Specks of snow drifted around her as Bethan made her way down the path toward the stream, made familiar by so many trips there in the past. I shall never walk this path again to fetch water for Mama, she realized. The grief trickled through her spirit, reaching all its recesses.
Bethan stopped at the edge of the stiffening stream and sank onto the cold dirt. She looked around her. Every tree, every rock, bush, and stone seemed alien, foreboding. Never did it seem so to me. Always, I felt God’s presence all around me, He in His heaven watching over me, as I walked the good Christian road.
The tears overflowed her eyes. Why are You so far from me in my grief and so near to me when I’m happy? When I need You, it feels like the door has been shut in my face.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Lord. ‘Tis only how I feel,” she whispered into the silence. “And I know…You know what You’re doing. But couldn’t my mama have been spared?”
And the impenetrable silence spoke back, Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?
Dunpeledyr
Seonaid took the now-frozen woodland path, her feet following its familiar way without hesitation. How many times have I traveled this path over the past fifteen years? She smiled, the dappling sunlight making her eyes squint. Too many times to remember. She first had trodden it as a young woman despairing of her life. And God had sent a minister of mercy to meet her there.
The trees grew steadily sparser until a clearing became visible just before her. The noblewoman hurried her steps when she noticed smoke emerging from the chimney. Caratacos was at home.
A few chickens pecked in the dirt in front of the plain one-room cottage. They may have been scavenging, but Seonaid knew how well-fed they were. The fattest and most petted chickens in all of Lothian and most likely of Logress as well. She shook her head and patted the she-goat tethered by the door as she came up to the cottage’s front stoop.
“Caratacos,” she called out, rapping on the doorframe. The door stood open a crack, and the smell of vegetable stew wafted out. “Caratacos, are you at home?”
“Aye, aye, lassie, I hear you. Come in, come in,” a thin voice scratched out from within.
Seonaid stepped into the warm, dark room, lit by a peat fire in the hearth and a few shafts of light from the window and door. In front of the hearth, seated on a three-legged stool, a bowed, elderly man crouched, holding something in his hands. Wordlessly, Seonaid moved toward him and knelt beside him. She peered into his cupped hands.
‘Twas a sparrow, its wings destroyed by some trivial accident. The blood from its wounds stained Caratacos’ fingers. Seonaid turned her eyes away instinctively, then looked up into the old man’s face. Grief and love mingled there with a settled peace. ‘Twas not surprising to see that harmony on the hermit’s face, but to observe it when such a fragile creature sighed out its life in his hands!
“It’s dying,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he murmured, his eyes pitying the bird embraced by his arthritic fingers. “‘And he will swallow up on this mountain the covering that is cast over all peoples, the veil that is spread over all nations. He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears from all faces.’” He turned cloudy eyes toward her. “Thus says the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, aye, Seonaid?”
His gaze traveled back toward the little winged animal, now shuddering in death’s last pain-filled moments, and Seonaid saw that his lips trembled as he lowered a kiss to the creature’s head. “Somehow, even this must be a mercy, though we cannot see it,” he whispered.
The tears slipped down Seonaid’s cheeks, and the image of dying Eion flashed through her heart. “Aye,” she replied finally. “Even this.”
27
Dunpeledyr
“She is my favorite among Father’s mares.” Deoradhan heard the cheerful voice from the other side of the roan horse. Pausing in his brushing, he peered over the animal’s sleek back and saw Lady Fiona smiling back at him. She clutched a thick shawl around her shoulders and head. Frosty breath wafted from her mouth when she smiled.
“My lady,” he greeted and went on with his work. Weylin’s daughter had a fondness for horses and often came to the stable while he worked. Her summery presence brightened the chilly air of the stalls as well as his gloomy thoughts.
“I wish you would call me Fiona, as I’ve asked, Deoradhan,” replied the young woman. Deoradhan smiled and nodded, enjoying her feisty forthrightness, but her next words surprised him. “After all, we are almost brother and sister, aren’t we?”
