An Audience with the Sleeping Dragon: The Spear of Longinus

By G L Abrar

Book One:
The Spear of Longinus

A young girl finds herself in the clutches of a monster. Her only hope is to fall back on her love of stories which she discovers is her adversary’s one weakness.

And thus begins her tale of the life and mission of Mary Magdalan and the founding of the early Christian Church in western Europe as together the girl and the monster go on a quest for Spear, Sword, Grael, Robe and Shroud.

Finally her own destiny is revealed.

Religious Fantasy Fiction

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781546289104

Book preview

© 2019 G L Abrar. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/16/2019

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8911-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8912-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8910-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

The story of a young girl who wins her heart’s desire, and earns the love of a very special friend and companion in the caves beneath the ancient City of Vezelay.

The Tale of Oweine

Aelia

Finuviel

The Sorceror of Gaitan and the Love of Li Pao

The Lady of the Mirage

The Spear of Longinus

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

Our heroine can be found in the dark caves beneath Vezelay, made of stone carved partly out of the great granite rock that forms the foundation for this most beautiful of towns. She dwells in an island of mystery within the valley formed by the Camut and Lot rivers and overlooking the misty towers of fair Avalon on the adjoining hillside.

Vezelay is of course the last resting place of Mary Magdalen, brought here by Joseph of Arithamea and honoured by the first Princes of the Clovis family. They built a great church in her honour, long ago, and set in place the Oyster Pilgrimage, the shells of which run from Vezelay in the south to the resting place of the Holy Grael near Camulodenum in the north (in a secret location found amongst the grimoire in the library of our heroine’s great great grandfather, one of the last of the lineage of de Clare family and the Angoevin kings).

Beneath her ancient home are the cellars: caves of shadowed mystery which as a child became her haunt, a place of quest to find the tomb of Mary ... or the sword of Artor ... or the Spear of Longinus … or the Round Table of his paladins ... or the hidden treasure of the Knights Templar. Used in recent years to store wine, these caves had once been the burial place for an early community of Christians, fleeing the persecution of Lyons.

But for a seven year old child, born in the steppes of southern Russia, and brought up as a nomad in the deserts of ancient Persia, these caves were the home of Al ad Din or S in Ba’id, the forty thieves, the Djinn ... and her dragon.

Bearing the flickering flame of a lantern carried unsteadily in her quivering young grasp, Ra’el trod the silent maze of the Troll-carved tunnels, shying away from the lime-formed giants and monsters, their reflections in the pools of pure obsidian-black water following her as she ran and hid, then ran again, until she came to her cave of crystal: a line of diamonds the shape of a dragon’s tail upon the high domed roof of one final cathedral-like cavern, pillared and majestic at the end of which she could see a deep red glow.

Immediately she could imagine that this would be the home of some great and mighty winged lizard, a draco of awesome magic and wisdom, guarding a treasure accumulated over centuries of bloody massacre. And, as often happened, and happens still to this day, when she began to imagine a dragon …

... then there before her was the real thing!

He was sitting in a semi-circle, half asleep, two thin wisps of sulphurous smoke drifting from his nostrils. His coat was a gleaming mass of emeralds, his breast the purest scintillating diamonds, his wings, though folded, still stretched the span of a large aircraft, his head was proud and fierce-some, his mouth and lips sinuous and enticing, his eyes mesmerising, a glowing warmth of humour that showed both love and death ... and from his slavering jaws hung the remains of the leg of a young man, the dragon’s half-eaten breakfast.

She was paralysed with fear and just stood stock-still, but, fortunately for the young girl, the dragon was replete and also had caught her initial look of admiration. Proud worm that he was, he had decided in that instant that company was the order of the day.

Come here child and do not be afraid. For you can see I have already eaten. Come and admire me ... for am I not magnificent?

His voice reminded her of the warm desert winds, a foretelling of storms ahead but also the bringer of release and comfort from the heat of the sun. Both welcomed and feared were those winds and she shivered in joy and terror at his gently delivered command.

So she stepped forward and stood before him, to ask timorously:

Will you eat me?

No little one, replied the monster, the gleam in his eyes noting her blonde hair, elfin face and deep blue eyes (a combination that was a favourite delicacy for dragons she would discover later).

I have eaten and will not eat again until I break my fast on the morrow. It is your company I seek only, conversation to ease the ache of an old lizard’s withered soul. I am wise and yet find more wisdom in every chance encounter and so would ask you, of your kindness, to spend some time with me.

Great and mighty dragon, she replied in courtesy, I am young and have little wisdom, then seeing a flash of anger in his orange whirling eyes which then turned to yellow and crimson, blood-red, she hastily added: But I am a teller of story amongst my former people of the desert lands and if you will accept this alternative, I shall tell you a tale that shall be a companion to us both.

At this, the dragon sat up, and shook himself abruptly awake. Then, so fast it was a blur to her young and untrained sight in the dimness of the cavern, his right claw shot out unsheathed and he dug five long sharp hooked nails into the rock around the girl to surround her in a natural but impenetrable cage. She could see him and he could see and hear her, but she was otherwise trapped within his malicious grasp:

Tell your tale, fair maid, and make it a fine one. For it shall be your last, and on the morrow I shall feast on your fair looks and golden hair, and suck the blood from your veins until your dried bones bleach the floor of my home that you have so foolishly invaded. Tell your tale, little maid ... but know this also: one tear shed by you, or show any fear or lack of respect and I shall kill you now. Your story shall earn you this one day of life prolonged, provided it shall entertain me; make the most of it.

