Secrets of the Court: Chapter 19
February 15th - Wessport
The
storm of the night had swept past the region swiftly, discharging the cold
tension in the air. Powerful winds had mixed with the heavy downfall of
snowflakes, darting to the ground while thunder and lightning danced around
Wessport.
It
was still early morning. Many had gone to their beds after the winds had calmed
and lightning and thunder had ceased. But there were still those who roamed the
apartments and halls of the palace. There were those who could not sleep, for
their minds and souls alike were weighed heavy. Daybreak was but a few hours
away. A duel to the death was soon to take place in the white vastness that
stretched out beyond Wessport.
Little
was said in the parlor as Christine Vega paced around, sleep evading her at
every moment. Tristan was sitting in front of the fire, sharpening his dress sword,
knowing fully well that it would not be Alistair's weapon of choice. But the
monotonous action calmed him.
After
everything they had been through, they were surprised that no tension occupied
the vast space of the room. Only worry. Christine did not doubt Tristan's
abilities. Her eyes searched for him—a shadow against the flames that licked
the inner walls of the fireplace. She was certain he would do everything in his
power to beat Alistair.
The
events of the previous days made themselves known in his mind and now all came crashing down
quickly around him. Athar's revelation was still fresh, too much for him to
process all at once. Magnus had usurped his brother Philip. Philip had a third
daughter who, together with unknown men of the court, conspired to overthrow James
and claim Angloa.
Christine
looked at him with his back relaxed, for the first time in a long time. His
hands guided the stone up and down against the blade, the sound of metal and
stone clashing. She smiled, a warm feeling spreading within her as her eyes
rested on him.
Tristan
had said nothing after returning from interrogating Athar. But whatever had
been said between him and Athar, she could not read it in his countenance. He
masked it so well that if she didn't know better, she thought he was at ease.
"One
would think you are to attend a picnic, not a duel," she smiled sadly as
she sat down next to him. His lips tugged upward as he worked on the sword.
Anne was preparing Tristan's clothes. His old military garb had been brought
out of its confinement, the tailored clothes and mourning regalia were cast
aside. A few hours before dawn, Anne went to fetch Fawkes, Rajac, and Joseph.
The three of them would ride to the meadow, meeting Alistair and Braun. Tristan
did not doubt that there would be a substantial crowd. He knew Christine would
want to go. He had never given his permission, but some part of him knew the
stubborn young woman would not listen.
"A duel in winter, fighting in the deep snow.
There has to be a first time for everything," he said looking at
Christine. She unknowingly inched closer to him as the magical time before dawn
neared. It was the moment before the sun rose, when the black sky became soft
as the colors of early morning slowly melted into it—painting a picture no
painter would ever capture, however hard they tried. She placed her hand on
his, her action making him stop. He let go of the wet stone and put down the sword,
directing his gaze at her.
"After
this duel, let us go home," she said, her eyes glittering with
further unspoken words. There was longing in her voice as she said the last
word. Outside of the palace, the dark sky was slowly turning, the astronomical
dawn changing the gradient of the heavens. Black slowly morphed into lighter
hues of blue closer to the horizon. It was soon time to depart, yet the couple
wanted to stay as they were, in the other's company.
"Home."
Tristan savored the word. He thought of only one place: Cadherra. It was home
now. As he looked at Christine, he knew that it was there he wanted to go, with
her. He smiled, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges and the depths of the
endless sky in his eyes lit up as the light shone through them.
She
revelled silently in their closeness and took in his scent—pine, earth, and sandalwood.
Her lips curled into a soft smile as she rested her head on his shoulder,
staring into the fire. Yes, she could sit like this forever. Tristan's chin
came to rest on her head, he wrapped his arm around her, afraid at first. Maybe
she would shy away. But when she didn't move, he came to understand that Christine
wouldn't shy away from him anymore. His heart sped up as his arm wrapped around
her further and his hand came to rest in hers, their fingers lacing together.
"You
know," her soft voice said, melting into the present like a soft ray of
sunshine finding its way through a bolted window. "I always
wondered," she continued as her smile grew bigger. "Why it is we have
yet to be wed?"
It
hadn't seemed so bold a question in her mind, but the moment she asked it her
heart skipped a beat. The steady warm breath on her hair grew slightly faster—as
did his heartbeat. She could feel it, being so close to him. Come to think of
it, sitting like this had been natural to them, but only now did they realize
how close they were. Tristan relaxed after a while and she could hear the smile
in his voice.
"I
was waiting," he said in a light tone.
“Waiting?”
“For
you to come and ask me to call it off.” There it was again; that soft voice,
the syllables rolling off his tongue like sweet honey. Friendly and inviting,
and strangely familiar, as if she had always known him.
She
squeezed his hand and sighed. "I wanted to… at first…" she trailed
off, not really knowing what to say.
