The queen’s lovely eyes widened. “Quite the reverse. He will forgive Iseulte, he will forgive me, in time he will forgive even Ryol. But he will never forgive himself. He will take all our sins upon himself, and blame himself for being away. It is himself he will punish, not us.”
Tristan frowned. “What do you want me to do?”
“If he blames himself, Iseulte will not be able to support it. I fear she will throw herself in the river, or cut her wrists, or harm herself in some other way. She cannot bear to disappoint her father. I cannot protect her, Tristan, and protect him, too. This is what I ask. Protect my daughter from herself, while I protect my husband. You see,” she said, smiling even as tears welled in her eyes, “it all started with me. He had planned this pilgrimage for years, but he only undertook it after— Well, there is no reason you should not know. Ryol came upon me alone once, when Galahad’s back was turned. He tried to rape me, and would have succeeded but for Galahad’s opportune return. They fought, and with Galahad’s sword point at his throat Ryol submitted and swore faith with Lanascol. He gave us no trouble for years. Until this. Galahad felt responsible for my ordeal—my shame became his shame. He determined to walk all the way to Jerusalem in expiation. Imagine, just imagine, what he will do when he finds that Ryol ravished his daughter in his absence!” She buried her face in her hands while Tristan stared at her in disbelief.
“Galahad?” he whispered. “Sir Galahad? The Galahad? Your husband?” It was barely possible to believe a single warrior had fought Ryol and disarmed him without killing him, but if it was Galahad. . . . What had Percival said to him in Gwynedd? He always was a complicated man. Did that mean he lived? Surely Percival would have told him if Galahad had married his twin sister! But they hadn’t had much time to talk. Tristan gulped and put out a hand to a nearby chair to steady himself. “It can’t be,” he breathed. “It can’t be the same man.”
The queen wiped tears from her cheeks. “Have you grown up on bards’ tales of his death before the Grail?” She smiled bitterly at his expression and gestured at the chair. “Sit down, Tristan, before your knees give out. You’re not alone. Few outside Lanascol know the truth about Galahad. His fame tore across Britain like a comet across the night sky, and then he disappeared, utterly and completely. Hence the legends that grow like moss all about his name. But he is a man, for all that, like any other.”
“Not like any other,” Tristan croaked, struggling to find his voice. “He was different. Stainless. Virtuous. Holy.”
Dandrane watched him with compassion. “It is much more complicated than that,” she said softly, moving to a seat opposite him. “What is holiness? Is the hermit holy who cuts himself off from his fellow men and dedicates his life to God’s worship, an act by which no one benefits but himself? Or is the man holy who lives in the company of sinners, shares their joys and sorrows, and even their sins, yet loves them more dearly than himself and sheds his blood on their behalf? Which man would you rather serve? Which man would you go to in your hour of need?”
Tristan nodded. “You are right.”
“When I was a girl in Gwynedd they used to say that saintly men were all wicked children. There is some truth in that, I think. A man who has been wicked knows the pain of doing evil, knows suffering, dishonor, degradation. Such a man knows the true value of virtue better than one who has never erred. Look at Arthur. Was there ever such a leader among the Britons? He is remembered and revered for his goodness, his kindness, his forbearance, his justice, as much as he is remembered for his prowess as a warrior. Yet as a young man he slaughtered innocents, and lay with his own sister to beget his bastard son. Perhaps evil in a human soul is like a refining fire; striving to free oneself from its power reveals the essence of a man.”
“Are you telling me that Sir Galahad was a great sinner?”
Gentle amusement narrowed her eyes. “I am. He has done things he did not believe any God-fearing man capable of doing. Ask him yourself. Every day he draws breath, he errs.”
“In that case,” Tristan breathed, “there is hope for me.”
The queen smiled. “There is hope for us all. Surely that is the truth Christ died to teach us.”
Tristan watched her gravely as the lamplight played over the lovely contours of her face. Here was a woman whose beauty went to the bottom of her soul. He wondered if she had ever been wicked in her youth. He found it difficult to imagine. “Is there no Grail, then? Was that, too, a bard’s invention?”
