Alicia Roque Ruggieri (16 page)

“You don’t need to
remember anything, Aine, my love,” whispered the lord.  His words soothed her,
drove away any thoughts of worry away.  “I’ll take care of you tonight.”

“Alright,” she sighed. 
“Where did you say we’re going?”

“I’m taking you to a
kind of paradise, my lass,” he answered.

“Avalon…Isle of Apples…”

She heard him laugh. 
“Aye, We’ll call it Avalon.”

“Why…why are we going?”
she yawned.

“I want to show you
something that you will enjoy, I promise.”

“Alright,” she heard
herself reply as if from faraway.  She knew now.  She had turned into a fairy,
and he carried her to paradise.

She felt the long
strides beneath her pause.  When the forward motion stopped, her mind cleared
just a little, enough for her to remember she was no part of the immortal
race.  Her eyes drifted open, and she saw Lord Lancelot’s hand lift the latch
on the door before them and push the door open.  It led into a dark chamber. 
Inexplicably, the sight wrought terror and helplessness deep into Aine’s
heart.  Some bad thing waited for her in that room, she knew it.  She began to
wriggle in his arms, desperate to get away.

“Nay, not in there, not
in there,” she mumbled through heavy lips.

He chuckled and held her
tightly, stepping into the darkness.  “You’ll not get away so soon, Aine.  You
must spend some time here with me, in Avalon.  Then I’ll bring you back to
earth.”  She felt his smooth cheeks brush her hair as he bent his head to kiss
her mouth.  “There’s nothing to fear, I promise.  You’ll like it here very
much.”

His kiss brought back
some awareness back to her.  Faintly, she heard the door close behind them. 
Never had Deoradhan kissed her so intensely. 
Deoradhan…
  She began to
squirm again, her limbs gaining back a little strength.

“Stop, stop it, Aine.  I
just want to kiss you.  Just let me kiss you, my love,” Lord Lancelot implored,
gripping her until she stopped moving.

Her mind moved slowly
but clearly now.  
I’m in far over my head.  Stupid, stupid girl!  What was I
thinking earlier?
  His arms wrapped around her like a sea serpent,
threatening to drown her.

He is Lord Drustan’s
nephew.
  She stiffened but didn’t pull away when he lowered his face to
kiss her again.  And again. 
I can do nothing now.  He is Lord Drustan’s
nephew.
  Perhaps he only wanted her to give her kisses, like he had said.

“Come, we’ll be more
comfortable here,” he said after long moments.  Holding her in his arms, Lord
Lancelot stepped through the room, toward the deepest shadows.

Breathe.  Keep
breathing.
  Aine let out a shattered breath as he lowered her onto a bed in
the darkness.  She clutched the fur covers with both hands as the blood pounded
in her ears against the pillows.  Lord Lancelot sat on the edge of the bed,
blocking out the moonlight entering from the one window.

Finally, she whimpered,
“Please, my lord, I am promised to another man.  You haven’t the right to…”

“Is he a nobleman?” he
asked, his hand stroking her hair as he would pet a lamb he was about to
slaughter.

Aine shook her head,
tears blinding her.

“Then I have the right,”
Lord Lancelot assured her kindly.  “Don’t be afraid.”

Feeling how powerless
she was, Aine closed her eyes as she felt his fingers moving down her neck.

“How I love you,” the
lord whispered.

Deoradhan, where are
you?

23

Oxfield

For some time now, light
had streamed through the one window.  Morning had fully come; Aine could hear
the bustle of work beginning in the courtyard below.  She shivered and realized
without emotion that her entire body shook beyond her control.  The heavy furs
lay within reach, but she cared little whether she froze to death. 

I wish I were dead. 
Never before had that thought entered
her mind.  Always, Aine wished for more enjoyment, more indulgence, more, more,
more.  But in the space of a night, she had realized how dreadful life really
could be.  And she wished to die.

If he had left the
door unlocked, I would have gone out by now, into the woods, never to return.

Her chest felt like
someone had hung a millstone in it.  Lifting her hands and turning them over,
she examined them. 
It’s like they’re someone else’s hands.
  She let
them drop to her lap and looked numbly over at the man sleeping soundly beside
her.  His stubbly cheek rested on the pillow, his profile still perfect, yet so
disgusting to her now.

I am utterly
disgraced.  How will Deoradhan think of me if he knows?
  Her eyes filled, and she watched
through a blur as the droplets spilled onto the woolen blanket.  A hope
trickled into her thoughts. 
He need never know.  I will conceal it
forever.  He will believe me virtuous still.

The thoughts helped her
to sniffle back her tears, clear a little of the numbness, and lift her spirits
from despair to quiet misery.  Aine pulled one of the furs up over her
shoulders.  She wore only her linen under-tunic, and the warmth soothed her. 
Drowsy, she closed her eyes, promising herself not to sleep.

