Alicia Roque Ruggieri (5 page)

8

Deoradhan’s keen eyes
noticed the return of the little group through the narrow door.  Smiling,
Deoradhan shook his head and wondered if the band of Christians chose to use
that little portal as a vivid reminder to themselves of their preferred way of
life.  He knew that they met outside the walls and took the communion meal for
such a reason.  He knew because he himself had once participated in their
rituals, though in a different place and time.  Once, his empty heart had cried
out for the divine to fill it.

With my whole heart I
seek you…

Bitterly, he drove his
knife deeply into the apple wood and strove to put such thoughts from his
mind.  He had decided years ago that he would live by his own moral code, that
he would stand or fall by his own honest ethics, hand-fashioned like this
recorder by himself.  The Christian God, the Roman God’s code of honor, had
failed him, just as the Romans had failed the Britons when they pulled their
forces out of the island more than half a century past now.  Now only scraps of
their memory and culture remained, like a fading sunset.

He is a God for weaklings
and tyrants,
Deoradhan reaffirmed, satisfying his anger, justifying his
rejection. 
I have no need for such a God.
  With a decisive whittle, he
rose, sheathing his knife.  It was high time for a conference with the Pendragon,
time to make decisions for his own sake and now for Aine as well, whether the
king wished it or not.

~ ~ ~

Like most of the kitchen
staff, Aine had risen later than usual.  The sun stood well above the horizon
when she wandered outside, bucket in her bird-like hands.  The stream flowed
within the stronghold’s walls, past the stables where Aine knew Deoradhan often
tarried, and she secretly hoped that she might see her sweetheart as well as
retrieve the needed water.

He loves me!
  The
thought echoed through her mind over and over, chasing away the fears that she
now regarded as childish. 
I thought, oh, I thought that I was too worthless
for such a man to desire me.  But he does!  Deoradhan does.
  Her breath
caught in her throat for joy.  Was there any feeling in the world more exhilarating
than this, knowing that someone treasured you and thought you precious?  Aine
shook her head. 
Nay!  And ‘twill fill me.

A guilty thought stole
into her heart: 
You do not love him, though, do you?
  Shamed, she
frowned and slowed her quickened pace.  Anxiety clamped onto her shoulders. 
Aine bit her lip, turning its already pink shade bright peony. 
Nay, but I
like how he makes me feel.  And all I ask is that he cherishes me.  I care for
nothing else.  I only want to be loved,
she reasoned.

Conscience eased, she
hurried her pace again, eager to let the hampering chains of guilt fall off
completely.

~ ~ ~

In and out, out and in. 
The bone needle moved surely through the woolen fabric, hemming the edges. 
Past forty years of age, the woman known as Cook but whose given name was
Meghyn could sew any garment put into her hands with unconscious deftness.  She
could not remember a time when she did not know how to create from fabric, and
now she was glad for the occupation.  It took her mind off her beloved
foster-son.

In all fairness, Meghyn
could not believe that the artless Aine meant to ensnare Deoradhan.  A girl
could not help being so pretty any more than a boy could avoid his attraction
to such sweet visual nectar.  The good Lord had created the fascination between
lads and lasses at the beginning of the world, and He had said ‘twas good.  Who
was Meghyn to argue over that with the Lord, much as she hated losing her boy
to another?

But Meghyn’s real
anxiety grew from another root entirely.  If Deoradhan’s fondness for Aine had
grown as she suspected, would he marry the girl?  Would he bind himself to her
permanently, seeking to satisfy his restlessness with one who was restless
herself?

O Living God, You
know all things, even the end from the beginning.  Free my dear boy from his
past.  May he have a hope and a future grounded in You alone.

“Cook?”

Meghyn popped her eyes
open.  The brown-haired lass from the West Lea stood before her, sewing in
hand.  A kind-hearted, hard-working girl this one seemed, though time would
tell if Meghyn judged rightly.

“May I sit with you?”

