Alicia Roque Ruggieri

by The House of Mercy

  Meghyn smiled. “Aye, my lady. Bricius the potter has given me his opinion.”

  The noblewoman’s eyebrows shot up. “He is a medical man as well, then? Is there nothing the man doesn’t do?”

  Meghyn chuckled. “He learned something of the medical art when in the monastery, and ‘tis helpful to others from time to time.”

  The woman looked thoughtful, her auburn hair wisping around her serious eyes.

  Meghyn paused. Would the lady take a question without offense? She decided to start small. “Deirdre tells me you’ve been coming to the Lord’s Day meeting under the oak, my lady.”

  Lady Tarian’s lips turned up. “Aye, I have. I overheard one of the servants talking about it and when I asked, Bricius told me I would be welcome.”

  “And do you enjoy it, my lady?”

  “My heart hasn’t felt so light for a long time.”

  Meghyn’s smile grew. “‘I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the LORD,”’ aye, my lady?”

  The noblewoman looked at her questioningly.

  “’Tis from the Scriptures, my lady,” explained Meghyn. “The psalms of David.”

  “Oh.”

  Meghyn took courage at the woman’s vulnerability. “May I ask a question, my lady?”

  “Aye, please feel at liberty, Meghyn.”

  “Would you call yourself a Christian, Lady Tarian?”

  A thoughtfulness grew on the countenance of the young woman sitting across from Meghyn. She stayed quiet for a few moments, then murmured, “When I was a young girl, I asked Jesus to purify me from my sin, and I determined to follow him. But now I don’t know, Meghyn.”

  “Why do you say that, Lady Tarian, if you permit my boldness in asking?”

  The noblewoman looked at her, and Meghyn thought she detected a settled sadness in her eyes. “Because much of the time I don’t feel that I belong to Christ. A true Christian is one who is holy, set apart for God’s use, whose thoughts are only full of God.”

  “And what are your thoughts full of, my lady?”

  A heavy sigh escaped from Lady Tarian’s chest, as if her heart groaned in its prison. “My own happiness, Meghyn. I want to be happy.” She grimaced a smile. “’Tis why I married my lord.”

  “I think we all want to be happy, my lady. ‘Tis not an evil,” smiled Meghyn.

  “Then I sought my happiness in the wrong things, I suppose.” Meghyn cocked her head, listening, as the lady continued. “This all goes back a long time. I grew up in Cantia, near the southeastern coast. Though not wealthy, my father held a position of influence as one of the lord’s advisors. His brother, my uncle, served as a priest of the Church for the lord’s household. My mother came from one of the oldest tribes in Cantia; she was born a princess, the daughter of a chieftain, subjugated by Uther Pendragon.

  “As I grew older, I realized ‘twas expected that I marry well, to bring the family wealth and honor, as any daughter should. When I was thirteen, my uncle undertook the task of betrothal; the lord of Cantia himself contributed generously to my dowry as a thank-you to my father for his years of service. My parents left the matter entirely in my uncle’s deft hands, stipulating only that the man chosen be an honorable man of the Christian faith, not holding to the old ways.

  “After a year and a half of negotiations and bartering, my uncle announced that he had purchased a bridegroom for me and thereby a favorable alliance with a neighboring lord. That lord was Drustan of Oxfield, an older man, aye, but favorable in every worldly respect.”

  Lady Tarian looked Meghyn straight in the eyes, as if to make her understand through her earnestness. “My parents opposed the match from the start. Initially, aye, they felt flattered that their daughter would become lady of Oxfield, a great and rich estate. But then my mother remembered hearing of Drustan’s ambivalence toward religious matters. He acted a Christian when ‘twas convenient and a pagan when not. Not to be trusted, my father said when he met him, and he knew the look of deceit from his many years of dealing with such ones.”

  “Why didn’t you listen to them, my lady?”

  Lady Tarian shook her head and smiled. “It goes back to what I said earlier, Meghyn. I felt discontent in Cantia, as the carefully-guarded daughter of the lord’s advisor. I thought I would be happy as the mistress of Oxfield, having my own way, spending my time as I saw fit, doing as I pleased, the petted wife of a rich nobleman.”

