Alicia Roque Ruggieri

The House

of Mercy

ALICIA
ROQUE RUGGIERI

The
House of Mercy

Copyright
© 2013 Alicia Roque Ruggieri

All
rights reserved.

Scripture
quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright
© 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission.
All rights reserved.

FOR MAMA BEE

“Her children rise up and call her
blessed.”

For
judgment
is
without mercy
to one
who has shown
no mercy.
Mercy triumphs
over
judgment
.

James 2:1

PROLOGUE

Dunpeldyr. Lothian

486 A.D.

From the top of this lone
hill, Hamish felt bodily—though not emotionally—distanced from the fort. 
Enough so that he could swing his mount around and pause, gazing at the
smoldering stronghold.  His heart wrenched as he heard the faint lamentation
echoing through the valleys.

My kinsmen.

Many had lost their
lives in the days-long siege of Dunpeledyr, “hillfort of the spears.”  Hamish’s
people, the Votadini, had made Dunpeledyr their home for as long as the memory
of these northern lands stretched.  And they had called one, Eion, son of many
noble men, their royal chief for a dozen years now.  Wisdom crowned that man’s
brow as visibly as any diadem.  A well-skilled leader in war, poetry, and the
honor of the gods.

And yet he was no more. 
Southern forces, led by that clever butcher Weylin, had ravished the ancient
holding, slitting the throat of Dunpeledyr’s chief.  The message from the South
was clear:  Total destruction would result if a leader refused to submit to the
young warlord Arthur Pendragon.  As Hamish’s eyes riveted to the smoking
fortress, grief clenched his jaw afresh.  Hardened warrior that he was, the
sight forced him to turn away.

To turn away and look
down upon the dirty, sleeping face of the young child strapped to his chest. 
Hamish recalled how a short time earlier, the walls of Dunpeledyr ready to give
way, Lady Seonaid had pressed the child into his arms…

“Take my son!” she
choked.  “Take Padruig to Arthur.”

Hamish looked at her,
puzzled.  “To Arthur, my lady?  He has caused all of this.  Why would I take
your child to him?   ‘Tis taking him to his death!”

Seonaid shook her
head.  “Arthur will protect him.  He will be good to him.  An orphan himself,
he will shelter my son.”

“My lady, why are you
still here?”  Hamish glanced around at the flying arrows, some tinged with
orange flame.  Panic rose within his chest.  “You must go now!  A horse stands
ready at the southern wall.  Go, Lady Seonaid.  I beg you.  Take the child and
go!”

Coughing, Seonaid
pressed the little boy into the fighter’s capable but reluctant arms.  “I must
stay with Lord Eion.  Take the child, Hamish.  Please.”  Her eyes begged him.

Hamish hesitated for
just a moment, then nodded.  Duty and oaths required his obedience.  “All
right, my lady.  The child shall arrive at Camelot safely by my hand, if the
gods spare me.  I swear it.” 

1

Late Summer, A.D. 502

West Lea, Southern
Logress

The air felt freshly
washed, like it had been pounded and scrubbed in the swift stream running near
the cottage.  Bethan breathed in deeply, her eyes moving over the wheat
fields.  Or what was left of them.

“Come, Enid, I’ll race
you back home,” she said, trying to turn her mind away from the mounting
problems evident all around her.  Her little sister grinned and rushed forward,
paying no attention to the still-melting hail.  Bethan let her get a head start,
and then ran forward, feeling the crunch of crushed wheat beneath her bare
feet.

The second harvest is
gone.
  She could think
of nothing else as she kept a pace or two behind Enid. 
God, help us.  The
second harvest is gone.  In one late-summer hailstorm, our lives are set ajar… again.

~ ~ ~

“How bad is it, Burne?”

With half-closed eyes as
she snuggled next to Enid on their pallet, Bethan saw her mother kneeling
beside her father.  The dim firelight illuminated their sober faces. 

Papa reached over and
cupped Mama’s chin with his hands, studying her.  Finally, he began, “Wife, you
know too well that we’ve lived on the knife’s-edge of survival for long years. 
Times have been better with Arthur reigning over all the island, keeping peace
from east to west, north to south, halting the Saxon raids.  The battle of
Badon assured that two summers past.  I had hoped that this crop would raise us
a bit, enable us to pay back some of the debt we owe Lord Drustan.”

