Alicia Roque Ruggieri (7 page)

“You say you’ve come
from Ireland,” Arthur said.

“Aye.  I served the
king there for ten years.  But my heart has longed to come back to this
island.  Surely you can tell by my speech that I am no native to Ireland.”

“Indeed,” Arthur
paused and leaned forward.  Deoradhan saw interest in the king’s keen blue
eyes.  “Your speech tells of a northern birth, rather.  Perhaps in Lothian.”

The stranger met the
king’s eyes without flinching.  “My lord has guessed it.  Only Pict blood
flowed through my mother’s veins (may the gods keep her).  My father relocated
to Lothian from Gore during the Saxon invasions.”

“What brought you to
Ireland, the home of your enemies?”

“Many things.  Let it
suffice to say, I had fulfilled a duty from which there could be no return to
Lothian.”  The man gazed into the Pendragon’s eyes.  “Surely, my lord, you know
my countenance.  This is not the first time I have stood in your presence.  A
decade ago, I brought a young child here, a princely refugee, for your
protection.”

Deoradhan felt the
hand on his shoulder tense and then grip him.  Startled, the boy looked up. 
The color drained out of Arthur’s sun-browned cheeks.  “Boys,” he finally said,
half in a whisper, “leave us.”

Deoradhan rose to his
feet, trained to obey yet disturbed at the king’s agitation.  At his movement,
the stranger glanced down at him.  Sudden interest rose like sunlight across
the man’s creased face.  “Who—?” he began.

“You will be silent!”
Arthur interrupted.  “Boys, leave us.  Now!”

At the king’s urgent
tone, the three lads scrambled from the hall, their bare feet thudding on the
stones.  Alwyn led the way into the corridor, followed by Percivale.  Deoradhan
moved last.  He had seen the curious expression on the warrior’s face; it
appeared only when the man looked at him.  Why?

The double doors shut
behind the three friends.

“What shall we do
now?” said Percivale.

“Let’s head out to
the stables,” Alwyn suggested after a moment.  Immediately, he raced down the
corridor toward the north side of the fortress.

“Are you coming, Deoradhan?”
Percivale called to the boy who remained by the Hall door.

Deoradhan didn’t
answer.  After a moment, Percivale shrugged and followed Alwyn.

Alone, Deoradhan
turned toward the crack in the Hall doors, his ear alert to the conversation
developing within.

“Surely, that boy
possesses the face and eyes of Lord Eion.  You cannot deny ‘tis he,” the
stranger’s voice said.

Deoradhan heard a
heavy sigh.  “Aye, ‘tis he, the one once called Padruig.  I have given him
another name now, for another life: Deoradhan.”

“Deoradhan. 
‘Exile.’”  A pause.  “Why did you keep him here and not send him away to the
monks, as you said you would?  Are you going to use him as a pawn?”

“As a pawn?  Never!”

“What then?”

“I don’t know.” The
king’s voice sounded vulnerable to Deoradhan’s overwhelmed ears.

After a moment, “What
are you going to do with him?”

Deoradhan heard
Arthur jump to his feet.  “What business is it of yours?  You brought him here
ten years ago, as your lady charged you.  After that, what does it matter to
you what I do with an orphan lad?”

“’Tis the son of a
Pict chieftain—a king, if you will—you have here.  And you know as well as I
that he is no orphan.  His mother yet lives.  As for why I care, my loyalty to
my former lord and now to his son should earn your trust, not your anger.”

As if the situation had
happened a moment ago, Deoradhan saw his thirteen-year-old self fleeing down
the corridor, mindless of the astonished guards in his path.  Innumerable
thoughts filled his mind, shattering the innocent simplicity of his boyhood.

‘Twas the day I grew
up.  The day I found that my hero was a sordid man, indeed, his hands full of
blood.

Deoradhan gritted his
teeth, his face an anguished stone. 
My father’s blood.

11

“Winfred, I must have an
answer.”  Bethan surprised herself at her firm tone, but her patience wore
thin.  “When can we leave for the village?”

