by Jay Ruud
“When the cruel husband was gone, the lady picked the tiny body up in her hands and, weeping sorely, cursed the entire household that had helped her husband trap the bird. And within herself she mourned the fact that she could no longer spend the evenings speaking with her lover over the wall—and she knew, too, that if she did not come to the window, her lover would think she had forgotten him and was no longer true.
“She thought it through for several hours, standing there in her closet clutching the lifeless body of the nightingale. Finally she determined to send the nightingale’s tiny body to her lover next door. She took the murdered bird and wrapped it in a piece of black samite that she had in her room, embroidered in gold. She called her personal page to her chamber, and gave him the bird to deliver to her lover. The page greeted the lover from his lady, and placed the samite-swathed bird into his hand. Then he told him everything that had transpired in his neighbor’s house.
“The knight was so saddened by these events that he wept openly. Then, thanking the page, he took the bird, and called to him the best goldsmith in Saint-Malo. When the goldsmith had come to his palace, the knight bade him make a golden reliquary, studded with precious stones, to house the body of the blessed bird that had been the symbol of his ill-fated love. From that day until this, the knight has carried that small reliquary with him everywhere. He never lets it out of his sight. The lady is still married to the cruel husband, and he holds her like a small bird in a cage. She hates her husband, and he knows it, but is satisfied with the power he has over her. Misery seems fine with these people, so long as one is properly avenged.”
It was the kind of story that left its audience sobered and silent, and that was the mood of the table when Captain Jacques had finished his tale. A low whine could be heard from Jacques’s side, and I suddenly realized it was the dog, whining as if she understood the story. Of course, as Jacques realized, what she was doing was begging for food, and he gave her a piece of his beef pie to eat directly out of his hand while the rest of us were recovering from his narrative.
“So what are you saying with this,” Dinadan wanted to know. “You’re implying that people like Kaherdin, like Isolde of the White Hands, like their servants and countrymen and retainers, are like the husband in the story? That they will gladly harm anyone around them, including themselves, to make sure that no one impugns their honor in any way?”
“That is, perhaps, one thing that the story suggests,” Jacques admitted. “But don’t forget that the lady and her lover are also of Saint-Malo. So the story tells of those who love strongly, against all odds, and remain true even when love is hopeless.”
“A land of complex and utterly human motives,” Merlin nodded. “But you forget, my good captain. Tristram was Cornish. La Belle Isolde was Irish. Mark is Cornish. The story is universal, Captain Jacques. It reflects values and deep emotions that are as strong among others as among those of this land.”
Captain Jacques smiled grimly. “But of course. That is the strength of stories. But this particular story—the story of Tristram and his two Isoldes, and Kaherdin and Mark, played out its final scenes right here, where the nightingales still sing.”
“Indeed. Well, on that note, I think my friends and I should be finding our way to our evening rest about now.”
“There I can help you,” the captain responded. “My lord Kaherdin has instructed me to extend to you the hospitality of the palace while you are in Saint-Malo. I can show you a room where you are welcome to stay, and have your sea chest brought to you before you settle in for the evening. It is still in my room, you’ll recall.”
“Ah!” Merlin said. “Well, this is generosity we had not looked for. I expect we will be quite grateful for the offer,” and he rose from the table, as Dinadan and I followed suit.
The captain did not move. He held on to his dog’s lead and looked over his shoulder, searching for someone. I realized that he was looking for Meg, the kitchen wench he had spoken to earlier. “I have a small bit of personal business to attend to before I can go with you,” he said rather awkwardly and, seeing his dilemma, I made the best of it and said, “We’ll stretch our legs for a moment, then, and meet you out in the street when you are ready.”
Captain Jacques looked relieved, and nodded at me gratefully, and as Merlin, Dinadan and I made our way to the door, the Borzoi turned her nose up and looked around as if to say that she was done with us as well.
We were no sooner out the door when Dinadan exploded. “Stay in the palace? What kind of offer is that from someone who virtually threw us out on our ears when we interviewed him? And in the same complex as that vengeful wife of Tristram’s? I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel safe there, especially as Tristram’s closest friend. If they wanted to get him, what would keep them from doing away with me too?”