He froze, his brush mid-air. Act normally, you fool, and she won’t suspect anything. The breath caught in his lungs, but he held his composure. “What do you mean, Fiona?” he asked, as if he was nothing more than a horsemaster and she only his employer’s daughter.
He glanced up to find her gray eyes fixed on his face. They held a calm blunt steadiness. “I know that you are Lady Seonaid’s firstborn son, Deoradhan.”
He couldn’t deny it. Her honest gaze trapped him. Tearing his eyes away, he said nothing and continued brushing the mare.
“Why are you here?” she asked quietly, coming toward him.
Deoradhan stayed silent, unsure of what he should say.
“Are you here to harm us?”
He shook his head. “Nay, not you, Fiona. You’ve no part in this.”
“Who, then? My father? And Solas?”
The blind boy’s face rushed to his mind, and Deoradhan shook his head again. “Nay, I’ll not harm Solas, rest assured. Perhaps before I met him, I would have, but not now.”
“But how can you avoid that, Deoradhan? If you seek vengeance, and I assume that you do, ‘tis Solas who stands in your way. ‘Tis Solas who hinders your inheritance, once my father is disposed of, one way or the other.” The young woman spoke without drama.
She states the truth, Deoradhan admitted. I’ve not seen Solas for what he is: an obstacle barring me from my rightful place on Dunpeledyr’s throne. Even if he did away with Lord Weylin, Solas stood to inherit the kingdom, blind though he was. And Arthur will support his claim.
Solas would have to die.
There is no other way. The thought of killing the sweet-natured, glad-hearted youth revolted him. And his mother loved Solas, he could tell. What am I going to do?
“Whom have you told about me?” he swallowed.
“No one.” Fiona stared at him.
As if she reads my thoughts.
“So what do you plan to do?” Her voice jolted him.
With a sense of sick emptiness, Deoradhan realized that he did not even know his heart’s desire anymore. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I need time to think.”
She nodded. “Deoradhan, my family has done yours great harm. For what ‘tis worth to you, I ask your forgiveness for the wrongs we’ve committed.” She lowered her eyes. “I can’t atone for what my father has done to yours…or for anything else. But I ask for your mercy.”
Her words puzzled and angered him. Why doesn’t she stand her ground and act as if her father did rightly? Her humble attitude made him feel like he ought to forgive her and all she represented. Deoradhan stared at her for a moment, then turned and left the stall without answering.
She ran to catch up with him. “Deoradhan, God works in strange ways, and I know that He has brought you here for a purpose.” She grabbed his arm and forced him to stop walking toward the tack area. “But I ask one thing of you: that you tell me when you have decided to act. And that you spare my Solas.”
Anger filling him, he shoved her aside. “Your Solas should never have been born.”
“How can you say that?” she cried and grasped his arm, pulling on him to face her. He resisted and continued on his way. “How can you say that of Solas?”
Enough. Deoradhan held her by her shoulders and pinned her against the wall. “Listen. Your beloved Solas is the product of your father raping my mother after he put my father through a gruesome death. Your father would have k
illed me also if my mother hadn’t sent me into exile.” He saw that he had frightened her and released his hold on her, a little guilty. He continued in a softer tone. “Perhaps you can understand why my heart is not as tender as yours toward your brother.”
“But he is your brother, too,” she whispered.
“He is not my brother!”
“He is not like my father. Surely you know that. He has the living Christ within him, Deoradhan, as do I.”
Deoradhan smirked. “This living Christ headed your father’s army as well, Fiona. Forgive me if I don’t think of Him with affection or trust.”
The girl stayed silent, her eyes on her feet. “So you will not spare Solas, then?”
“I will do whatever I must.” Deoradhan ground his teeth. “But no harm will befall your brother by my hand, if I can help it, Fiona.”
Her face relaxed. “Thank you, Deoradhan.” She kissed his hand. “I pray that mercy will be shown you, as you’ve shown it to others. Now I must leave you. Lady Seonaid will be wondering where I’ve gone.”
