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

by Rosalind Miles

  A foolish smirk twisted his mouth. Well, he was King here, and she should know that. He raised his arm for a servant. “Fill the Queen’s goblet!” he cried.

  Isolde looked at him like a woman awakening from a dream. “Thank you, sire, no more.”

  Mark leaned over and patted her hand. “Drink up, my dear,” he said in mock-jovial tones. “Let’s get some color back into those pale cheeks of yours. I can see I’ve left you far too much to yourself.”

  Isolde searched his face, taking in his muddy complexion, mean eyes, and quarrelsome air.

  Oh, Tristan, Tristan . . .

  The air all around her grew dim, and she saw his face as she first knew it, golden in the springtime of their love. You’re the sea, I’m the land, he had said then. Land and sea together make the whole earth. Nothing could match the sweetness of his smile. Nothing could compare with the touch of his hard huntsman’s hand.

  “Isolde?” came Mark’s harsh, cawing voice in her ear.

  She came to herself with a shudder, hardly knowing where she was. “As you wish, sire,” she said tonelessly.

  Mark’s weak mouth hardened. She thinks because she’s a queen in her own right and I’m only a vassal king, she can brush me aside. Well, she must learn that she can’t, and the sooner the better, it seems. “Oh, I do,” he insisted with an unpleasant smile. “I mean to make the most of your company while you’re here.”

  Isolde felt a wisp of fear brush her heart.

  “You’re my wife, after all,” Mark went on recklessly. A mad impulse seized him, and he ran with it like a hare. So Isolde insisted on clinging to the Mother-right? Nothing like a sharp reminder that the most basic power of all lay with men. And men had used the weapon between their legs to tame unruly women since time began.

  “My wife,” he resumed with growing force. “Father Dominian was talking to me about that.”

  Isolde stirred. What was Mark trying to say in such dark tones?

  “A husband has rights, Isolde, that he can enforce. A willful woman is an abomination to God. Women were born for motherhood, and so were you. It’s not too late to fulfill your marriage vows.”

  Fulfill what?

  Isolde did not move. A stunned awareness made its way through her brain. Mark is threatening me. If I don’t behave, he’s saying I can be raped. Oh, he’d never admit to it. But that’s what he means.

  Would he do it? No, he’s too much of a coward, he knows I’d fight. But a coward can be cruel when he drinks. Or if he’s driven on by other men.

  Fear clamped itself like a fist around her heart. She moistened her dry lips. “Sire,” she began.

  But Mark was in full cry. The flicker of terror in Isolde’s eyes acted on him like the moment of kill at the hunt, gone in a second, but he had tasted blood. He laughed foolishly to himself. Of course he’d never take Isolde by force, he felt nothing toward her that way. Dominian was dreaming if he thought there’d be a prince of Mark’s loins from Isolde’s thighs. But no harm in keeping her wide-eyed and white-faced. It was good to see her so unnerved.

  Smirking, Mark moved back again onto the kill. “And Andred tells me that you’re pining for your knight. Well, we can’t have that. I’ll take you out hunting in the morning myself. And see there . . .”

  He pointed to the knights carousing in the hall. “Tomorrow at dawn I’ll have ’em all in the tiltyard, jousting for your favor, every man. Forget Tristan. You shall have a new champion, my Queen. And after that, I’ll see he never leaves your side.”

  Isolde could hardly breathe.

  Drink up.

  I mean to make the most of your company . . .

  You’re my wife, Isolde. And a husband can enforce his rights.

  You’ll have a new champion, and he’ll never leave your side . . .

  Whichever way she turned, there was danger here. Dominian had been preying on Mark’s fears, feeding his sense of entitlement, awakening his inadequacy. And her enemy, Andred, always had the King’s ear. Had he persuaded Mark to keep a closer eye on her and give her a champion to watch her day and night, making her a prisoner in Castle Dore?

  Yes. That’s what he means to do.

  Don’t argue, don’t protest.

  Agree and delay.

  She forced a sunny smile, and gave Mark a courteous bow. “Thank you, sire, for your kind care of me. Yes indeed, let us spend a day in the tiltyard with the flower of Cornwall’s knights. I shall be honored to choose a knight from such a fine array.”

