Chronicle of Ages (44 page)

‘And what about Gwynedd's troops, Highness?' Riderich seemed less than satisfied.

‘Gwynedd's troops are needed to defend the coast, as art Conell's men in Dalriada.'

‘As are my men, and Riderich's,' Elidyr protested. ‘And if we can leave major towns less than secure, surely
Gwynedd can spare a few of her Master warriors to aid our cause?'

Rhun nodded in accord, considering this a fair request. ‘I have a couple of legions at Caernarvon that I could send to thee.'

Riderich bowed, appeased by the offer. ‘I shall endeavour to crush this threat quickly, Majesty.'

‘I trust thee will, Riderich,' Rhun replied, fully suspecting that the plot had just thickened considerably.

It would take Riderich at least a month to organise his forces for the attack, and by then Rhun hoped to have discovered the sub-plot that was unfolding underneath the whitewash of this defensive strike.

I
t was with a heavy heart that Bryce bid farewell to Rhun on the steps of the inner bailey at Castell Dwyran, as they had spent every working minute in each other's company for the last ten years. As he moved to bow to Rhun in parting, the High King wouldn't have it. He took up Bryce's hand and grasped it firmly.

‘I cannot imagine making a decision without thee, Bryce.' Rhun placed his free hand on his best friend's shoulder. ‘But, in another amazing emulation of thy father's illustrious career, Gwynedd must again sacrifice her champion to gain a powerful and just ally. Gwynedd's loss be Dyfed's gain … for we shall miss thy counsel dearly.'

As Bryce opened his mouth to return Rhun's sentiment, their attention was drawn to their wives, who were embracing each other and weeping incessantly.

‘Oh for pity's sake, ladies.' Rhun couldn't bear it any more. They'd been like this for days now. ‘If parting be so sorrowful, why dost thou not stay on for awhile with Aella, and come back to Gwynedd when thou art ready?'

‘Thanks awfully, Majesty.' Bryce cringed as the two women were immediately appeased by the idea. Tears turned to excited chatter and laughter, as the women set about organising for the High Queen's belongings to be taken back into the stronghold.

Rhun looked to Bryce and shrugged, with an apologetic look on his face. ‘I shall take them next month.'

‘Good deal,' Bryce chuckled, mischievously.

‘That wast not what I meant.' Rhun began to chuckle also. ‘Still … tempting!' Rhun said with a grin, as they admired the two beautiful women in question. But Rhun and Bryce became straight-faced when Bridgit suddenly recalled that Rhun was leaving, and so headed their way.

‘What am I to do without thee?' Bridgit slid her arms around his neck and gazed up at him fondly.

‘What a coincidence.' Rhun threatened to mention the conversation he'd just been having with Bryce. But Aella was Christian and very pious, and would frown upon such talk, even in jest. Bridgit, on the other hand, if she didn't go for the idea, would most certainly have found it amusing and flattering. Still, whatever Bridgit knew Aella knew and thus Bryce stood shaking his head in the negative with a pleading look in his eyes.

‘Did I miss a joke?' Bridgit noted the looks Bryce and Rhun were giving each other. Thus she clutched Rhun's jaw to focus his attention on her for a moment. ‘Would thee care to delay thy journey an hour or two?' She became amorous, without care for who was looking on.

‘Oh, I see.' Rhun played up his insult and rejection. ‘When thou wast to be parted from Aella it wast all tears and the world was coming to an end. But now that thou art to be parted from me, a quick roll in the sack and thou shalt send me packing happily.'

Bridgit only laughed, as it wasn't so far from the truth, but then, in their bed was the only time she really had Rhun to herself. Back in Gwynedd he would be tied up with the affairs of state, even more so now that he was High King. Better that she stayed here to help Aella settle into her new home.

Young Cadwell and Vortimor got along well despite an age difference of four years. Aella and Bryce's daughter, Chloe, had been born the same year as Cadwell and they were joined at the hip. Chloe and Cadwell had conveniently gone missing this morning and it had taken hours and legions to find them. Now the children would think it was their protest that had succeeded in keeping them together, but in reality nobody in these two families wanted to part — unfortunately, Rhun had to.

 

The next few weeks were a bit of a blur for poor Bryce. There was so much reorganisation to be done and a backlog of state affairs to be seen to, as Vortipor had been sick for some time. He was pleased now that
Bridgit had chosen to stay with them, as she was doing a fine job of making his wife feel at home in the dwelling that had been Bridgit's childhood home.

