Chapter Fifty-nine

 

 

Tristan’s Descent

 

 

Tristan dissolved into inconsolable grief when they returned to Montelucio. Guillaume and the Danes attempted to reason with him, provide cheer, and offer counsel, but when one is drowning, the voices of others go unheard and unheeded. And in this state of melancholy and dejection, Tristan’s thought process began to distort itself, which in turn caused a twisting of Tristan’s view of himself and life itself. The primary effect of this was that he began to believe himself a failure in all things, which meant that he also believed that God was punishing him.

“Oh, I deserve God’s wrath!” he confessed to Guillaume one night. “I slunk about breaking his laws, I destroyed a beautiful young woman I loved, and an innocent child was sacrificed… as if by my own two hands!”

“No,” insisted Guillaume, “if anything, God has spared you, Brother, for greater things. What would you have accomplished in life restrained by that woman and a child? No, you were gifted by God at birth, and he intends for you to serve a greater purpose than disappearing into the ranks of the mediocre.”

“Oh, such fierce faith you have in me, Guillaume, and fierce expectations. Yes, my entire life I have felt on the verge of great things. At last I have come to my senses. I realize I have felt this way only because others have thrust it upon me, forcing it down my throat since birth! First our Mother, then Cardinal Odo and the Black Monks, then our Aunt Mathilda and a host of others. I am not, apparently, what all of you believe me to be, because the weight of your expectations has crushed and destroyed me. I have failed in all things!”

“No, Brother. You are wounded, yes. And discouraged, yes. And you have failed in this one thing with a woman you should not have engaged in the first place. Get yourself to a Church, Tristan, throw yourself on the altar of forgiveness and perform your penance. Then rise and serve God.”

“Oh, Guillaume, listen to yourself, you sound like Odo and Mathilda and the rest of them!” Tristan laughed with derision. “Such a strange creature you have become. Tis you who should have become the monk, not me. You are always so certain about the subject of God. For you there are no questions about serving God, even when slaughtering other men in His name!”

“You are correct in this, Brother,” replied Guillaume calmly. “There’s no confusion in my heart concerning right and wrong as taught by God.”

“Oh, what about as taught by men pretending to represent God? Do you not realize that nearly all Church rules and law have been created by this man or that man, this group or that group over the centuries? Do you not see that it is all about power and who makes the rules?”

“No, it’s about right and wrong, Tristan. And God gives us the ability to choose.”

Tristan threw his arms in the air and cried, “Oh, where is the wine at times such as this!” Arguing theology with Guillaume was like arguing with the walls of a cathedral, the firmness of his beliefs impenetrable. This irritated Tristan at times such as this, yet he also envied Guillaume’s certainty.

A week later Guillaume and the Danes mobilized with Mathilda and General Padule and moved east to meet Balducci’s troops and several other Tuscan commanders for the march south on Rome. Guillaume had hoped that Tristan might accompany him on this march. He declined for two reasons: First, he did not wish to enter Balducci’s realm for fear of possibly encountering Mala, an encounter that his heart could not bear. His second reason was that if the army succeeded in reclaiming Rome, Tristan knew that Cardinal Odo would be there, and this was yet another encounter his heart could not bear. Consequently, he remained behind in Montelucio with young Hroc.

Hroc had wanted to accompany his father on this march. Orla had staunchly refused. “No, Hroc, I shan’t so soon lose another son to the Germans,” Orla had said. “You stay behind and promise to keep an eye to Uncle Tristan for he is not in a good way.”

“Yes, Father,” Hroc said, setting his boyish battle dreams aside with disappointment. “One day I’m going to fight by your side, huh?”

“Yes. That day’s not yet arrived, son.”

Hroc was not exactly sure what his father meant at first about Uncle Tristan. Within days he began to understand. His uncle, who seldom drank, began to consume large amounts of wine and ale, often beginning early in the morning. He would then by noon begin launching into tirades about the Church and the clergy, both Gregorian and anti-Gregorian, and Hroc quickly noticed that within the first week of his father’s departure the servants and cooks began to scatter when his uncle approached. Hroc, now eight-years-of-age, did not exactly comprehend the source of his uncle’s change in behavior. Daily he followed him about out of respect for his father’s request. When Tristan would begin his diatribe against the Church, often in a stumbling stupor to an empty room, Hroc would sit there patiently and listen though he understood very little of what was being said. Then, when his uncle would pass out at the table or onto the floor, Hroc would send for the servants who carried him to his quarters.

After several weeks of this, Hroc determined one morning that he should speak up. He approached Tristan who was already half inebriated and said, “Uncle, this church that you talk about each day, is it the same church in which you are a monk?”

Tristan looked down at Hroc through bleary eyes and snorted. “Eh? Yes, of course. Although I am no longer a monk.”

“My father says that once a boy becomes a man, he is always a man. Once a warrior, always a warrior. Once a Dane, always a Dane. Does this not hold true then with monks?”

Tristan leaned his hand against the table to prop himself up and considered the question. “No,” he said, “apparently not, because I am no longer a monk.”

“Uncle Guillaume says you are still a monk, and I heard Countess Mathilda say that you have not yet been defrocked, whatever that means, so you are still a monk.”

“I assure you that defrocked or not, I am no longer a monk,” Tristan stammered. “Why does that concern you, lad?”

“I like you being a monk. A question then, are you still a spy?”

“Uh? No. I am nothing at the moment.”

“Well then, what shall you be later on, then? Father says you can’t be a warrior because you don’t know how to fight. So what will you be? A merchant, perhaps? After all, you can’t drink wine every day and talk to yourself as you’ve been doing, huh?”

Since intercepting Balducci’s caravan and being rejected by Mala, Tristan had listened to nothing that anyone had said in terms of counsel. They had been either scolding or preaching; he wanted none of either. As he listened to Hroc, the boy was throwing out questions, and these questions addressed an inevitable reality. What, indeed, would I do for a living?

Plopping himself awkwardly on a stool, Tristan gave the thought consideration. He could possibly serve as logistician to his Aunt Mathilda’s vast enterprises, or even for her army. The sheer thought of serving as an accountant for the rest of his life caused him to quickly dismiss that option. He then thought of commerce as Hroc had inquired; business seemed mercenary to him, self-serving. Academia offered several possibilities; being confined to libraries and digging through manuscripts and books also held little appeal. His thoughts then returned to Mala and the dream of future reconciliation. Reaching into his pocket, he fished for the small ring of Moorish silver that she had given him as a child and examined it. It was the only memento he had of her other than memories. No, he decided, pushing the ring back into his pocket, his relationship with Mala was dead; he had killed it somehow, along with their child, though he still did not comprehend how.

Hroc had taken a seat and was staring at him now, his elbows propped upon the table and his chin nestled in his palms. Tristan looked at the boy and envied his innocence. “Oh, I wonder what shall become of you at times, Hroc,” he sighed. “The world is full of traps, especially for one as young as you.”

“Yes, and even for one as smart as you, eh, Uncle Tristan?” Hroc replied with a sad expression. “Everyone says you are the most intelligent man on this earth, you know, and I think they’re right. Nobody is as clever as you or knows as much either.”

At this Tristan sighed with disgust, at himself. “Ay, it seems I do not know as much as others think, Hroc, or I would not have lost my soul. That is what has happened to me.”

“Oh?” said Hroc. “Then I’ll help you find it again, Uncle Tristan.”

“Ha! You will?” laughed Tristan. Orla had refused to allow his son to be baptized and the boy had little concept of the Christian soul. “Very well then, Hroc, start looking, and let me know when you find it.”