Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels

by Rosalind Miles

  “Goddess, Mother, help me!” Hoel turned away.

  “Sister!”

  Kedrin stepped forward appreciatively to greet the lovely, willowy girl coming into the room. With her delicate white hands and her interest in healing even as a child, it was easy to see why the people had nicknamed her “Blanche Mains.” Blanche herself had always loved being the “Maid with the White Hands,” and knew that her blond hair, as light as a baby’s, and her translucent skin, marked her out as one of a special race.

  Once, long ago at the time of their ancestor Lir, three children of the family had been turned into swans. Kedrin sometimes looked at Blanche’s long, swan-like neck and her pale feathery hair and thought that she showed her descent from that cold kin. But Blanche herself could never be a swan. Swans paired forever, and each loved its mate like itself, while she cared only for herself. Even now he dared swear she felt nothing for her father’s grief. She would only be thinking that the death of the Irish Queen would make it easier for her to get her own way.

  “My lord and father.”

  Blanche entered in a breath of delicate air, curtsied to her father, and kissed his hand. Her tall white headdress nodded like a flower, and her pearly satin gown settled around her with a sigh.

  “Sir, I have heard of your sorrow with a heavy heart,” she said in a light, husky voice. She pressed a small vial into his hand. “Heart’s-ease for your grief.”

  “One of your remedies?” Hoel took the vial and raised her to her feet. “Why, there’s my girl,” he said tenderly.

  Blanche preened herself lightly. “Thank you, sir.”

  Kedrin hid a smile. As her brother, he often thought he was the only man in the kingdom proof against Blanche’s fluttering, upward glance and winning smile. She had always been able to twist their father around her little finger and she was doing it now. He was aware of a growing unease. What was she up to?

  Hoel smiled fondly. “Now what can I do for you?”

  Blanche gave him the full force of her pale blue eyes. “You know, Father.”

  Hoel looked at Kedrin for support. “Your brother and I think that you’re too young.”

  “I’m twenty, Father. Many girls of my age have three or four children by now.”

  “Not my daughter,” said Hoel firmly. “Not a princess of France.”

  There was a pause. “You won’t allow me then to have a knight?”

  Hoel attempted a smile. “Don’t forget, my dear, I was a knight myself. I loved the finest lady in the world and served her in chivalry all my days. Would I deny that joy and pride to you?”

  The finest lady . . .? Blanche stiffened and her heart grew cold. Oh, you mean the Irish Queen, of course, Father dear. Not your wife, our poor mother, just as well she died when I was born and did not have to spend her life in the shadow of this love.

  “Deny me?” Blanche’s look was as chilly as rain on glass. “I hope not, sir.”

  “But if you must have a knight, look at one of your own kind!” Hoel protested. “Hundreds of French men would lay down their lives for you.” And for the chance of marrying into royalty, he did not say. But Blanche knew that too.

  Blanche tossed her head. “Sir Tristan is known as the most peerless knight.”

  Kedrin grinned. “Many people would say that’s Sir Lancelot of the Lake.”

  “Tristan’s bigger and stronger, and he’s had harder battles too,” said Blanche crushingly, “He saved Cornwall when the Irish attacked, and if he hadn’t killed their champion, they’d be vassals now. And the Old Ones had singled him out long before that. He was given his sword by the Lady of the Sea, just as Arthur was favored with Excalibur.” She turned back to her father. “Wouldn’t you want a man like that as your son-in-law?”

  Son-in-law now, Hoel noted, not merely knight. He glanced at his son.

  “Sir Tristan serves Isolde, the Cornish Queen,” Kedrin said gently. “He’s been her knight for years.”

  A look of triumph swept over Blanche’s face. “But he can’t marry her! She’s the wife of King Mark.”

  “I know, I know.” Hoel waved an impatient hand. “But he’s sworn to follow her. And now that she’s Queen of Ireland, he’ll go there too. Do you want to live like that, moving from country to country and court to court?”

  “When he marries me,” Blanche pronounced with certainty, “he won’t follow her. He’ll stay with me.”

