Chapter 1 – The Quarterstaff

 

Tobias held the stick in his upturned palms, glaring at it sourly as if Diago had handed him a long, steaming turd. He glanced up at Diago towering over him, then at the stick, then back at Diago, face awash in offended confusion. Diago couldn’t help but break into a grin. He narrowly held back outright laughter at the boy’s crinkled, angry face. He thought it best he maintain some level of stern superiority. Tobias’ sister, Floria, fifteen-years-old, watched from her seat on the edge of the well nearby.  Unlike Diago, she could not contain herself. She burst out in full-body laughter, nearly plunging herself backward into the well. Tobias glared at her, then turned back to Diago.

“A stick?” 

“A staff, young prince.” Diago answered. “A quarterstaff, to be precise.”

“What am I to do with a stick?”

“You asked to learn to fight.”

Tobias’ eyes and mouth opened wide, head quivering in disbelief at the absurdity. “With a sword, not a stick.”

This new face pushed Diago over the edge. With head tilted back, he released a long-held, deep laugh, echoing throughout the small, enclosed courtyard. Floria giggled from her observation perch. 

With hands on his waist and feet at a captain’s width, Diago looked down on Tobias, an imposing authority figure, almost a giant by Tobias’ reckoning. He smiled kindly though, a friendly giant. “I gift you this quarterstaff, and you’ll call it by its proper name. You’ll learn first to fight with this. When you’re fourteen, I’ll similarly gift you a sword.”

“But Diago!” Tobias complained.

The captain’s commanding voice put an end to the conversation. “When you’re fourteen and no sooner.”

Floria chimed in from the well. “Can I learn too, Diago?”

“Young princess, you know you’re not allowed to sit on the edge of the well. You’ll drown and sink to the bottom if you fall in. Then I won’t be able to drink the water.” He pointed toward the ground. “Down, please.” 

Floria hopped lightly to the smooth stones paving the courtyard. “Well, can I?”

“Girls may not fight,” he declared simply.

“But why?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“But why not?” She persisted.

“That’s the end of the story. You may watch, but you may not join in.” In all honesty, he couldn’t answer her question, why. It simply wasn’t done.

Floria frowned, turning to go back to the well.

“And you’ll find another place to sit,” Diago commanded. 

Floria glared, shook her head, and stomped out of the courtyard, at least as much as a thin teen with a blonde, bouncing ponytail could stomp.

Diago smiled after her before turning back to Tobias. The boy stood gripping the staff loosely at his waist, sullen and defeated. “Today you turn twelve years old, and at twelve you may learn to fight with a quarterstaff. When you’re fourteen, you may learn with a sword. Those are the rules. Between now and then, I will teach you with this.”

Tobias knew not to argue, but wasn’t prepared to be happy about it. He lifted the staff to study it. “It still looks like a stick.” At twelve years old, Tobias stood barely over five feet tall, his wild, black curls making him appear taller than he really was. His innocent, boyish face, still round where it would, in a few years, become angular and strong, pouted dramatically.

Diago smiled, then took it from him. “It is a stick, but a very special stick.” 

He whipped the staff with both hands in a circle above his head, stepped back one long step and brought it down, snapping it under his arm and against his ribs, pointed directly at Tobias. Tobias grinned at the silliness of the exaggerated motions. Just as quickly, Diago lunged forward, jabbing it to within an inch of Tobias’ nose, then almost like a waterspout, he twirled himself in a circle, the stick a blur whipping through the air before it stopped an inch from Tobias’ ear, flying in from the side. Tobias nearly fell over, avoiding it before realizing it stopped, hanging in mid-air. Diago held it there for a moment to let the effect sink in, then pulled it to a vertical position beside his shoulder, stomping his feet together at attention and stabbing the end of the staff onto the stones beside him. 