“I have to say I’m not happy about the idea of staying there either,” I concurred. “Don’t we put ourselves right in the power of those we don’t really trust at all?”
“Now, let’s just think about this for a moment,” Merlin cautioned us. “If we want to find out all we can about those that live there, where better to be than right under their noses? It’s perfect for our investigation.”
“Perfect for your investigation, perfectly awful for my safety,” Sir Dinadan countered, but suddenly Merlin put up his hand and glanced to his side. I knew what he was doing, because I had seen the same thing: A movement in the shadows. The sun had set some time ago, and the streets were becoming quite dark. We could see each other reasonably well as we stood in the light coming through the window of the Cock and Bull, but across the street, or to either side of us, there were only shadows. And I now realized that a number of those shadows were moving.
I still had no sword, nor did Sir Dinadan—they were in that chest in the captain’s quarters. Merlin had the staff he usually walked with, but if these thieves were armed, we had little defense. Dinadan reached into his belt and pulled out a knife. I looked around on the street for anything—a large stone, a brick, something that I could use to fight back.
Merlin, however, was way ahead of us. He was rolling something around in his hands, and I knew what he was about to do. He raised his right hand and boomed out in a powerful, stentorian voice, “O Fiat, Domine, hun ignem terrent stolidis mentibus abstulit!” with that he hurled a shining ball into the darkness where the shadows seemed to have gathered the deepest and there, across the narrow street the ball exploded in a bright incendiary flash. In its brightness we caught sight, for a brief moment, of six skulking figures, dressed like simple artisans, armed with knives and clubs, except for one who had a crossbow pointed in our direction. Before the flash faded away, I caught the slightest glimpse of something on that crossbow-wielding villain’s shrouded face that glinted in the flash. The tiniest spark of light, too quick to register, or even to remember afterwards.
“Away with ye, foolish peasants, or my next explosion will take you all up in flames!” Merlin called out, bluffing, as I knew, since he never carried any more of that incendiary powder than could make a single flash. It did seem as if a few of the shadows slunk off but there was a cry from one of the others, and at that moment it seemed that some three or four of the thugs came rushing toward us. I steeled myself for the attack, preparing to defend myself with my bare hands, when suddenly two forms shot past me, coming from within the inn. One was calling “For Saint-Malo!” and waving a glittering sword. The other was a streak of blonde fur and a snarl.
Captain Jacques may have wounded two or three of the bandits before they turned tail and ran away into the darkness, The dog had run down one of the fleeing culprits and had torn half of his hose off and was shaking them about, as if trying to break the neck of the shard of clothing.
“What was that about?” I blurted out. “Is this common behavior on the streets of Saint-Malo at night?”
“It is not,” Captain Jacques insiste
d. “This is not some wandering band. There are no such criminals in this city. The city guard patrols the streets regularly; I have been on such assignment myself. The lord Kaherdin would never hear of such a thing in his town.”
“Then you are saying that this group was hired deliberately to attack us?” Merlin asked.
“Well I…no, I did not mean to imply…”
“If there are not groups of brigands who wander the streets at night, as you insist, then this is a special group, and one that could have only one purpose—the purpose they were employed for at this inn at this time: someone in this city wanted to stop us, to kill us if need be, to stop our investigation. This is what follows from your comment.”
The captain had no answer to that. But suddenly his eyes grew very round as he looked past Merlin and into the street. “Sir Dinadan!” he cried out.
When I turned to see where his eyes had traveled, I saw what he had seen, and froze for an instant. Sir Dinadan was lying face down in the street. Merlin quickly bent down to look at him and turned him over onto his back, revealing a cross-bow dart buried in the upper right part of his chest. But his eyes were open, and his chest rose and fell unevenly with his breathing.
