Legend of the Emerald Rose: a novel

© Linda Wichman 2005
Published by
Kregel Publicatons, a division of Kregel, Inc.

INTRODUCTION

THE FIFTH CENTURY A.D. saw the gradual collapse of the Roman Empire and, with it, the expansion of Christianity. Yet most of humanity remained entangled in paganism, separated from God by a great chasm. Thus arose superstitions and legends of great men who had crossed that divide and achieved immortality and a restored relationship with God. A man so regarded was Merlin un Hollo Tors. A poetic bard, genius, and superior warrior, Merlin became the first emissary of the Isle of Might as well as a teacher, an advisor/negotiator in Britannia and the larger world. Addressed as the Merdyn, he was perhaps the most misunderstood man of the Dark Ages. His unique abilities were dubbed sorcery, magic—but were they really?

His appearance in our world is cloaked in mystery, and no one records recollections of Merlin ever being either a child or a young man. Pagans claimed he was their enchanter, the offspring of an incubus of the air and a virtuous young woman. Merlin himself asserted he was a descendant of Joseph, son of Jacob, and endowed with unique gifts of discernment and foresight by the God of Israel as well the ability to converse, upon occasion, with God’s angelic legions.

With Merlin came a jeweled talisman, the Emerald Rose of Avalon, a symbol of his people’s faith in the triune God, Jehovah. The talisman had been forged for Merlin’s greatest ancestor, Joseph, who served as governor to an Egyptian pharaoh. The circular bronze and gold amulet held twelve diamond points. Each diamond represented a tribe of Israel descended from Jacob’s sons. Set within the heart of the talisman was an emerald of evergreen color, signifying God’s everlasting sovereignty over Joseph’s descendants.

For generations, members of Merlin’s noble lineage served as high stewards (political advisors) to emperors and kings. It became the duty of Merlin’s forerunners to designate a righteous king and bestow upon this king the Emerald Rose of Avalon.

Respected for his wise instruction and peacekeeping stratagems, Merlin un Hollo Tors became high steward to Uther Pendragon, high chieftain of the Britons of South Wales. Once word of Merlin’s political ingenuity reached the Roman Senate, his council was often times sought by its members.

During the span of his life, Merlin witnessed the grandeur of the Roman Empire and its inevitable fall. Once the Isle of Might was no longer under Rome’s guardianship, conflict there ensued among rival chieftains for control, leaving Britons who wanted to maintain a Roman way of life to fend for themselves.

With King Uther’s health failing, a desperate cry for leadership arose. Thus Merlin engaged a reluctant Romano-Briton warrior to take up the challenge. This man was Lucius Artorius Castus, commonly known as Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon. Arthur remained one of Merlin’s greatest achievements. From the moment of Arthur’s birth, a bond grew between them that no man would ever sever. Under Merlin’s tutelage, Arthur learned of his own Jewish heritage and received Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior.

Unlike his father, Arthur had no design to be king but every desire to ensure peace among the peoples. In all, he fought a dozen campaigns across the Isle of Might, manning the fortresses of Tintagel, Cadbury, and Camelot in Southern Caledonia. If Arthur had ever boasted (which he didn’t), it would have been of his love of command and his accomplishments as a warrior, not of his rule over men. Upon the death of Uther, the chieftains set Arthur on the throne as high king of Britannia and Caledonia.

Arthur’s fervent love for the Isle of Might kept peace between the Britons, along with the Celt and Pict clans—a peace certain Britons abhorred. Challengers arose and Vortigern a former Roman officer was one such usurper. Once Arthur took residence at Camelot in southern Caledonia, Vortigern dismissed Arthur as a threat and declared himself emperor, going so far as to invite the Saxons to leave their home countries and ensure Vortigern’s conquest of the Isle of Might.

When news reached Camelot that Vortigern intended to attack Arthur’s southernmost holdings, Arthur led an army of Britons, Celts, and Picts to block Vortigern’s advance. The battle was brutally long, ending only when Vortigern fell under Arthur’s sword. Still, the war was not won. The Saxon tribes invaded full force and with a new commander, Arthur’s traitorous son, Mordred Pendragon.