  Worse and worse, thought Hoel, defeated. He made a final throw. “He’s a man of sorrows, girl,” he said roughly, “born of sorrowful kin. His mother lost his father and ran mad with grief, then died giving birth to him in the depth of the wood. Then his stepmother tried to poison him and his father sent him away, though he’d saved the woman’s life.”

  Blanche played with the fronds of her hair. “And now they’re all dead,” she said sweetly, “and he’s King of Lyonesse.”

  Kedrin laughed. “If you must have a king, dear sister, there are plenty ’round here.”

  Blanche set her chin and ignored him. Her voice rang like icicles in the wind.

  “Sir, I shall have him, whether you want it or not. I shall invite him to a tournament, then at the right time, you can treat with him for my hand.” She curtsied and moved to the door. “I think you’ll both agree that I am right.”

  The two men watched her go. Kedrin stepped up close to his father so that none could overhear. “You can’t permit this, sir. You’ve heard the talk about Sir Tristan and Queen Isolde.”

  “Yes, and it may mean nothing,” Hoel said stubbornly. “Every queen has her knights. But still . . .” He heaved a sigh, with the memory of his own loveless marriage unhappily keen and fresh. “Whatever there is, it bodes ill for another love. A knight may worship his lady in all purity from afar. As long as he serves Isolde, Tristan can never love Blanche as she deserves.”

  “And as she wants!” Kedrin cut in. “Any man who loves Blanche will have to yield to her every whim. And that’s not Sir Tristan, from all I’ve heard.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Hoel grimly, pacing around. “He’s not the man for her. And for the sake of the kingdom, surely we can find her a nearer alliance than Lyonesse.”

  He snapped his fingers at his son. “Ride tonight to Amaury of Rien Place. If she wants a handsome young knight, he’s dashing enough.”

  “And near enough, too. We might even join the two kingdoms together in time.”

  “In your time, maybe,” grunted Hoel, “not in mine. For now, let’s keep Sir Tristan out of France.”

  The two men locked eyes. One thought hung in the air between them. And if we can do that, Goddess, Mother, then we’ll bless Your sacred name all our lives!

  CHAPTER 7

  Gods above, was there a better season than winter, when the cold sent the blood singing through your veins and bit into your lungs? Breccan released his breath in a sigh of contentment and watched the misty plume fade into the air. And what could be finer on a bitter day like this than a brisk gallop into the hills? With a short visit, say, to a handful of pitiful monks, a show of swords to stiffen their resolve, and then back for an evening’s carousing in the Knights’ Hall?

  He stamped his feet for warmth and looked about. All around him the frozen stable yard rang with the dawn clatter of hooves as the riders made ready to go out. To his left, Ravigel was ordering the knights with his habitual stone-faced command, while his nephew Tiercel listened attentively at his uncle’s side. Breccan nodded. Yes, Tiercel would do well. The young knight was bold and sharp, and he knew how to go with the current when the tide of affairs was running fast and free.

  As it was now.

  Unlike Tolen, alas. His dissolute brother knew nothing except his own low lusts and desires. Breccan watched the bloated figure weaving its way into the yard and felt his good humor draining away. He could smell the stale reek of wine as his brother approached. Gods above, it was one thing to get drunk every night as every knight did, but since when had Tolen breakfasted on wine as well?
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  Breccan paused. Since the Queen died, Tolen had been red-eyed and weeping every morning, and reeling drunk by noon. Could he have loved her? Snorting, Breccan put the thought away. A true knight never felt such weakness, whatever nonsense the poets and dream-weavers put about. Still, was Tolen any longer a knight at all?

  “So, brother,” he greeted him sourly, “ready to ride?”

  “Ready for anything!” said Tolen thickly, with the remains of a tattered bravado in his air. “Where do we go?”

  “On a spiritual journey, brother.” Breccan gave a cynical laugh. “To call on our brothers in Christ.”

  Tolen gaped. “The Christians? What for?”

  “For the same reason that we went to see Odent. We need their support for what we’re going to do.”

  “What you’re going to do, brother, not I,” Tolen said rudely. “Our kin are prominent enough for me. If you go any further, you’re going to unseat the Queen.” He belched and tenderly rubbed his groaning gut. “And that I’ll never do.”

