Alicia Roque Ruggieri

by The House of Mercy

  “Name?” one of them asked.

  “Deoradhan.”

  The two guards exchanged looks. “Deoradhan of…?”

  Deoradhan looked the man straight in the eyes. “Deoradhan only,” he stated. “The king expects me. Please tell him I’ve arrived.” He would stand for none of their self-important bustling this morning.

  The authoritative tone worked. “Aye, my lord,” one of the guards murmured and disappeared into the king’s chambers.

  He returned almost immediately, his manner respectful. “The king awaits you, my lord.”

  The guard held the smooth wooden door open, but Deoradhan hesitated for just a moment. He would enter this chamber as a penniless wanderer, dependent on his conquerors for his livelihood. He would exit either unchanged or much changed, a commoner, forever deprived of his legitimate inheritance, or a king himself, possessing a dominion in fact. With a deep breath and his head held upright, he moved through the familiar doors.

  Bearskin rugs carpeted the floor, their rich color coordinating with that of the gold-threaded tapestries covering most of the walls. Deoradhan remembered how often as a boy he had run his finger over the threads, tracing the stories told in those tapestries. He had also liked to lift the heavy wall coverings to see the Roman-style frescoes behind them, fading remnants of a unifying and civilized culture. The kind of state which my hero Arthur wanted to create once more.

  And failed. The image of the intensely-divided great hall flashed into Deoradhan’s mind, and a strange mixture of sadness and satisfaction filled his heart. Scholars, warriors, druids, Christians, Romans, British. Logress might hold against intruders, Saxons, Jutes, Angles, Irish; but could it stand the pressure to collapse from within? Deoradhan guessed not.

  He strode forward, between the wall torches that always held a flame within this secluded chamber. The room was large, holding several recesses, and Deoradhan was unsure where Arthur would be waiting for him. Will anyone be listening to our conversation? Deoradhan smiled. Or shall I call it, our confrontation?

  “Deoradhan?”

  The familiar voice called from one of the recesses on the far side of the chamber. Something within Deoradhan stirred to hear that sweet tone again.

  “My lord Arthur,” he responded and stepped to the alcove, his footsteps soft on the rugs. He held his breath inwardly as he peered in at the once-beloved man he’d not set eyes upon for years.

  Arthur sat at his carved writing table, companioned by two shelves holding a few dozen volumes. Deoradhan remembered that the king had valued highly the wise works of the ancients and knew that he must have spent a great deal to procure his little library, which had grown since the young man left the court. Even now, the king had a volume laid open before him as he worked.

  As soon as Deoradhan entered the king’s view, the older man put aside his reed pen and stood. “Deoradhan, welcome.”

  “Lord Arthur,” Deoradhan acknowledged, noting that Arthur didn’t offer his hand in friendship. How far our relationship has gone from where ‘twas once. “I’m disturbing your work, I think,” he stated.

  Arthur smiled, weariness hanging around his mouth. “Nay, I’m just making notes on a few things. My memory isn’t what it once was.” He shook his head, and Deoradhan noticed gray lacing the gold in the king’s hair. His cheeks, too, appeared lean and colorless.

  “Have you been ill, my lord?” Deoradhan found himself asking. What do you care if he is ill? But tenderness for the man took him by force.

  Arthur shook his head. “I have many concerns.” He sighed. “I suppose they have worn me down a little. But I’m glad to see your face again, Deoradhan. Come, share a cup of wine and some cakes with me. ‘Tis early yet, and I’ve not breakfasted.”

  With a nod, Deoradhan acquiesced, and the king moved out of the alcove toward a few cushioned chairs. Deoradhan felt the heat rising from beneath the floor and remembered that Camelot still used its Roman heating system. He tried to ignore the pleasant warmth. I prefer the peat fires of the north to this conqueror’s borrowed luxuries.

  “How is your old nurse, Meghyn? Still at Oxfield’s kitchens, aye?” Arthur asked as he walked, his movements as always like that of a steady war-horse.

  “Aye. She’s well, as far as I know.” Deoradhan felt a bit guilty that the woman who had encompassed his whole maternal world now entered his thoughts so rarely.

  “A good woman, she is,” commented the high king.

  “Aye,” agreed Deoradhan. A little small-minded when it comes to religion, but a good woman overall.

