Alicia Roque Ruggieri

by The House of Mercy

  Her eyes flitted down. “For one whom I love, my lord.” Her cheeks flushed dark in the moonlight.

  “I didn’t know you loved one other than me, Aine.” Lancelot smiled. He stared at her cream-smooth face, graced by lush black eyelashes and apple-red lips, cheeks blushing at his words. “I thought you liked me as well I do you,” he added, trying for a verbal reaction.

  “I…That is, my lord…I like you well,” the girl stammered, looking down.

  “I’m glad to hear that, Aine, for I may as well tell you,” he paused for effect, “that you are my desire.”

  Her eyes shot upward, soaking in the unexpected tenderness. This one thrives on smooth words of affection. He would play that way, then.

  “Indeed,” he continued, “from the moment I saw you, I knew I must have more of your company. Much more.”

  He let his eyes travel over this little goddess, reveling in her delicate proportions. Aye, she would be luscious as a dainty honey cake, the fitting finale to an evening of revelry. “Please, Aine, give me a word of hope.”

  She stared at him, obviously tongue-tied.

  He leaned down and put his lips to her ear. “Let me know that I may love you,” he whispered and finished with a kiss to her temple.

  “Love me?”

  “Aye, I want to love you, sweetest of all maidens,” he coaxed. “Dance with me, Aine.”

  Slowly, she nodded, and he pulled her into the dance. Lancelot felt his heart thundering as they came to a halt, and he pulled her against him in an embrace. She clung to him, rather than pulling away. He grinned, the world swaying around him.

  Eager though she seemed to be, ‘twould be an odd maid to give herself fully without more wooing. And if he was to have her, he would have her fully. No idle kisses in a courtyard for Lancelot, son of Bors. He would drink freely of this cup of desire, as much as he wished. And such freedom on his part sometimes required more…liberation on the part of the maiden in question.

  “Come, let’s get a drink, Aine,” he said and reached for her hand to guide her over to the feasting table. Without hesitation, she trusted her little hand to him.

  As he poured a cup of wine for the girl, he glanced up to see a few couples already making their way toward the courtyard gates, the stables, the shadowed doorways. ‘Twas a night to indulge and then to forget by the morning light. ‘Twas a night of shadows, a time to make unchaste vows and false commitments. For this evening, most of Britain would forget their Roman God and return to the pagan ways of their ancestors, unfettered by moral fears. ‘Twas when men were truly free.

  He looked sideways at Aine. She had turned her back to him, shivering arms across her chest, staring into the darkness. After a moment of thought, he slipped a hand into the little pouch hanging at his waist. With a deft motion, he had broken a tiny vial open and poured it into the cup, swirling it with experience.

  “Here, Aine.”

  She turned with surprise, as if she had forgotten he stood there. “Oh, thank you, my lord.” Aine took the cup and drank. Lancelot admired the way her hair mantled her shoulders, a thick black river that his fingers would soon run through uninhibited.

  Why did she feel so dizzy? And where was Lord Lancelot taking her? Suddenly, she couldn’t recall. And it didn’t matter too much, did it? She was safe with Lord Lancelot. He loved her.

  With blurry eyes, Aine gazed at the profile of the man leading her onward, onward endlessly it seemed, through these shadowy corridors. He reminded her of Deoradhan, tall and dark-haired. Wait, Deoradhan had auburn hair, didn’t he? She shook her head. Everything seemed hazy, unreal. Her feet felt like sponges. Unsteady, she grabbed the elbow of her companion.

  “Feeling tired?” he murmured, low and comfortingly. “Here, ‘tis only a few steps away now.”

  His arms went around her back and under her knees. Aine felt herself floating up in the air. He must be carrying her; or had she sprouted wings? Deoradhan had called her a fairy. She let her eyes sink closed. Was she a fairy? If so, was this man a prince from fairyland? “I can’t recall,” she mumbled, resting her head against something soft that smelled like evergreen trees and leather. How peaceful everything seemed.

  “You don’t need to remember anything, Aine, my love,” whispered the lord. His words soothed her, drove away any thoughts of worry away. “I’ll take care of you tonight.”

