Isolde nodded to herself and met Brangwain’s eye. “I shall not leave you tonight. When the Mother calls me will be time enough to go. We’ll send the boat out in tribute to my love. May it ease his passage to the world beyond the worlds.”
“Lady, lady . . .” Brangwain’s voice cracked and she dissolved in tears. “Praise the Gods! And you’ll be with Sir Tristan in a better place. Then he’ll never leave you. He’ll serve you there forever and a day.”
Isolde nodded. “In that world, there is no parting and no pain.”
Did Isolde know, Brangwain wondered, glimmering through her tears, that she was radiant with beauty, alive with her own light? Elf-shining, they called that look in the ancient days, when only the Old Ones and the Great Ones had such a power. Well, one day you’ll be among them, my nursling, my charge. And may the Goddess bring you to the land of your heart’s desire.
Isolde looked at the boat. “Candles, Brangwain, if you please?”
“Gladly, lady.” With wings on her heels, Brangwain flew to fulfill the request. Together the two women lit a dozen swan lamps and set them among the flowers. The little craft glowed with life, the flames pulsing like a living heart. Just so were you, my love, in your life. And so I will remember you to the end of mine.
“Ready?” Isolde called in a low, fervent tone.
Brangwain moved to the rope secured to its cleat on the quay. “Ready, madam.”
“We must wait for the turn in the tide.”
Together they listened to the song of the sea, waiting for the hungry, withdrawing cry. With a sobbing sigh, the sea began to ebb, slowly at first, but with an increasing roar.
The moon soared over the horizon, flooding the world with light. Isolde looked up at the great kindly face and her heart overflowed. I am ready.
Bless my offering, Mother.
Bring it to my love.
CHAPTER 52
Already the current was beginning to tug at the boat. Blinded by unshed tears, Isolde stood on the quay. Farewell, my love, till we meet again. She held out her hands in blessing. “Cast off, Brangwain,” she called.
The boat slipped away from its mooring, running fast and true. Together they watched it vanish into the dusk. Then from the darkness behind them, Brangwain felt a tug on her sleeve.
“Are you Queen Isolde?” said a childish voice.
Turning, Brangwain saw a boy of no more than eight, emerging like a wraith from the mist. His bare feet and ragged clothes proclaimed him to be one of the town urchins, children of the streets who lived by their wits. An unwashed, dog-like smell seeped from him when he moved.
Isolde came forward. “I am the Queen,” she said gravely. “Speak to me, little sir.”
The child nodded. “If you’m the Queen, you mun follow me.”
“Why so?”
“I’m sent by one to do you a good turn.” His grubby face brightened. “He gid me good money for it. He can help you, he says, by the white sails and the black.”
Isolde stood still. By the white sails and the black . . . A message about Tristan, it must be. Perhaps even one he left her before he died? She patted the boy on the shoulder. “Lead on, sir.”
Already the child was darting off into the night. Isolde hurried after him, anxious to keep him in sight. Brangwain swung into step beside her, drawing up her cloak to cover her head.
“Where are we going, lady?” she asked grimly. “Do you know?”
Isolde shook her head. But the boy was leading them up from the harbor and toward the town. Behind it lay the black bulk of the castle mound. Back to the palace, to hear of Tristan’s last words?
Closely following the child, they slipped unseen through insignificant alleys and darkened streets. Twisting and turning, they soon lost their way. But the surefooted child pressed on without looking back.
Wisps of watery cloud hung over the face of the moon. They flitted like shadows through the nighttime town, keeping careful sight of the round, bobbing head. Stumbling over cobbles, skirting foul-smelling puddles and open drains, the going was hard. With every step, Isolde’s misgivings grew. Are we still in the town, or coming to the palace now?
They came to a nondescript door in a high stone wall.
“Are we here, boy?” Brangwain hissed. But the child signaled her to silence, then gave a low knock.
There was no answer. Isolde shivered. Why has he brought us here?
