by Robin Hardy
Deirdre dried herself and began dressing as the matron stood by. Sensing something tender in her, Deirdre appealed one last time for aid: “Please, help me . . . do you know who I am?”
“It doesn’t hardly matter, dearie. Whoever you were, now you belong to the Surchataine.”
“Who?” asked Deirdre, and the matron looked at her as if she were an idiot.
“Surchataine Sheva, Savin’s wife. You’re to be a serving maid in her court,” she said. Finding Deirdre’s underskirt hopelessly soiled, the matron tossed it aside before handing her the velvet skirt.
“But Galapos rules all this territory! He defeated Savin at the outpost!” Deirdre exclaimed.
“Savin is dead, true, but Galapos does not rule here. Sheva rules, and everyone serves her—if not by choice, then in chains.” The matron spoke the last phrase in a whisper.
“Listen,” Deirdre whispered urgently, “Galapos is my father! If you will allow me to return to him, he’ll send an army to free you from this tyrant!”
The woman laughed incredulously. “Should I stake my life on what you say? Even if you’re saying the truth, and Galapos is your father, why hasn’t he already sent an army to depose Sheva? Does he even have an army?”
Deirdre, confounded, did not answer, and the matron bristled, “You speak nonsense, girl. Now be quiet and come with me.” She led Deirdre to the kitchen, where she gave her a bowl of soup and bread.
While Deirdre ate, the matron eyed her silently. Then she gave Deirdre a blanket and led her out to the stables. “You’ll sleep here until Lord Troyce returns for you,” she said gruffly. She set down her candle on a sawhorse to fasten Deirdre’s slender neck into a chain hanging from an iron ring on the wall. Utterly despondent, Deirdre lowered herself to the musty straw. A horse in a nearby stall snorted mildly at the intrusion.
The matron paused. “You say you’re Galapos’ daughter.”
“Yes, yes, I am!” cried Deirdre, at which the matron motioned vigorously for her to lower her voice. Deirdre continued in a fervent whisper: “I am Chataine Deirdre—my husband is the Commander of his army—I was kidnapped after the birth of my baby—” she began to sob.
The woman watched her, then said slowly, “There is only one thing I can do for you. If Galapos comes here looking for you, I will tell him where you are—he’s been this way before and I know him. That is all I can do.” Without waiting for a response, she took her candle and left Deirdre to face the night in a corner of the stables alone.
Chapter 7
The matron roused Deirdre while it was still grey outside. “Lord Troyce is here to take you to Diamond’s Head.” Deirdre raised herself, groaning, as the matron unlocked her chains. “I will do what I told you,” she whispered, but Deirdre did not hear. Her every limb ached with stiffness, which was pain enough, but a new sensation commanded her attention. Her body, having successfully delivered the baby it had sheltered, had now made provision for his feeding. Her milk had come in. Her breasts were swollen hard and painful to the touch.
Deirdre was led out to a flat cart and chained to a ring in the floor with a few other passengers. Beyond them, Lord Troyce was giving instructions for the loading of goods on another cart. Deirdre glimpsed bolts of purple and silk, piles of furs, and locked wooden boxes. In a wave of envy, she noted that Sheva had money to buy the things she herself would like. Then Deirdre sighed at the absurdity of lusting after jewels when she was locked in chains.
At length, the loading was completed and a caravan consisting of the lord’s carriage and the two carts left the courtyard of the inn. Escorted by a handful of soldiers, the caravan began its journey to Diamond’s Head, capital of Goerge. Deirdre had never been there, but had heard others speak of it.
The palace was built on granite bluffs overlooking the Sea, and the natural defense of sheer rock cliffs made it secure from all sides. When Galapos had returned to Westford from Outpost One just this past spring, he had mentioned the disturbing possibility that Tremaine would move his headquarters from Corona to Diamond’s Head. “And if that snake lodges down in that rock,” he had said, “it would take fire from heaven to smoke him out.”
