Chapter One #2
Now, it was evening on the sixty-second day, and Tristan was on a portion of the battlements that hadn’t been destroyed by his siege engines, watching the sunset in the west. He was fairly certain that it was the first time since the siege began, other than intermittent sleeping, that he’d come to a full stop.
All of the past two months had seen him on the move, except for this very moment.
He was able to pause.
He could breathe.
The sunset was spectacular. A storm had rolled over the land earlier in the day, clearing away to leave a soggy landscape and a brilliant sky.
He could smell the rain and the damp. Down below, in the bailey, the English armies had moved in, and the smell of cooking fires was heavy on the air.
The hall, with a mostly smashed roof, was habitable nonetheless.
Men were already gathering and the hearth was burning steadily. They would definitely eat well tonight.
He could already taste it.
“Here you are.”
A heavy Irish accent came from behind, and Tristan turned to see one of the veteran Executioner Knights picking his way across the damaged parapet.
Bric MacRohan, who commanded the mighty armies of de Winter, was an Irish legacy knight, sworn to the English but Irish to the bone.
He also happened to be Tristan’s friend.
Behind him came a pair of Irish knights who had come from the Marshal’s properties in Ireland.
Carr MacMurda and his comrade, Dermot MacEdan, couldn’t be more Irish if they tried.
They were fiercely loyal to their homeland, but also quite loyal to the Marshal, which made for some strange dynamics at times.
They loved the English knights and harassed them with great humor, but tended to become sullen if they were harassed in return.
They could dish out insults all day long, but they couldn’t take them.
It had been a hilarious situation at times during the course of the siege, but Tristan could see that Carr and Dermot already had cups of something in both of their hands.
Ale, he suspected.
The celebration, for the Irish, had begun early.
“Aye, here I am,” Tristan said.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
Bric, a massive man with pale blue eyes and white-blond hair, cocked his head. “What about?” he asked. “The difficult thinking is finished now that the battle is over. You should only have victory on your mind, Pat. Our glory has come.”
Tristan smiled faintly as he leaned forward on the parapet, looking at the ground below and the men moving about busily.
“It was a hard-fought battle, to be sure,” he said.
“These are the battles about which poets write sonnets that men weep over. I was thinking of the words to describe a night like this.”
Bric glanced at Carr and Dermot, both of whom rolled their eyes.
It was well known that Tristan liked to write poetry, but it was only poetry in the literal sense.
It wasn’t lovely or moving, but quite frankly some of the worst poetry anyone had ever heard.
Beneath that serious, sometimes gruff knight was a man with the heart of a warrior, the soul of a poet, and the ability of a drudge.
No one ever told him so, of course, because the poetry clearly meant something to him, but Bric should have supposed—they all should have supposed—that Tristan might try to compose a tribute to victory on this night.
And they meant to prevent it.
There wasn’t one man among them who hadn’t been present for some of Tristan’s recitations.
He wasn’t afraid to recite his poetry among the knights, but he wouldn’t do it in front of men he didn’t know, and he never did it in front of the armies.
He didn’t recite his compositions with any regularity, but he did it enough that his friends tried to avoid it if they could.
But they were too late.
“While flaming rocks muster up their resolve,” Tristan murmured as he created what was undoubtedly a masterpiece in his own mind. “Much of the path feels ’bout with peace. Sometimes we lose ourselves in ourselves.”
The knights were waiting for more to the epic poem, but none was forthcoming.
Tristan seemed satisfied with the words he’d spoken, which made no sense at all.
Dermot even shook his head quickly as if perhaps he hadn’t heard correctly.
He shook his head to clear up his hearing.
Or his brain. He looked for clarification to Carr, who shrugged rather lamely because he had no idea what the poem meant either.
It was up to Bric to divert the subject.
“Your words speak of truth,” he said stoically.
“But let us speak on the current situation, looking to the future and not to the battle of the past. The Welsh have fled. Maxton and his army have chased them back to the border and beyond, so we won’t be seeing that lot anytime soon. They’ll think twice before returning.”
Tristan nodded as he looked toward the castle, surveying the damage. “But they will return,” he said quietly.
Bric nodded. “They will, have no doubt.”
Tristan didn’t doubt it in the least, but he was hoping there would at least be some respite before any counterattack came.
“They took the castle through subterfuge, but they could not hold it,” he said.
“Whatever the Marshal does, he is going to have to keep a thousand men here or more. A place like this demands a huge army. That’s where de Gresford made the mistake. ”
Bric took one of the cups that Carr was holding and handed it to Tristan. “True,” he said. “But you will not.”
“What won’t I do?”
Bric’s pale eyes were glimmering. “Make a mistake,” he said. “I’ve heard rumor that Pembroke plans to make you the garrison commander of Wrexham. Congratulations, lad. Next to de Lohr, you will have the biggest castle on the marches.”
Tristan frowned. “Me?” he said. “Where did you hear such madness?”
Bric shrugged. “I heard talk.”
“Who?”
“Christ’s bloody bones, MacRohan, tell the man,” Carr said with exasperation as he focused on Tristan. “Someone heard the Marshal and de Lohr speaking of it. All the men are talking about it down in the hall. The general consensus is that you’ll do a fine job. We’re proud of you, Pat.”
