Chapter Thirty-four

 

 

Seeds of Doubt

 

 

When the other Romani returned from the Square they milled about in conversation a while until Fernando signaled for them to gather their instruments. “Two large vessels coming in,” he said pointing to the waterfront, “we’ll welcome them with music. The sun’s setting and they’ll be in a festive mood after being ship-bound for so long. Looks like it’s going to be a long night, but we’ll go home with the jingle of coin in our...”

“No, wait,” interrupted Mala, pulling Fernando aside. “Duxia says a storm is coming, so I want you to take everyone back to camp. No need in us getting caught here in a downpour and getting the instruments soaked.”

“What?” said Fernando, looking skyward. “There’s not a cloud in the sky, Mala, and there’s money to be made with those ships coming our way.”

“Fernando,” said Mala, in that unique tone she possessed that signaled with certainty there was no argument to be had with her. “Have you forgotten the gale we encoun-tered two days after finding Duxia on the roadside. She warned us of an impending storm but we ignored her. Hours later we nearly lost the wagons to wind and mudslides.”

“Yes, Mala,” sighed Fernando, recognizing that her tone was a warning that she would next bare her fangs, which would then result in him suffering her wrath over the next two or three days. She would then, because of her soft heart, later apologize with sincerity and treat him with deference for a week. He was not of the mind to launch his own misery, so he said nothing more and motioned for the others to gather their things.

“I must remain in town awhile, Fernando,” she then said, “so I’ll meet the rest of you in camp later this evening.”

Fernando immediately suspected that this had something to do with Tristan, who, because of his long absence, he had nearly forgotten about entirely. “I’ll stay in town with you,” he quickly said. “I wouldn’t want you riding about at night alone and…”

“No. I need you to take charge of things at camp. I’ll be fine.

“Mala, don’t you think…”

“Fernando,” she said, not raising her voice a single measure yet emphasizing each syllable with the directness of her eyes.

“Very well,” said Fernando, slumping with defeat. “Be careful, Mala. At night the streets are full of sailors and hooligans.”

Mala appreciated Fernando’s concern, but was impatient for his departure as well as that of the others. She remained there by the gate watching them disappear into the crowd strolling along the waterfront, then went to her pony and mounted. Duxia is mistaken, Tristan would never hurt me, she started to say aloud to herself, but instead came out with, “I... I’ll go to the monastery. Yes, to find out whether something ill has happened to him.”

It was nearly dark by the time Mala reached the Benedictine monastery. Somewhat intimidated by its sanctified, fortress-like appearance at first, she slowly rode its entire length back and forth several times, thinking that fortune might, perhaps, produce her dear Tristan entering or leaving its front gate. Then, too, there was a part of her that knew she was interloping where she had never been invited. This made her wonder, if he did by chance appear, whether he would be angry. After nearly half an hour, by which time total darkness had descended upon Marseilles, fortune did not produce Tristan. Hesitating no further, she then dismounted and approached the side door adjacent to the main gate where hung a yard bell. Hope I’m not interrupting their prayers, she thought, as she pulled timidly one time at the bell chain.

Nothing happened, so she rang the bell two times more, much louder than the first time. She sighed then, finally hearing footsteps and glimpsing the approach of a circle of light thrown out by a lantern. A face peered from out of the darkness through the iron grate of the entrance and she heard a meek voice say, “Who goes there at this hour?”

“Pardon, sir, my name is Mala and I am seeking information about an acquaintance who is staying here at the monastery this week.”

“Oh?” queried the voice.

“Yes, I seek a friend who is in Marseilles on business of some sort.” Then she paused a moment, to clear her own confusion. “A military officer, or perhaps a monk by the name of Tristan de Saint-Germain.”

“Well, child, are you seeking a monk or a man-at-arms? One cannot be both, you know.”

“I...I’m not sure.” She thought a moment, then pulled together more details. “He has blond hair and may go by the name of Brother Saint-Germain, or perhaps has even adopted the name of a saint. He was educated at Cluny under the patronage of the Grand Prior Odo de Lagery who later was appointed Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia near Rome. I know this makes no sense, but he’s wearing the uniform of a military man though he’s a monk.” Finishing these words, she expected a response, although none came though the man on the other side of the massive wooden door was still in view. She waited a moment longer, and still no response was given.

“Did you hear me, sir?”

“Yes, yes, I heard you, Mademoiselle,” old Abbot LeTour mumbled, by now in a panic. He had been clearly instructed through Cardinal Odo’s earlier correspondence that everything involving Tristan and the men from Italy was to be shrouded in secrecy, even from the other monks in residence. And in that correspondence, Cardinal Odo had even cited the possibility of enemy spies slipping about seeking information.