“Oh, no,” she said quietly, “there is a Grail. But it has nothing to do with holiness. That is blasphemy.”
“What is it, then? Can you tell me?”
“Part of an ancient treasure long lost to Britain’s kings. There were three treasures once: a Sword, a Spear, and a Grail. Merlin found the Sword for Arthur, who named it Excalibur and used it to save Britain from the Saxons. But Merlin did not find the Grail and Spear. No man had seen them for over a hundred years when Arthur sent Galahad to find them.” She smiled suddenly. “And find them he did. Many years later and when he least expected it. But they are not holy, Tristan, no matter what the bards say. They are sacred to Britain, perhaps, belonging to her kings. Arthur himself certainly thought of them in political terms. But to bards truth is a fabric easily embroidered. From time to time a few reach us through the Wild Forest and, unaware of who their host is, take up their harps and sing to us of how Galahad the Virgin Knight, alone of all Arthur’s valiant Companions, achieved the Grail and died in its blessed light.” She winked at him. “How it amuses him to hear it! He was fourteen when Arthur died and was never one of his Companions. As a youth, he feared women, hence his reputation for chastity, but like all men, he outgrew it. The Grail itself was an emperor’s feasting krater, buried by his wife to keep it out of Saxon hands. But nowadays bards endow every tale with Christian meaning, they are so afraid of offending the bishops.”
Tristan shook his head. “The bards I know believe the tales they tell of Galahad.”
“Consider this a moment. All his life, because he was Lancelot’s son, Galahad has been a figure of importance. He was tall for his age and had his father’s skill with a sword. He was raised in Camelot by Arthur himself. And he did, as a young man, blaze a trail of glory across Britain. You will find him spoken of with awe in the northern kingdoms, in what remains of Logris, throughout the Summer Country, and of course in Wales. Every Saxon knows his name. His loyalty could not be bought, nor the service of his sword. Thanks to him, the Saxons and Anglii retreated for a space of time. And then, at the age of five and twenty, he disappeared from Britain.” She smiled shyly. “I am the reason for that. No one knows it because when we left Britain, we came here. Benoic is small and unimportant in the scheme of things. Although Galahad and his brothers have protected Britain by fighting to keep Less Britain a united buffer against the Franks, the Burgundians, and the Alemans, Galahad has dropped out completely from affairs in Britain. It is no wonder, really, that everyone thinks he is dead. All the bards have done is to put an ending on a story they had no ending to.”
“I will make you a song,” Tristan offered, “that tells the true tale of his deeds.”
She reached out and warmly grasped his hand. “That would please me greatly. But get to know him first. He will not deny you anything you ask—you have rescued his daughter, who is precious beyond words to him.” She paused. “That is, if you will stay until he returns. I am afraid I can’t tell you when that will be.”
Tristan rose and lifted her hand to his lips. “You are graciousness itself, my lady. I would be pleased to raise an army for you and to serve you for as long as Lanascol needs my service. You do me great honor by letting me stay. This place has the feel of a sanctuary. Perhaps I, too, can begin a new life here.”
Dandrane rose quickly from her chair and clasped his hand. “I do hope so, Tristan. There’s no need to speak of the tragedy behind you. I can see well it is death to you. That is why you risked your life for us—you valued it no longer
. I know well enough what is in your heart. It was in mine once, too.” Her kind face drew closer and she touched her lips to his cheek. “And I saw your face when you spoke her name.” She squeezed his hand. “Stay here with us and heal. Let time pass.”
32 THE RETURN OF THE KING
Tristan sat on the garden wall one warm September afternoon, bent over his harp. He plucked the chords gently, eyes closed, as the melody took shape in his moving mind. It was another bittersweet love song, he noted wryly, even as the notes flowed from his fingers. And it would sound better on that old harp of Merlin’s he had left in Lyonesse. This new harp had an airy sweetness to it that did not suit his melancholy mood. But at least he could sing. In the two years he had been in Lanascol, his spirit had remained so long grounded, wings clipped by grief, he had lost all hope of ever finding his voice again.
