Alicia Roque Ruggieri (8 page)

After a moment, Drustan
composed himself, smoothing his features with effort.  “Now, I am going down to
the evening meal.  Would you care to join me?”

Tarian shook her head,
blinking back the hated tears that forced their way to her eyes.  Why did he
have such power over her feelings?

“Very well.  Good night,
then.”  Drustan raised her hand and kissed it, a bit roughly, and exited with
no more ado.

The room settled into
silence, broken only by the squeaking of some mice behind the bed.  Tarian
numbly lowered herself to a chair, mindless that the room darkened and cooled
quickly in the autumn twilight.  Never had she felt so alone.

O God, help me.
 
Her soul cried out, agonized by the spiritual loneliness that life with her
husband had brought. 
I cannot go on.  I cannot go on.

After long moments, she
rose and made her way to the window through the dimness, her fine skirts
dragging across the stones.  She gazed out toward the darkening horizon, hurt
pulsing through her spirit, unable to think.  Unintentionally, she let her eyes
drift toward the rooftops nearby.  On one of them, a sparrow sat by himself,
still and quiet, silhouetted by the residue of the sunset.

Like a lonely sparrow
on the housetop… Is this what You see when you look at my soul, O Lord?  All
the brightness stripped out of me.  Nineteen, with my best years behind me, the
long dusk of my life before me.

Heavy tears slid from
under her lashes as Tarian gazed out on the fading world.

12

“I don’t know how long
I’ll be gone,” Bethan told Cook the next morning.  It had dawned bright and
crisp, the sky a sheet of deep blue, and Bethan anticipated her journey with
excitement tinged with biting concern over her mama.  God had provided a
protector for her journey, however, and that answer to her prayer bolstered
Bethan’s confidence.

Be of good courage…

Cook nodded.  “Take as
long as you need, lass.  Your place will be waiting for you when you return.” 
She took a long look at Bethan and then gathered her into her heavy arms.  “I’m
glad you’re going with Calum, lassie.  He’ll not only guard but be a good
companion for your journey as well.  Don’t be afraid to take his help, lass; he
loves to give it.”

“Aye, I won’t,” Bethan
promised.  She hesitated.  “Pray for me, Cook.  In truth, I don’t know what
lies ahead of me at home, and I’m afraid.  My mother clings to the pagan ways
yet.  But my father is a devout man.”

Cook smiled.  “Keep
praying for your mother, then.  Few and far between are the women who can
withstand the prayers of a man who truly loves his God.” 

A steady knock
interrupted their conversation.

“Come in,” Cook called
out.  The latch lifted, and Calum entered, dressed neatly for the journey in
boots, trousers, and a belted tunic.  A russet woolen cloak settled around his
square shoulders.  In addition to the sword hanging from Calum’s belt, Bethan
knew that probably he had concealed other weapons as well as a chainmail shirt
beneath his clothing.  Prudence dictated precautions be taken against bandits
and worse.

“I’m ready when you are,
Bethan.  No rush, though,” Calum smiled, and once again Bethan realized how his
presence soothed her.  Letting out her nervous breath, she returned his smile.

Cook picked up a hefty
bundle from the shelf.  “Now, here you go, Bethan.  I’ve packed up some
traveling food for you and Calum, plus a little for when you arrive home.  Who
knows whether you’ll have time to bake when you reach your journey’s end.”

“Thank you, Cook.” 
Bethan kissed the woman’s cheek, ignoring the way her patchy dry skin rubbed
against her lips.

The woman let out a
sigh, and Bethan noticed troubled shadows flowing into the woman’s eyes.  “Ah,
for a daughter like you, Bethan.  I wish Padruig could find such a…”  She
trailed off, embarrassed.  “Pay no mind to me.  I’m turning into a silly old
woman.  Now go.  You’ve a long journey ahead of you.  God go with you.”

“Aye, and also with
you,” Calum replied, guiding Bethan through the doorway.

Outside, she felt
greatly sheltered as he steered her through the bustling courtyard activity,
his strong and gentle hand on her elbow.  Glancing up at him, she saw his face
held his usual thoughtful, confident expression. 
He never hurries yet
always is set on some purpose.
  As they walked, he greeted many whom they
passed with a kind nod and sometimes a word or two.  Bethan perceived that
other servants saw her with this man, respected almost universally within
Oxfield, and felt proud at being considered one of his friends.  Her mind
flitted ahead to the time when Garan would walk by her side so protectively. 
So wonderful ‘twould be to feel so safe in a nest of peace all the time. 
In
the spring.  I’ll be married to Garan in the springtime,
she thought with a
smile
.

