Alicia Roque Ruggieri

by The House of Mercy

  “Yes, Mama.” The girl disappeared again into the house.

  Deoradhan and the woman stood silently until her daughter reappeared, clutching a small bag. He knew it probably contained all of her worldly possessions. She kissed her mother tenderly and then turned to Deoradhan.

  “I…I am ready,” she told him.

  He nodded, and swung himself up onto Alasdair’s broad back. Then he reached down, pulling Bethan up behind him with strong arms.

  “Thank you,” he heard the girl say softly to him.

  Her mother reached up to touch the girl’s cheek. “May the gods protect you,” she murmured.

  “Goodbye, Mama. I love you,” came the reply.

  The woman nodded, her lips pressed together tightly. “Good day, my good woman,” Deoradhan addressed her. He heeled Alasdair into a quick trot.

  The horse paced along steadily. As the animal moved beneath her, Bethan felt the sun’s heat, sharp and harsh on her face and arms. She gripped the young man’s shoulders with both hands, afraid that she might fall off and disgrace herself. The last thing I need. She breathed deeply, bringing under control her shuddering emotions. There had been no time to tell Garan that the day of her departure had arrived. She knew Papa would get word to his family and hoped he would understand. Garan is a good man, she reassured herself.

  “We should be at Oxfield by nightfall,” the messenger commented, interrupting her thoughts.

  Bethan suspected he was trying to make her feel comfortable. I should make an effort to be friendly, she thought. He’ll think I’m rude. “Have you worked for Lord Drustan for many years?” she asked.

  “No. I came under his service when I was sixteen, only a few years ago. I... did other things before this.”

  His closed tone did not invite further questioning on the subject, so Bethan turned to another topic. “Have you any family?”

  Deoradhan was silent for a moment. “I have a mother still living,” he finally said, “but I have not seen her face for many years.”

  Bethan did not know what to say. This subject, too, appeared unapproachable. At last, she offered, “She must miss you.”

  “Aye.”

  ~ ~ ~

  When the sun rose high, Deoradhan guided their mount off the dusty road and into the wood. Bethan sighed, relieved to feel the cool shadows wash over her face.

  “My horse is thirsty, lass, and I think both of us are as well. And hungry, I would guess,” Deoradhan commented. “We’ll come to a stream soon now. The water is good here, and I have some bread and cheese in my sack.”

  Shortly, they did come to the stream, its deep running water gushing over glossy brown boulders in its bed. Deoradhan dismounted first, then reached up for her. Bethan realized how strong this young man was as his powerful hands set her down barefoot on the plush green moss. She met his eyes momentarily and felt glad that the owner of that gaze was her protector, rather than her adversary.

  The young man turned his attention to his horse. The gelding was thirsty, indeed, and Bethan watched as he swallowed repeatedly, his long neck stretched out. Deoradhan stood with his hand stroking the animal’s shoulder, patiently waiting for him to finish his drink. After a moment, he looked up at Bethan.

  “I’ve that bread and cheese in my pouch yonder,” he directed. “I’ll be finished with Alasdair in a trice, then we can refresh ourselves.”

  Bethan nodded, admiring his kind way with his beast. Many men she knew, even or perhaps especially, those who professed the Christian faith, would not exercise such benevolence toward their animals. Some treated their inanimate tools more gently than the dumb companions who faithfully served them. I’m glad Garan is a kind man.

  Turning, she found Deoradhan’s leather sack lashed to his saddle pommel. She untied the leather cords and brought the bag to a patch of dry grass. One by one, she withdrew the food items: a loaf of fairly fresh bread, some oatcakes, several apples, and a large chunk of strong-smelling cheese.

  As Bethan finished arranging their meal, Deoradhan joined her, crisscrossing his sturdy legs. He had left the horse to graze by the bank a dozen paces away. Even while settling himself down for his meal, however, Deoradhan appeared watchful and a little restless.

  “My thanks for laying it out,” he commented, taking out his knife to cut the bread and cheese. He sliced both into several chunks, giving Bethan and himself good-sized portions.

  “My thanks to you for bringing it, otherwise we should go hungry,” she answered. “Will you bless the meal, Deoradhan?”

