CHAPTER 11
à vous, madame! Pour l’amour de vous!”
Blanche strode into the Great Hall, her skirts rustling furiously around her feet. The shouts of the tournament were still ringing in her ears. For you, madame—all for the love of you . . .
Goddess, Mother, how dared her father invite this King here to court without her consent? Yes, he was a brave and handsome knight who had done so well at the joust that all the crowd had cheered him to the core. But . . .
She bit her lip. But my knight will be coming from Lyonesse with his sword in his hand, and he won’t be the handsome King Amaury of Gaul!
She checked herself for a moment to gather her breath. The Great Hall lay before her, decked out for the midwinter feast, bright with holly on every pillar and glossy green ivy rambling around the beams. A great ball of mistletoe hung from the arch of the roof, and posies of the soft pearly berries appeared over every door. The flagstones were green with fresh rushes and rosemary, and pots of burning herbs sweetened the air. Two mighty Yule logs warmed the massive hearths, and countless candles lit the dais ahead. The tables were laid for a hundred guests, and King Hoel himself stood waiting to greet them, with her brother at his side.
And here they were, knights, lords, and ladies arriving for the feast, all greeting her with curtsies and admiring bows. Complacently, Blanche stroked her fine hair and pushed back her veil. Exquisite in ice-white silk and silver lace, with a cloak of silver satin and a crystal coronet, she knew that she would be the queen of the feast. She would be the most beautiful woman there tonight, beyond compare. And she would dance, perhaps even with the King of Gaul . . .
She hailed a passing servant and glanced around the hall. “Where are the musicians?”
“Here, lady—at your service.” A lean-faced, intense man stepped out of a group by the door and pulled off his cap. “What’s your will?”
What did she want? Irritably, Blanche threw her eye over the troupe. Standing in the front of the men with their instruments was a pale, frog-like boy with bulging eyes. “What an ugly child!” She laughed. “Where did he come from?”
The leader reached out for his dearly loved only son and swiftly tucked the child away behind his back. Bowing low, he produced a practiced smile. “Ah, Princess, wait till you hear him sing.”
“Very well . . .” Blanche pursed her lips and waved them toward the dais. “Take your places and begin.”
“As you wish, lady.” The little group bowed and moved off.
Blanche turned toward the door. Now the guests were thronging in, ladies in rainbow silks attended by knights in silver and lords in velvet and furs. All down the hall the red berries of the holly pulsed like drops of blood, and the servants were making their rounds with flagons of wine. At the far end, with his dogs around his feet and a brimming goblet in his hand, King Hoel stood warming his back against the fire and pondering the mystery of a woman’s heart.
“Has she said any more about Tristan?” he growled to his son.
Kedrin shook his head. “Not since King Amaury arrived.”
“And in fine style, eh?” Hoel brightened. “With a hundred knights and banners and pipes and drums, surely enough fandangle to win any girl. D’you think he can replace Tristan in her heart?”
There was a pause. Speculatively, Kedrin eyed his sister as she smiled and greeted the guests, shimmering her way around the hall in crystals and lace. “Not unless we tell her that Tristan will never marry her. That he’ll always be Isolde’s, body and soul.”
“Do we know that?” Hoel challenged. “Do you know he’s Isolde’s lover? Does any man?”
Kedrin considered, pushing back his hair. “We know that he’s served her devotedly these last ten years,” he said crisply. “And they say that in all that time, no woman has come into his bed.” He laughed and stroked his mustache. “Of course there could be another reason for that.”
“A boy-bender, then?” Hoel groaned in disgust. “Worse and worse! My daughter will bring a back-scuttler into our kin.”
“Sir . . .” Kedrin drew a breath. “We don’t know that either.”
“We know one thing for sure,” Hoel said with grim emphasis, lowering his voice as his daughter approached. “Whatever he is, he’s not for our Blanche.”
Her father and brother together, head-to-head: were they talking about her? Blanche bore down on the two men with an icy glint in her eye.
“Come, sister,” Kedrin rallied her, “where’s your smile?” He scanned her silver-laced gown and sparkling crystals with a brotherly regard. “Tonight you’ll be loved and admired by all.”
