Alicia Roque Ruggieri (15 page)

With smiles and giggles,
the children gaggled out of the kitchen.  Deirdre turned to the two girls who
tended the stew bubbling over the huge hearth.  “One of you fetch a boy to bring
out the pot for you, then you are free for the evening.”

She watched as they
exchanged excited glances.  Both of them rushed out of the kitchen to obey the
order.  Feeling lonely, Deirdre moved toward Cook, who held her usual
propped-up position near the hearth.

Cook’s eyes drooped
closed, and Deirdre gently took her hand, mottled blue.  The older woman
blinked her eyes open, pain ever-present in them now.

“How do you feel?”
Deirdre asked.

Cook smiled.  “Like my
soul’s flying up toward heaven with the weight of my legs to hold it down.”

Deirdre nodded.  She and
Cook understood that the older woman’s time had come.  ‘Twould not be a time of
heathen sorrowing but of solemn rejoicing.  She leaned over and kissed her
motherly friend’s cheek.

“My part in Samhain is
finished for the year,” she commented.  “I’m glad of it.”

Cook nodded, then
rasped, “But don’t be frightened, Deirdre.  Who can separate us from the love…”

A surge of pain cut her
off, and Deirdre gently finished, “From the love of God in Christ Jesus our
Lord.  Aye, ‘tis true.”  She smiled.  “I will not be afraid, even of the feast
of the dead, then.  Does that please you, Cook?

Cook’s eyes stayed
closed, but her lips bowed upward.  “Aye, it does.  Whatever pleases my
heavenly Father does please me as well.”

For some moments,
Deirdre stayed holding Cook’s hand in the comfortable silence.  She was just
about to rise when Cook tightened her grasp just a little on her hand.  Deirdre
waited to hear whatever the woman must want to tell her.

“Deirdre, will you do
something for me?”

“Aye, of course.”

“When Deoradhan comes
back here, tell him that I loved him despite everything.  Tell him I know I
shall meet him again in the kingdom that never ends.”  Cook opened her eyes and
beseeched Deirdre with them.  “Will you tell him, lass?”

Deirdre felt timid at
the thought of telling such things to the unbending Deoradhan but pushed the
feeling away.  The woman was dying.  ‘Twas no time to shirk her duty of love
because of fear.  “Aye, if you wish it, Cook.”

“Thank you.”  Her
eyelids slid shut, and she let out a shaking sigh.

Deirdre leaned forward
and kissed the woman’s cheek again.  “I’ll let you rest,” she murmured and
moved away.

22

Deoradhan could see the
double bonfires from his camp beneath the large oak tree on the forest’s edge. 
The fire’s smoke billowed up; they must have put wet wood on it.  A perfect
night for Samhain: crisp enough to cause shiver after shiver to run through his
body, clear enough to see every droplet of starry light in the liquid sky, and
already so dark that the veil between the living and the dead could be lifted. 
Tonight, Deoradhan would not participate, only observe. 
Next year, when I
am king by the gods’ pleasure, I will sacrifice one hundred sheep in my
father’s honor.

After glancing over at
his grazing horse, he leaned back against the trunk to watch the pageant unfold
before him, the unseen audience member.  Even two stades away, he saw several
men enrobed in white wool glowing among the bonfires, set side-by-side atop the
hill.  Silhouetted against the sunken, bloodshot sun, the shapes of villagers
moved, made grotesque by the masks and animal skins they had donned for the
occasion.  Excitement shuddered through Deoradhan’s limbs as he realized how
close the supernatural world drew this night.

Oxfield

Hidden by a thick silk
curtain, Tarian stood at a second-story window, her eyes roving over the
milling crowd below.  The druids had entered the courtyard, their robes
distinguishing them as priests of the native gods.  All wore crowns of
mistletoe around their brows; Tarian could see the pale berries glistening
through the twilight.  All were assembled, then.

Drustan has not
arrived yet.  Perhaps he abides by my wishes yet.

His appearance at that
moment squashed her hopes.  Her husband wore a white mantle, similar to that of
the pagan priests, and entered the courtyard to a drumbeat.

That was
orchestrated.
  She
closed her eyes. 
God forgive me, I feel such bitterness toward that man,
mixed with love.  Love for who he could have been.
  She was glad now that
their marriage had borne no children. 
At least I don’t have to concern
myself with him poisoning the little ones’ spirits.

The several priests
opened their arms toward the lord of the estate.  Tarian watched as one held
out a mistletoe crown like their own and decked his gray hair with it.

So it has come to
this, then, with my husband hobnobbing with demonic priests at a festival of
the dead.

My God, my God, help
me in this hour.

