Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  ASHES OF HEAVEN

  by

  C. Dale Brittain

  Copyright 2017  C. Dale Brittain

  All rights reserved

  Cover art by Saphira

  Dedicated to Gottfried von Strassburg

  “There have been many who have told the tale of Tristan; yet there have not been many who have read his tale aright.”

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE - Brothers and Sisters

  PART TWO - Young Tristan

  PART THREE - Isolde the Blonde

  PART FOUR - The Potion

  PART FIVE - Doubt

  PART SIX - Isolde Fair Hands

  PART SEVEN - Red Sails

  Afterword

  PART ONE - Brothers and Sisters

  I

  The passenger stood by the railing, watching the shore slowly emerge from darkness as the eastern sky lightened from grey to yellow. A light breeze came up with the dawn, tugging at his cloak until he pulled it tighter around him. Behind him, the sailors emerged from the hold, yawning, and began unfurling the sails. It was too early for shouting or song, and they belayed the lines and raised the anchor in silence.

  As the ship began to move, the water murmuring against its side, the passenger gestured toward the captain. The captain came to him at once. The man had paid enough that the voyage would have been worthwhile even without the cargo. He had been a model passenger, giving no trouble, never sick, eating the same hard biscuits as the crew without complaint, even though demanding better for the woman and little girl who accompanied him. But something about him always seemed to suggest that ferocity waited just beneath his good manners.

  “Is this the coast of Cornwall?” the man asked, his voice soft with the accents of the south. His hair and eyes were black, his chin clean-shaven in the southern style, and his cloak of patterned silk, but a two-handed broadsword was strapped across his back, and his boots were heavily worn with long use. He, the woman, and the girl had come aboard with no more luggage than the clothes on their backs—and a heavy pouch of gold.

  “This is still Bretagne,” the captain answered. “We will cross to Cornwall tomorrow, and from there it will be on to Eire. The journey will be over in another week.”

  The man nodded, and when he seemed to have nothing more to say, the captain excused himself and went up to the prow. The water was foaming now along the sides of the ship, and the rigging hummed as the sun rose over the coast of Bretagne.

  The passenger caught a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye and turned, quick as a cat, one hand already on the knife in his belt. But then he smiled, slipped the knife back, and beckoned. “Are you feeling better, Brangein?”

  The little girl emerged from behind a coil of rope. Her curly hair was tangled, half hiding her bright black eyes. “Yes, I felt much better as soon as Isolde gave me the potion. But it’s stuffy in the cabin. And I can hardly wait to see Eire.”

  “Only a few more days, little cousin. Another week is all, the captain tells me.” He pulled her over to stand beside him, under a fold of his cloak. She was shivering; the early morning sun had done nothing yet to dispel the night’s chill. “Is my sister still asleep?”

  Brangein nodded. “I tried not to wake her.” The two watched in silence for several minutes as the jagged black rocks of the coast slid by. At one point a line of standing stones marched across the thin grass of a headland and right down into the sea. Seabirds sailed overhead, their calls high and mournful.

  Brangein went to the rail and put her head back to watch them. Their broad circles and the steady movement of the ship under her feet made her dizzy, but she did not look away, only clung to the railing until it was slippery under her hands. For a moment, looking straight up into the morning sky, she felt as though she had shaken free of ship and sea and might herself soar on the salt wind.

  When her neck grew stiff and she looked down again, Isolde had emerged from the cabin and was standing beside her brother. She was nearly as tall as he was, black-haired like him, with the same suggestion of carefully restrained ferocity. She wore a necklace of silver bezants and silver rings on all her fingers.

  “I am sick of this ship, Morold,” she said, though in a low voice that none but they might hear. “Could you not have chosen some court closer than Eire?”

  “Closer courts might be better informed of affairs in the south,” he said with a shrug. “And we know the king of Eire is unmarried. A few more days, and you will never have to sail anywhere again.”

