Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  “Dearest Tristan! It gives me such joy to hear you say that.”

  He kissed her again, his blood racing, both from her nearness and from the vividness of his memories of his last time in this chamber, a week earlier. When he helped her from her clothing it was both with the living Isolde beside him and also with the memory of Isolde on her wedding night, standing in his arms wearing nothing but her shift, while Mark took his pleasure with Brangein. When he pushed the curtains back to lay her on the bed, he was both himself and Mark, preparing for the embraces of his new queen. But she was never Brangein, only Isolde.

  To join with her in love was pure joy, but afterwards, as they lay with their arms and legs still tangled together, he felt melancholic. “I can no more give you up,” he murmured, “than I could grow feathers and fly. But we are going to hell, my heavenly angel.”

  “Then let us enjoy the heaven on earth we create with each other!” she replied. “And do not despair yet, dear king of my heart. Even saints have committed much worse sins than we have, but later repented and found their place among the elect. As long as Mark never finds out, our sin is harmless. Why would God have made men and women to be drawn to each other, if he had not meant this to give even the fallen a taste of unfallen Eden?”

  And she began to kiss him and caress him again, and soon his melancholy and his doubts were completely forgotten.

  V

  Two squires from East Anglia, brothers, came to visit the Cornish court. They said with a chuckle that their parents had told them either to go fight the Moors or else to ride all the way around the great British isle, but at any rate not to come home again until they had done one or the other.

  They stayed for a few days, learning the songs Tristan had brought back from Eire and telling all the news they had learned in their journey through the other kingdoms around the isle. “Look at Brangein,” Isolde commented quietly to Mark. “She seems fascinated by their stories.”

  He cocked his head and watched. “No more than anyone else,” he replied after a moment. “It is always good to hear new stories.”

  Isolde smiled. “And they seem smitten with her! Look at how they appear to be paying her no attention whatsoever, a sure sign of their own fascination. I had best speak to my sweet cousin and warn her against them, or they may try to persuade her to accompany them on their journey! I could not bear to have her leave Cornwall and run away with them.”

  Mark frowned and shook his head, seeing no sign that the squires had even noticed Brangein, but he did not answer.

  On the day the squires were to leave for Wessex, Tristan and the king went off hunting very early, along with most of the court. Isolde stayed behind and went up onto the battlements, where she could be seen for the next hour pacing up and down and occasionally clenching her fist or seeming to speak.

  At last she descended to the gatehouse and summoned the two squires before her. They were eager to depart and had been waiting only for the opportunity to bid farewell to the queen. “I understand that you may be a little short of money for your journeying,” she told them.

  They looked at each other and grinned. “If you are offering to help us out, gracious lady, we are more than ready to accept!”

  “The money comes with a condition,” she continued sternly.

  They looked at each other again and shrugged. “It always does,” they said agreeably.

  “I am going to ask you to do me a very important but very delicate favor,” she said, her voice low and intense.

  “Are we to bring your secret lover to your chamber?” one of the squires asked with a saucy wink.

  “No!” she said firmly, a faint blush creeping up her cheek. “Nothing like that at all. But you must swear on your hope of salvation that you will not tell anyone about what I shall ask you to do. If you swear to perform this task as I request, and leave at once immediately afterwards and never return to Cornwall, I shall give you twenty marks of gold to share between you.”

  “For twenty marks of gold, we wouldn’t worry about our salvation, no matter what you asked us to do!” they said cheerfully. But they swore as she had asked.

  When she told them what she wanted, they became sober for the first time. “Well, we won’t do that,” said one, and, “You’ll have to find someone else,” said the other.

  “You just swore an oath to do what I asked and not tell anyone,” she said darkly. “And I shall give each of you twenty marks of gold.”

  When they agreed, quite reluctantly, Isolde summoned Brangein before her. “I am very ill today,” she told her, and indeed her expression was uneasy and her face pale.

  “What is it, dear Isolde?” Brangein asked in concern.

  “It is an ailment that you can doubtless guess, one that afflicts many new brides. An herbal potion such as my mother used to make will give me comfort in this difficult time. But I realize she did not send enough of the right herb! Doubtless she expected me to gather it fresh. But I am too ill to go myself—could you go to the woods for me, sweet Brangein? Most of the court are out hunting, but these two squires have offered to accompany you.”

  And so in a few minutes the two squires set off, Brangein carrying a basket and riding in front of one of them. She tried to engage them in conversation, asking them more about a story they’d told of doings in Sussex, but they scarcely answered. When she realized that the squires who had done most of the talking in Mark’s hall for the last few days had nothing to say to her, she fell silent herself.

  They followed narrow tracks and deer paths into the woods, and after half an hour she said, “Let us stop here! This should be a good place to find the herbs my lady wishes.”

  But the squires only put spurs to their horses. They could hear, faint in the distance, the king’s hunting horns, and they kept riding until the sound was long lost. The squire with whom Brangein was riding clutched his reins with one hand and her in the other. She dropped her basket, with no choice but to hang onto the pommel, fighting her fear and trying desperately to plan escape.

