The Red Lion

Chapter Six

          My wife had been Christian for eight years; she was baptized not long before our wedding by a priest we had heard to be sympathetic to pagans, an uncommon trait among the clergy. Even though religion was not a great concern to her, she had agreed to adopt the church and no longer pray to her Old Gods.

This would be of no consequence to inquisitors.

Aileen lived the first twenty years of her life as a pagan in the secluded village of Aurelicast. It was tradition in her culture to leave the village as a young adult and return only when something of value to the tribe to bring back had been found. Some never returned from pilgrimage, Aileen told me. Their clan elders believe that pilgrims are placed in the hands of the gods when they exit the village and whatever fate befalls them is divine mandate.

Youths only go on pilgrimage when they have amassed enough faith, public support, and funding to warrant the endeavor. The chief druid of Aurelicast must meet with each potential pilgrim and find them worthy to enter the Christian world and not divulge the secrets of the tribe. Thus, there is no set age for a pilgrim.

Aileen and I held the same belief regarding our meeting in Edinburgh eight years ago: we both knew it was God, or gods, in her mind, that allowed us to meet and wed. I was in the city at the time meeting with the Council of Lords, a great gathering of the Scottish landowners. Due to the infrequency of the summits, they often lasted weeks. That Council, however, conferenced for two and a half months. During that time, laws were crafted, land was bought and sold, alliances and trade agreements were forged, and enough political ramblings to make you want to stick hot wax in your ears. It was also during this time that I met my wife.

I had walked to the south road chapel. There was no real need to rein in Aelfric as it was less than a mile's trudge. The evening wind, however, was starting to pick up, making me rue not bringing my steed to have a quick return. I put the warning of Father Raudri out of my head and tried to focus on keeping to the barely visible path under my heels. Amidst the dirt were paving stones strewn about, showing the age of the road and the use it received.

Upon my return to the estate, I noticed the same goings-on as the previous evening: raucous revelry illuminated by campfire. I, wanting to get out of the wind, hurried back into the great hall, leaving the men to their fun.

To my surprise, I had almost forgotten about the infirm troops still quartered in my hall. Across the hall I saw that my wife wore a simple evening gown, not a bloodied apron.

"You're not helping out this time?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Some of the camp wives have actually volunteered to change bandages and dress wounds, so I'll be getting some sleep this evening."

"Good, you deserve it." I looked around for Finan. Sensing what I wanted, my wife nodded to the side and said "He's in the kitchens."

I smiled a tired smile to her and entered the kitchens to find Finan leaning up against a countertop, looking out towards the shantytown outside. I joined him in leaning and spectating. He spoke:

"I almost signed on with the Irish regulars back in Dublin, you know. They came by looking for volunteers one day when I was old enough to make my mark. But my mother would have no thought of it." He sighed. "Always did I try to please that old woman."

Finan seldom spoke of his youth in Ireland. I interpreted this as a desire to keep the subject somewhat buried. Over the years I had pieced together that he had left his homeland to escape poverty and civil war and find meaningful employment in Scotland. Sometimes he made reference to a tavern he helped run some amount of years ago, but other than his work at Bayloroch, I knew nothing solid about his work history. I think he preferred to keep it that way.