The Baron's Ring

by Mary C. Findley

  “I should have been told about this before,” Tristan said sharply. “Brentin, Thomas, what was your purpose in not telling me that I have no prospects, no hope, no way to run this vineyard, no way at all to help Mayra?”

  “We didn’t tell you first because we knew you’d think that way, and it isn’t true and can’t be thought of,” Brentin said, sharp anger in his voice. He took Tristan firmly by the arm. “Listen to me. I’m sorry this happened to you, too, but it did. And what happened to Mayra happened, and she’ll be gone into a life of incomparable misery if you don’t act.”

  “Are you mad?” Tristan shouted. “Yesterday I could have done anything. Even if I didn’t receive this vineyard I would have had ways to earn my bread. Today I can do nothing. I can’t provide for myself, much less make any way of saving that poor girl. Vancus can run the vineyard. Surely his skills will give him a place, and he can provide for his wife and daughter as well. This Lord Drokken will see that.”

  “You must marry her, Prince Tristan,” Thomas said firmly, touching Tristan’s shoulder.

  “Why do you keep calling me that?” Tristan snarled, pushing away the two men. “I’m not a prince, not a teacher, not anything. How could I possibly marry that girl? Why would her father and mother allow me to marry her? Look at what’s been happening to her while they were gone. I was her teacher, and I didn’t even find out why she wasn’t coming to school for two weeks.”

  “How could you have known about this?” Thomas asked. “I was her minister. I was supposed to care for her soul. You bear no more blame than I do.”

  “I was her prince,” Tristan said, very softly, sinking back down onto the bed. “She looked to me to care for her, to come back for her. She kept my ring, Thomas, cherished it like it belonged to someone who mattered, someone who should have come to her rescue.”

  “You did rescue her, Tristan,” Brentin retorted. “But she will be doomed unless you remember that you are Prince Tristan of Parangor. Lord Drokken will respect the claim of another nobleman. Only if you marry this girl and then offer him the price of her freedom will he let her go. He wouldn’t permit anyone else to do anything, not even her father, because he’s a commoner, and still a slave, however skilled he may be in running a vineyard. Vancus will certainly be allowed to manage the vineyard. But he’ll lose his child. No one else in this village can save Mayra except you.”

  “You would force her to marry a useless cripple,” Tristan said.

  “It’s the best thing that could possibly happen to her,” Thomas shouted at him. “And no, I wouldn’t force her. You will ask her, and see if she doesn’t understand the wisdom of it. See if she doesn’t see hope where you see despair. Stop thinking only of yourself, Tristan. It’s a terrible thing, what’s happened to you. But I think there’s hope for you, as well as for Mayra. Talk to her.”

  Tristan allowed Thomas to lead him, utterly to have Mayra come to him. He stumbled, sliding his feet as if the floor were about to disappear beneath them. He grasped at doorposts, chairs, anything to push back the darkness before it closed in again. At last they stopped. Tristan hung on Thomas’s arm, exhausted. Thomas put Tristan’s hand on a chair and seated him in it.

  “Vancus, Prince Tristan wishes to speak with Mayra,” Thomas said.

  “My daughter needs rest,” Vancus said stiffly. “We are so very grateful for what he did for her. But the prince – he has been hurt so much – you must let him rest too. Surely whatever needs to be said can wait until morning.”

  “Vancus, please believe me, I wish God had done worse to me than this before I let this thing happen to your daughter,” Tristan said.

  “We – we do not blame you, my Lord Prince,” Vancus said with difficulty. “We should never have left her with that witch, that demon. We should have seen what her plans were, all these perfumes and hairdressing and jewels, to turn Mayra’s head, to make her the princess she always dreamed of being. The woman pushed us to go with the master, said it would be a holiday for us. And he needed us, so ill he was. Then we hurried to return, but we never – Oh, God’s mercy!” He sobbed. “What will become of my poor child?”

  “Let me talk to her, please, Vancus,” Tristan asked.

  Shuffling, motion around him. Tristan sat for a moment, listening to the sound of people entering and leaving the room, and the oppressive silence that followed. Then he became aware of a scent, a sweet perfume he had encountered earlier that evening at the church.

