Camulod Chronicles Book 8 - Clothar the Frank (66 page)

"You have greatness within you, Clothar, and nobility, and God Himself has a design for you to live by. But in order to achieve God's will, I believe you must stay free. Plenty of time to return to the fold later, if your destiny sends you towards the Church. And that is enough of that, I think. Time now to talk of other things."

3

By the time we finished eating it had grown dark outside, and one of the bishop's brethren came in to replenish the fire in the brazier that took up most of the enormous grate. Germanus had always shown a tendency to be cold, even on warm days, and he liked to say it came from having spent far too many years in the warmer countries of the Empire, including Rome itself and Constantinople, to be truly comfortable in the cooler, more temperate climes of his homeland. Now that he was growing older and less resilient, he would add, his body was becoming less and less equipped to deal with chill temperatures and damp, nasty drafts.

When we had finished eating, we made ourselves comfortable in two large upholstered chairs that faced the fire, and Germanus sat staring into the flames for some time without speaking. I of course followed his example, perfectly content to enjoy the unaccustomed warmth of having a fire indoors on a crisp autumn night. The silence was a pleasant one and I felt perfectly at ease, knowing that my mentor would say whatever he wished to say when the time was right. And eventually he did, coming straight to the point without preamble.

"I know I told you before you left for home with Duke Lorco that I had work for you to do, but did I tell you anything of what I meant?"

"No, Father, nothing."

"Hmm." He fell silent again, and I glanced across at him to see whether or not his mouth was pursed in what we students had called the Bishop's Pout, the moue that indicated he was thinking deeply. It was. Presently he stirred again and waved a hand to attract my attention.

"There is fresh, chilled grape juice in the pitcher over there beneath the cloth. Pour some for us, would you?"

When I brought him the cup he nodded in thanks.

"I want to tell you, Clothar, about a friend of mine, a man who lives in Britain. Have you ever heard of the Alleluia Victory?"

Of course I had, I told him. It was legend at the Bishop's School.

Father Germanus, as Bishop of Auxerre, had been sent to Britain to debate the heretical teachings of a British theologian called Pelagius. I had learned about Pelagius from the loathsome Brother Anthony, whose harsh discipline had sent me, and many other boys, to the infirmary. We had learned that the teachings of Pelagius went against the Church in the matter of Divine Grace.

The Church taught that mankind was incapable of achieving salvation without divine intervention on each individual's behalf, in the form of spiritual grace acquired through the sacraments, but Pelagius had proposed the dangerous notion that each individual, made in God's own image, contained within himself a spark of divine consciousness that allowed him to commune directly with God.

Pelagius had argued that the Church's teaching in this matter negated the need for, and the efficacy of, any form of human law. Under the teachings of the Church, when it was reduced to its constituent elements, no man could be condemned for any sin, since he could claim that God had not given him the grace to withstand temptation.

Unfortunately, Pelagius's own teachings, when reduced to their constituent parts, demonstrated that, since each man could speak directly to his God, men therefore had no need of priests or churches. Pelagius had been condemned and his teaching had been declared heresy, but his tenets had appealed strongly to many people, and most particularly so in Britain, where he had amassed a great following after his excommunication and death.

Germanus's role in Britain had been to argue against the heresy in a convocation of British bishops held in the great theater at Verulamium, and on the way there, he and his traveling companions, all of whom were, like himself, Christian clerics unprepared to act as warriors, ran afoul of a band of marauders and would have been killed, had they not been rescued by a contingent of cavalry who happened to be passing through the area at the time on their way to Verulamium. As the horsemen came thundering down to the rescue, the exultant clerics had encouraged them with cries of "Alleluia!" and the tale had grown from one of a simple rescue to a mighty victory over the ungodly.

