Alicia Roque Ruggieri Read Free Page B

deerskin trousers and boots, the fine linen tunic that
draped his rugged but graceful frame.  Out of a sun-browned countenance, his
blue-green eyes narrowed in thought one moment, then opened wide with laughter
the next.  His similarly mobile mouth smiled often.  He was not exactly
handsome, Bethan decided, but his manner added attraction to his imperfect
appearance.
    As soon as they had
wiped the last crumbs from their mouths, Deoradhan stood.  “We’d best be on our
way, lass, if we want to arrive by nightfall.  Come, I’ll help you up.”
    With that, he mounted
the gray gelding and reached down to pull Bethan up behind him.  A nudge of his
heels sent Alasdair into a swift trot out of the wood and onto the road once
more.
     

 
     
     
     
     
    3
     
     
    She woke to the sound of
clanking iron.  I must have fallen asleep! Bethan thought in surprise,
raising her head from where it rested against Deoradhan’s broad back. 
Torchlight, shimmering in the dusk, flooded her eyes, and she felt the horse halt
beneath her.
    “Are you awake, Bethan?”
Deoradhan questioned, his voice quiet.
    “Aye.  Where are we?”
Bethan asked, though she already guessed.
    “We’ve come to Oxfield. 
‘Tis just after supper; we’ve made good time.”  Deoradhan swung his right leg
over the horse’s withers and slipped to the ground. 
    Bethan blinked in the
flickering light and saw that they stood before a heavy iron gate, flanked by
stone towers on both sides.  She wondered who would admit them.  When she
glanced down at him for a hint, Deoradhan stood waiting patiently.  Suddenly, a
voice echoed out of the darkness, from one of the towers, she thought.
    “Who requests entrance?”
the voice demanded in a tone that chilled Bethan’s stomach.
    Deoradhan appeared
unaffected by the intimidating, invisible speaker.  “’Tis only our lord’s
messenger, Deoradhan the Red, and a new servant,” he called back.
    Immediately, the gate
creaked open on its weighty hinges.  It revealed several armed guards, one of
whom strode forward.  His solid jaw broke into a wide grin at the sight of
Deoradhan, and his hand dropped from his sword hilt.  “Deoradhan, lad!  I’ve
not seen hide nor hair of you in days.  Where have you been?”
    Safety enveloped
Deoradhan and Bethan as they entered the stronghold.  “On the lord’s business,
Calum, as usual,” answered Deoradhan.
    “Aye.  ‘Tis good to have
you back.”  The tall guard turned his eyes, bright in the torchlight, up toward
Bethan.  “And what pretty maiden have you brought back with you?”
    “A new servant for the
kitchens.  Bethan of West Lea, daughter of Burne.”  Deoradhan reached up and
brought down Bethan from the saddle, setting her on her feet.  “Bethan, I’d
like you to meet my friend Calum, the commander of Oxfield’s guards.”
    Brushing the dust from
her rumpled dress, Bethan glanced up at the man.  He looked no more than thirty
years and had the defined features of a handsome man, though several deep scars
across his cheeks had twisted an otherwise comely face.  Hazel-blue eyes,
shadowy in the torchlight, met her own with a gentleness that she had not
expected from a battle-hardened warrior.
    “Pleased to make your
acquaintance, Calum,” she smiled.
    “As I am yours, Bethan. 
You’ll show her to the kitchens, Deoradhan?” he inquired of his friend.
    “Aye, I will.  Are you
on night watch?”
    “Aye.  Come to the tower
after you bring her.  I’ll take Alasdair for you now.”
    “My thanks.  I’ll see
you in a bit then.  Come, lass,” Deoradhan spoke and led the way through an
open space, leaving his horse with the rugged guard.
    Bethan followed a pace
behind him.  She shivered in the night air as they made their way around
numerous stone buildings, their outlines alternately vague and sharp in the
darkness.  Several lights shone from the main structure’s towers, casting deep
shadows all around them and making Bethan feel