Perhaps another might have been cowed into submission, the horror of their situation depriving them of words, disabling them such that they fell silent before such malevolence, and thus they would have died, incinerated in the wrath of disappointment that followed the shaking silence of fear? But our heroine had faced death and evil intent before and yet lived. So she drew courage from those experiences to stand tall in her prison and glare angrily back at the mighty worm, replying:

Lord Dragon. I have never shown anything but respect for the creatures of this earth: magical or natural. Nor do I need your caged embrace to force me to tell a story! For this is something I do willingly for friends and strangers alike. Give me leave to choose the subject of my fable but threaten me not ... for I already know my fate is in your grasp and my end is likely to be a cruel one.

This silenced the dragon. Indeed, his heart (deeply buried and rarely seen or felt) was touched by this brave yet poignant speech. Despite many years of converse with the victims of his ancient hate, for the first time in a thousand years, the worm felt the loneliness of his own species and thought to himself: Some company would not be amiss. I shall see how the day shall pass. For this maid pleases me.

To the girl, he said simply: Tell your story then, as if to a friend or a stranger. I make no promise other than that you shall die. But I can make that death swift rather than cruel if you shall satisfy me with thy words.

"Then I shall tell the Tale of Oweine, the Lady of the Fountain, as writ upon the crusting, curling, yellowing vellums of an ancient tome within the very caves in which we now converse. It is one of the many tales told of the court of Artor, who lived in this place above our heads, and once named his seat or capital after the rivers that combine here: the city of Camut et Lot or Camelot.

It is this same Artor, whose grave is found beneath the fountains of Avallon on the far hill across from here, whose sword I see in the treasure you seek to guard, and whose knights have fallen in holy quests in the long millennium since his death to find the chalice and spear hidden in the land of Arboria to the north. This is the story of one of his knights, the fair lady he found ... and left to die."

THE TALE OF OWEINE

Perched precariously above the Forests of D’Elcemer, stood the Castle of Caer Malice; its fanged towers and turrets were an evil maw standing seer, sorcered sentry over the winding pass from the deserted town of Heneth to the enchanted city of Carillion.

The seneschal of that castle was a knight whose armour was as black as his soul was dark with deeds of dastard and deadly distasteful delight. Those passing within his realm could expect a warm welcome, a repast of splendid munificence, followed by foul ghoulish murder in the shadows of the night.

This black-hearted knight had a lady: her name was Oweine and she was fair-haired, tall, slender as a reed, gentle of heart and demeanour. She had been taken captive when her father had been strung from the roof of the Great Hall after dinner, to be roasted slowly over the fire that dominated the centre of the banqueting hall for the humour of he who was lord of that mesne. She watched in silent tears as her honoured and much-loved patron tossed in agonised screams to turn into a blackened hunk of smouldering meat, become carcass fed to the hounds that padded the corridors of that terrible place.

That night she had been taken in drunken ferocity, her maidenhood torn asunder in ire and contempt, to be left broken in bloodied disarray, made wife against her will to a heartless heathen, whose one sole object in life was the nihilistic destruction of all that was beautiful.

Her new lord sought to quench her soul and diminish her beauty through his constant malcontent: he beat her night and day, removed her food, left her bound or locked away for days on end. If a guest appeared whom she offered even the slightest of smiles, that guest would be the subject of her lord’s greatest cruelty and torture - the lady forced to watch the torments and her pleas for mercy prolonging the agony for her master’s victims. And so she learnt silence, to look away, to steel herself and appear as stone untouched by the mayhem of her husband. To those who met her she seemed immured and immune to the sin that lay waste around her and in time became as condemned as her lord for the dark deeds in his domain.

Alone at night, she wept and prayed for the repose of the dead, then silently withstood the ritual beatings and rape of her husband. Unknown to her lord, she would then walk the corridors alone and be comforted by the hounds he kept - man eaters tamed by the kind and careful touch of her soft hands, caressed to love by her whose heart remained pure, no matter the despite she suffered.

Then one day she realised she was with child and fearing her lord’s reaction did her utmost to hide this fact from him. His attentions continued each morning and night. Her blood ran from the marks of the lash and the blows to her face but she became radiant, and if anything he grew more angry, incensed by the glow that appeared in her cheeks and so renewed his beatings with fresh vigour.

But with life within her, she could no longer be cowed by him, and this finally drove him from her bed, for he hated to see her in such radiant health. For three months she was confined in peace - in that time the black knight attempted to starve the lady, but the hounds she had befriended would bring her morsels and scraps from their own plates and keep both her and the child in her womb fed. For her, this was a time of blessing and bliss and her spirit began to be refreshed. She remembered her voice and would sing in the mornings and laugh at the stories of the stars at night. Her gaiety became infectious, and the birds and creatures of the forest that had studiously avoided the castle, would come in the dark of night to visit her, bringing news of a world beyond her lord’s demesne where peace and joy and love reigned.

The day came when she was to give birth.

Her lord had for many months left her to herself so she was forced to go through this ordeal without the aid or comfort of a birthing woman. She made what preparations she could, and ensured that she had to hand clothes and bowls of water, herbs and spices to relieve the pain, and a knife ready to cut the cord. She stepped into the fountain at the centre of the courtyard that formed part of her apartments and relaxed into the pain of birth. In that pain she discovered the joy of creation and from the thrashings of agony that night came the hope of new life in the morning.