“And allow Bethan to
marry Garan, aye?” Mama put in quietly.

Papa sighed.  “Aye.  Her
marriage has been put off for one year already.  Another year and…”  He paused,
and Bethan held her breath.

“You’re afraid that the
priest may find another wife for his only son.”

“Aye.”

The pair sat, Mama
stroking Papa’s hand with her tough fingers.

“What are we to do about
Lord Drustan, Burne?” Mama broke the silence.

Papa grimaced.  “He has
been gracious to us these past years, and I hate to continue using land we
can’t pay for...”

“Will he seize the
land?”

Papa hesitated, then
finally said, “I don’t know.  He may.  ‘Tis his right, Lowri.  Thus far, he has
granted us protection in exchange for a portion of our harvest.  But what
benefit is such an arrangement to him if there is no harvest to speak of?  And
we need the protection from raiding bands.  Arthur’s reign has stopped them for
now, but if they begin again, where could we flee for refuge?”

Silence descended like
death over the face of a corpse.  Bethan thought about her sleeping sister
Enid, whose quiet breathing told of undisturbed repose.  How she wished she,
too, was seven years old again and could relax into sleep with an unworried
heart!

“Is there no way, then?”
Lowri spoke against the agonized hush.

Again, Papa hesitated. 
“There is one way I can think of.  But ‘twill mean a sacrifice on Bethan’s
part.”

Bethan listened closely.

“Do you remember when
Winfred’s mill burnt to the ground last year?”  At Mama’s nod, Papa continued,
“Winfred’s daughter went to Oxfield to work as a dairy maid there.  To
compensate for her services, Lord Drustan gave Winfred new millstones and
enough cut wood to rebuild the mill.”

Papa paused and watched
his wife’s face to see if she had caught his suggestion. 

After a moment, Mama
said, “You want Bethan to go to Oxfield, aye, Burne?  To work off our debts?” 

Bethan felt tremors
through her body.  She looked at Papa’s sun-browned face, loving him and yet
aching at his words.  Never had she thought such a thing would be asked of
her. 
I do not want to go!
 
I do not want to leave.  Everything I
hold dear, everything familiar to me, lives in this valley.  Why must I be the
eldest?

“Lord Drustan always
needs more servants,” Papa said.

“If I remember,
Winfred’s Edna would have stayed at Oxfield, if they had not needed her at
home,” Mama added thoughtfully.  “’Tis a good notion.”

“Aye.”  He paused.  “My
only reservation lies with this betrothal, Lowri.  We promised Bethan to Garan
as soon as the second harvest finished.  He is too good a match and too good a
man for us to risk losing.”

“If she goes, she must
return in the spring to marry him,” answered Mama.

Bethan’s mind froze in
resignation.  She knew that she would not be asked if she wanted to go; she
would be told ‘twas her duty.

After a moment, Papa
stood, shoulders wearily bowed.  “Alright.  I shall send a message with the
next traveler who passes this way toward Oxfield.”

With a puff, Papa blew
out the lamp at his elbow, and Bethan saw his and Mama’s shadows move toward
their bed on the far side of the small room.  Her mind running faster than a
spring rabbit, Bethan turned over on her back and stared up at the
moon-streaked rushes.  She pictured Garan’s intelligent, pale face, set with
restless eyes.  Her breath caught in her throat, and the smile fell from her
lips. 

Will he wait for me?

2

Oxfield

“You must have this
letter in the high king’s hands by sunset three days hence, lad.  Understand?” 
For emphasis, the lord held up the sealed parchment scroll and looked his
attendant full in the eyes.

The young man standing
before him met his gaze with confident green-blue eyes and received the scroll
quietly, tucking it away into his leather traveling pouch.  “Aye.  ‘Twill be
done, my lord.  Is there anything else that needs my attention while I’m away
this time?”

“No, that is all, but
‘tis most important, Deoradhan.  It regards a nephew of mine, Lancelot du Lac,
who arrives shortly from Gaul and desires a place among the Pendragon’s
warriors.”

“If he is an able-bodied
man, not prone to excess, the king will not hesitate over him, I’m certain. 
What with the border skirmishes, Arthur needs every warrior he can muster,”
Deoradhan answered honestly. 

