Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (11 page)

“Of course.” She gave a gracious smile and rose to her feet. “My maidens will escort you to your rest.”

“Thank you.”

He leapt up with alacrity and crossed to draw back her chair. As he did so, the tapestry on the wall caught his eye. He saw a tormented knight lying on the ground, holding up his hand to a lady dressed all in black. Now he could read the dying man’s last words: “LA belle dame sans merci has me in thrall.” And the lady had deep-set eyes and a secret, mulberry mouth like the lady here—

Goddess, Mother, and all the Great Ones, I was not wrong!

Changing color, he recoiled with a violent start and realized his mistake at once. The lady, he saw, had gone unnaturally pale.

“Till tomorrow, then,” he cried too eagerly, backing away with an awkward bow. “I hope I do not offend you, lady, by retiring now.”

“No offense at all. On the contrary.”

Something unfathomable passed behind her eyes. Smiling, she moved toward him and gave him her hand. He bent his head to brush it with his lips as she spoke again.

“Sir Tristan, in a house of women, I have made it my custom to take passing knights to my bed. My maids will bring you to my chamber tonight.”

The next moment she was caressing his temple and stroking the side of his neck. “You are a hero, Sir Tristan, the greatest who ever wandered into my wood. Let us show you how my maidens and I welcome a man like you to Plaisir de Fay.”

CHAPTER 17

A wave of disgust broke over Tristan’s head. Gods above, he cursed with slow-rising anger, you have had nothing from me, lady, to encourage this! Carefully, he withdrew himself from her touch and straightened up to look her in the eye.

“Your ladyship flatters me beyond my deserts,” he said as coldly as he could. Gods, Gods, Gods, if only he had not drunk so much wine . . .

“Oh, sir . . .” She glimmered at him, her dark eyes like moons. Sick at heart, he saw two fathomless pools of desire, hungry black pupils dilated in the hope of what was to come.

He shook his head. He wanted to stride away, brush her off like the town cat that rubbed up against his leg. But he had taken her bread and salt, and the shelter of her roof had saved his life. He drew himself up and bowed.

“Madam, I may not abuse your hospitality that way,” he said stiffly. “In all honor, I am bound to you as a knight—”

“Honor?” She was no longer smiling, but feral and dangerous. “Honor is a code among men. In a house of women, d’you think we care for that?”

“Ussssss? Care for thaaaaat?”

Belatedly, he saw that all the maidens had drawn closer to Duessa in angry ones and twos, their flower-like faces as dark as their mistress’s eyes. He shuddered and came to himself, aware that a sticky sheen of sweat was covering his face.

“Lady, my honor is all that I possess. It is against my oath of chivalry to pay for my bed tonight with bed-service to you. I shall always remember that you saved my life, and for that I shall be your champion till I die. Call on me ever afterward to defend you against the wrong of any man.”

Duessa raised her hand and gave him a tremulous smile. “Forgive me, sir, if I offended you.” She dropped her eyes. “Loneliness makes savages of us all.”

“No offense, my lady,” he replied hastily. “You are Queen here. It is your place to command.”

She showed him her white teeth. “Then allow me to command you to your rest. You are overworn for one day.”

Free, Gods be thanked! “Madam, I owe you more than words can say,” he said fervently, pressing her hand.

“Till tomorrow,” she said, waving him away. She raised a hand for the maiden. “Falsamilla will take you to your chamber.”

Tristan had never bowed more devotedly in his life. “Thank you, lady, and goodnight.”

Rejoicing, he followed the wavering candle of the maid through miles of dark corridor and up a flight of torchlit stairs. At last Falsamilla paused and threw open a door.

“Your chamber, sir,” she proclaimed.

Was it safe? Tristan stepped forward cautiously, still half expecting a trick. But the apartment before him was furnished for a king. Vast tented hangings hung over the great bed, like a knight’s pavilion in the Holy Land. The chairs and tables hewn out of massive black oak would accommodate any man’s bulk, and an armor-stand loomed in the corner for his helmet, sword, and shield. Tristan released a slow sigh of relief. He had not been brought to Duessa’s chamber after all.

A low fire was glowing on the hearth. Falsamilla gestured to a hand-bell by the door. “If you require anything, sir—”

“Nothing, thank you.” He ushered her to the door. “Not even a cup of water in the morning to break my fast. Your lady will understand I must leave at dawn.”

Leave at dawn
. . . yessssssss.

Thankfully, he rested his back against the door, threw back his head, and closed his weary eyes. Bed . . . Get to bed . . .

