Alicia Roque Ruggieri (11 page)

Deoradhan nodded
reluctantly.  The theme of rebirth wove its way into all druid practices,
giving hope to the sacrificial victim.  The natural cycle of life and death,
summer and winter affirmed this belief as well. 
Still…

“My lord,” Fiona said in
earnest, “there is another Father who also gave His Son, not for His friends
but for His enemies.  I think you know of whom I speak.”

Deoradhan raised his
head.  He would not soften toward this invading, cowardly Roman God. 
He
took from me everything I had, everyone I could have loved…

“Stiffen all you like,
my lord, but it’s true.  You wouldn’t be angry unless there was some truth in
it or some wrong in you.”

Red rose to Deoradhan’s
cheeks, and he determined to hear the girl out.  “No, my lady.  I’m listening.”

“I’m not a learned girl,
Lord Deoradhan.  I don’t have all the logical answers for you.  But when the
Living God at last captures your heart, I believe that you will have all your
answers.”

He met her gaze coolly,
feeling the anger burning up in his chest.  “Your God will never capture my
heart, Lady Fiona.  He forfeited His rights to it a long time ago.”

She looked back at him
without a trace of anger, and he felt like he addressed this almighty God
Himself through her.  “You see, I don’t want a god who is unjust, a god who
damns a man because he’s seen through that god’s hypocritical cruelty.  I would
rather suffer in that god’s hell eternally than serve him,” Deoradhan stated.

Lady Fiona was silent
for a moment.  Finally, she spoke quietly, “God does not need to justify
Himself to you, my lord.  My whole life has been a lesson in that, I think. 
And you know,” she added, “when I come up against something I don’t understand,
there’s a Scripture that always comes to my mind.”  Her eyes gazed simply into
his. “‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?’  I must bow
before His wisdom then, aye?”

Deoradhan could not
reply.  The pressure to run built up within him, to flee from this idea as well
as to flee toward it.  Everything that had been settled and clear suddenly
appeared a dark upheaval to him. 
I cannot see to step forward or to hold
back.
  Finally, he said, “My friend Calum believes as you do.”

“Oh?”

“Aye.  He lives at
Oxfield in the south, where he is commander of the guards.  He often tries to
convince me to follow him in his beliefs, but…”

“But…?” she prompted
after he paused.

“Maybe I need time to
think.”

“Don’t procrastinate, my
lord.  ‘Tis the one duty in life for which ‘twill not do to put it off,” Fiona
cautioned.

They continued walking
silently for a time before he said, trying to lighten the mood, lessen the
tension that hung heavy as a coat of mail on them, “So who did you think I was
when you first called out to me, Lady Fiona?”

He saw a smile grow on
her lips.  “Solas.  I thought you were Solas.”

“Solas?  Is he a
sweetheart, my lady?”

She shook her head. 
“Nay, nothing like that.  Solas is my younger brother.  Well, half-brother,”
she corrected herself.

“You have the same
father then?”

“Aye.  Unfortunately, it
seems at times.”  She gave a little laugh.

“Your father is unkind,”
Deoradhan stated.

“To put it mildly, aye,
he is unkind.”  She bit her lip.  “Poor Solas.  He tolerates such abuse toward
himself.  He is not the brutish warrior my father would wish for in a son; he
lacks vengefulness, pride, callousness—everything my father believes is needful
for the next king of Lothian.”

King of Lothian.
  The words spun into Deoradhan’s
brain with the power of an axe.  “Lothian, you say?  Your father is king of
Lothian?” he asked, unable to swallow.

“Aye, for many years
now.”

“Then he was not always
Lothian’s king?”

“Nay, he was not.  But
how he came to be, ‘tis a story I would rather not tell.  ‘Tis too sad an
account to speak of,” Fiona said.  “I do not know all the details anyway; I was
so young at the time it occurred, only a babe in my nurse’s arms, really. 
Solas knows more, but he doesn’t want to burden me.”

“How did Solas come to
know of this, if he was born after you?”

“His mother, the queen,
told him, my lord.  But again, I think it best not to speak of what has gone
before and can’t be changed.  Better to look ahead and do rightly now.”