Lord Drustan nodded his
agreement as the two moved toward the door.  His hand on the latch, the lord
paused.  “Oh, aye.  There was one more thing, Deoradhan.  A new maidservant
comes from the village in our West Lea.  Get her while you are returning.”

“Whose daughter is she,
sir, that I may know for whom to inquire?”  Such a task was not unusual for the
lord to request.  Maidservants came and went like dew on the morning fields,
useful but transient.

“She is the daughter of
Burne, a wheat farmer.  I think she’ll be a kitchen maid.”  Drustan opened the
wooden door, built to withstand heavy blows from the outside.  “Take sufficient
supplies for your journey, lad, and may God go with you.”  His lips twisted. 
“Though pagan that you are, you may wish for me to ask the gods’ blessing,
instead.”

“I wish for no such
thing, my lord,” Deoradhan evenly replied, his usually cheerful countenance
hardening.  “I do not believe in your Roman God, so your first blessing will
not rest upon my head.  And the gods of my land have turned dark eyes upon me. 
Thus, I do not expect their favor, regardless of the one who blesses.  But,” he
added with a smile, “I thank you for your own good will.  As for the rest, I
fear that I must guide my own steps and those of my mount.  Farewell.”  He
stretched out his forearm, and Drustan grasped it.

“Farewell.”

~ ~ ~

Deoradhan had rode hard,
demanding of his horse as much as his natural humanity would allow.  Now,
nearly a week later and returning to the high walls of Oxfield, he slowed to a
trot and set his teeth in frustration.  The journey had borne no fruit, at
least for him.  He had not had the courage to ask for an audience with Arthur. 
As usual, he had handed Lord Drustan’s message to a guard at the gate, not even
entering the stronghold of Camelot.

Wait, Deoradhan. 
What harm will it do you to wait a little longer?  Who knows, in a month, six
months…
  Today, he could not bear his own reasoning and tried to distract
himself by looking at his surroundings.

‘Twas lovely
countryside, this western valley, though haunted by the failure of the wheat
crops.  Hills rose in the distance like verdant suns.  Dabbing across the
emptying fields, cottages stood firmly, neatly bordered by kitchen gardens.  Each
rooted itself on its land, Deoradhan thought, as if to say, “We may be humble
abodes, but we’re built to last, built to stay put.”  Like the peasant farmers
themselves, unwilling to give up despite opposition all around.

Like myself.  I will
never give up.

The autumn heat
penetrated even through his linen clothing.  Deoradhan pushed his curly auburn
hair off his forehead and squinted at the horizon.  He was approaching one of
the villages.  Yet another young girl awaited him to bring her to service at
Oxfield.  Deoradhan set his teeth. 
I hope she doesn’t talk too much.  I’m
in no mood for it today.

~ ~ ~

Lowri swept the stone
path with firm strokes of her twiggy broom.  Dinner bubbled in the pot over the
cook-fire, little Enid sat steadily sewing patches on items from the family
mending pile, and Bethan kneaded dough in the cool house.  Burne was helping
with the harvest in some fields down the road a piece, fields that had been
spared the hailstorm.  All the family was accounted for and safe.

I wish to the gods
that I could keep them so.
  Bethan’s eventual departure for Garan’s
household, she did not mind, though he was a priest’s son.  Every maid must
marry, and the sooner the better, for old bodies could not bear children so
well.  But to leave for Oxfield first, unmarried . . . Well, let it suffice to
say that she wished she could keep Bethan at home for now.  An unwed girl
should not travel far from home, far from under her mother’s watchful care,
from her father’s strong protection. 
I am afraid for her, for all of us…

She would pray each
morning to the gods for their guardianship of Bethan, Lowri decided.  With a
decisive snort, she turned toward the cottage.  This Roman God was not for
her.  Let the nobles take that deity for themselves if they cared for Him. 
Holy and pure, mighty to save their souls.  As if a peasant woman had time to
worry about her soul. 
Her
gods were those of the wind and rain, stream
and wood.  Let the nobility redeem their souls; Lowri needed nature’s ancient
gods, who saved harvests and bodies, whose bonfires she could help light at
Beltane and Samhain.  This last hailstorm proved that.  Indeed, she wondered if
it had not been a judgment against her own husband, who clung with perverse
tenacity to faith in this new Roman God.

