twasadark

-*-

“Look! It is incredible,” Alona breathed, face upturned and shining as she gazed at the Roman arena, a circular building punctuated with two stories of arched openings. “It’s so large! And so finely wrought.”

Jensen smiled, and followed her gaze. “It is well-preserved.”

They had entered Arles just an hour past, the whole lot of them, dirty and tired after rising at dawn and pushing to make the city before dark. They had no sooner laid their belongings down in the traveler’s hospice than Alona was coaxing directions from the bewildered monk that ran the place, and grabbing up a shawl and a few coins.

“What are you doing?” Jensen asked, as bewildered by her enthusiasm as the monk.

“Why, I’m out to see the city,” she said matter-of-factly.

He gaped. “You’re not planning … not alone?”

Her brown eyes were bright. “Not if you’ll accompany me.”

And so that was how he found himself leaving the others to rest and eat and seek out the baths while he followed her quick steps all about the city, despite the fact that his back ached from weariness and his stomach complained about the lack of attention he had paid it.

Arles was just a typical Frankish town, part of it built by the Romans, the rest expanded by hook and crook and pilfering of marble and limestone. The place was not as big as Lyons but different, he supposed, from what she was used to. Water surrounded the place, from which a canal connected it to the wide blue Mediterranean.

They went first to the Roman arena, which she examined as though each corner might hold hidden jewels. He trailed along behind as she questioned the attendants about the performances held there and the maintenance of the arches and even the purpose of the tiny holes carved into the tops of the stones on the second level (poles were placed in them, from which awnings extended, creating cool shade in the heat of summer afternoons).

They passed the cathedral, paused briefly to hear the mass sung from within, and noted the location of the bathhouse, from which smoke and steam poured in equal parts. They walked along the great canal, and she seemed quite taken with the little fishing boats that the boys were bringing in for the evening.

By the time they returned to the hospice the sun had fully set, and they nearly missed the place as they fumbled about in the darkness.

“Thank you for chaperoning me, Jensen,” she said sweetly when they parted to go to their separate rooms. She surprised him by squeezing his hand, hers so small and cool, birdlike. He smiled after her, despite the way his feet ached after traipsing up and down the cramped streets.

She reminded him then of the baker’s daughter in Ackerley, with her beautiful long red-gold hair, and her shy smiles. He had kissed her by the well five years past, in another lifetime. Her lips had been soft, and her sighs damp against his chest, her slender body trembling like a reed in the wind. He had seen women on his travels, of course, but he seldom interacted with them, and he had forgotten what strange and delicate creatures they were. Alona’s presence made everything different – more important and richer as well. It troubled him to think of how completely she depended on him, and made him worry that he would let her and Morden down.

-*-

Alona watched from the shade of a tent near the harbor as Jensen and the ship captain talked animatedly. They had hastened to Marseilles under the impression that they would need to find a ship within the next week or encounter significant delays in their travelling, since many of the sailing ships tended to fill up with cargo and passengers the closer they came to summertime. It turned out they needn’t have bothered. Several ships were languishing in the harbor, devoid of sailors and rocking gently with the motion of the water.

Jensen was, at that very moment, attempting to book them passage on the Hera, a wretched looking tub of a boat with barnacles attached at the waterline and a limp looking flag emblazoned with a star. It was frightfully small and none-too-clean looking, but the other boats looked no different, so Alona kept her tongue on the matter. She had become used to comforts and luxury since her marriage to Morden, but she had been raised in humbler circumstances, to a father who ran a cheese factory and a mother who managed him.

She watched Jensen with interest, every now and again hearing his voice rise, making clear phrases such as, “Two weeks is too long!” “Fourteen denars is robbery …” and “I have finely bred ladies …” The captain was a slight man with a wiry gray beard and a low, quick voice. He had a walking stick that he shifted from hand to hand in agitation, so that Alona would not have been surprised if he had raised it and started to beat Jensen about the head and shoulders with it. The set to Jensen’s jaw betrayed his growing annoyance, as did the tension in his shoulders and the increasing wideness of his gestures. Most times he was a self-contained man, polite and careful and reserved, but never passionless. He had fought the bandits with a burst of focused energy that was both beautiful and awful to behold. He seemed ill at ease with command, though he had the kind of ordered mind that allowed him to plan well and make the trip as easy as possible. Usually, that was. He didn’t appear to be having much success at that now.

Tristan, who until now had been shadowing Jensen, rose to his full, impressive height next to his master and glowered at the ship captain in what had to be an attempt to make him see reason. The captain glowered back, gesticulated wildly, and with one final, emphatic arm motion, turned and stalked off to the ship. Alona smiled as she watched Jensen and Tristan engage in a short but heated conversation before the two of them made their way to her side.

Jensen looked ill at ease as he explained the situation. The captain was constrained to await a shipment of wool due within the next week before he could depart these waters. In addition, the first mate had spotted unfavorable omens for an earlier departure. That and a lack of supplies conspired to keep them in the harbor for at least the next ten days.

“It is a substantial delay, I understand that,” Jensen told her. “I do not see that we have any other choice but to wait, though. The captain will not leave sooner despite pleas and threats.”

