That one had been too easy. All Tristan did was get the calf to suckle more frequently. He had heard that the first milk of the cow, the thick yellowish stuff before the “real” milk came in, was the best stuff for getting a calf strong and resistant to illness, and it cured the scours without potions or doctoring of any kind. The calf perked up, and soon the cow was giving far more milk than the calf could possibly drink. The butcher was also happy to share that with Tristan. Alex got plenty of healthy, whole milk to drink and started to lose some of his starved look.
It was difficult for a long time working for Mickle, because Mickle did not have the setup and equipment of a king’s blacksmith, and because he couldn’t mend who he was all in one day. But Tristan was there to remind him if he was short with a customer. If he started to let things get a mess between Alex’s aunt’s visits, Alex had only to shuffle about with his one-legged housekeeping attempts to set Mickle flying around with a broom. Tristan tried to make sure the boy was getting enough rest and Mickle needed little reminding to see that he was cared for.
“Explain to me what this thing is on your porch,” Tristan asked Mickle after he had been working there a few days. He had to pass that loathsome footwarmer every time he went out the front door of the forge and it was becoming more and more difficult.
“He’s my fire god,” Mickle grinned. “I made him myself. Had a few other folk in the town who want me to make them one. Going to get going on that before the rain stops and they don’t need a little god to make them warm anymore.”
“A God much bigger than that cares for us,” Tristan said angrily. “In fact, that’s no god at all. How can you make something with your own two hands and call it a god? How can you sit here mornings and look at the church right across the square with that thing under your feet? You need to get rid of it, and you shouldn’t make any more, certainly.”
“What right do you have to tell me to get rid of my fire god?” Mickle challenged. “You work for me. I’ve been taking orders from you ever since you walked up to this forge, and I’m tired of it. You do your work, and live in the room I made for you, and I’ll keep the place tidy to please you, but I can worship how I want.”
“Don’t you understand that worshiping God is the only thing that matters?” Tristan demanded. “You can clean this forge till it shines but if your heart is still black God will throw you into hell. That fire god angers the real God. Get rid of it.”
Mickle stared at him and Tristan saw a flicker of doubt and fear in the man’s face. “God will judge me for my little god?” he asked in a weak voice.
“God will judge your heart if it’s wicked and rebellious against Him,” Tristan promised. He stalked out to the lean-to and chopped about a month’s worth of firewood. When he emerged, drenched in sweat, he saw Mickle blowing the fire up to a white heat and shoving a blob of iron around on the anvil. He glanced out the front door and the fire god was gone. Tristan smiled and went off to the harnessmaker’s.
On the first real sunny, warm day Tristan bartered with the tinker for a big washtub, heated enough water to fill it, and literally threw Mickle in, clothes and all, in the lean-to. Mickle howled as if he was being killed and people ran to find out the cause of the noise and stayed to watch the fun. Tristan scrubbed with a horse brush and Alex’s aunt’s strongest soap and still only got a fraction of the dirt off. It became a weekly ritual whether Mickle did it himself or Tristan made him do it, and finally Tristan was content to see more skin than dirt on Mickle’s thickset frame.
People looked to Tristan for help with all kinds of animal ills, and sometimes people ones as well, though his real human medical knowledge was scanty. He had one spectacular cure to his credit, but doctoring people seemed to be a bit like milking – something he wasn’t really fit for. Fortunately he wasn’t asked to do it often. Mickle was basically right about cows, though it was a little more complicated than that. The first time he turned a breech-positioned calf he wished he had died before he had stuck his arm inside that cow.
Thomas’s little church was filled to overflowing for services on Tristan’s first Sunday. Tristan was surprised at the informal, heartfelt way Thomas presented the Word of God. He was used to the great church in Kenborana and the stuffy minister who also served the royal family. Here people’s souls were fed.
“I didn’t expect your church to be so well-attended,” Tristan said to Thomas after the service was over. “But I shouldn’t have been surprised. You preach the Word with power and great love.”
