Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (10 page)

CHAPTER 15

There was no sound but the crying of the gulls. Isolde felt the blood draining from her face and thought all the world must hear the clamor in her heart. The captain stood watching her with all his men as she sat on her horse amid the drifting snow. She gazed back at the wall of staring eyes and dared not look at Tristan at her side.

“You shall not go,” she muttered, numb with shock.

A great wave dashed against the dock, and a fine freezing spray fell on their faces like tears.

“Think, lady!” he ground back, suppressing a groan. “If I defy Mark and take ship with you, won’t the whole world know whose knight I am?”

She nodded furiously,
yes. It would tell Mark that we are lovers and care
nothing for him.
And it would put a weapon into Andred’s hands that the jealous knight would not hesitate to use.

She moistened her dry lips. “What does he want?”

“Mark?” Tristan gave soft and savage laugh. “What else but to part us, lady, and to cause you pain?”

She did not want to believe it. “Matters of state,” she insisted. “He said—”

“Lies!” Tristan spat. “He only wants to demonstrate his power.”

“Over me?” Her eyes flared. “I am Queen of the Western Isle in my own right. Even in Cornwall every woman has the freedom of the Mother-right. Mark cannot touch me.”

And that is why he hates you, and always will. Tristan choked back an angry sigh. He nodded toward the men drawn up on the quay. “Come, lady, let us give them what they want. Let me see you aboard and then be on my way.” As he spoke he felt his heart crack like a bone.

“Rest here tonight,” she said, frantic to change his mind. “It’s snowing, and you’ll never find the way. You’ll be lost in the wood if you try to ride in the dark. If I sail at dawn, that will give us a few more hours.”

The dying sun was plunging into the sea. Tristan watched it dissolve in a cauldron of red and gold and steeled himself not to melt with it too. “Mark’s orders were that I should return at once.”

“Through a midnight forest? At the risk of your life?” she flung out furiously, then bit it back. Nothing was gained by pressing him to delay.

Overhead a pair of gulls wheeled and cried, then parted lamenting into the setting sun. The sky was bathed in blood like the death of hope, and banks of dark cloud draped the horizon in black. The sea called out with a slow departing roar and the wind plucked at her garments,
come,
Isolde, come . . .

The evening star was blooming in the west. She could hardly speak for pain. “So we must part?”

“Only in body,” he said in low, fervent tones. “My soul is yours, my spirit, my sword are yours. Every evening I shall look on the love star and pray for you. Every dawn I shall call down the love of the Mother on your head.”

“And I you.” She bowed her head. “And with every breath I shall draw you back to my side.”

“And I you.”

“So, then . . . ?” She could not say it.

“You to the sea, and I to the lonely sky,” Tristan muttered through pale lips. “I must go back to the forest and find my way.”

He had the look of a deer in the midnight woodland, wild and strange.
Already you have left me, my sweet love.
She wanted to weep.

He turned moonstruck eyes upon her. “A thousand years ago the Great Ones set this suffering in the stars. But our coming together again will be written too. One day I shall be with you, never to part. Come, lady, let me bring you to your ship.”

THE WOODLAND LAY around him, dark and deep. The stars had fled behind the louring clouds, and the glimmering moon could hardly light the way. And it was cold . . . so cold . . .

Snow lay everywhere, turning the world to white. A deep frost had made all the forest a labyrinth of ice, and he had long ago lost all sense in his hands and feet. He reached forward to pat his horse’s neck. “Farther, old friend?”

The great gray swung back his head and nuzzled Tristan’s boot. You’re the master, sir.

I know, Tristan nodded. And I should have done better by both of us than this!

He heaved a furious sigh. Why had he chosen to travel on a night like this? And why had he left the straight track that he knew and struck off through the trees in search of a shorter route?

“Go with the Goddess,” she had said, her face as stripped of emotion as a sea-bleached bone. But loving her as he did, he knew what lay beneath. And he had never felt anything as naked and raw as her grief, unless it was his own.

Yet he, too, had to hide all he felt. “Farewell, lady” was his wooden reply.

Then he bowed and left her on the windswept deck and watched from the jetty as the sea bore her away. She is gone, ripped through him like a severed nerve. When shall I see her, hold her, kiss her sweet eyes again?

Yes, yes, he told himself, shivering, that had been pain indeed, almost beyond his power to endure. Still, what a fool to leave the greenways that were old when the Romans came, and strike off into the trackless wastes of the wood. It was colder now than he could have believed, every twig cracking as the frost tightened its grip, every tree bowed down with the weight of snow and ice. As he nosed his horse forward it came to him like a cold branch in the face, I could die here. I could lose my life.

