by Jay Ruud
It was, in fact, the captain who called to us before we went too far toward the main gate. “My lords! I’m not sure where you are walking to right now but it is my duty to inform you that if you do in fact want to speak with the lady Isolde next, you will find her here, within these palace grounds,” and I thought, as he was speaking, that perhaps Merlin was on to something: the Breton seemed much more formal, much less affable, than he had before. Was he smarting a bit over our behavior toward his lord? “If you will follow me, I can show you.”
With that he turned and headed to the left and then forward, toward a large, long, grey stone building that contained, as I surmised, the great hall of the palace. Upon entering the building, I realized it also contained a number of private chambers one of which must belong to the lady Isolde. Indeed, within a few steps of the circular south entrance to the building, Captain Jacques stopped to speak to a soldier standing guard before the door to one such private room. The guard nodded, and Captain Jacques beckoned us.
“This is the lady Isolde’s private quarters,” Jacques told us as the guard disappeared into the chamber. “The guard is preparing her to receive you, and will come to fetch you when she is ready. I must leave you now—I do have other things that call for my attention. My lords, when you have finished here, you will of course also want to question the doctor, Master Oswald. Him you will find attached to the cathedral, and you will have no trouble finding the cathedral from here. It is the building with the very tall westward towers that looks a great deal like a cathedral.” The captain smiled at his little joke.
“Yes,” Merlin smiled back. “I believe we saw it on the way into town. It should be easy enough to find.”
“Good,” the captain said. “Listen, though, I do not want to abandon you to your own devices completely. We will have quarters here in the palace to put you up in. Let us plan this: when you have finished with the priest, there is an inn just a street away from the cathedral called the Cock and Bull. I will hurry to meet you there as soon as I can, and there we can dine, and I can show you to your quarters. A pact?”
“Done!” said Merlin, and the two grasped hands. When the captain’s steps were sounding their last on the floors of the great hall, I bent close to Merlin and whispered, “Something was going on there.”
“Indeed!” whispered Merlin, as the door to Isolde’s room opened. “We will need to talk about it later.”
And at that point, the guard beckoned us into the room.
Chapter Seven
People Wearing Black
The lady Isolde of the White Hands sat, cold and imperious as a marble stature, swathed in black samite on her bed on one side of the small room, directly across from a fireplace, which was dormant on this warm late spring morning. Next to her sat a young girl of perhaps fourteen, also dressed in black, with dark cow-like eyes and black hair uncovered. Isolde’s own hair was concealed by a wimple. Her pale face showed ravages of grief and pain that had aged her far beyond her twenty-four years. I tried to find in her visage some semblance of her half-sister, my lady Rosemounde. But there was no sign of Rosemounde’s twinkling blue eyes in Isolde’s heavy, dark orbs, nor of Rosemounde’s playful smirking mouth in Isolde’s dour, cracked, frowning lips. Much more, I thought, Isolde’s countenance resembled that of her haughty brother, and as we entered her chamber, she turned her nose up in such a way that she was actually able to look down it at us, even as we stood above her.
Merlin approached her with the caution of a diplomat. Bowing more deeply than I’d seen him bow to anyone, even the king, Merlin greeted her courteously. “My lady Isolde, I am the lord Merlin. I come as emissary from the court of King Arthur, who was your husband’s liege lord as well as your own, and who sends you his condolences in this your season of grief. If there is anything the king can do to ease this time of sorrow for you, you are to name it to me and I will bring the request back to him.”
The lady Isolde looked down at Merlin as if to say that such was her entitlement and expectation, and responded with equal courtesy: “I thank the king for his good wishes, and for his offer, though I cannot imagine what the king might do to ease my pain. My lord husband is gone, and nothing will bring him back. I simply need to adapt myself to the state of widowhood.” I noticed that her eyes were completely dry as she spoke with us. The young lady in waiting at her side held Isolde’s hand in a gesture of consolation, but in truth she seemed to need little comforting.
