Alicia Roque Ruggieri

by The House of Mercy

  Deoradhan rose to his feet, trained to obey yet disturbed at the king’s agitation. At his movement, the stranger glanced down at him. Sudden interest rose like sunlight across the man’s creased face. “Who—?” he began.

  “You will be silent!” Arthur interrupted. “Boys, leave us. Now!”

  At the king’s urgent tone, the three lads scrambled from the hall, their bare feet thudding on the stones. Alwyn led the way into the corridor, followed by Percivale. Deoradhan moved last. He had seen the curious expression on the warrior’s face; it appeared only when the man looked at him. Why?

  The double doors shut behind the three friends.

  “What shall we do now?” said Percivale.

  “Let’s head out to the stables,” Alwyn suggested after a moment. Immediately, he raced down the corridor toward the north side of the fortress.

  “Are you coming, Deoradhan?” Percivale called to the boy who remained by the Hall door.

  Deoradhan didn’t answer. After a moment, Percivale shrugged and followed Alwyn.

  Alone, Deoradhan turned toward the crack in the Hall doors, his ear alert to the conversation developing within.

  “Surely, that boy possesses the face and eyes of Lord Eion. You cannot deny ‘tis he,” the stranger’s voice said.

  Deoradhan heard a heavy sigh. “Aye, ‘tis he, the one once called Padruig. I have given him another name now, for another life: Deoradhan.”

  “Deoradhan. ‘Exile.’” A pause. “Why did you keep him here and not send him away to the monks, as you said you would? Are you going to use him as a pawn?”

  “As a pawn? Never!”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know.” The king’s voice sounded vulnerable to Deoradhan’s overwhelmed ears.

  After a moment, “What are you going to do with him?”

  Deoradhan heard Arthur jump to his feet. “What business is it of yours? You brought him here ten years ago, as your lady charged you. After that, what does it matter to you what I do with an orphan lad?”

  “’Tis the son of a Pict chieftain—a king, if you will—you have here. And you know as well as I that he is no orphan. His mother yet lives. As for why I care, my loyalty to my former lord and now to his son should earn your trust, not your anger.”

  As if the situation had happened a moment ago, Deoradhan saw his thirteen-year-old self fleeing down the corridor, mindless of the astonished guards in his path. Innumerable thoughts filled his mind, shattering the innocent simplicity of his boyhood.

  ‘Twas the day I grew up. The day I found that my hero was a sordid man, indeed, his hands full of blood.

  Deoradhan gritted his teeth, his face an anguished stone. My father’s blood.

  11

  “Winfred, I must have an answer.” Bethan surprised herself at her firm tone, but her patience wore thin. “When can we leave for the village?”

  The miller from back home continued to tear little pieces from his loaf, tossing them to the sparrows hopping around his feet. He didn’t answer her.

  “When can we leave?” Bethan repeated. “Tomorrow? The next day? Winfred-”

  “Lass,” Winfred interrupted, “Lord Drustan has not seen me yet. When he does, and we sort out our contract, I’ll let you know.”

  “How long will that take? Two days? A week?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, Bethan. I don’t have an answer. The lord’s a busy man.”

  Bethan felt panic rise within her at her neighbor’s nonchalance. “But, Winfred, my family needs me! You said that my mama lies very sick. Who knows what has happened to her in the short time since you’ve left the village? And what of my sister Enid?”

  Winfred looked back at her, lips pressed tightly together, arms folded across his chest. Bethan had never felt so friendless, helpless. Her former neighbor had determined to sort out his own business before giving any mind to hers. She stared into his closed face, realizing that she was truly on her own.

  “Thank you for bringing me the news,” Bethan whispered. She turned and marched back across the courtyard, her feet feeling the cold, packed earth beneath them. She little expected the miller to call out to her, and so she knew no disappointment when he maintained his silence. After a few steps, Bethan used the adjustment of her shawl to ascertain the man’s state. He had already moved from the stone wall; she could see his retreating square back ambling toward the manor’s main hall.

