Alicia Roque Ruggieri (21 page)

29

Camelot

“Nia, where is my shawl? 
You know, the orange silk one.”  Tarian rustled through the messy trunk.  “I
must find the time to organize this.  Before we leave for home,” she added,
smiling up at the middle-aged maidservant.

“I believe you left that
shawl in my lord’s chamber, my lady.  I saw it there when I went in to make the
bed this morning,” replied the woman, kneeling to help Tarian neaten the
trunk’s contents.

“Don’t worry about this,
Nia.  I’ll see to it.  Just fetch my shawl if you would.  I wish to wear it to
supper tonight.  The queen wants all of her ladies to match, and—”

“And orange is her
favorite color right now, aye?” the servant grinned.  “Alright, my lady.  I’ll
get your shawl.”

Nia left the room, and
Tarian continued with dressing for supper. 
This constant bustle and
excitement gladdened me when we first came, but I sicken of it now, especially
with this child coming.
  She dropped a hand to her waist, not noticeably
thickened yet. 
I must tell Drustan when we arrive back at Oxfield.
 
Spring was nearly upon them.  Surely Drustan would wish to be home for the rest
of the lambing season.  Unless something more important loomed politically for
him.

Poor Arthur.  Sleep
appeared to have forsaken him and worry to dog his heels.  Gwynhwyfar
half-loved and half-loathed him.  Men hounded him for his attention to their
petty problems while denying him the authority he needed to accomplish anything
of value.  Not an empty-pated woman, Tarian had observed these things while at
the queen’s side each day.

She looked up when the
door opened.  ‘Twas Nia, without the shawl.

“It wasn’t there?  I
wonder where it could be,” said Tarian.

The maidservant didn’t
move from her place near the half-open door.  Tarian glanced at her again and
found the woman’s face filling with anxiety.  “What is it, Nia?”

Nia bit her lip. 
“I…That is, I wasn’t able to look for it in my lord’s chamber, my lady.”

“Why not, Nia?”
questioned Tarian.  Drustan usually walked the archery fields at this hour of
the day.

“I…It was occupied, my
lady.”

“Occupied?  What do you
mean, Nia?”  The maid’s voice held such strange fear that Tarian let the sash
fall from her waist untied. 

Tarian headed for the
doorway, but the maid grasped her arm.  “My lady…”

Tarian pulled away from
the woman’s hand.  “Nay, Nia.  If there is someone in my lord’s chamber, I must
see who ‘tis.”

As her feet moved down
the stone corridor, she felt she did not wish to know what in Drustan’s room
had made her servant upset.  Yet something else compelled her to look anyway,
to put to rest Drustan’s secrecy and know this man beneath his smooth surface. 
The incident last autumn in the stables came to her mind, and her spirit shrank
away.

It would be easy to
just walk away.  Go back to your chamber and forget about the shawl.

Tarian stood before the
door and placed her hand on the latch.  Pausing for just a moment to take a
breath, she heard it.

Giggling.  Whispering.

Her stomach turned.  She
forced her hand to lift the latch.  It was unlocked.  Pushing it open on its
silent hinges, Tarian stumbled into the antechamber, lit by several wall
torches.  On the desk across from the doorway, Drustan’s writing implements and
parchments stood, just as they had last evening when she had left this room.

Unblinking, Tarian moved
to the open archway connecting the rooms.  The smell of expensive perfume met
her senses as the sight of Lady Seren, dressed only as Nature could dress a
woman, met her eyes.  Her only artificial ornament, an orange shawl draped over
her hair.

Drustan stood from where
he reclined when he saw her.  “Well,” he stated, iron in his voice.  Lady Seren
stepped toward him, and she stared at Tarian, chin raised, as if she had the
right to be where she was.

Tarian was aware of the
silence, waiting on her reaction.  Gathering her courage, she walked forward
until she stood before the two.  Without looking at the woman, she plucked the
orange shawl from her head.  Her eyes met Drustan’s.

“I was looking for my
wrap,” she stated.  “You left the door unlocked.”

He raised a derisive
eyebrow.  Numbly, Tarian turned and exited the room, waiting to run until she
could be certain her footsteps would not be heard by her husband and his lover.

Summer Country

The priest’s son invited
the newcomer for supper.

“A homely affair ‘twill
be,” admitted the man, “but as the Scripture says, better a dinner of herbs.”

The man’s wife, also a
homely affair made beautiful by love, served her husband, their six children,
and Calum a meal of bread and thick hare stew.  Delicious though he knew ‘twas,
Calum hardly could eat it.  Too many thoughts and emotions mixed in his mind
and heart.

“My father can’t join us
this evening.  His old bones are racked with arthritis.”  Heddwyn informed Calum,
who felt profound relief but tried not to show it. 

His host dipped into the
stew with a scrap of bread.  “Tell me, do you come from these parts?”

“Aye, from nearby.  But
I haven’t been back since I was a youth,” answered Calum.

“And do you find things
much changed?” smiled the man.