On plodded the gray, on through the frozen night. Cold as he was, he felt tiredness overtaking him with every step as his overstrained body nudged him to the edge of sleep.

Sleep . . .

He laughed, a strange, rusty sound. On the road, he often slumbered as his horse went along, knowing the faithful creature would find the way. Indeed in those far-off, glorious tournament days when he chased the sport of arms from place to place, the gray had known the great highways of France, Spain, and Gaul better than he had himself. But if he slept now, they would never see the dawn. No, sleep must wait till he lay in a fine feather bed, hung with royal emerald satin and embroidered with the white trefoil.

Till he lay in Isolde’s arms . . .

A faint fragrance reached him through the drowsy air. Greeting his starved senses in that midnight wood, it seemed the sweetest thing in all the world, and he turned his horse toward it in a dream.

“Gods above!”

The gray stumbled heavily, jolting him awake. Cursing, he vaulted from the saddle and groaned. If the gray went lame, they would perish here. Time to go on foot and lead his loyal mount.

On . . .

Must get on . . .

What was that?

Ahead of him a light flickered and was gone. Was it real? Trembling, he cast around in an ecstasy of hope. Where was it? Over there?

“Where are you?” he cried out. “Show me again!”

All around him the forest lay dark and cold and still. Tears as hard as diamonds stood in his frozen eyes. It was only a will-o’-the-wisp after all, the spirit who came to torment a lost traveler’s last hours. So that was his fate, then, death?

So be it. He laughed a frozen laugh. He would not be the first to lose his way in the wood, and pay for the misjudgment with his life. The pulse of life was still thundering through his veins. But the Dark Lord was approaching, he could hear his tread.

He fixed his eyes on the place where the light had died, and filled his mind with joy. One thought alone would transport him to the Plains of Delight.

Isolde, my lady . . .

My lady and my love.

CHAPTER 16

A ray of light shone out through the gloom. Tristan held onto the reins for support, staring like the dead. With painful slowness he closed his frozen eyes then opened them again. His heart lurched wildly. The light was still there.

“Look, look!” he mumbled in crazy excitement to the gray. He pointed a trembling hand. “And another over there?” He fumbled at the reins. “Get on, while we can still see it—on!”

But the gray took the bit between his teeth and refused to move, tossing his head and digging in his hooves.

“Gods above!” Tristan groaned. Was this a time to delay? Roughly he drove forward toward the light. But his strength was waning now with every step, and he cried out in fear as the distant gleam flickered, then died away. Just as he was about to stumble to his knees, a brightness lit the midnight path ahead and he saw the lights of a castle glimmering through the trees. Weeping, he threw an arm over his horse’s furry neck.

“Saved!” he rejoiced. “We’re saved.”

All at once the air seemed warmer and he smelled the sweet fragrance again. It came from the dark dwelling he could see ahead, its outline getting clearer as he drew near. The ground was rising toward a tree-lined crest and it stood proudly on the horizon, its black facade starkly outlined against the fleeting moon. For a moment he took it for a shape with no substance, then told himself that the high walls and delicate towers must be solid enough. How else would a castle appear in the middle of a forest at night?

Now the gray was suddenly fearful again, shying away and whinnying with distress, as if it feared to face the way ahead. Slowly, he coaxed it from the shelter of the trees. They came out into a clearing, a wide expanse of white under the pale winter moon. Tristan stared. All around the castle the snow lay undisturbed, as if nothing had passed that way for weeks. Yet in winter like this, when food would be running low, surely the knights must go hunting every day?

Tristan shook his head. Time enough to puzzle this out later on. For now—he raised his eyes from the ground and caught his breath.

The whole of the castle was bathed in a glimmering light. A pearly sheen danced off the snow-covered ground, and frost glistened on every stone tracery and parapet. The great doors of the gatehouse stood open below, and a warm glow seemed to beckon weary travelers in. Venturing through the gates, he found himself in a wide courtyard, where forty stables stood open around three sides of a fine cobbled square. Tristan looked around, at a loss again. In any other stables at this hour, overworked lads would be scrambling to deal with mud-spattered riders and horses loudly whinnying for their feed. But here there were neither men nor horses to be seen.

Tristan shrugged his stiff shoulders: no matter. On the road he always looked after his horse himself. He led the gray into the nearest stall and unsaddled and rubbed him down with unusual care. But still the horse shivered and rolled his eyes, breathing as hard as if he scented blood.

“What’s wrong with you, snorting and skittering like this?” Tristan demanded fondly, fetching his old friend a whack across the rump. “Nothing that a bale of hay won’t cure.”