  Hopelessness paralyzed her limbs. Mama, dear as life-blood to her, lay dying with Papa who-knew-where, and Bethan could do nothing to help. She sank to the ground by the wall, cross-legged, arms limp in her lap, head bowed.

  What am I to do, Lord God? Why did you have Winfred bring me this message if I can do nothing? What about Enid? Please help them, Lord. Go in my stead, then, because I am helpless!

  Her mind numb with sorrow, her heart sick, Bethan began to cry, indifferent to the curious passersby or to the scolding which Cook surely would give her upon her delayed return.

  Have mercy on me, O Lord …

  Something brushed against her knees. Slowly pulling out of her mental turmoil, Bethan heard a familiar voice say, “Oh, lass. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  Two boots planted themselves before her, worn and caked with mud but well-oiled. Her eyes rose to the sturdy long legs, clad in gray and wrapped with leather thongs, then climbed up to the heavy brown tunic and woolen cloak. Pushing back the messy hair around her face, Bethan saw Calum standing before her.

  Embarrassment crept over her, and she averted her eyes but not quickly enough. The guard had already glimpsed the tears. Bethan felt awkward but strangely solaced as the man crouched down before her. She kept her eyes on the ground and waited for him to speak, wondering what he thought of a girl who wept openly, yet comforted by his protective presence. He smelled like horses and wet wool and sweat, not an unpleasant scent to the loving heart.

  “What’s wrong, lass?”

  Bethan found her tongue disabled. Feeling slightly stupid, she shook her head through more tears.

  “Come now, what is it?” Calum prodded. “Did Cook speak harshly to you?”

  She shook her head harder.

  Calum paused. “Was it another maid, then? I know ‘tis hard to fit in as a newcomer-”

  “It’s not that,” Bethan interrupted. At Calum’s puzzled look, she forced it out. “My mama is very ill, and I cannot go to her. And I don’t know what to do.”

  Calum nodded, concern teeming in his eyes. “How do you know she’s sick?” he asked.

  Bethan wiped her eyes on her dress. “The miller from our village came and told me. But he won’t bring me until he finishes his business with Lord Drustan.” Her eyes felt scratchy from rubbing them on the rough fabric.

  The man stayed silent, his gaze to the ground now. Bethan wondered what moved in his mind. Finally, he spoke, smiling. “I think I can bring you home, if you would like. I have to speak with Lord Drustan first, but it should be alright.”

  She stared at him, astounded. “Do you mean it?” she breathed. Surely, God sent him as an answer to my prayer.

  “I cannot promise it, but I think ‘twill be alright,” he affirmed, standing up and offering her a hand.

  “Calum, my family and I would be so grateful to you,” Bethan said, rising.

  He smiled and shook his head. “It will bring me pleasure, Bethan, to know that I can help. I’ll talk to the lord right now, if he has time, and will see you again before nightfall.”

  Bethan nodded and watched him move away. At the thought of his kindness, her heart warmed toward his in friendship.

  Thank you, Lord. She moved toward the kitchens, determined to work more strenuously for her long absence.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Ah, Calum, my son.” The gangly-limbed potter wiped his clay-caked hands on a damp cloth and rose from his wheel.

  Thus welcomed, Calum ducked under the low doorway and into the pottery shed. Cool moisture floated in the air here, and the youn
g guard threw a glance of concern at his friend and mentor. “’Tis cold in here, Bricius. Too cold for your aged knees and hands.”

  Bricius shrugged. “’Tis my work, Calum. Besides, ‘tis very nice in the summertime.”

  Calum bit his tongue to avoid reminding his friend that ‘twas well past the solstice. Instead, he picked up a damp rag and began to clean the soiled table, saying, “It looks like I may be headed for a journey soon.”

  Bricius stopped his own tidying up. “Aye? Where to, lad?”

  Calum hesitated. He knew how Bricius would take his offer to Bethan: as a token of romantic interest. Nevertheless, he plunged forward, knowing ‘twould be told sometime to the old man and that ‘twould be better coming from him. “Toward the West Lea.”

  Bricius cocked his head, fingers wandering into his beard, mixing the hair with the clay on his hands as he thought. “The West Lea?” he questioned. “What brings you there, Calum?”