To Tobias’ surprise, Diago instantly transformed from swirling water to immovable stone, or so it seemed at least. He stood so still and solid. Tobias took one step toward him but recoiled immediately when Diago swiftly transformed back to water. His hands came to life in a blur, the stick virtually disappearing with a swish of air and a small curling eddy of vapor behind it before it snaked between Tobias’ legs, lifting one ankle high to the right and landing him on the stones with a thunk on his left side. Diago again stomped his feet and the staff, returning to his statuesque position, chin up, eyes directly ahead. 

Tobias sat up, rubbing his sore elbow, but eyes bright with admiration. “How did you do that?”

Diago peered down at him fondly, a twelve-year-old prince with so much to learn and many dangers to face. “I did everything my teacher commanded, just as he commanded, without complaint or reservation. If you can do the same, I will teach you.”

“But doesn’t the Master of Arms teach us to fight?”

“He will teach your brother to fight with a sword, but he doesn’t teach boys younger than fourteen.”

Tobias stood and held his hands out. “May I please have my quarterstaff back?”

Diago smiled proudly, then whipped the staff blindingly fast to a horizontal position at the height of the boy’s chest, allowing Tobias to take it. “Some men fight only with a quarterstaff, preferring it to a blade. You may one day decide you too don’t need a sword.”

“Ha!” Tobias laughed derisively. 

Diago laughed too, tousling Tobias’ dark, curly hair. “I have an appointment with your mother.” He squatted down in front of Tobias, bringing his tightly trimmed, bearded face directly in line with the boy’s. “But before I go, I will warn you, if you leave your quarterstaff lying around for anyone to find, I will take it back. You will carry it with you or you will stand it carefully against the wall in the room you’re in. It will not lie on the floor nor lean casually against just any wall, to be forgotten and neglected. In your hands or standing near you. You may leave it in your dressing room if you cannot take it with you, but nowhere else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Tobias answered.

“Good.” He stood to leave. “When I see your mother, I’ll tell her you said you love her.”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you should,” he called back, before disappearing through an open oak doorway into the central portion of the castle.

 

Chapter 2  - Tintern Abbey or The Abbey of Saint John

 

Striguil Castle steadfastly guarded the lowest bridge on the wide but shallow Wye River, not too far from where it joins the River Severn. Originally built more than a century earlier on the order of a wiry, rat-faced king named Ethelbald, the once modest defensive fort grew to become the largest and finest castle on the Welsh border. 

The bridge road, built one-hundred years before the bridge, connected the major city of Winchester to Striguil Castle and Tintern Abbey, which sat five miles farther up the Wye River. King Ethelbald, who also ordered the bridge built, could not have predicted that a spectral appearance of Saint John the Baptist would bless Tintern Abbey, witnessed by an illiterate monk named Virgil. Virgil swore on the cross that the ghost of Saint John the Baptist had appeared one evening just before sunset and washed the lucky monk’s feet on the abbey’s front steps. Nicknamed the Abbey of Saint John, Tintern Abbey and Striguil Castle prospered on the bridge tolls and donations of religious pilgrims hoping to have their feet, and presumably also their souls, washed by Saint John. 

Legend has it, soon after the first caravan of pilgrims arrived, their purses heavy with coin for the abbey’s collection plate, Virgil disappeared, never to be seen again. This, of course, disappointed the pilgrims who wished to hear the first-hand story of Saint John’s appearance. The abbot was happy to retell the story on Virgil’s behalf, with certain of his own embellishments, and so grew the miracle of the Abbey of Saint John. 

As the legend of the miracle grew, so did the legend of Virgil’s reward. Some said the Pope summoned him to Rome, where he lived the rest of his days in luxury. More skeptical souls speculate Virgil met his end rather violently, to prevent any changes to his story that might jeopardize the new source of income. Though the truth of Virgil’s end is lost forever, King Ethelbald and the abbot became rich as Christian pilgrims from far and wide journeyed to find their salvation at the abbey. 

