Alicia Roque Ruggieri (20 page)

“Alright, Father,” Fiona
agreed slowly, casting Deoradhan a questioning glance.

Why does she think I
know what her father is about?  I’m trying to get rid of him!

“Now,” Weylin said,
rising from his chair, “I’m off to see to my kennels.  Deoradhan, will you come
along?”

“Gladly, my lord, as
soon as I finish my bread,” Deoradhan agreed, reaching for another piece, even
though he didn’t want it.

Weylin nodded his
satisfaction at Deoradhan’s hearty appetite before throwing a scornful glance
at his own son.  When Deoradhan’s eyes turned to the youth, he saw Solas
quietly nibbling at a piece of roast pheasant.  His heart felt a desire to love
this half-brother, though his mind hated the thought.

The lord exited,
followed soon after by Lady Seonaid and Solas together.  Fiona and Deoradhan
sat alone at the table, exactly as the two wished.

“What is my father up
to?” her immediate question came.

Deoradhan shrugged, a
little irritated.  “Why would I know, Fiona?  Remember my place here.”

She glanced toward the
door.  “But you are in my father’s confidence.  Or soon will be.  He does not
trust me as he does you.”

“And what is that to me?”

“To me ‘tis much.  My
father has never kept me here for a winter.  ‘Twas odd for him to pull me away
from court as he did.  He’s scheming something, Deoradhan.”  She paused.  “You
know that Arthur’s situation is precarious now, aye?”

How precarious? 
“Explain yourself, Fiona.  What have you seen at Camelot to make you think
that?” Deoradhan demanded.

Fiona bit her lip. 
“There are pockets of opponents who send letters to the king regularly.  I hear
this from the queen.  And Lothian has been a nest of trouble in the past.”

Deoradhan snorted. 
“There are always adversaries to the throne.  That means little.”

She shook her head. 
“Nay, I know that.  But there has been an attempt on the king’s life.  His
cupbearer was poisoned.”

Deoradhan frowned.  “A
cowardly thing to do.” 
I would use a knife and let him see my face.

“Aye.”  She hesitated,
then leaned forward earnestly.  “I tell you this, Deoradhan, because my father
may… may be part of the growing conspiracy.  And because he trusts you, he may
ask you to take part.  He may ask for your help in overthrowing the king.”

“I bear no fondness for
Arthur.”

She had not expected
that response.  He could tell from her widened eyes.  “But, surely, Deoradhan,
by right of his kingship alone… He’s been placed there by God.”

“I am not overly fond of
your God either, Fiona, as you well ken,” he replied.  “Thus, I give little
heed to His supposed wishes regarding who should rule as tyrant over the
Britons.”  Deoradhan stood, eager to see what Weylin wanted with him.  “I will
act according to my own benefit, my lady, as your father has done to me.”

“Then how are you any
different from him, my lord?” the young woman asked, coming around the table to
him.  “You are the same kind of man.”

His hand rose to strike
her.  She didn’t flinch, and the pity in her eyes weakened him.  Deoradhan’s
hand dropped back to his side.  Robbed of his fury, humiliated that he would
have hit her, he could only turn his bitter soul toward the door without
another word.  His dying conscience told him what his mind denied:

She is right.

28

Camelot

503 A.D.

The late March wind cut
Tarian across the face.  Folding her arms tightly around her, she turned her
feet back toward the main hall. 
Lord, please get me back home soon, back to
Deirdre, back to Oxfield.

She tired of the endless
revelries and outings that her ladyship planned and executed with equally
eternal enthusiasm.  But Drustan had insisted that they remain through the
winter at Camelot.  “Great changes may be ahead,” he intoned, “and great
opportunities for a flexible man.”

You are so flexible,
Drustan, that one day, you may never regain your proper shape at all.

As Tarian stepped up the
stair into the back corridor, she collided with a dark-cloaked figure.  She
staggered backwards, and the person caught her by the arm, his hood falling
away from his face.  His face was only inches away from hers when she regained
her balance.

“I’m sorry, my lady.  I
didn’t see you.”

She recognized that
face, though she hadn’t seen it for months.  “Deoradhan,” she greeted.  “I
didn’t know you had come to Camelot.”