  “Alright,” she sighed. “Where did you say we’re going?”

  “I’m taking you to a kind of paradise, my lass,” he answered.

  “Avalon…Isle of Apples…”

  She heard him laugh. “Aye, We’ll call it Avalon.”

  “Why…why are we going?” she yawned.

  “I want to show you something that you will enjoy, I promise.”

  “Alright,” she heard herself reply as if from faraway. She knew now. She had turned into a fairy, and he carried her to paradise.

  She felt the long strides beneath her pause. When the forward motion stopped, her mind cleared just a little, enough for her to remember she was no part of the immortal race. Her eyes drifted open, and she saw Lord Lancelot’s hand lift the latch on the door before them and push the door open. It led into a dark chamber. Inexplicably, the sight wrought terror and helplessness deep into Aine’s heart. Some bad thing waited for her in that room, she knew it. She began to wriggle in his arms, desperate to get away.

  “Nay, not in there, not in there,” she mumbled through heavy lips.

  He chuckled and held her tightly, stepping into the darkness. “You’ll not get away so soon, Aine. You must spend some time here with me, in Avalon. Then I’ll bring you back to earth.” She felt his smooth cheeks brush her hair as he bent his head to kiss her mouth. “There’s nothing to fear, I promise. You’ll like it here very much.”

  His kiss brought back some awareness back to her. Faintly, she heard the door close behind them. Never had Deoradhan kissed her so intensely. Deoradhan… She began to squirm again, her limbs gaining back a little strength.

  “Stop, stop it, Aine. I just want to kiss you. Just let me kiss you, my love,” Lord Lancelot implored, gripping her until she stopped moving.

  Her mind moved slowly but clearly now. I’m in far over my head. Stupid, stupid girl! What was I thinking earlier? His arms wrapped around her like a sea serpent, threatening to drown her.

  He is Lord Drustan’s nephew. She stiffened but didn’t pull away when he lowered his face to kiss her again. And again. I can do nothing now. He is Lord Drustan’s nephew. Perhaps he only wanted her to give her kisses, like he had said.

  “Come, we’ll be more comfortable here,” he said after long moments. Holding her in his arms, Lord Lancelot stepped through the room, toward the deepest shadows.

  Breathe. Keep breathing. Aine let out a shattered breath as he lowered her onto a bed in the darkness. She clutched the fur covers with both hands as the blood pounded in her ears against the pillows. Lord Lancelot sat on the edge of the bed, blocking out the moonlight entering from the one window.

  Finally, she whimpered, “Please, my lord, I am promised to another man. You haven’t the right to…”

  “Is he a nobleman?” he asked, his hand stroking her hair as he would pet a lamb he was about to slaughter.

  Aine shook her head, tears blinding her.

  “Then I have the right,” Lord Lancelot assured her kindly. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Feeling how powerless she was, Aine closed her eyes as she felt his fingers moving down her neck.

  “How I love you,” the lord whispered.

  Deoradhan, where are you?

  23

  Oxfield

  For some time now, light had streamed through the one window. Morning had fully come; Aine could hear the bustle of work beginning in the courtyard below. She shivered and realized without emotion that her entire body shook beyond her control. The heavy furs lay within reach, but she cared little whether she froze to death.

  I wish I were dead. Never before had that thought ent
ered her mind. Always, Aine wished for more enjoyment, more indulgence, more, more, more. But in the space of a night, she had realized how dreadful life really could be. And she wished to die.

  If he had left the door unlocked, I would have gone out by now, into the woods, never to return.

  Her chest felt like someone had hung a millstone in it. Lifting her hands and turning them over, she examined them. It’s like they’re someone else’s hands. She let them drop to her lap and looked numbly over at the man sleeping soundly beside her. His stubbly cheek rested on the pillow, his profile still perfect, yet so disgusting to her now.

  I am utterly disgraced. How will Deoradhan think of me if he knows? Her eyes filled, and she watched through a blur as the droplets spilled onto the woolen blanket. A hope trickled into her thoughts. He need never know. I will conceal it forever. He will believe me virtuous still.