The miller from back
home continued to tear little pieces from his loaf, tossing them to the
sparrows hopping around his feet.  He didn’t answer her.

“When can we leave?”
Bethan repeated.  “Tomorrow?  The next day?  Winfred-”

“Lass,” Winfred
interrupted, “Lord Drustan has not seen me yet.  When he does, and we sort out
our contract, I’ll let you know.”

“How long will that take? 
Two days?  A week?”

He shrugged.  “I don’t
know, Bethan.  I don’t have an answer.  The lord’s a busy man.”

Bethan felt panic rise
within her at her neighbor’s nonchalance.  “But, Winfred, my family needs me! 
You said that my mama lies very sick.  Who knows what has happened to her in
the short time since you’ve left the village?  And what of my sister Enid?”

Winfred looked back at
her, lips pressed tightly together, arms folded across his chest.  Bethan had
never felt so friendless, helpless.  Her former neighbor had determined to sort
out his own business before giving any mind to hers.  She stared into his
closed face, realizing that she was truly on her own.

“Thank you for bringing
me the news,” Bethan whispered.  She turned and marched back across the
courtyard, her feet feeling the cold, packed earth beneath them.  She little
expected the miller to call out to her, and so she knew no disappointment when
he maintained his silence.  After a few steps, Bethan used the adjustment of
her shawl to ascertain the man’s state.  He had already moved from the stone
wall; she could see his retreating square back ambling toward the manor’s main
hall.

Hopelessness paralyzed
her limbs.  Mama, dear as life-blood to her, lay dying with Papa
who-knew-where, and Bethan could do nothing to help.  She sank to the ground by
the wall, cross-legged, arms limp in her lap, head bowed.

What am I to do, Lord
God?  Why did you have Winfred bring me this message if I can do nothing?  What
about Enid?  Please help them, Lord.  Go in my stead, then, because I am
helpless!

Her mind numb with
sorrow, her heart sick, Bethan began to cry, indifferent to the curious
passersby or to the scolding which Cook surely would give her upon her delayed
return.

Have mercy on me, O
Lord …

Something brushed
against her knees.  Slowly pulling out of her mental turmoil, Bethan heard a
familiar voice say, “Oh, lass.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t see you there.”

Two boots planted
themselves before her, worn and caked with mud but well-oiled.  Her eyes rose
to the sturdy long legs, clad in gray and wrapped with leather thongs, then
climbed up to the heavy brown tunic and woolen cloak.  Pushing back the messy hair
around her face, Bethan saw Calum standing before her.

Embarrassment crept over
her, and she averted her eyes but not quickly enough.  The guard had already
glimpsed the tears.  Bethan felt awkward but strangely solaced as the man
crouched down before her.  She kept her eyes on the ground and waited for him
to speak, wondering what he thought of a girl who wept openly, yet comforted by
his protective presence.  He smelled like horses and wet wool and sweat, not an
unpleasant scent to the loving heart.

“What’s wrong, lass?”

Bethan found her tongue
disabled.  Feeling slightly stupid, she shook her head through more tears.

“Come now, what is it?”
Calum prodded.  “Did Cook speak harshly to you?”

She shook her head
harder.

Calum paused.  “Was it
another maid, then?  I know ‘tis hard to fit in as a newcomer-”

“It’s not that,” Bethan
interrupted.  At Calum’s puzzled look, she forced it out.  “My mama is very
ill, and I cannot go to her.  And I don’t know what to do.”

Calum nodded, concern
teeming in his eyes.  “How do you know she’s sick?” he asked.

Bethan wiped her eyes on
her dress.  “The miller from our village came and told me.  But he won’t bring
me until he finishes his business with Lord Drustan.”  Her eyes felt scratchy
from rubbing them on the rough fabric.

The man stayed silent,
his gaze to the ground now.  Bethan wondered what moved in his mind.  Finally,
he spoke, smiling.  “I think I can bring you home, if you would like.  I have
to speak with Lord Drustan first, but it should be alright.”