“May the Lord bless His Word,” Thomas murmured. “It was a good attendance.”
“But they didn’t come to hear the message,” Ilesa sniffed. “They came to see you.”
“To see me?” Tristan echoed. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone is curious about our stranger, the lost prince,” Thomas admitted. “They knew you’d be here, so they came.”
“Usually we have very few that attend,” Ilesa said. “They’re too busy, or too weary, or some other excuse. Now that they’ve seen you, next week will be back to normal.”
“Come, Tristan,” Thomas said. “Some of those who come a long way stay with us and have a meal together. You’re welcome to join us.” Tristan looked around and saw ten or twelve adults and children left out of the crowd. Among them were Brentin, Janos and a thin, wan woman he took to be the ailing wife.
“I shouldn’t intrude,” Tristan faltered. He saw the few poor provisions being laid out on the tables at the back of the church. “These are your real sheep. They need their shepherd, not some object of curiosity. I had no idea I’d be a distraction by being here.”
“People came, and they heard the Word,” Ilesa said. “The Lord brought them, whatever they thought was the reason.”
“But I’ve brought nothing,” Tristan protested, looking again at how little there was to share.
“You’ve brought a willing heart to serve God wherever He places you,” Thomas laughed. “That is a feast for me every time you open it to me.”
“Wait. I’ll be right back,” Tristan said, and ran out. He tore across the town square to the Blacksmith shop. Tristan grabbed the ham off the hook by the fireplace. Mickle, dozing in his chair underneath it, grunted and looked up.
“Where are you going with that?” he demanded. “Isn’t that our Sunday dinner?”
“If you want some, come to the church,” Tristan grinned.
“The church?” Mickle growled, looking as if Tristan had said he must go out and hang himself. “What are you going to do with it at church?”
“Use it for its intended purpose,” Tristan replied. “To feed the hungry. I’ll be sure and save you some, Alex,” Tristan called into the newly-completed living quarters. Alex was not yet strong enough to go that far.
“What about me?” Mickle pleaded.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t take chances,” Tristan replied. The group at the church tried not to look surprised when Tristan returned with the ham and the shame-faced Mickle stumping along behind.
“You’re late, Mickle,” Ilesa couldn’t resist saying as Thomas went to get a knife. “Service is over.”
“Service is over?” Mickle repeated, baffled.
“He’s just here for the sweet fellowship,” Tristan replied with a straight face.
Mickle looked sideways at Tristan. “You tricked me,” he grumbled. “There aren’t enough people here to eat half that ham.”
“We’ll let you eat with us this time,” Tristan quipped, “but next week you’d better actually come to service if you want a place at the Master’s table.”
Chapter Seven
Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.
Proverbs 13:12
Tristan was interested at first to see how many people had decorated their houses with carvings or paintings of beasts he didn’t recognize, curious symbols, and strange manlike figures. There were talented craftsmen and artisans in the village and some mad
e their living by creating these decorations. But as Tristan asked about them he kept hearing that they were some kind of spirit or god or prayer and he felt as if he were surrounded by the paganism he had hoped to escape when he left Dunstan behind in Kenborana. He tried to make people understand that these things were idols and they were angry and offended at first. But they had to admit he was right and these images began to disappear, replaced by carvings of birds or forest animals or flowers.
As time passed in the village Tristan noticed that people seemed more cheerful, even more prosperous. He couldn’t understand it. The rains had stopped, of course, and the mud was slowly drying up, so people could get to work on repairing winter ravages to their houses and gardens and planting for the new season. The town looked better as a consequence. Tristan urged everyone he bartered with or did work for or met for any reason to come to the church. Some of them actually did, different ones at different times, some beginning to come faithfully. People caught up the idea of bartering and did it among themselves, using what they had to get what they needed, feeling less pressure to demand money and to pay it out. The economy of Larcondale, such as it was, seemed to improve somehow.
