Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [47]
One day as Tristan was practicing shooting from a moving horse, a messenger came from his father, demanding his presence in the king’s private study. When the prince reported there, the king gestured to him to enter and shut the door.
Tristan wondered, apprehensively, what his father wanted. He expected a harangue about some irresponsible antic he had committed, or perhaps an admonishment to take his training more seriously.
The king turned to regard the prince carefully. With a sigh, the older man walked to a chair and sat heavily. Tristan felt himself quaking inside, as he always did around his father.
“My son, you have made it clear to me, many times in the past, that you care little for the mantle of royalty that will some day be yours.”
Tristan started to respond, but his father held up his hand.
“Let me finish. The current danger confronting the Kingdom makes your cares insignificant. You will have to begin to accept the responsibilities of your position. You have no choice in the matter.”
“Father, I have no wish to avoid -”
“Then why is it you have time for nothing more than drinking, wenching, and tending your hounds? And you get my best man killed on a fool’s mission!”
Tristan’s face stung as if he had been slapped. There was enough truth to the words to bring the hot flush of shame to his cheeks.
“I want you to take command of the town’s company. You will train with them, and lead them. This would have been Arlen’s task.” For a moment his father’s voice softened unexpectedly. “Tristan, I need your help.”
The king rose and went to a chest in the corner of the room. Opening it, he pulled out a shirt of shining steel mail. He rubbed it gently, then turned, holding it up.
“This was my father’s, Tristan, and my own battle armor. Now, I should like to see you wear it. I fear that this summer will again give us cause to test it,” said the king. For a moment, Tristan saw the courage and determination that must have been commonplace in his father’s character, long ago.
“Thus far,” added the king with a smile that did not carry to his eyes, “it has managed to keep the Kendricks alive. May its fortune bless you as well!”
Tristan looked at his father in silence, a mixture of emotions seething within him – guilt, anger at being made to feel guilty, pride that his father was asking something of him, fear that he might not be able to live up to it, and joy at the thought of wearing the beautifully crafted mail armor.
Finally, he could only say, “I shall try to wear it with honor.”
“I trust that you shall,” said the king.
“Father – everything I have ever done, or tried to do, you have belittled as unfitting of my station. Nothing has ever been good enough for you! I… I will try to do as you ask – to command a company of your men. I am just sorry that you don’t – from what you say – expect me to succeed.”
The king looked genuinely sad, but did not respond, which only increased Tristan’s anger. “You will take over the company – mostly swordsman, a few archers – tomorrow.” His face grew harsh. “Perhaps I should be glad that war is coming – it might make a prince out of you!”
Cursing silently, Tristan left his father’s study. He stalked to the stable, and saddled one of the horses.
“Where are you going?” Robyn’s voice came from behind him.
“For a ride!” he snapped, and then turned to her guiltily. “I’m sorry. I just had a ‘talk’ with my father.”
“Mind if I ride along?”
“I’d like that.”
They quickly saddled a second horse, and cantered together down the castle road. From there, they struck out across the moors, giving the horses free rein.
After several hours of silent, albeit pleasant riding, Tristan turned to his companion. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask… but we haven’t had an opportunity to talk for some time.”
The maiden turned to him, riding easily, and raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Did you ever figure out what you did to wrap that Firbolg in the trees that way?”
A peculiar expression flickered across