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

by Rosalind Miles

  “You have something to say?” Isolde asked, bewildered.

  “No, it’s forbidden!” Friya shrilled. Then her face dissolved again into a brilliant smile. “But I can tell you. You’re one of them. Tall and shining, I knew you at once.”

  “One of whom?”

  “You know,” cried the old woman irritably. “The Shining Ones. You’re one of them.”

  “Tell me, then.” Isolde felt herself trembling. “You can tell me.”

  The old woman lowered her voice. “The Fair Ones are here. Right here. But you know that.”

  “Here? Yes, of course.”

  Friya gave a mysterious smile and waved her hands. “They came here to live with me.”

  “The Fair Ones have come here to live with you . . .” Isolde shook her head. Madness, all of it. There was no sense in a word Friya said.

  Alas, poor soul, we must take care of her. She has a daughter, didn’t the steward say that? She should be left with her. Or else in some kindly hospice where the aged like her may find peace at last.

  Dimly, she heard the old woman’s voice running on, mingling with the distant roar of the sea.

  “. . . yes, Fair Ones, tall and unsmiling in the night, but the one with the mark, he was a Shining One, I knew him as I knew you . . .”

  Isolde did not move. “The one with the mark . . . ?”

  Friya treated her to a glance of utter scorn. “Between his brows, shining, you’ve seen it, you know—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” She could hardly breathe. “How many of them were there, these Fair Ones, when they came?”

  “Two!” Friya hooted vigorously. “Two of them, and many more mounted men.”

  Isolde made her voice as calm as she could. “And where are they now, the Fair Ones? Where are they living, these dark, shining men?”

  THE OLD HERMITAGE lay halfway down the cliff, a large cave with a natural stone ledge before it jutting out over the sea.

  The only way down the sheer face of the rock was by the long, rickety ladder, lying now on the cliff top at their feet. The hermit would have used it to descend to the platform of stone, then drawn it down after him to protect his retreat. But without it, for any unfortunates marooned on the rocky ledge, there was no way up. Or down: the cliff fell away sharply beneath the ledge, and the sea prowled hungrily on the rocks below.

  Beside the ladder lay a capacious wooden bucket with a long rope attached to its handle—for lowering food and water to men in the cave below . . . ?

  Isolde surged to the edge of the cliff, fire in every limb. Gathering up her skirts, she threw herself to the ground and leaned over the edge. “Lord Cormac and Sir Gilhan,” she called, “are you there?”

  “Areyouthereareyouthereareyouthere . . .”

  A mocking echo tore her voice away. There was no answer from the cave below. Trembling, she tried again, stretching farther over the cliff edge.

  “Lady,” cried her leading knight, “beware!”

  She took no notice and called again. Far below came a rustling inside the cave, like creatures in hibernation stirring from a long sleep. Then came the words she would treasure all her life.

  “Your Majesty?”

  It was Gilhan’s voice, rusty and cracked, but firm. “Is there a ladder up there, by any chance?”

  A WEEK LATER Isolde stood with Sir Gilhan on the deck of the Queen’s ship. “Sir, we are safely embarked. We have a fair wind for Cornwall, and a full tide. I shall return as swiftly as I can.”

  “And in the meantime, you may safely leave Ireland to me and to Lord Cormac, lady,” he responded quietly. “We shall repay your care. When you rescued us, we had almost given up hope. The Gods only know how much longer we would have received our daily bucket from the ancient dame.”

  Isolde nodded. “And what a miracle that poor mad Friya never forgot her instructions or failed her trust. She was the only one who knew where you were.”

  Gilhan drew a sharp breath. “Yes, Majesty.”

  She looked at him and feared she had said too much: no man wanted to be reminded of a violent, unjust arrest, weeks of imprisonment in fear of his life, and eking out a miserable existence in a cave, with nothing but the rocks and the sea below. Yet both her old friends had come through their ordeal intact.

  “Well, sir,” she resumed, “the Gods and Great Ones brought you and Lord Cormac back to me. I know the Western Isle will be safe in your hands.”

  “I will tell Cormac so.” Gilhan smiled. “Now may the sun and the wind speed you on your way and bring you what you seek.”

