My enemy, eh? Well, well.
Andred watched her go, his mind racing in time with his thudding heart. Words, words, he tried to tell himself, furious at the sight of his trembling hands. She’s talking nonsense. All this will pass.
But an inner voice whispered that things had changed, and Isolde most of all. She’s grown older and harder since she’s been away, he thought, shivering. Whatever happened in Ireland has given her a new edge. And he’d thought that she’d lose her power along with her looks, that grieving for Tristan would undermine her strength? Wrong, wrong! She has learned how to hate. She has embraced me for her enemy and she will not hold back.
But the Great Ones still rewarded those who strike first. Like an adder preparing to attack, Andred moved into the King’s apartments with a new purpose darkening his mind. Pen and ink, he resolved, and a letter to France. By the fastest messenger. He knew the man.
To my faithful knight, he began composing in his mind. Or my wandering knight, perhaps? No, he needed something more cutting than that. Sir . . .
He knew the Queen’s hand. Now how did she make her Ts?
CHAPTER 38
The June twilight bathed all the sky in gold. The high halls of heaven sighed with the dying light, and all the creatures of earth breathed in the sweet incense. The last strands of fading, silvery light drifted like cobwebs through the violet haze. And in the tower room that Blanche had made his home, Tristan pressed his fingers to the side of his head and sat down to write to Isolde once again.
Oh my dear lady—
My lady and my love
I think I shall never see you again in this world. But my love for you will last through all three worlds and beyond.
Wait for me, sweetheart, where all roads lead to one, where all rivers run together into the sea. I languish here a prisoner in silken bonds, enfeebled by a weakness in the head. But every day I strive to recover my strength and my only thought is to come to you.
Yours and no other,
Tristan of Lyonesse
How many times had he written this letter to her? Or had he only written it in his mind? In truth, he did not know. But he knew he wrote to her all the time in such tones of love and loss.
Other times, anger seized him and shook him like a rat. The letters he wrote then were accusing, hot, and harsh, the ink boiling like brimstone and the paper saturated with the smell of rage.
Lady, why don’t you write a single word to me? Why no letter to your faithful knight?
Do you think I have failed you? Forgotten you, my Queen? Abandoned my oath of knighthood, left you on a whim?
I may be weak and foolish, all men are. But I have never betrayed my only love.
Nor will never.
Never, never, never, never, never . . .
After twenty misshapen nevers, deeply underlined, and other odd scribbles besides, he came to himself and knew he was not well.
Yet he had to keep writing to Isolde.
Isolde.
Yes.
Tristan kneaded his temples and rested his head in his hands.
“Sir Tristan?” The door opened, and a lean, gray form appeared.
Tristan raised his head. The doctor, of course, he knew who the visitor was. The healer he had met in the infirmary after Blanche had made him well.
The doctor moved quietly forward to Tristan’s side. “How are you, sir?” Much thinner, looking ravaged, not good, ran swiftly through the doctor’s mind.
Tristan forced a smile. “Oh, better every day.”
“May I?”
The doctor’s cool, clever fingers moved to the back of Tristan’s neck and gently circled the site of his great wound.
“It’s healed very well,” he remarked in grave tones. “But you’re still getting pains, you say, and flashes of light?”
Tristan shifted imperceptibly in his chair. “Not as much as before.”
No better, then, the doctor noted silently. He knew the ways of knights too well to believe what they said. He tried another tack. “And how is it when you walk or try to ride?”
Tristan shook his head and abandoned all pretense. “Why am I still so weak?” he demanded hoarsely.
The doctor nodded, unsurprised. “Are you sleeping?”
There was a pause. “No.”
“Eating well?”
Tristan turned his face away without a word.
The doctor drew a breath. “Sir, I can see that something is preying on your mind. Any care or concern will stop you from getting well. It’s essential to keep as quiet as possible and avoid all strain.”
Which was not an opinion he could share with Princess Blanche, he resolved with a sigh. His royal mistress was agog to take the care of the patient into her fabled white hands. If he told her what he saw, she would want to apply some willful remedy for Tristan’s suffering that he could not approve.
