Chapter Thirty-three

 

 

Duxia’s Tale

 

 

That very next morning, before sunrise, an ox-man arrived at the monastery with a wagon sent by Truffault loaded with armor, weapons, and a good amount of gold and silver coin. To Tristan’s surprise, sitting next to the ox-man was Lady Agnes.

“I’ve come to visit you, my handsome captain!” she smiled.

Tristan was certain that she would next fly into a rage due to what had come about the previous day, but after exchanging pleasantries, it became obvious to him that Truffault had told her nothing. It also quickly became obvious why she had come. She had apparently been so taken by Tristan that she wished to cultivate, among other things, a relationship with him. Reaching up to help her descend from the wagon, she deliberately fell onto him, making sure that she cradled his head within her ample cleavage while pawing at him under the pretense of helplessness. “Oh, careful, Lady Agnes!” Tristan cried with embarrassment.

From the stable Guillaume and Orla were watching this drama play itself out with amusement.

“Ah, I thought she took a liking to me yesterday,” snickered Guillaume, “but it appears that Tristan was the target of cupid’s arrow, eh?”

Finally finding her feet, Lady Agnes unclasped her hands from around Tristan’s neck, then took Tristan’s hand. “Perhaps you could walk me into town, Captain,” she sniffed. “I never cared much for monasteries… too much chastity.”

“Actually, I must leave shortly with my brother, my Lady, I have…”

“No argument,” she interrupted, tightening her grip and leading him out the gate. “Just a short promenade, my dear, so we can get to know each other a bit better.”

“Ho, look there,” Guillaume said, poking an elbow into Orla’s ribs, “the huntress stalks the game! And poor Tristan struggles to be free of the snare, but to little avail.”

Reluctantly Tristan walked beside her, and though he tried to release her grip, her response was to cling onto him more tightly, frequently brushing against him or turning into him, making certain that he felt her full breasts against his arm. By the time they arrived at the square she had already whispered several innuendo’s into his ear, and anyone watching the two of them stroll by would have mistaken them for lovers despite Tristan’s efforts to maintain a viable distance between their bodies. And at one point she actually reached up and kissed him on the neck, thinking surely he would not resist such an open invitation. Shocked by this advance, Tristan raised both arms to push her away, but she interpreted this movement of his arms as an embrace and pulled him closer, kissing him on the mouth.

Tristan froze, unprepared for such a blatant maneuver in the midst of the market with people all about. His eyes darted about to see whether others were watching. And that is when, over her shoulder, he spotted Fernando and two of the other Romani musicians standing at the corner watching them. Horrified, Tristan grabbed her by the wrists and shook them.

“Stop, I say!” he hissed between his teeth.

As he did this, one of the musicians leaned over and whispered to Fernando, “Ha, he seemed fine with her until he saw us, now he wants her to stop, eh?”

“Indeed,” smirked Fernando, “he doesn’t want us to see this little mistress he has here in Marseilles while he courts Mala before our very eyes.”

Knowing that they were talking about him, Tristan turned and left Lady Agnes where she stood. Indignant, she followed him back to the monastery, casting dispersions at him all along the way. Fuming, Tristan ignored every word. Upon entering the monastery gate he went to his room, locked the door, and watched through the window until finally she took a seat beside the ox-man and they left.

His first inclination was to go immediately back to the square and attempt to explain to Fernando what had actually happened, but Guillaume and the Danes knocked on his door.

“Where have you been so long with the Lady Agnes?” said Guillaume, grinning. “Come along or we’ll be late for this morning’s parley west of town.”

 

***

 

Over the course of the next week Tristan became so mired in his negotiations with the nobles that it became impossible for him to return to either the Marseilles harbor or the Romani camp. The members of Mala’s troupe had no idea what had brought Tristan to Marseilles, nor were they particularly interested, especially Fernando. He despised Tristan, not only because of Mala, but because Tristan’s presence always made him feel coarse and lowly. Consequently he was sure to mention to Mala, in the presence of the other two musicians who had been with him, that he had seen Tristan in the arms of another woman at the square. Unbelievably, Mala seemed to make light of it.

“Ah, tis probably some admiring woman fawning over him just like men do when I dance!” she said. In the silence of her heart, Fernando’s story cultivated concern.

Fernando found her reaction about Tristan and this other woman odd and was disappointed by it. He’d hoped that it might turn her against Tristan. Though Fernando had never managed to develop anything but a working relationship with Mala, he had always had it in mind one day to win her heart through loyalty, proximity, and devotion. Now, out-of-the-blue, he had to contend with this handsome interloper against whom he bitterly realized he had not a prayer. Still, it is a foible of man to farm hope even within the most barren of terrain, so Fernando began to double his efforts at ingratiating himself to Mala. He remained patient and subtle in his approach, not wishing to yet expose any trace of his burning desire for Mala’s romantic affection.

Duxia de Falaise also despised Tristan and thought that she was the root of his sudden absence from Mala’s camp. Perhaps he listened to what I said the other night, she hoped. But as her concern about Tristan began to fade, she then took notice of Fernando. And though she said nothing, she quickly put a finger to his ruse and guessed his intentions. Poor fool, she thought, such a thistle to think he will ever stand next to a rose, even if the monk has departed!