He was almost too tired to move. Stumbling, he made his way to the window and opened the casement on the starlit sky. The face of the heavens was studded with pinpoints of gold. He fixed his eyes on the love star and began his devotions with a flowing heart.
My lady, oh my love . . .
As he prayed, his soul left his body and his spirit sped like an arrow to Isolde’s side. For a while they wandered on the Plain of Delight. Then, grieving, they parted and came back to earth again.

Oh, my lady . . .

Groaning, he made ready for bed. Clumsy with fatigue, he unstrapped his sword and kicked off his boots, then pulled his tunic and shirt over his head. As he fumbled to turn back the covers, a last thought made its way through his wandering brain.

The door—bolt the door.

He was halfway across the room when he caught a sound. What was it? Straining his ears, he reached for his sword and glued his eyes to the door. Inch by inch the latch began to lift.

Without warning the fire on the hearth leapt into life, throwing up writhing flames of green and blue. The air in the chamber thickened till he could hardly breathe, and the door swung back on its hinges without a sound.

Duessa stood on the threshold, no longer darkly clad like a pious widow or a simple nun. Her body was sheathed in a gorgeous chamber gown of red fox fur, with a high standing collar and sleeves touching the ground. Beneath it she wore a wisp of flame-colored satin and embroidered slippers with low, velvet heels. For the first time he saw her hair, indigo black, and as deep as a starless night. It coiled in a lofty diadem on top of her head, secured with an ivory pin like a great cat’s tooth.

“Sir Tristan.”

She stepped into the room. With an onrush of rage, he saw himself through her eyes, half naked and trembling, brandishing a sword. Afraid of a woman? An unarmed female in a chamber gown?

Gods, what a fool he was making of himself! He threw down his sword. “Lady—” he began thickly, trying to calm his racing heart.

“No words.”

She moved up on him with all the confidence of a wife, and reached out a practiced hand. “You are mine, sir,” she murmured, showing her teeth. “You knew it from the moment we met.”

Tristan recoiled. “No!”

Duessa laughed. Then she shot out a hand and gave his nipple a painful tweak. “You’re a hunter, Tristan, and you know the sport. It adds to the conquest to play with such noble game.”

Tristan closed his eyes to master his choking rage. “I am not game for you or any woman in the world. I have given my sword and my soul to another for these last ten years.”

Duessa released a rich, condescending laugh. “Poor little Isolde, you mean?” she said indulgently.

“The Queen of Ireland, yes,” he said evenly, “I am her sworn knight.”

“Not in my kingdom. Your vows mean nothing here.” With deliberate slowness she raised her hand to her head, pulled out the ivory pin, and threw it to the floor. Coiling and uncoiling, her hair fell around her like a cloak. Blue-black and shimmering, it only half concealed her glistening flesh as she laid open the front of her gown to expose her breasts.

“Look at me, Tristan,” she triumphed, “and drink your fill. Tonight you will exchange Isolde’s love for mine. With me you’ll be able to live free from deceit and hold up your head as a knight again.”

No more lies and deception, but unashamed joy and delight?

A cloud of bright visions flooded Tristan’s mind. He saw himself walking openly with his love and going freely to her bed. He would regain the honor he had lost when he broke his oath to Mark. Gods above, he betrayed his uncle every time he lay with his wife—

The next second, he caught Duessa’s eye and saw the temptation she offered for what it was. Maddened, he fought not to look at the great red nipples or the mounds of gleaming white flesh. Anger came to his rescue. “Lady, you must excuse me from your bed!”

“Never, sir.” Smiling her secret smile, she shook her head. “No man refuses me in Plaisir de Fay.”

“Then forgive one who has no other choice.”

He took her arm to thrust her from the room. But as he touched the cold-as-marble skin, she shot out a hand and gripped him by the throat.

A vicious pain shot through him. Gagging, he tried to break free, but she held him with an Otherworldly force. Madly he tore at her fingers, to no avail. “Lady!” he screamed.

She tightened her grip and the agony renewed. Even her voice had changed, hissing like a cat. “You are lucky, Sir Tristan, that my revenge stops here. You are the first to refuse me the custom of Plaisir de Fay.”

With the strength of a man she threw him to his knees, and the door slammed behind her sweeping form. In an ecstasy of fear he threw himself at the oak planking and drove home the bolt to keep her out. As he did so, he heard a key turning on the other side. Duessa’s voice dropped to an angry growl.

“You will learn, sir, that I mean what I say. You are mine now, and you are here till you give me your love. And only you can decide how long it will take.”

CHAPTER 18

How long will it take? Gods above, man, who knows the secret of a woman’s heart?”

