Alicia Roque Ruggieri (25 page)

38

Southern Lothian

“Come, Enid.  There will
be work for us here.”  Bethan took her sister’s dirty hand and set their steps
toward the large cluster of cottages ahead.  Nearly a fortnight had passed
since she and Enid had parted ways with Garan.  Bethan had chosen their road
with little thought toward direction. 
We need work and a place to stay, no
matter where ‘tis,
she reminded herself whenever her thoughts turned toward
the south.

And no work could be
found.  Thus far, their path had wound through eight hamlets and small towns,
filled with mostly Britonic inhabitants, poor and roughly clad.  Many nights,
someone took pity on the two travelers and offered them a meal and shelter in
their cowshed in exchange for a little washing, cooking, or sewing.  But Bethan
knew that she must find a permanent position if they were to survive.  As she
and Enid walked, her mind returned to the words Papa had spoken some dark
nights:

Because
you have made the LORD your dwelling place,

The
Most High, who is my refuge –

No
evil shall be allowed to befall you,

No
plague come near your tent.

For
he will command his angels concerning you

To
guard you in all your ways.

Did I ever make You
my dwelling place, truly, Lord?  Or did I just walk in the footprints of my
papa?
  The thought
unsettled her. 
If I have taken Your grace for granted, Lord, may it not be
so now.  May it not be only because now I realize how much I need You.

As they moved into the
main, muddy street of the village, Bethan and Enid drew stares from the
natives.  Her arm around her sister, Bethan hurried toward the door of the
first neatly-kept cottage. 
I’ve done this a hundred times already, and each
time the answer has been nay.
  She sighed and raised a fist to knock. 
Let
it be an “aye” this time, please, Lord.

Before she could rap on
the door, they heard someone say from behind them, “May I help you?”

Bethan and Enid turned. 
A dark-haired woman stood in the path, a basket full of herbs on her arm.  She
smiled and came toward them.  “I live here.  Did you want something?”

“My sister and I are
looking for work, ma’am.  Do you know of anything around here?”  Bethan held
her breath.

“Nay, not in this
village, I would say,” answered the woman.  Bethan let out a sigh.  “But,” the
woman continued, “if you’re seriously in need of work, Dunpeledyr’s not twelve
miles from here.  They’ve always work available, especially with summer
coming.  Lots of young people from this village find positions there.”

“Thank you, ma’am!  And
what road would we take there?”

The woman pointed
northwest.  “There’s a Roman-built road—or what’s left of it—that will lead you
nearly to the gate.  But ‘tis too late in the day to go now.  Stay for the
night and start your journey in the morning.  ‘Tis only me and my dogs here. 
We could do with a bit of company.”

The weight of worry slid
off Bethan’s shoulders.  “If you’re sure it wouldn’t impose on you…”

The woman shook her
head.  “Nay, of course not.  I wouldn’t have offered it if I hadn’t meant it,
dear.  Now come inside, lay aside your things, and have a good supper.  I’ve
brought some fine herbs for a stew.”

39

Camelot

He looks like he is
dying from the inside out.
  Deoradhan’s eyes pondered the Pendragon as the man rose from his couch
and moved across his chamber.

“My lord king, if I have
disturbed your rest—”

Arthur held up a hand,
weariness lining his eyes.  “Nay, nay, my son…”  He stopped.  “I’m sorry.  I
know you don’t like me to call you…”

A pang drove through
Deoradhan’s heart. 
I love this man.  I love him…despite everything that is
past.
  He cleared his throat.  “Yestin said you wanted to see me, my lord.”

He saw Arthur’s lips
tighten.  “Aye.  I did.  I do.”  The king gestured toward one of the alcoves. 
“Come and sit with me, Deoradhan.”

Deoradhan nodded and
followed Arthur into the dimly-lit alcove.  Arthur drew a curtain across the
opening.  “No one will hear us here,” he explained, sitting down.  He looked
into Deoradhan’s face for long moments.  “You know what has happened with
Weylin.”

