Forgotten Prophecies Read online

  FORGOTTEN PROPHECIES

  by Robert Coleman

  Copyright 2013 Robert Coleman

  A short story from the Lost Century of the Dark Ages

  The first in a series of stories of England through the years 550 – 669:

  from the Second Foundation of the Great House at Glastonbury

  to the coming of Hadrian the African with Theodore of Tarsus

  set in Northern France and Southern England,

  571-589

  This next story in this series, Where the Guardian Rests, is set in the years 589-608

  This book is a work of fiction, although some of the characters and events actually existed and are recorded in works by Gregory of Tours and Bede of Jarrow. In certain instances, the author has allowed himself freedom to speculate about the activities of those persons which escaped the historical record.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission by the author, except for brief quotations for review purposes.

  Author’s notes appear at http://blog.robertcoleman.com/

  The author may be contacted at [email protected]

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  FORGOTTEN PROPHECIES

  A short story by Robert Coleman

  In the kingdom of the Franks that is called Neustria (Northern France), c. 571

  “You! Stranger! I want to talk to you! Yes, I can see you! Come out of there!”

  The two fugitives had been discovered. The rasping voice sounded as if it belonged to an elderly Frankish woman, but they were unable to see her from behind the bushes where they had hidden. Exhausted, they crawled out of the ditch, collected their bags and began to lurch on their way along the uneven road again.

  “Stop! Don’t go! I have something important to tell you!”

  For the last week, they had run, walked and finally stumbled slowly along the neglected road from Paris towards the north coast each night. The kind moon had been their only guide; each day they had slept at any remote spot they could find, avoiding the risk of having to answer questions. It was night again now, and they had taken an hour’s rest to draw energy before carrying on into the next dawn.

  They had enjoyed an occasional adventure on the way to lighten their spirits but – concerned that they might betray themselves through their carelessness, brought on by their extreme fatigue – fear had overcome them. And now it was the end: they had been discovered. They collapsed on to the roadside again as the old crone approached them. She seemed harmless, but who could tell?

  “Young man, I can see your past. And I can see your future.”

  Eldred was uncertain whether she was addressing him or his companion Guthlaf. “Yes, you,” she pointed to Eldred.

  He looked up at her nervously. They had escaped from Paris but now, drained and ready to surrender to their fate, they had little care. “I know all about my past, thank you,” he growled clumsily in his best attempt to reply in her language. “I know where I am now – roughly – but I can't see much of a future for me.”

  She looked closer into his face, and her eyes lit up. “Ha! Your accent! You are from the island in the north? The old Roman Britannia? Then I have found the right man, praised be God. I have learned some of the speech of the Cantwara. You can understand me better now?”

  The Cantwara people, in the south-east of the island where he had been born, had a dialect similar to his own. And she switched to it almost effortlessly so he could better grasp her wisdom.

  “You have a future. And it is not here. There are things you must know. The angels compel me to tell you.”

  He shrugged. “Go on, then. Tell me. But I don't have much time.”

  “I know. You have had a hard life; your kin were brutally slain and now you’re running away from a cruel man in Paris, who bought you in the slave market. And you are trying to return home.”

  “I have no home. But it’s true that I’m going back to the land I came from.”

  “You shall have a home: a good home. But I still need to tell you of your past. There is something you may not know. But this is private, between you and me. Can you tell your friend to step away while I tell you?”

  He shrugged. “Guthlaf, can you keep watch for a while?”

  His friend got up slowly and wandered to a position down the road, out of earshot. The old woman continued to look deep into his face.

  “You had a tumble in the hay with a farmer's daughter last week. She called herself Clothilde. Do you remember?”

  “Yes. You're good! Or were you there? Were you watching us?”

  She ignored his flippancy. "This is serious. She is no farmer's daughter. And her name is not Clothilde. I know of her: she is the wayward daughter of a wayward king. And she will one day become queen when she weds a powerful prince, so you must be careful if you meet her. She may remember you.”

  “But that girl was a slut. Not a pretty slut, either.”

  “She may not be beautiful, but she comes from the most noble house.”

  He laughed for a moment. So he had lain with an obscure princess. The world was full of petty princes who called themselves kings, heading families that were always out to cause trouble. "Is that everything? Can we go now?”

  “There is more: much more. When you return to your homeland, you will return to your old wild ways, wandering and grasping what you can. But, one day, everything will change suddenly. I can see beyond the tall, high elm trees. Remember the elm trees. You will meet a young woman who will give you a child. And you will know her when you see her: she has a strawberry birthmark on her thigh.” She pointed to her leg, and continued in her animated fashion. “I see her carrying a great sword in a grand procession before the highest king in the land. She has immense honour placed upon her, for few women are allowed to hold a sword – not even the wife of a king.