West Lea

She hadn’t heard him
enter the darkening cottage.  ‘Twas only when Calum rested his hand on her shoulder
that she became aware of his presence.

“When did she pass?” he
asked after a moment.

Bethan drew a shuddering
breath.  “While you were caring for the animals.  There was nothing more we
could do.”  She turned her eyes toward him, seeking affirmation.  “Was there?”

He shook his head. 
“Nay.”

She felt only sorrow. 
Not guilt, not relief.  Only tearless grief. 
Lord God, could not You have
saved her?
  Suddenly, she thought of something.  “Where’s my sister?”

“Still in the animal
shed.  It’s warm there.”  He was quiet for a moment; Bethan could see him
trying to decide what had best be done.  “Is there a priest of God nearby?”

“Aye, in the next
village over, three miles away.”

“So far?”  Calum paused,
then said, “Then I think ‘twould be best to do nothing tonight, Bethan.  ‘Tis
Samhain,” he explained, “and better if no one knows your mother died tonight.”

She had forgotten how
late in the month ‘twas.  “Aye.  And we’ll say nothing to Enid when she comes
in.  She’ll sorrow soon enough,” she murmured.

He nodded and drew her
into the selfless embrace of a brother, which she did not reject.

Oxfield

“The
LORD is my light and my salvation

Whom
shall I fear?

The LORD
is the stronghold of my life;

Of
whom shall I be afraid?”

The stableboy’s voice carried through
the small room to each listener.  True, Bricius noted, some did not attend very
well, their hands picking at their fingernails, eyes darting toward the open
doorway whenever a shadow passed by.  The potter sympathized with their
nervousness, though he himself knew none this year.  Strange things happened on
Samhain, and some without natural explanation.

Yet this is my
Father’s world…

As the young man
continued to read, Bricius heard the beat of skin drums begin.  They would be
leading the stock between the bonfires to cleanse the beasts soon.  This, he
knew, would be followed by some kind of blood sacrifice, hopefully animal.

The reader faltered, and
Bricius saw that he was looking toward the open door, out into the twilight. 
The potter turned to see what had caused the young man to hesitate.  Past the
door, a procession of half-naked, costumed revelers passed, their faces painted
black for their role as impersonators of the dead.  One looked in on the little
gathering and began laughing wildly, his red tongue hanging half-out.

Drunk.
  And ‘twas
only dusk.  Bricius felt apprehension for the rest of this night for Oxfield.

“Lydia, shut the door,”
he said.

Solemnly, his wife
nodded and rose, moving toward the door.  He saw Lydia stare into the darkness,
unflinchingly.  Then she pushed shut the portal opening.

‘Twas night. 

The priest had
slaughtered the bull, and Lord Drustan himself, decked in festal robes, had
been given the honor of throwing the bones into the fires.  All the stock had
passed between the bonfires and thus had been cleansed for this darker half of
the year.  The servants, too, had walked between the fires.  They had observed
the necessary rituals to placate roaming spirits, dark and otherwise.  They had
satisfied the requirements.

Now the real excitement
could begin.

The music swiftly
altered its course from ponderous drums and mournful whistles to a side-stream
of lilting though still-mysterious melodies.  The large group composed of many
house and yard servants, as well as herds, stableboys, and guards, separated as
dancers came forward to participate in an intricate circle dance, whose ancient
meaning had now been lost.

Lancelot positioned
himself where he could gain the best view of the dancers.  He held a silver cup
half-full of very good wine in his right hand.  He never drank the diluted
stuff if he could avoid it.  With a swig, he feasted his eyes on the flesh
moving before him.  Lovely how strong drink made these women so uninhibited. 
His fine uncle could be thanked for the abundance of wine and mead flowing from
the casks on the feasting tables yonder.  He smiled.  Religion be blessed for
the provision of this entertainment.

Now there’s a river
of life!
  His smile grew wider when he realized a very pretty girl stood a
few steps away to his right, eyeing him every few moments. 
By the gods that
are not, she’s a ripe one for picking.
  His own gaze met hers, and he
grinned an invitation.  He stopped in the middle of another gulp when he
realized that the servant girl timidly moved toward him.

She looked familiar to
him, but he couldn’t place her face.  His brain felt a little fogged.  He took
another gulp to clear it.  There.  ‘Twas better.  Lancelot squinted at her,
thinking hard.

Aine.

How could he have forgotten? 
He had thought he would have to seek her out.  Evidently, the lass was not as
shy as Winter intimated.  A little disappointment seeped into his spirit.  He
had been looking forward to a challenge.

She looked up at him,
her eyes dark and restless  “My lord, you wanted to see me?”