  They seated themselves, Deoradhan sitting very straight, and Arthur poured two silver cups of deep red wine. Deoradhan accepted his cup, the rich fruity scent filling his nostrils as he sipped it. A plate on the low table held some oatcakes, but neither he nor the king touched them.

  “Why have you returned, my son?”

  The question came so suddenly, so simply. Taken aback by the king’s directness, Deoradhan couldn’t find the words to reply at first. Finally, he answered, “Because you have taken what is mine, Lord Arthur.”

  A look of pain passed over the king’s face and he stayed silent for a moment. Deoradhan tensed, readying himself to answer what defense the man would give. But the words that fell from Arthur’s lips surprised him.

  “I … cannot tell you how much I regret some of my early decisions as high king,” he said softly. “I was young, but youth doesn’t excuse sin. I wronged you, Deoradhan. I should never have authorized Weylin to do many of the things he did in the north. I am sorry, lad.”

  Arthur’s eyes testified to his sincerity, and Deoradhan couldn’t stop the old affection from rising in his spirit. He knew how hard ‘twas for a ruler to admit he had done wrong. Perhaps then the man had prepared himself to offer Deoradhan his rightful reparation. He waited, sure that the king had more to say.

  But Arthur stayed silent. Tensely silent, his kind eyes holding Deoradhan’s own. Finally Deoradhan commanded quietly, “Give me my father’s land, my lord. Return what you have stolen by force.”

  Arthur shook his head. “Nay.”

  “Why? You said you were in the wrong. Do now what is right by me!” he pleaded.

  The tired shadows around the king’s eyes were pronounced as he leaned back in his chair. “What is done has been done, lad. Let it rest.”

  Deoradhan snorted. “Let it rest! It has rested for too long. For half my life, I thought I was your misbegotten son, for three years that I was orphaned, dependent upon your benevolence. When I finally learned the truth from someone else’s lips, you exiled me to Gaul!”

  “I never exiled you, lad. We both agreed ‘twas for the best that you spend time away.”

  “And who benefited from that?”

  The king furrowed his eyebrows questioningly. “I sent you to the best schools to be found abroad. I paid for the best tutors, the best education for you, Deoradhan.”

  Deoradhan set his jaw. “Aye, you bought yourself time, my lord. You paid for my education, I’ll admit that.” He leaned forward, staring into the king’s eyes. “And tell me, O king, what have you decided to do with me now? I’m not giving up my rights as the son of Eion, king of Lothian, no matter how much you pay out of your treasuries.”

  Arthur’s eyes became kind iron. “I cannot give you what you desire, Deoradhan. Ask for something else, almost anything else, but Lothian I cannot give you.”

  Deoradhan’s anger flared. He jumped up from his seat, glaring down at the king. “Cannot, or will not? Sometimes I think you enjoy torturing me.”

  “My son—”

  “I am not your son!”

  “I know that.” Sorrow occupied the king’s face. I hope he’s as miserable as he’s made me, thought Deoradhan. Suddenly, he remembered another grievance.

  “You never even told me about the son Weylin begot upon my mother,” Deoradhan burst out. “Is that why you hesitate? Because you would rather see that brute’s spawn on Lothian’s throne?”

 
The king looked surprised. “Who told you about Solas?”

  Deoradhan smirked. “Who do you think? His sister, Lady Fiona. She mistook me for her brother from faraway.”

  Arthur nodded. “He rarely comes to court, but you do look very similar. Solas, however, is beside the point. He has nothing to do with my decision.” He looked straight into Deoradhan’s eyes. “And it is a decision, Deoradhan, not a hesitation. For the good of all Logress, I must stand firm. How can I possibly put you on Lothian’s throne? Years ago, I gave Weylin leave to conquer Dunpeledyr because your father would not submit to the unification. Now you think I can replace my representative with the son of my former opponent?” He shook his head. “Nay. As long as he stays loyal to me and abides by the laws of Camelot, Weylin remains on Lothian’s throne.”

  “But it is my rightful place!” Deoradhan exclaimed, tears of anger rising to his eyes. “Lothian was not yours to take.”

  Arthur stood. “I am high king, Deoradhan. And I decide what is your rightful place.”

