Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  “I am quite certain,” said the queen, “that he did not slay the bog-dragon alone. That is why I rode out today—I have seen the beast’s body myself. Has he said anything to you about having help?”

  “No,” said King Gurmun with a frown. “He has been boasting all day of his cunning and skill at overcoming it single-handed.”

  “I have reason to believe,” said Queen Isolde, “that another man in fact slew the beast, one who is not all what he first seemed. But then,” with a smile, “my brother and I were not all we seemed ourselves when we reached Eire. When we first arrived, Morold told you only that he had been sent as an ambassador from the court of Ispania.”

  “And you mentioned only later,” Gurmun agreed with a reminiscent chuckle, “that the plotting and jealousy among the other great nobles of the court meant that you could not return.”

  “Leave it all to me, then,” said the queen, and kissed her husband’s cheek affectionately. “If you allow me to speak for you this evening, we shall determine the truth—and find the best husband for our Isolde.”

  VII

  “If Tantris killed the bog-dragon,” said the princess Isolde, “then no one may woo me. For he is already married, with seven children.” She sat in her mother’s chamber, something wet and white in her hand. “And look what I found among his clothes!”

  The queen took it and smiled. “ ‘From your pupil.’ You gave Tantris this handkerchief?”

  Isolde nodded. “Now I need never leave home, for this is the final proof we needed.”

  “The final proof of who he is, but not the final proof of who slew the bog-dragon,” said the queen. “Paranis may have supporters who will swear they saw him deliver the death blow to the beast. But do not fear! For your father has said that I may speak for him when Paranis brings his claim.”

  Brangein had made up a bed for Tristan in the queen’s chamber, where he lay, still unconscious but breathing more easily all the time. They left him there and went down to the great hall of the castle, where Paranis sat surrounded by his friends and admirers, telling ever more elaborate versions of his encounter with the monster.

  When the king, queen, and princess were all seated at the high table, he stepped confidently before them. He had replaced his usual grey steward’s robes with garments of red and cerulean blue, trimmed with otter fur. He gave a deep bow to Isolde, and his voice was loud and confident—if a bit loosened by ale.

  “My lady, mistress of my heart, I am here at your father’s bidding. He has promised your hand to whoever might slay the ferocious monster terrorizing our country, and I have slain that beast myself!” He motioned behind him, and some of his friends dragged out the bog-dragon’s head.

  It sat, scaly and slimy, in the middle of the floor. It was three feet high and a bit tattered, but still a frightening sight, with its great long jaws clamped together, one empty eye socket, and one yellow eye staring at nothing.

  The princess Isolde sat unmoving, her cheeks pale and lips pressed tight together. “I am therefore here,” Paranis finished, “to claim you as my wife!”

  Queen Isolde leaned forward. Her own voice was not as loud as the steward’s but everyone heard it just as clearly. “The king never promised our daughter to anyone, for no one should be wed unless it be at her own will. He only said that the dragon-slayer might have permission to woo her.”

  The steward frowned. “It is not right that a woman interfere in an arrangement between men.”

  But King Gurmun, sitting back, just gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “The king has graciously asked me to speak for him,” continued the queen, a slight edge to her voice. “Perhaps you would first like to tell us exactly how you killed the bog-dragon.”

  Paranis smiled. “Of course, my queen. I have already told the tale a dozen times. Another telling shall harm no one.” He took a pose, as though sighting into the distance. “When first I came to the bog-dragon’s lake I saw nothing. I was completely alone, and a less brave man might have run at once. There was a deep rumbling in the earth, and all the land was deserted, but—”

  The queen interrupted. “I do not need to hear the entire tale from the beginning, especially since, as you say, the rest of the company have heard it a dozen times. I wish to know something more precise. What blow did you deliver that killed the bog-dragon?”

  Paranis bit his lip, not liking being cut off in the middle of a tale already well-honed. “There were multiple blows, of course. I struck again and again with my sword until I feared the very blade might melt with the heat of the monster’s blood. The final blow entered its heart.”

