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

by Rosalind Miles

  Then she knew why she loved him, and him alone. “The midwinter feast?”

  He looked at her and saw her dancing eyes. “To mourn the death of the year,” he affirmed, “and bring on the birth of the new. The midwinter revels drive the darkness away.”

  He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. The touch of her melted his heart, and he heard music and laughter and the singing of her soul. He saw her radiant in jewels and velvet, fragrant as midsummer, dancing in her winter court. None of this came to him in words he could say. “A feast,” he repeated stubbornly, “a feast.”

  “A feast?” Brangwain did not hesitate, her dark eyes dancing with glee. “You have your harp, sir, and there’ll be some here, I swear, who can raise a tune.” She laughed with delight. “And not only my countryman from the land of song.”

  Brangwain was right. Fighting man though he was, Sir Yder bore the music of his race deep in his veins. Most of the knights could also carry a tune, and a few were proficient on flute and tabor too.

  But the knights were reluctant to enter into the spirit of mirth.

  “The heart has gone out of them, lady,” Tristan said sorrowfully. “They lost the joy of merrymaking years ago.”

  Isolde shook her head. “Every man hopes for delight in his soul,” she said firmly. “We’ll send them into the greenwood for holly and ivy, and whoever does best, we’ll make him the king of the feast.”

  The next morning a laughing, jostling procession made its way into the wood. That night the hall was decked like a forest bower, redolent with the sharp green scent of the woodland and hung about with great globes of mistletoe glowing like the moon.

  They began the music as soon as the food was done. As Tristan led, Yder followed and the little band of musicians struck up a lilting tune. One refrain led into another as they recalled songs of their boyhood, their adventures as young knights, and sweet serenades of their courtship days. Note after note filled the candlelit hall till the scene faded and Isolde saw wide sunlit meadows, bustling tournaments, and highways teeming with life. At the foot of a tower stood a knight harping of love, to a lady who leaned down from her window and threw him a rose.

  The ballad came to an end. Tristan passed his harp to Yder and rose to his feet. Immediately the Welshman plucked out a lively air, and the rest of the musicians took up the beat of the dance. Tristan crossed to Isolde, bowed, and held out his hand. “Honor me, Your Majesty?” he inquired softly.

  “Oh, sir . . .” Isolde smiled into his eyes. “The honor is mine.”

  For the rest of her life the first notes of that tune would always take her back to that candlelit hall, that time of joy. Tristan danced as he fought, deft and sure and strong. His hard hand in hers was all that she desired, his brief touch on her shoulder or waist a promise of more. Borne up by the music, they leapt and swooped and soared, rising like birds above the everyday world. Moving as one, their spirits left the world, bound for the regions high above the stars. For a moment they touched the place where souls go hand in hand and lovers never part. And that night they returned there again in each other’s arms, heart-to-heart and naked soul to soul.

  The next morning dawned gray and the sun hid its head. Shrouded within the great bed, Isolde closed her eyes. The sun cannot bear to watch what we have to do. By her side Tristan slept lightly like a hunter, his face shadowed by the early morning light. Lovingly, she eyed the smooth lines of his strong-featured face and resisted the urge to stroke his powerful jaw. The warm, familiar smell of him rose to greet her as she carefully snuggled her body closer to his. How can I live without this? stabbed her to the quick. She reached out to him for comfort, then pulled back, her heart darkening like the day. I must learn to live without you. Tomorrow, love, we will wake alone.

  As they left, all the knights turned out to bid them farewell. Yder had agreed to take command of the castle, and there was no reason to delay. On the edge of the forest, Isolde thought she heard a voice calling from the depths of the old grange, return when you will, you will find me here. But she dared not let herself look back.

  Now every hour brought them to the port. Step by step the air overhead grew sharp with the tang of salt, and the mournful cries of the gulls beckoned them on. Isolde read Tristan’s bleak face and threw him a glance. Soon, love, we’ll be in Ireland, where no man can say me nay. And there we’ll be happy again as we were at Bel Content.

