The call of the trumpets split his reverie.
“Sir Tristan to the field!” howled the Lord Marshal as the heralds let fly. “All take the field after the King’s champion, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse . . .”
The King’s champion, the champion, the champion, rang in a desolate chime through Tristan’s heart as he led the procession of kings and knights around the field. You have failed and failed again in recent days, he berated himself. Now is your chance to redeem your misdemeanors with an open heart.
The greensward lay before him like a dream. No fence divided the jousters, Tristan noted with foreboding: Mark wanted the combat to be close and bloody today. As he slammed down his visor, he heard the harsh clatter of rooks rising from the trees: beware, Tristan, beware!
Seated in the viewing gallery high above the fray with Sir Andred and the Lady Elva, Mark smirked with delight upon the crowd below.
“On, nephew, get on,” he shrilled, lolling on a massive throne-like chair as his hand nursed a goblet in his lap. “Remember you fight for your King and Cornwall today, and don’t let me down!”
“He won’t, my lord,” Andred put in jovially. “Sir Tristan will go for you to the last drop of blood.”
Oh, he will, will he? Tristan gritted his teeth. What was Andred’s game? He bowed and flourished his lance. Whatever his dark-faced cousin was brewing up as he stood sleekly smiling and stroking his mustache, there was no time to worry about it now. In the distance a horse-man curvetted to and fro, fighting to hold back a frothing roan. Who was the knight he’d be fighting very soon?
He narrowed his eyes. Silver banner flying from a golden stave, and the sign of a lion rampant engraved on his shield.
“Sir Gervase of Saint Katz,” shrilled the heralds, “to the fray!”
Leaning forward, Tristan lightly touched the powerful neck of the gray and the great beast leapt snorting into the lists. Three passes later, winded in every one, Gervase threw up his visor and tossed his lance to his squire, humorously signaling his retirement from the fray.
“On then! Get on!” Mark shouted from the viewing gallery, draining down more wine. Poised and attentive behind the King’s chair, Lady Elva silently directed a servant to replenish the King’s glass. Andred covered a smile with his hand. What a woman she was! Half of his own soul.
“Next man in!” intoned the marshal.
The heralds swarmed back into action. “Sir Losiwith!” they cried.
And “Sir Kennot!” and “Sir Chandler” and “Sir Eamonn of the Ridge!” And “Next man in!” and “Next!” and “Next!”
“Next!” . . .
One by one they came at him, and one by one Tristan lightly put them down. In sparing them, he knew he was sparing himself, and his conscience pricked him for fighting like an old man, dealing out nicks and taps rather than the full-blooded combat the knights had come here to enjoy. Yet he knew he could not risk a full-scale onslaught and survive.
Next man down . . .
And another . . .
Down and down . . .
How many more?
The heralds paced forward and the trumpets brayed. “King Systin of the Chapel!”
Last man in . . .
A dark figure took shape before Tristan’s flickering eyes. Clad in coal-colored armor and riding a blood-red roan, the knight came hurtling toward him in a blur of black and red.
“Have at you!” Tristan cried, spurring on. With a grunt he took the satisfying impact as his lance caught his opponent on the breast and tossed him out of his saddle like a rag doll. Cantering on, he turned at the head of the lists. The last challenger lay supine on the ground.
The crowd erupted in one continuous roar. “Sir Tristan for champion! Sir Tristan wins the day!”
Staring, Tristan could hardly believe that his ordeal was at an end. Every muscle he had was twitching with pain and fatigue. Goddess, Mother, is it over? For the love of the Gods, can I lie down and sleep?
“Sir Tristan! Sir Tristan the champion!” caroled the ecstatic crowd.
But others were booing and hissing the fallen knight. “Ride him down!” bellowed darker voices in the throng.
Tristan’s heart clenched like a fist. The figure on the ground was stumbling to his feet, and raising his gauntlet in the air to carry on. No other knight had challenged him to fight on foot. This was the trial of strength he had feared to endure.
Ride him down . . .
Now, do it now, his inner demons urged. Unhorsed and staggering, his enemy was fair game, and one blow would send him reeling to the ground. Then the contest would be over and he would have victory.
