“Take me to him,” Mark wept.
Before he dies hung unspoken in the air.
Outside, the noonday sun was turning the world to gold and filling the courtyard with the soft fragrance of spring. But inside the infirmary the air was cold and sour. As they came in, stricken faces greeted them, and the echoing space was heavy with the presence of death. Tristan lay alone in a low, arched cell, with a bevy of white-clad attendants clustered around his bed. Next to him was a squat, dark figure with a black-lettered book. The sonorous music of Latin hung in the air, and the heavy odor of incense crept out to the walls.
“Salve, Domine—save this soul, O Lord . . .”
Savoring every word like finest meat, Dominian gave Tristan the last rites of the Church. Take his life, Lord, he prayed fervently, speed this pagan on his way. Hearing the last rites, men often died from terror and despair. Until then, they had not known how ill they were.
“Oh, Tristan!”
Mark surged noisily toward the sick man’s bed. Following him, Andred saw that Tristan’s eyes were on fire, and the skin of his face burned with a hectic sheen. When he spoke, his voice was a dry husk. “Send me to Isolde . . .” they heard, “before I die.”
To Isolde . . . ?
A dark vision bloomed inside Andred’s head. Send him to Isolde, yes, of course. It was perfect, it was flawless, it could not fail . . .
“. . . before I die,” Tristan gasped with the last of his breath.
“Die?” yelped Mark, throwing up his arms. “You’re not going to die. Talk to him, Andred. Tell him he’ll pull through.”
“Ah, but will he, sire?” Andred said mournfully. “The doctors admit they’re defeated. It may be time for a fresh look at the case.”
“What?” Mark mumbled.
“At least we should honor a dying man’s last wish.”
Mark tugged unhappily at his beard. “Send him to Isolde, you mean?”
Andred nodded. “He says it’s what he wants.”
“Well, she’s a great healer,” Mark muttered, his eyes red with tears.
“And as you said, sire, we need a fresh pair of hands on the case.”
“Did I say that?” Mark demanded, surprised at his own wisdom. “Then that’s the best thing, of course. If we send him to Isolde, we know he’ll be in the right place.”
“Oh yes, indeed, sire,” Andred said with deep feeling. He hugged himself with glee. Yes, Tristan, the best place on earth for you, my friend.
Mark’s dull eye caught fire. “Let’s get him to the quay and on board a ship. He could catch the evening tide.” He moved back to Tristan, feeling a fresh fit of tears coming on. “We’ll get you to Isolde, never fear.”
Andred stepped forward. “Sire, leave it to me. You have suffered enough.”
Mark looked up hopefully. “I have, haven’t I?”
Andred nodded soulfully. “And you have to think of yourself. You should be in the Great Hall, giving comfort to your guests.” Liquid comfort, he did not need to say. “The honor of Cornwall requires that you feast them tonight. You may trust me, sire, to see Tristan embarked.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Mark was starting to feel better. What a good soul Andred was! He nodded grandly. “See to it, then, Andred. Just let me know when he’s safely at sea.”
“Oh, I will, sir, I will.”
And indeed the word was soon borne back to the King as he sat at the High Table with the first of many glasses in his hand: “Sir Tristan is afloat and a fair tide is carrying him over the sea.” This was the signal for many brimming bumpers of wine, and the health of the King’s nephew was toasted to the skies. The day jolted on through feasting and revelry till all decent men had long ago gone to their beds and the stragglers had passed out and vomited where they lay.
But no one, least of all Andred, told the owl-eyed King that Tristan was bound not for Ireland, but for France. In the distress of the moment, it seemed, Andred’s orders had been quite misunderstood by the captain of the ship. Honest but confused, the good seaman was sailing not west, but due south, bearing the patient not to La Belle Isolde, but into the arms of Isolde des Blanche Mains.
Only the seagulls haunting the sky overhead saw the ship with the dark sails of Cornwall slipping out to sea. But many eyes on the quay saw Isolde’s ship sailing in, passing Tristan’s ship unawares in the gathering night. High and low in Castle Dore heard the return of the Queen as the people ran down to the harbor to greet her with rousing cheers. But not even the sailors on the ship sailing for France heard Tristan as he lay alone below, calling Isolde’s name to the uncaring air, his glazed and sightless eyes turned upward in his head.
