Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (28 page)

CHAPTER 47

Again! Play again!”

The tinkling command rang out above the noise of the court. On the dais above the buzzing crowd, the little band of musicians shared a silent glance. The leader took up his instrument and nodded to his son. “Warble, boy. The Queen wants to dance.”

The pale, frog-faced child tilted his chin inquiringly. “She was only a princess last week.”

“Well, she’s Queen of Lyonesse now, and she wants us to play.” He gave his long-suffering fellows a wry smile. “Come on, lads. She’ll pay well for this, and you’ll get to your beds in the end.”

Briskly, the musicians moved into a lilting air. The floor of the Great Hall stirred like an eddying sea as couples picked up the tune and began to dance. Banks of bright candles danced along with them, their flames whispering and sighing all through the room.

“Again!” Blanche panted, laughing up at Saint Roc. Lifting her skirts, she twitched them flirtatiously to and fro. “Again!”

Saint Roc pulled a face. “You want to dance?” he teased. He fingered his well-shaped thigh provokingly. “Alas, my leg . . .”

“Your old wound?” Blanche giggled. She pounced on him, seizing both his hands. “I have a cure for that. You move your bad leg in time to the music, and I swear it gets better at once.”

“You swear?” he murmured. He looked down into the lovely flushed face and laughing eyes, and breathed in her soft pink scent with deep content. Beware Saint Roc, he chided himself sadly, you’re starting to care for this woman far more than you should.

And far more than she deserves, he reminded himself, suppressing an ironic smile. Her husband is lying injured, and she’s dancing with you? Is this the behavior of a loving wife?

Looking around, he could see that others thought so too. Seated on the dais with the musicians, King Hoel reclined on his throne talking to Prince Kedrin, apparently at ease. But Saint Roc could detect the concern behind Hoel’s casual glance as it swept the hall. It had been bad enough, Saint Roc knew, that the groom had not appeared for the festivities tonight. He had seen the King’s frown of distress when Blanche airily announced that Tristan had stayed in bed. And if the King’s eye fell on his newly wedded daughter laughing and frolicking in the arms of another man . . .

No, it must not be. No more dancing tonight.

“Alas, my Queen,” he began, gently freeing his hands from Blanche’s tenacious grip. But she was not listening. She was staring down the room, her eyes on the door.

Underneath the great stone arch at the end of the hall, a man at arms was in earnest conversation with the servant at the door.

Blanche turned to Saint Roc, tight-lipped. “I must go.”

“Go?” He covered his surprise with a careless shrug. “Let me escort you, madame.”

“No!” she cried. All the elation had drained from her face and two round red spots burned on her cheeks like shame. She forced a laugh. “Stay and enjoy the dancing. It will help your bad leg.”

Saint Roc bowed. “Till tomorrow, then.”

Intrigued, he watched her pounce on the man at arms and whisk him away. What had the man come to say? Saint Roc smiled. He would know soon enough. His fate was entwined with Blanche now, and in good time all her secrets would be his. And he had learned enough for one night to sweeten his dreams. One thing above all was now crystal clear. Blanche was not married to Tristan as he understood the word. And sooner or later, all the world would find out.

“WHERE IS HE? You brought him in here, you say?”

Raging, Blanche swept out of the courtyard with the man at arms and burst into the quiet infirmary. The light of the swan lamps illuminated the doctor, a couple of his nurses, and a lean, soberly dressed woman she did not know. Between them, Tristan lay on a table with his eyes closed, pale and still. The cloth beneath his body was stained with blood.

A rush of emotion seized her, though she hardly knew what she felt. An hour ago, she would have sworn that she didn’t care if he never came back. But to see him lying like this—

“Tristan! Oh, my husband, my love.” She rushed forward and seized his hand, kissing his lips. But his flesh was as cold as clay, and his mouth had the color and taste of newly turned earth. Blanche recoiled. “God in Heaven, where has he been?”

The doctor stepped forward. “On his deathbed, madame,” he said heavily. “He was brought from the Lady Wood less than half alive.”

Blanche considered. It was true that Tristan smelled loamy, like a newly made grave. But now he was here, he was safe in her healing hands. She put on a bright smile. “Well, we’ll soon deal with that.” She turned to the darkly clad woman. “And who are you?”

