Orphan of Destiny tyt-3

by Michael Spradlin

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous. We hardly even talked or. . We barely know each other,” I protested.

  “You don’t choose love, Tristan, love chooses you. Think of it. You went back to help her. At great cost and sacrifice, I might add. Don’t you remember how she looked at you when we entered the gates of her fortress?” she asked. “When she saw you there, the happiness in her eyes. . Trust me, it was love.” In truth I had no idea how she had looked at me, for I could only remember being awestruck by seeing her there again.

  “Looked at me? What. . I. . don’t. . Maryam, that’s crazy,” I said.

  “It might be, but it’s also true,” she said. She goaded her horse forward and rode ahead of me, as if to say that in her opinion, the matter was closed.

  Toward the afternoon, we had to stop more frequently as John’s horse struggled to keep up with us under the immense girth of its rider. I kept my voice low, for I had no wish for Robard, or especially Little John, to overhear. When we were besieged at Montsegur, I had told my friends the true nature of the task Sir Thomas had lain before me, and Maryam had readily embraced it as the truth, informing us she had heard the song of the Grail in Outremer. Robard still didn’t believe I carried the Holy Grail. And as much as I trusted that Little John was noble and good, I did not intend to reveal to him the full extent of my mission.

  We spent an hour in the late morning stopping to rest and building a small fire to warm ourselves. My wound ached considerably, and I strode back and forth near the fire, trying to work the soreness out of it. Maryam could see I was still troubled and approached me while Robard and Little John squatted by the fire, eyeing each other like two dogs measuring the distance to the last bone, each one waiting for the other to pounce first. Angel sat between them, watching them with curiosity.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Much better. Stronger every day, in fact,” I said. In truth riding horseback was growing unbearable. But remaining in one place long enough to heal was not an option.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “Is something on your mind besides the fair Celia?”

  I shrugged. Maryam had an uncanny ability to extract information from me. She could read my moods and somehow found a way to make me reveal my secrets, often before I even realized what I was saying. And if my answers became short and clipped, she probed harder until she had sniffed out the truth. She’d never admit it, of course. Part of her wanted me to believe she couldn’t tell when I withheld things from her. But she was always a step or three ahead of me.

  “Something has been bothering you ever since we escaped the castle in Calais. What is it?” She went straight to the point.

  “Really, it’s just my wound. Getting shot is no small thing. A seeping wound in one’s side tends to cut down on happy thoughts, you know.”

  “Yes,” she said, flexing the very shoulder Robard’s arrow had wounded in Outremer. “But it’s not the wound, it’s something else. You act puzzled.”

  “Hmm. Well, you could be right. I’m trying to figure out a way to keep us all from getting captured and thrown into prison. Or worse. I’d almost rather have Sir Hugh right in front of me, because at least then I’d know where he was. Having him in the shadows makes me jumpy. And as you both so recently reminded me, the only way out of this is for us, or rather me, to kill him. I, a squire to a Templar Knight, must somehow defeat a Marshal of the Order if he doesn’t slay me first.”

  “Robard or I would be more than happy to dispatch him for you,” she said. A small smile came over her face at the thought of killing Sir Hugh.

  “I appreciate it. Really, I do. But somehow, I think it must fall to me.”

  “Almost since the moment I met you, Sir Hugh has been chasing you. . us.” She glanced over her shoulder to the fire, making sure Little John was out of earshot. “And it’s not the Grail that’s troubling you. We could easily see your relief when you revealed your secret to us. But ever since the castle, upon encountering that horrible queen. .” Her voice trailed off.

  “All right. I’ll tell you what happened. But it has to be some kind of trick or deception Eleanor and Sir Hugh have concocted to distract me. I’m sure there is nothing to it. When we. . and you were. . on the barrel, just as Sir Hugh was about to. .,” I stammered, not wanting to relive it. “Eleanor said something to me.”

  “Men!” Maryam sighed quietly. “Will you get on with it? What?! She told you what, Tristan?!”

  “Eleanor. . She said she would see me dead before I ever sat on Richard’s throne.”

