Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (20 page)

Tristan’s head reeled. Sickness gripped his throat. How could he honor Mark and keep his own honor intact at the same time? Glaeve shivered in his grasp. Only one more came the high, silent call. Then you and I can rest for today.

So be it, friend. Tristan bowed his head. He would make one ceremonial pass for courtesy’s sake, saving both Plethyn and himself from a full assault. That would obey the King’s order and still cheat Mark out of his desire to enjoy Sir Plethyn’s pain. Circling his horse, he rode back to the head of the lists.

“Come on,” Sir Plethyn flashed out in his odd, inhuman voice. “I’m ready for you, sir!”

“One pass,” Tristan cried to the heralds, “for honor’s sake.”

Sir Plethyn’s strange eyes bulged. “Three, three, I demand it!” he shouted furiously.

The Lord Marshal stepped forward. “The champion has the call. One pass it is.”

The peal of the trumpets silenced Plethyn’s angry cries.

Tristan leaned forward and stroked the neck of his horse, stark and stiff now with sweat. Another run, old friend? Will you go for me one last time?

Go again? Fondly, the gray nodded his ponderous head and broke into a steady, loping stride. Moving down the field, Tristan saw Plethyn hurtling toward him with the reckless fury of the damned and evaded the wavering lance with consummate ease. Drawing level with the odd little knight, Tristan raised his lance in salute and cantered on. Merciful Gods, he sighed from the depths of his soul, duty done, honor paid to knight and King alike, now for Ireland and Isolde, my lady and my love . . .

He did not see the madness striking his opponent’s face like a thunderbolt. He did not hear Plethyn’s uncontrolled protests and the venom welling from his malformed soul. The distant threats seemed no more than the cries of homecoming birds drifting away on the evening breeze.

The first he knew was the volley of warning shouts from the horrified crowd.

“Behind you!”

“Sir Tristan, beware!”

Dazed by the sudden uproar, Tristan turned too late to avoid Plethyn’s attack. The vengeful knight’s lance struck the back of his head and pierced his skull. A starburst of light exploded inside his brain, and he toppled to the ground. With the screams of the crowd still ringing in his ears, he lay and watched the lights in his head fading away to blood, then gave one last shuddering groan and was gone.

CHAPTER 32

Captain, what news?”

“No news, Majesty—and I beg you, get below!” Dashing the spray from his face with one red, raw hand, the harassed seaman pointed to the cabin door. “Down below—that’s the safest place for you and your maid. When the wind changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

Isolde shivered, straining to hear his voice over the thunderous roar and clash of the breaking waves. “Till then we ride it out?”

“Unless you can rule the sea as well as the land!” The captain turned away with a sardonic laugh. The rising wind whipped the words from his throat. “Bosun!”

“Sir?” came a distant call from above.

“Take in the topsail. Lower, man, have a care!” He swung back to Isolde, his face knotted with concern. “Madam, forgive me, I have to—”

“Of course.” Isolde bowed her head and let him go.

She stared out over the sea, its wild gray waves a perfect mirror for her heaving soul.
Where are you, Tristan? Have you left me, my love?
More and more these days she thought he must be dead or dying, for nothing else would have kept him from her side. Yet if his dear spirit had slipped that rare body of his, the body she had worshipped for so long, surely she’d have known?

And if he’d died, that would be only what Druids called “the little death.” The great death was betrayal, when the beloved gave himself to another love. That brought madness and loss and the death of the heart. Had Tristan done that?
Goddess, Mother, spare me . . .
She gasped for breath.
Have you left me, Tristan? Is there another woman in your heart where
I used to be?

Her last sight of him came back to her in a bright flash of pain, and the howling gale cried out like a dying man. Huddling herself into her soaked and salt-stained wrap, she paced angrily to and fro. Gods above, why were they still at sea? She should have been in Cornwall long ago!

Had the Goddess turned against her, to keep them apart like this? Three times they had sailed out bravely from Dubh Lein, only to be driven back.

“But I thought we’d escaped all the winter storms” she complained to the captain on the third attempt. She gestured to Dubh Lein’s green hills. “See, spring has come to every bud and bower.”
And I need a calm sea to
bring me to my love.

The captain threw a sour glance at the sky, where a skein of black swans flew into the setting sun. “Winter’s not gone yet, lady, if the wild birds fly that way.”