On the morrow, tired but overjoyed, she held the fruit of her labours in her quivering arms. A son with deep blue eyes as her own whose first cries had welded her heart to his, and who now slept latched on to her lactating breast in the God-made clasp that is his greatest gift to women.

She sent word to her master by the good offices of the guards that stood sentry at the entrance to her apartments. A short message of great tidings: To my loved and honoured lord, greetings. This day I have great pleasure in bearing for you the gift of a son and it was her hope (alas in vain) that through this one act she would be reconciled to her husband and bring him into love with her.

Her husband commanded a feast be held that night in celebration of the news. He summonsed the people of Heneth and Carillion to join him in rejoicing at the news that he was a father with heir. Hundreds of the local nobility were invited to dine with the Black Knight and his lady Oweine in their castle and most accepted the invitation, curious to see whether this would mark the beginning of a new era of tranquillity for the Forest of D’Ecemer.

Into the banqueting hall walked the slender lady of our tale, her child held snug and secure in her arms, whilst she, though wan, still shone with the peace and joy of her fulfilment.

Bring me my son! commanded the laughing baron, whose manners and courtesies that night as host had brought all to believe that the demons that tormented him had finally been cured.

Oweine curtsied then proudly presented their son to him. He took the child carefully and then spoke to the assembly:

Know you this. My wife and I have never lain together and she therefore has been false to me, he lied. This child is not mine but rather the result of her adultery. I condemn her and it, then he dashed the child to the ground, crushing its skull on the stone floor before throwing it in death into the fire in the centre of the hall in whose conflagration Oweine had seen her own father die.

Oweine stood momentarily stunned, then turned and grasped a scalding poker from that same fire. As her lord stood still laughing at his cruel act, she drove it, red hot and aflame, through his breast to strike him dead in a single blow.

The nobles sentenced her to death: a slow death. She was placed in her apartments and walled within them with no company (save the animals of the forest that would visit her balcony). Their judgment was that she should die of starvation as had been her lord’s original intent.

And in time word spread of an evil lord, a Black Knight, whom had been slain by a serpent disguising herself as his evil wife - a woman whom had watched without remorse as the Black Knight’s guests had been murdered for her entertainment and had slain her own husband when discovered to have been unfaithful.

The forest and lands around the Caer Malice appeared cursed: no crops would grow to term; the towns and villages nearby were deserted; birds were rarely seen in the sky; a malignant silence descended upon the place. After a few years, the curse was blamed on she who had been shut away in the castle. A few years more and those who still lived in the shadow of the castle spoke openly of the need to strike down the serpent imprisoned in the black towers above them if they were ever to have release. The odd brave soul would make the attempt but be frightened off by the hounds that now held sway over the keep or by the image of a ghostly lady, whose hand rested spectrally upon the still waters of a fountain in the centre of the deserted bastion.

In the kitchens of far away Camelot, a new apprentice had begun the task of heading the pile of turnips long-gathered in the buttery and awaiting preparation for the stew that would be the main course of the feast in the Great Hall that evening. The young man had arrived from the far cold mountains of Erindor, Fyfedom of the Celt, a stark place but made warm by the bearing of its people. He had announced little about his birth or standing save his name was Gareth, which he liked not for the memories it brought of his homeland. So they looked at his hands and saw they were fair and gentle and named him Gentle Hands (Beaumains) and set him to peel the vegetables for the dinner.

In the fullness of time, but mere days after the arrival of Beaumains, came the story of the black serpent of D’Elcemer who was imprisoned in Caer Malice and had cursed the lands around. Aid was sought from the Knights of the Round Table of Artor at the centre of Camelot.

Alas, the young maid sent as messenger from the villages beneath the castle had met no joy in her task to seek a Knight to quest against the serpent. Those knights present, when the request had been made, had been touched by the girl’s earnestness and clear need for help. But their liege lord, the King, had decreed that Camelot must at all times be defended by a minimum of one third of the Knights of the Table and was himself with the remaining Knights on quest still for the location of the Holy Grael.

In sadness and grief, the maid had been sent to the kitchen to make provision for her homeward journey, to return empty-handed with news that would drive her people to despair. And it was in this state of clear distress that Beaumains first saw the child; his gentle heart wept for her whilst his kindness and charity bid that he do her what assistance it was within his power to command. He knelt before her and asked softly:

Of my honour and for the sake of my heart, what ails thee fair maid that I might remove the badge of thy distress and replace it with the joy that should always adorn thy face?

I seek a knight to slay a serpent was the sad reply between the gulps and sniffs of the sobbing girl.

Beaumains paused. Every fibre of his body wanted him to leap forward and accept the challenge of this lady’s quest, yet he had a purpose here in Camelot and feared the journey to a far-off land to defeat a serpent would distract him from his own intent. But her sobs unmanned him, so he stood before her and then went down again on one knee to make the oath as he had been taught:

Fair lady! I am quested now to do thy bid. My life held now within thy grasp. Should I succeed in thy bidding then honour awaits me here before the grande cathedra of our good liege-lord Artor on my return. Should I fail, but die in honour, then there shall be sweet memory of my passing whenst ere I came. Should I fail and lose all honour then my name shall be cursed for all time in both this place and my place of birth. My body, my might, my honour, my skill and my courage are at thy command. Let me have the details only of thy quest and I shall ride to its ruin or fulfilment, the choice be God’s not mine.