"You
should not have to wed me…only to be granted access once more to Adelton. Cadherra
was never mine to begin with. After the duel, I will speak with James," he
said slowly. There was a hint of restraint in his voice. Christine felt guilty.
"I wanted to give you an opportunity to break off the engagement—if you
ever felt the need."
Christine
didn't know when it had changed. But she knew one thing, she wanted to be with Tristan.
There were still many things she didn't know about him, but they had a lifetime
to learn about each other. He had given her room to decide, and she had made
her decision. She couldn't see herself with anyone else. She didn't care that
she'd never seen his face, she didn't care if he was disfigured or considered
himself unappealing.
"I
do not wish to call it off," Christine said. It was a soft whisper, dancing
through the air like the flames in the fireplace. The light on the horizon was
slowly trailing up the night sky, pushing away the stars to ready it for the
arrival of the sun. To her surprise, she noticed his heart speed up again as Tristan
tensed. His head shifted, leaving hers and looking down at her face. She
twisted hers so that she was staring up into his eyes, a myriad of questions
shining through them.
"You
wish to get married?" he asked in utter disbelief. He never thought in a
million years that Christine would push the conversation in such a direction.
Then, despite himself, a sly smile grew on his lips. "You're not saying
this because you believe Alistair will win, are you?" he teased. Christine
chuckled.
"We
have been engaged since November, my lord. I have had time to adjust." She
never admitted to caring for him, but they both knew. Words did not have to be
spoken to express such a thing. She was surprised when Tristan seemed
conflicted by her words.
"I always suspected that you would break off the engagement," he confessed. He dared caress her face, his thumb trailing softly along her cheek. "I...I cannot give you everything—"
Christine placed a reassuring hand on his
cheek as well.
"I
am certain that I will come to know one day what hides under your mask. But I
accept that you have to wear it, and I will accept whatever lies underneath it.
However foul or horrid you might think yourself without it, I do not care. I
know you, my lord," she assured him.
His
expression softened as his thumb trailed to her lips. Without knowing it, Tristan
started leaning in.
Suddenly,
a knock broke the spell in the room. Tristan got up before Anne entered,
swiftly followed by Fawkes, Rajac, Durun, and Joseph.
"It
is time, Hawthorne," came the tense voice of Fawkes as he leaned through
the entry, dressed in his military garb as well. Christine stood up next to Tristan,
her hands gathered in front of her as a frown grew on her face.
"Already?"
There were so many things left unsaid, so many things she wanted to talk with Tristan
about.
"Yes,
my lady," Rajac's voice said as he threw Tristan a piece of bread. "You
should eat something on the way." The melancholy faces stared at him. They
wanted to believe in him, but it seemed only Joseph continued to have faith in Tristan's
abilities. Tristan looked at the bread and then at Christine. He swiftly pulled
his cape around him and went to say his goodbyes with a small bow.
The five men left the parlor while the sky turned from midnight blue to
softer hues as the sun was no more than an hour away. The horizon was a lighter
blue and gradually changed into an orange tone.
Anne
asked if Christine would like some breakfast as the door closed after the men.
However, Christine disregarded her maid and went to her chamber and dressed in
warmer clothes—a beige gown lined in gray fur with a deep hood. She found her
gloves and a warm wool shawl to throw around her shoulders. When she entered
the parlor Anne stood there, dumbfounded.
"Where
is m'lady going at this hour?"
"To
the duel. Where else?" Christine said matter-of-factly.
"But
did not his lordship state that you were not allowed to go earlier?"
"We
both know I am going either way. You may stay here or come with me, the choice
is yours, Anne. I am not making you do anything you do not want to do."
Anne
stared at Christine and then at the floor, shaking her head. "I cannot
allow you to go, m'lady. I must ask you to stay here," Anne drawled as she
came to stand in front of the door. Her eyes grew thrice when Christine
promptly pushed her out of the way.
The
road before them stretched into the woods. Morrow's Glade lay just ahead. It
was a quaint clearing heavily visited by the local gentry during the summer
months but it lay abandoned when the snow coated the land.
Tristan
sat on Cid and swayed with the gait of his mount. Even now, moments before his
confrontation with Alistair, his mind could only drift to other events. Christine,
Athar, the king, Angloa, and conspiracy were all that occupied his mind. He
paid little attention to Alistair.
But
as they silently waded through the dunes of snow — the steady muted sound of
hooves hitting the ground echoing — Tristan clenched his jaw. What Athar had
revealed would change the whole political structure of Wessport. Athar had been
framed, someone knew of his importance as an advisor and mentor to the king. James
needed to know of Athar's innocence and prepare for a hostile takeover, a
takeover that Tristan was certain would happen soon.
After his conversation with the old duke, Tristan had tried in vain to gain an audience with the king. When Tristan returned from the dungeons, asking to see the monarch, he had been denied access by the guards. James had retired for the night and wanted no visitors. Tristan grew frustrated and had at one point tried to force his way through only to be threatened with a dungeon cell himself.
