Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea

by Rosalind Miles

  “That’s enough for now,” he chuckled, his eyes alight. “We don’t want you to die too soon.”

  Behind Andred stood the captain of the guard. As Tristan looked at him, the good man looked away, shock and resistance written on his face.

  “Have no fear, soldier,” Tristan said hoarsely. “The Gods will never blame you for this.”

  “The Gods?” Andred burst out laughing. “What do they care? But I’m forgetting, cousin, that you’ll soon be with them yourself. When you get to the Otherworld, you can tell them what you think. Forward, then!”

  He waved Tristan’s sword and pointed down the corridor. Uneasily, the men-at-arms formed up.

  “This way,” Andred ordered. “To the cliff.”

  Why to the cliff? Tristan wondered with unnatural calm. Because it would be easier to make his death look like an accident? Or simply because the tide would bear his body out to sea?

  Out to sea . . .

  Goddess, Mother, yes!

  He closed his eyes in prayer. Out to sea and drifting with the tide. Far, far away from the world with its terrible hurts and its hatreds, its fever and fret. Floating into the arms of the Lady, the Mother of us all. Goddess, Mother, Lady of the Sea, he prayed, may my fate be no worse than this.

  And my lady’s.

  Oh, Isolde, my sweetheart, my lady, my only love. His heart clenched like a fist. Oh, my love, my love, what are you suffering now?

  A heavy hand fell on shoulder.

  “Come on, sir,” the captain muttered under his breath.

  Prodded forward, Tristan stumbled where he was led. Leaving the castle, they climbed to the top of the cliff. A high wind moaned around the headland, lashing the sea, and the air was heavy with great weeping tears. Gods and Great Ones, Tristan prayed from the depths of his heart, if you’re weeping for my lady, take pity on her now.

  “Come on, sir. On you go. Up the hill.”

  Up and up.

  Where were they taking him?

  With every step, his misery increased.

  The road curved around a bluff and crested the top of the cliff. Below them, the sea beat on the rocky shore. Where was he destined to breathe his last, Tristan wondered with sardonic detachment, or would any of these rocky outcrops do?

  The road rounded the last craggy bluff. Clinging perilously to the edge of the cliff, a little stone building lay ahead on the side of the road, and suddenly he saw where they were taking him. Gods above, it was the chapel on the rock, the church where Mark and Isolde had been married and he himself had given the bride away!

  Suddenly, he felt again its wintry cold, the desperation of a place imbued with the chill of death. They called it a chapel, but it was no more than a simple cell, built in ancient days by one of the earliest holy men in these parts. The holy man had chosen its location, too, a stark structure of cold stone on the edge of a cliff, hovering over a dizzying drop to the sea below. The old hermit had been so strict and pure of heart that he could not bear to live near lesser mortals loaded with sin. Tristan shivered. Who would choose to shun his fellow men and live such a drear, lonely life? Why did the Christians make everything so hard?

  The captain’s gruff voice sounded again in his ear. “This way, sir. In you go.”

  Rough hands thrust him over the threshold, and he found himself inside a bare, whitewashed cell. Thin slits in the side admitted a dim light, and an unglazed window at the end overlooked the sea. Below it stood a simple black square of stone. This was the altar where the old hermit had prayed long ago, and where Father Dominian had married Isolde and Mark.

  Tristan gasped. Gods and Great Ones, was this Andred’s idea of a joke? His sight faded, and he saw himself standing in the little chapel by Isolde, as he had done on that ill-fated day. Through the mists of time, he saw again the white-robed choristers, the stone altar blazing with candles, and the priest in his glittering vestments intoning the prayers. His head swimming, he thought he could still hear the ancient stone walls echoing with the sound of the long-dead choir caroling hymns and psalms to welcome the bride. Jubilate Deo, swam across his mind, Rejoice, rejoice in the Lord . . .

  The priest’s voice rose over the choir. Beloved in Christ, we are gathered here—

  Now Isolde stood beside him as she had that day, veiled from head to foot in white silk like a shroud of snow, a winter queen: cold hands, cold heart, all cold. Mark stood beside her in red fox fur and red velvet, with Cornwall’s ancestral gold crown on his head and a rich show of jewels adorning his hands, neck, and breast.

