Maelgwn Gwynedd was a veritable giant, dark and dangerous, with a voice that flowed up from deep reserves of power and rang the rafters, and a laugh that sent shivers down one’s spine.

Kentigern fought to maintain his kneeling position, the bile rising in his gorge, remembering all that the king was. He looked at him now in his great bed, sheets wet with sweat and urine, changed hourly by servants with faces covered like the wild hermits of the rocky coastal islets. A great lion of a man, his great form was now wasted away, his skin carved in wrinkles of fever, his black eyes hollow with the look of death. The healers hung about the draped bed like crows dancing around the corn of the field, eager to reach the bounty and yet fearful of approaching.

The constant phlegmic cough of the king overlaid the drone of the priests as they prayed; their intonements for mercy balanced against his liturgy of spittle and profanity. Kentigern squirmed near panic, restless, his knees grinding on the stone, his words of prayer incoherent and rambling, just trying to drown out the coughing, trying to block out the smell of incense mixed with the cloying scent of death. He could hear the croaking whisper asking for a drink, a cry that rang like thunder in his ears. Why didn’t someone answer his need? Why didn’t someone give the king something to drink?

He stumbled to his feet and ran to the bed. Grabbing up the stone pitcher, he hastily filled the goblet and turned to the king. The palsied hands reached eagerly for the cup, spilling the contents over his already spattered gown. Kentigern refilled the cup and steadied the king’s hands.

The fire kindled for a moment in the great lord’s face, the rheumy eyes trying to focus. My son, is that you?

No, my lord. I am only a humble servant of the Church.

The sparkle in his eyes dimmed. Where are my sons? Where is Rhun? Bridei? They must come. A great fit of coughing racked his body, seeming to drain the vitality from him. One of the healers bounded forward trying to ease the king backward onto his pillows, pushing Kentigern to the side.

No! Maelgwn’s rumbling voice crackled as his fist smashed into the man’s face sending him sprawling to the floor. You dark eyed mongrel cur. Leave the boy be. He has done more to comfort me in my dying than all of your foul cures and filthy liquids. He lay back sullenly, the pain etched like crow’s feet in the corners of his mouth. Boy! Come here!

Kentigern hesitantly returned to the bedside, a little fearful, his glance straying to his bishop who watched quietly from a kneeling position near the foot of the bed.

Do you have a name, boy?

Mungho. I mean Kentigern, my king.

Mungho. He smiled for the first time in hours. I can see why you are called ‘dearest one’ for you have brought a moment of joy in a dying king’s heart. He waved away the healer that moved to his side with an angry roar and a swing of his great arm. Stay away. Keep your lies to yourselves unless you want to die before me.

He lay back, breathing hard, an asthmatic quality in his once booming voice. Look, Mungho. Look into my eyes. His smile was a grim tight-lipped mockery. You see death, don’t you? His chuckling laugh quickly turned to a racking cough. His hand clutched Kentigern’s sleeve. When the fit slackened, he lay back and stared at the ceiling. Where are my sons? his voice pleaded.

I do not know, my king. I am sure they will come.

For a moment, Maelgwn lay quiet. His cough relaxed to a rumbling wheeze. He snorted, yelling for his servants to prop him up once more.

Mungho. Bring me something to drink. As Kentigern lifted the pitcher, the king grimaced, whispering, No, dear boy. Something to drink. Some wine or ale.

Kentigern looked around, wondering what to do. The healers were conversing in hushed whispers amongst themselves, so he turned to his bishop for guidance. Dewi was a wise and learned man. He had been bishop at Mynyw for some time and loved the young man that had come to his monastery from the northern frontier. He rose from his position of prayer and walked over to stand beside Kentigern. He looked deep into Maelgwn’s eyes before placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, his smile and nod sending Kentigern dashing for the hall to find a servant.

Kentigern stepped cautiously out into the great hall, his calls echoing against the rafters, bouncing around and sneaking up on him as he turned from side to side searching for a servant. When no one responded, he moved slowly down the aisle scanning the alcoves heading for the doorway to the storehouse and kitchens.

