Prologue
Peace . . . the restless, evermoving prey that eludes the king. . . . Now come the lengthening days of his reign. . . . Many were the battles, and those fought long. . . . Many a son, a father, a brother were given over to the swords of Leon. . . . But where once the protection of his realm and the glory of battle drove the king, there was in the wintering of his years only the desire for peace. . . . And in these thoughts and desires was he joined by the King of Leon . . . . And so it was that the king sent his son to Leon to sign the treaty that would free the two kingdoms from the harness of war. . . .
The early morning snow had melted, but it was still cold. The chill air hung heavily trying to suppress the rays of the rising sun. The dense fog was lifting, but only slightly as Prince Tristan led his small retinue up the river. He was all too aware of the treaty he carried and its significance as he made his way closer to land of his enemy. The weight of his errand burdened him more and more. The fate of the world was in his hands, and he was determined not to disappoint his countrymen. Despite the cold, he sat tall in the saddle. Even with his youthful features, he looked regal in his white tabard emblazoned with a golden rising sun. Tristan was a young man but not at all sheltered by his father the king. His mother had died when he was small, and he had been raised in the garrison and on the battlefield by knights. For as long as he could remember, he had lived among powerful warriors, and he had grown in their likeness. He was a handsome, tall man with broad shoulders. Unlike his father, he was clean shaven, and also in contrast to the king, his hair was short, dark, and other than the slight wave at his temple, straight. He was an even-tempered, kind man but not a social creature. He had been chastised more than once by his father for spending too much time sitting on his throne and not mingling among the people. But the times were changing. Now, to the people, armed with this treaty, he was a promise of hope. After many years of war, perhaps his reign as king would finally be one of peace.
He thought of his aging father and what this treaty would mean to him–what him, as prince, being the emissary of peace would mean to him. As he continued to try to see through the mist, he thought of what it would mean to them all: him, his father, his men, his people, and his young bride. His tired brown eyes scanned up the river. The left bank, the right. The trees and the brush were thick, and that along with the fog made visibility virtually impossible. And as if these conditions weren't daunting enough, he was tired. His men were tired too. So was his horse. They had left before the dawn had broken on the horizon. His squire's eyelids were heavy and drooping. If he were any closer to sleep, the prince's white banner would slip from his hand. He knew they would need a rest. And soon. If he could just push them a little farther. He had promised his wife. Ten days. He would be home in ten days time.
He caught some movement to his right from the corner of his eye. It was too large to be a fox or a rabbit. Maybe a deer. Two of his men were singing loudly and gaily. A couple of the others were having a secret discussion, and knowing them, it could only include three things: conquest, beer, or women. Probably the latter. Although for those two, it was usually a combination of all three. Tristan seemed the only one concerned for their safety. With the promise of peace, the rest of them were oblivious to the danger. To be sure, the two kings were set on peace, but there were others who would be against any such alliance. He could name them. He knew them. They had fought for one king or the other for so long that the very idea of peace would taste bitter in their mouths. These men would stop at nothing to silence those wishing for peace. He had willingly taken this mission for his father knowing the risk. He felt it was his duty. He knew his life was in danger, yet this treaty must be brought to Leon. His father would never have made it. He was in good health and a strong man considering his age, but he would be easy prey for any band of marauders. So as the prince and as his father's champion, Tristan volunteered to the task.
There was movement again. This time on his left. Something was not right. He held up his fist and pulled on the reigns. The company stopped behind him. He studied the trees as his men stopped their noise and did the same.
"Ambush!" the cry from one of his guards pierced the silence.
"There is treachery afoot!"
"Beware, My Lord!"
Similar cries were called out by the rest of his men, but the sounds were drowned out by the cries of a horde of footmen that had swooped down from the bank. Sword drawn, Tristan fought off the barbarians. Before he even had time to assess the situation, he knew they were outnumbered and surrounded. He sought a way of escape. He tried fighting his way through. "Send riders to the king!" he called. "Let him be warned of this treachery. Quickly!" But as he looked around he realized that there was no one to send. Several had already fallen. The others were fighting off more than they could handle. Tristan sliced his sword through one of them, but it caught in his armor forcing Tristan to let it go. One of the warriors shoved a spear in his direction. Tristan dodged the attack and grabbed the weapon. A struggle then ensued for control. The other man was stronger than he, and he lost his balance. He fell from the horse landing in the river. Tristan came up out of the water gasping for breath. The river was less than knee deep where he fell, but the icy water constricted his lungs making it difficult to breathe. One of his wounded, dying squires handed his prince his own sword and shield. Tristan fought off several more, but there were too many. While fighting several at once, his sword was knocked from his hand. In desperation, he hurled his shield at the head of an approaching adversary. It missed its target. He reached down into the water desperately searching for his sword.
