Alicia Roque Ruggieri (10 page)

14

Camelot

Arthur was not in
attendance.

I knew he was a
coward, sending other men to fight his battles, avoiding personal conflict at
every turn.
  Deoradhan lowered the king one more notch in his estimation as
he rose from his seat at the common tables.  He had chosen to sit far from his
old place, spiting his own desire to slip into boyhood nostalgia.  Besides, the
fewer people who recognized the supposed prodigal, the better.

Gwenhwyfar saw him from
her place on the dais.  She smiled hesitantly, nodding briefly at him before
turning back to her witty flirtation with a young warrior who flashed his
strong white teeth in simper after false simper.  Deoradhan smirked.  The high
queen had not changed, then, neither in her behavior toward men nor in her
attitude toward him.  He half-pitied her in the latter, for her suspicion that
Arthur had fathered him missed the mark so badly.  He did not think Arthur had
misled her deliberately on that score; how could she help believing what half
of Camelot delighted to whisper?

Cup of mead in hand, he
let his eyes rove over the diners.  The divisions among Arthur’s followers had
grown more obvious with the years.  There sat the philosophers, bards, and some
of the thinking warriors; he had seen his old friend Percivale among them. 
They talked quietly with raised brows and pondering eyes.  Every once in a
while, one of them would burst out at an idea another had suggested.  Yonder
were those of brute strength, who drank until their heads swam and boasted
loudly and sometimes bawdily of their adventures.  Pro-Roman dissenters sat by
themselves, sulky looks pulling down their faces; they dressed in toga-like
garments with not a barbarian trouser to be found on any hairy leg among them. 
The privileged warriors and honored guests sat with the queen on her raised
platform.  Deoradhan smiled.  He alone had no one with whom he belonged here.

Deoradhan made his way
toward the door.  Arthur had promised to see him tomorrow, and he had never
known the Pendragon to break his word, even to his own hurt.  Perhaps, he
mused, ‘twas this deep-set trustworthiness that cemented the nobles’ loyalty to
the king, despite all of the political differences that crackled in Logress. 
For himself, Deoradhan knew ‘twas this guilelessness that had allured him.

Still, he could not help
asking a gray-haired guard by the door, “Does the king often refuse his
supper?”

The guard, who did not
know him, frowned.  “He takes his supper, alright, but more often than not, in
his private chambers.  Too much worry over northern rebellions for him to put
on a cheerful face every night nowadays, I suppose.  Besides, if you ask me,
the queen’s behavior doesn’t do much to encourage a husband to come to supper,”
he added with a grimace, his eyes resting on the dais.

Deoradhan raised his
dark eyebrows and shrugged.  “True.  Why would he come?  To be embarrassed
every time the golden bird sings to another?” he stated, using the name for
Gwenhwyfar that he’d once heard Arthur call her affectionately.

“Aye.”  Deoradhan felt
the man’s eyes on him even as he looked away.  “Where are you from, young man?”

“Here and there,”
Deoradhan replied.  “Trying to find my place, you know.”

The guard nodded. 
“Well, Arthur’s Camelot is as good a spot as you’ll find for doing that.  Talk
to the king, lad; he’s bound to have something for you to put your hand or mind
to.  Are you a warrior?  A scholar?  Horseman?”

“A bit of each.  Excuse
me.”  Deoradhan moved away from the guard’s questions.  He no longer desired to
lie as Arthur had done about his identity, and yet he could not endanger his
chances with a too-soon revelation.  Best to be wary and keep his mouth quiet.

Lost in thought, he had
gone only a few steps down the long stone corridor when he heard a door whap
closed behind him to his left.  He gave no heed to it; Arthur’s guest chambers
appeared full to bursting.  Neither did he attend when he heard a buoyant
female voice exclaim, “Solas?”

Deoradhan broke out of
his reverie when the scurrying feet approached him from behind.  He turned just
as the speaker caught his elbow in her hand to gain his attention.  The
surprised look on the girl’s face amused him; her beauty and demeanor then
charmed him, reminding him of Aine, his Aine.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,
m’lord,” she gasped, her full cheeks turning pink as she dropped her hand from
his elbow.  “I thought you were someone that I know.”

