Chapter Fifty-seven

 

 

Gone

 

 

Tristan’s ride to Canossa was a brutal exercise in emotional disintegration where he alternately cursed his own failures and weaknesses, then cursed those of the Church. Mala was foremost on his mind during every moment of this hellish struggle, and he swore to himself that he would make up for every previous occasion when he had faltered in committing his life to her. As he pressed his horse forward he tried to picture the hardships she must have endured during her pregnancy and the ill-advised crossing of the Alps. Then, too, he tried to envision the actual birthing of the child, his and Mala’s child, in the brutal temperatures of the high mountains… and it was the image of this child slowly freezing to death that haunted him above all other images. These convulsions of the conscience exhausted him as he pushed further and further north toward Mala, and he determined that the worst days of the past seemed enviable in light of the debacle he had made of his and Mala’s life and the resultant uncertainty that lay ahead.

It took him a full seven days of hard riding to arrive at Canossa, and as he dashed through the gates he cried out “Mala!” in the hopes that she might be right there within the entry. He even imagined her seeing him as he galloped in, then dashing toward him in a rush of passion. She was nowhere to be seen and the only greeting he received was a curious look from the guards.

Then he saw Mathilda in the distance descending the cathedral steps, so he kicked his horse in the ribs and shouted to her, “Auntie, I seek Mala! Cardinal Odo told me everything in Monte Cassino!”

Mathilda, having no idea what had transpired between Odo and Tristan during their encounter, was still of the opinion that Tristan was innocent. “Oh, my poor nephew!” she cried, hugging him as he dismounted. “Such an undeserved travesty, these wicked accusations thrown against you. Praise Heaven, God has already settled the account for you!”

“What?” said Tristan, his eyes still wandering about the courtyard, thinking that Mala might appear at any moment.

“Yes, those two horrid women both left Canossa yesterday.”

Hearing this in the wake of his arduous, desperate ride to find Mala here, Tristan’s arms dropped to his side and he stared at Mathilda, deflated. “Why? Where did they go?”

“I have no idea,” said Mathilda with a smile, thinking that the news would be pleasing to her nephew. “They left in a coach belonging to Vincento Balducci. So glad was I to see them leave that I gave them each a small purse of coin and wished them well.”

“What were they doing in Balducci’s coach? How in God’s name did they ever meet Balducci of all people?”

“He was with Handel’s wagon train when they were rescued in the Alps, then he took an interest in helping them while here at Canossa.”

“Balducci, taking an interest in others?”

“Yes, I know, a bit out of character,” nodded Mathilda. “In any case, I imagine the two women realized that their little scheme to get rich by blackening your name had fallen apart, so they wished to be gone by the time Cardinal Odo caught up with them again. I don’t blame them. Balducci offered them his coach and an escort. Like I said, most likely they are on their way back to France.”

Tristan shook his head. “No, after their ordeal in the Alps they would never try to cross again until late spring or summer. They have gone somewhere else right here in Tuscany, and if not in Tuscany, somewhere near Tuscany.”

“Ah, what do we care? They came, they lost their little gambit, and left. Everything is back as it was though I must confess, they did create quite a little false stir for a while.”

Tristan looked at Mathilda and shook his head once again. After his cowardice of sneaking about this last year to be with Mala, and after the heart wrenching episode back in Monte Cassino that had created an irreparable division between him and Cardinal Odo, Tristan decided that he would no longer engage in further deceit.

“No, Auntie, it was no false stir that Mala tried to create. It was true… all of it. And though it shames me in a thousand ways, I shall not shrink from the truth. I love Mala. I think I have loved her since childhood, but never realized it. I had no idea whatsoever that she was carrying my child. That child is dead, very much because of me I suppose, and I must now make amends.”

Mathilda stood listening, struggling mightily to accept what she was being told. As a pious and militant Gregorian reformist, she found immorality to be offensive, in particular amongst men of the cloth. Human judgment, of course, can be merciless and unforgiving when assessing the sins of strangers. Unexpectedly discovering that the one sitting in judgment is family, an odd thing occurs… the rocky, jagged edges of self-righteous indignation are quickly replaced by the cushion of forgiveness. And this is what was occurring to Mathilda.

She moved closer to Tristan, taking his hands in hers, and said, “You have sinned, nephew. God created the confessional for the purpose of cleansing the soul and erasing sin. Beg God for forgiveness, give your penance, then stand and resume your life having learned from your mistakes. Yes, even many of our greatest saints found themselves awash in sin, but then found light. You have much to do yet for the Church, Tristan, as a monk.”

“No, Auntie. I am done with the Black Monks. I shall confess my sins and remain faithful to God, but I am a monk no longer. There in the tunnels of Monte Cassino before Cardinal Odo himself, I renounced my Benedictine vows.”

“Tristan,” Mathilda exclaimed, “you can’t do such a thing! One can’t walk away from the Brotherhood! You could well be excommunicated!”

“They may do as they wish, Aunt Mathilda. I am resolved to finding Mala and spending my life with her! Priests and monks throughout Europe are married and have children, and have been doing so since the days of Christ. My only misfortune was to be cast in as a child with a band of zealous Cluniac reformers who have declared that clerics should be celibate and remain unmarried. They made this law, not God.”

“Oh, Tristan, such sacrilege! Please, say no more to me!”

“I know you are unmovable on such issues, dear Aunt, so I will not argue the point. I must find Mala. Pray tell, where is Guillaume now stationed?”

“I have given him command of the fortress of Montelucio that guards the approach to Canossa. You’ll find the Danes there also.”

“Very well,” Tristan replied, mounting his horse. Then, looking back, he said, “Aunt Mathilda, know that I love and admire you to the end of my days. You are an extraordinary woman and shall remain in my heart forever. God bless. Please pray for me.”