Alicia Roque Ruggieri (12 page)

17

The moon still tenuously
held its silver sway over the sky when Tarian slipped from her
elaborately-carved bed.  She hurried with curled feet over the stone floor,
trying to not feel its frigidity while also making her footsteps silent.  Her
clothing hung on pegs by the door, which seemed at least three stades away.

Reaching them, Tarian gave
a mighty shiver that ran through her whole body before she pulled down her
simplest dress.  She didn’t want to appear lofty before her fellow brothers and
sisters, gathered together on this Lord’s Day.  Clutching the dress to her, she
raced back toward the hearth near her bed.  The fire burned low, anticipating
the coming daylight to help to heat the room, but ‘twas still warmer here than
near the drafty door.  As quickly as her numb fingers could accomplish the
task, she struggled into the russet garment, lacing up the sides.  No need to
change her woolen stockings; she pushed her feet into the cold leather shoes.

God, give me courage.

The moon began to lose
its power, black giving way to an ash-gray as Tarian brushed her thick auburn
hair with deft strokes.  She wove it quickly into a braid, finishing the end
with a leather cord.  A splash of freezing water from the basin finished her
preparations.

There.  She was ready. 
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Tarian crossed to the door once more. 
Hesitation would be the death of her actions.  She plucked her cloak from its
peg and wrapped it around her, drawing the hood over her head to conceal her
white face.  She stood there for just a second, welcoming the warmth of the
wool.  Then she moved, out into the dark corridor, lit only by torches sparsely
placed in brackets on the walls.

As mistress of the
estate, Tarian knew where the guards patrolled, knew who was watchful, who was
less cautious and more eager to stay near the warm main hall.  Eyes alert, she
darted through the shadows, keeping her face well-hidden from the flickering
torchlight and her dark cloak concealing her presence.

She moved less fearfully
once she had passed Drustan’s door.  The first Saturday evening, she had needed
to make an excuse for leaving his room in the night.  As a result, she had
spent this past week worrying about what she could say to him to once again
excuse herself from his bed.  Much to her relief, he had not summoned her last
night.  ‘Twas unusual, for Drustan always wanted her available in his chamber
when he stayed at home.

Thank you, Lord.  You
know I would never have been able to get out this morning.
  Tarian breathed a sigh as she
reached one of the fortress’ side doors, meant for servants to exit and enter. 
With both hands, she guided the latch so that the door hinges would not creak. 
A moment more and she stood outside.

Tarian closed her eyes
as the wind brushed her hair and clothing.  Here, in this undefiled air, with
the distant horizon slowly turning from soft gray to palest yellow, she felt
redeemed.  She knew it at other times, aye, but now she felt most keenly that
she belonged to another kingdom.  In this dawn, with no one else around her,
the sense of another Presence grew and surrounded her.  The sense filled her so
strongly that Tarian felt that One walked beside her, One more real than the
stone that made up the fortress behind her. 

She breathed in the
bitterly crisp air, and unexpected tears sprang to her eyes. 
I have heard
Your voice, Lord.  Why has Drustan not?  He says he knows You, but how can he,
living as he does, thinking as he does?

Walking forward, she bit
her lip, her heart agonized. 
Why did I marry him?  Why did I go against my
parents’ wishes?  I was a fool.
  Though ‘twas four years past, she could
still see her mother’s worried face amid the wedding splendor, her father’s
reluctant blessing.  And her priest-uncle’s smiling face encouraging her to go
through with the marriage, despite all the warning signs.

‘Tis in the past now. 
I can’t go back.
 
Tarian sniffed back her tears, wiped her eyes with her hands, and wiped her
hands on her cloak.  She quickened her pace across the courtyard.  One of the
kitchen maids, Deirdre, had offered to accompany her to the mass this week, and
regardless of her confident air, Tarian eagerly had accepted.

Lord, I do want a
friend
, she had
entreated silently afterward, almost embarrassed at her vulnerability. 
Don’t
let Deirdre think that I’m not worthwhile.

Well, time would tell
what the servant thought of Tarian.  Now, she waited for Deirdre by the kitchen
door, rubbing one foot then the other against her legs to keep warm.

