The House
of Mercy
ALICIA ROQUE RUGGIERI
The House of Mercy
Copyright © 2013 Alicia Roque Ruggieri
All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
FOR MAMA BEE
“Her children rise up and call her blessed.”
For judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgment.
James 2:1
PROLOGUE
Dunpeldyr. Lothian
486 A.D.
From the top of this lone hill, Hamish felt bodily—though not emotionally—distanced from the fort. Enough so that he could swing his mount around and pause, gazing at the smoldering stronghold. His heart wrenched as he heard the faint lamentation echoing through the valleys.
My kinsmen.
Many had lost their lives in the days-long siege of Dunpeledyr, “hillfort of the spears.” Hamish’s people, the Votadini, had made Dunpeledyr their home for as long as the memory of these northern lands stretched. And they had called one, Eion, son of many noble men, their royal chief for a dozen years now. Wisdom crowned that man’s brow as visibly as any diadem. A well-skilled leader in war, poetry, and the honor of the gods.
And yet he was no more. Southern forces, led by that clever butcher Weylin, had ravished the ancient holding, slitting the throat of Dunpeledyr’s chief. The message from the South was clear: Total destruction would result if a leader refused to submit to the young warlord Arthur Pendragon. As Hamish’s eyes riveted to the smoking fortress, grief clenched his jaw afresh. Hardened warrior that he was, the sight forced him to turn away.
To turn away and look down upon the dirty, sleeping face of the young child strapped to his chest. Hamish recalled how a short time earlier, the walls of Dunpeledyr ready to give way, Lady Seonaid had pressed the child into his arms…
“Take my son!” she choked. “Take Padruig to Arthur.”
Hamish looked at her, puzzled. “To Arthur, my lady? He has caused all of this. Why would I take your child to him? ‘Tis taking him to his death!”
Seonaid shook her head. “Arthur will protect him. He will be good to him. An orphan himself, he will shelter my son.”
“My lady, why are you still here?” Hamish glanced around at the flying arrows, some tinged with orange flame. Panic rose within his chest. “You must go now! A horse stands ready at the southern wall. Go, Lady Seonaid. I beg you. Take the child and go!”
Coughing, Seonaid pressed the little boy into the fighter’s capable but reluctant arms. “I must stay with Lord Eion. Take the child, Hamish. Please.” Her eyes begged him.
Hamish hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. Duty and oaths required his obedience. “All right, my lady. The child shall arrive at Camelot safely by my hand, if the gods spare me. I swear it.”
1
Late Summer, A.D. 502
West Lea, Southern Logress
The air felt freshly washed, like it had been pounded and scrubbed in the swift stream running near the cottage. Bethan breathed in deeply, her eyes moving over the wheat fields. Or what was left of them.
“Come, Enid, I’ll race you back home,” she said, trying to turn her mind away from the mounting problems evident all around her. Her little sister grinned and rushed forward, paying no attention to the still-melting hail. Bethan let her get a head start, and then ran forward, feeling the crunch of crushed wheat beneath her bare feet.
The second harvest is gone. She could think of nothing else as she kept a pace or two behind Enid. God, help us. The second harvest is gone. In one late-summer hailstorm, our lives are set ajar… again.
~ ~ ~
“How bad is it, Burne?”
With half-closed eyes as she snuggled next to Enid on their pallet, Bethan saw her mother kneeling beside her father. The dim firelight illuminated their sober faces.
Papa reached over and cupped Mama’s chin with his hands, studying her. Finally, he began, “Wife, you know too well that we’ve lived on the knife’s-edge of survival for long years. Times have been better with Arthur reigning over all the island, keeping peace from east to west, north to south, halting the Saxon raids. The battle of Badon assured that two summers past. I had hoped that this crop would raise us a bit, enable us to pay back some of the debt we owe Lord Drustan.”
“And allow Bethan to marry Garan, aye?” Mama put in quietly.