"Well, the cavalry commander who rescued me that day," Father Germanus said, "was Caius Merlyn Britannicus, from a fortified colony called Camulod, in the west of Britain. He calls himself simply Merlyn of Camulod, and he and I became close friends, even though we had little time to get to know each other. Life works that way, sometimes. Anyway, I saw Merlyn again when I was in Britain several months ago—you may recall that I returned from there just before you left to go home—and he and I resumed our friendship where we had left off. He is a fascinating man, Clothar. Far more so now even than he was when we first met, almost two decades ago. He and I spent much time discussing certain matters of great moment for both him and me, and I made him a promise that I would return within the year to assist him with his plans and to perform a particular service for him." He twisted his face into a grimace. "Alas, the Pope has called upon me to attend a conclave with the senior bishops in Italia, and I am constrained to obey. Unfortunately, that makes it impossible for me to keep my promise to a dear friend, and you can have no idea how deeply that angers and distresses me.

"Merlyn will understand my dilemma when he learns of it, I know, but the thought of merely writing him a letter is offensive to me. That would be too impersonal, and although Merlyn never would think so, I would perceive it as demeaning. And so I decided to ask you if you would be willing to go to Britain and meet with Merlyn on my behalf, to explain why I cannot be there and to carry my suggestions as to what he should do now that I have failed him."

I cleared my throat, and when he looked at me questioningly I asked him if he could tell me about the personal service he was now unable to perform for Merlyn. He nodded.

"I promised him I would officiate at the coronation of his young ward, Arthur. The young man is quite extraordinary. I have never met him in person, but I have been in correspondence with him for a long time, at Merlyn's request, and everything that I have read of his is most impressive. But apart from being scholarly and remarkably self-disciplined in his thinking, he also appears, from all accounts, to be outstandingly responsible in other, equally important areas. If he continues to make the kind of progress he has been achieving in the recent past, then according to Merlyn, and despite his extreme youth—he is a mere two years older than you—he will soon hold overall command of the cavalry forces of Camulod. He is also a devout and dedicated Christian."

There was no hint of condemnation or even accusation in the bishop's voice. "Now, that may cause you and your friends to roll your eyes, I know, but it is of extreme importance to us, within the Church, and I can only ask you to accept my personal assurance on that matter. God's Church in Britain is in great danger at this time, gravely threatened by invading hordes of savage and implacable enemies who are godless and see Christianity as a laughable weakness. The people of Britain, including Merlyn's people of Camulod, refer to the newcomers as Saxon Outlanders, but as such things always are, that name is far too simplistic. It implies that the invaders are of one race and one origin, whereas the truth is nowhere close to that. These so-called Saxons are a mixture of different peoples—Jutes and Anglians, Germanians and Danes, Saxons from the Danube and other, giant, blond-haired people who simply call themselves Northmen. Many of these people—most notably the Anglians—seek only a place to raise their families in peace and free of hunger. Their sole claim to the title of invaders is that they have moved in from beyond the seas, but few of them are fiercely warlike or aggressive. Others among them are, however, and among the most bloodthirsty of those are the real Saxons. Hence the name applied to all of them . . . it is a matter of the basest few earning hatred and fear for all of them.

"It appears, however, that the Saxons have set out to destroy God's Church in Britain, because they recognize it, correctly, as a buttress and a rallying point for the ordinary folk of Britain to come together and withstand the Saxon threat. And so we are receiving reports that within the territories now being held by the invaders, few Christians—bishops, priests or simple faithful—have been left alive.

"The forces of Camulod, properly ranged against the invaders with appropriate backing and the authority of the Church in Britain, could represent the salvation of our Faith. So I have written an episcopal letter to the current bishop of Verulamium, asking him to officiate at the crowning in my stead and to enlist the support of his fellow bishops in the enterprise. That is one of the documents I wish you to take with you when you go."

I nodded my head. "Of course, Father. When would you like me to leave?"

The bishop laughed. "Not tonight, at least," he said, "although I suppose you could, were it necessary. In the hope that you would be willing to do this for me, I have had everything ready for you to take for some time now, since I myself must leave tomorrow, as you know, for Italia. I admit, I was beginning to grow concerned, for both of us, that you might not arrive before I had to leave—but you are here now and nothing is lost. So . . . There is no immediate urgency for you to flee from here but you should not delay unduly, for the autumn gales will soon start stirring up the Narrow Seas between here and Britain, and no sane mariner will embark into the open sea once those begin. If you are tardy and miss the fair weather, you could be stuck on the coast for months on end before you can make a crossing. It happens frequently enough to make the seasoned traveler wary."

