Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels

by Rosalind Miles

“Here’s a health to the King!”

  Two or three knights were raising their glasses and staggering to their feet, carrying their drunken revels into the body of the hall. Mark rubbed his distended stomach and looked around with delight. See how the men were enjoying themselves!

  “On you go, lads!” he bellowed, raising a slopping goblet in the air. A blood-red splash landed in Elva’s lap and lost itself in the scaly black markings of her mottled silk gown. Mark gave a drunken laugh.

  The knights in the hall were wrestling each other to the ground. “A show! A show!” Mark crowed. He turned to Andred. “Is there a show for us?”

  Andred leaned forward. “Tumblers, mummers, dancers, and pageant-men, whatever Your Majesty desires.”

  “Remember, sire, we must have all seemly here!” The dark figure of Dominian leaned forward across the table, a warning finger upraised. “This is the birth of Christ. Our Lady lay in a stable at this very hour, travailing to bring Him forth.”

  “Yes, yes, Father,” Mark snapped, his good humor gone. Gods above, would these Christians never cease? “But men also need beef and ale in their bellies at this time of the year. How else will they keep up their strength for the hunt?”

  “You are right, my lord,” Elva soothed. “And you show your joy in Christ by feasting his birth.”

  “Yes, I do, don’t I?” Mark brightened at once.

  “Indeed, sire.” Elva took a breath. “And let us pray that the Queen is also keeping Christ’s Holy Day.

  “Yes, indeed,” Mark agreed. “Wherever she is.”

  “Surely, my lord, she has sent you word?” wondered Elva, wide-eyed.

  “Not one,” Mark confirmed with a baleful glare.

  Elva put a puzzled finger to her cheek. “Then where can she be?” She paused. “Your Majesty equipped her so well. Surely she could find one messenger from a whole troop?”

  “You’re right!” Mark’s small eyes narrowed. “You’re saying she’s insulted me, that’s it?”

  “Never, sire,” Elva returned in solemn tones. “You know I admire the Queen, as everyone does. Why, the people adore her, they flock to her healing hands—”

  “That’s another thing!” Mark broke in resentfully. “She gets all their love by involving herself with them. She takes away what should rightfully be mine.”

  “Your generosity means nothing to her,” agreed Elva sorrowfully. “It is the way of Queens.”

  Mark stared at her, baffled. “What?”

  “Her Majesty your Queen was born to rule. It’s the same with your overlord, Queen Igraine. They both claim the power of the Mother to queen it over one and all.” She paused again. “Perhaps it’s time for Your Majesty to show yourself a king.”

  Gods, it was hot. Mark tugged at the neck of his gown. “What can I do?” he railed.

  Elva dropped her eyes in delicious deference. “A king can do anything.”

  Mark’s soul soared. Here was a woman who knew how things should be. Not like Isolde, his precious roaming wife.

  “Well then,” he said, greatly daring, “I shall—I shall—” He shook his fuddled head. “What shall I do?”

  She was ready for this. “Your Majesty may at least ask where your Queen is. And her knight, for Sir Tristan must be with her too.”

  Dominian leaned forward. “They may be lost, sire, have you thought of that?”

  “Indeed!” Elva widened her eyes. “Perhaps they’ve been attacked by outlaws, or waylaid.”

  Mark laughed in scorn. “There’s no one in that forest.”

  The priest shook his head. “But Your Majesty must make sure that your Queen is safe.”

  “Must, must?” fretted Mark. “Why should they come to any harm?” He turned to Elva, putting on a careless shrug. “And if they’re in a hurry to get to Ireland, why should they send word?”

  She could smell his uncertainty above the rank odor of the wine. “You are the King. They owe their faith to you.”

  “Send after them, sire,” said Dominian forcefully. “Find out what’s going on.”

  Thank you, priest! Purring inwardly, Elva pressed her advantage home. “Tristan at least should return at your command. He owes you an explanation of the reason for their delay.”

  Mark hesitated. His head swam. God Almighty, what to do?

  “Well, sire?” Dominian cut in.