But she laughed then scorned him:

Kitchen boy, what use are you to me? I need someone whom can smite a serpent’s head in a single stroke and yet here are you amidst the turnips ... and I note not one hath had its head removed clean! Enough of your stupid words and of this cursed place! I am leaving now for my home and I hope my people will receive my news with less mockery and more sense than you have shown, you silly boy.

In great dignity, Beaumains stood before her and pledged: I will follow you and I shall amaze you by rescuing your village from the thrall of this serpent. I am pledged now to do this

You my do as you wish she replied. But you are an ignorant kitchen boy and I will ignore you at which she turned her back on him and walked towards the stable to make ready to leave.

Drat the girl, thought Beaumains, and curse these turnips he added as he sliced the top of his finger in his distraction. But his mind was made up and, abandoning his culinary chore, he headed for the stable, to find his old horse and saddle bag, intent on following the lady.

They rode in procession, the lady ahead, alone, aloof, ignoring the stumbling of the kitchen boy who followed to her rear. Our hero in her train, on his father’s aged horse, faltering of gait, frail of foot, doggedly determined to carry the young master through the trials ahead. Our knight supplicant, astride, grasping his saddle bag to his chest, with its precious and yet undisclosed contents, adjusting to the rolling ride of his mount, staring earnestly at the rear of the lady whose quest he must accomplish, hoping for her favour, and receiving nothing but her spiteful scorn in return.

Such was the obvious ordering of this merry party that soon the inhabitants of the villages through which they processed came to their windows or stood on their doorsteps to point and laugh. It did not take long for Beaumains to see the humour in his own situation and join in their jollity, but the lady grew more and more angry until finally she spun round and rode up to him on her destrier:

Must you follow me, boy. You are making me look ridiculous. Go home to your turnips and leave me alone.

Beaumains smiled in good-humoured response:

My lady, I have accepted your quest and no matter what you say or whatever fears you may now have for me, I shall not go back until the quest is completed or I am dead. If you would avoid the laughter, then stay with me and tell me your name and about yourself. They laugh at your anger and my presumption, so let us show them a better face than this and give them no fuel for their scorn.

The lady huffed but then her own sweet nature rose finally to the surface and with a little smile then gay laugh she admitted generously:

Well, you are polite and good-natured company at least. I was in danger of getting a cricked neck from looking around at you to see if you were still behind me. Come, join me. Ride at my side. For I am the Lady Jocelyn and my father is the Notaire in our village.

My sweet lady Jocelyn, I am named Beaumains and am a knight supplicant at your bidding.

What is a supplicant? the lady asked her curiosity aroused.

It means merely that through the performance of this quest I hope to earn the right to go before King Artor and plead my case to become a Knight of the Table replied the boy with gentle hands, at which the lady laughed and then had a fit of the giggles before finally restraining herself enough to chortle:

Are the Knights of the Table beset by turnips? Shalt gentle hands replace the need for gauntlered main? Boy, you shall be mocked ... if ever you survive the serpent!

Thus in silence they rode, until sheepishly looking at him from below her long lashes, Jocelyn laughed once more then nudged him in the ribs and as he nearly fell from his horse cried:

Catch me my hero then smiling at him encouragingly took off at a gallop chased slowly and steadily by her protector, now happy to be in her favour (if not yet in her respectful grace).

In the evening he found them board and lodging, which he paid for from his meagre savings: for her the best room, for him a mat to lie on across the lintel of her door as he guarded her with his life. That first night he saw her briefly, without the cape and cloak in which she hid her features, wearing the green girtle, with raven hair and emerald green eyes, on fire as they looked momentarily at him to wish him peace and convey her thanks for his good service.

On the morrow, he broke fast with her: she was groomed and glittering with the best pearls of her father’s household arrayed in the curls of her hair. Then he saw to their horses that they also be fed and groomed and that their party be well-provisioned, before offering her his escort as though she were a queen and he the kingdom’s champion.

As they rode, still the villagers came and looked. But they no longer laughed as they saw the lady made graceful in the company of such a courteous knight. The days passed towards their destination of the city of Carillion, and Jocelyn and Beaumains grew close, such that they recognised each other’s mood and manner, whim and wish, deed and desire. With friendship firmly set, the foundation for further and fuller fealty between these gentle folk settled, they arrived at their destination and the contest that Beaumains must win to retain his honour and thus seek his avowed destiny.

Beaumains stood at the gates of Caer Malice, the parting words of the lady Jocelyn still remembered:

The serpent is guarded by terrible hounds with many heads that will tear out your throat. The serpent is locked within the centre of the castle and beyond those doors lies a spectre - a white lady whose touch is death. The serpent is also the wife of the Knight who once held this castle. You must defeat the hounds, serpent and the lady for any one of these will overcome you. Slay the serpent and the curse is lifted.

Beaumains marched through the barbican beneath the portcullis and into the main courtyard of the castle keep. It was daylight but the courtyard was in shadow and before him was the entrance to unlit corridors leading to the serpent’s prison. He carried on bravely and then the howling began, at first from a distance within the bowels of the castle, but increasingly louder as he heard the rapidly approaching bounding pad-fell of one of the guards of the palazzo he sought to enter.