Calum’s horse stood
tethered by one of the side gates.  A boy, perhaps seven years old, held one
hand out to the animal, palm flat, offering a carrot.  The child’s other hand
stroked the soft muzzle.

“Brynn, hello,” Calum
smiled at the boy, whose face grew animated at the man’s appearance.

“Are you going
somewhere, Calum?” he asked, gazing up with adoring brown eyes.

“Aye, Bethan must go to
see her family out in the West Lea, and I want to help her, lad.”  Calum knelt
before the shabbily-dressed child and smiled into his anxious face.  “Now, you
must do me a favor while I’m away, Brynn.  Play with my dogs, aye?  See that
they get plenty of exercise.”

Brynn nodded, trying to
smile.  “Aye, I will!”

“There’s a lad.”  Calum
ruffled the boy’s straw hair and rose to his feet.  “Lord willing, I’ll be
seeing you soon.  If you need something, make sure that you go to Cook,
alright?”

“Alright.”

Apparently satisfied,
Calum turned to Bethan.  “Up you go, lass,” he instructed, lifting her onto the
horse’s sturdy back and then hoisting himself up behind her.  He gathered the
reins into his hands.  “Aidan, open the gate!”

From the doorway of his
workshop, the potter watched Calum and Bethan’s departure with satisfaction. 
“Good, very good,” he said aloud, smiling.  Calum looked pleased, and Bethan
appeared equally happy with her lot.

“And what might I ask is
so wonderful today, husband?”

Bricius turned, wincing
at an arthritic pain in his neck.  Lydia, his wife of fifteen years, stood in
the archway adjoining his workshop with their living quarters.  Despite her
relative youth to his sixty-odd years, Lydia had not grown older with ease,
slipping from blushing girlhood to mature womanhood with the grace that some
woman obtained.  Her once-even complexion wore spots from the sun; her skin had
leathered beyond her forty-eight years; and her formerly heavy mahogany tresses
had thinned and grayed.  Yet, ‘twas the soul of this woman Bricius loved, and
the more her body deteriorated with passing years, the more clearly he could
see the unfading beauty of her character.

“Are you going to answer
me, Bricius, or do I have to guess?” she teased, coming forward into the work
area.  Bricius noticed that her hands held a half-loaf of dark bread and some
cheese.  He had worked the morning away without noticing.

“Why don’t we go
outside, and you can guess while we eat?” he asked.  Knowing his wife, she had
probably eaten standing up while preparing his meal, though.

“I’ve already eaten,
Bricius, and I still have much work to do on the mistress’ clothing for court.”

“’Tis a fine autumn day,
love, and ‘twill only take minutes for me to eat,” he cajoled.  He saw her
hesitate still and knew she had a long list of things that needed doing running
through her mind.  As well as doing much of Lady Tarian’s sewing, Lydia served
as a deaconess of sorts for the Christian community at Oxfield.  From early
morning to dusk, her hands and mind and heart busied themselves with loving her
neighbor and honoring her God.  “I know you have much to do, but I would like
your company if you can spare the time,” he added.

“Well…” Lydia paused,
and Bricius waited for her to decide.  True, many a Christian man would claim
the right to command his wife to do as he wished.  Were not wives to submit to
their husbands?  Yet Bricius wanted a wife, not a worshipper, not a bondwoman. 
Thus, he strove to love Lydia as he loved himself, not to use her as a tool to
indulge his own wishes.

Husbands, love your
wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her…

“I suppose I can use the
break, aye,” his wife smiled.

Her arm tucked in his,
the couple made their way out into the bright October sunlight.  Bricius
breathed deeply, refreshing himself with the scent of fallen leaves and smoke,
his heart delighting in the companionship of his longtime helpmate as they made
their way across the sun-dappled earth.  Who would settle for the role of king
when instead he could have the pleasure of servanthood?  Long years ago now, he
had offered his wife his life and she had gifted him with her heart in turn, an
exchange deemed worthy by the King of Heaven Himself.  Looking at the trusting
profile beside him, Bricius sighed.  It had been worthwhile, indeed.

They settled down on a
grassy patch near the well.  Bricius marveled at how his wife’s inner beauty
emanated from her as the fresh perfume of a cultivated rose.  The thought
passed through his mind also that as their persons had aged, their relationship
with their Creator and with one another had come into a second and deeper
springtime than when it was new.  ‘Twas true, then. 
God does let the bodies
of things fade that we may learn to love the soul of them in truth.  When I
first loved Lydia, ‘twas her bonny face that took me.  Now, I see in her
another face that will behold eternally the Almighty One, our Redeemer and God.