  “Well what?” snapped Mark. “I’m sure Isolde can take care of herself. And if she’s lost, what am I to do? Queen Igraine is the overlord of the forest, not I.”

  Dominian’s eyes flared. “Why should you be subject to the old Queen? A man should rule his kingdom—and his wife.”

  Mark clenched his fists and turned an ugly red. “Are you saying I don’t?” He called the nearest servant. “Tell the Captain of the Guard to get a galloper here.” He nodded to Dominian and Elva. “I’ll send to the port to see if they’ve taken ship. I’ll show them who is King!”

  “Your Majesty is wise.” Elva preened herself like a snake in the sun, writhing her long hard body under Mark’s gaze.

  Mark eyed her sharp, high breasts, lean waist, and boyish flanks. He had done his work for the day and could take his reward. “Come, lady,” he said thickly. “Let’s go to bed.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Castle Pleure?

  Now I know why they call this the Place of Tears.

  Isolde raised her weary head from her arms and rubbed her eyes. Truly Sir Greuze’s retreat was well named. How many tears had she shed in the short time here? How many nights had she watched by Tristan’s bed, with only the bats and screech owls for company?

  Brangwain, loyal to a fault, had to be ordered to her own bed at night, for her strength would be needed when Isolde could go no more. Tristan lay before them like a carving on a tomb, and his ragged breath rustled like dead leaves through the darkness of the night. And still Isolde was haunted by the fearful thought, Goddess, Mother, tell me how bad he is.

  Wait and see was the bleak answer, from the moment the knights carried Tristan’s unconscious body into the hall.

  Isolde closed her eyes. Would she ever forget how hard it had been to get Tristan’s poor tortured body into a bed? Built into the face of the hillside, its chambers burrowing back into the rock, the castle had no open, airy apartments where the sun poured in. Ivy mantled all the windows and every room was bathed in greenish light. Still, the rooms were warm and dry, and a sweet forest fragrance hung in the air. So the place was wholesome enough—but if only they had been in Dubh Lein . . .

  At first she wanted to put Tristan in the best room in the house.

  “Where did your master sleep?” she questioned Sir Yder as they climbed the stairs.

  Sir Yder threw open a handsome pair of doors. “Here, lady.”

  Isolde moved forward. The rooms themselves were wide and gracious enough, floored in mellow oak and looking out through green curtains of ivy into the heart of the wood. But as she entered, Greuze’s blood-stained armor hung on every wall, his double-edged swords crossed with his daggers and killing spears. On the floor lay the hideous trophies of his evil ways, long hanks of women’s hair in chestnut, fair, and dark with even a few pitiful, tangled tufts of gray. One side of the bed was stained with tears and blood, and the terrible smell of madness filled the air.

  Tears filled her eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

  She turned sharply on her heel and hurried away. Tomorrow she would have the whole apartment scoured from ceiling to floor. Then these rooms could be habitable again. But put Tristan here to recover? Never! She fought down her rising stomach. “On, sir, on!”

  At the top of the castle was a disused attic chamber empty of all but the old wooden frame of a bed. Rambling away under the eaves, it caught all the sun that reached the ancient grange. Its round windows gazed out through the drifting tops of the trees, and the gentle movement of the branches might help Tristan sleep.

  She turned to Sir Yder. “A mattress and clean linen, and a full set of hangings, sir—and I may b
eg you, on Tristan’s life, your very best?”

  The night was long, watching over Tristan’s body as his fever rose. A dark-faced Brangwain kept the vigil beside her, her lean frame coiled like a cat ready to spring.

  At length the loyal maid could bear no more. “We need healing-stuffs, lady. If there’s anything here, I’ll find it tonight!”

  She was gone for a long time. But when she returned, Isolde was reminded again why they called Brangwain “Merlin’s kin.”

  “Here, madam!” cried the maid, erupting into the chamber with a pot of salve. “Sir Greuze forbade all such potions, but I knew one of the knights must have his own remedy for cuts and hurts.” She grinned in triumph. “They all swore they had no such thing, but I found it in the end.”

