“Owen!” she exclaimed when she was still far enough from the group to see how many of the men looked up. To her satisfaction, they all did, including the man with the shiny black eyes. She was aware of how his gaze traveled over her from her golden tresses down to her delicate bare feet, which wore an anklet bracelet with bells, a gift from a former admirer.
Owen flushed with pleasure at being singled out by her. He had always wanted her attentions. “Winter,” he greeted her.
“Why haven’t you come to see me lately?” she asked, giving him the most inviting smile she could conjure. She would show this young noble visitor a temptation he could not resist. Already, she sensed the man’s eyes sliding over her curvaceous form, and she reacted to the feeling with a shiver of gratification.
Owen grinned back, and Winter forced herself not to grimace at his filthy teeth, knowing that appearance counted for all at this moment. “I didn’t know I would be welcome, but now that you’ve invited me…” he trailed off, his eyes telling her things she would rather not hear. Not from Owen, at any rate.
“Of course. Come any time you like,” she hastily assured him. “Now, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?” She turned her eyes, letting the lids droop slightly, toward the man in question. “Or shall I do the honors myself? My lord, my name is Winter, daughter of Aden. And you are…”
“Lancelot, son of Bors,” he answered her, standing up with a polished smile, “A lord without land or money, my lady.”
“Winter is a common girl, my lord,” inserted one of the guards present.
“Do you have eyes in your head, man?” rejoined the god. “Is such beauty ever common?”
Winter flashed him a shy smile, and he grinned back. The other men snickered and whistled, teasing and goading on their flirtation.
“If you think Winter is pretty, look to her friend, my lord,” piped up another young man, that awful Peter, who had always thought that Winter was too vain for her own good. Her heart skidded to a halt as the whole group of men turned like buyers at the village market to compare cuts of meat. Now ‘twas too late for Winter to prevent Lord Lancelot from looking at this friend. Aine still stood closely behind her, and with one step, he could see her.
He audibly inhaled at the sight of what Winter knew was an ethereal, fairy-like loveliness. If he was a warrior god, Aine was a goddess who combined the double draw of innocence and desire in her every look, every line.
And Aine had the nerve to blush at his open admiration. Though only a trained harlot could have withstood such a stare without coloring. His eyes undressed her with their dark, heavy gaze. He might as well as run his fingers through her hair, pulled her garment from her back.
At that moment, he forgot all about me in his lusting after her.
Aine’s beauty of form and face had fascinated him, like the scent of a mare intrigues a stallion. Aine knew it, too. Winter was certain of that. The younger girl had remained quiet, even more so than usual, on their way back to the kitchen. That despite Winter having tried to converse with Aine, showing her that the man’s behavior had not affected her in the least.
Stupid girl! Not only had she captured Deoradhan, Oxfield’s prize, Aine now continued her heart-hunting. She always has to be the one everyone admires. And innocent as she is, she probably doesn’t even know why men look at her. Winter flopped over onto her other side, no closer to sleep than she had been an hour before. And I’m stuck with foul-breathed Owen! Who would now be coming to call, thanks to her open invitation this evening.
Innocent as she is…
A smile crept onto Winter’s lips. Perhaps Lancelot was just the man to show Aine the dangers of having that oh-so-pretty face. The daisy would be no worse for the wear with a few petals plucked. Better for Deoradhan, too, in the long run. If Lancelot despoiled her just a bit, maybe Aine wouldn’t be so eager for men’s attention, would she? Of course, Winter wouldn’t encourage the girl toward too much folly; just enough to make her a little embarrassed when Deoradhan returned. What pleasure it would give Winter to see the little goddess try to hide her romantic intrigue then!
Really, I’m doing both Aine and Deoradhan a favor if I push her toward a little foolishness now. How will she ever become wise to the ways of men if she doesn’t learn to navigate their tricks?
Her heart eased by the incubating plot, Winter pulled her scratchy blanket up to her chin and sighed. Recompense drew near; she was sure of it.