  “Never, brother?” Breccan’s face closed like a fist.

  But Tolen did not notice his brother’s gathering rage. “Oh, I won’t oppose your trying to win favor with the lords and Druids, that’s fair enough. But the Christians? Why bother with them? They’re nothing but a handful of hermits and fanatics starving in cells.”

  Why bother? Breccan wanted to strike Tolen to the ground. He forced himself to stay calm. “Wrong again, brother. They’re the coming men. See what gains they’ve made in these islands since they arrived. They were just a handful of men in a rowing boat, and now they have churches and communities everywhere.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And it will go on. They’re men with a mission, brother. They mean to take over the world.”

  “Gods above!” Tolen thought of the grim, chanting monks and their mad-eyed leaders, and gave up. “How can you deal with them?”

  “As I deal with all men, by joining their interests to mine. They want the freedom to pursue their faith. When I have power in the land, I can give it to them.”

  “But surely—” Tolen gave a blustering laugh. “That tale of theirs about the man-god who hung on a tree—it’ll never challenge the Mother faith. The Great One has seen many such come and go.”

  Breccan stared at him. How could this fool be his own flesh and blood? He looked around the yard. The horses were dancing about, on fire to be gone, the men mounted and awaiting his command, and he was wasting his breath.

  “Mount up,” he said curtly. “We’re going to see Brother Eustan and his men.”

  “Men, yes.” A spark of understanding lit Tolen’s fuddled brain. “That’s it, isn’t it? You need the Christians because their God demands the rule of men.”

  “Praise the Lord!” Breccan rolled his eyes. “Yes, the Christians refuse to recognize women in authority. Under them, the rule of Queens is dead.”

  A primal jealousy stirred in Tolen’s depths. “King Breccan, then?”

  Breccan winked and flashed him a smile as white as a pike’s. “Mount up, brother” was his only response. “It’s a long ride up into the mountains, and we’re burning good daylight here!”

  FOR THE BEAUTY of the earth and the glory of the skies . . .

  For all Thy creation that swims, crawls, or flies, we praise Thy name, O Lord.

  Offering prayers and thanks, at peace with the world, Father Eustan crossed the rough green between his cell and the low wooden chapel, where a handful of black-clad brothers were already pressing in. The grass underfoot was spangled with hoarfrost, each blade of grass glinting with its own light. When they sang the first office at prime, a rosy dawn had been fingering the small community of cells with a cold, fiery light. Now the sun was up, but there was still no warmth in the sky.

  But Eustan did not see the poor dwellings or feel the frost tormenting his raw, sandaled feet. His eye fell on a blackbird, pecking its carefree way around the green. He drank in the boundless perfection of the sunlit morning and his heart rejoiced. How beautiful are Thy works, O Lord our God . . .

  It was colder inside the chapel than out, and he shivered as he passed under the rough wooden cross above the door. But soldiers of Christ vanquished the frail flesh, and those who could not, Eustan sadly but sternly sent away. God demanded men who could bear the cruel itching of the monkish habit, the poor diet, the rules of silence and the ever-broken sleep, and still rise up smiling to chant the hours and praise His holy name.

  And here they were, his followers, a dozen of God’s finest, bright-eyed and bold, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the humble space, heads bowed in prayer. He moved through them to the low altar, rejoicing in his soul, and turned to face his flock. “Brothers in Christ . . .” he began.

  AND THEY CALL this a holy place? Grinning like a wolf, Breccan did not try to hide his contempt. When he was King, nothing would be too fine for him. And these people who preached the coming of the King of Heaven contented themselves with living in ruins like these?

  All around him he could hear Tolen, Ravigel, Tiercel, and the rest of the knights thinking the same thing. The ride here had been hard, picking their way along narrow mountain paths to a ring of standing stones where the Christians had settled in the remains of the old stone circle and built their huts. No wonder their wretched hovels looked ready to fall down, fashioned as they were out of broken rocks.

