Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  “I do need to tell you,” Brangein persisted, “because I do not trust your discretion. Already the sailors on this ship will have excellent guesses as to what has been happening. Now King Mark would probably not listen to sailors’ stories, but there may be some at the court of Tintagel who would. We are fortunate to have had this ship nearly to ourselves, for I expect you would have been just as bold if King Mark’s steward was on board with us.”

  At the mention of Mark’s steward, Tristan suddenly remembered the many clear signs that Marjodoc was not happy with the nephew from Parmenie. There was a man who would be delighted to pass the worst rumors on to the king. A chill crept into him, where a few moments before all had been happiness and love.

  “You are wiser than the two of us together, Brangein,” said Isolde in a conciliatory tone. “We agree with everything you say and will follow all your counsel. But there is one thing more. To stop the rumors before they even begin, Mark must be convinced that he is marrying a virgin.”

  Brangein shook her head. “Even your mother’s skills could not restore a lost maidenhead. You should have thought of this three days ago, not today. A few stolen kisses, perhaps. But now—”

  “There is one way,” said Isolde, and stared at her cousin with a determination equal to hers.

  Brangein jumped up from the chair. “No! You have asked too much of me already! I will not do this!”

  “Do what?” said Tristan, aware that he had missed something.

  “Oh our wedding night,” said Isolde, “when Mark and his bride are tucked into bed together, Brangein must lie with him instead of me. You do still have your maidenhead, I trust, Brangein?”

  “I will not do this!” cried Brangein again. “It is bad enough for you to be an adulterer, Isolde. I shall not be one as well!”

  “It will not really be adultery,” said Isolde, “because the king will believe that I am the woman in his arms. And a small sin may be forgiven to prevent something far worse. We are just trying to make sure that Mark is never harmed by rumors—surely that must be good!”

  “You would escape with no taint on your honor,” Brangein shot back. “But what about me? What will you do to your cousin when she is found to be with child?”

  Isolde chuckled and shook her head. “Dear Brangein, surely my mother has explained all that to you as well as she has explained it to me. She has sent herbs and potions with us that will prevent any such concerns. The one potion she did not explain was the love potion itself, and there you are entirely to blame. It is only due to the potion, a potion that we drank due to your carelessness, that I am no longer a virgin myself. You can still make it up to us by complying with this simple request.”

  “No! I cannot! I will not!” But Brangein’s objections sounded weaker.

  “Surely you do not want us to be sent home to Eire in disgrace, when King Mark discovers his bride is not a virgin.”

  “I was wrong when I said that you would not die from drinking the potion,” said Brangein darkly. “That cursed potion will be your deaths. And I cannot help you.”

  “Sweet Brangein, do not argue further,” said Isolde briskly. “You know that you are supposed to protect and support me. That is why my mother sent you along to Cornwall with me. That is why you have given us this excellent advice about our future conduct. And that is why you will agree to this.”

  IV

  The three ships reached Tintagel under low, rapidly moving clouds, and a cold shower of rain. But as soon as those in the castle heard that Tristan was back safely, bringing Isolde as queen for Mark as well as the youths who had been taken from Gales, everyone turned out to welcome them. The courtiers and ladies from the castle cheered, the knights pounded approval on their shields, and a minstrel sang a song of a king’s great victory—in which the hero’s name was replaced by the name of Tristan. Even the steward Marjodoc went out of his way to appear pleased.

  That evening, at a hastily-prepared feast, Tristan announced the new peace negotiated between Eire and Cornwall. Isolde sat next to Mark on the dais, wearing the finest lace and brocade she had brought from Eire, and the two shared a single salt dish. She smiled shyly and demurely at the king when their hands brushed against each other. At first they exchanged only polite phrases, but by the time the cod had been replaced by roast fowl, they were smiling and whispering together. They shared a small bottle of dark red wine which Brangein poured out for them. Those of the court commented that they made a handsome couple, both blond, Mark still youthful and vital in spite of his maturity, Isolde lovely in the glow of young womanhood.