  Maryam’s black eyes flew open in amazement.

  “What!?” she whispered.

  “What?” Robard interjected from behind us, never taking his eyes off Little John.

  “Nothing!” we both said at once.

  We stood silently for a while as Maryam considered my revelation.

  “Do you suppose she was serious?” she finally asked.

  “I don’t know. One moment she appeared quite sane. The next moment she was cackling away like a crazy witch,” I said.

  “What are you two mumbling about over there?” Robard asked again.

  “It’s nothing, really, Robard. Tristan just thought he might have seen something in the woods is all,” Maryam said.

  “What? Where? Was it Templars? Guards? It could be bandits!” He leapt to his feet, his head swiveling back and forth, scanning the trail ahead of us for any sign of trouble.

  “I think I was mistaken,” I said, glaring at Maryam. But before she could say anything else, we mounted up again and rode off.

  Robard rode beside us for a long while, giving us little chance to talk further. I wasn’t ready to tell him yet. He undoubtedly would not believe me, and would make jokes I was not in the mood for.

  After midday, we found the traveler’s road. Although seeing something so familiar was thrilling, I was hesitant to take such a well-used thoroughfare. But I worried we might become lost and not find St. Alban’s otherwise. And as the day rolled along, the woods and forest became more recognizable to me. We were getting closer. The weather was turning colder, and I welcomed the thought of a warm fire and delicious meal waiting for us at the abbey.

  We finally broke through the forest and there before us was the abbey gate. I was so excited I gave rein to my horse and dashed up the lane leading to the courtyard, with my friends following quickly behind me. It took me a moment to realize something was wrong.

  The trail leading to the abbey was lined with wooden crosses, each pushed carefully into the ground. None of them had been there when I’d left. I pulled my horse to a stop and jumped down, examining each one. From one cross hung a brother’s robe. Another held the abbot’s rosary. I would know it anywhere, for I’d seen it every day of my life, hanging from the rope belt he cinched around his waist. Each cross held a similar marker. Brother Rupert’s sandals. On another was a small crucifix that had belonged to Brother Christian, who had joined the order just a few short years ago. What was this? This couldn’t be. All of them? Buried here beneath the trees?

  My heart rose in my throat, and I hurried back into my saddle as best my wound would allow and rode hard up the lane to the abbey courtyard. More crosses marked the way. First four, then ten, then twenty. Dear God, what had happened? Please, I prayed. Don’t let this be! It must have been some sickness. A plague must have struck a local village and the sick had come here seeking comfort in their dying days and had been buried along the lane. Please don’t let it be the brothers.

  But the momentary joy I’d felt at the thought of being home turned immediately to anguish as I arrived in the courtyard and saw what lay before me.

  “No!” I cried. I leapt from my horse and dropped to my knees, unable to hold back the tears. “NO!”

  St. Alban’s Abbey had been burned to the ground.

  13

  My former home was a skeleton of ashes and cinders. The fire had been efficient: only a few charred timbers remained upright. In my soul, I k
new it was the work of Sir Hugh. In Tyre, while he’d held us in our jail cells, he had sneered while telling me he had tortured the monks. I assumed then that he was bluffing, trying to scare me into revealing the location of the Grail to him. But it was no bluff. On my first night with the regimento in Dover, I remembered seeing him talking with two King’s Guards outside the Commandery. They had been secretive and cunning in their movements, and the guards had left him, riding off to the west. They must have come here. Why? If only I had told Sir Thomas! He might have been able to save them.

  Sobs wracked my body. This was my fault. If I had refused Sir Thomas’ offer to join the Templars, if I had stayed here, none of this would have happened. Nothing made sense.

  Maryam put her arm gently around my shoulders. “Tristan. .,” she said quietly.

  “No. . no. . no. .,” I moaned, pounding the ground in frustration. “He killed them. He killed them all.”

  Robard knelt down, also putting his arm on my shoulder. “Come, Tristan,” he said softly, trying vainly to pull me to my feet. “We’ll find out what happened here, I promise-”

  “No!” I shouted, skittering away from them. “Don’t you see? He killed them all! They were completely innocent and he burned them to death! And it’s my fault!”

