“They wait for us,” Aine murmured to Bethan. With lithe hands, she set down her basket of bread, and the servants moved eagerly toward the two girls, settling into irregular lines.
Bethan took her place beside Aine, carefully following the experienced girl’s example. Every servant took a piece of dark bread, and most also brought a bowl to receive the scoop of nourishing gruel Bethan and Aine offered. Bethan began to glance around, wondering if she would see Deoradhan’s familiar face. She had known him for only a day, but even a day’s acquaintance made his kind presence welcome to her. In a way, he reminded her of Garan, with his aloof otherness. As her eyes searched the crowd, the question of whether he would welcome seeing her again flitted through her mind and caused her to blush.
As she filled a bowl with gruel, her head bowed, she heard Deoradhan’s mellow tenor voice. “Good morning to you, lassies.”
A smile rose to Bethan’s lips, but as her eyes lifted to Deoradhan’s face, she saw that, though his words were for them both, his gaze was for Aine alone. Bethan felt disappointed but could not be surprised. Aine was a rare beauty, a lily among thorns, as the Holy Book said. Of course Deoradhan would be taken with Aine; a man, he would judge and be pleased, at least initially, by appearances. And Aine certainly was comely in every way, Bethan regretted to acknowledge as she compared her own paltry beauty with that of her companion. She looked to see how Aine would respond to Deoradhan’s obvious regard.
Aine’s plush lips curved up in pleasure. “Hello, Deoradhan,” she replied softly, her eyes shyly meeting his. “Are you wantin’ some breakfast, something to refresh you?”
He shook his head and glanced around. The rest of the servants began to disperse, heading toward their daily tasks. Deoradhan picked up the girls’ buckets and stepped next to Aine. As they moved back across the yard toward the kitchen’s outer door, Bethan heard him quietly answer Aine, “Seeing you is all the refreshment I need, lass.”
Aine’s round cheeks flushed. At the sight of her delight, Deoradhan’s own smile deepened.
Seeing them thus, Bethan felt a little hurt. She liked him, this messenger lad with eyes the color of the far-off sea, an easy smile, kind manners, and more than a hint of polish. He embodied much that she admired and hoped to see in Garan. So in a way, when I like him, I’m really liking Garan, Bethan reasoned, trying to ignore the guilt rising up within her.
Deoradhan and Aine strolled close together, his eyes on her bowed head, seeming to nourish himself on the sight of her bonny countenance raising itself to his every few moments. Walking a bit apart from them, her heart restless, Bethan roused suddenly, astonished at her own thoughts. He’s courteous and pleasant, aye, but he can’t cause these tender feelings in my heart. I’m promised to Garan. I must be faithful to him. Besides, this man serves other gods.
‘Tis wrong.
Oh, Living God, she prayed, dropping a pace or two more behind Deoradhan and Aine, help me not to falter! May my heart obey You alone, as my father taught me.
5
Amy grasped Bethan by the arm, startling her so that the dough nearly fell off the table. “Bethan, you’ll never guess!”
Bethan tried to look stern. “I probably won’t, and it had better be something worth hearing. I almost lost that bread dough, and if I had, I would have lost my head, most likely, when Cook found out.”
The lively fifteen-year-old’s eyes sparkled like sunlight on water. “Oh, it’s worth hearing, Bethan. Are you ready?” When Bethan nodded, she went on. “There’s to be dancing tonight in the stableyard.”
Excitement rose in Bethan. She would welcome a diversion from the melancholy that had crept up in the past few days she had been at Oxfield. “Dancing? With whom?”
“With the young men around the estate, of course. None of the uppity house servants will come, except for Deoradhan, but most of the stable boys and herds and some of the guards will attend.” Amy began to work the dough with Bethan.
Uninvited, a thrill ran through Bethan’s spirit when Amy mentioned the messenger. Pushing away her guilty conscience, Bethan inquired, “Deoradhan will be coming?”
“Aye.” Amy plucked a handful of flour from the sack beside them and dusted it across the rough-hewn table. She began to separate the dough into loaves before speaking again. “You favor him, Bethan?”
Bethan felt her heart bang against her ribs and her face grow hot. She swallowed hard. “No, I … I just don’t know very many others here yet, and I always think of him as sort of a friend. He’s the first person I met from Oxfield, you know.”