“Brentin, there’s an odd expression people use here that you’ve got to explain to me,” Tristan said to the tavernkeeper one day when he came to see what was wrong with Brentin’s goat. The old man had told him the goat couldn’t seem to stop swallowing, but wasn’t eating anything. “They keep talking about cloak bartering. What does it mean?”
“Cloak bartering?” Brentin repeated. He sat and thought for a minute. Then he burst out laughing. “It’s because of you. Don’t you remember? You were going all over town, looking for work, trying to get work done or get food, and it always poured down rain, and if you worked with someone you always made them share your cloak, because it was the only thing in the village that could keep anyone dry. Nobody ever imagined sharing such a fine thing as that. Anyway it was fine to them, but you did it all the time. And you got what you needed, and they got what they needed, so now when they want to barter and they don’t want to be refused they say it’s cloak bartering, because nobody could ever refuse you and your cloak anything. You know you’re doing the baron’s job,” Brentin said to Tristan
“I’m doing what?” Tristan asked, struggling to get the goat to open her mouth.
“Gregor, the wine merchant – his family holds the title Baron of Larcondale,” Brentin explained. “You know what a baron is. He’s got charge of a place, under some lord, in the name of the king, and he’s supposed to look after the people. Gregor’s never taken the slightest interest in the affairs of the town, how the people live, the church, anything. I’m the magistrate. I used to try to go to him when there were disputes or crimes or legal issues, if he happened to be here, which wasn’t often, and he just brushed it off and said, ‘You handle it. You know best.’ All he cares about are those grapes and that wine.
“These people don’t see the benefit his grape crop brings to Tarraskida. I’m not saying I want the government to do everything for us, but you’d think some of those taxes would come back here, to help support Thomas and the church or start a school or bring a doctor here, or just make it possible to help people who truly need it. And I think if Gregor spoke up about it something might be done. The people of Larcondale joke about how Gregor makes Tarraskida rich and Larcondale poor. But it’s no joke to them. Gregor takes all the good workers away to the plantation, and he gets slaves from Gannes if there aren’t enough workers. Work doesn’t get done here in town because everyone’s tilling Gregor’s fields or harvesting his grapes or running his presses.
“I know all about you casting out the idols. It made me sick, passing every house in the town and looking at those gods and prayers to gods everywhere. The people were desperate because Thomas is as poor as they are and can’t fix their wretched wants. As hard as he tries to help his own flock, he can’t waste what he has on those who won’t step into the church doorway. So they tried other gods, hoping they would hear their cries. Now you’ve come here, and suddenly people seem to understand that we can trust God again, pray to Him to build this village up, do work for our own good and not just work for Gregor. I don’t know that we’re all getting rich but we’re all doing better, working harder but getting more out of it. That’s thanks to you, Tristan.”
“Here, Brentin,” Tristan said, handing something to him. Brentin took it. It was a small gold disc. Mickle had cast a little mound of them from the drawn threads of the coronation cloak. Everyone was confident they would be worth a small fortune in any larger town. Yet Tristan had found most of them remained in a box in his room, because there was nothing to spend them on except the offerings at church and things he got from travelers in hope that someday he would have a school. “Your goat was trying to share in the growing prosperity of Larcondale, it seems, but she couldn’t handle so much wealth all at once.”
Eventually the roads dried up and news reached Tristan that Gregor the wine merchant had returned from wintering in the south country. Tristan went to see him shortly after his arrival. He had been surprised to note that Gregor’s sprawling home had none of the pagan elements he had gotten used to seeing in the town. The house was completely empty of decoration, in fact.
“Ah, you’re the young farrier Mickle has taken on,” Gregor, a tall, dark man in his fifties with wiry hair and dark eyes. “I understand you saved us a good young bull this spring. My thanks.”
