“That the father had been compassionate to his son as well as to his people,” Deoradhan muttered.
“There was no other way. A sacrifice had to be made of the highest and noblest, the most worthy.”
Deoradhan raised his eyebrows. “My guess is that you’re drawing a comparison between the Roman God and this chief-father. And so you call what this man did to his son merciful?”
He watched as she bit her lip. “‘Twas a hard mercy, to be sure. How the prince’s death must have killed the father as well. Yet, remember, too, that the druids believed that the prince would be reborn someday, remade into something more glorious for his sacrifice.”
Deoradhan nodded reluctantly. The theme of rebirth wove its way into all druid practices, giving hope to the sacrificial victim. The natural cycle of life and death, summer and winter affirmed this belief as well. Still…
“My lord,” Fiona said in earnest, “there is another Father who also gave His Son, not for His friends but for His enemies. I think you know of whom I speak.”
Deoradhan raised his head. He would not soften toward this invading, cowardly Roman God. He took from me everything I had, everyone I could have loved…
“Stiffen all you like, my lord, but it’s true. You wouldn’t be angry unless there was some truth in it or some wrong in you.”
Red rose to Deoradhan’s cheeks, and he determined to hear the girl out. “No, my lady. I’m listening.”
“I’m not a learned girl, Lord Deoradhan. I don’t have all the logical answers for you. But when the Living God at last captures your heart, I believe that you will have all your answers.”
He met her gaze coolly, feeling the anger burning up in his chest. “Your God will never capture my heart, Lady Fiona. He forfeited His rights to it a long time ago.”
She looked back at him without a trace of anger, and he felt like he addressed this almighty God Himself through her. “You see, I don’t want a god who is unjust, a god who damns a man because he’s seen through that god’s hypocritical cruelty. I would rather suffer in that god’s hell eternally than serve him,” Deoradhan stated.
Lady Fiona was silent for a moment. Finally, she spoke quietly, “God does not need to justify Himself to you, my lord. My whole life has been a lesson in that, I think. And you know,” she added, “when I come up against something I don’t understand, there’s a Scripture that always comes to my mind.” Her eyes gazed simply into his. “‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?’ I must bow before His wisdom then, aye?”
Deoradhan could not reply. The pressure to run built up within him, to flee from this idea as well as to flee toward it. Everything that had been settled and clear suddenly appeared a dark upheaval to him. I cannot see to step forward or to hold back. Finally, he said, “My friend Calum believes as you do.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. He lives at Oxfield in the south, where he is commander of the guards. He often tries to convince me to follow him in his beliefs, but…”
“But…?” she prompted after he paused.
“Maybe I need time to think.”
“Don’t procrastinate, my lord. ‘Tis the one duty in life for which ‘twill not do to put it off,” Fiona cautioned.
They continued walking silently for a time before he said, trying to lighten the mood, lessen the tension that hung heavy as a coat of mail on them, “So who did you think I was when you first called out to me, Lady Fiona?”
He saw a smile grow on her lips. “Solas. I thought you were Solas.”
“Solas? Is he a sweetheart, my lady?”
She shook her head. “Nay, nothing like that. Solas is my younger brother. Well, half-brother,” she corrected herself.
“You have the same father then?”
“Aye. Unfortunately, it seems at times.” She gave a little laugh.
“Your father is unkind,” Deoradhan stated.
“To put it mildly, aye, he is unkind.” She bit her lip. “Poor Solas. He tolerates such abuse toward himself. He is not the brutish warrior my father would wish for in a son; he lacks vengefulness, pride, callousness—everything my father believes is needful for the next king of Lothian.”
King of Lothian. The words spun into Deoradhan’s brain with the power of an axe. “Lothian, you say? Your father is king of Lothian?” he asked, unable to swallow.
“Aye, for many years now.”
“Then he was not always Lothian’s king?”
“Nay, he was not. But how he came to be, ‘tis a story I would rather not tell. ‘Tis too sad an account to speak of,” Fiona said. “I do not know all the details anyway; I was so young at the time it occurred, only a babe in my nurse’s arms, really. Solas knows more, but he doesn’t want to burden me.”
