Charles R. "Chuck" Dowling

The Time of the King will take us from Arthur's coronation to his ultimate final battle at Camlan, Briton fighting against Briton, where according to Nennius, “both Arthur and Medraught fell.” We will also follow Merlin as he roams the island looking for Britain 's lost treasures and his lost love. And we will at last understand the full impact of the treachery of Morgan, Arthur's half sister as she seduces her brother to take up arms against their half brother and King

I am old now and I don't see as well as I used to. I write in my journals, using broad strokes and big letters rather than the small tightly packed characters I used to scratch out. Brother Colm teases me that I use twice as much of the berry ink and parchment as I once did to write the same thing.

Colm and his monks have been good to me. Each morning, after I say mass for them—my name is Dubricious and I am a retired Bishop—and share their meager breakfast, they help me and my creaky body up the narrow stairs to the loft at the top of the tower so that I can be closer to God as I record the events of the past and offer my works to our Savior. They have also rigged a woven basket and hoist with ropes and pulleys, so they can raise me up when the day comes that my legs can no longer manage the steep and narrow risers. Then they go about their work, sometimes copying the Holy Scriptures, sometimes translating the ancient Greek and Roman writings, and sometimes working the small plots of stony land that dot our craggy island.

Today, it is pleasant here in the tower. Although the weather is often fierce and biting along this rocky coast, the sun is out this morning and the wind is soft. The great yellow orb that dominates the world like our Father in heaven, although weak right now, is still warming.

I can also see for miles past the rocky headland and out to sea. They tell me that if I could fly like an eagle and if I flew west and a little to the south, I would eventually reach Eire , the land of my birth.

Below me, through the open window, amidst the caws of the gulls and the roiling noise of the gentle breakers I can hear the monks chanting litanies to the saints as they work in the thin soil around the stone minaret. The existence here is sparse. The small band of wiry men—right now there are twelve of them—grow barley, and a little hardy wheat in small patches of land, partitioned off into separate plots by rows of brine bleached stones. They also raise a few chickens and tend a few goats. Every few days they chip mussels from the rocks and they fish with nets, a lobster or crab occasionally becoming, entangled in the hemps strands, lending a little variety to an otherwise bland fare.

We all live in little stone cells that we have erected around the base of the tower. We made of them with our own hands. They are constructed of rocks piled up in a loaf-like shape, without using mortar. Each of us has a straw cot or board for a bed, a table and an oil lamp. A hide covering for the doorway blocks most of the rain and cold. We also wear animal furs and woolens against the chill and the damp. With the exception of myself, most of the scripting and scriving is done in the monks' personal cell or a slightly larger community cell where we take our meals. Pallets have also been arranged in the tower on the upper levels to be used for sleeping at times of siege. If danger threatened, we all would climb to these pallets on ladders and then pull the ladders or stairs up with us. We also keep a supply of dried fish and meat for that eventuality.

Once a month or so, a boat comes out to the tiny island, sent by Fergus' people. They bring the tuns of the fresh water we need—only so much rainwater can be collected in our cisterns—and wine, brandy, some cooking fat, lamp oil and whatever fruit is in season. They also bring news of the outside world.

I have good light right now, so I should continue my writings. I have been recording a history of the rise of my King, Arthur the High King of the Britons and I am nearing its completion. But at the moment, rather than placing the goose feather pen to the soft vellum hide, I am organizing and reviewing my facts in my mind and scratching notes with a charcoal stick on a used and oft purged piece of papyrus.

It has been such a broad and wonderful story; I want to be sure I have all the flavors and nuances in hand before making the commitment to the final writing. And I still have some doubt as to how to end this story, or better, how this story will end itself.

The Saxons and the Angles and the Jutes and the Friesians and God only knows who else was there, after many years of killing and cruelty, were finally beaten and now contained. After the huge and frightening battles around Aqua Sulis and in the valley near the White Horse—Arthur called it Badon—peace came to what we now call Britain. I still shudder when I think about those three days. Thousands had died, mostly outlanders but large numbers of Britons too. The blood mixed with the soil on some of the battlefields was so prevalent that small rivulets of gore ran red for days and the ground remained a ruddy muck for weeks.

Giant detention camps were set up for the thoroughly chastened invaders so that order could be maintained. Then little by little, most of them went home. Some were allowed to stay in other tightly controlled enclaves however. I am pleased to relate that I had something to do with that. Many of the Saxons and the Angles had, over the years, established settlements with women and children. It would have been very unchristian to drive them out to some unknown fate. And there were also the murky promises of land made to the Saxons by former British leaders to consider. I felt we owed them. Arthur disagreed—the depravity of the Germanic invaders canceled any restitution in his mind—but he granted my wishes.

In any event there was little the Saxons could have done to pose a threat to the Britons at the time. Most of their warriors and leaders were gone—dead or driven out. And the areas they had been granted, mostly in the southeastern part of Britain , were surrounded by regular patrols of infantry and cavalry, including the giant horses imported from Brittany and used so effectively against them in the battle in the Valley of the White Horse.

Medraught, Arthur's half brother, commanded these troops and he was not someone to be trifled with. It was my feeling, although I severely disliked Medraught, that he was the right leader to control the obnoxious barbarians.

What about Medraught? Why did I dislike him?

Well he was a hard man. But then so were many of the British leaders. The times called for hard men to lead and to fight. But Medraught …?

As I ponder the situation, it occurs to me that he is more than hard. He is cruel and immoral. Oh, I don't mean that he is any more lustful than the others—British warriors are a lusty group—but he doesn't seem to have the moral compass most warriors have. I really believe he does not understand the difference between right and wrong or evil or good. The word to describe him perhaps is, amoral. Satan may be like that.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

What of the others I have been writing about? Guinevere, sweet wonderful Guinevere; her tale is beautiful and sad at the same time. And of course Myrddin, or Merlin as many people call him; Mysterious, even more so now that Brigit is gone. And Bedwyr and Kay, Arthur's most trusted lieutenants and Gawain and his brothers; and Lancelot the Breton prince, and other leaders who helped restore the Kingdom. There is also Ector, and Ylaine his wife, Ygraine, Arthur's mother, and Morgan. Poor troubled Morgan.

And of course the story is about Arthur; Arthur who reluctantly became, the last of the great Roman generals, although few would call him that. Perhaps he is the transitory figure; the bridge between the old and the new. It seems to me it was a necessary bridge, but for Arthur, it also became a sad bridge.

But they all have stories to tell, don't they. Perhaps I need to re-read what I have written these last few years so I can restore some sort of a thread to my meanderings and bring this story to some sort of a resolution that we can all understand. That sounds like a good plan for today ….