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

by Rosalind Miles

  Triumphantly, she hurried after Isolde. “Well, lady? What now?”

  The bell began to sound again overhead. Isolde paused, her head tilted to one side as she counted the melancholy strokes. “Why, nothing,” she said in a voice as flat as a child’s. “Unless to die.”

  “Die, lady?” Brangwain gasped. “What nonsense is this? You aren’t going to die.”

  The death knell rang between them with the sound of doom.

  Not die? Isolde shook her head. When my love is dead? She drifted out through the courtyard and down into the town. A weeping woman pulled at Isolde’s sleeve. “Is it Sir Tristan?” Her frame was racked with sobs.

  Isolde nodded. So they loved you here as much as they did at home. Of course they would. All the world loved Tristan.

  Ahead of them the little ship rode at anchor in the quay. Isolde could still taste the salt of the voyage in her eyes and mouth. So will it be for my love when they give him to the sea.

  The sea was ebbing with a dying sigh. The solitary bell tolled on overhead. Isolde made her way down through the town with Brangwain, scarcely feeling the cobbled streets beneath her feet. On such a tide I shall leave the world. This time tomorrow, I shall be gone.

  She moved forward with new purpose, and the green mists of night took her in their embrace. Wait for me, sweetheart, where the sea meets the sky.

  “What now, lady?”

  Isolde turned. There was a new, transcendent light in her eye.

  Brangwain bit back a sudden alarm. “Come, lady,” she said roughly, “let’s get to the ship. We should sail for Ireland tonight.” Fear clutched at her stomach. Or anywhere, please the Gods . . .

  Isolde gave an Otherwordly smile. “Let’s get to the ship. It is time to die.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Yes, summer was on the wane. Never mind, the hunting was even better in winter when the game was scarcer and the dogs were more fierce. Savoring the first chill of autumn, Mark strode out of his private apartments and crossed to the Audience Chamber with a spring in his step. What would it be today? Mark glanced idly about the chamber as he took his throne. One or two odd souls clutching petitions, shouldn’t be hard to get rid of them. And the others? Nothing to speak of. A few brisk exchanges, and then away to try out that new hunter, the big bay. An awkward great thing and ugly from muzzle to hocks, but a heart as big as a haystack, he’d go all day . . .

  “Sire—”

  It was Andred.

  Reluctantly, Mark wrenched his mind back from the stables as his nephew spoke. Glittering in black and silver, he cut a distracting figure with Elva beside him shimmering in serpentine green, and Mark struggled to grasp what Andred was trying to say. “Gone?” He frowned suspiciously. “What d’you mean, gone?”

  “The Queen has fled, my lord. Sailed away.”

  “Isolde’s taken ship?” Mark’s eyes bulged. He chewed on his lower lip. “Without a word?”

  Andred shrugged. “She sent a message from the dock, it seems, but nothing to explain this sudden haste.”

  Standing beside Andred, Elva fluttered her silks and nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty may guess where she has gone.”

  “Back to Ireland?”

  Andred spread his hands. “I fear not, sire. They said on the dock the ship was bound for France.”

  Mark paused. “She’s gone to Tristan?” A slow anger began to beat inside his skull. Already he could hear the gossip in the town.

  The Queen’s gone! Hopped off and left the King, gone to France, they say, following her knight.

  What’s the King going to do?

  And then the sneering whisper, the contemptuous laugh. The King? Nothing. He can’t control his wife.

  He can’t control his wife . . .

  Without warning, his father burst across his mind, sword and horse-whip in hand, shouting and bullying as he’d done all his life. “Gods above, boy, can’t you do anything? Where’s your authority? You’ll never make a king.”

  And now Isolde had gone to Tristan. What did it mean? Gnawing on the side of his thumb, he tried to think. Dominian would say she was not a dutiful wife. Well, that was true. He gave a bitter laugh.

  But Dominian was nothing. In truth, Andred’s nods and hints concerned him more. What had Andred been saying in recent weeks? That Tristan would do more for Isolde than any other knight? That he never left her side? Meaning what? Mark twitched and tossed his long legs about. Meaning something he did not want to think.