  “I like sailing,” piped up Brangein, slipping back to Morold’s side. “I like seeing new places.”

  “Eire will be new,” he promised, and bent to give her a one-armed hug and tousle her hair.

  Suddenly she pointed, her arm emerging from under his cloak. “Look at the castle!”

  The castle emerged from behind a promontory, located on its own narrow bay. Not very wide but very tall, its towers rose toward the sky, far higher than the mast of the ship passing below. The castle walls were as black as the rocks of the coast, but the roofs were tiled in bright geometric patterns, red and blue and gold. Everything about it suggested newness, order, and harmony. Pennants snapped from the highest towers, and a faint line of smoke indicated that someone was cooking breakfast: something doubtless better than hard and stale biscuits.

  “I like that castle,” Brangein announced. “I want to live there.” She leaned her chin on the rail, straining to see better, all thought forgotten of flying with the seabirds. Several boats floated in the bay, none of them rigged. She spotted no people, but two cows appeared beyond the far side of the castle and wandered off toward pasture.

  “That is just a little country castle,” said her cousin with a laugh. “We’ll be living at the royal court in Eire. It will be much finer.”

  The captain had approached again. “That is the castle of Parmenie. If we had been an hour further along the coast at twilight yesterday, we might have anchored in its bay. Its lord is named Rivalin. Sometimes when we anchor there he buys goods from our cargo.”

  “Lord Rivalin of Parmenie,” said Isolde, turning the words over thoughtfully and looking at her brother. “Is he married?”

  “Not unless he has married very recently,” the captain answered. “He has not been much at home the last year or two; the castle is maintained by his steward. The last I heard, Lord Rivalin had quarreled with his liege lord. He is a fiery young man by all accounts.”

  “You would not like that,” said Morold with a wink for his sister. “A fiery man who quarrels with his liege lord? Impossible!”

  Brangein did not listen to their conversation but continued to watch the distant castle until it disappeared behind another tall headland.

  II

  King Mark burst into his sister’s solar. Blancheflor had been sitting in the window seat with her ladies, sewing. The solar was a pleasant room, well lit and airy, which was why she always sat there, even though in the last year or two she had sometimes had to remind herself with some sternness that the constant sameness of sitting and sewing there was part of its appeal.

  Blancheflor looked up, smiling, as Mark came in. He appeared more a boy than a king, his blond hair windblown, the laces of his jerkin untied. “There’s a merchant ship in the harbor!”

  “Then we should see if they have any goods we want,” she said, “and if they have news of other lands. How long has it been since we heard anything new? I would be happy even with a new song!” She rose, put down her sewing, and tightened the belt she had loosened while sitting at ease. The castle keys swung at one hip, her purse of woven chain at the other. “Summon the knights, that we may make a good display.”

  A few minutes later, Mark and Blancheflor led a small processio
n down from the front gates of Tintagel, stepping carefully on the slick shale of the staircase that led to the harbor. Breaking waves boomed against the deeply-cut shore here, sending spray as high as the castle gates. An unwary step on the stairs would send one straight down into the water-carved rocks. But they had lived their whole lives in the castle and knew, almost without thinking, where to tread, where to pause, and where not to trust their weight.

  The knights behind them, wearing their byrnies but with their helmets under their arms, stepped somewhat more cautiously. Behind the knights, Blancheflor’s ladies were even more cautious in their soft slippers, squealing and snatching at each other as they balanced on the narrow stairs.

  Tied to the jetty was a southern merchant ship. It was round-hulled and salt stained, with a plunging dolphin for a figurehead. The sailors had already furled the sails and were coiling ropes. Mark, walking now with deliberate dignity, crossed the greensward that thrust out between the jetty and the base of the stairs that led to the castle. He had refastened his jerkin and put a cap on his unruly hair. The knights pulled on their helmets and strode on either side of him, as Blancheflor dropped back with her ladies.