“Aye, my king.”

Arthur paused, then
said, “I am not a fool, Deoradhan.  I’m sure you must have known that Weylin
plotted against me.”

Deoradhan nodded. 
I
will tell him the truth.
  “I did, my lord.”

“And did he ask you to
help him?”  Arthur looked away.

“He did, my lord,”
Deoradhan said quietly.  “But I could not go through with it.”

Arthur met Deoradhan’s
eyes again, probing his soul.  “Why not?  Do you not hate me?”

Deoradhan’s heart felt
like it would break.  “Nay, my king, I don’t,” he whispered.  “I…thought I
did.  But I cannot.”

Arthur let out a heavy
sigh.  The sigh sounded like it had been locked away twenty years.  Finally, he
murmured, “Good.  I’m glad.”  He reached out and laid a hand on Deoradhan’s. 
“Thank you, my…Deoradhan.  You will never know how much your kindness means to
me.”

They sat silently for a
long moment.  Then the king stood.  “You know Weylin will be convicted,
Deoradhan.  He will die a traitor’s death.”

Deoradhan’s head snapped
up. 
At last.  Can it really be so?

“His lands will pass to
Solas…unless you wish me to charge Weylin with an additional crime.” The king
paused.

“What do you mean, my
lord?”

“Disobedience to the
crown during the siege of Dunpeledyr.  I ordered him to manage the matter
justly, letting your father live if possible.  Convicted of this crime as well,
Weylin and his house will forfeit their status as nobles of this land.  Every
stade of his property will be available for me to redistribute as I please, if
you understand me, Deoradhan.”

He means he will give
Dunpeledyr to me,
Deoradhan realized.  His spirit bubbled with excitement. 
The goal of his life was within his reach.  “How will you accomplish this, my
lord?” he breathed.

“As a living witness to
his actions, you must charge him publicly.”

“But…but I was just a
lad.  I don’t even remember the siege of Dunpeledyr except as if in the dream
of a dream.”

“I will accept your
testimony as valid.”

“When, my lord?”
Deoradhan breathed.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Deoradhan stared at the
king, then nodded and stood.  “I will do it, my lord.”  His blood pummeled
through his body with excitement.

As he turned to go, Arthur
stretched out his hand.  When Deoradhan looked into his eyes, he saw them
beseeching, seeking some proof of reconciliation.

‘Tis a peace
offering,
he realized.  The Pendragon didn’t need an additional charge to
convict Lord Weylin; the man’s treason condemned him already. 
He’s doing
this for me, to atone for the past.
  Slowly, Deoradhan reached out and
grasped Arthur’s forearm.

Years rolled off the
king’s face.  “I cannot help what has gone before, lad,” he whispered, “but I
will try to repair what I’ve broken down.”

Without comprehending
it, Deoradhan felt his heart soften like snow under a spring rain.  He nodded
again, unsure of what to say, bowed, and turned to go.

As he pushed back the
curtain, his eyes fell on a small book, lying open on the table.  Someone – the
king, he supposed – had tattered its pages by extensive use.  Curious, though
he didn’t know why, Deoradhan paused to scan the contents.  In darkly-inked
words, he read,

Therefore I will divide him a portion with the many,

And he shall divide the spoil with the strong,

Because he poured out His soul to death,

And was numbered with the transgressors;

Yet he bore the sin of many,

And makes intercession for the transgressors.

The book of Isaiah. 
Deoradhan felt his spirit bitter and harden in the old familiar way. 
Arthur
has become more religious and thinks he can get ahead with his God by giving me
Dunpeledyr.  But he cannot give me back my father, nor take away the stain
Weylin has put on my mother.  A God without justice may accept such a
sacrifice, but I shall never.  I will not forgive him, for neither he nor his
God can erase the past.

Summer Country

Aine’s pains began
without warning, deep in the night.  Calum woke to her hand pushing at his
shoulder along with her frightened voice whispering, “Calum, Calum, wake up.”