“Sire, my care is not only for your body, but for your mind,” he resumed heavily. “I could call myself a great healer indeed if I could lift the weight that holds your mind in chains.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tristan looked at the shrewd eyes and kindly face. What was he saying? And who was he again?
The doctor came to a decision. This man should be back in the infirmary, that was plain. The Princess had rushed him back into the world too soon. He needed peace, and a respite from her. Then, with the aid of herbs that promoted sleep, he could be brought back to himself again.
The doctor stepped forward. “Sir, by your leave—”
“A letter for the King of Lyonesse . . .”
The door opened and another gray figure appeared. Tristan lunged forward, his heart in his eyes. “A letter?”
“From the Queen of Cornwall,” the messenger confirmed.
Hungrily Tristan snatched the missive from his hand. “May all the Gods rain blessings on you, good man.” He brought the letter to his lips, and a glow of wonder lit his ravaged face.
The doctor watched his color improve and rejoiced. Gods and Great Ones, is this the good news he craved?
“Farewell, my lord.” The messenger bowed and withdrew.
Eyes closed, Tristan stood clasping the letter to his heart as tears of joy ringed his tightly closed lids. Moved to the point of pain, the doctor bowed. “I’ll leave you to your letter then, sir.”
Closing the door behind him, the doctor strode away. Gods, if only all his patients could have medicine like that! Love and joy were the finest healers in the world.
HE WAS ALMOST BETTER, she knew it. Oh, not quite himself, anyone could see that, but it was only a matter of time. Blanche stared into her mirror, drew a strand of hair fetchingly over one eye, and arranged her mouth into a seductive smile. Tristan would make a full recovery as soon as he forgot Isolde and settled down with her.
And that would be soon. Everything was moving in the right direction, just as she would wish. Tristan had promised to save her from Saint Roc. She only had to make this unwanted marriage come true, and Tristan was hers.
And now this message had come from Isolde . . .
She glanced sharply round her chamber, weary of its innocent tints of lavender and rose. As Queen of Lyonesse, she would have palaces in royal blue and gold and private apartments throbbing in purple and red, colors that a queen like Isolde must surely favor for herself.
And whatever Isolde could do . . .
Blanche set her chin and folded her flower-like mouth. All this she would have when she was Tristan’s queen.
Now, how to persuade Tristan? Every word of it was ready in her head. Her father had been with her, she would say, raging and threatening and insisting she married Saint Roc. She could not withstand him, beg and plead as she might. The wedding would take place within the week. She tousled her hair, pinched her cheeks, and studied the result. Sad enough? Oh, yes, the red blotches were very touching and forlorn. And when she added a few tears . . .
She left the room and hurried down the corridor, getting ready to weep. Years ago she had lo
st her little dog in the wood and thinking of that always helped her to conjure up tears.
Ready then? She burst through Tristan’s door.
“Sir Tristan! Oh, sir—?”
He stood in the window, staring into space. A closely written parchment dangled from his hand. He turned to her with eyes of madness and despair, but when he opened his mouth, he was unable to speak.
With a compulsive twitch, he threw the letter at her feet. Blanche snatched it up and read it, her eyes out on stalks.
To my lost knight, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse:
I looked for you in Ireland, but you did not come. In Cornwall I learned that you dallied with a lady along the way. They tell me now that you took a great hurt to the head. Yet still I have no word of truth from you.
Meanwhile King Mark welcomes me to his arms. I have wearied of your delay and made myself his wife. My time to bear children grows shorter every year. Now I look to bear fruit before the year is out.
Farewell, my faithless friend. Go where you will, this world of ours is wide. But from this day forward, never see me again. Never come where I come, or go where I may go. On your honor as a knight, never dare to call again on the love of your onetime lady,
Isolde, Queen of the Western Isle
“Alas, sir!”