Many of the local people, the more skeptical souls at least, claimed the only specter pilgrims might encounter at Tintern was Virgil’s. They claimed that late at night, only during second sleep when there would be no one awake to see him, the ghost of Virgil visited the abbey steps just as John had appeared to him a century earlier. They claimed he sat on the steps waiting for Saint John to reappear, wash his feet again and release him from his eternal bondage at the abbey. Of course, the abbot denied such wild imaginations, but this didn’t deter the local youth from sneaking out on moonlit nights to hide by the abbey and see for themselves. Whether any truly saw Virgil’s ghost remains disputed, but those who say they did all agree he appeared far more sad than frightening.

 

Chapter 3  - Lady Eleanor

 

Built of cream-colored limestone blocks, Striguil Castle glowed warmly in the soft light of morning, reflecting the same colors as the morning sky. The stones glowed ocean blue as the first hints of dawn changed from night’s black to deep blue and so on through the color spectrum. Just as the sun broke the horizon, the reds, oranges and yellows took over, then a full white as direct sunlight washed over the walls. The castle shone like a large pearl beside the black water of the river. Ethelbald and every king afterward praised the castle architect for his choice of stone whenever they viewed it at first light. The same cream-colored limestone reflected the light of candles and oil lamps inside the castle, distributing the brightness throughout the rooms. 

Diago strode through two empty rooms before entering the library, where Lady Eleanor would receive her afternoon visitors. Women rarely frequented the library, especially if men were present. They instead remained in the drawing rooms and salons, more appropriate for female chatter. Lady Eleanor, however, did not engage in typical female chatter. Contrary to tradition, she read books, which sensible, that is to mean most, women of all classes avoided. Not only did she read, but she required Floria to do the same. She would not tolerate a silly, foolish daughter. Her boys, Tobias, and the older Adrian, studied in the library with the schoolmaster, four hours each day. Lady Eleanor taught Floria herself, privately. The king, if he knew, would not tolerate his daughter learning anything but the womanly arts. 

When Diago entered, Lady Eleanor sat alone reading by the window, she and her settee awash with sunlight. Far from the formality and politics of the palace, she rarely dressed in the fashion and attention to detail required there. Living at Striguil afforded her the privilege of dressing down, as she called it. More casual and comfortable. This day she read by the window in a plain, straight-cut, periwinkle dress, pearl buttons running all the way up the front from ankle to neck. At Striguil, she preferred no jewelry and no makeup. Of course, when the king visited Striguil, she adopted the formal customs of the capital, but with him away she could be herself.

Diago stepped just inside the door and stood at attention, waiting to be recognized. Soldiers, even the Captain of the Guard, never wore uniforms. Unless they held a formal position in the king’s palace, they dressed however their martial sensibilities prescribed. Unless they were fighting or training to fight, they wore plain wool, straight-legged pants and a commoner’s linen shirt. To add formality, Diago wore a leather vest over his white linen shirt. Eleanor appreciated how the vest accentuated both his lean waist and broad shoulders, though she, of course, would never say such a thing out loud.

Lady Eleanor folded the book in her lap and invited him in. “You’re always on time,” she said, smiling warmly. She enjoyed Diago’s company. He expected nothing from her, never held her to a standard. She felt like she could be herself with him.

“I’m a soldier, my lady.”

“You know, here, I prefer you to use Eleanor. Why do you insist on calling me your lady?”

“Hard habit to break is the only answer I can offer.” He relaxed though and stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back. “Tobias asked me when I see you to tell you he loves you.”

She laughed. “No, he didn’t, or you put him up to it.”

Diago shrugged. “He didn’t, but he feels it just the same. Boys his age can’t say it.”

“Yet you insist on pressing him.”

“How is a boy to learn if not taught?”

“You’re a strange man, Diago. I never hear men speak of love, even about their mothers.”

“I’m a Spaniard, my lady. My uncle spoke of love often, about his mother and his wife. I find it strange, the word is never mentioned here. Perhaps it’s the cold weather.” 

“I find it normal, but then I was born farther north.”

“Even colder.”

“Yes.”

He changed the subject. “May I ask what you are reading?”

Eleanor lifted the book, turning it over to glance at the script on the ornately hand-gilded cover. “It’s a history of the church.”

“Interesting.” 

She smiled. “You don’t really believe so.”

