A TALE OF ANGLOA

Chapter 7

December 21st

The following days turned out to be colder than the previous ones. Cadherra had never seen such a winter. If it continued, people were afraid that they might not survive it. As soon as they stepped outside from the little warmth that their house would provide, their lungs would burn intensely as they breathed in. Their eyelashes and brows would turn white with frost. If they did not cover their faces it would freeze up, turning immobile.

Adelton Hall was not much better off. The thick stone did little in keeping any cold out and even though the servants spent the better part of the day trying to keep all the fireplaces in the castle lit, it was in vain. George decided that they had to hire more workers for the household or the servants would carry a heavy load during the winter.

Joseph's wounds were better and he was able to stand and walk around in his room. But there was little that tempted him from leaving the warm furs of his bed. Christine did not visit anymore. He wondered what went through that mind of hers but he never breached the subject again, which, in the end, was for the better.

It was midday when Mrs. Hammond stumbled upon Lucius as he was taking a stroll from the chapel. At first, she could not recognize him under his thick cape lined with furs, his hood up and a wool scarf draped across his face. She thought she had stumbled upon Tristan. But as she looked closer, she noticed that he was slightly shorter and not as broad across the shoulders. And then there was the lack of the mask. The fog weighed heavy around them and Lucius crossed the courtyard, casting a worried glance toward the main gate that led down from the cliff-side and toward Hayes. If it snowed anymore, they would become trapped until the weather got warmer.

"Baron Chaeld," curtsied Mrs. Hammond as they met in the opening going into the first court.

"Mrs. Hammond," acknowledged Lucius with a nod and looked puzzled at the old woman. Despite the cold, she wore her regular navy blue gown in thick wool, a white apron with nothing but a thin cape draped around her frail shoulders.

He was on his way to meet Tristan. A few townspeople had trekked through the fog to come beg for food and shelter. Their own homes were not enough to shield them from the harsh elements. But he had something else in mind as well, he was determined on playing matchmaker.

"I tell you that never has Cadherra seen such a winter, sir." As they walked inside, Lucius pulled the scarf down from his face, the cold air numbed his features, turning his nose and cheeks red instantly.

"I do not think I have ever seen such a cold winter in the whole of Angloa. They must be far worse up north. No wonder the villagers are asking for shelter."

"Villagers here, asking for shelter? Then we are indeed facing hard times."

"These are the effects of the war, there is little food and provisions left from summer. Due to the high taxes, the people have suffered and they have little left. I am going to Lord Hawthorne as we speak, to inform him of this," said Lucius. Mrs. Hammond scoffed, not afraid to show her dislike for the lord of the castle.

"He will offer them the shelter they need, he may surprise you, Mrs. Hammond."

"I am sure…" They continued walking, heading to the same direction.

"I am glad to see that Miss Vega looks healthier than before." Lucius felt uncomfortable walking with her in silence. Mrs. Hammond's mood, however, did not improve at the forced conversation. She had nothing against Lucius, but she did not take kindly toward his friend. It was something she made very clear.

"Perhaps she would look even better if she did not find herself so alone here."

"Or perhaps she would feel better once she got to know the man she is marrying and stopped fearing him. Lord Tristan is patient and holds great honor—in my opinion—for not pressing Miss Vega into anything. But she—like many in this castle—does not know him like I do. He is an honorable man and if she understood this, then she would see past his mask."

"Maybe," stated Mrs. Hammond and her features softened. "But we cannot force neither Miss Vega nor his lordship into something that is not there," she said and then excused herself as she walked toward the kitchens. But her words had left an impression on Lucius. Maybe Miss Vega would never come to love Tristan, but with a push in the right direction, she could come to know him better. Tristan had saved Lucius many times on the battlefield, so it was his time to repay him. It was time to rid the castle of hurt and sorrow and fill it with joy and laughter. Was he naïve for being so positive? Yes. But if he could bring them closer together, only to become friends, he would have succeeded.