  Isolde opened the lid. The salve was rich and glossy, brownish-black, and stiff enough to hold a knife upright. It smelled of poppy and all-heal, lavender and thyme, with a strange seductive hint of something unknown. She peered at it suspiciously. “Did they say what it was?”

  “From the East, was all they knew. But they swore it had saved more lives among them than one.”

  Isolde hesitated. Could she risk using this? Yet what else was there if she rejected it? She cast a stricken eye over the figure slumbering like death at her side, and dug into the paste. They never knew if it helped Tristan or not. But he did not die that night.

  THE NEXT DAY they buried the Lady La Pauvre and Sir Greuze. The poor lady was laid to rest in the little chapel adjoining the castle, and Isolde herself led the funeral rites. As the candles bloomed like white roses on the walls, she called on the Mother to bring the lost soul to peace. As she did so, her sight shivered and she saw two souls walking in starlight on the astral plain, wrapped in each other’s arms, each comforting the other with tears of joy. Then Tristan’s words came back to her with new pain: she has what she wanted. Her spirit is with her love.

  But they could not lay Greuze in the earth, for the Mother would never take him to Herself. Nor was it right that he should rest forever beside the lady he had wronged. When the bodies were brought up from the forest, Isolde decreed that Greuze should not be admitted to Castle Pleure, but was to pass the night outside, guarded by four of his knights.

  More than one of his knights, Isolde knew, slipped out in the long hours of darkness to bid their lord farewell. She guessed others would weep privately for the knight he once had been. But none challenged her decision with a word or a look. Greuze had banished himself from the company of decent souls and must be buried as the outcast he had made himself in his life.

  At dawn Isolde had him carried deep into the wood, with all his knights marching in front and behind. Greuze was laid to rest in a sheltered hollow underneath the trees, wrapped in his banner, with his sword at his side. With none to praise his life or mourn his death, the ceremonies were brief. Then the knights covered him with a cairn of stones. Very soon the woodland would take the unmarked grave to itself and Greuze would sleep undisturbed in his stony bed.

  They turned to go. Standing at the side of the cairn, Isolde saw an older knight leaning heavily on his sword, his head bowed in grief.

  “He knighted me,” he said simply. “I was a green lad, and he saw what I could do. He taught me chivalry, everything I know. But in the Holy Land, a bolt from a crossbow caught him in the head. After that—” he struggled to master himself. “We all prayed he would recover his mind one day. He was a true knight once.”

  Isolde felt tears burning the back of her throat. “May that be his epitaph. And may his soul make its way to the arms of the Mother in the end.”

  The knight stared out into the rising sun. “Let us hope, lady. Let us hope.”

  CHAPTER 14

  How is he now, Brangwain?”

  “Much better, lady, I believe.”

  Coming slowly back to consciousness, Tristan recognized the voice of the maid. But Brangwain would probably say that, no matter how he was.

  How bad was he, rambling through these endless regions of pain? He laughed to himself, and back the answer came: you cannot know. But Isolde would know, and so would Brangwain. That was all he had to care about now. He drifted away on a cloud of content.

  Isolde my lady—Isolde my only love . . .

  He wanted to tell the world, shout it aloud. But he knew he must protect her name with his life. Not a word, then, he told himself owlishly, not a word . . . Yet his mind played on.

  My lady . . . oh, my love . . .

  Tristan heard his own voice singing in his head, and came to himself bathed in greenish light. I have drowned was the sweet thought filling his brain. The Lady of the Sea has come to take me home. He floated in warm abandon, loose as a child. His lifelong prayer drifted gently through his mind, I pray you, lay me with my mother, she died for me.

  Then he felt a hand he knew on the back of his neck, and the edge of a cup nudged briskly at his lips.

  “Drink this,” said the voice he would have obeyed through all three worlds, and he drank and slipped back into the arms of the sea.

  But one day he heard a robin scolding as she scoured the wintry forest, then he caught the pattering of a mouse in the wainscot, followed by the furious scratching of a cat. When the night was at its lowest, he listened to the slow ticking of the deathwatch beetle at its mournful work. Then at dawn came the blessed crowing of a cock, and he knew he was not dead but alive and on earth.