  Deoradhan faced that unyielding wall, resentment rising. After a moment, Arthur sat back down. The king continued softly, “I cannot change what Weylin has done. He will have to answer to God for that.”

  Deoradhan gave a hard laugh. “Your God judges even less fairly than you do.”

  Arthur paused, then said, “There are several regions across Logress in need of leadership. If you wish, I will name you lord over whichever land you choose—”

  Deoradhan turned his back to the king, purposely disrespecting him. “Keep your lands. I don’t want them.”

  “Then I have nothing else to offer you, Deoradhan. There is nothing else I can give.” The king’s voice held tired authority.

  Without glancing back, Deoradhan moved toward the door. “Then this interview has finished,” he said.

  “What…”

  Arthur’s question trailed away, and Deoradhan felt compelled to turn around. “I knew you would deny me before I came. I thought I would give you an opportunity to do right. I showed you mercy, though you’ve given none to me. But now I know what I have to do.”

  With a grim smile, he turned on his heel and swept through the doorway, into the bleak corridor. He let the door slam behind him, glad to see the guards’ astonished faces as he disrespected the king.

  Their king, he reminded himself, moving down the hallway. Not mine. I have no lord but myself. I will have no master but my own spirit.

  19

  Oxfield

  The cold wind whirled the dry leaves into a dance at Bricius’ feet. He stood from his work and limping a little with stiffness, moved toward the open doorway. Once there, the crisp air intoxicated him, and he stood, letting the wind brush through his graying hair, caress his wrinkled cheeks, and cause him to shiver. A mystery existed in the changing of the seasons, ‘twas certain.

  But the LORD was not in the wind…

  Bricius smiled. “Aye, Lord, but sometimes I can hear Your voice in the wind,” he spoke aloud.

  “Talking to yourself, old man?”

  He turned to find Lydia smiling at him, a basket of unspun wool in her arms. He held out his hand, and she came to his side, smiling up at him. His arm gently circled her shoulder, and he felt her relax in his protection.

  “Meghyn’s poorly,” murmured Lydia after they had stood thus for long moments.

  “Aye?”

  She nodded. “I visited her today. Her ankles have turned blue and swelled up like a blown-up bladder-ball.”

  Bricius raised his brows. “I’ve tried to give her my medicines, but she insists on those pagan potions.” Of course the woman wouldn’t get well if she refused the aid of modern science, given by God.

  “Oh, Bricius, I see your commonsense, but where’s your compassion? So your pride’s hurt because she won’t take your help.” Lydia sighed and turned imploring eyes up to her husband. “She covets your prayers, you know.”

  “Very well. I’ll go see her in the morning, if you’ve time to come along.” And you can help me try to talk some sense into her.

  Lydia smiled her thanks. “I knew you would, love.” With a peck on his cheek, she moved out into the courtyard with her basket of wool.

  Bricius shook his head. He had a sermon to prepare.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tarian hummed as she buckled the bridle of her favorite mare, Archer. True, she could have the stable lads tack up the small chestnut horse, but she preferred to do it herself. She took pleasure in the glossy red-brown coat, soft under her fingers as she moved on to saddle the mare. She felt a nuzzle against her arm and playfully pushed the mare’s nose away. Such a gentle horse Archer was.

  “Is all ready for the feast?” Tarian heard her husband ask as he entered the stable. At his question, her heart thundered so hard that it hurt her chest. She tried to breathe evenly, tried to avoid betrayal by her swiftly rising and falling shoulders. She felt fear clutch at her lungs, freeze her limbs.

  “I said, is everything prepared for the feast, wife?”

  His tone demanded an answer. Be my help, O Lord. Give me courage. She turned to face her husband. My enemy, she realized, looking up at his hard face and wintry eyes.

  “Well? Is it?”

  “Nay,” she finally replied and felt relief. She had done it.

  Drustan smiled, his eyebrows lowered as if he didn’t understand. He gently took the bridle reins from her hand and began stroking the mare’s nose. “Well, hadn’t you better get started with the planning, my dear? Samhain draws near, you know. Tomorrow night.”

  Tarian heard the familiar, lecherous excitement trickle into his voice. She shook her head. “I will not plan that feast,” she answered.