  “You will come to settle in her home. And her child... oh, the boy...! He will grow to manhood, and he will be a mighty warlord in your land, the brother of a king and the noble friend of many more kings and princes. More than that, he will...” She paused. Her eyes had grown wild with excitement and she could hardly contain herself.

  His eyes were fixed on hers for a moment, before he sank back to reality. “You've had far too much to drink, old woman.”

  She snarled back at him. “And the Lady Aldeberge paid you too generously for her frolic, young man. Spend it wisely. And make sure you never meet her again.” Her voice was sharp now, having escaped from her euphoric trance.

  “Aldeberge?” He recognised the name. Her father had been no mere princeling: he was the high king of Paris. And her antics were well known. “Was she the girl that I had...?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Her father Charibert is dead now, but his three brothers will come looking for you if they hear of this: the great Merovingian kings – Guntram, Sigebert and Chilperic – will put a price on your head. They will say you raped her, and you will suffer a horrible death if they lay hands on you. Make haste to get back across the Channel.” She looked aside to Guthlaf, standing some distance up the track. “But first I must speak to your friend.”

  “Guthlaf! The old lady wants a word with you.”

  His friend came forward and looked awkwardly at this strange wo
man.

  “The voices are telling me about the Holy Abbot of Menevia. They say that you know Dewi, the man whom we Franks call David?”

  “A very long time ago. My parents put me into his care when I was a boy. I helped him build the new assembly house for the Glestingas –”

  “The Glestingas? At Glastonbury?” she gasped. “I have heard of that place. It has magic.”

  He shrugged. “So they say. I was captured by Saxon robbers – the likes of my friend here – they took me away, I returned to the old gods and I became a rogue like Eldred.”

  The two men laughed.

  The old woman became impatient, and waved Eldred to be silent as she turned to Guthlaf. “Sir, has your hand ever touched the Holy David?” Her tone became one of profound respect towards him – almost reverential – and Eldred was perplexed. His old friend had seldom mentioned his earlier life.

  “Yes,” Guthlaf replied. “He took my hand several times, I suppose. Whenever he laughed. It was a habit of his.”

  The woman fell to her knees and reached for his hand. She kissed the open palm, then the back, and smiled up at him, before struggling to her feet once more and turned to Eldred. “The girl whom I described to you: the voices tell me of a curious coincidence. She has also kissed the hand of the Holy David. I think you will have much to say to each other when you meet.”

  “How will I know her?”

  “Remember the birthmark. And the tall elm trees. Saxon men, I wish you peace and prosperity. Take a boat back to your home. And hurry. May God keep you both.”

  The woman disappeared into the night as quickly as she had first emerged, and they continued on their way.

  At daybreak, they found a place to hide until nightfall.

  “What did that woman say to you?” asked Eldred. “Who is this Dewi that she spoke about? An old friend of yours?”

  “Dewi is a teacher: an old Christian. And I helped him build a house. A church, you could call it. But it seems a very long time ago now. And if I hadn’t met you, I might still be there.”

  “With the Glestingas? At Glastonbury?”

  “Yes. But what did the woman tell you? She wouldn’t say anything to you until I left you alone with her.”

  “It all seemed to tumble out of her mouth, and there was so much. I’m still struggling to remember it all.” He summarised the bare facts; he would meet a young girl with a birthmark, they would have a son who would be a great leader and have many friends in high places, and they would settle down together and have a good life in her hall.

  “That sounds a bit too good to be true,” his companion grinned.

  “Maybe. But she knew about your friend – David, she called him? – and also she knew about my little adventure with Clothilde the farmer’s girl. Except that wasn’t her real name.”

  Eldred stopped speaking when he called to mind everything else the old woman had said. He began to reflect on its import, and was astounded. He had lain with the lady Aldeberge, daughter of Charibert of Paris, the dissolute king of Neustria who had died some three years earlier.

  Guthlaf, who had a gift for remembering gossip, recalled that she had been married to the Lord Ansbert of Moselle and lived in the city of Metz, but he died the previous year. It was commonly held that she had inherited some of her father’s ways, for Charibert had never been able to resist an opportunity to take any woman he fancied. Thus, as soon as Aldeberge’s husband was dead, she was in the care of her uncles, together with her two children from the marriage. But the kings had more pressing affairs to engage their attention in their own territories, and there was nobody to control her behaviour... especially in the company of men.