"It
seems we shall have a clear day," muttered Fawkes tiredly. No cloud graced
the heavens. The old general was indeed weary. His closest friend was locked
away with charges of high treason, and he was to be Tristan's second. Fawkes
was torn, he wanted to rush to Athar's side and help persuade James, but he
knew deep in his heart that his words had little importance against the
overwhelming evidence. Yet, Fawkes chose to believe in Athar and his innocence.
"How
is he?" It was so muted that the words almost wnet by unnoticed at first. But Tristan
heard them, his head snapping in the direction of the general. Fawkes and the
other men that rode with him were the only ones, except Christine, who knew he
had visited Athar.
"Better
than expected, considering…" Tristan trailed off. He didn't know what else
to say.
After
that small exchange, they settled into a tense silence, keeping quiet as their
horses took them further into the woods. The sky was now golden. High up over
the horizon, some stars still shone down on them, twinkling faintly as gold and
orange hues blended with each other.
They
finally made it to their destination. The trees surrounding the glade were
covered in thick frost and no sign of animal life could be seen or
heard. Soon, however, the stillness of the morning was broken by the sound of
horses and sleighs.
Half
of the palace's courtiers had journeyed from the upper circle to the outskirts
of the city, just for a glimpse of the duel between Tristan Hawthorne and
Matthew Alistair. Ladies and gentlemen of the court were dressed in finery as
they descended their sleighs or got off their horses. The usual chatty
aristocrats seemed more nervous than the participants of the duel.
Lord
Alistair arrived with his ensemble as well, setting up their spot on the other
side of the glade. It was almost like an arena where two gladiators were about
to fight to the death. Instead of dry sand and a screaming crowd, they had
knee-high snow and silent onlookers, there out of curiosity, not for the
bloodshed.
Tristan
stared at the circle where he and Alistair would fight and he felt the electric
tension in the air as the anticipation of the fight neared. He could only
smile, eager to take Alistair head-on, like a matador facing a ruthless bull in
the ring.
They
had a pageboy take care of their horses as they got together to talk about the
duel. It was time to plan a strategy and how to best go about it.
Soon,
in the middle of the glade, two figures stepped up and spoke. It was General
Fawkes and Lord Savoie, setting the terms and conditions for the fight. Tristan
was surprised that Braun wasn't there. He was Lord Alistair's second, after
all.
"My
lord, where is Lord Braun?" asked Fawkes curtly as he stepped up to meet
the Frenchman.
"Unable
to attend due to illness, I am afraid," responded Savoie in an equal tone.
Fawkes accepted it with a nod. Savoie pushed the pleasantries aside. "Lord
Alistair chooses combat by longsword."
"So
be it. The duel will be until the first blood is drawn," Fawkes said, his
eyes narrowing. Both men were not too keen on finding themselves on
the opposite end of the fight. Fawkes respected Savoie as much as Savoie
respected Fawkes. They shook hands and parted ways.
Tristan stood on one side of the glade with some of his new friends by his side, speaking in whispers with him. He mostly ignored their words. A faded rug in woven hay had been placed on the ground for him to stand on. Two flags, one on each side, representing his coat-of-arms. They flapped proudly in the soft wind. It was what Lucius had suggested to Tristan months ago, when he was proclaimed as a titled lord — that he should embrace the name he had gained during the war with the English. Thus, the coat-of-arms of Lord Hawthorne was that of a simple black and white Lion's head.
On the other side, Alistair sat down in a wooden chair, with a similar rug on the snow-covered ground and two flags representing his heraldry.
Around the glade, footmen and pages had swiftly lit torches, placing them in
the snow to light up the partially dark space. Dawn was swiftly approaching,
but it was still hard to see well.
They
all took the time to once again go through each fighter's best choice in combat
style.
As
each minute passed, more and more people came by horse, sleigh, or even walking.
The whole glade was soon encircled by curious onlookers. Although dueling was
allowed, it was not common practice to have such a crowd. It appeared more as
if they were hosting summer games and jousting instead of a duel.
"It
will be by sword," said Fawkes as he reached Tristan. Tristan's long black
cape flapped in the wind as he looked over a small stack of swords without a word.
Rajac, Durun, and Fawkes had provided him with their fair selections of
weapons. Tristan eyed the wide variety of swords. Fawkes walked up by him,
looking at the weapons that had been placed on the wooden rig.
"Alistair
will most likely choose a Zweihänder; a double-handed longsword. It
has always been his weapon of choice and what he is most comfortable
with."
The
wind tore at the cape and there was a rising tension as the masked man had yet
to choose his weapon. "I have more experience with a one-handed weapon,
such as a dress sword." Fawkes' eyebrows knitted together, they had spoken
of this before.
"How
did you survive up at Castell fighting off the English then?" he asked.
