Alicia Roque Ruggieri (4 page)

6

Aine glanced this way and
that, eager to glimpse a certain messenger’s face in the crowd of servants. 
Running a hand over her loose hair, she decided to amble casually, looking for
him as she went.  Winter had rushed off with a rowdy bunch of guards and
dairymaids the moment they entered the stable yard, and so Aine was at liberty
to go where she pleased.

Excitement creeping
through her arms and legs, streaming down to her toes and fingertips, Aine
moved around the groups of chatterers and avoided the dancers’ flying feet. 
She passed by the table laden with cakes and tankards of ale where weary
revelers refreshed themselves.  Deoradhan’s smiling countenance flashed through
her imagination.  Each time she saw him, his gaze seemed to say that he cared
for her more, that she was ever more important to him.  What would he say to
her tonight?

“Lass.”

With a sharp intake of
breath, she turned to the voice behind her, unable to do otherwise even if she
had tried.  “Deoradhan,” she breathed.  “I thought you would be here.”

He smiled gently.  “You
look like a goddess of night, Aine.”  He moved closer to her and whispered, “If
I take you in my arms for the dancing, will you vanish?”

She blushed and shook
her head vigorously.

“Tell me,” laughed
Deoradhan, “is that a nay to the vanishing or to the dancing?”

His mild teasing and
intent gaze overcame her.  Tongue-tied, Aine shook her head again, her eyes to
the ground.  Then she felt his strong hand lift her chin with the kindness with
which a shepherd would lift a wee lamb.  Half-frightened, she raised her dark
eyes to his and found herself breathlessly bound in unspoken communication.

His eyes spoke of things
which she could not, did not want to understand:  pain he felt she could
mitigate, desires he wished her to gratify, expectations of whom he believed
her to be.  In the face of such a summons, Aine felt powerless.  She knew
herself unable both to resist and to fulfill his anticipations. 
I cannot.
 
She knew that she would fail ultimately, for she knew how defective she was. 
Yet she knew also that she would try her utmost to succeed, to be all that he
wanted and needed, if only . . .
If only he will love me.
  And perhaps
then the lonely valleys of her heart would be lifted.

After long moments, her
chin held in his right hand, her eyes held by his, Deoradhan spoke.  “Come,
lass,” he murmured, his voice a dry streambed, and led her toward the open
yard.

Bethan observed
Deoradhan and Aine with mixed feelings swirling together within her heart. 
Resignation held the throne largely. 
He’s not for you, lass.  You knew that
even before you saw he favored her.  Papa would not approve.  Besides, what of
Garan?
  Yet, Deoradhan was such a generous, kind young man, unlike any
among her acquaintance.  Though he did not embrace the Way, his spirit spoke of
a natural goodness.  This drew Bethan’s heart toward him like a thirsty rabbit
to clear water.  She bit her lip, watching him delight in the company of his
lithe partner.  Aine looked up into Deoradhan’s face with shy but equal
rapture.

What fellowship has
light with darkness?
  Papa’s blue eyes, lined with concern, appeared in her
mind’s eye, beseeching her to think, to be led by the Spirit living within her.
 
Be careful, daughter.

“Why are you standing
here like a scared brown bird, lass?” The deep voice came at her elbow.

Surprised, Bethan turned
to see who addressed her.  A familiar man smiled down at her, his fierce scars
softened by the torchlight.

“Bethan, isn’t it?” he
asked amiably.  At her nod, he continued, “You might not remember me.  I’m a
guard, Calum by name.”

“I remember you.  I met
you the first night I came to Oxfield,” Bethan replied, glad for the
diversion.  “You’re Deoradhan’s friend, aren’t you?”

“Aye, we’re friends. 
I’ve known him since he arrived from Gaul.”

Bethan’s eyebrows rose. 
“I didn’t know Deoradhan came from Gaul.  By his accent, I would have guessed
the north, even Lothian,” she referred to the often-disputed territory between
the wild tribal land and Arthur’s southern domain.

