Alicia Roque Ruggieri (19 page)

27

Dunpeledyr

“She is my favorite among
Father’s mares.”  Deoradhan heard the cheerful voice from the other side of the
roan horse.  Pausing in his brushing, he peered over the animal’s sleek back
and saw Lady Fiona smiling back at him.  She clutched a thick shawl around her
shoulders and head.  Frosty breath wafted from her mouth when she smiled.

“My lady,” he greeted
and went on with his work.  Weylin’s daughter had a fondness for horses and
often came to the stable while he worked.  Her summery presence brightened the
chilly air of the stalls as well as his gloomy thoughts.

“I wish you would call
me Fiona, as I’ve asked, Deoradhan,” replied the young woman.  Deoradhan smiled
and nodded, enjoying her feisty forthrightness, but her next words surprised
him.  “After all, we are almost brother and sister, aren’t we?”

He froze, his brush
mid-air. 
Act normally, you fool, and she won’t suspect anything.
  The
breath caught in his lungs, but he held his composure.  “What do you mean,
Fiona?” he asked, as if he was nothing more than a horsemaster and she only his
employer’s daughter.

He glanced up to find
her gray eyes fixed on his face.  They held a calm blunt steadiness.  “I know
that you are Lady Seonaid’s firstborn son, Deoradhan.”

He couldn’t deny it. 
Her honest gaze trapped him.  Tearing his eyes away, he said nothing and
continued brushing the mare. 

“Why are you here?” she
asked quietly, coming toward him.

Deoradhan stayed silent,
unsure of what he should say.

“Are you here to harm
us?”

He shook his head. 
“Nay, not you, Fiona.  You’ve no part in this.”

“Who, then?  My father? 
And Solas?”

The blind boy’s face
rushed to his mind, and Deoradhan shook his head again.  “Nay, I’ll not harm
Solas, rest assured.  Perhaps before I met him, I would have, but not now.”

“But how can you avoid
that, Deoradhan?  If you seek vengeance, and I assume that you do, ‘tis Solas
who stands in your way.  ‘Tis Solas who hinders your inheritance, once my
father is disposed of, one way or the other.”  The young woman spoke without
drama.

She states the truth,
Deoradhan admitted. 
I’ve not
seen Solas for what he is: an obstacle barring me from my rightful place on
Dunpeledyr’s throne. 
Even if he did away with Lord Weylin, Solas stood to
inherit the kingdom, blind though he was. 
And Arthur will support his
claim.
 

Solas would have to die.

There is no other
way. 
The thought of
killing the sweet-natured, glad-hearted youth revolted him.  And his mother
loved Solas, he could tell. 
What am I going to do?

“Whom have you told
about me?” he swallowed.

“No one.”  Fiona stared
at him.

As if she reads my
thoughts.
 

“So what do you plan to
do?”  Her voice jolted him.

With a sense of sick
emptiness, Deoradhan realized that he did not even know his heart’s desire
anymore. “I don’t know,” he answered.  “I need time to think.”

She nodded.  “Deoradhan,
my family has done yours great harm.  For what ‘tis worth to you, I ask your
forgiveness for the wrongs we’ve committed.”  She lowered her eyes.  “I can’t
atone for what my father has done to yours…or for anything else.  But I ask for
your mercy.”

Her words puzzled and
angered him. 
Why doesn’t she stand her ground and act as if her father did
rightly?
  Her humble attitude made him feel like he ought to forgive her
and all she represented.  Deoradhan stared at her for a moment, then turned and
left the stall without answering.

She ran to catch up with
him.  “Deoradhan, God works in strange ways, and I know that He has brought you
here for a purpose.”  She grabbed his arm and forced him to stop walking toward
the tack area.  “But I ask one thing of you: that you tell me when you have
decided to act.  And that you spare my Solas.”

Anger filling him, he
shoved her aside.  “Your Solas should never have been born.”

