Chapter 4-Crime and Punishment

“Tristan! Tristan! Come on, wake up, Tristan!” The voice was distant and far off as Tristan struggled to hold onto life. “Come on, Tristan; come on!” The voice sounded closer. He heard Hodain bark and suddenly he was able to grasp his fingers around life completely and he opened his eyes. He was lying on his stomach on his bed. Hodain licked his face and Balek then Hannah entered his field of vision.

“I thought you were in Lyoness,” Tristan said, his voice weak.

“I was until the king called me here to carry out his orders.”

“What orders?”

“Rome has called me to report on the status of Lyoness’s troops. Marc has ordered me to take you with me.”

“What of Isuelt?”

“She has been banished from the king’s presence until he call on her and she is forbidden to even look at you.”

 “And it is all my fault.”

“No, it is not! There is something wrong. You two went into that herbalist’s shop bickering with each other like dogs over a bone and came back out looking like passionate lovers. It just does not make any sense.” Balek scratched his chin, his eyes burning with confusion and aggravation. “What happened when you went in there, Tristan?”

“We went in and sat down at a table with Isabella, the herbalist. I tried to ask her where the item was that I was to take back to my uncle, but she insisted that I did not speak. Then she gave us both a glass of milk. Once we had finished it, she gave me a letter from my uncle and we returned to our horses.” He thought for a moment. “How long has it been?”

“How long has it been since when?”

“Since my punishment?”

“Three days.”

“That long, eh?”

“So, she never gave you this item for your uncle?”

“I supposed it was the letter.”

“Get some rest, Tristan. We leave in the morning.”

“Try not to lay on your back,” Hannah added as Hodain jumped up on the bed and curled up by Tristan’s stomach.

Hannah left the room but Balek stayed. “Tristan, the reason you are going with me to Rome is that your uncle wants you away from his palace, but he is not ready to give up his power over Lyoness.” He took a deep breath. “Tristan, he is conscripting you into the Roman military.”

Tristan took in a calming breath to keep himself from making a sudden movement that would break the scabs on his back. “How long?”

“If my guess is correct, they will put in the Sarmatian Cavalry since you are half-Sarmatian as it is. It will be at least fifteen years.”

“It could be worse.”

“Tristan, if you die, who will rule Lyoness?”

“You will, Balek.”

“Me? Tristan, be reasonable. I would not make a good king.”

“You would be a better king than Marc and you already do most of the work for me.”

“Yes, but that is only because it is necessary. Please, be sensible. Pick someone else.”

“There is no one else I would trust. I will write up the documents tomorrow to make you, legally, my temporary heir until I can provide one of my own.”

“I see there is no swaying you. I suppose I will just have to hope you come home with breath in your lungs, if the good Lord permits it.”

“Let us pray that He does. But for now, you should retire.” Then he thought of something. “Where is Matthew?”

“He has been on kitchen duty these past few days.”

“Could you stop by the kitchen and tell him that the prince requests his immediate return?”

“Certainly. Good-night, Lord Prince.” He ruffled Tristan’s hair and the walked from the room.

Tristan looked out the window from where he lay. The setting sun was half-hidden behind one of the watchtowers and a bird flew by the window. In the courtyard below he could hear the sounds of everyone preparing for night’s arrival. A dog bayed, a bird chirped, a little girl yelled and all these things were a lullaby that lulled Tristan to sleep.

 

*          *          *

 

Eshtaol stamped her foot impatiently as Tristan tightened the girth around her belly. The he stood slowly and carefully to avoid breaking open any of the scabs on his back. He was dressed the same way he had been when he fought Marhaus and his quiver hung from his saddle, full of arrows and his bag. Matthew handed him two saddlebags, one bearing food for the journey and another holding his armor and a few extra pieces of clothing. Then, after scratching Hodain behind the ears, he carefully mounted up. Balek mounted his palomino and then took a water flask from Isaac that he held out to him. Matthew handed one to Tristan and then smiled. “Be safe, Master.”

“And you as well, Matthew. May God bless you and protect you.”

“May He bless and protect you as well.”