He neared Tristan's quarters and knocked on the door. There was a soft "come in" and he stepped in. The walls had been lined with more heavy fabrics, hanging behind heavy tapestries, and the floor had more carpets, to keep the warmth inside. It was probably the warmest room of the castle and so Lucius shed his furs and cloaks. He sat down in one of the more comfortable chairs by the blazing fire where Tristan was having a glass of fine Rioja wine, imported from Spain.

The masked man was staring intensely into the fire as if in deep thought. He did not even look up when Lucius entered.

"What I would give right now for the warm beaches and the palm trees of the south," he sighed.

"We are in the south," chuckled Lucius.

"I wasn't talking about Angloa." It seemed as if Tristian was reminiscing, his mind in another place and probably in another time.

"Care for a drink?" Tristan pointed toward a cabinet filled with cups and crystal containers, holding all different kinds of liquor.

Lucius shook his head. "No, although I would like it, I am not here to get drunk."

"Then why are you here? To enjoy my wonderful company?" asked Tristan bitterly. Lucius sighed, his friend was being characteristically pessimistic.

"I am here because some of the poorer townspeople are here seeking shelter for the winter. Their huts will not provide the protection they need and lest you help them, they will starve." Tristan took another sip from his cup and sighed. He rested his leather encased head against the soft cushion of the chair.

"They must be truly desperate, to come to the cursed monster of Adelton Hall seeking help," he sneered. Lucius flinched. He did not think that Tristan would've heard the rumors floating around the castle about him.

"Well then, you talk with them Lucius. Do what you see fit," Tristan said, waving a hand. He wanted to be left alone.

"It is your estate and your food Tristan, I cannot just speak for you. Why don't you sober up and I will have them meet you in the Singer's Hall? There you can decide if you will allow them here or not," suggested Lucius, rising from his seat, gathering his coats and furs and headed toward the door. Tristan said nothing and downed the entire cup of wine. If this was how he was going to live, let him at least be drunk.

Outside Lucius stumbled upon Maria—Christine's serving maid—in the corridor. No doubt that she was heading to her lady's chamber. He would, of course, talk with the townspeople himself. But now he had other more important matters to attend to.

He stopped her. "Maria, is it?" The young brunette curtsied deeply and smiled.

"Yes, my lord? What can I do for you?" She added the title, not knowing if she should, but she would rather refer him to a higher social position than a lower one.

Lucius chuckled. "I bring word from Mrs. Hammond. She has asked for Miss Vega to come down to the Singer's Hall later this evening. An hour after the sun has set she is to meet her there for she needs to go over what to do with the wounded in the Palas." Maria looked puzzled.

"I thought the chamberlain took care of such things."

"It seems he has his hands full trying to keep this place from turning into an ice palace. Also, Mrs. Vega has not wanted to take care of such things, as she is not mistress of this household anymore. Mrs. Hammond felt that she wanted Miss Vega's help since she has been the one to most frequent the Palas and heal the wounded," Lucius lied through his teeth, without a care in the world.

"Of course, my lord, I'll inform her immediately." Maria curtsied deeply and quickly headed toward her mistress' room.

Lucius walked away with a smug smile on his face. He hoped the lord would pardon him for the slight white lie he had told.

The Hall of the Singers was located in the eastern, court-side wing of the Palas, on the fourth floor under the lord and lady's lodgings. It had been designed several hundred years ago as an amalgamation of two rooms: The Hall of the Singers and the Ballroom. It was one of the most decorated halls in the castle and the interior reminded more of a royal palace than an old-fashioned fortress.