After an instant of shocked silence, Merlin took charge. “God’s earlobes, you lunkheads, don’t just stand there. Gildas! Captain Jacques! Lift him up and bear him back to the monastery. Master Oswald will need to be called in to help him right now. Follow me to the abbey—I know it is this way down the street. Follow me now,” and he led on, his staff pointing before him and the dog at his side as he started on his way, looking over his shoulder to make sure we were keeping up. I had Sir Dinadan’s legs and was scampering after the old man as quickly as I could, as Captain Jacques held Dinadan up by the shoulders and kept pace with me, trying not to jostle the wounded knight any more than absolutely necessary.
We were at the gate to the abbey in a matter of moments, and Merlin was pounding away at the door and calling “Ho there, in the abbey! We have a visiting knight who may die without medical attention.” I glanced back to see Dinadan’s face and saw him wince as he mumbled, “Don’t sugar coat it, old man. I wouldn’t want you to give me any false hope.” Captain Jacques was rolling his eyes and the dog began whining and pawing at the door once she realized we were trying to get in.
After what seemed an eternity, a grizzled monk opened the door to us and glared unwelcomingly. Captain Jacques took over at this point. “My good brother, perhaps you know me; I am Jacques, a captain of the city guard.”
“And what’s that to do with me?” The old monk responded in a surly voice. “What are you doing mucking about and disturbing people in their homes at night? Come back in the morning if you’ve any business with this house.”
“Wait, brother,” Merlin intervened as the ancient monk began to close the door. “We come on urgent business. This man has been attacked in the street. He has a crossbow dart in his chest. We seek Master Oswald for his medical expertise. Can you not bring us to him and save this man’s life?”
The monk opened his eyes wide and shook his gray, tonsured pate. “God protect us!” he exclaimed. “You would bring the violence of street gangs into this house of peace? Begone, brigands, or I’ll call the watch!” And again, he moved to close the door.
“I am the watch, you blithering idiot!” Captain Jacques exclaimed. But the ancient fellow continued to push the door closed.
By now Merlin had had enough. He had been deferential to those of rank in the city, but after being attacked in the street he was not about to let himself be insulted and pushed aside by the doorkeeper of this Breton monastery. Now he rose to his full height and glared down at the fellow, shoving his staff in the door to keep it from closing. In his most booming of voices, he cowed the monk into submission.
“I am Merlin, you clownish lout! Right hand of your sovereign, Arthur of Logres. Maker of kings, adviser of emperors. You will cease your pointless drivel, open this door, and show us to Master Oswald this minute, or the king will reduce this abbey to ashes at my command. Do it. Now.”
The monk began to babble incoherently, or perhaps I should say even more incoherently, but he did open the door and managed to choke out an audible “Follow me, then,” followed by a softly grumbled, “They’re just getting out of compline.” Captain Jacques and I carried Dinadan—mumbling “Good for old Merlin. For a second there I thought I might be in trouble”—along one of the cloister walks and up a steep staircase to a cell on the upper floor, where Master Oswald was sitting on his bed. He looked up at us in astonishment, saw the wounded Dinadan, and understood at once what the situation was. “Brother Thaddeus,” he said with some authority. “Show these men down the hall to the sickroom. I’ll be right behind you.” And with that we carried Dinadan a bit farther, to the end of a long hall, and into a larger room with several cots in it. We placed Dinadan carefully into one of these beds as Master Oswald bustled in, tsking away and chattering about the safety of the streets and the danger of thieves after dark. He sat on a short stool at the side of the cot and looked Dinadan in the eye, saying, “I need to draw out the dart. Hurt a great deal, but it must be done. Can you brace yourself for it?”
Dinadan nodded and gritted his teeth. “All right then,” Oswald said. “On the count of three…One!” And with that he yanked out the arrow. Dinadan gasped in surprise, then fainted with the pain. Master Oswald saw my mouth agape and winked at me, saying “Always better to take the arrow out when they don’t expect it. Saves them anticipating the pain, and odds are that anticipation is worse than the real thing. Also, they’re not all tensed up, so the arrow comes out easier.”
“But…look,” I said. “He’s fainted with the pain.”
“Well, yes,” Oswald replied. “He was just shot in the chest with an arrow. What do you think he’s going to do?”
