Alicia Roque Ruggieri

by The House of Mercy

  “Until they put on the white robes. They will do that for the ceremony tonight.”

  “To purify the people and animals,” Winter added.

  “Aye, to purify.” He gave her a half-smile. “Though I must admit I enjoy the possible excitement afterward more than the mysterious ceremony.”

  Audacious girl, she smiled back! “Isn’t it all a ceremony, my lord? And doesn’t it all please the gods and the spirits?”

  “True,” he replied, inwardly laughing at what his oh-so-prudish mother would think of this trollop. “Though, of course, you know, the fertility rites are not so important to Samhain as to Beltane,” his logical tongue put in.

  She looked at him, eyes narrowed in fun. “Aren’t they, my lord? Isn’t it necessary that the earth be prepared during the long darkness for a fruitful spring?”

  “Aye, aye, indeed,” he agreed. The maid’s predictable mind wearied him. He gave the spit another twist. He could enjoy all he wanted of her this evening; this interaction had assured him of her willingness. “So I hope to see you in the courtyard tonight?”

  “Aye,” she said and paused. He waited a moment to see if she had anything worthwhile to say and was glad that he had done so. “Though I doubt you’ll notice me with Aine present,” she added.

  “Aine?” he frowned. Who was the girl talking about?

  She gazed into his eyes. “You remember her, my lord. A kitchen girl. You met her near the stables yesterday.”

  “Oh, aye.” Now he remembered! He’d spoken to her again, too, just this morning in the courtyard, but hadn’t remembered her name. So that was it: Aine, the pretty sprite.

  “I’m surprised you’d forgotten her,” Winter chided. “She hasn’t forgotten you, my lord.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye.” Winter shook her head and lowered her voice. “In truth, my lord, she hasn’t forgotten you for a moment since she met you. She praises your bonny face and even murmured your name in her sleep last night.”

  Lancelot felt intrigued.

  “She’s shy, though, my lord,” confided Winter. “That’s probably why her passion for you wasn’t clear.”

  Lancelot couldn’t resist asking. “And has she a lover?”

  “Aine?” Winter laughed. “Nay, men must be bold with her, and most find themselves weak at the sight of her beauty. Though I suppose you wouldn’t be, my lord.”

  Another servant girl came up as Winter finished her comment. The newcomer dropped a curtsy to Lancelot and turned to Winter. “Deirdre sent me to replace you here for the midday meal preparations.”

  “Alright.” Winter gave place to the girl. She smiled at Lancelot before exiting. “I don’t blame you, my lord, if you pursue Aine for the evening. It will give me pleasure just to see if you can catch her.”

  Lancelot watched the girl saunter away before heading off toward his uncle’s chambers and smiled. Tonight would provide great amusement for the one who mattered: namely, himself.

  West Lea

  Her soul had departed. As she stared into her mother’s cold face, Bethan’s chest felt as if her heart and lungs had been torn out. The tears bubbled over the rims of her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. The numb sorrow pervaded her being too much for her to wipe the tears away.

  She is in hell.

  The thought ran repeatedly through her mind like a dog on a short chain.

  She is in hell, and no one can save her now.

  The tears soaked a dark circle on her skirt as they flew down her cheeks, dripped off her chin. A great sob wrenched free from her throat. “Why?” she moaned. “Why couldn’t You save her?” Her head fell to her knees, and she slid off the stool onto the ice-cold dirt next to her mama’s bed.

  Oxfield

  Aine hated the way her mother made her feel. Restrained. Boxed in. As if she stood in a windowless room with no lamp. I didn’t always feel this way, she realized, looking into her mother’s dark eyes. Something is different from when I was little.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” her mother said quietly.

  Aine glanced behind her. “They’re busy preparing for the feast tonight, Mama.”

  Her mother nodded. “Maybe we could sit out here in the courtyard, then—”

  “I’m expected to help, Mama,” Aine cut in. Seeing the startled look on her mother’s face, she added, “’Tis Samhain, you know. There’s much to prepare.”