The rectangular room was decorated with themes from medieval Angloan tales. But due to the English influence, there was also a strong presence of the Arthurian legend and other English myths and tales. Its longer side was terminated by a gallery crowned by a tribune. The eastern narrow side was terminated by a stage, structured by arcades and known as the Saengen. The Hall of the Singers was never designed for court festivities of the early kings that once had used the castle for their summer escapes to the mountains. Rather, like the Throne Hall, it served as a walkable monument in which the culture of knights and courtly love of the Middle Ages was represented. From the roof, with its rich carved pieces in different hues of ash, oak, and mahogany to the walls, painted in rich colors, depicting different religious and mythological scenes. To the vast tapestries and the slick, smooth sand-colored wood floors, the room was like a storybook where the people who were lucky enough to enter, could stare for hours at all the intricate details and still discover something new each time they walked in.

From the ceiling hung three thick wheel chandeliers made in fire gilt copper. Although there was still light outside the candles in the chandeliers had been lit as had the ones in the many candelabras that were placed in the room.

The long southern side of the rectangular room was made up mainly of windows that allowed a view of the lands south of the castle. It was mainly a continuing flatland that reached for the horizon. But if one looked very hard, one could see the smoke that came from the chimneys of Coldwick, a hard day's ride away.

Christine had arrived early. She was supposed to be there an hour after the sunset but she loved watching the land and sky before her change in color as the sun lowered on the horizon. The fog that had been hanging over the valley for the last few days had cleared toward the evening.

Christine got to see the sky turn into a mix of pink and orange hues as the sun started setting, bathing the entire room in its warm and comforting light. Although she could not see the orb disappear behind the mountains, she was content enough with watching the myriad of colors change in front of her. Soon the crescent moon appeared and together with the vast network of bright stars that the night sky held, they lit up the land under them. The flatlands were bathed in silver and the snow twinkled brightly, lighting up the night even more so. Ever since she had visited her father's grave she could feel a change deep within her being. It had made her lose her insecurities, she had a goal now, a determination.

After a while, she heard heavy footsteps as someone entered the room. Christine had been so lost in contemplating the scenery before her that she had lost track of time. She tore her gaze from the scenery and turned around. The young woman was surprised to find Tristan Hawthorne standing in the spacious hall, right by the door. Tristan was just as surprised to find Christine Vega turning from the impressive view the tall and broad windows offered. But even if the starry sky was beautiful, to him it did not compare to the woman that stood in front of it, bathed in the dull light of the wax candles.

She looked healthier than before: not as frail as she had for these last few weeks. Her features were made soft by the flickering candle lights and as her inquisitive eyes met his, he felt his mouth go dry. She was wearing a sweeping long cream-beige coat of crushed silk velvet that hugged her midsection. It tapered out into a full skirt with a small train at the back. He could still see a hint of red under the coat, suggesting that she wore more layers underneath. Her sleeves and neckline had a marabou trim in light brown and she wore light brown gloves to further protect her from the chill that penetrated the old castle.

"My lord," she said surprised at first as she curtsied, a lock of hair fell into her face. But she soon realized that if she would ever get to Wessport, then she had to get closer to Tristan, even if she did not like the thought of it. And here was a perfect chance. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. There was no waiver in her as there had been before, no shyness, only the determination of a tortured soul.

Tristan started to realize why Lucius had sent him there. He wondered what lie he had told Christine to get her to come, but decided to play along with it.

He was taken aback when, for the first time ever, she met his eyes without hesitation as she spoke. Her voice ran like sweet honey, it was soft and gentle, he had never noticed that before.

"I did not know you were coming as well, my lord." Tristan folded his gloved hands behind his back and stepped into the hall while letting his posture relax. At least she did not seem to shy away from him as she had before. He wondered what had changed since they had last seen each other. Could it be that she was more kindly inclined toward him because he defended her against the maids the other day? He did not know, for during that moment she had seemed as afraid of him as ever. Perhaps someone had talked about him. Whatever it was he was grateful for the positive turn of events. His mind—dull from the effects of the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream—made him less suspicious than he should have been of the woman before him.

"I thought it best that way." He did not know what to say, he had no idea what she was talking about or why she thought he was there. Even though Christine did not shy away from him she was still careful around him and kept some distance between them. It was something, to her surprise, that Tristan respected. For he did not try to get closer to her. After a while of strained silence, Christine was the one to speak first. She had to force the words out in the beginning. Her soft voice gently echoed in the grand hall.