The hall was an immense stone and wood structure stretching over two hundred steps in length and half that distance in width. The central hall was lined with wooden pine beams three hand spans in diameter and banded every dozen hands in copper and bronze. Each beam was carved in intricate detail as if it were alive, still infested with the ivy vines of the deep forest.

Kentigern leaned back looking up into the darkness of the arched roof. He could faintly see the sparkle of sunlight filtering through the flues. The stillness was eerie. He had grown so accustomed to the constant hum of excitement these last few days on the road that the quiet that pervaded the fortress left him wanting to hum to fill up the gap in his thoughts. He stopped for a moment lost in thought as his hand caressed the carvings of the central beam. The sullen atmosphere that lay on the fortress caught his mind, trapping it in a whirling flurry of thought; worry for the king, dread of catching the sickness, hunger mixed with queasiness, and a disquieting loneliness even when surrounded by his fellow monks.

The roar of startled flight above his head sent him running for the door thinking death was after him, only slowing when no skeletal hand clasped him on the shoulder. As the turtledoves resettled themselves in the windows, he took a deep breath trying to slow his racing heart, laughing at his fear. It was a dreary spring when death walked as a silent partner crushing the new bloom of life from the land.

As he stepped lightly across the causeway to the outer buildings, he noted the smoke rising through the vented roof of the kitchen but he could detect no other activity on the grounds. It was as if the yellow death had claimed the entire village and here he was rummaging for wine with only the sound of his boots crunching the still frozen ground to keep him company. Mud splattered him as he inadvertently waded into a vile stream of brackish liquid flowing from a breach in the walls. He hastily backed up, crossed himself, jumped the stream and wiped his boots on the straw that lined the path.

As he stepped into the dim light of the kitchens, he stumbled to his knees caught off guard by the sudden change in visibility. Unseen hands touched him, pawing his hair and face, and a scratchy woman’s voice spoke from the darkness, Here, deary. Let me lift you up and get a good look at you, now.

He scrambled backwards on his knees sending the three women cackling; slowly rising to his feet, trying to compose himself as his eyes adjusted to the preternatural twilight of the smoke filled room.

A little touchy, I’d say. The woman sitting on the right commented before continuing with her work.

He thought they were an ugly lot, reflections of each other at different ages. The one in the middle, frail and skinny, old as one of the gnarled pines growing up on the windswept tops of the Grampian Hills, locked between two fat younger sisters or daughters. Well the youngest might not be so bad if she weren’t so dirty.

I’m sorry to disturb you but the King sent me to fetch some wine.

The old hag smiled a toothless grin, and whispered, So the king wants wine. He should be asking to drink of the blood of your Lord for forgiveness of the many sins he has committed.

The youngest of the three looked up directly at Kentigern, causing him to blush by her forwardness. That’s right, Grandmother. Did he not come to my bed when I was younger and take from me the freshness of my virtue? She smiled a languid grin, locked in an inner vision, crooning to herself. I was pretty then.

The other dark haired woman looked up sharply from her work. Shut up. You were never virtuous or pretty. You probably enticed him.

You’ve no right to say that, Mother. The king is evil. Was he not a priest like this pretty, young man here? She turned to Kentigern. You think I’m pretty, don’t you?

Awkwardly, Kentigern fidgeted, digging his toe into the dirt floor. I hadn’t really noticed. I just came for the wine. The King is thirsty and…I don’t really believe that he is evil. He is the king!

The old lady leaned back her head and laughed before looking at the young boy. Your god uses evil for necessary purposes. For by means of those in whom there is evil, he bestows honor on those who strive for the glory of virtue. Virtue is not virtue if it be untested. Have you not read these words in the letters of your Church, young priest?

Bishop Dewi has said similar things but what has that to do with me and with the king wanting wine?

The Mother smiled before passing the pail of vegetables in her lap to her daughter. It is good that your heart is yet so pure, but don’t walk through your life looking only at your feet.

She rose to her feet and began rummaging amongst the boxes and amphorae against the wall. She really wasn’t fat. Kentigern actually found himself admiring her form, voluptuous and graceful, heavy breasted with long black hair that fell across her face as she bent to her task. He swallowed, feeling ill at ease. Why was he thinking these thoughts? He should not, but when she turned to him holding a golden goblet filled with wine, he found himself looking at her full bosom, his wide eyed stare reflected back in the polished surface of the cup.