Dunpeledyr, Lothian

Seonaid glanced out the
upper-story window along the corridor.  Her feet paused in their quick steps
for just a moment as her eyes caught sight of a stranger riding through the
ancient stronghold’s iron gates.  Probably the new horsemaster about whom
Weylin had told her.  Lingering for a moment at the window, the lady’s eyes
rambled up to the sun.  Already high in the sky, and so many things left to do
before the noon meal!  Weylin would also expect her to receive the new
horsemaster.  She sighed. 
Solas is more than capable of doing that work if
only Weylin would entrust him with it.

Her bare feet moved down
the hall even more quickly now, making a slapping noise against the smooth
flags. 
I must talk to the laundress before receiving him.
  Seonaid
grimaced. 
Hopefully, he’ll work out better than the last three horsemasters
did.

West Lea

Working side by side
with two other village women, Bethan washed her mother’s body.  They would bury
her in the village cemetery late this morning.  Calum had begun to dig the
grave with other men from the village.

She glanced at her
mama’s still face.  Strange, she had been a woman of such varied emotions, each
flickering constantly across her countenance; ‘twas sad to see the empty
expression chiseled there now.  And to know that Mama had been hers to know and
love only for this life, that Mama had already stood before the Judge of all
the earth…

The pain became too much
for her to linger on the thought for long.  Sniffling, she raised her mama’s
hand to her lips and kissed the cold, spiritless flesh. She saw her own tears
sliding between the hand’s fingers. 
Can God’s sorrow be any less for such a
one?

Bethan became aware of a
touch on her shoulder.  Lifting her head, she saw ‘twas Garan’s mother, the
priest’s wife, her eyes aloof as always.  “Aye?” asked Bethan, wiping away her
tears.

“We’ve done all that
needs doing, child.  You must get your little sister now and come along to the
burial.  The men will be here soon to carry her out.”  She said it all in so
matter-of-fact a way that Bethan felt compelled to push back her tears.  The
woman acted as if she proposed a stroll through the countryside and not the
burial of Bethan’s unconverted mother.  Anger toward her betrothed’s mother
sprang up in her spirit, as well as quick words to her tongue, but she bit them
back before they could escape.  She knew that the woman must mean well, though
she did badly.

“Aye, I will,” Bethan
finally replied and moved toward the door to fetch her sister.

Oxfield

A lurching movement
awakened Aine, startling her from a dreamless oblivion.  Her eyelids felt as if
rope tied them shut, and she struggled to open them.  With sleep-blurred
vision, she saw Lord Lancelot standing next to the bed, his back to her.  The
same cold grief she had woken with earlier that morning returned and brought
fear as well.  She didn’t move, not wanting to know what would happen to her
now.

With care, he finished
dressing, straightening his tunic across his shoulders, running his hands
through his sumptuous black hair and sweeping it away from his ears, smoothing
his knee-length pants.  Yawning melodiously, he reached to the ground.  From
half-closed eyes, Aine saw that he’d picked up his sandals.  He sat down on the
edge of the mattress and began to lace the straps up his calves, his elegant
profile turned slightly toward her.

She must have fluttered
her eyelids a little because the nobleman knew she was awake.

“’Tis late in the
morning, my fair maiden.”  The man paused and then smiled.  He reached over
with one of his well-formed hands and carelessly ran a finger down Aine’s
cheek.  “Or should I say, maiden-no-more.  But still very fair.”  He turned his
attention back to tying on his sandals.

Lying there rigidly,
Aine realized her striking beauty no longer mattered to her. 
I wish I had
been born plain, even deformed.
  Tears stung her eyes. 
I wish I had
never been born.
  She drew a deep breath to stop the tears from running
down face.

“Hadn’t you better rise
and dress, little fairy?  Your mistress in the kitchen will wonder what keeps
you.”  Finished, Lord Lancelot stood and stretched.  “And I doubt you’d want to
tell her the truth.”

“I…I…”  Stunned, Aine
could not push the words out. 
I don’t even know what I want to say.
 
She scuttled up, sitting with her arms clutched tightly around her knees.

“Aye?”  The lord smiled,
showing his straight teeth.

He’s amused.
  The
thought made her ill. 
This man has known me more intimately than any a man
I’ve known.  Even Deoradhan.  And he’s laughing at me.
  She felt lower than
any clean, crawling insect roaming the earth. 
So this is what a prostitute
feels like after she has provided her service, like an ugly piece of trash,
like a dirty cup with its contents all drained.

And the thought suddenly
came to her, pouring horror into her.  “What if there is a child?” she
whispered, her eyes on her knees.

“What do you mean?”  His
smile contained iron now.  She saw it when she glanced up.  “If there is a
child, I think you’ll know what to do.  Do it before it causes trouble for
you.  ‘Tis no concern of mine.”

Aine looked at him in
numb silence. 
He means I must do away with it…

“But I wouldn’t worry. 
Most of the time, that isn’t the case.”  He dropped a kiss on her brow.  “Now,
I must be off.  I promised my uncle that we would go hunting this morning, and
I’m sure to be late.  Naughty girl, you’ve kept me here talking to you.”  The
lord grinned.  “’Twas a wonderful night, Aine.  A true Avalon, aye?”  With a
wink, he moved over to the door and lifted the bar.