"I don't really know if we should relocate the wounded or not. The Palas is starting to get colder as we go deeper into winter and they still need healing." As she let her mind wander she seemed worried now.

"Then what do you think we should do?" asked Tristan, uncharacteristically cheery from all those cups of wine he had downed during the course of the day. His tone was lighter and his countenance more laid back.

"You want my opinion?"

"Of course. Who else knows this castle and these lands better? You have been taking care of my men all this time and I believe that you will know what is best for them." Christine did not know if she imagined it but she might have seen a twitch in the corner of his lips as if he had almost smiled. She blushed at the compliment—to her utter surprise. The dark and gloomy aura that always surrounded Tristan seemed toned down as if whatever walls he usually had around him had lowered for an instance.

"In that case, and following what the physician said, I think it best we move the remaining six soldiers to share guest rooms." She did not know if it was blunt and suddenly blurted out: "Because the castle has more than enough rooms. Instead of keeping all the fireplaces in the Palas lit we could light the individual guest room fires instead. I believe it would be easier for the maids to work that way as well. They would not have to run through the castle all the time." This time Tristan actually smiled. Christine was intrigued, she had never thought that he was able to perform such an act of joy. It lit up his whole persona even more—a most uncharacteristic trait she had just discovered. It drew out her interest and curiosity more for him now that she was starting to slowly peel away at the many layers of the complex man before her. He quickly discovered her staring and he turned serious again, cursing his tipsy state. But the way she looked at him seemed different now. It was not with fright, nor caution. It was with interest.

"Then I shall have a word with George and so it shall be." When she remained silent he felt unnerved. "You may leave, if you wish." He turned away from her, not wanting to watch her walk away from him. But Christine did not move. Even she was surprised that she did not. For the first time ever she discovered that she did not fear the man in black before her. It was her regained resolve. She had a purpose to fulfill, and she would see it through no matter what.

To gain a pardon for her father she needed to travel to Wessport—to beg for an audience with the king. She still had some friends at court. Lord Athar would lend an ear in her direction and help her, as best as he could. But to get to Wessport she first needed to convince Tristan. And doing so she needed to close the gap between them, for what she was asking was not an easy request.

"I would personally like to thank you," she whispered. Christine did not really know what else to say. She had been so frightened of him and distanced herself so much from him that trying to make him believe that she had a more positive outlook on him would be hard. However, she found that the words sounded sincere, which surprised her.

"You don't have to thank me," said Tristan back. He turned around, masking his own surprise at the girl's willingness to linger longer than necessary in his presence.

"Then allow me to ask for your forgiveness for my impertinent attitude these last few weeks."

"A soul in mourning does not know the sins it commits," he said slowly, looking through the windows. He was the one who was thoughtful now as if his mind had strayed. Something in the depths of his shadowed eyes glinted dangerously and served to remind Christine that he was still dangerous.

"My lord?" she asked. His profile seemed like a sorrowful statue; a Greek, tragic hero, lost in time and thought—looking in the distance. Waiting for someone perhaps? Or reminiscing on better days. The small tension in the room broke and Tristan walked closer to her now.

"All is forgiven then," he said in a husky voice—almost in a whisper—standing right next to her. Christine felt his hot breath down her neck, making the hairs on her body rise as electricity coursed through her body. Her eyes wandered to his masked face as he lingered next to her for a moment. She wondered what he might do, if he was going to act. She knew that she could not send him mixed signals. Stopping his advances now would be foolish. Yet, she did not want to be touched. Not because she was disgusted by the idea, but because she was afraid of what sensation that might awaken in her.

Tristan did not touch her. Instead, he lightly bowed his head and left her alone yet again in the hall. A warm feeling coursed through her body. Her blood pumped furiously through her veins and her heart raced as if she had just run to Hayes.