  “Mayra, are you all right?” He asked finally. “Were you very much hurt?”

  “I am well, Master-Teacher,” Mayra’s voice said in a whisper. “Just a little sore. I am so sorry this has happened to you because of me. My parents say that this house is to be given to you. Then you will be my master in truth, and I can tend you, and help to make you well.”

  “I’m not going to get well, Mayra, beyond the healing of the burns. I’m blind.”

  “Yes, Master, my mother told me. This is my doing, too!” Mayra cried. He heard a scramble, her leaving her seat, falling down at his feet, touching his knees. “Forgive me. I’ll be your eyes. I’ll always be at your side, and help you, and you shall see.”

  “Mayra, I can’t be your master,” Tristan said stubbornly. This was not going as he had expected. “You don’t really belong to this house, but to Lord Drokken. He’ll decide what’s to become of you.”

  “But you’re a noble, as well,” Mayra said. “You have the ring, and your brother rules Parangor. Lord Drokken must honor what another noble says.”

  “Did Thomas or Brentin tell you this?” Tristan’s anger flashed. “Did they put these words in your mouth?”

  “They said nothing to me,” Mayra answered. “These are things that I know. If you speak to Lord Drokken, he’ll let you keep me and my parents as your slaves, especially if you have my old master’s riches, and can pay him the debts my parents owe.”

  “I don’t want you to be my slave, Mayra,” Tristan said wearily. “I want you to be free.”

  “I’ll never be free,” Mayra said. “I’m not even of the age to become a woman, but I’m defiled. My mistress tried to make me into a thing all men desire but no man loves. If you don’t help me I must become what she intended, and I’ll die before that happens.”

  “Mayra, I would have worked and saved to pay for your freedom, and I would have made you my wife,” Tristan cried, “but now I can’t –”

  “You would’ve wed me before you learned what I was,” Mayra said in a flat voice, her dress rustling and her voice retreating upward. “But now you understand that it’s impossible.”

  “No, no, you misunderstand! Mayra, What your mistress forced you to do doesn’t matter to me. But I can’t force you to marry me knowing that I will always be helpless and useless and –”

  “Oh, my Prince, such a thing could never be!” Mayra laughed out loud, startling Tristan and confusing him utterly. “When you first came to the village you were nearly dead, and fell down under the tree. Do you remember? I brought you water.”

  “Of course I remember,” Tristan grumbled. “Yours was the first face I ever saw in this village.”

  “You thought you were helpless and useless then?” Mayra persisted. She had knelt before him again, and taken his hand in hers, twirling the ring on his finger as she had done that other time.

  “I –I did –” Tristan faltered, feeling the softness of her fingers, the warmth of her touch, smelling her fragrance, and seeing in an instant her beautiful face before his mind’s eye, clear and luminous in the overwhelming darkness.

  “But you became all things to our village,” Mayra said. “You fixed Alex’s leg, healed the pony, worked at the forge, and birthed the cattle. And you taught wonderful things in the school. Everyone knew you were a great and strong and good man.”

  Tristan made a noise of derision. Mayra’s hand touched the hollow of his throat, pushed his hair aside, smoothed her fingers over his shoulder.

  “You and I together, we will see,
my Prince,” Mayra said in a low, earnest voice. “I didn’t dare to speak until I knew you loved me – “

  “I’ve always loved you, Mayra,” Tristan groaned. “That’s why I didn’t want to –”

  “Shh,” Mayra whispered. She put her hand on his lips. “Master Thomas,” she called. Tristan heard someone come into the room. “My prince is ready to make me his princess, now. I’ve helped him see, just as I promised. Just as I always will.”

  “Mayra, hush,” Josena said sternly, apparently very close to them. “You mustn’t make this demand of the prince. This fairy tale of yours, to marry the Prince Tristan, is wrong and foolish. Come with me.”

  “Mama, you don’t understand,” Mayra said. “Prince Tristan loves me.”

  “He pities you, and he feels he must sacrifice himself for you,” Vancus said. “But we would never permit this thing to blight your life, Lord Prince. You’ve suffered too much already.”

