Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (22 page)

CHAPTER 36

The next day Blanche came dancing through the door.

“Do the people in your kingdom go Maying at this time of the year?” she demanded, her pale blue eyes alight.

At this time of the year? he pondered. Yes, in truth it was April, going into May. The feast of Beltain, with its fires and flowers, when the doors of the Otherworld stood open for love.

“Indeed they do, lady,” he replied, beguiled by her roguish smile and mysterious air. “Our maidens go to the woods and bring back armfuls of May blossom to deck their houses and hearths. It gives them the blessing of the Goddess for the year ahead, and Her help in knowing which of their young men to choose.”

She held his eyes in a glimmering, secretive gaze. “Then tomorrow we’ll go too.”

The next day at dawn they set out for the wood. At Blanche’s orders, two men at arms were standing by, but he walked by himself to the litter at the door. The great carrying bed in the courtyard was covered with a tasseled canopy and curtained with hangings in rich, creamy brocade. Four soft-eyed, heavy horses bore its weight, and its huge pillows were sweetened with lavender and rose. Trembling and sweating at the effort he had made, Tristan sank gratefully into their downy embrace.

Early as it was, the castle was alive with pink-faced maidens, stout matrons, and the village menfolk too. The motley procession moved off with the children larking in the front, followed by the maidens, everyone dressed in green. Behind them came the minstrels playing ancient woodland airs, then the people of the castle, young and old. Blanche rode beside Tristan’s litter on a milk-white mare, and an army of servants and laden mules marched in the rear.

The woodland lay before them, clothed in white. At its heart were mighty stands of rugged oak, hornbeam, and ash. But its verges were garlanded with hawthorn in full flower, and the raw tangy scent reached out to welcome them.

“Here, sir!”

A small grubby face appeared at the side of the litter, and a grinning urchin tossed a spray of hawthorn into his lap. Yelping with glee, others followed. Tristan picked up the thorny blossom and the years dissolved. Without warning he was a child again like these, running in unselfconscious rapture to the woods. He smiled across the years at his younger self. My first Maying, yes, when I was no older than this.

And oh, the joy of being in the woodland again! In wonderment he felt the sun on his skin and drew the warm scent of the loam into his lungs, feeling at one with the creatures of the earth. Silently, he communed with the wayside hare and the hawk on the wing: greetings, little mother, and you, brother, the blessings of the Great One on you all.

Above the trees a herd of woolly clouds gamboled like sheep across a field of blue. A golden midsummer sun sang in the sky, and the birds caroled too, till the arch of the heaven resounded with their song. Farther in, the woodland ways narrowed and the air became warm and still. Shafts of sunlight poured through the forest roof like burning gold, and every mote in the air sparkled with fire.

They came to a clearing at the forest’s heart, a green circle where sunlight puddled like honey on the green grass. There, the revelers dispersed to gather blossom, and Tristan’s litter was set down while the servants laid out a feast as grand as any in the Great Hall.

Blanche came to his side and pressed a goblet into his hand. “Red wine,” she commanded. “It will renew your blood.” Somewhere out of sight, skillful fingers plucked at a harp and the sound of a love song trembled through the air.

Without warning, he felt Isolde at his side, galloping through the woods as they always did, her hair flying and her strong face flushed with joy. The only wine they needed then ran in every stream, and the thunder of horses’ hooves was the music they craved. They had no care for food when they had each other, and the days were never too long.

Trembling, he brought the goblet to his lips and took a deep draught. Oh, Isolde, Isolde, my lady and my love.

As the warmth of the blood-red wine spread to his heart, he drank again and did not notice when the servants filled his glass. Blanche helped him from the litter and made him comfortable on sheepskin cushions in the shade of a tree. All around lay heaped platters of cheese, meat, and fruit, and the ever-attentive servants hovered with more wine.

More wine, yes. Tristan nodded, holding up his glass. “Good for the blood.”

“Yes indeed . . .” Blanche’s voice trailed sadly away.

Tristan squinted at her. “Lady . . . ?” he began.

“Oh, sir . . .”

A flood of words cascaded round his ears. He struggled to make sense of what she said. “You’re being forced to marry against your will?”

There was a heartrending sob. “Very soon.”

The wine sang in his veins. “I shall defend you, lady!”

There was a sudden quickening in her eye. “What will you do?”

What would he do? He had no idea. “I shall be your knight,” he said thickly. “My lady will understand.”

“Your lady Isolde?”

“There is no other.” As he spoke, a dark cloud of failure enveloped him. “I should be with her,” he said lamely. “I should write to her.”