~ ~ ~

Bethan knelt by the
bubbling stream and splashed a handful of water on her flushed cheeks before
dipping her bucket into the clear liquid.  Sighing with refreshment, she leaned
back on her heels, feeling the cool squish of mud under her feet. 
I wish it
could be so pleasant, so peaceful always.

“Lass?”

She started, almost
knocking her bucket over, and jumped to her feet.  A young man stood perhaps
ten feet away, right in the middle of the forest path.  He wore dusty attire
and held a long-legged gray horse by its bridle.  On her guard, she readied
herself to run, if necessary.

The young man smiled
kindly, evidently to reassure her.  “I apologize.  I startled you.”

Having regained her
composure, Bethan shook her head but retained her place on the damp bank.  “No,
it’s all right.”  She waited to see what this mannerly stranger wanted. 
“Please, feel at liberty to water your horse,” she offered.

“Thank you.”  The young
man led the quiet mount forward to the bank.  Bethan watched as the animal
lowered its neat head on its smooth neck and assuaged its thirst in slow
gulps.  Its human companion lowered his own mouth to the deep stream and drank
as well.  At last, he raised a refreshed countenance to Bethan.  When he did,
she had a question of her own.

“Are you hungry?”

He opened wide surprised
eyes.  “Yes, I am, but I’ve plenty to eat in my pouch.”

“What, dry bread and
cheese?  Please, you and your animal are welcome to enjoy our ripe apples.  My
father would wish it.”

“Why?”

Bethan smiled.  “Surely
you know the words, ‘For I was hungry, and you gave me food, I was thirsty and
you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.’”

The young man stood
silent for a moment, a mixture of cynicism and interest flitting over his face
faster than robins across the morning sky.  Finally, he spoke, ignoring her
offer.  “I’m a messenger from Lord Drustan.  Can you give me directions to the
home of Burne?  I believe he’s a farmer of this village?”

Through the scratchy
wool of her long tunic, Bethan felt her heart beating so heavily it nearly
hurt. 
The day has come.
  Her limbs felt like icy water poured over
them.
Be strong and let your heart take courage… Oh, Lord be with me
wherever I go!
  Swallowing hard, she whispered through a tight throat, “I
am Burne’s daughter, the one whom you are taking to Oxfield.  We’ve been
expecting you.”

Clearly relieved to
complete his mission so easily, the young man smiled again.  ‘Twas a nice
smile, and it somehow calmed Bethan.  It contained no guile, only kindness and,
Bethan suspected, a certain measure of concealed grief.

“Please,” she continued,
“follow me.  I will show you to my father’s house.”  Bethan turned and climbed
up the dappled bank, leading the way out of the forest and into the sunny
meadow beyond.

Reins in hand, Deoradhan
followed the determined footsteps of the young girl before him.  To his eyes,
she appeared around fifteen or a little older perhaps, fair, but lacking the
fineness of features that would have made her beautiful.  Her chestnut braids
swung down to and fro, the uneven ends brushing her knees.  Like most peasants,
she wore a rough woolen tunic, belted at her waist.  Her dirty bare feet moved
noiselessly over the dry grass, contrasting with the crunch of his boots and
the heavy hooves of his horse.

Shortly, they reached
the farm cottage, its low thatched roof shining brightly in the sunlight.  A
few feet from the doorway, the young woman paused.  She drew breath, squared
her shoulders, and turned around to face him.  Deoradhan saw her eyes brimming
with unshed tears and realized how much this departure cost her. 
Poor girl.

“Wait here a moment,
please,” she requested and disappeared into the dark opening.  He waited
patiently, hand resting on Alasdair’s neck.

Soon, the girl reappeared,
accompanied by an older woman.  She addressed Deoradhan.  “I am Burne’s wife,
Lowri.  You are the lord’s messenger?”

“Yes.  I am called
Deoradhan.  Lord Drustan commanded me to escort your daughter to Oxfield.  I
understand that she is to be a maidservant there,” Deoradhan answered gently. 
The woman’s tight mouth and creased forehead indicated her worry over her
child. 
Did my mother look thus when she sent me away?

“I see.”  Burne’s wife
stood quietly for a moment.  “Bethan, get your things together quickly.  Bid
Enid farewell.”

“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.”