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

by Rosalind Miles

  “Green is for Ireland, and blue is for Cornwall here,” said the maid firmly. A waterfall of jewels tumbled from her hand. Sapphires, aquamarines, and beryls spilled out before her, each beguiling her, wear me, wear me. Brangwain’s brisk voice reached her from behind. “You want to be as fine as the Lady Elva tonight.”

  “Finer.” Isolde’s face hardened. “Tonight and every night, Brangwain. There is only one Queen in Cornwall, and she has forgotten that. Now, show me what we have.”

  Soon a stranger’s face looked out from Isolde’s glass, her eyes and complexion enhanced by Brangwain’s skill, her mouth ripened to rich shades of peony and plum. Her gown fell in folds of thick velvet to the floor, her full skirts whispering to the long train behind. A deep collar of tourmalines circled her white throat, and the gold of her crown gleamed in the candlelight.

  Brangwain stared at her, entranced. “Lady, the Queen of the Sea never looked so fine.”

  The sea, the sea.

  My love lies over the sea.

  My love lies with his fair eyes . . .

  Did my love lie to me?

  Again she struggled to pull her spirits around, Smile, Isolde. A queen must always smile.

  “Ready, Brangwain?”

  Breathing deeply, Isolde swept out and down to the Great Hall with Brangwain following behind. Ready, Isolde? Prepared to encounter Elva and stare her down?

  But Elva was not the first to accost her in the crowded hall. With a palpable buzz of interest, all eyes were keenly turned to greet her as she came in.

  What’s happened? There is something here I don’t know.

  “Your Majesty.”

  It was Sir Nabon, stepping forward with a bow. Isolde’s heart eased. The grizzled warlord might be Mark’s chief adviser and the head of the King’s Council, but he had always been a good friend to her too. Anxious for the King to be married, Nabon had counted Isolde as a pearl above price. And unlike others, he had shown a deep understanding when Mark had proved himself to be a husband she could not accept.

  Sir Nabon was talking with two lords of the Council, Sir Quirian and the aged Sir Wisbeck, who had served Mark’s father and who was rumored to be older than Castle Dore. Nabon drew aside from his companions with a low bow. “My lady, a word in your ear.”

  He gestured across the shadowy, candlelit hall to a small group of courtiers clustered around the King. Foremost among them was a short, squat, black-clad shape, standing four-square and impassive at Mark’s side.

  “The King’s confessor Dominian?” Isolde surveyed the monk, then turned back to Nabon.

  Nabon fingered his chin uneasily. “It seems that the Church is taking an interest in your affairs.”

  Isolde tensed. “How so?”

  “A whisper has reached me that the King’s priest is urging him to make good his marriage vows.”

  “Is it so?” Is that why the whole court is aflame with excitement tonight?

  No, that could not be it. This would not be the talk of the court, not yet at least. Again she felt the force of a hundred eyes, some pitying, some amused, some with an openly malicious air. There’s something else. What is it? Her stomach tightened as she looked around.

  Not far from Mark, Andred stood with the Lady Elva at the center of a busy, chattering throng. Andred will know. She bowed to Sir Nabon. “Thank you, my lord, for your kind advisement of this. Let us talk further when I’ve considered it.” She glanced behind her. “Come, Brangwain.”

  “Forewarned is forearmed, my lady,” Sir Nabon said grimly. He took a breath. “There’s another matter I should mention too . . .”

  But Isolde was already striding away. Nabon watched her go with pity in his eyes. “She won’t like it,” he growled to Wisbeck under his breath.

  Wisbeck’s ancient face showed his sadness too. “How can she?” he said gruffly.

  The crowd around the King parted as she approached and Andred stood grinning in the center of her view. Beside him Elva was wreathed in a snake-like smile.

  “Good news, Isolde,” Mark cried boisterously.

  What’s good for Mark can only be bad for me. “What news, my lord?”

  “It’s Tristan,” Mark brayed in triumph. “You know we thought he was on the brink of death? Well, the rogue has a surprise for us yet.” He laughed and released a belch. “You’ll never guess.”

