A Coronation of Kings

by Samuel Stokes

  ‘A stroll, my young friend. It helps to clear my old mind.’ Malus was First Advisor to Tristan’s father Marcus. A learned man, he was a master of Chemistry and Astrology, amongst other Arts and Sciences. He also served as Tristan’s teacher in matters of education. His grey hair fell to his shoulders, framing a wrinkled face that had clearly seen many years of life. Unlike many of the other older folk that Tristan knew, Malus carried a staff, more for show than out of a need for it. His trim figure and plain robe made it difficult to discern his true age. When asked, most servants indicated that he had served Marcus since long before any of them could remember.

  ‘So, Tristan, where might you be headed at this time of day?’ Malus queried, ‘Supper is not far away, you know.’

  ‘I know, Malus. I need a wash in the stream and perhaps a little bit of a walk myself. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, no reason,’ replied Malus, raising an eyebrow. ‘I just thought you might be heading into town to see a certain young lady.’

  Tristan laughed as he shook his head, ‘You know, Malus, one day I am going to discover how you find these things out.’

  Malus laughed boisterously. ‘Age and experience, young one. I remember watching your father do the same in his youth.’ Malus continued laughing as he turned and headed away from the Estate.

  ‘Remember the evening meal, Tristan!’ his teacher called, as he disappeared from sight.

  ‘Always!’ Tristan shouted after his retreating teacher.

  Tristan smiled to himself. Wily, old Malus had already worked out why he was spending so much time away from the estate. The cause was of course, a beautiful young woman who lived outside the town. Linea by name, she was the daughter of Eberoth, the local blacksmith. Linea was the same age as Tristan, with big brown eyes, and dark hair that fell past her shoulders. She possessed an easy smile that made Tristan melt at the mere thought of it. Tristan had fallen madly in love with Linea the previous summer, taking every opportunity to slip down to the village in the hope of spending more time with her. To his great delight, Linea had returned his affections and he was anxious to see her again.

  As he reached the river Tristan turned upstream and continued walking until he came to his favorite spot, a place where the river diverted from the mainstream and flowed into a small pond. Tristan stripped to his breeches and leapt into the water. As he broke the surface a deep sigh of relief forced its way from his lips, the cool water soothing his tired muscles as he bathed.

  Tristan hurriedly finished bathing, then dried and dressed himself before making his way towards the town. As he approached Linea’s home, he could see Linea in the yard behind the house, tending to her outside duties. Tristan moved quickly through the brush but stopped dead at the sight of a second figure.

  The appearance of Falen was not a welcome surprise. The sandy-haired youth Falen was quick to use his high station to get his way. Falen and Tristan had been rivals since they were old enough to speak. What started the feud was long forgotten, but it had been hashed and rehashed at many a tournament or feast over the years. It had only intensified when Tristan had triumphed over the spoilt youth during a recent tournament.

  Falen was the only son of Gerwold, the Baron of Belnair, one of the most powerful men in Valaar. Belnair was the largest city east of the capital, King’s Court. To the peasant folk of Valaar, a baron may as well have been a king. His word was as good as law, and his taxes were levied across the region, presumably meant for the royal treasury. Many doubted that so much as a gold sovereign ever left the barony.

  Tristan could overhear Falen pestering Linea by pressing her to accompany him to a feast which was soon to be held. Her response bought giddy delight, as he heard her rebuff him with increasing firmness. ‘Falen, I’ve already told you, I have given my word to another. I will not break it.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Falen, pressing further, the disdain evident in his voice. ‘Who could be a better companion than the future baron?’ he asked again, searching for an answer.

  Sensing his opportunity, Tristan wandered out from the brush. ‘I think there are pigs in the pens of Belnair that would make more charming companions than you, Falen, better looking too!’

  ‘Oh, Tristan, you smell like the pig pens. Why are you even here?’Sneered Falen.

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious, Falen...even to one as dense as you. If you would be so kind as to be on your way, we would both be very grateful,’ Tristan replied, waving his hands as one might shoo away a bothersome gnat.