  They came to the top of a hill. As they climbed the ridge, it began to snow. On the crest, a great flock of magpies rose squawking from the ground, a flash of blue-black and white, and glittering, staring eyes. One for sorrow . . . seven for a secret that must never be told . . .

  Isolde shivered. Gods above, magpies were ill-omened birds. She looked around in alarm. Below them lay a sheltered inlet with two or three ships at anchor, surrounded by the armored guards of the king. A lean, sharp-faced captain stood at their head, and Mark’s royal standard was flying over them all.

  Isolde felt her heart choking her throat. Goddess, Mother, is Mark here? Will he know that Tristan has just left my bed?

  The reins of her horse lay idle in her hands. She took them up in a dream of dread and forced herself down the slope. The captain began to speak as they drew near.

  “King Mark greets the Queen of Ireland, his loyal wife,” he proclaimed. “He wishes her a good voyage to Ireland and all speed in her state affairs. And he orders his royal nephew and liege knight, Tristan of Lyonesse, to turn back to Castle Dore. Matters of state demand his presence there, and the King will take it as the act of a traitor to refuse.”

  CHAPTER 15

  There was no sound but the crying of the gulls. Isolde felt the blood draining from her face and thought all the world must hear the clamor in her heart. The captain stood watching her with all his men as she sat on her horse amid the drifting snow. She gazed back at the wall of staring eyes and dared not look at Tristan at her side.

  “You shall not go,” she muttered, numb with shock.

  A great wave dashed against the dock, and a fine freezing spray fell on their faces like tears.

  “Think, lady!” he ground back, suppressing a groan. “If I defy Mark and take ship with you, won’t the whole world know whose knight I am?”

  She nodded furiously, yes. It would tell Mark that we are lovers and care nothing for him. And it would put a weapon into Andred’s hands that the jealous knight would not hesitate to use.

  She moistened her dry lips. “What does he want?”

  “Mark?” Tristan gave soft and savage laugh. “What else but to part us, lady, and to cause you pain?”

  She did not want to believe it. “Matters of state,” she insisted. “He said—”

  “Lies!” Tristan spat. “He only wants to demonstrate his power.”

  “Over me?” Her eyes flared. “I am Queen of the Western Isle in my own right. Even in Cornwall every woman has the freedom of the Mother-right. Mark cannot touch me.”

  And that is why he hates you, and always will. Tristan choked back an angry sigh. He nodded toward the men drawn up on the quay. “Come, lady, let us give them what they want. Let me see you aboard and then be on my way.” As he spoke he felt his heart crack like a bone.

  “Rest here tonight,” she said, frantic to change his mind. “It’s snowing, and you’ll never find the way. You’ll be lost in the wood if you try to ride in the dark. If I sail at dawn, that will give us a few more hours.”

  The dying sun was plunging into the sea. Tristan watched it dissolve in a cauldron of red and gold and steeled himself not to melt with it too. “Mark’s orders were that I should return at once.”

  “Through a midnight forest? At the risk of your life?” she flung out furiously, then bit it back. Nothing was gained by pressing him to delay.

  Overhead a pair of gulls wheeled and cried, then parted lamenting into the setting sun. The sky was bathed in blood like the death of hope, and banks of dark cloud draped the horizon in black. The sea called out with a sl
ow departing roar and the wind plucked at her garments, come, Isolde, come . . .

  The evening star was blooming in the west. She could hardly speak for pain. “So we must part?”

  “Only in body,” he said in low, fervent tones. “My soul is yours, my spirit, my sword are yours. Every evening I shall look on the love star and pray for you. Every dawn I shall call down the love of the Mother on your head.”

  “And I you.” She bowed her head. “And with every breath I shall draw you back to my side.”

  “And I you.”

  “So, then . . . ?” She could not say it.

  “You to the sea, and I to the lonely sky,” Tristan muttered through pale lips. “I must go back to the forest and find my way.”

  He had the look of a deer in the midnight woodland, wild and strange. Already you have left me, my sweet love. She wanted to weep.

  He turned moonstruck eyes upon her. “A thousand years ago the Great Ones set this suffering in the stars. But our coming together again will be written too. One day I shall be with you, never to part. Come, lady, let me bring you to your ship.”