Then before him stood a monster with shoulder span of at least six feet, bloodied and slavering jaws, sharp ferocious fangs, deep sharpened unsheathed claws, a hound become wolf through hunger and solitude. It ran ... as Beaumains placed a large juicy slab of red meat before him and stepped back. The hound made a startled joyous yapping barking sound and then bent to sniff before picking up the meat. It started to eat, keeping an eye on Beaumains but the boy was no longer the centre of its attention.

Our hero used this chance to walk slowly around the hound, stopping briefly to allow his gentle hands to caress the point between the hound’s front haunches that was the gateway to a dog’s soul. The hound recognising that kind touch from the daily loving embrace he received from his mistress, straightway stood with the meat hanging from his mouth and followed Beaumains into the keep itself.

Other hounds joined them and each received the gift of food, something they had until that point only been granted by their mistress. To each one the young man became bonded as he offered the touch of brotherhood to the hounds and they accepted him as brethren of the lady of the house, for only she had shown them this kindness before. So they guided him to the lair of the serpent.

Finally they brought him to a circular domed chamber, at the far end of which were two enormous oak doors with intricate iron metal work and stud work, which had been sealed by tearing the great stone shafts for the water causeway that used to run to the fountain within the chamber beyond. Great stones had been piled in a mass of rubble across the entrance way. The chamber in which Beaumains now stood was awash with water from the spring that had obviously once fed the fountain but now pumped out into its antechamber. Through this man-made indoor lake of cold water swam our hero in order to reach the handles of the door on the far side.

On reaching the entranceway, he could see immediately that the doorway had been blocked to prevent anyone from escaping from the chamber beyond, but that on this side the hinges were exposed and could be easily levered out if he could find a cross beam to place beneath one of the heavy oak doors. Such a beam was resting nearby, a roof rafter that had fallen from its original resting place when the causeway had been torn asunder.

Beaumains dragged the beam towards the door then ducked under the water to place it upon a block of stone before easing one end beneath the bottom of the door. The other end of the cross beam was now standing several feet out of the water at an angle.

He swam beyond the beam then dived beneath the water once more: this time to check the depth for where he would be landing as he opened the doorway - he wanted to be sure he did not hit any obstacle beneath the water.

All was now ready. Beaumains climbed a pillar near the door until he was some twenty feet above the cross beam, then leapt and landed feet first on the very far end of the beam. It buckled then sprang back, the force of its energy levering the base of one door off its hinge such that the door crashed down to lie flat beneath the waters that were now rushing into the once sealed chamber beyond.

Meanwhile, Beaumains himself had been sprung forward by the beam to perform a perfect swallow dive into the black waters in the centre of the chamber ... only to be dragged by the head of water as it plunged through the open doorway into Oweine’s apartments.

Oweine stood up from her prayers in time to be drenched from head to foot by a wall of water as it found its former path to the fountain and from there to the aquaduct that had once fed the crop fields in the villages beneath the castle - seer soil would become fertile again.

She turned to face Beaumains, who held his father’s sword in quaking hand and was ready to run her through for the ghast and serpent she truly was. And then she laughed ruefully at the mess he had made of her once tidy chamber. Oweine herself was bedraggled: her hair hung like rat’s tails, her gown clung to her frail thin form, her blue eyes in innocent gaiety captured his gaze and he lowered his blade to return her smile ... as love smote him deeply.

My room needed a spring clean, she chuckled then held out her hand and asked:

To which Knight of great valour do I owe the honour of my rescue? For I am the Lady Oweine. I was imprisoned here by the local people for the slaying of my husband, the Black Knight. My husband slew our only child; and only this last foul act would make me harm him or any other man. I withstood his blows (and briefly she turned to show Beaumains the thousands of lash marks upon her pale white and emaciated back) and his insults and his forced attentions. But he took from me my new born son and that broke the peace within my heart. I regret my act of murder but ask if this punishment I must suffer, to die alone here, is not too severe given the provocation I have received?

At this, Beaumains looked down, temporarily confused, before replying:

My lady Oweine. I am no lawyer or judge and cannot tell you if you are justly punished or not. I can offer to take you before better men than I to judge of this. But I am come to slay a serpent within this chamber that has cursed the land beyond with drought.

At which Oweine laughed so much the tears streamed down from her eyes and then gently stepping forward to take his arm, guided the young man to the balcony of her room where a great water fall of running water could now be seen cascading below them and onto the ancient aquaduct below.

You have succeeded in your quest, my knight she whispered and kissed him gently on the forehead as he turned to her in astonishment at her words For the serpent was no more than the folly of those who trapped me in this chamber. They used the stones of the water causeway to enclose me in here, little knowing that in so doing they would also seal off the water to their own crop fields. The ‘serpent’ is slain, and I am your prize, if this is consistent with your honour and your desire?

He took the fair lady to her bed chamber where his gentleness touched her soul and the manner of his kindness undid all the harm that many years of abuse had rendered upon her. Such was her rapturous response to his careful love-making that he was likewise healed of the lack of confidence that had dogged him in his early maturing years. He found a lover to fulfil his dreams, whilst she found a man to treat her as the child she still was, with care and attentiveness but above all with kindness and loving grace.

But this story is not to have a happy-ending alas. For as time passed and Oweine became increasingly content with her new found love in the peace of her home, Beaumains began to hanker for the Court of Artor, for the destiny that lay in his heart, and above all, an almost lost but still lingering memory for a raven haired girl with emerald eyes. All that is tragic finally came to a head on the day that Oweine told Beaumains with eyes brimming with misty joy that she was once again with child.

