Alicia Roque Ruggieri

by The House of Mercy

  He loves me! The thought echoed through her mind over and over, chasing away the fears that she now regarded as childish. I thought, oh, I thought that I was too worthless for such a man to desire me. But he does! Deoradhan does. Her breath caught in her throat for joy. Was there any feeling in the world more exhilarating than this, knowing that someone treasured you and thought you precious? Aine shook her head. Nay! And ‘twill fill me.

  A guilty thought stole into her heart: You do not love him, though, do you? Shamed, she frowned and slowed her quickened pace. Anxiety clamped onto her shoulders. Aine bit her lip, turning its already pink shade bright peony. Nay, but I like how he makes me feel. And all I ask is that he cherishes me. I care for nothing else. I only want to be loved, she reasoned.

  Conscience eased, she hurried her pace again, eager to let the hampering chains of guilt fall off completely.

  ~ ~ ~

  In and out, out and in. The bone needle moved surely through the woolen fabric, hemming the edges. Past forty years of age, the woman known as Cook but whose given name was Meghyn could sew any garment put into her hands with unconscious deftness. She could not remember a time when she did not know how to create from fabric, and now she was glad for the occupation. It took her mind off her beloved foster-son.

  In all fairness, Meghyn could not believe that the artless Aine meant to ensnare Deoradhan. A girl could not help being so pretty any more than a boy could avoid his attraction to such sweet visual nectar. The good Lord had created the fascination between lads and lasses at the beginning of the world, and He had said ‘twas good. Who was Meghyn to argue over that with the Lord, much as she hated losing her boy to another?

  But Meghyn’s real anxiety grew from another root entirely. If Deoradhan’s fondness for Aine had grown as she suspected, would he marry the girl? Would he bind himself to her permanently, seeking to satisfy his restlessness with one who was restless herself?

  O Living God, You know all things, even the end from the beginning. Free my dear boy from his past. May he have a hope and a future grounded in You alone.

  “Cook?”

  Meghyn popped her eyes open. The brown-haired lass from the West Lea stood before her, sewing in hand. A kind-hearted, hard-working girl this one seemed, though time would tell if Meghyn judged rightly.

  “May I sit with you?”

  She patted the empty spot beside her on the bench. “I’d be glad for the company, Bethan. My thoughts are a bit gloomy right now, which cannot please the Lord. You may be a ray of sunshine sent by Him to clear the clouds from my soul, aye?”

  Bethan smiled in response and seated herself. Meghyn saw that she was patching a tunic from the mending pile that always remained full, regardless of how much work the kitchen servants put into it. “You went off to the meeting Bricius holds outside the walls this morning, aye?”

  Bethan’s eyes rose to Meghyn’s face in surprise. “Aye, I did. Deirdre invited me. I hope ‘twas no inconvenience—”

  Meghyn interrupted quickly to halt the girl’s concern. “Nay, nay. Jesus is my Lord as well, Bethan. I was glad to see that you met with the others for worship. ‘Tis a good witness to the others not to forsake the assembling of themselves, regardless of who occupies the country.” She patted Bethan’s hand in sincerity. “I would have been among you this morning, but my ankles swelled.”

  Bethan examined the woman’s propped-up feet. Meghyn heard her suck her breath in quickly when she saw the purpled flesh, bulging with excess fluid. “Cook…” her voice trailed off, concerned.

  Meghyn put a hand to the girl’s mouth, smiling. “Hush, ‘tis nothing serious. I’ve been doing a bit too much, ‘tis all. I propped them up and have sewing enough to last me all afternoon. A body could not ask for more leisure than that.”

  Bethan seemed somewhat satisfied and settled in, picking up her own needlework. “What are you working on?” she asked.

  Meghyn could not keep her lips from turning up. “’Tis a cloak for my Deoradhan. He’ll need it this winter as he dashes across all of Logress, bringing messages here and there,” she said, using the general name for the Pendragon’s acknowledged territory.

  Bethan returned the smile. “Your nephew is a busy lad, isn’t he?”

  “Aye, and a brave one. I brought him up, so I should know.”