He rose from his pallet
on the floor, shaking his head to clear away the sleep.  He had been up most of
the past nights with his brother, helping with the lambing, and his drowsiness
drugged him now.  “What is it, Aine?” Calum mumbled, kneeling at the side of
her narrow bed.

She had risen to her
elbows.  “The child…It’s coming, Calum.”  In the moonlight streaming through
the small window, he saw her face ashen and perspiring.  “It’s too early,” she
gasped.

He kissed her forehead
and tried not to let his own anxiety show.  “I’ll get Eilley,” he said.  “’Tis
probably only a false alarm.”  He was glad his brother’s house stood only two
miles away.  Kieve’s wife had offered to help with Aine’s delivery, though it hadn’t
been expected for another month or so.

Aine held tightly to his
hand, her eyes filled with terror.  “I am so afraid, Calum.”

He swallowed and drew
her close to himself.  “Perfect love casts out fear,” he murmured, holding her
to his heart.  He felt her trembling. 
O Lord, help her.  And me.
  Calum
closed his eyes and let her go.  “I’ll be right back,” he promised.  “I have to
get Eilley.”

Aine nodded and another
pain wracked her.  She gripped the mattress with white fingers, biting her lip
until Calum could see blood staining it. 
O Lord, be our Help in this hour.

He turned and exited,
closing the door softly behind him.

40

How I wish for a mount
now,
Calum thought
as his feet flew over the heavy spring grass, laden with dew.  He didn’t stop
running or praying until he reached Kieve’s house, tucked between two hills.

Kieve’s middle daughter
answered his pounding.  “Mama has gone to help our neighbor with a birthing,”
she explained.

“Where’s your Papa,
Bronwyn?” he gasped.

“In the fields with the
sheep, Uncle,” the seven-year-old replied.  “He left the dogs with us.”

What am I to do now,
Lord?
  “Bronwyn,
your aunt’s pains have come.  Where is the nearest midwife besides your mama?”

Bronwyn squinted in
thought.  “I think old Dilys helps sometimes.  She lives in the village.”

Two more miles away.
  He’d already been absent fifteen minutes at least. 
I can’t go two
more miles and then hobble four more back with an elderly woman in tow.
 
“Tell your mama that Uncle Calum needs her, whenever she returns.  Alright,
Bronwyn?”

The little girl nodded.  “Alright, Uncle.”

Lord, help me,
Calum pleaded as he came to a halt
before his own door again.  He’d delivered lambs, calves, even foals, but never
children. 
But I have to do this.  There is no other way. 
He opened the
door slowly, hesitant to tell Aine that no midwife had come. 

Aine had kicked off her
blankets and curled up in a ball of misery in the middle of the bed.  Calum
walked forward.  A sick feeling came into his chest as he realized the mattress
wore a wide circle of blood.

Camelot

The hills rose up all
around him, sloping green mounds speckled with the white primroses.  ‘Twas
Lothian in the spring, Deoradhan recognized.  His bare feet felt the cool
earth, and his nostrils breathed in the fragrant wild scents around him.

A man stood in the
sunlight as well, apart from him.  Deoradhan knew that the stranger was his
father, appearing just as he had always thought him to be.  Righteousness,
courage, selflessness all shared the throne on Lord Eion’s countenance.  His
father waited there as though expecting another.  Deoradhan called out to him,
but the lord either couldn’t hear him or wouldn’t respond.

  Turning his eyes,
Deoradhan realized another person had entered the valley. 
Weylin,
he thought and tried to
warn his father.  But his father had already seen the intruder and faced him as
Weylin drew a sharp knife.  With relief, Deoradhan saw that his father was
well-armed, far better than his opponent.  Weylin drew close, and Deoradhan
watched for Lord Eion to draw his own blade and hack his enemy to pieces.

Yet his father didn’t
defend himself.  Horror filled Deoradhan’s breast as he saw the attacker plunge
his dagger into his father’s heart.  Over and over, the knife entered his
father’s chest until the blood ran over the valley grasses, rushing to
Deoradhan’s feet in a river.  Looking up from the red pool, he saw his father
wither and fall to the earth, still.

