Homes were found for the kittens but Tristan found a real companion in Mitts, the mother cat, a white calico with eight toes on one and seven on the other of her front paws. She possessed amazingly soft fur and an agreeable preference for “softening him up” and then settling in to purr on his chest at night. People lined up for a chance to get Mitts’ kittens. Their strange, oversized paws made them a curiosity and their mousing skills became legendary. But Larcondale seemed to have little imagination when it came to cats’ names and Tristan thought there came to be rather too many people poking their heads out the door and calling for “Mitts.”
Mayra was thoroughly happy. She told him one day that the mistress had taken a special interest in her and brought her into the house to be her personal servant. She was also teaching Mayra about cosmetics and perfumes and giving her pieces beautiful jewelry to wear. Tristan wondered more than ever about this child as she seemed to be blossoming into a woman before his eyes.
Yet Tristan heard disturbing things as well. He had heard rumors around town that there was some trouble about Gregor’s new wife. At first there had been ribald jokes about her beauty and exotic character. She was very foreign, Tristan had heard, and concocted mysterious perfumes that some of the men in town said would drive a man mad. People commented that Gregor had given way to strange moods and fits of anger. As soon as the spring work on the vineyard was completed that second year Tristan learned that Gregor had gone away on a trip.
Tristan had tried not to listen to the gossip about Gregor and his wife. Yet he had also tried to stay informed about the goings on at the vineyard, because Gregor received most of the travelers who came to the valley first, before they came into Larcondale. Tristan still felt an obligation to seek a way to return home. This he could only do by finding an experienced traveler willing to go to Kenborana. But so far, even with proof that he was Prince Tristan of Parangor and that he really needed to return home, he had met only very polite refusals from the traders and merchants who came to Larcondale. News about Parangor Tristan heard, more than he cared to. King Dunstan seemed to be busy bankrupting the kingdom with some project to expand his territory by denuding Tarpin Woods and damming and bridging the Brenget. Traders who did not yet know who Tristan was made jokes about the mad king clearcutting a thousand acres of worthless bogland and the number of men killed working on the project. Tristan could not imagine why Dunstan would do such a thing, but he had little time to think about it, because as soon as Gregor had left Larcondale, Mayra had ceased to come to school.
He sent messages out to the plantation through one of the other children but they went unanswered. Josena did not appear in the village, as she always had. He learned from Jerez that Vancus and Josena had gone with Gregor, which seemed strange to him. Gregor had all but freed Vancus and his family as far as Tristan could tell. Mayra always came into the village with Josena in the mornings when she drove a cart to the medical shop. But he reminded himself that Mayra was still apparently a slave and other children had to miss school because of home duties, though not usually for days at a time. Tristan was so busy he had no opportunity to go out to Gregor’s estate himself for more than two weeks after Mayra ceased to attend. Tristan finally got out to Gregor’s estate on farrier business, and made it a point to ask to speak to the mistress of the house after he had cleaned up from treating a horse’s strained fetlock tendon.
Gregor’s house had changed in startling fashion. It was hung about with bundles of strange-smelling herbs, some pleasant, some rank. Boughs of plants Tristan didn’t even recognize dangled upside-down from beams and posts. Ornaments that rattled or tinkled in the wind lined the porch. Some were made of strings of shells, some pieces of etched metal and some were painted reeds. All had strange symbols on them. Each seemed to play a different tune. The effect was almost paralyzing. Tristan had difficulty making himself approach the door, though he couldn’t have said why.
At first Gregor’s wife refused to see him. When he had finally been granted an interview he had trouble making the beautifully-dressed, heavily veiled woman understand what he wanted. She had brought Mayra in and stood her before him. Tristan could not help being shocked at the transformation in Mayra. Her mistress had evidently redoubled her efforts to make her entrancingly beautiful. She had become extraordinary under her mistress’s care. Mayra kept her eyes down and her expression set. Tristan was surprised, because she was usually so eager to see him.