17
The moon still tenuously held its silver sway over the sky when Tarian slipped from her elaborately-carved bed. She hurried with curled feet over the stone floor, trying to not feel its frigidity while also making her footsteps silent. Her clothing hung on pegs by the door, which seemed at least three stades away.
Reaching them, Tarian gave a mighty shiver that ran through her whole body before she pulled down her simplest dress. She didn’t want to appear lofty before her fellow brothers and sisters, gathered together on this Lord’s Day. Clutching the dress to her, she raced back toward the hearth near her bed. The fire burned low, anticipating the coming daylight to help to heat the room, but ‘twas still warmer here than near the drafty door. As quickly as her numb fingers could accomplish the task, she struggled into the russet garment, lacing up the sides. No need to change her woolen stockings; she pushed her feet into the cold leather shoes.
God, give me courage.
The moon began to lose its power, black giving way to an ash-gray as Tarian brushed her thick auburn hair with deft strokes. She wove it quickly into a braid, finishing the end with a leather cord. A splash of freezing water from the basin finished her preparations.
There. She was ready. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Tarian crossed to the door once more. Hesitation would be the death of her actions. She plucked her cloak from its peg and wrapped it around her, drawing the hood over her head to conceal her white face. She stood there for just a second, welcoming the warmth of the wool. Then she moved, out into the dark corridor, lit only by torches sparsely placed in brackets on the walls.
As mistress of the estate, Tarian knew where the guards patrolled, knew who was watchful, who was less cautious and more eager to stay near the warm main hall. Eyes alert, she darted through the shadows, keeping her face well-hidden from the flickering torchlight and her dark cloak concealing her presence.
She moved less fearfully once she had passed Drustan’s door. The first Saturday evening, she had needed to make an excuse for leaving his room in the night. As a result, she had spent this past week worrying about what she could say to him to once again excuse herself from his bed. Much to her relief, he had not summoned her last night. ‘Twas unusual, for Drustan always wanted her available in his chamber when he stayed at home.
Thank you, Lord. You know I would never have been able to get out this morning. Tarian breathed a sigh as she reached one of the fortress’ side doors, meant for servants to exit and enter. With both hands, she guided the latch so that the door hinges would not creak. A moment more and she stood outside.
Tarian closed her eyes as the wind brushed her hair and clothing. Here, in this undefiled air, with the distant horizon slowly turning from soft gray to palest yellow, she felt redeemed. She knew it at other times, aye, but now she felt most keenly that she belonged to another kingdom. In this dawn, with no one else around her, the sense of another Presence grew and surrounded her. The sense filled her so strongly that Tarian felt that One walked beside her, One more real than the stone that made up the fortress behind her.
She breathed in the bitterly crisp air, and unexpected tears sprang to her eyes. I have heard Your voice, Lord. Why has Drustan not? He says he knows You, but how can he, living as he does, thinking as he does?
Walking forward, she bit her lip, her heart agonized. Why did I marry him? Why did I go against my parents’ wishes? I was a fool. Though ‘twas four years past, she could still see her mother’s worried face amid the wedding splendor, her father’s reluctant b
lessing. And her priest-uncle’s smiling face encouraging her to go through with the marriage, despite all the warning signs.
‘Tis in the past now. I can’t go back. Tarian sniffed back her tears, wiped her eyes with her hands, and wiped her hands on her cloak. She quickened her pace across the courtyard. One of the kitchen maids, Deirdre, had offered to accompany her to the mass this week, and regardless of her confident air, Tarian eagerly had accepted.
Lord, I do want a friend, she had entreated silently afterward, almost embarrassed at her vulnerability. Don’t let Deirdre think that I’m not worthwhile.
Well, time would tell what the servant thought of Tarian. Now, she waited for Deirdre by the kitchen door, rubbing one foot then the other against her legs to keep warm.
