Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (19 page)

CHAPTER 31

Never had a week passed so slowly yet vanished so fast. Day by day in the tiltyard Tristan struggled, sweated, and swore as his arms failed him and his legs fluttered like a girl’s. Even the sweet, sharp smell of the newly mown turf in the tiltyard failed to raise his spirits as it always had. Mastering his sword and shield seemed impossible, and his lance felt like a tree trunk in his weakened grip. Yet still the days slipped through his fingers like sand, and he counted them off every night, alarmed at how swiftly they went.

When the day of the tournament dawned, he could sit a horse with assurance once again, and his ravaged frame had thrown off much of the lassitude of the prison cell. But as he armed himself to face the day’s affray, the sickness gripping his stomach told him the truth. If your Gods are with you, you’ll survive this joust. If not, get ready for broken limbs, or worse.

“Sir Tristan! Tristan of Lyonesse!”

The cheers hit him like brickbats as he rode out of the castle gate.

“It’s the champion. He’ll slaughter them all, you’ll see!”

“Tristan! Tristan!
Tristan!
”

“Sir Tristan!”

Dimly, he heard the chamberlain’s cheerful call. Staff in hand and robed in his finest furs, the head of the King’s household was waiting to greet the contestants as they entered the field. “Welcome to the joust, Sir Tristan. It looks as if we’re assured of a fine feast of arms,” the old courtier chirped.

Running down from the castle mount, the fields were as bright as water meadows in May. Dotted over the grass, the knight’s pavilions flourished in yellow and white, silver-red and speedwell-blue. The same shades of spring appeared in the combatants’ flags and shields as they rode up and down, each fighting to hold down his snorting steed. Others had turned out in the colors of blood and death, with armor and banners in mulberry, charcoal, and jet. Looking on, Tristan felt the ghost of a smile. He knew them all. They held no fears for him.

He drew a breath. As long as his strength held out. Still, none of them knew that. They had only heard Mark boasting of Tristan’s strength, that his lusty nephew had neglected the King’s command to sport in bed for weeks in a lady’s arms. Pray the Gods Isolde never got to hear of it!

But he had never lied or deceived her, she knew him too well. Sooner or later she had to know that he had betrayed her with a kiss. Without warning, Falsamilla rose like a torture from the well of memory, and there she was, chestnut hair, red lips, and black eyes. Red lips? Tristan’s head reeled. Gods above, that sucking mouth—would that one wanton kiss ruin his whole life . . . ?

The call of the trumpets split his reverie.

“Sir Tristan to the field!” howled the Lord Marshal as the heralds let fly. “All take the field after the King’s champion, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse . . .”

The King’s champion, the champion, the champion, rang in a desolate chime through Tristan’s heart as he led the procession of kings and knights around the field. You have failed and failed again in recent days, he berated himself. Now is your chance to redeem your misdemeanors with an open heart.

The greensward lay before him like a dream. No fence divided the jousters, Tristan noted with foreboding: Mark wanted the combat to be close and bloody today. As he slammed down his visor, he heard the harsh clatter of rooks rising from the trees: beware, Tristan, beware!

Seated in the viewing gallery high above the fray with Sir Andred and the Lady Elva, Mark smirked with delight upon the crowd below.

“On, nephew, get on,” he shrilled, lolling on a massive throne-like chair as his hand nursed a goblet in his lap. “Remember you fight for your King and Cornwall today, and don’t let me down!”

“He won’t, my lord,” Andred put in jovially. “Sir Tristan will go for you to the last drop of blood.”

Oh, he will, will he? Tristan gritted his teeth. What was Andred’s game? He bowed and flourished his lance. Whatever his dark-faced cousin was brewing up as he stood sleekly smiling and stroking his mustache, there was no time to worry about it now. In the distance a horse-man curvetted to and fro, fighting to hold back a frothing roan. Who was the knight he’d be fighting very soon?

He narrowed his eyes. Silver banner flying from a golden stave, and the sign of a lion rampant engraved on his shield.