  At the end of dinner Mark rose, and everyone in the hall fell silent. “My people, I hope that you all will share my happiness! For Isolde, princess of Eire, has agreed to become my bride! Her father has already sent his agreement, so we shall be wed next week, at the summer festival.”

  New cheers burst out, though this was scarcely a surprise. Isolde stood up next to Mark and took his arm, both shyly and proudly. Tristan tried to catch her eye, but she was not looking toward him.

  As the feast ended, the ladies of the court gathered around Isolde and took her away with them, chattering of clothes and preparations for the wedding. Mark stepped down from the dais, and Tristan thought he was coming to speak to him, but the king looked past him—to Brangein.

  She was dressed elegantly, even though not as elegantly as Isolde, but in her hair was an old and worn red velvet ribbon. She gave a start, then recovered herself and curtsied, murmuring, “Your majesty.”

  “Am I mistaken?” King Mark asked. “Or did I meet you once before, many years ago?”

  She met his eyes then and smiled shyly. “You are not mistaken, my lord,” she said in a low voice. His eyes were just as blue as she remembered from that long-ago afternoon. And this was the man with whom, if Isolde had her way— She blushed and pushed the thought away. “But I am surprised you recognize me, for I was just a little girl then.”

  “I do remember you,” he continued. “It was a memorable day. A merchant’s ship had stopped in Tintagel harbor, and I bought a knife with an inlaid blade, one that matched a knife I had bought earlier—I still have them both, and indeed used one to cut up my meat tonight. On that ship were three people from Ispania, Morold who became Eire’s champion, Isolde who became Eire’s queen, and a little curly-haired girl whose name I never caught. But I always remembered that girl. She was quiet but very helpful. I bought her a red ribbon before the merchants sailed. Over the years I have often thought of her, and when I saw you wearing that ribbon tonight, I had to wonder if you were that girl.”

  She curtsied again, smiling less shyly. “I am, my lord. My name is Brangein. I am the princess Isolde’s cousin, and I came with her to serve her and to be a companion to her, here in this new land.”

  “Well, Brangein, welcome to Cornwall. In spite of all that has passed between our kingdoms, I trust that your keeping the ribbon these many years means that you are pleased to be joining our court. Keep it still, but I shall present you with a new one at the first opportunity.”

  Over the following days, as lords and castellans from around Cornwall assembled for Mark’s summer festival, Tristan hardly saw Isolde at all. She was either surrounded by the ladies of the court or else walking and talking with Mark. When the bohort opened the festival, the king deferred to her in choosing the champion.

  Tristan won the bohort, but he felt no sense of triumph. Isolde placed the winner’s wreath on his head herself, but she scarcely looked at him while she did so. Instead she had her head turned back over her shoulder, sharing some joke with Mark.

  Of course they had agreed that they must be virtual strangers to each other. Of course it was right that she should give all her attention to the man who would shortly be her husband.

  And yet, and yet...

  The day of the wedding had been fixed for the culmination of the summer festival. In the center of the meadow, where the air was sweet with the scent of flowers, birds sang above them
, and the voice of the sea below Tintagel was but a distant murmur, Mark and Isolde swore before all the powerful men and women of Cornwall to love each other and remain true to each other until death. All witnessed their oaths and their exchange of rings, and then the castle chaplain blessed the new couple and led the company in prayers for their happy future together.

  The feasting started at once and continued all afternoon, until the musicians tuned up for the dance. The steward Marjodoc had arranged for great amounts of food and drink and elaborate entertainments, and he seemed to be everywhere, making sure that platters were refilled, new wine casks were brought out, and that everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. He himself was grinning constantly.

  When the sun began to sink in a sky striped with red, Mark and Isolde walked back to the castle, accompanied by Tristan and Brangein. Dancing music and sounds of laughter and conversation faded slowly behind them.

  Isolde was whispering urgently to her cousin, and Tristan wondered uneasily if Brangein might still be resisting her plan. But Brangein, her eyes lowered and cheeks red, appeared resigned. Because he had not had a chance to talk to Isolde since they arrived, he hoped he knew what his own part in the farce would be.