“This is the girl you want? No, no,” the mistress finally blurted out. “This girl serves my person, and I require her here.”
“I only teach the children a few hours a day,” Tristan protested. “All of them have chores and responsibilities they must do, but most of the parents and masters of the village have agreed to let them come.”
“You wish the girl, but you give me nothing?” The woman said harshly. “This makes no sense.”
“I only wish to teach her, so that she may read, and write, and do sums,” Tristan tried again. “She will be better able to serve you and your husband if she learns these things.”
“I teach her things she must know,” the woman retorted. “If you want the girl, you will pay for her.”
Tristan was speechless. He could only assume that the woman didn’t understand him, that she thought he was trying to arrange some sort of barter to acquire Mayra as his own slave. She called servants who all but drove Tristan out of the house. Tristan tried to be patient, assuming that as soon as Mayra’s parents returned they would send her back. But each day as he taught the children, from little ones all the way up to strapping young men and blossoming girls soon to marry, her face would not leave him. Late one evening Mayra came to him as he studied for the next day’s lessons at the church. She was luminous, fragrant, exotic, and he stared at her in the moonlight, holding her at the doorway of the church.
“I’ll come back to the school in the mornings,” she said in a low voice. “My mistress sleeps late, and doesn’t require my services until later in the day. I can return to the plantation before she wakes.”
“Does she know you’re here?” Tristan asked, unable to ignore the furtive, fearful look in her eyes.
“No, but I must know more of these things in the books, the things you taught us,” Mayra insisted. “She won’t know.”
“You seem to be unhappy, Mayra,” Tristan said uncertainly. “How do your parents feel about you serving in your mistress’ house?”
Mayra stared at him, wide-eyed, then abruptly burst into tears, shielding her face with her hands. “Oh, Teacher-Master,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t bear for them to know what she’s doing to me. I pray every day they won’t return with the master, for she would have them punished if they tried to stop her. Don’t speak of it!”
“What do you mean?” Tristan demanded, taking her by the shoulders. “Is your mistress cruel to you?”
“I can’t – I can’t –” Mayra sobbed so hard she could not speak. “I can’t do the things she asks, to go with the men, to let them – “ She broke off again, and Tristan stared at her in horror.
“What men? What do you mean?” he asked, hardly knowing if he wanted the answer. “No, never mind, child. I’m going to take you to Ilesa, Thomas’s wife. She and Thomas will help you, and Thomas will tell us what to do to get you away from that woman.”
But Thomas and Ilesa, as shocked and outraged as they were, insisted that there might not be anything that could be done for Mayra. They called Brentin to come to the house. Clearly Gregor’s wife had been extending “hospitality” to men who came while Gregor was away by offering Mayra to them. But Brentin confirmed that the reality was that a slave could not just be taken away from her owner, particularly not a wealthy and powerful man like Gregor. Thomas insisted that he must take Mayra back to Gregor’s home. Brentin promised to speak to Gregor at the first opportunity.
“It’s possible he doesn’t know what’s happening,” Thomas said.
“You don’t know what will happen to
her before he returns,” Tristan cried. “And perhaps he does know, and doesn’t care.”
“Gregor is basically a good man,” Thomas protested. “I don’t believe he knows. Tristan, if I don’t take the girl back, the wife will come for her, I will have no legal way to keep her from taking her, and she may do something to punish Mayra. We need to take her back, say nothing, and hope Gregor returns quickly.”
Thomas ordered Tristan to go home. Tristan got the horse he had finished shoeing for Pinkmak and followed as the minister rode back to the estate with Mayra in the small cart she had brought. Tristan kept his distance and at first it seemed the plan had succeeded. Mayra crept into the stable to put away the pony and cart. Tristan saw Thomas hesitate, waiting some time, and then departing. Tristan could not make himself leave, though. He lingered among the trees near the house and prayed for Mayra’s safety. Suddenly he heard raised voices. Screams of pain and terror roused him and he sprang for the stables.
