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

by Rosalind Miles

  “Goddess, Mother,” the hoarse voice rasped. “Let me see Isolde before I die.”

  “You will not die,” Blanche wept.

  The doctor moved forward to stand at Tristan’s side. “Lady, you and your potion have brought him to the edge of death. Send for Queen Isolde, I beg. It’s all you can do for him now.”

  “No,” Blanche cried, panic in her eyes. “What can she be to him? He’s married to me.”

  “Hear me—” Tristan pointed a shaking hand at Blanche. “I set you free from the marriage to Saint Roc. Now I claim back my freedom from you. Our marriage is dissolved, now and evermore.” He turned his head. “Brangwain?”

  The maid stepped forward. “Here, sir,” she said steadily. Tristan seized her hand. “The ships of Cornwall are known for their dark sails. If she comes, let her fit out her ship with white. Then I’ll know that she can find it in her heart to forgive.”

  It was more than Brangwain could bear. “Sir, she’d come to you at the very ends of the earth. I swear to you, she’ll understand and forgive.”

  Blanche, Falsamilla, Duessa scorched across Tristan’s mind and he cried out in pain. “There’s too much. If she can’t forgive, let the sails be black.”

  Brangwain bowed her head. “I will, sir.”

  Tristan held out a hand to Blanche. “I pray you, help this lady all you can.”

  “I won’t, I won’t,” Blanche shrilled, flapping her arms. To her fury, she felt tears coursing down her cheeks. “She can go if she likes, but Queen Isolde can’t come here. You’re my husband. It’s not fair!”

  “Then let me die.”

  Tristan closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. There was a pitying silence. No one moved.

  The doctor came forward. “Madame, do you want the world to say that you denied a dying man’s last wish?”

  “Oh, very well.” She glared at the doctor and her pale face took on an ugly hue. “Have it your way, I’ll leave him to your tender care.”

  The doctor hid his relief. “The Gods will reward you.” He turned to deal with Tristan.

  Blanche looked at the women in attendance and her spirit rebelled. Who were these creatures with their disapproving stares? Did they expect her to weep over Tristan or tend to him herself?

  Why should she? She could not look at him. Not after he had humiliated her like this. What, to disavow their marriage, as if it meant nothing and she was nothing to him? Well, he’d shown his true colors and proved how worthless he was. He was a weakling, beneath her, a recreant knight. Why had she ever wanted him as her love?

  And these wretched women with their goggling eyes!

  Blanche turned on Brangwain like a striking snake. “And as for you, lady, be off, back to your Queen. But tell her that there’s only one Queen at this court, and that is the wife of the King of Lyonesse!”

  CHAPTER 48

  The little ship ran before the wind, its white sails flapping in the driving breeze. Hour by hour it held its course for France. And still the full-bellied clouds loomed up on the horizon as great as women with child, and labored out over the sea to shed their burden of rain. The wind-lashed sky wept with the troubled surf, and every wave seemed pregnant with untold grief. As flocks of seagulls quarreled and cried overhead, Isolde stared out from her cabin at the sorrowing sea. All the world is in mourning for my love.

  For Tristan was lost to her now. He had married the French princess, Brangwain had told her as soon as she returned. For the rest of her life Isolde would remember the sick, shaking horror of that moment and the bleakness that gripped them both.

  “What?” I don’t believe you.

  “He’s married, lady. To the French princess.”

  “Married?” He wouldn’t do that—betray me like that.

  “He thought you’d betrayed him. He had a letter . . .”

  Isolde nodded bitterly as Brangwain spoke. “Andred’s work, of course. I understand. But still, to marry her—?”

  Brangwain gave a desolate nod. “In church, in his finest array, before the King and all the court.”

  She had released her fury then in a lung-splitting cry. “Why, Brangwain? Did you find out why?”

  “It doesn’t matter why. I heard him tell her that the marriage was null and void. He still loves you, lady. It’s you he wants to see.”

  But it did matter, it mattered terribly. Tristan could not end this marriage on his word alone. A marriage belonged to two people, and why should Tristan’s new wife be willing to let him go? He was Blanche’s husband, and nothing could alter that.