Though he’d never in his life read a book, or even held one in his hands for that matter, he imagined anything worthy of writing must be interesting. “I’m certain if you spend your time on it, it must be interesting.”

She blushed unwillingly. It’s the closest Diago would come to offering her a compliment. She normally had to work reasonably hard to squeeze a smile from him, but compliments, they were rare.

“Tell me, Diago,” she started, changing the subject. “I presume even you were a boy once. What do boys wish for on their twelfth birthday?”

“Are you asking for gift suggestions?”

“I admit I don’t have the slightest idea what he might appreciate. If left to me, I might embarrass him with shiny, white leather shoes.”

Diago burst out laughing, a strong, hearty, deep laugh that rumbled to the core of Eleanor’s breast. She smiled inside and thought to herself, victory!  

His big smile lingered beyond his laugh, pleasing her. “I hope I can save him from such a fate, ma’am.”

“Oh God, please don’t use that horrid word with me. I’ll take my lady before that!”

Diago bowed. “As you wish, my lady.”

Eleanor sighed. “Do I have to order you to call me Eleanor?”

Diago smiled ever so briefly. “I believe you tried that many years ago.”

She threw up her hands. “And look where it got me.”

Though Eleanor may want what she wants, Diago, keenly aware of the dangers of overstepping, remained careful. He bowed his head and whispered quietly so that no one nearby might hear the breach of protocol. “As you wish, Eleanor.” 

“You know how I am,” she continued, before realizing what he said. “Wait, what?” But he would say no more, standing stonelike near the door, eyes forward. 

She knew he wouldn’t repeat it, but she’d heard it and that was enough. She set her book on the side table and stood, crossing the room to him. Standing near him, she’d always felt so small beside him, like a teenage girl. In fact, she had met him first when she was a teenage girl, betrothed to the king sixteen years prior. He was quickly advancing in the king’s guard, one of the favorites, though not much older than her. She wasn’t much bigger now than she was then, at seventeen. She’d filled out some, to be sure, but she remained barely over five feet and even after three children, still weighed half what he weighed, if not less. She guessed he was well over six feet tall, but she was not bold enough to ask. In fact, she imagined he’d never stood to be measured. Doing so would be too egotistical for him. His height and weight weren’t important to her, anyway. She rested at night in the complete confidence he would stand between her and any danger, and that wasn’t a claim she felt safe making about her king.

Smiling up at him, though he did not look down, she tentatively reached out to touch his leather vest but thought better of it and retracted her hand. Turning, she stepped into the doorway and called for Nesta, her lady’s maid.  

Before Nesta arrived, she slipped back to her settee under the window. “Thank you for honoring my wish,” she said. “I so dislike the formalities. I hide away in the countryside at Striguil to escape all of that.”

“Yes, you’ve always been that way.”

Nesta, the maid, hurried her round frame through the door. “M’lady?” 

Next to Diago, Nesta appeared like a dwarf from the coal mines of ancient Wales. Short and almost as wide, she filled the width of the door while Diago filled the height. Frizzy, long hair recklessly clasped behind her head framed her round, but kind, face. 

“Nesta, you remember Diago, right?”

“Of course, m’lady.” She nodded at him. Diago nodded back. 

“Well, Diago has offered to help me choose a gift for Tobias, since I can’t fathom what a twelve-year-old boy might want.”

Nesta peered up at Diago again. “How can I help, m’lady?” 

Eleanor blushed. “I’m not sure. If I’m to be honest, I don’t quite remember why I thought he might need your help. Foolish memory. I’m getting old.” She caught the slightest hint of a smile on Diago’s lips. “Please just help him buy whatever he suggests. I’ll want to present it to Tobias at dinner.”

“Yes, m’lady.” She turned to Diago expectantly. 

He raised his eyebrows at her, amused she seemed to think he had an answer then and there. “Of course, I’ll require a few minutes to think about it. I’ll return and find you when I have an answer.” He nodded at Nesta, then bowed toward Eleanor before pressing past the ample maid, disappearing through the doorway.