  ‘I’ll be on my way shortly, Tristan, right after I cut out your insolent tongue!’ threatened Falen, resting his hand on his sword.

  ‘So quick to the sword, Falen,’ sighed Tristan. ‘The only thing that is less likely to happen than you cutting out my tongue, is the chance that you might actually know what a big word like insolent means,’ taunted Tristan moving his hand to his own sword hilt.

  ‘What will it take to be rid of you, Falen? First blood?’ queried Tristan, referring to the customary length of a duel of honor. Tristan slowly drew his blade as his words hung heavily in the air.

  After a moment’s hesitation Falen replied ‘Absolutely, but why stop at the first drop. Let’s spill it all!’ and with that he drew his sword and lunged at Tristan...

  Chapter 2

  Such a reckless strike was to be expected. Falen was an excellent swordsman but quick to let his emotions blur his judgment. Master Balan on the other hand was a most exacting mentor and Tristan had been subjected to too much heavy correction to make such a foolish move.

  Tristan hastily sidestepped and Falen’s momentum caused him to over-extend. As he overshot his mark, Tristan smartly smacked his rear with his blade. ‘Hiya,’ cried Tristan cheekily, as if he was riding his horse.

  The mocking only served to further infuriate his foe. Falen spun and slashed as he turned, the quick maneuver almost cleaving Tristan in half at the waist. Tristan leapt away from the sweeping blow and waited for his foe’s next move.

  Tristan eyed the angry youth warily. One wrong move and Falen’s heavier sword would snap his rapier like a twig. Falen cut downwards striking at Tristan’s shoulder; Tristan dodged to his left and deflected the heavy blow.

  With the heavier sword out of the way, Tristan launched his own furious assault, forcing Falen to retreat steadily to avoid the wicked point of the rapier. The duel was on and Falen floundered backwards, anxiously trying to avoid being caught by the wicked rapier’s point. In his haste, Falen failed to notice a basket of freshly laundered clothes that Linea had been preparing to hang.

  The youth struck the basket and lost his footing. Falen hit the dirt hard and the impact drove the wind from his lungs. Tristan seized the opportunity and leapt over the basket eager to deliver the wounding strike that would send the spoiled brat on his way.

  Falen would not be so easily beaten. As Tristan landed, Falen lashed out, delivering a punishing kick to his chest. It was Tristan’s turn to stagger as he attempted to catch his breath. Falen got to his feet and regained his composure.

  The dual continued...Each in turn delivered a blinding flurry of blows, only to be countered and then driven back by his opponent. With each blow, Falen’s long sword seemed to grow heavier and slower, the weight of the heavy blade which had been an advantage at the outset was now beginning to take its toll. The young duelist seemed to be wearying, but the sweat on Tristan’s own brow told him he too was beginning to tire.

  Whilst much lighter, his rapier required him to do most of the work, outmaneuvering his opponent with quick footwork before launching a lightning riposte. This was in turn met and countered in a flurry of flashing steel.

  The longer the duel wore on, the more concerned Linea became. In the background her father could be heard hammering away in the forge. Little would keep Eberoth from his work, but should he be interrupted by such a childish display, his ire would be terrible to behold.

  The duel wore on with neither combatant showing any signs of capitulati
on. In spite of their growing fatigue, both youth battled on. Keen to prove their mettle and unwilling to lose face in front of Linea, the two struggled on.

  After a vicious barrage, Tristan saw his opponent’s guard falter, just for a millisecond, but it was all the time he needed. As Falen brought down his sword for another crushing blow, Tristan stepped back and parried the blow. Falen’s blade came down hard and bit into the soft earth. Without wasting a moment, Tristan twisted his wrist and slashed the rapier across Falen’s chest, pulling back ever so slightly to avoid inflicting more than a passing scratch.

  The thin blade cut straight through Falen’s black tunic as if were paper and Tristan saw the shock register in Falen’s eyes. Falen clawed madly at his chest and shock turned to relief as his hand came away with only a trace of blood. The sharp tip of the blade had barely scratched him, but it wounded his pride.