~ ~ ~

Calum awoke from a deep
sleep.  Lifting his head from his hands, he sucked in his breath from the ache
in his back and looked toward the house’s single window.  Dawn had begun to
barely touch the night sky.  All night, he had dozed in and out of sleep
sitting up by the bed of Bethan’s mother.  In her fevered illness, Bethan’s
mother thrashed from time to time, her eyes sometimes open but not seeing.  Her
skinny face looked gaunt and deeply lined from the disease that ravaged her
body, yet her disquieted, anguished expression brought him more distress to
see. 
How different from Cairine…
  ‘Twas an inexplicable peace that had
guarded his sister, even as the flames licked her bare feet. 
So must Enoch
have looked, and Moses, Samuel, and John the Baptist…who walked with God. 
Gazing
into the firelight, Calum felt an unnamable longing.

So might you look.
 
The thought came suddenly and not from his own mind, he knew.  Tears rising to
his eyes, he responded. 
But how, Lord?  I am not like these men.  My heart
is not like theirs.
  Feeling the sorrow in every crevice of his spirit,
Calum let his tears drip one by one down his cheeks, watched them spot the
knees of his trousers.  In this darkened house, where one woman slept in aged
sickness and two others in youthful exhaustion, he knew that no one saw his
tears but One.

Cannot You give me a
new heart, Lord, that I may think and do only right and walk purely before You?
 
With few words, he poured out his aching heart before his God, knowing that he
was heard, yet unsure whether his words would be considered worthy.

After a time, Calum
wiped away his tears and stood.  The dawn had lightened the cottage but had
brought little warmth with its arrival.  Taking his flint, he quietly started a
fire in the hearth, coaxing it to vibrant life with dry leaves and twigs.

“Thank you, Calum.”

The softly-spoken words
caused him to turn his head.  Just awake, Bethan sat up next to her slumbering
sister.  Her sweet, pale face held a smile of simple gratitude.

“’Tis my pleasure,
lass,” he answered, smiling back with an effort.  “Your mother still sleeps.  I
thought we could get breakfast going before the little one wakes up.”

Bethan pushed back her
blankets and rose.  “Nay, Calum.  I’ll get breakfast.  You’ve not had any
sleep.”

He shook his head.  “I
have, Bethan.  I dozed all night, if the truth be told.”

Her eyes questioned him.

“I’m fine, lass,” he
said firmly.  “If I want some sleep, I’ll take a nap later.”

“Alright, if you’re
sure, but I’m still preparing breakfast,” she said, her hands going to her
unbound hair.  She began to smooth and braid it, and Calum turned away.

“I’ll fetch some water,”
he said and grabbed the buckets.

~ ~ ~

Feeling more like a
child than she had ever, Tarian picked up the skirt of her dress and ran after
Deirdre.  Her feet pounded the ground beneath her as quickly as her heart beat
within her chest.  Rushing through the dewy, late-autumn grass, she caught up
with her gasping friend as they neared the manor’s walls.  With a glance at the
gate, Tarian grasped Deirdre’s hand.

“Come,” she said.  “I
don’t want to go back just yet.”  She pulled Deirdre down into a little dip in
the ground.  Here, sitting down, they were invisible to those guards on the
manor walls. 

Deirdre fell on her
back, breathing heavily and laughing.  “Oh,” she panted, “I thought you would
never run after me.”

Tarian fell back on the
grass, too.  “Why not?” she demanded.

Deirdre smiled.  “No
reason.”

“Come, now.  Why did you
think I wouldn’t chase you?”

Deirdre shook her head.

“Deirdre, tell me!  I
must know.”

“Well…” Deirdre glanced
up at the sky, her distant smile still pulling up her wide mouth.  “’Tis
beneath your dignity and all, you know, my lady.  And ‘tis not what the master
expects of his wife, I’m sure.”

Tarian sobered.  “No,
it’s not.”  She plucked a few pieces of grass and twisted them together.  “But
neither is attending mass.”

Deirdre turned on her
side, propping her head up on her long hand, so thin that Tarian could see the
blue veins running through it.  “Will he be very angry if he finds out you came
today?”

Tarian tamped down the
fear that rose in her at the thought of facing Drustan.  “I don’t know.  I hope
not.”  She forced a smile.  “Probably, he won’t find out.  He was still
sleeping when I left.  His nephew is visiting, and they stayed up past
midnight.  I’m sure that a cask of ale couldn’t have bested him for drunkenness
last night.”

Deirdre smiled back,
sympathy in her dark eyes.  Tarian felt relief that ‘twas not pity lurking
there.

With a sigh, the kitchen
maid rolled up and stood, brushing the bits of grass off her skirt.  “Well, I
must get back.  Cook will be waiting for me to start the bread with the younger
girls.”  She offered a hand to Tarian, who accepted it and rose to her feet. 
“’Tis too bad you can’t meet Cook; you’d like her, I think, my lady.”