Tristan, Tristan, his soul groaned. You never took advantage of an opponent in your life. Will you start now?
“What’s the matter, man? Ride him down!” Mark’s petulant cry reached him from far away.
Never.
With a show of careless valor, Tristan vaulted from his horse, drew his sword, and moved forward onto the field. But King Systin had taken full advantage of Tristan’s delay and was already on the attack as Tristan drew near.
“To the death,” Systin shouted, the hoarse bravado rattling in his throat as he raised his sword and swung it around his head.
Come, friend, Tristan called on Glaeve from his soul.
Here, master, Glaeve replied with a soundless hiss.
Beyond thought, beyond pain, Tristan swung and slashed, cutting and thrusting to wear his enemy down. You are mine, sir, he chanted to keep his spirits up, I shall overcome. But another voice whispered, Beware, Tristan, you are losing too. His overstrained muscles were twitching with his fading strength, and his will to win burned lower with every stroke.
Just as he thought that he could go no more, he saw his enemy drop to one knee and offer up his sword.
“I yield, Sir Tristan,” Systin cried out so that all the crowd could hear, “but I beg you, grant me my life! I challenged you to the death—have mercy on me now!”
He’s yielding? Tristan fought down a hysterical laugh. If only you knew, Systin, how near you were to defeating me!
“Rise, sir, take your life,” he said huskily. “And you fought honorably. You may keep your sword.”
Once more the crowd renewed its ecstatic cheers. “Sir Tristan for champion! Sir Tristan beats them all!”
Mark leaned down from the viewing gallery with a dangerous smile, a goblet swinging from his hand. “Well, Tristan, you proved that you’re the finest knight we have.”
He raised his hand to the heralds and gave a drunken wave. “Proclaim Sir Tristan the champion!”
“Sir Tristan! Sir Tristan is champion!” The Lord Marshal strained his lungs like bellows as the heralds spat into their trumpets and flourished the end of the day.
Ye Gods, is it over? Can it be?
Trembling with relief, Tristan turned his horse’s head toward Castle Dore. The contest was finished and nothing could keep him here now. Sleep first—Gods, let me sleep!—then away to Ireland, to Isolde, on the first tide . . .
Isolde, my lady . . .
My lady and my love.
Thoughts soft as thistledown wrapped him in their embrace. Closing his eyes, he saw a cloud of red-gold hair glowing like the dawn and the light of a smile that could live among the stars. His sight faded and his spirit slipped away, roaming the vastness of the astral plane. Isolde came to him through space, through time, her loveliness warming the cold glittering void. She was robed in the beauty of a cloudy night, and a crown of stars formed a circle around her head. He reached out to take her in his arms. Then, without warning, a cry arrested his ears.
“Stand, Sir Tristan. I challenge you to the lists.”
Stand?
Challenge?
He could not take it in. Slowly, he swung around and struggled to believe what he saw. The newcomer was armored in burnished bronze from head to foot, and equipped with the finest horse and weapons a knight could desire. A silver-gilt banner fluttered over his head, and his horse’s trappings we
re heavy with gold and silver plate. But perched on the lordly stallion was a slight and misshapen figure, grinning with a strange light in his eye. His short body and dwarfish limbs seemed to rule him out for combat, yet he rode into the ring like a champion and displayed an air of savage self-satisfaction as he surveyed the field.
“Announce me!” he called out to the heralds in a high, arrogant tone. “Sir Plethyn of the Pike.”
Plethyn of the Pike? Tristan paused. The mists of memory parted and brought back fragments of gossip from years ago. The old Earl Plethyn was too proud to mix his seed with common clay, so he had sent for a Princess of Iceland to bear his sons. But the thin, chilly maiden who arrived could bring forth nothing from her icicle thighs. Enraged, the old earl gave her to a wise woman famed for her power with herbs. Dosed and drugged by day and plowed and furrowed every night, the pale creature at last delivered the longed-for son and gave up the ghost.
