The Bleak and Empty Sea

by Jay Ruud

  Abbot Urban looked up, deferring to his two subordinates. Brother Michael, the one on the abbot’s right, with a square, rock-like jaw, steel-grey eyes and a dark brown tonsure tinged with grey, was the one to speak. “Lord Kaherdin was livid when he heard our story. He shouted that no abbey in his territory would be insulted this way without a price being paid. And he called for Sir Andred immediately, told him to take a dozen men and scour the city streets. Of course, there was nothing to find in broad daylight, so the scouring was fruitless.”

  “And did you ask him why there had been no city guard in this part of town the past two nights?”

  Brother Gabriel, whose neck looked to be about the circumference of his head, lowered his eyes, glancing to the side, and answered, “We did not ask. We thought that his willingness to send the troops out this morning was enough, and he did promise that he would issue orders that the city guard should be particularly zealous in patrolling our area of the city for the next several nights.”

  “If we can take any comfort in that,” the abbot said sardonically, under his breath.

  “But Father Abbot,” I interjected. “You said there were two reasons you had asked to speak with us. What was the second?”

  The abbot’s jowls shook slightly and I realized he was chuckling to himself. He glanced up at Brother Michael and nodded. “Show them,” he said.

  Michael leaned down and, from behind the writing desk, produced a small wooden chest that we recognized immediately. “Our sea chest!” I exclaimed. As Michael set it down before us. I jumped up to open the chest and there, among our change of clothes and other items, were our own swords.

  “We spoke with Sir Dinadan earlier, and learned how you had been without your weapons and personal belongings since arriving here in Saint-Malo, and how you felt in danger if you returned to the palace because it seemed likely that the murderer you were tracking was there. Dinadan also told us that the chest was in Captain Jacques’ room, and so when Brother Michael and Brother Gabriel went to the palace this morning, they were able to gain permission to rescue your chest from its prison and bring it to you.”

  “God’s tonsure,” Merlin exclaimed with good humor. “This is unexpected, and very welcome. For we leave here to enter the belly of the beast—we must confront Lord Kaherdin and his courtiers, and doing so unarmed when we’re about to reveal a murderer did not seem advisable. This will make us far more confident.”

  “Or at least less ridiculous,” I murmured, strapping on my scabbard and sheathing my sword.

  “Lord Abbot,” Merlin said, belting on his own sword, “with your permission, we take leave of you now to fulfill our duty to our king and to set these matters right if we can.”

  “With my permission and my blessing,” boomed Abbot Urban, who stood up and, holding up the fingers of his beefy right hand, intoned the prayer “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, may your way be blessed and your quest find its successful end. Go with God’s speed. Amen.”

  ***

  We entered the small wooded area to the east of the city, across the quay and on the Saint Servan side of the River Rance. It was now well past none and nearing compline, and the shadows of the chestnut and hickory trees were lengthening. Having left our sea chest with the abbot, requesting that the monks store it in the infirmary with Sir Dinadan, we had made our way to the palace, only to find that Lord Kaherdin was not there. Sir Andred and Melias were absent as well, and even Sir William of Caen seemed to be off. A contingent of the guard was performing its drill in the town square, and after some time Merlin was able to get the attention of the unit commander, who told us that Kaherdin and several members of the court were out hawking, and that they typically availed themselves of the wooded area near Saint Servan when they engaged in that sport. And so we had traipsed this far on foot, hoping to find them all in one place and confront them with what evidence we had. I remarked that it did not seem that we had much, but Merlin listed the items for me as we walked: “First, that Tristram was certainly killed by a lance and not by a Viking spear. Second, that whoever killed Tristram was also behind the murder of Captain Jacques, who had recognized one of the villains in the marauding band as a member of the court party. Third, one of the king’s closest advisers had been overheard on the ship bringing La Belle Isolde to Brittany describing his knowledge of the poison that killed her lover. Fourth, that whoever this person was, he was in a position of enough power and influence to prevent the city guard from being present where it was vitally needed over the past few nights. It was evidence that narrowed down the suspects to a precious few: Melias, Andred, and Kaherdin himself—or his sister wielding power behind the scenes.”