“If she is your lady,” Blanche said with a quiet venom, “why doesn’t she write to you?”

He stared at her in distress. “I don’t know.”

“Perhaps she has another knight, now that you’re not there,” said Blanche, her head cocked unpleasantly to one side. “Or else her husband King Mark is claiming her time and attention these days.”

Tristan felt a chasm open before his feet. Another knight? Her husband? Either or both of them taking his place?

His head was splitting. “Pen and ink and paper, by your leave, Princess,” he said harshly, “in my chamber—tonight.”

She could not refuse. Putting a good face on it, she got through the rest of the day, and the Maying procession wound slowly back to town. But the paper she sent him to write to Isolde that night was back in her own hands again within the hour.

“Leave this with me,” she ordered the servant. “You may go.”

Before the door closed, she was tearing open the parchment and breaking the seal. The wandering script danced before her eyes. Tristan must have struggled over every stroke, and she could only guess at what the effort had cost. Then she fell on the contents and devoured them like a banquet of spiders when there was no other food.

With a sharper pain than she had ever known, she read:

To La Belle Isolde, Queen of the Western Isle,
Forgive me, lady, that I have not returned to your side. I took a
hurt in Cornwall, and heal myself now in France. I shall leave as
soon as may be. Look for me then.

You are still my lady.

I am still your knight.

Tristan of Lyonesse

They were lovers, then.

Blanche stared at the letter, the misshapen characters burning her eyes. Sparse though his words were, and written for any eyes, Tristan’s heart spoke through his ill-written hand and betrayed his love.

And where was she herself, Blanche, in all this?

Nowhere to be seen. He did not even mention her name. Like a deer hurt in a forest, Blanche held herself tight, afraid to breathe or move.

And leave, he said?

No, he must not leave. Panting, she felt her heart shrivel in her breast and tighten into a hard, pitiless knot.

You won’t leave me, Tristan.

I am your lady now.

You are my knight.

CHAPTER 37

Yes, God was good. There was an inescapable purpose in all His works. For there she was again, haunting the headland above Castle Dore.

Stepping out through the monastery gates in a rain-washed dawn, Dominian looked out across the hillside toward the quay. For weeks he had seen Isolde waiting there, watching the ships as they came sailing in. Hopeful at first, the white-clad figure now drifted like a wraith from the Otherworld, showing a heartsick sadness in every move. Good, good! The little monk rubbed his hands and allowed himself a smile. God in His wisdom had parted Isolde from her knight, and who cared if the Queen suffered? It was His will.

And who cared why Isolde missed her knight so much? Dominian sniffed. It was nothing to him that the Queen’s pale face and troubled air had given rise to rumors that Sir Tristan meant more to her than he should. Let the gossips and idlers whisper what they liked, he had no intention of demeaning himself with such stuff. The King, he reminded himself, is where the power lies. His black eyes took fire. Get command of the King, and the rest will follow as night follows day.

Smoldering, Dominian looked into the future and renewed his vows. Lord our God, Maker of Heaven and Earth, I swear to You that in times to come You shall see a Christian priest in every parish and a Christian church in every town
.
He snorted. Yes, of course, the blindworms who favored the Old Faith would cling to the Mother-right and insist that King Mark must be subject to Queen Igraine. But the old Queen in Tintagel might as well be dead for all they saw of her. Mark was King here, Mark commanded the army and controlled a powerful band of knights. What if he had lost his champion, Tristan, to France? Others were already jostling to take his place.

And here they were, all the fine fighting boys, the priest observed with sour disdain. At the entrance to the lower courtyard, a group of younger knights were lounging against the wall, swapping low banter and idle talk in the morning sun. Behind them a troop of scurrying stable boys labored to make their horses ready for the hunt. Both knights and horses could be in for a long wait, Dominian reflected with disgust, if the King was slow to rise from his mistress’s bed. But rain or shine, Mark would be riding out, and one of these young men would be at his side.

Now, which one? Dominian appraised the group coldly as he hurried along. Sir Fer de Gambon came of a good line, but his bowlegs and receding chin showed that the heroic strain had run its course. His cruel mouth, slippery glance, and sneering grin suggested, too, that the knight was no stranger to dishonor when it served his turn. The young giant beside him, Sir Taboral, was impressive enough in body, but his dull eyes and slack, foolish face said little for the brains within. Dominian scanned the rest of them and shook his head. They were all much the same. Well, what did he expect? Who but a weakling, a coward, or a poltroon would serve a king who was all those things himself?

