Tristan was surprised by the old man’s skill. “You should never have run away that night,” he said.
“My master was dead, murdered. I would have been kill’t sure. And all for a bumboy.”
Fulke played with the hilt of his sword, loosening and tightening his grip. Tristan watched his body language. The man was agile and light on his feet.
“He nearly killed that boy for his own pleasure,” said Tristan. “I challenged him to a fight. He lost. However, my quarrel with you ended, long before, when I broke your arm.”
“A thing I am reminded of every time it rains,” said Fulke, glancing down at his arm and then back at Tristan. “All I know is Grenteville treated me good.”
“Good?” replied Tristan incredulous. “He beat you. Often and without mercy.”
“He were my master, an’ his right. I knowed where I stood with him. With him dead, I stood nowhere.”
“And you have plotted for twenty years to avenge him?”
“Not to avenge him. You see my face, sodomita?” he said, jutting his chin forward and pointing toward it with his finger. “That be your doing.”
“That happened because you ran.”
“Enough words! You aim to talk me to death, sodomita?” taunted Fulke. “My sword be sharper than your tongue. I say less talking and more fighting. Unless talking is all you be fit for. Has you lost your nerve?”
The fact that delay seemed to make the magus anxious made Tristan wonder of his skill was not as good as he had first thought.
In that moment, Fulke charged in, swinging his sword downward to the right. The blade sliced so near his face, Tristan could feel the air move as it went by. Tristan intercepted it low, then brought his own sword up and across Fulke’s midsection, just brushing the leather covering his chest. Fulke hissed loudly as he drew in a quick breath.
“Why kill Isidore?”
“To get your attention.”
Tristan stopped, a look of astonishment creeping over his face. “That was it? To get my attention?”
“It worked.” Fulke chuckled again.
Tristan gripped his sword. In his fury, his knuckles went white. “He was a defenseless lad.”
“He were your kin,” said Fulke.
“He was nothing to you.”
“Right! Nothing to me, but something to you.”
“I did not even know him,” said Tristan.
“But he were kin, and that matters, even to you.”
The men continued to circle to the left, stepping carefully on the slippery ground, their off sides just slightly forward, though neither held a shield. Tristan saw a brief opening reflected in Fulke’s eyes and stepped forward with a slice to the left, turned his wrists and followed immediately by one to the right. Fulke parried the first, ducked the second and followed up with a lunge to the knight’s midsection, aiming for his gut just below his armor. Tristan turned to the side and sucked in his abdomen, backing away from the intended strike.
“Well met, bumboy.”
“Call me that again and I’ll cut your tongue out while you die,” replied Tristan through clenched teeth, his face red hot. He wondered if Fulke could see his ire.
His question was answered straightaway. “That makes you angry, bumboy?” Fulke continued to taunt. “Good! I want you angry. Anger brings mistakes.”
Fulke was right and Tristan knew it. He struggled to clear is mind.
“Did it anger ye when I near killed yer monk? Eh, bumboy?”
Tristan’s heart leapt at the memory of thinking Rhonwellt dead. It must have shown, for Fulke surged forward with a downward cut to the left, then the right, then the left again, and spun away. The knight was barely able to fend him off.
He was not sure why he found being called bumboy more offensive than sodomita, yet it made his blood boil. Was there a softness to the Latin that masqueraded the heart of the insult?
From the corner of his eye, Tristan thought he saw a flash of straw peek out of the gloom near the edge of the tor.
“Bloody Christ,” he mumbled, his voice drowned by the sound of the wind and rain. He looked again and it was gone. He did not need any distractions, coming from his opponent or from anywhere else.
His hesitation left Fulke an opening. With no letting up, Fulke came at him again; one, two, three. This time as he spun away, he rushed to Tristan’s side and kicked the back of his knees, sending the knight sprawling to the ground, his sword flung from his grasp.
