“I’m ready when you are, Bethan. No rush, though,” Calum smiled, and once again Bethan realized how his presence soothed her. Letting out her nervous breath, she returned his smile.
Cook picked up a hefty bundle from the shelf. “Now, here you go, Bethan. I’ve packed up some traveling food for you and Calum, plus a little for when you arrive home. Who knows whether you’ll have time to bake when you reach your journey’s end.”
“Thank you, Cook.” Bethan kissed the woman’s cheek, ignoring the way her patchy dry skin rubbed against her lips.
The woman let out a sigh, and Bethan noticed troubled shadows flowing into the woman’s eyes. “Ah, for a daughter like you, Bethan. I wish Padruig could find such a…” She trailed off, embarrassed. “Pay no mind to me. I’m turning into a silly old woman. Now go. You’ve a long journey ahead of you. God go with you.”
“Aye, and also with you,” Calum replied, guiding Bethan through the doorway.
Outside, she felt greatly sheltered as he steered her through the bustling courtyard activity, his strong and gentle hand on her elbow. Glancing up at him, she saw his face held his usual thoughtful, confident expression. He never hurries yet always is set on some purpose. As they walked, he greeted many whom they passed with a kind nod and sometimes a word or two. Bethan perceived that other servants saw her with this man, respected almost universally within Oxfield, and felt proud at being considered one of his friends. Her mind flitted ahead to the time when Garan would walk by her side so protectively. So wonderful ‘twould be to feel so safe in a nest of peace all the time. In the spring. I’ll be married to Garan in the springtime, she thought with a smile.
Calum’s horse stood tethered by one of the side gates. A boy, perhaps seven years old, held one hand out to the animal, palm flat, offering a carrot. The child’s other hand stroked the soft muzzle.
“Brynn, hello,” Calum smiled at the boy, whose face grew animated at the man’s appearance.
“Are you going somewhere, Calum?” he asked, gazing up with adoring brown eyes.
“Aye, Bethan must go to see her family out in the West Lea, and I want to help her, lad.” Calum knelt before the shabbily-dressed child and smiled into his anxious face. “Now, you must do me a favor while I’m away, Brynn. Play with my dogs, aye? See that they get plenty of exercise.”
Brynn nodded, trying to smile. “Aye, I will!”
“There’s a lad.” Calum ruffled the boy’s straw hair and rose to his feet. “Lord willing, I’ll be seeing you soon. If you need something, make sure that you go to Cook, alright?”
“Alright.”
Apparently satisfied, Calum turned to Bethan. “Up you go, lass,” he instructed, lifting her onto the horse’s sturdy back and then hoisting himself up behind her. He gathered the reins into his hands. “Aidan, open the gate!”
From the doorway of his workshop, the potter watched Calum and Bethan’s departure with satisfaction. “Good, very good,” he said aloud, smiling. Calum looked pleased, and Bethan appeared equally happy with her lot.
“And what might I ask is so wonderful today, husband?”
Bricius turned, wincing at an arthritic pain in his neck. Lydia, his wife of fifteen years, stood in the archway adjoining his workshop with their living quarters. Despite her relative youth to his sixty-odd years, Lydia had not grown older with ease, slipping from blushing girlhood to mature womanhood with the grace that some woman obtained. Her once-even complexion wore spots from the sun; her skin had leathered beyond her forty-eight years; and her formerly heavy mahogany tresses had thinned and grayed. Yet, ‘twas the soul of this woman Bricius loved, and the more her body deteriorated with passing years, the more clearly he could see the unfading beauty of her character.
“Are you going to answer me, Bricius, or do I have to guess?” she teased, coming forward into the work area. Bricius noticed that her hands held a half-loaf of dark bread and some cheese. He had worked the morning away without noticing.
“Why don’t we go outside, and you can guess while we eat?” he asked. Knowing his wife, she had probably eaten standing up while preparing his meal, though.
“I’ve already eaten, Bricius, and I still have much work to do on the mistress’ clothing for court.”