“This is why you defy me!” the mistress’ voice shrieked as Tristan came to the stable door. “For this teacher! This is why you do not please my guests. I will teach you to submit!”
Tristan burst in and saw the wife of Gregor with a whip in her hand in the semidarkness, the stable lit only by a coal brazier on a stand beside the door. Mayra dangled from a rope thrown over a beam, her clothes torn, and the woman swung the whip to add another lash to the red welts already crisscrossing Mayra’s upper body. Tristan seized Gregor’s wife’s arm and wrestled with her. Huge, darting shadows rose and fell crazily around them. She fought like a demon, dragging him farther from the light and screeching at him, and he had a strange sense that someone else was there, someone far stronger than the evil woman who grabbed at him as Tristan tried to make her let go of the whip. She aimed another blow at Mayra. Tristan felt the heat of the brazier too nearby. The woman twisted out of his grasp, then grabbed the brazier off its stand and hurled the brazier at him.
Chapter Nine
In his favour is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
Psalm 30:5
The world exploded: light, darkness, burning. Tristan fell to the ground and rolled in a ball, feeling as if everything was on fire. He heard shuffling, foreign words spoken in hissing tones, then horses snorting, dancing, somewhere nearby, more voices, clattering hooves, people crowding around. Finally he found himself in a bed. Someone seemed to be trying to soothe his burning face with ointment, and a voice was speaking to him, gentle but insistent. Brentin’s voice stirred him.
“God knows that I would rather do anything than trouble you just now, lad,” the old man said gently. “But there are things you have got to know and do.”
“What?” Tristan asked. “I only care that Mayra is all right.”
“Yes, she’ll be fine. Gregor returned,” Brentin said. “He and Vancus and Josena came in upon what was happening to you and Mayra, and that woman of his fled north into the woods. She’s gone, and we can’t find a trace of her. Gregor shut himself up in his rooms and was there while Vancus and Josena took care of you and Mayra. When they tried to get him to come out, he wouldn’t answer. The lamp went out in his room, and they knew something was wrong. They sent for me, and for Thomas, and we had some men break in. Gregor was slumped over his desk. He’s dead.”
“God pity him,” Tristan said. It was difficult to talk, and he didn’t understand why it had to be so dark. But he didn’t care. It hurt too much. “He married a demon and then brought her here and ran away from her, setting her loose on us. I can’t muster a lot of pity for him, old friend.”
“He suffered, Tristan,” Brentin said sternly. “He went away because he was very ill, already dying, as it turns out, and Josena’s skill couldn’t even tell her what was wrong. He took Mayra’s parents because he needed Vancus to handle the travel business and Josena to help him survive the trip. None of them had any inkling about what would happen here. Gregor begged Mayra’s parents to go with him. He didn’t expect to live to make the return trip, and he said he intended to give them charge of some kind of documents to bring back if he didn’t return.
“Gregor’s wife seems to have had great skills in herbology, but a different sort from Jerez’s. Jerez told me he had been to the house a few months ago and complained to Gregor about those oppressive herbs and her chimes everywhere. He said they reminded him of a witch’s den. Gregor threw him out. Josena told me there has been a lot of sickness, and people just feeling weak and depressed here. Jerez and Josena looked over her herbs and ointments and that garden of plants she has in a greenhouse. Some of them are dangerous drugs, certainly the kinds of things no proper healer would use.
“Tristan, it seems as if the woman used her potions, her perfumes, her drugs to bind Gregor to her, to make him marry her in the first place so she could be Baroness of Larcondale. Then she seems to have started driving him mad, making him think he was crawling with bugs, making him smell as if he’d soiled himself. His men have testified to these things, to his rages, his fits of weeping.
