The Baron's Ring

by Mary C. Findley

  “Thomas!” Drokken stifled his surprise and evident displeasure quickly. “Is he in Larcondale, then?”

  “It was my understanding that you sent him here personally,” Tristan said. “Was I mistaken?”

  “I – removed him from being Bishop in Gannes,” Drokken said uneasily. “As to where he went after that --”

  “Really, Lord Drokken,” Tristan said. “First you lose a very capable minister, then a valuable vineyard-grower.”

  “As regards the man Vancus, it was an oversight, a clerical error,” Drokken said angrily. “Concerning Thomas, I have done my best to forget the man ever existed.”

  “So he is an unfaithful minister,” Tristan pursued. “He does not preach truth, he fails to honor the Word of God. Is that your objection to him? It is a serious question, since you sent him here.”

  “Prince, you tread on very personal ground,” Drokken said. “Thomas was my sister’s husband. His stubbornness and refusal to heed my family’s wishes that he temper his preaching caused great sorrow and trouble.”

  “Your family’s wishes?” Tristan echoed. “Was it your sister’s wish that he be harassed to stop preaching the truth, to agree to tickle your noble ears? Was it his faithfulness that caused her death, or that of your father?”

  “I can see nothing has changed with Thomas,” Drokken fumed. “He has just found willing hearers at last. If you already knew what sort of man he was, why did you ask me?”

  “I wanted to know what sort of man you were,” Tristan replied. “I wanted to know the man who would cast away a pearl like this man of God, and whether he had changed. But, since you have known nothing of Thomas for almost ten years, yet are ready to condemn him all over again, I suppose I know now.”

  “You are a prince,” Drokken grated, “but as Baron of Larcondale you should remember your place. These things do not concern you.”

  “My Lord, what the man who rules over me believes and practices does and must concern me,” Tristan responded. “I formed an impression but I wanted to test it and make certain it was not prejudiced. I’ve been told that Gannes receives a staggering amount of money in taxes from Larcondale. I have to know this because now I’m the one who has to pay most of it. But unless things are vastly different in Tarraskida than in Parangor, I would think that some of that impressive sum of tax revenue is meant to serve the people of the place from which it was collected. That, I think, is a baron’s duty, and a lord’s, to see that some of the people’s greater needs are cared for.

  “There’s another man whose existence you may have forgotten about, Lord of Gannes. His name is Brentin, and he’s magistrate here. He’s told me that Larcondale receives no monies from Gannes from one year’s end to the next. No support for the church, no remuneration for the one who administers your laws, no fund for the destitute, no means to assist in paying for a doctor or to help educate its children. These are things we see to in Parangor, things a lord does for his people with the money he takes from them. He does not do all, but when a place makes money it has the right to use some of it for home needs. Are the laws different in Tarraskida?”

  “For a blind man, you see a great deal, Baron Tristan,” Drokken said reluctantly. “These charges I cannot brush aside. I admit Gregor cared nothing for his village’s share of the revenues and they have never been sent back. I assume you already have come up with a sum that will meet these needs you have spoken of?”

  “Brentin and I have hit upon a figure,” Tristan responded. “Your sanction will be most welcome, but I have already made arrangements to see that money is not wasted sending out what will just come back. Here are the new figures for the revenue you will see, and what will remain here in Larcondale.”

  Drokken took the document Tristan had ready under his hand. “This is a small sum you wish to keep here,” Drokken observed. “Most places ask for more, whine and beg and plead for more.”

  “We find ways to meet most of our own needs, my Lord,” Tristan replied. “But it is the joy of a ruler to help his people and I wouldn’t wish to deprive you or myself of the opportunity. Now, regarding this matter of a chaplain, which I regret I have strayed far from, does it require your sanction, or that of the bishop, before I can appoint one?”

  “It is your privilege to make such an appointment as you see fit,” Drokken responded. “It is Thomas you wish, I suppose? I will have to see the bishop about finding a new minister for Larcondale itself, then.”