“Aye, I do.”  Calum
paused.  “When I was a boy, ‘twas pagan country.  Now I see only hints of the
old religion.  Why is that?  What happened to cause it, if I might ask?”

“You may, and I’ll tell
you what I know of it,” answered the priest.  “My short answer is: the Holy
Spirit came down upon it.”

“And the long answer?”

“When God’s Spirit comes
and breathes new life into dead bones, lad, ‘tis difficult sometimes to trace
His ways.  But I believe it goes back to when we made a human sacrifice nearly
twenty years ago, when my father was a leading druid here.”

Calum drew a breath. 
“Aye?”

Heddwyn leaned back. 
“The victim was one of a few new converts to Christ, and the most persistent in
the faith.  My father despised her for her decision.  He said ‘twould be an end
to the old ways, that the fields would die, that the rivers would run dry.  And
you ken, they did for awhile.  So, the village leaders decided to offer the
gods a sacrifice.  And this girl was offered.  She went willingly, without any
resistance.  I was a young man of twenty-seven or so at the time, and I can
remember her eyes brimming with forgiveness and compassion for us as she died.”

The man stopped for
several moments.  Calum finally prodded him on.  “And so?”

“I was plagued with
strange visions after her death.  Distraught because even my father couldn’t
work an incantation against them, I went to a monastery for help.  A last
resort, believe me,” added Heddwyn, smiling at Calum.  “I lived among the brothers
for a time, and they prayed over me, and now I know, for me.  The visions
faded, and how can I explain it?  I felt my heart awaken as if it had never
beaten before.  I suddenly knew that Jesus was the Son of God, that the gods of
my fathers were only stone and wood.  I knew ‘twas Jesus who had given me the
visions and He who had taken them away.  I repented and fled to Him for mercy. 
And He gave it to me richly.”

“And you returned here?”
Calum asked, hardly believing what he heard.

“Aye,” answered his
host, dipping his bread into the communal bowl of stew again.

“And God gave the people
ears to hear,” piped up one of the little children.  “That’s what you always
say, Papa.”

Heddwyn reached over to
tousle the lad’s hair.  “Aye, I do.”  He turned to Calum, narrowing his eyes in
thought.  “Calum…Calum…that name sounds familiar to my ears.”

“Aye, it does,”
Heddwyn’s wife agreed, sipping her ale.

Calum swallowed.  “I’m
sure ‘tis familiar to you, Heddwyn.  I…grew up in this village.”

“You don’t say!”

“Aye.”  Calum met the
man’s eyes as guilty tears rose into his own.  “I fled on the day you made that
sacrifice.  I am Cairine’s brother.”

Silence.  Calum was sure
he could hear the mice making nests in the meadows outside.

Then rejoicing.  Heddwyn
gathered him into a bear hug, knocking over his stool as he did so.  The
children joined in, piling around Calum, kissing his shoulders, face, head,
hands, anywhere they could reach.  Finally, they drew away from stunned Calum.

“What…Why…” he
stammered.

“You are the lost
talent,” explained Heddwyn’s wife, a smile illuminating her countenance.  “You
are Jacob come back to your inheritance.  Do you know how long we have prayed
for you?”

“But…I aided in her
death.”

“How?” questioned
Heddwyn.

“I didn’t stop them from
killing her.  I didn’t even protest.  I am guilty of that.  I’ve carried the
guilt of it with me always.”  Calum stopped, sure that they would understand
now that he was a curse, not the blessing they thought him to be.

Heddwyn gave him a quiet
smile.  “Well, lad, you know what the Lord says to that, aye?”

Calum gave him a
questioning look.  “What?” he gulped.

“‘Surely he has borne
our griefs and carried our sorrows.’”  The man of God laid his veined hand on
Calum’s.  “You know, whatever burdens we bear, Jesus would bear them for us. 
He already has, to Calvary.”

Have I carried this
too far, too long?  Have I not given up this burden that Christ would bear for
me?
  The tears brimmed in Calum’s heart before they ran over the rims of
his eyes.

“May I pray for you,
laddie?” Heddwyn asked, his voice quiet as a mother bird’s towards her downy
chicks.

Calum barely could gasp
it out.  “Aye,” he muttered, his head bowing to his knees.  “Aye.”

Heddwyn laid a hand
gently on Calum’s shoulder.  Calum felt the man’s children cluster around his
knees, looking for a way to love and serve Him who upheld them all by His
grace.  The stew sat forgotten, the bread uneaten.

And in that soft evening
twilight, in a humble cottage, Calum felt the fetters begin to crumble away
from his soul.

30

Camelot

The pain flooded through
her too heavily for her to care whether anyone saw her sobs.  Tarian fled
through the torch-lit corridors, almost colliding with a guard at this corner,
running into a group of court boys at another.  Her gown hung loose; she had
not bothered with the sash when Nia came back to her chamber.  She kept
tripping over the hem, sometimes falling to her knees, rising again, her hands
scraped.

You knew he was
unfaithful.

Her tears poured out of
her eyes swiftly as she remembered the wanton clinging to her husband. 
Was
I not enough?  And what about this child within me?

