“Under questioning, Rhun admitted others had appointed him. He named Weylin as the chief conspirator.” Yestin stopped before the king’s chamber door and knocked. “My lord king, Deoradhan has come.”
38
Southern Lothian
“Come, Enid. There will be work for us here.” Bethan took her sister’s dirty hand and set their steps toward the large cluster of cottages ahead. Nearly a fortnight had passed since she and Enid had parted ways with Garan. Bethan had chosen their road with little thought toward direction. We need work and a place to stay, no matter where ‘tis, she reminded herself whenever her thoughts turned toward the south.
And no work could be found. Thus far, their path had wound through eight hamlets and small towns, filled with mostly Britonic inhabitants, poor and roughly clad. Many nights, someone took pity on the two travelers and offered them a meal and shelter in their cowshed in exchange for a little washing, cooking, or sewing. But Bethan knew that she must find a permanent position if they were to survive. As she and Enid walked, her mind returned to the words Papa had spoken some dark nights:
Because you have made the LORD your dwelling place,
The Most High, who is my refuge –
No evil shall be allowed to befall you,
No plague come near your tent.
For he will command his angels concerning you
To guard you in all your ways.
Did I ever make You my dwelling place, truly, Lord? Or did I just walk in the footprints of my papa? The thought unsettled her. If I have taken Your grace for granted, Lord, may it not be so now. May it not be only because now I realize how much I need You.
As they moved into the main, muddy street of the village, Bethan and Enid drew stares from the natives. Her arm around her sister, Bethan hurried toward the door of the first neatly-kept cottage. I’ve done this a hundred times already, and each time the answer has been nay. She sighed and raised a fist to knock. Let it be an “aye” this time, please, Lord.
Before she could rap on the door, they heard someone say from behind them, “May I help you?”
Bethan and Enid turned. A dark-haired woman stood in the path, a basket full of herbs on her arm. She smiled and came toward them. “I live here. Did you want something?”
“My sister and I are looking for work, ma’am. Do you know of anything around here?” Bethan held her breath.
“Nay, not in this village, I would say,” answered the woman. Bethan let out a sigh. “But,” the woman continued, “if you’re seriously in need of work, Dunpeledyr’s not twelve miles from here. They’ve always work available, especially with summer coming. Lots of young people from this village find positions there.”
“Thank you, ma’am! And what road would we take there?”
The woman pointed northwest. “There’s a Roman-built road—or what’s left of it—that will lead you nearly to the gate. But ‘tis too late in the day to go now. Stay for the night and start your journey in the morning. ‘Tis only me and my dogs here. We could do with a bit of company.”
The weight of worry slid off Bethan’s shoulders. “If you’re sure it wouldn’t impose on you…”
The woman shook her head. “Nay, of course not. I wouldn’t have offered it if I hadn’t meant it, dear. Now come inside, lay aside your things, and have a good supper. I’ve brought some fine herbs for a stew.”
39
Camelot
He looks like he is dying from the inside out. Deoradhan’s eyes pondered the Pendragon as the man rose from his couch and moved across his chamber.
“My lord king, if I have disturbed your rest—”
Arthur held up a hand, weariness lining his eyes. “Nay, nay, my son…” He stopped. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like me to call you…”
A pang drove through Deoradhan’s heart. I love this man. I love him…despite everything that is past. He cleared his throat. “Yestin said you wanted to see me, my lord.”
He saw Arthur’s lips tighten. “Aye. I did. I do.” The king gestured toward one of the alcoves. “Come and sit with me, Deoradhan.”
Deoradhan nodded and followed Arthur into the dimly-lit alcove. Arthur drew a curtain across the opening. “No one will hear us here,” he explained, sitting down. He looked into Deoradhan’s face for long moments. “You know what has happened with Weylin.”
“Aye, my king.”
Arthur paused, then said, “I am not a fool, Deoradhan. I’m sure you must have known that Weylin plotted against me.”
Deoradhan nodded. I will tell him the truth. “I did, my lord.”