  When they pulled up at last, Brangein slipped to the ground. No good trying to run with the squires on horseback—all she had to protect her was her position at court. “If you have brought me here to rape me,” she said, forcing her voice not to tremble and frowning as ferociously as she could, “know that the queen will discover you and punish you no matter where you try to hide.”

  The squires shook their heads mournfully. “We would not rape you, lady. You are fair, and your love might be worth winning if we had not sworn to assist the queen. But our purpose is different.” And with that they dismounted and drew their swords.

  Brangein threw herself on the ground at their feet. Too late for threats—all she could do now was beg. “Mercy, in the name of God! Do not slay me! Think of your sisters and sweethearts if you have them, and do not kill an innocent woman who has never harmed you!”

  They hesitated with their swords raised. “We are very sorry,” one said, “but we have no choice. We swore to kill you and take your tongue back to the queen.”

  “Do you know why?” Brangein demanded. She was utterly betrayed, but she had to find a way to survive first, before she could even think about that betrayal.

  “No,” said the other slowly. “We assume you must have insulted her in some way, but we did not ask how.”

  “Then let me tell you,” said Brangein, fighting back entirely unfeigned tears. “If you still think I deserve to die when I have told you all, then you can do what you have sworn to do.”

  At this they both sheathed their swords and seated themselves on a log, appearing ready for an entertaining story. Brangein sat up, rubbing dirt and tears from her face, trying madly to think. She had to escape from death and also had to find some way to assure that, even if these squires did not kill her, she would not be facing new murderers next month.

  “I deeply regret hurting my lady’s feelings,” she said at last in a low voice, “but when you hear how innocently I did so, perhaps
you will not wish to kill me. You must have heard that the queen and I are lately arrived from Eire.”

  The squires nodded; they had heard all about it.

  “When we left home, she and I both packed white silken shifts to bring with us,” Brangein continued. “My lady said that she would wear hers on her wedding night. But we were becalmed at sea, and the air grew very hot, so for several days she stayed in her cabin, wearing nothing but her silk shift, for she could not bear anything heavier on her delicate body. But from wearing it became somewhat wrinkled and stained, not the pure white it had been when we left Eire. When we arrived in Cornwall, she asked if she could borrow mine for her wedding night.”

  “And did you give it to her?”

  “I did, but I hesitated in doing so, which I now deeply regret! Mine was the nicest shift I had ever owned, so at first I refused my lady. Although in the end I gave it to her, I fear that she has not yet forgiven the insult. I am very sorry for my hesitation, for she is my cousin as well as my queen, and I always want to help and assist her.”

  “And that is all?”

  “And that is all. If you must kill me, I forgive both you and her. Tell her when you see her that I prayed that the Lord may preserve her life and her honor. But now I commend my body to you and my soul to God.”

  She closed her eyes in prayer, for she had done all she could. The squires walked a few paces off and conferred in whispers, for it seemed a shame to have to kill such a lovely young woman, especially since there seemed no reason to do so.

  In a moment they came back. “We aren’t going to kill you,” they told her, “but we’ll have to tie you up so you won’t escape. This requires more thought. We really can’t pass up forty marks of gold. Maybe we’ll just take you with us.”

  At this she started to run, but they caught her in a few steps and tied her to a tree, not very tightly but also not so loosely that she could wiggle free. One leaned his face close to hers, and for a second she thought again that they were planning rape, but he only kissed her on the cheek. And then they rode off, back toward Tintagel, leaving Brangein fervently glad to be alive, terrified at what might happen next, furious with Isolde, and desperately trying to think of what she should do, assuming they returned before a bear or wolf found her.

  Before long the squires came across some of the hunters from the court. They had just slain a hart and were dressing it, preparatory to carrying it home.

  “Could we ask a boon of you,” one of the squires asked, “since we are about to leave Cornwall forever? Could you give us the hart’s tongue?”

  The chief huntsman laughed. “I am sure that young Tristan would forbid it, saying that to do so is not part of proper excoriation, but both he and the king must be miles away, having followed a false scent.” He cut the tongue from the hart’s head and handed it to them. “Slice it thin and braise it; that will be better than boiling.”

  And with the tongue wrapped in leaves, the squires hurried back through the woods to the castle. Isolde was waiting for them impatiently.

  “Here is the tongue,” they said. “As you requested. Give us the money you promised, and we will be gone.”

  Isolde held the leaf-wrapped package warily. “Did the young woman say anything before you killed her?” she asked.

  “Well, she told us why you wanted her dead.” Isolde blanched, but they went on, without seeming to notice, to relate the story exactly as Brangein had told it to them.

  Isolde suddenly burst into tears. “My dear, faithful Brangein! You horrible men, why did you kill her? You shall have no money from me! Instead I shall have you hung as murderers!” She snatched up a knife from the table and waved it at them.

  They started back. “Your majesty! Fair lady! We only did what you asked!”

  “I deny everything! If only Brangein were alive, and you dead!”

  “But everyone is still alive!” they burst out. “We shall return her to you, safe and sound!”

  Isolde had been about to call for her knights, but at this she stopped and frowned. Slowly she opened the bloody package in her hand. It did not look very much like a human tongue.