“Sir Gervase of Saint Katz,” shrilled the heralds, “to the fray!”

Leaning forward, Tristan lightly touched the powerful neck of the gray and the great beast leapt snorting into the lists. Three passes later, winded in every one, Gervase threw up his visor and tossed his lance to his squire, humorously signaling his retirement from the fray.

“On then! Get on!” Mark shouted from the viewing gallery, draining down more wine. Poised and attentive behind the King’s chair, Lady Elva silently directed a servant to replenish the King’s glass. Andred covered a smile with his hand. What a woman she was! Half of his own soul.

“Next man in!” intoned the marshal.

The heralds swarmed back into action. “Sir Losiwith!” they cried.

And “Sir Kennot!” and “Sir Chandler” and “Sir Eamonn of the Ridge!” And “Next man in!” and “Next!” and “Next!”

“Next!” . . .

One by one they came at him, and one by one Tristan lightly put them down. In sparing them, he knew he was sparing himself, and his conscience pricked him for fighting like an old man, dealing out nicks and taps rather than the full-blooded combat the knights had come here to enjoy. Yet he knew he could not risk a full-scale onslaught and survive.

Next man down . . .

And another . . .

Down and down . . .

How many more?

The heralds paced forward and the trumpets brayed. “King Systin of the Chapel!”

Last man in . . .

A dark figure took shape before Tristan’s flickering eyes. Clad in coal-colored armor and riding a blood-red roan, the knight came hurtling toward him in a blur of black and red.

“Have at you!” Tristan cried, spurring on. With a grunt he took the satisfying impact as his lance caught his opponent on the breast and tossed him out of his saddle like a rag doll. Cantering on, he turned at the head of the lists. The last challenger lay supine on the ground.

The crowd erupted in one continuous roar. “Sir Tristan for champion! Sir Tristan wins the day!”

Staring, Tristan could hardly believe that his ordeal was at an end. Every muscle he had was twitching with pain and fatigue. Goddess, Mother, is it over? For the love of the Gods, can I lie down and sleep?

“Sir Tristan! Sir Tristan the champion!” caroled the ecstatic crowd.

But others were booing and hissing the fallen knight. “Ride him down!” bellowed darker voices in the throng.

Tristan’s heart clenched like a fist. The figure on the ground was stumbling to his feet, and raising his gauntlet in the air to carry on. No other knight had challenged him to fight on foot. This was the trial of strength he had feared to endure.

Ride him down . . .

Now, do it now, his inner demons urged. Unhorsed and staggering, his enemy was fair game, and one blow would send him reeling to the ground. Then the contest would be over and he would have victory.

Tristan, Tristan, his soul groaned. You never took advantage of an opponent in your life. Will you start now?

“What’s the matter, man? Ride him down!” Mark’s petulant cry reached him from far away.

Never.

With a show of careless valor, Tristan vaulted from his horse, drew his sword, and moved forward onto the field. But King Systin had taken full advantage of Tristan’s delay and was already on the attack as Tristan drew near.

“To the death,” Systin shouted, the hoarse bravado rattling in his throat as he raised his sword and swung it around his head.

Come, friend, Tristan called on Glaeve from his soul.

Here, master, Glaeve replied with a soundless hiss.

Beyond thought, beyond pain, Tristan swung and slashed, cutting and thrusting to wear his enemy down. You are mine, sir, he chanted to keep his spirits up, I shall overcome. But another voice whispered, Beware, Tristan, you are losing too. His overstrained muscles were twitching with his fading strength, and his will to win burned lower with every stroke.

Just as he thought that he could go no more, he saw his enemy drop to one knee and offer up his sword.

“I yield, Sir Tristan,” Systin cried out so that all the crowd could hear, “but I beg you, grant me my life! I challenged you to the death—have mercy on me now!”

He’s yielding? Tristan fought down a hysterical laugh. If only you knew, Systin, how near you were to defeating me!

“Rise, sir, take your life,” he said huskily. “And you fought honorably. You may keep your sword.”