With a sudden inspiration, I was moved to address the lady Isolde myself. “My lady,” I followed Merlin’s example with my own deep genuflection, noticing as I bowed the old man’s eyes glaring at me from beneath his thick brows. “I come as an emissary as well, but from a different source. I bring you the greetings and condolences of your sister, my lady Rosemounde, lady in waiting to Queen Guinevere.”
I was not prepared for the response I got to that comment—nor, judging by the look on his face, was Merlin.
“That little bitch!” Isolde spat. “Daddy’s favorite. The family’s one Messiah. By what arrogance does she presume to send me greeting. Let alone condolences, as if I would wish any from that wench. Take her condolences back to her and spit them in her face for me.”
“My lady,” Merlin responded, as I stood by open-mouthed. “We were unaware of this animosity between you or would have refrained from delivering this message. But will you deign to share with us the cause of your bitterness so that we may understand it the better?”
“Why should you care to understand it?” she asked. Rhetorically, it turned out, since she really had no intention of giving away the floor to anyone. “The lady Rosemounde, as you call her, is my father’s sole heir. Did you know that?” she challenged us. “My brother has received all he will from the estate: lordship of this town in fealty to the duke. As for me, I received a dowry when I married Sir Tristram. Upon his death it has reverted to me.”
“A generous dowry?” Merlin asked.
“Harumph,” was her answer. “What do you think? Look at this sparse room! A nun’s cell, I call it.” The room itself was not ostentatious. It was probably a bit larger than a nun’s cell, but was sparsely decorated. There were no tapestries hanging on the walls, only the semi-ornate fireplace and wall slots for candelabra. Although it did seem to me that the lack of decoration was a product of her own choice, not of her poverty.
“The lady Rosemounde,” Isolde ranted on in bitter irony. “The legitimate Lady Rosemounde. What has Daddy not planned for his little treasure? She must inherit the entire duchy, mustn’t she? She must be fostered in the queen’s own chamber! She must have negotiated for her a marriage into the royal family itself, mustn’t she? Oh she is your dear one, dearest Daddy! And I? It seemed if I wanted a husband I must fend for myself. I thank God I had a brother who still cares somewhat for his family, and who had a friend in need of a wife—a knight of Arthur’s table, no less. One without money or property—or even, as it turned out, a homeland—but one of the highest reputation that I would not be shamed to marry. Thus I became the wife of the famous Sir Tristram.”
I began to grow increasingly uncomfortable with this. There was a twinge in the back of my neck, and I was beginning to feel drops of sweat trickle down my spine. It was not simply that I was beginning to realize that the lady Isolde had rather serious father issues. But it was also that, by her description, Isolde was bringing home to me the utter hopelessness of my love for Rosemounde. How could I ever hope to satisfy Duke Hoel as a suitor to his daughter, when I could bring no title to the marriage? How could I ever hope to see myself as de facto Duke of Brittany? Me, an armor-maker’s son from Cornwall?
I glanced over toward Dinadan, who crossed his eyes at me as if to say, “What we have here is a major loon.” But I could see that Merlin was endeavoring somehow to bring the interview back to the questions he wanted to pose. It was going to take some doing.
“My lady,” he began, with an
other exaggerated bow. “We are here to discuss your own affairs, not those of your sister. One of the king’s chief concerns in this case is your own reputation, Lady Isolde. There is gossip, perhaps unfounded, that your own words to Sir Tristram as he lay dying had the effect of stopping his heart. The king, of course, puts no credence in such rumors, but I have been asked to clear up that matter, if you can tell us in your own words what happened.”
