Alicia Roque Ruggieri (18 page)

Recognition came to
Tarian.  “Aye, I do.  I hadn’t realized that he and Meghyn were connected.”

“Aye, but he knows naught
of her death, I think.  He’s away who knows where.”

The two young women sat
silent before the hearth for a few moments before Tarian spoke again, “Were you
the one who found her?”

“Aye, ‘twas I.”  Deirdre
smiled.  “But she’s with the Lord now, my lady.  And we press on here.”

“Aye, I can see that you
do.  You run this kitchen very efficiently, Deirdre,” Tarian commented.

“Thank you, my lady.  We
all work hard.”

Tarian paused.  Would
the girl accept?  “I wonder if you would take Meghyn’s place as head of the
kitchen, Deirdre.”

 She heard the girl suck
in her breath.  Deirdre leaned back in thought, the chair creaking as her back
pressed against its frame.  “I don’t know if I could do it, my lady,” she
finally said.  “You don’t realize how much Cook actually did in the kitchens.”

“But I thought you’d
taken her place as she became more and more ill,” put in Tarian.

Deirdre shrugged.  “I
did, somewhat.  But always under her supervision and guidance, my lady.  It’s
not the work, don’t mistake me.  I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“I know that, Deirdre. 
But I’ve seen you with the younger maids, managing them, instructing them.  You
have an eye for detail and getting things done well.  I believe that you are
very suited to this position,” Tarian urged.

Deirdre stayed silent
for a moment, staring into the glowing fire.  Tarian held her breath when the
servant turned back toward her.  “Give me a few days, my lady.  I need to pray
about this.  If I take the job, I want to do it well and that will take commitment
on my part,” she explained.

Tarian nodded a little
reluctantly. 
I wish she’d agreed right away.  ‘Twould have made my heart
rest a little more easily.
  “Alright,” she said aloud.  “May I return in a
few days’ time for your answer?”

“Aye, a few days, my
lady.”

Tarian smiled and rose
to go.  Suddenly, she decided to act upon something she’d desired but been
afraid to do. 
‘Tis only fear that holds you back.  A fear of man that is
sin. 
“Deirdre,” she spoke, “would you mind meeting with me to pray every
now and then?  Maybe every week?”

Deirdre’s eyes opened
wide.  “You don’t have to,” Tarian added, feeling her embarrassment growing. 
‘Twas
foolish to believe she thinks of you as a friend…

“Nay, I’d like to,”
Deirdre answered, “You caught me by surprise, ‘twas all.”

Tarian wanted to hug
Deirdre but kept her composure.  “Fine.  When shall we start, then?”

Deirdre thought.  “May I
decide about this position you’ve offered me first, my lady?  We could begin
after we’ve settled that.”

“Good,” Tarian replied
as calmly as she could.  “I’ll send for your reply in a few days, then.”

“Aye, in a few
days."

25

Oxfield

Bricius wrapped the heavy
robe more closely around his shoulders.  His steps matched, though feebly,
those of the younger man walking beside him.  Their feet crushed the last
autumn leaves, sending up a wild, earthy odor to their nostrils.

“Her mother died on
Samhain,” Bricius’ companion suddenly spoke.  For a long while, they had been
striding along silently through the wood outside Oxfield’s walls.  “The feast
day of the dead.  Do you think there’s anything in that?”

Bricius cocked his head
and looked into Calum’s eyes. 
They always hold that secret sorrow. 
“What
do you mean, lad?”

Calum ran a hand through
his hair.  “I know it sounds pagan, Bricius.  I just wondered if there could be
any significance in the day a person dies and is born.”

The waters run deep
in this man.
  Bricius paused.  “I would have to say, lad, offhand, that the
days themselves hold no power over us, have no significance in and of
themselves.”

Calum nodded.

“But,” Bricius added,
“the Scriptures tell us that God appoints every man a day to be born and to
die.  And some days have taken on significance, and He surely knows that.”