“Oh, brother, do you think I care about that?” Blanche smiled sweetly at Kedrin and turned away. If Kedrin thought he could get around her, he was wrong.
“Alas, my love . . .”
The plaintive note of recorders filled the air. Soaring above them came the boy’s pure treble, aching with love and loss. Blanche tossed her head. What nonsense it was, all this wailing about heartbreak and grief! A sensible woman made sure of the man she loved and took care not to love a man she could not win.
The music changed to a sprightly Gaulish air. At the far end of the hall King Amaury entered, surrounded by his knights. In a tunic and cloak of royal velvet with a deep circlet of gold holding back his hair, he looked modest yet kingly too, and she had to admit he was a handsome man. Tall, like her brother, he was slim and gracefully built, and his dark eyes were seeking hers the moment he came through the door. Seeing her, he moved forward with a heartfelt smile.
For you, madam, all for the love of you . . .
A cloud of doubt and discontent dampened Blanche’s soul. Was she wrong to cling to Tristan in her heart? Here was a man in love, young, ardent, handsome, and a king. Even his voice with its husky, broken accent was pleasing to her ear. Why then did another shadow darken her mind? An older, stronger figure, more remote—yet a man in truth whom she had never seen?
“My lord . . .” King Hoel strode forward and ushered the King to a chair. “Let us show you how we feast our guests in France!”
He raised an arm and the music struck up again. The food followed, wave after steaming wave of roast boar, broth, and brawn, borne by armies of sweating menservants and scurrying maids. Seated beside Amaury, Blanche smiled politely as she picked at a piece of pork and nibbled on a fig. Time enough to eat when the wretch had gone.
Kedrin leaned into his father, careful not to let Blanche overhear his words. “She seems to like him, Father.”
King Hoel threw down a drumstick to his favorite dog. “You know Blanche. The King of the Fair Ones himself could court her and she’d find fault.” He heaved a sigh. “But let’s hope.”
Hope . . .
Dared he hope?
Amaury glanced at the perfect profile with mounting concern. Why did the Princess keep turning her face away? He had answered King Hoel’s invitation with an open mind, but as soon as he saw Blanche he had lost his heart.
There was no one in Gaul with that pale, tender face, that long white neck, that delicate air. Perhaps it was only her silver-white dress, but her skin had the gleam of ice in the winter sun and her body was long and lovely beyond compare. He reached for his wine. Tomorrow he must return to Gaul as her betrothed or else live forever as a broken man. Pour l’amour! he told himself, shaking inwardly. He reached for his wine and threw it down his throat. Speak, man! Speak, or die!
“Princess, will you give me your hand?”
In marriage? hung between them like a sword. With maddening slowness, Blanche turned her shapely head. “D’you dance, sir?” she parried.
He looked into her eyes. “As well as any man. But I’ll dance better when I dance with you.”
Blanche looked at him coldly. “I don’t want to be your teacher, I want a man who can tutor me. Have you ever crossed swords with Sir Tristan of Lyonesse?”
Is he my rival? Amaury’s soul darkened. Gods above, then I am doomed. He steadied his voice. “I have
indeed.”
“They say he’s the most peerless knight in all the world.”
“Queen Guenevere would say that about Sir Lancelot of the Lake. But Sir Tristan serves the Queen of Ireland. He is not free to seek a bride like other men.”
Blanche’s eyes flared. “But women can seek too,” she said hotly. “And a woman of spirit must seek the man of the dream.”
Amaury gazed at her in deep wretchedness. “And what do you seek, madame—may I know?”
Blanche looked at Amaury’s flushed cheeks, his anxious eyes, his uncertain air. Goddess, Mother, why was she fooling with this callow youth when a hero like Tristan lay in her stars ahead?
She drew a long, cool breath. “I seek a man, sir,” she said with cruel emphasis, “not a boy. A proven hero of many tournaments. And I shall find him. He will come to me.” She rose to her feet and dropped a curtsy of farewell. “I wish you and your knights a safe return to Gaul.”