  She recognized the ship at once; the captain had stopped in Cornwall several times in recent years, carrying cargo back and forth between Eire and Ispania. But Mark stopped a bowshot away from the jetty, and one of his knights called out, “Who seeks audience at the royal court of Tintagel?”

  “The Dolphin, with cargo from Ispania!” the captain shouted back. “We beg leave to come ashore and show our wares! We have goods to please knights and goods to please the ladies!”

  “Welcome, then, to Cornwall,” Mark called, still very dignified. “We will examine your wares.” He gave Blancheflor a quick smile and dropped his voice. “I wonder if they have another knife like the one I bought from them last year. I knew I should have bought two!”

  The gangplank rattled down, and men from the ship began carrying out casks and bundles of goods. Blancheflor noticed, standing on the deck to one side, a dark-haired man and woman, both wearing cloaks of patterned silk and she a heavy silver necklace. Not just their clothing but the confident way they looked out over Tintagel’s harbor indicated a couple of high noble birth.

  “Please come ashore,” Blancheflor called up to them. “You may wish to repose here on the grass while we look over the wares, and I am sure you would like some refreshment.” She gave a few quick orders to two of her ladies, who turned and hurried back toward the castle.

  The woman was moving almost before Blancheflor had finished speaking. She came down the gangplank with long strides, the silver bezants of her necklace ringing together. “Thank you,” she said, giving a deep curtsey. “I have been aboard that ship for far too long.”

  “Welcome to Cornwall,” Mark said in his best royal voice, but he was much more interested in the men laying out the ship’s wares than in the ship’s passengers, and he left them to his sister.

  The man was right behind the woman, and with him a little curly-haired girl whom Blancheflor had not at first noticed. “My lady,” the man said with a deep bow. “You see before you Morold and his sister Isolde. And our little cousin, Brangein,” pressing the girl forward to curtsey as well.

  Sister and cousin, Blancheflor thought—she had taken the pair for husband and wife and the girl for their child. Both brother and sister had soft southern accents and deep dark eyes, that seemed to draw her in and yet were strangely difficult to meet. For the first time she noticed the great broadsword strapped across the man’s back.

  “And am I honored to be greeted by the queen of Cornwall?” Morold continued politely.

  Blancheflor recollected herself enough to draw back from sinking into the depths of his eyes. “Princess Blancheflor,” she corrected him, pulling her skirts wide in a curtsey. “My brother is King Mark, and this the royal castle of Tintagel. Have you been voyaging long?”

  “Long enough,” said the lady in a low voice, as they all turned to look toward Mark.

  He had had the merchants open a barrel of swords and knives, wrapped individually in oilskin. He was unwrapping knives and examining them carefully, fingering the hilts and the enameling on the blades.

  Morold and Isolde, Blancheflor thought suddenly, were like the knives: sharp, southern, beautiful but deadly. “Perhaps you have news to give us from Ispania,” she said, feeling strangely flustered. This man and woman seemed more at ease on the grass below her castle than she did herself.

  Morold chuckled. “There is war in Ispania, but then there is always war in Ispania. Some fight for the Christians, although they could not say upon their honor that they knew even the first words of the Creed. Some fight for the Moors, although they follow the Prophet no more than they follow anyone or anything other than silver itself. Some fight for both sides, as the opportunity allows—although the king of Ispania now seeks to destroy any he does not see as altogether trustworthy. Or so I understand.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Blancheflor, not following at all. But she did have a sudden mental image of a sun-baked foreign land and of men in turbans with long, curved swords. Some illumination in a book of histories, perhaps? She knew she had seen it somewhere. She would have to search for it later. Later, after Morold and Isolde were gone.

  But she did not want them to go. The castle of Tintagel, chilly even under the mild sun of a Cornish midday, suddenly seemed hopelessly dull.

  Her ladies were hurrying back from the castle, carrying a white cloth and a basket. The little curly haired girl, who had been completely silent, went at once to help them unpack the repast. In a moment the cloth was spread, and strawberries, lettuces, and fresh bread with butter set out on plates: all the things that Blancheflor knew her visitors would not have eaten for weeks on the ship.