  Meghyn nodded. She had known the feeling too at one time. “So…”

  Lady Tarian shrugged. “So I married him with my uncle the priest’s blessing, the lord of Cantia’s blessing, the people’s blessing. But not God’s blessing. And I have paid for it. Dearly.”

  She smiled and turned her gaze toward the floor, and Meghyn noticed for the first time that the young woman’s right cheekbone looked dark bluish. Perhaps ‘tis only the shadows from the firelight. “My lady,” she said, reaching across and grasping Lady Tarian’s hands in her own heavy rough ones, “Have you asked the Lord’s pardon for going against your parents’ judgment like that? For doing what you sensed ‘twas wrong?”

  Lady Tarian raised her eyes, brimming brightly with tears. She nodded. “Aye, and I’ve tried to follow Him again. Meghyn, do you think that God gives second chances? Or am I condemned for life to…” The tears spilled over, running down her pale cheeks.

  “The Lord’s compassions fail not; they are new every morning, my lady.”

  “But Drustan…”

  Meghyn rubbed the girl’s hands. “Don’t you worry about him. God will take care of that man. Do you think he can stand in the Almighty’s way for a moment?”

  The noblewoman shook her head. “Nay.”

  “Nay is right.”

  “But I got myself into this,” Lady Tarian burst out. “I’m not suffering because I did rightly.”

  “Then pray the prayer of David, my lady: ‘Remember not the sins of my youth or my transgressions; according to your steadfast love remember me, for the sake of your goodness, O LORD!’” Meghyn paused to let the words sink into the young woman’s soul like rain on dry moss. “’Tis not my place to say whether your early conversion to Christ was real, my lady. That’s between you and your Lord. But whether ‘twas or ‘twas not, you can begin this moment to obey. As David says in that same psalm, ‘The friendship of the LORD is for those who fear him, and he makes known to them his covenant.’ The Lord may have a hard lesson for you to learn, but ‘tis from the hand of a loving Father, not a punishing judge.”

  The lady turned her face toward the fire so that the kitchen maids couldn’t see her rapid tears. Meghyn watched as the young woman pushed back the flowing emotions and wiped her eyes. After a few moments, Lady Tarian turned back to Meghyn.

  “’Tis late. I must be going.”

  Meghyn nodded. “My prayers go with you, my lady.”

  A smile blossomed on the lady’s face. “Thank you, Meghyn. For everything you’ve said. You don’t know…” She stopped. “Thank you.”

  She rose to her feet, and Meghyn began to struggle up herself. “Nay, don’t trouble yourself,” Lady Tarian pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Rest your legs, dear woman.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Meghyn. She watched the young woman move across the kitchen toward the exit.

  In wrath remember mercy, O Lord…

  20

  West Lea

  “She looks very ill,” Bethan heard her own words spill from her lips without emotion. “You think so, aye?” She glanced up at Calum. He stood by her shoulder, silent but his eyes filled with thought.

  She wiped her mother’s face again. It does no good. Over and over, she had cooled the red face with water, but the heat rising from the skin would not decrease. A rash covered her mother’s body like leprosy. Mama had not recovered real consciousness since Bethan and Calum had arrived several days past.

  “Where’s Enid?” she suddenly remembered.

  “She’s gone to the neighbors’ to play,” Calum replied
. He gently took the bowl of water from her hands. “Why don’t you heat some gruel? I’ll take over here.”

  Bethan felt reluctant to leave her mother’s side but relieved as well. ‘Twas well-past noon, and she’d been sitting at her mother’s side since daybreak. Her back felt as if a knife had split it in two. She rose from the three-legged stool, giving place to Calum, who folded his tall frame onto the low seat.

  As she prepared the light food, Bethan found her eyes moving toward the guard again and again. How patient he was as he wiped Mama’s face, running the cloth over her taut skin with the tenderness of a doe toward its fawn. Grace flowed through the scars on his face, making what would have been disfigurement, beauty. He bent himself to the task single-mindedly, not eager to rush off or impatient for Bethan to resume her place.