With a thundering heart,
Deoradhan nodded his assent and brought their walk to as swift a close as politeness
would permit.  He had much thinking to do before the next morning dawned and
his audience with the Pendragon commenced.

15

West Lea

Calum’s horse moved
forward with relentless smooth swiftness.  Already, Bethan glimpsed her
childhood home, its thatched roof rising humbly against the fields behind it. 
The wide road ran right past the hut’s door, and a traveling stranger would
have taken the abode for a place of peace, of homey country existence between
the late autumn fields and the golden wood beyond.

Bethan closed her eyes,
taking a lung-filling breath.  Her heart leaped ahead of her, toward the
cottage, rushing down its dirt path into the shadowy doorway.  The entrance to
her home gaped wide; it seemed to her a toothless mouth in a disheartened
countenance.  In that darkness, she knew her mama lay ill.

Maybe to death, or I
would never have been summoned from Oxfield.

Yet, while her deep love
for Mama drew her on, moved her to rush to her side, a visceral fear loomed over
her as well.  Like a night owl descends on its prey, it threatened to engulf
her.  That part of her urged her to hold back, to run away, even.  To save
herself from the fear and sorrow that surely awaited her within that doorway.

God is our refuge and
strength, a very present help in trouble.  Therefore we will not fear…

Bethan felt Calum riding
behind her, a sturdy and unwavering presence.  An unexpected sense of security,
tinged with joy, filled her. 
Lord, You have provided a fortress of Your
strength for me in this friend.

“We’re here, lass,”
Calum murmured, reining his horse to a halt.  He handed her the thick leather
straps and dismounted, then reached up to help her to the ground.

He must have sensed her
hesitation because he smiled and said, “Don’t be afraid.  God is with you,
Bethan.”  The gentle tone smoothed the rough texture of his voice and
replenished her courage.  With a steadying breath, she set her hands on his
shoulders and let him lift her down to the ground. 

Hand on her arm, Calum
guided her forward, his nearness assuring her that he would support her
regardless of what they faced within the cottage.  Side by side, they walked
down the rocky little path to the door.  It stood open, despite the biting late
October chill.  A few steps away from the door, Bethan saw a pair of blue eyes
staring at her from within.  They belonged to a little girl dressed carelessly,
her hair wild and her face uncommonly dirty and frightened.

“Enid!” Bethan
exclaimed.  The child hesitated just a moment before rushing forward, landing
with a thump against Bethan’s skirt.  She hid her face and clung to Bethan with
a grip from her tiny hands so strong it almost hurt.  Pained to see her little
sister so terrified, Bethan gathered Enid in her arms, soothing her with words
and long strokes on the child’s hair.

After her sister seemed
a little reassured, Bethan asked, “Where is Mama, Enid-love?”

The little girl stayed
silent, head buried against Bethan’s legs.  Bethan looked up at Calum who
encouraged her with a nod.  Crouching down, she pulled Enid up into her arms,
feeling the bony pressure of her arms and knees as she clung like lichen to a
tree trunk.  Holding the child thus, she pushed her wayward hair out of her
eyes and willed her feet to move through the doorway and into the cottage.

He had entered many
houses of hardship, had put swords through men’s guts, had bound numerous open
wounds, so the stench and sights could not frighten him.  Indeed, ‘twas very
like what Calum had expected to find, right down to the neighbor woman tending
to Bethan’s sick mother, bathing her head with a rag dipped in brackish water. 
‘Twas Bethan that would need acclimating, not he.  He glanced at her, still
clutching her sister to her, eyes wide with dread.  Bethan stood motionless in
front of the doorway, silhouetted by the bright afternoon sunlight.  Calum knew
he must be the one to act right now, not she.

The nurse had stood when
they entered, her gruff face tired.  Calum stepped forward toward her.  “Ma’am,
I’m a guard from Oxfield.  Bethan and I have come to tend her mama.”

The woman sighed, her
weariness a little lifted at the news.  “Well, that’s good.  Me, I’m
bone-tired, what with caring for my own home and these ones as well.  Good. 
Well, then, I’ll leave you both to it.”  She moved toward the doorway,
evidently eager to shift the mantle of responsibility onto someone else’s
shoulders. 