  He paused, and then looked at her frankly. “I don’t think you’d want my blessing on your food, Bethan. I am neither Christian nor true pagan.”

  Bethan stared, disappointed at this turn in such a good-natured young man. Yet, a part of her grudgingly admired his boldness, his honesty. At least, he was no fraud. Finally, she said, “May I ask the blessing, then?”

  He shrugged. “If you like. It doesn’t bother me. I just don’t think it does any good, lass.” His tone held a bitter tang as Bethan’s ear tasted it.

  Bethan paused a moment, then bowed her head. In a few short words, she thanked her Lord for the meal and for His protection on their journey. When she raised her eyes, Deoradhan sat stoically, a study in nonchalance. Deep ravines lie within that man, where many a wild beast must prowl. How different from Garan, whose light blue eyes always shone with tranquility!

  Deoradhan remained morose for a little while but then talked readily enough when Bethan began to ask questions about their journey and Oxfield. He identified several forest birds by their call alone and described the servants at the manor, telling her their names and specific work. He clearly enjoyed conversation and spoke well, hinting at an intentionally-acquired education. Bethan studied him as he talked, taking in the well-made deerskin trousers and boots, the fine linen tunic that draped his rugged but graceful frame. Out of a sun-browned countenance, his blue-green eyes narrowed in thought one moment, then opened wide with laughter the next. His similarly mobile mouth smiled often. He was not exactly handsome, Bethan decided, but his manner added attraction to his imperfect appearance.

  As soon as they had wiped the last crumbs from their mouths, Deoradhan stood. “We’d best be on our way, lass, if we want to arrive by nightfall. Come, I’ll help you up.”

  With that, he mounted the gray gelding and reached down to pull Bethan up behind him. A nudge of his heels sent Alasdair into a swift trot out of the wood and onto the road once more.

  3

  She woke to the sound of clanking iron. I must have fallen asleep! Bethan thought in surprise, raising her head from where it rested against Deoradhan’s broad back. Torchlight, shimmering in the dusk, flooded her eyes, and she felt the horse halt beneath her.

  “Are you awake, Bethan?” Deoradhan questioned, his voice quiet.

  “Aye. Where are we?” Bethan asked, though she already guessed.

  “We’ve come to Oxfield. ‘Tis just after supper; we’ve made good time.” Deoradhan swung his right leg over the horse’s withers and slipped to the ground.

  Bethan blinked in the flickering light and saw that they stood before a heavy iron gate, flanked by stone towers on both sides. She wondered who would admit them. When she glanced down at him for a hint, Deoradhan stood waiting patiently. Suddenly, a voice echoed out of the darkness, from one of the towers, she thought.

  “Who requests entrance?” the voice demanded in a tone that chilled Bethan’s stomach.

  Deoradhan appeared unaffected by the intimidating, invisible speaker. “’Tis only our lord’s messenger, Deoradhan the Red, and a new servant,” he called back.

  Immediately, the gate creaked open on its weighty hinges. It revealed several armed guards, one of whom strode forward. His solid jaw broke into a wide grin at the sight of Deoradhan, and his hand dropped from his sword hilt. “Deoradhan, lad! I’ve not seen hide nor hair of you in days. Where have you been?”

  Safety enveloped Deoradhan and Bethan as they entered the
stronghold. “On the lord’s business, Calum, as usual,” answered Deoradhan.

  “Aye. ‘Tis good to have you back.” The tall guard turned his eyes, bright in the torchlight, up toward Bethan. “And what pretty maiden have you brought back with you?”

  “A new servant for the kitchens. Bethan of West Lea, daughter of Burne.” Deoradhan reached up and brought down Bethan from the saddle, setting her on her feet. “Bethan, I’d like you to meet my friend Calum, the commander of Oxfield’s guards.”

  Brushing the dust from her rumpled dress, Bethan glanced up at the man. He looked no more than thirty years and had the defined features of a handsome man, though several deep scars across his cheeks had twisted an otherwise comely face. Hazel-blue eyes, shadowy in the torchlight, met her own with a gentleness that she had not expected from a battle-hardened warrior.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Calum,” she smiled.

  “As I am yours, Bethan. You’ll show her to the kitchens, Deoradhan?” he inquired of his friend.