  What I seek . . . ?

  A sudden wind whipped over the purple sea. The air shivered, and Isolde heard the Lady’s voice. Ah, Isolde, beware of what you seek. If a man loses his honor . . .

  Her sight faded and three female faces floated up from the sea, one fair, one dark, and the third with chestnut hair. All opened their soundless mouths at the same time, and their eyes filled with fire. Love me, Tristan, their hungry lips intoned. Their red lips were ripe for kissing, and she thought she saw Tristan’s head leaning down to kiss one of them.

  She closed her eyes, shaking from head to foot. Who were these women to invade her mind and try to steal her love?

  Why do you haunt me like this?

  Go away!

  “My lady? Are you well?”

  It was Brangwain, her eyes alight with concern. Isolde stood very still. No, I am not well. I am sick for Tristan, and this sickness is my love.

  With an effort of will, she forced herself to smile. “Away with us then, Sir Gilhan,” she cried gaily.

  Sir Gilhan nodded. “Godspeed then, madam,” he said slowly. “And away with you.”

  The sun was sinking in a pool of fire as the little ship ran out of the bay with the tide. Gilhan stood on the quay, hand upraised in farewell for as long as he could see Isolde and Brangwain standing on the deck. A dark misgiving gripped him, body and soul, and his prayer soared with the seabirds following the ship.

  “May all your Gods go with you, lady. May you find what you seek— and nothing more, nothing worse!”

  CHAPTER 30

  Kill! Kill!

  A red mist drowned Tristan’s sight. All he could see were two eyes like lakes of darkness and an open, quivering mouth. The silver point of his sword drove forward without his command and drew blood, dancing in the white hollow of a woman’s throat.

  A shuddering moan reached him from far away. “Don’t kill me! Don’t—”

  It was the maid Falsamilla, on her knees before him, weeping at his feet. He could see half a dozen tiny sword-cuts in her neck. Had he done that? Gods above, to treat a woman so . . .

  “Let me be your lady,” she implored through swollen lips. “Let me only follow you . . .”

  Drops of blood were pulsing from her throat. He could not look at her. I have hurt her like this, and still she begs me to love her, and grovels like a dog? “No.”

  “On my knees, sir—”

  He could not bear it. “Lady, it cannot be.”

  She looked at him, speechless, desolate. Averting his gaze, he plowed on. “The Great Ones decide who will go hand in hand through all the worlds. For us, it was not written in the stars. You gave me my freedom, and I shall honor you all my life. But from this moment, our paths lie apart.”

  Falsamilla bowed her head. “Go, then,” she muttered. “But at least give me something to remember you by.”

  He started and backed away. “What can I give you?”

  Her eyes were like desert moons. “A kiss.”

  “A kiss from me?” he gasped. “Why?”

  Now it was her turn to look away. “No man ever kissed me in my life,” she said stonily. “I want to know what a kiss is before I die.”

  Alas, poor lady . . .

  Pity flooded him. She saved my life and all she asks is this? Aching with sorrow, he looked at her lovely face, her soft body ripe for awakening. and felt an angry shame on behalf of his sex. Where is the man who will warm this
woman through? Where is the knight that she can call her own?

  She was trembling like a child after a beating, staring at the floor. Without thinking, he took her in his arms, cradling her in his cloak. With a shock, he felt her heart thudding against his breast. Lowering his head, he gave her a gentle kiss. But he was not surprised when her lips parted and her red mouth fastened desperately on his. She clung to him so greedily that for a moment panic touched him with one fearful thought, she will suck out my soul! But the next second, he tasted the salt of her tears and knew that this was no enchantment, just a woman’s breaking heart.

  They kissed, and kissed again. At last he broke away.

  Oh, Isolde, I have betrayed our love . . .

  “I must go,” he said, lost in despair. She nodded, staring at him with huge and empty eyes, and he felt her misery in his own soul. “What will you do?” he asked awkwardly.

  She gave a crooked smile. “Ah, sir, the world is wide. I shall find my way.”

  “Alone?”

  Her smile grew bitter as she looked at him. “Unless you’ll change your mind.”

  “But the highways are full of rogues and lawless men.”