  And all the time, her desolate soul was crying to the moon, Help me, Mother. Help me to get away!

  CHAPTER 46

  Hold on, sir. Hold on.”

  Brangwain dug steadily into the earth, throwing aside handfuls of the leaf-mold covering the motionless form. Tristan was lying on his side, curled up like a child, one arm thrown over his face. His clothes were soaked with dew and stiff with earth. His face, when she touched it, felt as cold as death. Again she felt for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. In the dusk of the nighttime forest, his skin had the pallor of the newly dead.

  Brangwain could see now that he had dug out his resting place beneath the oak to make himself something like a shallow grave. Anger and desperation sharpened her tongue.

  “You wanted to bury yourself, did you, sir? And what in the name of the Gods would my lady do then?”

  If he was not dead, she wanted to kill him herself. She fell on him in a fury, shaking him with a strength she did not know she had. Then she rubbed his wrists to create some warmth and massaged his temples as fiercely as she dared.

  “Wake up, sir!” she panted madly. “Wake up and live!”

  She leaned on his chest with both hands, then did it again. The breath went out of his body with a dying sigh.

  “Don’t die!” she cried. She pounded her fists in a frenzy on the broad chest. “Don’t you dare die!”

  The waiting forest seemed to hold its breath. Nothing moved in the gloaming all around.

  Through the silence came a sound like a falling leaf. Frantically, Brangwain strained to hear what it was.

  “Br . . .”

  And there it was again. A faint rustle, like the sighing of the forest as the winter storms draw near. Leaning over Tristan, she caught the ghost of a groan and the sound of her own name.

  “Brangwain . . .”

  “Goddess, Mother, thanks!” Tears poured from her eyes. “Praise the Gods, sir, that you’re still alive.”

  Again came the sound like dead leaves. “Leave me.”

  “What?”

  “Go back.”

  Brangwain’s eyes bulged. “And leave you here? What would my lady say?”

  Another groan that turned into a bitter laugh. “Nothing.”

  Brangwain shook her head. “What d’you mean?”

  “The Queen has put an end to our love.”

  “She’s—? Never!” Brangwain was outraged. “Oh, sir, you’re not well. When you fell from that tower, I fear you damaged your mind.”

  Tristan came to life with a shudder. “I did not fall,” he rasped. “I leapt out of the window and into the nearest tree.”

  Brangwain nodded. So that was how he flew out of the window like the Fair Ones and never touched the ground. Not that it mattered now. She seized Tristan by the shoulders. “See if you can stand, sir,” she panted, “then we’ll get you on my horse. I’ll take you to the place where I stayed last night. We’ll rest there till you’re stronger, then take ship back to Cornwall as soon as we can.”

  Tristan groaned in despair. “Brangwain, the Queen won’t see me. She wrote me a letter. You don’t understand—”

  “Oh, I think I do, sir.” Brangwain smiled grimly to herself. Enough to smell a very big rat indeed, and I can guess his name. But plenty of time for that.

  Tristan heaved himself up, shaking uncontrollably

  “She told me, Brangwain—” he mumbled.

  “Not now, sir.”

  The horse was still grazing peacefully in a patch of moonl
ight silvering the grass. “Be good, old friend,” Brangwain implored.

  Good as gold, lady, the mild beast nodded. I can see the knight is hurt.

  Thankfully, Brangwain drew his hairy bulk alongside Tristan. “Mount up, sir.”

  Whatever effort it cost him, he did it without a sound. Swinging up in front, she flourished the reins and touched her spurs to the horse. “Hold on, sir. And get on, boy, get on.”

  The horse set off down the track at a stately pace. Brangwain sighed with relief. Soon have him back at the alehouse and in a warm bed. “D’you hear me, sir?” she began. “You said you had a letter, sir, here at the court in France?”

  “From the Queen,” he said in a voice rough with distress. “Ending our love.”

  “And did you believe it?” Brangwain clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

  “It was in her hand.”

  “But why should she do such a thing?”

  She could feel him start to tremble behind her back. “Because I failed her, Brangwain. I thought she could not forgive.”

  “I swear to you, she never wrote such a thing.”