But the earl shed no tears, for a son was worth a wife. His delight lasted till the child could walk and talk. Then those around him began to mutter and would not meet the earl’s eyes. Many nurses, tutors, and doctors later, the earl was forced to accept that the old witch’s potions or the anger of the Gods had brought forth a changeling, both in body and mind. The child’s stunted frame would never grow to a man’s height, and his mind would be an unknown country forevermore. Yet he could not escape the fate to which he was born. He was sole heir to an earldom and had to be brought up as such, trained for the knighthood he could never adorn.
Alas, poor soul. Well, he would receive nothing but chivalry here. Tristan bowed courteously. “Forgive me, sir, but the heralds have blown the last fanfare of the day. The lists are closed.”
“Closed?” A familiar drunken braying filled the air. “Not if I order the heralds to blow up again.”
Goddess, Mother, no!
Tristan rode up to the viewing gallery and came to a halt. “I am overbattled, sire. I can go no more.”
Mark leaned down with a disbelieving glare. “You’re the King’s champion. You go at my command.”
“Sire, I must decline this battle. I shall only give a poor account of myself.”
“Decline?” Mark’s eyes narrowed to red and angry slits. “Do you want to shame me in front of all the world?”
“No, sire, I—”
“Then get on!” An impulse of open cruelty twisted Mark’s face. “He’s a tadpole, less than half your size. I want to see you hang him out to dry. Now hold your tongue and get on!”
Tristan’s head reeled. Sickness gripped his throat. How could he honor Mark and keep his own honor intact at the same time? Glaeve shivered in his grasp. Only one more came the high, silent call. Then you and I can rest for today.
So be it, friend. Tristan bowed his head. He would make one ceremonial pass for courtesy’s sake, saving both Plethyn and himself from a full assault. That would obey the King’s order and still cheat Mark out of his desire to enjoy Sir Plethyn’s pain. Circling his horse, he rode back to the head of the lists.
“Come on,” Sir Plethyn flashed out in his odd, inhuman voice. “I’m ready for you, sir!”
“One pass,” Tristan cried to the heralds, “for honor’s sake.”
Sir Plethyn’s strange eyes bulged. “Three, three, I demand it!” he shouted furiously.
The Lord Marshal stepped forward. “The champion has the call. One pass it is.”
The peal of the trumpets silenced Plethyn’s angry cries.
Tristan leaned forward and stroked the neck of his horse, stark and stiff now with sweat. Another run, old friend? Will you go for me one last time?
Go again? Fondly, the gray nodded his ponderous head and broke into a steady, loping stride. Moving down the field, Tristan saw Plethyn hurtling toward him with the reckless fury of the damned and evaded the wavering lance with consummate ease. Drawing level with the odd little knight, Tristan raised his lance in salute and cantered on. Merciful Gods, he sighed from the depths of his soul, duty done, honor paid to knight and King alike, now for Ireland and Isolde, my lady and my love . . .
He did not see the madness striking his opponent’s face like a thunderbolt. He did not hear Plethyn’s uncontrolled protests and the venom welling from his malformed soul. The distant threats seemed no more than the cries of homecoming birds drifting away on the evening breeze.
The first he knew was the volley of warning shouts from the horrified crowd.
“Behind you!”
“Sir Tristan, beware!”
Dazed by the sudden uproar, Tristan turned too late to avoid Plethyn’s attack. The vengeful knight’s lance struck the back of his head and pierced his skull. A starburst of light exploded inside his brain, and he toppled to the ground. With the screams of the crowd still ringing in his ears, he lay and watched the lights in his head fading away to blood, then gave one last shuddering groan and was gone.
CHAPTER 32
Captain, what news?”
“No news, Majesty—and I beg you, get below!” Dashing the spray from his face with one red, raw hand, the harassed seaman pointed to the cabin door. “Down below—that’s the safest place for you and your maid. When the wind changes, you’ll be the first to know.”
Isolde shivered, straining to hear his voice over the thunderous roar and clash of the breaking waves. “Till then we ride it out?”
“Unless you can rule the sea as well as the land!” The captain turned away with a sardonic laugh. The rising wind whipped the words from his throat. “Bosun!”