Assuming an air of tragic sympathy, Blanche read and reread the letter with secret delight. She found she was enjoying Isolde’s words all over again, even more than when she had read them the first time. Indeed, she liked them better now than before, when the letter had been delivered, and she had had to survey the contents before she could allow it to be given to Tristan.
So he had had it and taken it badly, she could see.
Good, wonderful, the best!
“Oh, my lord . . .” She sprouted a few fresh tears. “You and I both share a great sorrow, it seems.”
Tristan stirred. “Lady?” he said.
His eyes were glittering, and he held the side of his head. Blanche saw it, and pressed on. “Oh, sir!” She let out a shrill wail and was rewarded by a dark shaft of anguish in Tristan’s shadowed gaze. “This marriage I told you about, to the knight Saint Roc,” she wept piteously, “it’s being forced on me now.”
“Now?” He looked stunned.
“Before the end of the week.”
“What can I do for you, lady?” he muttered like a man in a dream.
“The only way to rescue me from this marriage,” she began, her heart in her mouth, “is—”
“Rescue you?”
“You swore!”
“I—?”
“Yes, to rescue me from Saint Roc—”
“Yes—”
“And the only way to set me free from this marriage—”
“—is to marry you myself!”
The sound of his laughter chilled her to the bone. He clutched his head.
“I’ll do it!” he said madly. “Tell your father, choose the church, set the day. Call up the minstrels, let the whole court revel and dance!”
His skull was cracking, but he did not care. “And we’ll have a feast,” he raged on, “to end all feasts, till the end of the world.”
Blanche found herself shaking. “Do you mean this, sir? Will you marry me?”
“Within the week.” Tristan tore his sword from its sheath and kissed the hilt. “On my honor as a knight.” He seized her hands. “I will save you from this man.”
His hands were as cold as death. “And I will make you love me. I will replace Isolde in your mind,” Blanche cried rashly, treading down a sudden violent fear.
He stared at her like a ghost. “There is no replacing Isolde in my mind.” He gestured wildly at the letter. “But she has forbidden me her company in this world. I must wait for her then, till the next world and the next. And in the meantime, lady, I will marry you.”
CHAPTER 39
Dispatches from Ireland? Tell me, Sir Gilhan is well?”
The fresh-faced young knight shouldering in through the door gave a cheerful smile. “Never better, Majesty, and Cormac, your Druid, too.”
Isolde gave an answering smile of relief. “Sir Kerrigan! What a pleasure to see you here.”
She watched as the newcomer’s eyes traveled approvingly over the spacious, well-furnished apartment fragrant with midsummer flowers, then came to rest on the writing table with a half-written letter lying plainly in view. Beside it rested other sheets covered in rough jottings, crossings out, and marks that were plainly tears. He hesitated on the threshold. “Am I intruding? Should I come back later on?”
“Not at all.” She stepped back and welcomed him into the room.
“Then here you are, madam.” With a thankful sigh, Sir Kerrigan deposited a heavy satchel at her feet. “Documents from your Council. There are many questions that you alone can decide. But no grave issues lie in wait for you.”
“Come then, sir.” Isolde turned back toward the table, pushed aside her papers, and gestured to the knight to draw up another chair. “Don’t stand on ceremony, sit down and tell me all you know. What has been happening in the Western Isle?”
He smelled of green fields and silver rain, of the wind at sea, of the wild woodland and fresh horses at dawn. He smelled as Tristan did when they rode out. What news from Erin for a hungry heart?
“Nothing but good, my lady,” returned Sir Kerrigan stoutly, arranging his long legs with care as he took a seat. “Of course, your lords have had a good deal to do.”
“Cleansing the land of Sir Breccan and all his deeds?” Isolde asked quietly.
Sir Kerrigan nodded. “Still they come forward with their pitiful tales, women widowed by his men, children orphaned and driven from their homes. Your Council of lords has sat late into the night, striving to right this endless flow of wrongs.”
Oh, my poor country. Isolde nodded, tight-lipped. “Is there any way to make recompense?”