  “Lad,” Little John spoke. “Who is it you speak of? I knew of this abbey. If it burned by treachery, who would do such a foul thing?”

  But I couldn’t say anything more. I lay there on the ground, folded up like a turtle in its shell, rocking back and forth.

  “Tristan,” Robard said. “Those graves we found, we don’t know who lies in them. And perhaps the fire was an accident. . If Sir Hugh-”

  “Sir Hugh?” Little John interrupted. “Sir Hugh Montfort? Of Sir Thomas’ regimento? Is he the one you refer to?”

  “It is,” Robard replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve run afoul of him many times. When Thomas and I served in the King’s Army, he was a minister to the court of King Henry. More crooked than a thistle’s root, he is. What does he have to do with this, Tristan?”

  Maryam stood, taking Little John by the arm and walking him a few steps away. She spoke to him in low tones, but I neither heard nor cared what she relayed to him. I stayed on the ground and refused to move. My soul was empty. The only family I had ever known had been destroyed.

  “Tristan, steady now,” Robard said. “We don’t know anything for certain. Maybe those graves-”

  “No! He did this. He killed them. Or he sent the King’s Guards to do it. Because of me, because that witch Eleanor thinks I am a noble! She thinks I want Richard’s throne!”

  “Oh!” Maryam exclaimed.

  Robard stared at me as if I were insane. Which was entirely possible. It took him a long moment to process what I had said.

  “Tristan, I’m very sorry for what you have found here. For your loss. But what did you just say?” he asked.

  “When we were in Calais, as I held the Queen Mother hostage, she said she would see me dead before I ever sat on Richard’s throne. I told her I’m an orphan, but she thinks I’m born of some noble who has claim to the throne. It’s the only explanation. And Eleanor has been working with Sir Hugh all along! Someone must have hidden an orphan child somewhere and those two think it’s me. Sir Hugh and Eleanor killed them so they wouldn’t tell! To keep Richard and their ridiculous kingdom safe! But I’m not a noble, I can’t be. . I’m just. .” Sobs came again. I had never felt so alone.

  “Tristan, you are upset. . I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. But you are talking nonsense. You can’t believe. . that woman. . The chances of you. . My God. .” Robard stopped, unsure of what else to say.

  With his giant hand, Little John gently pulled me to my feet. “Lad,” he said. And then he stopped a moment, staring hard at me in the advancing twilight. He studied my face as if he were meeting me for the first time. “You do. .” But his words trailed off.

  “What?” Robard asked.

  “I. . thought. . It’s nothing. It’s getting dark. We should find a place to camp for the night. We’ll sort this out. Tomorrow. . those graves. . Well, I won’t lie to you, Tristan, a horrible tragedy has been done here to those who lie beneath those crosses. But your friend is right. Tomorrow I can visit some of the nearby villages, try to find out what happened. Maybe some of the brothers survived.”

  “No!” I said, jerking my arm away from Little John’s grasp. “Leave me be.”

  I ran, sprinting around the remains of the abbey. At first I heard someone coming after me: Robard. But Maryam called for him to stop.

  I ran behind the crumbled pile of rubble and ash to the grounds beyond St. Alban’s. The outbuildings and stables were burned as well. So I kept running, not stopping until I passed across the wheat fields and reached the distant woods. With each step, my wounded side caused me to nearly howl in agony, but I wanted the pain. I wanted it to squeeze and encircle me in a red hot rage. I cried as I moved through the trees, dodging limbs and branches and rocks and roots. The faces of the monks appeared everywhere as I ran. The abbot. Brother Rupert. Brother Tuck. What horrors they must have felt at the hands of such evil men.

  Finally, I could run no more. There was nothing left inside of me. It was late in the afternoon and the shadows lengthened in the woods. It would be dusk soon. I staggered to a small clearing and slumped against the base of a tree. Resting my back against it, I sat there, arms on my knees, silent tears flowing down my face. There was nothing I could do to bring my friends back. I put my head on my knees and closed my eyes, sobbing until I could cry no more.