“Sir?” came a distant call from above.
“Take in the topsail. Lower, man, have a care!” He swung back to Isolde, his face knotted with concern. “Madam, forgive me, I have to—”
“Of course.” Isolde bowed her head and let him go.
She stared out over the sea, its wild gray waves a perfect mirror for her heaving soul. Where are you, Tristan? Have you left me, my love? More and more these days she thought he must be dead or dying, for nothing else would have kept him from her side. Yet if his dear spirit had slipped that rare body of his, the body she had worshipped for so long, surely she’d have known?
And if he’d died, that would be only what Druids called “the little death.” The great death was betrayal, when the beloved gave himself to another love. That brought madness and loss and the death of the heart. Had Tristan done that? Goddess, Mother, spare me . . . She gasped for breath. Have you left me, Tristan? Is there another woman in your heart where I used to be?
Her last sight of him came back to her in a bright flash of pain, and the howling gale cried out like a dying man. Huddling herself into her soaked and salt-stained wrap, she paced angrily to and fro. Gods above, why were they still at sea? She should have been in Cornwall long ago!
Had the Goddess turned against her, to keep them apart like this? Three times they had sailed out bravely from Dubh Lein, only to be driven back.
“But I thought we’d escaped all the winter storms” she complained to the captain on the third attempt. She gestured to Dubh Lein’s green hills. “See, spring has come to every bud and bower.” And I need a calm sea to bring me to my love.
The captain threw a sour glance at the sky, where a skein of black swans flew into the setting sun. “Winter’s not gone yet, lady, if the wild birds fly that way.”
She could have struck him. “When shall we reach Cornwall, sir?” she demanded. “Tell me when.”
He scanned the tormented ocean for signs of peace, then raised his eyes to the moon sailing high above. “When it pleases the Lady,” he growled. “The Lady of the Sea.”
PLETHYN’S ATTACKED HIM, and he’s down . . . Now Gods, if you love me, may he never rise again.
Andred crossed the courtyard of Castle Dore, reliving the joy of the moment when Tristan fell! Even now, a week later, the passage of time had not taken the edge off Andred’s delight. To see Tristan down, blood pouring from his mouth and nose—oh, it was good, so good . . .
And as the days
passed, it got better still. Soon they learned that Plethyn’s lance had pierced Tristan’s skull. Would he live? The grave-faced doctors would not say. But doctors and laymen alike knew what happened to knights who took such wounds to the head. And the news from the sickroom today was every bit as bad as Andred could desire. The wound in Tristan’s skull had festered, oozing out a stream of pus and gore. His body was burning with fever and every day brought more damage to his injured brain. Now he hovered in the vale of the undead, and the slender thread of his life must soon give way.
“May God forgive me!” Mark threw himself down on a sofa and struck his head. “I should never have ordered him back into the ring.”
“Oh, sire . . .” Elva hastened forward and knelt at Mark’s side. “How could you have known things would turn out like this?”
Mark scowled at Andred. “That wretch has been dealt with, you say?”
“As you ordered, sire,” Andred went on smoothly. “Stripped of his knighthood and banished to his lands, banned from all tournaments and jousts from this day on.”
“He dishonored me.” Mark’s voice quivered with uncontrolled venom. “God blast his eyes, and rot his dwarfish bones. I thought we’d show the French, and he’s made us a laughingstock to all the world. And their princess, what’s her name?”
“Blanche, sir,” replied Andred. “In fact, Isolde—”
But Mark had lost interest. “Whatever she’s called, God knows what she’ll make of this. Plethyn has ruined our reputation with this disgrace.”
“He’ll pay for it, sire, never fear,” Elva cried. “And his father the earl has offered blood gelt to you—”
“But all the earl’s gold won’t help Tristan now.” Mark surged furiously to his feet, and the ready tears started again in his eyes. “And if I lose him . . . Gods above, Andred, what a blessing you were here!”
Andred composed his face in a devoted smile. “Why, Uncle—you know my only desire is to be useful to you.”
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 19