  Tristan gasped in horror. “She didn’t write it . . . ?”

  Sorrowfully, Brangwain shook her head. “Quite the opposite, sir. She sent me to find you and bring you safely back. She’s never wavered in her love for you.”

  Cold as he was, she could tell he was sweating too. His scent, sharp and feral, filled the air, and a low moan of torment reached her ear.

  “Recreant again! I have betrayed my lady and my love.”

  Brangwain frowned. “My lady will forgive you, sir, never fear, when I get you back.”

  The trees were thinning now at the forest’s edge. The high road rolled out to the horizon ahead, scarring the midnight landscape like a slash of chalk. Brangwain peered through the shadowy foliage with thoughts full of hope, the alehouse, food and drink, helping hands, rest and sanctuary . . .

  “Halt there, lady.”

  Half a dozen men stepped out of the shadow of the trees and the leader seized the reins. An iron band of fear clamped around Brangwain’s throat.

  “On your way, man,” she ordered hoarsely. “You have no business waylaying innocent travelers through your land.”

  The moonlight shone down on the leader’s drawn sword. And now Brangwain saw his tunic with its royal badge.

  “Oh lady,” he laughed. “You’re our business now.”

  She made one last effort, driven by despair. “I have a sick man here I’m taking to the coast. For pity’s sake, don’t detain us now.”

  “That’s Sir Tristan, isn’t it?” The leader pointed to the silent shape behind her back. “We’re under orders to bring him back to court.”

  Tristan twitched and came to life.

  “To King Hoel?” he said hoarsely.

  The captain sniggered. “To the new Queen, sir. To your wife, the Princess Blanche.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Again! Play again!”

  The tinkling command rang out above the noise of the court. On the dais above the buzzing crowd, the little band of musicians shared a silent glance. The leader took up his instrument and nodded to his son. “Warble, boy. The Queen wants to dance.”

  The pale, frog-faced child tilted his chin inquiringly. “She was only a princess last week.”

  “Well, she’s Queen of Lyonesse now, and she wants us to play.” He gave his long-suffering fellows a wry smile. “Come on, lads. She’ll pay well for this, and you’ll get to your beds in the end.”

  Briskly, the musicians moved into a lilting air. The floor of the Great Hall stirred like an eddying sea as couples picked up the tune and began to dance. Banks of bright candles danced along with them, their flames whispering and sighing all through the room.

  “Again!” Blanche panted, laughing up at Saint Roc. Lifting her skirts, she twitched them flirtatiously to and fro. “Again!”

  Saint Roc pulled a face. “You want to dance?” he teased. He fingered his well-shaped thigh provokingly. “Alas, my leg . . .”

  “Your old wound?” Blanche giggled. She pounced on him, seizing both his hands. “I have a cure for that. You move your bad leg in time to the music, and I swear it gets better at once.”

  “You swear?” he murmured. He looked down into the lovely flushed face and laughing eyes, and breathed in her soft pink scent with deep content. Beware Saint Roc, he chided himself sadly, you’re starting to care for this woman far more than you should.

  And far more than she deserves, he reminded himself, suppressing an ironic smile. Her husband is lying injured, and she’s dancing with you? Is this the behavior of a loving wife?

  Looking around, he could see that others thought so too. Seated on the dais with the musicians, King Hoel reclined on his throne talking to Prince Kedrin, apparently at ease. But Saint Roc could detect the concern behind Hoel’s casual glance as it swept the hall. It had been bad enough, Saint Roc knew, that the groom had not appeared for the festivities tonight. He had seen the King’s frown of distress when Blanche airily announced that Tristan had stayed in bed. And if the King’s eye fell on his newly wedded daughter laughing and frolicking in the arms of another man . . .

  No, it must not be. No more dancing tonight.

  “Alas, my Queen,” he began, gently freeing his hands from Blanche’s tenacious grip. But she was not listening. She was staring down the room, her eyes on the door.

  Underneath the great stone arch at the end of the hall, a man at arms was in earnest conversation with the servant at the door.

  Blanche turned to Saint Roc, tight-lipped. “I must go.”

  “Go?” He covered his surprise with a careless shrug. “Let me escort you, madame.”