Anger burned in
Deoradhan.  Able to move at last, he ran to his father’s side and found him
dead.  He drew his sword.  He would have no mercy on the killer.  He turned and
faced his enemy, staring into his face with prepared hatred.

But Weylin had
disappeared or morphed somehow.  Deoradhan blinked in utter dismay at the man
standing there, bloody knife in hand, fresh from the killing.  ‘Twas not
Weylin.

‘Twas himself.

“How can this be?” he
cried out.  Shaking, his eyes went back to the corpse lying at his feet.  No
longer did his father’s face look back.  ‘Twas the Lord Christ.  He knew it,
though he could not tell how or why this change had occurred…

Deoradhan woke,
shaking.  Slowly, he realized he lay in his old room at Camelot.  But a
Presence had come with the dream, so real to him that he couldn’t dismiss his vision. 
He knew that the Lord stood in this chamber with him, and he heard a Voice in
his heart, whispering uncomfortable things, things he could not dismiss.

Unable to roll over and
sleep, Deoradhan rose from the feather mattress, pushing aside the yellow
sheets.  He must move, must do anything but lay here under this torrent of
thoughts that threatened to drown him.  With trembling hands, he slipped a
mantle over his sleeping tunic and stepped into the corridor.  Unthinking,
unseeing, his feet found their way to the king’s private chapel where he had
comforted Lady Tarian some weeks ago.

Silently, he moved
toward the front of the room, the thoughts of all the years pouring through his
mind.  The bitterness against Arthur.  The hatred toward Weylin.  The sense of
self-righteousness coloring his every scheme. 
Yet I rightfully felt that. 
They deserved it.

Like a flash of summer
lightning, his mind recalled how he had killed the Lord Christ in his dream. 
But
I didn’t really do it.  ‘Twas only a night vision.  That passage in Isaiah I
glanced at in the king’s chamber poisoning my thoughts.  The Jews, the cursed
Romans, ‘twas they who killed Jesus.  Not I.

But the guilt increased,
pressing unwanted reflections into his soul, as though from some outside Source. 
Have you not killed Him in your heart?
 The Presence had followed him to
this quiet room and demanded answers from him, answers to questions he sweated
to ponder. 
Have you not forsaken His ways to follow your own wants?

Deoradhan thought of
Dunpeledyr.  “’Tis my right!” he addressed the Presence aloud, hearing his
voice echo through the chapel.  “I only required what was rightfully mine. 
What You had taken from me.”  He raised his chin.  “If anything, ‘tis You who
ought to ask my forgiveness, like Arthur, like them all!”

Silence.  Then…

Do I not have the
right to do what I wish with My own things?

Deoradhan found no reply
to this in his mouth.  He stood before the stone altar, helpless, feeling his
heart thud against his ribs.
 
As though a curtain had been pulled away
from his mind, he suddenly knew that if he rejected this God now, he would be
exiled from Him forever.  He would no longer be able to hear the Voice that
both drew and repulsed him.  Long moments passed.  He felt his soul tense and rebel
against this Invader.

If I give myself to
You, what will become of me?
  Would he become forever a slave to this God
who could do as He pleased?  The pull was irresistible, for Deoradhan sensed
that the Source of life called his life back to His own.  Yet Deoradhan knew
that the Presence would not constrain him to lay down his arms, would not tear
open his soul and force His way in.  He could say nay…and yet he could not.

Finally, with a
deliberate movement, Deoradhan bent his knees and knelt on the wide stone
flags.  His head dropped to his chest, his hands fell to the floor, and he
prostrated before the Presence.

Long moments later, he
rose, the manacles he had not known enslaved him fallen off his shoulders. 
With open eyes, Deoradhan breathed.  “I am free,” he said aloud.
 

I expected to stand
up a bondservant.  But I find I am a son, liberated at last… from myself.