“’Tis a fine autumn day, love, and ‘twill only take minutes for me to eat,” he cajoled. He saw her hesitate still and knew she had a long list of things that needed doing running through her mind. As well as doing much of Lady Tarian’s sewing, Lydia served as a deaconess of sorts for the Christian community at Oxfield. From early morning to dusk, her hands and mind and heart busied themselves with loving her neighbor and honoring her God. “I know you have much to do, but I would like your company if you can spare the time,” he added.
“Well…” Lydia paused, and Bricius waited for her to decide. True, many a Christian man would claim the right to command his wife to do as he wished. Were not wives to submit to their husbands? Yet Bricius wanted a wife, not a worshipper, not a bondwoman. Thus, he strove to love Lydia as he loved himself, not to use her as a tool to indulge his own wishes.
Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her…
“I suppose I can use the break, aye,” his wife smiled.
Her arm tucked in his, the couple made their way out into the bright October sunlight. Bricius breathed deeply, refreshing himself with the scent of fallen leaves and smoke, his heart delighting in the companionship of his longtime helpmate as they made their way across the sun-dappled earth. Who would settle for the role of king when instead he could have the pleasure of servanthood? Long years ago now, he had offered his wife his life and she had gifted him with her heart in turn, an exchange deemed worthy by the King of Heaven Himself. Looking at the trusting profile beside him, Bricius sighed. It had been worthwhile, indeed.
They settled down on a grassy patch near the well. Bricius marveled at how his wife’s inner beauty emanated from her as the fresh perfume of a cultivated rose. The thought passed through his mind also that as their persons had aged, their relationship with their Creator and with one another had come into a second and deeper springtime than when it was new. ‘Twas true, then. God does let the bodies of things fade that we may learn to love the soul of them in truth. When I first loved Lydia, ‘twas her bonny face that took me. Now, I see in her another face that will behold eternally the Almighty One, our Redeemer and God.
“When does Lady Tarian plan to go to court, then?” Bricius asked as he took his first bite of cheese and bread, fine midday fare for any man.
Lydia shrugged. “She says perhaps they will go for the Feast of the Nativity, but the decision really rests with Lord Drustan, of course.”
“Of course. But I’ve no doubt the lord will want to enjoy as much revelry as possible. As is evidenced by the upcoming Samhain feast.” Bricius rose to draw water from the well.
“Is it planned again for this year, then? I thought surely after the madness last year…” Lydia’s voice held heavy concern.
Bricius snorted, his hand going out to steady the swinging bucket. “Some saw it as harmless pleasure, not madness. And some thought it helped appease the spirits for an easier winter.” He drank from the bucket’s edge.
“’Twas not harmless, Bricius. That you know.”
“No, and we must do as much as we can to counteract its evil influence.” He sighed and took Lydia’s hand. “That we had a lord who had the true good of his people in mind, not only fleeting pleasure and excitement.”
“But we do, love. His name is Jesus.”
“Aye. Aye, we do.” He drank in the serenity of his wife’s smile. “I need you to remind me of it from time to time. We have a heavenly kingdom.”
The pair stayed quiet for a time while Bricius continued to eat. As he wiped the last crumbs from his beard, Lydia brought up her earlier question. “And now may I guess why you were so glad?”
“When?”
Lydia’s eyes told him not to play the
fool. “Standing in the doorway of your shop, Bricius, son of Alain.”
“Yes, yes, I remember. I suppose I did look rather happy, didn’t I?” Bricius’ eyes twinkled. “And can you guess why, Lydia, daughter of Aulus?”
She rose to her feet and, smoothing her work dress, started for the pottery workshop-cum-living-quarters. “I don’t need to guess, Bricius. I’ve known you for too many years not to know.”
Bricius leapt to his feet as quickly as his old bones allowed and followed her. “Well, then?”
She stopped and turned toward him with her thick brows raised high. “You were pondering the certain matrimonial bliss of your Timothy. Am I right? Well?”