  “You did?”

  Meghyn nodded.

  “Calum told me Deoradhan went to Gaul for his education, though,” Bethan stated, looking confused.

  They trod on sticky territory, Meghyn knew, but she gave Bethan an honest answer nonetheless. “Indeed, he did go to Gaul for an education among the learned men there, but he spent the first decade of his life with me. Then he went to Gaul.” Would that he had never gone!

  Bethan nodded. “What happened to his parents, if you don’t mind my asking, Cook?”

  Meghyn studied her sewing, averting her eyes from the clear gaze of her questioner. “They died,” she replied simply, glad when the girl fell into sympathetic silence.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Another trip up north, then?” Lord Drustan raised his thin eyebrows, set above frozen blue eyes gleaming from a leathered face.

  Deoradhan stared back at him, his passions animated by the noble’s coolness. This time, he would make some headway. “Aye.”

  The old warlord rubbed his hands together over the fire burning in the hearth. He maintained silence for only a moment, then asked, “And what good do you think that will do you?”

  “I don’t know. But… I can’t just sit here waiting for years! Arthur must give me an answer sometime,” Deoradhan growled in frustration. “I’ve waited long enough for something that should have been mine from birth.”

  “Listen, Deoradhan. Arthur’s hands are tied. He—”

  “If his hands are so tied, if he is so powerless, why should he style himself the Pendragon, then?” Deoradhan stopped himself with effort. His words smacked of treason, and both men knew it. He calmed himself before speaking again. “Forgive me. I respect Arthur as a king, as a man, as a friend.” The lies came easily. “Which is why I don’t understand why he will not establish my rightful claim—”

  Drustan put a finger to his mouth to silence Deoradhan as a pair of guards strode down the hall, their boots thumping on the thick stone. When they passed, Drustan answered. “Much as I value your friendship and work, Deoradhan, I will not go against Arthur’s policies. The land needs unity right now, not treachery, however small the form. If you need to know the reasons behind the king’s delay, why don’t you go to him and ask?”

  “Ask him?” Deoradhan hesitated. If he asked the king straight out, the Pendragon could refuse him flatly. And Arthur seldom changed his mind once he had given an answer. His commitment to keep his word no matter what had helped to seal his leadership over all of Britain.

  “Aye, go to Camelot. I’ve no need of you for a time. My nephew is due to arrive from Gaul any day now. I’ll be much occupied with entertaining him, wild boy that he is.” He chuckled, then continued. “I’ll have no time for business. Take as long as you need.”

  “Thank you, m’lord.” Deoradhan kissed his liege’s smooth knuckles. “I appreciate this, truly.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Out of a twilight sleep, between waking and slumbering, Meghyn heard whispering voices. Slowly, her aging mind turned out of dream’s confusing paths and into the difficult forest of consciousness. She lay still a moment, listening. After a moment, she distinguished two voices, one a rich birch-like voice—Deoradhan’s, she knew—the other, a soprano wren, answering him. Aine.

  Creeping up as quietly as her bulk and painful ankles allowed, Meghyn tiptoed barefoot across the kitchen toward the entry room, finding her way by long years’ experience and the dim burning embers in the fireplace. At the doorway, she wrapped her woolen blanket around her shoulders and listened.

  “What do you mean, you’re going to Arthur? On the lord’s business?” Aine asked, her voice sweetly perplexed.

  “No, no
t the lord’s business. My own,” came Deoradhan’s determined reply.

  “But what do you have to do with kings, Deoradhan? You’re a servant, like I am.”

  Silence.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Deoradhan replied hesitantly, his voice pained. “I have known Arthur for many years. I…cannot risk telling you more now, Aine, until I see how this unfolds.” Meghyn heard him sigh. “This may be the most important journey of my life. I have lived for its object for long years. I hold it more closely to my heart than anything else.”

  “Deoradhan, I thought…” Aine trailed off, but Meghyn could finish the thought for her, though she knew that Deoradhan could not begin to guess it.

