Deirdre’s eyes opened wide. “You don’t have to,” Tarian added, feeling her embarrassment growing. ‘Twas foolish to believe she thinks of you as a friend…
“Nay, I’d like to,” Deirdre answered, “You caught me by surprise, ‘twas all.”
Tarian wanted to hug Deirdre but kept her composure. “Fine. When shall we start, then?”
Deirdre thought. “May I decide about this position you’ve offered me first, my lady? We could begin after we’ve settled that.”
“Good,” Tarian replied as calmly as she could. “I’ll send for your reply in a few days, then.”
“Aye, in a few days."
25
Oxfield
Bricius wrapped the heavy robe more closely around his shoulders. His steps matched, though feebly, those of the younger man walking beside him. Their feet crushed the last autumn leaves, sending up a wild, earthy odor to their nostrils.
“Her mother died on Samhain,” Bricius’ companion suddenly spoke. For a long while, they had been striding along silently through the wood outside Oxfield’s walls. “The feast day of the dead. Do you think there’s anything in that?”
Bricius cocked his head and looked into Calum’s eyes. They always hold that secret sorrow. “What do you mean, lad?”
Calum ran a hand through his hair. “I know it sounds pagan, Bricius. I just wondered if there could be any significance in the day a person dies and is born.”
The waters run deep in this man. Bricius paused. “I would have to say, lad, offhand, that the days themselves hold no power over us, have no significance in and of themselves.”
Calum nodded.
“But,” Bricius added, “the Scriptures tell us that God appoints every man a day to be born and to die. And some days have taken on significance, and He surely knows that.”
“Like the solstice.”
“Aye, and we celebrate the Christ’s birthday, then. A light to shine during the darkest time of year.”
Calum stayed silent for a moment, then said, “Forgive me, Bricius, but you didn’t answer my question directly.”
Bricius smiled. “Nay, for I don’t have an answer from my brain for you. But my heart answers, ‘aye,’ and I think some truths have an expression there that they cannot find in words.”
Calum nodded, and the two meandered on, plucking leaves from the bushes they passed every now and again. Finally, Calum spoke, “The time has come, Bricius, you know.”
Bricius stopped walking. “What do you mean, lad?” Oh, God, I thought you would deliver him before it came to this.
Calum turned to look at him, arms held loosely at his sides. “I’m bringing Bethan and her sister back to Oxfield.” Calum set his jaw. “Marcus has learned all I can teach him. He can take over the command of the guard for me. And then I’ll go as I said I would.”
Bricius had never known such frustration with the younger man as he felt at that moment. “And what of the church here at Oxfield? You are one of its leaders.”
Calum shook his head. “You are their pastor, Bricius. Not me. I’ve never been able to put it all…” He shut his eyes for a brief moment, and Bricius saw the inner suffering of years pass over his face.
Oh, Lord, give me wisdom. “You’ve never returned to the village, have you, my son?” Bricius asked quietly.
“Nay, not since that day.”
“Don’t you think ‘twould help you to face it, Calum? To look at it squarely in faith and dare it to do its worst?”
“What, exactly? To look at what?” The younger man’s voice had grown brittle.
“The past.”
Calum was silent.
Bricius tried again. “Don’t you think, my lad, ‘tis cowardly to run away from your fears, aye?”
The bitterness emergent in Calum’s smile startled Bricius. “Don’t you know by now, Bricius, that I can’t run away from what I really fear?”
The potter furrowed his brows and waited for an explanation.
“I fear what lies within myself. And I can never get away from that.”
The eyes of the two men met briefly. Bricius’ gaze continued to follow his friend long after Calum had continued on the path, pushing aside the brambles that barred his way.
Dunpeledyr
Deoradhan relished the hatred that he felt rising within his chest. This is the man who killed my father. He kept his gaze respectfully lowered as Lord Weylin gushed praises over his favorite mares. The nobleman’s finger moved over the pedigrees, inked on squares of parchment. Deoradhan despised the pale flesh covering that bony finger.
“Arthur himself buys from us, and that’s an honor,” Lord Weylin boasted, ignorant of his companion’s thoughts. Then he added, smirking, “Weakling though he is.”