You must finish this tale quickly demanded the dragon eyeing the approaching dawn through a crack in the roof of his chamber.

Would you have me ruin the tale in too rapid a telling and thus miss some important part that will leave you afterwards wondering if the tale could not have been improved upon? Ra’el replied and stood once more before the dragon meeting his fiery red gaze with the innocence of her blue eyes.

Wait! responded the dragon and she knew from the paralysis that she now felt that the dragon had used all of his daily magical quotient to cast upon her a spell of wish, that most powerful of ensorcelments but one that can only be used sparingly. To be the subject of such a spell was an honour indeed, although she did not feel particularly flattered at the time.

The dragon flew to the far end of the chamber and then beyond and out of the girl’s sight. She waited for a seeming age, but in reality for a few minutes, no more, and then he returned, blood flecks across his nose and jaws demonstrating that he had broken his fast. Not on the girl, I am glad to say, but still she felt great guilt that her actions had condemned some other poor soul to be the victim to sate this monster’s hunger. She lived on but was unsure that the price paid was something she could willingly bear again - better to die than to be the source of death for another. Yet the wish to survive is strong especially in the very young.

The dragon looked at the girl then smiled and released her from his spell. He held out his claws once more but this time cupped as if a seat for her to sit in.

Come he said. I like this story well. You have recounted it to me long through the night and into morning. And now we must both sleep ... but later today I will require you tell me the end of your tale of the Lady Oweine and then on the morrow I shall eat you. For now, sleep in the warmth of my hand and have no fear of me. My name is Roaring Flamebringer and I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, my little queen.

"My name is Ra’el, recently brought to live amongst ‘the people who are deaf’. I am likewise pleased and honoured to be in your care ... if only for this one night" and Ra’el settled down to sleep, and to dream, she prayed, of stories new to entice this most severe of critics and thus prolong her young and fledgling life.

Ra’el awoke suddenly to a dousing of cold water as Roaring Flamebringer held her gently beneath the clean waters of a waterfall - she shivered in shock and then pleasure as his warm breath heated the water and she had the first of many unforgettable showers in the crystal cavern beneath the Hill. He watched as her shift clung to her, wistfully noticing the lack of meat or anything much to chew, then smiled and with a last blast of hot air, dried her hair into an aureole of silver and gold. Ra’el could see in the green and blue flecks in his eyes that he was content and she herself looked back bravely in respect and awe at his controlled use of his inner flame.

My little queen he spoke respectfully you have slept so deeply I begin to think you must have dragon’s blood in your veins. But my patience is limited and I apologise therefore that I must wake you so abruptly. You have a story to finish and already the sun is past its zenith and night soon approaches. Tell your story to its end and then we shall discuss the manner of your own end.

Ra’el smiled in return at the courtesy of the monster and thanked him for the comfort of the warmth of his breath and his un-shaking claw that had been her bed these hours past. Then, no longer caged by that same claw, but trusted to sit now cross-legged before him as the story-tellers of old, she returned again to the tragedy of Oweine.

Beaumains was overjoyed at the news of the fair Oweine and the child she wouldst bear, yet doubt still ate at his heart. Thus it was, as the lovers sat on the balcony of her apartments to regard the fertile croplands and vineyards that now lay as far as the eye might sweep, he spoke carefully of the sorrow in his heart:

Knowst thou, my fair lady, that there is a thing that doth grieve me despite the solace and majesty and tranquillity of our time together. I am torn, if truth be told, in two. For my love and gratitude to you for the confidence and maturity that your love has enkindled in me and for the joy of a son or daughter that short time shall gift to us, knows no bounds nor boundaries ... and yet.

Here, the young man paused, then stood from the table where they sat and walked to the chamber in which they slept to return with the saddle bag that he still kept from his departure from Camelot. He brought it from its hiding place beneath their marriage bed to rest upon the trestle before them.

He opened it slowly to allow the fair lady to see its contents for the first time: a ring, a quartered, sur-coated tabard and the hilt of a sword.

"These are my fathers. The dying gift of the King of Orkney to me, his youngest of son’s, with a final blessing and a loving behest that I should go to Artor in Camelot, prove my worth and pledge my oath and thus take up arms at the Table where already sit my brothers: Gawain, Yvain and Mordred.

I sought a quest to prove my worth - to destroy a serpent and free a land from oppression. I found instead a fair and loving maid who has bewitched me and holds me life and soul in her gentle palms, and he smiled reassuringly at his companion who sat head bowed attentively but with a growing sense of concern and loss and for whom I would do anything to protect from harm.

My lady, I shalt live with you all my life if you say this must be so and thus break the oath I made to my dying pater. I shall never say more of this and love you unceasingly and without doubt or remorse if this is your desire. I ask merely that you have thought of me and answer this simple question: may I have your leave to fulfil my quest or am I to live as your swain for the rest of my days?

The lady stood unsteadily but her wise and graceful soul already knew the answer she must give though it break her fragile heart:

I wouldst know your name, my gentle handed lord and prince.

I am christened Gareth yet prefer the loving title given in the castle where I once served: call me Beaumains, e’en though I shalt bear another name shouldst I return to Camelot to fulfil my quest.

"Then, my lord prince Gareth, my love, my Gentle Hands, my dearest man; my answer is this: you must in honour complete your quest to the letter and return to the company in which you shall have praise and the fulfilment of your destiny. I ask one favour thus from you: that when you leave, you take our son (for this child seateth forwards in my womb and I feel in the strength of the kicks that he doth give that he is a warrior to be born).