  Oh, I think I can. What else could give you all such enjoyment at my expense?

  Mark waved a brimming goblet, and bright drops of red wine fell through the air like blood. For the rest of her life, whenever liquor was spilled, Isolde would see her heart breaking and her life’s liquor running out.

  Behind her Brangwain breathed, “Courage, lady.” She took her heart in her hands.

  “Tell me, my lord,” she cried gaily. “Whatever it is, it will be welcome. We all wish Sir Tristan well.”

  Mark goggled at her with a foolish grin. “He’s going to be married, Isolde, to the Princess of France. Now what do you think of that?”

  Then he swung his goblet high in the air again. Isolde watched her heart’s blood fly away. “A toast!” he proclaimed, “a toast.”

  Standing behind Isolde, Brangwain watched the immobile form as her mistress absorbed the extremity of pain. But Isolde did not need to move or turn her head for the maid to hear and obey her mistress’s thought.

  Fly to the dock, Brangwain, take ship tonight. Order the captain to sail on the evening tide and get over to France to find out if this is true!

  CHAPTER 40

  It was the finest day of that long, hot summer, a day of golden glory, made for joy. The sun shone, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, the people rejoiced, and Tristan walked out like a dead man to marry the Princess of France.

  To the cheering crowds, he looked as fine as the day itself, shining like the sun. Blanche had commanded a wedding tunic for him in silver and white, made of pearly leather patterned with silver studs. Over it swung a cloak of white lined with silver, and chains of silver from King Hoel’s treasury. From the same source had come the heavy gold crown he wore, in token of his kingship of Lyonesse. With a savage amusement, it came to him that out of every stitch covering his nakedness, only his boots and his breeches were his own. Those, and the torque of knighthood around his neck, the fatal sign and symbol of what had brought him here today.

  On my oath as a knight, he had said, I will marry you. He had kissed her white hand and told her to name the day. But no sooner had she left the room than a voice like Isolde’s had started inside his head.

  Traitor . . .

  Coward . . .

  Faithless wretch . . .

  You have failed your knighthood oath, and now you have failed me.

  A shaft of white light ran like a skewer through his brain. He struck at his head for relief, and the pain increased.

  “Failed? Failed again?” he cried, beside himself. “I shall make amends!”

  Bursting from his chamber, he ran through the palace to the royal apartments and hammered on Blanche’s door, kneeling at her feet. “Lady, forgive me,” he gasped, “I cannot marry you. But I shall challenge Saint Roc to single combat and set you free.”

  Blanche froze. “You will not marry me?”

  “Making false vows endangers your honor and mine. You want me to prevent your marriage to Saint Roc. And I can beat him on horseback at the joust, on the ground, anywhere!”

  “Oh, sir—”

  There was no measuring the depth of Blanche’s contempt. “You’ll fight for me, when you can’t sit a horse? When you can’t raise a lance, or even hold a sword?”

  Tears started to his eyes. In a frenzy, he leapt to his feet. “Madam, I—”

  “And now you mean to shame me before all the world?”

  “Shame you?” His head was splitting. “How?”

  Blanche reached for the lie with a lifetime’s ease. “I’ve told my father that you’ve proposed to me. He’s gone to announce our marriage to all the court.”

  D
evils and darkness . . . Tristan held his head. “Is it so?”

  Remorselessly Blanche pressed her advantage home. “It will be proclaimed far and wide.”

  A monstrous abyss was gaping at Tristan’s feet. “But lady—I can’t marry you without love.”

  “Many couples marry without love.” She gave a seductive smile. “Love comes afterward.”

  Tristan’s stomach heaved. “I can never love you, maiden, you must know that. I have taken a vow to the Queen of the Western Isle.”

  Blanche paused. Isolde again? Well, sooner or later he’d forget her, it would only take time. And they would have time, as soon as the knot was tied. As long as she could make Tristan stick to his vow.

  She thought of her little lost dog, and the tears flowed. “Sir, if you’ll only keep your oath, I’ll be safe from Saint Roc. After that I swear I’ll make no further demands on you. I’ll get the marriage annulled as soon as I can. Till then we’ll be like brother and sister, friends in chastity. A white marriage, we call it in France.”

