Alicia Roque Ruggieri (2 page)

Shortly, they did come
to the stream, its deep running water gushing over glossy brown boulders in its
bed.  Deoradhan dismounted first, then reached up for her.  Bethan realized how
strong this young man was as his powerful hands set her down barefoot on the
plush green moss.  She met his eyes momentarily and felt glad that the owner of
that gaze was her protector, rather than her adversary.

The young man turned his
attention to his horse.  The gelding was thirsty, indeed, and Bethan watched as
he swallowed repeatedly, his long neck stretched out.  Deoradhan stood with his
hand stroking the animal’s shoulder, patiently waiting for him to finish his
drink.  After a moment, he looked up at Bethan.

“I’ve that bread and
cheese in my pouch yonder,” he directed.  “I’ll be finished with Alasdair in a
trice, then we can refresh ourselves.”

Bethan nodded, admiring
his kind way with his beast.  Many men she knew, even or perhaps especially,
those who professed the Christian faith, would not exercise such benevolence
toward their animals.  Some treated their inanimate tools more gently than the
dumb companions who faithfully served them. 
I’m glad Garan is a kind man.

Turning, she found
Deoradhan’s leather sack lashed to his saddle pommel.  She untied the leather
cords and brought the bag to a patch of dry grass.  One by one, she withdrew
the food items:  a loaf of fairly fresh bread, some oatcakes, several apples,
and a large chunk of strong-smelling cheese.

As Bethan finished
arranging their meal, Deoradhan joined her, crisscrossing his sturdy legs.  He
had left the horse to graze by the bank a dozen paces away.  Even while
settling himself down for his meal, however, Deoradhan appeared watchful and a
little restless.

“My thanks for laying it
out,” he commented, taking out his knife to cut the bread and cheese.  He
sliced both into several chunks, giving Bethan and himself good-sized portions.

“My thanks to you for
bringing it, otherwise we should go hungry,” she answered.  “Will you bless the
meal, Deoradhan?”

He paused, and then looked
at her frankly.  “I don’t think you’d want my blessing on your food, Bethan.  I
am neither Christian nor true pagan.”

Bethan stared,
disappointed at this turn in such a good-natured young man.  Yet, a part of her
grudgingly admired his boldness, his honesty.  At least, he was no fraud. 
Finally, she said, “May I ask the blessing, then?”

He shrugged.  “If you
like.  It doesn’t bother me.  I just don’t think it does any good, lass.”  His
tone held a bitter tang as Bethan’s ear tasted it.

Bethan paused a moment,
then bowed her head.  In a few short words, she thanked her Lord for the meal
and for His protection on their journey.  When she raised her eyes, Deoradhan
sat stoically, a study in nonchalance. 
Deep ravines lie within that man,
where many a wild beast must prowl.
  How different from Garan, whose light
blue eyes always shone with tranquility!

Deoradhan remained
morose for a little while but then talked readily enough when Bethan began to
ask questions about their journey and Oxfield.  He identified several forest
birds by their call alone and described the servants at the manor, telling her
their names and specific work.  He clearly enjoyed conversation and spoke well,
hinting at an intentionally-acquired education.  Bethan studied him as he talked,
taking in the well-made deerskin trousers and boots, the fine linen tunic that
draped his rugged but graceful frame.  Out of a sun-browned countenance, his
blue-green eyes narrowed in thought one moment, then opened wide with laughter
the next.  His similarly mobile mouth smiled often.  He was not exactly
handsome, Bethan decided, but his manner added attraction to his imperfect
appearance.

As soon as they had
wiped the last crumbs from their mouths, Deoradhan stood.  “We’d best be on our
way, lass, if we want to arrive by nightfall.  Come, I’ll help you up.”

With that, he mounted
the gray gelding and reached down to pull Bethan up behind him.  A nudge of his
heels sent Alasdair into a swift trot out of the wood and onto the road once
more.

3

She woke to the sound of
clanking iron. 
I must have fallen asleep!
Bethan thought in surprise,
raising her head from where it rested against Deoradhan’s broad back. 
Torchlight, shimmering in the dusk, flooded her eyes, and she felt the horse halt
beneath her.