  “So you no longer suspect Sir William?”

  Merlin shook his head. “He seems an unlikely candidate. He would not have had the power to control the City Guard, and while he may have been aboard the ship that brought La Belle Isolde to this country, he is not likely to have been described by Captain Jacques as one of Kaherdin’s closest advisors. I’m not saying he could not still prove an accomplice, but he’s certainly not the chief mover of these events. And besides,” he shrugged, “Sir Dinadan’s opinion may be good for something after all.”

  Among the trees, we heard voices coming from off to our left, and knew it must be the court party. Walking through the lengthening shadows of those trees, I heard quite clearly and unmistakably the song of a nightingale, warming up, it seemed, for the darkness that would be falling before long.

  In a moment, we stumbled into a clearing, and found ourselves in the company of a good number of Lord Kaherdin’s court. There was the commander himself, mounted on a muscled destrier and gaily dressed in a bright blue riding tunic, green hose, and brown boots, and wearing a red cap with a feather in it. On a white horse to his right sat Melias the squire, attired quite similarly, almost a mirror image of his master, even down to the feathered cap. Sir Andred, in dull brown breaches and tunic, rode a serviceable bay stallion. Sir William was present, with three other knights—members of the guard whose names I hadn’t learned—as well as the eccentric Sir Neville. To my surprise, the lady Isolde of the White Hands was also along for the sport, riding a small brown palfrey and holding out her left forearm on which stood a hooded bird. With the lady Isolde was the poor girl who served as her lady-in-waiting, riding a small grey mare and looking as miserable as ever. We stopped to take the scene in, and the cautious dog backed off a bit, nervous apparently, or so I thought initially, in the presence of all these horses.

  The entire party turned as one to look at us as we entered the clearing. “My lord Kaherdin,” Merlin began, but received only a tense “hush!” in answer. Sir Kaherdin, his left hand covered with a leather gauntlet like his sister’s, pointed straight up, and Merlin and I followed his gaze to see a white speck in the sky that seemed to be diving straight down. In mid-air we saw the powerful white bird strike a single seagull that had flown in from the shore. The falcon’s talons grasped the other bird in an iron grip while her powerful curved beak broke the neck of the hapless gull without pausing in her flight. Finally, she flew down with her quarry in her beak, landing back on Kaherdin’s arm, where she proudly displayed her prey. As the nearest to him, Melias sat astride his horse watching Kaherdin with undisguised admiration. Carefully, Kaherdin reattached her creance, the bird’s short leather leash, to her left leg. He then placed the small leather hood over the great white hawk’s eyes. Finally, he took the dead seagull from the falcon’s beak and handed it to Sir William, who had come up behind to assist Sir Kaherdin. The dog, watching all of this, cocked her head with interest at the bird’s hunting prowess.

  “Now,” Kaherdin said. “You caught us in the middle of hawking. My sister was about to unleash her own gyrfalcon. What is it you want, old man? You’ve done your investigating and what? You’re here to report that you’ve found nothing, that everything I told you was true, and that you’re ready to ret
urn to King Arthur to report that the deaths of Tristram and his paramour were just as originally reported, and that all is well in Saint-Malo?”

  “No, my lord,” Merlin answered patiently. “I’m afraid that is not the case.”

  Lord Kaherdin stared down on us with imperious disdain, his eyes displaying annoyance and frustration. Sir Andred looked equally perturbed, though Melias was still watching only Kaherdin.

  “Well what is it, then?” Kaherdin demanded. “You’ve come to tell us something, find your tongue old man and stop wasting my time!”

  “My lord, I think you are unlikely to find this a waste of your time. Let me say first of all that our investigations have led us to a number of conclusions. The most important piece is this: that Sir Tristram was not killed by a Norseman’s spear.”

  “What balderdash is this, you daft old man? He was wounded in the battle. We all saw.”

  “That you did not. None of you, by your own testimony, saw the blow that actually wounded him. Did you?” Kaherdin was silent. Sir Andred looked uncomfortable. The other soldiers looked at one another and shook their heads.