Our son shall grow to be a champion of this world if guided at your side in the company of the greatest Order of Knights this world hast ever known. Let him earn honour as you have in the defeat of evil. I ask therefore that you wait with me three months until our child shalt be born then ride to Artor with my living gift to you and my loving blessing."

At her gentle and considerate words, Beaumains was abashed and yet also joyful in his heart in equal measure; unable to decide how to greet the gift of this loving lady, he stepped gingerly forward to hold her in his arms as she silently wept at the loss she would one day have but still generously proposed.

I will make these three months for you a time of such wonderful remembrance that they shall see you through the brief time I return to Artor. And when the King shall determine my role in his company then I shall send for you that we shall be together again for all time.

She nodded mistily but knew in her heart this would not be true.

Some days later, the nature of her pregnancy meant that she must retire to rest - her body and womb weakened by many beatings in the past, her physicians advised her remain in bed and abhor all exercise even the gentle love-making that had been her greatest joy and comfort.

Beaumains became frustrated; for he was young and lusty whilst passion for the touch of a woman had been awakened in him by the fair Oweine. So, alas, his mind wandered to thoughts of Jocelyn and her raven hair and saucy smile. His cold bed merely served to bring back memories of the nights lying at her door as her protector. Until finally the heat of his desire took him from the castle of Caer Malice to the town beneath it’s still gaping maw and the humble house of its Notaire.

Had he been discreet then no more need be said of this tale save that tragedy would have been averted. But Jocelyn had likewise thought and dreamt of the boy made man whom had rescued her village and was now lord of the manor. She welcomed him and that night began the affair that would finally destroy the lady of our story. Alas, Jocelyn was proud, and could not prevent talk in the taverns in the town of the new trophy she had won through the sparkle of her eyes.

The young knight supplicant gave her a ring as a token of her prowess beneath the sheets of their adulterous bed - a ring given to him by Oweine. It was foul mischance that took the fair lady of the fountain, mere days before her confinement, to enter the village beneath the castle for one last walk amongst its market stalls. She sought out some small gift of silver for the child and some finery as a memento of the birth for the father... but saw instead her own already gifted ring upon the finger of the lover, knew its significance, and her heart was torn apart.

The birth went well, a lusty child was born. A son, named Bedevere by the lady (a foretelling of the hiding place of the Grael haft Beaumains but have known) in rude and clamouring health. She handed the child to her lord and gave him also a parchment which she instructed him read when he wouldst reach the Court of the King Artor:

This is my reference and recommendation to the King; my account of your quest; my last gift to you that will aid you in your quest to be accepted into the company of Knights.

Then she grasped him tight one last time before releasing him as she knew she must to go to the destiny that awaited him.

By her lady in waiting she also did in secret send one further gift for Beaumains: a second letter. Thus it was that Jocelyn did receive a visitor from Caer Malice bearing a message for her from the Lady of the Manor. It was brief but poignant:

"To the fair lady Jocelyn, my greetings from the Lady Oweine.

Alas, that we should never meet, but I knowst thou lovest my prince and it is from that love that I ask this favour of thee. This day he rides for Camelot with our son to become a brave knight in the company there.

It is not my fate to follow him and so I have released him. The church shalt say I was ‘in sin’ for I married the gentle Beaumains whilst still convicted of the murder of my own husband. The court of Artor shalt say I was ‘a demon’ bewitching Beaumains until finally he shouldst be able to achieve his own rescue.

Only you shall know the truth: I love him and it is that love that lets me release him into YOUR care.

Do this one favour for me, I beg. Look after my lover and our son as if both were your own. He loves you, not I, so marry him and make him whole; follow him to Camelot and be his lady. Do not be ashamed of your kitchen boy for he is a prince and the son of King Lot of Orkney, now dead. Marriage to him shalt be the making of you both and this is my last and parting gift to the man who rescued me once from prison and a slow and lonely death.

Oweine, the Lady of the Fountain."

The lady Jocelyn caught up with her prince and their reunion was joyful. She immediately took the child to her own care and loved that child as if her own bringing her much solace when in years to come she was brought to realise that the gift of a child was one denied herself. Together, this new family arrived at Court and Beaumains asked for and was granted audience with the King. That night he stood before the whole assembly to make known his deeds and take his place in that select gathering.

Liege lord, the most noble and honourable King of Briton, I kneel before you, a humble knight supplicant, having completed my quest in order to demonstrate my worth and right to be seated at this most hallowed table. I am a prince and brother to three other Knights already members of this august company but this wouldst not be sufficient were it not also that I come quest-fulfilled to hear your judgement on my actions. The parchment I bear is testimony from the seneschal of the castle and surrounding estate that I have rescued that land from a terrible oppression. I seek your leave to read this statement of support for my supplication.

Beaumains was given leave to read the testimonial and so broke the seal and stood, at first in quiet confidence and then in growing dismay at sight and sound of the words of the Lady of the Fountain as they echoed across the King’s chamber, a telling of the death of a gentle soul whose love for her husband and child had become the focus of her life:

"This brave Knight who stands before you this day has wrought great deeds to the aid of my people.

Know this:

The estate he has freed from a curse was once held under the sway of a ‘serpent’ in the guise of a fair lady known as the lady Oweine. This ‘serpent’ didst hold the lord Prince Gareth captive and captivated for a year and a day in which time the land around saw drought and plague banished through his acts of rescue and love.