“Like the solstice.”

“Aye, and we celebrate
the Christ’s birthday, then.  A light to shine during the darkest time of
year.”

Calum stayed silent for
a moment, then said, “Forgive me, Bricius, but you didn’t answer my question
directly.”

Bricius smiled.  “Nay,
for I don’t have an answer from my brain for you.  But my heart answers, ‘aye,’
and I think some truths have an expression there that they cannot find in
words.”

Calum nodded, and the
two meandered on, plucking leaves from the bushes they passed every now and
again.  Finally, Calum spoke, “The time has come, Bricius, you know.”

Bricius stopped
walking.  “What do you mean, lad?” 
Oh, God, I thought you would deliver him
before it came to this.

Calum turned to look at
him, arms held loosely at his sides.  “I’m bringing Bethan and her sister back
to Oxfield.”  Calum set his jaw.  “Marcus has learned all I can teach him.  He
can take over the command of the guard for me.  And then I’ll go as I said I
would.”

Bricius had never known
such frustration with the younger man as he felt at that moment.  “And what of
the church here at Oxfield?  You are one of its leaders.”

Calum shook his head. 
“You are their pastor, Bricius.  Not me.  I’ve never been able to put it all…” 
He shut his eyes for a brief moment, and Bricius saw the inner suffering of
years pass over his face.

Oh, Lord, give me
wisdom. 
“You’ve
never returned to the village, have you, my son?” Bricius asked quietly.

“Nay, not since that
day.”

“Don’t you think ‘twould
help you to face it, Calum?  To look at it squarely in faith and dare it to do
its worst?”

“What, exactly?  To look
at what?”  The younger man’s voice had grown brittle.

“The past.”

Calum was silent.

Bricius tried again. 
“Don’t you think, my lad, ‘tis cowardly to run away from your fears, aye?”

The bitterness emergent
in Calum’s smile startled Bricius.  “Don’t you know by now, Bricius, that I
can’t run away from what I really fear?”

The potter furrowed his
brows and waited for an explanation.

“I fear what lies within
myself.  And I can never get away from that.”

The eyes of the two men
met briefly.  Bricius’ gaze continued to follow his friend long after Calum had
continued on the path, pushing aside the brambles that barred his way.

Dunpeledyr

Deoradhan relished the
hatred that he felt rising within his chest. 
This is the man who killed my
father.
  He kept his gaze respectfully lowered as Lord Weylin gushed
praises over his favorite mares.  The nobleman’s finger moved over the
pedigrees, inked on squares of parchment.  Deoradhan despised the pale flesh
covering that bony finger.

“Arthur himself buys
from us, and that’s an honor,” Lord Weylin boasted, ignorant of his companion’s
thoughts.  Then he added, smirking, “Weakling though he is.”

He rolled up the
parchments carefully and handed them over to a servant standing at his elbow. 
“The world knows Dunpeledyr’s horses as the swiftest and strongest Britain can
breed.”

“And was it always so,
my lord?”  The words fell out of Deoradhan’s mouth.  He stood still, trying to
appear unknowledgeable. 
He must never suspect.

The lord met his gaze
with heavy-lidded eyes, half-hidden under a thatch of gray hair.  “What do you
mean, young man?”

“Well, Lady Fiona told
me that you won Dunpeledyr in battle.  I only wondered if your predecessor also
bred fine horseflesh.”

Lord Weylin chuckled. 
“Nay, nay.  The wild Lothian tribe that dwelt here knew nothing of such
civilized pursuits.  Wine and women were all old chief Eion cared for, I’m
sure.”

“Do any of his descendants
survive, or did you deal judiciously with all of his kind?”  Deoradhan kept his
voice only moderately interested.

The man shrugged.  “Nay,
no direct descendants live.  His wife’s only child is also mine.  These people
put some stock in maternal descent as well as in mastery, so ‘twas useful to
have her as wife in two ways.”