“Aye, he was educated
abroad, in a monastery, actually.”

“A monastery?” Bethan’s
interest rose more quickly than a hungry sparrow’s toward a beetle.  “But…”

Calum smiled.  “I know. 
Deoradhan isn’t exactly of the Christian persuasion, is he, Bethan?  But much
has happened in his youth, I think, and he may yet turn.  What do the
Scriptures say?  ‘Tis not the healthy that need a physician, but the ill.”  The
older man’s eyes took on a sorrowful glint.  “That the lad would see his
infirmity and be healed,” he murmured, half to himself.

“His infirmity?  You
mean his need for a Savior?”

Calum nodded.  “Aye, a
Savior.  And a Friend who sticks closer than a brother.  The only one who will
fill the God-shaped hole in his heart that he’s now trying to fill with Aine. 
Oh, I’ve nothing against Aine,” he quickly added when Bethan’s eyes widened. 
“She’s a sweet girl, but I know from my own experience that nothing will
satisfy us except for the One we were made for.”

Bethan knew he spoke
truly.  She contemplated this man afresh.  Prior to their conversation, she had
looked on Calum only as Deoradhan’s friend.  Now, she saw him independent of
Deoradhan, and he struck sincere admiration in her.  Scarred as his face was,
robbed of its natural beauty, his eyes testified to forgiveness received yet
not earned; mercy and truth continually met on his countenance. 
Though it
holds deep sadness yet…
  Calum’s faith had given flesh and bones to the
hope his Creator had thought into being.  Deoradhan’s self-confident carriage
and pleasing appearance shriveled and dimmed into a flimsy illusion in the face
of Calum’s living conviction.

“Come, lass.  Will you
dance with me?” Calum offered her his hand, and she took it gladly, knowing
both her fathers would be pleased.

After dancing past
midnight, Aine begged Deoradhan through breathless laughter to allow her to
rest.

Though his own energy
was undiminished, her partner acquiesced.  “Come, my Aine.  We’ll have a cup of
ale.”  Still holding her small hand in his large rough one, he led her to the
refreshment table.

My Aine.
  The
words floated off his tongue, sweet and appetizing as early summer berries.  He
tasted and relished them and saw from her expression that she welcomed his
endearing phrases.  That she wanted to belong to him as strongly as he wished
to possess her and so fill the cavernous space within himself.

He drank quickly,
watching Aine sip her ale.  Let the priests and deacons, monks and bishops have
their far-off God, One who was strong to save, yet never did.  His goddess
stood before him, stainless and alive.  A virgin spirit of nature she seemed to
him in that moment, her dusky hair clouding the white star of her face, her
limbs glowing with jubilant exercise.

Aine finished drinking,
and Deoradhan took her cup from her, placing it on the table.  “Come, Aine,” he
said gently.  “I’ll take you back to the kitchen.”

She smiled, placing her
hand in his offered one, and the two moved from the crowded yard, weaving
around those whose dancing had taken a riotous turn as the night wore on and
the ale flowed more freely and potently.  Across the quiet courtyard, Deoradhan
led his idol.  They did not speak, each intent on the pleasure they knew
awaited them at the other’s hand.

They came to the kitchen
door.  Aine made a feeble attempt to enter, but Deoradhan stayed her with a
hand to her shoulder.  With a smile, he thought of how like the old stories
this was:  the dark night sky gleaming with half a hundred stars, the crisp
aromatic wind nuzzling their faces, fallen leaves caressing their bare feet. 
With a deep breath, he gazed down into Aine’s trusting eyes, treasuring the
moment before he drank the perfume of his bloom.

As he kissed her, he
knew why honeybees delight in intimately knowing a rose.

Aine broke away from
their embrace first.  “Cook will wonder where I am,” she breathed, moving
toward the door on slow legs, her eyes held by Deoradhan’s gaze.  “’Tis late.”