Papa sighed. “Aye. Her marriage has been put off for one year already. Another year and…” He paused, and Bethan held her breath.
“You’re afraid that the priest may find another wife for his only son.”
“Aye.”
The pair sat, Mama stroking Papa’s hand with her tough fingers.
“What are we to do about Lord Drustan, Burne?” Mama broke the silence.
Papa grimaced. “He has been gracious to us these past years, and I hate to continue using land we can’t pay for...”
“Will he seize the land?”
Papa hesitated, then finally said, “I don’t know. He may. ‘Tis his right, Lowri. Thus far, he has granted us protection in exchange for a portion of our harvest. But what benefit is such an arrangement to him if there is no harvest to speak of? And we need the protection from raiding bands. Arthur’s reign has stopped them for now, but if they begin again, where could we flee for refuge?”
Silence descended like death over the face of a corpse. Bethan thought about her sleeping sister Enid, whose quiet breathing told of undisturbed repose. How she wished she, too, was seven years old again and could relax into sleep with an unworried heart!
“Is there no way, then?” Lowri spoke against the agonized hush.
Again, Papa hesitated. “There is one way I can think of. But ‘twill mean a sacrifice on Bethan’s part.”
Bethan listened closely.
“Do you remember when Winfred’s mill burnt to the ground last year?” At Mama’s nod, Papa continued, “Winfred’s daughter went to Oxfield to work as a dairy maid there. To compensate for her services, Lord Drustan gave Winfred new millstones and enough cut wood to rebuild the mill.”
Papa paused and watched his wife’s face to see if she had caught his suggestion.
After a moment, Mama said, “You want Bethan to go to Oxfield, aye, Burne? To work off our debts?”
Bethan felt tremors through her body. She looked at Papa’s sun-browned face, loving him and yet aching at his words. Never had she thought such a thing would be asked of her. I do not want to go! I do not want to leave. Everything I hold dear, everything familiar to me, lives in this valley. Why must I be the eldest?
“Lord Drustan always needs more servants,” Papa said.
“If I remember, Winfred’s Edna would have stayed at Oxfield, if they had not needed her at home,” Mama added thoughtfully. “’Tis a good notion.”
“Aye.” He paused. “My only reservation lies with this betrothal, Lowri. We promised Bethan to Garan as soon as the second harvest finished. He is too good a match and too good a man for us to risk losing.”
“If she goes, she must return in the spring to marry him,” answered Mama.
Bethan’s mind froze in resignation. She knew that she would not be asked if she wanted to go; she would be told ‘twas her duty.
After a moment, Papa stood, shoulders wearily bowed. “Alright. I shall send a message with the next traveler who passes this way toward Oxfield.”
With a puff, Papa blew out the lamp at his elbow, and Bethan saw his and Mama’s shadows move toward their bed on the far side of the small room. He
r mind running faster than a spring rabbit, Bethan turned over on her back and stared up at the moon-streaked rushes. She pictured Garan’s intelligent, pale face, set with restless eyes. Her breath caught in her throat, and the smile fell from her lips.
Will he wait for me?
2
Oxfield
“You must have this letter in the high king’s hands by sunset three days hence, lad. Understand?” For emphasis, the lord held up the sealed parchment scroll and looked his attendant full in the eyes.
The young man standing before him met his gaze with confident green-blue eyes and received the scroll quietly, tucking it away into his leather traveling pouch. “Aye. ‘Twill be done, my lord. Is there anything else that needs my attention while I’m away this time?”
“No, that is all, but ‘tis most important, Deoradhan. It regards a nephew of mine, Lancelot du Lac, who arrives shortly from Gaul and desires a place among the Pendragon’s warriors.”
“If he is an able-bodied man, not prone to excess, the king will not hesitate over him, I’m certain. What with the border skirmishes, Arthur needs every warrior he can muster,” Deoradhan answered honestly.