“And did he ask you to help him?” Arthur looked away.
“He did, my lord,” Deoradhan said quietly. “But I could not go through with it.”
Arthur met Deoradhan’s eyes again, probing his soul. “Why not? Do you not hate me?”
Deoradhan’s heart felt like it would break. “Nay, my king, I don’t,” he whispered. “I…thought I did. But I cannot.”
Arthur let out a heavy sigh. The sigh sounded like it had been locked away twenty years. Finally, he murmured, “Good. I’m glad.” He reached out and laid a hand on Deoradhan’s. “Thank you, my…Deoradhan. You will never know how much your kindness means to me.”
They sat silently for a long moment. Then the king stood. “You know Weylin will be convicted, Deoradhan. He will die a traitor’s death.”
Deoradhan’s head snapped up. At last. Can it really be so?
“His lands will pass to Solas…unless you wish me to charge Weylin with an additional crime.” The king paused.
“What do you mean, my lord?”
“Disobedience to the crown during the siege of Dunpeledyr. I ordered him to manage the matter justly, letting your father live if possible. Convicted of this crime as well, Weylin and his house will forfeit their status as nobles of this land. Every stade of his property will be available for me to redistribute as I please, if you understand me, Deoradhan.”
He means he will give Dunpeledyr to me, Deoradhan realized. His spirit bubbled with excitement. The goal of his life was within his reach. “How will you accomplish this, my lord?” he breathed.
“As a living witness to his actions, you must charge him publicly.”
“But…but I was just a lad. I don’t even remember the siege of Dunpeledyr except as if in the dream of a dream.”
“I will accept your testimony as valid.”
“When, my lord?” Deoradhan breathed.
“Tomorrow morning.”
Deoradhan stared at the king, then nodded and stood. “I will do it, my lord.” His blood pummeled through his body with excitement.
As he turned to go, Arthur stretched out his hand. When Deoradhan looked into his eyes, he saw them beseeching, seeking some proof of reconciliation.
‘Tis a peace offering, he realized. The Pendragon didn’t need an additional charge to convict Lord Weylin; the man’s treason condemned him already. He’s doing this for me, to atone for the past. Slowly, Deoradhan reached out and grasped Arthur’s forearm.
Years rolled off the king’s face. “I cannot help what has gone before, lad,” he whispered, “but I will try to repair what I’ve broken down.”
Without comprehending it, Deoradhan felt his heart soften like snow under a spring rain. He nodded again, unsure of what to say, bowed, and turned to go.
As he pushed back the curtain, his eyes fell on a small book, lying open on the table. Someone – the king, he supposed – had tattered its pages by extensive use. Curious, though he didn’t know why, Deoradhan paused to scan the contents. In darkly-inked words, he read,
Therefore I will divide him a portion with the many,
And he shall divide the spoil with the strong,
Because he poured out His soul to death,
And was numbered with the transgressors;
Yet he bore the sin of many,
And makes intercession for the transgressors.
The book of Isaiah. Deoradhan felt his spi
rit bitter and harden in the old familiar way. Arthur has become more religious and thinks he can get ahead with his God by giving me Dunpeledyr. But he cannot give me back my father, nor take away the stain Weylin has put on my mother. A God without justice may accept such a sacrifice, but I shall never. I will not forgive him, for neither he nor his God can erase the past.
Summer Country
Aine’s pains began without warning, deep in the night. Calum woke to her hand pushing at his shoulder along with her frightened voice whispering, “Calum, Calum, wake up.”
He rose from his pallet on the floor, shaking his head to clear away the sleep. He had been up most of the past nights with his brother, helping with the lambing, and his drowsiness drugged him now. “What is it, Aine?” Calum mumbled, kneeling at the side of her narrow bed.
She had risen to her elbows. “The child…It’s coming, Calum.” In the moonlight streaming through the small window, he saw her face ashen and perspiring. “It’s too early,” she gasped.