The woman paused when
she reached Bethan’s side and laid a forefinger on Enid’s cheek.  “Sweet one,
this,” she remarked.  “Poor thing, so young to be motherless.”

Calum saw the fear run
across Bethan’s eyes at the woman’s words.  Quickly, he said, “Thank you for
your help here, ma’am.  Bethan and I can manage now, I think, and you’ll want
to be getting back to the village before dark.”

The woman nodded and
stepped outside, her shawl-draped figure dissolving into the twilight.  Calum
shut the door and turned toward the bed, one of the few pieces of furniture in
the cottage.  There Lowri lay, her face rash-red with fever, covered to her
chin with woolen bedclothes.  Knowing that the village woman had been caring
for her, he felt easy to take the time to stoke the fire in the hearth before
tending to her.

By the time he had
finished adding more peat to the fire, Bethan had begun to pick up where the
nurse had left off.  She bathed her mama’s arms and face, tenderly drawing the
rag over her cheeks and eyelids.  Enid stayed closely beside her all the while,
her huge brown eyes trained unblinkingly on her immobile mother.  How long the
child had been left without real care, Calum did not even desire to question. 
He knew only that she needed distraction from sorrow and Bethan needed his
help.

“Little lassie,” he
said, coming down on one knee before her, his eyes on level with hers, if she
would turn them toward him, “little lassie, I must fetch some fresh water from
the river.  Will you come to show me the way I must go?”

The child glanced toward
him with troubled eyes, her thoughts evidently still on the woman lying on the
bed, then she looked up at her sister.  Calum saw Bethan force a smile despite
her concern.  “Enid, this is my friend Calum.  He’s come to help me take care
of Mama.”  The child turned her eyes back to Calum.  “Can you show him the way,
lass?” Bethan prodded.

Enid nodded and picked
up one of the buckets by the door.  Bethan turned to Calum.  “Thank you,” she
said.

Gladdened to help her,
Calum grasped the other bucket’s handle and opened the door.  “We’ll return
shortly, lass,” he said, his hand guiding the little girl before him.

16

Oxfield

“Have you seen him?”

The unexpected
exclamation behind her made Aine stab her finger with the bone needle.  “Ouch! 
Winter, don’t do that!” she said and put her finger in her mouth to staunch the
bleeding.

The tall girl flounced
into the room, slamming the door behind her.  The kitchen was nearly empty. 
The morning work had been completed; Aine sewed by the light of a candle stub. 
Only Cook sat snoozing in the corner by the great hearth, her feet propped up
on another stool.  With her eyebrows raised, Winter dropped onto the bench
beside Aine.

“Someone’s peevish,
aren’t they?” she said, and Aine blushed, uncomfortable.  She never spoke a
word contrary to Winter.  Her outburst resulted from her anxiety over
Deoradhan’s absence, she knew.

“I’m sorry, Winter,” she
apologized.  “Forget that I said that.”  She hoped the older girl wouldn’t hold
the little incident against her.  She needed all the friends she could get.

Winter shrugged,
obviously still put out.  “Perhaps I needn’t tell you about him after all. 
Maybe you’ve already seen him.  Or maybe you don’t care anyway.”

“Seen whom?  What are
you talking about?  Is Deoradhan back?”  The question slipped out before she
thought.  For the second time since Winter entered, she flushed berry-red.  No
one knew of her pledge to Deoradhan yet.

Winter’s mouth turned up
at the corners.  “Oh, is that it, Aine?  Marcus mentioned he had seen the two
of you kissing on the night of the dance.  And are you promised to him?”

Aine blushed a deeper
shade at being found out.  She nodded, helpless to lie to Winter.

The girl leaned back, a
satisfied smile on her lips.  “Well, that explains it, then.  I don’t know why
I didn’t guess.”

“Explains what?” asked
Aine, desperate to get onto a different conversation track.

“Explains why you are
uninterested in our very interesting visitor.”

Aine frowned.  “Whom are
you speaking of?  I’ve not seen any new visitor to the kitchens.  For certain,
not a boy.”