"I
managed," Tristan answered tersely. Fawkes sighed, but the old man said
nothing. His eyes wandered to the surrounding crowd and by a sleigh, he managed
to spot a much too familiar face by now. He saw Christine Vega, standing alone
next to a horse. A serious look was plastered on her face and her jaw grew
tense. She had come there to watch or support her fiancé. But no one seemed to
notice her presence, and Fawkes did not wish to alert Tristan, for she might
distract him.
"You
would do well in choosing a longsword as well, my lord. A dress sword would be
shattered instantly by the Zweihänder." Tristan viewed the selection
once more and selected a lighter longsword. It was sharpened and had a handle
ending in a flattened knob with inscriptions in Latin. Black leather encircled
the handle itself, offering a better grip for the wielder. He felt the weight
of the weapon in his hand as if considering it.
"Where
is Braun? Was he not Alistair's second?" asked Tristan hastily as his eyes
jumped around the meadow.
"He
is not able to attend, due to an illness. Savoie was asked to replace him
instead," said Fawkes. Tristan kept looking at the sword pensively.
"Strange,
is it not?" he said after a pregnant pause.
"What
is?"
Tristan
swept a hand over the crowd, motioning at its sheer size.
"This
duel," he turned to Fawkes. "I find this whole situation strange—the
absence of Alistair's original second, such a large crowd…" he trailed
off. He watched as Fawkes' face suddenly paled when he understood what Tristan
was implying.
"The
palace stands practically empty for I even see some guards and soldiers
here," Tristan continued to point out.
"You
suspect an attack on the palace?"
"The
plans Cardinal Thorpe presented against Athar when he was charged with treason
were real, that much I know. There were elaborate plans to attack the palace,
and they just managed to remove one of the men that had the power to stop it.
And as for the rest of us — you and I included — they managed to coax us out
here under the premise of a duel," Tristan said, fuming at his own
foolishness. He had no doubt Alistair had wanted him to issue a challenge. Tristan
had practically seen to it himself that the palace stood empty.
"How...
how can you be certain of this?" Fawkes asked and quickly continued when
he received no answer from Tristan. "We cannot leave now," Fawkes
murmured, his eyes glancing at the crowd, still growing in number. "This
is just speculation on your part, isn't it?" Tristan never responded to
that either. He couldn't confide all he knew in Fawkes, not yet.
"Joseph!"
Tristan said, the other man hastily making his way over to them. Tristan turned and looked at Fawkes. "We only need one man to confirm that something is amiss
at the palace and we rush over there in a heartbeat." Joseph came up to
them, a confused look on his face.
"Forgive
me for asking this of you for I know you wish to be here, but I need a favor. I
need you to ride back to the palace as fast as your horse can carry you and
look out for any unusual activity."
"Unusual
activity?" Joseph asked.
"You
know what I mean," Tristan said. It was enough for Joseph to understand.
He sneaked a glance at Fawkes, not knowing how much Tristan had confided in the
older general. Joseph stepped closer to Tristan, jittery, knowing something big
was about to happen.
"And if I do stumble upon some unusual activity?" he whispered,
his large, dark eyes searching Tristan's for answers. Joseph had never shown
it, but the more he found out together with Tristan, the more unsettled he
became. He couldn't understand how the other was so calm on the outside.
"You
get away from there and return to me immediately. Do not try to interfere on
your own."
"You
think they will attack now?"
"I
know they will. I just need a final piece of confirmation," Tristan
growled in low tones as his eyes drifted to Alistair. He was ready.
Fawkes
kept glancing at Alistair in disbelief as Joseph ran for his horse unnoticed.
"Lord
Alistair is a traitor?" Fawkes could not believe it.
"That
is what I want to unveil," Tristan said "I can play this game as
well." He then rose a gloved hand, signaling that he was ready. Savoie
accepted and informed Alistair.
Dawn
was now minutes away. Christine stood alone in the crowd, realizing Fawkes had
recognized her so she pulled the deep hood over her head. She didn't want to
distract Tristan as he fought. Anne had put up quite the resistance as Christine
had pushed past her. The brunette had rushed after her, even calling some
guards to help keep her there. Christine had been quicker, running as fast as
her legs could carry her to the stables where she'd taken the first saddled
horse she could find. Only later did she discover that said horse — a mare with
caramel coat and white mane — was the favored horse of Lady Monica Savoie. It
had only been all the more reason for Christine to steal the horse to venture
to Morrow's Glade.
Christine
shivered, not just from the cold, but also from fear and excitement. She wished
she had someone to share her doubts and fears with at that moment. However, the
young woman put her faith in Tristan. As she saw him towering over the many
weapons he could choose, she grew considerably calm. Christine knew Alistair
was good, but she suspected Tristan was better. Something in the pit of her
stomach told her as much. It was time she started to fully trust in him and his
abilities.