Legend has it that Mordred, Arthur’s illegitimate son, had been conceived when Arthur’s half-sister, Morgause, a druid priestess, used a love potion to seduce him. But her plans to become Arthur’s queen were shattered the day Arthur took young Guenevere as his wife. Hungry for power, Morgause vowed that her son Mordred would rule, no matter the cost. With domineering influence Morgause groomed Mordred for the throne, knowing he could only succeed by defeating his father and pressing a victor’s claim before the tribal chieftains.

Merlin foresaw Arthur’s death in battle against Mordred and warned the king of his son’s treachery, advising Arthur not to engage in battle against Mordred’s legion of Saxons. Although the king acknowledged his son’s betrayal, Arthur sought to mend his tattered relationship with Mordred and refused to believe that his son would slay him in cold blood. Merlin and Arthur argued fiercely, and rumors of an alliance between Merlin and Mordred poisoned the land.

At that point, Merlin appeared to vanish from history and another’s manifestation began. This account is of that apprentice who succeeded him and sought to uphold a vow Merlin made to Arthur and Guenevere Pendragon—an oath that would forever alter the course of history. Thus begins the chronicle of Shadoe un Hollo Tors—son of Merlin—and the Emerald Rose.

PROLOGUE

Somewhere, sometime, someone wrote, legend begins where truth ends . . .or is it the other way around?

Caer Tintagel
Southeastern Britannia

’TWAS KNOWN BEFORE the Isle of Britain’s history was put to quill that the bard Grat-Telor was as olden as the hollow tors of the Isle of Might. A crown of moonstone hair framed his cockle features, and though his vision was clouded, his brown eyes sparked with mischief and wisdom.

That dayspring, as always, he sat on an oak stump within view of the ruins of Tintagel, playing a sweet melody on his lyre, his arthritic fingers miraculously never missing a chord. His audience, a gathering of impetuous young lordlings, languished about, waiting for him to speak.

One youth finally urged, “Please, Grat-Telor, amuse us with the legend of King Arthur and Merlin.”

Weary, the bard was not impressed with their thirst for diversion, for he did not relate fables, as was the custom of other bards, but truth alone. Setting his lyre aside, he rubbed his weathered palm across the haft of an ancient staff and deliberately scanned their eager faces. Mayhap, one of these lads will be the righteous king. His desire for this to be so caused him to draw a breath and sigh. “And why wish you hearken to the reminiscence of an old singer of tales?”

“By virtue that you recount with such passion, we almost believe it true,” replied a freckle-faced stripling who sat separate from the others.

Grat-Telor eyed this particular youth and then scowled at the lad’s faithlessness. “Almost? Mayhap I need tell it so well that you will believe, aye?”

Willing nods honored Grat-Telor.

His gnarled hands embraced the haft of the staff, and thereupon he rested his gray-bearded chin.

“Then indeed, lads, I have a tale for you about the legendary Emerald Rose of Avalon, a talisman passed on from the High Steward Merlin to King Arthur, though Arthur Pendragon and Merlin un Hollo Tors are not the innermost characters. First, however, I shall expound about a land called Ayris, from which Arthur’s and Merlin’s forefathers came.”

All but the freckle-faced youth looked confused. “I’ve heard about Ayris, Sire.”

“Have you now?” Grat-Telor sat upright, hearing his backbone creak.

“Aye, ’twas in the Mediterranean Sea and likened to Caledonia’s southwest isle of Arran. Is that so, Milord?”

The bard shut his eyes to savor another’s memories. “Aye, in some regards, but ’twas farther away. Always warm, always balmy. The colors brilliant, especially the birds, dragons, and—”

“Dragons? Were they as evil as folklore proclaims?” another lad chirped.

Murmurs erupted as the lads scrambled closer to Grat-Telor’s sandaled feet.

“Evil?” the man mused. “Hardly. Least not the ones of Ayris. Just because something looks fierce doesn’t mean it’s bad. Similar to people, there are good and evil dragons. Highly intelligent creatures, they are. On Ayris, dragons were protective and loyal to the clan. They guarded the royal family. Why, it is how King Arthur’s surname Pendragon came to be. Alas, the dragons of Ayris vanished when . . .” Grat-Telor felt their wide-eyed stares. He rolled his shoulders back and cleared the emotion from his voice. “’Tis another story, that is, aye?”

They nodded agreement.

“Where was I? Ah, yes. Two vital families dominated Ayris. Merlin’s family was a shoot of Ephraim, blessed son of Joseph. King Arthur’s lineage rose from the tribe of Judah and house of David.”