  “The wound in Tristram’s leg was incompatible with the kind of blade used in Viking spears. The wound was clearly made by a rounded point: the kind used in the making of lances, borne by your own knights into battle.”

  The audible gasp that accompanied Merlin’s revelation lasted only a few seconds before the shrill voice of Isolde of the White Hands burst out. “Are you saying that one of my brother’s own men killed my husband? Who is it? I’ll have him flayed!” Either she was a marvelous dissembler, I thought, or my theory that she had persuaded one of the knights to murder her husband was untenable.

  “I’m afraid it’s true, Madame,” Merlin said, though Sir Andred let out a hearty scoff. “Furthermore, we are certain that whoever is behind Tristram’s murder also set a band of villains after us, who wounded Sir Dinadan and attacked the Monastery of Saint Vincent last evening.” At this, Andred looked at Kaherdin with a sudden glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “Furthermore, this same culprit compounded his villainy by the cold-blooded murder of Captain Jacques yesterday morning on the street beside the abbey…”

  This seemed too much for the squire Melias, who rolled his cropped head about in frustration and cried out, “This is ludicrous! Everything that happens you seem to want to lay at the same door!”

  “All stories are the same story,” I muttered under my breath, glancing down at the dog standing alert at my right, who had inexplicably begun to growl rather noticeably as she glared ahead at the knot of mounted courtiers in the center of the clearing.

  “Murdered Captain Jacques, I say,” Merlin continued, unperturbed, “Because the captain had recognized one of the killer’s accomplices among the brigands who attacked us. And murdered him just as he was about to give evidence that would expose the killer’s guilt. Evidence he overheard on the ship that brought Isolde of Cornwall to this land.”

  At that, in a smooth unhurried motion, Sir Andred removed his sword from his scabbard and pointed it at Merlin. Startled, I fumbled a moment with my own, but drew it as well, ready to defend the old mage with my life—if that should prove absolutely necessary. “Enough of these subtleties,” Andred rasped in his gravelly voice. “Tell us what you know.” Merlin looked up at him. The dog growled even more loudly, and began to bare her teeth. We all stared at each other for what seemed like minutes but must have been only a moment or two. In the silence I heard again the clear song of the nightingale.

  Melias moved so fast that his intent did not even register with me.

  He yanked on his reins to pull his horse’s head around, and kicked at his mount’s flanks to set him galloping as quickly as possible, hoping to outrun anyone trying to ride after him and so make a getaway.

  But the dog, whose eyes had been steadily focused on him, moved more quickly than Melias, and started much faster than the horse. She was in full stride within her first two steps and, stretching her long legs to their fullest extent, she caught the horse before it had gone ten yards. Using the full strength of her powerful hind legs, she leaped high over the horse’s flanks, striking the startled Melias full force with her front paws and knocking him sideways off the horse. He hit the ground hard and was momentarily paralyzed, while the dog, baring rows of long sharp teeth, stood over him, growling and darting teeth-first at his exposed throat.

  The rest of us had finally started moving. I got to the fallen squire first, and, sheathing my sword, held on to the borzoi’s leash to prevent her from tearing Melias’ throat out before he had a chance to confess. Sir Andred was right behind me, replacing the dog’s teeth with his own sword at Melias’ neck. Merlin continued his litany of charges as if nothing had happened: “Captain Jacques overheard Melias talking about the poison that killed Tristram in a way that only the killer would have known. I believe Sir Andred can testify to that.”

  “I can,” Andred growled through his teeth. “He did so, and I didn’t really understand it until now.”

  “As for the dog,” Merlin concluded, “She was with her master Jacques when he was murdered. She has very clearly just testified as to who it was she saw murder him.”

  “Killer! Killer! Killer!” Isolde began to wail. Her white gyrfalcon was hopping about on her gauntleted arm in feathered confusion. “Oh put him on the rack! Draw and quarter him! Disembowel him! The monster has killed my Tristram!” And those were real tears flowing down her cheeks—probably, I thought, the first real tears she had shed in this whole affair. Now that it was over, her façade of indifference was crumbling. Her miserable lady-in-waiting was trying unsuccessfully to console her, but at least Isolde was allowing the poor girl to give her that attention.