Tristan looked back at his uncle and aunt. Marc’s face showed no remorse at his nephew’s parting and Isuelt stared at her feet. He sighed and looked down at Hodain. “Ready, boy?” The dog lowered his head. “I am not either.” He patted Eshtaol on the neck and then faced his eyes forward, refusing to look back. Balek spurred his horse forward and Tristan followed suit. As their horses and Hodain clattered over the drawbridge, he began to know how Isuelt must have felt as he took her away from her homeland forever. They rode until nightfall, heading toward the northern tip of the island on which Cornwall presided. They made camp in a meadow near a farm and took turns at watch, Tristan going first. At first light, Balek woke Tristan and they headed back out, Hodain easily keeping pace with the horses. They reached port by nightfall and stayed in an inn nearby. When morning came to their side of the world once more, they went out and boarded the ship that Balek had used to come to Cornwall. The crew set sail as soon as the horses were secure and the spent the next four days at sea before they arrived in Rome. They had to drop anchor just outside the Tiber River and then the horses, Tristan, Balek and Hodain were rowed into the Tiber River by two of the crew members. The city of Rome was no new thing for Tristan; he had gone with his father to the city many times. Monte Testaccio, a mountain of broken pots about one hundred feet high, loomed onshore, its ever-present bulk casting shadows over the river. When they made it to the docks, four slaves helped them ashore. Then they made their way through the street until they came to the barracks. They were stopped at the gates.

“Who are you?” called out a soldier.

“I am Prince Tristan De Lyoness and this is Captain Balek of my army.”

The man nodded and then yelled, “Open the gates!”

The order was obeyed and they were soon inside. A commander came over and greeted them. “Welcome, Prince. I am Marcus Titus Maximus, Commander of the Third Division of the Roman Infantry her in Rome. Now, what brings you here?”

Balek opened his mouth to speak, but Tristan beat him to it. “Balek is here to report on the status of the troops in Lyoness.”

“Good, good. But why are you here, young prince?” Balek handed Marcus a sealed parchment. He broke the seal and read it over quickly. “Do you know what is written in this document?”

“I do and I accept it, no matter what the circumstances.” In his mind, his head was telling him to turn hi horse and run, never to be seen again. But he resisted the urge and sat still in the saddle.

“But, if you were to die, there would be no one to take your place on the throne.”

“I have already chosen a temporary heir in case such a thing should happen.”

“Well. I understand that your mother was Sarmatian?”

“That she was.”

“Then you shall be put into the Sarmatian Cavalry. You will serve for fifteen years under you commander and you shall obey him in every way. You will be bound to every part of the pact made by the Sarmatians to Rome except your heirs will not have to serve after you. A party is leaving for Hadrian’s Wall within the hour. I will inform them that you are to be traveling with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

The commander seemed impressed by his submission to his control over the lad. “Say your good-byes and then follow me.”

Tristan turned to Balek. “If I should die, you know what is to be done.”

Balek nodded, tears glistening at the edges of his eyes. “Return to us, safely so I may never have to do that.”

“I promise I will. Good-bye, old friend.” He urged his horse forward and the commander, now mounted on a horse, began to lead the way.

They wove their way in and out of the soldiers until they came to a place where two-dozen men were packing up their horses. When they saw the commander approach, they stopped what they were doing.

“Men. This is Tristan. You are to deliver him safely into the hands of Lucius Artorius Castus, Commander of the Sarmatian Knights, at Hadrian’s Wall.” The men nodded. “You may return to your work now.” Then he spurred his horse and rode off, leaving Tristan alone with his new companions.

The men took no notice of him and instead went back to their work. Tristan dismounted, his feet not making a sound when landed. Hodain jumped up on his forelegs and placed his front legs on Tristan’s chest, his head coming to his chin.

“Is he a hunter?” he heard a soldier ask.

He turned and saw a boy probably only a few years older than him watching him with Hodain. “Yes. My father gave him to me when I was seven.”

“Where are you from, Tristan?”

“I lived in Lyoness until I was eleven and ever since then I have lived in Cornwall with my uncle.”

 The boy seemed to ponder whether or not to continue this conversation for a moment. “My name is Jonathan.”

“Why are the sending all these men to Hadrian’s Wall?” He pushed Hodain down.

“The Picts, that is, the native tribes in Briton, have begun attacking the Romans below the wall. The Romans lost twelve men in the last attack. The commanders are trying to keep their numbers up.”