  “Have no fear. Duessa taught us all to take care of ourselves.”

  He watched unhappily as she took her horse and climbed into the saddle, all her brightness gone. She pointed to where two tracks diverged in the wood. “You that way,” she said bleakly, “and I this.” Then she turned away without another word.

  “Farewell, lady,” he called out desperately to the retreating back. “May the Mother Herself watch over you as you go.” But there was no reply. Only the mocking whisper of the wind, echoing the shame and disgust he felt.

  You swore to protect all women, and to be true to one. You have betrayed Falsamilla and deceived Isolde tonight.

  You have broken your oath. You are no true knight.

  Failed again, Tristan, failed. Gods above, where will it all end?

  MANY EYES SAW the knight on the gray riding in. First came the watcher in the tree, who was soon on horseback to gabble out the news. “Lord Andred, he’s here—the knight you ordered me to watch for all these weeks . . .”

  After him came the women at the ford below Castle Dore. Five or ten of them, bare-legged in the water, were washing their linen in the crisp running stream when one caught sight of the newcomer and cried out, “He’s here!”

  “The lost Prince?”

  “Not any more, girl. See for yourself!”

  As they ran to see, more than one noticed that the knight was as white as the sheets they’d left floating in the ford, his handsome face bleached with weariness and pain. But still he had a courteous word for all of them, and a tired smile. Then the men in the fields rushed to kiss his hand, and the castle-dwellers came pouring out of kitchens, cellars, and attics to welcome him home. Smiling through it all, Tristan swung down from his horse in the courtyard, his legs trembling with fatigue. Gods and Great Ones, he vowed with a humble heart, thanks and blessings for bringing me safe home.

  But one look at Mark’s face told him there was no safety here.

  “Tristan?”

  Surrounded by his entourage, the King was bearing down on him with an unpleasant smile. “We have missed you, nephew,” he said in spiteful tones. “You were due back here weeks ago. Where have you been all this while?”

  Tristan took a deep breath. “Sire . . .” he began, and launched into his tale.

  But Mark was not minded to believe a word he heard. “Oh, indeed,” he sneered. “Delayed by a lady, you say, held against your will? When I had sent for you urgently, commanded you to be here?”

  Andred leaned forward. “At least Sir Tristan’s back in time for the tournament.”

  Tristan shook his head. “What tournament?”

  “Ah, you don’t know, you see,” Mark cried triumphantly. “That’s what you get for staying away so long. You were invited by name—you alone, nephew—to a tournament in France. Well, I couldn’t have that. So we’re holding our own tournament here . . .”

  “Sire . . .” Tristan felt a muscle jumping beside his eye. “What is all this to me?”

  Mark rolled his eyes. “You were summoned to France by their princess, no less.”

  Tristan was baffled. “The Princess of France?”

  Andred nodded. “They call her Blanche. She’s the King’s only daughter, and a great healer, they say.”

  “Is it so?” Tristan closed his eyes. There is only one great healer in the world, his soul lamented, and it is not this maid.

  Mark gave a jealous leer. “And she’s a great admirer of yours, nephew, it seems. Wanted you to joust for her alone. But we don’t need the French to show us what to do. We’ve had heralds proclaiming our tournament far and wide. Now don’t pretend you didn’t know.” He winked at Tristan then gave a broader wink to Andred. “We knew you’d return as soon as you heard the call.”

  Tristan paled. “Sire, I may not compete. I have lain in a dungeon now for many weeks. And more than that, I must go to Ireland at once to be with the Queen. She’s new to her throne and she’ll have need of me—”

  “Nonsense, nephew!” cried Mark balefully. “Isolde will do very well without your help. And every knight is out of condition in the spring. What makes you think you’re any different from the rest?”

  “Sire, I haven’t ridden in weeks, I haven’t handled a lance—”

  Mark waved an uncaring hand. “You’re still the champion here and the best knight we have. You’ll beat them all with one hand tied behind your back.”

  Tristan gathered the last of his strength. “Alas, sire, no,” he said forcefully. “I’m unfit to compete. And what strength I have, I owe to the Queen . . .”

  Mark’s eyes bulged. “To Isolde? I forbid you to mention her name! You were my knight first. Your allegiance is to me!”