I know you are still angry at having to leave your home but you must not let yourself be drawn into the solitary life of prayer and fasting. That is a lonely path. You used to love life. You must seek to share that joy again. You are young. The time of testing is yet to come. That time will come when you return home.

Who are you? And why do you tell me these things?

She pressed the cup into his hands. Take your cup back to the king but he will not be needing it, for it holds not the spirit that would cleanse his soul.

The youngest of the three spun him around and kissed him, taking his breath away before shoving him gently through the door.

The wine sloshed in the cup, crimson dew spinning around the rim just as his head seemed to spin. He raced back to the king’s quarters as fast as his legs could carry him without spilling any of the spirit. Holding the cup carefully, he pushed open the door and paused. Something was amiss. A man stood at the bedside conversing with the bishop while a group of women standing beyond the great bed raised up a keening sound that made his blood run cold. He walked across the space dragging his feet one step at a time still holding the cup before him.

The man turned towards him and almost caused him to drop it, for the face that stared back at him was a younger version of the king’s. But the fire burned bright and hot in these eyes.

What do you want, boy?

The bishop reached out, placing his hand on Kentigern’s shoulder. This is Kentigern. He is one of the young men that came with me.

I came as fast as I could, bishop. I have the wine for the king.

Well, Father won’t be needing it now, Lord Rhun said, taking the cup from Kentigern’s hands. He turned saluting the bed and drained off the wine, throwing the cup crashing against the wall. You couldn’t wait for me as always, Father. You just had to go and die before I had a chance to say my peace.

He held on as long as he could, my son.

Well, not bloodywell long enough. He motioned to the steward. Caninus. Prepare the body. We will cremate him at sunset.

But my son, we have not had a chance to perform the rites. Surely, you would not…

Make haste, lord bishop. I will make no bones about this. We will be finished before full darkness and I will be back in the field away from this sickness. It may seem heartless but it is necessary. Almost to himself he muttered a few words of which Kentigern could only make out the last. I have heard it said that fire cleanses the sickness. Rhun’s eyes scanned the room and came back in defiance. It might even be a good idea to burn it all. Caninus! Take everything here. Burn it. Give the bishop time to perform his ceremonies.

You do an injustice to the memory of your father, my son.

Rhun interrupted the bishop with a flick of his eyes. He looked down at Kentigern and for the first time, there was a hint of sadness there. My father was a hard man for a hard time. But I have no time to mourn him even if I would. He is dead. I am king now! Bishop Dewi, I am tired. I have been in the saddle since well before sunup. I will be in the saddle until the cock crows again. I don’t have time. I find it hard to believe you are even here. Was not Father under proscription by your council?

It is true that there have been problems between the Church and your father. These are dark times and I hoped that this time of illness would give him time to reflect on things and reconcile but the Lord has seen it in his infinite way to take the king back into his embrace. I can only carry his dying words back to the council.

Then by all means carry them. I have no quarrel with the Church. His voice softened as he turned to face the bishop directly. I would even seek your blessing on the beginning of my reign, Lord Bishop.

Do you seek my blessing as a believer or merely as a prince seeking any means to bolster his claim?

Rhun smiled. As you have said many times before, only the grace of God can make a man a believer. He tousled Kentigern’s hair, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. I will be king with or without your blessing. With those words, he strode from the room without a backward glance.

Kentigern was still too shocked by the turn of events. He stared at the form on the bed. It no longer looked like the king. There was something missing, something unreal in the aspect of the face. There was no spirit, no life. A few tears began to flow down his face. I tried to hurry. I came as soon as I could. If I.

Enough, my son. There was nothing that you could have done.

But I wanted to serve him. To make him see again the beauty of Jesu’s love. He didn’t ask for forgiveness from God. Do you think that Jesu understands that he was just trying to be a good king?

We will pray on it, Mungho. But in the mean time, we have a lot to do before nightfall.