He shook his head, defeated happily. Lydia had referred to the commander of the guards as his “Timothy” because their relationship felt so like that of the apostle and his young preacher. Now he smiled, thinking again of Calum’s protective guidance of the kitchen maid on her journey. “Why not? Bethan’s a bonny girl for our Calum. A good Christian wife for him. ‘Twill comfort him.”
“God should be his comfort, Bricius.”
“God uses means.”
Lydia changed tactics. “She’s young, dear one. No more than sixteen, surely, if that,” Lydia reminded him.
Bricius frowned. “Aye. But what of it? Many a girl marries younger and is happy. And Calum is yet a young man, not the old geezer I was when I married you, Lydia.”
Lydia smiled sweetly and stopped to brush a kiss on his wrinkled cheek. “No, not a geezer, dearie. More like one of the walking dead. No wonder I met you near Samhain.”
“Very funny. Seriously, though, Lydia, I don’t know why you hesitate to encourage something that would make Calum a happy man indeed. And think of us, too, love. What a blessing from the Lord his marriage would be. His children would grow up around our feet like the grandchildren we never had,” he coaxed. “You know if you encouraged him toward it, he would consider marriage more readily.”
His wife remained silent for a moment as they turned their steps homeward once more. Finally, she spoke. “I don’t think ‘twould make Calum happier in the long run. He’s never dealt with his past, Bricius. That you know. Eventually, I think he would feel that by marrying the girl, he had bound her with his own curse.” She paused. “But say that it did make him happy, love. Even so, how do you know that marriage is best for Calum? Or for Bethan, for that matter? We don’t live by happiness, dear, you know.”
“Better to marry than to burn with passion.”
Lydia’s eyebrows rose. “Calum doesn’t seem as if he’s exactly burning. I wouldn’t even say that he’s smoldering, Bricius.”
“‘He who finds a wife finds a good thing, and obtains favor from the LORD,’” the potter reminded her.
“‘Each man should remain in the condition in which he was called,’” Lydia replied.
“‘But because of the temptation, each man should have his own wife,’” Bricius countered, taking Lydia’s hand.
“Which is a concession, not a command, if they can’t exercise self-control,” his wife pointed out, pulling away with a smile.
“Are you against Christians marrying, then, my Lydia?” Bricius spouted as they reached the doorway of the workshop. Lydia was as well-learned in Scripture as himself, if not more so, and her prayerful, obedient life strengthened her wisdom, making her a fierce warrior indeed. However, he could not agree with her if she advocated celibacy exclusively; after all, they were married! And he didn’t think that state had diminished their closeness to God.
“No,” Lydia replied. “It’s not that marriage is sin. God made woman as a help for man and said that ‘twas good. Besides, marriage triumphs as an example to the dying world of the relationship between Christ and His church. But,” she said slowly, “God created individuals for Himself first and foremost, and He may have other plans for each of His creations, plans that they can best accomplish in single devotion to God alone. Others have need of another companion so that they aren’t distracted by latent passion. And perhaps for some, even, though they themselves don’t require marriage, ‘tis a sacrifice of love they can make for another brother or sister. Yet we must never lose sight what matters most.”
“And what is that?”
“That God made us not for procreation or for achievement or for personal happiness, but for Himself. I don’t want to see Calum trying to find peace in the arms of his wife. Such is for those who have no hope, Bricius,” Lydia said gently, laying her work-worn hand on her husband’s arm.
He sighed. “It just saddens me to see him sorrow over all that has happened. I think if…”
“Sometimes sorrow heals the heart, dear one,” she murmured, catching his face in her hands. “I know ‘tis hard. You love him so. But the Man of Sorrows loves him yet more.”
“What do you think that I ought to do then, Lydia? You should have seen him so eager to get away from the Samhain celebration.”
“Pray, dear one. Pray. There is nothing the evil one fears more than a child crying out to his Father, nothing that so enfeebles his work, you ken.”
“Aye.” Bricius smiled deeply into his wife’s eyes before bestowing a tender kiss on her forehead. “An excellent wife, who can find?” he asked quietly. “One who is willing to fight on behalf of the truth against her husband’s ignorance.”