“What happened? You know what happened. Everyone knows what happened. He lay there, day after day wasting away from that poisoned wound. More and more listless as the days went on. Nothing I could do would ease his pain. Not that he cared if I did anything. I may as well have been invisible. Everyone knew the rumor: it was common knowledge that my husband was awaiting the coming of his former lover on a ship sailed by my own brother. Somehow everyone’s expectations rested on the girl. A white sail and she was coming. A black sail and she was not. White was life, black was death. Yet every day, day after suspenseful day, we heard the same words from the watchman on the tower: bleak and empty the sea. Even though my husband—like my father before him—never saw me as a person, I felt in those days at least that I was a part of the drama. Then came the report. A sail! And the sail was…white. The girl was coming to displace me physically as she already had emotionally. When my husband finally turned to me, seeing me as the one to provide him his answer, I did not hesitate. Black. The sail was black, I told him.”
“And he died?”
“Almost immediately. And when the little twit came in and found his corpse, she fainted dead away and fell to the floor right on top of him. It was the best day of my life.”
Merlin seemed somewhat shocked by this, but certainly not surprised, given her state of mind. “And do you believe, my lady, that you caused either of their deaths, either directly or indirectly?”
“Oh my God, I hope so,” she declared. We each took a small step back. “What?” she continued. “You think I should feel remorse? Why? Being married to Tristram was hell. It was like being my father’s bastard daughter all over again, with his favorite little Isolde of Ireland playing the part of my baby sister, the perfect Rosemounde. Three years we were married. The first few nights he made excuses to me about some old war wound. After that he had a cough. After that I gave up. I never asked again, and he never approached me.”
One thought flashed through my head. All stories are the same story.
“And your brother Kaherdin?” Merlin asked quietly and cautiously. “Was he aware of the situation?”
She gave a bitter laugh. “After the first year or so, I suppose he must have been wondering why I was not popping out little Tristrams here and there. One day we were out riding together, and we came upon a shallow pool of water. ‘Just ride through it,’ my brother told me. And so I did. But there was a deep point in the pool where the horse had to struggle to stay on his feet. The water splashed against my thighs, which made me cry out in shock, and then I couldn’t help bursting out in laughter. My brother was concerned, and asked why I laughed. I told him I was laughing at the irony: the cold water splashing my thighs had taken liberties with me that my husband Tristram had never dreamed of. Hmph. My brother was enraged. He confronted Tristram and my loving husband revealed to my loving brother precisely how things stood between him and the wife of the King of Cornwall. And what do you suppose my loving brother did? Did he compel my husband to fulfill with me the marriage debt? Did he insist on a true marriage or threaten to annul ours so that I might take another? Oh no. He understood Sir Tristram’s plight, he told him. He sympathized, he told him. My sister is in fact beneath your contempt, he may as well have told him. So that, Lord Merlin, is that. That is my story, or as much as I am willing to share with you. You have our permission to leave now.”
The girl, who had spent the entire time holding Lady Isolde’s hands and looking into her face, now got up and went to open the door for us to leave the room. Sir Dinadan and I began backing away, both of us nodding and mumbling “my lady” as we exited. Merlin himself gave her a curt nod, his face showing a bit of irritation—I thought perhaps because of Isolde’s slipping in the use of the “royal we.” As he turned to leave the room, Isolde called after him: “As for your king, tell him I appreciate his concerns, and that I look forward to paying him my respects some time. Good-bye, my lord Merlin.” And with that the door closed on us.
***
By now I really felt like I had to get out of the stifling atmosphere of that palace, and headed purposefully toward the exit to the town square. Merlin and Dinadan seemed equally happy to be done here, and all through the walk to the gate I could hear Sir Dinadan muttering, “Pure balmy, that’s what she is. Completely crackers, I can tell you.” Which were my sentiments precisely, though I had a little more trepidation about expressing them while still within the walls of the palace.
When we burst out into the light and air of the town square I drank in deep breaths like a drowning man gulping fresh water. It felt such a relief to be away from that family of smothering arrogance and mendacity. “Well, Gildas my lad,” Sir Dinadan ventured. “How do you like your potential in-laws, eh?”
I stared back at him and at Merlin, who was looking down at me curiously. “I can’t help wondering how Sir Tristram was able to stand it, day after day, with those two his main companions.”