"My Prince," he heard the soft, pained voice of another of his squires. He looked toward the sound–toward the bank. The boy was wounded. His tunic, which had been white that morning, was now stained red with blood and brown from the muddy river bank. He bravely tried to pass the banner to his lord. The last man standing, Tristan grabbed the pole. It would work as a staff. He swung it in circles around his head, backing up the attackers. He was running out of breath when one of them struck him in the stomach with the end of his staff. He dropped the banner. Several of his attackers closed in and began binding his hands. The last thing he remembered seeing before being knocked out was the dead face of his squire lying in the mud.
"Everything has to be perfect," the young King of Leon thought to himself as he hurried down the hall. He had seen to everything personally. Prince Tristan's stay was to be as comfortable and luxurious as possible. He hadn't slept for days, but the excitement drove him forward. Peace. They were to finally have peace. He wasn't much older than the prince himself, but as the recently crowned King of Leon, he was determined to impress Tristan and secure the peace that had long evaded him. Leon had been at war with King Philippe since before he was born, and he had often dreamt of this day. Now it had finally come. He had gone to the kitchens, spoken with the housemaids, the grooms. Everything had to be perfect. It had been ten years since Leon was this close to peace, and last time peace had been blown due to an insignificant technicality. Not this time. This time they would be celebrating peace. Nothing would go wrong. He refused to think of such things. The sound of his footsteps echoed across the battlements. He looked out beyond the thatched roofs and smoke drifting up from his capital. He eagerly watched the horizon awaiting the white banners of the prince that were to bring him his treaty. As the hours passed, he found himself growing more anxious. He paced fitfully. He knew a few hours delay was no cause for concern. He tried to reassure himself and cursed his impatience.
The high-pitched chatter of children startled him. Two young boys, the sons of his champion, were also on the wall awaiting the arrival of the royal party. The elder of the two tried giving his younger brother a boost so he could see over the wall. They stopped suddenly as they noticed their king. The elder grabbed his brother's sleeve reminding him to bow before their liege. The king smiled at the two miniatures of his friend and champion. This was the future of his kingdom, and the future was bright. He loved knowing that these boys would not grow up in the war torn world that he and their father had grown up in. These boys would know peace. Such thoughts lightened his heart. "What can I do for you young sirs?" he asked.
The elder looked up at him with a light in his soft brown eyes. "Mama said we were gonna have peace when the prince arrived, and Papa wouldn't have to go fight any more."
"Where him at?" the little one asked concerning the prince. The king's smile widened at his inquisitive and impatient expression. He lifted the little one off the ground and guided the other toward the wall. He pointed across the valley and told them of Prince Tristan and the peace he was to bring. He then sent them off to bed where the two children dreamt of white banners coming over the hill-white banners that never came.
Tristan awoke bound and by a fire. He was not sure how long he'd been out or how he had arrived at this place, but he was not allowed to rest for long. Once his abductors realized that the prince had regained consciousness, they had him up and moving across fields and down cattle paths. He had been dragged through the countryside for so long that he was no longer sure where he was. He vainly struggled against his bonds. His head throbbed. He was numb with cold. He did know one thing. These were not the barbarians they appeared to be. They periodically stopped to rest, but none of them spoke to him directly. They even spoke to each other in hushed tones. They may have been trying to disguise their accent, but they need not have bothered. He knew where those weapons were forged. He recognized them easily, and he knew that his father had been betrayed.
The ropes burned his wrists, but his captors pulled him along. In the fading light, he saw a ruin on a hill. He couldn't recall having been here before. The place appeared as though it were once grand. But now the walls had been destroyed. Stones lay scattered across the hill. Many of them blackened as if by fire. The destruction, however, was not recent. Grass and vines grew over the debris. He was being dragged to the only tower still standing. He stumbled up the broken stairs. A whip cracked near his head urging him forward. He made one last attempt to throw off his tormentors. He jerked on the rope pulling down one of the warriors and gave one last struggle. Getting loose, he sought escape but to no avail.