The boy knocked again. The door opened and a tall man appeared with a candle in his hand. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I beg you, come in.”
They stepped over the threshold. All-heal and savory, rosemary and rue, and above it all, the unmistakable smell of blood.
The infirmary.
Where Tristan breathed his last.
They were in a room at the back of the building, low and white, but golden now with swan lamps gleaming on every side. Pots and jars and posies of fragrant herbs lined the walls on overflowing shelves. A large table was covered in ingredients, books, and scrolls, with surgical knives and saws scattered in their midst. Two or three doors led off to adjacent rooms, but there were no sounds of life. A solitary chair stood by the window, waiting for the occupant of the room. Isolde looked steadily at their guide. He was a man of middle age, his eyes shrewd and caring, his face lined with pain. His sleeves were rolled up and his tunic splashed with blood.
Isolde nodded. The doctor, of course. He looks like a decent soul, honest and kind. And with no one else to trust at the very end, Tristan might well have turned to him.
She bowed her head in greeting. “You sent for me, sir? ‘By the black sails and the white.’ What did you mean?” Words of love from my loved one? A love token? A last wish?
The doctor leaned forward earnestly. “I heard you were getting ready to end your life. But there are still those who can try to repair your hurt. I have one such, here in our infirmary—”
So there’s no word from Tristan, no secret to learn. It’s nothing but a trick.
“Sir—” She held up her hand and firmly shook her head. “Let me go. The Mother calls me back to my own land. I must not delay.”
The doctor shook his head. “Our man is a noted healer,” he said stubbornly. “He has seen much—learned much—”
“Alas, sir.” She drew a ragged breath. “There are some hurts that the Gods themselves can’t heal.”
He paused, and she watched him choosing his words with care. “Sir Tristan thought well of this man before he died. Talk to him, I beg.”
“Tristan?”
She fixed her eyes on the ceiling. She wanted to weep. “Tristan thought well of me, sir, and doubtless of you, but still he died. Thinking is nothing now, and talking is even less.”
A great weariness seized her. Wait for me, love, on the Silver Plain. The road may be short or long, but I shall be there.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Only see him for a moment.” He gestured toward the nearest door. “He’s right here.”
She nodded to the doctor. “Do what you will.”
“You won’t regret it, madame. If you’ll follow me . . .”
Yes, yes . . .
She willed herself to go forward, beyond feeling, beyond hope. Oh, Tristan . . . The loss of him came over her with a pain like death.
“This way, madame.” The doctor opened the door and ushered her through.
Oh, my love, my love. What can this healer say to cure me of you? The only cure for a love like ours is death.
Silently, she began a prayer to ease her distress. Star of the East, give us kindly birth. Star of the South, give us love. Star of the West, give us gentle age. And Star of the North, give us peace.
One candle alone lit the inner room. As she entered, she felt her soul tremble and break free, soaring and wheeling in the shining gloom. Goddess, Mother, give us love and peace. No more pain and confusion, but freedom and flight to the astral plain.
And now Tristan was coming toward her through the darkness, robed all in moonglow, his head
crowned with stars. She stared at him and laughed with pure delight. Have I died, then, my love? Are we together now?
Then the tall, starlit figure took her hand and she knew his touch. She saw his eyes, Tristan’s eyes, and heard his familiar voice. “You came to me with white sails. Can you forgive me, my Queen?”
CHAPTER 53
Oh, my love, my love...
The shock was almost too much. “Are you alive?” she gasped.
In answer he lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Never more so.”
His voice was warm and husky, his grip strong. He was clad in a smooth leather tunic and freshly laundered shirt with the old torque of knighthood gleaming at his neck. Yet now she could see the deep shadows under his eyes, and the signs of recent suffering on his face. With a fresh shock she saw that the gleam on his skin she had taken for the glow of the moon was the pallor of strain.
“How are you? What’s happened?” Babbling, weeping, she plucked at his shirt front. “Blanche told me you were dead!”