  “I will not make great demands on Thomas,” Tristan said. “I believe he can handle this small expansion in his ministry. Especially since he will now receive his due from his lord, and I will add my provision for him as well.”

  “You’ve presumed to chasten me about this man because he impresses you so much?” Drokken asked. “He never understood what it was to serve great men. He just preached to us as if we were all the same.”

  “And that is why he impresses me so much,” Tristan smiled. “Lord Drokken, When you bowed before me as we met I put out my hand to raise you and I felt a strange embossing on the shoulder of your armor. Is that the image of your dragon god?”

  “We wear the emblem of a dragon,” Drokken said uncomfortably. “But as to it being a god – The people like to carve and paint it on our furnishings and houses, out of respect for our family – We have statues of dragons – “ Drokken broke off. “Are they idols, do you think?”

  “When I came to Larcondale,” Tristan said, “I had just escaped from an attempt by my brother to set up the worship of something he called the river god. I argued about it with him over and over. I found here that Thomas fought a similar battle with you and your family over your dragon god. Tarraskida and Parangor are supposed to be lands that worship the true God, yet they are becoming overrun with idols and the true God and His servants are shoved aside, even attacked. Do you not see that this is true as well?”

  “I confess you have astonished me, Prince,” Drokken said. “I expected to find a man defeated, helpless, led about by the hand. I had no hope I could entrust you with this plantation, in spite of the passionate assurances of Magistrate Brentin. I have come, and I find you see so many things so clearly. You have learned this place and all its turnings and twistings, and you have accomplished great things, things I cannot help but admire. In this little time here I have heard how the people already love and honor you. And I have heard how you have rooted out the idols here, how you made the people understand the false worship they didn’t even understand they had practiced. I have grown used to seeing my dragon images, and the various household gods sprung up everywhere. I must consider what you have said and look to my own home and the city of Gannes, for it seems we have idols to root out as well.”

  “If you will promise so much, Lord Drokken,” Tristan said, “It will be a great comfort and help to me as I begin my rule as Baron of Larcondale.”

  “I wish you to understand, however,” Drokken said, his whole manner changing, “that I have indulged you in this pretense to managing the vineyard because I know Vancus is a capable man and people will be satisfied with a noble name holding the title to the estate, even if it is a foreign one. So perhaps you have deluded yourself into thinking you can actually do things that should not be thought of. It is impossible for you to actually think of running the grape production, for you are a blind man, Prince.”

  “If I may ask you to indulge my madness for a short while longer, my Lord,” Tristan said, trying not to show the mixture of anger and uneasiness he felt. He had pushed Drokken hard, harder than he had meant to, about Thomas, about the taxes, about the dragon idols, and he had been rewarded on every point. It had made him complacent, and he chastised himself mentally for thinking everything would go as well. “I thought you would come to such a conclusion. You’ve entrusted me with Larcondale, perhaps in the same way an arranged marriage takes place among those of royal blood. It’s a sham, a show, you think, secure only because the figurehead has something of real value backing him up, a strong
advisor, a valuable piece of land. It’s an uneasy, forced alliance. The partners don’t trust each other. Neither believes the other can be helper, friend, strong right arm, and lover. Did you know that the marriage between my wife and myself was in effect a forced one?”

  “Indeed, Prince,” Drokken said, a little uncomfortably. “When I realized that your bride was Vancus’ daughter, it occurred to me you might have wed her to secure his aid in managing the vineyard. When I saw her, however, I confess I presumed you hardly had to force yourself into marrying her. Not even a blind man could fail to know of her attractions.”

  “And still, she is my helper, friend, strong right arm, and lover,” Tristan smiled. “I speak frankly to you, Lord Drokken, because I do not wish our alliance to be an arranged one, a forced one. My wife believed I had gained a measure of respect and of trust from you, but – “

  “Prince, let me assure you I meant no disrespect, and I do not distrust you,” Drokken interrupted. “As I said, I have seen that these people admire you. I have heard tales of your coming to Larcondale, stripped of everything, even the hope of returning home, and how you rose to a place of usefulness, a place of honor, in this village. You have taught yourself to be everything to these people. Even without your sight the people are clearly in awe of you, and you have earned their greatest respect, and mine. You will carry the title of Baron of Larcondale well.