  The thoughts helped her to sniffle back her tears, clear a little of the numbness, and lift her spirits from despair to quiet misery. Aine pulled one of the furs up over her shoulders. She wore only her linen under-tunic, and the warmth soothed her. Drowsy, she closed her eyes, promising herself not to sleep.

  Dunpeledyr, Lothian

  Seonaid glanced out the upper-story window along the corridor. Her feet paused in their quick steps for just a moment as her eyes caught sight of a stranger riding through the ancient stronghold’s iron gates. Probably the new horsemaster about whom Weylin had told her. Lingering for a moment at the window, the lady’s eyes rambled up to the sun. Already high in the sky, and so many things left to do before the noon meal! Weylin would also expect her to receive the new horsemaster. She sighed. Solas is more than capable of doing that work if only Weylin would entrust him with it.

  Her bare feet moved down the hall even more quickly now, making a slapping noise against the smooth flags. I must talk to the laundress before receiving him. Seonaid grimaced. Hopefully, he’ll work out better than the last three horsemasters did.

  West Lea

  Working side by side with two other village women, Bethan washed her mother’s body. They would bury her in the village cemetery late this morning. Calum had begun to dig the grave with other men from the village.

  She glanced at her mama’s still face. Strange, she had been a woman of such varied emotions, each flickering constantly across her countenance; ‘twas sad to see the empty expression chiseled there now. And to know that Mama had been hers to know and love only for this life, that Mama had already stood before the Judge of all the earth…

  The pain became too much for her to linger on the thought for long. Sniffling, she raised her mama’s hand to her lips and kissed the cold, spiritless flesh. She saw her own tears sliding between the hand’s fingers. Can God’s sorrow be any less for such a one?

  Bethan became aware of a touch on her shoulder. Lifting her head, she saw ‘twas Garan’s mother, the priest’s wife, her eyes aloof as always. “Aye?” asked Bethan, wiping away her tears.

  “We’ve done all that needs doing, child. You must get your little sister now and come along to the burial. The men will be here soon to carry her out.” She said it all in so matter-of-fact a way that Bethan felt compelled to push back her tears. The woman acted as if she proposed a stroll through the countryside and not the burial of Bethan’s unconverted mother. Anger toward her betrothed’s mother sprang up in her spirit, as well as quick words to her tongue, but she bit them back before they could escape. She knew that the woman must mean well, though she did badly.

  “Aye, I will,” Bethan finally replied and moved toward the door to fetch her sister.

  Oxfield

  A lurching movement awakened Aine, startling her from a dreamless oblivion. Her eyelids felt as if rope tied them shut, and she struggled to open them. With sleep-blurred vision, she saw Lord Lancelot standing next to the bed, his back to her. The same cold grief she had woken with earlier that morning returned and brought fear as well. She didn’t move, not wanting to know what would happen to her now.

  With care, he finished dressing, straightening his tunic across his shoulders, running his hands through his sumptuous black hair and sweeping it away from his ears, smoothing his knee-length pants. Yawning melodiously, he reached to the ground. From half-closed eyes, Aine saw that he’d picked up his sandals. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and began to lace the straps up his calves, his elegant profile turned slightly toward her.

  She must have fluttered her eyelids a little because the nobleman knew she was awake.

  “’Tis late in the morning, my fair maiden.” The man paused and then smiled. He reached over with one of his well-formed hands and carelessly ran a finger down Aine’s cheek. “Or should I say, maiden-no-more. But still very fair.” He turned his attention back to tying on his sandals.

  Lying there rigidly, Aine realized her striking beauty no longer mattered to her. I wish I had been born plain, even deformed. Tears stung her eyes. I wish I had never been born. She drew a deep breath to stop the tears from running down face.

  “Hadn’t you better rise and dress, little fairy? Your mistress in the kitchen will wonder what keeps you.” Finished, Lord Lancelot stood and stretched. “And I doubt you’d want to tell her the truth.”

  “I…I…” Stunned, Aine could not push the words out. I don’t even know what I want to say. She scuttled up, sitting with her arms clutched tightly around her knees.

  “Aye?” The lord smiled, showing his straight teeth.