“Yes indeed, madam.” Sir Kerrigan’s chuckle filled the room. “Sir Breccan left money enough and more. His brother’s estate had come down to him, and your mother the Queen had made Sir Tolen a wealthy man. Sir Breccan had been adding to his own wealth too. Sir Gilhan came across an heiress he had taken from her parents by force, planning to marry her as soon as she came of age.” He grinned with honest delight. “You may imagine how overjoyed her parents were to get her back unharmed.”
“Indeed, I can.” When a loved one is lost, who knows the suffering? She suppressed a sigh. “And the old woman, Breccan’s nurse, who took care of Sir Gilhan and Cormac? What’s become of her?”
“Dame Friya? Safe in the arms of her daughter, warm, clean, and well fed. No more living alone in the wood, but tucked up in a cottage in the village, where she keeps them enthralled with her tales of lords and knights.”
Isolde gave a watery smile. “And the Fair Ones, don’t forget. They came to her too.” She pointed to the leather satchel packed with documents. “What must I deal with first?”
Sir Kerrigan fixed his earnest young eyes on hers. “The Council has some concern about the Picts. Their king is ailing, and there’s a fear that their young Prince Darath may be tempted to try his strength. Of course, they could never take our towns or approach Dubh Lein, but the outlying crannogs are vulnerable to attack. Should they be fortified for their own defense? Sir Gilhan has written about the whole question to you. The Council awaits your decision and your command.”
“And they shall have it,” Isolde promised. She rose stiffly to her feet. “Thank you, sir, for your service on Ireland’s behalf. Now if you’ll excuse me, the court will soon gather for dinner in the Great Hall. If you will attend me there, I shall present you to the King.”
Sir Kerrigan jumped to his feet. “Till the dinner hour then, madam. I shall be honored to kiss the hand of the King.”
Isolde stood as he bowed himself out. “Farewell, sir.”
Outside the window, the sun was dissolving into the bowl of night, its silver-pink beams yielding to purple and gray. Dreaming, Isolde
leaned out of the casement and fixed her gaze on the sky. The roses in the Queen’s garden below were in their midsummer glory, and now, as evening approached, sighing their hearts out in the soft evening air. Lapped in their tender fragrance, she waited and watched.
At last she saw it, tiny and low in the sky. On the far horizon, the evening star bloomed like a golden rose through the gathering dusk. Turning to the table at her side, Isolde lit a candle with a silent prayer. Tristan, do you see the love star rising too? Or have you forgotten my love, wherever you are?
She could see his face now as it was on the night they met, a face of astonishing beauty and power and grace. That look, that sweetness, that sense of the heart coming home, she had always thought would be hers till she died. But now . . .
She felt her soul shrivel with grief and dread. Was this the pitiful end of every great love, nothing but distance, estrangement, and the slow, sad forgetting of every sweet memory that had bound their two souls closer than skin?
No more tears. Soon, very soon, she would know. The end of this long dreary waiting was in sight.
Turning, she made her way into the inner chamber, where Brangwain was making ready for the evening in the Great Hall. The maid had two or three gowns set out on wooden stands and was busy matching jewels, girdles, and headdresses to each.
Isolde hurried forward and closed the door. “Did you speak to the captain? Is the boat ready to sail?”
Brangwain paused in her sorting and nodded. “The last of the provisions are being loaded tonight. Tomorrow I can sail with the first tide, and away.” Her sharp face softened with concern. “Then at least we shall know what is going on.”
“Do it, then. You have all you need?”
Brangwain gave a grim smile. “Lady, you’ve given me enough gold to ransom a king. When I get there, I’ll be able to hire the best horses in the land. And the ship is the fastest in the Cornish fleet. I shall fly like a bird to France and back again.”
Then at least I shall know . . .
Enough! She forced herself to turn to the full, heavy gowns, each standing stiffly to attention like a life-sized doll. Silk, satin, and velvet, shading from the blue of a cloudless sky to a midnight sea. Isolde remembered Sir Kerrigan and her sad heart yearned. “Where’s my green silk, Brangwain? I’ll wear that tonight.”
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 23