His face tightened. “She gloated to me that the sails you were flying were black. I passed out and the doctor said I’d died to stop her from trying to revive me with one of her remedies.”
He was swaying on his feet.
“Let’s sit down,” she said anxiously. Oh, my love, my love. Joy and doubt raged to and fro in her mind. Are you truly alive? Or is this all a dream?
He drew her to a sofa against the wall. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she made out a small, low chamber, little more than a hermit’s cell, with a bed, a beaker, a table, and a chair. But in truth she could not see much through her tears. Weeping, shaking, she could not let go of his hands. You’re alive. She gave an uncertain laugh. I’m going mad. I must stop talking to you inside my head.
“Tell me everything that’s happened,” she said in a tremulous voice. “When I got back to Cornwall, you’d just sailed away. I know you asked them to send you to me, but Andred sent you here instead. He told me he thought you meant Isolde of France.” She could not hold back a bitter laugh. “He was lying, of course.”
Tristan nodded tensely. “I know. As soon as I came ’round, I realized I’d been tricked. I wrote to you every day—”
“You wrote to me?” she interrupted incredulously. “I wrote to you, and you never once replied.”
“Oh, lady—” Tears stood in his eyes. “I never had a single line from you. Then you wrote to tell me that our love was at an end—”
“Brangwain told me that.” Oh, sweetheart. Our love ended? She could not catch her breath.
“—and that you were reconciled with Mark, and a child was on the way—”
“A child?” Now she was gasping with rage. “I didn’t know the details. The letter said I was reconciled with Mark? And you believed it?”
He stared at her earnestly. “After so long without a word from you, yes, I did.”
Isolde stared back at him, baffled. How could you believe it? Then came an unhappy thought. I was more faithful than you. I never gave up hope. But she could not say that now.
“It was Andred, I’m sure,” she said furiously.
“Who else?” She watched Tristan intently as he pieced it out. “And Blanche must have intercepted the letters we wrote. All the messengers reported to her as they went to and fro.”
“Blanche.” Isolde clenched her fists. There she is again. There’s no avoiding it. She took a painful breath. “Your wife.”
“Yes.” His eyes roamed away from her now, angry and wild. But his grip on her hands grew fiercer as he spoke. “I betrayed you, lady. Gods above, how I’ve failed! No man on earth could have been a greater fool.”
“Betrayed me?” So it’s true. She felt sick. “You went to bed with her.”
He recoiled as if he had been stung. “Never!” he cried in a fury. “I never touched her. I only married her because she begged me to. She said it would save her from a marriage she could not bear. She swore she’d get it annulled as soon as she was free.”
“But she broke her side of the bargain?”
An ugly flush of shame disfigured Tristan’s face. “Yes, she did,” he said with difficulty. “On the wedding night, she wanted me in her bed.”
Ye Gods, why don’t men ever know the way women’s minds work? Why don’t they understand the power of female desire?
“And that’s when you jumped out of the window and got hurt again?” Gods above, this man!
“I deserved it,” he said savagely.
Isolde struggled to stay calm. “You shouldn’t have married Blanche, we both know that. But if nothing took place between you—”
“That’s not all.” He leapt to his feet and roamed around the room. “There’s something else . . . something you don’t know.”
“Maybe I do.”
Painfully she recalled Mark, Andred, and Elva, all enjoying a lecherous chuckle at Tristan’s expense. He’s a dark horse, Tristan . . . the filthy wretch found a lover and holed up to pleasure a lady for weeks on end.
“Mark told me you were delayed in a castle,” she forced out. “With a lady. And her maids.”
“Castle Plaisir de Fay. The lady’s name was Duessa. The lady Falsamilla was the chief of her maids.”
Duessa, Isolde pondered feverishly. Falsamilla.
“It was the lady’s habit to take passing knights to her bed. She threw me into her dungeon when I refused. Then Falsamilla offered to help me to escape. But in return she wanted—”
I know what she wanted. “She wanted the same from you as her mistress had.”