  Mark, however, seemed happily oblivious. The four of them proceeded to the royal chamber and drank a glass of wine together. It was now full dark, and the castle was silent around them. The two women stepped around to the far side of the curtained bed. There was rustling for several minutes, then Isolde called, “I am here!”

  Mark pulled back the curtains just enough to peek in. Isolde lay between the sheets, wearing the shift Brangein had been embroidering for her on the ship, and nothing else. She smiled sweetly, rosy in the candlelight. It was all Tristan could do not to leap into bed with her himself. He recognized that smile.

  He helped Mark unfasten his finery and slip it off. As the king was pulling his long shirt off over his head, Tristan blew out all the candles.

  “My queen, my sweet Isolde!” said Mark, and the rope bed creaked as he pushed through the curtains and climbed in. There was also a faint rustling and creaking from the far side.

  “Call me when you wish the candles relit!” Tristan said, opened and shut the chamber door as though he were leaving, and instead stepped around to the far side of the bed on silent feet. There he bumped into a woman.

  She was wearing nothing but a shift. He wrapped his arms around her and put his lips to her ear. “Isolde?”

  She slipped her hand across his mouth and did not embrace him back, but she also made no attempt to break away. There was no need for her to confirm that she was indeed Isolde—he would have known her body anywhere.

  In the bed Mark was murmuring endearments to Brangein, but she answered only wordlessly, with little sighs of pleasure. “I never thought I could love a woman the way I love you,” Mark was saying. “You are so beautiful, so sweet, like something out of legend. I thank God that you are mine!”

  Isolde, in Tristan’s arms, bent toward the bed, listening. Mark, after all, intended those words for her.

  “Do not be frightened, dearest queen,” Mark continued. “I will try to be gentle with you. Let me help you out of your shift. Oh, Isolde!” There was further creaking of the bed, and Tristan, deeply ashamed to be overhearing all this and yet deeply excited, began desperately kissing Isolde’s neck and shoulders, for her face was turned from him.

  Mark gave a great cry of pure delight. That was Brangein’s maidenhead, Tristan thought.

  For several minutes there was further whispering from the bed, too low for Tristan to catch. Then Mark called loudly, “Let us have lights and wine!”

  “In a moment, sire!” Tristan called back, trying to make his voice sound muffled and distant. “I just need to light the candles!”

  A woman’s naked flank suddenly bumped into him. He jumped back, startled, releasing Isolde, who shot through the curtains and into the bed. The naked flank, Tristan realized, was Brangein’s. Embarrassed, he hurried around to the other side of the bed, opened and shut the door again, and began lighting candles.

  Mark, the sheet across his lap, pushed the curtain back and sat up. “Thank you, dearest nephew,” he said in heartfelt tones. “You were already dearer to me than anyone at court, as your precious mother’s child, and now you hold an even more important place in my heart as the man who risked all to bring me my sweet bride, Isolde.”

  Tristan handed him a glass of wine. Through the curtains he could see Isolde, the sheet demurely pulled to her chin, the shift she had been wearing a moment ago clasped in one hand. Mark’s back was to her; she gave Tristan a broad wink.

  Brangein appeared in a moment from behind the far side of the bed, dressed if a bit disheveled. She handed in a glass of wine to Isolde, who sat up to drink it, pulling the sheet around her. Brangein and Tristan drank as well.

  “May all good fortune attend your union, in God’s name!” said Tristan.

  “We are wedded and bedded,” said Mark, “with God and man as our witness.” He handed Tristan back the empty glass. “We shall see you again upon the morrow!”

  Tristan and Brangein drank the last of their wine and left, pulling the chamber door closed behind them. “Embrace me again, my sweet Isolde!” they heard Mark say as the door shut.

  Tristan looked toward Brangein as they started down the stairs. There was no triumphant wink from her. She carried a candle, and the light glistened on tears running unchecked down her cheeks.