She stared at him,
astounded.  “Do you mean it?” she breathed. 
Surely, God sent him as an
answer to my prayer.

“I cannot promise it,
but I think ‘twill be alright,” he affirmed, standing up and offering her a
hand.

“Calum, my family and I
would be so grateful to you,” Bethan said, rising.

He smiled and shook his
head.  “It will bring me pleasure, Bethan, to know that I can help.  I’ll talk
to the lord right now, if he has time, and will see you again before
nightfall.”

Bethan nodded and
watched him move away.  At the thought of his kindness, her heart warmed toward
his in friendship.

Thank you, Lord.
  She moved toward the kitchens,
determined to work more strenuously for her long absence.

~ ~ ~

“Ah, Calum, my son.” 
The gangly-limbed potter wiped his clay-caked hands on a damp cloth and rose
from his wheel.

Thus welcomed, Calum
ducked under the low doorway and into the pottery shed.  Cool moisture floated
in the air here, and the young guard threw a glance of concern at his friend
and mentor.  “’Tis cold in here, Bricius.  Too cold for your aged knees and
hands.”

Bricius shrugged.  “’Tis
my work, Calum.  Besides, ‘tis very nice in the summertime.”

Calum bit his tongue to
avoid reminding his friend that ‘twas well past the solstice.  Instead, he
picked up a damp rag and began to clean the soiled table, saying, “It looks
like I may be headed for a journey soon.”

Bricius stopped his own
tidying up.  “Aye?  Where to, lad?”

Calum hesitated.  He
knew how Bricius would take his offer to Bethan: as a token of romantic
interest.  Nevertheless, he plunged forward, knowing ‘twould be told sometime
to the old man and that ‘twould be better coming from him.  “Toward the West
Lea.”

Bricius cocked his head,
fingers wandering into his beard, mixing the hair with the clay on his hands as
he thought.  “The West Lea?” he questioned.  “What brings you there, Calum?”

Calum met the man’s
curious gaze.  “I’m helping a friend.”

Bricius stayed quiet for
a moment.  “Isn’t that young kitchen girl from that part of the country?  The
one who came to mass and sat on your cloak?”

“Bethan.  Yes, she comes
from that village.”  Calum paused, then guilt drove him to tell the whole
truth.  “In truth, I go with her.”

“With her?”

“Aye.”

“Alone?”

“Aye.  No one else can
bring her.  No one else has my flexibility at Oxfield.  And her mother is
sick.”  When the potter didn’t respond, Calum offered, “You think this is
unwise, Bricius?”

Bricius smiled.  “You
know your own Master, lad.  What did He say to you?  Did you ask Him?”

“He told me to go with
her.”  Indeed, when he bowed his head before Bethan, he had felt that knowing
that had become familiar to him.

I have set the LORD
always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken …

Bricius nodded.  “When
will you return?”

Calum breathed more
easily.  “I’m not sure.  I must speak with Lord Drustan and see how long I can
be spared.  I’ve been working with Marcus, and this would be a good opportunity
for him to stretch his legs a bit.  Maybe a week or two.”

“You’ll miss Samhain at
Oxfield.  I wish I could be so favored,” said Bricius.

Calum felt his muscles
grow rigid with a fear he thought he had overcome.  He swallowed.  “Yes, that
will be the blessing of this journey.”

“Among other blessings,”
commented the potter.

Calum’s brows furrowed. 
“What do you mean?”

Bricius smiled.  “Only
that I hope to see you return with not just a servant girl on your horse but a
bride-to-be.”

Here we go again.
 
Calum stared into his friend’s eyes.  “I’ve told you a hundred times over,
Bricius.  I do not want that life.  I must be God’s only.”

“Marriage wasn’t created
to rob God, lad, but to give Him more of ourselves through others, to make
ourselves more fit for His purposes through love.”  Bricius paused.  “I
married, Calum.”