The auburn-haired former
messenger looked at her uneasily as he pulled up his heavy hood.  “Aye, my
lady, I’ve just arrived.”  He paused, then spoke low.  “Tell me, my lady, is
Lord Drustan about?”

Why was he acting so
secretive?  “Aye, he’s here.  Did you want to speak with him?”

Deoradhan gave a
vigorous shake of his head.  “Nay.  Nay, but will you impart a favor to me, my
lady?”

“What is it?”

“Do not tell my lord
that I’m here.”

“Alright, if you wish.”

His eyes stared into
hers.  “Promise me that you will not tell anyone that you saw me, my lady.”

“Alright, I promise. 
But why?”

Deoradhan hesitated.  “I
just need it to be so for now, my lady.  Please?”

“I’ve already given my
word, Deoradhan.”

“Thank you, my lady.” 
With a kiss to her hand, the young man rushed past her.

What was that all
about?
  Fear crept around her heart. 
I hope I didn’t promise something
I will regret.

Summer Country

He saw her everywhere he
looked.  Every dry leaf on the ground, every birdsong in the frosty evening sky
murmured Cairine’s presence.  Calum had not meant to come this way at all.  But
the past drew him back straight to where he had not wanted to tread. 

His beard had grown,
covering his smooth, scarred cheeks with golden brown fleece.  It had given
Calum additional protection from the cold, which struck at him continually
throughout the long winter, despite his heavy fur cloak and woolen trousers. 
Yet his spiritual misery was so acute, the elemental sufferings held little
annoyance for him.

Do I dare enter the
village?  Do I walk the same roads, see the same faces?
  They would not
recognize him.  It had been nearly eighteen years since he had last moved
through the hamlet he now approached.  Eighteen years since he had seen mother
or father, brothers or sisters.

His feet trembled in
their leather boots as the small gathering of cottages came into sight.  Frozen
fields stretched out as far as he could see on either side. 
Just as I
remember it.  But I can’t go back in time.  I can never take back what
happened.

Camelot

Deoradhan ducked into a
recess in the corridor.  He had not expected to meet with Lady Tarian here. 
Usually, the lord of Oxfield and his household arrived just in time for the
Feast of the Nativity and stayed for only a month or so.  Never into March.

He smiled without joy. 
March was a historical month for assassinations.  “And you, too, my son?” he
murmured aloud, realizing how well Julius’ words fit his own actions. 
That
first Brutus was a patriot, too.

I was as a son to
Arthur and now I am to be his demise?  A soft-bladed knife?

He shook his head. 
Arthur
has done much to destroy me.  He deserves no less than what I am prepared to
do.

But am I prepared to
do it?
  He closed his eyes and pictured himself creeping up behind the
heavily-sleeping king, plunging his dagger between the Pendragon’s ribs.  The
job would require more than one thrust.  Again and again the knife must do its
work.  The blood would splurt and pump from the gouges in the king’s flesh. 
Will
he die quickly, or like most men, will he awaken and perish knowing that I
betrayed him?

And why was Drustan
still here?  Did he suspect…?  The whole court whispered with supposed scheming. 
A man could not reign for two decades without developing a few enemies. 
But
the king little surmises how far the frustrations with his rule have run,
thought Deoradhan as he turned his feet back into the dimly-lit corridor.

Never mind the emotional
pull of childhood attachments.  First Arthur must go; then Weylin would
follow.  And his way would be clear to take back what belonged to him
rightfully.  He had business to do tonight.

No one must ever know
I’ve come.

Oxfield

“When do you expect Garan
will come fetch you?”

Bethan looked up from
plucking the feathers from the chickens laid out on the table.  She met
Deirdre’s eyes with a smile and shrugged.  “I don’t know exactly when.”

“Possibly within the
month?”

“I can hope.”  Bethan
picked up a sharp knife and slid it across the fowl, the edge pulling out the
quill remnants.

“True.”  Deirdre gave a
sigh.  “Sometimes, ‘tis hard to hope, though, I admit.  Life seems quiet here
now that everyone is gone…Meghyn, now Calum, and Lady Tarian.”

“Is she really a
believer, Deirdre?”

“Aye, she is, but I
think sometime ‘tis harder to count the costs when you come into privilege, you
ken.  For years, she fell away from the way.”  Deirdre smiled.  “Finally, she
came to realize again that only Christ could satisfy her.”