He kissed her forehead and tried not to let his own anxiety show. “I’ll get Eilley,” he said. “’Tis probably only a false alarm.” He was glad his brother’s house stood only two miles away. Kieve’s wife had offered to help with Aine’s delivery, though it hadn’t been expected for another month or so.
Aine held tightly to his hand, her eyes filled with terror. “I am so afraid, Calum.”
He swallowed and drew her close to himself. “Perfect love casts out fear,” he murmured, holding her to his heart. He felt her trembling. O Lord, help her. And me. Calum closed his eyes and let her go. “I’ll be right back,” he promised. “I have to get Eilley.”
Aine nodded and another pain wracked her. She gripped the mattress with white fingers, biting her lip until Calum could see blood staining it. O Lord, be our Help in this hour.
He turned and exited, closing the door softly behind him.
40
How I wish for a mount now, Calum thought as his feet flew over the heavy spring grass, laden with dew. He didn’t stop running or praying until he reached Kieve’s house, tucked between two hills.
Kieve’s middle daughter answered his pounding. “Mama has gone to help our neighbor with a birthing,” she explained.
“Where’s your Papa, Bronwyn?” he gasped.
“In the fields with the sheep, Uncle,” the seven-year-old replied. “He left the dogs with us.”
What am I to do now, Lord? “Bronwyn, your aunt’s pains have come. Where is the nearest midwife besides your mama?”
Bronwyn squinted in thought. “I think old Dilys helps sometimes. She lives in the village.”
Two more miles away. He’d already been absent fifteen minutes at least. I can’t go two more miles and then hobble four more back with an elderly woman in tow. “Tell your mama that Uncle Calum needs her, whenever she returns. Alright, Bronwyn?”
The little girl nodded. “Alright, Uncle.”
Lord, help me, Calum pleaded as he came to a halt before his own door again. He’d delivered lambs, calves, even foals, but never children. But I have to do this. There is no other way. He opened the door slowly, hesitant to tell Aine that no midwife had come.
Aine had kicked off her blankets and curled up in a ball of misery in the middle of the bed. Calum walked forward. A sick feeling came into his chest as he realized the mattress wore a wide circle of blood.
Camelot
The hills rose up all around him, sloping green mounds speckled with the white primroses. ‘Twas Lothian in the spring, Deoradhan recognized. His bare feet felt the cool earth, and his nostrils breathed in the fragrant wild scents around him.
A man stood in the sunlight as well, apart from him. Deoradhan knew that the stranger was his father, appearing just as he had always thought him to be. Righteousness, courage, selflessness all shared the throne on Lord Eion’s countenance. His father waited there as though expecting another. Deoradhan called out to him, but the lord either couldn’t hear him or wouldn’t respond.
Turning his eyes, Deoradhan realized another person had entered the valley. Weylin, he thought and tried to warn his father. But his father had already seen the intruder and faced him as Weylin drew a sharp knife. With relief, Deoradhan saw that his father was well-armed, far better than his opponent. Weylin drew close, and Deoradhan watched for Lord Eion to draw his own blade and hack his enemy to pieces.
Yet his father didn’t defend himself. Horror filled Deoradhan’s breast as he saw the attacker plunge his dagger into his father’s heart. Over and over, the knife entered his father’s chest until the blood ran over the valley grasses, rushing to Deoradhan’s feet in a river. Looking up from the red pool, he saw his father wither and fall to the earth, still.
Anger burned in Deoradhan. Able to move at last, he ran to his father’s side and found him dead. He drew his sword. He would have no mercy on the killer. He turned and faced his enemy, staring into his face with prepared hatred.
But Weylin had disappeared or morphed somehow. Deoradhan blinked in utter dismay at the man standing there, bloody knife in hand, fresh from the killing. ‘Twas not Weylin.
‘Twas himself.
“How can this be?” he cried out. Shaking, his eyes went back to the corpse lying at his feet. No longer did his father’s face look back. ‘Twas the Lord Christ. He knew it, though he could not tell how or why this change had occurred…
Deoradhan woke, shaking. Slowly, he realized he lay in his old room at Camelot. But a Presence had come with the dream, so real to him that he couldn’t dismiss his vision. He knew that the Lord stood in this chamber with him, and he heard a Voice in his heart, whispering uncomfortable things, things he could not dismiss.
