Free Alicia Roque Ruggieri by The House of Mercy Page B

but Arthur laid a hand
on Deoradhan’s shoulder.
    “Sometimes ‘tis best
to let the past lie quietly, lad,” he stated in his soft, steady voice.  “See
if you can’t get in some more practicing with the sword before the sun sets.”
     
    And he had secured more
practicing with his sword, and with his spear, arrows, and in wrestling as
well.  Now, more than eight years after that conversation, Deoradhan could feel
his own strength as he rode through the wood.  He was a warrior, truly, but
without a liege-lord, just as he was a prince without a kingdom to call his
own.  A scholar as well, thanks to the education Arthur had provided both at
his own court and in Gaul.  Deoradhan wryly smiled, thinking of how eagerly the
king had sent him away to study once Deoradhan learned the truth.
     
    Like an unexpected
summer rainstorm, the stranger cantered through the Pendragon’s gates at
sundown.  He gave his horse, a heavy-boned mare lathered with sweat, to a
stableboy’s care and moved up the stone steps of the hall with surety of
purpose written across his countenance.  His clothes showed the dust of travel
but were sewn finely.  Over his tunic, he wore a polished coat of
well-cared-for mail, and an ornamental belt held a well-forged sword to his
waist.
    Deoradhan and two
other boys had been playing a game with knucklebones on the steps of the hall
when the stranger’s footsteps sounded on the stones.  They had heard him ride
up but had not paid attention.  Many warriors came and went frequently through
the gates of Camelot.  Only when the newcomer’s path to the door disturbed
their game did the boys notice his presence.
    “Who is that?”
Percivale, a scrawny lad of twelve, wondered aloud as the man strode up the
steps toward the hall doors.  “He’s a champion for sure.  Look at his belt.”
    “A gift from his
liege for valor, ‘tis certain,” Alwyn remarked with confidence, his serious
brown eyes trained on the stranger’s back as the man spoke with the guards at
the door.
    Deoradhan remained
quiet.  The warrior seemed familiar to him somehow, like someone he had met in
a dream or the dream of a dream.  As the guards permitted the man to enter the
hall, Deoradhan rose to his feet.
    “Where are you
going?  The game’s not finished,” Percivale said.
    “I want to know who
that man is,” Deoradhan answered, clambering up the steps on his skinny
thirteen-year-old legs.
    Alwyn leapt to his
feet, nimble as a fay.  “I’m coming, too.”
    “Nobody wants to
finish the game?” Percivale asked, disappointment in his pallid face.  When
neither Deoradhan nor Alwyn sat back down, Percivale stood.  “Alright.  I may
as well come, too.  Who knows, the stranger might have a good story to tell.”
    Deoradhan and Alywn
smiled at him and ran up the steps, into the hall, the knucklebones forgotten. 
The helmeted guards ignored the boys, used to their tireless activity, knowing
that their innocent exuberance delighted the childless high king.  Indeed,
Deoradhan and his fellows were welcome to roam wherever they wished, learning
the ways of noble conduct from interaction with the lords and ladies who
stopped in Britain’s principal citadel.
    The evening wall
torches did not burn yet.  With eyes accustomed to the brilliant afternoon
sunlight, Deoradhan could barely discern the figure of the warrior standing
before the king’s throne.  He led the other two boys toward the front of the
hall, more composed in Arthur’s presence but feeling curiosity prod him toward
unusual boldness.  Deoradhan moved around the stranger and knelt at the king’s
feet.  Immediately, he felt an affectionate hand rest upon his shoulder and
glanced up to see the high king smiling at him.  He grinned back, and then they
both turned their attention to the sober warrior before them.
    “You say you’ve come
from Ireland,” Arthur said.
    “Aye.  I served the
king there for ten years.  But my heart has longed to come