At that point the dog’s long nose darted in to sniff at the wound, and Master Oswald, taken aback, fell backwards off the stool onto his substantial bottom. Captain Jacques reached in and grabbed his dog’s lead, saying, “No girl, stay with me,” but Oswald, sitting on the floor, was not amused. “The dog must leave. Can’t get in the way here. This is a delicate matter.”
“She won’t interfere again,” Jacques promised. “I’ve got her now.”
“No, it must leave,” Master Oswald insisted.
“Well,” the captain said. “We were about to start on the way back to the palace anyway. What about you?” He looked at Merlin. “Are you content to sleep at the palace and leave your friend in Master Oswald’s capable hands?”
“Sir Dinadan needs a friendly face,” I interjected.
Merlin seemed to agree. “I must concur with my young colleague,” he said, and then of Oswald he asked, “Would we break some rule of the abbey if we were to stay with Sir Dinadan, perhaps sleep in this room with him?”
Master Oswald shook his head and shrugged as he examined Dinadan’s wound carefully. “You may stay here if you want,” he said. “It will be a long watch with him. Your friend is in some difficulty I think. If I were a betting man, I’d say he will probably pull through, but I’d want odds. No, only the dog needs to leave.”
“Well then, I’ll be off,” the captain declared, though he seemed hesitant to leave. Finally, in low tones, Merlin asked him “Was there something else, Captain?”
Jacques answered him in a whisper. “There is something I believe I should tell you, Master Merlin. Now is probably not the time, what with Sir Dinadan’s wounding. But you are, I believe, still planning to speak with the lady Brangwen in the morning?”
“Indeed, we hope to,” Merlin answered.
“Then I shall return to the monastery tomorrow at around sext. That should give you enough time to speak with her, but trust me: I don’t think I should wait much longer to talk with you about this.”
“Good,” Merlin nodded. “Then sext it shall be.”
The captain nodded in his turn, then left the room with his dog at his side.
“What do you think that’s all about?” I asked softly when Jacques had left.
“The good captain has a clue. I knew there was something, and I thought perhaps he had some sort of information that he didn’t quite know what to do with earlier today.”
“Yes, but why didn’t he tell us at dinner? Why did we get that story of the nightingale instead of the story of his evidence?”
“I can’t say,” Merlin mused. “It may have had something to do with his conversation at the inn afterwards, when we were outside.”
“I have to admit,” I told him. “When he didn’t come out with us, and we were attacked by those bandits, I couldn’t help thinking that he had set us up.”
“I must confess, the thought crossed my mind as well,” Merlin told me. “Until he and his dog came out and chased them away. Unless the intent was simply to scare us, and he was a part of that. Or unless the plan was always to destroy Sir Dinadan. But why? Does Dinadan know something that he may not be aware he knows? It doesn’t really make sense that Captain Jacques was a part of the attack. Particularly since he now wants to share some kind of evidence with us. No, I think we have to assume that those brigands were hired by someone from the palace. Someone who does not want our investigation to continue.”
“It seems to all come back to Kaherdin, doesn’t it? I mean, if King Mark were behind the murders, how would he have been able to send that group after us?”
“He could have an agent here in Saint-Malo—the same agent, in fact, who murdered Tristram, and is now feeling the pressure to get rid of us before we stumble on the truth.”
By now Master Oswald had concocted a poultice that he was applying to the wound in Dinadan’s chest. “A mixture of garlic and myrrh, which should keep the wound from mortifying, and comfrey, which should help the healing process. When he is conscious, I will have him drink a tonic containing wormwood, which Dame Hildegard recommends as a kind of cure-all. If the bleeding proves difficult to stop, I have sutures made of calves’ intestines that I can use to sew up the wound, but I don’t think that will be necessary. The dart has not come close to his heart, which of course is the most important thing. But if it has punctured his lung, there may be no way to save him. We will need to watch his breathing tonight. If it remains strong and healthy, I think that your friend will weather this attack. But who, do you know, could have done this, and why? You were attacked by random vandals in the street?”