The Angelus, our prayers implore,

Heralds of glory evermore,

Angelus of all grace and might,

To banish sin from our delight:

Our mind be in their keeping placed,

Our body true to them and chaste,

Where only Faith her fire shall feed

To burn the weeds of daemon seed.

* Narvonnian Hymn, early 2nd century AC

☀

19th Day of the Planting Moon, 297 AC

As a child, Trist had hopped from stone to stone when crossing the brook where he’d first met Linette. Now, armored in chain, longsword sheathed once again, he tromped through, careful of his footing, relying on the oiled leather of his riding boots to keep out the water. Once he’d reached the far bank, he set off up the familiar game path that led to the hill upon which the ruins of the Chapelle de Camiel rested.

When he came upon the worn stair, however, and the mossy stone arch above it, Trist did not see crumbling stones tumbled off to either side. Instead, the walls looked as if they had been built yesterday, the granite smooth and well fitted, stretching out to surround the chapel in both directions. Placing his left hand on the pommel of his sword, Trist strode up the steps and passed beneath the arch.

Before him stretched another stone wall, parallel to the walls leading out from the arch itself, creating a sort of outdoor hallway or corridor, open to the blue sky above, but paved with broad, flat stones beneath Trist’s boots. He looked up, measuring the walls, and guessed them to be at least ten feet in height, and too smooth to climb easily, especially armored.

To the left, then, as one direction seemed as good as another. The walls curved, and he tried to imagine how, from above, they would form a circular fortification around the chapel. His father would have loved stone walls like this. The curve had taken him out of sight of the arch when Trist came to the first branching: the wall opened to his right, leading into another curving corridor. Or, he could continue on the outside ring.

“It is a labyrinth,” Trist realized, with a sigh.

☀

13th Day of the New Summer’s Moon, 288 AC

The great hall of Sir Rience du Camaret-à-Arden’s manor, Foyer Chaleureux, was filled to the brim with relations and guests. His old friend and battle companion, Tor De Lancey, a gregarious man with a red face and a great belly that Trist guessed must have grown since the stories of their youth as squires, had brought his wife, Jeanette, and their daughter. Three great banners hung this evening: one with the black Iebara tree, sprinkled with white flowers, on a field of green, the heraldry of Trist’s own family; and another, a red warhammer on white, shaped just like the weapon hanging at Sir Tor’s belt when he’d rode into the courtyard. The last was the white sea shell on blue of their mutual liege, Baron Urien.

Percy and Trist’s older cousin, Sir Lucan, had come, newly knighted and soon to be wed, escorting the young Lady Clarisant, who was to be Percy’s wife, all the way from Rocher de la Garde, on the sea, where Trist dimly recalled spending a single, golden summer. The family’s Master of Arms, John Granger, sat near the foot of the table, his hard eyes scanning the room as fiercely as he watched Trist and Percy in the practice yard. Brother Alberic sat next to Brother Hugh, the Abbot, deeply involved in a discussion of theology. Trist had caught just enough out of the corner of one ear to come to his own conclusions about how interesting the subject matter was, and the answer was ‘not at all.’

And while they were commoners, not nobles, Sir Rience had invited many of the more important people in the village, as well: James Miller, whose father and grandfather before him had run the lumber mill fed by the woodsman, for instance. His family had mastered the songs for the working of the Iebara wood cut from the grove. William Chapman and his wife, Anne, were the most prosperous merchants in town, enough so that they’d rebuilt their shop in the market just two winters past, to be two stories tall. The only person missing was his mother, but Trist put that thought aside firmly.

Trist took a long drink of watered wine; building the bone-fires with the other young men had been long work, even with - especially with - the help of the younger boys of the village, who were more interested in playing with the fires and running around, shrieking, with smoking brands. He didn’t know whether the bone-fires actually kept dragons, witches and faeries away, but it was a Midsummer’s Eve tradition, and he couldn’t remember a year where he hadn’t been running around on the errand the night before his birthday. He was fourteen tomorrow, on the Feast Day of Saint Madiel, and he now wore an arming sword on his hip, though he would have preferred something longer. Trist had come more and more to prefer a blade he could wield with both hands, though Percy told him he was a fool to give up a shield. Of course, Percy could hardly beat him one time in three, now.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“And Angelica root - wild celery? - that’s good for aches and pains when you get older,” Enid De Lancey went on, seated to his right. She was younger than him, though Trist forgot by how many years, a wisp of a girl with brown hair and a quiet voice he had to strain to hear over the sounds of the feast. The current course was Tartes de Chare, a pork pie containing currants, dates, raisins, and pine nuts, spiced with pepper and ginger, and all mixed with honey. It was one of Trist’s favorites, though Enid didn’t seem to be eating much of it. In fact, while she’d moved her fork around a bit, he wasn’t sure she’d actually swallowed any.

“I wonder if Brother Hugh is aware,” Trist said, courteously. “It might be good to grow a crop in the Abbey herb garden, for the older Brothers. How do you like the pork pie, Lady Enid? It’s one of my favorites.”

Enid looked down at her plate. “I don’t usually eat meat,” she admitted, in a voice that was barely audible. Trist opened his mouth to ask whyever not, but thought better of it. A knight was courteous.

