Augustine's Prophecy

Augustine's Prophecy
Merfyn quickly rubbed his hands together. Brought them up to his lips, moving them close to his cracked mouth, like he was about to whisper a secret. He could feel the chill seeping through his skin, into his blood, his bones, his marrow, gnawing hungrily at the inside of his fingers like starving rats. His breath was white in the gloom, a thick wisp of smoke each time he exhaled, and now he blew that warm smoke onto his curled up hands. Once, twice, rubbed them again, then, let them rest. God grant us a sunny day, he thought. He could feel the cold mud underneath his thin soles; it clung to his shoes, made by the brothers at Bangor-on-Dee. He looked to the East; heaven’s candle had still not graced his company with her presence. No matter he thought, there was a dim line on the edge of the world, a thin, bright blue line which he knew heralded her arrival. He smiled, and looked down.

Beneath his vantage he saw the tiny nails driven into God’s green earth. Small orange nails hammered into the ground here and there between the tents, wrapped about with half a dozen ants here, seven or eight there. He sighed, and said a prayer for the poor souls. Looking into the heavens as he did so, Merfyn compared the campfires to the stars above, and concluded that nothing man made would be as beautiful or pure as that which God had brought to light. The sky diamonds twinkled as he prayed; a sheet of jewels spread over a bed of finest velvet by his lord. No, nothing his fellow man could craft could come close to such splendour, though he doth attempt to match it.

He finished his prayer, one for the men of violence sleeping below; men of war, resting before they had to contend with the enemies of the Lord in the morn. Selyf ap Cynan, Iago ap Beli, and Cearl, all come together, to face the mighty ᴁthelfrith, demon from the North. He could see the banners fluttering in the dying moonlight; Powys, Gwynedd, Mercia, the ealdormen and chieftains under each King, readying their wolves and bears and dragons for battle. For months the war had raged between the Britons and their neighbours, the accursed Bernicians. ᴁthelfrith the pagan conqueror, he had already slaughtered many of their cousins in the North, and turned his greed filled eyes to Chester. The city was not far off; if Merfyn turned his head he could see that beautiful city on the horizon. If ᴁthelfrith managed to reach it, if he was victorious this day, then all hope was lost. The southern Britons would be cut off from their northern cousins, and ᴁthelfrith’s power would reign supreme throughout the island. He had to be stopped.

The loathsome body of ᴁthelfrith’s army was a stain to the Britons, a foul scar on the earth of their ancestors which had to be removed. If ᴁthelfrith was victorious today, it would be the end for the Britons; they would sundered, North and South divided, the North helpless to ᴁthelfrith’s incursions and the south unable to do anything other than receive word of their cousins’ slaughter. They had to keep Chester, at all costs. They had to defeat the Demon. This was why whilst Merfyn kept watch his fellow monks chanted a low prayer behind him. Hundreds had come from their monastery at Bangor-on-Dee to watch the battle, and to provide God’s support to their beleaguered brethren. They may not have been able to fight, but they could offer a gift more powerful than men to the British army; God’s love. The Guardian of heaven would watch over them this day, they prayed for it, and they were confident it would be so. The murmur went on behind Merfyn as he surveyed the field, the English on one side, the Britons on the other, two mighty armies; such a terrible waste.

The monks had brought a portable altar, a simple thing. It collapsed in order to be carried easily, and was laced with silver, the image of the crucifixion on one side, the birth of our saviour on the other. They had
also brought a dazzling silver crucifix, made from only the purest silver; it stood tall atop a long wooden pole, carried by the abbot himself. Christ’s features had been captured in exquisite detail by the artist; his death mask perfect. The crown of thorns dug into the lord of angels’ brow; gleaming blood trickled down where the razors pricked his eye, contorted with pain; his hands were clenched in a tortuous embrace; his body stretched and vulnerable while the spear wound gaped. When the rays of heaven’s beam caught the magnificent work, Merfyn often felt tears spring to his eyes. Just to see the suffering Christ had endured was enough to inspire him to follow his divine word.

The chant went on and dawn showed her pale fingers at last. She thrust them out over the cover of darkness, fumbling slowly, for she was still fresh from slumber, and began to peel away the thick, rich quilt, studded with diamonds to reveal her wondrous nakedness. Dawn’s pale body was ravishing; a healthy pink hue glowed from her naked flesh this day, and Merfyn felt blessed to see such a sight. His view from the hill granted him an unparalleled view of the gorgeous creature rising from her bed beneath the sky, and his heart was all the greater for it. Dawn lifted his spirits and coursed through his veins, ‘what a marvel to behold for one so unworthy!’ he thought.

As Dawn rose and wrapped herself in crimson robes Merfyn watched the ants below extinguish the orange flames. He could imagine the hissing from the fires as they were put out by the nervous soldiers, saw them begin to collect their weapons and march to their banners. He noticed that the English had already risen, thin wisps of smoke trailed in the fragile morning light above their camp, fading higher into the heavens with each heartbeat. With a heavy heart Merfyn realised that the Britons were breakfasting, rising from slumber, pissing, washing, going through their daily waking moments whilst their enemies from Bernicia were gathered in force and marching towards them. God help them, he prayed, God help us. Let the guardian of angels and heaven’s roof grant fire to their steel, iron to their hearts and strength to their bones. Let them face their foe and vanquish them in his name, he prayed. He noticed the English had horsemen with them, and with horror from the hill he watched as they rode towards the rising camp of the Britons. Sentries were changing, and as he started towards the camp the abbot called him, ‘Merfyn! They are in God’s hands now. All we can do is pray.’ Frozen by the abbot’s words, years of discipline rooted him to the spot; he gazed down at his brethren, watching the English scouts shoot arrows at the new sentries. It astounded him to see these tiny figures spring from the ground and loose their shafts, like moles appearing from the depths of the earth, or demons from Hell come to their land. They must have crept to the camp in the night, ready for this shock attack at dawn. He gave thanks when one Englishman missed his shot, and the British sentry blew his warning, the horn bellowing in the morning, shattering the foggy haze which lay over the bleary eyed Britons. They leapt into action, shouldering their linden boards and pointing their spears forward. They came together in a loose shield wall and advanced to the edge of the camp, but it was too late, the English horsemen were there before them.