Chapter Thirty-six

 

 

The Stranger

 

 

About the time Tristan was about to leave the harbor he spotted a man, unusually slight of build, his eyes covered by the broad brim of a hat, seated at the foot of a tree next to the gate. The motionless man’s back leaned against the trunk, Tristan thought the man to be sleeping at first, but when he approached, he noticed that the man was watching him.

“Morning, sir,” the man said with a nod. “Have you lost someone?”

“Well, yes,” Tristan replied, his eyes still searching about the docks. “There were some musicians here this past week. I thought perhaps to find them this morning.”

“Oh, yes, quite an interesting bunch. And that girl who dances to their tunes, captivating.” Then the man tipped his brim upward a bit, only slightly exposing his eyes. “Say there, I recognize you,” he said.

This caught Tristan’s attention immediately for he knew nobody from Marseilles other than Abbot LeTour. “Indeed?”

“Yes, you’re that fellow who stepped in the middle of the music last week. Ha, no wonder you’re looking for the musicians. I saw how that dancing girl embraced you, and you her! A long lost love, eh?”

“No, only a friend.”

“What struck me odd though, she did not recognize you at first,” he said, pointing to Tristan’s face, “until you pulled that bandage from your eye. I was expecting to see a wound the moment you did that, but to my surprise your eye looked fine! Yet, you wear it again this morning, eh?”

As the man said this, Tristan thought he detected an odd glimmer in the man’s expression, though his voice portrayed nothing less than the casual curiosity of an incidental passer-by who might have been in the crowd that day. “A tiny shard,” said Tristan, raising a finger to his bandage, “that one can barely see. I wear the dressing because my left eye is sensitive to light.”

“Can they not remove the shard, sir?”

“No.”

“Too bad,” the man said, smiling, but the smile lacked empathy. “Your uniform,” he then continued, “Burgundian, eh?”

“Yes, I come from the Cluny region.”

Then, sensing that the man was probing, Tristan turned and was about to walk away when the man added, “Ah, Cluny. Yes, I am from there also. You know, years ago there was a boy there at the monastery under the tutelage of Grand Prior Odo de Lagery. They called the lad the Cluny Wonder because he was intelligent beyond belief. Uh, you are familiar with Grand Prior Odo de Lagery, eh?”

“Yes, of course. Most in France are familiar with him, especially those of us from Burgundy. Odo de Lagery is now a Cardinal of Italy, but then I suppose you know that, sir?”

“Yes, yes. And proud we are of him! As I was saying, that boy I was talking about, such a handsome lad! So striking, in fact, as to be memorable. He had a younger brother in tow from time to time who was equally handsome, perhaps even more. I would see them together at Sunday mass in the Cluny Abby with the other boys in residence.”

“What has any of this to do with me?” said Tristan, a slip of impatience surfacing.

“Well, it’s that you bear a remarkable resemblance to them. Might you by chance be a relative? Or perhaps, might you even be one of those brothers?”

“Ha, most assuredly not!” Tristan laughed, taking close measure of the man’s appearance. “Had I received a Cluny education at the knees of the Black Monks I certainly would not be selling my services as a mercenary. I would be a nobleman’s son or a cleric.”

“Yes, of course,” the man nodded, “only those born of high fortune are blessed with a Cluny education.”

Tristan stooped a bit then, gazing straight into the man’s eyes. “Sir, might you remove your hat so I can better see your face?”

“What?” the man said, swiftly sitting erect.

“Yes. Since you are from Cluny, perhaps then I might recognize you from past years, eh?”

“No, I doubt that,” the man replied quickly. “I…”

Tristan reached out, and before the man could react, removed his hat. “Yes, much better,” Tristan said, taking notice of the stranger’s sudden discomfort. The man’s eyes were small and dark, like those of a marten, and his eyebrows were overly thick. The pale outline of a tiny scar ran from the hairline of his right temple down to the high point of his cheekbone, and a large mole marked its end. Finally, above the man’s tunic collar, his neck skin turned coarse and weltered with the disfigurement of severe burns. All of this Tristan noticed and filed in his memory within a matter of seconds. Then, returning the hat to the man’s crown, he said, “Always a pleasure speaking to a fellow Burgundian, but I must be on my way.”

“Same to you, sir,” the man muttered, sullenly pulling his hat back down over his eyes and leaning his back once again against the trunk of the elm.