“What about the Sarmatian Knights?”

“They are still in training. Some still have yet to arrive.”

“How many are there?”

He shrugged. “Depends on how many sons each of the former knights had.”

“You mean each of their sons have to serve?”

“Yes. You are a Sarmatian, you should know that.”

Tristan didn’t say anything but instead became very occupied with a small stone beside his foot. Hodain let out a sigh as he lay down beside Tristan’s left foot. Tristan grimaced as a fresh wave of pain went through his nose.

Jonathan shuffled his feet nervously. A horn blew in the distance. “That means that all troops leaving Rome need to leave. You had better mount up.” He left to mount his own steed.

Tristan put his foot in the stir-up and then pulled himself into the saddle. The riders urged their mounts forward and Tristan followed, with Hodain close behind. They managed to leave the city and get a good three miles away before they stopped for the night. Jonathan and two others were assigned to take turns at watch. Jonathan woke them all up before the sun rose and they packed up and continued on their trek northward. They carried on this way, climbing first the Apennine Mountains and then the Alps. The weeks dragged on as they passed through France. By the time they were halfway through France, all of the wounds on Tristan’s back had healed, as had his nose. They all began to feel the bite of fall when they reached the English Channel. A barge ferried them across and then it was back to the saddle. Finally, after months of weary travel, they made it to the Roman fort located directly behind Hadrian’s Wall. The other twelve rode off and left Tristan to find Lucius Artorius Castus. He rode around, asking where he might find the commander. After awhile, he had almost given up looking when he saw when he saw a boy with curly black hair running across the courtyard. “You there!” Tristan called out to him and the boy ran up to him. Tristan now saw that he was at least twenty years of age and he felt a little ashamed of himself.

“Yes?”

“Do you happen to know where Lucius Artorius Castus is?”

“You mean Arthur? He’s my commander. I was just heading to my training session. You can follow me if you want.” Tristan dismounted. “I am Launcelot, by the way.”

“Tristan; my name is Tristan.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Tristan. What business have you with Arthur?”

“I was sent to join the Sarmatian Knights. My uncle was one of them.”

“Well, you will have a lot of training to catch up on. We have been here for several months now.” Launcelot began walking and Tristan followed, leading Eshtaol behind him. “I see you have a dog.”

“Yes. Hodain has been very faithful.”

“Where are you from, Tristan?”

“Lyoness.”

He whistled. “That is a ways away.”

“My uncle sent me since he had no sons of his own,” Tristan lied. The less about himself he told, the safer he would be.

“Ah, yes. I heard that was a problem with a few of the previous knights. Did you agree to your uncle’s scheme?”

“Yes. I know it sounds crazy that one would want to join, but, he is my favorite uncle.” Hodain let out and bark and Tristan looked away from Launcelot. They had come to the entrance of another courtyard where thirty-seven boys, all ranging from the ages of thirteen to perhaps twenty, he wasn’t sure, sparred with wooden swords and shields. He smiled when he thought back to the days when he used one himself.

Launcelot picked up his own weapons and then pointed to a man wearing Roman armor. “There is Arthur. Now, if you will excuse me, my sparring partner is waiting.” He hefted his shield farther up on his arm and then ran over to the only boy who was not participating in the exercise.

Tristan was about to walk over to Arthur but instead the man noticed him and began coming towards him. Arthur was tall and strong with black hair and a scar running across the breadth of his neck. “May I help you, young sir?”

“My name is Tristan and I was sent by Marcus Titus Maximus to join the Sarmatian Knights.”

“Are you Sarmatian, Tristan?”

“Only half. My mother was a Sarmatian; my father was a Roman.”

“And who’s son are you?”            

“I was sent as an heir for my uncle, Thomas, since he died without any children.”

“I see you carry a sword.”

“My father began training me when I was six.”

“Let us see what you can do then, Tristan.” He walked into the courtyard as Tristan tied Eshtaol to a nearby pole. “Knights!” Arthur called out and everyone stopped what they were doing. Tristan walked over to where Arthur stood. “This is Tristan. He is to be one of your number.” The boys made no reaction so Arthur continued. “He says his father taught him to use a sword. Would anyone like to challenge his story?” The boys began to whisper to each other. Tristan began to hope that he did not look too stuck-up. “No one? Not even you, Gaheris?” He pointed to a redhead who stopped talking when he was put on the spot. 

