Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (16 page)

CHAPTER 26

Primroses carpeting the cliff tops like morning sun, wild violets in every valley, the hillsides alive with little stotting lambs: spring came more sweetly to Cornwall than to any place on earth. But Andred was blind to the beauty that whispered around him every day. The unfolding year meant only one thing to him: another week gone, and Tristan still not here.

“Dead!” pronounced Elva with relish, rolling the thought greedily around her mind. “Or as good as dead, or else he’d be here now.”

Yes, he knew she must be right. Tristan would never disobey Mark so flagrantly. And how fine it would be if his dear cousin was rotting somewhere, so badly injured that he could not move. But Andred knew better than to allow himself to dream. People only disappeared like that in moldy old stories or children’s tales. For now, it was enough that Tristan was absent, and in deep disgrace. King Mark would not forgive him for this lengthy delay.

“Is he here yet?” the King moaned every day. It was a question all his servants had learned to dread. Staggering up from his wine-slobbered couch or returning from the hunt, he could think of nothing else, and his temper grew worse with every passing hour.

“Where is Tristan, sire?” Andred composed his face in an expression of distress. “Who can say? But wherever he is, I am sure he would not betray you—”

“Betray me?” Mark goggled. “Why should he do that?”

“Oh, sire!” Elva chimed in, rolling her eyes. “Other knights may disobey your command, but not Sir Tristan.”

“Not Tristan, no,” echoed Andred dutifully, with just the right hint of doubt in his voice.

“You think he’s gone over to Ireland with the Queen?”

“If he has, he must have had a reason . . .” Andred trailed off unconvincingly. Oh, how he loved playing with Mark like this! And every day brought new chances to hand.

“FROM THE PRINCESS of France?” Mark bleated, taking the scroll. “She’s calling a tournament, you say?”

“And inviting Sir Tristan, as the premier knight,” said Andred insinuatingly. “No one else.”

Mark tugged at a stringy lock of his sandy-gray hair. “Why him?” “You must ask that of the Princess herself.”

“Isolde, is that what she’s called? The same as the Queen? Why did they call her that?”

“Her father loved the Queen of Ireland, but she would not marry him. So, he named his own daughter after her and brought her up to be a healer like our Queen.”

“Another healer, eh?” said Mark with interest. “Is she as good as Isolde?”

“They say she has healing hands.”

“And she’s invited him to a tournament? Well, he shan’t go,” Mark proclaimed with satisfaction. “We don’t need the French to show us what to do. If there’s to be a tournament, we’ll have one ourselves.”

“But if Tristan doesn’t return—”

“He will!” declared Mark explosively. “When he hears that there’s jousting in hand. He wouldn’t miss that. Send out messengers to every lord and king, and get the heralds on the road.”

Andred bowed, his brain furiously at work. His elf-shotten lip began to throb and he stroked it down: courage now, I will turn this to advantage, never fear.

What would Elva say? He found himself hungering for her expressive words, her long hard body, her sharp breasts. Get to her then, get to Elva right away . . .

Mark’s voice floated after him as he hurried away. “Oh, and Andred, order our own knights down to the tiltyard at once. They’ve done nothing all winter, they’d better get ready at once. Wherever he is, Tristan can beat them all!”

NOW THE EARTH was awakening from its winter sleep and the fields and woods were stirring with the spring. At midday the cattle slumbered in the warmth of the sun, and the nights were alive with lovers’ whispers and cries. But underground there was no night or day. Nothing but darkness and the endless throb of regret.

Tristan lay in a cell in the castle’s foundations, a low chamber cut out of the primeval rock. Only rats and toads could survive in such places, he knew, and the fetid air had not stirred for a hundred years. As the day went on, a slit in the rock let in a little sun. But when daylight faded, darkness came down like a shroud, and he lost count of the hours before morning came again.

Yet a lover’s heart can always tell the time. Each evening when the love star rose again, he prayed, Bless Isolde, my lady and my love. And destroy Breccan if he breaks his faith. I could have saved her from him, his soul cried. But I left her undefended. I failed her trust.

Yet how did I fail? he cried, raging, weeping, cursing, and pacing his cell. Ambushed by women as he tried to escape, he was beaten before he began. He had sworn to defend every woman, to cherish her honor as his own and to keep her from harm. To go against that would make him an oath-breaker, a rogue knight, a thing beyond shame.

Yet how could Duessa and her women claim his chivalry? They had imprisoned him here against his will, starving and growing weaker day by day. He knew he could hardly sit a horse by now, and it would be a long time before he could trust himself to handle a sword. Could he escape without doing them any harm, turn the tables on Falsamilla when she brought his food? By now he could count every step of her daily visit to his prison, and could track her descent by the rustling of her skirts. But if he tried to break free, the armed guards would not be far away.

As they must be now. Already he could hear her footfall on the stair.

“Sir?”

The door opened and Falsamilla came in, set down the provisions beside him, and began to speak.

“My lady catches knights the way children catch flies. I am only sorry that I helped her catch one such as you.” To his surprise, her eyes seemed bright with tears.

He shook his head. “Lady, I don’t blame you for my woes,” he replied brusquely. “Every man chooses the path that he will tread.”

She forced a smile. “And you chose well when you refused her love. Most men leap into her arms and embrace their doom.” She looked around the malodorous cell. “The rest think again when they find themselves suffering here. In time, even the strongest begs his way into her bed.”

Tristan recoiled in disgust. “What pleasure can she take in that?”

Falsamilla gave a twisted smile. “Remember, my lady is an enchanter beyond compare. She transports her lovers to worlds they never knew, and they never want it to end.”

“All things end,” said Tristan quietly.