  “Turn the beast’s head,” said the queen, “that I might see it better.” She stared at it thoughtfully, then asked, “and when did you drive your sword into its eye?”

  “One of my many blows,” said Paranis, trying to sound casual though not entirely succeeding. “Once it was weakened I delivered the death blow to the heart. As I said.”

  “I would have thought a sword into the eye would kill it by entering the brain,” said the queen. “Perhaps your blow to the heart was unnecessary. But a brave warrior with the battle rage on him may keep striking even after the foe is dead.”

  She paused, but Paranis did not answer. He seemed to be trying to decide whether she was mocking him.

  “The jaws appear very ferocious,” the queen continued. “Did the monster try to bite you?”

  “Many times,” said Paranis proudly. “Indeed, at one point it had my foot within its mouth, and it only released me, I believe, because the saints are good and because my spur had cut its tongue.”

  Queen Isolde gave a sudden, brilliant smile. “Open its jaws,” she ordered. “I would like to see the cut you gave it on the tongue.”

  Paranis frowned, suspecting something, but he could not tell what. He and his friends used the tongs from the fireplace to wrench the monster’s jaws open.

  There was no tongue inside, only the merest stump of one.

  “What a shame!” said the queen. “I had so looked forward to seeing the tongue.”

  Paranis poked around cautiously inside the beast’s mouth, avoiding the sharp edges of the teeth. “Perhaps it had earlier bitten off its own tongue by mistake,” he said. “My spur may simply have cut the soft flesh at the base of the teeth. Yes. That must be it.”

  The queen stooped to pick up something next to her chair, then rose to throw it over the table to land at Paranis’s feet. The bundled cloak fell open to reveal the great green bog-dragon’s tongue.

  Paranis stared at it, then after a long moment looked up at the queen. The hall was silent, everyone holding their breaths. “My lady, I do not understand.”

  “I believe,” she said quietly, “that this is the tongue of the bog-dragon you say that you killed. I urge you to fit it into the beast’s mouth. Use gloves.”

  Some of the friends who had been standing next to Paranis stepped away, as though suddenly thinking of something else. He looked from side to side, seeming to realize where this was heading, but he donned heavy gloves and compared the tongue with the stump at the back of the beast’s mouth. As everyone knew it would, it fit perfectly. “Where did you find this?” he asked at last.

  “It was in the breast of a tunic of a knight,” said the queen. “A knight who is now here in the castle.”

  There was an excited stir in the hall. “A false claimant!” cried Paranis loudly. “He found the tongue after the beast accidentally bit it off, and now he is going to claim he killed the bog-dragon himself!”

  The queen motioned to some of the courtiers. “Examine the tongue. Tell me if it appears to have been severed by sword or by teeth.” No one expected there to be much doubt. The tongue had clearly been hacked off by a blade, not bitten loose.

  “Was this knight perhaps with you when you killed the dragon?” asked the queen, her voice dangerously low. “I thought you told me you were all alone.”

  “I was! The knight you claim was there must hav
e cut the tongue out later.”

  “Later? I would have thought you and your friends would have kept the beast’s head constantly with you, as proof of your exploits.”

  “Then earlier!” cried Paranis. He stopped speaking abruptly, almost choking, as if trying to draw back words already said.

  King Gurmun spoke for the first time. “If another knight cut the tongue from the bog-dragon, then I expect that the beast was already dead when he did so. Which means that you found a dead monster, not a living one, and the only blows you had to deliver were to sever its head from its neck.”

  “Sire, believe me!” cried Paranis desperately. “Wishing only the good of the kingdom, I risked my own life to kill this monster!”

  The king slammed his fist down on the table. “You have lied to me. You said that you killed the bog-dragon when another man had already done so. From this moment on you are no longer my steward. Leave my hall and my castle.”

  “But, sire—”

  King Gurmun scowled ferociously. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear enough?”