She gathered up her skirts and left him there. Surging down the hall, she made for King Hoel’s throne. The deep curtsy she gave her father was for all the hall to see. But her look of angry purpose was for him alone. “At the next tournament, sir, let Sir Tristan be the honored guest. I shall never marry King Amaury as long as I live!”
CHAPTER 12
Father?”
“What is it, my son?”
The old monk raised his milky eyes from his prayers as he felt the rush of air into his cell. He knew without sight that the forceful presence and hurried, limping steps belonged to Dominian, his former pupil and dearly loved foster son. Bedridden now and a breath away from heaven, the old man still remembered the small stunted body kneeling in prayer at his side and the hard little paw, warm and trusting, in his hand. Dominian might be head of the community now and a man of growing might among Christians everywhere, but the old monk would never forget the lost child he had loved and saved.
Even today he could hear in Dominian’s urgent tones haunting echoes of the half-savage he had been. Hated by his mother and cast out to die in the woods, the seven-year-old had thought that he was cursed. His sisters were his mother’s only joy, and as a Goddess-worshipper in a land where women ruled, she rejected him because he was merely male. Jerome sighed to himself. No wonder Dominian now persecuted the Mother with all the fury of a poisoned heart. The blows and bruises of his early days, his empty belly, uncouth speech, and starving mind, had all been cured. But the primal wound to his soul, the old monk thought, no force on earth would ever be able to heal.
“News, Father!” He felt the short body drop onto the chair by his bed and heard the triumphant slap of a scroll against Dominian’s palm. “Word from Rome.”
“From the Holy Father?”
“From the Pope himself.” Dominian unfurled the scroll with a flourish, his dark face alight. At times like this, even the never-ending pain of his crumpled spine seemed worth the burden he was forced to bear.
“The first word is for you,” he said, his eyes aglow. No one would ever know how he loved this man, but he had made sure that they knew his worth in Rome. “ ‘Greetings to Jerome, our beloved son in Christ,’ ” he read out joyfully. “See, you are mentioned by name!”
Jerome allowed himself a smile. “You feed my vanity. What is the word from Rome . . . ?”
“The word is ‘Strike!’ We are ordered to move against the pagans with all speed.”
The wasted figure in the bed stiffened. “Move against—how?”
Dominian held up his hand, raising the hard, brown fingers one by one. “Root out the worship of the Great Whore they call the Mother, and put down her shrines. Convert her followers to Christ, by the sword if need be, and secure their so-called Hallows for our use. Leave no trace of this Goddess-evil in this place. Scour through the islands with tempest, wind, and fire, till she’s not even a memory to aftertimes.”
The old man raised a trembling hand to his forehead. “Now God defend us!”
Dominian turned sharply. “Why?”
“This persecution is against our faith. Our God is love.”
“What would you have us do?”
Jerome struggled to sit up. “Work with the people here and learn from them. Their priestesses teach that religion is kindness and all faith should be love.” The old man’s unseeing eyes gleamed with tears. “Why take from any soul the comfort of that?”
“Priestesses, you say?” Dominian scoffed.
“And more, my son, much more.” A light from the Otherworld crossed Jerome’s face. “Once, long ago, I was on Avalon. I saw the green hill crowned with blossoms and the Sacred Island rising above the lake. The Lady that ruled there was a miracle.”
“Lady?” Dominian struggled with a feeling he could not name. “We have another such Lady here, the Lady of the Sea. They preach thigh-freedom for women and deny the right of a man to call his wife his own. I call them whores.” He reached blindly for the scroll from Rome. “And we are ordered to destroy them all!”
“Son, only think!” Jerome begged. “Could you in your conscience put innocent souls to the sword because they worship another Higher Power than ours?”
“We have it in Holy Scripture.” Dominian’s smoldering eyes sparked into fire. “Our God Himself has commanded, ‘Thou shalt have none other gods before me.’ ”
Jerome shook his white head. “Jesus said, ‘Whatsoever you would have men do unto you, do you likewise unto them.’ And did not He teach us to love one another, even to the smallest child, ‘for of such is the kingdom of God’?” He fixed his blind eyes on Dominian, burning with tears. “You call them pagans. You yourself were reared in the faith of the Mother and were just such a benighted soul when you came to me. You resisted every word of our Christian truth. Should I have put you to death?”