Lord Drustan nodded his agreement as the two moved toward the door. His hand on the latch, the lord paused. “Oh, aye. There was one more thing, Deoradhan. A new maidservant comes from the village in our West Lea. Get her while you are returning.”
“Whose daughter is she, sir, that I may know for whom to inquire?” Such a task was not unusual for the lord to request. Maidservants came and went like dew on the morning fields, useful but transient.
“She is the daughter of Burne, a wheat farmer. I think she’ll be a kitchen maid.” Drustan opened the wooden door, built to withstand heavy blows from the outside. “Take sufficient supplies for your journey, lad, and may God go with you.” His lips twisted. “Though pagan that you are, you may wish for me to ask the gods’ blessing, instead.”
“I wish for no such thing, my lord,” Deoradhan evenly replied, his usually cheerful countenance hardening. “I do not believe in your Roman God, so your first blessing will not rest upon my head. And the gods of my land have turned dark eyes upon me. Thus, I do not expect their favor, regardless of the one who blesses. But,” he added with a smile, “I thank you for your own good will. As for the rest, I fear that I must guide my own steps and those of my mount. Farewell.” He stretched out his forearm, and Drustan grasped it.
“Farewell.”
~ ~ ~
Deoradhan had rode hard, demanding of his horse as much as his natural humanity would allow. Now, nearly a week later and returning to the high walls of Oxfield, he slowed to a trot and set his teeth in frustration. The journey had borne no fruit, at least for him. He had not had the courage to ask for an audience with Arthur. As usual, he had handed Lord Drustan’s message to a guard at the gate, not even entering the stronghold of Camelot.
Wait, Deoradhan. What harm will it do you to wait a little longer? Who knows, in a month, six months… Today, he could not bear his own reasoning and tried to distract himself by looking at his surroundings.
‘Twas lovely countryside, this western valley, though haunted by the failure of the wheat crops. Hills rose in the distance like verdant suns. Dabbing across the emptying fields, cottages stood firmly, neatly bordered by kitchen gardens. Each rooted itself on its land, Deoradhan thought, as if to say, “We may be humble abodes, but we’re built to last, built to stay put.” Like the peasant farmers themselves, unwilling to give up despite opposition all around.
Like myself. I will never give up.
The autumn heat penetrated even through his linen clothing. Deoradhan pushed his curly auburn hair off his forehead and squinted at the horizon. He was approaching one of the villages. Yet another young girl awaited him to bring her to service at Oxfield. Deoradhan set his teeth. I hope she doesn’t talk too much. I’m in no mood for it today.
~ ~ ~
Lowri swept the stone path with firm strokes of her twiggy broom. Dinner bubbled in the pot over the cook-fire, little Enid sat steadily sewing patches on items from the family mending pile, and Bethan kneaded dough in the cool house. Burne was helping with the harvest in some fields down the road a piece, fields that had been spared the hailstorm. All the family was accounted for and safe.
I wish to the gods that I could keep them so. Bethan’s eventual departure for Garan’s household, she did not mind, though he was a priest’s son. Every maid must marry, and the sooner the better, for old bodies could not bear children so well. But to leave for Oxfield first, unmarried . . . Well, let it suffice to say that she wished she could keep Bethan at home for now. An unwed girl should not travel far from home, far from under her mother’s watchful care, from her father’s strong protection. I am afraid for her, for all of us…
She would pray each morning to the gods for their guardianship of Bethan, Lowri decided. With a decisive snort, she turned toward the cottage. This Roman God was not for her. Let the nobles take that deity for themselves if they cared for Him. Holy and pure, mighty to save their souls. As if a peasant woman had time to worry about her soul. Her gods were those of the wind and rain, stream and wood. Let the nobility redeem their souls; Lowri needed nature’s ancient gods, who saved harvests and bodies, whose bonfires she could help light at Beltane and Samhain. This last hailstorm proved that. Indeed, she wondered if it had not been a judgment against her own husband, who clung with perverse tenacity to faith in this new Roman God.