Like Marhalt’s scar, the aching for Essylte was always with him. But for this agony there was no antidote. He was bereft; worse, she was bereft on his account. He shuddered involuntarily, and the harp howled. Quickly he stilled the strings with the flat of his hand.
Iseulte looked up from her seat upon the nearby bench. Tristan smiled apologetically. “A thousand pardons, Elen.”
The clear blue eyes read his perfectly. “A calm soul, Tristan. All is not lost. She lives. Hold on to that.”
He let his eyes linger on the sheen of black hair that fell like a cloak over her shoulders. “I will try.”
She smiled and returned to her needlework. “Have you not told me, day after day, for two eternal years, a calm soul, a calm soul? And see, my soul is calm. I can speak again.”
He ran his fingers along the harp strings in a gentle cascade of notes. “And what a beautiful voice it is. Well worth waiting for. I should teach you to sing.”
She shook her head. “Not I. But let me hear the song again. The melody is enough to break the heart.”
Tristan closed his eyes, seeing in his mind’s eye that last dawn in Britain, the beautiful Essylte held close within his arms, her red-gold hair soft against his skin and her warm, sweet scent filling his nostrils.
Like a bird on the wing
Like a bud on the bough
Like a shiver of wind
Or the shape-shifting cloud,
Like the first bloom of beauty
The first sigh of spring
The leaf in the storm
On a gossamer string.
Quicksilver madness
Strikes white to the bone
As I cry in the dark:
Love is here, love is gone.
In my storm-ravaged midnight
She’s a fleet lightning dream.
Her love’s like a shadow
Forever unseen.
Despair stains the moonlight.
Bereft of her heart,
No nightingale sings
In the sweet, empty dark.
I would sail on the tide
Toward the birth fire of dawn,
But grief stirs the night wind
And drowns my love song.
Iseulte turned her head away to hide unexpected tears. “Truly, you are a master, Tristan.”
He shook his head. “I am a bard only when the spirit moves me. I do not practice enough.” He smiled. “I don’t know all the genealogies, either. Until I came to Lanascol, I never knew Sir Percival had a sister.”
Iseulte smiled, and Tristan regarded her with pleasure. How far she had come! But it had not been an easy journey. She had lain for a month in her bed, blankets drawn over her head although it was high summer, her body curled, knees to chin, in a protective stance against the entire world. When by autumn she had progressed no further than to lie on her back and stare wordlessly out the open window, Queen Dandrane had begun to despair for the recovery of her wits. True to his promise to the queen, Tristan had done what he could for her daughter, sitting with her when his travels allowed, telling her bards’ tales, tales of ancient gods and heroes, tales of his own youth, tales of Lyonesse. Once or twice he had wept as he spoke, for the thought of his lovely Lyonesse, for remembrance of all he had lost. And once or twice he had seen tears in the vivid blue eyes and on the alabaster cheeks. But he said nothing. He let her rest within her shell and did not try to coax her out.
By midwinter she could rise from bed to sit for hours by the unshuttered window, covered in blankets and surrounded by braziers, staring wordlessly out at the snow. Come spring, she could walk on his arm to the garden. He remembered well the first time he had led her from her room. Until then she had not allowed a man to touch her, not even Kaherdyn. She had looked away, shaking so hard she could barely stand, as though the pressure of his fingers against her arm might burn her flesh. But she had withstood it.
Six more months went by before she could walk on her own, taking the initiative to go where she would. But still, she would not speak. Queen Dandrane, worn thin between the worry for her husband and the worry for her daughter, spent long hours in the chapel on her knees.
And then, last Christmas, Queen Dandrane had learned from Kaherdyn that Tristan could play and sing, and she had given him the new instrument that had reawakened his long-dead voice. For hours he sat with it in his chamber, getting the feel of it, holding it like a lover in his embrace, singing the sea songs that had once so infuriated Dinadan. The next thing he knew, Iseulte was at his door, her face wet with tears. She pointed to the harp and, for the first time in twenty months, spoke. “Don’t stop,” she said. “Don’t ever stop.”