The
horizon had taken a reddish tint as the sun now peeked up from behind it. The
fiery globe was slowly rising in the sky as the daylight reached Wessport. The
stars had disappeared, and the forest grew deathly silent.
Tristan
shredded his bulky doublet and leather jerkin, only wearing a thin cotton
shirt. It would allow him more movement but less protection. He felt the weight
of the sword in his hands once more.
"Take
him down," Fawkes spat, contempt shining in his eyes as he glared at
Alistair. If Alistair had somehow caused Athar's imprisonment, Fawkes wanted to
watch the man suffer endlessly. His uncharacteristic remark sent Rajac's
eyebrows arching into his hairline. He offered Tristan some encouraging words
as well.
"The
day is yours, Hawthorne," Simon Rajac said, his poetic remark coaxing a
small smile from the masked man.
The
torches around the tree line were not needed anymore, but the fire in each of
them still danced as the soft wind picked up the flames. The sun rose higher
with each passing second. As Tristan prepared to go out onto the field Fawkes
stopped him.
"I
do not know what will happen out there. I will not lie, I have had my doubts,
but I choose to ignore them and put my full trust in you, Hawthorne. For you
have shown me again and again that there is more to you than meets the eye.
But, with that said, if anything were to happen to you know that I will look
after young Lady Vega and make sure nothing happens to her. You have my
word." Fawkes hand was outstretched and opened, waiting for Tristan to
give him the old Angloan handshake. The masked man did not need to respond, the
look in his eyes said it all—surprise, appreciation, and respect. He took
Fawkes' hand in his own and both men parted ways.
Durun
was the last to wish Tristan luck. "Do not roughen him up too much, Hawthorne.
His corpse needs to be identifiable after this," the young man joked as he
sent the count on his way. They then watched in anticipation as he stepped out
onto the snow-covered field.
Alistair
briefly spoke with Savoie and some other lords on his side. Tristan snickered
as he saw the pompous fool with his sword by his side. Alistair dressed as if
he was going to attend a ball. The young lord was wearing a doublet in ruby red
with matching hoses. His boots extended well beyond his knees. He looked like a
peacock ready to parade before the crowd.
When
Alistair saw Tristan he snickered at him as well. The man dressed in black, as
if still in mourning. Alistair would shred his simple clothing to pieces as he
cut away at Tristan with his sharpened sword. But what Alistair wanted the most
was to tear away the mask from that proud fool. He would revel in the sight of
the once proud and arrogant man bared and defeated for all to see. Alistair would show Tristan's true self, probably a scarred and
hideous face.
The
tension between them was unbearable. They both noted the depth of the snow,
reaching just below their knees. It would be hard to fight in, but none made a
remark about it.
The
soft murmur of the crowd died.
The
Glade was eerily silent, only the flutter of fabric could be heard as the soft
winds pushed through the trees.
"I
hope you have put your affairs in order, Hawthorne," Alistair said smugly
as he did a final inspection of his sword, eager to sink the metal deep into
the flesh of the other.
"Likewise,"
Tristan muttered, not certain where Alistair's eagerness to talk suddenly came
from.
"It
shall be a thrill to see you beg for your life when I am done with you,"
Alistair continued. He was about to say something else when Tristan pointed his
sword at him.
"Less
talking, more fighting, Alistair."
The
sun was now over the horizon and illuminated the glade, the naked trees cast
soft shadows on the white snow as both men stared.
Alistair
narrowed his eyes, getting into a fighting stance. Both were ready as their
seconds signaled for the duel to commence.
All
was quiet for a while. Somewhere, a bird chirped, singing to its heart's
content as the beautiful morning revealed itself in the delicate rays of the
sun. The public stared at the scene before them, holding their breath as they
waited for the clash of blades.
Alistair
was the first to strike, his sword crashing hard down on Tristan's. The steel
ripped a loud echo through the meadow, the sound stronger due to the tense
silence.
Tristan
blocked the attack, pushing Alistair away. The other lost his footing, grunting
in the process.
Tristan
came to his side, pushing the sword away again, aiming for his throat. It was
by sheer luck that Alistair managed to block the metal before it sank into his
flesh.
They
danced around each other, no one ever really managing to touch the other. The clash
of steel upon steel was the only sound in the meadow as both men attacked.
Soon, however, Alistair started emitting sounds of frustration as he found that
he could not reach Tristan. The arrogant young man reverted to fouler tricks
the more tired and frustrated he got.
At
one moment, Alistair swept his feet under Tristan's, tumbling him to the
ground, putting all his weight into the next thrust of his Zweihänder.
Tristan
gritted his teeth as the sword came down hard on his. His own weapon came up
over his chest, parrying the attack. One hand held the handle while the other
was at the other end of the sword, near the tip, to keep the metal from slicing
into him. Both men could hear the public gasp as the fight turned around.