December 23rd

While the lord and future lady of the castle had come to terms with the changes that were so apparent in their growing relationship, the celebration of Christmas was but two days away.

George and Mrs. Hammond were up to their ears in tasks to complete while stressed servants ran up and down in the castle like small elves. They were making sure that all was prepared for the Christmas feast that would take place the coming day.

Joseph was well enough to walk around the castle with the support of a crutch. Lucius kept going back and forth between the dungeon, Tristan, and the library. He was determined to squeeze more out of Alan Moore. But it seemed that the man would only talk whenever the masked man appeared before him.

Lady Amelia and Christine helped Mrs. Hammond with the decorations, telling the servants of the castle how the Hall of the Singers should be dressed up for the eventful dinner. It was tradition that every year the lord of Adelton Hall held a big feast. Other important families from Hayes and its outskirts would attend as they always had. What was different this year, however, was that the lord of the castle was a different one. Many of the guests that would attend were curious, nonetheless.

Tristan kept busy exercising. If he did not ride out on his stallion, he was either practicing the art of the sword or hand combat. Lucius would fence with him here and there while Tristan had managed to find a worthy opponent in one of the stablemen. The young man was familiar with the same training he had gotten in the East. It was not on the same level as his old master, but it was enough to keep him on his feet and to keep him alert whenever he fought him.

After meeting Christine he felt how he had hope for them. Something told him that their relationship had come over its difficulties and it was only upward from here. It would take time, but he was sure that she would eventually be his. The thought of conquering her thrilled him, like when he chased his prey through Raven's Grove. He only thought of winning her over, a great feat once he had her under his finger. At the same time, he was becoming growingly cautious of his ever-growing fondness of the girl. He had to guard himself because love was something he could never allow himself to have.

Tristan fought Lucius, using new and alien techniques his opponent had never seen before. He kept trying to push away the worry that had been gnawing at him ever since he had spoken with Saxton. He knew that his worries would come true the day the king asked for him, and what would he do then? Would he simply watch his demise with his own eyes, knowing that he could have stopped it at some point? Or maybe he should listen to Saxton and do something about it now—like send someone he trusted ahead to Wessport and investigate. That was his best option.

"Yield!" shouted Lucius as he rejoiced in his victory. Tristan's sword had flown out of his hand and was a few meters to his left. Lucius' blade was pointing right at his heart. Tristan felt the sweat run under his mask and raised his hands in defeat. Lucius' glee was quickly replaced by a frown.

"Were your thoughts someplace else again?" he asked, muttering. Tristan only shook his shoulders innocently and went to pick up his sword. The white shirt he was wearing had unbuttoned at the top, exposing the upper part of his chest. His collarbones glistened with sweat, showing to what length he had exerted himself. To Lucius surprise, he could see a couple of thin, white scars run across it, going up to his neck, only to be hidden by his mask. Tristan was too nonchalant to bother buttoning it up.

"Of course not, Lucius. How could you even think such a thing?" Tristan frowned, looking offended by the idea. But he quickly grinned. "Maybe if we crossed blades again I could win?"

Lucius sighed and had one of the servants rush over to give him some water and a piece of cloth to wipe his face. He cast away the protective vest and let the cold air hit his torso. He handed the footman the sword and shook his head.

"Enough is enough, although I've beaten you three times I think your mind has been with Miss Vega the entire time."

"Not necessarily."

"Then what have you been thinking of? What to wear tomorrow?" Lucius teased making Tristan chuckled despite his worries. He decided to go with it.

"Maybe I should wear more festive clothes than black."

"But you look so good in black…" Lucius trailed off halfheartedly. Tristan handed the servant his sword and protective vest as well, buttoning his shirt and both men walked out of the hall toward their respective quarters.

"You've never seen me in any other color, so how can you know?"

Lucius suddenly grimaced as a mental picture of Tristan wearing breeches with white stockings and bright colors floated into his mind.

