Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  “I haven’t said this before,” said Marjodoc in the darkness, “but I am glad you brought the princess Isolde from Eire. She makes the king very happy, and I am sure she will soon begin to bear him sons.”

  “So everyone assumes,” said Tristan through a yawn. “Queen Isolde has the example of the queen of Gales and her three sons to inspire her.” He rolled over and fell silent. In a moment his breathing became slow and steady.

  Marjodoc had been asleep when something woke him. He lay in the dark, listening and hearing nothing. But there had been some noise. He listened again, not even hearing Tristan breathing.

  He lifted himself on one elbow, letting cold air in under his blankets, and lit a candle. Several other courtiers were asleep at the far end of the pavilion, but Tristan’s bed was empty.

  Marjodoc flopped back down. Tristan must be meeting a woman, he thought. All the ladies of the court of Tintagel—and for that matter quite a few of the ladies of the royal court of Gales—seemed taken with the brave young heir to Cornwall. But Marjodoc was irritated that he had not known about this before.

  As steward, he considered it his obligation to know all that was going on at Tintagel, who was sick, who with child, who quietly plotting against someone else at court. His whole purpose in life was to make sure that the daily round of life ran smoothly for King Mark. The old steward, to whom he had once apprenticed, had been capable enough but had never had all the details of the life at court at his fingertips. While the princess Blancheflor had overseen her younger brother’s household, doing so had been less necessary. But the princess and the old steward were long gone, and Marjodoc had had the responsibility for court and castle ever since.

  And he did not like it that young Tristan should have a liaison he did not know about. He sighed and pushed back the blankets, stifling a cough. He fumbled into his clothes, keeping as quiet as he could so as not to wake the other men in the pavilion, took his candle, and stepped outside.

  The moon floated distant and cold in the sky above. Frost had formed on the grass, coating individual blades with a thin, glistening layer of white. Shivering, Marjodoc bent his rather stout frame down to see if he could make out footprints.

  And he could, faint traces that someone else had left the pavilion. In the light from his candle and the moon, he followed the footprints as they strode straight past other tents—and to the royal pavilion.

  Marjodoc stopped and blew out his candle. There were still lights in the castle and faint sounds of revelry. Tristan, he thought, had come here. But who had he come to meet?

  Much depended, he thought, on whether the king was back. Tristan had merely said that “some of the company” might continue drinking and singing. Did that or did that not include Mark and Isolde?

  He could, he thought, slip into the royal pavilion and try to ascertain for himself who Tristan had come to meet. One of the queen’s handmaidens? Or perhaps Brangein? The queen’s cousin might be an ideal match for the king’s nephew. Marjodoc had been both surprised and grateful at how Brangein had made his task easier by choosing and packing everything herself that the queen would need in Gales. But a match between Tristan and Brangein should be made openly, not furtively. Unless they feared that the queen would perceive a marriage between the royal heir and her cousin as compromising the inheritance of her own unborn children?

  He stayed outside. If the king and queen were in bed, they would not appreciate him tiptoeing in. If they were still at the castle, they would be displeased to return to find him spying on Tristan. He tucked his hands into his armpits and wondered how long he should wait. He could go back to his own pavilion, await Tristan, and then ask him where he had been, but the royal nephew would doubtless lie and say that he had just decided to take a walk and stretch his legs.

  There was another possibility besides a romance between Tristan and Brangein—or for that matter between him and one of the queen’s handmaidens. But Marjodoc’s mind shied away from it. He could believe almost anything of Tristan, but he wanted to trust in Isolde, who appeared to be making the king very happy.

  He had been growing steadily colder for half an hour, and his feet were nearly numb, when he heard voices approaching from the castle and saw the flare of torches. That was the king’s voice, raised in an old drinking song. Marjodoc stepped back into the shadows, concealing himself behind another tent and trying not to cough.