Alona pursed her lips and considered the situation for a moment before saying, “Wait here for me, please.” She left the men and her servants gaping after her as she strode toward the ship’s captain.

The captain was a prickly fellow with a demanding wife and troubles from the owners of the ship and their suppliers. Alona listened and spoke reassuring words and promised that she would pray for him when she at last arrived at her destination in the Holy Land.

A quarter of an hour later she returned to the others, smiling, with the news that their delay would last no more than five days.

Her ladies murmured appreciatively. Tristan scowled, as he did so often. And Jensen nodded, his expression warring between disbelief and admiration.

She led the way as they returned to their hospice for the night.

-*-

Marseilles was a port town, with rough characters hanging about the docks and warehouses and inhabiting the taverns like they were born there. The very air here smelled different than Tristan was used to – rather like slime. He didn’t particularly like it. Nor did he like the idea of getting on a ship and sailing to Rome, but he had little enough sway when it came to that so he said nothing about his misgivings and merely brooded in silence.

Alona had managed to shorten their stay here from two weeks to several days, and though they had a short reprieve from traveling Jensen managed to find plenty to occupy himself with. Tristan trailed along after him like a puppy, bored of the hospice with its plain cold rooms and the monks who ran the place always calling people to prayers. The truth was, though, that he would have come along even if they had been staying some place more interesting, like a villa or a palace or a school for beautiful girls. He liked being with Jensen, liked watching him work (busy and efficient and always thinking ahead) and listening to him deal with people (respectful and calm but clear in what he wanted from them) and feeling the rare grace of his smile when Tristan did something to earn it – and even when he did nothing but received it nonetheless. More than that was Jensen’s simple acceptance of him; the way he did not chastise Tristan for his foul temper or sullen aspect, how he did not hesitate to teach Tristan what he knew of grooming horses or cleaning hooves or sewing the ever-present rips in his tunic and trousers, and perhaps most importantly of all, he did not seem to mind feeding Tristan despite his ravenous appetite.

They spent the morning arranging the delivery of suitable provisions to the Hera – wine and ground grain and salted, dried fish – and spent the afternoon selling the horses and mules to the owner of the stables since there was no room for them on the ship. Tristan slipped away to pat Purity and Henry, and tried to shove down the lump of emotion that lodged in his throat when he looked upon them one last time. Afterward, they made their way toward the hospice, which lay at the edge of town. Jensen was explaining the likely route they would take to the Holy Land – the ship to Rome and another, longer ship voyage from Rome to the port of Jaffa – when Tristan looked at a knot of men conversing in the street and recognized one of them. He seized Jensen’s arm and hauled him backward into an alley.

“One of the men who attacked us at the bridge is out there!” Tristan hissed.

Jensen peered around the corner, then drew back, his expression tight. “You are right. I recognize his red hair and the gray in his beard. I think, also, that his companion was there.”

Jensen gnawed on his lip for a moment. Both of them were armed with nothing more than knives, and Jensen’s armor was back at the hospice, it being too heavy to wear about if it was unnecessary. The rest of the guard was either back at the hospice or roaming about the city, enjoying the time on land while they could.

“The hospice is yet some distance away,” Jensen said. Tristan knew that he was thinking of returning there and gathering what men he could before confronting their assailants.

“But what if they disappear in that time?” Tristan asked.

Jensen considered him, assessing. “Are you up for it?”

Tristan gave a grin that his mother had called his wolf smile and nodded vigorously. Jensen gave an answering smile of his own, quick and a bit reckless. “Then let us have at them.”

They palmed their weapons and emerged from the alley side by side.

“Hey!” Jensen shouted, deep voiced and angry, to the knot of men.

The two that had attacked them at the bridge looked up in surprise. It didn’t take either of them long to recognize Tristan and Jensen, and the fight was on. Blades flashed and met and cries rang out, echoing off the close buildings and narrow streets. One of the four dashed away immediately, looking over his shoulder at them fearfully as he ran full out. Tristan took on the red-haired man he’d recognized from the fight at the river, and immediately knew he’d met his match. The man snatched a shiny-bladed dagger from a pouch at his hip and stabbed at Tristan with vicious, powerful thrusts. Tristan twisted and dodged and jabbed his own knife in response, kneeing the man in the crotch when he saw an opportunity, then stamping on his instep with all the might he could muster as the man curled into himself in pain. He then seized the opportunity to grab the man’s beard and yank his head down so that his nose smashed into Tristan’s knee. He dropped to the ground on his ass, dazed, blood running in two quick lines from his nostrils. Tristan tromped on his wrist and snatched up the dagger that released from his spasming hand. He seemed down, groaning and writhing. Still, Tristan didn’t want to give him a chance to get up again. He was readying himself for a solid kick to the head when he felt a lightning-hot jab of pain to his shoulder blade.

He yelped in surprise and anger and swung around to confront his attacker. A quick, dirty flurry of punches, knife-pricks, and slashes erupted and before he knew it both he and Jensen’s opponents were down on the street, rolling and groaning. He and Jensen looked at one another, both of them disheveled and breathing hard. Jensen had two high spots of color in his cheek and a wild look in his eyes.