“But the tribe of Judah never left Israel,” the freckled face lad injected.

Impressed, Grat-Telor eyed the youth. “You have been taught a bit for a lad of your winters. True, but a cluster of Judah’s descendants remained among the ten tribes. The tribes of Israel disobeyed Yahweh, the one true God, and they were punished with defeat in great wars. When the tribes were captured and scattered by the Assyrians, God lead those of Ephriam and Judah who believed the seers to a safe, fertile island, where a soft, steadfast breeze blew from heaven. With time, the inhabitants called that isle Ayris, which means ‘air of God.’”

“And did they bring the faith of Yahweh with them?” posed the same lad.

“Aye, clan Ayris became abundantly blessed. They gave all glory and honor to our Lord God. They had wealth, engaged in commerce, and sailed the world. Because of their obedient love for Yahweh, he bequeathed the Merdyn’s forefathers and his offspring with gifts of foresight, the Breath of Eden, and other abilities not oft known among the sons of Adam.”

“’Twas a special blessing, these inborn memories?” The same youth now stood as if to draw attention.

Annoyed by the boy’s constant interruptions, his peers shot him disparaging remarks and glares.

“I like an inquisitive nature, lad. So do not fear asking questions, any one of you.” Grat-Telor’s firmness rebuked the rest. “I will do my best to answer.”

They each nodded respectfully.

“Aye, one of many gifts the chosen of Ayris inherited. Those of Ephraim’s who had righteous hearts became stewards or magi and they held high positions of influence, while from the house of David came great godly kings like Arthur, who ruled with compassion and wisdom.
Furthermore, Yahweh endowed them with a unique comprehension of science that even Greece and Rome did not possess.”

“Science?” another piped up with a bold smile.

“Aye, the wisdom of Yahweh’s universe swelled within our magi.” Tipping his head, he squinted at the azure sky and gestured heavenward. “Merlin’s great-great-granda foresaw a time when mankind will soar among the clouds like the great eagle.”

“You mean we’ll grow wings?” another quipped.

The bard guffawed and gripped his sides in mirth. “Not exactly. We’ll fly in iron chariots designed with wings.”

Excited voices vibrated the air.

He had their attention. “For centuries, Ayris flourished and erected libraries of knowledge deep within the caverns of their tors. They taught God’s love and were titled ‘peacekeepers’ among the nations. Merlin’s forefathers served as steward-counsel to the royal families of Ayris and advised the kings on political matters of state.

“But a time came when clan Ayris grew prideful in their gifts and turned from Yahweh and took credit for comprehending the science of the stars, wind, sea—the equations of this vast universe. They declared that the anointed gift of foresight was similar to their inherent memories and longevity, as if in their blood. They complimented themselves for their good fortune and spiritual gifts. So Yahweh ordered the sea and the brume of time to descend upon Ayris and conceal it from mankind’s eyes.”

“Why didn’t God destroy it like Sodom and Gomorrah?” one boy ventured.

“King Uther was Aurelius’ great-great-grandscion.”

Another boy asked, “So King Uther, sire of Arthur Pendragon, was of Ayrisian seed?”

“Aye, unlike Merlin, Uther had no inherent memories of his proud birthright, nor did Arthur.

Apparently God divided the gifts so that no one Ayrisian possesses them all. Thus, the knowledge Arthur learned came from Merlin’s lineage, mayhap God’s means to keep their clansmen dependant upon one.

“Originally, the Ayris clan settled the western shores of Britannia and an isle named Wind’s Haven before God wrath descended upon Ayris. In time, they traveled southeast and settled Cornwall, where Uther became a great warrior and king. ’Twas here at Caer Tintagel that Arthur was conceived and born. Do you all know of Uther’s sinful union with the married Duchess Igraine, who later became his wife?”

Heads nodded. Voices raised, and then simmered.

“Aye, that union produced Arthur,” one lad responded. “After Arthur’s birth, King Uther insisted Merlin take Arthur away, safe from those who would have seen him dead. Thus, they went to Caledonia. It was there Arthur grew into manhood.”

“Aye. The rest is history.” Grat-Telor rubbed his arthritic hands. “Even after he returned to Tintagel and became high king, Arthur sensed God drawing him back to those stormy shores that his ancestors once called home. There, he embraced the customs of the Romano-Britons and initiated peace between the Celts, Irish Scotti, and Picts. Arthur’s inborn leadership led him to govern the northern lands of Britannia and Caledonia. His mastery of governing has become an inspiration to all mankind.