“Aine, stay a moment.” 
Deoradhan clung to her hands and swallowed.  “Marry me.”

“What?”

“Marry me.  Within the
month.”  She felt her heart pound in unison with his words.  “I cannot think of
living without you.  I love you.”

“Aye,” Aine heard
herself reply, her entire being dazzled with emotion.  He desired her; he
loved
her.  For the first time in her life, she felt benumbed with a restless bliss. 
Even as she felt it, she feared it would vanish, unreal as the mist streaming
around the manor’s walls.

“Aye,” she affirmed
defiantly and raised her face to kiss her worshipper.

7

‘Twas Sabbath.  Bethan
knew it the moment she opened her eyes to the pre-dawn room.  She inhaled the
cold air of the room, grateful for her woolen tunic and blanket.  She lay there
quietly in the stillness, listening to the many-rhythmed breathing of her
kitchen companions, thinking about the Lord’s Days she’d spent at home in the
West Lea.

This is the day that
the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Bethan felt her heart
swell with peace as she remembered Papa’s recitations.  From deep within her,
down to her very marrow, Bethan knew that she had a Mediator before the Throne
of God.  In her mind, she could see the God-Man Jesus standing before His
Father, holding out nail-scarred hands with her name written on them.

Bethan rolled over onto
her side, pulling the blanket up over her chilled shoulders.  She closed her
eyes and thought of her Papa.  By this hour, he would be rising in their
darkened cottage, anxious to secure long moments talking with His Friend and
Redeemer before the animals required caring for.  She could see Papa’s lank
form outlined by the rising sun as he meditated in the fields, like so many men
of God had done before him.  His eyes, lined with decades of toiling under that
other servant of God, the sun, would close; his strong, bony knees would bend
to the brown dust of the fields; and his large, rock-hard hands rise
open-palmed in heartfelt worship.

“Bethan.”

The whisper startled
her.  Snapping her eyes open, Bethan peered into the now-gray darkness.  “Who
is it?” she inquired, rising on her elbows.

“Just me, Deirdre,” the
soft voice replied.

Bethan could picture the
serious freckled face of the older girl.  She did not know Deirdre well but
thought of her as kind and patient with the younger servants.  “What is it?  Is
something wrong?”

“No.  You know Calum the
guard?”

“Aye.”  Bethan waited
for Deirdre to go on.

“He mentioned to me that
you might like to come to our meeting this morning.”

Bethan’s interest rose. 
“Your meeting?”

“Aye.  On Sunday
mornings, the servants who are Christians meet together to worship the Lord. 
Would you like to come with me?”

“Aye!” Bethan eagerly
replied.  “Aye, I would.”

“Calum said as much. 
We’ll have to hurry, though.  ‘Tis nearly dawn.  Come along.”  Bethan heard and
felt Deirdre scramble to her feet.  She threw back her blanket and quickly
followed.  Together, the two girls tiptoed barefooted over the cold earth
floor, carefully moving around the sleeping kitchen servants.  Noiselessly,
Deirdre unlatched the door and slipped out, Bethan close behind her.

Into the fresh moist air
they walked.  As they strode, Bethan’s heart soared with the song of the morning
birds.  Deirdre moved quickly, her longer legs pacing over the frosty dirt, a
smile germinating on her pale lips. 

“Where shall we meet the
others?” Bethan asked, halfway through the courtyard. 

Deirdre turned bright
eyes toward her.  “Outside the walls.  They’ll be gathering under the oak
tree.  Some will already be there by now.”

“Why do you not meet
inside the walls?  From the little I know of him, Lord Drustan seems a
reasonable man and would permit it, wouldn’t he?  I thought he was a Christian
himself,” Bethan inquired.

Deirdre raised her
eyebrows.  “Lord Drustan claims, or I should say, claimed, that he was a
Christian, aye.  But for the past decade, he has leaned more toward the pagan
roots of his British mother than the Christianity of his Roman father.  He no
longer attends mass nor keeps a priest at Oxfield, except for Bricius, who
serves only as his potter.”