He rolled up the parchments carefully and handed them over to a servant standing at his elbow. “The world knows Dunpeledyr’s horses as the swiftest and strongest Britain can breed.”
“And was it always so, my lord?” The words fell out of Deoradhan’s mouth. He stood still, trying to appear unknowledgeable. He must never suspect.
The lord met his gaze with heavy-lidded eyes, half-hidden under a thatch of gray hair. “What do you mean, young man?”
“Well, Lady Fiona told me that you won Dunpeledyr in battle. I only wondered if your predecessor also bred fine horseflesh.”
Lord Weylin chuckled. “Nay, nay. The wild Lothian tribe that dwelt here knew nothing of such civilized pursuits. Wine and women were all old chief Eion cared for, I’m sure.”
“Do any of his descendants survive, or did you deal judiciously with all of his kind?” Deoradhan kept his voice only moderately interested.
The man shrugged. “Nay, no direct descendants live. His wife’s only child is also mine. These people put some stock in maternal descent as well as in mastery, so ‘twas useful to have her as wife in two ways.”
“Well,” replied Deoradhan, “all to the glory of Logress. All for Arthur’s kingdom.” He offered a grin, knowing the lord would agree wholeheartedly.
But Lord Weylin stared at him a moment, then smiled. “Aye and nay. I think I see that sentiment in your eyes as well, my lad, aye? There are some who think another would do a better job at leading these confederate kingdoms. And confederate they are. That’s what Arthur doesn’t understand.”
What?
His employer laid an arm around Deoradhan’s shoulders. “But enough political talk. We must go look at those horses. I’ll tell you of my plans for spring breeding. And then, I wish you to join my family for dinner. My daughter Fiona has arrived, and both she and Solas requested your presence.”
Surprised but intrigued, Deoradhan nodded. “Aye, my lord. I’ll certainly attend with pleasure.”
West Lea
A rapping knock startled Bethan from her sewing. Putting aside the needle and cloth, she eased Enid’s sleeping frame off her lap to the fur rug and tiptoed to the door.
‘Twas late for visitors. “Who is it?” she called softly through the wooden barrier.
“’Tis I, Garan, Bethan.”
At the voice of the priest’s son, Bethan felt her heart speed up in nervousness. ‘Tis never love I feel for him, nor affection. ‘Tis admiration and awe. She opened the door, pulling on it slowly so the hinges wouldn’t creak.
Outlined by the half-moon, Garan stood, tall, thin as a blade of wheat. She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness but knew from experience that the pale orbs would be carefully curious, articulate. Pious and yet…
“Come in,” she said. “Only quietly. Enid is already asleep.” Bethan stepped to the side to let the young man pass.
He moved with short, quick steps. His hands continually played with the edge of his belted tunic. Bethan had not noticed before what large hands he had. Almost too large for his person. As if he has yet to grow into them…
Garan positioned himself near the dim hearth. “It’s cold in here,” he remarked, more to himself than to Bethan, and drew his cloak around him.
> “Aye,” she agreed and stood still, waiting for the reason he’d come. What if he wishes to break the engagement? My dowry no longer exists; there is no reason for him to keep it.
His pallid eyes kept darting from the fire to her face, illuminated by the ruddy glow. After a long silence, he spoke, “You no doubt know why I have come, Bethan.”
Her heart quaked. Lord, give me strength to push forward. The vision of life without a protector for her and Enid rose before her mind, but she pushed it away. “Aye,” she managed. “I understand that you cannot keep our commitment. I do not hold you to it.”
His eyes widened with surprise. “Nay,” he said. “On the contrary, I wish to reiterate our promise. Despite my parents’ (and mostly my mother’s) reservations, I chose you because I saw much to admire in you, not because of your dowry, Bethan. I see in you strength of character, determination, a willingness to deny your natural feelings, a holy innocence of worldly things.” He turned his gaze back toward the fire. The light danced into his eyes, warming the blue. “I have a passion to reach the lost, to go where the gospel has not been heard, but I cannot do it alone. You, you, Bethan, are the one who can aid me, be my helpmate, my joy. An example to the heathen.”