“So now bestow me vigilance, young sirs, and I will transport you to the darkest hours following Arthur Pendragon’s death. A time when chivalry scarce endured, but the love of a reluctant enchanter and a most unlikely princess rescued this blessed Isle of Might. Yea, listen to the legend of the Emerald Rose.”

The Legend

Oh, isle of bright Pendragon might,
Gaze upon these vermilion shores
Of scattered limbs and sightless souls.
Behold yer noble Arthur’s slain;
Avalon hast claimed her own.
Yea, the hoary dragon of Satan’s loins
Seizes bondage to your isle
To duel the Almighty Fisher of Men,
And the world defile.
Heaven’s mist veils Splendor Lost
To shield the blossom rare.
This rose of emerald Briton hope,
Shall placate the Celts’ despair.
Yea, he the endmost of Ayris blood
To fulfill the promise told,
Must prick his flesh upon the briar,
To claim the Emerald Rose.
—The Steward Chronicles, Shadoe un Hollo Tors

Chapter One

456 A.D.
NORTHWESTERN SHORES OF BRITANNIA

“Duck!”

The blunt blow sent his short sword flying from his grip, but twelve-year-old Shadoe’s response to that warning delivered him from the battleaxe’s lethal blade. The Saxon warrior cursed his miss and moved to swing again. Like a well-choreographed dancer, King Arthur Pendragon pivoted and wielded Excalibur, slicing the man’s neck muscles and spinal column clean through. The astonished expression of the Saxon’s beard-matted face seared itself onto Shadoe’s memory. A moment later, the man’s head toppled to the boggy sod before his body fell forward.

“Keep your back to mine, lad!” Arthur smacked his fist between the bony shoulder blades of his armor bearer. Before Shadoe could respond, the king caught up Shadoe’s sword and shoved its peat-caked hilt into his hand. “I mean you to outlive me, Apprentice.”

The youth smiled, and for a heartbeat, he held the passionate gaze of his high king’s green eyes. “Aye, Milord, but,” he yelled over the combat’s din when Arthur rushed to engage more enemy warriors, “how can I keep my back to you when you don’t stand still?” Shadoe gave Arthur chase, diving and swerving between quarterstaves, spears, swords, battleaxes, horse hooves, and falling bodies. At such a harrowing time, Shadoe un Hollo Tors rejoiced for his limber build.

From out of the mists, Mordred Pendragon charged through the fray on horseback, wielding his scarlet-stained sword at anyone in his wake, even his ally Saxons and Jutes. Wearing a sardonic smile, his striking face was splattered with fresh blood. Mordred truly was Satan incarnate.

Too late to stop, Shadoe stumbled into Mordred’s path. As Mordred charged him, Shadoe did what he did best. He ducked. Swoosh of a near miss burned his right ear. A horse’s hoof cleared his head. Short sword in hand, Shadoe flipped over backward and landed upright on his feet. Mordred reared his snorting steed and glanced back. Their gazes met—Shadoe and Mordred, first cousins but fighting on opposites sides. Mordred laughed, and then charged off.

Drenched with blood and sweat, Shadoe dove behind an outcropping of rocks and took stock. Mordred could have slain him but hadn’t. Why? The clash of metal and wails of warriors overrode that question. Shadoe had lost sight of Arthur. He spotted Perceval and Tristam, who watched each other’s backs. A short distance away, Cai and Geraint did likewise. Such was the honor code of Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table.

Leaping onto a rock, Shadoe rejoined the combat with a prayer on his lips, “Father God, protect me. Protect Arthur and—”

Shadoe was slammed facedown into the bog. He glanced up to see an enemy’s quarterstaff plunging toward him again. Shadoe grabbled for the haft of his short sword and rolled over, evading the enemy’s weapon. The bloodstained staff rose again in the hands of a young Jute. A direct blow to Shadoe’s skull would be fatal.

“Skewer him, Shadoe!” Lancelot’s voice rang out. With the hilt of his sword, Lancelot rammed the warrior’s back ribs and sent him sprawling over Shadoe.