“Oh, they do.” Falsamilla gave a smile he did not like. “The lover slips into the sweetest sleep of his life. Then he awakes to find himself alone on the cold hillside, left with a soul-sickness that nothing can cure. For the rest of his life he is fated to pine and mourn around this wood, searching for her and the castle he never can find.”

Tristan closed his eyes. Out of the darkness came troop upon troop of knights, pale, hollow-eyed, sick and wasted creatures of skin and bone, haunting the hillsides, weeping on the ground.

One held up a skeletal hand in Tristan’s face. “She has sucked out my soul,” he cried. “Beware of yours!”

“Oh, sir—”

He heard Falsamilla weeping, and came to himself. The maid wrung her hands. “My lady would kill me if she knew I had told you this—”

“She will never know,” he said hoarsely. “But what possesses her to do such evil things?”

Falsamilla gave him a brooding stare. “Let me tell you, sir,” she rasped. “When she was a child, a man of lust killed my lady’s father, then raped her mother and took the children away. The elder sister he married off to another king like him, but he gave my lady to the Christians when she was still a child.”

“He put her in a nunnery?” Tristan knew how Christian women were ruled in those houses of theirs. “To be starved, and whipped—”

Angry tears filled Falsamilla’s eyes. “And forced to worship their God when she was destined for the life of the Goddess—even to serve Her in the highest place.”

Tristan found his voice. “Avalon? Alas the Gods! Who would do such a cruel thing?”

She gave him a piercing look. “Not you, sir, if I read you right. And you would not betray me.”

He raised his head, baffled. “Betray you . . . ? I would never betray a lady in my life.”

“I believe you.” She gave a decisive nod. “Sir Tristan, if you give me your oath that you’ll never reveal my help, I will set you free.”

“Free?” He could hardly believe her. “Lady, why in the name of the Gods . . . ?”

Her mouth twisted in a painful smile. “The life of a good man is worth one good turn. I have years ahead to enjoy all the rest.”

“But surely you’ll be in danger?” He shuddered at the thought of Duessa’s rage.

She shook her head, laughing openly. “D’you think my lady ever comes down here?”

He would not press her further. “When will you come?”

“Tonight, at owl-light. Listen for their call.” She hurried to the door. “But swear,” she cried on the threshold, “swear your faith to me?”

“I have sworn a knighthood oath!” he cried in a fury. “Do you doubt my faith?”

The only answer was the slamming of the door. Trembling, he heard the key grind in the lock. A frenzy of doubt and hope seized him. Was she playing with him, would she return?

He never knew how many hours went by, only that he paced the floor till he could go no more. When his legs failed, he crouched down by the door, straining for every sound. He heard the owls cry and she did not come. Still he kept hope alive, till he passed the hour when the last hope dies and hordes of new fears are born. In the end he fell into an exhausted doze against the wall. When a sound came from the stairs, he was instantly awake. But still he did not believe it when the door swung open and there she was.

She stood, white-faced, with her finger on her lips: be silent, or die! He made himself like a wraith as he followed her up, stumbling through the passageways as best he could. Now his long imprisonment was telling on his wasted frame. Gods above, how would he handle a horse, with his muscles already failing at every step?

And still Falsamilla led onward through the gloom, passing down into the castle’s unknown depths. They slipped through low side alleys and forgotten cells, lit only by the lantern in the maid’s hand. One cobweb-hung tunnel had hardly been traversed in years, till at last they came to a door. One thrust of her shoulder and she had it open, ushering him through.

Hardly daring to breathe, Tristan stepped out into the night. His poisoned lungs gulped up the air like balm, sweeter than honey after so long underground. The night was hung with a thousand glittering stars, and the Mother Herself smiled down from the sky overhead.

Goddess, Mother, thanks!

He stood outside a forgotten postern gate with a watchman’s shelter and alarm bell by the wall. The little gate had once been guarded, that was plain. But the forest had long ago crept up to the castle walls, and no hand had rung the alarm bell for years.

A few yards away stood his gray stallion, saddled for the road, with his harp and his sword in its scabbard by the horse’s side. He stepped forward and embraced the great beast, weeping on its neck. The horse leaned down its head and nuzzled his hand. So there you are, master. Which way now, my dear?

Far away! All the way. As far as we can go.

An answering whinny snickered through the night. Tristan turned. Across the clearing stood another horse, with Falsamilla taking up the reins, preparing to mount.

Tristan’s gut heaved. “What now, lady? You ride along with me?”

She flashed him a smile of triumph. “All the way, my dear.”

“But I ride alone.”

“No longer, Tristan. Your way is my way now.”

He struggled for control. “Madam, I shall gladly escort you to the highway. Or bring you to the safety of the nearest town.”

“Oh sir, in the first town, we shall stop at the first inn and take the first bed.” She paused, her eyes raking him up and down. “We can’t go far tonight, you’ll have to rest. After that, we’ll travel at night and lie up by day.”

Was he dreaming, or was there a lascivious light in her eye? A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and he floundered for words. “Lady, I may not do as you command. I serve Queen Isolde, I am sworn to her. And my kinsman King Mark has summoned me to his side. I must ride to Cornwall with all speed.”

She waved a contemptuous hand. “You pledged me your faith in exchange for your freedom. You are my knight now.”

“Hear me, madam—” He swallowed his mounting rage. “I will transport you safely from this place, and find you a refuge where you may decently live. From this moment on, if any man wrongs you, he will answer to me.” His hand tore through his hair. “Whoever he is, even kin of my own, I will make him repay. All this I swear I will do for you. But I cannot do what you demand of me now.”

Her face had gone very white. “Not even for your freedom?”

He tried to keep the disgust out of his voice. “There’s no freedom for a man who breaks his word, and mine was given to Isolde years ago. Look elsewhere, lady, for a knight who lies and cheats—a man who’d take your body to bargain for his own.”