The driving rain splashed in his face, nearly blinding Tristan as he lay on his back looking up into the gray gloom overhead. Fulke stepped in and landed a hard kick, striking Tristan in the kidneys. He let out an involuntary grunt, as the thrust of the blow turned him over. Struggling to his knees, the knight searched for his sword, catching a glimpse of it to his left. Fulke then kicked him in the stomach, rolling him onto his back again. Tristan gasped for air, coughing and spitting and feeling nauseous. He turned his head in the direction where he thought he saw his sword. It lay in the mud and water just a few inches from his hand.
As he reached his hand out for the hilt, he saw the beggar’s sword singing down towards it. He snatched his hand out of the way just before the blade struck the ground. Before Fulke could raise his weapon to swing again, he lurched to his right, grabbed his blade and while still on his back swung his blade upward from left to right. Fulke blocked the move and swung his sword downward, aiming at Tristan’s head. The knight parried the blow, and rolling out of the way of a second one slicing toward him, scrambled to his feet.
Concentrate!
“I have waited a long time, sodomita. I wait no longer.”
As Fulke charged towards him, Tristan finally realized that the beggar was more than a very credible threat. The world around him went silent. He ceased to hear the sound of the wind and the rain. Their footfalls made no noise as they danced around in a circle in the water and mud. There was nothing but the roar of his own breath rasping inside his head. His body responded at once. Feet planted firmly on the ground, he took a defensive posture against the oncoming attack.
Again, Fulke led with a downward cut to Tristan’s head, but before he even started the descending motion with his sword, Tristan’s blade went up in defense. He countered with swipes high to low, first left then right aimed at Fulke’s legs. As the Magus countered the blows aimed low, the knight quickly raised his blade and swung hard at his opponents shoulder. Fulke deflected, but Tristan’s powerful attack forced Fulke to step backward and he stumbled. He struggled but stayed on his feet.
The knight continued his relentless attack. Down to the head, across to the right then the left, across again to the neck, Fulke all the time repelling his every move. Visibility from the driving rain was poor and the water soaking into their clothing and armor made them heavier, causing both men to tire under the added weight.
Seeking the advantage of higher ground, Fulke leapt onto a waist-high boulder. Straightaway he aimed his blows down at Tristan’s head and shoulders. A slice to Tristan’s sword arm grazed his mail. Tristan’s parry was a powerful sideways hit to Fulke’s leg. Though it hit with the flat of his blade and drew no blood, the beggar nearly fell from his perch.
Fulke bellowed in rage and leapt at Tristan. The knight stumbled back and out of the way, but his right foot slipped in the mud and he went down on one knee. Fulke brought his foot up and kicked at Tristan’s face. Tristan ducked, the kick went wild and Fulke tumbled to the ground, losing his blade. Now, it was Tristan’s turn. He rose to his feet and he aimed his foot at the beggar’s head. Fulke caught it with his hands and twisted until Tristan fell beside him.
Fulke rolled on top of Tristan, his hands reaching for the knight’s throat, staring maniacally into his face. All reason was gone from the man and Tristan saw there was was nothing behind the huge black pupils gazing down at him. Fulke’s grip grew tighter about Tristan’s neck. They struggled, rolling and thrashing in the water and mud. Tristan’s hand sought the dagger at his waist
, fingers fumbling for the grip.
His lungs screamed for air as the fingers about his neck continued to tighten. He began to feel light headed. Extracting the dagger, he jabbed forward, the tip barely piercing the beggars abdomen. Caught by surprise Fulke let up on his death grip just enough to give Tristan the opening he needed. He heaved his body under Fulke’s, dumping him unceremoniously to the side and rolling on top of him. With a second thrust, he buried his dagger all the way to the cross bar in the beggar’s stomach.
Fulke made no sound as blood bubbled from his mouth and rolled down the side of his face. Tristan glared as the light of life flickered into the bottomless black pupils for an instant and then, just as quickly, was gone.
In the next moment, as the sounds of the driving rain and the world around him returned, a distant peal of thunder echoed behind his own raspy breath.
“It is all right, lad,” Tristan shouted, over the cacophony. “You can come out now.”