  And now he was dying and wanted to see her, Brangwain said. Could she get there in time? The call had found her ready, for when the maid arrived, she discovered Isolde preparing to leave Castle Dore.

  Brangwain understood at once why she wanted to go. “The King threatening you, and Sir Andred watching your every move? Gods above, madam, you were wise to get away.”

  Was she? Or had she read too much into what Mark said? For all his threats, he had never tried to molest her before, and she doubted that he’d start now. You know Mark. Always big and boastful in his drink, a prey to sudden impulses and flashes of cruelty But he’s weak rather than wicked and all he wants is the easy way out.

  And Mark would not give a fig that she’d sailed away. While she was gone, he was free to hunt and indulge in all his bachelor pursuits. Her place at dinner, she knew, would be taken by Elva tonight, and Mark would not spare his departed wife a thought.

  But Tristan, Tristan, are you still alive? Or has your spirit slipped its shell and begun its journey to the Fortunate Isles?

  Trembling, she recalled Brangwain’s account of Blanche’s willful, even fatal attempt to heal.

  “She said she had an elixir that would bring him back to life. But the doctor said it would poison him, and it did.”

  Isolde gasped with rage. “She gave it to him, despite what the doctor said?”

  Brangwain nodded unhappily. “He was bad enough before, he was so ill. And afterward he was much worse.”

  Isolde closed her eyes. So he could be dead by now, and I would not know.

  Yet above deck, the little ship was proudly flying a full set of billowing white sails. White for life and the hope of love renewed. White as you asked, as a sign that I would come. Will you still be alive to see them, my love, or has the earth already gone over your dear eyes?

  These days, there was no escaping that. Seeing after seeing plagued her now, visions, fragments, pieces of unreality, fears and bad dreams. She saw Tristan lying dead in a hundred different ways, and Blanche burying him where his body could never be found. Then other times she saw him well again, strong and happy as he always was, restored to his full health.

  Oh, my love, my love, I’ve lost you, our love is gone . . .

  For whatever happened, he could never be hers again. If he died, she would never see him again in this world. If he lived, he was lost to her, too, now he’d tied himself to Blanche.

  “He loves you, lady!” Brangwain had sworn fiercely as she told her tale.

  “He still married her!”

  Brangwain was in tears. “But he’s only thinking of you. He says he’ll beg your forgiveness if he sees you again.”

  My forgiveness? Can I truly forgive?

  Yes, perhaps.

  Marrying another woman, even sleeping with her?

  Perhaps even that.

  So, what now? What would she find in France?

  A brief farewell, if he lived. And if he did not, what then? Life is nothing to me, love, as soon as you are gone. Would she make the dark journey too? Follow in his footsteps down to the Otherworld?

  “Ho there!”

  There was a confused shouting on the upper deck. The cabin door burst open and Brangwain flew in. “Land ahoy, lady,” she cried. “Sir Tristan will see our white sails and he’ll know you’ve forgiven him and still love him in spite of everything!”

  Isolde stared out through the porthole at the approachin
g land. Do I? Is that true?

  The white sails cracked and groaned overhead. Yes, I do. Till all the seas run together and the waters bury the land. I’m the sea, you’re the land. Sea and land together make a world. Hold fast, love, I am coming. I am here.

  The cries of the sailors sounded clearly now. “Yarely, mister—broadside on, bring her in!”

  Isolde brought her hands together in a solemn prayer. Goddess, Mother, bring me to my love.

  EVENING SETTLED ON the roofs of Castle Hoel. Unmoving, like a spider in her web, Blanche sat alone in her tower and waited for the word. It was swift in coming, as she knew it would be. She had taken care to put the lookout in fear of death.

  And here he was, scuttling fearfully in. “A ship from Cornwall?” She leaped to her feet. “And the sails?”

  One glance at his face prepared her for his reply. “White, lady. Like the wings of a swan.”

  White sails?

  So be it.

  Blanche’s wooden heels knocked on the floors as she ran. Hurry, hurry, get to Tristan before the ship reaches the dock, no one else must give him the news.