“Why does she not come
to mass?”

Deirdre started walking
toward the manor walls.  The sun had fully risen now, but the air still held a
deep chill, and mist clouded their (and Tarian hoped, the guards’) vision. 
“She can’t move too far from the kitchens nowadays.  Her legs have been badly
swollen for some time.  She spends much of her time with them propped up,
delegating tasks rather than being able to do them herself.”

“Has a physician seen
her?”

Deirdre shrugged. 
“Bricius has some medical knowledge, but Cook prefers the old remedies, she
says.  God works best through nature, she says.  She takes potions and such.”

Tarian nodded.  Her
mother would agree with the old servant, probably.  “I would like to meet her.”

Deirdre smiled.  “Well,
maybe you will, my lady, if God heals her legs and the master doesn’t stop you
from coming to meetings.”

And maybe sooner, if
I keep my courage.
  “We must part ways,” Tarian said as they approached the
side gate.  She pulled her hood up to conceal her face again.  “Farewell.  And
thank you, Deirdre.”

“For what?”

Tarian’s heart felt
full, perhaps for the first time since she’d left home.  “You don’t know…”

She trailed off and
dropped her gaze.  The kitchen maid hesitated a moment, then pulled her into a
gentle embrace.  After a moment, Deirdre released her with a kiss to her
cheek.  “Grace and peace in our Lord, sister,” she murmured.

“Grace and peace,”
Tarian said, not minding the tears that flooded her eyes.

18

Camelot

He walked with a
measured, steady step, remembering times gone by.  Days and weeks, months and
years, when he had sprinted down this same corridor, his heart as light as his
feet, his laughter echoing across the stone walls.

That time has
vanished.
  He raised his chin and quickened his pace.  But the memories of
the past persisted; the pictures rose to his mind unbidden...

He was eight years
old again, his feet bare as they slapped the stone.  Halfway down the hall, he
stubbed his toe on an uneven flag.  Oh, it hurt! Wincing, he grabbed his
offended member and bent curious eyes toward it.  Already red.  And it looked
like the toenail might blacken at that.  But never mind! The child dropped his
foot and set off again at a limping trot.  He must hurry.  The high king waited
for him.

Arthur had said they
would go riding today, just he and Deoradhan.  Of course, some guards would
come along for safety’s sake, but other than that, ‘twould be just the two of
them.  Deoradhan would have the fine little sorrel pony, and the king would
ride his favorite black mare.  He couldn’t stop the smile from nearly splitting
his face in two, showing the gaps where his last baby teeth had fallen out. 
How magnificent!  He would get to spend a whole day with his favorite person in
all of the world.

Suddenly, from behind
him, someone grasped his shoulder, making him whirl around.  ‘Twas the king! 
The man’s blue eyes laughed along with his pleasant mouth at having surprised
canny Deoradhan.  Good.  He was dressed in riding clothes, ready for their
day.  He hadn’t forgotten.  Arthur never forgot, never went back on his word.

“Ready, my lad?”

Deoradhan nodded. 
“Aye!  I’ve brought provisions for us,” he added, lifting up a hefty sack
filled with bread, cheese, and oatcakes.

“Good.  And shall we
bring the dogs with us?” asked the king.

Deoradhan shook his
head.  “No.”

“Why not?”

“They always scare
away the rabbits and thrushes.  And I like to watch them.”

Arthur smiled, that
golden smile that lit up his whole countenance, and Deoradhan felt the blessing
of the king’s approval.  “Most boys your age and older only like to kill the
little animals.  I’m glad you’re not like that, lad.”  He took Deoradhan’s
small hand in his large, battle-callused one.  “Be a protector, lad.  ‘Tis easy
to destroy.”

And he should know. 
He
destroyed my father’s kingdom and nearly wiped his lineage from the earth.
 
Deoradhan set his jaw and strode the last few steps to the king’s private
chambers. 
I will take what is rightfully mine.
  No more trickery.  No
more empty words to stave off a legitimate hunger.

Once again, two guards
stood before the door, alert to his approach.

“Name?” one of them
asked.

“Deoradhan.”

The two guards exchanged
looks.  “Deoradhan of…?”

Deoradhan looked the man
straight in the eyes.  “Deoradhan only,” he stated.  “The king expects me.  Please
tell him I’ve arrived.”  He would stand for none of their self-important
bustling this morning.

The authoritative tone
worked.  “Aye, my lord,” one of the guards murmured and disappeared into the
king’s chambers.