  She had not, he realized, spoken since they had accompanied Mark and Isolde to the wedding chamber. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. She glanced toward him briefly, the candle flame’s reflection flickering in her eyes, then walked side by side with him out of the castle and back to the meadow, where the dancing was just reaching its height.

  In the morning, before all the notables of Cornwall, Isolde was crowned queen. Tristan thought he had never seen her more beautiful than she was with a golden circlet in her golden hair, radiant with a confidence and air of magnanimity he had glimpsed only briefly back in Eire. She and Mark distributed rings and brooches to everyone who had come to the summer festival, for now many of the guests were preparing to head home once again. Mark himself gave Brangein an elaborate scarlet head-dress and helped fasten its ribbons under her chin. Isolde did not meet Tristan’s eyes even once.

  The first chance he had to speak privately to her came a week later, when Mark was off hunting. They walked together in the meadow beyond the castle, empty now that everyone had gone home from the festival, though squares of yellowed grass still showed where the tents and pavilions had stood. Two knights and two ladies walked several dozen paces behind them, out of earshot.

  “I have made friends with the ladies of the court,” Isolde said, “and they have been telling me about your fight last year with my uncle Morold. They say they witnessed it all, and according to them there was no trickery. You just outfought him.”

  “I told you this,” he said, hurt. “Did you not believe me?”

  She smiled a little. “You said on the ship that you would never mislead me. It is just good to have it confirmed.”

  “And are you contented, Isolde,” Tristan asked, “now that you are queen of Cornwall?”

  She glanced at him with a small frown, as though misdoubting his tone. “King Mark is an excellent man, as you and Brangein assured me he was. He is ready to give me whatever I might ask for, and he is always gentle and kind. I am fortunate to be his queen.”

  “And glad you did not marry me instead?” he could not help adding.

  “Tristan!” She reached over and gave his arm a small squeeze. “You know that I love you. My mother’s potion does not weaken with just the passage of a fortnight! You remain my first and only true love. But we agreed, we must give up this joy.”

  He smiled, for he did not wish to spend this brief time together quarreling with her. “Yes, we must forsake all that we had on the ship. I understand, then, that Mark suspects noth
ing?”

  “Mark is happy to believe he had my maidenhead,” she said with a shrug. “He does not concern me. Rather, I am concerned about Brangein.”

  “Brangein! But she is our most faithful ally!”

  “She has seemed distracted and moody ever since our wedding. I fear that she may have grown to like the bed-game. Suppose she has fallen in love with Mark? Suppose she imagines that the sweet phrases he meant for me were actually for her? Might she not wish to get rid of me—and become his queen in my place?”

  “What can be done about it?” said Tristan, trying for a light tone. “You can’t very well murder her!”

  She shot him a quick glance. “My honor as queen of Cornwall must come before everything. You are right that I could not kill her myself without compromising that honor.”

  She sounded absolutely serious. Still trying to keep their conversation light, Tristan said with a chuckle, “I’m sure Brangein is faithful to you. Do not risk hell out of doubts about her.”

  Isolde smiled then, looking at him with dancing eyes. “If I’m going to risk hell,” she said demurely, “I’ll choose to be damned for something far more pleasant.” And she took his hand and turned back toward the castle.

  Telling her ladies that she had a headache and wanted to lie down, but that she thought the royal nephew’s harp-playing might distract her from her indisposition, she quickly was left alone with Tristan in the royal chamber, with the door bolted.

  He never had a chance to play his harp.

  Isolde threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest. “Oh, Tristan, you do not know what it is like, having to lie next to Mark and wishing it was you. My dearest and only love, if only our time on the ship together had stretched out forever! And now I must worry that your eye will be caught by one of the ladies here at court—maybe even by Brangein!—and that you will be untrue to me!”

  He silenced her with his mouth on hers, straining her tight to him. “Sweet Isolde,” he murmured when he pulled back in a minute to catch his breath, “how could I possibly love another when you are my queen of heaven?”