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

by Rosalind Miles

  “Then I shall make it better,” she returned implacably. She reached out a hand.

  Outside the window, the moon floated in the sky. A shimmering silvery light poured through the great mullioned casements standing open to the night. Tristan scented the cool air rising from the forest below, and a desperate resolve formed in his ruined brain. Get away. Must get away.

  “Madam—” he began with the last of his strength.

  But she was not listening. “Come here, sir.”

  The grin she wore seemed to stretch from wall to wall, and he trembled at the hot glint in her eye. Her breasts, all too visible, struck him like evil things, and her nipples seemed to stare at him like eyes, great animal lights from another, crueler world. Hissing like a swan, she spread her long white arms, and he felt her enfold him in her scaly wings. The next moment her mouth fastened wetly upon his, sucking, pulling, dragging out his soul. He thought of Isolde and lost his last shred of hope.

  Traitorcowardfaithlesswretchfailed failed failed . . .

  His mind split open, and a great darkness loomed. Blindly his body followed his spirit into the void. Bounding like a stag across the floor, he jumped up onto the window ledge. Then as Blanche gaped in horror and ran crying for the guard, he leapt into the night.

  CHAPTER 41

  Darkness favored lovers, everyone knew that. So the wedding celebrations at court only swelled in volume as the sun went down. In the town, too, the revelry had been rising by the hour. Huddled in the shadow of the castle wall, the town alehouse was crammed with roisterers toasting the newlyweds’ health.

  “A toast to the Princess!”

  “She’s Queen now—Queen of Lyonesse!”

  “Well, here’s to the Queen and her King—”

  “—and a toast to the young prince or princess that they’re making right now!”

  Nothing like a wedding to bring the drinkers out, the alewife thought happily, slipping more coins under the counter into the well-filled leather bag now bulging like her hips.

  “More ale over there,” she ordered the little drudge who labored as her maid.

  She moved forward to clear the nearest table of its load, a jumble of tankards and goblets all drained to the dregs. As she did so, a disheveled creature appeared in the open door.

  The alewife eyed the stranger’s travel-worn garments and dusty cloak. “Come far?” she said.

  “Far enough,” came the low rejoinder. “Can I rest here?”

  The alewife nodded, sizing up the signs of desperate strain and fatigue on the haggard face. Too far for one day, that was clear. Slowly she assessed the newcomer’s well-cut but somber gown and fine woolen wrap, the aura of quiet authority and respect, the heavy purse at her waist, the ringless left hand. A lady in waiting or high-born gentle-woman, on some errand of sad importance for her lady or her lord. A death or a dying, she pronounced to herself. Or a bastard child. As long as life went on, there would always be both.

  “A drink, is it? Or a bed for the night?”

  The newcomer hesitated. “I suppose it’s too late to get to court tonight?”

  “Tonight?” the alewife guffawed. “Yes, indeed.”

  “Then a bed for the night, if you have room.”

  “To the King!”

  Behind them another round of drunken cheering rang out, shivering the cobwebs in the smoke-blackened roof.

  “The King of Lyonesse! May he bring new blood into our royal house!”

  “And his Queen—our Princess—blessings on her too!”

  The newcomer gasped. “So it’s true,” she cried out in a sharp, lilting voice. “The King of Lyonesse has married your Princess?”

  “Married her today,” the alewife confirmed with a gap-toothed smile. “Wedded and bedded her, too, by now, I don’t doubt.”

  The stranger brought her clasped hands to her lips. “Goddess, Mother, no!”

  The alewife sniffed. What was wrong with the woman? Why couldn’t she be happy for the Princess like everyone else? She felt a wave of dislike for the sallow, sour-faced thing. “So you didn’t come to see our Princess married, then?”

  The newcomer looked as if she had swallowed a toad. “No, I did not.”

  “Then you missed the most beautiful sight you ever saw. She was all in white, our Princess, she’s called Blanche, you know. She had him got up all in white and silver too; you never saw such a pair. Outside the chapel, when the knot was tied, King Hoel had ordered a flock of white doves released. So they were all fluttering ’round as the King and Queen came out, like a blessing on them from the Great One Herself.”