She moved toward the entryway, but near the door, she turned curious eyes to him. “What is your birth name, Deoradhan?”
He hesitated, feeling the intense anger draining from his spirit. Clearing his throat, he answered, “Padruig. I am Padruig.” The name felt strange on his tongue, like an unfamiliar food.
“Padruig,” Fiona repeated, nodding.
Deoradhan felt compelled to ask. “And Fiona, answer my question. How did you know my secret?”
She smiled wearily. “Have you forgotten our first meeting in Camelot, Deoradhan, when I mistook you for Solas? Seeing you here, hearing a little of your story…I put the pieces together, Deoradhan.” Fiona gave a faint laugh. “You are not as complex as you think, my lord.”
She curtsied to him and exited. Deoradhan watched her retreat toward the main hall. For the first time in long years, he realized, bitterness had to struggle with other emotions for kingship in his heart.
West Lea
“I will come for you in the spring,” Garan assured her. His pale eyes shone. “I have to find a party with whom to travel north. Then we’ll go, together. And we’ll be married in the land where we’ll serve our God.”
Awed at his passion for Christ, Bethan nodded. She hardly noticed when Calum took her sack of belongings from her hands and strapped it across his horse’s back.
“God go with you, Bethan,” Garan stared into her eyes.
“And with you,” Bethan replied. She wanted to add some term of affection, but Garan had never used such toward her, so she felt awkward to do so now.
Garan turned to Calum. “I am glad you’ve come to take her back to Oxfield. Bethan speaks well of you.”
Calum responded only with a nod. Pained at what she knew he might feel, seeing her new regard for the priest’s son, Bethan hurried toward the horse. Her sister Enid already sat on its back, secure among the sacks.
‘Twas Calum who assisted her with mounting, not Garan, who stood white in the icy sunlight. With a quick motion, the guard swung himself onto his own horse, and they trotted off. Bethan felt that she must say something, anything, to break the tension she felt within herself.
“Calum, I’m sorry—” she began.
He cut her off softly. “Nay, Bethan. ‘Twas meant to be. We have our own paths to tread, ones that have been cut out from eternity past, aye?”
“Aye.” Bethan stayed quiet for a moment, then tried again. “I am glad you are my brother at Oxfield, Calum, though.”
She saw his face grow taut with…pain? Grief? Glancing at him, she saw a deep-set agony surface in his countenance. This cannot have resulted from what has passed between us. Aloud, she said, “What is it, Calum?”
“I will not be remaining at Oxfield.”
Fear rose in her heart. “What do you mean?”
“When we arrive there, I will resign from the command of the guard. I’ve been training a young guard, Marcus, to take my place for some time.”
“So this has been long-planned?”
“Aye. Something I’ve thought and prayed over for years now.”
“Years?”
“Aye. Since…”
“Since what?”
Calum’s glance went over to Enid, sitting in front of Bethan. The little girl dozed in the twilight, her head falling back against Bethan’s chest. “’Tis alright. She’s asleep,” Bethan said, feeling afraid of what Calum would reveal.
Calum guided his horse gently forward. The hooves made a heavy, dull thud on the packed dirt. “I have an atonement to make, Bethan. For something I did many years ago.”
“What did you do, Calum?” she nearly whispered, her mind running.
He looked over at her, as if judging how much to tell and how much to conceal. “My sister Cairine was older than me by six years. When I had only passed twelve winters, she took part in the solstice rituals. I’m sure you know what that entails, especially in the wilder parts of the country.”
Bethan nodded and waited for him to go on.
“She carried a child as a result. But while the child was yet forming within her, a man came through the village, preaching the gospel. God used that to turn my sister to Christ for salvation, as He did for me and a few others in our village.”
Bethan watched as he sighed and sought the words to tell the history. “The pagan leaders of the village were enraged at this but did nothing immediately. That summer, Cairine lost the child in a fever. Many of the animals also aborted in that season. In the fall, the harvest failed. For all of it, the druids blamed unfaithfulness to the gods.”