“Well,” replied
Deoradhan, “all to the glory of Logress.  All for Arthur’s kingdom.”  He
offered a grin, knowing the lord would agree wholeheartedly.

But Lord Weylin stared
at him a moment, then smiled.  “Aye and nay.  I think I see that sentiment in
your eyes as well, my lad, aye?  There are some who think another would do a
better job at leading these confederate kingdoms.  And confederate they are. 
That’s what Arthur doesn’t understand.”

What?

His employer laid an arm
around Deoradhan’s shoulders.  “But enough political talk.  We must go look at
those horses.  I’ll tell you of my plans for spring breeding.  And then, I wish
you to join my family for dinner.  My daughter Fiona has arrived, and both she
and Solas requested your presence.”

Surprised but intrigued,
Deoradhan nodded.  “Aye, my lord.  I’ll certainly attend with pleasure.”

West Lea

A rapping knock startled
Bethan from her sewing.  Putting aside the needle and cloth, she eased Enid’s
sleeping frame off her lap to the fur rug and tiptoed to the door.

‘Twas late for
visitors.  “Who is it?” she called softly through the wooden barrier.

“’Tis I, Garan, Bethan.”

At the voice of the
priest’s son, Bethan felt her heart speed up in nervousness. 
‘Tis never
love I feel for him, nor affection.  ‘Tis admiration and awe.
  She opened
the door, pulling on it slowly so the hinges wouldn’t creak.

Outlined by the
half-moon, Garan stood, tall, thin as a blade of wheat.  She couldn’t see his
eyes in the darkness but knew from experience that the pale orbs would be
carefully curious, articulate.  Pious and yet…

“Come in,” she said. 
“Only quietly.  Enid is already asleep.”  Bethan stepped to the side to let the
young man pass.

He moved with short,
quick steps.  His hands continually played with the edge of his belted tunic. 
Bethan had not noticed before what large hands he had. 
Almost too large for
his person.  As if he has yet to grow into them…

Garan positioned himself
near the dim hearth.  “It’s cold in here,” he remarked, more to himself than to
Bethan, and drew his cloak around him.

“Aye,” she agreed and
stood still, waiting for the reason he’d come. 
What if he wishes to break
the engagement?  My dowry no longer exists; there is no reason for him to keep
it.

His pallid eyes kept
darting from the fire to her face, illuminated by the ruddy glow.  After a long
silence, he spoke, “You no doubt know why I have come, Bethan.”

Her heart quaked. 
Lord,
give me strength to push forward.
  The vision of life without a protector
for her and Enid rose before her mind, but she pushed it away.  “Aye,” she
managed.  “I understand that you cannot keep our commitment.  I do not hold you
to it.”

His eyes widened with
surprise.  “Nay,” he said.  “On the contrary, I wish to reiterate our promise. 
Despite my parents’ (and mostly my mother’s) reservations, I chose you because
I saw much to admire in you, not because of your dowry, Bethan.  I see in you
strength of character, determination, a willingness to deny your natural feelings,
a holy innocence of worldly things.”  He turned his gaze back toward the fire. 
The light danced into his eyes, warming the blue.  “I have a passion to reach
the lost, to go where the gospel has not been heard, but I cannot do it alone. 
You, you, Bethan, are the one who can aid me, be my helpmate, my joy.  An
example to the heathen.”

Bethan stood stunned. 
Always, Garan had seemed self-sufficient, strong, burning with an internal
flame. 
Not as if he needed me.  And yet he says he does.  To go on this
holy mission.
  She thought of her yearning for Calum and realized how
paltry it must be in the eyes of the Lord in comparison with this calling. 
With trembling steps, she crossed the small space between them and took his
cold hands in hers.  They shook with emotion.  She lifted her eyes up to search
his face and found the words came to her lips, as if the moment had been
predetermined:

“Here is your
maidservant.”