  Tears of anger and jealousy surged up to choke her throat. Tristan, who had scorned her and shamed her and refused her love. The knight she had made her own chosen one, who had chosen another woman over her . . .

  Panting, she burst through the infirmary door. Standing over Tristan, the doctor held up a hand in alarm. “One moment, madame. No excitement, please—”

  But she could not contain herself. “Tristan, your answer has come!”

  Tristan reared up, his eyes dark hollows in his skull. “A ship from Cornwall?” he husked. “What sails?”

  “Black!” she gasped out with inhuman glee. “Black as death itself from stem to stern.”

  “Black?” The gaunt figure on the bed stared like a madman.

  “You are mine now,” Blanche exulted. “No more Isolde, only Blanche, your wife.”

  “Isolde!” Tristan threw back his head in a long, animal cry. Then the light left his eyes and he crumpled sideways on the bed.

  “Gods above, see what you’ve done!” the doctor cried. Urgently, he set to work chafing the cold hands and rhythmically working each of the inert limbs. “I told you a shock could be too much for him. I fear this is fatal, lady, weak as he was. Prepare yourself for the worst.”

  Blanche stood transfixed. No, it couldn’t be. Nobody died from hearing bad news. She’d only meant to punish Tristan for the way he’d treated her. How could she have known that he’d take it like this? She squared her shoulders and mutinously set her chin. What had she done wrong?

  There was a disturbance at the door and one of the attendants appeared. “The ship from Cornwall is standing at the quay. The captain requests permission for his Queen to come ashore.”

  “His Queen?”

  It was the doctor, his face white with outrage. “You mean Queen Isolde? She’s here?”

  The attendant bowed. “She is, sir, and anxious to land.”

  “Yes, of course she can land,” Blanche blustered, desperately avoiding the doctor’s eyes. “Send to the quay and escort the Queen here at once.”

  She threw a defiant look at the doctor: there! It’s all turned out right in the end. She’ll soon be here. He can see her now.

  But the doctor had turned back to the still form on the bed and was shining a candle into Tristan’s eyes. Moments later he confronted Blanche with an expression she had never seen before. “Madame, your healing hands have done their work. Your husband is dead.”

  CHAPTER 49

  The little ship nestled comfortably at the quay. Isolde stood on the deck with Brangwain, containing her soul with a desperate calm. Never had a landing seemed so wearisome, so long. Each grappling hook, every rope, every bantering exchange between the sailors and the men on the dock ate into her soul. Help me, Mother, help me. Bring me to my love.

  The ship’s captain came toward her, cap in hand. “Will you disembark, my lady? An escort of men at arms is here for you.”

  She had dressed for this in her simplest array.

  “No need to outqueen Blanche,” she told Brangwain lightly, silencing the jealous murmurings of her soul. “I haven’t come here as Queen. I am here to see Tristan.”

  If he still lives hung unspoken in the air. And if not, the Western Isle in all its glory is nothing to me.

  So she left the ship in a gown of plain green silk, green for the heart of the woodland, green for the sea. But Brangwain had had her way with the royal jewels of the Western Isle, and Isolde stepped out with the crown of the Queens of Ireland upon her head and ropes of crystal and emerald at her neck and waist. With the little troop of guards marching ahead and Brangwain behind, she climbed up from the harbor and followed the men through the town.

  Castle Hoel lay beyond on a low hill, its back to the forest, its handsome face to the sea. The slow descent of evening silvered its roofs and towers and drifted down on its courtyards in wreaths of lilac and gray. Isolde felt the weight of her fear growing with every step. Where are you, Tristan? Are you there, my love?

  “This way, my lady.” The leader of the men at arms pointed to a low white building ahead. Isolde nodded. The infirmary, of course. In spite of herself, her heart leapt in her breast. Not the graveyard nor the crypt, so there is still hope. Goddess, Mother, save him! Save my love.

  The lights of the infirmary beckoned through the growing dark. As they gained the threshold, a low, mournful sound rang out.

  “What’s that?” Brangwain cried.

  Isolde could not speak. It’s the bell the Christians ring when someone dies. Have I come so far and missed you now, my love? Is this your death knell?