Alistair could not help himself and he pushed on the sword further — Tristan
fighting to keep its side away from his neck. The other man put his whole
weight on it and took delight in watching Tristan fight against him. He knew he
had him then and there and he savored every second of it.
"Know
that once I have killed you and revealed your pathetic face, I will take
delight in going after that little wench of yours," he whispered into Tristan's
ear. He was breathing heavily from the strain of the fight. Tristan felt the
sharp edge of his own sword cut into his gloved hand, slowly slicing through
the leather.
"Not
if I have anything to say about it, nor James, Fawkes, or anyone in
their decent mind," Tristan struggled. He kept pushing against Alistair,
who was practically on top of him. Alistair's devilish smile only widened as
his glittering eyes crinkled at the edges.
"They
will not be able to do much for they will be occupied with other things,"
Alistair said enigmatically.
Tristan's
eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
Alistair
chuckled, he liked the look of sudden surprise in Tristan's eyes. It made him
feel powerful, seeing the other squirm under him, like a lamb before a wolf.
"Too
bad you will not live to see it," Alistair grinned, pushing against the
sword. The edge was a hair's breadth away from Tristan's neck as pearls of
sweat started forming under his mask. A few seconds passed as Alistair could
see how Tristan processed everything.
"This
duel is a ruse," Tristan struggled as his arms started shaking. The people
around watched astonished as Alistair was moments away from slicing his throat open.
How could a man so easily defeated in single-hand combat have won against the
English?
Christine
watched shaking as Alistair was about to end her fiancé's life. Whispers were
exchanged as the crowd watched in utter bewilderment and disbelief. The wind
tore at the naked crowns of the trees just as the fires of the torches danced
even more violently. Fawkes' eyes widened just as his brows knitted together.
He had no idea what Tristan was doing—why on earth was he talking to
Alistair when he was so close to being sliced down? None could hear the words
both of them exchanged.
"I
thought you would have realized it sooner—"
"You
are the ones plotting against James. Lord Braun is in on it as well. That
is why he is absent. He is leading a raid against the palace under your command
while you keep me here, as well as more than half of the court," Tristan struggled
to say, the sword inching closer and closer. It now rested against his throat,
slowly pressing against it. The sharp edge of his own sword cut through his
leather glove and pressed painfully against his bare hand. Hot pain shook his
nerves as droplets of blood fell to the snow. Blood had been drawn, but that
wasn't enough for Alistair. He wanted Tristan's blood to paint the whole field
of the meadow red.
"Very
perceptive. I see Athar got to speak with you, in the end. You flatter me but I
am not the one leading this fight. Lord Braun has done the impossible to see
this through," Alistair said, proud to reveal the elaborate plan he had
taken part in. "James will be removed from the throne and this court will
be cleansed. People like you and Vega do not belong in Wessport," Alistair
spat with a crazed expression.
They
struggled, Alistair chuckled as he pressed his entire weight on his sword while
Tristan felt his arms give out.
A
brief second passed as Alistair prepared to end Tristan's life. Then, like
flipping a switch, Alistair sensed how the countenance of the man under his
blade swiftly changed.
The
expression of pain and fear in Tristan's eyes was replaced by a calm fury that
Alistair had only seen one time before—the time Tristan had issued the duel.
How could that be? The man lying before him was about to die, a sword against
his throat. All Alistair had to do was to give an extra push and the metal
would cut through the throat and it would all end. Any other man would be struggling
in panic as he realized his time had come. Yet, Tristan’s lips curled upward
into a vicious smile.
"You
speak too much, Alistair," Tristan grunted with a smirk as he got a knee
under Alistair, pushing him off over his head in one swift, elegant move. Alistair
could only widen his eyes as he flew over Tristan, landing hard as his face
crashed into the snow.
Tristan
got up casually and stood waiting for Alistair patiently. The crowd stared in
disbelief.
Alistair
struggled to rise to his feet and turned around, charging fast against Tristan.
He side-stepped and his hand pushed on Alistair's back, making him fall yet
again. A small chuckle rose in the onlookers. Their laughter made Alistair grow
furious as he got back up again. He ran in pure rage toward Tristan like a
crazed bull, ready to strike with his sword. But the metal never found the
other as Tristan effortlessly avoided every single attack in a series of quick motions. Tristan tripped Alistair once more. The
chuckle from the crowd grew as it was evident Tristan had been toying with
Alistair the entire time.
"Did
you really think it would be that easy?" Tristan said roughly, smirking as
Alistair stared at him confused.
"You
were losing on purpose?" Alistair exclaimed as the cogs in his head
turned.
"I
had to prove a theory, which you just confirmed," Tristan said.
"Athar has spent years at this court, trying to reveal who has been
conspiring against James. You just revealed the plan, the
mastermind, and when he will follow through with said plan." Tristan gave
a sinister grin, watching as the other soon came to realize his grave mistake.
Because of his arrogance, Alistair had given everything away.