His sword’s haft braced against his stomach, Shadoe thrust upward. The blade pierced the youth’s stomach and exited his back. The Jute screamed. Blood trickled from his mouth and nostrils before his weight slid to Shadoe’s hilt. Shadoe struggled to push the young man off.

Lancelot du Lac jerked the Jute’s lifeless body off Shadoe’s blade. Offering a gloved hand, Lancelot drew Shadoe to his feet and gave him a brief look. “For your first battle, you are doing well, scion of Merlin.”

At the mention of his father’s name, Shadoe flinched. “I try, Sire.”

“So where’s our high king, Apprentice? You’re to have his back this day.”

“I lost him, Lance. He went—” Shadoe swerved as Lancelot delivered a deadly blow to one Saxon, then another.

Shadoe held his own against the Jute before driving his blade through the man’s heart. Before long, Shadoe guarded Lancelot’s back. Despite his worry about Arthur’s whereabouts, Shadoe fell into a comfortable rhythm with Lancelot. Minutes later, Shadoe saved the Silver Lion from an incoming spear. Pride squirmed into his heart, and with it, newfound confidence. Mayhap war wasn’t hell after all.

~*~

War was hell!

Arthur was dead!

Anguished wails echoed across the battlefield—an altar saturated with sacrificial blood. Celts, Picts, and Britons rent their clothes and cried to the heavens over the loss of the Pendragon. A slate gray mist shrouded the gory carnage, but nothing could conceal the wretched stench of death. Arthur Pendragon’s armor bearer, Shadoe un Hollo Tors, knelt beside his dead master. With blood-coated hands, he held tight to Arthur’s battered helm. His gaze never wavered from the ashen features of his sovereign lord.

An exceptionally large man, Arthur Pendragon lay on his back, clutching his sword Excalibur. A sleeping giant, Shadoe had often called him, for despite Arthur’s lofty height and breadth of shoulders, there had never been a man of gentler heart.

Absently, Shadoe wiped dirt from Arthur’s jaw and pushed the unruly auburn hair off his king’s forehead. That noble brow was no longer tension-creased but masked in youthful virtue. Arthur’s fiery green eyes were forever sealed. Shadoe grieved, for he would never again feel those confident jewels of light gaze upon him.

Oh, to hear his rich voice shouting orders, bursting forth in laughter, and humbling itself in prayer. Oh, Arthur. Shadoe gripped the gilded helm tighter. Why didn’t I foresee this day, why didn’t God spare you and take me? Why didn’t I have your back? Shadow’s brow knit low and tight. Grief, guilt, and ire slashed him through.

The brutal siege assailed Shadoe’s mind, and the events that had led to this tragic morn misted his eyes. It had been a momentous day, when from all corners of Britannia, including the farthest regions of Pictland, chieftains of every tribe rose to support Arthur. Not since before Rome’s desertion had there been such loyal unison on the Isle of Might. With support of the clans, Arthur organized a series of campaigns against the Germanic invaders. The current battle had lasted three days. Once more, Arthur’s troops were victorious, and Mordred had been restrained. Only in the aftermath did the high king’s men discover Arthur himself had been mortally wounded.

Shadoe’s reflections came full circle. Multiple versions of Arthur’s death heated the stagnant air. Had it been a Saxon? Or had the seasoned warrior taken an ill-fated step and fallen upon his blade? Having witnessed Arthur’s final contest, Shadoe and Lancelot knew neither premise true, but they had vowed to their dying Pendragon not to reveal that nineteen-year-old Mordred had slain his own father.

Through grief-veiled eyes, Shadoe gazed at the dust from the retreating Saxons and Jutes. The Britons and Celts had pushed them south from Arthur’s lands. But for what prize? How long before Mordred stormed Hadrian’s again? How long before he marched on the innermost summer realm of Camelot? How would Lady Guenevere defend her people? Of an army more than two thousand strong, nine hundred Celts, Romano-Britons, and Picts had perished. From the head count, another two hundred men were wounded and many missing. Fortunately, the enemy’s loss was greater. Still, Cai, Geraint, and four other brave souls of the Pendragon Round Table had perished.

Shadoe knelt, waiting for a miracle, waiting for Yahweh to return their high chieftain to life. How could God allow this? Arthur had been a godly man. What would happen to his peaceful kingdom of Camelot? Jesu help us, Shadoe prayed heatedly, Arthur is. . .was Camelot!

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