  Outside the unglazed window, a winter sun shone as white as a sea-washed bone. A biting wind blew in through the slit in the wall, bringing with it a flurry of snow. In a dream, he watched the white flakes drifting to the ground.

  Who gives this woman to be married to this man?

  I do.

  I now pronounce you man and wife . . .

  “Sir Tristan, ho?”

  It was Dominian, the priest.

  And here they all were now, in the present, just as they had been then, the little priest and a crowd of knights, all thrusting into the chapel, packing the cold space behind him and crowding the clifftop outside. Tristan laughed. He was going to die before an audience, it seemed.

  Andred read his face. “Yes, we’re all here to help you make a good end,” he gloated. “Rest assured, Tristan, we shall pray for you.”

  Dominian, too, could scarcely contain himself. “And I urge you to make your own prayers, Sir Tristan. You have grievously sinned.”

  “Only by your laws, priest,” Tristan returned hoarsely. “Not by mine.”

  The croaking of a raven sounded overhead.

  “That’s your death warrant, Tristan!” Andred cried, reveling in his power. “We’re going to throw you from this chapel onto the rocks below. Then the sea will take your body, and when it’s found, no one will know how you died.”

  Tristan flexed his wrists. “Andred—”

  But Andred was not to be stopped. “Think of it, Tristan,” he crowed. “While Mark is punishing your lady, the fish will be feeding on your flesh and gnawing your bones.”

  Tristan’s mind split. “Yours, Andred, not mine!” he howled.

  The blood rushed to his head, and the world turned black. One thought alone was thundering through his veins. Dimly, he heard Glaeve’s fierce cry: Kill, master, kill! Swelling with rage, he clenched his fists and, with all the force at his command, broke free of his bonds.

  “So, Andred!” he gasped.

  Leaping forward, he wrenched Glaeve from Andred’s hand and drove the blade straight into Andred’s heart.

  “Wha—?”

  Andred’s eyes widened, and he slumped to the floor. His mouth fell open, and his soul fled from his body with its last ragged breath. Howling with rage, Tristan leaped across the lifeless form and flourished the point of his sword at the nearest knights.

  “Bear witness, all of you,” he panted, “that I never wronged this man. Yet he has hated and pursued me for twenty years. Still, the Gods are just. In seeking my death, he has met his own.” He waved Glaeve round his head. “Tell this to all the world, if you call yourself knights. Now get out of here, if you wish to live!”

  But they were already falling over one another in their haste to get through the door. With a final volley of curses, Tristan slammed the stout oak behind them and thrust home the bolt.

  On the roof above his head, the raven gave one last ominous croak and flew away. Andred’s death knell then, not his. Tristan’s spirits soared with the bird into the airy void.

  “Thank you, brother,” he cried.

  He could hear the knights muttering and arguing outside.

  “—what now?” he caught.

  “Send for the King,” came another voice. “He’ll decide what to do.”

  There was an unpleasant laugh. “Well, he’s safe enough here while the King makes up his mind . . .”

  Tristan smiled and shook his head. Not for much longer.

&
nbsp; He ran down the cell and lightly leaped up on the altar, then climbed through the window giving onto the sea below. Standing on the ledge, he looked down at the drop, light-headed with excitement and relief.

  Below him, the sea lashed the rocks, and mountainous waves drove in to break themselves on the foot of the cliff. One after one, the white-crested, stormy billows raced madly into the shore and ran out again on a high, fretful tide. Tons of water shattered into shining pieces like shards of glass and then formed again with a sullen, menacing roar. He was almost too high to hear the voice of the sea, but he felt its sucking and sighing all the same.

  Now he thought he saw maidens below him in flowing gray robes, splashing and sporting like seals among the waves. Fearlessly, they swam to and fro, floating between the sharp rocks, laughing and calling out to him. Come, Tristan, come! One swifter than all the rest leaped out of the water and dived back again in a tangle of bright hair, red-gold like Isolde’s in the morning light.

  My lady . . . Oh, my love—

  Come, come . . .