  But which earth? Cornwall, Ireland, or a foreign land? Wherever he was, she was with him too. Every day he felt the hard little hands at work, feeding him sops, dressing his wounds, or cooling his forehead to drive the demons away.

  Then came the moment when he opened his eyes and knew where he was. Smiling, he drew a great breath of air and tried to speak.

  Isolde swallowed her rising tears of joy. “You have kept us very busy, sir,” she said huskily, “Brangwain and I. You ran a fever from your injuries, and we lost you for a while.”

  He found his voice. “What are my wounds?”

  She regarded him gravely. “Almost too many to count.”

  “And the worst?”

  “This.” Delicately, she traced a long raised scar on his thigh. “The blade pierced you to the bone.”

  And struck into the groin; he could tell it from her face. He flexed his leg and knew at once how long it would be before he walked again or was able to ride.

  Or before he . . .

  A primal fear of manhood shook him from head to foot, and he forced himself to put the thought away. Time enough for that, he schooled himself with gritted teeth. He forced a lopsided grin. “Your knight gave a poor account of himself, it seems.”

  She leapt to his defense. “Greuze was fully armed, and you were only equipped for the road! He had—”

  “I know.” He tried to sit up and was defeated by the trembling in his limbs. “How long have we been here?”

  “Long enough to enjoy the peace of this castle of yours. But I’ve sent ahead to the port, to command a ship for when we’re ready to put to sea.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “This castle of mine, lady?”

  “Yours, sir,” she said firmly. “Won by the rules of war.”

  He laughed with delight. “Then if it’s mine, I shall call it—” He paused, while a thousand little winged joys fluttered round his head. “—Bel Content. I don’t want to own a place of weeping and tears.”

  “Castle Bel Content.” Isolde rolled the name around her mind, relishing the sound. “Your knights will say their new lord has chosen well.”

  “And what does my doctor say?”

  “That the patient has talked enough for one day.” She stooped down with a smile and stopped his mouth with a kiss.

  But he would not be silenced for long, Isolde knew, and soon he insisted on trying out his strength. White and sweating, he forced himself around the chamber, leaning on Yder’s shoulder all the way. That night he moaned in torment in his sleep, and Isolde sat watchful and wakeful, suffering thr
ough it all.

  But each day became easier, till the great shuffling figure, huddled over like a sick old man, returned step-by-step to his former self. Before long he had made his way to the stables to visit the great gray who had carried him down the years, and both horse and rider wept on each other’s necks. At last he had the strength to join Yder and the knights at the hunt, and joyfully stayed in the saddle from dawn to dusk. Isolde watched the color come back to his dear face and felt the blood returning to her heart. The old year was dying now from day to day, but like the green man of the woods, Tristan waxed and grew strong.

  At length they came to the moment that Tristan had feared. But Isolde knew what he dreaded, and in her arms he found the comfort that drives away fear. Alone at the top of the castle, with the faithful Brangwain keeping the world at bay, slowly and tenderly they renewed their love. In the sweet greenish light of the trees, lulled by the wind in the branches singing them to sleep, they lay together all night, drowsing in bliss and waking in each other’s arms.

  Even then they knew it was a special interlude. Love’s time is not like other hours and weeks, and they lived a lifetime of joy in the days they had. At Mark’s court or in the castle of Dubh Lein, a thousand eyes saw everything they did, and the dread of discovery ran through their lives. Here they could be together without fear, to walk in the woodland by day and whisper by candlelight at night. Every morning brought new pleasure, and each twilight a warm glow of content. Yet always the thought hung between them like a shadow from the Otherworld: one day soon, love, we must be on our way . . .

  And still the days wore away to the death of the year. Now the snows came down, and the earth lay bound in frost. The forest was roofed with white, casting an Otherworldly light on the ground below, and snow crystals glittered like diamonds on every tree. Indoors, too, the frost left its traces on the windowpanes. As she went from room to room, Isolde found written in the ice mantling the green glass, Isolde my lady or My lady and my Queen. Then she knew that Tristan was himself again.

  One day when they were quite alone he said, “Lady, we should celebrate the midwinter feast. I want to see you revel and dance like a queen.”