“You know I take all challenger, Arthur, but I would hate to injure the new boy.”

“Is that so, Gaheris? Or are you afraid of a steel blade?” The boy avoided the question and went back to talking to his sparring partner. “I suppose there is only one thing to then. Tristan, do you have armor?” He nodded. “Go and put it on.”

Tristan walked back over to Eshtaol with Hodain at his heels. Then he proceeded to put on his hauberk, greaves, braces and helm. After he had finished, he motioned for Hodain to stay then walked back over to Arthur and looked up at him expectantly.

Arthur unsheathed his sword and the boys fell silent. “Come, Tristan, show me the extent of your training.”

Tristan unsheathed his dao and looked Arthur up and down. Hw was about two inches taller than Marhaus had been but he was smaller in bulk, so he would be able to move faster than Marhaus. Tristan looked into his gray eyes; he was completely focused on Tristan and his every move. He held his sword in one hand rather than two and Tristan knew it was from with a shield and on a horse. For a split second they both stood completely still then Tristan ran towards Arthur, both hands tightened around his sword. Arthur blocked the blow which was what he had expected; he hated being the first to attack. It never seemed to give him the advantage in a fight. Arthur returned with several blows which Tristan blocked and then returned with several more complicated blows. Arthur parried them with practiced ease. Then he hooked his foot around Tristan’s right leg and pulled it out from under him. Tristan fell, rolled and was back on his feet in a matter of a few seconds. Arthur wasted no time in putting Tristan back on the defensive as he swung a heavy blow at Tristan’s shoulder. Tristan struggled to block it, the strain showing on his face. With Arthur focused completely on weighing him down with is weight, Tristan let go of his sword with his left hand and, pretending to be using it to steady himself as he slowly began to crouch, he reached into his boot and pulled out one of his daggers. He turned it so the blade was facing him and the handle was turned toward Arthur and he jabbed the handle into the unprotected space between Arthur’s greave and upper leg armor. Arthur let out a cry of pain and abandoned his attempt to weigh Tristan down. Tristan jumped back up and waited, poised and ready for Arthur to attack again.

Arthur raised his hand. “Enough, Tristan. There is no doubt that you have been well trained, maybe even by a trainer far superior to our own Roman commanders. Put away you weapons and join the rest of the knights.”

Tristan sheathed his dagger and sword, took off his helm and walked over to the group of boys, all of them astounded that he had accomplished a feat that some of them had only dreamed of.

Arthur sheathed his own sword and then faced his knights. “Launcelot, how many are in your barrack?”

“Seven,” Launcelot answered. “Bors, Dagonet, Gawaine, Galahad, Gareth, Lavaine and me, Sir.”

“Tristan is joining your number. Show him to your barrack later.” Launcelot nodded. “Now, all of you gather your bows and horses. I want to see how much you have been practicing without me.”

The boys moved to do as they were told and Tristan felt someone clap a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw a man larger than Marhaus was. He looked to be in his thirties, which surprised Tristan. A boy who looked to be a younger version of him stood behind him, his face blank.

“Where are you from, boy?”

“Lyoness.”

“Huh. I am Bors and this is my son, Dagonet.” He pointed to the boy behind him. “These Romans like keeping it in the family, as far as the Sarmatians go. You had better hurry. Arthur’s not particular to the ones who take awhile to do things.” He laughed at his last statement for he noticed that was just what he was doing then walked off with Dagonet trailing behind him.

Tristan walked over to his horse and strung his bow. “Stay here, Hodain,” he ordered his dog once more as he swung into the saddle.

“That is a magnificent horse,” he heard Arthur say as he walked toward him. “Do you have a bow?” Tristan held up his bow. “A Mongol bow. An interesting choice.” He looked down at the ground and then met Tristan’s brown eyes. “Your uncle, Tristan, he could not have trained. I remember when he died. Who was your father, Tristan?”

“Blancheflor De Lyoness. My given name is Tristam De Lyoness although my father never called me by that.”