“Well,” he said, after scraping his mind for a moment, “You might prefer the mushroom and cheese pie, in that case. I’m not certain what course it will be, but I helped gather the mushrooms yesterday. They grow on the oaks around here, and they taste a bit like lemon-chicken.”

The younger girl brightened, giving up on moving pieces of pork around, now that she’d been honest with him. “Yes, that sounds wonderful! That sounds like Chicken of the Woods? There are a few that look much like it, but are poisonous...”

“Don’t worry, I had expert help,” Trist assured her. Linette had helped him, and she knew every berry, nut or mushroom that could be eaten in the Ardenwood. She had to, or she and her mother would have starved long ago. Trist’s eyes flicked to his father, Sir Rience, at the head of the table, dignified in his white beard. Perhaps between the courses, Trist could find an excuse to sneak over and speak to him. He’d practiced the words in his mind - and even out loud, in the privacy of the Ardenwood - a thousand times over. How he’d admit Linette was not of noble birth, but describe her beauty, her intelligence, her loyalty.

“-Glad you’re so kind,” Enid said, and Trist realized he had no idea what had come before. “Father said you would be, but you never know until you actually meet someone. But now I see I had nothing to be frightened of.”

Trist smiled politely; the footmen were coming in to clear the course. “Of course. You are absolutely safe here. Would you excuse me, for just a moment? I need to speak to my father about something.” He rose even before the girl had responded, and threaded a path carefully up to the head of the table, where he greeted his father.

“Ah, Trist!” His father reached out an arm and wrapped it around Trist’s shoulders, pulling him down and in for a loose, one armed embrace. Down the sides of the table, to the left and the right, Sir Tor and his wife, Percy and Lady Clarisant and everyone else who’d been seated near the head of the feast-table, greeted him with smiles and raised glasses. “Fourteen years old tomorrow. I remember when you were small enough I could hold you in the crook of one arm!”

Trist blushed. “You’ve told me, father,” he said, and waited till nearly everyone had turned back to their conversations before lowering his voice. “I had hoped to speak to you, actually. Now that I’m old enough to be betrothed-”

Sir Rience leaned in and lowered his voice. “Sharp boy. Figured it out, eh? What do you think of her?”

Trist’s mind caught like a wagon wheel in the mud. “Think of her?”

“Little Enid De Lancey. She’ll make a good wife for you; best to give it a few years, let you both grow up, like we’re doing with your brother,” the older man motioned with his goblet to where Percy and Clarisant were sitting side by side, speaking with their heads close together. Percy was sixteen, but his betrothed a year younger. “But she’s kind, and that’s a good thing in a mother. Tor says she’s crazy about plants, which is a bit odd, I’ll grant you, but harmless.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you about Enid De Lancey,” Trist finally blurted out. His father frowned, but he went on anyway. “There’s a girl who lives just outside the village - her name is Linette.”

“Who’s her father?” Rience du Camaret-à-Arden said gruffly, narrowing his eyes.

“Her father’s long dead,” Trist said, “and she cares for her mother. Which shows her loyalty, father. They aren’t wealthy, I know, but I am only the second son. Percy’s your heir. I care for her, father, and I want to ask your permission-”

“Angelus above, tell me you haven’t already put a baby in her belly?” Trist just about choked. He’d never had more than a dance and a kiss on the cheek from Linette - not that he hadn’t thought about more. He shook his head, and his father let out a sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair. “Good. You’re not to see her again,” Sir Rience ordered, with a decisive chop of his hand. “A dalliance with a peasant girl can be overlooked, so long as nothing comes of it, but your future wife won’t like it if she finds out, so best to end it now.”

“I don’t want to wed Enid De Lancey,” Trist protested. “She seems nice enough, but I don’t love her. I barely know her.”

His father grabbed him by his linen shirt and pulled him in close. “You will not refuse the daughter of a knight, of one of my oldest friends, a young woman of good breeding and quality, for some ragged peasant girl living in the woods. Now that’s the end of it. The betrothal will be announced tomorrow, so go get to know the girl, and be kind to her. I should have put a stop to you sneaking off into the Ardenwood years ago - it’s dangerous. We lose woodcutters every few years, and the merchant wagons have it even worse. By all that’s Holy, boy, the Bissets lost a child there just this past winter. You’re to stay out of it from now on. Focus on your training with John.”

Trist opened his mouth to protest again, but Sir Rience clenched his fist, balling up the linen fabric and pulling Trist’s shirt tight. Trist’s eyes flicked down the table to Sir Tor, sitting just two spaces down on the left, with only his own wife between him and Trist’s father. A knight is courteous, he reminded himself. “I’d like to speak more of this tomorrow morning,” he told his father.

“We can speak,” the older man said, “It will not change anything, but we can speak. Now go and see to the comfort of your guest.” Sir Rience released his grasp, and Trist stood straight, then set off to find his way back down the feasting table to his empty seat. Enid De Lancey, it seemed, had been craning her neck to watch him, and now that he was returning, she offered a tentative, hopeful smile.

At that moment, Trist realized the feasting hall was the absolute last place he wanted to be. Turning away from the girl his father had decided he would wed, he strode out of the hall and into the warm summer evening, quickly, before his father could stop him.