To her surprise, the woman did not curtsy and drop her eyes as those around her normally did. “I found Lord Tristan in the wood and brought him here,” she said trenchantly. “They call me Brangwain, lady, and I serve Queen Isolde, the Queen of the Western Isle.”

Blanche did not move. So Isolde has not cast him off after all. She must still love him. Does she want him back? She found another smile. “Queen Isolde sent you to look for him?”

Brangwain bowed stiffly. “My lady sent me to bring good wishes on your wedding to my lord.” She pointed toward the table. “I am sorry to find him in such a bad way as this.”

Blanche waved her white hand dismissively. “We’ll have him right again in no time at all.”

The doctor shook his head. “Lord Tristan is bleeding again from the wound in his head. And he seems to be sinking under some inner grief.”

Blanche released her tinkling laugh. “No man dies of that!”

“Call it what you like,” he insisted. “It is my judgment that he’s lost the will to live.”

“Nonsense! All he needs is a touch of my special elixir.”

The doctor gasped. “The last time you employed that, the old man died.”

Both of Blanche’s hands were waving in the air. “I gave him too much. A drop of it will do wonders for Tristan, just a touch.”

“Not one drop, madame,” said the doctor tensely. A throbbing pulse beat at the side of his head. “We must clean his wounds and get him food and drink, and allow him to recover in his own time. Your remedy brings death, not life. I will not permit it.”

“You will not?” Blanche’s eyes flared. She gestured threateningly toward the man at arms at the door. “And who is Queen here, sir, me or you?”

The doctor stepped back, breathing heavily. “On your own head be it, madame!”

Brangwain moved to his side. “What is this?” she demanded in a low voice.

The doctor nodded bitterly toward Blanche. “See for yourself.”

A curtsying nurse was placing a vial in Blanche’s hand. Blanche waved to the other nurse. “Hold him up.”

She opened the tiny bottle and poured a drop of the contents into Tristan’s mouth. His body jerked violently and he jolted upright, arms and legs flailing as he sent the vial smashing to the floor. His eyes opened, empty and stark, and fastened on Blanche. Jerking uncontrollably, he tried to speak. A fit of coughing almost strangled his words. “This is my death.”

“No!” Blanche wailed, trying to take his hand.

His eyes roamed wildly round the room. Brangwain stepped forward, mastering her distress. “Sir?”

“Goddess, Mother,” the hoarse voice rasped. “Let me see Isolde before I die.”

“You will not die,” Blanche wept.

The doctor moved forward to stand at Tristan’s side. “Lady, you and your potion have brought him to the edge of death. Send for Queen Isolde, I beg. It’s all you can do for him now.”

“No,” Blanche cried, panic in her eyes. “What can she be to him? He’s married to me.”

“Hear me—” Tristan pointed a shaking hand at Blanche. “I set you free from the marriage to Saint Roc. Now I claim back my freedom from you. Our marriage is dissolved, now and evermore.” He turned his head. “Brangwain?”

The maid stepped forward. “Here, sir,” she said steadily. Tristan seized her hand. “The ships of Cornwall are known for their dark sails. If she comes, let her fit out her ship with white. Then I’ll know that she can find it in her heart to forgive.”

It was more than Brangwain could bear. “Sir, she’d come to you at the very ends of the earth. I swear to you, she’ll understand and forgive.”

Blanche, Falsamilla, Duessa scorched across Tristan’s mind and he cried out in pain. “There’s too much. If she can’t forgive, let the sails be black.”

Brangwain bowed her head. “I will, sir.”

Tristan held out a hand to Blanche. “I pray you, help this lady all you can.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Blanche shrilled, flapping her arms. To her fury, she felt tears coursing down her cheeks. “She can go if she likes, but Queen Isolde can’t come here. You’re my husband. It’s not fair!”

“Then let me die.”

Tristan closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. There was a pitying silence. No one moved.

The doctor came forward. “Madame, do you want the world to say that you denied a dying man’s last wish?”

“Oh, very well.” She glared at the doctor and her pale face took on an ugly hue. “Have it your way, I’ll leave him to your tender care.”