He stayed silent for so long that Bethan prompted him, “And then?”
“They killed her. They sacrificed one who had carried death within her so that the crops might live. They burned her alive.” His words were toneless, stilted, unable to convey the horror she knew he still must feel.
“But, Calum,” Bethan spoke after a time, “you said that you had to atone. Why? What did you do?”
He glanced over. “I watched and did nothing. I should have done something to prevent it. Anything. Or at least not been ashamed.”
“But you were only a boy, Calum. What could you have done?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Something. It haunts me worse than any Samhain spirit, Bethan. The memory hangs over me like a shroud. And I cannot rid myself of it.” He cleared his throat. “After that day, I ran away and have not returned to my home village since.”
After a long and quiet moment, Bethan asked, “So where are you going to live, if not to Oxfield?”
“In the wilderness. God must provide some door of hope for me, though I don’t deserve it. Otherwise,” he swallowed, “otherwise, I feel I cannot endure this life anymore.”
She wanted to say something, anything, to persuade him that his sins were atoned for. ‘Twas so clear to her that Jesus’ blood had covered all Calum’s sin, that he was a new creature in Christ. That there was no condemnation for him. But his feelings were too real. Only a fool would ignore them. And Calum was no fool, that she knew. The words died in her throat.
“We’ve a long way to ride before we camp for the night. Let’s quicken our pace,” Calum said after a few moments. His horse moved from a trot to a slow canter and Bethan followed suit, her spinning mind able only to pray with a simplicity her Father loved to hear.
Dunpeledyr
“You will remain with us this winter.” Lord Weylin’s voice threaded its way across the table to his daughter.
Deoradhan saw her eyebrows rise. “Here? At Dunpeledyr?”
“Aye. Did you have other plans, Fiona?”
“Nay,” she said hastily. “I only thought that I would spend the winter with the queen, as I usually do. May I ask why—?”
“Plans change,” her father cut her off, smiling. “I would like to have my family here at Dunpeledyr this winter, especially as the Feast of the Nativity approaches.”
“Alright, Father,” Fiona a
greed slowly, casting Deoradhan a questioning glance.
Why does she think I know what her father is about? I’m trying to get rid of him!
“Now,” Weylin said, rising from his chair, “I’m off to see to my kennels. Deoradhan, will you come along?”
“Gladly, my lord, as soon as I finish my bread,” Deoradhan agreed, reaching for another piece, even though he didn’t want it.
Weylin nodded his satisfaction at Deoradhan’s hearty appetite before throwing a scornful glance at his own son. When Deoradhan’s eyes turned to the youth, he saw Solas quietly nibbling at a piece of roast pheasant. His heart felt a desire to love this half-brother, though his mind hated the thought.
The lord exited, followed soon after by Lady Seonaid and Solas together. Fiona and Deoradhan sat alone at the table, exactly as the two wished.
“What is my father up to?” her immediate question came.
Deoradhan shrugged, a little irritated. “Why would I know, Fiona? Remember my place here.”
She glanced toward the door. “But you are in my father’s confidence. Or soon will be. He does not trust me as he does you.”
“And what is that to me?”
“To me ‘tis much. My father has never kept me here for a winter. ‘Twas odd for him to pull me away from court as he did. He’s scheming something, Deoradhan.” She paused. “You know that Arthur’s situation is precarious now, aye?”
How precarious? “Explain yourself, Fiona. What have you seen at Camelot to make you think that?” Deoradhan demanded.
Fiona bit her lip. “There are pockets of opponents who send letters to the king regularly. I hear this from the queen. And Lothian has been a nest of trouble in the past.”
Deoradhan snorted. “There are always adversaries to the throne. That means little.”
She shook her head. “Nay, I know that. But there has been an attempt on the king’s life. His cupbearer was poisoned.”
Deoradhan frowned. “A cowardly thing to do.” I would use a knife and let him see my face.
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