  She thought she was his single treasure, the apple of his eye. Meghyn smiled sympathetically. Surely, Aine had been idolized, but her value in his eyes held weight only momentarily until another god replaced her, another golden calf that Deoradhan hoped would lead him to the Promised Land.

  Meghyn peered around the doorway. The main door stood open, silhouetting Deoradhan and Aine.

  “Deoradhan, I don’t understand,” Aine’s voice carried the tone of feminine hurt and fretfulness so disliked by men. “I thought—”

  Meghyn saw their shadows join as Deoradhan kissed the maid in order to hush her, to stop the questions he did not want to answer.

  When they parted, he kept his eyes averted to avoid Aine’s beseeching gaze. “Trust me,” Meghyn’s foster-son stated. “I’ll return soon.”

  “When?” she begged, clinging to his forearms.

  He gently freed himself. “I don’t know,” he said simply and moved into the night, leaving her in the empty doorway.

  Moving back to her bed, Meghyn pitied the maid. She knew too well what rejection, however temporary, felt like. Yet, ‘twas her concern for Deoradhan that kept her eyes open deep into the night.

  Why did he not tell me that he must journey to Camelot? He no longer places his confidence in me. Tears rolled down the sides of Meghyn’s cheeks. So wounded, yet he didn’t come to you to be healed, Lord. Now, his heart, ‘tis as calloused as his hands. He shuts out my voice. Can he even hear You now?

  From the guard-tower, Calum watched his longtime friend lead his mount toward the gate. He frowned. ‘Twas nearly midnight. Only in times of distress would Deoradhan leave with a message at such a late hour. Furrowing his brow, Calum moved from his place at the window.

  “Take my place a moment, Seisyll,” he instructed his companion.

  “Aye, Calum.” The young man rose from his stool, yawning. His red hair caught the moonlight as he replaced his commander at the northern window post.

  “Put your tiredness behind you now, Seisyll. You’re on duty,” Calum reminded the subordinate, his voice holding his trademark quiet authority. The young man straightened with alertness. Satisfied, Calum moved toward the stone stair leading down to the yard. He found his footing as well as any night creature, despite the lack of light, and soon stood waiting for Deoradhan’s approach at the foot of the tower. The night lay calm around him, the chilly autumn breeze striking his scarred cheeks, the owls’ hoots intermitting with the advancing clip-clop of Deoradhan’s horse.

  He stepped out of the heavy shadows into the torchlight. “Deoradhan, is something wrong?”

  The younger man’s face hardened in unnatural determination. “Aye.” He paused, stroking the gelding’s dappled neck. “But I go to right it.”

  Silently, Calum studied his friend, his eyes searching the other man’s countenance for signs of goodness. Never before had he failed to find that glimmer of the Image, yet tonight he was hard-pressed to see it in Deoradhan’s scowling face. Fear plucked at Calum’s heart.

  “Deoradhan, do not do anything you will regret,” Calum murmured, clasping his friend’s forearm in fidelity.

  Deoradhan’s jaw set. “I won’t. I never do anything. That’s the cause of my trouble.” He mounted his horse. “Don’t worry about me, Calum. I’ll return or you’ll hear from me within a fortnight, if all goes well.”

  “‘If all goes well?’ What are—?” Calum’s concern increased.

  “Don’t fear for me,” Deoradhan directed, smiling a little. “What do I have to lose? My life is worthless here anyway. A stale perpetual survival. Farewell.”

  “Where are you—?” Calum’s inquiry died as Deoradhan heeled his mount forward toward the opening gate. Muscular arms limp by his sides, Calum watched his friend disappear into the darkness.

  God, I am afraid for him. Watch over him; protect him for my sake and Your own as his legitimate Father. Answer him before he calls, I pray.

  Turning, the commander of Oxfield’s guards meandered up the tower stair. O You who save and redeem, not one of those whom Your Father has given You will You lose.

  9

  “Bethan, someone is here to see you.”

  From her crouching position on the stone floor, Bethan twisted to look up at Haylee but continued to scrub the flags. “Who?” she asked, frankly curious. In the nearly two months since she had come to Oxfield, no one had come to visit her, and she didn’t expect anyone.