“How did Solas come to know of this, if he was born after you?”
“His mother, the queen, told him, my lord. But again, I think it best not to speak of what has gone before and can’t be changed. Better to look ahead and do rightly now.”
With a thundering heart, Deoradhan nodded his assent and brought their walk to as swift a close as politeness would permit. He had much thinking to do before the next morning dawned and his audience with the Pendragon commenced.
15
West Lea
Calum’s horse moved forward with relentless smooth swiftness. Already, Bethan glimpsed her childhood home, its thatched roof rising humbly against the fields behind it. The wide road ran right past the hut’s door, and a traveling stranger would have taken the abode for a place of peace, of homey country existence between the late autumn fields and the golden wood beyond.
Bethan closed her eyes, taking a lung-filling breath. Her heart leaped ahead of her, toward the cottage, rushing down its dirt path into the shadowy doorway. The entrance to her home gaped wide; it seemed to her a toothless mouth in a disheartened countenance. In that darkness, she knew her mama lay ill.
Maybe to death, or I would never have been summoned from Oxfield.
Yet, while her deep love for Mama drew her on, moved her to rush to her side, a visceral fear loomed over her as well. Like a night owl descends on its prey, it threatened to engulf her. That part of her urged her to hold back, to run away, even. To save herself from the fear and sorrow that surely awaited her within that doorway.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear…
Bethan felt Calum riding behind her, a sturdy and unwavering presence. An unexpected sense of security, tinged with joy, filled her. Lord, You have provided a fortress of Your strength for me in this friend.
“We’re here, lass,” Calum murmured, reining his horse to a halt. He handed her the thick leather straps and dismounted, then reached up to help her to the ground.
He must have sensed her hesitation because he smiled and said, “Don’t be afraid. God is with you, Bethan.” The gentle tone smoothed the rough texture of his voice and replenished her courage. With a steadying breath, she set her hands on his shoulders and let him lift her down to the ground.
Hand on her arm, Calum guided her forward, his nearness assuring her that he would support her regardless of what they faced within the cottage. Side by side, they walked down the rocky little path to the door. It stood open, despite the biting late October chill. A few steps away from the door, Bethan saw a pair of blue eyes staring at her from within. They belonged to a little girl dressed carelessly, her hair wild and her face uncommonly dirty and frightened.
“Enid!” Bethan exclaimed. The child hesitated just a moment before rushing forward, landing with a thump against Bethan’s skirt. She hid her face and clung to Bethan with a grip from her tiny hands so strong it almost hurt. Pained to see her little sister so terrified, Bethan gathered Enid in her arms, soothing her with words and long strokes on the child’s hair.
After her sister seemed a little reassured, Bethan asked, “Where is Mama, Enid-love?”
The little girl stayed silent, head buried against Bethan’
s legs. Bethan looked up at Calum who encouraged her with a nod. Crouching down, she pulled Enid up into her arms, feeling the bony pressure of her arms and knees as she clung like lichen to a tree trunk. Holding the child thus, she pushed her wayward hair out of her eyes and willed her feet to move through the doorway and into the cottage.
He had entered many houses of hardship, had put swords through men’s guts, had bound numerous open wounds, so the stench and sights could not frighten him. Indeed, ‘twas very like what Calum had expected to find, right down to the neighbor woman tending to Bethan’s sick mother, bathing her head with a rag dipped in brackish water. ‘Twas Bethan that would need acclimating, not he. He glanced at her, still clutching her sister to her, eyes wide with dread. Bethan stood motionless in front of the doorway, silhouetted by the bright afternoon sunlight. Calum knew he must be the one to act right now, not she.
The nurse had stood when they entered, her gruff face tired. Calum stepped forward toward her. “Ma’am, I’m a guard from Oxfield. Bethan and I have come to tend her mama.”