She could have struck him. “When shall we reach Cornwall, sir?” she demanded. “Tell me when.”

He scanned the tormented ocean for signs of peace, then raised his eyes to the moon sailing high above. “When it pleases the Lady,” he growled. “The Lady of the Sea.”

PLETHYN’S ATTACKED HIM, and he’s down . . . Now Gods, if you love me, may he never rise again.

Andred crossed the courtyard of Castle Dore, reliving the joy of the moment when Tristan fell! Even now, a week later, the passage of time had not taken the edge off Andred’s delight. To see Tristan down, blood pouring from his mouth and nose—oh, it was good, so good . . .

And as the days passed, it got better still. Soon they learned that Plethyn’s lance had pierced Tristan’s skull. Would he live? The grave-faced doctors would not say. But doctors and laymen alike knew what happened to knights who took such wounds to the head. And the news from the sickroom today was every bit as bad as Andred could desire. The wound in Tristan’s skull had festered, oozing out a stream of pus and gore. His body was burning with fever and every day brought more damage to his injured brain. Now he hovered in the vale of the undead, and the slender thread of his life must soon give way.

“May God forgive me!” Mark threw himself down on a sofa and struck his head. “I should never have ordered him back into the ring.”

“Oh, sire . . .” Elva hastened forward and knelt at Mark’s side. “How could you have known things would turn out like this?”

Mark scowled at Andred. “That wretch has been dealt with, you say?”

“As you ordered, sire,” Andred went on smoothly. “Stripped of his knighthood and banished to his lands, banned from all tournaments and jousts from this day on.”

“He dishonored me.” Mark’s voice quivered with uncontrolled venom. “God blast his eyes, and rot his dwarfish bones. I thought we’d show the French, and he’s made us a laughingstock to all the world. And their princess, what’s her name?”

“Blanche, sir,” replied Andred. “In fact, Isolde—”

But Mark had lost interest. “Whatever she’s called, God knows what she’ll make of this. Plethyn has ruined our reputation with this disgrace.”

“He’ll pay for it, sire, never fear,” Elva cried. “And his father the earl has offered blood gelt to you—”

“But all the earl’s gold won’t help Tristan now.” Mark surged furiously to his feet, and the ready tears started again in his eyes. “And if I lose him . . . Gods above, Andred, what a blessing you were here!”

Andred composed his face in a devoted smile. “Why, Uncle—you know my only desire is to be useful to you.”

“Take me to him,” Mark wept.

Before he dies hung unspoken in the air.

Outside, the noonday sun was turning the world to gold and filling the courtyard with the soft fragrance of spring. But inside the infirmary the air was cold and sour. As they came in, stricken faces greeted them, and the echoing space was heavy with the presence of death. Tristan lay alone in a low, arched cell, with a bevy of white-clad attendants clustered around his bed. Next to him was a squat, dark figure with a black-lettered book. The sonorous music of Latin hung in the air, and the heavy odor of incense crept out to the walls.

“Salve, Domine—save this soul, O Lord . . .”

Savoring every word like finest meat, Dominian gave Tristan the last rites of the Church. Take his life, Lord, he prayed fervently, speed this pagan on his way. Hearing the last rites, men often died from terror and despair. Until then, they had not known how ill they were.

“Oh, Tristan!”

Mark surged noisily toward the sick man’s bed. Following him, Andred saw that Tristan’s eyes were on fire, and the skin of his face burned with a hectic sheen. When he spoke, his voice was a dry husk. “Send me to Isolde . . .” they heard, “before I die.”

To Isolde . . . ?

A dark vision bloomed inside Andred’s head. Send him to Isolde, yes, of course. It was perfect, it was flawless, it could not fail . . .

“. . . before I die,” Tristan gasped with the last of his breath.

“Die?” yelped Mark, throwing up his arms. “You’re not going to die. Talk to him, Andred. Tell him he’ll pull through.”

“Ah, but will he, sire?” Andred said mournfully. “The doctors admit they’re defeated. It may be time for a fresh look at the case.”

“What?” Mark mumbled.

“At least we should honor a dying man’s last wish.”

Mark tugged unhappily at his beard. “Send him to Isolde, you mean?”

Andred nodded. “He says it’s what he wants.”

