Charles R. "Chuck" Dowling

The Time of the Raven: The saga begins when Arthur is born in a dank castle overlooking the western sea and then, during a driving storm, is spirited away by Merlin and Ector, a grizzled former Legionnaire. He is hidden in a remote village, to protect against assassins and to provide a way for the young prince to develop among ordinary people as opposed to the venal royalty of the British court.

We grow with Arthur through his youth and into his teenage years. From time to time seeing flashes of what he is to become when he single handedly kills a wild boar with a knife, he slays a giant bear with nothing but a sword and leads a successful attack on a group of blue tattooed Picts besieging a column of trapped soldiers; all before his thirteenth birthday. We also see the boy become a man as He, Kay and Bedwyr ramble through youthful escapades and temptations of the flesh.

We meet Dubricious, an Irish Priest, who provides Arthur's early Christian training, and later becomes his conscience. Brigit, an orphaned faun-like waif found in the woods, becomes a close and valued friend. She and Merlin also fall into a May-December romance while experiencing a number of harrowing events as they travel through enemy camps in disguise, seeking information.

Arthur campaigns with his father Uther, and his uncle, Ambrosius Aurelanius as they try to hold off the Saxons long enough to allow Merlin, Ector and others time to build up the needed armies. During this time we see Arthur and Guinevere's love develop and mature. Also during this time we experience the hypocrisy of the Druid priests and the brutality of a human sacrifice as the Druids try to reclaim their dominance among the mountain tribes. When Uther and Ambrosius are both assassinated. although only sixteen years of age, Arthur must now take command of the British forces.

The Night of the Long Knives

Cain said to his brother Abel, “let us go out in the fields.”
When they were in the field Cain attacked his brother and killed him.

The massacre had to be complete!

Amidst the wispy early morning vapors drifting skyward in hazy tendrils, reminiscent of tortured wraiths leaving the world of the living, Gundar and a few of his grizzled companions searched for anyone still alive among the three hundred or more bodies that lay grotesquely strewn about the dewy field.

Their purpose was not to aid, but to kill.

As they pawed the grisly remains that circled the still smoking remains of what had been a large council-fire, the bearded Saxons also looked for a certain few corpses. Their severed heads would make prize keepsakes for their leader.

Some of the bodies they pulled at were not enemy bodies. The Saxon warriors found dead comrades too. They were saddened by the losses, but they knew their compatriots would be joyously welcomed into the lodges of their deceased ancestors in the Land of Legends . They would sit at Woden's side at the giant hearth and the overflowing dining table in the great hall. They would have food and drink and compliant women. At some time in the future, when his time came, Gundar and the other warriors would be welcomed there too.

For the most part, here on grassy the moor, the enemy had died singly, slashed by a knife hidden in a Saxon boot. The battle had ended quickly, but there had been some resistance. At one place there was one very large pile of Gundar's ripped and bloody compatriots stacked up around one of the slain enemy. Although he had had no weapons of his own, the slain antagonist had wrestled a knife free from his attackers and taken a fierce toll on his opponents. He had been a ferocious fighter. Gundar could not count well, but he knew the man had slain as many of his fellow Saxons as he had fingers. His was one of the heads they wanted.

In addition to searching for still living enemies, the victors were dragging the bodies of their fallen friends to a pit they had dug earlier. They would receive appropriate honors. They would be buried with their weapons to use in the next world, shield atop their body and axe in hand. Their remains would not be left for the vultures.

Two hundred paces away, sitting on the ground and tied to a large oak tree, was a forlorn figure in torn and tattered garments. His head drooped onto his chest. Dried blood caked his dark red hair and gnarled beard. His forest green shirt and plaid leggings were similarly bloodied, torn and mud-splattered. He had worn a bronze cuirass, but that was gone, now the property of those who held him.

Other burly men, some wearing fur cloaks and round metal helmets, surrounded the forlorn figure. They too had long hair and stringy beards but they also held swords.

“Tell me again Vitolanus—what your people call you,” snarled a short blocky man from a fierce mien. White battle scars streaked his face. One eye was missing, the socket covered by an eyelid that had been sewn over it. He spoke in a deep, gravelly voice, a voice grown hoarse by shouting.

A thin man dressed in a black robe, nervously looked at his leader and then to the man bound to the tree. He translated his master's words.

The bound prisoner looked up. His eyes didn't focus immediately and then they spied the stocky warrior and hardened. “You filthy scum Hengest.” His words were spoken through swollen lips. “You're evil. Your word means nothing. You're a … a… butcher.”

The black-garbed translator paled at having to convert the prisoner's words for his volatile master, but he gritted his teeth and passed the statements along accurately.

Hengest's eyes narrowed. He looked at his interpreter first, then at the bound man. He lashed out with a backhand slap at his prisoner's face. The bound man rocked back against the tree, another cut on his lip opening, trickling blood.

No one talked to the ferocious leader of the Saxons like that. He stared angrily at the defiant hostage for a moment. Then his spirit lost a little of its rancor. He had had his day. The leader of the British tribes was his prisoner and better than three hundred of the other kings and nobles were dead, scattered across the field behind him. When his men finished their work, he would have the heads of those tribal kings and their heroes to adorn his lodge hall. A look of smugness returned to his visage.