  I must have dozed, for when I lifted my head, it was dark and the evening woods awakened as the night birds sang. It was getting colder, but the wind and weather did not concern me. The breeze picked up, and the trees swayed as their limbs creaked and knocked against each other.

  I peered up at the sky, wanting to curse God for allowing this to happen. I had lost everything. The monks. Sir Thomas. Quincy and Sir Basil. My heart leapt at the thought of Celia. What if Sir Hugh had done the same to her? Let Sir Hugh find me, I thought, for when he did, I would strangle him with my bare hands.

  Some instinct brought me back to the present moment-I don’t know whether it was the long months of battle or merely an inborn desire for survival, but I sensed movement in the underbrush behind me. Someone or something was attempting a stealthy approach. The evening stars were rising in the sky and there was a dim light to the forest. I listened hard. If my friends had come to retrieve me, I would run away again. I wished only to be left alone.

  Another rustle in the bushes convinced me it was no animal. Whoever was there was big, and thus it could not be Maryam or Robard, both of whom would likely be upon me before I even knew either of them was there. It must be Little John, come to find me.

  “Who’s there?” I demanded. No answer. “Go away!”

  There was silence for a moment, but then came the shuffle of footsteps, creeping as quietly as they were able, along the forest floor.

  “Leave me alone!” I shouted. My words echoed off the trees, and startled ravens and starlings cried out as they burst into flight.

  The woods were stilled momentarily, and the sound resumed. With a heavy sigh I stood up, drawing my sword as I did so.

  “Don’t come any closer!” I commanded.

  Pushing myself out from the tree trunk, I turned to face whoever it was who dared disturb me. “I warned-” I stopped, the words dying in my throat.

  For there before me, his gentle face outlined in the starlight, arms open wide, stood someone I knew in an instant. I threw my sword to the ground, staggering forward.

  And I fainted dead away into the arms of Brother Tuck.

  14

  I woke to the hum of voices and, opening my eyes, found myself next to a crackling fire. My dreams haunted me, and for a moment I wondered if I still slept. I hoped so. Then all I had learned this day would be part of a horrible, horrible nightmare.

>   Maryam said, “There you are,” and I felt a large warm hand on my forehead, gazing up to see the smiling face of Brother Tuck. It was not a dream. He was really here.

  I stood up and so did he, clapping his hands with glee. From the time I was a child, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an expression of happiness cross his face. His giant hands cradled my head, and he pushed the hair out of my eyes, looking at me like he couldn’t believe his luck.

  “It’s so good to see you,” I said. He couldn’t hear me, as he was deaf as well as mute, but I touched my heart and pointed at him. Through the years Tuck and I had found our own way of communicating with each other. Using simple signs and motions, I could make him understand what I needed, wanted or sometimes even wished. The abbot once told me Tuck was a genius at “understanding people.” Because he could not hear or speak, he had learned to watch our eyes and faces. Even by the way we stood or gestured he could on some level understand what we required of him. Since Tuck had practically raised me, we had our own method of wordless communication, and it surprised me how easily I fell back into it. My heart was overjoyed at finding him alive.

  “Everyone, this is Brother Tuck, the monk most responsible for raising me. In fact, it was he who found me on the abbey steps when I was left there as a babe. He is one of the kindest, most decent men I’ve ever known.”

  All of them stood and shook hands with Brother Tuck. He watched me carefully as I pointed to each of them and touched my chest near my heart. This told him these three were my friends, and it was all he needed. He would never learn or speak their names, but I had just vouched for them in Tuck’s eyes, and that was good enough for him.

  Finding St. Alban’s in ruins and then discovering Tuck alive had been an enormous shock. Standing by the fire, it took me a moment to get my bearings. We were camped in the woods near the abbey. The campsite was littered with flame-scarred benches, jars, tools and crocks of Tuck’s potions and numerous other objects he must have scavenged from the wreckage of St. Alban’s.