  “No, no, that is—” And Paranis turned and fled.

  The king turned to Queen Isolde. “This knight, the true dragon-slayer—where is he?”

  She smiled radiantly. “In my chambers. He was badly wounded in his fight with the monster, and then was poisoned by the noxious essences of the tongue when he carried it away, but I hope to restore him to life and health.”

  The king nodded. “I shall speak with him when he is well. In the meantime,” looking around, “I shall need a new steward. Someone who wishes to serve me may begin by getting the monster’s head, including its tongue, out of my hall. Burn it.”

  The queen, Brangein, and the princess Isolde set to work that very night to try to restore Tristan to health. He had still not regained consciousness when they returned to the queen’s chambers, so she had a bath prepared for him, heavily laced with healing herbs. The three women carried his body to the tub and slid it in, naked except for a strip of linen around his hips. Brangein sat beside him, to make sure that his face did not go below the water.

  The queen paced up and down. “This minstrel deceived me thoroughly,” she said. “For I had no hint that he was a knight as well as a minstrel. Few men have ever deceived me. He is certainly a minstrel, for he sings and plays the harp better than any man I know. But he must also be a knight in truth, for how else could he have killed a bog-dragon? I am beginning to doubt his seven children as well.”

  Brangein was watching Tristan closely, as the essences of the queen’s potions floated up from the water around his head. His eyelids fluttered for a second, and he moved his arms and legs convulsively, then became still again. His breathing now was steady and regular and his cheeks had lost all their sickly hue. But he still did not open his eyes.

  Isolde and her mother were discussing the minstrel, asking themselves why he had come here and how he could have killed the bog-dragon. After five minutes, Brangein called to the queen, “I think that Tantris is regaining consciousness.”

  At this he stirred and sat up, looking around the room as if confused. The queen and Isolde came quickly to the side of the tub. “Tantris, do you know where you are?” the queen asked.

  “My prayers have been answered!” said Tristan. “I had thought myself dead, but instead I am once again surrounded by the most beautiful women of Eire: Queen Isolde the magical dawn, Princess Isolde the day’s full glory, and Brangein the soft and dusky twilight.”

  “It is Tantris all right,” said the queen with a smile. “No one else can turn such courtly phrases when he wishes, even when close to death. But you must tell us. Did you indeed slay the bog-dragon? And why did you never tell us you were a knight as well as a minstrel?”

  “I shall tell you all,” said Tristan, “for I did slay the bog-dragon. But first may I request your protection? For I fear that someone else may claim to be the dragon-slayer, and he may wish to kill me when I bring my own claim.”

  The queen laughed. “Yes, of course. I offer you my full protection. I swear to defend you against all enemies, to the best of my ability. But you need not fear another claimant, for the steward Paranis has been revealed as a liar and imposter.”

  They took Tristan from the tub and dried and dressed him. Isolde seemed shy to be with the man she had thought never to see again, but whenever she met his eyes she smiled.

  When Tristan was reclining on the bed, still feeling very weak, he said, “Yes, I fear that I never mentioned my early training in knighthood. Because I am much more skilled as a harpist than in fighting, and because when I was previously at your court I was too badly wounded to defeat the merest page, I thought it better not to boast. But when I heard of the great monster that had come near your capital, I set to practicing my riding and swordsmanship anew, for I hoped that if I could slay it I would win a great reward.”

  “I thought you were married, Tantris, with seven children,” said the queen a bit coldly.

  “Oh, I did not think to woo the princess for myself,” said Tristan hastily. Isolde kept her face expressionless but would not look at him. “Rather, I hoped to woo her on behalf of another—in fact, a king who had heard of the radiant beauty of Isolde the Blonde.”

  “Did you not tell us that you were from Gales?” put in Brangein. “I know the king of Gales already has a queen.”