Tristan smiled. Gregor’s estate included some two hundred head of very fine beef cattle, and he had presided over a difficult calving. “I was glad to help,” he answered. “And I was hoping you might be willing to help me. Is there any way you could get me to Parangor, to Kenborana, in fact? I’m Tristan, the brother of King Dunstan, and it’s by a very unfortunate sort of accident that I’m even here. I could pay you for your trouble, of course.” At last he saw a use for his tiny hoard of gold.
“Parangor?” Gregor laughed. “And you are the prince, eh? Well, my men spoke high praise of you, but they didn’t say you could make such a good joke.”
Tristan looked at him in silence. “You are in earnest?” Gregor asked after a moment, looking curiously at Tristan. “Well, if you’re really a prince of Parangor, my apologies for laughing at you, but I have not been across the border in years. The land between us is desolate and very difficult to cross. I can’t imagine any accident that would bring a man from there to here.”
Tristan didn’t offer to tell his story again. Gregor mused. “From time to time I meet up with agents from Parangor in other cities in Tarraskida and I do a little business through them. But I’m very sorry. It would be impossible for me to go there. I’ve just returned to my vineyards. I have a great deal of work to do, and besides, I’ve brought home a new wife, and I don’t intend to leave her for a trip of several months to go to Kenborana.”
Tristan saw a woman watching them, half-concealed in the shadow of the main doorway across the terrace from where they stood talking. She was veiled, dressed in flowing silks profusely ornamented with jewels, and he caught a scent of some exotic perfume that filled his nostrils and made him feel very strange. Gregor looked toward the figure in the doorway and Tristan saw a look that reminded him of savages he had once seen performing a ceremony of their religion. Gregor’s face was full of complete, abandoned worship. He walked away from Tristan without saying anymore and disappeared into the house.
As Tristan left Gregor’s plantation, he met up with the man who had first found him and persuaded the soldiers to bring him to Thomas’s house. He shook hands with him heartily and thanked him. The man lowered his head, embarrassed.
“I didn’t know if you’d remember me,” the fellow said.
“Of course I do,” Tristan exclaimed. “I looked for you when I was here at the calving because I learned you were coming here to work for Gregor, but I never found out your name.”
“I’m Vancus, from Pencarosa,” the fellow replied. “P
erhaps the reason you couldn’t find me is that my family and I came here as slaves. We fell into debt and were sold by Lord Drokken to Gregor. We’ve been field laborers, and haven’t had much contact with the household.”
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said awkwardly. “I didn’t know that.”
“I’m hoping soon to earn our freedom, now that the master has returned,” Vancus said eagerly. “I, too, once owned a vineyard. It wasn’t so large as this one, but we grew fine grapes and produced our share of good wine. We had a great flood –”
“You lived in the country between here and Parangor to the west,” Tristan interrupted.
“Yes,” Vancus replied. “That flood changed the whole contour of the land and poisoned it with salt. Afterward the vines just got fungus or rotted and nothing would grow. We lost our livelihood and couldn’t pay our taxes. I believe I can help the master to improve his vines, and increase his yield, from what I’ve seen since coming here. I’m going to speak to him about it now. Also, my wife is skilled at healing. I’ve heard many people say a doctor is needed hereabouts.”
“There’s no question about that,” Tristan agreed. “Jerez does what he can, but people still ask me if I can help their sick children or fix somebody’s hurts just because I’ve had some of God’s blessing trying to tend their animals. It would be wonderful to have a doctor. I wish you better success than I had with Gregor,” sighed Tristan. He told Vancus what he had come to see Gregor about.
“Do you think he didn’t believe the truth of your words?” Vancus asked. “Surely he’d understand how important it would be to serve a prince, even a foreign one.”
“I’m not sure anyone really believes my story,” Tristan groaned. “Why should they? I have no proof.”
“My wife was born in Kenborana,” Vancus said. “She knew the crown princes by name. She’s told our daughter stories about Prince Dunstan and Prince Tristan for years. Even the child recognized your ring, from my wife’s description. If you’d showed that to Gregor, surely – “
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