She patted the empty
spot beside her on the bench.  “I’d be glad for the company, Bethan.  My
thoughts are a bit gloomy right now, which cannot please the Lord.  You may be
a ray of sunshine sent by Him to clear the clouds from my soul, aye?”

Bethan smiled in
response and seated herself.  Meghyn saw that she was patching a tunic from the
mending pile that always remained full, regardless of how much work the kitchen
servants put into it.  “You went off to the meeting Bricius holds outside the
walls this morning, aye?”

Bethan’s eyes rose to
Meghyn’s face in surprise.  “Aye, I did.  Deirdre invited me.  I hope ‘twas no
inconvenience—”

Meghyn interrupted
quickly to halt the girl’s concern.  “Nay, nay.  Jesus is my Lord as well,
Bethan.  I was glad to see that you met with the others for worship.  ‘Tis a
good witness to the others not to forsake the assembling of themselves,
regardless of who occupies the country.”  She patted Bethan’s hand in
sincerity.  “I would have been among you this morning, but my ankles swelled.”

Bethan examined the
woman’s propped-up feet.  Meghyn heard her suck her breath in quickly when she
saw the purpled flesh, bulging with excess fluid.  “Cook…” her voice trailed
off, concerned.

Meghyn put a hand to the
girl’s mouth, smiling.  “Hush, ‘tis nothing serious.  I’ve been doing a bit too
much, ‘tis all.  I propped them up and have sewing enough to last me all
afternoon.  A body could not ask for more leisure than that.”

Bethan seemed somewhat
satisfied and settled in, picking up her own needlework.  “What are you working
on?” she asked.

Meghyn could not keep
her lips from turning up.  “’Tis a cloak for my Deoradhan.  He’ll need it this
winter as he dashes across all of Logress, bringing messages here and there,”
she said, using the general name for the Pendragon’s acknowledged territory.

Bethan returned the
smile.  “Your nephew is a busy lad, isn’t he?”

“Aye, and a brave one. 
I brought him up, so I should know.”

“You did?”

Meghyn nodded.

“Calum told me Deoradhan
went to Gaul for his education, though,” Bethan stated, looking confused.

They trod on sticky
territory, Meghyn knew, but she gave Bethan an honest answer nonetheless. 
“Indeed, he did go to Gaul for an education among the learned men there, but he
spent the first decade of his life with me.  Then he went to Gaul.” 
Would
that he had never gone!

Bethan nodded.  “What
happened to his parents, if you don’t mind my asking, Cook?”

Meghyn studied her
sewing, averting her eyes from the clear gaze of her questioner.  “They died,”
she replied simply, glad when the girl fell into sympathetic silence.

~ ~ ~

“Another trip up north,
then?” Lord Drustan raised his thin eyebrows, set above frozen blue eyes
gleaming from a leathered face.

Deoradhan stared back at
him, his passions animated by the noble’s coolness.  This time, he would make
some headway.  “Aye.”

The old warlord rubbed
his hands together over the fire burning in the hearth.  He maintained silence
for only a moment, then asked, “And what good do you think that will do you?”

“I don’t know.  But… I
can’t just sit here waiting for years!  Arthur must give me an answer
sometime,” Deoradhan growled in frustration.  “I’ve waited long enough for
something that should have been mine from birth.”

“Listen, Deoradhan. 
Arthur’s hands are tied.  He—”

“If his hands are so
tied, if he is so powerless, why should he style himself the Pendragon, then?” 
Deoradhan stopped himself with effort.  His words smacked of treason, and both
men knew it.  He calmed himself before speaking again.  “Forgive me.  I respect
Arthur as a king, as a man, as a friend.”  The lies came easily.  “Which is why
I don’t understand why he will not establish my rightful claim—”

Drustan put a finger to
his mouth to silence Deoradhan as a pair of guards strode down the hall, their
boots thumping on the thick stone.  When they passed, Drustan answered.  “Much
as I value your friendship and work, Deoradhan, I will not go against Arthur’s
policies.  The land needs unity right now, not treachery, however small the
form.  If you need to know the reasons behind the king’s delay, why don’t you
go to him and ask?”