Amy nodded. “I just wondered. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did fancy him, though. Most of the kitchen maids do. I’ve even seen Lord Drustan’s wife smile a little too warmly at him when I served in the hall once a long time ago. But don’t say I told you that.”
“How long has Deoradhan been at Oxfield?” Bethan asked in a voice she hoped sounded nonchalant. “Or was he here before you?”
Amy bit her lip, remembering, then shook her head. “No, he came just a little while after I did, more than two summers ago now. I had just turned thirteen at the time.” She laughed. “I remember being out in the courtyard when Deoradhan first rode in on his horse Alasdair. When he cantered through that great iron gate, all the servants turned and stared, especially the lasses.
“Mind,” she said, shaping the loaves, “Deoradhan’s not handsome in the usual way. He hasn’t got great dark eyes or a fair countenance, and he’s not tall and elegant like some. But I remember that from that first day, he rode with such a look of purpose to his eyes and in his way of carrying himself, it attracted everyone to him. Now, I’m sure he’s got those who don’t like him, same as everyone does, but there’s something about Deoradhan that draws you. It’s the reason all of us kitchen girls get excited when he comes. You must have felt it, too, or you wouldn’t be asking me about him, now would you?” Amy smiled at Bethan, her mouth showing a gap where she had lost a tooth.
“But,” Amy sighed, “We’ve no chance with the lad, now, Bethan.”
“What do you mean?”
Amy raised her thin eyebrows. “Surely you’ve noticed how he looks at Aine. Hangs on her every word, he does. Not that they’re many or very clever.” She snorted.
“Why do you suppose he likes her?” Bethan asked, even though she already guessed the answer.
Amy shrugged. “Why do you think he does? She’s pretty and that’s enough for most men, even for Deoradhan.”
Bethan nodded, knowing Amy spoke accurately. “She is pretty. I can’t argue with that.” Aine was as beautiful as the sun rising across the dew-laden meadows back in West Lea. Bethan felt jealousy stab her, knowing she could never compare with the dark-haired kitchen maid.
Suddenly, she realized how unattractive her feelings were. Dusting off her hands, Bethan laid the last of the loaves aside and covered them with a sheet. She grasped Amy by the hands. “Come along with me.”
“What?”
Bethan tugged her along toward the door. “Come along. Those loaves must rise, and so we’ve some time on our hands.” She stopped and smiled sincerely at Amy. “We two may not have Aine’s rosy lips or her graceful limbs, but we are going to look very pretty indeed for the dancing tonight, if I have anything to do with it.”
Amy’s green eyes lit like fireflies. “Lead on, Bethan.”
~ ~ ~
The night was clear and crisp with the scent of autumn. Deoradhan made his way across the courtyard toward the stables. Dancing tonight, then his conference with Lord Drustan to see whether he could be spared to travel north. Again.
Six times in the last year he had made the dangerous journey up the island, eluding robbers and wild beasts, avoiding notice while scouting for information. At this point, I would welcome any change, no matter how it came. Any wisdom, as long as it allowed me to regain what is mine by right.
Frustrated, Deoradhan turned his mind to other, more pleasant matters. Such as Aine whirling to the music of pipe
and drum, her every movement a stream of grace and beauty. Her small feet would be bare, her dark hair like a flock of black sheep running down her shoulders, her teeth white like northern mountain peaks. She would smile with pleasure at every word he whispered.
His mind saturated with thoughts of the girl, he decided. Tonight, after the dancing, I shall ask her.
Her arm tucked into that of Winter, Aine tried to match her steps to those of the taller girl. In the glowing dusk, she glanced up at the profile of her companion, envying her careless audacity, her certainty that she knew what she wanted and how to get it. Brazen at times, aye. Cruel, often. But confident.
As different from you as day from night. Aine could not seem to settle on anything to satisfy her, to take away the longing that ate away at her being. Some nights, as she lay on her hard pallet, thin woolen blanket pulled up to her frozen chin, she tried to think of what could absorb her loneliness, what remedy would assuage her yearning for something . . . more.