  “And I have honored it!” Tristan cried in desperation. “I obeyed your command and came as soon as I could.”

  “Oh yes, the lady who held you against your will?” Mark sneered. “I’m sure you came as soon as you could get out of her bed.” He gave an unconvincing imitation of a doggish leer. “Ugly, was she, and old? Covered in warts, with hairs sprouting from her chin? Fat and greasy-haired? Boss-eyed, one-eared, and lame?”

  “My lord . . .” It was Andred, smiling unctuously at Mark. “Sire, in all honor, Sir Tristan may not speak of his paramour to us.”

  Tristan wanted to kill him. “She was not my paramour!” he burst out. “I never came into the lady’s bed.”

  Andred’s knowing smile grew broader. “Of course you have to defend a lady’s good name—”

  “Tell the truth, nephew,” Mark sniggered. “She was a beauty, wasn’t she, and a witch between the sheets? Well worth risking my displeasure to dally with and delay?”

  Tristan grasped at his horse’s pommel for support. “Forgive me, sire. I have to go to the Queen.”

  Mark’s good humor vanished. “Go to Ireland?” he snarled. “Not if you value your life! I’ve trumpeted this tournament far and wide, and all the world knows you’re Cornwall’s champion. The heralds have returned, the contestants are on their way, and you think you can ride off to Ireland and shame us all?”

  “Cousin, take this chance to redeem yourself,” urged Andred soulfully. “You can prove your loyalty to the King and show your worth.”

  “Hear me—” Tristan gasped in despair.

  But Mark was already turning away. “Be ready, nephew, for tomorrow week,” he caroled. “I’m counting on you. Beware you don’t let me down!”

  CHAPTER 31

  Never had a week passed so slowly yet vanished so fast. Day by day in the tiltyard Tristan struggled, sweated, and swore as his arms failed him and his legs fluttered like a girl’s. Even the sweet, sharp smell of the newly mown turf in the tiltyard failed to raise his spirits as it always had. Mastering his sword and shield seemed impossible, and his lance felt like a tree trunk in his weakened grip. Yet sti
ll the days slipped through his fingers like sand, and he counted them off every night, alarmed at how swiftly they went.

  When the day of the tournament dawned, he could sit a horse with assurance once again, and his ravaged frame had thrown off much of the lassitude of the prison cell. But as he armed himself to face the day’s affray, the sickness gripping his stomach told him the truth. If your Gods are with you, you’ll survive this joust. If not, get ready for broken limbs, or worse.

  “Sir Tristan! Tristan of Lyonesse!”

  The cheers hit him like brickbats as he rode out of the castle gate.

  “It’s the champion. He’ll slaughter them all, you’ll see!”

  “Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!”

  “Sir Tristan!”

  Dimly, he heard the chamberlain’s cheerful call. Staff in hand and robed in his finest furs, the head of the King’s household was waiting to greet the contestants as they entered the field. “Welcome to the joust, Sir Tristan. It looks as if we’re assured of a fine feast of arms,” the old courtier chirped.

  Running down from the castle mount, the fields were as bright as water meadows in May. Dotted over the grass, the knight’s pavilions flourished in yellow and white, silver-red and speedwell-blue. The same shades of spring appeared in the combatants’ flags and shields as they rode up and down, each fighting to hold down his snorting steed. Others had turned out in the colors of blood and death, with armor and banners in mulberry, charcoal, and jet. Looking on, Tristan felt the ghost of a smile. He knew them all. They held no fears for him.

  He drew a breath. As long as his strength held out. Still, none of them knew that. They had only heard Mark boasting of Tristan’s strength, that his lusty nephew had neglected the King’s command to sport in bed for weeks in a lady’s arms. Pray the Gods Isolde never got to hear of it!

  But he had never lied or deceived her, she knew him too well. Sooner or later she had to know that he had betrayed her with a kiss. Without warning, Falsamilla rose like a torture from the well of memory, and there she was, chestnut hair, red lips, and black eyes. Red lips? Tristan’s head reeled. Gods above, that sucking mouth—would that one wanton kiss ruin his whole life . . . ?