  “No!” she cried. All the elation had drained from her face and two round red spots burned on her cheeks like shame. She forced a laugh. “Stay and enjoy the dancing. It will help your bad leg.”

  Saint Roc bowed. “Till tomorrow, then.”

  Intrigued, he watched her pounce on the man at arms and whisk him away. What had the man come to say? Saint Roc smiled. He would know soon enough. His fate was entwined with Blanche now, and in good time all her secrets would be his. And he had learned enough for one night to sweeten his dreams. One thing above all was now crystal clear. Blanche was not married to Tristan as he understood the word. And sooner or later, all the world would find out.

  “WHERE IS HE? You brought him in here, you say?”

  Raging, Blanche swept out of the courtyard with the man at arms and burst into the quiet infirmary. The light of the swan lamps illuminated the doctor, a couple of his nurses, and a lean, soberly dressed woman she did not know. Between them, Tristan lay on a table with his eyes closed, pale and still. The cloth beneath his body was stained with blood.

  A rush of emotion seized her, though she hardly knew what she felt. An hour ago, she would have sworn that she didn’t care if he never came back. But to see him lying like this—

  “Tristan! Oh, my husband, my love.” She rushed forward and seized his hand, kissing his lips. But his flesh was as cold as clay, and his mouth had the color and taste of newly turned earth. Blanche recoiled. “God in Heaven, where has he been?”

  The doctor stepped forward. “On his deathbed, madame,” he said heavily. “He was brought from the Lady Wood less than half alive.”

  Blanche considered. It was true that Tristan smelled loamy, like a newly made grave. But now he was here, he was safe in her healing hands. She put on a bright smile. “Well, we’ll soon deal with that.” She turned to the darkly clad woman. “And who are you?”

  To her surprise, the woman did not curtsy and drop her eyes as those around her normally did. “I found Lord Tristan in the wood and brought him here,” she said trenchantly. “They call me Brangwain, lady, and I serve Queen Isolde, the Queen of the Western Isle.”

  Blanche did not move. So Isolde has not cast him off after all. She must still love him. Does she want him back? She found another smile. “Quee
n Isolde sent you to look for him?”

  Brangwain bowed stiffly. “My lady sent me to bring good wishes on your wedding to my lord.” She pointed toward the table. “I am sorry to find him in such a bad way as this.”

  Blanche waved her white hand dismissively. “We’ll have him right again in no time at all.”

  The doctor shook his head. “Lord Tristan is bleeding again from the wound in his head. And he seems to be sinking under some inner grief.”

  Blanche released her tinkling laugh. “No man dies of that!”

  “Call it what you like,” he insisted. “It is my judgment that he’s lost the will to live.”

  “Nonsense! All he needs is a touch of my special elixir.”

  The doctor gasped. “The last time you employed that, the old man died.”

  Both of Blanche’s hands were waving in the air. “I gave him too much. A drop of it will do wonders for Tristan, just a touch.”

  “Not one drop, madame,” said the doctor tensely. A throbbing pulse beat at the side of his head. “We must clean his wounds and get him food and drink, and allow him to recover in his own time. Your remedy brings death, not life. I will not permit it.”

  “You will not?” Blanche’s eyes flared. She gestured threateningly toward the man at arms at the door. “And who is Queen here, sir, me or you?”

  The doctor stepped back, breathing heavily. “On your own head be it, madame!”

  Brangwain moved to his side. “What is this?” she demanded in a low voice.

  The doctor nodded bitterly toward Blanche. “See for yourself.”

  A curtsying nurse was placing a vial in Blanche’s hand. Blanche waved to the other nurse. “Hold him up.”

  She opened the tiny bottle and poured a drop of the contents into Tristan’s mouth. His body jerked violently and he jolted upright, arms and legs flailing as he sent the vial smashing to the floor. His eyes opened, empty and stark, and fastened on Blanche. Jerking uncontrollably, he tried to speak. A fit of coughing almost strangled his words. “This is my death.”

  “No!” Blanche wailed, trying to take his hand.

  His eyes roamed wildly round the room. Brangwain stepped forward, mastering her distress. “Sir?”