He returned almost
immediately, his manner respectful.  “The king awaits you, my lord.”

The guard held the
smooth wooden door open, but Deoradhan hesitated for just a moment.  He would
enter this chamber as a penniless wanderer, dependent on his conquerors for his
livelihood.  He would exit either unchanged or much changed, a commoner,
forever deprived of his legitimate inheritance, or a king himself, possessing a
dominion in fact.  With a deep breath and his head held upright, he moved
through the familiar doors.

Bearskin rugs carpeted the
floor, their rich color coordinating with that of the gold-threaded tapestries
covering most of the walls.  Deoradhan remembered how often as a boy he had run
his finger over the threads, tracing the stories told in those tapestries.  He
had also liked to lift the heavy wall coverings to see the Roman-style frescoes
behind them, fading remnants of a unifying and civilized culture. 
The kind
of state which my hero Arthur wanted to create once more.

And failed.
  The image of the intensely-divided
great hall flashed into Deoradhan’s mind, and a strange mixture of sadness and
satisfaction filled his heart.  Scholars, warriors, druids, Christians, Romans,
British.  Logress might hold against intruders, Saxons, Jutes, Angles, Irish;
but could it stand the pressure to collapse from within?  Deoradhan guessed
not.

He strode forward,
between the wall torches that always held a flame within this secluded
chamber.  The room was large, holding several recesses, and Deoradhan was
unsure where Arthur would be waiting for him. 
Will anyone be listening to
our conversation?
  Deoradhan smiled. 
Or shall I call it, our
confrontation?

“Deoradhan?”

The familiar voice
called from one of the recesses on the far side of the chamber.  Something
within Deoradhan stirred to hear that sweet tone again. 

“My lord Arthur,” he
responded and stepped to the alcove, his footsteps soft on the rugs.  He held
his breath inwardly as he peered in at the once-beloved man he’d not set eyes
upon for years.

Arthur sat at his carved
writing table, companioned by two shelves holding a few dozen volumes. 
Deoradhan remembered that the king had valued highly the wise works of the
ancients and knew that he must have spent a great deal to procure his little
library, which had grown since the young man left the court.  Even now, the
king had a volume laid open before him as he worked.

As soon as Deoradhan
entered the king’s view, the older man put aside his reed pen and stood. 
“Deoradhan, welcome.”

“Lord Arthur,” Deoradhan
acknowledged, noting that Arthur didn’t offer his hand in friendship. 
How
far our relationship has gone from where ‘twas once.
  “I’m disturbing your
work, I think,” he stated.

Arthur smiled, weariness
hanging around his mouth.  “Nay, I’m just making notes on a few things.  My memory
isn’t what it once was.”  He shook his head, and Deoradhan noticed gray lacing
the gold in the king’s hair.  His cheeks, too, appeared lean and colorless.

“Have you been ill, my
lord?” Deoradhan found himself asking. 
What do you care if he is ill?
  But
tenderness for the man took him by force.

Arthur shook his head. 
“I have many concerns.”  He sighed.  “I suppose they have worn me down a
little.  But I’m glad to see your face again, Deoradhan.  Come, share a cup of
wine and some cakes with me.  ‘Tis early yet, and I’ve not breakfasted.”

With a nod, Deoradhan
acquiesced, and the king moved out of the alcove toward a few cushioned
chairs.  Deoradhan felt the heat rising from beneath the floor and remembered
that Camelot still used its Roman heating system.  He tried to ignore the
pleasant warmth. 
I prefer the peat fires of the north to this conqueror’s borrowed
luxuries.

“How is your old nurse,
Meghyn?  Still at Oxfield’s kitchens, aye?” Arthur asked as he walked, his
movements as always like that of a steady war-horse.

“Aye.  She’s well, as
far as I know.”  Deoradhan felt a bit guilty that the woman who had encompassed
his whole maternal world now entered his thoughts so rarely.

“A good woman, she is,”
commented the high king.

“Aye,” agreed Deoradhan. 
A little small-minded when it comes to religion, but a good woman overall.

They seated themselves,
Deoradhan sitting very straight, and Arthur poured two silver cups of deep red
wine.  Deoradhan accepted his cup, the rich fruity scent filling his nostrils
as he sipped it.  A plate on the low table held some oatcakes, but neither he
nor the king touched them.

“Why have you returned,
my son?”

The question came so
suddenly, so simply.  Taken aback by the king’s directness, Deoradhan couldn’t
find the words to reply at first.  Finally, he answered, “Because you have
taken what is mine, Lord Arthur.”