  “Well, good night, my friends,” Mark said to the knights and courtiers with him. “The court of Gales is most generous! Come, Brangein, and be quiet, for the queen must long be asleep.” And then, belying his injunction to be quiet, he gave voice again to the refrain of the drinking song.

  Peeking out from behind the tent, Marjodoc could see two shadowy figures, Mark and Brangein, slipping into the royal pavilion.

  Where the queen was supposed to be asleep.

  There was a sudden flapping sound at the far side of the pavilion, as of someone pushing his way out under the wall, and a peal of laughter, quickly stifled. Marjodoc had always hated Tristan’s laugh. Then came the sound of rapid footsteps, fading away before Marjodoc could have gotten there.

  But he made no immediate effort at pursuit. He stood frozen by more than the cold of the autumn evening. The suspicions that he had tried to deny were true.

  In a moment he turned and groped his way back to his own pavilion. When he stepped inside and lit the candle, he found, as he had expected, Tristan in his own bed, the blankets pulled up so that only the top of his curly head emerged. His breathing was deep and regular.

  Marjodoc undressed and got into his own bed. Between his shivering and his thoughts, it took a long time to fall asleep.

  The king had to be told. But what should he tell him?

  II

  The next week, as the Cornish court was riding home from Gales, Marjodoc drew the king aside when they stopped at midday. The two walked up a little rise, a short distance from the rest of the company, and looked out on a valley where the trees were yellow and crimson under the autumn sky.

  “When we were in Gales,” said Marjodoc diffidently, “we were, as you know, all somewhat closer together than we are at home in Tintagel, and I heard rumors I had not heard before.”

  “Rumors?” said Mark, seeming unconcerned.

  “They may be false,” said Marjodoc hurriedly. “But I thought I should warn you. A number of people at court are saying—I hate to injure you, but I must say it—that the queen has established an illicit liaison with your nephew.”

  “Isolde and Tristan?” said Mark. “I cannot believe it! They love me as I love them, and neither would prove untrue. Who has said such a thing?”

  “I prefer not to say, in case you should punish someone for simply repeating what they had heard—especially if the rumors prove false! I hope as much as you do, sire, that the rumors are all unfounded, perhaps based on jealousy of Tristan’s position at court, or maybe on the time that they spent alone together on the ship from Eire.”

  “No, no, I cannot believe it!” Mark insisted. “If you do not wish to tell me who is spreading these stories, then go back to them and assure them the stories are false. I have no reason to doubt Isolde. None. No reason at all.”

  “Well,” said Marjodoc slowly, “there is one way of testing her, without suggesting that you suspect anything.”

  Once they were all back in Tintagel and back in their own beds, everyone slept deep and long. In the morning, as Mark and Isolde lay comfortably together, he said, “Perhaps it is only the melancholy of the autumn season, my dearest queen, but I have started thinking about the state of my soul.”

  “Your soul? But my dear love, you cannot have any sins of which to repent!”

  “Well, we all have sins,” he replied a bit stiffly. “So I was thinking I might go on pilgrimage.”

  “Pilgrimage?”

  “Maybe to Ispania—maybe all the way to the Holy Land. I have given little thought yet to planning. But one concern worries me. I would have to l
eave you here, for your sweet form would distract me from pious thoughts. But who should I appoint to watch over you? It would have to be someone you would be willing to have near you night and day. What would you say to Tristan?”

  “What an excellent idea!” said Isolde. “Your nephew would be the ideal person to appoint as my protector in your absence. But I do hope you will not be going soon, my love.”

  “Certainly not this year,” said Mark a bit distantly. “Perhaps in the spring.” Isolde kissed his cheek, but he did not respond. Instead he lay still for a moment, then abruptly rose. “Well, there is much to attend to as we get ready for winter.

  Later that day Isolde had a chance to speak privately with Brangein. “The king is planning to go on pilgrimage in the spring,” she said with a smile, “and, most wonderful news, he will appoint Tristan to be my protector while he is gone! So you will no longer have to warn me if you think I speak too much with him or he sits too close beside me. All will be at the king’s orders!”