Bethan stood stunned. Always, Garan had seemed self-sufficient, strong, burning with an internal flame. Not as if he needed me. And yet he says he does. To go on this holy mission. She thought of her yearning for Calum and realized how paltry it must be in the eyes of the Lord in comparison with this calling. With trembling steps, she crossed the small space between them and took his cold hands in hers. They shook with emotion. She lifted her eyes up to search his face and found the words came to her lips, as if the moment had been predetermined:
“Here is your maidservant.”
26
Dunpeledyr
“Deoradhan, if you will take the lead, I will follow with Solas,” Lady Fiona spoke, her smile reflecting the brilliance of the early winter sun. Her furry pony plodded along beneath her along the rocky path toward the coast. Deoradhan nudged his own wooly animal to the front of the threesome and led the way up the winding path.
“I remember when ‘twas dangerous to move from the fortress and even more dangerous to ride to the coast,” remarked Solas, who straddled the same pony as his half-sister. His eyes looked calmly toward the sunlight, unseeing.
Fiona smiled. “For fear of the Saxons, aye.”
Deoradhan couldn’t resist. “And for fear of the Britons.”
“What do you mean? We are Britons.” Fiona’s face grew quizzical. “Lothian is part of Logress.”
“Now ‘tis. But don’t you know your history, my lady? You yourself told me that another once ruled in Dunpeledyr.”
“Aye,” answered the girl, “and I wish you would call me Fiona, without that formal title. Anyone who grows up in the high king’s household cannot be common-birthed.” She raised her eyebrows.
Deoradhan smiled. What they didn’t know! Strange, though, he had wanted to despise them because of what he knew he must do. But he couldn’t.
“Is your father a nobleman, Deoradhan?” Solas spoke up, his voice a little muffled by the wind and the clopping hooves.
“Aye, he was.”
“He’s dead, then?”
“Aye, for seventeen years.”
“The year I was born,” Solas said quietly. “And your mother? Is she also gone?”
Deoradhan paused. “Nay, but she doesn’t know I’m alive.”
“Is there any danger in her knowing, Deoradhan?” This came from Fiona. “I know if my son lived, I would want—”
“Aye, there is danger in it,” replied Deoradhan. “I don’t wish to speak of it anymore,” he said suddenly, wishing he’d not delved into the subject. “I see the coast ahead.”
Oxfield
The messenger arrived shortly after sunset. His horse wore a film of dirty sweat, and his clothes displayed the mud of a multiple-days’ ride. Calum stopped as the man reined to a halt and dismounted in front of the guard tower.
“Messages from the Pendragon and Camelot,” he sighed, patting his horse’s neck.
Calum nodded. “Bring them into Lord Drustan at once. Is there more talk of trouble in the north?”
The messenger’s face grew grim. “Aye. Aye, there is.” He lowered his voice. “More than one lord has spoken openly against the high king. After years of peace…”
Calum shook his head.
“Oh, speaking of the north, I’ve a message from Dunpeledyr. It came to Camelot, and so I’ve brought it on.” The man pulled a rolled parchment from the saddle pouch. “For a person named Aine, daughter of Llewellyn. Do you know her?”
“Aye,” answered Calum, “I can get this to her. From Dunpeledyr, you say?” He took the sealed scroll from the man’s hands.
“Aye,” agreed the messenger. “Funny place, ‘tis, with a stranger lord. I wouldn’t live there if I could help it.”
From Deoradhan. At last.
“My thanks,” he said aloud and turned his feet toward the kitchen.
Aine herself answered. “Oh, hello,” she said. “Do you need to see Deirdre?”
The girl’s voice sounded as though she’d been hollowed out, like the pipe Calum had heard her play at gatherings. He knew her only by name and had never conversed with her, but even so, Aine seemed so much quieter, less lighthearted than he’d ever seen her. Her hair looked oily as well and her usually rosy face was paler than he’d ever seen it. Something must be bothering her. Perhaps she’s ill. Winter’s coming, after all.
