This Gathering Darkness
It was a long time ago. Sometimes I almost forget my
first life.
It was nothing. My death was meaningless.
Shakar, "Elementals: The Natural Order"
Time. Time is a strange thing by any man's reckoning, a complex measure that varies by perspective. Tell me Father, why is it that joy seems so fleeting? Why does a dull afternoon drag on for an eternity twice? How is it that one golden summer moment can last forever, and that in his last breath, a man's entire life can, as they say, "flash before his eyes?"
Time destroys all things eventually, Father. Flowers wither and die. Mountains crumble. Civilizations fall and are lost. People, too, crumble under the weight of year until at last, oblivion claims their final, rasping breath. Yet Time transforms all things, and in many wonderful and beautiful ways. The trees bud and blossom in the wake of winter. A life created in a moment of coition is finally born. Children grow up, ripen like fruit, become women and men. And memories . . . memories fade and brighten, vanish and reappear like stars in twilight. Memories also change to fit the perspective of the one who owns them.
A lifetime is long enough to vastly change the past. Much of it slides into a misty crevasse, never to return. How much more, then, is lost when a man lives several lifetimes? Fifty years will devour all but the most emotional moments in any mortal mind. How much more, then, disappears into the well of a hundred years? Or two hundred? Or two thousand?
It is a vampire's riddle.
But sometimes . . . sometimes a smell, a whispered word, the glint of a maiden's eye . . . sometimes the smallest thing can lift the veil of years and bring it all back. Or at least, these things can conjure up that which is important, the circumstances that have shaped a man's soul and made him who he is.
Childhood was an eternity ago to me, and I'm afraid that much of it has been lost to Time's mist. Many things I can now only recall with the aid of my journals. God be praised that your Order has never claimed those! I've meticulously kept them from about the age of six, when I became a page. I remember that my tutor, a fat Italian scholar by the name of Francesco, thought the journal good lettering practice for me. I failed to see the point of it - how ironic that has come to seem now! If I'd had my way, I would be an illiterate buffoon in this age of the "information highway!" In those days, education was window dressing, not necessity.
My father, however, conferred with my tutor concerning letters and their importance. The consequence of disobeying father was a beating that raised welts on my legs and back and caused my ears to ring for at least a day or two, so each day I wrote something, even if it was only a trifle. Then, long before the concept of "child abuse," such discipline was only right and proper, so I never thought much of it other than to do as I was told. How grateful I have become for that! Who could have predicted how important lettering would become in the centuries ahead? In the Year of Our Lord 1232, more imperative were faith, honor, and the ability to swing a sword.
Sire Alexandre de Cloridan, my father, was a man who had suffered much. Being a noble of Languedoc, which was once a nation in her own right, independent of France and perhaps more like unto Spain in our culture and ways, he had fought against France and His Holiness when the Crusaders came to claim our homeland, in the name of crushing the Cathar heresy. Many Crusaders were not coming for the glory of God, but to conquer territory and grow rich on the spoils of war. The tales of their barbarism that my mother told when I was much older and she was deep into the wine are chilling. Many a devout Catholic was forced to raise sword against his brother in faith to defend his family and homeland, and my father was one such. When Languedoc was conquered and the last, great Cathar stronghold destroyed, those who had fought in Languedoc's defense were called faidit, and branded enemies of Church and State. They were forced to flee the land or to change their names and live furtively, ever fearing discovery. It was at some time during my father's exile that I was born.
As I understand it, two years after my birth, Holy War was declared once again, this time against Saracen Muslims instead of us Provençal "heretics." Alexandre de Cloridan took the Cross. My father truly believed in the nobility of a Crusade against the heathens, and it was not until many years later that I would see the irony of it - my father becoming that which he most hated. Because all crimes were pardoned and all sins forgiven if one would fight in God's name, my father and family reclaimed our identity. For his bravery in battle, our lands and title in Lyon were restored to us. But the price of this good fortune would haunt my father for the rest of his life. His leg was severely wounded in the fighting, and he walked with a limp for all his remaining days.
This made my father sometimes a very grim and dour man. But he was also one of the last of the Troubadours, devoted to the ideal of Love as faith and creed. So I spent as much time as a child practicing with the vielle as I did with my sword. I grew up on tales of courtly love and heroic valor. I also grew up on tales of the saints and their great faith. I aspired to such ideals myself, but of course, I often fell short of those grand expectations, as mere men will do.
He was my father, but he was also my lord, and the knight who trained me in the chivalric arts. Many of my childhood memories are dominated by his dark and disapproving gaze looming over me. Yet there were times, although I must own that in retrospect, they seem rare, that his cold glare melted and a great light would seem to radiate from him.