Slowly, she turned her face away from him. She could see it all. “So you did betray me,” she said hollowly. An anguish worse than the fear of his death caught her unawares.
“Yes, I did!” he cried. “But not as you think. She wanted a kiss, that’s all, for letting me go.”
“You kissed her? Falsamilla?”
“Yes.”
Isolde nodded. The brown-haired woman. I knew.
Tristan crossed the floor and slumped heavily in the chair. “I betrayed you.”
A heavy silence fell. Isolde’s heart was burning. Ah, love, after we were true to each other for all these years?
Tristan heaved a groan from the depths of his soul. “I failed you, lady. And my knighthood oath.” He buried his head in his hands.
“No!” Isolde found herself surging to her feet. Should he suffer for one kiss? When the woman he kissed saved his precious life?
“You’re my love,” she burst out, giddy with sudden joy, “and you’re alive! You were right to get out of that cell. Don’t you think I’d rather have you here, now, in my arms?”
Tristan looked up, a gleam of hope on his ravaged face. “Can you forgive me?”
“When I have you back with me again?” Gently, she reached for his hand and brought it to her lips. “Oh, my love, it’s not much to forgive.”
He took her in his arms. Neither could say which one of them wept first, but they both felt their tears falling like healing rain. After a while they kissed, heart-hungry but tremulous too, like lovers who have suffered more than they know.
They sat for a long time in the candle’s glow. Beyond happiness now, Isolde gazed steadfastly into the flickering flame, sheltering her soul within the strength of his.
At last she raised her head. “I have a ship at the dock, ready to sail. We can leave for Cornwall at once.”
Tristan frowned. “I have to see Blanche first.”
Her eyes flared in alarm. “Can we trust her, after all she’s done?”
He laughed harshly. “Not in the least. But sooner or later, she has to be told I’m alive. And I have to end this marriage. She must set me free.”
“But the doctor . . . ? Blanche will know he deceived her. Won’t she punish him? Make him pay for it?”
Tristan gave a crooked smile. “I asked him about that. He says he’s the King’s doctor and the Prince’s too, and he’s sure they won’t let him suffer because of Blanche.”
“So we deal with Blanche.” Isolde forced a smile. “And afterward?”
Tristan gripped her hands and kissed her again. “We put to sea, my Queen! The open sea!”
CHAPTER 54
She made a beautiful widow, it had to be said. Smiling behind his hand, Saint Roc watched as Blanche wandered around her apartment, a picture of grief. Some might find her fragile skin too pale, her eyes too large, her mouth too sorrowful, he could see that. But her child-like air of loss, her swollen eyelids, and tearstained face still tugged at his heart. And he had to admire the vigor with which she was mourning a man she hardly knew. Yes, Blanche was certainly making the most of Tristan’s death.
Indeed, it was plainly the best part she’d ever had. Already he could see her exquisitely clad in black, accepting condolences, with her brother or himself hovering attentively at her side. This was a role she could play for the rest of her life. But he was not born to dance attendance: the Chevaliers of Saint Rocquefort were adventurers and kings. Still, what was he doing now but awaiting her pleasure, dangling about in her chamber like a tassel on her gown?
And why had she summoned him to tell him about Tristan before informing anyone else, even her father the King? It meant he was Tristan’s chosen successor, to be sure. But as what? Would she ever allow him to grow into a partner, lover, and husband?
“Oh, Tristan . . .”
A fresh burst of anguished crying filled the air. Blanche buried her face in the sofa, dazed with fear. Tristan was dead. Dead! She still could not believe it. How had it all gone wrong?
Trembling, Blanche peered between her fingers at the pensive Saint Roc. Why wasn’t he paying attention? Tears filled her eyes again. Didn’t he know that she’d only called him here to comfort her distress?
“Sir?” she called out in a shaky voice.
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 30