The younger man clenched his fists. Never had he been so at odds with his mentor before. “You oppose this? You do not see the need?”
Jerome laid his hand upon his heart. “Not on God’s earth.”
Dominian felt something tearing in his breast. “You have been too long among these pagans, Father,” he said brutally, winding up his scroll. “They ask in Rome what we are doing here, why we delay the righteous work of God. They say the way to win souls is not through weakness, but through deeds.” He threw a hostile glance around the small whitewashed cell bare of all but a wooden beaker of water and a cross over the door. “But perhaps you’ve withdrawn too far from the world.”
Jerome bowed his head and spread his hands. “What deeds?” he asked in a low voice.
Dominian smiled like a wolf. “The Queen set out for Ireland, weeks ago. But she never reached the port. God willing, she’s been overtaken by outlaws or ravished by some rogue knight. But wherever she is, God has given us time to work on the King.”
He rose from the chair and knelt beside the bed. Taking Jerome’s papery hand, he placed it on his head and noted the old man’s tears beginning afresh.
“Give me your blessing, Father,” he muttered in hot tones. “King Mark is the key to the kingdom now that Isolde has gone. When I have him in my hand, all this land is ours.”
ALREADY THE BRIEF DAY was closing in. The salt mist was rolling mournfully off the sea and the crying of winter-starved birds echoed overhead. Daylight had left the towers of Castle Dore not long after noon, and endless hours of darkness lay ahead. Andred sighed, and set down his wine in deep content. Shallow souls might love the summer or the weak, piping spring. But was there any better time of the year than winter, when life itself ran down to its very roots? When the ghost of the sun struggled each day to be born and died weeping before dark? When lesser men huddled like dumb creatures in their dens and no one saw what sharper men chose to do?
So yes, he could bear the darkness and all that midwinter brought, the long hours of drinking in the knights’ hall with their raucous braying and their lightning brawls, their stupid boasting and the smoke and the stink. He looked around the Great Hall and smiled to himself. He could even bear Mark bec
ause Mark was his, the darkness in Mark was his, and he could work with it any way he pleased.
And he had won that right by learning to please Mark. This midwinter feast and the revels he’d arranged now had all been devised to tickle the King’s lightest whim. What did it matter that the older lords were not pleased, Sir Nabon openly dissatisfied, and old Sir Wisbeck and the pompous Sir Quirian frankly at a loss. They all remembered the fine feasts of the past when the whole of the Great Hall became a living bower. When holly and ivy filled the great vault of the roof and the red and white winter berries were everywhere.
But such beauty meant nothing to Mark. He loved to see a blazing yuletide hearth making the air thick with tallow, smoke, and sweat. He wanted to watch his dogs nosing among the rushes and fighting for scraps, and laughed uproariously whenever one of them lifted its leg or added its droppings to the waste on the floor. All he demanded was his favorite wine, a ruby liquor as meaty as bull’s blood. And whatever the King desired, the King must have.
“Enjoy the feast!” he drunkenly harangued his knights. “We shan’t revel like this when the Queen returns!” He turned to Elva with a roguish wink. “Eh?”
“Too true, my lord,” Elva smiled, lowering her eyes.
Elva, too, Andred reflected with the old catch of pain, even his own lover was for Mark’s love and use. Well, Elva knew what to do. He had to rely on her to carry it out.
Elva caught his swift glance and sent back a silent reply: I will, my love, never fear. Turning, she leaned in toward Mark, rejoicing in the cool kiss of the earrings brushing her neck. So Isolde lorded it at the High Table in emeralds for Ireland and pearls for the Mother’s tears? Elva laughed. Tonight she had the place of honor beside the King, resplendent in jasper and agate and jade from across the sea. Her gown was the black-green of winter holly gleaming against the fiery whiteness of her skin, and she knew she was the finest in the hall. Reaching for her wine, she assessed Mark covertly over the rim of her glass. Time to get to work.
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 8