The doctor hid his relief. “The Gods will reward you.” He turned to deal with Tristan.

Blanche looked at the women in attendance and her spirit rebelled. Who were these creatures with their disapproving stares? Did they expect her to weep over Tristan or tend to him herself?

Why should she? She could not look at him. Not after he had humiliated her like this. What, to disavow their marriage, as if it meant nothing and she was nothing to him? Well, he’d shown his true colors and proved how worthless he was. He was a weakling, beneath her, a recreant knight. Why had she ever wanted him as her love?

And these wretched women with their goggling eyes!

Blanche turned on Brangwain like a striking snake. “And as for you, lady, be off, back to your Queen. But tell her that there’s only one Queen at this court, and that is the wife of the King of Lyonesse!”

CHAPTER 48

The little ship ran before the wind, its white sails flapping in the driving breeze. Hour by hour it held its course for France. And still the full-bellied clouds loomed up on the horizon as great as women with child, and labored out over the sea to shed their burden of rain. The wind-lashed sky wept with the troubled surf, and every wave seemed pregnant with untold grief. As flocks of seagulls quarreled and cried overhead, Isolde stared out from her cabin at the sorrowing sea.
All the
world is in mourning for my love.

For Tristan was lost to her now. He had married the French princess, Brangwain had told her as soon as she returned. For the rest of her life Isolde would remember the sick, shaking horror of that moment and the bleakness that gripped them both.

“What?”
I don’t believe you.

“He’s married, lady. To the French princess.”

“Married?”
He wouldn’t do that—betray me like that.

“He thought you’d betrayed him. He had a letter . . .”

Isolde nodded bitterly as Brangwain spoke. “Andred’s work, of course. I understand. But still, to marry her—?”

Brangwain gave a desolate nod. “In church, in his finest array, before the King and all the court.”

She had released her fury then in a lung-splitting cry.
“Why, Brangwain? Did you find out why?”

“It doesn’t matter why. I heard him tell her that the marriage was null and void. He still loves you, lady. It’s you he wants to see.”

But it did matter, it mattered terribly. Tristan could not end this marriage on his word alone. A marriage belonged to two people, and why should Tristan’s new wife be willing to let him go? He was Blanche’s husband, and nothing could alter that.

And now he was dying and wanted to see her, Brangwain said. Could she get there in time? The call had found her ready, for when the maid arrived, she discovered Isolde preparing to leave Castle Dore.

Brangwain understood at once why she wanted to go. “The King threatening you, and Sir Andred watching your every move? Gods above, madam, you were wise to get away.”

Was she? Or had she read too much into what Mark said? For all his threats, he had never tried to molest her before, and she doubted that he’d start now.
You know Mark. Always big and boastful in his drink, a prey
to sudden impulses and flashes of cruelty But he’s weak rather than wicked and
all he wants is the easy way out.

And Mark would not give a fig that she’d sailed away. While she was gone, he was free to hunt and indulge in all his bachelor pursuits. Her place at dinner, she knew, would be taken by Elva tonight, and Mark would not spare his departed wife a thought.

But Tristan, Tristan, are you still alive? Or has your spirit slipped its shell
and begun its journey to the Fortunate Isles?

Trembling, she recalled Brangwain’s account of Blanche’s willful, even fatal attempt to heal.

“She said she had an elixir that would bring him back to life. But the doctor said it would poison him, and it did.”

Isolde gasped with rage. “She gave it to him, despite what the doctor said?”

Brangwain nodded unhappily. “He was bad enough before, he was so ill. And afterward he was much worse.”

Isolde closed her eyes.
So he could be dead by now, and I would not know.

Yet above deck, the little ship was proudly flying a full set of billowing white sails.
White for life and the hope of love renewed. White as you
asked, as a sign that I would come. Will you still be alive to see them, my love,
or has the earth already gone over your dear eyes?

These days, there was no escaping that. Seeing after seeing plagued her now, visions, fragments, pieces of unreality, fears and bad dreams. She saw Tristan lying dead in a hundred different ways, and Blanche burying him where his body could never be found. Then other times she saw him well again, strong and happy as he always was, restored to his full health.

Oh, my love, my love, I’ve lost you, our love is gone . . .