  “Aye, I ken. The feast of the dead.” Her mama gave a soft sigh. “I wish you had nothing to do with such things, daughter.”

  Aine pursed her lips. Mama had no right to tell her what to do anymore. Didn’t Aine provide her own bread? “’Tis just a little fun, Mama. Dancing and singing, that’s all.”

  “’Tis of the evil one. You know that, Aine.” Her mama’s eyes sought her own, and Aine dropped her gaze to the ground, defiant. The rebellious feelings surged up within her heart even as part of her yearned to embrace her mama.

  I will not be told what to do. She stood in the doorway, her arms clasped around her for warmth in the late autumn wind. What had Mama come for, anyway? Surely not to reprimand her. She waited.

  “Daughter, I’ve come to ask you to go home with me.” Her mama’s voice grew soft, gentle as a robin’s laughter. “Surely you’ve had enough of your rambling away. Come home with me. You’ve already missed so much, what with your brothers and sisters growing up.”

  Aine shook her head. “I have a good place here, Mama. Besides, I want to be free.”

  “Free from what, Aine? Free from those who love you?”

  “I don’t know, Mama! I don’t want everyone telling me what to do. Here, I’m my own mistress. Besides,” she continued, “I have someone who loves me here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I said. I’ve promised myself to Deoradhan, Lord Drustan’s messenger. I expect to marry him any day now.”

  Her mother stayed silent for a moment. “May I meet him?” she finally asked in the tense quiet.

  Aine shook her head. “Nay, he’s away from Oxfield right now.” She gave her mother a mirthless smile. “You wouldn’t care for him anyway, Mama. He’s a pagan to his very heart. If he were here, I’m sure he would join in the Samhain feast happily.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “So I guess ‘tis good he isn’t here to meet you.” Aine grew uncomfortable in the quiet strain. “I have to be going, Mama.” She hesitated, then pecked her mama’s cheek. “Good-bye.”

  Feeling like a hunted doe, Aine ducked inside the kitchen doorway and shut the door without waiting to hear her mother’s reply. In the darkness, she leaned against the heavy door, heart galloping, feeling she had escaped narrowly from the snare.

  ~ ~ ~

  Twilight came rapidly tonight.

  “Quickly, now, girls. We’ll bring the bread upstairs, then off to bed you go,” Deirdre instructed the very youngest three kitchen servants. Watching their unruly heads bobbing together in childish chatter at the table, she sighed. May the Lord be thanked, these at least would not be subjected to the festivities to honor the dead.

  But whoever causes one of these little ones to sin …

  The three small girls finished rolling the fresh loaves into towels. Deirdre quickly packed the bundles into manageable baskets, giving each child one to carry.

  “Now, be sure not to wander. Hand the baskets over to the servants at the top of the stair and then come right back down.” She crouched down in front of the threesome. “And I’ll have a story and a treat for you tonight, you’ve worked so hard today.”

  With smiles and giggles, the children gaggled out of the kitchen. Deirdre turned to the two girls who tended the stew bubbling over the huge hearth. “One of you fetch a boy to bring out the pot for you, then you are free for the evening.”

  She watched as they exchanged excited glances. Both of them rushed out of the kitchen to obey the order. Feeling lonely, Deirdre moved toward Cook, who held her usual propped-up position near the hearth.

&nbs
p; Cook’s eyes drooped closed, and Deirdre gently took her hand, mottled blue. The older woman blinked her eyes open, pain ever-present in them now.

  “How do you feel?” Deirdre asked.

  Cook smiled. “Like my soul’s flying up toward heaven with the weight of my legs to hold it down.”

  Deirdre nodded. She and Cook understood that the older woman’s time had come. ‘Twould not be a time of heathen sorrowing but of solemn rejoicing. She leaned over and kissed her motherly friend’s cheek.

  “My part in Samhain is finished for the year,” she commented. “I’m glad of it.”

  Cook nodded, then rasped, “But don’t be frightened, Deirdre. Who can separate us from the love…”

  A surge of pain cut her off, and Deirdre gently finished, “From the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Aye, ‘tis true.” She smiled. “I will not be afraid, even of the feast of the dead, then. Does that please you, Cook?