Twenty-five
Rainwater dripped off the end of his nose and blood from the tip of his dagger as Tristan stood with his gaze fixed on Fulke’s corpse lying at his feet. Fulke’s life had played out like a Greek tragedy and Tristan had been unwittingly pulled from the anonymity of the chorus to play a leading role. Fulke had traveled half the known world to avenge the decades-old deed that had forever changed his life. For a man to survive such insurmountable odds, only to meet his end in the mud and rain so near to home, was another one of God’s cruel jokes. Few would call it justice. The Greeks would have said it surely had to do with the fickleness of the gods. At this moment, the knight could see little difference in the way the ancient gods treated their subjects and how the Christian God dealt with His.
Tristan sensed Hewrey’s approach and from the edge of his sight saw the lad stand next to him.
“I told you to stay at the Priory,” growled Tristan.
Hewrey said nothing for a moment. “You did. That were not part of the deal,” he said.
“What deal?”
“You said you would leave me be if I served you. Your words have shown true. So will mine. But, I cannot serve if I am not with you.”
“If the fight had gone wrong, he would have killed you just for spite.”
“He could try, but would find I be wilier than a old fox stealin’ chickens. He were good at his kind of fightin’ but I be good at mine.”
Tristan continued to stare at Fulke’s corpse.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“I may talk poor,” said Hewrey, “but I arn’t dull-witted. It were plain you be comin’ here to kill him.”
“Serving me,” said Tristan, turning to look at Hewrey, “means doing what I tell you.”
“That be true as long as leaving me behind are not part of it.”
“It is if I say it is.”
“Then, we may have us a purdicamet, Master.”
“Predicament,” said Tristan.
Hewrey looked at Tristan, his brows knit. “That be what I said, clear ‘nough.” Hewrey paused as though he might be searching for words. At last, he turned and gazed directly into Tristan’s eyes, the lad’s brow knit in earnest. “You be differnt than most knights, an we both knows it. If I serve you, I got to be proud to do it. Knowin’ how you fight tells me ‘bout you as a man. It make it worth the guff I gets for bein’ your boy.”
“But, you are not my boy and you know it.”
“Not be how other folks sees it.”
Tristan hated this conversation. He had never had trouble being who he was, only talking about it. “Is it all that bad?” he asked.
“Not so bad,” said Hewrey. “Folks never thought much of me anyways. Servin’ a knight be a step up in the world, even servin’ a knight…well…like you.”
Tristan only nodded. He was finding depths to Hewrey he had not known were there. “Taking you on may prove more than I bargained for,” replied Tristan.
“I believes it might at that, Master.”
Tristan held out his blade for the rain to wash the blood away before wiping it on the hem of his tunic, then went to retrieve his cloak. “Did you walk here?” he asked Hewrey, over his shoulder.
Hewrey stooped and picked up the beggar’s dagger from where it had fallen and tucked it under his belt, tossing the one with the broken tip he had been carrying into the mud. “I did,” he answered. “Me and that Rouncey be takin’ it slow.”
“Well then, it looks as though the tanner will be the only one who will ride back to Cydweli.”
“I seen the body when I come by the cottage. Were it him what done it?” Hewrey asked, indicating the beggar with a toss of his head.
Tristan answered with a short nod.
They dragged Fulke’s corpse part of the way up the slope of the tor and left it for the vultures. Tristan would tell Declan and Cyfnerth where to find it should they care to look upon the one responsible for Isidore’s death. He doubted they would care. Isidore was dead and seeing Fulke’s body would not alter that fact.
By the time Tristan and Hewrey passed through the town gatehouse, the tanner’s body slung over the stallion’s back, the rain had slowed to a slight drizzle. A couple of lads they encountered on the way back had run ahead to spread the news of the tanner’s death and folks were beginning to gather and stare. He paid four men to carry the body to the church, gave a young boy a farthing to take Sag to the stables and he and Hewrey headed for the tavern.