“How can you say that?”
she cried and grasped his arm, pulling on him to face her.  He resisted and
continued on his way.  “How can you say that of Solas?”

Enough.
  Deoradhan held her by her shoulders
and pinned her against the wall.  “Listen.  Your beloved Solas is the product
of your father raping my mother after he put my father through a gruesome
death.  Your father would have killed me also if my mother hadn’t sent me into
exile.”  He saw that he had frightened her and released his hold on her, a
little guilty.  He continued in a softer tone.  “Perhaps you can understand why
my heart is not as tender as yours toward your brother.”

“But he is your brother,
too,” she whispered.

“He is not my brother!”

“He is not like my
father.  Surely you know that.  He has the living Christ within him, Deoradhan,
as do I.”

Deoradhan smirked. 
“This living Christ headed your father’s army as well, Fiona.  Forgive me if I
don’t think of Him with affection or trust.”

The girl stayed silent,
her eyes on her feet.  “So you will not spare Solas, then?”

“I will do whatever I
must.”  Deoradhan ground his teeth.  “But no harm will befall your brother by
my hand, if I can help it, Fiona.”

Her face relaxed. 
“Thank you, Deoradhan.”  She kissed his hand.  “I pray that mercy will be shown
you, as you’ve shown it to others.  Now I must leave you.  Lady Seonaid will be
wondering where I’ve gone.”

She moved toward the
entryway, but near the door, she turned curious eyes to him.  “What is your
birth name, Deoradhan?”

He hesitated, feeling
the intense anger draining from his spirit.  Clearing his throat, he answered,
“Padruig.  I am Padruig.”  The name felt strange on his tongue, like an
unfamiliar food.

“Padruig,” Fiona
repeated, nodding.

Deoradhan felt compelled
to ask.  “And Fiona, answer my question.  How did you know my secret?”

She smiled wearily. 
“Have you forgotten our first meeting in Camelot, Deoradhan, when I mistook you
for Solas?  Seeing you here, hearing a little of your story…I put the pieces
together, Deoradhan.”  Fiona gave a faint laugh.  “You are not as complex as
you think, my lord.”

She curtsied to him and
exited.  Deoradhan watched her retreat toward the main hall.  For the first
time in long years, he realized, bitterness had to struggle with other emotions
for kingship in his heart.

West Lea

“I will come for you in
the spring,” Garan assured her.  His pale eyes shone.  “I have to find a party
with whom to travel north.  Then we’ll go, together.  And we’ll be married in
the land where we’ll serve our God.”

Awed at his passion for
Christ, Bethan nodded.  She hardly noticed when Calum took her sack of
belongings from her hands and strapped it across his horse’s back.

“God go with you,
Bethan,” Garan stared into her eyes.

“And with you,” Bethan
replied.  She wanted to add some term of affection, but Garan had never used
such toward her, so she felt awkward to do so now.

Garan turned to Calum. 
“I am glad you’ve come to take her back to Oxfield.  Bethan speaks well of
you.”

Calum responded only
with a nod.  Pained at what she knew he might feel, seeing her new regard for
the priest’s son, Bethan hurried toward the horse.  Her sister Enid already sat
on its back, secure among the sacks. 

‘Twas Calum who assisted
her with mounting, not Garan, who stood white in the icy sunlight.  With a
quick motion, the guard swung himself onto his own horse, and they trotted
off.  Bethan felt that she must say something, anything, to break the tension
she felt within herself.

“Calum, I’m sorry—” she
began.

He cut her off softly. 
“Nay, Bethan.  ‘Twas meant to be.  We have our own paths to tread, ones that
have been cut out from eternity past, aye?”

“Aye.”  Bethan stayed
quiet for a moment, then tried again.  “I am glad you are my brother at
Oxfield, Calum, though.”

She saw his face grow
taut with…pain?  Grief?  Glancing at him, she saw a deep-set agony surface in
his countenance. 
This cannot have resulted from what has passed between us.
 