26

Dunpeledyr

“Deoradhan, if you will
take the lead, I will follow with Solas,” Lady Fiona spoke, her smile
reflecting the brilliance of the early winter sun.  Her furry pony plodded
along beneath her along the rocky path toward the coast.  Deoradhan nudged his
own wooly animal to the front of the threesome and led the way up the winding
path.

“I remember when ‘twas
dangerous to move from the fortress and even more dangerous to ride to the
coast,” remarked Solas, who straddled the same pony as his half-sister.  His
eyes looked calmly toward the sunlight, unseeing.

Fiona smiled.  “For fear
of the Saxons, aye.”

Deoradhan couldn’t
resist.  “And for fear of the Britons.”

“What do you mean?  We
are Britons.”  Fiona’s face grew quizzical.  “Lothian is part of Logress.”

“Now ‘tis.  But don’t
you know your history, my lady?  You yourself told me that another once ruled
in Dunpeledyr.”

“Aye,” answered the
girl, “and I wish you would call me Fiona, without that formal title.  Anyone
who grows up in the high king’s household cannot be common-birthed.”  She
raised her eyebrows.

Deoradhan smiled.  What
they didn’t know!  Strange, though, he had wanted to despise them because of
what he knew he must do.  But he couldn’t.

“Is your father a
nobleman, Deoradhan?” Solas spoke up, his voice a little muffled by the wind
and the clopping hooves.

“Aye, he was.”

“He’s dead, then?”

“Aye, for seventeen
years.”

“The year I was born,”
Solas said quietly.  “And your mother?  Is she also gone?”

Deoradhan paused.  “Nay,
but she doesn’t know I’m alive.”

“Is there any danger in
her knowing, Deoradhan?”  This came from Fiona.  “I know if my son lived, I
would want—”

“Aye, there is danger in
it,” replied Deoradhan.  “I don’t wish to speak of it anymore,” he said
suddenly, wishing he’d not delved into the subject.  “I see the coast ahead.”

Oxfield

The messenger arrived
shortly after sunset.  His horse wore a film of dirty sweat, and his clothes
displayed the mud of a multiple-days’ ride.  Calum stopped as the man reined to
a halt and dismounted in front of the guard tower.

“Messages from the Pendragon
and Camelot,” he sighed, patting his horse’s neck.

Calum nodded.  “Bring
them into Lord Drustan at once.  Is there more talk of trouble in the north?”

The messenger’s face
grew grim.  “Aye.  Aye, there is.”  He lowered his voice.  “More than one lord
has spoken openly against the high king.  After years of peace…”

Calum shook his head.

“Oh, speaking of the
north, I’ve a message from Dunpeledyr.  It came to Camelot, and so I’ve brought
it on.”  The man pulled a rolled parchment from the saddle pouch.  “For a
person named Aine, daughter of Llewellyn.  Do you know her?”

“Aye,” answered Calum,
“I can get this to her.  From Dunpeledyr, you say?”  He took the sealed scroll
from the man’s hands.

“Aye,” agreed the
messenger.  “Funny place, ‘tis, with a stranger lord.  I wouldn’t live there if
I could help it.”

From Deoradhan.  At
last.

“My thanks,” he said
aloud and turned his feet toward the kitchen. 

Aine herself answered. 
“Oh, hello,” she said.  “Do you need to see Deirdre?”

The girl’s voice sounded
as though she’d been hollowed out, like the pipe Calum had heard her play at
gatherings.  He knew her only by name and had never conversed with her, but
even so, Aine seemed so much quieter, less lighthearted than he’d ever seen
her.  Her hair looked oily as well and her usually rosy face was paler than
he’d ever seen it. 
Something must be bothering her.  Perhaps she’s ill. 
Winter’s coming, after all.

“Nay, I’ve brought a
message for you, lass.  ‘Tis from Deoradhan, I think.”