"Then I will leave tomorrow."

"Alone?"

There was something in his tone that gave me pause, and I hesitated because I had not even begun to consider what might be involved in this matter. He nodded, his expression grave. "Think about that carefully, Clothar. You may want to find someone to travel with you. I have no doubts of your ability, but you are embarking on a long and potentially harsh journey, filled with unforeseeable dangers, and looking at it purely from the viewpoint of common sense, it would be better not to tackle it alone with no one to watch your back."

"I have a friend who rode here with me. He was with Duke Lorco's party when they came here in the spring and he and I were the only two to survive whatever befell the Duke. He is older than I am, a mercenary and a fine soldier. His name is Perceval and we have become friends. He might be willing to come with me. I'll ask him."

The bishop nodded sagely. "Excellent," he said. "Now let me tell you more of Merlyn and his plans."

For upwards of an hour then, he spoke to me glowingly of his friend Merlyn Britannicus and of Camulod, Merlyn's home, and what it represented. Choosing his words with care, he told me briefly about how two of Merlyn's ancestors, Publius Varrus and Caius Britannicus, had decided to remain in Britain after the departure of the legions and to fend for themselves and their dependants in a self-sufficient colony that they established in their own lands, a colony that had ended up being called Camulod, although the Camulod that they actually built was a stone-walled fortress surrounding an ancient hilltop fort that had existed since before Julius Caesar had landed in Britain four hundred years earlier.

Since its beginnings, the Camulod colony had thrived and expanded, especially after Caius Britannicus became the custodian of hundreds of heavy cavalry mounts abandoned by the armies of the imperial regent Stilicho when they were urgently called home, never to return to Britain. From then on, Camulod had become an equestrian society, and its defenders, who had always been soldiers trained in the Roman tradition, had become heavy cavalry troops, trained in the methods of Alexander of Macedon, whose own cavalry, six hundred years earlier, had conquered the known world and earned their monarch the title of "Great." Camulod's forces were now famed for protecting decency and human dignity within a land where anarchy and chaos had been proliferating now for decades.

Looking me straight in the eye, Germanus told .me that Merlyn Britannicus, the third generation of his family to govern in Camulod, was one of the finest men he had ever known, but that he was even more impressive as a visionary. Born of mixed Roman and Cambrian Celtic blood, Merlyn had been taught by Druids for much of his early boyhood, learning the ways of that religion, but he had also been well and thoroughly trained by his Roman guardians in the classical, traditional methods of learning—including reading and writing, which the Druids lacked—and equally exposed to Christian teachings, so that his education had been far reaching. I found myself unimpressed by that as I listened, but I began to pay much more attention when the bishop moved on to tell me about Merlyn's guardianship of the boy Arthur Pendragon.

This boy was being trained by Merlyn Britannicus not merely to govern Camulod but to govern the entire land of Britain as Riothamus, or High King. Germanus told me that the young man Arthur still had no idea of the destiny Merlyn had in mind for him. The boy believed, rather, that he was merely being raised and trained to be the finest man that he could be.

Any tendency I might have had to scoff at such a high-sounding claim died quickly when I realized that I was in much the same position—not, certainly, in being a king in training, but most definitely in finding myself surrounded at all times by teachers and instructors whom I respected and admired for their integrity, honesty and abilities, and being guided by one towering mentor who was so clearly admirable and incorruptible that the idea of bringing shame or dishonor to him was impossible to think about.

Speaking clearly and explaining his thoughts to me as he went along, Germanus detailed the various things he wanted me to do when I arrived in Merlyn's Camulod. The most obvious of these, and the one requiring least explanation, was the transportation and delivery of a substantial package of letters and documents. Those were for Merlyn's eyes only, and even though the bishop admitted that Merlyn might be one of fewer than a score of non-clerical people in all Britain who still knew how to read—for there had been no schools and no teachers there since the Romans left, four decades earlier—he emphasized the dangers of people perhaps wanting to destroy the missives simply because they could not read and thus felt belittled and insulted. I mulled that point over in silence. It seemed to me that the bishop was exaggerating the danger to the documents.