Still, Mark was king of Cornwall and ruler of the land. Dominian entered the King’s House and pressed on to the Privy Chamber with a resolute tread. If the work of God was to advance in this land, Mark had to be brought to his duties as husband and king. And with Tristan away and Isolde left alone, there could hardly be a better time to strike.

“Step aside, fellow! Out of my way.”

Brushing aside royal guards and servants, Dominian found Mark in his inner chamber, pulling on his breeches and tucking in his shirt. To judge by the unmade bed, the half-sheepish, half-angry look on Mark’s long face, and the unmistakable smell of sex lingering in the air, it seemed that the lady Elva had not long left.

“Sire?” Dominian began ominously, looking around.

Mark turned to greet him, his nondescript chin thrust out. “Yes, Father? What brings you here?”

“Concern for your kingdom, your kinfolk, and your good name,” Dominian returned trenchantly. “What news of Sir Tristan?”

“Not a word.” Guiltily Mark remembered that all the time Elva had been working her wondrous way with him, Tristan had been nowhere in his mind. Tears rose to his eyes. “I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

Dominian saw his moment and moved onto the attack. “Whether Sir Tristan lives or dies, the kingdom needs an heir.”

“What?” Braced for a sermon on his unseemly lust, Mark had not expected this. He gaped at Dominian. “But you know that Isolde and I— I mean, the Queen—”

“Yes indeed, sire, you will need to call upon your wife,” the priest proclaimed with an intimidating frown. “Queen Isolde has a duty in this too. Marriage is ordained for the procreation of children and the relief of sin. Concupiscence is abhorrent to the Lord.”

“Concupiscence?” Mark struggled to take it in. Was this a lecture about Elva after all? He cleared his throat. “Father, I—”

“This is your duty, sire. Think of the needs of your kingdom and the state of your soul. Isolde is your Queen. Only the creation of children can make this marriage good in the eyes of the Lord.”

Children? Mark’s eyes bulged. God Almighty, what was the matter with these priests? Did Dominian think Isolde would lie down for him and bear children on command? “And if the woman is not willing, Father, what then?”

“Willing or not, it’s of no account. In Christian wedlock, women are not granted free will. They give their bodies to their husbands in the marriage act. They are bound ever after to obey their husband’s will.”

“What?” Mark could not believe it. “You mean that once they are married, they can never refuse a husband his natural rights?”

“Never,” said Dominian firmly. “Queen Isolde must honor your command in this regard.”

“Well . . .”

There was a hushed silence while Mark worked his mind around the idea and wondered how the Christians had ever persuaded free women to agree.

Dominian drew a breath. “If the Queen cannot furnish you with an heir, the laws of God permit you to put her away. Then God will send you a good Christian virgin to bear Christian offspring pleasing unto Him.”

Mark scratched himself hopelessly. God in Heaven, the morning was wasting and he’d never get out to the hunt. He reached for a confident smile. “Hear me, Father. I don’t care about heirs of my body. God has given me two fine nephews to deal with the kingdom after I am gone.”

Dominian nodded heavily. And the kingdom would choose Tristan, the shameless pagan who never darkened a church. Under him, the True Faith would be dead. Tristan, no, in God’s name, it cannot be. Yet Andred would not be much better. He might pretend to help and support their holy work, but Andred served only himself.

And as long as Mark thought he had Andred and Tristan as his heirs, he would never trouble himself with Dominian’s careful plan. What to do, then? Work against both of them. First Tristan, and then Andred. Dominian nodded to himself. In the back of his mind he had always known it would come to this.

But how to do it? The priest engaged his labyrinthine mind. If Andred could be enlisted against Tristan, then he might move against Andred himself—

He was aware of Mark’s interested gaze. “What, Father?”

“Sir Tristan and Sir Andred,” Dominian said brusquely. “You are blest in them both.”

Mark preened himself openly. “I am, aren’t I? Well, they come from fine kin.”

Not yours then, Dominian thought grimly. He folded his hands in his sleeves. Mark had gone as far as his brain would take him for one day. “God has smiled on you, sire. Like as the giant whose quiver is full of arrows, so is the man whose gate is full of sons.”

“True,” Mark agreed, uncomprehending. He reached for his hunting spear.

Dominian raised his eyes to heaven and launched into a prayer.
Con
fitebimur tibi . . . We give thanks to Thee, O Lord . . .

Has he finished? Mark sighed with relief. Already he could hear the hounds in full cry, smell the stag running through the summer wood, and feel the silken thrumming of the stallion between his thighs.