“Are you awake, Bethan?”
Deoradhan questioned, his voice quiet.

“Aye.  Where are we?”
Bethan asked, though she already guessed.

“We’ve come to Oxfield. 
‘Tis just after supper; we’ve made good time.”  Deoradhan swung his right leg
over the horse’s withers and slipped to the ground. 

Bethan blinked in the
flickering light and saw that they stood before a heavy iron gate, flanked by
stone towers on both sides.  She wondered who would admit them.  When she
glanced down at him for a hint, Deoradhan stood waiting patiently.  Suddenly, a
voice echoed out of the darkness, from one of the towers, she thought.

“Who requests entrance?”
the voice demanded in a tone that chilled Bethan’s stomach.

Deoradhan appeared
unaffected by the intimidating, invisible speaker.  “’Tis only our lord’s
messenger, Deoradhan the Red, and a new servant,” he called back.

Immediately, the gate
creaked open on its weighty hinges.  It revealed several armed guards, one of
whom strode forward.  His solid jaw broke into a wide grin at the sight of
Deoradhan, and his hand dropped from his sword hilt.  “Deoradhan, lad!  I’ve
not seen hide nor hair of you in days.  Where have you been?”

Safety enveloped
Deoradhan and Bethan as they entered the stronghold.  “On the lord’s business,
Calum, as usual,” answered Deoradhan.

“Aye.  ‘Tis good to have
you back.”  The tall guard turned his eyes, bright in the torchlight, up toward
Bethan.  “And what pretty maiden have you brought back with you?”

“A new servant for the
kitchens.  Bethan of West Lea, daughter of Burne.”  Deoradhan reached up and
brought down Bethan from the saddle, setting her on her feet.  “Bethan, I’d
like you to meet my friend Calum, the commander of Oxfield’s guards.”

Brushing the dust from
her rumpled dress, Bethan glanced up at the man.  He looked no more than thirty
years and had the defined features of a handsome man, though several deep scars
across his cheeks had twisted an otherwise comely face.  Hazel-blue eyes,
shadowy in the torchlight, met her own with a gentleness that she had not
expected from a battle-hardened warrior.

“Pleased to make your
acquaintance, Calum,” she smiled.

“As I am yours, Bethan. 
You’ll show her to the kitchens, Deoradhan?” he inquired of his friend.

“Aye, I will.  Are you
on night watch?”

“Aye.  Come to the tower
after you bring her.  I’ll take Alasdair for you now.”

“My thanks.  I’ll see
you in a bit then.  Come, lass,” Deoradhan spoke and led the way through an
open space, leaving his horse with the rugged guard.

Bethan followed a pace
behind him.  She shivered in the night air as they made their way around
numerous stone buildings, their outlines alternately vague and sharp in the
darkness.  Several lights shone from the main structure’s towers, casting deep
shadows all around them and making Bethan feel dwarfed before such
strangeness.  She heard snatches of songs slurred out from what she took to be
the stables.  Still Deoradhan walked on, his strides unwearied.

Deoradhan glanced behind
him.  The young girl felt tired and cold, that much could be safely deduced. 
Compassion stirred in his chest, and he stopped, removing his woolen cloak. 
She stumbled into him, her eyes to the ground. 

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she
exclaimed softly, stepping back.

He smiled.  “It’s I who
am sorry, Bethan.  I should have taken your weariness into account.  Here,” he
directed, draping his cloak around her bowed shoulders.

“Thank you,” she
accepted, and Deoradhan led the way once more, this time walking by her side,
slowly, though he wanted to run forward.

They came to a wooden
door set in the main building’s wall.  It was as familiar to Deoradhan as the
hooves of his mount.  “The kitchen,” he said when he saw Bethan give him a
questioning look.  He applied his fist heavily to the door, explaining, “It’s
where you’ll be working and living at Oxfield.”

She nodded as the door
creaked and swung open.  There stood the head of the kitchen, known almost
universally as Cook, stout, perspiring, and greasy as always.  Her thin lips
split into a toothy, brown-stained grin at the sight of him.  “If ‘tisn’t my
own Deoradhan!”  She opened her fleshy arms toward him, and he embraced her,
ignoring the heavy odor that clung to her clothing and skin.  This was the
woman who had nurtured him when he felt that he had no place to rest his head.