Finally, her feet could
carry her no farther.  An open doorway stood before her, dimly lit within.  The
king’s chapel.  No one would disturb her open-sored misery here.  She stumbled
inside the small room, falling prostrate before the stone altar.  There she
lay, weeping until the tears would no longer come.

My God, my God, why
have you forsaken me?

As she lay there, quiet
at last, she knew Jesus was there with her.  Yet, she knew also that He would
not take away the pain that caused her heart to throb. 
Man of sorrows…  Is
this what You mean when You say that the cost is high?

Fresh sobs shook her
body.  She heard footsteps behind her but didn’t turn and rise to see who had
entered the chapel.  She suppressed her crying as much as she could, hoping
that whoever ‘twas wouldn’t come to the front of the room.

But the person did. 
What was more, when he saw her lying there abased, he knelt beside her, his
hood falling away from his face.  Through blurry eyes, she recognized Deoradhan
once again.

“My lady, are you…well,
‘tis obvious you’re not alright, but are you unhurt in body?”  His hand went to
her shoulder.  In the torchlight, she saw the compassion surfacing in his eyes.

Tarian struggled to sit
up.  “Aye,” she whispered.  “In body, I’m fine.”

Kneeling there,
surrounded by the few polished benches, Deoradhan studied her.  Under his kind
gaze, she felt tears brimming at her eyes again.

Deoradhan gathered her
in a gentle embrace.  “’Tis alright, my lady,” he murmured.  His touch held no
sensual connotations, and Tarian wept freely against the front of his cloak. 
Why
couldn’t Drustan have been like this man, who is also not a believer?  How will
I raise my child under that pagan roof?

She didn’t know how long
Deoradhan comforted her, but they still sat in the dimness when another entered
the small chapel, his boots scuffling on the stone.

“What’s this, Tarian?”

At the sound of her
husband’s voice, Tarian felt Deoradhan freeze.  His hands dropped from her
shoulders, and he pulled up his heavy hood.  With a bound, he departed through
another door near the altar.  Tarian turned to face her husband alone.

Drustan stood there,
sarcasm plating his smile.  “Who was that, Tarian?”

Promise me that
you’ll tell no one I’m here.
  Tarian hesitated.  Then she spat out, “How
dare you ask me that after what I witnessed in your chambers this afternoon?”

Drustan approached her. 
“How dare I?  How dare I?  What I just saw, wife, could be construed as
adultery, if I chose.”  He took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look him
in the eyes.  “Now, tell me who your secret comforter is.”

She wrenched her face
away from him.  “Nay, I’ll not.  He’s a friend, that is all.”

Drustan raised his
eyebrows.  “Tell me your friend’s name.”

“Nay.  I…I cannot.”

His hand struck her
cheek so hard she thought her teeth might come loose. Stumbling back, Tarian
fell against one of the benches. 
Lord God, keep my child safe!  
“Now
tell me his name, or I’ll name him your lover,” Drustan repeated calmly.

“My…?”  She shook her
head, her nose and eyes running.  “Nay, you know you speak lies.”

Drustan nodded slowly. 
“Nay.  Well, Tarian,” he spoke, gripping her forearm, “We must see what the
king thinks on this matter.”  He strode toward the door, pulling her along with
him.

Tarian couldn’t believe
this was happening.  Wordless, she stumbled along behind her determined
husband.

~ ~ ~

In the twilight, Deoradhan
mounted his gray horse, Alasdair. 
By the good will of the gods, Drustan did
not see me.  He will help Tarian.

There had been too many
close encounters on this trip for Deoradhan’s liking.  Besides, he had heard
much to his advantage while at Camelot, much that told him he might not need to
kill Arthur by his own hand.  Many whispered of treachery in dark corners,
murmured discontent at the king’s table, and wore weapons belted beneath their
tunics.

Just yesterday, he had
overheard a gristled advisor to the king ask a young guard if he wished to come
to a special meeting in the night.  When the young guard had refused, the
advisor warned him to keep his mouth shut if he knew what was good for him and
his.  Deoradhan saw the guard’s face blanche, then set in determined silence.

Arthur will not live
out the year. 
In a way, Deoradhan was relieved that this was happening. 
I
could not have killed Arthur by my own hand.  He is not Weylin.

The critical nobles,
including Weylin, would get rid of Arthur in their own way.  And then there
would be retribution from the majority.  In the resulting upheaval, Deoradhan
would have both his revenge upon Weylin and his reward as a loyal subject.

Now to Oxfield, to
retrieve Aine for a spring marriage, as he had sent word at the beginning of
winter. 
Aine, my delight.
  She seemed all around him in this quiet
dusk, her image ever-present in his mind.  Hair black as the night sky, eyes as
dark as an evening pool, skin white as the still-remaining clumps of snow.  A flowering
spring tree, promising to bear delectable fruits for him, only for him. 
Nature’s goddess incarnate, with no tricks to play upon him.

She is waiting for
me,
he thought, his
heart beating along with his horse’s hooves.