Smiling, he looked down
at the petite young woman.  “There’s no harm done, m’lady.  Whomever you were
looking for will be sorry to have missed you, I’m certain.”

She shook her head, her
heavy blond tresses swinging with the movement.  “I wasn’t searching for
anyone, really.  Actually, I thought that you were someone I hadn’t expected to
see here at all.”  She peered at him closely.  “And truly,” she added after a
moment, “until I came near to you, I thought you were he.  I saw you as you
walked by my open door, and I hoped…”  She trailed off and gave him a smile
that shone from her gray eyes.  “Never mind.  I’m sorry to have kept you from
your business, my lord.”

She turned to go, but
Deoradhan stopped her on impulse.  Her girlish sweetness, her innocence, filled
his mind so full of Aine that he wanted to relish the feeling a little longer. 
“You’ve not kept me from anything.  I’m a newcomer here and thought I’d ramble
after supping in the Hall.  Would you keep me company awhile?  Unless you’ve
something else you must do.”

She hesitated, but then
Deoradhan saw her eyes linger on his face.  Perhaps she, too, wanted to be
reminded of him for whom she had hoped.  “Alright,” she said slowly, “but we
must keep to the corridors.  The queen doesn’t care for her ladies-in-waiting
to wander too far after dark.”

“Certainly.”  He
smiled.  “By the way, I’m Deoradhan.”

“Fiona, daughter of
Weylin.  I’m glad to meet you.”

They began walking
slowly, their footsteps echoing softly.

“So why have you come to
the great Camelot, Deoradhan, if I may ask?”

Deoradhan glanced over
at her.  She was too young to have lived here many years; he could safely tell
her a little truth, he decided.  “Camelot was my childhood home, but for some
time, I’ve been abroad.”

“Fighting?”

“Learning.  I stayed at
a great monastery in Gaul, renowned for its library and educated monks.”

Her gray eyes glittered
with interest.  “Truly?  I would give much for such an opportunity.”  She
sighed wistfully, her hand running over the stone wall as they walked.

“Aye?  You like books,
then?”

She gave an enthusiastic
nod.  “Oh, aye.  Well,” she checked herself with a smile, “not all books.  I’m
afraid I draw the line at the really ponderous works.  Do you want to know the
best passage I ever read, though?”  She gave a little skip and then stopped
walking, waiting for his agreement.

He nodded.  Her
eagerness engaged his attention.

“You’ve probably read it
already,” she said, “but it’s worth hearing again.”  She paused and then began,
her voice drawing the words out like a bee gathering nectar.  “
Quia fecisti
nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum, donee requiescat in te.  Da mihi,
domine, scire et intellegere, utrum sit prius invocare te au laudare te, et
scire te prius sit an invocare te?  Sed quis te invocat nesciens te?”
 
Finished, she looked up at him, waiting for his reaction.

Deoradhan worked to
school his features and believed he had succeeded.  “I must admit, my lady, I
expected Catullus or some other Roman poet.  I thought you said you didn’t care
for ponderous books?”

She laughed.  “I don’t. 
Augustine’s words feed my soul like a rich dessert, my lord.  I cannot get
enough of it.”  She looked at him.  “And you, my lord?  Do you like the
bishop’s writings?  You must have read them in your monastery.”

“I did.”  He paused,
keeping his face composed, reining in the painful desire that rose in his heart
at those words.  A desire he kept locked away, guarded by lions of anger and
bitterness, a desire that disturbed his sleep and drew him relentlessly to
beauty.

Quia fecisti nos ad
te et inquietum est cor nostrum, donee requiescat in te…

For You created us
for Yourself, and our heart is restless, until it rests in You…

“And?” Fiona prompted. 
“Do you think well of him?”

“Aye and nay,” Deoradhan
replied.  “I appreciate his writing.  It’s very beautiful.  But I cannot
believe it to be true.”