  Brangein closed and opened her eyes. “Isolde, do you not see, a trap is being set for you! You and Tristan promised me on the ship that you would give up this madness once we reached Cornwall, but I know very well that you have not. You both have enemies at court, who will be happy to see your love for each other revealed. I hope you realize that under the law adulterous queens can be put to death!”

  “Mark would never condemn me to death,” said Isolde, taken aback.

  “Even if he did not, he would have to exile you. And what of your honor? What of the love Mark bears for you?”

  “No one knows of Tristan’s and my love but you,” said Isolde slowly. “But you have seemed rather distant in recent weeks, as though you did not enjoy my company. And yet I thought I had every reason to trust you.”

  “You are right to trust me!” said Brangein hastily. “But I myself am uneasy about Tristan,” she added more slowly. “I have sometimes wondered—perhaps that ‘misunderstanding’ with the squires from East Anglia was all his idea?”

  “Sweet cousin! I hoped you had forgotten that horrible incident!”

  Brangein, noticing that Isolde did not deny that it had been Tristan’s idea, felt at least somewhat warmer toward her cousin than she had in many weeks.

  “How could I ever wish to harm you?” Isolde asked, smiling sweetly. “After all, are you not here to support and protect me?”

  “That is why I am warning you now. A glance, a smile, the touch of a hand may all raise suspicion. All this talk of appointing a protector for you while Mark is on pilgrimage is no more than a trap—a trap to make you reveal that you would rather have Tristan beside you than any man alive!”

  “Well,” said Isolde thoughtfully, “if Mark thinks to trap me so easily I believe I can outwit him. But are you sure that the penalty for adultery really is death?”

  Brangein shook her head. “My dear cousin, sometimes you are still like a little girl. A queen’s chief purpose is to give birth to the next king. And if her purity is in doubt, then the royal heir’s position is also in doubt.”

  “Well, I do not plan there to be any royal heirs for at least a few more years,” said Isolde. “My mother was happy with just one child, me. I do not intend to become a brood mare like the queen of Gales, with nothing more to think about than her babies.”

  “Your own intention to have or not to have children is irrelevant,” said Brangein. “In the name of God, sweet cousin, give up your love for Tristan. Do not risk an open accusation of adultery! And also do not risk hurting Mark, who loves you and has done all in his power for you.”

  “There is much in what you say,” said Isolde, but she would not meet Brangein’s eyes.

  That night, when Mark and Isolde lay in bed with the candle blown out, she began to make tiny noises, like muffled sobs.

  “Sweet Isolde, what is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her voice just barely not breaking. “Nothing at all.”

  “My love, are you ill?”

  She swallowed hard. “No. Everything is fine.”

  “But you are saddened! Please tell me, dearest Isolde, if someone has hurt you! Or if it is I, tell me at once that I may make amends.”

  “All right,” she said with a heavy sigh, “though I never wished to pain you. But your talk this morning of going on pilgrimage has filled me with despair! What shall I do without you?”

  “Well,” said the king a bit testily, “I thought we had agreed that Tristan would be your protector in my absence.”

  “But that is the worst of all!” Isolde cried. “Of course I agreed, my dearest king, when you suggested his name, for I know the love you bear Tristan as your dead sister’s child. I have always tried to be polite to him, even to consider him with friendship, for your sake. But I hate him! I have always hated him. He killed my uncle, which I can never forgive, and then he wrenched me from my home and family. Only your love has made up for the pain of having to see him every day.”

  She was crying hard now, and Mark took her tenderly in his arms. “Sweet Isolde, dearest love, do not weep! Since I see how much pain this gives you, I will put aside my plans for a pilgrimage. Perhaps in future years, when our children are grown, we can go to the Holy Land together. I shall try harder in the future to keep Tristan away from you.”

  And in the morning he told Marjodoc that all the rumors were baseless, and that he had absolute proof that Isolde was true to him.