  “King and Queen, are they?” muttered the lady furiously, tossing her head to and fro. Her face had flushed, the alewife saw, and her eyes were glittering.

  Gods above, what if the wanderer had brought a fever into the house? Worse still, the plague? Better lay her up in the lean-to hovel outside where gypsies, lepers, and other creatures of the road took shelter when her dogs didn’t get there first to drive them away.

  She moved forward and took the stranger by the arm. “A bed for the night, lady?” she said brusquely. “This way.”

  “DON’T TELL ME THAT! You’re just not searching hard enough.” Twisting her hands, Blanche furiously paced the floor.

  The captain eased his bulk back on his heels and kept his eyes fixed stolidly ahead. His dear wife would never believe him when he told her all this. She loved Princess Blanche, everyone did, and she’d hate to know that the poor girl’s wedding night had turned out this way. “Like I said, lady.” He waved at the open window with a beefy hand. “When he went out of there, the Gods only know what became of him.”

  Blanche turned on him, white with rage. “But he must have left some sign. Surely you’ve found something, after all this time?”

  “You can see where he fell, all right,” the captain conceded. “There were a few broken branches, and plenty of blood on the ground. But after that, nothing. It’s as if the Fair Ones popped up and flew him away.”

  Blanche felt a surge of fear from her very depths. Fair Ones? What nonsense, all of it! But where could Tristan be? Did he hate her so much that he had to run away? And now surely he’d be injured again too? She strangled the urge to weep. “But you have trackers—dogs—”

  “We’ve had ’em all out since dawn. Even the best of the dogs couldn’t pick up a scent.”

  “Well, search again,” Blanche ordered trenchantly, pacing to and fro. “He can’t have gotten far.” Gods above, how could he do this to me? she moaned inside. And on our wedding night too? Why was he so offended by her approach? Wouldn’t any bride have expected to be loved?

  “Well, no, he can’t,” the captain agreed cautiously. “Not if he was drunk, like you said, when he fell out.”

  Blanche stopped her pacing by the great fireplace and kicked out at one of the dogs dozing on the hearth. “I told you he was. That’s how he lost his balance.” She rounded on the captain again, her eyes ablaze. “How else would a man fall out of a window, tell me that?”

  The captain bowed. “Let me order another search, lady. And we’ll keep it secret, as you ordered before.”

  “Yes!” Blanche’s pale face flared with desperate intent. She bore down on him like an angry swan. “I’ll hang any man that breathes a word of this.”

  “Yes, lady.”

  “Tell them to widen the search. I want all the inns and high roads watched, anywhere my lord might take shelter to recover himself. There’s a thousand crowns for the man who brings him to me!”

  “Lady, it shall be done.”

  The captain backed to the door and made a speedy escape. He’d have plenty to tell his dear wife when he got home, and none of it made any sense. Lord Tristan so drunk that he couldn’t stand up? And then fell out of a window and flew away without a trace?

  “Tell that story to the Fair Ones, my lady,” he muttered under his breath. “And get them to find him, for I fear we never shall.”

  CHAPTER 42

&nb
sp; The rising sun streamed in through a little window of greeny glass. A summer dove was cooing in the tree outside, and the smell of new bread rose from the kitchen below. Brangwain woke in the finest room in the alehouse and for a second felt warm, free, and safe. Then the memory of last night descended like a dead weight on her soul.

  They were married, then. There was no denying it. Sir Tristan had gone to church of his own free will and wedded the Princess of France. The whole court and kingdom of King Hoel could bear witness it was true, not just one of Andred’s mischief-making lies.

  But how? Brangwain moaned and tossed in the wide bed. Lord Tristan loved Isolde with his life. The Princess must have put a spell on him to change his mind, or else the Fair Ones had stolen his soul away.

  Well, today she would find out. At least she had had a fairly good night’s sleep, once she’d sharply refused the wretched outhouse where the poor and lazarous creatures lay. A little gold had secured the best room in the house, and a decent bed it was too. Groaning, Brangwain stretched her weary limbs. Flying across the sea, taking horse after horse as she raced here from the coast, she had not rested in her efforts to reach the court of King Hoel before the wedding took place. And at my age, too, she grumbled.