  “I need your consent, Vancus, and your wife’s, if I am going to make Mayra my princess,” Tristan said quietly.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Vancus wept. “You don’t understand what has been done to her.”

  “I do understand,” Tristan said firmly. “Perhaps you don’t understand what will happen to her if you don’t permit me to marry her.” Vancus and Josena both wept so hard they could not answer. “Well, perhaps you do,” Tristan said. “Then understand that I do love Mayra, I’ve loved her since she found me under that tree. There’s no one else I could possibly make my princess, so you must consent.”

  The marriage ceremony was a brief one. Tristan understood that Mayra’s parents were there, and that Brentin and Jerez served as witnesses. Tristan was in so much pain it seemed completely unreal. He was sure he would find out he had married Mayra in a dream. Exhausted, wobbling, he allowed himself to be led somewhere to a room that seemed to contain a pool of water. He suddenly realized that he was alone with Mayra.

  “This was my mistress’s room,” Mayra explained as she eased him down and put his feet into the water. “It’s a great bath, do you see? She had it made with heaters beneath. The water’s always warm, and there’s a lattice above that lets in the sun or the moonlight. The moon’s so beautiful tonight.” Mayra startled him by splashing a little water on him. Then she began to remove his clothes. Tristan stiffened.

  “Don’t be afraid, my husband,” Mayra whispered. “Let me comfort you. I know you’re so weary, and in so much pain. Come and lie in the water.”

  Tristan let her help him into the bath. She cradled his head in her lap, and he could not believe he dreamed of such fragrance, such softness. She laid her head against his and he felt the softness of her hair over his chest. He reached up a hand, found some of it, and clutched it between his fingers.

  “Mayra, how old are you?” Tristan asked roughly, very much afraid of what the answer was going to be.

  For the first time that evening Mayra’s assurance seemed to waver. She didn’t answer for some moments. “I shall be fourteen next month,” she answered finally, speaking with great difficulty.

  Tristan groaned. He tried to lift himself up, but something wet fell on his chest, something that didn’t come from the pool. Mayra choked and sobbed.

  “What makes you cry, my dearest?” Tristan asked.

  “You are afraid because you think I’m a child,” Mayra’s voice was just a breath of air in his ear. “I was forced, and it was so horrible. Already I felt as if my heart was growing cold and hard, to protect itself from that terrible hurt of being used but never loved. I must know what it is to be loved. Love me, my husband. Don’t be afraid.”

  She caressed his body with some kinds of oils, soothing and so sweet-smelling. Mayra continued to stroke his body, massaging, tenderly touching him everywhere, until it finally dawned on Tristan that it was his wedding night, that his pain was so very much less than it had been, that he wanted very much to take his wife in his arms and make her his completely. But first, he took the ring of Parangor off his finger, reached for her hand, and slid it onto her thumb, because it would stay nowhere else on her little hand. And then he took his wife in his embrace, there in the bath, beneath the moon.

  The next morning Tristan felt sun on his face and awoke. Somehow they had gotten into a bed, and Mayra lay in his arms, softly breathing on his throat. He dared not move, thinking her asleep, but she stirred and kissed him on the chest.

  “You slept without dreams,” she said. “I was afraid you might be troubled, but I thank God you had a little peace. It was so, wasn’t it?”

  “God gave me you, my love, and that was peace enough,” Tristan murmured into her hair. “Oh, my Princess. You dreamed of marrying the prince all these years, but I never thought you would ever really be mine.”

  They lay in silence for some minutes. Tristan listened contentedly to the sounds outside, servants bustling about their duties, workers outside heading for the fields, and suddenly he thrust himself up into a sitting position. He put his feet over the side of the bed as if he were going to stand up, and then stopped.

  “The school,” he said in a low voice. “I joked with Thomas and Brentin that we could have it here. We can’t have it anywhere. Mayra, listen to everything going on around us. Listen to the people who can work, who can do everything that needs to be done. And I can’t do anything. I don’t know where to take a step, where to find clothes, how to comb my hair – God help me.”