  The fall and winter passed quietly. Mark had persuaded himself that there was no reason to be suspicious of his wife. She had, after all, assured him that she hated Tristan and loved only him. Sometimes in the evening, in their chamber, she played love songs for him on her harp. What man could ask for more?

  But he kept surreptitiously watching her whenever Tristan was near, and though most of the time they treated each other with simple civility, occasionally he thought he saw a smile pass between them, or one or the other said something too quietly for anyone else to catch.

  And he remembered that Isolde had learned to play the harp from Tristan. If she knew many love songs, it must be because he had taught them to her.

  Marjodoc had said nothing more of suspicions for several months, but in late winter he sought out Mark. “I fear, sire, that the rumors are beginning again. Several people have told me that the queen’s affection for Tristan goes far beyond what a woman should feel for her husband’s nephew.”

  “No!” said Mark sharply. “You tried to tell me this before, and you only made me needlessly miserable. Why don’t you do what you know you should, and tell whoever is spreading these lies that they are nothing but lies?”

  “I am only thinking of your honor, sire,” said the steward meekly.

  “The only person who has tried to impugn either my honor or the queen’s is you yourself,” said Mark darkly.

  Marjodoc took a step backwards. “But we must get to the bottom of this!” he replied. “Suppose the queen is found to be with child. Do we want the court speculating on who is the real father?”

  Mark shot him a sideways glance. “Well, I was entirely happy with Isolde until you started telling me false rumors, and the only way that I can be happy again is if I put such thoughts entirely from me. Which I will do.” He paused. “If only there was some way to put the two of them to the test, so that I could be sure!”

  “I have an even better idea,” said Marjodoc carefully. “Why not send Tristan away from court for a period?”

  “Send him away?” said Mark, startled. “But he is my nephew and heir. He belongs here in Cornwall. I could not bear to be parted from him.”

  “If he were gone,” Marjodoc continued, “then the false rumors might die away by themselves. It is not as though you had to send him away forever. It will soon be two years since he left Parmenie. Would it not be good for him to go home and visit his family for a season? And,” studying Mark’s face as he spoke, “we shall be able to tell much from the queen’s reaction to his absence.”

  “I am
his family,” said Mark, though not as firmly as a moment before.

  “Perhaps while he was gone,” Marjodoc continued, as though not noticing the king’s comment, “you could get a child on the queen. That should settle her down, and then there would be no question who was the father.”

  Mark stood up and glowered at his steward. “Enough. You may serve me, but you cannot speak with such familiarity about the queen. I will hear nothing more of this. Nothing. Do you understand me?”

  “Entirely, sire! Forgive me!” But Mark had stalked away without waiting for apologies.

  III

  One afternoon in early spring, Mark asked Brangein to come to his solar. The sunlight was bright but thin, giving little heat. A faint green touched the branches of the trees inland, but the dark ocean waves still heaved and slammed against Tintagel’s coast.

  Brangein sat down across from the king only when he gestured for her to do so. She had been in this room with Isolde but never before with Mark alone. “I want to thank you again for the head-dress you gave me,” she said when he seemed slow to speak. “You have not seen me wear it more often only because it is too fine for everyday. I bring it out solely for the highest festival days.”

  That made him smile, but he had not invited her there to speak of head-dresses. However, he seemed to be having trouble raising the topic that was on his mind. “You are lovely in it, as you are in everything you wear,” he said as if distractedly. “The young men must all admire you. I need to get to know you better, Brangein. For example, I do not even know if you have a sweetheart!”

  “No avowed sweetheart,” she murmured, her cheeks growing pink. “I may have greatly admired a man or two, but only from a distance. And the man I most admired was someone who could never have been a sweetheart—my cousin Morold.”

  King Mark frowned. “I thought Morold a cruel killer.”

  “So most thought him,” said Brangein, low and intense. “But to me he showed nothing but kindness—a kindness I have seen matched in no other man but you, your majesty.”