  Could he trust her? He did not know. “On your oath, lady?”

  She widened her eyes and brought both her hands to her heart. “On my mother’s soul.”

  Still he was wavering. She leaned toward him, wringing her perfect hands. “You gave me your word. On your honor as a knight.” Gently she eased her tears into helpless sobs. “Will you break your oath? Will you fail me now?”

  Tristan gazed into the tearful blue eyes, and his senses drowned.

  On my honor as a knight, I fail and I fail . . .

  Fail Blanche, fail Isolde, fail, fail, fail . . .

  His gorge rose, and sickness swept him from head to foot. And now he was walking to the church, still dreaming mad thoughts of escape and flight. Fool! You can’t draw back now, hammered through his brain. There’s no way out. He gave a hurtful laugh. What, leave her at the altar, all dressed up in silver and white?

  As you are too. He looked at his ludicrous outfit and laughed again.

  What was this?

  What was Tristan laughing at?

  Walking at Tristan’s side, Kedrin eyed him with deep concern. A bridegroom was expected to be happy, not emitting odd, mad little chuckles like this. But the wedding was ill-starred, Tristan must know that.

  Did Tristan also know, Kedrin wondered, that he had challenged Blanche as soon as the wedding was announced?

  “He does not love you, sister,” he had said.

  She had laughed then, a long, low disturbing sound. “Oh, he will. He is mine now. And he will marry me. You and my father were wrong.”

  There was no resisting Blanche’s triumph and her joy. King Hoel’s protests had been likewise brushed aside and the wedding went forward at a furious pace. Kedrin had been elected as Tristan’s groomsman, since the knight had no other friend in the whole of France. Within a week they were walking to the small chapel below the castle where Blanche would arrive with her father at her side.

  Kedrin groaned inwardly. He’d agreed to stand up beside Tristan in church, but he’d rather be throwing his friend to the wolves. Why was he so sure that this marriage was destined to fail?

  Fail, fail, you failed.

  Failed then, failing now.

  Trying to do right, doing so much wrong.

  Traitor . . .

  Coward . . .

  Faithless wretch . . .

  You have failed your knighthood oath and now you have failed me.

  Where was he? Lights flared behind Tristan’s eyes. Walking out of the castle, yes, and into the sun, down the hill and into the tree-sheltered grove. Little church beside water, and therefore once a holy lake, sacred to the Goddess before the Christians came. A Christian church, then? Another wild chuckle rose to Tristan’s lips. Another betrayal of Isolde, another disgrace.

  He stumbled over the threshold, straining to see. Who were all these people, all these foolish, festive faces, grinning away? Strange that a man would not know a single soul among those who had gathered on his wedding day. He could feel the mad laughter rising again in his chest and willed himself to hold it back. At least the wretched Saint Roc was not here. The villain who had been the cause of all this grief had at least had the grace to make himself scarce today.

  Was that the altar ahead? Tristan pondered. So then, what now?

  What now indeed, bride-man?

  Saint Roc stood unseen at the back of the church and laughed silently at the folly of the world. So Blanche was trying to make him jealous by taking Tristan? Foolish girl. The task of deflowering a virgin was little but a chore, and he was happy to leave it to the King of Lyonesse. The only man who desired a virgin bride was one who feared comparison with other men. A man of the world looked for women who understood pleasure, and Blanche would know more about that when Tristan was through. Saint Roc gave a sigh of content. Blanche would be his, he knew it. This so-called marriage would not, could not last. All he had to do was wait.

  Cantate Domino: O, sing unto the Lord a new song . . .

  The church was cool and dim after the sunshine outside. A choir of boys sang like angels in the shadows, and the soft gloom helped the pain in Tristan’s head. But the sickly smell of incense choked his throat, and for a moment he could not breathe.

  A white shape came toward him veiled from head to foot, and he felt another flare of fear. This ghostly creature is your bride, Tristan. Did you think she would fade away, like a bad dream?