“God be with you, Father!” he cried, scurrying away.

Dominian raised his hand and sketched a savage blessing in the air. “And with you, my son.”

Brooding, the priest brought his hands together in prayer as he watched Mark making his exit with unkingly haste. What was to be done? He paced out into the corridor deep in thought, and did not hear the soft footfall approaching behind his back. “All well, Father?”

Turning, Dominian was aware of an ironic scrutiny. Smoothly he covered his sense of unpleasant surprise. “Sir Andred—I did not see you there.”

Andred bowed. “I am attending to the King’s affairs while he is at the hunt.”

Now it was Dominian’s turn to bow. “I know you place the King’s interests above your own.”

Then you know more than I do, little man. Smiling to himself, Andred nodded soulfully and laid his hand on his heart. “My uncle the King is more than kin to me,” he murmured. “But the Queen—?”

Dominian pricked up his ears. Did Andred know something new? He folded his hands. “I fear she is not well.”

Andred paused. “I know she haunts the quayside, watching for ships, or sends her maid down there at all hours.”

“Waiting for a letter that never comes,” observed Dominian with the passionless relish of inborn cruelty. “In all courtesy, her knight should have sent her word. But Sir Tristan has forgotten her, it seems.”

Andred raised his eyes to the ceiling. “The French King’s daughter is a beauty, they say.”

“Is she so?”

“And a famous healer, like our own Queen.” He smiled. “But a lot younger, and unmarried too.”

“Not married?” Dominian moved his lips in the ghost of a smile. “Then she has that in common with Sir Tristan himself.”

There was a pause. The same thought made its way through both men’s minds. Dominian was the first to speak. “If Sir Tristan were to marry the French princess and remain in France with her, how very fine and fitting that would be . . .”

In the distance, a lone bell began the call to prayer. Dominian raised his head. “How excellent are Thy ways, O Lord our God,” he remarked cheerfully. “Let us pray. Farewell, sir. I commend you to your concerns.”

“And you to yours, sir.” Bowing fulsomely, Andred waved Dominian on his way. Your concerns, priest? What do you and your fellow eunuchs fret about? What business could you have that compares with mine?

Tristan, now, he concerns me—

What was that? Andred froze. A disturbing noise, a sudden threatening shape: Gods above, it was Isolde! He laughed to himself. Andred, Andred, are you ready for this?

She came surging toward him down the corridor, her heels clacking on the flagstones with a sound like doom. Her tall queenly figure had lost none of its power, and she bore down on him as fiercely as her warrior foremothers must have driven the Romans from the land. But she had aged ten years and more, he saw with delight, her brightness dimmed, her shadowed eyes showing sleepless nights. Good, good! May her grief for Tristan waste her body and rot her mind.

She laid her gaze on him with the force of a curse. “You sent Tristan away,” she said ominously. “You sent him to France.”

Andred held up his hands, palm outward, and shook his head. “It was a mistake, my lady, nothing more.”

“Oh, sir—” She waved a hand and laughed openly in his face. “If the King believes that, he’s more credulous than I thought. Tristan would ask for me with his dying breath. You tricked them both.”

“I, madam? Now why would I do that?”

There was no mistaking the tightening of his jaw. Isolde felt her temper rising to meet his. “Why? Because you hate Tristan and would gladly see him dead. Because you never tire of causing pain.”

Andred forced a smile. “Madam, you are not well—”

But there was no stopping the torrent of reproof. “Above all, because you’re rotten to the core. Evil is the element in which you live.”

“Lady—”

“Don’t speak to me.” She held up her hand and turned contemptuously away. “From now on you are my sworn enemy.”

She turned on her heel and paced unhurriedly away. Her gait put Andred in mind of a she-wolf on the kill, and she did not look back.

My enemy, eh? Well, well.

Andred watched her go, his mind racing in time with his thudding heart. Words, words, he tried to tell himself, furious at the sight of his trembling hands. She’s talking nonsense. All this will pass.

But an inner voice whispered that things had changed, and Isolde most of all. She’s grown older and harder since she’s been away, he thought, shivering. Whatever happened in Ireland has given her a new edge. And he’d thought that she’d lose her power along with her looks, that grieving for Tristan would undermine her strength? Wrong, wrong! She has learned how to hate. She has embraced me for her enemy and she will not hold back.

But the Great Ones still rewarded those who strike first. Like an adder preparing to attack, Andred moved into the King’s apartments with a new purpose darkening his mind. Pen and ink, he resolved, and a letter to France. By the fastest messenger. He knew the man.