Deirdre was grateful to be riding now instead of walking, but the pain—! She bit her lip and massaged her hard breasts. Then, self-consciously, she glanced at the other passengers, slaves like herself. One was a young peasant girl who hid her face down in her arms the length of the trip, and the other was a large, brown, muscular man, obviously destined for the Surchataine’s fields. When he bared his teeth at Deirdre in a grin she quickly turned her face away, unnerved to find that he reminded her in some way of Roman.
Idly, she thought of the condemned prisoner hanged in Roman’s stead—when?—years before? He had so closely resembled Roman that on the night that same man killed a kitchen maid, she had been certain it was Roman she had seen. The same brown skin and straight black hair . . . the same husky build. . . . Lulled by the motion of the cart, Deirdre let her thoughts trail off into disjointed half dreams.
She glimpsed a flock of black birds flapping away from the cart, but before they reached the blue summit of sky they dipped and scolded her: “Nit! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” She roused with a jerk and waved them away.
Then she was staring at the sweaty flanks of the renegade’s horse. Its tail endlessly twitched, brushing away flies which settled on her face instead. Deirdre startled up to wipe drops of perspiration from her face. She tugged at her bodice with a moan and lay down again. Unmeasured minutes later, she was jarred full awake by the cart lurching to a stop.
Lord Troyce had signaled a rest to eat, but the three slaves were not permitted to leave the cart. Rather, they were given plates of mash to eat where they sat. Deirdre devoured hers, as did the man slave, but the girl refused to eat. When the man saw that, he amiably reached over and helped himself from her plate. Deirdre glared at him and he grinned back at her. Again that resemblance—angrily, she gave him her best haughty snub.
The jerking of the cart as they started again reminded her acutely of her swollen breasts. How she wished to be home, safe and comfortable, with her baby! The thought of the little one she might never know was so painful that she closed her mind to it immediately. If she allowed herself to think of him, to wonder what had befallen him, she would lose her sanity altogether.
Why, God, why? Why have you done this to me? Other thoughts joined in quickly: I trusted Him, and look what happened. . . . I may never see Roman or Galapos or the baby again. . . . If I had known this was going to happen, I would never have believed in Him. . . . Roman was wrong—at that, a cold chill swept over her. What was she thinking? During her imprisonment at Ooster, she herself had seen the bright Presence that had restored her at the breaking point. Wasn’t that from God? And surely God knew of her trouble now.
Perhaps yesterday when she had prayed, she had not had faith enough, had not really believed He would help her. So now she prayed intently, God, I am hurting so. Please, please, God, rescue me! Then she watched for the Presence to appear again. In such terrible trouble as this, surely it would come!
Barely breathing, she looked over the horses to the road ahead. That was the most likely place it would appear, so the whole caravan would see it and stop. She waited.
The soldiers ahead talked among themselves. The horses jangled their bits. The cart wheels went ’round and ’round. Deirdre waited until she could stand it no longer. Where are you, God? she screamed inside.
She passed hour after hour riding in that wretched cart in utter misery. No help was given her. Her pain increased and the jolting of the cart never ceased. Endlessly, they rounded curves and climbed hills. Dusty, dirty, stinking cart—she put her head down and only wanted to die.
Suddenly the road began to ascend. They climbed for some time, until the only possible route upward was a winding road which snaked up the face of the mount. After each sharp curve in the road, Deirdre could look down twenty feet to the section they had just been on. They pa
ssed a sentry station positioned at the gates of a great stone wall, then the road leveled into a paved street. They had topped the cliffs.
The caravan passed buildings and shops and houses that constituted the township of Diamond’s Head. Then the palace complex of Surchataine Sheva stood majestically before them, gleaming golden in the light of the late sun. By the time the caravan had reached the front gates, the palace had turned deep red.
Lord Troyce dispatched the soldiers to unload the merchandise. Deirdre was separated from the other two slaves and taken to a dank little room in the back of what appeared to be the servants’ house. Beyond caring for anything, she slumped to the floor, leaning against a wall. She only slightly noted an official talking with the soldier who had brought her in.