~ ~ ~
Calum awoke from a deep sleep. Lifting his head from his hands, he sucked in his breath from the ache in his back and looked toward the house’s single window. Dawn had begun to barely touch the night sky. All night, he had dozed in and out of sleep sitting up by the bed of Bethan’s mother. In her fevered illness, Bethan’s mother thrashed from time to time, her eyes sometimes open but not seeing. Her skinny face looked gaunt and deeply lined from the disease that ravaged her body, yet her disquieted, anguished expression brought him more distress to see. How different from Cairine… ‘Twas an inexplicable peace that had guarded his sister, even as the flames licked her bare feet. So must Enoch have looked, and Moses, Samuel, and John the Baptist…who walked with God. Gazing into the firelight, Calum felt an unnamable longing.
So might you look. The thought came suddenly and not from his own mind, he knew. Tears rising to his eyes, he responded. But how, Lord? I am not like these men. My heart is not like theirs. Feeling the sorrow in every crevice of his spirit, Calum let his tears drip one by one down his cheeks, watched them spot the knees of his trousers. In this darkened house, where one woman slept in aged sickness and two others in youthful exhaustion, he knew that no one saw his tears but One.
Cannot You give me a new heart, Lord, that I may think and do only right and walk purely before You? With few words, he poured out his aching heart before his God, knowing that he was heard, yet unsure whether his words would be considered worthy.
After a time, Calum wiped away his tears and stood. The dawn had lightened the cottage but had brought little warmth with its arrival. Taking his flint, he quietly started a fire in the hearth, coaxing it to vibrant life with dry leaves and twigs.
“Thank you, Calum.”
The softly-spoken words caused him to turn his head. Just awake, Bethan sat up next to her slumbering sister. Her sweet, pale face held a smile of simple gratitude.
“’Tis my pleasure, lass,” he answered, smiling back with an effort. “Your mother still sleeps. I thought we could get breakfast going before the little one wakes up.”
Bethan pushed back her blankets and rose. “Nay, Calum. I’ll get breakfast. You’ve not had any sleep.”
He shook his head. “I have, Bethan. I dozed all night, if the truth be told.”
Her eyes questioned him.
“I’m fine, lass,” he said firmly. “If I want some sleep, I’ll take a nap later.”
“Alright, if you’re sure, but I’m still preparing breakfast,” she said, her hands going to her unbound hair. She began to smooth and braid it, and Calum turned away.
“I’ll fetch some water,” he said and grabbed the buckets.
~ ~ ~
Feeling more like a child than she had ever, Tarian picked up the skirt of her dress and ran after Deirdre. Her feet pounded the ground beneath her as quickly as her heart beat within her chest. Rushing through the dewy, late-autumn grass, she caught up with her gasping friend as they neared the manor’s walls. With a glance at the gate, Tarian grasped Deirdre’s hand.
“Come,” she said. “I don’t want to go back just yet.” She pulled Deirdre down into a little dip in the ground. Here, sitting down, they were invisible to those guards on the manor walls.
Deirdre fell on her back, breathing heavily and laughing. “Oh,” she panted, “I thought you would never run after me.”
Tarian fell back on the grass, too. “Why not?” she demanded.
Deirdre smiled. “No reason.”
“Come, now. Why did you think I wouldn’t chase you?”
Deirdre shook her head.
“Deirdre, tell me! I must know.”
“Well…” Deirdre glanced up at the sky, her distant smile still pulling up her wide mouth. “’Tis beneath your dignity and all, you know, my lady. And ‘tis not what the master expects of his wife, I’m sure.”
Tarian sobered. “No, it’s not.” She plucked a few pieces of grass and twisted them together. “But neither is attending mass.”
Deirdre turned on her side, propping her head up on her long hand, so thin that Tarian could see the blue veins running through it. “Will he be very angry if he finds out you came today?”
Tarian tamped down the fear that rose in her at the thought of facing Drustan. “I don’t know. I hope not.” She forced a smile. “Probably, he won’t find out. He was still sleeping when I left. His nephew is visiting, and they stayed up past midnight. I’m sure that a cask of ale couldn’t have bested him for drunkenness last night.”
Deirdre smiled back, sympathy in her dark eyes. Tarian felt relief that ‘twas not pity lurking there.