  Whatever happens, Lord, Bethan prayed as she stirred the watery mixture over the hearth, thank you for Calum.

  She felt her heart constrict as she realized what she had prayed. Whatever happens…

  Camelot

  “Lord Deoradhan! You’re not leaving us already?” About to mount, Deoradhan turned at the sound of Lady Fiona’s voice. She stood at the stable door, a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Deoradhan smiled, despite the storm raging within his heart. Or perhaps because her appearance proved to be a soothing influence.

  “Aye,” he replied. “I’m going.”

  “You’ve an estate to get back to?”

  Deoradhan gave a twisted smile. “Nay. Not yet, anyway.”

  Lady Fiona tilted her head to the side. “You stand to inherit your domain, then?”

  “Let’s just say someone is holding it for me,” he answered. “And you, Lady Fiona? Where do you make your home?” he asked, not really caring but wanting to be kind to this friendly girl. She can’t help who her father is, after all.

  She moved toward his mount Alasdair and began to stroke the horse’s neck, her pale fingers running over the gray mane. “Here mostly,” she said without smiling, yet with peace in her eyes. “My father has determined it best that I remain as a lady-in-waiting to the queen. He and I do not see eye-to-eye on many things.”

  “So you are not often at…what is the name of your father’s estate?” he asked.

  “Dunpeledyr,” she supplied. “Nay, very seldom. I go there perhaps once a year, if that. ‘Tis in beautiful country, though.”

  “You must miss your brother.”

  “Solas? Aye, very much. He and I have the same heart, though different ways of expressing our feelings.” She ran her hand over the horse’s nose and smiled up at Deoradhan. “Which is why he can remain at Dunpeledyr and I am sent away.”

  Deoradhan smiled. The young lady had spirit, a sense of freed individuality. Aine came to his mind then. She can be forgiven a few faults, Deoradhan. She is young yet and a more innocently perfect girl never breathed.

  “A beautiful horse, this,” she commented. “My father raises horses. My lord king himself has purchased some for his stables.” She shook her head. “Father never thinks anyone can care for his horses well enough. There’s always a new horsemaster at Dunpeledyr, every time I visit. Last time I heard, he had let the latest one go as well.”

  Her words caught Deoradhan’s interest. “Indeed, my lady?” He paused, knitting his plot quickly. “Would your father take me on, do you think? I am well-experienced with horses, you know.”

  Lady Fiona raised her eyebrows. “You, my lord? Why would you want to be horsemaster at Dunpeledyr? I’m sure you have more lofty things to occupy you. Why not go abroad to study some more? Or become a court intriguer. Arthur can always use another,” she smiled.

  “Nay, I’ve studied and entertained myself to my heart’s content. All I can do now is wait for my inheritance. And there’s no better place to wait than in Lothian.”

  “Why do you say that?” Her eyes narrowed, puzzled.

  Deoradhan caught his breath. I’ve said too much. This one is quick. “You said yourself that Lothian is beautiful. Who wouldn’t wish to wait out the years in beauty?” Though not many years now.

  Lady Fiona smiled. “Well, you can try, my lord. If you like, I’ll write to my father about you, asking him to consider it.”

  “I beg your pardon for saying this, my lady, but if relations are strained between the two of you, would that do more harm than good?”

  She shook her head. “Nay. My father and I disagree on many things, but even I must admit that he conducts his business affairs well and he must admit that I give good counsel on such issues. So, you’re not to fear, my lord. My recommendation will do you good. Trust me.”

  Deoradhan nodded slowly. For some reason, he found it easy to believe this pleasant but fiery girl. “Alright,” he replied. “Thank you.”

  She nodded.

  “Until we meet again, then,” he said, mounting.

  “Aye, my lord. And see that you do my recommendation good, as well.”

  ‘Twas meant lightly, he knew from her sparkling eyes, but the uneasy guilt in his heart choked any answer he would have given her.

  21

  Oxfield

  “Aine, someone wants to speak with you.” Deirdre’s voice brought Aine’s head up from her sweeping. At Aine’s questioning look, Deirdre added, “She’s waiting at the door.”