  So the girl – a dissipated princess – would marry a prince one day, the crone predicted. I pity that man, Eldred thought. But Aldeberge had been charitable to him: she had given him a few coins in thanks for the romp they had enjoyed. They were three gold tremisses – tiny coins that were in circulation among the wealthy – minted from the remains of Roman plunder left behind after the collapse of the Empire. She had probably guessed he was a fugitive. And she had a seemingly limitless source of money, happy to bestow it upon anyone she pleased. He had been astonished, but made no attempt to quarrel with her. The coins came in useful when they reached the end of their long road; they could afford to be generous to the boat captain who took them back across the Channel to Bosham, ready to make their new start in the homeland of Eldred’s original people, the Suth Seaxne – South Saxons – or, as we say now, Sussex.

  * * *

  In the sub-kingdom of Suthrige (now called Surrey, in southern England), c.580

  Nearly ten years later, Eldred was still wandering round southern England with Guthlaf; he now had a growing horde of hunting men, helping themselves to whatever they wanted from the farms that struggled to survive in those hard years.

  Guthlaf had just returned from an intelligence-gathering expedition in the neighbourhood, hoping to hear news of places which might be worth a visit to plunder.

  “Eldred, I’ve heard some news in Godhelm’s market, from traders who’ve arrived from Canterbury.” Canterbury (or Cantwarabyrig) was the chief city of the people then called the Cantwara, the inhabitants of Kent. “It seems that the old woman you met in Neustria all those years back was right.”

  “What are you talking about, Guthlaf?”

  “Don’t you remember her prophecy? She foretold how that royal whore, the lady Aldeberge, would one day marry a prince.”

  “That was a long time ago: more summers than I can count. But what of it?”

  “She’s just been married to Ethelbert, the son of King Eormenric at Canterbury. So, when he dies and Ethelbert succeeds as king, she’ll be queen. You’ll have to be careful if you cross paths with her now, old man. I don’t know many people who can boast that they’ve coupled with the wife of a king. It could be dangerous if you step inside their kingdom.”

  Eldred was astounded: he had almost forgotten the old Frankish woman who had sought him out in the darkness during his escape from Paris. She had made so many crazy promises to him, none of which had seemed to come true, and her words had been discarded from his memory years ago. Now he struggled to recall the other things that she had told him.

  Guthlaf continued. “There’s something else about this news that tickled me. She’s going to change her name.”

  “You took a new name yourself when you became one of us. People are always changing their name, when it suits their purpose.”

  “Ah, but she was going to change it from Aldeberge to Ethelbertha, the female form of Ethelbert, perhaps to symbolise her change in behaviour. But because of her past history, the Cantwara court weren’t happy about her using the Atheling prefix. They think she has lost her right to carry the noble title, so she’ll just be known as Bertha. And, when Ethelbert succeeds as king, she’ll be known as Queen Bertha.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. The French court has provided an old holy man to be her guardian while she’s in Canterbury. I’m told he’s called Luidhard of Senlis, from a big church some way to the north of Paris. He’s here to keep an eye on her, just to make sure she doesn’t stray again and bring the French royal family into further disgrace.”

  “And he’ll be preaching this Christianity to Ethelbert and the king and his court, no doubt.”

  “Oh, no. The word is that they’d never have French priests over here to convert the English. It would lead to the French kings having too much authority and influence on this side of the Channel, and that would never do. Ethelbert is very interested in the power of reading and writing, and Christianity has the monopoly on literacy. So if they did decide to look at Christianity, they’re more likely to approach their top man in Rome, I should think. They’d feel more comfortable having his own priests come over, so long as there aren’t too many Franks among them.”

  He had stopped listening to Guthlaf’s ramblings; his companion seemed to have a vast knowledge of the exploits of
kings and princelings throughout the land, listening to talk from strangers at the market, but enough was enough. His attention was now drawn towards trying to unpick the rest of the old woman’s prophecy. If she had been right about this royal girl’s future, she could be right about the rest of what she had told him.

  But what else had she said that gloomy, distant night? He tried to bring back the episode into his mind: he would find a young woman with a strange birthmark, settle down with her, and have a child who would have a fine destiny as a great warlord and a friend of many kings.

  But when? How much longer would he have to wander from farm to farm, raiding and raping before he found her? That night, and every night for the following week as he went to sleep, he tried to force the crone to return to him in his dreams and remind him of the forgotten prophecies. The woman never came back. He realised he would have to seek out this girl for himself.

  Thus, for the next year or two – when Eldred and his group continued raiding farms – he would have his men get all the women of childbearing age lined up and expose themselves from the waist down to their feet; he would inspect each of them for birthmarks on their thighs before handing them over to his men to do whatever they wished with them. His men joked about it, calling the ceremony “Eldred’s Parade”.

  Some women they had selected on the way became wives to his men, but Eldred chose to take his pleasure with women when he could, discarded them after a while and continued to wait for the arrival of the woman with the birthmark. She was the one whom the gods had ordained for him, and no other; he would take her for his wife and live out the golden years with their son at her great hall.