  Kaherdin had sat still through all of this, his visage a translucent white from the shock of the realization that his squire had in fact murdered his best friend. Now his face began to change color until it nearly glowed red with ire.

  “You!” He exploded at the cornered Melias, and Sir Andred, with two of the other knights yanked the shaken youth to his feet and roughly pinned his arms behind his back. “My own squire, the one I trusted with every idea, every secret, every facet of my life, would turn on me and kill Tristram? Tristram, who you knew was the image of my own best self?”

  “Tristram, whom you loved! Yes, your precious Tristram. You thought of nothing but him. He must be the one you shared your secret self with. He must marry your sister, so that you could love him through her. No wonder you were so outraged when he wouldn’t sleep with her. It was always Tristram. What about me?” There was a pleading quaver in Melias’s voice and the tears now filled his own eyes. “I was there all the time! I was loyal and true. I cherished my time as your squire. But you never saw me. You only saw Tristram. Well your precious Tristram is gone now, isn’t he? Now who do you see?” His voice rose to a shriek with his last words, until Andred, annoyed with the ranting and, I assumed, uncomfortable with the revelations pouring out, struck Melias across the mouth with a brawny right fist, effectively silencing the former squire. Except for the sobbing.

  The lord Kaherdin, now dealing with shock after shock, looked down his face reddening again. Whether it was from discomfiture or wrath, or perhaps both, I could not say. But when he raised his head again, his face appeared stern and inflexible. “Take this murderer out of my sight and put him in the dungeon. Isolde, we will set him on the rack, until we know the details of his crimes and the names of every one of the ruffians who assisted him.”

  “I have one right here,” came a voice from behind him, and we all turned to see Sir William of Caen, his sword drawn and pointed directly at the throat of Sir Neville of Acre, whom he had backed against the trunk of a tree. “I have suspected for some time that Sir Neville was the creature of your Melias. But it was not until I heard from Sir Dinadan about the glint in the face of one of the night rioters that I became certain. He
would have fled himself when he saw Melias bolt on his horse, but I had been watching him this entire time, and drew upon him then. Arrest this vile knight as well, my liege, and we shall have their stories together, and the names of all their cursed accomplices.”

  “So it shall be,” Lord Kaherdin ordered with a wave of his hand bidding them all begone. Sir Andred and Sir William marched Melias and his coconspirator off, followed by the rest of the soldiers leading their horses. Then Kaherdin rode to Isolde’s palfrey, held her by the ungauntleted hand, and the two of them began to ride off, each with a falcon on one arm and a valued sibling’s hand in the other. She leaned over to rest her head for a moment on his shoulder. They stopped momentarily before Merlin, and Kaherdin said, “Stop and see me tomorrow. We’ll discuss these matters more fully. I swear I will have out of these villains every scrap of evidence they can give before I put them to death.” And they rode out of the clearing, followed at last by the harassed young lady in waiting. Looking down at me as she trotted gently by, she looked me in the eyes, turned the corner of her mouth up, and winked at me. And then she was gone.

  I chuckled a bit as visions of the lady Rosemounde danced through my mind, and then turned my attention back to the dog. I held her by her collar and told her, “Good girl! You did a good job!” and then I squatted down so that my face was at the same level as hers, and allowed her to nuzzle me and lick my chin and nose with her wet, pink tongue. Tilting my head slightly toward Merlin standing above me, I said with determined finality, “I am never letting this dog go.”

  The old necromancer laughed. “God’s jawbone, why would you want to?”

  I turned back to the dog and stroked the sides of her long, narrow head with both hands. “You are the best,” I told her. “You definitely deserve a name—something more than just ‘Girl,’ at least. So let me see: you’re smart, you’re loyal where you’ve placed your love. You’re brave and aren’t about to let anybody push you around or get away with anything…and, let’s see,” I considered as she tried to pull the sword out of my scabbard again, as if it was her own toy. “You also think you’re in charge, don’t you?” I stroked her silky head again and smiled to myself as the name came to me in a flash. “I’m going to call you Guinevere.”