“So he will not allow
you to meet inside the walls,” Bethan concluded.

Deirdre shook her head,
her curly braid bouncing across her slight shoulders.  “No, he would allow it
if we asked, I think.  His wife holds to her faith in Christ yet, as well.  But
we
prefer
to meet at the tree.”

“Why?”  Shivering now,
Bethan wondered why the group could not meet in the stables or by a fire in the
hall.  At least it would be warm there!

Deirdre turned her brown
eyes to Bethan.  “Because this way we can identify with Him who suffered
outside the gate, separating Himself as a sin offering for us.  As the
Scriptures say, ‘Therefore let us go to him outside the camp and bear the
reproach he endured.’”

Bethan met the older
girl’s gaze in silence.  This conscious effort to testify to separation by
Oxfield’s Christians humbled her.  How often she had tried to conform as much
as possible to her peers in her hunger to belong when really she needed to obey
Christ only, honoring him with her loving allegiance!  How frequently she had
failed!

Deirdre led her toward a
small door in the wall that Bethan had never noticed before this morning.  “A
guard always lets us in and out here.  He’s on duty patrolling the wall, and I
think this gives him something to do in the quiet hours,” she explained,
smiling at Bethan.  “He should be here any moment.”

As they waited, Bethan
could see a few others coming toward them from across the yard.  She recognized
some of them from the stableyard dance, others only by having seen them about
their daily work.  Deirdre greeted them each with a sweet smile and a
whispered, “Good morn!” as they gathered around the small door.

They did not have to
wait for long.  Soon, a portly young guard waddled toward them, his leather
armor strapped loosely around his girth.  With a friendly hello, he unlocked
the door, and the small band of believers hastened under the archway.

Once outside, the group
moved quickly through the tall grasses, wet with frosty dew.  In the east, the
steadily rising sun dyed the horizon with stains of fire opal and garnet,
gilded throughout with streaks of gold. 
If the earth is the Lord’s
footstool, then that sunrise is the brilliant strap on his sandal,
Bethan
thought.  She breathed deeply of the cold air, glad to know that she was united
in purpose with those who traveled with her, though she could not call most of
them by name.

The potter who led the
half-dozen across the fields broke into singing as he walked.  One by one, the
others joined him, their heartfelt voices rippling over the grasses like wind. 
Bethan recognized the song, though she did not know it by heart.  She had once
heard a travelling priest sing it in her village and now hummed along, wishing
she had the words memorized and could join in heartily.  Beside her, Deirdre
harmonized as through the symbols of creation, the followers of Christ
worshipped Nature’s grand Lord:

O
splendor of God’s glory bright,

O
You who bring light from light,

O
Light of light, light’s Living Spring,

O
Day, all days illumining.

O
You true Sun, on us Your glance

Let
fall in royal radiance,

The
Spirit’s sanctifying beam

Upon
our earthly senses stream.

Seated on the oak’s
heavy roots with several others, Calum saw the group approaching while they
still had many steps to walk.  His usually heavy heart swelled and lifted with
delight as he heard the morning hymn wafting across the field, the mouths and
hearts of his brothers and sisters engaging in the highest act of creation, the
worship of their Father-Creator-Redeemer.  Their gaze turned upward and
outward, away from themselves, they could not help but have their hearts
filled.  Calum, of all people, knew this to be truth, though he did not always
feel it.

Open your mouth wide,
and I will fill it.

He noticed a new person
walking among them, arm-in-arm with the Irish girl Deirdre.  As the band
neared, Calum recognized Bethan, the lately-arrived kitchen servant, her
expression eager but a little apprehensive.  Quickly, he rose from his seat on
the oak’s huge roots and went forward to meet her.

“Bethan!  You are most
welcome,” he smiled, taking her hand in greeting.