  And she had failed. So what now? She frowned and tried to think. Get up to the castle and try to see Tristan? How would she get to speak to him alone? Write a letter, then, and give it to one of the servants? But how would she know he got it? And Gods above! He was only married last night. He was still in the first flush of his honeymoon. Yet how could he betray my lady and marry like this? Brangwain buried her face in her hands. Goddess, Mother, help me . . .

  There was a heavy thumping on the stairs. Brangwain dried her tears and managed a thin smile. So the fat alewife was bringing the breakfast herself. Well and good. Let the day begin.

  Another series of thumps, and the chamber door flew back under the rough impact of the alewife’s foot. “G’morning, lady,” she observed with a toothless grin.

  “Good morning.” Sitting up, Brangwain watched as the bulky figure entered with a tray bearing a bowl of figs, a tankard of creamy milk, and a sizable chunk of passable-looking bread. She gave the goodwife a smile. “How are you today?”

  The alewife set the tray down on the bed. “Better than them downstairs lying on my floor! Thick heads and yellow eyes, groaning and puking, it’s a sight to be seen. And the stink! Still, they enjoyed the wedding, they’d have to say that.”

  Brangwain tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “All the world loves your Princess.”

  “Well, why not?” The alewife peered at her, spreading her hands upon her ample hips. “She’s been a favorite here since she was a child. And then the Mother sent her our new King.”

  Your new King. Oh, very fine. Brangwain looked at the food on the tray and her stomach turned. How can I tell my lady that this is true? How can I say that my lord has proved so false?

  She favored the alewife with a cheerful nod. “Let me break my fast, then we’ll speak again.”

  “As you wish, lady.” The alewife lumbered off, throwing a gummy smile over her shoulder as she went. “I’ll send the maid up for the tray in a while.”

  “Very well.”

  Brangwain drank a little milk and picked at the figs. She should eat the bread, she knew, for strength later on, but she rarely felt hungry, and didn’t feel hungry now. Time to act. She swung out of bed and hastened to get dressed. Just as she was securing her headdress and veil, she heard a mouse-like scratching at the door.

  “Come in.”

  It was one of the alewife’s young maids. She had the face and body of an orphan child, and the stink of poverty and despair seeped from every limb. Her threadbare gown was too small for her, and her head was covered in a greasy cloth. A worn dishrag served her as an apron, and she stood in the doorway twisting it nervously in her work-worn hands.

  Brangwain beckoned her in. “Tell me, girl, what’s your name?”

  The maid buried her chin in her chest and refused to look up. “I’m nobody, lady. Just sent to fetch your tray.”

  A lifetime of taking care of such creatures flooded Brangwain’s veins. Unhurriedly, she watched the girl cross over to the tray and read her starving eyes.

  “Before you go, girl,” she said briskly, “did you breakfast today?”

  The drudge could not stop looking at the food. “Not us, ma’am,” she said with a sharp laugh. “The mistress says we get sleepy when we eat. So we gets our rations at the end of the day. By that time we’re sleepy anyway, so we don’t need much.”

  “Come here, then, and eat this for me,” Brangwain ordered. She dipped the bread in the milk and held it out. “I don’t like to waste good food.”

  One snatch and the bread was gone from Brangwain’s grasp and vanished down the girl’s gaping throat. Brangwain pointed to the figs. “Finish it all up.”

  Moments later the tray was bare and a dull glow was warming the girl’s thin face. Brangwain looked away.

  “Is it far from here to the castle?” she asked casually.

  The maid shook her head. “No more than a mile.”

  “And does King Hoel keep an open court? If I wanted to catch a glimpse of your new King, where should I go?”

  “The new King? Oh, ma’am—! The King’s run away.”

  Brangwain stared. “Run away?”

  The little creatures shivered and dropped her voice. “My sister’s married to the captain of the palace guard, and she’s says he’s gone.”

  “Gone? How?”

  The girl ran the tip of her tongue over her cracked lips. “Lost his balance and fell out of the window and ran away.”