  Calum met the man’s curious gaze. “I’m helping a friend.”

  Bricius stayed quiet for a moment. “Isn’t that young kitchen girl from that part of the country? The one who came to mass and sat on your cloak?”

  “Bethan. Yes, she comes from that village.” Calum paused, then guilt drove him to tell the whole truth. “In truth, I go with her.”

  “With her?”

  “Aye.”

  “Alone?”

  “Aye. No one else can bring her. No one else has my flexibility at Oxfield. And her mother is sick.” When the potter didn’t respond, Calum offered, “You think this is unwise, Bricius?”

  Bricius smiled. “You know your own Master, lad. What did He say to you? Did you ask Him?”

  “He told me to go with her.” Indeed, when he bowed his head before Bethan, he had felt that knowing that had become familiar to him.

  I have set the LORD always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken …

  Bricius nodded. “When will you return?”

  Calum breathed more easily. “I’m not sure. I must speak with Lord Drustan and see how long I can be spared. I’ve been working with Marcus, and this would be a good opportunity for him to stretch his legs a bit. Maybe a week or two.”

  “You’ll miss Samhain at Oxfield. I wish I could be so favored,” said Bricius.

  Calum felt his muscles grow rigid with a fear he thought he had overcome. He swallowed. “Yes, that will be the blessing of this journey.”

  “Among other blessings,” commented the potter.

  Calum’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Bricius smiled. “Only that I hope to see you return with not just a servant girl on your horse but a bride-to-be.”

  Here we go again. Calum stared into his friend’s eyes. “I’ve told you a hundred times over, Bricius. I do not want that life. I must be God’s only.”

  “Marriage wasn’t created to rob God, lad, but to give Him more of ourselves through others, to make ourselves more fit for His purposes through love.” Bricius paused. “I married, Calum.”

  “Aye, I know that.” The silence waited to be broken. “I must go. ‘Twill be dark soon, and I promised Bethan an answer.”

  “Go then, lad.” Bricius followed the younger man to the doorway. Outside, dusk began to coat the buildings and walls with a gray film. Without hesitation, the potter clasped his friend to himself. “Grace and peace to you, Calum.”

  Calum returned the embrace fervently. “Grace and peace,” he replied and moved into the autumn twilight, his spirit perplexed. I cannot be attracted to this girl. And yet… O God, help me to rest in You. May Bricius understand why I cannot do as others may. Why I owe so much to You. I must atone. I must atone.

  ~ ~ ~

  Out-and-in. Out-and-in. Tarian’s hands guided the weft with skill that could come only from many years of practice. This loom spanned only a few feet, large enough to make a tunic or cape, but nothing vast like a bed covering. Now, a piece of deep red cloth formed under her fingers.

  The noblewoman smiled. ‘Twas with a sense of accomplishment that she completed each project, a welcome feeling in such an out-of-the-way place as Oxfield. The finished fabric would suit her husband’s tastes well and would keep him warm during any winter campaigns.

  And thinking of me alone.

  Like a guest that tarried beyond his welcome, a fair-skinned face adorned with large eyes the color of the sea rose within Tarian’s thoughts, but she shook off the image. She was resolved to believe Drustan this time; he had said the girl had only stepped into his tent without invitation. Yet why had his clothing smelled like fresh lavender and why had his lips held the lingering taste of mint when he kissed her that day? Tarian had only nineteen years in her hand but knew that men did not perfume themselves nor freshen their breath for one another when on the battlefield. And she knew also the satisfied expression of a camp follower who had just been paid for her services.

  You should never have visited the camp that day. Then you would not harbor these suspicions, Tarian. She sighed and began to put away her weaving for the day.

  The door squealed open behind her, but she felt no alarm. She knew that Drustan must have entered; he never knocked. Sure enough, she soon felt his beard as he leaned around her to kiss her cheek.

  “How are the foals?” she asked.

  “Coming on fine. The little bay one surprised me. He’s the perkiest of the three now,” said Drustan. “My nephew will delight in them when he arrives. He’s fond of good horseflesh.”