Aloud, she said, “What is it, Calum?”

“I will not be remaining
at Oxfield.”

Fear rose in her heart. 
“What do you mean?”

“When we arrive there, I
will resign from the command of the guard.  I’ve been training a young guard,
Marcus, to take my place for some time.”

“So this has been
long-planned?”

“Aye.  Something I’ve
thought and prayed over for years now.”

“Years?”

“Aye.  Since…”

“Since what?”

Calum’s glance went over
to Enid, sitting in front of Bethan.  The little girl dozed in the twilight,
her head falling back against Bethan’s chest.  “’Tis alright.  She’s asleep,”
Bethan said, feeling afraid of what Calum would reveal.

Calum guided his horse
gently forward.  The hooves made a heavy, dull thud on the packed dirt.  “I
have an atonement to make, Bethan.  For something I did many years ago.”

“What did you do,
Calum?” she nearly whispered, her mind running.

He looked over at her,
as if judging how much to tell and how much to conceal.  “My sister Cairine was
older than me by six years.  When I had only passed twelve winters, she took
part in the solstice rituals.  I’m sure you know what that entails, especially
in the wilder parts of the country.”

Bethan nodded and waited
for him to go on.

“She carried a child as
a result.  But while the child was yet forming within her, a man came through
the village, preaching the gospel.  God used that to turn my sister to Christ
for salvation, as He did for me and a few others in our village.”

Bethan watched as he
sighed and sought the words to tell the history.  “The pagan leaders of the
village were enraged at this but did nothing immediately.  That summer, Cairine
lost the child in a fever.  Many of the animals also aborted in that season. 
In the fall, the harvest failed.  For all of it, the druids blamed
unfaithfulness to the gods.”

He stayed silent for so
long that Bethan prompted him, “And then?”

“They killed her.  They
sacrificed one who had carried death within her so that the crops might live. 
They burned her alive.”  His words were toneless, stilted, unable to convey the
horror she knew he still must feel.

“But, Calum,” Bethan
spoke after a time, “you said that you had to atone.  Why?  What did you do?”

He glanced over.  “I
watched and did nothing.  I should have done something to prevent it. 
Anything.  Or at least not been ashamed.”

“But you were only a
boy, Calum.  What could you have done?”

He shook his head.  “I
don’t know.  Something.  It haunts me worse than any Samhain spirit, Bethan. 
The memory hangs over me like a shroud.  And I cannot rid myself of it.”  He
cleared his throat.  “After that day, I ran away and have not returned to my
home village since.”

After a long and quiet
moment, Bethan asked, “So where are you going to live, if not to Oxfield?”

“In the wilderness.  God
must provide some door of hope for me, though I don’t deserve it.  Otherwise,”
he swallowed, “otherwise, I feel I cannot endure this life anymore.”

She wanted to say
something, anything, to persuade him that his sins were atoned for.  ‘Twas so
clear to her that Jesus’ blood had covered all Calum’s sin, that he was a new
creature in Christ.  That there was no condemnation for him.  But his feelings
were too real.  Only a fool would ignore them.  And Calum was no fool, that she
knew.  The words died in her throat.

“We’ve a long way to
ride before we camp for the night.  Let’s quicken our pace,” Calum said after a
few moments.  His horse moved from a trot to a slow canter and Bethan followed
suit, her spinning mind able only to pray with a simplicity her Father loved to
hear.

Dunpeledyr

“You will remain with us
this winter.”  Lord Weylin’s voice threaded its way across the table to his
daughter.

Deoradhan saw her
eyebrows rise.  “Here?  At Dunpeledyr?”

“Aye.  Did you have
other plans, Fiona?”

“Nay,” she said
hastily.  “I only thought that I would spend the winter with the queen, as I
usually do.  May I ask why—?”

“Plans change,” her
father cut her off, smiling.  “I would like to have my family here at
Dunpeledyr this winter, especially as the Feast of the Nativity approaches.”