  THE WOODLAND LAY around him, dark and deep. The stars had fled behind the louring clouds, and the glimmering moon could hardly light the way. And it was cold . . . so cold . . .

  Snow lay everywhere, turning the world to white. A deep frost had made all the forest a labyrinth of ice, and he had long ago lost all sense in his hands and feet. He reached forward to pat his horse’s neck. “Farther, old friend?”

  The great gray swung back his head and nuzzled Tristan’s boot. You’re the master, sir.

  I know, Tristan nodded. And I should have done better by both of us than this!

  He heaved a furious sigh. Why had he chosen to travel on a night like this? And why had he left the straight track that he knew and struck off through the trees in search of a shorter route?

  “Go with the Goddess,” she had said, her face as stripped of emotion as a sea-bleached bone. But loving her as he did, he knew what lay beneath. And he had never felt anything as naked and raw as her grief, unless it was his own.

  Yet he, too, had to hide all he felt. “Farewell, lady” was his wooden reply.

  Then he bowed and left her on the windswept deck and watched from the jetty as the sea bore her away. She is gone, ripped through him like a severed nerve. When shall I see her, hold her, kiss her sweet eyes again?

  Yes, yes, he told himself, shivering, that had been pain indeed, almost beyond his power to endure. Still, what a fool to leave the greenways that were old when the Romans came, and strike off into the trackless wastes of the wood. It was colder now than he could have believed, every twig cracking as the frost tightened its grip, every tree bowed down with the weight of snow and ice. As he nosed his horse forward it came to him like a cold branch in the face, I could die here. I could lose my life.

  On plodded the gray, on through the frozen night. Cold as he was, he felt tiredness overtaking him with every step as his overstrained body nudged him to the edge of sleep.

  Sleep . . .

  He laughed, a strange, rusty sound. On the road, he often slumbered as his horse went along, knowing the faithful creature would find the way. Indeed in those far-off, glorious tournament days when he chased the sport of arms from place to place, the gray had known the great highways of France, Spain, and Gaul better than he had himself. But if he slept now, they would never see the dawn. No, sleep must wait till he lay in a fine feather bed, hung with royal emerald satin and embroidered with the white trefoil.

  Till he lay in Isolde’s arms . . .

  A faint fragrance reached him through the drowsy air. Greeting his starved senses in that midnight wood, it seemed the sweetest thing in all the world, and he turned his horse toward it in a dream.

  “Gods above!”

  The gray stumbled heavily, jolting him awake. Cursing, he vaulted from the saddle and groaned. If the gray went lame, they would perish here. Time to go on foot and lead his loyal mount.

  On . . .

  Must get on . . .

  What was that?

  Ahead of him a light flickered and was gone. Was it real? Trembling, he cast around in an ecstasy of hope. Where was it? Over there?

  “Where are you?” he cried out. “Show me again!”

  All around him the forest lay dark and cold and still. Tears as hard as diamonds stood in his frozen eyes. It was only a will-o’-the-wisp after all, the spirit who came to torment a lost traveler’s last hours. So that was his fate, then, death?

  So be it. He laughed a frozen laugh. He would not be the first to lose his way in the wood, and pay for the misjudgment with his life. The pulse of life was still thundering through his veins. But the Dark Lord was approaching, he could hear his tread.

  He fixed his eyes on the place where the light had died, and filled his mind with joy. One thought alone would transport him to the Plains of Delight.

  Isolde, my lady . . .

  My lady and my love.

  CHAPTER 16

  A ray of light shone out through the gloom. Tristan held onto the reins for support, staring like the dead. With painful slowness he closed his frozen eyes then opened them again. His heart lurched wildly. The light was still there.

  “Look, look!” he mumbled in crazy excitement to the gray. He pointed a trembling hand. “And another over there?” He fumbled at the reins. “Get on, while we can still see it—on!”

  But the gray took the bit between his teeth and refused to move, tossing his head and digging in his hooves.

