The guard’s face relaxed. “I’ll show you to your quarters, my lord.”
~ ~ ~
Later, Deoradhan woke beneath the light silk sheets, his muscles feeling thoroughly rested but his mind ever taut. He took his time in rising, half-opened eyes traveling over the furnishings, feeling lazy in the dim light. Strange, he felt as if an eon had passed since he had last entered these rooms, and yet so little time had gone by their contents remained the same. Even the bedclothes, yellow as an autumn sunset, had not altered.
Shrugging past days from his thoughts, Deoradhan rose. His stomach told him ‘twas time for the evening meal, as the twilight filtering in his window testified. The guard had intimated that he would be welcome to take his supper in the Hall with the rest of the residents if he wished.
Do I wish?
Half of him shrank away from interacting, mingling with such shallow people. How could he go along with their insipid conversations about ancient philosophers and current politics when the real grit of life had struck him full in the face?
What is crooked cannot be made straight, and what is lacking cannot be counted…
Yet the social whirl would divert him from the endless bitter tang that his heart tasted continually. And Arthur might be there as well.
Arthur… Something within him, the part that yearned for Aine and tried to recall his mother’s face, that regretted that God had turned out to be a cowardly, tyrannical fake, also drew him toward the high king. Deoradhan tamped down the feeling, ignoring it, smothering it by remembering why he had come back. Why he had been sent away. And why he had been brought here in the first place.
Every time he suppressed that tender yet strong part of his spirit, it grew fainter upon its return. But it never entirely died, just as a shoot continues to live underneath a rock, though the rock crushes and tries to smother it. The living thing in every man that mirrors his Creator always survives, though the creature may attempt to deform and distort it. It cannot die and so provides hell’s agony with its bite.
Slipping a clean tunic over his head, Deoradhan ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, neatening it. He had forgotten to bring his comb. He tugged his soft-soled shoes back onto his feet, clasped his cape around his shoulders, and stood before the polished metal mirror a moment or two.
Who am I? Who am I supposed to be? He looked into his reflected face and silently demanded an answer. His eyes gazed back at him blankly, painfully. No answer came.
~ ~ ~
He woke shortly after dark, glad to come out of the familiar, distasteful vision. Breathing deeply to calm his thundering heartbeat, Calum pulled himself up on his elbows and glanced over at Bethan. Good. She slept still, the firelight flickering on her eyelids, her lips parted, her brow unclouded with worry. They had camped at dusk, near the same stream at which Deoradhan and Bethan had stopped on their way to Oxfield two months ago.
Looking over at Bethan sound asleep, Calum sighed. That he were so childlike, so like a blank sheet of parchment. During the day, he knew his sins were forgiven; he saw his Savior clearly then. But night brought out the thoughts that had slept in daylight. Thoughts of what once had been. Thoughts of Cairine.
Each time he dreamed it, his part in the story changed. Sometimes, he merely stood by, passive eyes taking in the spectacle, hands limp at his sides, feet immobile in the damp, cool morning grass. The sky flushed a radiant blue, the leaves above his head shone like living emeralds, the berries glowing stars against the nearly black oak trunks. His mother’s hands rested trembling on his twelve-year-old shoulders, bringing a sense of comfort, of security to his confused mind. But as the dream progressed, her hands would tighten, gripping him, holding him in place when the sight before his eyes became so painful that he struggled to run away, to flee anywhere but here. His heart filled with anguish like new wine in old wineskins, threatening to burst; his limbs turned rigid with cold despite the warming autumn sunlight; his eyes refused to close, could not even blink for some respite. Yet still he stood and did nothing to avert the tragedy before him. As he had in life.
Other times, his dream-self would actually participate in the ritual. He almost preferred this, for then he could flagellate himself emotionally upon waking: See, you did aid them. You betrayed her … a Judas. He would smile grimly in the dark, the cold sweat of a nightmare-come-true soaking his hair and shirt. There was a certain unhealthy pleasure in polishing the manacles that he could not remove.