“The prince! What are you doing here? You should not be in the military.”

“I have done some things that I should not have done and such is the reason I am here for this is my punishment.”

“Prin-”

“Please, the less of those who know of who I am, the better off I will be. I do not wish for everyone to be paying me homage while I am here.”

Arthur stood still for a minute. “Come along, Tristan, join the others.”

Tristan smiled. “Thank you, commander.” He spurred Eshtaol and walked over to where the others waited.

Arthur’s voice resounded through the courtyard. “Alright, you all know what to do. Get into your two lines and try to hit as many of the straw men as you can before passing them.”

Tristan found himself fourth in line beside Gaheris. The boy’s fingers trembled as he fit an arrow to the string. He took his gaze away from the boy and directed it to the straw men. There were five on each side for them to hit. Tristan figured that he was to try to hit as many on the left as he could and vice versa for Gaheris. He pulled four arrows from his quiver and fit them to his string.

Gaheris saw what he was doing and raised his eyebrows. “You’re mad.”

“Well, maybe I am, but I just have to try it out and see if it works. If not the curiosity is going to kill me.” Ahead of them, Bors let out a small laugh.

Launcelot and Dagonet were the first in line and they both managed to hit three out of five of the straw men. Gaheris and Launcelot’s sparring partners were next and one hit two and the other only hit one.

Bors looked over at the boy beside him. “Ready, Gawaine?” he asked.
            “Let us go and give them what for,” Gawaine answered and the two rushed their horses forward.

Gawaine hit three and Bors hit two. Then it was Tristan and Gaheris’s turn. He kicked Eshtaol in the side and then loosed the four arrows. Three of them hit their mark and the other missed and stuck in a tree at the end of the courtyard. He pulled out two more arrows as his mare thundered forward and fired them, hitting the two remaining targets. Then he used his feet to slow the Friesian and turn her back in the other direction. He looked back to admire what he had done and then used his free hand to pull Eshtaol to a stop where the others who had already taken their turn had gathered.

Bors greeted him with a whistle. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

He shrugged. “I had a really good teacher. I fell more times than I was able to count before I got it right.”

“Who was your teacher?”

“My uncle,” he lied. He had really been a Mongolian who had taught him to shoot his arrows just as all four of his horse’s feet were off the ground as to not disturb the shot. After he had gotten that, he had learned to shoot multiple arrows.

“I’d like to meet this uncle of yours.” Bors looked up at the sun. “Good. Dinner is soon?”

“Is that all you ever think about?” Launcelot’s sparring partner asked.
            “Galahad, do you still not know the answer to your own question?” Gawaine asked. “All Bors ever thinks of is-”

“-drinks, women, and food,” Galahad, Launcelot, Dagonet and Bors chimed in.

They all let out hearty laughs but Tristan remained silent. Arthur had them do the drill five more times before he let them go for the day.

“Tristan, come with me,” Launcelot said as they left the courtyard.

Tristan followed, leading Eshtaol and Hodain trailing at his heels. They stopped at the stables first and both took the tack off their horses. Launcelot assured Tristan that his horse would not be used by anyone other than him. Then he took him to their barrack. It was a good-sized room and it had eight beds lined up along two of the walls. There was a chamber pot in the corner along with four pails and a pile of rags, along with a washtub and washboard.

“We have to do all our own cooking, cleaning, and mending,” Launcelot explained.

There was a small box under each bed that Launcelot told him contained thread and needles for mending. The fireplace had a cauldron over it for them to do their cooking on and keep them warm at night. The cauldron looked as though it had never been used. Tristan walked over to the bed that Launcelot told him was still unoccupied and set his saddlebags on the floor under it. He then took off his armor and put it with his saddlebags.

            “Come on,” Launcelot said as he walked out of the barrack. Dagonet’s mother cooks our meals for us.”

            “Is she not Bors’s wife?”

“No. Those in the service to the Roman Empire are not allowed to marry.” Launcelot laughed. “Bors isn’t really the type to get married anyway. He and Sara have been together for seventeen years now.”

Tristan marveled at the idea that two people could be together for so long and not get married. They entered and open-roofed dining hall. All the training recruits were there as were a lot of the Romans. Launcelot left Tristan at the entrance to go and join a game of gambling. Tristan just stood in the entry for a while, watching the activities around him.