CHAPTER 33
Tristan, Tristan, Tristan . . .
Are you here, my love?
Isolde paced the deck in a dream of misery, careless of the blinding, wind-borne spray. The salt spray in her eyes turned the world to tears. Isolde gripped the rail blindly, hearing cries of “Land ahead!” How could they tell the mist-covered mountains from the gray-green, heaving sea? Soaked from head to foot, a lean, weather-beaten figure in the prow wrestled with the wheel. She laid a frozen hand on his arm. “Are we there, sailor?”
The mariner shook the spray from his face with a beaming grin, and nodded into the wind. “There and beyond, my lady—home.”
Isolde nodded dully. There is no home for me if Tristan is away. “Cornwall, then?”
“Castle Dore.”
She turned away. On the edge of her vision another ship was running out of the harbor with the evening tide. Rigged with the dark sails of Cornwall, it was reefed to catch the last of the night wind sighing over the sea.
What is it? Fear clutched at Isolde’s heart. Her sight shivered and she saw crows and ravens nestled in the dark ship’s shrouds, both carrion birds, both harbingers of death. Tristan, Tristan flashed into her mind. Then the ship was gone with the wind, taking its secret with it like an evil dream. Why did it make her think of Tristan with such fear? Soon she would see him and find out what had kept them apart. Soon she would hold him in her arms again, and make up for this long separation, this loneliness and loss.
Gods above, to see his face again . . .
“Hurry, Brangwain!” she called madly, pressing forward to get off the ship. “I must get to the castle, Tristan will be there . . .”
“Madam, have a care,” Brangwain cried in alarm as Isolde leapt over the gangplank before it was lashed to the quay.
But Isolde did not hear. Hurry, hurry—are you there, my love?
Castle Dore loomed before them in the evening mist, its great bulk dark against the dying light. Scarcely pausing to acknowledge the startled greetings of the guards, she flew through the courtyard and entered the Great Hall.
Ye Gods, the stink! The court was in the throes of a feast such as only Mark could give. Below the fine tables and the food fit for a king, puddles of red wine lay in the hollows of the floor. Scratching between the guests’ legs, the court dogs were gorging on splashes of vomit, then crouching with quivering flanks to drop on the rushes below.
At the head of the hall, Mark sat in kingly state with Andred on his right hand and Elva on his left.
And Tristan was not there.
“Isolde!” Mark bellowed down the hall.
“Your Majesty . . .”
It was Elva. What was she doing in the seat of Queens?
Isolde fought for breath. All sly eyes and insolent smile, Elva sat beside Mark, robed in shining green satin with a golden train. Great clusters of jade and jasper gleamed on her head and swung on gold chains from her waist. Her long earrings clattering loudly against her neck as she snaked her eyes over Isolde, then covered her mouth with her hand.
She’s laughing at me! She saw herself through Elva’s eyes, poorly clad in a thick, sea-stained mantle and bedraggled gown. I am Queen of this country, and the fishwives of Castle Dore look better than I do. Why had she rushed in so blindly? Fool, Isolde, fool!
And why had she tho
ught she might greet Mark as a friend, share a meal with him, take a glass of wine? Had she forgotten the hours of drunken revelry, the coarse banter, and as the night went on, the foul stupor they all fell into, one by one? Fool again. Fool!
“The Queen!” yodeled one high-flown reveler, raising his glass. “A toast to the Queen.”
Mark leaned forward. “So, Isolde,” he said sarcastically, “we thought you were too full of affairs in Ireland to think of us here. What makes you grace us with your royal presence now?”
Ask him about himself, feed his vanity, she told herself. But she could not do it. Gasping for breath, she took her soul in her hands. “Where is Tristan?”
Mark shuffled his feet. “You’ve missed him, Isolde. He sailed on the evening tide.”
The dark ship going out. Yes, I knew it. “He sailed away? Why?”