At last he left the stable and made his way up through the yard. The stars were out and a fragile moon smiled down upon a world of ice and snow. Ahead of him a glittering archway gave onto a grand courtyard with torchlit cloisters shaded by ivy and yew. As he made his way forward, the sweet fragrance came to him again. Be calm, he schooled himself. But still his pulse beat faster and he could feel the excitement gathering in his soul.

Far off now he could hear high-pitched voices and tinkling laughter, and faint strains of ethereal music overhead. Light poured into the courtyard, and a pair of great bronze doors swung open to reveal a handsome hall with slender, brightly clad shapes drifting to and fro. More candles than he could count burned around the walls, and the flames of a roaring fire danced on the hearth. The fragrance he had followed from the forest came to meet him, catching his heart, and he thought of his lost mother, frail, lovely, and fleeting, and too young to die. A vast yearning filled him, and he wanted to stay forever in this glittering space where brilliant, beautiful creatures wafted to and fro. One thought alone suffused his wandering brain: I have come to the place where the Fair Ones live.

In a dream, he stepped over the threshold and entered the hall. Now he saw that the long chamber was hung with tapestries and every scene depicted seemed alive. In one, a proud queen embraced a unicorn on a golden chain and spurned the handsome lover at her side. In another, she commanded a suitor to be gone, banishing him from the sunlit orchard where she held court. In the last, a young man lay dying on the ground, all alone in a withered forest where no flowers grew. A few faint words were issuing from his mouth, but at this distance Tristan could not make out what they were.

He closed his eyes. That scent again—what was it? The faint smell of blossom reached him, and he turned his head. At the far end of the chamber stood a great bowl of blood-red roses, flourishing their dark heads. Roses in winter? Tristan looked again. Strange, that these artificial blooms could look so real, and even smell so too. Real? He shook his head. He had not realized how tired he was.

Drifting around the hall, clustered together or moving in ones and twos, were twenty or more slender, laughing young women, each lovelier than the last. Tristan sighed with relief. Here at last were the people of the castle—but where were the men?

Now the girls had seen him, and he found himself the focus of many pairs of curious eyes, all the sweet-faced, willowy girls giggling and whispering as they looked him up and down. Their bright silks rustled as they talked and they nodded their heads together like a garland of flowers. Tristan drew in his breath and gave thanks that his love for Isolde was true, or he might have found it hard to resist the sideways glances and inviting smiles.

“Sir . . .”

The tallest of the maidens came toward him with a gliding tread. She was as slender as a hazel-twig in March and robed in pale, filmy garments the color of catkins in spring. She had long, glossy hair in a vivid chestnut brown, and the coloring to match. Her veil flowed around her shoulders like a woodland stream, and her smile lit up the night. She dropped him a low curtsy. “Welcome, sir, to the Castle Plaisir de Fay.”

Plaisir de . . . pleasure of what?

Fay . . . fayerie . . .
floated through his mind, but it made no sense. He put a hand to his head. His brain would labor no further today. “Madam, how may I call you?”

The nut-brown maiden smiled at him again. “Falsamilla, lord.”

Falsa—what? Another name to conjure with. Manfully, Tristan pressed on. “Will you lead me to your lord and lady to make my greetings to them?”

“My lord?” A cascade of shrill laughter filled the air. “We have no lord, sir. Our lady rules here alone.”

“A widow, perhaps?” Tristan asked, and earned another high-pitched laugh.

Confused, he took in the sumptuous hangings on the wall, the rich carpets underfoot, and the regal dais at the end of the hall. Beneath a deep canopy of mulberry silk stood a low but elegant chair like a royal throne. Tristan turned back to Falsamilla. “Is she a queen?”

The maiden glanced up at him with mischief in her eyes. “Our lady will tell you all you need to know.”

Another of the gorgeous girls was at his elbow, holding a pitcher of silver and an ornate goblet of gold. “You’ll take some wine, sir? Our lady will be here very soon.”

Tristan bowed his head, mesmerized by the stream of ruby liquor pouring into the gold. “Thank you, yes.”

He stared at the gaggle of young women, whose excitement seemed to be reaching a fever pitch. “Tell me about your Castle Plaisir de Fay,” he demanded brusquely, to cover his unease. “Who is your lady?”

An odd, husky voice sounded in his ear. “They call me Duessa, sir.”

He had not heard her come in. Gods above, he thought wildly, these women must move on wheels instead of feet. Unless it’s a fetch, a spirit of the place . . . He forced himself to turn.