  “Gods above!” Tristan groaned. Was this a time to delay? Roughly he drove forward toward the light. But his strength was waning now with every step, and he cried out in fear as the distant gleam flickered, then died away. Just as he was about to stumble to his knees, a brightness lit the midnight path ahead and he saw the lights of a castle glimmering through the trees. Weeping, he threw an arm over his horse’s furry neck.

  “Saved!” he rejoiced. “We’re saved.”

  All at once the air seemed warmer and he smelled the sweet fragrance again. It came from the dark dwelling he could see ahead, its outline getting clearer as he drew near. The ground was rising toward a tree-lined crest and it stood proudly on the horizon, its black facade starkly outlined against the fleeting moon. For a moment he took it for a shape with no substance, then told himself that the high walls and delicate towers must be solid enough. How else would a castle appear in the middle of a forest at night?

  Now the gray was suddenly fearful again, shying away and whinnying with distress, as if it feared to face the way ahead. Slowly, he coaxed it from the shelter of the trees. They came out into a clearing, a wide expanse of white under the pale winter moon. Tristan stared. All around the castle the snow lay undisturbed, as if nothing had passed that way for weeks. Yet in winter like this, when food would be running low, surely the knights must go hunting every day?

  Tristan shook his head. Time enough to puzzle this out later on. For now—he raised his eyes from the ground and caught his breath.

  The whole of the castle was bathed in a glimmering light. A pearly sheen danced off the snow-covered ground, and frost glistened on every stone tracery and parapet. The great doors of the gatehouse stood open below, and a warm glow seemed to beckon weary travelers in. Venturing through the gates, he found himself in a wide courtyard, where forty stables stood open around three sides of a fine cobbled square. Tristan looked around, at a loss again. In any other stables at this hour, overworked lads would be scrambling to deal with mud-spattered riders and horses loudly whinnying for their feed. But here there were neither men nor horses to be seen.

  Tristan shrugged his stiff shoulders: no matter. On the road he always looked after his horse himself. He led the gray into the nearest stall and unsaddled and rubbed him down with unusual care. But still the horse shivered and rolled his eyes, breathing as hard as if he scented blood.

  “What’s wrong with you, snorting and skittering like this?” Tr
istan demanded fondly, fetching his old friend a whack across the rump. “Nothing that a bale of hay won’t cure.”

  At last he left the stable and made his way up through the yard. The stars were out and a fragile moon smiled down upon a world of ice and snow. Ahead of him a glittering archway gave onto a grand courtyard with torchlit cloisters shaded by ivy and yew. As he made his way forward, the sweet fragrance came to him again. Be calm, he schooled himself. But still his pulse beat faster and he could feel the excitement gathering in his soul.

  Far off now he could hear high-pitched voices and tinkling laughter, and faint strains of ethereal music overhead. Light poured into the courtyard, and a pair of great bronze doors swung open to reveal a handsome hall with slender, brightly clad shapes drifting to and fro. More candles than he could count burned around the walls, and the flames of a roaring fire danced on the hearth. The fragrance he had followed from the forest came to meet him, catching his heart, and he thought of his lost mother, frail, lovely, and fleeting, and too young to die. A vast yearning filled him, and he wanted to stay forever in this glittering space where brilliant, beautiful creatures wafted to and fro. One thought alone suffused his wandering brain: I have come to the place where the Fair Ones live.

  In a dream, he stepped over the threshold and entered the hall. Now he saw that the long chamber was hung with tapestries and every scene depicted seemed alive. In one, a proud queen embraced a unicorn on a golden chain and spurned the handsome lover at her side. In another, she commanded a suitor to be gone, banishing him from the sunlit orchard where she held court. In the last, a young man lay dying on the ground, all alone in a withered forest where no flowers grew. A few faint words were issuing from his mouth, but at this distance Tristan could not make out what they were.

  He closed his eyes. That scent again—what was it? The faint smell of blossom reached him, and he turned his head. At the far end of the chamber stood a great bowl of blood-red roses, flourishing their dark heads. Roses in winter? Tristan looked again. Strange, that these artificial blooms could look so real, and even smell so too. Real? He shook his head. He had not realized how tired he was.