As Tristan had forewarned Mala that he would be occupied for two or three days, she anticipated his absence for a short while. When he did not appear either at the harbor or in camp after five full days, she became concerned.

“Oh,” she fretted to Duxia as they sat together at the harbor while the other Romani had gone to the Square, “something bad must have happened to Tristan… or else he would have come to me by now!”

“No, Dear,” Duxia said, seeing an opening. “I know tis a harsh thing to say, but Mala, do you not see that he comes and goes on his own whim? Did Fernando not tell you that he was consorting about in the market with another woman?”

“Yes, but...”

“He’s as twisted as a greenbrier vine, that one. To begin, he’s a monk, is he not? I know you adore him, Mala, but he has no business leading you on so. Even though you have special sentiments for him, don’t you see he strums you like a harp? Only when he wants your flesh does he appear. And handsome as he is, when he wants the flesh of another, he appears somewhere else.”

“No, Duxia,” objected Mala, “it’s not like that. And he’s not like that.”

“Now, now, Dear,” chided Duxia, her voice taking on the soothing timbre of a lullaby. “Would Duxia ever try to hurt the girl who saved her very life? No, of course not.” Then she laughed a bit and said, “Though you are kind to me, you think me old and a little foolish. But I have travelled the road of broken hearts, lies, and...”

“Duxia,” Mala interrupted, “you don’t understand. Tristan loves me in a special way. He would never hurt me or lie to me.”

As she said this, Duxia detected through Mala’s expression a tiny crack in her certainty, so she continued. “Dear, but I do understand. Come now, do you think I’ve always been stooped and wrinkled as I appear today? No, I was once young and attractive, heavy of bosom with a lively and ample hind end. When I passed, all men stared.” Cackling with reminiscence, she added, “They dreamed only of parting my thighs! Exactly as they do now when they look at you.”

This made Mala smile a bit. She had become aware of her stunning appearance as a young girl and, attaining puberty, quickly learned the difference between the gaze of appreciation and the hungry stare of lust. “Did you never find love, Duxia?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” Duxia nodded, unable to disguise the sudden arrival of bitterness. “I found a love so deep and passionate that it nearly drove me mad.”

“But that is not a fond look upon your face, Duxia.”

“Ah, only because it was that love that broke me, taught me how men really are. At fourteen I fell in love with a great hulk of man, a Norman warrior of renown who was so proud of his Danish roots that he refused to lay them aside though he was a member of the Norman court. He found me in the forests of Finland during a hunting expedition, and though he held me captive and raped me through the night, there was an allure and a charm about him that deceived a foolish girl as I was. He then dragged me aboard his ship and brought me back to Normandy to become part of his household; he said I was too beautiful and breasty to leave behind. Then, too, with those great grey eyes of his ashimmer, he claimed that he loved me and wished me to be a part of his life, so I did not protest.”

“Did you marry then, after reaching Normandy?”

“Ha! He already had a wife. He assigned me cooking and maid duties, but slipped into my bed many a night so he could rut about and satisfy his manly hungers, all the time still claiming he loved me more than his wife. Year after year this went on, and my love for him only grew, as did the hope that one day something terrible would happen to his wife… so then he could finally acknowledge me.”

“So, I suppose nothing happened to his wife then.”

“Oh yes, something did happen to the wife,” Duxia said, her lips tightening. “And therein lies the lesson. The wife died giving birth to their baby daughter. I thought he would, after the completion of his false grieving, claim me as his wife. Instead, he put me in charge of the baby, and began sniffing about the women of the Norman court while still slipping between my legs whenever he pleased.”

“But I thought he loved you, Duxia,” said Mala.

“I thought he did, too, Dear. Therein stands the bitter lesson I learned about love, a lie; a simple lie that carried my hopes forward year after year after year. He never intended to have me as anything but his whore! Oh such a slap in my face, such angst and heartbreak I did endure. I pressed him to explain why he didn’t keep his word, and after much evasion he finally responded that I lacked noble blood, and though I was beautiful, he could never bring me to court; that his peers and his overlord, William the Bastard, would never approve. The truth was, I was good enough for his private lust, but not good enough for his public world.”

Mala shook her head with empathy, reminded of her own lowly status as a Romani entertainer. “So what did you do, Duxia?”

“Like a fool I stayed at his side, satisfying his whimsical rutting, and one day woke up only to find that I had become an older woman who’d lost her allure. Yet I faithfully kept his household and raised his daughter.” Then Duxia looked at Mala and grasped her hands, caressing her fingers. “The man I so dearly loved and sacrificed my life for, his name was Guntar the Mace, famous war lord and counselor to William the Bastard of Normandy.”

“Though I know well of the Bastard, I am not familiar with Guntar the Mace,” said Mala.

“Ah, you’re mistaken, Dear,” replied Duxia, fixing her eyes onto those of Mala. “He was the grandfather of Tristan de Saint-Germain.”

“What?” cried Mala, stunned.