“Well, she’s a great healer,” Mark muttered, his eyes red with tears.

“And as you said, sire, we need a fresh pair of hands on the case.”

“Did I say that?” Mark demanded, surprised at his own wisdom. “Then that’s the best thing, of course. If we send him to Isolde, we know he’ll be in the right place.”

“Oh yes, indeed, sire,” Andred said with deep feeling. He hugged himself with glee. Yes, Tristan, the best place on earth for you, my friend.

Mark’s dull eye caught fire. “Let’s get him to the quay and on board a ship. He could catch the evening tide.” He moved back to Tristan, feeling a fresh fit of tears coming on. “We’ll get you to Isolde, never fear.”

Andred stepped forward. “Sire, leave it to me. You have suffered enough.”

Mark looked up hopefully. “I have, haven’t I?”

Andred nodded soulfully. “And you have to think of yourself. You should be in the Great Hall, giving comfort to your guests.” Liquid comfort, he did not need to say. “The honor of Cornwall requires that you feast them tonight. You may trust me, sire, to see Tristan embarked.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Mark was starting to feel better. What a good soul Andred was! He nodded grandly. “See to it, then, Andred. Just let me know when he’s safely at sea.”

“Oh, I will, sir, I will.”

And indeed the word was soon borne back to the King as he sat at the High Table with the first of many glasses in his hand: “Sir Tristan is afloat and a fair tide is carrying him over the sea.” This was the signal for many brimming bumpers of wine, and the health of the King’s nephew was toasted to the skies. The day jolted on through feasting and revelry till all decent men had long ago gone to their beds and the stragglers had passed out and vomited where they lay.

But no one, least of all Andred, told the owl-eyed King that Tristan was bound not for Ireland, but for France. In the distress of the moment, it seemed, Andred’s orders had been quite misunderstood by the captain of the ship. Honest but confused, the good seaman was sailing not west, but due south, bearing the patient not to La Belle Isolde, but into the arms of Isolde des Blanche Mains.

Only the seagulls haunting the sky overhead saw the ship with the dark sails of Cornwall slipping out to sea. But many eyes on the quay saw Isolde’s ship sailing in, passing Tristan’s ship unawares in the gathering night. High and low in Castle Dore heard the return of the Queen as the people ran down to the harbor to greet her with rousing cheers. But not even the sailors on the ship sailing for France heard Tristan as he lay alone below, calling Isolde’s name to the uncaring air, his glazed and sightless eyes turned upward in his head.

CHAPTER 33

Tristan, Tristan, Tristan . . .

Are you here, my love?

Isolde paced the deck in a dream of misery, careless of the blinding, wind-borne spray. The salt spray in her eyes turned the world to tears. Isolde gripped the rail blindly, hearing cries of “Land ahead!” How could they tell the mist-covered mountains from the gray-green, heaving sea? Soaked from head to foot, a lean, weather-beaten figure in the prow wrestled with the wheel. She laid a frozen hand on his arm. “Are we there, sailor?”

The mariner shook the spray from his face with a beaming grin, and nodded into the wind. “There and beyond, my lady—home.”

Isolde nodded dully.
There is no home for me if Tristan is away.
“Cornwall, then?”

“Castle Dore.”

She turned away. On the edge of her vision another ship was running out of the harbor with the evening tide. Rigged with the dark sails of Cornwall, it was reefed to catch the last of the night wind sighing over the sea.

What is it?
Fear clutched at Isolde’s heart. Her sight shivered and she saw crows and ravens nestled in the dark ship’s shrouds, both carrion birds, both harbingers of death.
Tristan, Tristan
flashed into her mind. Then the ship was gone with the wind, taking its secret with it like an evil dream. Why did it make her think of Tristan with such fear? Soon she would see him and find out what had kept them apart. Soon she would hold him in her arms again, and make up for this long separation, this loneliness and loss.

Gods above, to see his face again . . .

“Hurry, Brangwain!” she called madly, pressing forward to get off the ship. “I must get to the castle, Tristan will be there . . .”

“Madam, have a care,” Brangwain cried in alarm as Isolde leapt over the gangplank before it was lashed to the quay.

But Isolde did not hear.
Hurry, hurry—are you there, my love?