Yet, despite how he might alter, she remained always the same. She gazed out from the wicker cage, its crisscrossed weaving shadowing her face. They had bound her hands, small and tough, behind her back and had crowned her earth-colored hair with a wreath of fresh oak leaves. Underneath the greenery, her lovely eyes shimmered with tears.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted…
And, always, she turned those sea-gray orbs toward him. They held no reproach, no anger, no bitterness toward him or Mama or toward those who sacrificed her. Only a soft expression of love. At that moment in the dream, he would always move, tearing away from his mother’s terrified grasp and, sobbing, screaming … awaken.
Sitting up under a tent of branches and stars, he was no longer an adolescent boy unable to cope with the death of his sister. No longer known as the brother of her whose death brought back life to the tribe’s fields. Yet he knew that in a sense that boy still lived in him, frightened, guilty, filled with grief. Knew that his past followed him wherever he traveled.
How do you go on living in the present when the past haunts you so?
His heart a lump of rock in his chest, Calum rolled over on his side, closing his eyes to forget the dream again. As he lay there, he thought of Cairine. ‘Twas easy to remember her in the days before the harvests failed, before the sheep miscarried, before the old priest had set his eyes on her. ‘Twas harder to recall the events and decisions that had led up to the moment when she was not. He would not endure it tonight. He would sleep and forget.
14
Camelot
Arthur was not in attendance.
I knew he was a coward, sending other men to fight his battles, avoiding personal conflict at every turn. Deoradhan lowered the king one more notch in his estimation as he rose from his seat at the common tables. He had chosen to sit far from his old place, spiting his own desire to slip into boyhood nostalgia. Besides, the fewer people who recognized the supposed prodigal, the better.
Gwenhwyfar saw him from her place on the dais. She smiled hesitantly, nodding briefly at him before turning back to her witty flirtation with a young warrior who flashed his strong white teeth in simper after false simper. Deoradhan smirked. The high queen had not changed, then, neither in her behavior toward men nor in her attitude toward him. He half-pitied her in the latter, for her suspicion that Arthur had fathered him missed the mark so badly. He did not think Arthur had misled her deliberately on that score; how could she help believing what half of Camelot delighted to whisper?
Cup of mead in hand, he let his eyes rove over the diners. The divisions among Arthur’s followers had grown more obvious with the years. There sat the philosophers, bards, and some of the thinking warriors; he had seen his old friend Percivale among them. They talked quietly with raised brows and pondering eyes. Every once in a while, one of them would burst out at an idea another had suggested. Yonder were those of brute strength, who drank until their heads swam and boasted loudly and sometimes bawdily of their adventures. Pro-Roman dissenters sat by themselves, sulky looks pulling down their faces; they dressed in toga-like garments with not a barbarian trouser to be found on any hairy leg among them. The privileged warriors and honored guests sat with the queen on her raised platform. Deoradhan smiled. He alone had no one with whom he belonged here.
Deoradhan made his way toward the door. Arthur had promised to see him tomorrow, and he had never known the Pendragon to break his word, even to his own hurt. Perhaps, he mused, ‘twas this deep-set trustworthiness tha
t cemented the nobles’ loyalty to the king, despite all of the political differences that crackled in Logress. For himself, Deoradhan knew ‘twas this guilelessness that had allured him.
Still, he could not help asking a gray-haired guard by the door, “Does the king often refuse his supper?”
The guard, who did not know him, frowned. “He takes his supper, alright, but more often than not, in his private chambers. Too much worry over northern rebellions for him to put on a cheerful face every night nowadays, I suppose. Besides, if you ask me, the queen’s behavior doesn’t do much to encourage a husband to come to supper,” he added with a grimace, his eyes resting on the dais.
Deoradhan raised his dark eyebrows and shrugged. “True. Why would he come? To be embarrassed every time the golden bird sings to another?” he stated, using the name for Gwenhwyfar that he’d once heard Arthur call her affectionately.