“Vancus and Josena said Gregor seemed to get a little stronger on the trip, and that these dreadful moods and other symptoms faded, so it was clear the woman was behind it. Gregor met with several people while they traveled, but never allowed them to be present. Both of them saw Gregor with a large sheepskin folder at different times, and he seemed to be looking at documents in it. He had it when they left for home, but we’ve found no trace of it here. Whatever it was, it’s lost. We’re still looking, and we have men searching for the woman, but we fear she’s escaped for good. It’s strange that she got away so completely, but gone she is, into the woods to fight the thorns and bogs and never come out, I hope.”
“God guard the poor people of this world while she is still in it,” Tristan murmured. “But Brentin, why are you telling me all this as if I have to know it now? What has it to do with me, except that I’m glad to know Mayra’s safe and that witch can’t harm her anymore?”
“Tristan, Lord Drokken will certainly have to come here now that Gregor’s dead,” Brentin answered. “And Gregor had no heirs. He’s going to want someone to take charge of the estate and especially the vineyard. We need you to do that. I want to be able to tell Drokken that he should make you Baron of Larcondale.”
“Prince Tristan,” another voice said suddenly. Tristan had known in a foggy way that someone besides Brentin was in the room, because Brentin wasn’t salving his burns. That someone had to be Jerez. He had wondered why Jerez was so quiet. It was so dark. How could Jerez work in the dark, and why would he? But it startled him to know that Thomas had evidently been sitting there all that time and he hadn’t known it.
“Listen to me. It’s Thomas.”
“I hear you,” Tristan said. “How is Mayra?”
“Well, for the moment,” Thomas said. Tristan could hardly attend to what Brentin had been saying, what Thomas was saying now. Two things crowded his mind, the pain of his burns, and the last image he had seen, Mayra, scourged like an animal, hanging from a rope, exposed, so white, so helpless.
“Tristan, Mayra will do well, as far as the whipping. She was not badly hurt, as terrible as it looked. But you must help her.”
“I would do anything to help her.”
“Brentin seems sure that the lord in Gannes will give Gregor’s property and title to you, in payment for what you have suffered.”
“This is good news,” Tristan said, forcing a smile. “What a fine school we can make of this place, Thomas.”
“Tristan, listen to me,” Thomas said. “It’s about Mayra that we’re talking, not you.”
“All right, what about her?” Tristan asked irritably.
“As you know, the property that was Gregor’s includes a number of slaves,” Thomas said. “They don’t actually belong to him, they belong to Lord Drokken of Gannes. Tristan, it’s within the lord’s power to take these slaves out of this service and move them elsewhere.”
“Good,” Tris
tan said sluggishly. “I don’t want to have slaves, anyway.”
“Tristan, Mayra and her parents are among the slaves,” Thomas said.
“Of course, how stupid of me. I’ll gladly take over the estate, and pay the price to have her freed, and her parents as well,” Tristan said at once.
“Lord Drokken will be coming here, as Brentin said, and he’ll inspect the property, Gregor’s accounts, and the slaves,” Thomas said. “Do you think that any man who sees Mayra, and understands what Gregor’s wife was making of her, will let her stay here?”
“Thomas, what are you saying?” Tristan was fully alert now. He had been just about to pull himself up off the bed when someone, Jerez, no doubt, gently pushed him back and soft dressings began to be wrapped around his face. “Don’t do that. I can’t see,” he growled.
“Tristan, do you understand how much you were injured when the woman hit you with that brazier?” Thomas asked softly.
“It hurts like anything,” Tristan said peevishly. “But I want to know what I can do about Mayra.”
“First I must tell you that your sight is gone, Tristan, and it won’t return.” Tristan noticed that Jerez seemed to have finished wrapping his head. He slowly got himself on his feet, not even responding to Thomas’s protests or Jerez’s that Tristan must lie down.
“Jerez, is this true?” Tristan demanded, swaying but forcing himself to stay on his feet.
“I’ve no doubt it’s true, Tristan,” Jerez responded. “Josena saw to you first, and she’s more skilled to judge these things than I. She told us there was no way to save your sight. I’m very sorry. You’ll have some scars, too, but not so bad. It’s amazing you weren’t more badly injured.”
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