  “Tell me at once and tell me truthfully!” she demanded. “Is Brangein alive or dead?”

  “She is alive! We can prove it by taking you to her!”

  And so once again the squires rode off through the woods, Isolde riding her own palfrey with them. In a little while they came to the clearing where they had left Brangein. She was still tied to the tree and looked up in trepidation as the riders approached.

  Isolde leaped from the saddle and immediately began cutting the ropes that bound her cousin. “Dear Brangein, sweet Brangein!” she cried. “Can you ever forgive me? Something I said in merest jest, these horrible squires completely misinterpreted! Imagine, they thought I wanted you dead, when in fact I know that you are the dearest and truest cousin and companion a woman could ever have!”

  Brangein, freed, rubbed her arms where the rope had bitten into them and allowed her cousin to kiss and embrace her. She did not however embrace her back.

  Isolde took a jingling pouch from her belt and tossed it to the squires. “Take this, and make sure it takes you far from Cornwall! Remember, you have sworn never to tell, and never to return.”

  “Oh, we’re not coming back to Cornwall. Don’t worry about that!” And they rode rapidly away, not even pausing to count the money.

  Isolde and Brangein, riding double on her palfrey, met up with Mark when nearly back to Tintagel. He looked in surprise at their torn and dusty clothing and tangled hair.

  “We went to gather herbs,” said Isolde shortly, “but did not find what we searched for. Then the wretched horse ran off, and it took us hours to catch it. And after all that, I am sure the potions my mother sent with me have everything we need.”

  PART FIVE - Doubt

  I

  In the autumn Mark and the notables of his court went to visit the king of Gales. They were welcomed joyously, especially Tristan, who had brought home the boys who had been taken away to Eire. The queen of Gales brought out her three sons, the youngest still an infant, to be admired.

  “You will doubtless have a son of your own very soon,” the king said confidentially to Mark.

  “Yes,” Mark replied, “although I do not want to speculate when. Especially as I have an heir already! I am doubly blessed in my wife and my nephew.”

  Tristan and Isolde were asked to play their harps to entertain the assembled company, for even in Gales word had come of the lovely playing of the new queen. They did not sing the love songs they had long practiced together but merely played the melodies. Tristan sang and played the mournful lay of Guirun and his Paramour. Isolde suggested in a whisper that they should sing some ballads of mighty kings of old, doomed battles, and heroic deeds, but Tristan whispered back that it might be considered an insult to sing of heroism, for Gales had paid the tribute to Eire without trying to meet Morold in battle. They ended up singing and playing together a humorous ballad in which a milkmaid outwitted a knight.

  Isolde looked up to see how their music was being received, and saw King Mark talking softly with Brangein. Neither appeared to have heard the most recent ballad. “I have a special song I would like to sing,” she announced loudly. “You may guess who it is for.” And she began playing a song that Tristan had first taught her in Eire.

  But when he picked up his harp to accompany her, she gave him a surreptitious kick. Surprised, he sat back to listen.

  “My sweet love’s cheek is like a rose,

  A soft pink blush on skin so white,

  My dear love’s eye is azure blue,

  Like the sky when the sun shines bright.

  My own love’s kiss sets my heart afire,

  When I hold him close at night.”

  The original wording of the song was, “When I hold her close at night.” Tristan had played it more than once for Isolde when he was still the minstrel Tantris. But she was looking at King Mark as sh
e sang.

  Mark stopped his conversation with Brangein to smile and applaud. For a moment husband and wife held each other’s eyes, seeming oblivious of anyone else in the room, then the king of Gales said, “You are a fortunate man, Mark,” and the conversations on the dais resumed.

  Tristan stood up abruptly. “If you will excuse me, my lords, I am tired after a long day.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Mark. He turned to Brangein. “So I gather you grew to know these youths of Gales fairly well during the year they were in Eire?”

  “I am tired as well,” Isolde announced, setting down her harp. “We thank you for listening to our songs.”

  “I will join you shortly, my dear,” said Mark with a smile, but the king of Gales had brought out a new jug of wine and appeared ready to talk and drink with his guest all night. Brangein invited several of the youths she had come to know in Eire to sit and talk with her.

  Tristan and Isolde walked back together to the pavilions outside the castle walls, where those from Cornwall were staying. Several knights and ladies accompanied them. The air was crisp and cool, with a hint of frost. Their breaths billowed white in the glow of the torches, and the stars were pinpricks of light in the darkness above.

  “Good night, my lady,” said Tristan gravely, leaving her at the royal pavilion. He went on to his own pavilion, which he shared with several other leading figures in Mark’s court. He pushed aside the cloth door and stepped inside, shivering.

  The steward Marjodoc was already there, lying snug under blankets and furs. “Is the feast over then?” he asked sleepily, rolling over and blinking in the light of Tristan’s candle. “I fear I was too tired to attend your singing and playing.”

  “Our playing is over,” said Tristan shortly. “Some of the company may drink and sing their own songs deep into the night.” He started removing his finery, and in a moment he burrowed down beneath his own blankets and blew out the candle.