Once more the crowd renewed its ecstatic cheers. “Sir Tristan for champion! Sir Tristan beats them all!”

Mark leaned down from the viewing gallery with a dangerous smile, a goblet swinging from his hand. “Well, Tristan, you proved that you’re the finest knight we have.”

He raised his hand to the heralds and gave a drunken wave. “Proclaim Sir Tristan the champion!”

“Sir Tristan! Sir Tristan is champion!” The Lord Marshal strained his lungs like bellows as the heralds spat into their trumpets and flourished the end of the day.

Ye Gods, is it over? Can it be?

Trembling with relief, Tristan turned his horse’s head toward Castle Dore. The contest was finished and nothing could keep him here now. Sleep first—Gods, let me sleep!—then away to Ireland, to Isolde, on the first tide . . .

Isolde, my lady . . .

My lady and my love.

Thoughts soft as thistledown wrapped him in their embrace. Closing his eyes, he saw a cloud of red-gold hair glowing like the dawn and the light of a smile that could live among the stars. His sight faded and his spirit slipped away, roaming the vastness of the astral plane. Isolde came to him through space, through time, her loveliness warming the cold glittering void. She was robed in the beauty of a cloudy night, and a crown of stars formed a circle around her head. He reached out to take her in his arms. Then, without warning, a cry arrested his ears.

“Stand, Sir Tristan. I challenge you to the lists.”

Stand?

Challenge?

He could not take it in. Slowly, he swung around and struggled to believe what he saw. The newcomer was armored in burnished bronze from head to foot, and equipped with the finest horse and weapons a knight could desire. A silver-gilt banner fluttered over his head, and his horse’s trappings were heavy with gold and silver plate. But perched on the lordly stallion was a slight and misshapen figure, grinning with a strange light in his eye. His short body and dwarfish limbs seemed to rule him out for combat, yet he rode into the ring like a champion and displayed an air of savage self-satisfaction as he surveyed the field.

“Announce me!” he called out to the heralds in a high, arrogant tone. “Sir Plethyn of the Pike.”

Plethyn of the Pike? Tristan paused. The mists of memory parted and brought back fragments of gossip from years ago. The old Earl Plethyn was too proud to mix his seed with common clay, so he had sent for a Princess of Iceland to bear his sons. But the thin, chilly maiden who arrived could bring forth nothing from her icicle thighs. Enraged, the old earl gave her to a wise woman famed for her power with herbs. Dosed and drugged by day and plowed and furrowed every night, the pale creature at last delivered the longed-for son and gave up the ghost.

But the earl shed no tears, for a son was worth a wife. His delight lasted till the child could walk and talk. Then those around him began to mutter and would not meet the earl’s eyes. Many nurses, tutors, and doctors later, the earl was forced to accept that the old witch’s potions or the anger of the Gods had brought forth a changeling, both in body and mind. The child’s stunted frame would never grow to a man’s height, and his mind would be an unknown country forevermore. Yet he could not escape the fate to which he was born. He was sole heir to an earldom and had to be brought up as such, trained for the knighthood he could never adorn.

Alas, poor soul. Well, he would receive nothing but chivalry here. Tristan bowed courteously. “Forgive me, sir, but the heralds have blown the last fanfare of the day. The lists are closed.”

“Closed?” A familiar drunken braying filled the air. “Not if I order the heralds to blow up again.”

Goddess, Mother, no!

Tristan rode up to the viewing gallery and came to a halt. “I am overbattled, sire. I can go no more.”

Mark leaned down with a disbelieving glare. “You’re the King’s champion. You go at my command.”

“Sire, I must decline this battle. I shall only give a poor account of myself.”

“Decline?” Mark’s eyes narrowed to red and angry slits. “Do you want to shame me in front of all the world?”

“No, sire, I—”

“Then get on!” An impulse of open cruelty twisted Mark’s face. “He’s a tadpole, less than half your size. I want to see you hang him out to dry. Now hold your tongue and get on!”