  And Tristan, what was his game? He must have recovered long ago from his wound. Was he staying in France to draw Isolde there, ready to welcome her as soon as she arrived? Was his marriage to the French princess a sham? But then why marry her?

  “Sire?”

  Mark’s brain was buzzing like a beehive in spring. “What?”

  It was Andred again. “There’s a letter, sire—in the Queen’s own hand.”

  Mark’s meager soul shrank. “A letter? Who to?”

  “To the Princess of France. I looked into her quarters to make sure she’d gone, and it was among the papers she left behind.”

  Mark squinted through the window at the brilliant sky. Soon the day would be gone, and with it any chance to try out the great bay. And now this letter—furiously, he snatched it from Andred and opened it up.

  To Your Highness of France

  You have with you my knight, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse. To me he

  is the one . . .

  The rest of the sentence was heavily scratched out.

  I have written him many letters without a reply. Is he too sick to hold a pen? Too sick to read what I write, or know that I am writing to him?

  If he is, this will be a grievous loss to m . . .

  More heavy blotting obscured the next words.

  Now word has reached me that you and he are to wed. You should know he was sworn to me with unbreakable oaths. If he takes you, he breaks his vow to me. If you take him, you take him knowing that.

  For ten years and more I have enjoyed his love . . .

  HERE THE PEN trailed away and the letter broke off. The last line had been crossed through but could still be read. The meaning was plain. For ten years and more I have enjoyed his love.

  Almighty God, were they lovers, then? Had Tristan been cuckolding him for ten years and more? And during all that time, had his wife who was no wife played him for a fool and given his marital rights away?

  Malice poured like poison through Mark’s veins and his brain shriveled to a seething ball. If they’d shamed him, he would have his revenge. It shouldn’t take much to show the world what they were.

  “Those knights of yours,” he said thickly to the waiting Andred. “Fer de Gambon and Taboral—are those their damned names?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “And they’re good lads, would you say?”

  Andred paused, his mind racing. “It depends on what Your Majesty wants them to do. But they’ll obey your bidding, sire, no questions asked.”

  “No questions asked,” Mark repeated with relish. His pebbly eyes were unnaturally bright. “Good. Get them here, then. Order a supper for the four of us alone, and tell them to be in attendance for as long as I need.”

  “Sire.” Andred nodded. What scheme was Mark hatching in his slender brain? “I go.”

  “And Andred . . .” Mark’s venomous tones reached him at the door. “Command horses for us all tomorrow at dawn. Then send a galloper to—no, I’ll send him myself.” He gave a peculiar laugh.

  “My lord . . .” Andred checked himself on the threshold. “May I ask what—?”

  Mark threw him a filthy look. “Oh, I know you think I can’t do anything without you. But you’ll be surprised. We’re going on a journey and I’m going to—” He laughed again, an unnerving sound. “Well, I shan’t tell you what I’m going to do. But I’ll do it all the same.”

  “Indeed, my lord.” Andred struggled for control. “And then?”

  Mark flared his eyes. “You’ll see. And so will all
the world!”

  CHAPTER 51

  The sun rose in a haze of purple and gray. Troubled clouds lurked on the horizon, drawing down the day before it had begun. Isolde left her cabin and mounted to the deck, feeling the twilight seeping through her soul. This is the evening of my life, and the darkness is near.

  The rich salty smell of the ocean came toward her, wild and free. Beyond the harbor she could see the swell of the waves, as welcoming as a woman’s bosom, soft and round. She nodded to herself. Tonight the Mother will take me in her arms. I shall sail out to sea and I shall find my love.

  A brisk rustle of skirts behind her announced Brangwain’s approach. “A fine day, lady,” the maid said heartily.

  Isolde did not turn.

  “Well, a new day,” Brangwain went on hollowly. And a new life for you, lady, she wanted to say, but did not. “To Ireland, is it, on the morning tide?”

  Isolde shook her head. “Into the sunset, Brangwain. To the Islands of the Blessed, when the tide runs free.” And into the arms of the Mother to meet my love.

  Brangwain moved around to face her. “I shall come with you,” she said decisively.

