Chapter Sixty-one

 

 

Montelucio

 

 

Although Tristan was not expecting Cardinal Odo’s arrival in early November at Montelucio, the Cardinal had notified Guillaume of this visit well in advance. “You have a visitor, Tristan,” said Guillaume when notified by the guards that Cardinal Odo’s entourage of carriages was making the rise to the fortress.

“Oh?” Tristan muttered. “Tell them to go away.”

It was late afternoon and Tristan had had nothing to drink. He had not risen that particular day until after noon, and had been drinking heavily the night before. He was feeling shaky, haggard looking, and not in the mood for company.

“Tell him yourself, Brother,” said Guillaume.

“Him?”

“Yes, an old acquaintance of yours, Cardinal Odo de Lagery.”

“What!” Tristan shuddered. “What is he doing here?”

“He’s come to see you according to the letter he sent last month.”

“And you said nothing to me of it?” Tristan objected.

“No, because you would have most likely fled. In any case, he’s here now and you shall address him, Tristan.”

“N-no, I do not wish to see him.” Then Tristan looked himself up and down and passed a hand over his unshaven face of several days. “Especially not like this,” he said.

“Oh, yes, Brother, you shall see him. And I warn you, if you make a move for the door, I’ll throttle you a good one and tie you back onto your stool. Oh, it’ll be good for the Cardinal to see the fine state you’ve descended into this past year.”

Tristan glanced at the door then back at his brother, and decided it was futile to challenge Guillaume who was a head taller and far stouter than himself. Then the door opened and the tall figure of Odo de Lagery filled the entrance, his scarlet Cardinal’s robe ablaze. Tristan quickly buried his face in his palms.

“Good morning, Cardinal Odo,” said Guillaume, offering a bow. Then he left the room.

Odo stood there and stared at Tristan a while, barely able to believe his unkempt appearance. “Well,” he said finally, “I see you have been enjoying the hospitality of your brother’s wine cellar, Tristan.”

Tristan did not wish to look up. Eventually, he peered through his fingers at Odo. Then with resignation, he removed his hands from his face and sighed heavily. “I am s-sorry to have you see me like this, Cardinal,” he stammered. “If I had known you were coming, I would have cleaned up.”

“Or left the premises, more likely, eh?”

“Yes, very likely.”

“Well, I am glad I caught you, then. I have missed you. Please know that I did not come to criticize or accuse. I came to see how you were doing. I heard that you still grieve for the young Romani woman and the loss of the child, your son. Know that I have prayed daily for that infant, as I have for you.”

“Thank you, Cardinal Odo,” Tristan said, feeling awkward. “I fear your prayers have done little good, for me at least.”

“Oh? Prayers do not always bring about instant results you know. Perhaps they have done more good than you imagine. I have prayed for myself also, because of some of the things you said to me back in Monte Cassino before coming north to seek Mala.”

Tristan stiffened at this. “I should never have said such things to you, Cardinal,” he said. “I have chastised myself a thousand times over for those harsh words. I was angry and confused.” Then he shook his head. “I am still angry and confused… about Mala, about myself, about what happened in Marseilles, about why Mala…” Here he stopped and threw his hands to the air. “None of that matters now. I am filled with sorrow and cannot seem to free myself of it.”

“Have you prayed, Tristan?”

“No, Cardinal, to be perfectly honest I have not.”

“Your anger has kept prayer at a distance, son, and I understand that, believe it or not. Tell me, have you given up on God then, or is your anger directed at the Church and its rules?”

“I have never given up on God. I love God, and worship God. He is the center of all things. Yes, I suppose that I possess a certain anger at the Church. I fail to understand some of our actions.”

“Our actions?” said Odo with interest. “You said our actions, Tristan. Does that indicate that you still feel yourself a part of us?”

“I was just talking. No, I renounced my vows in your presence, you know that.”

“I heard what you said down in Monte Cassino, Tristan, but even now am not sure you meant what you said, because rage can be like a sweeping tide, washing aside all in its path in one clean sweep. Even the great saints have been guilty of rage, or grief, or fear. Saint Peter himself thrice denied Christ in the garden, but found salvation in contrition and penance. You have renounced your vows, Tristan, but only to me, and I have made no motion as yet to release you. Thus the purpose of my visit. I thought perhaps that you might wish to reconsider.”

Tristan looked up at Odo. “I am not worthy to wear the black robe, Cardinal. I have sinned, and in my selfishness, hurt others.”

“You are worthy, son,” said Odo, moving closer and standing over Tristan as he sat on his stool. Then he reached his hand out and spread his fingers over the top of Tristan’s head. “We need you, Tristan. The Church needs you, and I need you. We have lost Rome once again, Desiderius has died and we have no Pope, the Normans are back to fighting amongst each other, the Saracens continue to take advantage in North Africa. Yes, we engage in intrigue, the immorality of politics, and at times even corruption. I have told you time and again, without our efforts darkness falls upon the land. It is the kings and nobles who have twisted us and forced us to sully our hands with devious tactics. There is no other way to block them than by using their own filthy tactics against them. To do otherwise means we are lost, which then means civilization sinks back into the morass where nobles plunder the land at will, ravage the populace, pick the clergy, and turn this garden that God has given us into a landscape of horror. Stand up then, and join our effort once more, lad. Above all, forgive yourself. Yes, forgive yourself Tristan, because you have sunk into a state of self-punishment.”

This last statement went to the very core of Tristan’s heart; it was so precise. And the precision of these words forced tears to slowly begin streaming down Tristan’s unshaven cheeks as he realized that his confusion was as much about himself as it was about the Church. His descent into drunkenness and filth was indeed self-punishment because he had not been able to reconcile himself with either Mala’s suffering or the death of their child. He began to weep then, and fell to his knees holding onto Cardinal Odo’s robe. “But God, will He ever forgive me over the child?” he sobbed.

“God forgives all, Tristan. Through contrition, God forgives all.”