Castle Dore loomed before them in the evening mist, its great bulk dark against the dying light. Scarcely pausing to acknowledge the startled greetings of the guards, she flew through the courtyard and entered the Great Hall.

Ye Gods, the stink!
The court was in the throes of a feast such as only Mark could give. Below the fine tables and the food fit for a king, puddles of red wine lay in the hollows of the floor. Scratching between the guests’ legs, the court dogs were gorging on splashes of vomit, then crouching with quivering flanks to drop on the rushes below.

At the head of the hall, Mark sat in kingly state with Andred on his right hand and Elva on his left.

And Tristan was not there.

“Isolde!” Mark bellowed down the hall.

“Your Majesty . . .”

It was Elva. What was she doing in the seat of Queens?

Isolde fought for breath. All sly eyes and insolent smile, Elva sat beside Mark, robed in shining green satin with a golden train. Great clusters of jade and jasper gleamed on her head and swung on gold chains from her waist. Her long earrings clattering loudly against her neck as she snaked her eyes over Isolde, then covered her mouth with her hand.

She’s laughing at me!
She saw herself through Elva’s eyes, poorly clad in a thick, sea-stained mantle and bedraggled gown.
I am Queen of this
country, and the fishwives of Castle Dore look better than I do.
Why had she rushed in so blindly?
Fool, Isolde, fool!

And why had she thought she might greet Mark as a friend, share a meal with him, take a glass of wine? Had she forgotten the hours of drunken revelry, the coarse banter, and as the night went on, the foul stupor they all fell into, one by one?
Fool again. Fool!

“The Queen!” yodeled one high-flown reveler, raising his glass. “A toast to the Queen.”

Mark leaned forward. “So, Isolde,” he said sarcastically, “we thought you were too full of affairs in Ireland to think of us here. What makes you grace us with your royal presence now?”

Ask him about himself, feed his vanity,
she told herself. But she could not do it. Gasping for breath, she took her soul in her hands.
“Where is
Tristan?”

Mark shuffled his feet. “You’ve missed him, Isolde. He sailed on the evening tide.”

The dark ship going out. Yes, I knew it.
“He sailed away? Why?”

Mark gave an uneasy glance. “We had a tournament and he took a wound to the head. Oh, don’t look like that! It was nothing much, but he wasn’t getting better here. Our doctors were not having much success with him.”

She forced herself to stay calm. “So you sent him to me in Ireland?”
Never fear, sweetheart, I’ll follow you on the first tide.

“Ireland?” Andred leaned forward with an air of deep concern. “Oh, sire, you ordered he should be sent to France.”

Mark started. “I did? Why did I do that?”

Andred furrowed his brow. “Surely you remember, my lord? We were talking about the Princess Isolde of France—the lady they call Blanche Mains—and you said she’s the best healer, send him over there.”

Isolde’s soul seized. She could not speak, her tongue lay dead in her mouth.

Tristan sick and taken away from me.

Sent over the sea to another woman’s care.

Is this my rival? The dark witch or the fair, the black swan or the white, or
the woman with chestnut hair? Goddess, Mother, give me back my love!

“Yes, that’s right,” Mark cried, a smirk of reassurance spreading across his face. “He asked to be sent to her, I remember it now. That was where he wanted to go.”

Isolde put a hand to her throbbing head. “To the French princess? How did he hear of her?”

Mark laughed. “Oh, he’s a dark horse, Tristan. You know he found a lady on the way home? And he stayed with her for weeks, so God only knows what they got up to all that time.” He turned his eyes on Elva, who returned his gaze, rippling her bosom at him suggestively. Locked onto each other like snakes, the two of them shared a slow smile.

Isolde watched them and a dull shock ran through her brain.
This
woman has taken my place.

And Tristan not here to defend me in my hour of need.

She felt a howl like a banshee rising in her throat.

He’s betrayed me! He’s deceived me, he’s left me for someone else.

Shaking, she saw again the sight that had haunted her dreams, Tristan caught between two woman till a third came between them, and Tristan kissed her on the mouth.

Gods above . . .

She closed her eyes.
Save him, Lady, save him from all of them. Take my
kingdom, if it will keep Tristan safe!

But the Lady’s words rang again and again in her ear.
Every man
chooses the path his feet will tread. And even the Mother cannot turn back the
wheel.