  “So perhaps I spoke hastily in dismissing the possibility that you might excel as master of the vineyards. I somehow cannot doubt that you would succeed in whatever task you set yourself to. When I came into this room I confess I doubted your fitness to hold this trust, but I thank you for showing me that our arranged marriage can be a happy one. I will make sure the tax agreement is recorded, and your appointment of Thomas as Baron’s Chaplain made known to the bishop. I will also send soldiers. They will be at your disposal, to do with as you see fit.” He gripped Tristan’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder.

  After Drokken and his followers departed, Mayra led Tristan off to their private quarters. “Come, sit in your chair, my Prince, for you have earned a rest.” Tristan gratefully sank into the luxurious leather and oak seat Mayra had moved from Gregor’s old quarters into the room they shared. She had placed it near the bronze lattice and he relished the cooling breeze on his face. “I rubbed cinnamon here, because I know you love the smell of the rolls baking in the morning,” Mayra chatted. “Later you’ll find your own way to it, and I won’t have to help you.”

  “Ah, from slave to slave-driver,” Tristan sighed. “You’ve changed a great deal. Mayra, I am already so weary of learning to see. It’s very hard.”

  Mayra snuggled into his lap. “I fear your life will be harder than anyone can guess, my Prince,” she said. “I feel sure of it. But God will bless you so much. Remember the blessings, and only learn from the hardness without dwelling on it. So you taught me.”

  “I taught you?” Tristan echoed. “How did I teach you that?”

  “From the day I found you under the tree,” Mayra replied. “As Thomas first taught you, so you have lived it and taught it to me, and to so many others you do not even know about. It was hard to serve men and chastise them and help them and so make them honor you, hard to teach thick-headed children, hard to love a girl you thought you could never have, hard to know there would never be light again.” Mayra’s voice broke a little at the last words, and she kissed the scars around his eyes very tenderly.

  “There is light, though,” Tristan corrected her. “Light, and music, and fragrance, and softness beyond belief, and I have it in my arms, and it makes my whole world bright. Thus may it ever be, and that is more blessing than I can reasonably bear.”

  Tristan commissioned a building project on the estate that same day. When it was complete he summoned Thomas and requested that he bring Ilesa and the children as well. He sent a new cart with two horses. When they arrived Tristan and Mayra met them at the new building.

  “What is this beautiful place, Baron?” Ilesa cried, clapping her hands. “How big it is, how full of light.”

  “This is my chapel,” Tristan replied. “Mayra helped me plan it so I believe her when she says it’s beautiful. In Parangor we had a chapel right on the castle grounds, and our bishop came to have services just for our household and workers. I have decided I need a chaplain to perform that service for me. I was hoping, Thomas, that you would consent to perform that duty. You’re still to be minister of Larcondale, of course, and since this extra work will take up some of your travel time I want you to have this cart and these horses. They’ll go a little faster and carry a little more than your faithful old donkey, to whom I wish to offer a place of retirement in my pasture.”

  “In fact,” Mayra added, “We want you and your family to come and live here at the estate, in this other building we have built.” She led the way around the corner of the chapel. Tristan had to be content hearing the gasps of pleasure and amazement. The house he and Mayra had built was only about twice as large as Thomas’s old one, and they had carefully planned it to be both simple and very comfortable, knowing that Thomas would not want anything lavish. Tristan knew he was just going to have to get used to hearing pleasure and never seeing it again. It was hard, but Ilesa throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him made it a little easier. Feeling pleasure was better than hearing it, he decided.

  Chapter Twelve

  Return, we beseech thee, O God of hosts: look down from heaven, and behold, and visit this vine; And the vineyard which thy right hand hath planted, and the branch that Thou madest strong for Thyself.