With a sigh, the kitchen maid rolled up and stood, brushing the bits of grass off her skirt. “Well, I must get back. Cook will be waiting for me to start the bread with the younger girls.” She offered a hand to Tarian, who accepted it and rose to her feet. “’Tis too bad you can’t meet Cook; you’d like her, I think, my lady.”
“Why does she not come to mass?”
Deirdre started walking toward the manor walls. The sun had fully risen now, but the air still held a deep chill, and mist clouded their (and Tarian hoped, the guards’) vision. “She can’t move too far from the kitchens nowadays. Her legs have been badly swollen for some time. She spends much of her time with them propped up, delegating tasks rather than being able to do them herself.”
“Has a physician seen her?”
Deirdre shrugged. “Bricius has some medical knowledge, but Cook prefers the old remedies, she says. God works best through nature, she says. She takes potions and such.”
Tarian nodded. Her mother would agree with the old servant, probably. “I would like to meet her.”
Deirdre smiled. “Well, maybe you will, my lady, if God heals her legs and the master doesn’t stop you from coming to meetings.”
And maybe sooner, if I keep my courage. “We must part ways,” Tarian said as they approached the side gate. She pulled her hood up to conceal her face again. “Farewell. And thank you, Deirdre.”
“For what?”
Tarian’s heart felt full, perhaps for the first time since she’d left home. “You don’t know…”
She trailed off and dropped her gaze. The kitchen maid hesitated a moment, then pulled her into a gentle embrace. After a moment, Deirdre released her with a kiss to her cheek. “Grace and peace in our Lord, sister,” she murmured.
“Grace and peace,” Tarian said, not minding the tears that flooded her eyes.
18
Camelot
He walked with a measured, steady step, remembering times gone by. Days and weeks, months and years, when he had sprinted down this same corridor, his heart as light as his feet, his laughter echoing across the stone walls.
That time has vanished. He raised his chin and quickened his pace. But the memories of the past persisted; the pictures rose to his mind unbidden...
He was eight years old again, his feet bare as they slapped the stone. Halfway down the hall, he stubbed his toe on an uneven flag. Oh, it hurt! Wincing, he grabbed his offended member and bent curious eyes toward it. Already red. And it looked like the toenail might blacken at that. But never mind! The child dropped his foot and set off again at a limping trot. He must hurry. The high
king waited for him.
Arthur had said they would go riding today, just he and Deoradhan. Of course, some guards would come along for safety’s sake, but other than that, ‘twould be just the two of them. Deoradhan would have the fine little sorrel pony, and the king would ride his favorite black mare. He couldn’t stop the smile from nearly splitting his face in two, showing the gaps where his last baby teeth had fallen out. How magnificent! He would get to spend a whole day with his favorite person in all of the world.
Suddenly, from behind him, someone grasped his shoulder, making him whirl around. ‘Twas the king! The man’s blue eyes laughed along with his pleasant mouth at having surprised canny Deoradhan. Good. He was dressed in riding clothes, ready for their day. He hadn’t forgotten. Arthur never forgot, never went back on his word.
“Ready, my lad?”
Deoradhan nodded. “Aye! I’ve brought provisions for us,” he added, lifting up a hefty sack filled with bread, cheese, and oatcakes.
“Good. And shall we bring the dogs with us?” asked the king.
Deoradhan shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“They always scare away the rabbits and thrushes. And I like to watch them.”
Arthur smiled, that golden smile that lit up his whole countenance, and Deoradhan felt the blessing of the king’s approval. “Most boys your age and older only like to kill the little animals. I’m glad you’re not like that, lad.” He took Deoradhan’s small hand in his large, battle-callused one. “Be a protector, lad. ‘Tis easy to destroy.”
And he should know. He destroyed my father’s kingdom and nearly wiped his lineage from the earth. Deoradhan set his jaw and strode the last few steps to the king’s private chambers. I will take what is rightfully mine. No more trickery. No more empty words to stave off a legitimate hunger.
Once again, two guards stood before the door, alert to his approach.
Alicia Roque Ruggieri Page 11