  Cook’s eyes stayed closed, but her lips bowed upward. “Aye, it does. Whatever pleases my heavenly Father does please me as well.”

  For some moments, Deirdre stayed holding Cook’s hand in the comfortable silence. She was just about to rise when Cook tightened her grasp just a little on her hand. Deirdre waited to hear whatever the woman must want to tell her.

  “Deirdre, will you do something for me?”

  “Aye, of course.”

  “When Deoradhan comes back here, tell him that I loved him despite everything. Tell him I know I shall meet him again in the kingdom that never ends.” Cook opened her eyes and beseeched Deirdre with them. “Will you tell him, lass?”

  Deirdre felt timid at the thought of telling such things to the unbending Deoradhan but pushed the feeling away. The woman was dying. ‘Twas no time to shirk her duty of love because of fear. “Aye, if you wish it, Cook.”

  “Thank you.” Her eyelids slid shut, and she let out a shaking sigh.

  Deirdre leaned forward and kissed the woman’s cheek again. “I’ll let you rest,” she murmured and moved away.

  22

  Deoradhan could see the double bonfires from his camp beneath the large oak tree on the forest’s edge. The fire’s smoke billowed up; they must have put wet wood on it. A perfect night for Samhain: crisp enough to cause shiver after shiver to run through his body, clear enough to see every droplet of starry light in the liquid sky, and already so dark that the veil between the living and the dead could be lifted. Tonight, Deoradhan would not participate, only observe. Next year, when I am king by the gods’ pleasure, I will sacrifice one hundred sheep in my father’s honor.

  After glancing over at his grazing horse, he leaned back against the trunk to watch the pageant unfold before him, the unseen audience member. Even two stades away, he saw several men enrobed in white wool glowing among the bonfires, set side-by-side atop the hill. Silhouetted against the sunken, bloodshot sun, the shapes of villagers moved, made grotesque by the masks and animal skins they had donned for the occasion. Excitement shuddered through Deoradhan’s limbs as he realized how close the supernatural world drew this night.

  Oxfield

  Hidden by a thick silk curtain, Tarian stood at a second-story window, her eyes roving over the milling crowd below. The druids had entered the courtyard, their robes distinguishing them as priests of the native gods. All wore crowns of mistletoe around their brows; Tarian could see the pale berries glistening through the twilight. All were assembled, then.

  Drustan has not arrived yet. Perhaps he abides by my wishes yet.

  His appearance at that moment squashed her hopes. Her husband wore a white mantle, similar to that of the pagan priests, and entered the courtyard to a drumbeat.

  That was orchestrated. She closed her eyes. God forgive me, I feel such bitterness toward that man, mixed with love. Love for who he could have been. She was glad now that their marriage had borne no children. At least I don’t have to concern myself with him poisoning the little ones’ spirits.

  The several priests opened their arms toward the lord of the estate. Tarian watched as one held out a mistletoe crown like their own and decked his gray hair with it.

  So it has come to this, then, with my husband hobnobbing with demonic priests at a festival of the dead.

  My God, my God, help me in this hour.

  West Lea

  She hadn’t heard him enter the darkening cottage. ‘Twas only when Calum rested his hand on her shoulder that she became aware of his presence.

  “When did she pass?” he asked after a moment.

  Bethan drew a shuddering breath. “While you were caring for the animals. There was nothing more we could do.” She turned her eyes toward him, seeking affirmation. “Was there?”

  He shook his head. “Nay.”

  She felt only sorrow. Not guilt, not relief. Only tearless grief. Lord God, could not You have saved her? Suddenly, she thought of something. “Where’s my sister?”

  “Still in the animal shed. It’s warm there.” He was quiet for a moment; Bethan could see him trying to decide what had best be done. “Is there a priest of God nearby?”

  “Aye, in the next village over, three miles away.”

  “So far?” Calum paused, then said, “Then I think ‘twould be best to do nothing tonight, Bethan. ‘Tis Samhain,” he explained, “and better if no one knows your mother died tonight.”