“Ask him?”  Deoradhan
hesitated.  If he asked the king straight out, the Pendragon could refuse him
flatly.  And Arthur seldom changed his mind once he had given an answer.  His
commitment to keep his word no matter what had helped to seal his leadership
over all of Britain.

“Aye, go to Camelot. 
I’ve no need of you for a time.  My nephew is due to arrive from Gaul any day
now.  I’ll be much occupied with entertaining him, wild boy that he is.”  He
chuckled, then continued.  “I’ll have no time for business.  Take as long as
you need.”

“Thank you, m’lord.” 
Deoradhan kissed his liege’s smooth knuckles.  “I appreciate this, truly.”

~ ~ ~

Out of a twilight sleep,
between waking and slumbering, Meghyn heard whispering voices.  Slowly, her
aging mind turned out of dream’s confusing paths and into the difficult forest
of consciousness.  She lay still a moment, listening.  After a moment, she
distinguished two voices, one a rich birch-like voice—Deoradhan’s, she knew—the
other, a soprano wren, answering him. 
Aine.

Creeping up as quietly
as her bulk and painful ankles allowed, Meghyn tiptoed barefoot across the
kitchen toward the entry room, finding her way by long years’ experience and
the dim burning embers in the fireplace.  At the doorway, she wrapped her
woolen blanket around her shoulders and listened.

“What do you mean,
you’re going to Arthur?  On the lord’s business?” Aine asked, her voice sweetly
perplexed.

“No, not the lord’s
business.  My own,” came Deoradhan’s determined reply.

“But what do you have to
do with kings, Deoradhan?  You’re a servant, like I am.”

Silence.

“Aren’t you?”

Deoradhan replied
hesitantly, his voice pained.  “I have known Arthur for many years.  I…cannot
risk telling you more now, Aine, until I see how this unfolds.”  Meghyn heard
him sigh.  “This may be the most important journey of my life.  I have lived
for its object for long years.  I hold it more closely to my heart than
anything else.”

“Deoradhan, I thought…” 
Aine trailed off, but Meghyn could finish the thought for her, though she knew
that Deoradhan could not begin to guess it.

She thought she was
his single treasure, the apple of his eye.
  Meghyn smiled sympathetically. 
Surely, Aine had been idolized, but her value in his eyes held weight only
momentarily until another god replaced her, another golden calf that Deoradhan
hoped would lead him to the Promised Land.

Meghyn peered around the
doorway.  The main door stood open, silhouetting Deoradhan and Aine.

“Deoradhan, I don’t
understand,” Aine’s voice carried the tone of feminine hurt and fretfulness so
disliked by men.  “I thought—”

Meghyn saw their shadows
join as Deoradhan kissed the maid in order to hush her, to stop the questions
he did not want to answer.

When they parted, he
kept his eyes averted to avoid Aine’s beseeching gaze.  “Trust me,” Meghyn’s
foster-son stated.  “I’ll return soon.”

“When?” she begged,
clinging to his forearms.

He gently freed
himself.  “I don’t know,” he said simply and moved into the night, leaving her
in the empty doorway.

Moving back to her bed,
Meghyn pitied the maid.  She knew too well what rejection, however temporary,
felt like.  Yet, ‘twas her concern for Deoradhan that kept her eyes open deep
into the night.

Why did he not tell
me that he must journey to Camelot?
 
He no longer places his confidence in me.
  Tears
rolled down the sides of Meghyn’s cheeks.
 So wounded, yet he didn’t come to
you to be healed, Lord.  Now, his heart, ‘tis as calloused as his hands.  He
shuts out my voice.  Can he even hear You now?

From the guard-tower,
Calum watched his longtime friend lead his mount toward the gate.  He frowned. 
‘Twas nearly midnight.  Only in times of distress would Deoradhan leave with a
message at such a late hour.  Furrowing his brow, Calum moved from his place at
the window.