Far less clear in my mind's eye, however, is my mother. This sometimes bothers me, but I know it is due to the fact that once a boy became a page, he was no longer considered to be under his mother's care, and he would instead be the charge of his knight. Still, when I look to my early childhood, I am comforted with vague sensations of warmth and love. The scent of baking bread can even now bring back a feeling of arms around me and my mother's lovely voice singing high and clear in the Langue d'Oc, the language of my homeland; but I can no longer remember her face. It seems to me that she was a woman of good and noble character, who was fiercely, and often bitterly proud. My father eventually came to think of himself as a French citizen as well as a man of Languedoc, but my mother, Clarisse de Cloridan, never forgave the French for their crimes against our people. She refused to have anything to do with the North, and she refused to speak any tongue but the Langue d'Oc, although she understood many.
It also seems to me that despite the wisdom of the time, which dictated that a man could not truly love his wife because the ties of obligation and duty would fetter Love and smother it, that there was genuine affection between my parents. My father often brought my mother gifts of flowers and books, which she loved, though such education in a woman was frowned upon because it might encourage her to be disobedient and to forget her place. As if my mother could be kept to any place against her will! He would sing to her softly in the twilight hours and I would lie awake listening when I ought to have been sleeping, trying to learn those things that my father couldn't tell me about being a Troubadour.
I was my father's only heir, and so the burden of the family's responsibility was mine. My training was rigorous. My childhood friends, Byron and Avenall, as well as myself, were paged to my father, and our teaching was assisted by Byron's father, Sire Michel, who was man-at-arms sworn to my family's service, as was his father before him. It had always been so, as far back into our ancestral history as Byron and I could trace it. Sire Michel had even followed my family into exile, I am told, and fought at my father's side in the war against France.
There was no special treatment for being the lord's son. I believe that my father felt that if he were to err in my instruction, he would rather it were on the side of discipline than favoritism. Ah, but perhaps mine is the surly memory of a misbehaving child. I can honestly say, however, that Byron, who was two years my elder and much larger than myself, was instrumental in instilling a sense of humility, for he was sure to enforce superiority by right-of-arms at any time that I presumed to become at all imperious. I suppose I could have complained to my father about it, for even among pages and squires, it was forbidden to strike those who are above one's station; yet I would not. Byron was one of my two only friends, and the law would have required that he be slain for it, and his father public scourged. I wouldn't have it, and so my father thought I was the clumsiest child he'd ever known! I don't think that Byron ever forgot, either.
It was a hard life, one meant to teach the knightly virtues until they were instinctive. We pages were at the mercy of the knights, and our masters regulated our every action. We slept in the cellar, ate in the servants' kitchen (when we were permitted to,) and spent most celebrations serving the lord's table, where we were expected to be the model of chivalry. The only exception to this was the Sabbath, which was spent in the manor's rectory, studying scripture or taking Mass. My father was a very faithful man, and he patronized a Benedictine friar known to us as Brother Thomas, in return for his theological guidance and our education. I was rather fond of Sundays. They provided relief from the hard physical work and training regimen that represented the rest of the week. I liked receiving the Holy Sacrament as I looked into the beams of rainbow light that streamed through the stained glass window depiction of the Crucifixion. It was a ritual that gave me peace and comfort.
It was an age of faith, a time when the belief in the power and holiness of Christ bonded all men and women together. I remember being very young, how old exactly I cannot say, when a dry year, followed by a bitterly cold winter, brought famine to the land, and I remember the priests going among the people to administer aid. How their mere presence seemed to heal people with pure joy, and it gave the dying peace. It was also my first lesson in noblesse oblige, the obligations of rank, for my father the Baronet opened the stores of our keep to the people, and we went hungry too. When I had the audacity to protest, my father boxed my ears soundly and told me that it was our sacred duty, that protecting the people are what nobles exist for, and that rulership meant that we were servants to the people and not overlords.
There were never any other siblings. I know not why, and I realized even then that this was unusual. I suspect that something went wrong in my mother's insides when she brought me forth. Neither my parents nor the nobles ever spoke of it, but I sometimes would overhear the servants gossip in the kitchen, speculating.
It was in the Year of Our Lord 1240 when I performed my Vigil in the family rectory, staring up at that same image of the Savior, kneeling upon my sword. In the long hours of prayer and fasting, I had a vision. It seemed that the wounds on the Christ's hands and feet opened up and rivers of blood flowed down the walls and over the floor. Perhaps it could have been the light of the bloated red harvest moon shining through the window, exaggerated by my hungered and wearied mind, I must own - and then, perhaps not. Whichever it was, I believed it a sign from God, and I was exhilarated by it. Yet knowing that the priests did not hold stock in such miracles, and terrified that I would be branded a heretic, I spoke of it to no one in my breathing days except Avenall and Byron. Yet it was this experience that validated my faith and, I believe, set me upon my chosen path.
Byron was knighted the following year, and he took up the family tradition of six generations in his service to ours. Avenall, who by then was known as Avenall le Blanc for his almost white blond hair and his extremely fair complexion, was squired to me, and he also served as my jongleur. His father, being a common blacksmith, was overjoyed. It was important to my father, especially with the destruction of Languedoc, that his son carry on the troubadour tradition, and I did so. I learned lute, harp, and vielle; I learned to compose cansos and evensong; I studied the lore of the Languedoc troubadours who had gone before, and the work of the great Muslim poets, and the secrets of the Tantric arts.