  “Listen to me, my husband,” Mayra said, sliding under his arm and nestling beside him. “What did I say to you last night?”

  “You said you’d help me see,” Tristan responded mechanically. “You made me understand my duty, and I’m so grateful. But that’s not seeing whether a horse needs new shoes, or if a boy’s spelled his geography words correctly. And now I’m supposed to be master of this estate. I can’t find my way to the door.”

  “Before you try for the door, perhaps we should start with the clothes,” Mayra said impishly. “Perhaps you can’t see what you look like right now, but, as beautiful as you are, my husband, I don’t want to share your full beauty with all the servants. And especially not with my parents, since they’re here in the house somewhere. Come. Give me your hands.”

  She drew Tristan onto his feet. He felt as if he stood on nothing, and swayed giddily. “Are you in pain, my Prince?” she asked.

  “No, not really,” Tristan admitted. There was some, in fact, but he knew it wasn’t causing him to lose balance. He just couldn’t convince himself of the reality of a floor he couldn’t see.

  “Then none of that. Stand on your feet, and remember that the floor is what it always was,” Mayra said. “Your feet can see it, and they know it will hold them up. Trust them. You think your eyes did everything, but remember, you have ears, and a nose, and you can touch, and taste, and all these things will help you see. And so will Mayra. Come. Three steps forward, and there is the bath. You can feel the steam, and the heat of the water, and smell the oils we used. Besides, there is this raised part of the floor around the edge.” She pushed his foot forward until it touched a marble lip. “Isn’t it so?”

  Tristan realized that she was correct. “Turn left, now, five steps, and there is a wardrobe. We will make this our room, because it is the most beautiful in the house. Our clothes aren’t in there yet, but I’ll see to it, and each morning, you can come here and find them. Seven steps this way, and here is a window seat, and here we find our clothes.”

  Throughout the day Mayra never left him, teaching him to find his way around, helping him to understand the plan of the house, drilling him on where things were, keeping him so busy there wasn’t time for the darkness to close in again. But when it was time for bed he could feel her exhaustion. She fell asleep almost immediately, pillowed on his chest, and he lay awake, listening to the breeze in the leaves over the house, the cry of night animals, the servants finishing their tasks for the day.

  Chapter Ten

  For thou art my lamp, O LORD: and the LORD will lig
hten my darkness.

  II Samuel 22:29

  The feeling he had experienced that morning, the sense that it was time to get up and get busy with the day’s activities, to do things he had automatically done every day whatever time of life he had been in, overwhelmed him again. In his life Tristan had ridden horses, walked for miles under the sun or the stars, heated and shaped a horseshoe, chopped wood until the sweat poured from him. Blackness closed in upon him. He saw the last thing he had ever seen as a sighted man, Mayra, tied to a beam, savaged, screaming. If that were happening right now, he would be powerless to prevent it. When he had been able to see, he had not seen the horror that was happening to her as her mistress forced her to service her “guests.”

  What was the use of all this practice and drill, pretending to “see” his way around the house? Even the simple things he had once done Mayra with all her love and patience and cleverness could never enable him to do. He had read a thousand books, painted a picture or two, laughed at a comic pantomime, watched the sun rise and set, looked at the incredible beauty of a rainbow. No amount of stepping off could make him able to do those things again. He realized he’d never chop another piece of firewood.

  And the things he had apparently never been able to do, to see an evil and stop it before it permanently harmed people he loved and things he valued, had nothing to do with eyesight. He had been unable to stop Dunstan from growing up ignorant, drunken, failed to keep him from turning into a madman who was apparently destroying the whole kingdom. Meanwhile Tristan had thought to live a life of peace and contentment far away.

  Tristan slipped out of bed. Mayra stirred. He put a hand on her head, cupped her cheek, and she sank back into sleep. Tristan felt his way to the window and leaned his head against the bronze latticework. It was cool and solid. Tristan traced its intricate pattern with his fingers. Bronze was a rare metal in these parts, but he had been told the mistress had carted this window insert over the mountain. It reminded him of making things at the blacksmith’s forge, a task he would never participate in again.