“What is the name your people call you?” He looked directly at the prisoner. The prisoner glared back, the newly cut lip trickling drops of red-tinged mucous into his beard. “It's Vortigern isn't it my friend? And Vortigern means?” He arched his eyebrows as the translator supplied the Saxon words. Hengest mouthed them for him.

“‘King among Kings.' Isn't that correct”?

Vitolanus remained silent.

Hengest turned to his compatriots; a number of his fierce looking warriors had formed loosely behind him. “‘King among Kings,' what a wonderful title.” The men laughed. “Now he isn't even king of his own fate. His fate is in my hands.” He turned from his companions and looked back in triumph at the man who would always be remembered as the last Vortigern. “You are an idiot, dung head. A person to be despised, a failed leader, a fool and, oh yes…” He lifted his voice for emphasis, his single eye glaring, and “a terrible general. Even what you learned as a lackey for your Romans conquerors did you no good.”

Vortigern (Vitolanus) turned slowly toward his enemy, words forming in his mind. He looked at Hengest with loathing. No doubt his head would be one of those adorning the bloodthirsty savage's lodge, but he would have his say.

“You won this victory by treachery not valor.” It was painful to form the words through his distended lips, but he persisted. “You invited us here to negotiate. ‘ We would all leave our arms at our camps. '” He mocked his captor, his tone sarcastic. “‘ We will meet in trust and settle our differences' .” He glanced at Hengest through murderous eyes, the sockets also swollen like his lips. “We took you at your word. We left our weapons at our camp. You said you left yours also, but you and your men hid knives in your boots. You slaughtered helpless men ….” Tears of frustration formed behind eyelids.

The translator converted the phrases as he spoke. Hengest face darkened as the words came through. He interrupted the translator.

“The treachery is no worse than your own, pig dung. You invited us here to fight your battles for you against the Irish pirates and the painted people up north. You promised us food, supplies, land. We've seen nothing but war. We fought your battles. I gave you my daughter for a wife. You return the favor by warring on us. You sent your son after us.”

The translator interpreted rapidly. Vortigern's eyes grew harder. He shook off his pain and fatigue. “We gave you what you asked. We promised no land. You told me years ago you don't need land, that you're raiders, not settlers. You just wanted booty…treasure, slaves. But you brought others…without telling us. They wanted land.” He coughed and spat, as blood and bitter tasting saliva filled his throat and mouth.

“We still agreed to that, even though many of our people were against it. We only needed you to protect a small area. We paid you for that. You…you… gave me your daughter, Renwein, so we could seal our agreements…then you reached out for more land. You killed more villagers then … then … this.” He looked around. He was looking at all the lost British leaders lying in the field waiting to decay. “This is how you negotiate?”

“I gave you my daughter because you lusted after her. I was being nice to you, pig. I could see it in your eyes. You wanted her.” He laughed. “You let your reason be ruled by your loins.” Then he was serious again. “But that changed nothing. You warred against us pig dung.”

“You kept taking land.”

“We needed land.”

“You took it away from Britons who lived on the land. You slaughtered them”

“We earned the land. You would not give us what you agreed.”

Vortigern began to stutter, “Agreed…? We … we … agreed to nothing…but we still would have settled this with you. You could have had your land but… but, this …this… massacre...”

Hengest laughed to himself when the words were changed to Saxon. His plan had worked. This goose shit understood nothing. Every time he said he would give more to us, we would ask for still more. Then we would take more again. These people—the British—they're appeasers. They're a weak people. We are strong. It's the way you deal with weak people. You don't negotiate with them. You demand and you take. People like this never learn.

He grabbed Vortigern by the hair and snapped his head back, pressing his ugly face into the man's bloody visage. He spoke deliberately, his noxious breath almost overpowering the former king. He knew that his prisoner knew some Saxon words so he eschewed the translator for the moment.

“This was a military victory, dung head. We set a trap. You fell for it and all your forces were destroyed. Your precious Romans would have approved. They would have rewarded us with gold and women and wine. You lost a battle, a big battle.” Hengest eye glinted with pride in his accomplishment. “Now,” he smiled, waving to the field of death. “Your leaders are no more. Now we will take over the rest of your puny land. More Saxons will come. Soon the only British here will be slaves.

Hengest released his grip and Vortigern slumped, his mind now little more than a bowl of boiled meal. His fight was gone. He understood most of what the Saxon leader said. Hengest was right. He had played him for a fool. He was a fool and he had led his people astray. Hengest had been tougher, smarter. He deserved to win.

He looked up at his enemy, fear, anger and loathing on his face. “And now?”

Hengest looked at him in pity. He tapped his yellowed teeth with a cracked and dirty fingernail. “Now? Well maybe I let you go…” His face twisted into an ugly grin.

Vortigern tried to hide his confusion. His words gave him away. “Let me go?”