“Nay, I’ve brought a message for you, lass. ‘Tis from Deoradhan, I think.”
He watched her face brighten, then cloud over. What is it? “I can read it for you, if you’d like,” he offered, knowing ‘twas likely she couldn’t read.
The lovely young woman hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, would you? Calum, ‘tis, aye?”
“Aye. May I enter?” he asked. She hadn’t moved from her place in the doorway.
At his question, Aine jumped to the side. “Aye, come in.”
She shrunk away from him as Calum moved through the narrow doorway. Odd. Aine had not flinched from any male presence in the past.
The kitchen was nearly empty; ‘twas after supper, and most of the maids busied themselves with handiwork in the adjoining large room. Aine and Calum sat on a fur rug by the hearth.
Aine kept a careful distance from him. Her cheeks showed bony in the firelight and her beautiful dark eyes had sunken back, as if she hadn’t eaten much for a long while. As Calum broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, he glanced up to see Aine closing her eyes.
“Are you well, lass?” he felt compelled to ask, reaching a hand to her arm.
Her eyes shot open like an arrow from the bow, and she drew her arm away from him. “I’m alright,” she whispered. “Please read the letter, Calum.”
He studied her for a moment and then lowered his gaze to the message. “‘Deoradhan, to Aine, daughter of Llewellyn,’” he read, “‘I trust this finds you well, beloved of my heart. While I travel this dangerous path, my love, ‘tis your face I see both in my waking and sleeping dreams.’”
Calum paused. He knew the emotional currents ran deeply in Deoradhan, but he hadn’t thought his friend’s affection for this girl had grown so strong. “‘I hold to our promise and cannot wait to have you again in my arms, and you alone, as I did the night we parted. And now, my love, I must beg for your forgiveness. I cannot keep the pledge to marry you so soon as we wished. I rest knowing that you are faithful to me as I am to you, in spirit, body, and heart. May the gods of our ancestors keep you.’”
Aine’s sob caused Calum to set aside the letter. Tears coursed down her cheeks, despite how much she wiped them away. Calum sat silently, not knowing what to say to this weeping young woman, whose grief seemed deeper than that of a maid for her absent lover.
Finally, she whimpered, “Tell me something, Calum. You are Deoradhan’s friend, aye?” The tears kept s
pilling over the rims of her eyes without a sign of ceasing.
“Aye, I am, lass.”
“Does he easily forgive a trespass against himself?”
Calum felt dread surround his heart, press upon his lungs, as he looked at the terrified girl. Oh, dear God, may she not have betrayed him! “Nay,” he murmured finally, knowing lies would not help her. “Nay, he forgives little and forgets nothing.”
“I thought so,” she whispered, her head dropping. Her stringy hair shadowed her face, and Calum felt more pure pity for her than he had ever felt for himself.
I dare not ask her what troubles her. He sighed. That I could bear others’ burdens. But I’ve a burden of my own to bear.
West Lea
The robin woke her, its joyful laugh penetrating the stiff, timeless predawn hour, forcing the day to move forward, heralding the sun. Bethan stretched her limbs, feeling the joints pop into place. Opening her eyes, she stared into the dim living quarters for a few moments. But ease of heart fled from Bethan as her gaze rested on the shadowy chair by the still-glowing fire.
Where Mama used to sit. Tears blurred her vision. She shook her head quickly to shoo them away. Her eyes dropped to her sister, slumbering beside her. Poor Enid. To lose Mama so young.
I must be her mama, then. Surely, Garan will take her in when we marry. How many times had Papa quoted that Scripture passage about those who didn’t care for their families being worse than unbelievers? If Papa put stock in that, how much more so a priest’s son must?
Bethan stroked her sister’s hair, love filling her heart. I will be her mama, and Garan will be as a father to her until Papa returns and finds us.
Unless Papa is…
She closed her eyes, refusing to finish the idea. Hardly thinking, Bethan pushed back the thick woolen cover and rose to her feet. ‘Twas only November; no need for shoes yet. Plucking her shawl from the chair, she wrapped herself and hurried outside.
Alicia Roque Ruggieri Page 17