Furiously, King Hoel tugged at his thinning beard and favored his old friend De Luz with a red-eyed glare. And what a friend the King of the Basques had proved, he thought remorsefully, making the long journey over the mountains at this time of the year. Hoel looked across the small private chamber at his guest and was heartened to receive a forgiving smile in return. All might yet be well.

“More wine?” he offered. “Sweetmeats? Nuts?”

He must make much of De Luz. A journey like this was always hard and no man wanted to leave his lands when winter was at last giving way to spring. But good man that he was, De Luz had heard and heeded the cry of an old friend. He sat now, grave-eyed and understanding, as Hoel opened the subject of his quarrel with Blanche.

“Marriage is a weighty thing,” De Luz said in comfortable tones. “Every woman needs time to make up her mind.”

“Not Blanche.” Hoel groaned aloud and reached for his goblet of wine. “You know she refused King Amaury de Gaul? Sent him packing with a flea in his ear?”

De Luz nodded gravely. “The whole of France knows that.”

There was a moment of heavy silence between the two. If the story had reached the Basque country, Hoel reflected savagely, then De Luz must also know that they’d been lucky to escape the threat of war. Hearing of Amaury’s treatment at Blanche’s hands, his enraged mother wanted to avenge the insult to her son. Aged as she was, the old battle-queen of the Gauls was still a formidable foe. Only a formal embassy with Prince Kedrin at its head, delivering fulsome flattery and gifts of gemstones and gold, had served to appease her wrath.

And it must not happen again! Hoel made up his mind. “Help me, old friend. Give me your advice.”

De Luz opened his arms. “With all my heart.”

“Blanche wouldn’t marry Amaury because she wants another man.”

“Ah,” said De Luz, who was not surprised. “Has she said who?”

Hoel took a gulp of the thick red wine and sluiced it dolefully around his mouth. “She’s set her heart on Tristan of Lyonesse.”

“But Sir Tristan,” De Luz said gently, “is—”

“Yes, yes!” Hoel broke in. “Sworn to the Queen of Ireland these ten years and more. Her knight. Her—whatever you call it . . .”

De Luz nodded. This was worse than he feared.

Hoel looked at his old friend, breathing heavily. “So you understand. She needs a flesh-and-blood suitor, not some romantic dream. And we must find her one. A man who will love her, as you loved Roxane.”

“Roxane, yes . . .” De Luz thought of his long-dead wife with a sadness as fine as the mist on the mountains of home.

“Think, then, man!” Hoel pressed him. “Who do you know? Give me some names.”

“I shall certainly consider it,” De Luz said quietly. “But you know we can do nothing without Blanche’s consent. We’re not Christians, remember. Our women are not chattels to be given away.”

Hoel sighed. “Just speak to her, will you, De Luz? Turn her mind toward marriage if you can. And if you can’t, at least talk some sense into her!”

There was another pause.

“Let me go to her,” De Luz said at last. “Where is she now?”

THE WINTRY DAY was drawing to a close. In the square, whitewashed room, the white-clad attendants were lighting the evening lamps and mending the fires. The clean healing smell of herbs hung in the air, mingled with the sweetness of beeswax on the tables and floors. Looking around, Blanche felt the familiar upsurge of pride. No matter that none of this had been her work, or even her thought. It was how an infirmary ought to be, and she wanted the best. She smiled a satisfied smile. Clad all in white, swathed in a large, important apron with a brisk headdress and a white veil holding back her hair, she fancied she looked like the Goddess Herself at work. The sick were lucky who found themselves in her care!

As this one was now. Fluttering her eyelids in exquisite sympathy, she leaned over the withered ancient in the nearest bed. A gentle sleep had softened the lines on his face and he breathed easily, his crabbed hands at peace on his chest.

By his side stood a tall, stooped man with a careworn face and troubled eyes. With him was an older woman in a spotless white apron and head-cloth, holding a vial.

Blanche nodded to him. “So, Doctor, how is he now?”

“Going gently to join the Old Ones,” the doctor replied. “His race on earth is run.”

Blanche raised her head sharply. “But I thought we could save him.”

The doctor shook his head. Why did the Princess always refuse to accept the limits of human power? “Madam, there is no saving men from natural death. This old one has lived his life, and the Mother is calling him home.”

Blanche’s mouth set in an unpleasant line. “What about this?” She gestured to the tiny bottle in the woman’s hand. “A draught of great power, you say.”

The doctor took a breath. “Of great power, but sadly little use. Its only function is to arrest the onset of death. It cannot cure or prevent what nature has determined must occur.”