  Isolde smiled at the maid’s attempts to thwart her plans. Brangwain knew that she would never take any life but her own. “I forbid it,” she said clearly. “I shall go alone. You must stay behind to take word to Cornwall and the Western Isle, and tell our true story when Tristan and I are gone.”

  Brangwain twisted her hands and paced to and fro. “What about Ireland, madam? You’re our Queen! Would you leave our land ungoverned and prey to wicked men?”

  “Queens of the Western Isle have come and gone. Erin herself will endure for a thousand years. She will not lack a worthy guardian after me.”

  “Lady, you have had a great sorrow, but sorrows pass.” And Sir Tristan was not the only man in the world, she tried to convey. You will love and be loved again. Life goes on.

  There was a pensive silence. “Sorrows?” Isolde questioned, almost to herself. Sorrows may pass indeed, but I am sorrow itself.

  Brangwain held out both hands. “Lady, I beg you, do not do this thing—”

  “No more words.” Again the Otherworldly smile. “You’ve helped me all my life. Stay with me now. I need an old boat, at the end of its life. Then flowers, whatever can be found now that summer’s gone.”

  A boat? And flowers? Numbly, Brangwain trailed behind her mistress the length of the quay and out onto the sea wall as Isolde spoke earnestly to the fisherfolk and sailors busy working there. At last she settled on a small, open boat, an ancient but shapely craft in a sea-washed green. It was short work, then, to arrange for it to be moored where the evening tide would carry it out to sea.

  And never had Isolde looked more beautiful, Brangwain noted with an aching heart. In her simple green gown, with her red hair unbound, she blazed like a flower of the forest that lives for a only day. Dazzled by Isolde herself as much as by her gold, the old seaman who sold her the boat was ready to fulfill her every whim.

  “Holes in the sides, lady?” he queried, scratching his head.

  Isolde traced a line along both sides of the hull. “Here, and here.”

  Brangwain nodded grimly to herself. Low enough to admit enough water to scuttle the boat. High enough to take Isolde far out to sea, where the waves were deep and she could not swim back to shore.

  Isolde moved away, her eyes on the distant fields beyond the town.

  “I’m going for the flowers,” she said.

  “Let me help you.”

  Isolde smiled. “I want to go alone.”

  Beyond the little harbor and the town, the countryside lay open to the noonday sun. Green fields and rambling meadows ran along the bay to the cliffs above. Isolde struck off up the hillside, quite alone. Except for you, my love.

  For he was still on this earth, she could tell. His spirit was with her now, he was at her side. You’re so close, I can touch you if I put out my hand. She gave him a dreamy smile. You’re waiting for me, I know.

  Above her a lark sang in the cloudless sky. Without warning a mighty sea eagle flew out of the sun, then glided serenely away on its rippling wings. She watched it with speechless delight. Is that you, my love? Your spirit soared like that, proud and free. You are free again now, wherever your spirit roams.

  As I shall be, when I sail on the evening tide.

  Alas, no, Isolde. You will not sleep with your love tonight.

  It was the voice of her mother dropping through the veils of cloud like the song of the lark. Your life is not yours to squander. You threw it away once when you married King Mark without love. You may not do so again.

  But to live without Tristan, Mother—without love—

  Ah, little one, all lovers must live without love in the end.

  You never did. You always chose love.

  And do you choose to be like me?

  Isolde came to herself with a shudder. Mother, no! Your choices brought Tolen and Breccan into our land and led to the deaths of good men like Fideal. A fearful thought descended on her like a blow. I must choose life, not death.

  But Tristan—Tristan . . .

  The wind stirred, and a cloud rose over the sea. She watched the soft mass roiling and changing shape and heard the strong, sonorous tones of the Lady rolling toward the shore.

  Never forget you are married to the land. You are the Sovereignty and the spirit of the isle.

  Isolde’s soul rebelled. Tristan is more to me than all the Western Isle!

  Little one, little one—the Lady’s stern voice sounded deep inside her mind. You cannot give up your kingdom for any man. You have made the mystical marriage of the Queens with the land. That is the union you may not escape.

  The land . . .