"N-No
matter," Alistair tried to save face, "I will end your life, Hawthorne,
one way or another. You do not belong in Wessport, and Cadherra does not belong
to you! You should have known your place and declined the title which was
bestowed upon you."
"I
am not the one betraying my king and country."
Alistair
boiled at the man before him. He rose his sword and set out to cut him down.
It
happened so fast that many of them didn't catch it. Christine stared in
bewilderment, many around her drew deep breaths and whispered in disbelief amongst themselves. Fawkes' jaw dropped while Simon Rajac had a
growing smile on his face.
In
the blink of an eye, Tristan dropped his sword, ducking as Alistair charged at
him. He took the other man's wrist and squeezed it — thus making Alistair drop
his own sword. Tristan then landed such a hard punch on Alistair's face that it
sent him flying back—clutching his broken nose while his blood
spilled on the ground.
Alistair
lay in the snow, screaming profanities at the masked man who calmly picked up the swords, pointing them both at Alistair.
"I
told you the day I challenged you, Alistair, that I would make you pay. I am a
man of my word," Tristan growled — all hint of lighthearted amusement and
sarcasm gone now.
"W-Wait,
Hawthorne! You would not kill an unarmed man!" Alistair uttered in a
foolish attempt to save his own neck. It was loud enough for them all
to hear. Tristan didn't care and prepared to push the sword through the other
man's heart. Tears started forming in the corners of Alistair's eyes as they
mixed with the blood that still emerged from his broken nose.
"Please!
I yield, I yield! Mercy!" he begged, putting up his hands. But Tristan had
no mercy left.
Before
Tristan could go any further a familiar voice emerged from the crowd.
"Stop!"
Tristan
recognized Christine's voice before seeing her. The undertone of relief at his
victory did not go unnoticed. Tristan's eyes never truly left Alistair's but
they did grow harsher as he saw relief in Alistair's eyes at the sound of Christine's
voice.
She
stepped out from the crowd, all eyes on her. The morning air was cold and
fresh, biting at her exposed skin. She waded through the deep snow, carefully
nearing Tristan.
"That
is enough, he yielded. Blood has been drawn long ago, my lord," she said.
There was a look of disdain in her eyes as she looked at Alistair, a disgusted
frown extending over her features.
"He
deserves no mercy, he is a traitor," Tristan said through gritted teeth.
The remark made Christine's eyes widen but that was not the main issue at hand.
The public watched in awe as she neared both men. No one made a move to stop
her—the thrill was too high to stop it now. Not even Fawkes intervened.
"Then
let the king's justice take care of him," she said as she placed a careful
hand on his arm, urging him to lower the swords. The look in his eyes
frightened her, but it did not deter her.
"The
same justice will cause Thomas Athar — an innocent man — to lose his
life," Tristan said through gritted teeth. The tip of the sword now rested
on Alistair's chest, slowly plunging into him and drawing blood as it cut
through the fabric. Alistair begged him to listen to Christine, apologizing
again and again. But Tristan would have none of it. He pushed Christine aside,
determined to end the life of the man in front of him.
"Tristan,
please!"
The
words made him stop cold. The weapon had glided shy of an inch into the flesh
of Alistair who squirmed at the cold touch of the metal. Tristan swiftly
removed the sword and stared at Christine.
It was the first time she had ever spoken his name. The syllables rolled off her tongue like sweet honey.
"This
duel was started because Lord Alistair insulted us both, is that not so?"
she asked, receiving a faint nod from Tristan. "Then do not shed blood in
my name, do not disgrace yourself on my behalf."
They
stood there in the early February morning. The cold pressed hard against them
as the winds of winter picked up speed. The crowd watched again as Tristan
slowly removed the sword from Alistair—the hunger and lust for blood slowly fading
in his eyes. Alistair breathed out in relief. Tristan stepped away, approaching
Christine.
"Thank
you," she whispered, replacing her hand on his arm, gratitude showing in
her eyes.
The
crowd stared dumbfounded as they realized that Tristan had been victorious.
First, they did not know what to do. Should they stay? Should they leave? But
then some men started exchanging money and soon all bets were being taken care
of. Tristan looked at them in disgust as the true colors of the court showed.
For them, this matter was only cheap entertainment.
Well
then, he would entertain them.
He
walked toward Alistair again who was nursing the wound on his chest while
lamenting his broken nose.
"Get
up," Tristan growled. Alistair cowered the moment he saw the taller man
nearing with his weapon still in hand. The defeated man did as he bade without
a second thought for he knew he was in deep trouble. Yet, he'd rather choose to
confront Lord Braun or even the king than Tristan at that moment. Alistair
started getting up only to be stopped by Tristan again.
"Not
all the way, stay on your knees."
Tristan
then asked Christine to come to his side. The public was once more paying
attention to them, curious as to what was taking place. Christine went to stand
beside Tristan, confused yet curious about what he was about to do. When she
stood in front of Alistair, Tristan stepped aside.