  Clever, though. Breccan chuckled to himself. Living so humbly, they’d never be the envy of the folk who lived around here, or arouse their mistrust. They had won the people’s hearts in other ways too. They lived cleanly, devoted themselves to their God, and shared all they had. Those who fell sick were more than glad of their simple ministrations and wholesome care. Yes, they were good men. Breccan sucked his teeth. This could prove harder than he had thought.

  He nodded curtly to Ravigel. “Ride on and give them warning of our approach.”

  Ravigel bowed.

  Breccan watched the knight spurring away, and the worm of resentment turned again in his heart. Why couldn’t he count on his brother Tolen like this? Breccan’s lip curled. Brother . . . ? Suddenly he knew he no longer held any kinship with the dull-eyed thing sweating and swaying vacantly on his horse, reeking of wine and, he dared swear, fear.

  Fear? Oh, Tolen! A dull rage swept him. Time was, big brother, when you yielded to no man, beat down any knight at arms and royally sated the Queen in her own bed. And now—he felt the cold wind of fate brushing his cheek—now you are nothing. And a danger to me, even worse.

  “Sir?” Ravigel was cantering down the track. “Father Eustan says he will see you now.”

  “He will see me?” muttered Breccan. What, a religious fool dictating terms to him? He reminded himself that he needed Eustan’s support. And when the monk knew what they’d come for, things would soon change.

  “On, then!” Breccan cried.

  Keenly, he pressed forward up the mountain path. But one glance as they drew near made him think again. Father Eustan was surging out of the chapel with his monks at his back and drawing himself up on the green as if to repel an attack.

  “Greetings, lords,” he called dourly. “Welcome to our humble house of God.”

  “And greetings to you.”

  Smiling, Breccan swung down from the saddle and threw his reins to Ravigel. Carefully, he studied the man facing him. Tall, lean, and impassive, Father Eustan gave little away. Like all his kind, he wore a long black habit of the coarsest wool, belted at the waist with a length of rope. A raw tonsure disfigured his shaven head, and his feet were cracked and bleeding from the cold. But the large, lustrous eyes burning deep in their sockets showed no concern with this. Here was a man who cared only for his God.

  “So, sir,” he challenged with a unfriendly stare. “What can a handful of Christ’s messengers do for you?”

  Breccan paused. Where was the gentle, timid Christian he’d imagined?

  “I am Breccan, a knight of the Queen,” he struck back as su
avely as he could. He gestured toward Tolen. “And brother to the late Queen’s chosen one.”

  Too late he realized that the half-glazed creature at his side did nothing to enhance his claim. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on. “We are here to help you. We have come to offer you our protection in these troubled times.”

  “Troubled? How so?” The monk’s large brown eyes held Breccan in a disbelieving gaze. “And why should we need protection from you?”

  He gestured behind him to a thickset monk brandishing a stave. Next to him stood another burly form armed with a pitchfork, and another with a battling gleam in his eye. Next to him a young monk clutched a sickle, and next—Gods above! Breccan’s brain reeled. Were they all fighting mad, these servants of the meek and mild Jesus who preached love for all?

  “Troubled, Father,” he resumed angrily, “because the old Queen has died. And who knows what will follow in her wake?”

  “On the contrary,” said Eustan sharply, “we know very well. Isolde will succeed. She is the rightful heir and she is our Queen.”

  “But your own faith—your own sacred texts—” Breccan heard himself stuttering and ground his teeth in rage. How could he be losing this battle of wits? “Your Holy Writ,” he resumed, breathing heavily, “tells us that man is made in God’s image and woman was formed for sin. Therefore your own Saint Paul instructed the world that no woman may hold power over men.”

  A smile of amusement kindled the monk’s dark eyes. “But our Lord Jesus Christ was born of woman, as you may have heard.”

  “But she didn’t rule over him,” insisted Breccan. “She was not his Queen. Your God has come to sweep all that away. We need a man of power to govern the land.” He remembered in time to put on a kingly smile. “And I am here to take that burden on.”

  “Are you so?” Father Eustan pretended to think. “Well then . . .”

  Darkness and devils! Breccan could have sworn the monk was laughing at him. Recklessly he pushed on.

  “Either you’re with me or against me, monk. Support me now, preach me to your people, and I’ll build churches for you throughout the land. You and I together can do God’s will!”