  In case there was any doubt Tristan whipped his rapier back and delivered a second slash. Falen let go of his blade and staggered backwards. Looking downward at his tattered tunic, the reason for Tristan’s second strike became apparent. The tattered tunic flapped as the breeze passed through the large L- shaped cut. ‘L for Linea,’ Tristan taunted jubilantly, ‘to remind you of whom you cannot have.’ Tristan watched Falen carefully as he returned his rapier to its scabbard.

  Falen looked angrily from the blood on his hand to his sword still buried in the ground. Tristan imagined for an instant that he saw steam rising from Falen’s red face. His vanquished foe seemed to be weighing his options. To press the issue without his weapon would be fruitless.

  Eager to hurry the process along, Tristan continued, ‘I believe we had terms, Falen, so if you don’t mind... be on your way.’ As he spoke, Tristan repeated his earlier shooing motions. Falen glared back with eyes full of murder. Without speaking, the embarrassed noble pulled his sword from the dirt and hastily returned it to its sheath. In the blink of an eye, he was on his horse galloping west as fast as the poor beast could carry him.

  ‘You do realise he will one day be baron, don’t you?’ asked Linea walking towards Tristan. ‘Perhaps it is not wise to bait him so.’

  ‘Linea, you are as wise as you are beautiful. I will remember that next time,’ replied Tristan. ‘I think his pride is wounded more than anything else. Let’s pray he learns patience or failing that, let us pray that Gerwold lives to a ripe old age.’

  ‘Tristan, are you always this cheery? Linea asked.

  ‘It would be impossible for me to be otherwise with you so near at hand,’ Tristan responded gently. With that, Linea sprang forward and wrapped her arms around him.

  ‘I have missed you so much,’ she whispered in his ear.

  Her closeness sent warmth radiating through Tristan’s entire being. ‘And I you,’ Tristan answered, as he gently pressed his lips against hers. With her embrace, the labours of the day melted away, and the afternoon looked brighter than ever.

  *****

  The sun was setting by the time Tristan finally made it back to the manor. The sky was awash with color as the sun disappeared over the woods to the west of Listarii Manor. Tristan paused to admire it on his way to the banquet hall. As he stood, he marveled at the beauty of the world around him. Had it always been so? Or was it the love of Linea that brought this acknowledgement of such natural splendor? He pondered this as he continued towards the hall.

  ‘Tristan,’ a voice called from behind him.

  As Tristan turned, he saw Balan hurrying from the barracks. ‘The evening meal has been ready for almost half an hour and your Father has been wondering where you are. We best be inside quickly as your Father can be a tad irritable on an empty stomach.’ Tristan nodded and laughed before following the weapons master into the hall.

  Tristan thought about his father. Patience was one of Lord Marcus’s many qualities, as was compassion and his people loved him for it. One should not be deceived. Marcus Listar is not a man to be walked over. The Listarii earned their fame and renown. They were not born to it. The Listarii had carved out their reputation with valour on the battlefields of history. Lord Marcus is as his forebears were - a force of nature in battle, yet temperate at home. To become like his father was a worthy aspiration.

  Dinner had indeed been served, Tristan realized. As he walked to his place beside his father, he spotted a roasted boar that had been cooked and was sitting in the middle of the table surrounded by mountains of vegetables and freshly baked breads. The sweet aroma made Tristan’s mouth water and he realized that in his excitement, he had missed breaking his fast.

  In his rush to meet Linea, he had forgotten to eat before leaving the manor and his stomach was growling in anticipation of the awaiting feast. ‘Tristan,’ his father called as he approached. ‘What reason have you for keeping us waiting so long? And with such a particularly delicious supper here too.’

  The Lord of the Listarii occupied the space at the head of the table. Marcus’s black hair and beard which were streaked with grey, adding a distinguished air to his regal features. His tanned complexion spoke of a life spent outdoors under the sun. Marcus preferred to toil beside his people as opposed to lording it over them.