After a moment, he
stepped away and turned Cook’s attention to Bethan, who had been hiding in
Deoradhan’s shadow.  “I’ve brought you a new servant, Aunt Meghyn.  Her name is
Bethan of West Lea.”

Cook’s small black eyes
flew to Bethan.  Deoradhan saw the woman sizing up the girl from toenail to
forehead; he held his breath.  Cook often stuck with her first impressions. 
For Bethan’s sake, he hoped Cook would take a liking to the lass.

“Well, then, you’ll be
joining us in the kitchen, Bethan?” Cook took the girl by her hands.  “Good. 
Strong, capable hands.  I think you’ll do well.”

Deoradhan sighed,
relieved.  “You’ll see to her from now on, Aunt Meghyn?”

“Aye, that I will,” she
responded, smiling at Bethan, then directed her gaze to Deoradhan.  “But, you,
my boy, are not thinking of sneaking off already?  With only a hello and
goodbye for your Aunt Meghyn?”

“Aunt Meghyn, I have
things—” he began, already feeling happily defeated.

The older woman waved
her hands as if to sweep away all obstacles.  “Things more important than your
old auntie?  Come along.  Have a cake, and make Bethan feel welcome among us
tonight.  There’s plenty of time for your things tomorrow.”

Deoradhan grinned and
raked a hand through his auburn hair.  “All right, then.  You’ve conquered
me.”  He passed through the low doorway, following Cook and Bethan.  The girl
glanced back at him once or twice, shyly, seemingly glad that someone familiar
accompanied her into this strange new place.  To reassure her, he offered a
smile.  He knew all too well what it was to be an outsider, though the feeling
would soon pass for her, as the other kitchen maids were sure to accept her. 
As for himself, he feared that consciousness would never cease.

Cook led them down the short
curved hallway, its walls thick with cold stone.  Before they reached the main
kitchen room, Deoradhan could hear female voices chattering and giggling,
answering one another and clamoring to be heard.  Beneath it, he could make out
the sweet lilt of a flute playing an ancient tune. 

Aine.
  Before
they entered the room, his mind saw her, curled up before the fire.  Her
black-fringed eyes would be gazing into the flames, half-closed in pleasure at
the sounds she coaxed from her carved instrument.  Almost every time he had
come to this room at dusk, she knelt quietly there, her dark locks cloaking her
thin shoulders, her white complexion glowing in the heat.  Deoradhan’s heart
began to pound in anticipation like northern drums before a battle.  His eyes
lit as they entered the warm, shadowy room.

There she was. 
Surrounded by a half-dozen girls chatting as they sewed, Aine sat playing her
flute, just as he had imagined. 
My Aine.
  He could dare only to think
it.

“Look who I’ve brought
you, girls,” Cook announced as they entered.  “A new workmate and your favorite
messenger lad.”

At the sight of him, all
the girls sprang to their feet, faces beaming and voices eager.  They competed
for his attention, pulling at his tunic, taking him by the hand, urging him to
sit down.  All except for one, the one who mattered to him.  Aine alone
remained by the tossing fire, a quiet smile playing on her pink lips.

“Goldie, bring some
bread and ale for Bethan and Deoradhan,” Cook instructed.  “Come, Bethan, I’ll
show you where to put your things.”  The gangly youngster hurried to accomplish
the command while Deoradhan eased himself onto a stool as near the fire as
possible. 
As near to Aine as I can get.

When she turned toward
him in welcome, he decided to risk it.  “Aine,” he whispered, “I’ve missed
you.” 

He held his breath,
waiting for her response, glancing toward her and then away, then back again. 
Her cheeks deepened to peony, and her expression told him that his words had
pleased her.  Deoradhan reached down and took her hand before proceeding
recklessly, “Aine, I wish to win your heart.  You know that, don’t you, lass?”

Only a moment passed
before the other kitchen maids gathered round them and Aine quickly withdrew
her hand.  But before her small hand left his, Deoradhan felt her squeeze his
fingers in confirmation.