  He’s amused. The thought made her ill. This man has known me more intimately than any a man I’ve known. Even Deoradhan. And he’s laughing at me. She felt lower than any clean, crawling insect roaming the earth. So this is what a prostitute feels like after she has provided her service, like an ugly piece of trash, like a dirty cup with its contents all drained.

  And the thought suddenly came to her, pouring horror into her. “What if there is a child?” she whispered, her eyes on her knees.

  “What do you mean?” His smile contained iron now. She saw it when she glanced up. “If there is a child, I think you’ll know what to do. Do it before it causes trouble for you. ‘Tis no concern of mine.”

  Aine looked at him in numb silence. He means I must do away with it…

  “But I wouldn’t worry. Most of the time, that isn’t the case.” He dropped a kiss on her brow. “Now, I must be off. I promised my uncle that we would go hunting this morning, and I’m sure to be late. Naughty girl, you’ve kept me here talking to you.” The lord grinned. “’Twas a wonderful night, Aine. A true Avalon, aye?” With a wink, he moved over to the door and lifted the bar.

  How can I face the world?

  Dunpeledyr

  “Pardon me, my lady, but the new horsemaster has arrived. Shall I show him into the hall?”

  Seonaid turned from her conversation with the laundress and smiled at the servant boy. “Aye, show him in, but let him know I will not receive him immediately. Make him comfortable before the fire.”

  The boy gave a short bow. “Aye, my lady.” He hurried from the room.

  Seonaid concluded her conversation with the laundress regarding the washing of some new fabrics she’d bought from traders and then moved toward the hall. The great room functioned as the center of Dunpeledyr’s existence and was the proper place for her to receive new employees.

  Though not physically, her inward steps slowed as she approached the hall. Sometimes, it seemed to Seonaid that if she walked into that room, so unchanged by the passage of decades, she would see Eion about to take his throne on the dais. Odd, despite the years, he never changed in her imagination. Always, his wide smile greeted her; his eyes shimmered with delight as he saw her coming.

  No one sat in the throne in Dunpeledyr’s great hall now, not even the lord of Dunpeledyr. Weylin kept it empty as a reminder that Arthur ruled Britain and, Seonaid suspected, to reinforce his own power as Arthur’s representative.

  Somehow, I doubt that Arthur meant for Weylin to use his authority thus.
She shrugged mentally. The high king had never desired to visit Lothian. Or he does not dare to. Commanding her thoughts into orderly control, Seonaid paused under the heavy-beamed archway and took stock of the new employee before making her presence known to him.

  He stood around middle height for a man, perhaps a hand or two above Seonaid, and dressed in a decidedly Britonic manner with a hooded cloak draping his shoulders, a woolen tunic covering his form, and bare feet. The lady smiled to see thick auburn hair waving down to his shoulders, much the texture and color of her own. He must come from the north. She already had a kindly feeling toward this new horsemaster.

  She entered the room, and he turned fully toward her. In the few steps between herself and him, she took stock of him. Restless blue-green eyes gazed from an inquisitive sun-browned face. He held himself upright, shoulders squarely back, hands loose at his sides. Determination set his chin with more than natural firmness, and she noticed he watched her very closely.

  There is something so familiar about him…

  “I am Lady Seonaid,” she said, holding out her hand to him.

  He took the offering, kissing it quickly. “I am glad to come into your husband’s employ, my lady. I am called Deoradhan, lately of Oxfield in Arthur’s southern dominion.”

  “Deoradhan? That means ‘exile,’ aye?” Seonaid looked at him sharply.

  “It is what I am called,” he acquiesced.

  “And are you an exile, then?” Her eyes held his gaze. We want no troublemakers at Dunpeledyr. The Lord knows, we’ve had our share of trouble here. And may yet have in the future.

  The young man looked back at her without flinching. “Nay, no longer, my lady. And never through fault of my own.”

  She nodded, studying him. Finally, Seonaid replied, “Your eyes are honest, Deoradhan. I believe you.” With a hand, she gestured toward the great hearth. “Come, sit with me and refresh yourself. We must discuss the terms of your contract with Dunpeledyr. Then I will have someone show you to your quarters.”