  Every shell on the seashore was singing to him now. Tristan listened, and his soul was at peace. To jump from the cliff was no more than falling in love, a mighty leap of faith, springing off into fathomless nothingness to make safe landing on some far distant shore.

  Wait for me, lady, in the World between the Worlds.

  With one last prayer, he gathered all his strength and leaped into the void.

  chapter 41

  They buried Andred where he fell, in the chapel on the rock. On Mark’s orders, he was laid beneath the bloodstained flagstones in the crypt, beside the mortal remains of the hermit who built the cell. The Cardinal Legate performed the funeral rites with all the magnificence of the Mother Church, and Father Dominian gave a solemn sermon heaping praise on Andred as a fallen hero, one worthy to share the last resting place of a saint. The chapel, too, was as fine as it could be that day. Banks of candles, clouds of incense, and a white-gowned choir pouring hymns of loss and grief into the air all combined to send Andred’s soul winging on its way, wherever it was destined to go.

  But there was to be no ceremony for Tristan, by the King’s decree. Let the sea take him, and the fish gnaw his bones. Death by water was too good for the deed he had done, the blood-murder of his own kith and kin. He had cheated justice by taking his own life, and now his sin and his punishment both lay with God. But had he lived, Mark threatened in a rage terrible to behold, he would have found out what it was to rob both his King and his country of Cornwall’s rightful heir.

  “Rightful heir?” scoffed Sir Nabon angrily when the word went around. “When we could never persuade the King to name an heir at all?”

  “And when Andred’s own actions have robbed us of Tristan, too,” put in Sir Quirian heavily.

  His fellow councillors nodded. Old Sir Wisbeck could hardly speak for tears. “Goddess, Mother, have mercy on us all.”

  “But how can She spare us from the wickedness of our fellow men?” demanded Nabon savagely. He buried his head in his hands. “Oh, my poor country! What else do the Gods have in store?”

  THERE WERE PLENTY OF WOMEN he could have, Mark was sure of that. Once he was done with Isolde, his choice was not limited to the fatherless pair of Princesses from Dun Haven, the fat one and the thin. Indeed, he could hardly be bothered to think about them now. Tightening his girdle and thrusting his sword into its sheath, Mark pursed his slack lips and set his face like stone. First he would deal with Isolde, he promised himself. Then he would take time to consider Cornwall’s next Queen.

  He sent for the captain of Castle Dore. “You’re sure she’s held fast?” he demanded.

  The captain nodded. “Deep underground, my lord, bolted and barred. But every day she demands to be released. She wants a trial, she says, to clear her name.”

  “Clear her name?” Mark turned a poisonous hue. “And how does she think she’ll do that?”

  Like most of Castle Dore, the captain had heard the wild rumors flying around and did not know what to believe. But he knew that he had never seen the King like this before.

  “I couldn’t say, my lord,” he said, backing off. “All I know is, she’s asking to see you.”

  “Is she, indeed?” Mark’s eyes widened with a violent gleam. “Then we should do what the lady wants, don’t you agree?”

  The captain paused uncertainly. But he had no power to prevent Mark from visiting the cells. Carved out of the heart of the rock, the underground passageways had no natural light, and as they went down, Mark’s eyes shone in the dark with inhuman glee. Indeed, he was rubbing his hands with delight as he climbed down the steep, slimy steps from the outer world with the last of the daylight fading around his head.

  At the foot of the steps, the captain’s lantern lit up a dank and dismal tunnel with a row of barred doors on either side. The captain gestured to the nearest cell, keeping a careful watch on Mark’s face.

  “We’ve done as you ordered, sir, kept her in the dark,” he offered. “And on short rations too, just enough to keep her alive.”

  Mark smiled like a snake. “Is she yielding, then? That should break her spirit pretty soon.”

  “Not so’s you’d notice, sire,” the captain said stolidly, avoiding Mark’s eye. “We hear her talking and singing to herself. Sometimes she chuckles and laughs, as if she had a friend in there. Whatever she’s doing, it keeps her spirits up.”

  Mark smiled again, baring his teeth. “We’ll see about that.” He pointed toward the door. “Open up.”