Since that day she had talked to him often, but although she had wept in her mother’s arms a hundred times, she had spoken only to Tristan. For his part, Tristan found himself able to tell her things he could share with no one else. Eventually he even told her about Essylte, and was surprised to find that she had already guessed something near the truth. She alone had heard the screaming of his heart in his music, a cry so bitter and so deep he would hear its echoes all his life.
As spring lengthened into summer, little by little she began to tell him about her abduction, clasping his hand as she spoke, her eyes dark with terror. One by one, she won her battles against fear. There was a resilience in her he admired and a strength he trusted. She was healing before his very eyes, and he envied her for it.
He slid off the wall and sat beside her on the bench. “I leave tomorrow to inspect the shore defenses. We’ve destroyed Ryol’s stronghold, leveled the outbuildings, and strengthened the tower. The causeway to the beach is a wide one now and shored up with rock. Kaherdyn believes it’s impregnable. Would you like to see it? You’d hardly recognize it. I’ll go with you. It might help.”
Iseulte paled. “No. Not yet. Please.” She dropped her eyes. “Take Mother instead. She has never seen the place. She will go if you ask her. She owes you much for rebuilding Lanascol’s defenses.”
Tristan shrugged lightly. “She owes me nothing for that. I asked to stay.”
Her head flew up. “You did? I did not know that.”
“Why not? I cannot go home. Where better to live what life is left to me than here, in the place Sir Lancelot and Sir Galahad both called home?”
“Yes, we breed strong men in Lanascol,” she said softly. “But you, Tristan, you will go back. Someday. I know you will.”
A horn sounded, shattering their peace. Once, twice, three times. Iseulte rose. “A courier! Oh, Tristan, go see what he wants! It could be Father.”
He extended a hand. “Come with me.”
“Oh, no! I can’t—I—”
But he took her trembling hand and gently led her forward. “Yes, you can. The queen will receive him privately, to get his news. Court won’t be assembled. You won’t have to appear publicly. Come, you’ll see.”
They found Queen Dandrane in her antechamber, attended only by her women. A courier knelt at her feet, the dust of travel still in his clothes and hair, his message pouch slung loosely around his shoulder. Queen Dandrane bent her head over a short scroll, reading so intently she did
not hear them enter.
At last she looked up, blinking back tears, and signaled them to approach. “Tristan. Iseulte, my dear. A letter from your uncle Galahodyn. Your father is on the road home. He has spent a fortnight with Hodyn in Neustria. Hodyn says—Hodyn says he is not well. He was wounded in the East, it seems, and the wound has festered. He has been ill a year, and the journey home has been a slow one. But—but he is coming.”
Iseulte crossed herself quickly and sank to her knees.
The courier went pale as he stared at Tristan. “Tristan? You can’t be Tristan of Lyonesse? Who disappeared from Britain these two years past?”
Tristan inclined his head. “At your service. How long is the journey from Neustria? When should we expect Sir Galahad?”
The courier gulped audibly and fought to collect his wits. “My lord, I cannot say for certain. It is a week’s ride on horseback, but he travels in a litter.”
“A litter!” Dandrane pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Yes, my lady. I was held up a day when a storm flooded the river and the fording place washed out. He may be a day or two behind me. He may be hours.”
Tristan, with his hand on Iseulte’s shoulder, felt a tremor go through her. He frowned lightly. “What news is there from Britain?”
The man’s eyes flitted nervously between Tristan and Iseulte. “Recent, my lord? Not much.”
“In the last two years.”
“In two years, my lord, much has happened. What is it—what is it my lord wishes to know?”
“What of my uncle and his Queen?”
“Er, um,” the courier stammered, “God has not smiled on King Markion, my lord, since, uh . . . you, er . . . since, that is to say—”
“Go on. Out with it.”
“Since you ran away,” the courier finished on a gasp.
Tristan flushed darkly. “Ran away? Is that what they are saying?”
“Some call it that. Markion’s men, mostly. But others just—others just say you disappeared.”
“Go on about Markion. What’s happened to Britain since he lost the willing service of half his commanders?”
Prince of Dreams Page 48