The official entered the room and lifted his torch toward her. She did not raise her head. Then, surprisingly, he angled the torch and spoke to the corner of her room: “Old Josef, look here.” Startled, Deirdre glared toward the torch-lit corner.
A withered, white-haired slave roused out of a little pile of straw, blinking. He sat up suddenly and stared at her. Exclaiming, “Praise God!” he scrambled up and hurried from the room as fast as his crooked feet would allow. The official stood aside to let him pass.
Deirdre gazed at the official in dumb amazement. He was a thick-chested, ruddy man with a curly red beard. When his eyes met hers, she saw lines of compassion on his weathered face. “There’s a babe here,” he began sheepishly, “born some days ago to a slave girl who died. . . . He can’t seem to take goat’s milk, and there has been no one willing to nurse him. . . .” At those words Old Josef hobbled in with a ragged bundle. He held out a dirty, feebly crying newborn to her.
At the sound of his cry, Deirdre felt a sharp twinge in her breasts, and milk began to soak through her bodice. She took the baby and opened her blouse without a second thought as to the men standing by. Cradling the baby in inexperienced arms, she tried to guide the nipple into his mouth, but the moment she touched his face he began rooting so frantically that he kept overshooting it.
The old man said softly, “Hold still at his cheek and let him find you.” When she did, the babe latched on and began sucking mightily. Deirdre sighed, feeling rapid relief. Old Josef stepped back with a radiant smile. The official nodded and left.
Josef, beaming, stretched his hands toward heaven and said, “Lord God, how excellent is your name in all the earth! You hear the humble and defend the orphans—excellent, excellent, Lord! How I rejoice in your splendor and revel in your freedom! How I glory in your riches and treasures! Power, wisdom, and honor, forever, forever, Lord!”
Deirdre gaped at the exultant old man and thought, They have put me in here with a madman. Suddenly he looked directly at her. She quickly lowered her eyes to the nursing infant.
He said serenely, “I have prayed for a nursemaid that the baby might not die. You are the answer to my prayer.”
She felt sharp tears. “Then God answered your prayer by taking away my own baby!”
“Your child is dead?”
“Well—probably. I don’t know. I don’t know what has become of him!” she said, anguished.
“Then I will inquire.” He carefully knelt and closed his eyes in silent, earnest prayer. Deirdre watched skeptically. In a few minutes he straightened and said, “Your baby is healthy and in good care.”
“How do you know that?”
“The Lord showed me your child in the arms of a black-haired warrior. Behind him stood a great ruler,” Josef replied.
Deirdre shut her mouth to keep her heart inside. The baby she was holding began suddenly to cry. Without thinking, she turned him to the other breast and he set to as before.
She watched him nurse as she thought breathlessly of her child. He was safe—safe with Roman! She could endure anything now, knowing that.
Subdued, she looked up at Old Josef. He cocked his head at her, smiling slightly. Then he came up close and knelt on bony knees in front of her. “Child,” he said softly, “I’m going to tell you something and I want you to remember it always.” He paused and she waited. “God is good,” he said. “God is good.”
At once she saw how foolish she had been to think God was torturing her like some petty despot wielding power for fun. But she fought the insight. “Then why does He let me suffer like this?” she demanded with tears.
“I don’t know what has happened to you or why. But He has said, ‘Behold, I have refined you, I have tried you in the furnace of affliction.’ I, too, have suffered in my lifetime, child, and I know it has all been done for good.”
She chewed her lip, not really understanding him. Bitterly, she rejoined, “It is not good. It’s mean and cruel.”
“And his servant has said of Him, ‘With the faithful you show yourself faithful; with the blameless you show yourself blameless; with the pure you show yourself pure; and with the perverted you show yourself perverse. For you deliver the humble people, but the haughty eyes you bring down.’” His faded eyes were glistening with just a touch of humorous reproof.
“How do you know so much about God?” she demanded, stinging.
“I have been walking with Him for years now, and He has shown me many things. But the first thing I had to learn was that He is good, and rewards those who seek Him,” Josef said, laying a gnarled hand of affection on the baby’s head.