  Marcus’s tone showed more concern rather than any real anger for his son’s tardiness. Lord Marcus would face Hell or high waters to keep his remaining son safe. The death of his wife and second son had bought him great sorrow. The aging noble took great solace in the survival of his first-born. In the years since such tragedy had befallen him, Tristan had been spoiled terribly.

  ‘My apologies. It won’t happen again. I went into town and lost track of the time.’

  ‘Forgiven, my boy, forgiven. Now join us before the boar grows cold.’ Tristan slipped into his place at his father’s side. Standing, Lord Marcus began carving the boar and the feast commenced in earnest.

  Two hours later, the last remnants of the meal were cleared away and Tristan sighed loudly. ‘One more cut of boar and I fear I will explode. Father, tell me what was the reason for this elaborate meal.’

  ‘Nothing special, Tristan, but we found that fine specimen on a hunt this morning and thought it would make a fine meal. I am glad to see that we were not mistaken,’ replied his father.

  ‘Truly, Milord, it did not disappoint,’ replied Balan, stretching the syllables as he gently patted his round belly in a most satisfied way.

  ‘Most definitely not,’ added Tristan. ‘But if it is all right with you, might I be excused lest I collapse. The morning’s training is beginning to catch up with me.’

  ‘You best be about it, lad, because I expect to see you up with the sun tomorrow. You’ll need to work off those extra portions of boar.’ Balan smiled as he taunted the youth.

  His father nodded and Tristan excused himself from the table and retired to his room. He was asleep and dreaming as soon as his weary and love-struck head hit the pillow.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Raiders!’ the warning call jolted Tristan awake and instantly he was assailed on all sides by noise and commotion. As he sought for the source of the chaos, his bleary eyes came into focus and rested on the form of Balan standing in his doorway. ‘Get up!’ shouted the weapons master.

  ‘What the hell is the matter?’ mumbled the incoherent and half-asleep Tristan.

  ‘Boy, you could sleep through a thunderstorm,’ Balan shook his head in disdain. ‘The manor is under attack. We need every man who can wield a blade and we need you now. Get your weapons from the armoury and then report to the wall. I’ll be there with your father. Now hurry!’

  The weapons master departed and Tristan sprang out of bed, now very much awake. Within a minute, his boots were laced and he was running through the manor. Tristan pushed passed the servants and ran out into the yard. Tristan could see the manor guard on the wall struggling with assailants dressed head to toe in black. Tristan hurried into the armoury and hastily fitted a gambeson before lifting on his heavy chain mail hauberk. Lastly, he fitted a surcoat with the manor livery emblazoned o
n its chest, before lifting his rapier from its rack and strapping it to his waist.

  As he was fastening his coat, Tristan saw his father burst through the door into the armoury, followed closely by Malus. Tristan was surprised to see the old advisor was even out of bed.

  ‘Son, you won’t need that armour so come here and listen carefully.’

  ‘Are the bandits retreating already,’ smiled Tristan. ‘Not much stamina after all, eh?’

  ‘Just the opposite, Son. Despite numerous casualties, they advance. For every one we kill, two more take his place. It is as if all of Valaar is arrayed against us. What’s more, they are disciplined warriors. I think these men are seasoned soldiers who have gone to great lengths to be mistaken for bandits.’

  Tristan was incredulous. ‘But who would dare?’ queried Tristan. ‘To be caught would incur the Council’s wrath.’

  ‘Only if they were caught,’ reminded Marcus. ‘Having seen these brigands up close, I’m reasonably certain that these are soldiers from the Baron’s own guard, wolves playing as bandits.’

  ‘That murderous bast…’

  ‘Enough, Tristan! There is no time for that. If I am right, it means that they will have more men than we can possibly hope to muster in time. Most of our reserves are still in their homes gathering the harvest. Gerwold could not have picked a better time. We will most certainly be overrun.’

  ‘It seems you have spurned him in at court once too often, Milord,’ responded Malus.

  ‘This is more than petty politics. Gerwold moves for the throne and seeks to silence those who would stand against him. These raiders will not leave until I am dead. I will not see my son and people slain with me. Malus, you are to shield our people and guide my boy. When you are free of here...tell him everything.’