  “I shall have to record and recount the grace and generosity of Cornwall,” said Morold, but his sister said no more than two perfunctory words of thanks before snatching up bread and lettuce and washing them down with new milk.

  In a moment, however, she turned apologetically to Blancheflor. “Thank you for all you have given us,” she said. “In return, I urge you to take my advice. Do not set out on a sea voyage from Ispania to Eire. Not even in the springtime. Especially,” and then she smiled properly for the first time since Blancheflor had met her, “especially not with a brother like mine, making light of it all: the storms, the hardships, and being attacked by whales!”

  Mark had wandered over, holding one of the southern knives out before him. “Whales?” he said with interest. “You were attacked by whales?”

  “As big as the ship if not bigger,” said Isolde. “They rubbed against us like a cow rubbing against a fence post, until the ship was thrown half out of the water and her mast almost turned into the waves.”

  “Dolphins,” said Morold with his slow smile. “They were dolphins, but never let it be said that I contradicted my lady sister. They shall be whales if you wish.”

  Mark, losing interest in whales, turned to Blancheflor. “Here it is,” he said, “almost exactly the mate of the knife I got last year. Do you think I should get a shield as well? The captain said they have some decorated in the same pattern.”

  Blancheflor reached for her purse. “The knife, certainly,” she said with an indulgent smile. “But you have your own excellent shield from your knighting, and Father’s old shield, which would look like new with a fresh coat of paint, and many others in the armory, both more and less battered. For what wars in Cornwall could you possibly need a shield?”

  “The captain said he has leather goods,” said Mark, taking the coins she gave him. “You should look at his wares too.”

  As he hurried away, Blancheflor heard Morold behind her saying in a low voice, “If you hate being on the ship, if you do not wish to sail a few more days to Eire, then what say you to Cornwall?”

  “Too young,” said Isolde, equally low. When Blancheflor turned around, she held up her empty plate,
her teeth flashing white in a wide smile. “Thank you, my princess. You can see how hungry I was for what you offered us.”

  “There may still be some honey cakes in the basket,” said Blancheflor.

  Several minutes later, the basket was completely empty. “This seems a rich and well-favored land,” Morold commented, delicately wiping honey from his fingers onto a napkin. His nails were clean but ragged and broken. “Does your brother have many liege men?”

  “A great many,” said Blancheflor, still stinging from the suggestion that Mark was too young to be a king. She was not entirely sure of the context of what she had overheard, but it clearly was a slur on her brother. “Cornwall’s greatest wealth is in its tin mines, but there are many fish in the coastal waters, orchards and meadows inland, and fine and noble halls past counting. The land has known nothing but peace for a great many years, since our father was a young man.”

  “Then your brother is a happy man to be this country’s king,” Morold commented, his tone so neutral that Blancheflor could not tell if it was a compliment or a subtle mockery.

  “You ask my thoughts,” Isolde said to her brother, “but you do not tell me yours.” She spoke to him with no effort to avoid being overheard. “Would you yourself be content to stay in Cornwall, rather than going on to Eire?”

  Morold chuckled. “What would I do in Cornwall? I am a fighting man, and the Princess Blancheflor has just told us that this is a peaceful country, without wars.”

  “There could be other inducements than fighting.”

  “An inducement would have to be powerful indeed to turn me from what I do best—something weak and unexciting would never do.”

  “So you are married to your sword,” Isolde commented. “I can see there is nothing for it but to continue to Eire—or the ends of the earth, whichever we reach first.”

  Blancheflor started gathering up the remains of the repast; the little girl helped her. She no longer felt, as she had only a few minutes earlier, that she wanted Morold and Isolde to stay a very long time. She could not say exactly what had changed her mind, but she was now glad that she had brought the food out to them, rather than inviting them up to the castle.