"I don't think it would suit you much," was all he could muster, trying not to break into laughter. Tristan patted him hard on the shoulder.

Night had fallen when the heavy footsteps of a man could be heard as he descended to the lower grounds of the castle. It was a damp and dark place, not fit for a soul to live, yet here were the dungeons. No natural light reached in between the dark, thick stone walls. The torches that had been placed on the walls tried in vain to illuminate the passageways that stretched under Adleton Hall. The damp, dark dungeons did little to keep the chill of the outside elements away. And so they had turned into an icy hell for the poor prisoner that lay freezing on the floor, with nothing but an old blanket and some hay to shield his bruised body.

Alan Moore had been completely dehumanized and broken. Lucius had been the one to interrogate him for the most part, usually using psychology to turn his senses against him. But whenever Tristan stepped foot into the dungeon—which was not often—Alan would turn into a sobbing mess. This time Tristan would try something different.

He unlocked the cell doors and stepped into the stinking block as Alan sat eating a piece of bread with some dried old meat. When he saw the tall, dark menace make its way into his lodgings he dropped his food and went into the corner, like a dog hiding its tail between its legs. Alan Moore curled into a ball and hoped for the best.

Tristan walked up to him and kneeled before him, giving him a blanket and some sweet wine.

"Tis' a cold night, I would not want you to freeze to death," he whispered in a caring manner. Alan did not know what to do. His instincts told him that if he accepted the blanket, he would suffer for it. But his basic needs of protecting himself against the pressing cold made him reach out desperately for something that would warm him. He dared not look anywhere near the mask.

"T-thank you." His whisper was barely audible. He had known harsher men than Tristan, but none had been as intimidating as the latter.

"You know why I'm here."

"Yes," Alan sobbed, hiding his face in his hands. He wished for it to end. Could he ever have a normal life if they released him after this? He was plagued by nightmares of Tristan Hawthorne. That thing was not a man. He did not understand how Lucius Chaeld could even be in the same room as him. Alan did not comprehend what he had seen underneath that mask. All he knew was that he would probably not live to talk about it.

"John Fletcher is not the only person you know that conspired with the English," Tristan stated. It was not a question.

"I cannot give you a name, I have said this countless of times before," Alan said desperately. "Please just kill me already!" he sobbed.

"I will not allow you to die or find peace until you give me something," Tristan whispered as he neared. His masked face was mere inches from the poor man's and Alan got a good look at Tristan's eyes in the light of the blazing torch. He recoiled and started praying to God to forgive him for his many sins and let him find the peace of death and join the good Lord in heaven. Tristan smirked wickedly.

"God cannot help you here," he threatened, his voice lowering so that it sounded closer to the growl of an animal. "God will not help you, ever."

Alan sobbed. Truly Tristan Hawthorne must've been sent by the Devil himself. There was no doubt as he looked into those eyes. Alan had never been a religious man. But in that moment he wanted to atone for all his sins, just to make sure that the demon before him would not send him down to hell—to make him suffer for eternity. Or was he already in hell? He did not know anymore.

"All I know," he commenced as he shut his eyes. He did not want to see the man before him. He did not want to be afraid anymore. "Is that there is someone with a lot of power in Wessport that wanted Angloa to fail in this war. I do not know who it is, only that it is someone close to the king. It is a person that has tried to achieve this for a few years now. It sees you as a threat and that is why I was sent by John Fletcher to send a message to the British and to guard you."

There was a long silence where Alan could only hear the fast beat of his heart. When he opened his eyes Tristan was long gone and he found himself yet again alone in the darkness.

Author's Note: I hope you liked this chapter. I have gotten someone pointing out that the pacing is too slow. I would like to address it here. I completely understand that, but I feel that we are still at the beginning of the story, I want to set every character now, and I think we have really gotten to know them. Don't worry though, soon the pacing will quicken as we go further into the story As always, thanks for reading, those who reviewed and if you liked it, please feel free to leave a review. It is always appreciated.