Chapter Thirty-one

 

 

Mielikki

 

 

Within the hour Tristan had traversed Marseilles and was working his way through the dark along the western road leading away from the city. Finally he spotted the flickering light of the Romani camp through the trees south of the road. Turning in, he ambled his horse into the midst of the wagons, but found nobody there.

“Mala!” he cried, dismounting.

“She’s not here,” an old voice responded from the darkness.

Startled, Tristan turned and saw Duxia’s outline seated on a log outside the circle of light cast by the campfire. His first inclination was to leave, but then, despite the tiny buzz of alarm pricking his brain as he looked at her, Tristan tied his horse to a wagon.

“Where is everyone?” he said.

“So, you come slinking into camp in the dark of night to consort with my girl Mala, eh?” Duxia said, her voice dripping with scorn.

“Where is Mala, Duxia?” Tristan repeated.

“She and the others are entertaining some aristocrats at a betrothal ceremony in town and won’t be back until morning,” she hissed. “So no, you won’t be bedding her down tonight. Oh, such unbecoming behavior for a Black Monk. It seems the demons have pried their way into your brain and slipped off with your memory, Tristan de Saint-Germain. Have you forgotten your vows? I wonder what your superiors would make of such a thing, eh?”

“A monk?” Tristan replied. “You deceive yourself, old woman. I am a captain of the Burgundian Guard.”

“No, it is you who deceives yourself. You are not a captain of anything. You are a Benedictine monk, apparently, which explains why you were in the company of Kuku Peter when first we met, though you were not wearing a monk’s robe then, either. Mala started talking about you within days of finding me by the road. She told me about meeting you as a child, about dreaming of a life with you as a young girl, and about her heartbreak last year after learning of your ordination into the Brotherhood of the Black Monks. And now she believes herself to be falling in love with you, poor girl. Why you’re posing as a man-of-arms, I don’t know. You are a monk, this I do know. Once ordained, no one leaves the order. No one!”

“And you,” said Tristan, pointing at her with disdain, “you are not Duxia de Falaise, but a sorceress from the back woods of Finland. Your true name is Mielikki, I have learned, and you come from a family of pagans who practiced witchcraft.”

At this Duxia stiffened a measure, like a hound on the leash, and her eyes flared. Then she nodded begrudgingly, pulling the black wrap that covered her head and shoulders tighter about herself. “Yes, my name was Mielikki at one time and my family practiced the black faith, but I am no sorceress, though that accusation seems to give you comfort. I left sorcery behind at the birth of your mother, and am now a woman of God, just as I have told you, the Hermit, and the world. God is within my heart and flows in my blood, monk, much more so than in yours. He communes with me.”

“Ha! God communing with you?” Tristan laughed derisively. “You are no different than the Hermit, playing at some twisted charade to frighten others, yet you hate the man for being your twin. Such hypocrisy, it sickens me.”

“Be sick, then, if it pleases you, Tristan de Saint-Germain.” Then her face twisted into a root and her voice elevated as she directed a bony finger his way. “But know this, I shall do everything within my power to separate you from Mala! She is a good woman, that one, like your mother, and does not deserve to have her life poisoned by the curse that brought you onto this earth. Oh yes, you took Asta away from me, but you’ll not take Mala from me!”

“So then, it is again a question of jealousy like it was with my mother when I was born, eh?” Tristan said, thinking she looked like a viper coiled there, ready to spew venom. And though he knew she was aged and frail, there was something terrifying about the dead gaze of her dark, sunken eyes. He felt a coldness touch his spine then, and determined that it was pointless to continue this serpentine dance in which they had become entangled. Mounting his horse, he said, “I have known Mala since childhood, Duxia, and you will never divide us. We share a special bond that has somehow tethered us together over the years despite distance and despite circumstance. So know this, I will be back. And I will see to it that she does not fall under your claw. Yes, she is a fine woman of generous heart, beautiful and full of life and you will not cast a shadow over her happiness.”

“Ah no, not me,” Duxia cackled. “You are the shadow, not I. Did I not ask you once before, What is it you want and how many men shall die as you strive to seek it? Do you now feel you must drag an innocent girl like Mala into your web also, with your other victims? You are a man of the cloth, Tristan de Saint-Germain, and a Cluniac reform monk at that. Have you forgotten that your brethren have denounced sins of the flesh, concubinage, marriage, and now demand chastity and celibacy? Ha, what a twisted thing it is for me to watch your Hell being served here on this earth. Mala is your apple of Eden, and you’ve already taken a bite of the forbidden fruit, thinking you’ll secretly take another and another. Oh, as with Adam, the ground beneath your feet shall soon collapse and you’ll be cast from your idyllic paradise among the elite clerics of the Gregorian movement, and as with Adam, you’ll in the end be forced to grovel in the dirt amongst the worms and maggots of this world!” Then, her eyes still afire with hatred in the very midst of this vile diatribe, she shriveled a moment as though attacked by a tiny seizure. Her scorn seemed to dissolve as her tiny shoulders began to shake beneath her black wrap… and a queer look of vulnerability slipped into her eyes. “I tell you this, Tristan de Saint-Germain,” she then stammered in a near whisper, “if truly Mala has a place in your heart, then it is best that when you leave this camp, you never return, for God will never allow this thing that you have begun with Mala.”