“Aye.” Deoradhan felt the man’s eyes on him even as he looked away. “Where are you from, young man?”
“Here and there,” Deoradhan replied. “Trying to find my place, you know.”
The guard nodded. “Well, Arthur’s Camelot is as good a spot as you’ll find for doing that. Talk to the king, lad; he’s bound to have something for you to put your hand or mind to. Are you a warrior? A scholar? Horseman?”
“A bit of each. Excuse me.” Deoradhan moved away from the guard’s questions. He no longer desired to lie as Arthur had done about his identity, and yet he could not endanger his chances with a too-soon revelation. Best to be wary and keep his mouth quiet.
Lost in thought, he had gone only a few steps down the long stone corridor when he heard a door whap closed behind him to his left. He gave no heed to it; Arthur’s guest chambers appeared full to bursting. Neither did he attend when he heard a buoyant female voice exclaim, “Solas?”
Deoradhan broke out of his reverie when the scurrying feet approached him from behind. He turned just as the speaker caught his elbow in her hand to gain his attention. The surprised look on the girl’s face amused him; her beauty and demeanor then charmed him, reminding him of Aine, his Aine.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, m’lord,” she gasped, her full cheeks turning pink as she dropped her hand from his elbow. “I thought you were someone that I know.”
Smiling, he looked down at the petite young woman. “There’s no harm done, m’lady. Whomever you were looking for will be sorry to have missed you, I’m certain.”
She shook her head, her heavy blond tresses swinging with the movement. “I wasn’t searching for anyone, really. Actually, I thought that you were someone I hadn’t expected to see here at all.” She peered at him closely. “And truly,” she added after a moment, “until I came near to you, I thought you were he. I saw you as you walked by my open door, and I hoped…” She trailed off and gave him a smile that shone from her gray eyes. “Never mind. I’m sorry to have kept you from your business, my lord.”
She turned to go, but Deoradhan stopped her on impulse. Her girlish sweetness, her innocence, filled his mind so full of Aine that he wanted to relish the feeling a little longer. “You’ve not kept me from anything. I’m a newcomer here and thought I’d ramble after supping in the Hall. Would you keep me company awhile? Unless you’ve something else you must do.”
She hesitated, but then Deoradhan saw her eyes linger on his face. Perhaps she, too, wanted to be reminded of him for whom she had hoped. “Alright,” she said slowly, “but we must keep to the corridors. The queen doesn’t care for her ladies-in-waiting to wander too far after dark.”
“Certainly.” He smiled. “By the way, I’m Deoradhan.”
“Fiona, daughter of Weylin. I’m glad to meet you.”
They began walking slowly, their footsteps echoing softly.
“So why have you come to the great Camelot, Deoradhan, if I may ask?”
Deoradhan glanced over at her. She was too young to have lived here many years; he could safely tell her a little truth, he decided. “Camelot was my childhood home, but for some time, I’ve been abroad.”
“Fighting?”
“Learning. I stayed at a great monastery in Gaul, renowned for its library and educated monks.”
Her gray eyes glittered with interest. “Truly? I would give much for such an opportunity.” She sighed wistfully, her hand running over the stone wall as they walked.
“Aye? You like books, then?”
She gave an enthusiastic nod. “Oh, aye. Well,” she checked herself with a smile, “not all books. I’m afraid I draw the line at the really ponderous works. Do you want to know the best passage I ever read, though?” She gave a little skip and then stopped walking, waiting for his agreement.
He nodded. Her eagerness engaged his attention.
“You’ve probably read it already,” she said, “but it’s worth hearing again.” She paused and then began, her voice drawing the words out like a bee gathering nectar. “Quia fecisti nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum, donee requiescat in te. Da mihi, domine, scire et intellegere, utrum sit prius invocare te au laudare te, et scire te prius sit an invocare te? Sed quis te invocat nesciens te?” Finished, she looked up at him, waiting for his reaction.
Deoradhan worked to school his features and believed he had succeeded. “I must admit, my lady, I expected Catullus or some other Roman poet. I thought you said you didn’t care for ponderous books?”