For whatever happened, he could never be hers again. If he died, she would never see him again in this world. If he lived, he was lost to her, too, now he’d tied himself to Blanche.

“He loves you, lady!” Brangwain had sworn fiercely as she told her tale.

“He still married her!”

Brangwain was in tears. “But he’s only thinking of you. He says he’ll beg your forgiveness if he sees you again.”

My forgiveness? Can I truly forgive?

Yes, perhaps.

Marrying another woman, even sleeping with her?

Perhaps even that.

So, what now? What would she find in France?

A brief farewell, if he lived. And if he did not, what then?
Life is nothing to me, love, as soon as you are gone.
Would she make the dark journey too? Follow in his footsteps down to the Otherworld?

“Ho there!”

There was a confused shouting on the upper deck. The cabin door burst open and Brangwain flew in. “Land ahoy, lady,” she cried. “Sir Tristan will see our white sails and he’ll know you’ve forgiven him and still love him in spite of everything!”

Isolde stared out through the porthole at the approaching land.
Do I?
Is that true?

The white sails cracked and groaned overhead.
Yes, I do. Till all the seas
run together and the waters bury the land. I’m the sea, you’re the land. Sea and
land together make a world. Hold fast, love, I am coming. I am here.

The cries of the sailors sounded clearly now. “Yarely, mister—broadside on, bring her in!”

Isolde brought her hands together in a solemn prayer.
Goddess, Mother,
bring me to my love.

EVENING SETTLED ON the roofs of Castle Hoel. Unmoving, like a spider in her web, Blanche sat alone in her tower and waited for the word. It was swift in coming, as she knew it would be. She had taken care to put the lookout in fear of death.

And here he was, scuttling fearfully in. “A ship from Cornwall?” She leaped to her feet. “And the sails?”

One glance at his face prepared her for his reply. “White, lady. Like the wings of a swan.”

White sails?

So be it.

Blanche’s wooden heels knocked on the floors as she ran. Hurry, hurry, get to Tristan before the ship reaches the dock, no one else must give him the news.

Tears of anger and jealousy surged up to choke her throat. Tristan, who had scorned her and shamed her and refused her love. The knight she had made her own chosen one, who had chosen another woman over her . . .

Panting, she burst through the infirmary door. Standing over Tristan, the doctor held up a hand in alarm. “One moment, madame. No excitement, please—”

But she could not contain herself. “Tristan, your answer has come!”

Tristan reared up, his eyes dark hollows in his skull. “A ship from Cornwall?” he husked. “What sails?”

“Black!” she gasped out with inhuman glee. “Black as death itself from stem to stern.”

“Black?” The gaunt figure on the bed stared like a madman.

“You are mine now,” Blanche exulted. “No more Isolde, only Blanche, your wife.”

“Isolde!” Tristan threw back his head in a long, animal cry. Then the light left his eyes and he crumpled sideways on the bed.

“Gods above, see what you’ve done!” the doctor cried. Urgently, he set to work chafing the cold hands and rhythmically working each of the inert limbs. “I told you a shock could be too much for him. I fear this is fatal, lady, weak as he was. Prepare yourself for the worst.”

Blanche stood transfixed. No, it couldn’t be. Nobody died from hearing bad news. She’d only meant to punish Tristan for the way he’d treated her. How could she have known that he’d take it like this? She squared her shoulders and mutinously set her chin. What had she done wrong?

There was a disturbance at the door and one of the attendants appeared. “The ship from Cornwall is standing at the quay. The captain requests permission for his Queen to come ashore.”

“His Queen?”

It was the doctor, his face white with outrage. “You mean Queen Isolde? She’s here?”

The attendant bowed. “She is, sir, and anxious to land.”

“Yes, of course she can land,” Blanche blustered, desperately avoiding the doctor’s eyes. “Send to the quay and escort the Queen here at once.”

She threw a defiant look at the doctor: there! It’s all turned out right in the end. She’ll soon be here. He can see her now.

But the doctor had turned back to the still form on the bed and was shining a candle into Tristan’s eyes. Moments later he confronted Blanche with an expression she had never seen before. “Madame, your healing hands have done their work. Your husband is dead.”