  With a rattle of keys, the slab of oak swung back. The stale air of the dungeon came to meet them, and with it the dank breath of the heart of the living rock. The captain held up his lamp, and a white face at the back of the cell swam into view. As the two men watched, there was a flurry of soiled green silk, wild eyes, and disheveled hair as Isolde rose to her feet and surged forward into the light.

  “So, madam?”

  Mark thought he had prepared himself for anything Isolde could say. But her first words still took him by surprise.

  “Why am I locked up?”

  “What question is that?” he sneered to cover his surprise. “You’re awaiting charges, madam, like any criminal.”

  Isolde squinted at him. Her eyes were paining her in the lamplight, and she was struggling to stand upright, but the sight of Mark’s raw hostility restored her strength. “Pray you, release me at once. I am no criminal, and the least of your subjects is entitled to fair treatment at your hands.”

  “Fair treatment?” Mark’s cry of outrage echoed around the cell. “Let me remind you that adultery is treason to the King. But you’ll soon know all about treason and adultery, my dear. And the penalty.”

  Was he smiling? Half blinded by the lantern, Isolde could not see. But she knew that Mark was deeply enjoying himself.

  “Yes, treason,” he gloated on. “And now my faithless nephew is counting the cost of that, too.”

  “Prove it!” Isolde cried. “Prove that Tristan was ever a traitor to you or to Cornwall.”

  “He was your lover, madam!” Mark raged. “What more proof d’you need? When you gave yourself to him, you cheated me of what was rightfully mine.”

  Isolde thrust out her chin. “I was never yours, and you were never mine. We never pledged ourselves to each other, you and I. Tristan is my chosen one, by the laws of the Mother-right.”

  “‘Is,’ lady?” Mark widened his eyes and began to enjoy himself. “Oh, of course, you don’t know.”

  Know what? She could not help herself. “What is there to know?”

  Mark laughed for joy. With a sharp shaft of pleasure, he thought of Tristan’s broken body, mangled by its fall onto the rocks and rolling helplessly with the uncaring tide. “Tristan is dead.”

  Dead? Her heart set like a stone. “You’ve killed him.”

  “No, not I,” chortled Mark.

  “Andred, then.”

  Mark’s face convulsed. “Nor Andred, neither. Andred
’s a dead man, too. Your paramour killed him.”

  “What?”

  “Tristan killed Andred, then killed himself.”

  “Never!” A wild laugh of derision burst from her.

  “Oh, it’s true. Your noble knight killed his own cousin, then dashed himself to death.” Mark was rubbing his hands with a kind of glee, she saw with disbelief. “He jumped onto the rocks from the chapel on the cliff.”

  It’s a trick. He’s trying to break my spirit. “I don’t believe you. It’s all a lie.”

  “You’ll have the proof soon enough. The sea always gives up its dead.”

  “Spare me your empty threats,” Isolde spat out. “And spare yourself. I’m not afraid of anything you can do.”

  “Oh, you will be, Isolde, you will. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be begging my forgiveness on your knees and groveling to me for the chance to live. You’ll beg for the chance to submit to my rightful desires and bear my child.”

  Isolde heard herself laughing, a harsh, hateful sound. “And then you’ll kill me. You only want me to see me brought down and destroyed. You don’t want me as a wife.”

  “But you’re still a desirable woman, as Tristan well knew.”

  Mark came toward her till she could smell his sweat. He thrust her into a corner and laughed in her face. Now his hand was moving over her body, groping for her breast.

  “You say I don’t want you,” he breathed into her neck. “My dear wife, how would you know?”

  THE SUN WAS SETTING on a sea as smooth as glass. But no matter what face the Lady wore, he loved her just the same. Sighing from his heart, the young sailor gave thanks that he had found his path. Not a dull highway on the land such as dusty, earthbound folk trod, but the whale-way, the waterway where the great beasts swam.

  And he had seen them himself, with his own dazzled eyes. What a voyage, eh? Dreaming, the boy recalled distant islands where the hot, spice-laden air greeted seamen as they sailed in, and the skin of the people had a tawny-amber bloom. Where they sold pearls in the market as big as pigeons’ eggs, and moonstones lay by the wayside on mountain paths.