“Aye, I know that.”  The
silence waited to be broken.  “I must go.  ‘Twill be dark soon, and I promised
Bethan an answer.”

“Go then, lad.”  Bricius
followed the younger man to the doorway.  Outside, dusk began to coat the
buildings and walls with a gray film.  Without hesitation, the potter clasped
his friend to himself.  “Grace and peace to you, Calum.”

Calum returned the
embrace fervently.  “Grace and peace,” he replied and moved into the autumn
twilight, his spirit perplexed. 
I cannot be attracted to this girl.  And
yet…  O God, help me to rest in You.  May Bricius understand why I cannot do as
others may.  Why I owe so much to You.  I must atone.  I must atone.

~ ~ ~

Out-and-in. 
Out-and-in.  Tarian’s hands guided the weft with skill that could come only
from many years of practice.  This loom spanned only a few feet, large enough
to make a tunic or cape, but nothing vast like a bed covering.  Now, a piece of
deep red cloth formed under her fingers.

The noblewoman smiled. 
‘Twas with a sense of accomplishment that she completed each project, a welcome
feeling in such an out-of-the-way place as Oxfield.  The finished fabric would
suit her husband’s tastes well and would keep him warm during any winter
campaigns.

And thinking of me
alone.

Like a guest that
tarried beyond his welcome, a fair-skinned face adorned with large eyes the
color of the sea rose within Tarian’s thoughts, but she shook off the image. 
She was resolved to believe Drustan this time; he had said the girl had only
stepped into his tent without invitation.  Yet why had his clothing smelled
like fresh lavender and why had his lips held the lingering taste of mint when
he kissed her that day?  Tarian had only nineteen years in her hand but knew
that men did not perfume themselves nor freshen their breath for one another
when on the battlefield.  And she knew also the satisfied expression of a camp
follower who had just been paid for her services.

You should never have
visited the camp that day.  Then you would not harbor these suspicions, Tarian.
 
She sighed and began to put away her weaving for the day.

The door squealed open
behind her, but she felt no alarm.  She knew that Drustan must have entered; he
never knocked.  Sure enough, she soon felt his beard as he leaned around her to
kiss her cheek.

“How are the foals?” she
asked.

“Coming on fine.  The
little bay one surprised me.  He’s the perkiest of the three now,” said
Drustan.  “My nephew will delight in them when he arrives.  He’s fond of good
horseflesh.”

Tarian raised her
eyebrows. 
And other flesh as well, from what I hear.
  Aloud, she said,
“And when is he to arrive, Drustan?  Has he sent word?”

Drustan shrugged.  “Aye,
but no specifics.  Could be tonight, tomorrow, next week.  Surely before
Samhain,” he added with a little smirk that turned the corners of his fish-like
lips upward.

Tarian could not
restrain herself.  “Drustan, must we sponsor that feast again this year?”  She
kept her eyes averted, barely breathing as she waited for his reply.

The lord let out a
frustrated sigh.  “Now what is the problem with the feast?  Everyone enjoyed it
last year.  Even you liked the bard’s singing.  Indeed,” he smiled, “I grew
quite jealous when you consented to dance with him afterward.”

Tarian ignored his
teasing, meant, she knew, to distract her, and made a last attempt to convince
him.  “The old druids will be back again and—”

“And what?” His tone
told her that he had heard enough.  “Let the people worship their own gods in
their own way.  What does it matter to you the name they give the divine?”

“It matters to me that
you seem to encourage their wildness,” she responded, her anger sparked by his
indifference.  “Don’t you fear God?”

“Ah!  Woman, enough!” 
He slammed his hands against the bedframe.  “I little thought that my second
wife would be a cursed nun!  Stay out of it!  It’s none of your business, I
tell you!”

Tarian stood shocked
into silence.  He had never burst out at her like this.  For a moment, it
almost seemed that another shot those words from his lips and twisted his face
into a gross convulsion of disgust at her.