He watched her face
brighten, then cloud over. 
What is it?
  “I can read it for you, if
you’d like,” he offered, knowing ‘twas likely she couldn’t read.

The lovely young woman
hesitated, then nodded.  “Aye, would you?  Calum, ‘tis, aye?”

“Aye.  May I enter?” he
asked.  She hadn’t moved from her place in the doorway.

At his question, Aine
jumped to the side.  “Aye, come in.”

She shrunk away from him
as Calum moved through the narrow doorway. 
Odd.
  Aine had not flinched
from any male presence in the past.

The kitchen was nearly
empty; ‘twas after supper, and most of the maids busied themselves with
handiwork in the adjoining large room.  Aine and Calum sat on a fur rug by the
hearth.

Aine kept a careful
distance from him.  Her cheeks showed bony in the firelight and her beautiful
dark eyes had sunken back, as if she hadn’t eaten much for a long while.  As
Calum broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, he glanced up to see Aine
closing her eyes.

“Are you well, lass?” he
felt compelled to ask, reaching a hand to her arm.

Her eyes shot open like
an arrow from the bow, and she drew her arm away from him.  “I’m alright,” she
whispered.  “Please read the letter, Calum.”

He studied her for a
moment and then lowered his gaze to the message.  “‘Deoradhan, to Aine,
daughter of Llewellyn,’” he read, “‘I trust this finds you well, beloved of my
heart.  While I travel this dangerous path, my love, ‘tis your face I see both
in my waking and sleeping dreams.’” 

Calum paused.  He knew
the emotional currents ran deeply in Deoradhan, but he hadn’t thought his
friend’s affection for this girl had grown so strong.  “‘I hold to our promise
and cannot wait to have you again in my arms, and you alone, as I did the night
we parted.  And now, my love, I must beg for your forgiveness.  I cannot keep
the pledge to marry you so soon as we wished.  I rest knowing that you are
faithful to me as I am to you, in spirit, body, and heart.  May the gods of our
ancestors keep you.’”

Aine’s sob caused Calum
to set aside the letter.  Tears coursed down her cheeks, despite how much she
wiped them away.  Calum sat silently, not knowing what to say to this weeping
young woman, whose grief seemed deeper than that of a maid for her absent
lover.

Finally, she whimpered,
“Tell me something, Calum.  You are Deoradhan’s friend, aye?”  The tears kept
spilling over the rims of her eyes without a sign of ceasing.

“Aye, I am, lass.”

“Does he easily forgive
a trespass against himself?”

Calum felt dread
surround his heart, press upon his lungs, as he looked at the terrified girl. 
Oh,
dear God, may she not have betrayed him!
  “Nay,” he murmured finally,
knowing lies would not help her.  “Nay, he forgives little and forgets
nothing.”

“I thought so,” she
whispered, her head dropping.  Her stringy hair shadowed her face, and Calum
felt more pure pity for her than he had ever felt for himself.

I dare not ask her
what troubles her. 
He sighed. 
That I could bear others’ burdens.  But
I’ve a burden of my own to bear.

West Lea

The robin woke her, its
joyful laugh penetrating the stiff, timeless predawn hour, forcing the day to
move forward, heralding the sun.  Bethan stretched her limbs, feeling the
joints pop into place.  Opening her eyes, she stared into the dim living
quarters for a few moments.  But ease of heart fled from Bethan as her gaze
rested on the shadowy chair by the still-glowing fire.

Where Mama used to
sit.
  Tears blurred her vision.  She shook her head quickly to shoo them
away.  Her eyes dropped to her sister, slumbering beside her.  Poor Enid.  To
lose Mama so young.

I must be her mama,
then.  Surely, Garan will take her in when we marry.
  How many times had
Papa quoted that Scripture passage about those who didn’t care for their
families being worse than unbelievers?  If Papa put stock in that, how much more
so a priest’s son must?

Bethan stroked her
sister’s hair, love filling her heart. 
I will be her mama, and Garan will
be as a father to her until Papa returns and finds us.