The woman sighed, her weariness a little lifted at the news. “Well, that’s good. Me, I’m bone-tired, what with caring for my own home and these ones as well. Good. Well, then, I’ll leave you both to it.” She moved toward the doorway, evidently eager to shift the mantle of responsibility onto someone else’s shoulders.
The woman paused when she reached Bethan’s side and laid a forefinger on Enid’s cheek. “Sweet one, this,” she remarked. “Poor thing, so young to be motherless.”
Calum saw the fear run across Bethan’s eyes at the woman’s words. Quickly, he said, “Thank you for your help here, ma’am. Bethan and I can manage now, I think, and you’ll want to be getting back to the village before dark.”
The woman nodded and stepped outside, her shawl-draped figure dissolving into the twilight. Calum shut the door and turned toward the bed, one of the few pieces of furniture in the cottage. There Lowri lay, her face rash-red with fever, covered to her chin with woolen bedclothes. Knowing that the village woman had been caring for her, he felt easy to take the time to stoke the fire in the hearth before tending to her.
By the time he had finished adding more peat to the fire, Bethan had begun to pick up where the nurse had left off. She bathed her mama’s arms and face, tenderly drawing the rag over her cheeks and eyelids. Enid stayed closely beside her all the while, her huge brown eyes trained unblinkingly on her immobile mother. How long the child had been left without real care, Calum did not even desire to question. He knew only that she needed distraction from sorrow and Bethan needed his help.
“Little lassie,” he said, coming down on one knee before her, his eyes on level with hers, if she would turn them toward him, “little lassie, I must fetch some fresh water from the river. Will you come to show me the way I must go?”
The child glanced toward him with troubled eyes, her thoughts evidently still on the woman lying on the bed, then she looked up at her sister. Calum saw Bethan force a smile despite her concern. “Enid, this is my friend Calum. He’s come to help me take care of Mama.” The child turned her eyes back to Calum. “Can you show him the way, lass?” Bethan prodded.
Enid nodded and picked up one of the buckets by the door. Bethan turned to Calum. “Thank you,” she said.
Gladdened to help her, Calum grasped the other bucket’s handle and opened the door. “We’ll return shortly, lass,” he said, his hand guiding the little girl before him.
16
Oxfield
“Have you seen him?”
The unexpected exclamation behind her made Aine stab her finger with the bone needle. “Ouch! Winter, don’t do that!” she said and put her finger in her mouth to staunch the bleeding.
The tall girl flounced into the room, slamming the door behind her. The kitchen was nearly empty. The morning work had been completed; Aine sewed by the light of a candle stub. Only Cook sat snoozing in the corner by the great hearth, her feet propped up on another stool. With her eyebrows raised, Winter dropped onto the bench beside Aine.
“Someone’s peevish, aren’t they?” she said, and Aine blushed, uncomfortable. She never spoke a word contrary to Winter. Her outburst resulted from her anxiety over Deoradhan’s absence, she knew.
“I’m sorry, Winter,” she apologized. “Forget that I said that.” She hoped the older girl wouldn’t hold the little incident against her. She needed all the friends she could get.
Winter shrugged, obviously still put out. “Perhaps I needn’t tell you about him after all. Maybe you’ve already seen him. Or maybe you don’t care anyway.”
“Seen whom? What are you talking about? Is Deoradhan back?” The question slipped out before she thought. For the second time since Winter entered, she flushed berry-red. No one knew of her pledge to Deoradhan yet.
Winter’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Oh, is that it, Aine? Marcus mentioned he had seen the two of you kissing on the night of the dance. And are you promised to him?”
Aine blushed a deeper shade at being found out. She nodded, helpless to lie to Winter.
The girl leaned back, a satisfied smile on her lips. “Well, that explains it, then. I don’t know why I didn’t guess.”
“Explains what?” asked Aine, desperate to get onto a different conversation track.
“Explains why you are uninterested in our very interesting visitor.”
Aine frowned. “Whom are you speaking of? I’ve not seen any new visitor to the kitchens. For certain, not a boy.”