“It arrests the onset of death?” Blanche widened her eyes into a strident stare. “And you say it’s of little use? Ask the old man what he thinks of that.”

The woman leaned forward earnestly. “Lady, I’ve nursed many to their deaths. When the Mother calls, old souls are glad to go.”

Blanche eyed her with disfavor and pointed to the vial in her hand. “Is that why you kept the knowledge of this from me?”

The doctor frowned. “Lady, this tincture buys life at a heavy cost. Yes, the sufferer wakes and lives and speaks again, it’s true. But the spirits that possess his body are not his own. When Merlin used it to keep Uther Pendragon alive, the King spoke in other voices and lost his mind.”

“Uther may have lost his mind already, dying young as he was and leaving a war-torn kingdom without an heir,” Blanche returned sarcastically. “But what do I care about Uther? I want to see how this works.” She reached for the flask, pulled out the stopper, and dropped the entire contents into the old man’s mouth.

Within minutes a flush of warmth had returned to the withered gray skin. The old man’s breathing deepened, and they saw the signs of movement returning to his limbs. As they watched, his eyes opened and fastened on Blanche in a glance of adoring love. “Lady—” he began.

“There you are!” Blanche made no effort to keep the triumph from her voice. “Now we’ll see how he goes on. Watch him closely, Doctor. I’m relying on you.”

With a sweep of her snowy skirts she turned away, in time to catch a new arrival at the door. Smiling, she moved forward to greet her father’s old friend, the King of the Basques. “Your Majesty,” she cried, curtsying.

“Princess Blanche,” he responded warmly, kissing her hand.

She rose to her feet and raked him from head to foot.
I
know why you are here, her bold scrutiny conveyed. And why should you think you can persuade me when others can’t? Kedrin, too—I know my dear brother has a hand in this.

She forced herself to sound cold. “My father sent for you to talk to me, I think?”

His quizzical face took on a gentle air. “My old friend only seeks your happiness. Every father hopes to see his child fulfilled, not led astray by false hopes and dreams.”

“They aren’t false!” Blanche cried, to her fury feeling the tears rising in her throat. “My knight is true. And he will come to me.”

Suddenly, she was a lost child again, crying for her dead mother,
Daddy, I want . . .
He had given her anything she wanted then, and he would now.

De Luz saw the overbright eyes and trembling lips, and yearned to take her in his arms, comfort her sadness, stroke her pearly skin. All at once he saw how Amaury de Gaul had lost his heart. Beware, De Luz, beware. This maiden will love only once in her life, and you are not the man.

“Let me never come between a maiden and her dream,” he said huskily, aching with tenderness for her stubborn, wounded heart. “Our dreams are sent us by the Great Ones themselves, to teach us how to love. But lady, when you dream of a man so far out of your reach, you may never hope to possess him in this life. You condemn your spirit to walk the Otherworld, pining for joy and fulfillment that can never be.”

“You think so, sir?” Passionately she brushed him aside. “Why should I listen to you? I wouldn’t allow Sir Tristan of Lyonesse himself to take charge of my life and tell me what to do.”

He could see her face quivering with anger and hurt. “Let me promise you that no man will try to—”

“I shall see to that!”

De Luz felt a chill of fear. “What will you do?”

“It’s done!” she triumphed. “I’ve sent word to King Mark of Cornwall that a tournament will be held for the hand of the Princess of France. And if his nephew sees fit to be there, the Princess is likely to smile upon his suit.”

Alas, poor Tristan. And poor Hoel, my unhappy old friend. But above all, poor, willful, deluded Blanche. Gods above, where will this end?

“You’ve invited Sir Tristan by name?” De Luz drew a breath. “Will he come?”

“Will he come?” Blanche let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “What finer alliance for Cornwall than the throne of France?”

“The throne of France!” came a wild echo from behind. The sick man Blanche had left only minutes ago was fighting to sit up, shouting and crying out. The doctor and his assistant were struggling to hold him down, and the breath rattled in his throat as he spoke.

“Cornwall will be here!” he screeched. “Lyonesse will attend. King Mark will command it. The knight will come!”

His eyes were bulging as if they would burst from his head, and the sinews were standing out in his scrawny neck. “Here! Here! Lyonesse will be here!” With one last cry, he coughed up a pool of blood, then fell backward and lay still.

“Goddess, Mother, take this child of yours . . .”

Moving forward to the bedside of the dead man, De Luz folded his hands and gravely began the ancient prayer of farewell. Frowning, the doctor and nurse straightened the old man’s limbs and closed his eyes. But Blanche sped out of the infirmary with joy in every step. Tristan is coming. My knight will be here.