“Yes. Though more delicate of stature, Tristan possesses Guntar’s same startling grey eyes as well as his frightful intelligence. They are of the same blood.”

“I have never once heard Tristan speak of his grandfather, not even as a child.”

“Because Tristan never knew his grandfather, Dear. Guntar was executed by his best friend, William the Bastard, before Tristan was ever born. In a strange twist, the baby daughter I raised was Tristan’s mother, Asta, a beautiful young girl of noble blood and high status. William the Bastard decided she would make a convenient bride for the Saint-Germain clan of France, thereby solidifying a treaty to strengthen his own position. So then he commanded that young Asta marry Lord Roger de Saint-Germain, a man thirty years her senior. Her father, Guntar, objected mightily, even threatening war, because his daughter was only twelve-years-of-age and not even bleeding yet. The Bastard immediately accused Guntar of treason, put his head to the ax, then promptly saw to it that the marriage be officiated, which is how the Danes and I ended up moving with Asta to Saint-Germain-en-Laye where Tristan was born.”

Mala slowly shook her head, her heart cracked ajar after hearing Duxia’s tale. “So then, that is how you came to enter Tristan’s life.” Still reeling, she gave Duxia a hard look, gazing directly into her eyes, and said, “Duxia, I know well that you and Tristan despise each other. And as shocking as I found it to believe, Tristan told me the other night that you tried to drown him as a little boy. So I must ask you, is that true?”

Without hesitation Duxia nodded yes. “I’m not proud of myself for that, nor did I even wish to do it! Mala, there are things that only we women sense. In the curse of the blood God has forced us to expel each month, God included a gift of perception that is much stronger than what he gave men; to balance the scales I suppose. And in the blood Asta expelled on the very day Tristan de Saint-Germain came into this life, I found strange black substances; pulsating lines of flesh that foretold of future tragedy for all who fell under the newborn babe’s shadow. And that is the only reason I tried to rid the earth of him, to save others of this world!”

Mala shot Duxia a look of disapproval and shook her head. “How could you believe such things? Though I have my own suspicions about the Church, these things you are speaking of ring with the sound of paganism and superstition, Duxia, which I reject even more strongly.”

“Ah, no, listen to me, Dear, the birthing of Tristan de Saint-Germain was so horrific, so terrible and ill-fated that the infant should have perished before seeing the light of day!

“The nuns present during the birth claimed that God had saved the child. I knew better. Oh, God may have in his anger at humanity allowed the infant to survive, but in the mother’s blood at the very instant she expelled him, God relayed to me a warning that day. Yes, as young Mielikki I was a pagan once, but I later had the water poured over my head and was blessed into the Church long before Tristan de Saint-Germain was born. Twas God that painted Asta’s blood black that day. I denied it at first, and struggled against his message for three years. Finally, the truth came to me one night in a dream. In that dream I walked through battlefields strewn with mountains of dead, then cities strewn with the dead, women and children gutted and slaughtered by the thousands, and as I walked, I kept seeing in my mind those grey, startling eyes that I saw while pulling the child from Asta de Saint-Germain’s womb. It was him, the child as a man, who had piled the dead so high in my dream.”

Here she closed her eyes and paused a moment, slowly passing her tongue over the crevices of her weathered lips. Then she opened her eyes again, staring at nothing. “That very next day,” she whispered, “I tried to drown him, but was caught in the act.”

“I am horrified by this story, Duxia,” Mala said, “and find it absolutely frightening that you would ever do such a thing!”

“Yes, yes. I’ve told you the truth, at least. Tis I who would never lie to you, Mala, not Tristan de Saint-Germain. Remember, tis the lie that sets the snare. Tis the lie that should set the warning bell ringing. Then Duxia stared down into her lap as a look of humility set itself upon her face. “Ay, I well understand your horror at what I did, but I’ve explained the cause of it. Still, if you find the story too terrible for me to stay in your company, then I shall immediately take my leave. I would never wish to offend one as generous as you. And know this, Mala, I love you though you have only recently appeared in the trail of my long, difficult years, and I would sacrifice my life for you because of the kindness you have shown me since finding me by the roadside that day. I fear that what Guntar did to me, his grandson will do to you. You have no place in his Benedictine world, and would be an embarrassment should he ever rise to Bishop or Cardinal, which he will surely do one day.”

“Oh,” sighed Mala, placing her hand on Duxia’s shoulder to caress it, “your story nearly breaks my heart, Duxia, and I do better understand certain things than before. Oh, but the things you feel about Tristan, they disturb me deeply. And though you seem to believe them with all your heart, I myself don’t accept them. Nor do I ever wish to hear such things again, Duxia. Therefore, as long as you never speak such things to me again, I will never ask you to leave my camp. Do you understand?”

Though she bridled the slightest bit beneath her black wrap, the old woman nodded in agreement. Then, curiously, she slowly tilted her head upwards and gazed at the clouds. Pointing, she said, “Do you see that slight grey swirl there to the east, Mala? Though the sky is clear at the moment, I believe you might wish to have Fernando return early to batten down the camp and secure the wagons.”

“Oh?” said Mala, looking skyward.

“Yes, Dear, a storm is approaching in the distance.”