  Psalm 80: 14-15

  Tristan had thought the first time he handled the tiny clusters in the experimental yard it could not be so hard to learn about the grapes. He could feel them, even tell the difference between some of the varieties by the shape of the fruit, how big the clusters became. He dug his fingers into the soil and felt the roots and thick, woody stems, like small, twisted trees. He could tell clay from sand, feel dry or wet. But when Vancus began to actually teach him what lay under his fingers he wondered why he thought he could understand anything about it. Rose bushes were planted at the ends of some of the rows. Mayra told Tristan that when she was little she had been delighted at the prospect of so many roses, until Vancus had explained that some pests went to roses before grapes, and they could spot infestations of insects, spiders and beetles sooner by watching the roses. Sulfurous pest killers filled Tristan’s nose with rotten-egg smells that stayed with him hours after he had left the vines.

  Lime was also vital to the defense of the vines and Vancus kept his bug-killing concoctions in copper vessels. He said the copper actually got into the liquid and created a fine bug-killer. Mold and fungus Tristan discovered early on. Once again, they liked the roses and often went to them first, but not always. Learning that there were white rot, gray rot, and black rot did not help him much. Vancus cautioned him that sometimes the white grapes benefited from letting the gray rot exist, if the weather conditions were just right, and was even necessary to producing perfection in some kinds of wine. Vancus gave a discourse about decreased acidity and concentrated sugars. Fermentation in these affected grapes was slow, and produced a wine that was exceptionally smooth. Vancus claimed it could be kept stored for years. When Tristan heard Vancus call it “Noble Rot” he was sure he had reached the limit of his ability to understand grape culture.

  Pruning was something Tristan tried to educate himself about but gladly left to the sighted fellows. Vancus sternly warned about the dangers of overpruning and the problems with underpruning as well. Tristan also found grafting to be beyond his skill, though he did take a hand at bench-grafting, placing the grafted vines into the sand for their first year of growth. It was with some satisfaction that Tristan witnessed the transplanting of his first bench grafts into the regular crop.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The LORD said unto me, Gather me the people together, and I will make them hear my words, that t
hey may learn to fear me all the days that they shall live upon the earth, and that they may teach their children.

  Deuteronomy 4:10

  “Master Tristan! Master Tristan!” Tristan started violently as a small, hurtling someone crashed into his leg and got hold of it in a death grip. He had come into town with Mayra for market-day, but they had gotten separated and he was just feeling especially lost and helpless but not wanting to admit it. This small juggernaut nearly threw him on the ground. “Harvest is almost done. When can we come back to school? Lara’s big enough this time, isn’t she?”

  “Baron, I’m sorry,” Ilesa’s voice said as the small person squirmed and resisted being pried loose from Tristan’s leg.

  “Lito, let go of the baron,” Thomas gritted.

  “Thomas,” Tristan said, finding the minister’s hand and shaking it heartily. Then he groped for the small shoulders of the boy who had attacked his leg. “And I perceive your son’s presence as well. Hello, Lito. You have grown so tall since we milked the cow together.”

  “You didn’t milk the cow!” Lito howled. “You sprayed the lean-to ceiling. Papa said we didn’t have school yet because you got hurt again. Aren’t you better yet?”

  Tristan knelt down and rumpled Lito’s already untidy thatch of hair. “I am better,” he replied. “But not all better.”

  “Well, when will you be all better so we can start school?”

  “Lito, I’m afraid I can’t teach the school anymore,” Tristan said.

  “Oh,” Lito grumbled. “Papa said you got married and got all those grapes to take care of. So I guess you’re too busy now to be our schoolteacher.”

  “Now, Lito, we talked about this,” Ilesa exclaimed. “Don’t you remember? Baron Tristan can’t see.”

  “Why can’t he see?” Lito asked. He pushed aside Tristan’s hair and held his face in such a natural manner that it made Tristan want to laugh, yet he felt very uncomfortable just now. “When Minku’s donkey went blind his eyes turned all white. Master Tristan’s eyes look just the same.”