Tristan’s opponent was up on his knees reaching to help the red-haired man when Jensen grabbed him by the back of the collar and snapped, “Oh, no you don’t. Get out of here.” He shoved the man toward the alley’s exit and turned to wrap his fist in the red-haired man’s tunic, then thrust his knee into his chest and snarled into his nodding face, “Who hired you to come after us at the river?”

Tristan looked at Jensen in surprise. He hadn’t known that the bandits at the river were hired by someone.

The man garbled something unintelligible. Jensen slammed him back into the wall and said, “Answer me!”

A distant shout caught Tristan’s attention. He looked down the street to see a group of men running toward them.

“Jensen,” he said urgently. “We need to get out of here. Now!”

Jensen looked up and caught sight of the men, then gave Tristan a quick nod. Together, they raced off down the street. Tristan hung back a little, confused about the warren of streets, but Jensen seemed to know where they were going. After what seemed like forever, and involved running down more than one dead end street, they made it back to their hospice. Once there, Jensen went from room to room, ordering everyone to pack up their belongings immediately. Then he cornered the tonsured monk who ran the place and questioned him about other places they could stay.

“Jensen, what are you doing?” Tristan asked, bewildered and a little annoyed with all the rushing about.

“We can’t risk them finding us here,” he explained. “They know that we’re a group of travelers. This is the first place they will look for us.”

Which was a good point, really. So Tristan packed their scattered belongings even though his back throbbed with agony. He could hear Jensen patiently explaining their need to leave the hospice to Alona and her sharp, annoyed reply. All in all he was glad that he wasn’t the one to deal with her temper. He trudged after everyone to the empty villa on the outskirts of town that was the only place big enough to house all of them.

By the time they had settled in to their new accommodations, it was dark, and Tristan’s shoulders burned from fatigue. He was finishing his dinner -- a thick piece of bread and an apple -- when Jensen entered their room. His hair was mussed, his knuckles were stained with dried blood, and a bruise darkened one cheek.

“Well,” he said, smiling ruefully. “That took entirely too long. But I think we are safe until our ship departs. God willing that will only be a day or two.”

“Yes,” Tristan echoed faintly. “God willing.”

Jensen cut him an inquisitive look, and seemed ready to speak, but instead busied himself with arranging his blanket on the stuffed straw mattress he had purchased the prior day. Tristan had a matching one that lay at the other side of the room from Jensen’s, the blanket turned down invitingly.

“You have eaten?” Tristan asked.

Jensen smiled, and gave a little snort of amusement. Tristan had become something of a nag when it came to Jensen’s eating habits, or lack thereof. He did not understand why Jensen had so little regard for food, not when his own stomach seemed empty more often than full. “I had a piece of hard cheese and a handful of berries at the behest of Cora. She is in league with you when it comes to filling my belly, isn’t she?”

Tristan scowled a little, but then relented with a shrug. “Perhaps.”

“Speaking of Cora, she gave me this,” Jensen said, drawing a little glass jar from the pouch at his waist and handing it to Tristan. “It is an herb paste for wounds. Did our tussle earlier leave you with any?”

Tristan grunted noncommittally, but the stiff way he held his back must have alerted Jensen to his injury. Jensen approached him, concern drawing his eyebrows together. “Here, now. Let me see.”

Tristan grimaced. “It doesn’t hurt much. Leave me be.”

“Nonsense. Where is it?”

“My shoulder,“ Tristan admitted.

Jensen approached him from behind. “There’s some blood on your tunic. Come, now. Off with it. Let’s see what it is.”

Tristan reluctantly peeled his tunic off and sat cross-legged, huddled and silent, as Jensen dug through his pack for a clean cloth. He smeared some of the herb paste on the cloth and turned to Tristan, arranging the oil lamp to provide adequate light to see to his back. Tristan felt Jensen hesitate when he got a good look at Tristan’s back, heard the little indrawn breath at what he saw there. Tristan’s ears burned and his lips flattened. He knew what his back looked like – the way the scars twisted across his shoulders and down his spine. His father had been a harsh man who left his mark in flesh.

Jensen was silent for so long that Tristan was sure he would speak, though there was nothing he wanted more at that moment than for the continued silence.

He flinched when Jensen’s warm fingers probed the skin around the wound. “Now, then,” he said. “It’s not bad. No need to trouble yourself. A puncture wound that bled a bit but it’s already clotted.” He smeared the unguent on the wound gently.

Tristan felt himself relax with relief despite the discomfort of the moment, and the intimacy of it. He cleared his throat. “You believe that the bandits at the bridge were hired by someone?”

Jensen sighed. “It would seem likely. They fought like soldiers, not unskilled robbers. And I do not like the coincidence that brings them to our very destination. I wish that we had not been interrupted before that fiend talked, but such is the way of things. Perhaps this shall be the end of the matter.”

Tristan nodded his agreement as he shrugged his tunic back on, grateful to be clothed again.

Part V