Only Christ…  Does He
alone satisfy me?  Or do I follow Him because my Papa did?
  Bethan batted
the thought around in her mind.  Wasn’t she prepared to give her life as a
missionary to the heathen north with Garan, especially now that Papa had never
returned?

But the idea continued
to skulk into her thoughts. 
Do I love Christ or only the things He gives
me?  Would I be content with Him alone?

Bethan was not foolish
enough to ignore the query completely.  She didn’t pray about it; she didn’t
dare to.  But she allowed it a little room.

Summer Country

The dawn stained the sky
with deep winter pink mingling with orange.  Calum crunched through the
remnants of the last snow, his boots breaking through the fragile ice coating. 
The wheel tracks in the road had frozen still, like miniature red sea
partings.  Nearby, possibly from the clustered evergreens growing close to the
lane, Calum heard a strange bird call, melodic and gurgling with joyful
expectation.

His eyes fixed on the
thatched roofs ahead of him, Calum placed one heavy foot in front of the
other.  There, that first building housed the knife-sharpener.  How well he
remembered watching the man’s skillful fingers work, bringing each blade to
razor-sharpness.  Aye, and there was the drinking-house, where his own father
spent many hours after plowing.  Here, on the right…

Calum shuddered.  The
druid priest’s home.  How strange, though.  Usually, few visitors wanted to
step into that abode.  Yet as he approached it this morning, a dozen people
flocked around its open door, despite the early hour.  Puzzled, Calum paused a
few feet away.

“Greetings, laddie,” a
man called out from the doorway.  His face wore a graying red beard lit by a
nearly toothless grin.  “Are you coming to meeting?  ‘Tis the Lord’s Day, after
all.”

‘Twas Sunday, Calum
realized. 
I must play the part of a stranger.
  “And is this where the
Lord’s people meet, man?” he said, mustering most of his strength to appear
happy. 
As a good Christian should be.

“Aye, ‘tis.  And are you
one of us?”

“I am.”  Calum strode
forward toward the low doorway. 
That my shaking limbs would not betray me. 
Why do they meet here, of all places?  He must not live here any longer.

The man grasped Calum by
the forearm and then pulled him into a hearty hug.  “Welcome, friend,” he
said.  “Come inside.  We’re about ready to begin.”

Inside, more than twenty
people of various ages sat clustered on the fur rugs and perched on long hewn
benches.  A few younger men stood, leaning against the walls, some cradling
children in their arms.  Calum recognized one among them almost immediately.

‘Twas Kieve. 
My
younger brother.
  He had been but ten years old when Calum had left the
village.  Now he must be…Calum calculated his age. 
Twenty-eight.
  And
was that his little son that he held in his arms?  The toddler was the very
image of his father.

Kieve’s glance rested
for a moment upon the stranger, and Calum turned his face away, not wishing to
be recognized or acknowledged.  He took a seat beside the man who had welcomed
him inside.

“So who leads the mass?”
he asked in a low voice.

“The priest does,”
replied the man.  “Or his son sometimes now that the priest is so old.  Here he
is.”

Calum shifted his eyes
to an interior doorway, leading to the other room of the house.  A man in his
forties stepped through the humble archway.  Gray wove through his black beard
and hair, and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth ran deep.  Almost two full
decades had passed, but Calum knew who this was.

Heddwyn.  Calum remembered
the man as a cocky twenty-something-year-old, bent on avoiding responsibilities
and enjoying pleasure.  As a boy, he had thought the young man could not be any
more full of himself without bursting like an overripe Roman grape.

“Greetings in the name
of our Lord,” Heddwyn murmured, coming to the front of the room.  Peace
illuminated his countenance.

Calum had never felt so
perplexed.  How had everything changed from black to white, from ugly to
beautiful in the years since he fled?  What had happened in this village where
Cairine had been put to her gruesome death?  Aye, under the eyes of this very
man, through the power of his father?

Through all the singing,
the scripture recitation, the sermons, Calum sat and stood, stood and sat,
participating as if through a dream-self.  All around him, he recognized those
whom he knew as opposed to the gospel when the preacher had come through the
village all those years ago.  Yet, here they worshipped the Lord with willing
tongues and joyful hearts.

What happened?