How can I face the
world?

Dunpeledyr

“Pardon me, my lady, but the new horsemaster has arrived.  Shall I show him
into the hall?”

Seonaid turned from her conversation with the laundress and smiled at
the servant boy.  “Aye, show him in, but let him know I will not receive him
immediately.  Make him comfortable before the fire.”

The boy gave a short
bow.  “Aye, my lady.”  He hurried from the room.

Seonaid concluded her
conversation with the laundress regarding the washing of some new fabrics she’d
bought from traders and then moved toward the hall.  The great room functioned
as the center of Dunpeledyr’s existence and was the proper place for her to
receive new employees.

Though not physically,
her inward steps slowed as she approached the hall.  Sometimes, it seemed to
Seonaid that if she walked into that room, so unchanged by the passage of
decades, she would see Eion about to take his throne on the dais.  Odd, despite
the years, he never changed in her imagination.  Always, his wide smile greeted
her; his eyes shimmered with delight as he saw her coming. 

No one sat in the throne
in Dunpeledyr’s great hall now, not even the lord of Dunpeledyr.  Weylin kept
it empty as a reminder that Arthur ruled Britain and, Seonaid suspected, to
reinforce his own power as Arthur’s representative.

Somehow, I doubt that
Arthur meant for Weylin to use his authority thus.
   She shrugged
mentally.  The high king had never desired to visit Lothian. 
Or he does not
dare to.
  Commanding her thoughts into orderly control, Seonaid paused
under the heavy-beamed archway and took stock of the new employee before making
her presence known to him.

He stood around middle
height for a man, perhaps a hand or two above Seonaid, and dressed in a
decidedly Britonic manner with a hooded cloak draping his shoulders, a woolen
tunic covering his form, and bare feet.  The lady smiled to see thick auburn
hair waving down to his shoulders, much the texture and color of her own. 
He
must come from the north.
  She already had a kindly feeling toward this new
horsemaster.

She entered the room,
and he turned fully toward her.  In the few steps between herself and him, she
took stock of him.  Restless blue-green eyes gazed from an inquisitive
sun-browned face.  He held himself upright, shoulders squarely back, hands
loose at his sides.  Determination set his chin with more than natural
firmness, and she noticed he watched her very closely.

There is something so
familiar about him…

“I am Lady Seonaid,” she
said, holding out her hand to him.

He took the offering,
kissing it quickly.  “I am glad to come into your husband’s employ, my lady.  I
am called Deoradhan, lately of Oxfield in Arthur’s southern dominion.”

“Deoradhan?  That means
‘exile,’ aye?”  Seonaid looked at him sharply.

“It is what I am
called,” he acquiesced.

“And are you an exile,
then?”  Her eyes held his gaze. 
We want no troublemakers at Dunpeledyr. 
The Lord knows, we’ve had our share of trouble here.  And may yet have in the
future.

The young man looked
back at her without flinching.  “Nay, no longer, my lady.  And never through
fault of my own.”

She nodded, studying
him.  Finally, Seonaid replied, “Your eyes are honest, Deoradhan.  I believe
you.”  With a hand, she gestured toward the great hearth.  “Come, sit with me
and refresh yourself.  We must discuss the terms of your contract with
Dunpeledyr.  Then I will have someone show you to your quarters.”

She moved toward a low
stool near the fire, close enough to warm her in the chilly cavernous hall.  He
followed her slowly, taking a seat on another stool facing her.

“You seem unsure about
something, Deoradhan.  May I ask what it is?”

His eyes darted up to
meet hers.  “I thought, my lady…that I would discuss these matters with my
lord.  Weylin is his name, aye?”

Seonaid smiled.  “Aye,
the lord is called Weylin.  But my husband entrusts these estate matters to my
judgment.  Should any trouble arise, you will see me first.  Is that
understood?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“That’s well.”  She
folded her hands across the green wool of her skirt.  “Now, you will have
charge of the horse training, feeding, pasturing, and breeding at Dunpeledyr. 
Many seek horses from us, including the stables of the Pendragon himself.  ‘Tis
a difficult job you set out to master, Deoradhan.”  She peered at his face. 
“And by your countenance, ‘tis easy to tell you’ve no more than twenty-five
winters behind you.  Aye?”

The young man did not
smile but looked at her intently.  “I am twenty years old this past summer, my
lady.  I was born the year Arthur ascended the throne.”

‘Tis almost as if he
is trying to imply something, but I can’t understand what ‘tis.
  Seonaid
frowned. 
Something here is odd, very odd.

She stood.  “You realize
that you will stay without leave for this entire winter, that you may not quit
Dunpeledyr’s territory until spring.”

The young man furrowed
his eyebrows, worried.  “Why not, my lady?”

“My husband keeps this
policy with all his servants.  He believes that it tries their loyalty.  In the
spring, you may request and receive leave by me,” she explained.  She paused. 
“Is there a problem with this, Deoradhan?”