“No, my child, we have no visitors here at the moment,” he blurted, sounding more confused than certain.

“Sir, that’s impossible,” pressed Mala, herself even more confused. “Are you certain you have no guests staying here?”

“Yes, certain indeed. My name is Brother LeTour and I am the abbot of this monastery. So I would most definitely know whether there are any guests within our walls!” As he said this, he was feverishly fingering his prayer beads because lying, for him, was a grievous sin. And though he was following the orders of a superior, it was God who was frightening him now. “N-no, there are n-no guests here, God’s word,” he stammered. “Not a s-single one.”

Finishing these words, a jagged, bluish finger of lightening broke through the billowing cloud cover that had been building since nightfall, followed by an eruption of thunder so shattering that it shook the walls of the monastery.”

“Oh my God!” wailed old Abbot LeTour, certain that the Creator had flung his wrath upon his servant for lying. Terrified, as then the night sky opened and hurled a scything, torrential rain down on Marseilles, he fled back into the monastery, hastened directly to the chapel, and flung himself onto his knees sobbing for mercy and forgiveness.

Mala stood there a while in the downpour unable to fathom how it could possibly be that Tristan had never really come to the monastery as stated. And her faith in him was so unshakeable that she refused to move despite the deluge that was beginning to soak her to the bone. Eventually, it began to dawn on her that Tristan had, indeed, lied to her.

But why? To what purpose?

Tristan, meanwhile, was in the east wing of the monastery performing computation and documentation of the day’s contributions from the Marseilles nobles with Guillaume. He had even heard the ringing of the yard bell that Mala had pulled, and at that very moment said to Guillaume, “Hmm, who would be ringing after dark?” Of course, he could not have possibly guessed that it was Mala, desperately attempting to learn his whereabouts and condition. Nor could he have possibly imagined that old Abbot LeTour, in a lying effort to protect him, had cast him to the jagged outcrop of misdirection.

In truth, Tristan was fully intending, when finished with his work, to immediately leave the monastery and head directly for the Romani camp, knowing that Mala would be disturbed about his extended absence. Unfortunately this absence had been unavoidable due to the unanticipated distances of the last parleys. Posting his final tally, he heard a mighty roll of thunder shake the monastery and heard the sky fall in as fat raindrops began to pelt the roof of the stables and the east wing. He quickly stood and went to the door, and peering out into the blinding downpour, determined that he would wait until morning to see Mala.

“We’ll not be working tomorrow,” he said, turning his head to Guillaume, “besides, it’s the Lord’s Day. We will finish our final parley Monday.”

“Excellent,” replied Guillaume, “the Danes and I have yet to see any of Marseilles itself.”

Tristan then peered back out the doorway, thinking he heard the clatter of hooves on the pavers outside. “Wonder who got caught in this mess?” he said, half to Guillaume, half to himself. “Poor unhappy soul!”

The clatter of hooves Tristan heard was Mala turning back through the blinding rain toward the center of town. Her head bowed to keep the rain from her eyes, but also in discouragement and disbelief over what had taken place, Mala began to shiver and tremble uncontrollably astride her horse as she fought her way forward through the storm. She loved Tristan with all her soul, and had loved him since the day she laid eyes on him. And during those four days and nights in Marseilles when he had first followed her back to her camp, he had finally returned her unadulterated adoration without reservation. They had wholly surrendered themselves to each other, had shared secrets, and had made promises. And she had thought the glue of those days and nights to be so strong and so inviolable that they would stand forever. Even if Tristan were truly still a monk, Mala had agreed to follow him and love him, live an existence of sin and secrecy, anything so they could be together. Her only condition was that he never deceive her. Even if he could not expose every detail of his life, he had vowed time and time again to never lie to her.

This is not possible, she repeated to herself time and time again. Tristan, what game are you at, deceiving me so? And that woman Fernando and the others saw you with in the square… who is she? You make time for her now and have so quickly forgotten me!

It was not until she gained the west road leading out of Marseilles toward her camp that Duxia came to mind. She said a storm was coming though the sky was clear today. Then, swiping at rivulets of cold rain trickling down her face with every step forward of the horse, Mala thought about the conversation they had earlier shared by the harbor. And as she relived the old woman’s tale from beginning to end, she began to see herself in the same tragic role of Duxia, and Tristan in the role of Guntar the Mace.

More than anything, as Mala struggled her way back to camp, one certain phrase that Duxia had uttered kept coming to mind, over and over, “Mala, tis the lie that sets the snare. Tis the lie that should set the warning bell ringing.”