"Seize him. Set him in bonds," a deep, resonant voice sounded from the doorway of the tower. Tristan's struggle failed. He found himself once again restrained as he struggled to his knees. "Carefully," the voice continued, "here is great treasure indeed." One that Tristan had shoved off came at him with his sword drawn, but he was immediately halted by the voice. "Stay that blade! I want him alive." Tristan flicked his head to move his hair from his face. He tried to get a good look at his captor. He was wearing dark clothes making him difficult to see in the growing darkness. He was hooded and cloaked. He propped his hip up on part of the ruins casually. His voice turned sarcastic. "The king's own champion. Protector to the throne. Look at you now. Greatest in bravery. Mightiest in battle."
Tristan wanted a shot at him. How brave was he? Sending his minions, watching from afar. Tristan knew if he only had the chance he could take him. "If you will but set loose these bonds for an instant, you would know bravery. And might!"
"And were I to set you at liberty, would you slay all these warriors whom you were unable to best even with the aid of your company?"
Tristan may have been outmatched by the sheer numbers, but he was not fooled. Nor would he let his adversary believe he was. Tristan knew the hooded man was not as clever as he believed himself to be. Tristan took a deep breath and glared at the traitor before him. "Love not too well the execution of your charade, Highwayman. For though these rogues are arrayed in the dress and armor of men from the north, they bear arms forged by the smiths of Leon!"
"Silence! Neither highwayman nor master of charade stands before you, Great Prince. Instead at the tournament, I will become champion of two kingdoms." His minions cheered.
"Never! My errand and my path are well-known to my father, the king. There will be nowhere in his realm or in Leon where you will not suffer his reach." This man would not be champion of his father's realm. Tristan was champion, but the comment was enough to make Tristan pause. He said "at the tournament"? His father was holding a tournament to celebrate the peace. This man was going to the tournament? And he would be the champion of two kingdoms?
"Ah, the king," the man left his post and approached Tristan. "If he seeks me out, his welcome will be less than he hopes. But he will not . . ."
Tristan continued to put the pieces together. And as he approached, Tristan saw beneath his hood, and he recognized his tormentor. "You!" He jumped up but was forced back down.
His captor laughed and walked behind him. "There is a darkness, Good Prince, that lies under darkness and yet, that will be the brightest of your days. Warden of the tower!" Tristan found himself being dragged to the tower again. As he moved down the hall, he could hear the deep voice following him as well as his malicious laughter. "Come, welcome our guest. See that he is afforded the deepest cellar where no light nor hope will disturb his dreams. Make way! Here is the king's champion! An ambassador of note. A maker of treaties . . ."
Tristan sat in a cold dark room struggling with his bonds. He knew the identity of his captor, and he wasn't sure why he still lived or what his intentions with him were, but they could not be for his welfare. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here. In the darkness, he was unable to track the passage of time, and here, alone in this room, he had time to think. His men were dead. They were his friends. They had families. He was responsible for them, and their deaths made him angry. Such resentment was futile he knew. But he so desperately wanted a chance to avenge them. He also worried about his own family-his father and his wife. King Philippe would be absolutely devastated if he failed at peace again and his only son was killed in the process. His wife would be left alone. She was young, simple, and innocent. What would happen to her? He felt a desperate need to protect her, but he knew that it was hopeless. What would become of the kingdom itself? He wasn't sure of his captor's plans, but he did know they were not of peace. And if he succeeded, all would be lost. He twisted his hands again trying to break free. Pain shot through his wrists. It was useless. The door creaked open. They had been kind enough to bring him food every so often, and he figured that was why they had come. But a few of the minions who had killed his men came in and forced him up and out of the room.
His captor stood near the fire going through Tristan's possessions that had been taken from him. He had found the treaty. Tristan tensed. He read the first page and tossed it into the fire. Tristan objected and struggled against his restraints, but his captor ignored him. He did the same with each successive page of the document while Tristan watched on. "They trusted you. I trusted you," Tristan said coldly. "Do what you want with me, but know that you will be punished for this."
Tristan remained ignored. A young man with long dark hair approached his master. "All is prepared?" the deep voice of his master asked.
"Yes, My Lord."
"Then let us go." He stood and gave one last command to his guards. "Gag him."