Alicia Roque Ruggieri

by The House of Mercy

  “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.

  8

  Deoradhan’s keen eyes noticed the return of the little group through the narrow door. Smiling, Deoradhan shook his head and wondered if the band of Christians chose to use that little portal as a vivid reminder to themselves of their preferred way of life. He knew that they met outside the walls and took the communion meal for such a reason. He knew because he himself had once participated in their rituals, though in a different place and time. Once, his empty heart had cried out for the divine to fill it.

  With my whole heart I seek you…

  Bitterly, he drove his knife deeply into the apple wood and strove to put such thoughts from his mind. He had decided years ago that he would live by his own moral code, that he would stand or fall by his own honest ethics, hand-fashioned like this recorder by himself. The Christian God, the Roman God’s code of honor, had failed him, just as the Romans had failed the Britons when they pulled their forces out of the island more than half a century past now. Now only scraps of their memory and culture remained, like a fading sunset.

  He is a God for weaklings and tyrants, Deoradhan reaffirmed, satisfying his anger, justifying his rejection. I have no need for such a God. With a decisive whittle, he rose, sheathing his knife. It was high time for a conference with the Pendragon, time to make decisions for his own sake and now for Aine as well, whether the king wished it or not.

  ~ ~ ~

  Like most of the kitchen staff, Aine had risen later than usual. The sun stood well above the horizon when she wandered outside, bucket in her bird-like hands. The stream flowed within the stronghold’s walls, past the stables where Aine knew Deoradhan often tarried, and she secretly hoped that she might see her sweetheart as well as retrieve the needed water.