“I know a man,” she said, thinking of Roman, “who has followed God since he was a child, and for a long time it brought him nothing but trouble.” She recalled vividly Roman’s taking the kidnapper’s bludgeon . . . being beaten on the post . . . suffering humiliation and the sentence of death at the hands of Karel.
“I know nothing of this,” he said, “but I will ask the Lord to give you insight regarding it.”
What she wanted, however, was something else: “I’m so thirsty—” she began, but before she had finished speaking, the ruddy official entered with plates of meaty stew and cups of cold water. Then he knelt before the old man and fastened irons on his ankles. The length of the chains permitted him to cross the cell, but not leave it. Deirdre gazed at the official pleadingly when he turned toward her.
“I am sorry,” he said sincerely, locking chains on her ankles. “I must do this.” She mutely accepted them. What was one more insult after what she had endured?
She and Josef ate and drank while the infant slept close by, then the old man made a neat bed of straw for her. She lay down in it with the baby tucked beside her and the chains kicked out of her way. Old Josef covered her with the thin blanket he had been using.
As sleep crept upon her, Roman entered her thoughts and she saw him once again gripping the cold chains of the whipping post, silently taking blow after blow. Suddenly she saw something else as if superimposed over the memory—the love, the love in him that poured itself out for her more readily than the blood from his wounds.
She sat up, gasping. It was a demonstration of love—every blow he took, every insult he endured was drawn from a boundless well of sacrificial love.
Tears rolled down her face as she saw the cheapness of her own affection in contrast. There was no love without sacrifice, without self-giving. And he had been willing to give up his life for her.
She lay down again, weeping for him now, and Josef knew insight had been given her.
Chapter 8
“Here, Commander.” Kam tossed the brush aside from the mouth of the cave so that he and Roman could step inside. They studied the interior grimly. “She was here, for certain,” he continued, picking up a blanket.
Roman was examining the dirt floor. “Too many prints . . . but look at these—a man’s. . . .” He halted abruptly and knelt to touch the earth. “They are deeper here, leaving, than those entering. It appears she was carried out.”
The two men stepped outside the cave again, intently searching the ground, but whatever prints there once were had been obliterated, in part by the search party. Roman stopped at a dead end. He scanned the
ground around in all directions. Kam stood silently, stroking his beard and eyeing Roman. “Commander,” he said hesitantly, “I see nothing more that can be done—”
Roman turned on him with a vengeance. “We’ll send scouts to every city and village and hut on the Continent to find her.”
“Certainly, Commander. But . . . we have so few men to begin with . . . it may require some time—”
“Then dispatch them immediately!” Roman barked.
“Yes, Commander!” Kam saluted and hurried to his horse. He rode back to the palace with all due speed, yet shaking his head over the futility of further search.
Roman mounted and rode aimlessly through the forest, looking everywhere but seeing nothing. For the first time in his life, he was tasting the bitter draught of real, undeniable defeat. To lose her, of all, whom he loved more than his own life. Why had God given him this treasure only to take her away from him again?
The irony of it was terrible. How many times before had he rescued her? How many times had God strengthened his hand to protect her? Here was the perplexity that gnawed at him: Why had God deserted him now? And what evil had He allowed to befall her?
Roman stopped dead at a crossroads—not in the forest, but in his mind. It was a choice presented without words or images: Would he pray to God or accuse Him? Did he believe God was Master in even this or not? Would he admit his despair or maintain his façade of sufficiency?
Seconds passed as he was frozen in thought. Suddenly he realized there was a clearing ahead. He pushed the silent choice aside and rode blankly toward the gap in the forest. A small hut stood there. Tied to a stake in the ground near it was Deirdre’s mare. How had they possibly missed this hut in their search?
He slowly got down from his horse, recalling in a flash this hut and who lived here. Then he set his jaw and strode to the door. Ignoring niceties, he thrust it open. Inside, the sorceress Varela sat at a crude table crushing herbs.