Unable to roll over and sleep, Deoradhan rose from the feather mattress, pushing aside the yellow sheets. He must move, must do anything but lay here under this torrent of thoughts that threatened to drown him. With trembling hands, he slipped a mantle over his sleeping tunic and stepped into the corridor. Unthinking, unseeing, his feet found their way to the king’s private chapel where he had comforted Lady Tarian some weeks ago.
Silently, he moved toward the front of the room, the thoughts of all the years pouring through his mind. The bitterness against Arthur. The hatred toward Weylin. The sense of self-righteousness coloring his every scheme. Yet I rightfully felt that. They deserved it.
Like a flash of summer lightning, his mind recalled how he had killed the Lord Christ in his dream. But I didn’t really do it. ‘Twas only a night vision. That passage in Isaiah I glanced at in the king’s chamber poisoning my thoughts. The Jews, the cursed Romans, ‘twas they who killed Jesus. Not I.
But the guilt increased, pressing unwanted reflections into his soul, as though from some outside Source. Have you not killed Him in your heart? The Presence had followed him to this quiet room and demanded answers from him, answers to questions he sweated to ponder. Have you not forsaken His ways to follow your own wants?
Deoradhan thought of Dunpeledyr. “’Tis my right!” he addressed the Presence aloud, hearing his voice echo through the chapel. “I only required what was rightfully mine. What You had taken from me.” He raised his chin. “If anything, ‘tis You who ought to ask my forgiveness, like Arthur, like them all!”
Silence. Then…
Do I not have the right to do what I wish with My own things?
Deoradhan found no reply to this in his mouth. He stood before the stone altar, helpless, feeling his heart thud against his ribs. As though a curtain had been pulled away from his mind, he suddenly knew that if he rejected this God now, he would be exiled from Him forever. He would no longer be able to hear the Voice that both drew and repulsed him. Long moments passed. He felt his soul tense and rebel against this Invader.
If I give myself to You, what will become of me? Would he become forever a slave to this God who could do as He pleased? The pull was irresistible, for Deoradhan sensed that the Source of life called his life back to His own. Yet Deoradhan knew that the Presence wo
uld not constrain him to lay down his arms, would not tear open his soul and force His way in. He could say nay…and yet he could not.
Finally, with a deliberate movement, Deoradhan bent his knees and knelt on the wide stone flags. His head dropped to his chest, his hands fell to the floor, and he prostrated before the Presence.
Long moments later, he rose, the manacles he had not known enslaved him fallen off his shoulders. With open eyes, Deoradhan breathed. “I am free,” he said aloud.
I expected to stand up a bondservant. But I find I am a son, liberated at last… from myself.
41
Summer Country
She is going to die. I am going to lose her. The child would not come, no matter how Aine groaned and strained, her frail limbs shaking with effort.
Calum wiped the sweat off Aine’s face and forced himself to reassure her with a smile. He must be strong for her. She had lost consciousness once in pain already. She has no strength left, Lord. Please let the child come. He kissed her brow tenderly. Such love had entered his heart for this woman in the few weeks he had known her.
“Water,” Aine moaned. “Please.”
Calum rose and went to the water bucket once more. Do not take her from me, he pleaded. He turned with the cup of water, and his heart ached again at the sight of his wife writhing, powerless against her agony.
Please, Lord, do not take her from me. Take the child, take anything, but not her.
Camelot
‘Twas dawn. Feeling the cool darkness lift around him, Deoradhan turned his steps toward the fortress again. He had spent the remainder of the night walking the fields, remembering, repenting, submitting. ‘Twas a new sensation, having a lord other than himself to rule his thoughts, actions, and feelings. So many faces came to his mind, so many people he had wronged. Meghyn, Arthur, Aine. So much to make right.
Alicia Roque Ruggieri Page 23