  She had forgotten how late in the month ‘twas. “Aye. And we’ll say nothing to Enid when she comes in. She’ll sorrow soon enough,” she murmured.

  He nodded and drew her into the selfless embrace of a brother, which she did not reject.

  Oxfield

  “The LORD is my light and my salvation

  Whom shall I fear?

  The LORD is the stronghold of my life;

  Of whom shall I be afraid?”

  The stableboy’s voice carried through the small room to each listener. True, Bricius noted, some did not attend very well, their hands picking at their fingernails, eyes darting toward the open doorway whenever a shadow passed by. The potter sympathized with their nervousness, though he himself knew none this year. Strange things happened on Samhain, and some without natural explanation.

  Yet this is my Father’s world…

  As the young man continued to read, Bricius heard the beat of skin drums begin. They would be leading the stock between the bonfires to cleanse the beasts soon. This, he knew, would be followed by some kind of blood sacrifice, hopefully animal.

  The reader faltered, and Bricius saw that he was looking toward the open door, out into the twilight. The potter turned to see what had caused the young man to hesitate. Past the door, a procession of half-naked, costumed revelers passed, their faces painted black for their role as impersonators of the dead. One looked in on the little gathering and began laughing wildly, his red tongue hanging half-out.

  Drunk. And ‘twas only dusk. Bricius felt apprehension for the rest of this night for Oxfield.

  “Lydia, shut the door,” he said.

  Solemnly, his wife nodded and rose, moving toward the door. He saw Lydia stare into the darkness, unflinchingly. Then she pushed shut the portal opening.

  ‘Twas night.

  The priest had slaughtered the bull, and Lord Drustan himself, decked in festal robes, had been given the honor of throwing the bones into the fires. All the stock had passed between the bonfires and thus had been cleansed for this darker half of the year. The servants, too, had walked between the fires. They had observed the necessary rituals to placate roaming spirits, dark and otherwise. They had satisfied the requirements.

  Now the real excitement could begin.

  The music swiftly altered its course from ponderous drums and mournful whistles to a side-stream of lilting though still-mysterious melodies. The large group composed of many house and yard servants, as well as herds, stableboys, and guards, separated as dancers came forward to participate in an intricate circle dance, whose ancient meaning had now been lost.

  Lancelot positioned himself where h
e could gain the best view of the dancers. He held a silver cup half-full of very good wine in his right hand. He never drank the diluted stuff if he could avoid it. With a swig, he feasted his eyes on the flesh moving before him. Lovely how strong drink made these women so uninhibited. His fine uncle could be thanked for the abundance of wine and mead flowing from the casks on the feasting tables yonder. He smiled. Religion be blessed for the provision of this entertainment.

  Now there’s a river of life! His smile grew wider when he realized a very pretty girl stood a few steps away to his right, eyeing him every few moments. By the gods that are not, she’s a ripe one for picking. His own gaze met hers, and he grinned an invitation. He stopped in the middle of another gulp when he realized that the servant girl timidly moved toward him.

  She looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t place her face. His brain felt a little fogged. He took another gulp to clear it. There. ‘Twas better. Lancelot squinted at her, thinking hard.

  Aine.

  How could he have forgotten? He had thought he would have to seek her out. Evidently, the lass was not as shy as Winter intimated. A little disappointment seeped into his spirit. He had been looking forward to a challenge.

  She looked up at him, her eyes dark and restless “My lord, you wanted to see me?”

  He smiled. So this was her game: playing innocent. Though maybe she was. And if so, who knew but that he would be the one to show this little bird the ways of men? And who better to do so than he, Lancelot, man of the world, who knew how to charm maidens and how to guild guilt with virtue?

  “Are you going to dance, Aine? ‘Twould be a delight to see,” he answered.

  “Aye, perhaps later, my lord.” She looked confused and turned her eyes to watch the torch-lit dancing.

  “I see longing in your eyes, Aine,” spoke Lancelot very quietly after a few moments.

  The girl turned toward him, wearing her surprise across her face.

  “Aye, I do. And for whom do you long?”