  Tarian raised her eyebrows. And other flesh as well, from what I hear. Aloud, she said, “And when is he to arrive, Drustan? Has he sent word?”

  Drustan shrugged. “Aye, but no specifics. Could be tonight, tomorrow, next week. Surely before Samhain,” he added with a little smirk that turned the corners of his fish-like lips upward.

  Tarian could not restrain herself. “Drustan, must we sponsor that feast again this year?” She kept her eyes averted, barely breathing as she waited for his reply.

  The lord let out a frustrated sigh. “Now what is the problem with the feast? Everyone enjoyed it last year. Even you liked the bard’s singing. Indeed,” he smiled, “I grew quite jealous when you consented to dance with him afterward.”

  Tarian ignored his teasing, meant, she knew, to distract her, and made a last attempt to convince him. “The old druids will be back again and—”

  “And what?” His tone told her that he had heard enough. “Let the people worship their own gods in their own way. What does it matter to you the name they give the divine?”

  “It matters to me that you seem to encourage their wildness,” she responded, her anger sparked by his indifference. “Don’t you fear God?”

  “Ah! Woman, enough!” He slammed his hands against the bedframe. “I little thought that my second wife would be a cursed nun! Stay out of it! It’s none of your business, I tell you!”

  Tarian stood shocked into silence. He had never burst out at her like this. For a moment, it almost seemed that another shot those words from his lips and twisted his face into a gross convulsion of disgust at her.

  After a moment, Drustan composed himself, smoothing his features with effort. “Now, I am going down to the evening meal. Would you care to join me?”

  Tarian shook her head, blinking back the hated tears that forced their way to her eyes. Why did he have such power over her feelings?

  “Very well. Good night, then.” Drustan raised her hand and kissed it, a bit roughly, and exited with no more ado.

  The room settled into silence, broken only by the squeaking of some mice behind the bed. Tarian numbly lowered herself to a chair, mindless that the room darkened and cooled quickly in the autumn twilight. Never had she felt so alone.

  O God, help me. Her soul cried out, agonized by the spiritual loneliness that life with her husband had brought. I cannot go on. I cannot go on.

  After long moments, she rose and made her way to the window through the dimness, her fine skirts dragging
across the stones. She gazed out toward the darkening horizon, hurt pulsing through her spirit, unable to think. Unintentionally, she let her eyes drift toward the rooftops nearby. On one of them, a sparrow sat by himself, still and quiet, silhouetted by the residue of the sunset.

  Like a lonely sparrow on the housetop… Is this what You see when you look at my soul, O Lord? All the brightness stripped out of me. Nineteen, with my best years behind me, the long dusk of my life before me.

  Heavy tears slid from under her lashes as Tarian gazed out on the fading world.

  12

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” Bethan told Cook the next morning. It had dawned bright and crisp, the sky a sheet of deep blue, and Bethan anticipated her journey with excitement tinged with biting concern over her mama. God had provided a protector for her journey, however, and that answer to her prayer bolstered Bethan’s confidence.

  Be of good courage…

  Cook nodded. “Take as long as you need, lass. Your place will be waiting for you when you return.” She took a long look at Bethan and then gathered her into her heavy arms. “I’m glad you’re going with Calum, lassie. He’ll not only guard but be a good companion for your journey as well. Don’t be afraid to take his help, lass; he loves to give it.”

  “Aye, I won’t,” Bethan promised. She hesitated. “Pray for me, Cook. In truth, I don’t know what lies ahead of me at home, and I’m afraid. My mother clings to the pagan ways yet. But my father is a devout man.”

  Cook smiled. “Keep praying for your mother, then. Few and far between are the women who can withstand the prayers of a man who truly loves his God.”

  A steady knock interrupted their conversation.

  “Come in,” Cook called out. The latch lifted, and Calum entered, dressed neatly for the journey in boots, trousers, and a belted tunic. A russet woolen cloak settled around his square shoulders. In addition to the sword hanging from Calum’s belt, Bethan knew that probably he had concealed other weapons as well as a chainmail shirt beneath his clothing. Prudence dictated precautions be taken against bandits and worse.