"I
won this duel for my honor and Lady Vega's. But I am not entirely
satisfied," he began nonchalantly while strolling around Alistair in slow
steps. "You will bow your head and give your deepest apology to her for the insults you have spoken against her. You will also ask for her mercy
and only hope she forgives you. If she decides it, I will skin you like the pig
you are."
Alistair
mumbled something intangible. His whole body started shivering as images of
what Tristan might do to him sprung up in his mind. Alistair suddenly felt the
tip of a sword against his throat and gulped.
"I
did not hear you," came the menacing growl.
"I
was wrong in calling you, my lady, a wench and I can only ask for your
forgiveness," Alistair said loud and clear. The words were so forced that
they almost seemed like a shout.
Christine
gazed down at him from where she stood. He was kneeling in front of her in the
deep snow, covered in it, mixing with the blood from his broken nose and
wounded chest. He bared his neck for her as he did not even have the decency to
look her in the eye. Christine knew that Alistair was a man without honor. But
she also knew that he was the court fool, and she had little to gain from
seeing him killed. She did not want his blood to be spilled for her, and she did
not want Tristan to mercilessly kill.
She
nodded, never voicing acceptance of the apology. The duel was officially
over—Tristan had emerged the champion, demonstrating skills in combat none of
them had ever thought possible in him. He had toyed around with Alistair for
something and the moment he had gained whatever information he sought, the
tables had turned.
"Fawkes!"
Tristan said as he kept the sword pointed at Alistair. Fawkes came running
over. A look of surprise was soon replaced by a huge grin as he saw Alistair
nursing his broken nose, kneeling on the ground—as he should.
"Well
done!" He patted Tristan on the back and gave a nod to Christine. Tristan’s
lips pressed together, not seeming satisfied at all that he had won.
"Have
this man arrested, he has confessed to taking part in a bigger plot against the
crown," he snapped as his sword pointed at Alistair. It was loud enough
for those closest to hear. Fawkes' eyebrows knitted together.
"Then
your theory was correct… "
"He
has confessed. Have you not, Alistair?" Tristan asked as his glaring eyes
pierced into the other's very soul. Alistair felt a chill sweep over him, and
it wasn't the cold February wind that managed to unsettle him so.
"Y-Yes,
yes, I confess!" he squirmed, only wanting to get away from the masked
man. Fawkes turned grim at the words. He waved for two pageboys to come over
and tie Alistair's hands behind his back.
"We
must take him back to the palace immediately and inform this to His
Majesty," Fawkes said as he, Tristan, and Christine made their way back to
the rug. Tristan put away the sword and started donning his doublet and jerkin.
"What
is the meaning of this? Why are you keeping Lord Alistair? This was to be a
duel, and duels do not end in one becoming the other's prisoner," Roland
Launel, Alistair's close friend, said as he neared. He was backed by a group of
men.
"This
man has confessed to committing high treason," Tristan said, pointing his sword
at Launel. More men came up behind him now, their hands twitching for their own
swords. Tristan grew tense. There were more men in the Glade who were loyal to
Braun and Alistair. His eyes drifted to Christine, she would be in danger in
case they would have to fight their way out.
"At
the point of a sword a man may say anything to save his life," Savoie said
harshly, standing next to Launel. Fawkes and Durun flanked Tristan, their hands
resting close to their weapons as well. The watching crowd now grew nervous at
the sudden change. They had no idea what was taking place in the meadow. But,
slowly, some men started stepping out on the field, sensing danger, walking up
to stand next to Launel.
Tristan
watched silently as around twenty men came to back Launel and Savoie. No doubt
Braun had sent them to take care of him and his people in case Alistair failed.
But, to his great surprise, Durun rose his hand, signaling some of his friends
to come over. Confused men went to their friends, thinking they were taking
part in settling a squabble.
"We
will leave here, with Lord Alistair," Fawkes said haughtily. Rajac,
sensing the ever-growing tension walked up to Christine.
"Come,
my lady, before this gets ugly," he whispered in her ear, coaxing her away
so she didn't stand right in between the two groups.
"You
will stay, general. We insist," Launel said through gritted teeth,
unsheathing his sword. Some people in the crowd gasped. Those with quick-thinking minds realized it was best not to tarry and quickly started
leaving. Some men loyal to Durun, Fawkes, and Rajac stayed, sensing a coming
fight.
Before
anything could take place, however, Joseph came riding in with impeccable
timing. His horse looked about ready to drop as the young man quickly made his
way through the dispersing throng. A look of alarm washed over his features as
he captured the attention of everyone.
"The
palace is under attack!" he exclaimed, breathing heavily as he must have
no doubt galloped back and forth with an impressive speed.
Tristan
turned to face Launel and the rest of the men, only to find satisfied smirks.
It
had begun.
Wow! This is exciting!
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