This knight didst finally overcome both the ‘evil’ lady’s ensorcelment and the curse laid upon this place to break her charms and slay the ‘serpent’ whose death will see life and prosperity continue in these lands once laid waste in despite by their former lord and senescal.

I swear that this Knight hath both lifted a foul curse through his deeds and also has slain she who was known as both the ‘serpent’ and as the lady Oweine.

Sworn this day by the lawful seneschal and chatelain of Caer Malice.

The Lady Oweine"

As Beaumains read the parchment in distant Camelot, Oweine laid herself gently down into the Fountain in order to fulfil her words to the Court of Artor and thus let her princely lover with the gentle hands achieve her death. She sacrificed her life and her reputation to allow the man she loved to attain his dream. She let the cold crystal waters take her rushing through the waterfall to fall hundreds of feet to the aquaduct below where her crushed and dying body inhaled: and water flooded her lungs. She ignored the dreadful pain as her mind was deprived of oxygen (for she had suffered greater pain before) and turned instead to the white light that approached until it suffused her, blinded her, then finally released her into black nothingness, her sacrifice for her lover accomplished.

She had given birth to two sons by two very different men: the first infant had been slain by the evil of the Black Knight but she had borne the resulting punishment with courage and grace. It was the loss of her second son to a kindly man whom she loved that had slain her: for lost love is far more cruel than hate to a heart that loves.

Beaumains became the favourite of Lancelot and, but for his treatment of Oweine and more particularly the shadow of guilt he felt, Beaumains was the Knight who came closest to the Grael until it was finally found by Lancelot’s son, Galahad, and Beaumain’s own son Bedevere.

Tragically, Lancelot would kill Beaumains by accident when rescuing Guinevere from the trap of Mordred and Yvain whilst Jocelyn was the lady who held out for the death penalty for Guinevere that sent Artor mad and broke the peaceful kingdom of Briton once and for all. Gawain and Yvain also died at Lancelot’s hands leaving Mordred to achieve the final betrayal and allow the pagan Saxons into the land of Albion.

Thus ends the story of Oweine, who gave her broken life to let her son and lover achieve a destiny that would both hold the memory of Camelot alive and also destroy it."

Roaring Flamebringer breathed out a sigh of contentment:

Well told, my little maid. Bravely spoken and cleverly contrived. It is a long time since I have been thus entertained and I wilt be honest and say it doth please me greatly. But now I am in quandary ... for there are still five hours left until dawn and when I break my fast. Howst propose thou we spend such time?

Ra’el laughed in response skipping and dancing before him then said over her shoulder:

I have another story I didst dream of last night. Let me but have something to eat myself of thine kindness and I would be honoured to share this new tale withst thee.

’Tis a new story? asked the dragon tremulously.

None save thee shalt ever hear the telling of it o mightiest serpent she replied smiling up at him.

There is time and your company is delightful. I grant you leave to tell me this second account. If the story is good then I shall bring you some fruit to break your fast before I break mine. I wouldst have you tasty after all, my queen and the dragon lay back, his eyes half open in contented expectation as she drank some of the water in the dark pool beside them, then sat once more before him in the customary story-teller’s pose.

The tale I tell is of the freeing of the great Pallas, civil servant to Emperors and the tutor of the mistress of Vespasian. There is a single line in the account of Suetonius which opens the door to a story of love and adventure. This is the story I shall tell and it begins in the chamber of Tiberius, where a Knight by name of Gallius in his early forties, and with a successful military then legal career to his name, has been granted audience to approach the Emperor and seek admittance to the ranks of the senate.

AELIA

Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus sat in the presbyterium of his palace, his close friend Aelius Sejanus lounging nonchalantly with his arms folded across the back of the great carved curule chair on which the princeps of the whole of the known world sat in state.

He is rich, muttered Tiberius rebelliously.

I can smell the reek of the provinces from here replied Sejanus.

Tiberius was already in his sixties and time had not been kind. Unhappy marriages, an embarrassing political retirement, military campaigns in plague-infested barbaric provinces, an ambitious mother who appeared to have wiped out half of his adoptive family to get her son on the throne, had all left their mark on both his visage and character. Augustus in the last years of his reign used to cry Give me back my legions! of Varus’s defeat in the Teutobregen Forest. Tiberius would just as often cry: Give me back my hair! when he recalled his tortuous route to become the princeps of Rome.

Sejanus, on the other hand, was heroically handsome. Whilst his military career had not been as successful as his friends, it had seen him in combat in much warmer and gentler climates. It had also brought him command of the Praetorian Guard and he was now become Tiberius’ right hand man.

Tiberius’ mother was dead and this had lifted the princeps’ spirits considerably in recent months. His adopted heir Germanicus had yet to be poisoned by the Pisonis, precipitating Tiberius’ disgust at and retirement from politics to Capri, and leaving Sejanus to attempt to become Emperor himself in his friend’s absence. Germanicus, rather, had just successfully celebrated his triumph on the defeat of the Germanic tribes and the recapture of the standards lost by Varus.

Tiberius was very proud of his heir but the three year military campaign with no trade benefit or significant booty in sight followed by the lavish triumph (the first in decades) had emptied the Treasury. The Emperor was very broke.

He is rich ... and we need money, repeated Tiberius.

Tax him or trump up charges and confiscate it!

At that the princeps had laughed out loud and then