Orphan of Destiny

known.”

All of them stood and shook hands with Brother Tuck. He watched me carefully as I pointed to each of them and touched my chest near my heart. This told him these three were my friends, and it was all he needed. He would never learn or speak their names, but I had just vouched for them in Tuck’s eyes, and that was good enough for him.

Finding St. Alban’s in ruins and then discovering Tuck alive had been an enormous shock. Standing by the fire, it took me a moment to get my bearings. We were camped in the woods near the abbey. The campsite was littered with flame-scarred benches, jars, tools and crocks of Tuck’s potions and numerous other objects he must have scavenged from the wreckage of St. Alban’s.

“Your monk, he cannot speak?” Robard asked. “This is Tuck? The one you’ve told us stories of?”

I nodded. “Yes, he is deaf and dumb. But he understands things. I guess over the years we developed our own way of ‘talking.’ I can’t explain it. When I was growing up, he was always able to figure out whatever it was I required.”

“He carried you back to us,” Little John said quietly. The thought of it made me smile for just an instant; to know Tuck was still alive and taking care of me helped lessen my grief. “Then he brought us here. He must have been living in the woods since. .” He didn’t finish his thought. “The poor soul. He probably had no idea what else to do.”

“I wish he could tell us what happened,” I said. A small portion of a charred bench from the abbey lay not far away. I held it out to Tuck, pointing at the burn marks along the side. “What happened, Tuck? Who did this? Who burned St. Alban’s?” I hadn’t believed Sir Hugh back in Tyre, but now I knew in my mind and heart that he was responsible. If only Tuck could confirm it.

Moving past me, he went to a fallen log that lay just outside the circle of the fire. The log’s end was hollow, and from inside it he removed a square metal box, eagerly handing it to me. Removing the lid, I discovered two pieces of parchment inside, one of them wrapped with a small ribbon.

I unwound the ribbon and, kneeling by the fire, found the page covered in the abbot’s neat, precise handwriting. The sight of it, so familiar, made me choke back tears.

Dear Tristan,

Praise our heavenly Father. I have made Brother Tuck understand he should give this box to you and you alone. I have prayed to God you will return here someday, and if you are reading this, it must mean he has once again answered my prayers. As when you landed upon our steps those many years ago, Tuck is another miracle God has sent to us. Our abbey has been blessed by both of you. God is truly great in his generosity in bringing two such fine men to our home.

If you are reading this letter, however, I am no longer alive. With prayer and the grace of God, I have lived long enough to leave you my last words.

But first, I beg you as a good Christian to promise you will not seek revenge on those who have done us this terrible harm. The Bible commands us to forgive them and pray for them. These are words we have lived our life by: compassion and forgiveness. And we must not abandon them now. Vengeance belongs to the Lord our Father, not mortal man. And seeking the same would only poison your heart and soul. Promise me this, as my last dying wish.

What you hold in your hands will tell you much but not everything. Not long after you left with Sir Thomas and the Templars, men came here in the night. They questioned us brutally. But they learned nothing. We protected you as a babe and we protect you unto death. Sir Thomas will decide when you must learn the answers you seek.

It is God’s blessing Tuck was not here when the King’s Guards came for us. When we refused to answer their questions, God forgive them but they locked us inside and set fire to the abbey. They guarded the doors and windows so we could not escape. May God have mercy on their souls. Somehow I survived my injuries long enough for Tuck to find me. He has treated me with his potions and herbs, but God tells me my time is near.

I do not know why you have returned to St. Alban’s, but I promise you, your secret dies with me. It is for your own safety.

Hold the memory of your brothers here in your heart. Mourn for them, but do not despair, for they now reside with our Father in

Heaven. You need only live on. Follow your heart and be kind and true to what we have taught you, Tristan, and their deaths will not have been in vain.

Go in peace.

Abbot Geoffrey Reneau.

St. Alban’s. March 1191.

Along with the abbot’s letter were two other pieces of parchment. The first was a proclamation:

By Royal Order of Her Majesty the Queen

REWARD

The Queen seeks the whereabouts of a male child.

Likely left at a nunnery or monastery or with a peasant family.

Crosslets 500 for information leading to his whereabouts.

Crosslets 1,000 if the child is delivered alive to Gloucester Castle.

Do not attempt deception. It will be dealt with in

the most severe manner.

Royal seal affixed this date, 1174,

August High Counsel to Her Majesty the Queen,

Eleanor of Aquitaine,

Hugh St. Montfort

In the flickering firelight I read the final sheet. It was brief, only a few lines. But affixed to the top of the page was the royal seal of Henry II. It read:

Father Geoffrey;

I pray the boy is now safe. Watch over him. I trust you to determine when he is ready to know the truth. When you feel the time is right, send him to me, but his safety must be paramount.

I will send travelers to the abbey now and then to keep watch. You won’t know who they are and neither will he.

Your service in this matter will not go unrewarded.

With my sincerest thanks,

Henry II,

Sovereign of England

The handwriting on the last sheet was instantly familiar to me. Inside my satchel I kept the note that had been left with me on the steps of St. Alban’s. With shaking hands, I unwrapped the oilskin I’d kept it in for these long months. I placed it next to the note signed by Henry II, the Lionheart’s father and once the King of England.

They were identical.

15

What do the papers say?” Robard asked. “They say. .” But I couldn’t finish. Staggering to the fire, I sat down on one of the benches Brother Tuck had plucked from the ashes of the abbey.

“Tristan.” Maryam left her seat, kneeling in front of me. “Tristan, I am your friend and would gladly give everything I have not to see you in such pain. But we are here with you and there is nothing you can tell us, nothing written on any piece of paper, that would change anything. We are with you, now and always.”

“Maryam. . it says. . It’s from the abbot. A letter. . There is a note here from King Henry. . ” I could barely