“Why not?”

“Because if there is a
God, He is not the way Augustine describes Him.”

She looked up at him,
quizzical.  “But you said that you find his words beautiful.”

He nodded warily.

“Can there be real
beauty without truth?  Beauty is the child of truth.  Even if you disagree with
most of what Augustine says, his words must contain some nugget of truth, some
way in which he speaks rightly, aye?  Or you wouldn’t find his writing
genuinely beautiful.”

Deoradhan raised his
chin.  What did this court girl know?  “Perhaps there is a God, as Augustine
says, my lady.  But I would rather believe that there is no God, for this world
testifies him to be cruel, unjust, and capricious.  The worst of men would be
more divine than a god like that.”

She was quiet for a
moment.  “I think you have it backwards, my lord.  Everything in this world
shows man to be capable of the worst atrocities and yet God to be faithful.  As
the Scriptures say, He is gracious and merciful always.”

Deoradhan snorted.  He
couldn’t help himself.  “Forgive me, Lady Fiona, but my life has contradicted
this.  Perhaps I think God unjust because I’ve found Him to be so.”

“What do you mean?”  She
looked at him with steady eyes, holding no anger toward him despite his
rudeness.

“I’ve seen great
suffering, my lady, in my own life and in that of others.  Suffering that had
no reason preceding it nor any following after.”  His lips turned up in
contempt.  “And much of it carried out in the name of your God.”

She had her head tilted
to one side, listening hard.  Good.  She would see he spoke judiciously.  He
continued, laying out the case before her.  “My father was a good man, loving,
who treated the ancient gods with respect and cared for the poor at his own
expense.  Yet, an enemy struck him down while he was a young man, an enemy who
claimed to follow your God.  According to your beliefs, my father, the innocent
one, will suffer—is suffering—eternal death at the hands of a merciful God.” 
He paused to let his words sink in.  “Is that fair?”

The golden-haired girl
remained silent for a few moments. 
She doesn’t know how to answer that one.
 
Finally, she stopped and turned toward him.  When she spoke, it was in a quiet
voice, gentle as a spring breeze touching his cheek.  “My lord, may I tell you
a story?” she asked, and they turned a corner in the corridor.  At Deoradhan’s
nod, she continued, “Not far from here there is a bog where, many years ago
now, the druid priests tossed a body.”

Deoradhan waited, not
seeing how this connected to his question.  “The druids often engage in ritual
human sacrifice, even for celebrations.  They revive the earth.”

“Yes, but this was no
ordinary sacrifice.  ‘Twas the body of a prince, strangled, throat cut, skull
crushed.  His years numbered only a few more than yours, my lord, and yet he
went to his death willingly, believing that he would enter life again and more
than that, bring life to all his people.  You see, the Romans were invading the
island, and this young man’s father feared for his tribe.  So the chief asked
his only son to give his life in the place of others.  And his son endured a
gruesome death, glad to do his father’s will, glad to redeem many lives with
his own.”  She looked intently at him, seeing if he understood.

Deoradhan could not
resist.  He raised his eyebrows and said, “But it was for nothing.  The Romans
came and conquered the land, destroyed it, and ravaged it anyway.  The prince’s
sacrifice was for nothing.”

She shook her head.  “No
sacrifice passes without meaning.  His father watched, Lord Deoradhan.  He saw
the priests cut his son’s throat, garrot him, crush his skull, toss out his
body like refuse in the wet bog.” 

“That the father had
been compassionate to his son as well as to his people,” Deoradhan muttered.

“There was no other
way.  A sacrifice had to be made of the highest and noblest, the most worthy.”

Deoradhan raised his
eyebrows.  “My guess is that you’re drawing a comparison between the Roman God
and this chief-father.  And so you call what this man did to his son merciful?”

He watched as she bit
her lip.  “‘Twas a hard mercy, to be sure.  How the prince’s death must have
killed the father as well.  Yet, remember, too, that the druids believed that
the prince would be reborn someday, remade into something more glorious for his
sacrifice.”