  “What do you mean? Don’t you know I can’t wait to see you all dressed up, dancing and laughing by the bonfires? We must have a feast, Tarian.”

  She looked him straight in the eyes. “You may have a feast to indulge your lusts in the name of religion, Drustan, but I will not. I will have no part of it.”

  He stayed silent for a moment. Perhaps he would let it pass. Perhaps the only outcome would be additional coldness to their already numb marriage. Tarian turned and began to fasten the saddle cinch around the mare’s girth.

  With a lurch of his muscled arm, Drustan suddenly yanked the bridle reins down. The horse gave a squeal of pain and pulled its head up toward the ceiling. Tarian watched immobile as Drustan jerked the reins down once more, bringing a more frenzied reaction from the animal. Then her mind and body moved, and she flew at the man, trying to grab the leather straps from him.

  Drustan was ready for her and shoved her away with a push so hard it propelled her into the stone wall. Tarian fell to the straw bedding and quaked as her husband, finished with tormenting the mare, turned toward her. Bending down, he wrenched her to her feet by her elbow and gave a heavy blow to her cheek.

  “Let’s understand one another, Tarian,” he said, pulling her close to his face. She couldn’t breathe for fear. “If you go against me, I will go against you. If you hurt me, I will hurt you. I hope I’ve been plain.”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  “Good. You’re going to regret not participating in this feast. I give you my word on that, my lady. I give you my word.” He dropped his hands from her elbows, by all appearances calm, except for the florid coloring of his countenance. He smiled at her. “Now get cleaned up. I won’t be embarrassed by a wife of mine looking like she demeaned herself in the stables.”

  Tarian’s face turned white with insult. “You are a…a depraved man,” she choked out as he strolled toward the stable door.

  Drustan paused and turned. The same slight smile decorated his lips, making his thick cheeks puff a little. “Depraved?” he questioned. “You haven’t seen me depraved yet, wife. Watch and wonder, my dear. Watch and wonder.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Set your house in order, for you shall die…

  Meghyn struggled to open her eyes. They were heavy, so heavy…

 
Set your house in order…

  Even before full consciousness came, the throbbing pain pushed through her legs.

  Will I die, Lord? Blurry-eyed with sleep, Meghyn gazed down at her calves, raised up on a stool. No matter how long she kept them up now, the swelling only increased.

  She turned her eyes toward the busy gaggle of kitchen maidservants, chattering as they prepared for the evening meal. I was once young, too. How fast the days fly. Have I redeemed my time?

  Meghyn watched Deirdre helping one of the younger girls with a stew bubbling over the fire. Sweet she was, that one. You cut her and Bethan from the same cloth, Lord. Reluctantly, her eyes traveled over toward Aine, whose rapt face turned up toward that troublemaker Winter.

  What of when Deoradhan returns? Will he marry Aine? Lord, help my headstrong boy if you take me home.

  Meghyn was just closing her eyes again when she heard a flurry of whispering and then abrupt silence. Her eyes snapped open to see a young woman entering the kitchen through the interior door. After a moment of confusion, Meghyn realized ‘twas the mistress of the estate herself. The kitchen girls had already recognized someone significant had entered and stayed mute, bobbing a curtsy or two.

  Meghyn struggled to her feet and stood, bent a little with pain. “Lady Tarian,” she greeted the noblewoman. “Welcome.”

  Lady Tarian seemed relieved to hear herself well-received but kept her poise in place as she stepped across the warm kitchen to Meghyn. “Meghyn, aye?”

  “Aye, my lady, I’m head of the kitchen,” replied Meghyn. As was her place, she waited for her mistress to tell her why she had come. She hoped ‘twould not take long, for the pressure in her painful legs increased with each moment.

  “I’m very glad to meet you, Meghyn. Please, sit and put your legs up. Deirdre told me about them.”

  The woman’s smile seemed sincere. Meghyn breathed a sigh as she sat back down and heaved her club-like calves up one-by-one. “Thank you, my lady,” she murmured.

  Lady Tarian pulled up a stool and sat across from her, almost as if she planned to stay for awhile. She sat up very straight but her long, slim fingers played with the wool fabric of her dress. “Have you had a doctor look at your legs, Meghyn?” she asked suddenly, as if her occupied thoughts had been invaded suddenly with the question.