  Fell out of the window? Brangwain put a hand to the side of her head. “Go on, girl. What else did your sister say?”

  “Well, he was drunk and he slipped, the Queen said, and here’s the funny part. Any mortal man would have crashed straight to the ground. But they’ve searched all night and found no trace of him.”

  “Gods above, girl, what else could he have done?”

  The girl gave a sideways smile. “He flew out of the window, that’s what. They say he was one of the Fair Ones, too fine and handsome to be mortal like us. I saw him when the Princess took him Maying in the wood. And the smile he gave us, oh lady, if you’d seen that smile . . .”

  The pinched face took on an ethereal look. Brangwain watched the girl’s eyes drift into a memory she would cherish all her life.

  “I can imagine,” she said with difficulty. “Well, girl, may the Mother go with you. Run along.”

  So, what now?

  Dazed, Brangwain found her way to a chair. Gods above, whatever did this mean? No happy husband leapt out of a window on his wedding night. No bridegroom in love ran away from his bride. If Tristan had fled from Blanche, had he lost his mind?

  Goddess, Mother, I have to find him.

  Where?

  She sighed with relief. Where else would he be? Soon afterward she stood in the stable yard, waiting for a horse. A golden summer day was blooming all around. Whistling through his teeth, the groom saw another traveler mounted, then approached with a friendly grin.

  Brangwain looked out through the alehouse gate. “Fine country,” she observed casually. “You must have some rare forests and greenways around here.”

  “Miles of ’em,” grinned the groom, “take your pick.”

  “If I wanted to explore your woodlands, where would I go?”

  The groom gave a reflective tug on one grubby ear. “Some’d say one thing, some another. But I’d say the Lady Wood. It’s so ancient that folk ’round here say the heart of it has turned to stone.” He laughed again. “Of course, none of them’s ever gone in to take a look. They say the Great One keeps it for Her own.”

  Brangwain pursed her lips. A petrified forest, and sacred to the Lady too? A place so deep that no one would venture in?

  He was there, she knew it. Where else would Sir Tristan seek refuge th
an the deep greenwood where he first saw life?

  She set her small pointed chin and took up the reins. I’m coming, sir. Hold on.

  “A horse, then, lady?” came the voice of the groom.

  Brangwain nodded. “A good goer, if you please, a stout cob or suchlike, deep in the chest and strong enough to bear two.”

  “To bear two?” the groom chuckled, thumping the saddle down on the horse’s back. “You hoping to find the King of the Fair Ones and bring him home?”

  Brangwain fixed him with her Otherwordly eye. “You never know, my lad,” she said grandly. “You never know.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Sometimes it was like a sickness, then a sharp, scalding pain. That was like childhood when she stumbled too near the fire or knocked a boiling pot over her hand. But most of the time it felt like nothing at all, because she refused to believe it was happening.

  And to her—Blanche, Queen of Lyonesse? No, it was ludicrous. Tristan hadn’t meant to fall, wasn’t every red-blooded groom as drunk as a lord on his wedding night? And there was no reason to think he had hurt himself overmuch. He’d soon be back with his tail between his legs, and then she’d make him pay for doing this.

  Arranging her face in a serene smile, Blanche called for her maids, left her chamber, and proceeded in stately fashion to the Great Hall. The whole day had passed in a fruitless search for Tristan while she lay in her chamber and waited for him to return. Since he hadn’t, she would face the world alone. And what better time than now, while the glow of the wedding still lay over all the court? Whatever happened, a bride and bridegroom were forgiven everything in the first flush of wedded bliss.

  Now the Great Hall lay ahead, tender with the magic light of the hour when day reluctantly hands over to night. The last of the sun lay like gold on the polished floor, while banks of candles beamed down from the walls. Massed heaps of summer blooms flamed on the wide hearths, roses and peonies, foxgloves and guelder flowers, all filling the air. Dotted throughout the high-vaulted chamber, the court bloomed too, ladies fragrant in flower-like silks, knights and lords richly clad in silver and satin, velvet and ancient furs. She might have stumbled upon a fairy cave.