Both were soaked to the skin. Tristan was irritable—and he was tired. He needed a drink and saw no reason to deny himself. Hewrey, however, seemed excited and was already telling any who would listen the details of the fight. It reminded the knight of the thrill he used to feel after battle, when his blood ran hot and coursed through his veins causing his body to vibrate with the elation of victory. No such thrill carried him in the aftermath of his fight with Fulke. The cuts and bruises to his hands, the soreness in his ribs and kidneys where Fulke had kicked him, and the chill from being drenched and muddy, things that he used to see as merely the results of an ordinary day’s work for a soldier, told him he really was getting too old for this. At least he had avenged the deaths of Isidore and the tanner and the attempt on Rhonwellt’s life.
Tristan barely noticed the girl bring trenchers of food and a pottle of ale. Hewrey began shoveling heaping spoons of hot stew into his maw, washing it down with noisy gulps of watered ale. Tristan left Hewrey to his meal and went to stand in front of the fire blazing on the hearth in the center of the room, steam rising off his clothes as they began to dry. One thumb hooked over his belt, he sipped his ale, one thought nagging at him—the question before every battle. In war, it was a given, every skirmish could be your last. The chances for warfare were rarer here. How long could a soldier of over forty summers last? He hoped to die in his bed, however, there was no guarantee that would be the case.
The contradiction between how he felt on the inside and what his aging body showed him to be true shone in his mind like a beacon. Old or not, he was a knight and a warrior, and soldiering was all he knew. He would do what he must do, renew his oath to Lord Robert and claim his land. Ryd Lliw would take work to revive, but once done, it would be prosperous, without splendor but a credit to his liege. Thus far, his life had been sparse and rough, and Tristan knew it would likely continue to be.
All of these pieces seemed fairly straight forward in the knight’s mind. The great unknown was Rhonwellt. Where did he fit in to all of this? Did he even desire a part in it? Tristan hoped that he would, but doubts still nagged him. What about his vows to the church?
When they were young, Rhonwellt had brought out the best in him. Could he recapture the kinder trusting lad Rhonwellt had known? Could the monk manage to coax out what little humanity still remained behind the hard exterior shell or was that Tristan gone forever? Or, had he known too much hardship, seen too much bloodshed to ever really be that person again?
Gone too was the young Rhonwellt he had known. Though he
also had changed much, life with the brothers had at least allowed him to hold on to his kindness. That was evident in the gentle and loving way he dealt with Ciaran and others. However, Tristan knew he and Rhonwellt were like oil and water, opposites in so many ways, and yet bound together inexplicably. The scenario presented itself as so unlikely to succeed, it appeared hopeless.
He must find a way. It was time to speak with Rhonwellt and begin the discussion both had been avoiding since he arrived.
✞ ✞ ✞
After wandering the cloister for what felt like hours, Rhonwellt sought the solitude of his desk and his brushes. Yet, now he sat there staring at the parchment in front of him, unable to shake his restlessness and finding it hard to concentrate. There had been a new corpse in the presbytery nearly every other day for over a week, and this many funeral masses had not been said for the whole of the last half-year. The specter of Death hovered heavily over the priory and foreboding had taken its toll on the serenity of the brothers, completely upending their routine.
Rhonwellt held his brush immobile over the page staring out the window of the scriptorium until the paint had nearly dried. The parchment window coverings had been recently removed as Spring was now at hand and he was able to look out over the cloister. Birds scratched at the wet earth to uncover insects and worms come to the surface after the morning rains.
He fretted over the Capital for a manuscript of Psalmas XXIII. An oak tree grew along the left edge of the page, its trunk running from top to bottom, an upper case D superimposed over a large circle of verdant foliage at the top. Encircled in the loop of the letter was an illustration of a lamb lying in a meadow with trees against a light blue sky in the background. The initial was deep indigo, with crimson, marigold and primrose yellow highlights. At the bottom of the tree were more leaves sprouting from branch-like roots. When the ornamentation was finished and dry, a scribe would initial in the text. The application of gold leaf by another illuminator would complete the page.
A Savor of Clove Page 29