He smiled.  So this was
her game: playing innocent.  Though maybe she was.   And if so, who knew but
that he would be the one to show this little bird the ways of men?  And who
better to do so than he, Lancelot, man of the world, who knew how to charm
maidens and how to guild guilt with virtue?

“Are you going to dance,
Aine?  ‘Twould be a delight to see,” he answered.

“Aye, perhaps later, my
lord.”  She looked confused and turned her eyes to watch the torch-lit dancing.

“I see longing in your
eyes, Aine,” spoke Lancelot very quietly after a few moments.

The girl turned toward
him, wearing her surprise across her face.

“Aye, I do.  And for
whom do you long?”

Her eyes flitted down. 
“For one whom I love, my lord.”  Her cheeks flushed dark in the moonlight.

“I didn’t know you loved
one other than me, Aine.” Lancelot smiled.  He stared at her cream-smooth face,
graced by lush black eyelashes and apple-red lips, cheeks blushing at his
words.  “I thought you liked me as well I do you,” he added, trying for a
verbal reaction.

“I…That is, my lord…I
like you well,” the girl stammered, looking down. 

“I’m glad to hear that,
Aine, for I may as well tell you,” he paused for effect, “that you are my
desire.”

Her eyes shot upward, soaking
in the unexpected tenderness. 
This one thrives on smooth words of
affection.
 He would play that way, then.

“Indeed,” he continued,
“from the moment I saw you, I knew I must have more of your company.  Much
more.”

He let his eyes travel
over this little goddess, reveling in her delicate proportions.  Aye, she would
be luscious as a dainty honey cake, the fitting finale to an evening of
revelry.  “Please, Aine, give me a word of hope.”

She stared at him,
obviously tongue-tied.

He leaned down and put
his lips to her ear.  “Let me know that I may love you,” he whispered and
finished with a kiss to her temple.

“Love me?”

“Aye, I want to love
you, sweetest of all maidens,” he coaxed.  “Dance with me, Aine.”

Slowly, she nodded, and
he pulled her into the dance.  Lancelot felt his heart thundering as they came
to a halt, and he pulled her against him in an embrace.  She clung to him,
rather than pulling away.  He grinned, the world swaying around him. 

Eager though she seemed
to be, ‘twould be an odd maid to give herself fully without more wooing.  And
if he was to have her, he would have her fully. 
No idle kisses in a
courtyard for Lancelot, son of Bors. 
He would drink freely of this cup of
desire, as much as he wished.  And such freedom on his part sometimes required
more…liberation on the part of the maiden in question.

“Come, let’s get a
drink, Aine,” he said and reached for her hand to guide her over to the
feasting table.  Without hesitation, she trusted her little hand to him.

As he poured a cup of
wine for the girl, he glanced up to see a few couples already making their way
toward the courtyard gates, the stables, the shadowed doorways.  ‘Twas a night
to indulge and then to forget by the morning light.  ‘Twas a night of shadows,
a time to make unchaste vows and false commitments.  For this evening, most of
Britain would forget their Roman God and return to the pagan ways of their
ancestors, unfettered by moral fears. 
‘Twas when men were truly free.

He looked sideways at
Aine.  She had turned her back to him, shivering arms across her chest, staring
into the darkness.  After a moment of thought, he slipped a hand into the
little pouch hanging at his waist.  With a deft motion, he had broken a tiny
vial open and poured it into the cup, swirling it with experience.

“Here, Aine.”

She turned with
surprise, as if she had forgotten he stood there.  “Oh, thank you, my lord.” 
Aine took the cup and drank.  Lancelot admired the way her hair mantled her
shoulders, a thick black river that his fingers would soon run through
uninhibited.

Why did she feel so
dizzy?  And where was Lord Lancelot taking her?  Suddenly, she couldn’t
recall.  And it didn’t matter too much, did it?  She was safe with Lord
Lancelot.  He loved her.

With blurry eyes, Aine
gazed at the profile of the man leading her onward, onward endlessly it seemed,
through these shadowy corridors.  He reminded her of Deoradhan, tall and
dark-haired.  Wait, Deoradhan had auburn hair, didn’t he?  She shook her head. 
Everything seemed hazy, unreal.  Her feet felt like sponges.  Unsteady, she
grabbed the elbow of her companion.

“Feeling tired?” he
murmured, low and comfortingly.  “Here, ‘tis only a few steps away now.”

His arms went around her
back and under her knees.  Aine felt herself floating up in the air.  He must
be carrying her; or had she sprouted wings?  Deoradhan had called her a fairy. 
She let her eyes sink closed.  Was she a fairy?  If so, was this man a prince
from fairyland?  “I can’t recall,” she mumbled, resting her head against
something soft that smelled like evergreen trees and leather.  How peaceful
everything seemed.