But the figure standing before him looked mortal enough, and womanly too, from the tip of her headdress to her fine satin shoes. Her gown was of black silk damask, rich and plain, and cut like a nun’s habit in its simplicity. She wore a tall pointed casque of black velvet, and around the base gleamed a coronet of red gold. Over it all floated a silver-spangled veil, and behind it he could see no more than her eyes.

Her eyes were like dark stars. Tristan felt his mind slipping away. Was it the headdress that made her so imposing, or her lean, fierce frame? Her soft shoulders or her hard, jutting breasts, straining against the severely modest gown? He shook his muddled head. Gods above, what was she, widow or Queen? Neither, or both?

Slowly she put back her veil. “Welcome, sir.”

She stood calm and unsmiling, waiting for him to speak. In silence he absorbed her shapely presence, large dark eyes and ivory skin, till her sharp white teeth flashed in a sudden smile. Yet still he thought there was something secretive about her deep-set eyes, and wondered if the long, pale face had ever seen the sun. And a sweet secret it seemed to be too—a pleasure crying out to be enjoyed. Her dark, puckered mouth was like a wild loganberry waiting to be picked. Without warning, he saw himself feasting on her overripe lips, nipping them with his teeth till the juices flowed . . .

Goddess, Mother!

Hot with shame, he turned his face to the fire. “My lady,” he forced out, “I find myself benighted in this wood. May I crave the shelter of your roof tonight?”

“Oh, sir . . .”

She put out her hand. Her low, husky voice wrapped him around in warmth. “Sir Tristan, my maidens and I are honored to greet you tonight.”

He gasped. “You know my name?”

“Oh, sir,” she said gravely, “all the world knows you. The great hero who rides the gray horse is known far and wide.” Her long arms floated out to embrace the hall. “Even here, where my maidens and I hide away.”

“Hide away?” Tristan cried impetuously, “why should you do that? Your maidens are the fairest to be seen, and your ladyship would grace any court on earth.” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “Lady, how should I address you? I would not wish to insult your dignity.”

For a second he thought that a whole life flashed violently behind the brooding, coal-black eyes. She turned her dark gaze upon him, and a shudder passed through him as he felt its force. The next moment she was herself again. “ ‘Lady’ is the finest title of them all.” She lifted her hand. “Let us eat.”

Within minutes, the maidens had raised a handsome trestle on the dais and dressed it for a feast. In a few airy passes the table was set with linen and silver and bowls of flowers and fruit. Plates and goblets followed, and candles and pitchers of wine. Then, out of nowhere, it seemed, a royal seat appeared for him, and the Lady Duessa, smiling, took her throne.

Seated beneath the rich red canopy, the lady raised a ruby-studded goblet and the wine in her cup gleamed in the candlelight like blood. “To the health of our guest, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse.”

“Sir Tristan, Sir Tristan!” Standing around the table, the maidens rustled together like flowers in a field. Tristan rose to his feet to accept the toast. “And to you, lady—blessings on the Castle Plaisir de Fay!”

Never in his life had Tristan seen roast pork so succulent that it fell apart under the knife, or beef so richly marbled that it melted from the bone. Dish after dish of jelly, broth, and brawn appeared and disappeared in the deft, whisking hands. Meanwhile salads and nuts and cheeses and a thousand sweet delights came to keep them company on the groaning board.

The lady ate sparingly, Tristan noticed, and drank even less. She’s right not to drink, he thought owlishly, as he felt the warmth of the wine spreading through his brain. As she picked at her food she spoke of a hundred things, and her hot, husky voice flowed in and out of his head. Now and again she fell silent, smiling into his eyes. Before long a thought took shape in his mind: this lady lives alone, without the company of men. Lives alone, sleeps alone, but seems to desire some other fortune tonight . . .

Again he felt the unwelcome pricking in his loins. Goddess, Mother! he choked in silence. Have you lost your mind? As a knight on the road, such things had come his way, but never since he swore his faith to Isolde had he turned aside to take these casual pickings when they arose. Never once had he yielded to the pleas of a lovesick virgin or stooped to pleasure the lady of a castle when her knight was away.

And could he forget his vow to Isolde now? He groaned inwardly. Out, man! Get out! Once safely away from here, he could relate this whole adventure to her without shame. He could tell her all, because there would be nothing to tell.

His mind racing, he hastened through the remains of his meal. The lady, he noticed, had stopped eating a while ago. He waved a hand toward her and sketched out a bow. “Madam Duessa, I am keeping you from your rest. And I myself—” He pretended to yawn, then gallantly covered it with his hand. “Forgive me, lady, if I forget all courtesy. I have ridden too far today, I must retire.”