  Confronting her in the doorway was a young woman dressed in white, clasping her long white hands with a trembling air. Isolde drew a breath. Was this her rival? This pale-eyed, pouting girl, her white face disfigured with tears? Why, she’s only a girl. She’d have seemed like a child to him. He could never have loved her as he loved me.

  The young woman threw back her head and came forward with a regal air. “Queen Isolde, welcome!” she declaimed. “I am Queen Blanche of Castle Hoel and Lyonesse.”

  Castle Hoel and Lyonesse. It sounded like a hiss. For some reason, an angry swan came into Isolde’s mind. She inclined her head.

  “Greetings to you, madame,” she said distantly. “I am here to see Sir Tristan.”

  Blanche gave an ugly grimace. “Oh, so?”

  Isolde leaned forward to add weight to her words. “By his invitation, lady. Please take me to him at once.”

  “You came to see my husband?” Blanche let out a high, cracked laugh. “You’re too late.”

  Somewhere in the castle the death knell tolled again. So the bell was for you, Tristan. Oh my love, my love . . .

  The hateful voice chimed on. “He died a few minutes ago.” Blanche’s pale eyes flashed. “You missed him by a hair.”

  And that pleases you, of course. Isolde nodded. “May I see him?”

  “See him?” Blanche shook her head. “Oh, no!” What, let this tall, queenly woman with the fathomless green eyes know that she herself had no access to Tristan? That as the nurses came forward to lay him out, the doctor had banished her from her husband’s side?

  “Give him peace in the grave, at least,” he had said. Blanche winced to recall the withering contempt and knew the rebuke would be with her all her life. Well, the doctor would soon be on his way, dispatched with a flea in his ear to take his skills elsewhere. But for now . . .

  She squinted at Isolde disdainfully. “You want to see my husband’s body? No, that’s not possible. My husband has already been taken away.”

  Your husband, your husband . . . is he yours now forevermore?

  Isolde straightened her back. “Then I’d like to visit his grave.”

  “He will have no grave. In this country we give our dead back to the sea.” And a good thing too! she was longing to say. The sooner he’s gone, the better
it will be. Did I ever love him? Did I really kiss that disgusting, cold, clay-like face?

  Given to the sea. Isolde nodded dumbly. Our first mother, from which all life springs. The last circle of the Goddess for men whose graves lie there.

  Sharp unshed tears were stinging the back of her eyes. She turned her gaze on Blanche, dilated and wild. So he’s gone. And you hastened his death.

  Blanche gave a strident laugh. “I know you must hate me.”

  “Hate you . . . ?”

  How young she was. Isolde shook her head. No, Blanche would never be important enough for that. “This is no time for hate. May your Gods bring you to a better life.”

  “Me?” Blanche’s pale face assumed a furious frown. “What d’you mean?”

  What did I mean?

  A tremor racked Isolde from head to foot. Her sight faded, and she saw an angry sea. Raging waves dashed themselves on rocks at her feet and spent their force against the cliff behind. She was standing in the waves, she was the waves, she was the sea. With spray in her eyes and spindrift foaming her hair, she heard a voice. Speak for me now. You are the Lady of the Sea.

  In a voice like the tide, she began to speak. “Your nature is formed like the ocean to beat on the shore. But the ocean rages alone, though it floods the whole earth. If you seek a true partner for life, look for still waters and calmer inlets where love may rush in.” Dimly she caught Blanche’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh, yes! Love is coming for you, though Tristan was not the man.”

  She paused. “Love is waiting for you,” she repeated. “He is here.”

  She saw a light of apprehension dawn in Blanche’s eyes. “I . . . I—”

  “You fear to lose yourself in the love of a man. But remember, men and women together make up the world. The love of another transcends our own selfish will. Love alone will bring you to the land of your heart’s desire.”

  She bowed and turned away. “And so, farewell. Come, Brangwain, let’s be gone.”

  “At once, my lady.”

  Brangwain gave Blanche the deepest, fullest curtsy of her life. Rising to her feet, she leaned forward with a scornful smile. “My lady may forgive you,” she hissed, “but the Great Ones won’t!”