Winter’s laugh became unbridled at this. “No, he’s not a visitor to the kitchens. To the great house, my lass! And he’s no lad like your Deoradhan, but a hearty warrior of thirty years or so. A cousin to the lord or something like that, on his way to Camelot.” She sighed and rested her chin on her hands. “So handsome he is! Hair as black as the raven’s feather, eyes the color of a moonless sky. Confident, dashing, everything you could wish for, I’m telling you.”
“Aye, and what good does it do you, Winter? Or any of us? He’ll not care one bit for a common girl with no family or money, not give a second glance.”
Winter’s head came off her hands. “Oh, won’t he? We’ll see about that.” She rose to her feet and began to loosen her blond hair from its double braids.
Worry crept into Aine’s heart as she watched her friend. “Winter, what are you doing?”
Her hair falling in a wavy cloak down to her waist, Winter smirked. “You’ll see.” She moved toward the shelf where Aine knew she kept her personal articles and extra clothing. The older girl rummaged among her own things a little, then pulled out a clean shift. Quickly shedding her clothing, she slid the new garment over her head. Aine expected her to finish by putting on her everyday tunic over it, but Winter turned to another shelf.
“Winter…” Aine trailed off as Winter snatched a green linen tunic from Riach’s belongings.
“She won’t mind,” Winter said. “She never wears it anyway. See, doesn’t it fit me well?” She tied the brown girdle around her small waist and turned to let Aine behold the moment’s full glory.
Aine looked back at her, uneasy. “What are you planning to do?”
Winter raised her chin. “I’m going to prove that he’ll give me a second glance, dear Aine. Care to come along?” she asked, moving toward the door.
Aine hesitated, torn. Part of her wanted to join in on the lively fun Winter had planned for herself; but another part of her desired to stay here, sewing this new tunic for Deoradhan, happily dwelling on the remembrance of his face and their affection for one another. “Well…”
“Come on,” Winter commanded. “You can see for yourself.”
Aine obeyed, reluctantly following the determined footsteps of her leader.
~ ~ ~
Winter tossed to the other side. Her feelings of anger and humiliation wrestled her, preventing her from sleep as surely as if they guarded a holy city from an intruder. If asked, she wouldn’t have been able to say whether she hate
d the young man or Aine more. In the dimly-lit room, she stared at the back of Aine’s head. I hate her more, she realized and felt bitter satisfaction as the admittance settled in her heart.
It’s your own fault. The thought pushed forward, a symptom of her lingering conscience. If you hadn’t paraded before him…
No. I just shouldn’t have brought her with me. She always spoils everything. Winter rolled onto her back and gazed unblinking up at the ceiling, remembering.
She had rushed into the courtyard, her hair streaming behind her like a palomino horse’s tail. Riach’s fine green dress hung perfectly on her, she knew. Riach always had a little more than everyone else; her father served as a personal attendant to Lord Drustan. Eagerly, Winter looked for the visitor. She had seen him talking with some guards near the stables just a little while ago. With any luck, he would still be there.
Aware of wide-eyed Aine trailing behind her, Winter tried to think of a way to surely attract the man’s attention if her appearance alone didn’t accomplish the feat. She couldn’t fail before Aine. She just couldn’t. How would she ever regain her authority among the girls?
Ah. She stopped. There, among a group of gabbing men, he sat, occupying a stone bench like a king on his throne. My, wasn’t he handsome, like a god? His raven hair fell to his shoulders, slightly unruly, as became a man of action. His molded face held a pair of flashing black eyes, framed by eyelashes which any maiden would crave for her own countenance. His teeth (and none were missing) were as white as newly-washed sheep when he laughed, which he often did.
Studying him, Winter wondered how she would make her approach. Then she saw her friend Owen among the cluster. Perhaps the best way would be indirect, to catch his attention without seeming to try. With a smile, she raised an eyebrow to Aine and plowed forward, making sure to put an extra bounce to her steps and a come-hither expression to her eyes.
Alicia Roque Ruggieri Page 10