Would that my mother had lived to see the coming ages! What was is that Horace wrote . . . "Greece has conquered her rude conqueror?" I cannot help but find amusement in it all. Today, the French are famed for great wine, good cheese, a zest of life, an appreciation of great art, and for being great lovers, isn't that so? All these things were, and are, of Languedoc and our ways before they were French ways . . . Ah, but I digress . . .
Not a one of us were any strangers to the charms of women, even as young men, but it was relatively late, when I was possessed of nineteen years, that I met the lady to whom I would dedicate my sword and my Art.
I recall the day with clarity because it was May Eve. The common folk held the May Day celebrations in high regard, as did I, for the magic of the pagan lore still remained in those days I think, and it was an auspicious day for those devoted to Love. The sun was bright and warm, unseasonably so. The lilies were in full bloom, and the roses were blooming, and do you know, Father, to this day the scent of roses can summon that time to me with frightening suddenness, such that I often wish to weep. Yes, I suppose that is why I keep so many of them.
Bees were in the wildflowers. Gangly calves loped clumsily after their mothers in the common, and the foals were beginning to learn to run. The vineyards were in need of pruning, but we'd begun late because rain had stayed later than it was wont. But the maypole had been cut, and the many-colored ribbons streamed gaily in the breeze, awaiting the village dance on the morrow. Many tents were pitched in the common and in the surrounding fields. but they belonged to tradesmen and merchants, and a player or two, or to local farmers who dwelt nearby, come for the May Fair. So when a carriage made its way up the road, I was surprised and intrigued, and so I summoned Byron and Avenall and bade them come and have a closer look with me.
As we cantered down the road we saw first the four horses of exceptional quality who drew the carriage, and the men-at-arms who marched or rode as escort, and knew that this was a person of station who approached us. Seeing the shutters of the carriage nearly drawn at this bright hour, we guessed the passenger to be a lady of repute. As the entourage approached, we at last could see the device of the local Viscomte upon the waving banners. Then it dawned upon us; my father and I had received summons to attend the Viscomte's wedding at the first of June. This, then, must be his promised bride.
So we drew up to the carriage, and the entourage rode forth to meet us. One of the men-at-arms hailed us, standing in partial defense and partial greeting.
"Hail and well met," I returned to him amiably. "Be not alarmed, I am Sire Roslyn de Cloridan of Lyon, and I welcome thee and thy lady to my father's home. Seek thee sanctuary on thy travels?"
"Hail, Sir Knight," he replied, inclining his head with respect towards me, thus indicating that I outranked him. "Indeed, we do seek such sanctuary, for the journey is long and my lady is wearied of the road's travails. If it be my lady's pleasure, we shall be glad to accept thy Christian hospitality."
"Then ask thy lady's pleasure," I responded, "so that I may send my squire ahead to prepare the castle for her arrival."
So he went to the shutter of the carriage and knocked on it; and a dark and slender arm pushed the shutter aside. I remember how my breath hitched at the beauty before me. Her complexion was Mediterranean olive, and flawless; her hair was a black cascade, even reigned back in the coiffure that was the fashion among highborn ladies; her eyes were sparkling pools of darkness, rich and full and possessed of a gypsy's mischievousness. Her throat was long and graceful, alluring even behind the bejeweled choker that adorned it. This was the face of a trueborn beauty of Languedoc.
She looked to her man and listened his voice, but as she did so, she glanced up and her eyes met mine. The haughty veneer she wore vanished like a thin mist and the eyes of the gypsy shone through clearly. Her perfect, rose petal lips parted in a warm smile. Her teeth were a row of pearls.
I returned the smile, and though I inclined my head in respect, I did not turn my gaze from hers. She smirked a little at my insolence, though her eyes glanced away and rolled slightly. It was a pretence of offence at my rudeness; but I knew she was not in the least offended indeed.
Is that, then, the moment in which I fell hopelessly into Love?
"Yes," she told her vassal a little more loudly than was necessary, "tell Monsignor de Lyon that we shall be most pleased to accept his hospitality, that we may remove the dust of the road from our hair for a while." She met my gaze as she said this, and I was secretly very pleased by the fact that she had not set a limit upon the time spent in my father's castle.
Boldly I rode forward, quite against protocol, and directly I took the lady's hand. "Sire Roslyn de Cloridan, at thy service, my lady." I pressed my lips just faintly to her knuckles, which was again, just the slightest bit improper.
She did not draw her hand away. "I am the Lady Geneva de Lafeyette," she announced in a thin veil of arrogance, "soon to be the Viscomtess de Lyon, and I am pleased to meet thee, sir."
I gave command to Avenall that he should ride ahead and make sure that all was in readiness to host the Viscomtess, for I would escort her to the castle as well. He did so, but not without passing me a conspiratorial smile.