  Isolde wanted to weep. She thought of Cormac and Sir Gilhan: Surely Ireland would always be safe with them?

  But Gilhan is old. He may die, and Cormac too. And how long before another Breccan appears? If I am the spirit and Sovereignty of the isle, can I abandon it and leave it to its fate? Oh, my poor country, unmothered like an orphan child.

  The Western Isle came before her with its black mountains and emerald loughs, its silver breezes and its sighing rain. She saw the people with their laughing eyes, the broad, short-legged cattle in the fields, the bright salmon flashing like life itself from pool to pool.

  A pain sharper than any before almost took her breath. What is all this to me, now that Tristan has gone? May I not join him? I want to be with my love.

  The Lady’s voice was fading into the wind. You will. But not now. Say farewell to your grief.

  “Lady, is that all?”

  She caught a last sigh. Hold fast to what you have and keep the faith.

  Keep the faith . . .

  With Tristan, or with the land?

  All afternoon she wandered the meadows and clifftops, searching for flowers. But then came a wind from the sea and the unmistakable smell of evening in the air. Hurry, Isolde, hurry—remember the tide . . .

  As she came down the hill, she could see that her boat lay moored at the end of the harbor wall, ready for the sea. She drew a deep breath of satisfaction into her lungs. This is for you, sweetheart. I will keep the faith.

  But hurry, hurry—the night tide will not wait . . .

  She hastened down to the quay. The sailors who passed her averted their eyes, and she knew they had seen the boat and guessed what she meant to do. To them, she was an ill-omened thing, already marked out for the legions of the dead. To speak to her now would be to invite bad luck, and her spirit might take one of them on its last journey, all against their will.

  But I choose life, not death.

  “The blessings of the Mother be upon you,” she murmured to dispel their fear.

  At the mooring, she gasped with pleasure when she saw the boat. Armfuls of red-gold bracken lay in feathery heaps, side by side with fat cushions of green-black ivy, their leaves splashed with gold. Sprays of acorns, oak apple, and rose h
ips were all laid out like offerings to the Lady of the Sea. Isolde had not shed a tear since she heard of Tristan’s death, but now she could not hold back. Oh, Brangwain—my last true friend . . .

  There was no sign of the maid. Well, she would not be far. Isolde filled the boat with crisp, dry bracken and thick branches of glossy yew. On top of it she laid armfuls of rose bay willow herb with its silky, scented tufts, then sweetened it with clover and wild thyme. Posies of sturdy pink thrift clustered in the prow, and garlands of bittersweet took up the stern. Chanting softly, she wove a wreath of black bryony and dogwood as red as blood. Red for our love with its heart of hidden flame, red for the truth and glory of your life.

  It was getting dark. She sang and prayed contentedly as she worked, oblivious to the shadows gathering around. As she finished, Brangwain appeared, striding along the dock through the evening mist. Isolde left the boat and joined her on the quay.

  “Oh, Brangwain . . .” She gestured behind her at the floral array. “How can I ever thank you?” she said quietly.

  “It’s nothing, lady.” Red-eyed, Brangwain thrust something thin and heavy into her hand. “For your journey.”

  It was a fragment of slate, marked up with ancient runes. Tracing the marks with her fingers, Isolde made it out.

  bel Ami,

  si eczt de nouz

  ne vouz sanz mei,

  ne mei sanz vouz.

  “ ‘My handsome love, this is our fate, neither you without me, nor me without you.’ ” Isolde hugged it to her breast. “Where did you get it?” she asked huskily.

  “From a wise woman at the end of the town. I knew she’d have something to—” Brangwain turned away, struggling to master her voice. “Of course, it’s in the language of these parts,” she said darkly, regaining her fragile control, “but you’ll understand that.”

  Isolde smiled. “We all speak the same language in the end,” she said tenderly. “And the Great Ones understand every word.”

  Slowly, she drew in the deep, sweet breath of the sea. The mist swirled and lifted like a curtain, and the evening star laid its beam all the length of the harbor, a silver path reaching out to worlds unknown. The waves lapped on the shingle where the quay pushed out from the shore, and a great stillness filled the bay.