She laughed. “I don’t. Augustine’s words feed my soul like a rich dessert, my lord. I cannot get enough of it.” She looked at him. “And you, my lord? Do you like the bishop’s writings? You must have read them in your monastery.”
“I did.” He paused, keeping his face composed, reining in the painful desire that rose in his heart at those words. A desire he kept locked away, guarded by lions of anger and bitterness, a desire that disturbed his sleep and drew him relentlessly to beauty.
Quia fecisti nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum, donee requiescat in te…
For You created us for Yourself, and our heart is restless, until it rests in You…
“And?” Fiona prompted. “Do you think well of him?”
“Aye and nay,” Deoradhan replied. “I appreciate his writing. It’s very beautiful. But I cannot believe it to be true.”
“Why not?”
“Because if there is a God, He is not the way Augustine describes Him.”
She looked up at him, quizzical. “But you said that you find his words beautiful.”
He nodded warily.
“Can there be real beauty without truth? Beauty is the child of truth. Even if you disagree with most of what Augustine says, his words must contain some nugget of truth, some way in which he speaks rightly, aye? Or you wouldn’t find his writing genuinely beautiful.”
Deoradhan raised his chin. What did this court girl know? “Perhaps there is a God, as Augustine says, my lady. But I would rather believe that there is no God, for this world testifies him to be cruel, unjust, and capricious. The worst of men would be more divine than a god like that.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I think you have it backwards, my lord. Everything in this world shows man to be capable of the worst atrocities and yet God to be faithful. As the Scriptures say, He is gracious and merciful always.”
Deoradhan snorted. He couldn’t help himself. “Forgive me, Lady Fiona, but my life has contradicted this. Perhaps I think God unjust because I’ve found Him to be so.”
“What do you mean?” She looked at him with steady eyes, holding no anger toward him despite his rudeness.
“I’ve seen great suffering, my lady, in my own life and in that of others. Suffering that had no reason preceding it nor any following after.” His lips turned up in contempt. “And much of it carried out in the name of your God.”
She had her head tilted to one side, listening hard. Good. She would see he spoke judiciously. He continued, laying out the case before her. “My father was a good man, loving, who treated the ancient gods with respect and cared for the poor at his ow
n expense. Yet, an enemy struck him down while he was a young man, an enemy who claimed to follow your God. According to your beliefs, my father, the innocent one, will suffer—is suffering—eternal death at the hands of a merciful God.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Is that fair?”
The golden-haired girl remained silent for a few moments. She doesn’t know how to answer that one. Finally, she stopped and turned toward him. When she spoke, it was in a quiet voice, gentle as a spring breeze touching his cheek. “My lord, may I tell you a story?” she asked, and they turned a corner in the corridor. At Deoradhan’s nod, she continued, “Not far from here there is a bog where, many years ago now, the druid priests tossed a body.”
Deoradhan waited, not seeing how this connected to his question. “The druids often engage in ritual human sacrifice, even for celebrations. They revive the earth.”
“Yes, but this was no ordinary sacrifice. ‘Twas the body of a prince, strangled, throat cut, skull crushed. His years numbered only a few more than yours, my lord, and yet he went to his death willingly, believing that he would enter life again and more than that, bring life to all his people. You see, the Romans were invading the island, and this young man’s father feared for his tribe. So the chief asked his only son to give his life in the place of others. And his son endured a gruesome death, glad to do his father’s will, glad to redeem many lives with his own.” She looked intently at him, seeing if he understood.
Deoradhan could not resist. He raised his eyebrows and said, “But it was for nothing. The Romans came and conquered the land, destroyed it, and ravaged it anyway. The prince’s sacrifice was for nothing.”
She shook her head. “No sacrifice passes without meaning. His father watched, Lord Deoradhan. He saw the priests cut his son’s throat, garrot him, crush his skull, toss out his body like refuse in the wet bog.”
Alicia Roque Ruggieri Page 9