  Strange. In her three years at Oxfield, she never had received visitors. Aine laid her broom aside. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, and Deirdre nodded. The older girl had become an unofficial stand-in manager since Cook had become so immobile in the past few weeks, and Aine felt obligated to let her know her whereabouts.

  It’s not Deoradhan, returned from Camelot, because Deirdre said ‘twas a “she.” Her heart fluttered like a butterfly caught in the hand. Though I wish ‘twas he.

  She frowned as she made her way toward the passageway leading out to the exterior door. Deoradhan had not written to her since leaving almost two weeks ago. Soon, their promise of a speedy marriage would be null. ‘Twas nearly a month since he pledged to marry her. And a month can bring many changes. I hope he has not changed. Then Aine bit her smiling lips as another thought stole into her mind. Though if he has, my prospects have brightened for sure and certain with Lord Lancelot’s attentions to me lately. Since yesterday, Lord Drustan’s nephew had spoken to her twice as she went about her work in the courtyard. Interesting, to say the least. Aine’s step took on a bounce.

  Her hand lifted the latch. The heavy door wasn’t bolted during the day, and she pulled it open easily. As the squeak of its hinges died away, the cloaked visitor turned to meet Aine’s curious gaze.

  Eyes as dark as her own lifted to Aine’s face. Though just a few short years had lent gray to the midnight hair and more creases to the once-plump cheeks, Aine recognized the woman immediately. With dismay.

  Her hand dropped from the latch. “Mama,” she whispered.

  ~ ~ ~

  He noticed her from across the wide hall. Indeed, ‘twas hard for a man to ignore such drooping eyelids and musical laughter. Lancelot smiled. Especially a man like me, he thought, who knows his women.

  And well ‘twas for him that he did. When it comes time to woo and win a lady of means, I’ll know what I want, in addition to the gold.

  And land.

  And horses.

  And a warrior force.

  Come to think of it, a woman with all of that attached might not be so attractive…visually. And might be a good deal older than he as well.

  Lancelot chuckled. ‘Twas a good thing, then, that he enjoyed himself now. Later, he might have to suffer to obtain the satisfaction of his material needs. Taking out one of his charming smiles—not his best, mind you; that was reserved for special occasions—the nobleman strode across the hall toward the hearth, where the object of his eyes basted the several chickens roasting on a single spit.

  “Winter, isn’t it?” he called out as he neared her. The pretty girl looked up, seemingly surprised, and dropped a curtsy.

  Lancelot
smiled. I know this game, little fool, and I’m better at it than you. Your eyes have been darting toward me for half the morning, since you entered the hall. “Sorry if I startled you,” he said, imbuing his tone with sincerity. He took the spit handle from her. “Here, let me help.”

  “Oh, my lord…” she breathed. Her mouth gaped open and closed. Rather like a pretty blond fish. One I’m about to land.

  He knew she was scrambling for things to say, ways to amuse him, captivate him. “Are these for the feast tonight?” he asked, knowing full well that they were.

  “Aye.”

  “Are you going?”

  “To the Samhain feast? I wouldn’t miss it, my lord!” she exclaimed, pink flushing into her cheeks. “And you, my lord? Will you attend? Or is Lord Drustan planning something more sedate for his own household?” she asked, teasing creeping into her voice.

  “Not to worry, I’m attending. Arthur himself couldn’t keep me away. We must appease the ancient spirits after all.” He looked down into her cool blue eyes, frosted with fluttery lashes. “Especially when such beauty promises to be present.”

  A shameless flush rose to the maid’s cheeks. Lancelot liked her well for it. She will be mine after the bonfires tonight without hesitation. The realization didn’t give him the supreme, biting pleasure he so enjoyed, however; that intense pleasure never came without having emerged the victor from a struggle, a battle of wills in which he triumphed, forcing the conquered to enjoy his pleasures.

  “The priests have already arrived,” he continued, brushing her hand with his as he shifted to avoid the flames’ heat.

  “I saw them coming in with the peddlers.” The girl shook her head. “Funny how they seem like ordinary men in ordinary clothes.”