“When does Lady Tarian
plan to go to court, then?” Bricius asked as he took his first bite of cheese
and bread, fine midday fare for any man.

Lydia shrugged.  “She
says perhaps they will go for the Feast of the Nativity, but the decision
really rests with Lord Drustan, of course.”

“Of course.  But I’ve no
doubt the lord will want to enjoy as much revelry as possible.  As is evidenced
by the upcoming Samhain feast.”  Bricius rose to draw water from the well.

“Is it planned again for
this year, then?  I thought surely after the madness last year…”  Lydia’s voice
held heavy concern.

Bricius snorted, his
hand going out to steady the swinging bucket.  “Some saw it as harmless
pleasure, not madness.  And some thought it helped appease the spirits for an
easier winter.”  He drank from the bucket’s edge.

“’Twas not harmless,
Bricius.  That you know.”

“No, and we must do as
much as we can to counteract its evil influence.”  He sighed and took Lydia’s
hand.  “That we had a lord who had the true good of his people in mind, not
only fleeting pleasure and excitement.”

“But we do, love.  His
name is Jesus.”

“Aye.  Aye, we do.”  He
drank in the serenity of his wife’s smile.  “I need you to remind me of it from
time to time.  We have a heavenly kingdom.”

The pair stayed quiet
for a time while Bricius continued to eat.  As he wiped the last crumbs from
his beard, Lydia brought up her earlier question.  “And now may I guess why you
were so glad?”

“When?”

Lydia’s eyes told him
not to play the fool.  “Standing in the doorway of your shop, Bricius, son of
Alain.”

“Yes, yes, I remember. 
I suppose I did look rather happy, didn’t I?”  Bricius’ eyes twinkled.  “And
can you guess why, Lydia, daughter of Aulus?”

She rose to her feet
and, smoothing her work dress, started for the pottery
workshop-cum-living-quarters.  “I don’t need to guess, Bricius.  I’ve known you
for too many years not to know.”

Bricius leapt to his
feet as quickly as his old bones allowed and followed her.  “Well, then?”

She stopped and turned
toward him with her thick brows raised high.  “You were pondering the certain
matrimonial bliss of your Timothy.  Am I right?  Well?”

He shook his head,
defeated happily.  Lydia had referred to the commander of the guards as his
“Timothy” because their relationship felt so like that of the apostle and his
young preacher.  Now he smiled, thinking again of Calum’s protective guidance
of the kitchen maid on her journey.  “Why not?  Bethan’s a bonny girl for our
Calum.  A good Christian wife for him.  ‘Twill comfort him.”

“God should be his
comfort, Bricius.”

“God uses means.”

Lydia changed tactics. 
“She’s young, dear one.  No more than sixteen, surely, if that,” Lydia reminded
him.

Bricius frowned.  “Aye. 
But what of it?  Many a girl marries younger and is happy.  And Calum is yet a
young man, not the old geezer I was when I married you, Lydia.”

Lydia smiled sweetly and
stopped to brush a kiss on his wrinkled cheek.  “No, not a geezer, dearie. 
More like one of the walking dead.  No wonder I met you near Samhain.”

“Very funny.  Seriously,
though, Lydia, I don’t know why you hesitate to encourage something that would
make Calum a happy man indeed.  And think of us, too, love.  What a blessing
from the Lord his marriage would be.  His children would grow up around our
feet like the grandchildren we never had,” he coaxed.  “You know if you
encouraged him toward it, he would consider marriage more readily.”

His wife remained silent
for a moment as they turned their steps homeward once more.  Finally, she
spoke.  “I don’t think ‘twould make Calum happier in the long run.  He’s never
dealt with his past, Bricius.  That you know.  Eventually, I think he would
feel that by marrying the girl, he had bound her with his own curse.”  She
paused.  “But say that it did make him happy, love.  Even so, how do you know
that marriage is best for Calum?  Or for Bethan, for that matter?  We don’t
live by happiness, dear, you know.”

“Better to marry than to
burn with passion.”

Lydia’s eyebrows rose. 
“Calum doesn’t seem as if he’s exactly burning.  I wouldn’t even say that he’s
smoldering, Bricius.”

“‘He who finds a wife
finds a good thing, and obtains favor from the LORD,’” the potter reminded her.

“‘Each man should remain
in the condition in which he was called,’” Lydia replied.

“‘But because of the
temptation, each man should have his own wife,’” Bricius countered, taking
Lydia’s hand.