~ ~ ~
Bethan knelt by the bubbling stream and splashed a handful of water on her flushed cheeks before dipping her bucket into the clear liquid. Sighing with refreshment, she leaned back on her heels, feeling the cool squish of mud under her feet. I wish it could be so pleasant, so peaceful always.
“Lass?”
She started, almost knocking her bucket over, and jumped to her feet. A young man stood perhaps ten feet away, right in the middle of the forest path. He wore dusty attire and held a long-legged gray horse by its bridle. On her guard, she readied herself to run, if necessary.
The young man smiled kindly, evidently to reassure her. “I apologize. I startled you.”
Having regained her composure, Bethan shook her head but retained her place on the damp bank. “No, it’s all right.” She waited to see what this mannerly stranger wanted. “Please, feel at liberty to water your horse,” she offered.
“Thank you.” The young man led the quiet mount forward to the bank. Bethan watched as the animal lowered its neat head on its smooth neck and assuaged its thirst in slow gulps. Its human companion lowered his own mouth to the deep stream and drank as well. At last, he raised a refreshed countenance to Bethan. When he did, she had a question of her own.
“Are you hungry?”
He opened wide surprised eyes. “Yes, I am, but I’ve plenty to eat in my pouch.”
“What, dry bread and cheese? Please, you and your animal are welcome to enjoy our ripe apples. My father would wish it.”
“Why?”
Bethan smiled. “Surely you know the words, ‘For I was hungry, and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.’”
The young man stood silent for a moment, a mixture of cynicism and interest flitting over his face faster than robins across the morning sky. Finally, he spoke, ignoring her offer. “I’m a messenger from Lord Drustan. Can you give me directions to the home of Burne? I believe he’s a farmer of this village?”
Through the scratchy wool of her long tunic, Bethan felt her heart beating so heavily it nearly hurt. The day has come. Her limbs felt like icy water poured over them. Be strong and let your heart take courage… Oh, Lord be with me wherever I go! Swallowing hard, she whispered through a tight throat, “I am Burne’s daughter, the one whom you are taking to Oxfield. We’ve been expecting you.”
Clearly relieved to complete his mission so easily, the young man smiled again. ‘Twas a nice smile, and it somehow calmed Bethan. It conta
ined no guile, only kindness and, Bethan suspected, a certain measure of concealed grief.
“Please,” she continued, “follow me. I will show you to my father’s house.” Bethan turned and climbed up the dappled bank, leading the way out of the forest and into the sunny meadow beyond.
Reins in hand, Deoradhan followed the determined footsteps of the young girl before him. To his eyes, she appeared around fifteen or a little older perhaps, fair, but lacking the fineness of features that would have made her beautiful. Her chestnut braids swung down to and fro, the uneven ends brushing her knees. Like most peasants, she wore a rough woolen tunic, belted at her waist. Her dirty bare feet moved noiselessly over the dry grass, contrasting with the crunch of his boots and the heavy hooves of his horse.
Shortly, they reached the farm cottage, its low thatched roof shining brightly in the sunlight. A few feet from the doorway, the young woman paused. She drew breath, squared her shoulders, and turned around to face him. Deoradhan saw her eyes brimming with unshed tears and realized how much this departure cost her. Poor girl.
“Wait here a moment, please,” she requested and disappeared into the dark opening. He waited patiently, hand resting on Alasdair’s neck.
Soon, the girl reappeared, accompanied by an older woman. She addressed Deoradhan. “I am Burne’s wife, Lowri. You are the lord’s messenger?”
“Yes. I am called Deoradhan. Lord Drustan commanded me to escort your daughter to Oxfield. I understand that she is to be a maidservant there,” Deoradhan answered gently. The woman’s tight mouth and creased forehead indicated her worry over her child. Did my mother look thus when she sent me away?
“I see.” Burne’s wife stood quietly for a moment. “Bethan, get your things together quickly. Bid Enid farewell.”
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