“Out of love alone, dear one. And ‘tis only an echo of the same love that will one day turn swords into plowshares.”
“Aye,” said Bricius, settling down at his pottery wheel again. “Amen.”
13
As he moved up the wide stone slabs, his heart pounding in his chest, Deoradhan felt as if he had traveled back half a decade. His boyhood called out to him from every familiar corner, every worn step. Was it really so long ago that as a youth on the cusp of manhood, he had strode down these same steps, determined to never cross them again, thoughts of undiscriminating and reckless hatred and revenge rushing through every path his mind took? Now, no longer a child in anyone’s eyes, he mounted the way into the king’s court again, resolving to remain in this stronghold until he received a final answer to his complaint.
Slowly, he mounted the last few steps, his eyes renewing their memories of this great fortress. Arthur had added more polish to his capitol in everything from the brilliant banners whipping in the breeze to the foreign voices he had heard around him from the moment his foot stepped inside the walls. Camelot had become a modern-day Alexandria for Europe, he thought, a gathering-place for the finest minds of their day. Even while he resided in Gaul, he had heard scholars speak in wistful tones of traveling to Camelot. There, they could confer and debate, share ideas and obtain funding from a king who strove to create a golden age for his people, a tangible hope rising from the ashes of Rome.
He reached the guards standing at the Great Hall’s threshold. He didn’t recognize them from his days here as a boy; their barely-bristled faces testified that they were new warriors in Arthur’s service. “My name is Deoradhan,” he said. “I wish to speak with the High King.”
One of the two guards squinted in near-sightedness at him. “Do you come on your liege-lord’s behalf?”
“No.” Deoradhan knew that they saw that he had no escort or attendant and so surmised that he held the position of an underling rather than being a nobleman himself.
“Then whose business…?”
“I come on my own business,” Deoradhan cut him off. “Tell the king my name; he will see me.” He stared into the eyes of the guards, his face set like a stone carving.
The two guards exchanged puzzled, uncertain glances. Deoradhan could tell that the young pair had no idea what to do with him. He stood his ground, silently, waiting for them to do his bidding. Finally, the near-sighted one shrugged. “It can’t hurt to tell the king your name.” He looked to his partner for agreement.
The other one raised his eyebrows. “Alright, but you do it. I don’t want to be responsible if…” He trailed off.
The sq
uint-eyed young man huffed. “Thanks a lot.” He squared his shoulders and heaved a breath. “Stay here. Keep an eye on this fellow.” He shot Deoradhan a warning glance before thrusting open the heavy carved doors and disappearing into the dark.
The guard left outside took the other’s orders seriously, fixing his small black eyes on Deoradhan with the stare of a wolf, as if sure that his prey would escape if given half a chance. Deoradhan found the guard’s vigilance humorous, seeing that he had no intention of departing before he saw the king. He turned away from his keeper and observed the activity within the fortress’ walls, trying to occupy his mind
The time dragged on, and Deoradhan gritted his teeth against the delay. How long did it take to tell Arthur a simple name? A smile rose on his lips when he thought about what the king’s expression would say at the moment the guard spoke Deoradhan’s name quietly aloud. Would he be surprised that his foster-child had returned after so long? Would any kindness linger toward the one who had so completely rejected his covering? Would those familiar blue eyes warm with reserved affection when the younger man entered the room? Or would his features harden with bitterness, the same bitterness that Deoradhan felt toward him?
Will the king see me at all? Or is this route closed to me as well?
The opening doors sent Deoradhan’s thoughts away. He focused his eyes on the returning guard, who had assumed a perplexed but respectful demeanor toward him. “The king requests that you wait for an audience with him until tomorrow, as he has pressing matters to attend to this afternoon.” Tensely, the guard waited for Deoradhan’s response.
He wanted to brush past this young man, self-important in his chainmail, swing open the doors, and demand justice publicly. Such a show will do no good, Deoradhan. This you know. He clenched his callused hands into fists by his sides and then relaxed them. “I will abide by the king’s wishes,” he said evenly.
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