On this particular afternoon, Bryce had been going through the prison lists and had come across an ‘unknown' entry. He was on his way to speak with the lower dungeon warden, when he happened to spy Vortimor seated on a chair in a hallway all by himself. ‘Art thou alright, Vortimor? Where art the other children?'

The boy shrugged, a sad expression on his face but no tears. ‘I am used to being on my own,' he said, with not a hint of spite.

Bryce's heart melted with the boy's words. He remembered himself as an orphan on the streets of Aberffraw, before the fateful day Tory Alexander had found him. He knew all too well how it felt to be five and all alone in the world. ‘Well,' Bryce swallowed his emotion. ‘I am going down to discover the identity of a mysterious prisoner, would thee like to come?'

Vortimor cocked his head to one side and had a think about it for a second. ‘Sure,' he decided with a shrug, sliding off the chair and ambling along to catch Bryce up. ‘Will he be deformed?' he inquired with interest.

‘Maybe,' Bryce played up the mystery, ‘for if these records art correct, the unknown prisoner has been with us awhile.' He gave the papers to the boy to look over, so that he might feel part of the mission and Vortimor looked them over as if pretending to comprehend the documentation.

Once Bryce and Vortimor reached the lower prison level, they found a warden who was stunned beyond belief to see them. ‘Majesties!' The warden fell right off his chair, which amused Vortimor greatly. ‘Art ye lost?' He scrambled to a kneeling position. ‘The last man I saw down in these parts of the castle was the great Vortipor himself!' The warden played up his character when he saw the noble child was amused.

‘Interesting that thee should say so … for we are looking for an unknown prisoner.' Bryce cued Vortimor to hand over the papers.

‘It wast not my intent to be interesting,' the warden confessed as he took the papers, although he did not bother to look at them. ‘I know who ye have come for, Majesties, for this level of the dungeon be reserved for one prisoner only. The one the Protector locked up all those years ago.'

‘Twenty years according to the record books. Hold on.' Bryce stopped to think about it, figuring that was about the same time they'd taken Aurelius Conan into custody — but Vortipor had reported having him executed shortly afterward. ‘Dost thou know the prisoner's name?'

The warden nodded, warily. ‘But I vowed to the late and great Vortipor that I would never utter it to a soul.'

Bryce rolled his eyes. ‘Just nod if I am right in saying … Aurelius Conan.' When the warden confirmed his guess, Bryce nearly died. He'd hated Conan with a vengeance during the time of his short reign of terror in Gwent, but twenty years in this place was more than the worst of men deserved. ‘How fares
the prisoner?' The thought of finding out made Bryce squeamish, and he was a hardened warrior.

‘I am not permitted to speak with him, only feed him,' the warden explained. He didn't really know what kind of shape the prisoner was in.

‘Then how dost thou know he still lives?' Bryce gripped his head; the sad plight of this soul just got worse and worse.

‘He mumbles to himself sometimes.' The warden scratched his head, a bit dazed by the sudden concern for his charge. ‘And he farts once in awhile,' he concluded, then finding his wits, he humbled himself. ‘No offence to ye, Majesties.'

‘Oh Goddess.' Bryce took a deep breath to fetch up some courage. The last time they'd met, he'd killed Conan. It seemed ironic that now he was here to liberate him. ‘I want thee to wait here for me,' he advised the boy.

‘Thou art not of the mind to go down there, Majesty!' The warden was mortified. ‘Please,' he grovelled on the ground at Bryce's feet, ‘let me go!'

‘I know this man,' Bryce explained. ‘Please, just stay with the lad.'

Not surprisingly the warden was happy with Bryce's instruction. ‘I cannot say how right he be in the head, Majesty,' the warden yelled after Bryce, who didn't respond.

 

Water trickled down the walls of the old stone passageway. Bryce trod warily, as the ground beneath his boots was slippery. The tunnel was lit by a single torch,
which he dislodged from its support in the wall to see his way by. The large cavernous chamber at the end contained only a heavy metal grate in the floor, the lever that raised it, and a few resident rats. To wind the old, iron-chain lever, Bryce placed the torch aside. The archaic mechanism took a bit of muscle to get moving, but after winding it one full rotation, it eased up and moved with less effort. With the heavy grille raised high, Bryce secured the lever, and taking up the torch, he moved toward the opening in the floor.

The stench that flowed from the darkened pit was too overwhelming to breathe through one's nose — even inhaling through his mouth made Bryce gag. ‘Aurelius Conan?' he called down into the void, gasping quietly for the want of fresh air. There came no response but Bryce did hear something moving about below. He didn't want to shine the torch down there for fear of blinding the prisoner, who had obviously not seen light for twenty years. ‘If thou art unable to speak with me, please make some sound to confirm thou art alive?'