“I was with him much of the time,” Dinadan offered. “I suppose the soothing balm of my presence enabled him to carry on. Though the fact is, he was so miserable away from La Belle Isolde, that exile in hell could not have made things worse.”
“Well, one thing is certain,” Merlin mused. “Anyone in that palace is capable of having murdered Sir Tristram. But did one of them? That is the question. Perhaps the monk will have the answer for us. Let us find the cathedral.”
“Found it!” Dinadan said, pointing south where the tower rose over the rooftops.
Before we could cross the square, however, we needed to wait for another group of Kaherdin’s soldiers to move on from the part of their drill they were exercising directly before us. It was a completely new group from this morning’s and, I noticed, included Kaherdin’s squire, Melias, and his advisor Sir Andred, both of whom sat atop their destriers with a kind of arrogance caught, like a contagion, from their master. Like the morning’s group, they were armed in chain mail and helmets, carrying their fighting lances, and displaying their shields. Melias’s coat of arms displayed a simple vert (green) chevron on an azure background, symbols of protectiveness and loyalty. Sir Andred displayed a rampant bull in gules (or red), on a dark sable background: the one connoting strength or valor, the other grief. Each of them bowed to us in turn as they trotted in formation across to the other side of the square. Then I noticed Sir William of Caen as well, similarly armed with lance and shield, his arms displaying a gold unicorn rampant, on a field azure. I thought it an odd emblem, so fanciful, so idealistic, for a man who struck me as so practical and businesslike. Across the bottom of his coat of arms was emblazoned the motto Veritas, “truth”—a motto, too, that suggested a significant portion of idealism, particularly considering what I’d seen of this town. Sir William too gave me a nod as he cantered past. And then Sir Neville trotted into view, carrying a shield with a blazon as strange as himself: a figure that looked like nothing so much as rat couchant argent, on a field sable. Sir Neville rode by, flashing us a golden smile as he passed. After him there was a break in the line of horses, and we all hustled across the space, having no desire to be trapped on the other side for the duration of the military exercise.
It was not difficult to find the wide thoroughfare called “Rue St. Vincent” that cut southwest from the square, from the side nearest the quay. From there it appeared to be only perhaps a quarter mile to the cathedral. We started walking at a leisurely pace among the crowds of the city, for that street was lined on both sides with various shops and businesses. On the right was a bakery, then a butc
her, then a candle maker, while on the other side was a glover, and behind his shop a tannery, as our noses told us, next to a goldsmith, next to an armor-maker’s shop. I often felt a sense of pride when I saw one of those, and this was especially so today, as I remembered the honest and humble roots from which I had sprung. Admittedly, at times it was a disadvantage to me to come from such stock, but after the past few hours it seemed pure blessing.
It had passed sext and was well on its way to none when we started toward the cathedral, and so Merlin decided we should stop at one of the local food sellers’ carts. Each of us walked away with some bread and cheese for lunch, and a small cup of ale. Thus we walked the street, chomping and drinking, toward the church.
Merlin, though, was lively, and seemed to want to talk more about what we’d seen and heard earlier that day. “Gildas, my lad, what did we learn this morning?”
“We learned,” I mouthed through my bread and cheese, “that Duke Hoel’s bastard children are a pair of uncompromisingly arrogant hypocrites.”
“I beg to differ,” Sir Dinadan chimed in. “I did not learn that at all. Having resided here with Sir Tristram for the past three years. I have known this truth for some time.”
“Well,” Merlin munched thoughtfully. “Arrogant yes, that’s clear. But why do you say hypocritical?”
“Well, all this dressing in black and the show of mourning they put on, when in fact it appears that either of them could have run Tristram through with ease and not missed breakfast.”
“Definitely a possibility, I’ll admit, in terms of motive. For all Kaherdin’s show of friendship to Tristram, he was surely under his sister’s constant nagging regarding Tristram’s failure to consummate the marriage. But why go to the trouble of bringing La Belle Isolde back here from Cornwall?”