A look of pain passed
over the king’s face and he stayed silent for a moment.  Deoradhan tensed,
readying himself to answer what defense the man would give.  But the words that
fell from Arthur’s lips surprised him.

“I … cannot tell you how
much I regret some of my early decisions as high king,” he said softly.  “I was
young, but youth doesn’t excuse sin.  I wronged you, Deoradhan.  I should never
have authorized Weylin to do many of the things he did in the north.  I am
sorry, lad.” 

Arthur’s eyes testified
to his sincerity, and Deoradhan couldn’t stop the old affection from rising in
his spirit.  He knew how hard ‘twas for a ruler to admit he had done wrong. 
Perhaps then the man had prepared himself to offer Deoradhan his rightful
reparation.  He waited, sure that the king had more to say.

But Arthur stayed
silent.  Tensely silent, his kind eyes holding Deoradhan’s own.  Finally
Deoradhan commanded quietly, “Give me my father’s land, my lord.  Return what
you have stolen by force.”

Arthur shook his head. 
“Nay.”

“Why?  You said you were
in the wrong.  Do now what is right by me!” he pleaded.

The tired shadows around
the king’s eyes were pronounced as he leaned back in his chair.  “What is done
has been done, lad.  Let it rest.”

Deoradhan snorted.  “Let
it rest!  It has rested for too long.  For half my life, I thought I was your misbegotten
son, for three years that I was orphaned, dependent upon your benevolence. 
When I finally learned the truth from someone else’s lips, you exiled me to
Gaul!”

“I never exiled you,
lad.  We both agreed ‘twas for the best that you spend time away.”

“And who benefited from
that?”

The king furrowed his
eyebrows questioningly.  “I sent you to the best schools to be found abroad.  I
paid for the best tutors, the best education for you, Deoradhan.”

Deoradhan set his jaw. 
“Aye, you bought yourself time, my lord.  You paid for my education, I’ll admit
that.”  He leaned forward, staring into the king’s eyes.  “And tell me, O king,
what have you decided to do with me now?  I’m not giving up my rights as the
son of Eion, king of Lothian, no matter how much you pay out of your
treasuries.”

Arthur’s eyes became
kind iron.  “I cannot give you what you desire, Deoradhan.  Ask for something
else, almost anything else, but Lothian I cannot give you.”

Deoradhan’s anger
flared.  He jumped up from his seat, glaring down at the king.  “Cannot, or
will not?  Sometimes I think you enjoy torturing me.”

“My son—”

“I am not your son!”

“I know that.”  Sorrow
occupied the king’s face.
 I hope he’s as miserable as he’s made me
,
thought Deoradhan.  Suddenly, he remembered another grievance.

“You never even told me
about the son Weylin begot upon my mother,” Deoradhan burst out.  “Is that why
you hesitate?  Because you would rather see that brute’s spawn on Lothian’s
throne?”

The king looked
surprised.  “Who told you about Solas?”

Deoradhan smirked.  “Who
do you think?  His sister, Lady Fiona.  She mistook me for her brother from
faraway.”

Arthur nodded.  “He
rarely comes to court, but you do look very similar.  Solas, however, is beside
the point.  He has nothing to do with my decision.”  He looked straight into
Deoradhan’s eyes.  “And it is a decision, Deoradhan, not a hesitation.  For the
good of all Logress, I must stand firm.  How can I possibly put you on
Lothian’s throne?  Years ago, I gave Weylin leave to conquer Dunpeledyr because
your father would not submit to the unification.  Now you think I can replace
my representative with the son of my former opponent?”  He shook his head. 
“Nay.  As long as he stays loyal to me and abides by the laws of Camelot,
Weylin remains on Lothian’s throne.”

“But it is my rightful
place!” Deoradhan exclaimed, tears of anger rising to his eyes.  “Lothian was
not yours to take.”

Arthur stood.  “I am
high king, Deoradhan.  And I decide what is your rightful place.”

Deoradhan faced that
unyielding wall, resentment rising.  After a moment, Arthur sat back down.  The
king continued softly, “I cannot change what Weylin has done.  He will have to
answer to God for that.”

Deoradhan gave a hard
laugh.  “Your God judges even less fairly than you do.”

Arthur paused, then
said, “There are several regions across Logress in need of leadership.  If you
wish, I will name you lord over whichever land you choose—”

Deoradhan turned his
back to the king, purposely disrespecting him.  “Keep your lands.  I don’t want
them.”