‘Vortipor?' a quiet husky voice strained to call.

‘The Protector hast died. It be Prince Bryce of Powys who addresses thee, Conan. Dost thou remember me?'

‘Kill me,' the prisoner wheezed.

‘Aye, I did,' Bryce confirmed, misinterpreting Conan's response. ‘I believed Vortipor had killed thee also and yet here thou still art.' Bryce thought this was a sure sign from the Goddess that this man, for whatever reason, was meant to live. ‘Art thou repentant for thy crimes against thine homeland and her people, Aurelius Conan?'

The sound of weeping came from the pit below. ‘I am,' he announced finally, in an agonised cry. ‘Please take pity. Kill me.'

‘I am not here to kill thee.' Bryce crouched lower, although his sense of smell begged him not too. ‘I am offering thee thy freedom, Conan.'

‘Nay!' he screeched, horrified by the notion. ‘Kill me, please! Please, please, mercy sake's please!' His pleas trailed off as he again collapsed into exhausted tears.

‘Alright.' Bryce agreed, as the prisoner was going into hysterics. ‘I am coming down there. Art thou well clear of the hole?'

‘Aye,' he confirmed between straining for breath.

‘Warden!' Bryce called. ‘Some rope.'

 

As Bryce lowered himself into the pit, the foul stench increased tenfold and as his boots made contact with the floor they slid and sank into the filth that covered it. Bryce had instructed the warden to shine the torch over the pit but not in it. Beyond the slim beam of light in which he stood, nothing could be seen in the darkness of the surrounding dungeon. The rodent population was bigger down here, however. The rats' incessant chatter was almost deafening. ‘Where shall I find thee?' Bryce questioned and heard the sound of something heavy being dragged through the sludge behind him. When he turned to find a slimy, slug-like thing dragging itself towards him, Bryce moved to be of aid.

‘Stay clear of me,' Conan insisted.

In the outer shadow of the torchlight the prisoner raised his head. Only the whites of his eyes could be
seen for the muck and hair that covered his body. It was difficult to assess his physical condition, beyond that he'd lost the use of his legs.

‘End this.' He shaded his eyes against the glare of the light. ‘And leave me here to feed the rats,' he strained to request.

Bryce drew his sword, although only to give the prisoner false comfort. ‘I cannot in good conscience take thy life without first informing thee that thou hast a son … living, breathing and ruling in Gwent.'

Conan's eyes opened as wide as they were able, before he bowed his head for shame. ‘Vortipor's queen,' he uttered, sounding devastated by the revelation.

‘Aye,' Bryce replied, ‘she fell pregnant to thee and died in birthing. But the fruit of her labour hast healed thy Kingdom of all its old wounds, Conan. Thy boy's name be Urien.'

‘Urien,' he mumbled, curling up into a ball as he was reduced to tears once more.

Bryce gave Conan some time to accept this change of circumstance and become somewhat calm, but eventually the stench compelled him to ask the pertinent question. ‘Doth thee still wish to die this day?'

‘I do,' Conan conceded without a second's thought. ‘But clearly, God hast made other arrangements.'

 

To move the prisoner to the main part of the fortress proved a major exercise, as his cell had not been designed for release. A blindfold protected Conan's eyes from the light, and several guards aided Bryce to strap him on a stretcher and raise him out of the pit. A large
area in the servants' quarters was set up as a bathing and swabbing room for the patient. As Conan was in such a horrifying physical state, only the most senior staff were recruited to tend him in a minimal amount of light — for both the comfort of the patient and his carers.

Vortimor had taken a decided interest in the proceedings and was waiting patiently outside the tending area to meet the prisoner once he was considered presentable. The patient's clean-up was obviously causing Conan pain, even though the staff had been instructed to be as gentle with the fragile man as possible. Cries of agony had been resounding out of the area all afternoon, but the clean-up campaign must have nearly concluded, as all had gone quiet.

‘He sure did smell bad,' commented the boy as he wandered across to the kitchen area where Bryce was nibbling on some food that had been laid out ready for supper.

‘Well, thee would smell bad too … stuck down a hole for twenty years.' Bryce passed the boy a piece of pheasant and noted that he'd got Vortimor thinking.

The boy shook his head to reject the food. ‘Why did father do it?' Clearly Vortimor felt for Conan and was glimpsing a side of his late father that he had never before imagined.