“Aye, lad,” Dermot chimed in, his green eyes twinkling. “Very proud. Well done.”
Tristan’s frown turned to disbelief. “Pembroke has had me stationed at Pembroke Castle,” he said. “I’ve served for three years there. And now he’s moving me to…?”
Carr nodded with delight. “Wrexham,” he said.
“Think about it—who else can he put in command that doesn’t already have one?
You have been the right hand of the Marshal for some time, Tristan.
You’ve performed flawlessly. I can see that, even if you are a bloody Englishman.
This is your reward for service, lad. I couldn’t be happier for you. ”
“Nor I,” Bric said. He threw a thumb at Carr. “And I suspect this foolish whelp of a man will serve with you. The two of you seem to make an excellent team.”
“And why not?” Carr said, thumping Bric on the chest. “My lineage dictates greatness. ’Tis all I’m capable of.”
Bric cocked an eyebrow. He tolerated Carr because the man was from Ireland, like he was, but he thought Carr was a bit of a fool at times. He didn’t have the moody seriousness that he had. Or Tristan had. Yet, somehow, their dynamics worked.
At least they weren’t trying to kill one another.
At the moment, anyway.
“He thinks because he’s descended from Irish kings that he has come claim to importance,” Bric muttered. “Royal blood doesn’t dictate competence, and in the case of Irish royal blood, sometimes it dictates rage over reason. I ought to know.”
Carr frowned. “I’ll not let you disparage my bloodlines, MacRohan,” he said.
“Though, to be truthful, I’m not the one with the important royal lines.
That would be my wife, Brigid. Her maternal grandfather was the last King of Dublin, Ascall mac Ragnaill, and she’s the daughter of his only child.
That makes our daughter the lass with the most royal blood of all. ”
Bric rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard it all before.”
Carr’s eyes narrowed. “And this is the respect you show me?”
Before they could get into a verbal brawl, which they’d done before when discussing their mutual proud Irish heritage, Tristan intervened.
“Andie?” he said to Carr. “Isn’t that your daughter?”
Carr nodded firmly. “Aye,” he said. “Andromeda will make a fine ruler, someday. But I’ve not seen her in many a year. She’s remained in Dublin with an English family while the Marshal and I have had our time together.”
Tristan wasn’t particularly interested in Carr’s daughter, but he knew that the fact that the man was related to the last King of Dublin, and had royal lines himself, was the very reason he was in the Marshal’s service.
William Marshal wasn’t stupid when it came to royal blood or hereditary heirs—it was better to keep them close than to let them run amuck or serve others.
In fact, Tristan knew that was why he, personally, was in the Marshal’s service.
So William could keep an eye on him.
Aye, he’d learned that over the past three years, ever since his true identity had been revealed on that dark night in London.
It seemed so long ago. In fact, those three years had been a time of understanding and of reconciliation for Tristan—understanding who, exactly, he was and resigning himself to the fact that he was in a very unusual and sometimes precarious position.
The death of King John had somewhat eliminated any real threat against him, and the Marshal had become one of young King Henry’s regents, so there was more harmony than there had been.
At least Tristan didn’t feel as hunted or nervous as he had when John was alive.
But he knew that William Marshal was keeping him close for a reason.
He was a man who could effectively challenge two thrones.
Not that Tristan had a mind to. If the past three years had taught him anything, it was that rule wasn’t his ambition.
He didn’t care if he was the son of one king and the nephew of another.
He simply didn’t have a greedy or ambitious bone in his body, but he did have pride.
He was very proud of what he’d achieved in his life, and his body of work as a knight.
His friends and fellow Executioner Knights all knew who he was, and the fact that he was more nobly bred than all of them, but no one treated him any differently.
He was still the same Pat that he was before he’d learned the truth, and for that, he was grateful.
But news of command of Wrexham was something else. He’d never asked for a command, and he’d never lusted for one, but if what Bric said was true, then he was going to have a positively glorious command in Wrexham Castle. He could still hardly believe it. But in the same breath, he was ready.
Ready to take the next step in his career as a knight.
“Speaking of time with the Marshal,” Tristan said after a moment. “I should find him and see if this rumor is true. If I’m to take command of this behemoth, then I’d better prepare myself.”
Bric moved aside slightly as Tristan walked past him, toward one of the damaged towers that held the stairs leading down to the bailey below.
“I’ll go with you,” Bric said, falling in behind him. “If the rumors are true, you’ve got your work cut out for you. Prince Llywelyn may have lost Wrexham tonight, but you’ll need to plan for his return.”
Tristan paused before heading down the stairs, his gaze toward the west and the dark, shadowed mountains of Wales. “Unlike de Gresford, I won’t marry any Welsh nobleman’s daughter,” he said. “The Welsh cannot saddle me with a traitor for a wife.”
“Alliances are made in such ways.”
“And you see what happened to de Gresford.”
That was true. Tristan glanced at Bric, who simply waggled his eyebrows. They both knew this wasn’t the last they’d see of the Welsh, but meanwhile, Tristan was evidently to be put in command of a castle that everyone seemed to want.
It would be his job to hold it.
Truth be told, Bric didn’t envy him that task in the least.