Mark gave an uneasy glance. “We had a tournament and he took a wound to the head. Oh, don’t look like that! It was nothing much, but he wasn’t getting better here. Our doctors were not having much success with him.”
She forced herself to stay calm. “So you sent him to me in Ireland?” Never fear, sweetheart, I’ll follow you on the first tide.
“Ireland?” Andred leaned forward with an air of deep concern. “Oh, sire, you ordered he should be sent to France.”
Mark started. “I did? Why did I do that?”
Andred furrowed his brow. “Surely you remember, my lord? We were talking about the Princess Isolde of France—the lady they call Blanche Mains—and you said she’s the best healer, send him over there.”
Isolde’s soul seized. She could not speak, her tongue lay dead in her mouth.
Tristan sick and taken away from me.
Sent over the sea to another woman’s care.
Is this my rival? The dark witch or the fair, the black swan or the white, or the woman with chestnut hair? Goddess, Mother, give me back my love!
“Yes, that’s right,” Mark cried, a smirk of reassurance spreading across his face. “He asked to be sent to her, I remember it now. That was where he wanted to go.”
Isolde put a hand to her throbbing head. “To the French princess? How did he hear of her?”
Mark laughed. “Oh, he’s a dark horse, Tristan. You know he found a lady on the way home? And he stayed with her for weeks, so God only knows what they got up to all that time.” He turned his eyes on Elva, who returned his gaze, rippling her bosom at him suggestively. Locked onto each other like snakes, the two of them shared a slow smile.
Isolde watched them and a dull shock ran through her brain. This woman has taken my place.
And Tristan not here to defend me in my hour of need.
She felt a howl like a banshee rising in her throat.
He’s betrayed me! He’s deceived me, he’s left me for someone else.
Shaking, she saw again the sight that had haunted her dreams, Tristan caught between two woman till a third came between them, and Tristan kissed her on the mouth.
Gods above . . .
She closed her eyes. Save him, Lady, save him from all of them. Take my kingdom, if it will keep Tristan safe!
But the Lady’s words rang again and again in her ear. Every man chooses the path his feet will tread. And even the Mother cannot turn back the wheel.
CHAPTER 34
Was there any country in the world as fine as France? Or any castle to compare with the court of King Hoel and its honey-colored sprawl of turrets and towers?
Smiling, the Chevalier Saint Roc strolled out of the castle gatehouse and into the warmth of the sun. Before him lay wide, well-tended garden walks, winding their way between neat tangles of knot-grass and flowering shrubs with succulent beds of fragrant herbs beyond. All along the sunlit castle walls, stands of ancient roses were fumbling their way to life. Spring came early to this sweet southwestern kingdom, he noted approvingly, and on every side he saw the tender green shoots lit with shafts of gold. He sighed with contentment. Was not a king’s garden a fine place to be on a warm April day, when the sun himself was making love to the blushing earth?
Making love? Saint Roc permitted himself an ironic grin. These tentative overtures and soft sighing winds were not what a Frenchman would call the sport of kings. Let the English have their horses, cats, and dogs. We in France prefer women, and our women want to be loved.
Yet perhaps this shy, sideways approach of spring, so gently warming up to the full-blooded heat of summer, had a message for him on his mission here. That was how a virgin should be approached by a man of the world, a man who loved women, as he had come here to do.
He chuckled softly and fondled the hilt of his sword. Oh, Madame Blanche was a virgin, he had no doubt of that. Of course she had greeted him as a woman well versed in courtship, and he laughed again to recall her disdainful manner and the toss of her small fair head.
“The King of Ouesterland?” she had said as they met, making his kingdom sound like the very end of the world.
“Jacques Saint Rocquefort at your service, madame,” he had said, highly amused. “But they call me Saint Roc.”
Then he had made a brief bow and walked away, letting the knight behind him take his place. Gods above, it was the oldest trick in the book. When it piqued her interest, as he thought it would, he knew how green she was.