  “Not the king of Gales, but another,” said Tristan. He slumped back onto the pillows. “I will tell you all on the morrow, including the complete story of how I was able to kill the bog-dragon, but I now fear that talking has weakened me again. Twice you have saved me from death, most noble queen, and I would not have to ask you to do so a third time.”

  “Of course, of course,” she said, and in a few minutes, once Tristan seemed peacefully asleep, she left for her husband’s chamber. But Isolde and Brangein stayed behind, to take turns watching through the night.

  VIII

  Isolde woke toward dawn, to see Brangein asleep in her chair. She crept toward the bed where the minstrel lay—or rather the knight—and looked at his face in the dim light from the window. Asleep, he looked very handsome and very young, her age rather than the decade older that he had tried to tell her. His honey-colored curls spilled across the pillow, and the hairs of his mustache were very fine. His hands, outside the covers, were strong and calloused. That, she had always assumed, was from constantly playing the harp, but it could also be, she could now see, from wielding a sword.

  She crossed the room to where they had piled his armor and weapons. Everything looked fairly new but not pristine, as though the equipment of someone knighted in the last year or two, who had fought in a few battles since but not yet subjected his arms to serious wear.

  The sword sheath was decorated with inlay and leather cutouts, rather waterlogged now. She put her hand on the hilt and slowly drew out the sword, the blade that had killed the bog-dragon.

  The sword edge was burred and dull; the minstrel must have struck the monster a dozen, a hundred times she guessed. But when cleaned and sharpened his sword would be as good as new.

  It was then that she noticed the nick in the blade. This was more than the dulling from slashing at iron-hard scales. A small shard was missing.

  Very slowly, she put the sword down. With a glance toward Brangein, who slept with her head drooped onto her shoulder, Isolde slipped across the room. There her mother had a little chest, like a reliquary. In it was the shard they had found in her uncle Morold’s skull when they laid him out for burial.

  Scarcely breathing, she removed the shard and darted back to the knight’s sword. She knew even before she lined them up. The shard fitted perfectly.

  She sat back on her heels, staring from the sword to the sleeping minstrel and back again. Her heart was pounding so hard it seemed the sound must wake him.

  There could be no doubt that this was the sword that had killed her uncle. But how had this minstrel obtained the sword—unless he himself was the killer?
They had learned that man’s name from the warriors who had accompanied Morold: Tristan, heir to the kingdom of Cornwall. But this man—

  He was named Tantris.

  Isolde leaped to her feet, the sword in her hands. How could they have been so blind? A minstrel from Gales indeed! Seven children indeed! They might all have been killed by the adder they had welcomed into their breasts.

  And she herself—

  “Open your eyes,” she cried, “so that I do not have to kill you in your sleep!”

  Tristan opened his eyes and jerked back, to see Isolde standing over him with his own sword raised and prepared to strike. “My lady, my princess!” he managed to gasp. “Mercy, in the name of God! A sword is not for a woman to wield, especially not a sweet and gentle woman like yourself! You were created for love, not for war!”

  The sword trembled only slightly in her hands. “And you, Tantris—or should I say Tristan?—were created for murder and treachery!”

  “But what have I done?” he demanded, his voice pleading. “Sweet, radiant princess, you cannot kill a guest in your home without cause!”

  At that moment Brangein, who was awakened by their voices, reached the side of the bed. She seized her cousin by the wrists. “Isolde, what are you thinking? What are you doing with a sword?”

  The door swung open, and the queen entered. She froze for just a second, to see her daughter and Brangein struggling for possession of the sword, then slammed the door and strode across the room.

  “I have to kill him!” Isolde cried. “I have to kill him!”

  The queen put her own hands to the hilt and wrenched the sword away from Isolde. “Dearest daughter, what is it? Has he hurt you?”

  “No, no, he has done nothing to me,” she said and started to sob.

  “Then we cannot kill him,” said the queen, throwing the sword away and embracing her daughter. “He is under my protection. I have sworn it. Only if he had hurt you could I consider breaking my oath.”