Far off, a robin sang out his ancient song, practiced since the beginning of time. Mama had loved the evening songs of the birds, Aine recalled now. She could remember her mama’s face turning toward the window of their cottage as darkness fell. She might be in the middle of something important, might be bathing little Currier or churning out butter, but at the voice of the red-breasted bards who carried their instruments internally, Mama would rise, handing over the task to a willing Aine. With eyes infused with pleasure, the older woman gazed into the gloaming, her tired lips blossoming into a mysterious smile. For a few unfettered moments, Mama regained and exceeded the loveliness of her youth. There in the evening hours, her mama’s deep soul-beauty appeared, coaxed into blooming by the siren-sounds from the wood. Night after night, Aine had watched in wonder while her Mama delighted in sonnets fresh from the hand of her God.
Walking across this courtyard, arm in arm with bright-cheeked Winter, Aine could not understand what Mama had found to solace her in the night songs. When the darkness approached, Aine wanted only to distract herself with such things as would take her mind off the horrible fears that invaded her mind and heart. Even now, with the shadows lengthening across the earth, chilly thoughts wrapped themselves around her thin shoulders. She shivered and moved closer to Winter.
Winter glanced down at her. “Cold? Don’t worry, ‘twill be warm inside the stable yard. The heat of the horses—and the laddies—will see to that.”
Aine flushed scarlet, suddenly glad for the darkness. What things this girl could say! At the mention of their waiting partners, however, her mind ran to Deoradhan. As his sensitive sea-blue eyes blessed her thoughts, she wondered if he anticipated the sight and presence of her as much as she did him.
With unusual boldness, Aine dropped her arm from Winter’s and began to scamper on slender legs toward the glittering lights that beckoned. “Come, let’s hurry!” she called back, her heart racing past her feet to meet that of the spirited messenger.
The running girls caught the eyes of Bethan as she, along with Amy and Haylee, picked their way around the horse dung littering the ground near the stables. Squinting through the dusk, she couldn’t recognize who they were.
“’Tis Winter with her lackey Aine,” Haylee observed frankly.
“That girl will only bring trouble for the scared wee mouse,” Amy put in. “I wish Aine would realize that. But I think she admires Winter, if that’s possible.”
Bethan nodded. She, too, had noticed the power and influence Winter exerted over Aine. “It’s too bad, really. Aine appears so trusting and innocent, and—”
“Winter is anything but,” Amy finished. “I know.”
“Aye, Aine’s not a wicked girl, really. I’ve tried to warn her, but she seems blind to Winter’s faults. Or not willing to admit them,” Haylee commented as they approached the buildings where the horses were kept. Invigorating music wafted through the cool air to greet them, and the three hurried their steps simultaneously.
At the door, the girls exchanged excited smiles. Gloriously pleasant hours stretched out before them like sun-filled meadows before energized horses.
“You look very bonny,” Amy whispered to Bethan as they moved the doorway.
“So do you,” Bethan replied sincerely, thinking of the time they had spent combing and plaiting their hair, scrubbing their faces, and brushing off their simple tunics in preparation for this evening. They both looked as fine as grooming could make possible, Bethan knew. Haylee, younger by a year, had used her time wisely after supper as well; her golden mane shone like a king’s treasure trove and her limbs glowed from a hearty washing.
As they entered the stable area, Bethan breathed in astonishment at the yard’s transformation. All the usual filth had been cleared away, leaving the square expanse open for dancing. Torches lined the yard, blazing warmly to illuminate. Three or four stable lads stood at the far end of the yard, equipped with the essential instruments: recorder, bagpipe, and drums. Already, they began to beguile the assembly with vigorous music, the inimitable sound of the pipe undergirding the high sweet whistle of the recorder, belted together by the drum’s varying pulse.
At the instruments’ call, the dance floor sprang to life before Bethan’s widening eyes. Here, a guard swung a dairymaid round; there, a shepherd boy pranced to the laughing admiration of his kitchen maid partner. Bethan’s spirit leaped at the prospect of such carefree merriment, and she, too, wished to join in similar wild abandon. There is nothing evil here, she thought. ‘Tis only fun. Even Papa would surely permit it.
Permit it, aye. And caution, as well.
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 Deoradha
n 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.
Alicia Roque Ruggieri Page 3