  “Aye, I will. Are you on night watch?”

  “Aye. Come to the tower after you bring her. I’ll take Alasdair for you now.”

  “My thanks. I’ll see you in a bit then. Come, lass,” Deoradhan spoke and led the way through an open space, leaving his horse with the rugged guard.

  Bethan followed a pace behind him. She shivered in the night air as they made their way around numerous stone buildings, their outlines alternately vague and sharp in the darkness. Several lights shone from the main structure’s towers, casting deep shadows all around them and making Bethan feel dwarfed before such strangeness. She heard snatches of songs slurred out from what she took to be the stables. Still Deoradhan walked on, his strides unwearied.

  Deoradhan glanced behind him. The young girl felt tired and cold, that much could be safely deduced. Compassion stirred in his chest, and he stopped, removing his woolen cloak. She stumbled into him, her eyes to the ground.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed softly, stepping back.

  He smiled. “It’s I who am sorry, Bethan. I should have taken your weariness into account. Here,” he directed, draping his cloak around her bowed shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she accepted, and Deoradhan led the way once more, this time walking by her side, slowly, though he wanted to run forward.

  They came to a wooden door set in the main building’s wall. It was as familiar to Deoradhan as the hooves of his mount. “The kitchen,” he said when he saw Bethan give him a questioning look. He applied his fist heavily to the door, explaining, “It’s where you’ll be working and living at Oxfield.”

  She nodded as the door creaked and swung open. There stood the head of the kitchen, known almost universally as Cook, stout, perspiring, and greasy as always. Her thin lips split into a toothy, brown-stained grin at the sight of him. “If ‘tisn’t my own Deoradhan!” She opened her fleshy arms toward him, and he embraced her, ignoring the heavy odor that clung to her clothing and skin. This was the woman who had nurtured him when he felt that he had no place to rest his head.

  After a moment, he stepped away and turned Cook’s attention to Bethan, who had been hiding in Deoradhan’s shadow. “I’ve brought you a new servant, Aunt Meghyn. Her name is Bethan of West Lea.”

  Cook’s small black eyes flew to Bethan. Deoradhan saw the woman sizing up the girl from toenail to forehead; he held his breath. Cook often stuck with her first impressions. For Bethan’s sake, he hoped Cook would take a liking to the lass.

  “Well, then, you’ll be joining us in the kitchen, Bethan?” Cook took the girl by her hands. “Good. Strong, capable hands. I think you’ll do well.”

  Deoradhan sighed, relieved. “You’ll see to her from now on, Aunt Meghyn?”

  “Aye, that I will,” she responded, smiling at Bethan, then directed her gaze to Deoradhan. “But, you, my boy, are not thinking of sneaking off already? With only a hello and goodbye for your Aunt Meghyn?”

  “Aunt Meghyn, I have things—” he began, already feeling happily defeated.

  The older woman waved her hands as if to sweep away all obstacles. “Things more important than your old auntie? Come along. Have a cake, and make Bethan feel welcome among us tonight. There’s plenty of time for your things tomorrow.”

  Deoradhan grinned and raked a hand through his auburn hair. “All right, then. You’ve conquered me.” He passed through the low doorway, following Cook and Bethan. The girl glanced back at him once or twice, shyly, seemingly glad that someone familiar accompanied her into this strange new place. To reassure her, he offered a smile. He knew all too well what it was to be an outsider, though the feeling would soon pass for her, as the other kitchen maids were sure to accept her. As for himself, he feared that consciousness would never cease.

  Cook led them down the short curved hallway, its walls thick with cold stone. Before they reached the main kitchen room, Deoradhan could hear female voices chattering and giggling, answering one another and clamoring to be heard. Beneath it, he could make out the sweet lilt of a flute playing an ancient tune.

  Aine. Before they entered the room, his mind saw her, curled up before the fire. Her black-fringed eyes would be gazing into the flames, half-closed in pleasure at the sounds she coaxed from her carved instrument. Almost every time he had come to this room at dusk, she knelt quietly there, her dark locks cloaking her thin shoulders, her white complexion glowing in the heat. Deoradhan’s heart began to pound in anticipation like northern drums before a battle. His eyes lit as they entered the warm, shadowy room.