Unless Papa is…

She closed her eyes,
refusing to finish the idea.  Hardly thinking, Bethan pushed back the thick
woolen cover and rose to her feet.  ‘Twas only November; no need for shoes
yet.  Plucking her shawl from the chair, she wrapped herself and hurried
outside.

Specks of snow drifted
around her as Bethan made her way down the path toward the stream, made
familiar by so many trips there in the past. 
I shall never walk this path
again to fetch water for Mama,
she realized.  The grief trickled through
her spirit, reaching all its recesses.

Bethan stopped at the
edge of the stiffening stream and sank onto the cold dirt.  She looked around
her.  Every tree, every rock, bush, and stone seemed alien, foreboding. 
Never
did it seem so to me.  Always, I felt God’s presence all around me, He in His
heaven watching over me, as I walked the good Christian road.

The tears overflowed her
eyes. 
Why are You so far from me in my grief and so near to me when I’m
happy?  When I need You, it feels like the door has been shut in my face.

“I don’t mean to be
disrespectful, Lord.  ‘Tis only how I feel,” she whispered into the silence. 
“And I know…You know what You’re doing.  But couldn’t my mama have been
spared?”

And the impenetrable
silence spoke back,
Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?

Dunpeledyr

Seonaid took the now-frozen
woodland path, her feet following its familiar way without hesitation. 
How
many times have I traveled this path over the past fifteen years?
  She
smiled, the dappling sunlight making her eyes squint. 
Too many times to
remember.
  She first had trodden it as a young woman despairing of her
life.  And God had sent a minister of mercy to meet her there.

The trees grew steadily
sparser until a clearing became visible just before her.  The noblewoman
hurried her steps when she noticed smoke emerging from the chimney.  Caratacos
was at home.

A few chickens pecked in
the dirt in front of the plain one-room cottage.  They may have been
scavenging, but Seonaid knew how well-fed they were. 
The fattest and most
petted chickens in all of Lothian and most likely of Logress as well.
  She
shook her head and patted the she-goat tethered by the door as she came up to
the cottage’s front stoop.

“Caratacos,” she called
out, rapping on the doorframe.  The door stood open a crack, and the smell of
vegetable stew wafted out.  “Caratacos, are you at home?”

“Aye, aye, lassie, I
hear you.  Come in, come in,” a thin voice scratched out from within.

Seonaid stepped into the
warm, dark room, lit by a peat fire in the hearth and a few shafts of light
from the window and door.  In front of the hearth, seated on a three-legged
stool, a bowed, elderly man crouched, holding something in his hands. 
Wordlessly, Seonaid moved toward him and knelt beside him.  She peered into his
cupped hands.

‘Twas a sparrow, its
wings destroyed by some trivial accident.  The blood from its wounds stained
Caratacos’ fingers.  Seonaid turned her eyes away instinctively, then looked up
into the old man’s face.  Grief and love mingled there with a settled peace. 
‘Twas not surprising to see that harmony on the hermit’s face, but to observe
it when such a fragile creature sighed out its life in his hands!

“It’s dying,” she
whispered.

“Aye,” he murmured, his
eyes pitying the bird embraced by his arthritic fingers.  “‘And he will swallow
up on this mountain the covering that is cast over all peoples, the veil that
is spread over all nations.  He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord GOD
will wipe away tears from all faces.’”  He turned cloudy eyes toward her. 
“Thus says the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, aye, Seonaid?”

His gaze traveled back
toward the little winged animal, now shuddering in death’s last pain-filled
moments, and Seonaid saw that his lips trembled as he lowered a kiss to the
creature’s head.  “Somehow, even this must be a mercy, though we cannot see
it,” he whispered. 

The tears slipped down
Seonaid’s cheeks, and the image of dying Eion flashed through her heart. 
“Aye,” she replied finally.  “Even this.”