She returned the smile a
bit tentatively.  “Deirdre invited me to come.”

“I’m glad she did.  Our
worship is a little less formal than you might be used to; we have no building,
no altar except our hearts; but we worship the same God now as we did under the
Romans’ influence.”

The others began to settle
themselves, some sitting on the extensive roots of the oak, others spreading
cloaks on the ground before seating themselves.  Bricius, the potter-priest,
stood ready to open their meeting in prayer.  Stepping under the wide canopy of
the tree, Calum realized afresh that the ancient plant held neither god nor
demon but grew in praise to its Creator.  Bittersweet thanksgiving rose in his
heart, his own hard memories combining with truth.

All is grace…

He spread his brown
cloak across the hard ground.  “Have a seat, lass.  There’s plenty of room,” he
invited Bethan, providing ample space for her to sit without bringing ideas to
the heads of any matchmakers around them.

The young woman alighted
beside him, smiling at him.  He gave her a friendly wink and bowed his head,
focusing his concentration on their upcoming Lord’s Day celebration.  Around
him, the presence of other believers upheld him, encouraged him to press on,
despite the mounting pressures from many in Logress who had begun to fall
away.  Even Lord Drustan had turned apostate, allowing and encouraging the old
pagan ways to re-root themselves at Oxfield.  Yet here, in the dawning light of
the Sabbath, believers could rest their souls in Christ, confident that He
would uphold them.

My Father, who has
given them to me, is greater than all…

Aye, greater than the
gods of the druids, who had long held Britain in dark chains and now eagerly
anticipated their rise once more.  Calum had heard one of them, called the
Merlyn, swayed the high king himself.

And no one is able to
snatch them out of the Father’s hand…
 

His sister’s face
surfaced in his imagination, as he had last seen her, many years ago now.  The
pure countenance of one who had been redeemed and had nothing, no one, to fear.

Not even her murderers.
  His jaw set in painful memory; his
eyes welled with the tears of one who had forgiven yet could not forget.  Could
not forget the part he had played in her death, that is. 
O God, give me a
chance to redeem a life for hers,
he silently beseeched his Father as
Bricius began to offer thanksgiving aloud.

The sun had fully risen,
a golden banner in the sky, when their worship ceased.  Though now,
three-quarters of a century after the Romans had departed, much of Britain had
relaxed into semi-paganism again, most of the population still held Sunday as a
quiet, restful day.  The assembled group of Christians took their time
journeying back to the walls of the stronghold, dividing into pairs and
threesomes.  Bethan noticed that Deirdre walked along with another woman, a
pudgy, middle-aged dairywoman.  Not wanting to be a nuisance, she ambled along
alone, taking pleasure in the dawning beauty of the ripe meadow.

“What are you thinking
of, Bethan?”

She glanced beside her
to find Calum striding easily at her side.  “Only that I’m glad that I was born
in the country and not in the city,” she replied, smiling.

“Well, I won’t argue
with that.  Have you ever been to a city?” he asked.

“No, but my papa once
traveled to Londinium.  He said ‘twas so crowded, he could scarcely breathe.” 
Bethan shivered in the cool morning air.

“Sixty thousand people
does make for cramped quarters,” Calum remarked, smiling.  “It may be out of
context, but the Scriptures do say, ‘In quietness and trust shall be your
strength.’”

Feeling a kinship of
spirit with this brother in Christ, taking pleasure in the breeze playing
through her hair and around her face, Bethan laughed for the first time since
she had left home.

His freckled cheeks
glowing in the sunlight, Bricius observed the pair walking in front of him. 
His heart gladdened as he saw their mutual enjoyment of one another’s company. 
‘Tis true, Calum has numbered a dozen winters more than she, but ‘tis of no
significance.  The man deserves a good maid such as this for a wife.
 
Bricius nodded to himself in satisfaction as he moved slowly toward Oxfield,
his arthritic limbs groaning. 
‘Tis what I prayed for, Lord.