  There she was. Surrounded by a half-dozen girls chatting as they sewed, Aine sat playing her flute, just as he had imagined. My Aine. He could dare only to think it.

  “Look who I’ve brought you, girls,” Cook announced as they entered. “A new workmate and your favorite messenger lad.”

  At the sight of him, all the girls sprang to their feet, faces beaming and voices eager. They competed for his attention, pulling at his tunic, taking him by the hand, urging him to sit down. All except for one, the one who mattered to him. Aine alone remained by the tossing fire, a quiet smile playing on her pink lips.

  “Goldie, bring some bread and ale for Bethan and Deoradhan,” Cook instructed. “Come, Bethan, I’ll show you where to put your things.” The gangly youngster hurried to accomplish the command while Deoradhan eased himself onto a stool as near the fire as possible. As near to Aine as I can get.

  When she turned toward him in welcome, he decided to risk it. “Aine,” he whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

  He held his breath, waiting for her response, glancing toward her and then away, then back again. Her cheeks deepened to peony, and her expression told him that his words had pleased her. Deoradhan reached down and took her hand before proceeding recklessly, “Aine, I wish to win your heart. You know that, don’t you, lass?”

  Only a moment passed before the other kitchen maids gathered round them and Aine quickly withdrew her hand. But before her small hand left his, Deoradhan felt her squeeze his fingers in confirmation.

  4

  “Up, lazy bones. Breakfast won’t wait for you,” a voice broke into Bethan’s heavy sleep. She struggled to orient her thoughts as she opened her eyes to the dimly-lit room. Turning on her side and half-rising, she saw one of the older girls standing before her. A contemptuous expression reigning in her eyes and mouth, the speaker reinforced her words by pulling the blanket off Bethan. Then she waited, hands on her hips.

  Bethan shook her head in an effort to rouse herself. “It must be early yet,” she muttered in a sleep-soaked voice.

  The girl snickered. “Perhaps for you. For those of us used to working, ‘tis late. The sun already rises.”

  From her mat on the stone floor, Bethan scrambled to her feet, brushing off her tunic. She had slept in it for warmth. “What should I do first?”

  The girl shrugged. “I don’t really know. We’ve already done almost everything.”

  “Oh, Winter, you know ‘
tis not true,” another girl put in. She straightened the bedding as she spoke. “Don’t worry, Bethan. We’ve only been awake a little while. Anyway, Cook asked us to let you sleep. You had a long journey yesterday.”

  Bethan returned the girl’s smile, relieved that she was not at fault. Winter raised her eyebrows and moved away.

  The other girl stepped toward Bethan and took her by the hands. “Come along, Bethan,” she continued. “I’ll show you where you can wash your face and hands. Then, you and Aine will bring breakfast out to the rest of the servants.”

  Bethan followed her to the bowl of water already used by the rest of the servants. “And you,” Bethan inquired as she washed, “what is your name?”

  The girl smiled again, displaying a row of square buckteeth. “You may call me Amy. Come, Aine will have the gruel buckets ready.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The rising sun cast a burning hue across the roofs as Bethan and Aine carried the brimming buckets of brown gruel into the yard. Each also bore a large basket of broken loaves, left over from last night’s meal.

  Bethan felt the cool dust of the yard beneath her feet and took in the sights around her with wide eyes. Last night, dusk had cloaked the manor and her vision; now in the waking daylight, she saw this strange place clearly. And there was much to see.

  Built of thick, heavy gray stone, numerous buildings spread across a wide courtyard, including the old Roman barracks, now used for the servants’ sleeping quarters. Packed dirt served as the foundation for the stone walls surrounding the stronghold. Bethan saw several guard towers similar to the two that had flanked the gate she and Deoradhan entered last evening.

  Though still so early, noise rose from every quarter as the inhabitants began their day. Many servants clustered near the kitchen entrance, some of the stableboys pulling on their ragged shirts and yawning. Dairy maids stood combing their fingers through their hair, trying to unknot and plait the oily locks. A few guards leaned against hitching posts, dozing. Bethan recognized Calum among them. He smiled at her when their eyes met. She returned the courtesy, glad to see a familiar face.