Green, yes, but gamesome too. That night she held the whole court to ransom with dancing and games, involving every soul there in forfeits and fooling and all kinds of fun. And what simple pleasure she had shown and shared, setting aside her royalty like a cloak. Ah, what a woman! His spirit stirred to recall how freely she moved between princess and child.
“Where is the King of Ousterland? Here, sir,” she had called imperiously as she took the floor, beckoning him to the place at her side.
“Alas, madame,” he had replied, fingering his thigh. “An old war wound troubles me. I cannot dance.”
She flushed sharply and turned away. But as she did, he caught the hurt glance of a child. What’s the matter, don’t you like me? Why won’t you play with me?
And it had touched his heart.
Your heart, Saint Roc? came a sardonic inner voice as he reached for a rose on the wall and picked the first bud. Could that gnarled, half-forgotten organ he once called his heart, battered and misshapen by too many women and wars, be brought back to life by the look in the eyes of this child?
Child? scoffed his inner voice with growing delight. Look again, Saint Roc. Tripping out of the gatehouse with a girlish air was a tall womanly figure, her straight back and the purposeful set of her head betraying her determination in every step. From her baby-blue gown and lace headdress to the tips of her dainty kid shoes, Blanche was a portrait of sweet simplicity. But Saint Roc had known whores like this, pure-faced girls who would take a man in their arms, only to stab him all the better in the back. On guard then, Saint Roc, he grinned, feeling his blood rise.
Blanche came straight toward him like a bee to a flower. “Greetings, sir,” she caroled sweetly. “What a pleasant surprise to meet you in the garden today.”
Surprise? He had no doubt that she was looking for him. He played idly with the rose he held in his hand. “As well as can be expected, Princess,” he sighed.
Blanche swept him from head to foot, noting with growing approval the lambskin tunic slashed with ochre and black, the well-fitting breeches and hand-worked cambric shirt, and knew that all this was for her, and her alone. Yes, he would have been finer without the scars on his sword hand and that questioning, ironic glint in his eye. And when Tristan came, he would be bigger too, as a hero should be, not like Saint Roc, of average height and build.
But the body before her was hard and well-honed and trim, and one that many women would welcome in their bed. Only fair men could be truly handsome, as Tristan was. But still there was something about a thick head of glossy dark hair, cropped like a soldier’s and neat as a tutor’s black cap. Yet what could it be, if she only liked fair men?
Unsettl
ed, she went on the offensive again. “You sound like an old man. How old are you?”
“Old enough,” he said grimly, thinking of his checkered past.
“But young enough to dance,” she returned, staring at him hard. “When your leg gets better, I mean.”
She dropped her eyes demurely, and he had to laugh. What a girl, what a woman she was!
She returned to the attack. “So you’re king of a great kingdom?”
“Whoever told you that?” He laughed quietly to himself, enjoying the joke. “My kingdom is one of the smallest and meanest in France. One half lies in the shadow of the mountains, while the other lies open to the wind and the sun. Our crops are meager and our cattle half starved. If you’re counting my assets, lady, count again. But our people have the stoutest hearts on earth.”
He gave a reminiscent grin. “And Gods! How they love to fight. A wilderness like ours produces wild men. I have made it my task to settle their disputes, and stop them killing each other for the sake of a few sheep or goats.”
“A fair aim.” Blanche looked at Saint Roc’s steady gaze and was impressed. “Why have you never married?” she shot back.
His answer surprised both of them, and himself most of all. “I was waiting for you.”
In silence he presented her with the rose. Gasping, she took it from his hand. Then her eyes flared in alarm. “Is that true?”
He held up both hands in surrender: lady, don’t ask.
There was a lingering silence. Blanche bit her lip. “Then I must tell you to set aside your hopes,” she resumed shakily. “You and I will never marry.”
He glimmered at her with an air of mystery. “Never is too long a word to say.”
She drew back sharply. “Sir, I have given my heart to another man.” Slowly, she let the rosebud fall to the ground.
To her fury, she saw signs of amusement crinkling the corners of his bright black eyes. “And has he given you his in fair exchange?”
How dare he? She struggled to find the right words. “All that concerns you, sir, is that your suit is dead.”
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 20