Winter’s laugh became
unbridled at this.  “No, he’s not a visitor to the kitchens.  To the great
house, my lass!  And he’s no lad like your Deoradhan, but a hearty warrior of
thirty years or so.  A cousin to the lord or something like that, on his way to
Camelot.”  She sighed and rested her chin on her hands.  “So handsome he is! 
Hair as black as the raven’s feather, eyes the color of a moonless sky. 
Confident, dashing, everything you could wish for, I’m telling you.”

“Aye, and what good does
it do you, Winter?  Or any of us?  He’ll not care one bit for a common girl
with no family or money, not give a second glance.”

Winter’s head came off
her hands.  “Oh, won’t he?  We’ll see about that.”  She rose to her feet and
began to loosen her blond hair from its double braids.

Worry crept into Aine’s
heart as she watched her friend.  “Winter, what are you doing?”

Her hair falling in a
wavy cloak down to her waist, Winter smirked.  “You’ll see.”  She moved toward
the shelf where Aine knew she kept her personal articles and extra clothing. 
The older girl rummaged among her own things a little, then pulled out a clean
shift.  Quickly shedding her clothing, she slid the new garment over her head. 
Aine expected her to finish by putting on her everyday tunic over it, but
Winter turned to another shelf.

“Winter…” Aine trailed
off as Winter snatched a green linen tunic from Riach’s belongings.

“She won’t mind,” Winter
said.  “She never wears it anyway.  See, doesn’t it fit me well?”  She tied the
brown girdle around her small waist and turned to let Aine behold the moment’s
full glory. 

Aine looked back at her,
uneasy.  “What are you planning to do?”

Winter raised her chin. 
“I’m going to prove that he’ll give me a second glance, dear Aine.  Care to
come along?” she asked, moving toward the door.

Aine hesitated, torn. 
Part of her wanted to join in on the lively fun Winter had planned for herself;
but another part of her desired to stay here, sewing this new tunic for
Deoradhan, happily dwelling on the remembrance of his face and their affection
for one another.  “Well…”

“Come on,” Winter
commanded.  “You can see for yourself.”

Aine obeyed, reluctantly
following the determined footsteps of her leader.

~ ~ ~

Winter tossed to the
other side.  Her feelings of anger and humiliation wrestled her, preventing her
from sleep as surely as if they guarded a holy city from an intruder.  If
asked, she wouldn’t have been able to say whether she hated the young man or
Aine more.  In the dimly-lit room, she stared at the back of Aine’s head. 
I
hate her more
, she realized and felt bitter satisfaction as the admittance
settled in her heart.

It’s your own fault.
  The thought pushed forward, a
symptom of her lingering conscience. 
If you hadn’t paraded before him…

No.  I just shouldn’t
have brought her with me.  She always spoils everything.
  Winter rolled
onto her back and gazed unblinking up at the ceiling, remembering.

She had rushed into
the courtyard, her hair streaming behind her like a palomino horse’s tail. 
Riach’s fine green dress hung perfectly on her, she knew.  Riach always had a
little more than everyone else; her father served as a personal attendant to
Lord Drustan.  Eagerly, Winter looked for the visitor.  She had seen him
talking with some guards near the stables just a little while ago.  With any
luck, he would still be there.

Aware of wide-eyed
Aine trailing behind her, Winter tried to think of a way to surely attract the
man’s attention if her appearance alone didn’t accomplish the feat.  She
couldn’t fail before Aine.  She just couldn’t.  How would she ever regain her
authority among the girls?

Ah.  She stopped. 
There, among a group of gabbing men, he sat, occupying a stone bench like a
king on his throne.  My, wasn’t he handsome, like a god?  His raven hair fell
to his shoulders, slightly unruly, as became a man of action.  His molded face
held a pair of flashing black eyes, framed by eyelashes which any maiden would
crave for her own countenance.  His teeth (and none were missing) were as white
as newly-washed sheep when he laughed, which he often did.

Studying him, Winter
wondered how she would make her approach.  Then she saw her friend Owen among
the cluster.  Perhaps the best way would be indirect, to catch his attention
without seeming to try.  With a smile, she raised an eyebrow to Aine and plowed
forward, making sure to put an extra bounce to her steps and a come-hither
expression to her eyes.