  Haylee set her heavy basket down. “A miller, I think. He said to tell you that Winfred had news for you. I met him on my way back with these apples. They’re the last of this fall’s crop. I thought the storm might knock them down.” She pushed back the damp shawl covering her head and dried her moist face on her apron.

  Bethan put her rag back into the soapy water. “Winfred?” she said aloud. “What news could he bring for me?”

  “He didn’t say.” Haylee shrugged. “Hurry back, though. I need your help with coring these apples.” Her golden hair wisped around her face, accentuating the younger, frailer girl’s weariness.

  Bethan nodded and rose to her feet, moving toward the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promised. “Wait to do the apples ‘til I return, Haylee. I think Cook has some sewing for you to work on.” Bethan knew the needlework would give the younger girl a needed respite from the often-backbreaking kitchen chores.

  At the entryway, Bethan paused to splash her sweaty face and arms with cool water from the bucket. Her skin felt relieved, but her mind burned. What news did Winfred bring? She feared ‘twould be no good news to travel so far from home to Oxfield.

  God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear… At times like this, Bethan felt immensely grateful that her father had repeated his own memorized Scripture to her and her sisters as they went about their day and before they slept at night, even though her mother objected to it. She moved toward the door, willing herself to lift the latch and step outside into the cold October drizzle.

  She saw Winfred standing under the ledge of the dairy roof, his knit cap snug around his fair-haired head. A descendent of the Saxons who had invaded Britain half a century ago, Winfred’s heavy-boned frame towered a head above any native Briton, drawing the curious eyes of other servants. After a quick stare, however, they hastened on with their work, eager to escape from the pending storm.

  Bethan ran toward the dairy and arrived breathless. She offered Winfred a hopeful smile. “Winfred! How is your family? What news from the West Lea?”

  Winfred cast a nervous glance down at her, playing with the ends of his red-gold beard with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. “My family is all well, but I fear the same cannot be said of yours, Bethan.”

  Her heart choked her. “What has happened, Winfred?” She knew their close neighbor would never have worried her with minute calamities. This must be something very bad, indeed.

  He paused, as if to give her a moment to prepare herself. “Your mama is very sick with the fever, Bethan. A woman from the village has been nursing her, but now…” He sought for the right words before going on.

  Bethan felt anxiety goad her. “Now…?” she pressed, catching his forearm in her hand. “Now, what, Winfred?”

  His eyes, blue as the ocean his ancestors sailed
over, grew soft with compassion. “Before I left for Oxfield, the woman asked if I would bring you home when I came to Oxfield with my payment for Lord Drustan.”

  “But what does Papa say, Winfred? Does he want me to come home?” Without warning, happiness, not dread, sprouted within Bethan. I’m going home!

  Winfred looked puzzled. “Your papa left to work on some land north for the harvest. I thought you knew that.”

  Bethan’s breath shriveled. “Nay, I didn’t,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “When do you leave for the West Lea, Winfred?”

  “I have to speak of my contract terms with the lord first.” He turned his eyes toward the sky, darkening and building into heavy clouds by the moment. “And I cannot leave until after the storm passes over. I came on foot.”

  Bethan nodded. “So perhaps in two days or so?”

  “Aye,” Winfred assented. “If Thor agrees,” he added, referring to the one who Bethan knew to be the Saxon god of thunder.

  “Alright. You know where to find me, aye? In the kitchen.”

  “Aye.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Ready, lad?” Calum lifted the enormous leather bag with both hands and waited for the young guard to prepare himself. Moments earlier, Calum had filled the sack a quarter full of sand before adding the rusted chain mail tunic. He’d enlisted Marcus to help him with cleaning today, knowing that the exercise would build the dark-haired young man’s strength. True, Marcus, the grandson of a Roman cavalry officer who had remained when the legions departed, already contained a sinewy power in his lanky arms, but Calum saw potential in this lad for leadership and wanted him to strive for excellence.

  Six feet of the weapon house floor spread out between the two men. Marcus braced himself, holding his arms out, hands stretched widely. “Ready,” he said, eyes focused on the sack.