Bishop Dewi? Is the future really as bleak as Prince Rhun says?

I don’t know, my son. We must live life and trust to the Lord to see to the future.

* * *

The music of the dragon harp floated on the breeze of the mountain vale, swept down from the heights in soaring, tinkling chords. The song was one of finishing and beginning anew, a rhythm that spoke of death and birth as twin sides of the same coin, dark and mysterious, full of hope and anxiety. With a flourish, Lofernios finished, quietly placing the harp away in its case before rising. He looked at the stars wheeling overhead and sighed. «Farewell, my friend. It is time to greet the new. The cycle must complete before it all can end.»

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 1

Beginning the Cycle

The boys raced through the street, laughing and jostling each other to touch the donkey. Lailoken ran alongside, looking askance at the strange lady that rode the beast’s back. She was covered from head to foot in a layered robe with a hood that hid her face. But it was her voice that entranced him. She sang a melody for which he understood not a word but which delighted him. Its simple rhythm measured the stride of her little beast, the words weaving around the steady clop of the hooves. She turned her head to look down at him and he almost stopped in his tracks for her face was swathed in silk, hidden from view except for her large, dark eyes.

He regained his step and pulled alongside, pacing the beast. One of the other boys raced forward and slapped the donkey on its rump, causing it to bray in protest. Lailoken stared back angrily at the boy, who shrugged. Soon, another boy repeated the feat causing the donkey to kick its hind legs up, almost unseating the woman. Lailoken slowed to come alongside his friends and when Drustan pounded ahead to hit the beast, Lailoken placed his foot forward, tripping him.

Drustan fell headlong into one of the market stalls, stumbling over a table and nearly knocked its contents to the ground. The shopkeeper chased him from the stall with a swift kick.

Drustan ran after the other boys yelling, Lailoken, you did that on purpose.

No I didn’t. You tripped over your own feet, Lailoken hollered back.

The boys all laughed, for Drustan was the tallest and gangliest of the group and constantly getting scrapes and bruises due to his physical awkwardness. If he wasn’t falling down, he was running into things.

Just as Drustan caught up to the rest of the boys, Melleas the priest stepped from a nearby doorway and grabbed him by the collar, hooking his other hand into Lailoken’s. The other boys scattered like rabbits with a hunting dog in their midst.

Well, and what have we here? Melleas said triumphantly dragging the boys down the road behind him. At the shop, he questioned the shopkeeper as to the damages but got little for his trouble. No real harm was done and Rivalin had sons of his own. Besides, why would he want to cause trouble for Lailoken? Nudd was a good lord and even though Lailoken was a little wild, Rivalin knew he was a good boy.

Lailoken twisted loose from Melleas’ grasp, shifting his body down and away. He stepped a short distance away from the priest and calmly smoothed his tunic. With a mischievous grin on his face, he turned and squinted up his face, tilted his head slightly at an angle, and shut his right eye to give Melleas his best baleful look with the left. As usual, it had its expected outcome. Melleas glowered and crossed himself and began a prayer against evil under his breath. This gave Drustan a chance to escape, which he did with all speed. Lailoken casually adjusted his belt and turned on his heels, setting off down the road toward the retreating donkey.

Melleas stood in the middle of the road shaking with anger before heading back towards the other end of the village. Rivalin just shrugged his shoulders, suppressed a little laugh, and went about his business.

At the edge of the village, the donkey stopped. Lailoken ran up and grinned.

Greetings, young lord. I thank you for your simple act of protection.

I should thank you. The day was getting boring and you have made it bearable. He stepped toward the donkey hesitantly. With a look of puzzlement, he stared up at her. Your voice is very beautiful but why do you cover your face?

Perhaps it is a face that is more beautiful than you could bear to look at.

I would enjoy that! he said enthusiastically.

She laughed. Perhaps it is one so hideous that you would stone me from your village if I went about uncovered.

I would find it hard to imagine you as ugly, sweet lady. Even if it were so, I would close my eyes and let your voice speak to me. For how can such a voice belong to anyone not beautiful?

"I find your words very touching. I can see why my father sent me. I have other roads to travel but we shall meet again.