“Owen!” she exclaimed
when she was still far enough from the group to see how many of the men looked
up.  To her satisfaction, they all did, including the man with the shiny black
eyes.  She was aware of how his gaze traveled over her from her golden tresses
down to her delicate bare feet, which wore an anklet bracelet with bells, a
gift from a former admirer.

Owen flushed with
pleasure at being singled out by her.  He had always wanted her attentions. 
“Winter,” he greeted her.

“Why haven’t you come
to see me lately?” she asked, giving him the most inviting smile she could
conjure.  She would show this young noble visitor a temptation he could not
resist.  Already, she sensed the man’s eyes sliding over her curvaceous form,
and she reacted to the feeling with a shiver of gratification.

Owen grinned back,
and Winter forced herself not to grimace at his filthy teeth, knowing that
appearance counted for all at this moment.  “I didn’t know I would be welcome,
but now that you’ve invited me…” he trailed off, his eyes telling her things
she would rather not hear.  Not from Owen, at any rate.

“Of course.  Come any
time you like,” she hastily assured him.  “Now, aren’t you going to introduce
me to your new friend?”  She turned her eyes, letting the lids droop slightly,
toward the man in question.  “Or shall I do the honors myself?  My lord, my
name is Winter, daughter of Aden.  And you are…”

“Lancelot, son of
Bors,” he answered her, standing up with a polished smile, “A lord without land
or money, my lady.”

“Winter is a common
girl, my lord,” inserted one of the guards present.

“Do you have eyes in
your head, man?” rejoined the god.  “Is such beauty ever common?”

Winter flashed him a
shy smile, and he grinned back.  The other men snickered and whistled, teasing
and goading on their flirtation.

“If you think Winter
is pretty, look to her friend, my lord,” piped up another young man, that awful
Peter, who had always thought that Winter was too vain for her own good.  Her
heart skidded to a halt as the whole group of men turned like buyers at the
village market to compare cuts of meat.  Now ‘twas too late for Winter to
prevent Lord Lancelot from looking at this friend.  Aine still stood closely
behind her, and with one step, he could see her.

He audibly inhaled at
the sight of what Winter knew was an ethereal, fairy-like loveliness.  If he
was a warrior god, Aine was a goddess who combined the double draw of innocence
and desire in her every look, every line.

And Aine had the nerve
to blush at his open admiration.  Though only a trained harlot could have
withstood such a stare without coloring.  His eyes undressed her with their
dark, heavy gaze.  He might as well as run his fingers through her hair, pulled
her garment from her back.
 

At that moment, he
forgot all about me in his lusting after her.

Aine’s beauty of form
and face had fascinated him, like the scent of a mare intrigues a stallion. 
Aine knew it, too.  Winter was certain of that.  The younger girl had remained
quiet, even more so than usual, on their way back to the kitchen.  That despite
Winter having tried to converse with Aine, showing her that the man’s behavior
had not affected her in the least.

Stupid girl!
  Not
only had she captured Deoradhan, Oxfield’s prize, Aine now continued her
heart-hunting. 
She always has to be the one everyone admires.  And innocent
as she is, she probably doesn’t even know why men look at her.
  Winter
flopped over onto her other side, no closer to sleep than she had been an hour
before. 
And I’m stuck with foul-breathed Owen!
  Who would now be coming
to call, thanks to her open invitation this evening.

Innocent as she is…

A smile crept onto Winter’s
lips.  Perhaps Lancelot was just the man to show Aine the dangers of having
that oh-so-pretty face.  The daisy would be no worse for the wear with a few
petals plucked.  Better for Deoradhan, too, in the long run.  If Lancelot
despoiled her just a bit, maybe Aine wouldn’t be so eager for men’s attention,
would she?  Of course, Winter wouldn’t encourage the girl toward too much
folly; just enough to make her a little embarrassed when Deoradhan returned. 
What pleasure it would give Winter to see the little goddess try to hide her
romantic intrigue then! 

Really, I’m doing
both Aine and Deoradhan a favor if I push her toward a little foolishness now. 
How will she ever become wise to the ways of men if she doesn’t learn to
navigate their tricks?
 

Her heart eased by the
incubating plot, Winter pulled her scratchy blanket up to her chin and sighed. 
Recompense drew near; she was sure of it.