“Tristan!” he heard Bors call out. The man walked over to him and began pulling him by the arm. “Come. I want you to meet Sara.” He pulled him over to a pole that Dagonet was leaning on. “Wait here.” He walked off, leaving Tristan with his son.

“Here, eat something,” Dagonet said, tossing him an apple. “You’re skinnier than a starving horse.”

Tristan caught the apple and nodded his thanks. “So why are you and your father both here at the same time?”

“He was supposed to be in the last group of knights fifteen years ago, but they could not find him. So they gave up their search and then two months ago they found us and brought us here. Sara came later.”

Tristan pulled out his dagger and began cutting the apple, eating it one small chunk at a time. He chose not to continue the conversation. Those in his barrack seemed to welcome him with open arms but he felt as though he didn’t fit in. So he chose to remain quiet.

“Bors, I have work to do. Let me go,” he heard a woman protesting.

“Shut up!” Bors said as he pulled her over to where Tristan and Dagonet stood.

The first thing Tristan noticed about her was that she was at least seven months pregnant and a little girl of about two or three years of age hung to her skirts. She wore a green and brown dress of wool and she held an wine jar in her left hand.

“This is the newest member of the knights; Tristan,” Bors said, pointing to him.

“Nice to meet you, Tristan. Bors told me of all your accomplishments in training today.”

Tristan acknowledged her statement with a nod of his head but did not speak.

“Well, I have to return to my work. Come along, Tilley,” she said to the little girl as she took her hand and walked away.

“She really shouldn’t work so much,” Dagonet commented.

“Try telling her that,” Bors said as he took a drink out of an ale jar.

Tristan took a bite out of his apple and went off to find a spot where he could be by himself. He found a post in the back corner just behind a table that Galahad sat at. He didn’t seem to notice when Tristan walked by and leaned his right shoulder up against the pole; he was engaged in a conversation with four other knights-to-be. He stood there, eating the apple, catching tidbits of Galahad’s conversation every now and again, but not really paying attention to them. Back where Dagonet stood, Bors had picked up Tilley and had Sara by the arm and was arguing with her over something. Dagonet was looking in the other direction, obviously used to his parents’ quarrels, absentmindedly drinking a cup of wine. Launcelot threw his arms up in triumph as he won a gamble and Gawaine and a boy who looked to be his younger brother, were throwing knives at a wooden target. Having finished his apple, he gave the core to Sara, who had obviously just broken away from Bors. She gave him a smile and then hurried back to her work. Dagonet was right; a woman in her condition ought to be resting. He walked off, disturbing Hodain who had been sleeping on his foot. He wandered around the fort, exploring his new territory. He heard Bors’s resounding laugh and, as he looked back to see if he was near. Felt himself bump into someone. He looked back to see Arthur standing there, his red cloak billowing behind him and he was wearing a coat of armor. “I am sorry, Commander.”

“It is all right, Tristan. Who is your friend?” he asked, pointing to Hodain.

“Hodain. I have had him for seven years now.”

“Really?” Tristan nodded. “Where are the others?”

“They are all still eating and drinking, Commander.”

“Tristan, you may call me Arthur.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Arthur shook his head and laughed. “Well, you better get back to your barrack lest you be forced to go on night watch with the rest of the soldiers. You’ll need all the rest you can get.”

“Yes, Sir.” Tristan turned on his heel and walked away from Arthur. His mind had already memorized the path to the barracks; now he just had to remember which door was his.

“Tristan!” he heard a familiar voice call out and he turned to see Bors and Gawaine walking towards him. “Did you get sent to bed by Arthur too?” Bors asked.

Tristan nodded and walked into the barracks. He chose the door third on the left but felt Bors grab the back of his cloak.

“Wrong doorway, Tristan.” He walked to the last door on the right and pushed it open.

The others, already returned from dinner, were already asleep in their beds. Tristan walked in, his booted feet not making a sound. He pulled them off along with his cloak, belt, pouch, and dagger and then lay down on his bed. Before he knew it, he had drifted off to sleep. Bors shook his head and put the wool blanket over the boy. He knew that the days ahead were going to have him falling asleep much faster than this.