  And this was the priest, gowned and mumbling, smelling like his church of the incense from the East. What was he saying? Take this woman? No escaping now. Only one answer. Yes.

  Her hand was cold. Perhaps his was too. But the wedding ring sat like a hoop of fire on his hand. Why was it thick and solid like a glittering shackle, not looking like an object of love and joy? Why was it so different from the ring on his other hand, the love token Isolde had given him years ago?

  Isolde, sang the cracked voices in his head.

  Traitor.

  Wretched failure.

  Recreant knight.

  What had he done, he wondered, mad with despair, that the Gods had resolved to torture him like this? The thought obsessed him, weaving in and out of the sounds only he could hear. Sometimes he heard a low, sad echo, sometimes a cacophony of sobbing, whistling, and catcalls. It came to him; you are losing your mind.

  And perhaps he had lost it already, for he hardly knew where he was. The world had shrunk to two black pinpoints of pain through which he peered about as blind as a mole. Blink, and he was in the Great Hall, at a great feast. Blink, and an hour had passed, then many more. Hands guided him about, sat him down, pushed a brimming goblet into his hand, carved and set before him the choicest cuts of peacock, beef, and swan. One pair of white hands seemed to be everywhere, and he had no difficulty in knowing whose they were.

  “Bring the bride to bed!”

  He knew what that meant too. Fool, Tristan, worse than fool! Every wedding ended in this coarse revelry, when the ladies prepared the bride for her husband’s embrace, and the groom was led to her chamber with a thousand ribald jests. Why had he never thought that this would come and made sure to avoid it somehow, anyhow?

  Blanche vanished from the table and from the hall, surrounded by giggling ladies with armfuls of flowers. The young men of the court swarmed around Tristan like flies, each armed with some crude comment or suggestive joke. Jab, jab, jab they came, stinging like rapier points. More wine somehow found its way down his throat. The knights’ belches and belly laughter filled the air with stale, stinking breath.

  Goddess, Mother, save me . . .

  A dull monotonous throbbing ran through his veins.

  “This way, sir!”

  Rough hands fastened on him like crabs and hoisted him aloft. One face seemed to leap out from the throng. Gods above! Saint Roc? Reeling, he felt himself hoisted onto drunken, unsteady shoulders and fell backward, dropping like a tree.

  “He’s drunk!” yodeled a thick voice in his ear. “Let’s hope
he can still do his duty by the bride!”

  Caught and carried forward like a sack, he was bundled through a door and set upright on his feet. As his swimming senses returned, he saw a large, square chamber bright with candles, and a row of long windows giving out on the warm night.

  The knights pounced on the ladies and chased them squealing from the room. Alone in the candlelit silence, he could hear nothing but the roaring in his skull. Then he lifted his head and knew what he had to fear.

  At the end of the chamber, marooned in a bed of state, Blanche sat arrayed in a nightgown as white as her soft flesh. Her long pale hair spilled down over her shoulders, and her eyes were very bright. The flimsy gown scarcely covered her breasts, and she was panting lightly, her pink mouth ajar. One hand played with the flowers covering the bed. The other was raised in command, beckoning him.

  “Come, sir.”

  He could not look at her. He saw again the ring Isolde gave him when they pledged their love, and the monstrous wedding hoop of greenish gold. You’ve betrayed her, Tristan. Failed and failed again . . .

  “Tristan? Can’t you hear me?”

  The white figure slipped determinedly from the bed. Terror and pain nailed Tristan to the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” She was at his side.

  He rallied his forces and bowed. “Madam, let me bid you goodnight.”

  “Goodnight?” She laughed in his face. “You’re my husband now. You know what that means.”

  He could feel a film of sweat gathering on the back of his neck. “Lady, we had an understanding. You agreed—”

  She moved into him with a seductive shrug, rippling the flimsy gauze covering her breasts. “It’s every woman’s right to change her mind.”

  Terror gripped his vitals. “A white marriage!” he said hoarsely. “You made a vow—”

  Blanche gave a lascivious laugh. “The more fool you for trusting to a woman’s vow.”

  “I have an old wound,” he cried desperately, striking the top of his leg, “here in the groin.”