“Yes. I'm thinking about it.” He turned from his prisoner; his crude countenance now formed into an expression he thought made him look like a great thinker. “I want you to wallow in your own misery and your stupidity.” He looked down at his prisoner; a sly smile now curled his hairy lips. “I want you to try to explain yourself to your people.” He looked back at the defeated Vortigern. “I need to keep you alive for Renwein. She may have some of my grandchildren.” He laughed again, “That is if you are not too dried up to produce children.”

One of his men, an equally stocky and malicious looking warrior moved behind Hengest and whispered in his ear. Hengest roared with laughter. “Wirfe here wants to have you as his slave. How would you like to live as a slave of a Saxon warrior, my ‘high king'”? His words spewing sarcastic derision “You could carry his weapons, serve him food, eat his scraps, clean his clothes, and wipe his dirty arse hole.” The ring of brutes around the two leaders laughed.

When the laughter died there was quiet. The moment turned serious again. Hengest looked at Vortigern as he spoke. “But I have another need for you.” He peered directly into his prisoner's eyes. “You are still regarded as High King among your people.”

Vortigern stared at him. The mixture of translator's words and Saxon words were being absorbed.

Hengest stared at his prisoner thoughtfully. “High Kings can do things. They can order things. They can arrange for decisions to be made ‘legal'. I don't understand ‘legal' but my advisors do. The Romans knew ‘legal.' Some of your people know ‘legal.' They talk like Romans. A lot of your people dress like Romans. Ach, you people are the Romans to us.”

He stopped his wandering diatribe, and stared at Vitolanis intently. Then he continued, “I want you to make our home areas legal. I want other Britons to know what is ours.”

He turned to the translator. “Do you have the writing?” The black robed youth nodded and reached into a leather bag slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a rolled parchment.

“Read it to him…in his language.”

The nervous young man read from the brittle yellow document slowly. When he was done, Vortigern's face was ashen.

“I will not sign that. I will not give all those lands to you…that's…that's…almost the whole southeastern part of our land”

“You will sign or you will die, and…” He looked around at his men, then spying who he wanted, he waved him over. “Your people will also die… your closest people.”

Vortigern looked at him trying to understand this turn in the conversation.

Hengest put his hand on the shoulder of the man he had called forward. “Wogan you just returned from a journey I sent you on. What did you see?”

The young Saxon warrior, taller, but as dirty, unkempt and evil looking as the others, spoke haltingly—not used to speaking in a gathering. “I walked to a place about three miles from here.” He pointed off to the northwest gesturing awkwardly. The translator converted his guttural mutterings. “In a valley between some hills, on the other side of the circle of fallen stones; the stones the old people used to worship at, I found a lot of people camped. They did not see me.” He looked at Hengest for approval. Hengest nodded. “There were many wagons and many women, some with children. I saw old people. There were only a few soldiers.” He looked at Hengest again.

“Were these our people Wogan? Were they Saxons?”

“No Hengest. They were British.”

Vortigern's mind shut down. His will had been hanging by a thread. Now that thread broke. He began to tremble. The worst had happened... They had found the families; the local British families that they had been moving out of the way of the Saxons and their own families—the families of the slain nobles and kings. He had blundered gain. They too were now set up to be massacred, the same as the leaders.

Hengest turned to him. “Do you know these people, dung head?”

“Are they worth signing the scroll?”

Vortigern looked at Hengest, his whole body and spirit a mass of pain, and then he twisted in his ropes to face the interpreter and tried to reach for the document. The translator untied the ropes and handed him the parchment and a sharpened twig dipped in dark berry juice.

Hengest had his victory. Twenty years of raiding in his long ships, losing his brother Horsa and fighting first against the, Picts and the Irish, the enemies of the British and then against the British themselves had finally come down to this paper.

Mentally he ticked off his gains. Most, if not all, of the British kings and leaders were gone. The Romans armies were gone. The people had no protection and they were disoriented.

He and his people had land. They had time to consolidate and prepare … and to take more land. Others could come and he would become king of the new land. He was pleased with himself.

He watched Vortigern limp away toward whatever lay in front of him. He laughed when he thought about what the failed leader would tell his people. How could any ruler explain what he had allowed to happen?

Then he and his small army left this field of infamy and headed for their green boats, hidden miles away in a cove. He walked upright and cocky at the head of his column. Wagons bumped behind, filled with captured clothes, equipment and severed heads. He never felt better...

But, history's scholars—Heraclites for one—tells us, “There is nothing permanent except change.”

Rulers change. The world changes. Weather changes. Seasons change. Even the birds in the air change. On the ground, carrion birds picked at the fallen leaders, but overhead another bird cast his shadow

. A raven, sleek and black, floated high over the bloody moor, slowly drifting with the currents, his ebony eyes sad and piercing. As Hengest and his men departed from the field of betrayal, they were unaware that the black bird—the harbinger of fate—watched. And they also were not aware of the enormous forces their actions had set into motion. Eventually this seminal event would become known as, The Night of the Long Knives . Hengest wasn't aware what waited for him and his descendents—it was in the future to be sure—but it would come.