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

by Rosalind Miles

  “Madame?” he responded with a formal bow.

  “I shall never forget him! He was the most wonderful husband a woman could ever have. Oh, Tristan—” Blanche rose unsteadily to her feet. “And now I must tell my father and all the court—”

  “And notify his kinsman King Mark in Cornwall.” He paused. “There will be others too.”

  She put a hand to her head. “It’s all too much. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

  “Only if you promise to be guided by me,” he said gravely, his eyes fixed on hers. “I am not here to serve you, you have many good souls for that. I am here, as I was from the first, to win your hand.”

  Blanche’s face filled with color and she caught her breath. She could not decide if she was flattered or outraged. Gasping, she made a play for the upper hand. “Will you make love to a widow while her husband’s still warm?”

  “Yes,” he replied simply. “When I know that the widow was hardly a wife at all.”

  “Hardly a wife?” she flared up. “What do you mean?”

  He pressed on undeterred. “I know, too, that Sir Tristan was no real husband to you. He never knew you as I do, and therefore could never partner you as you deserve.”

  “As you can, I suppose?” she cried out in rage.

  He gave a sardonic smile. “Only if you hear me and heed my words.”

  “Heed your words?” Blanche widened her eyes and madly puffed out her cheeks. “When you speak so rudely as this to a woman who has lost her husband, a poor widow—”

  Widow, widow, widow—there’s your answer, Saint Roc. He held up a hand. “I shall leave you, madame, to your widowhood.”

  “Leave me?” Blanche’s mouth fell open. This was not what she planned. Her world of certainty slipped on its axis again, and she felt the abyss at her feet. Misery gripped her. What’s happening to me?

  “—see the Princess now.”

  Muffled voices sounded in the corridor outside and there was a sudden sharp confusion at the door. A frightened attendant appeared, wringing her hands.

  “Don’t be angry, madame. I know you gave orders you weren’t to be disturbed, but I couldn’t refuse the King—”

  Blanche leapt forward. “My father?” she cried in alarm.

  “Your husband, madame.”

  Since this was the only time he’d use the word, Tristan had resolved to give it full value now. His reward was to see Blanche gagging with horror and Saint Roc rooted to the ground as he came in leaning on Isolde, with the doctor and Brangwain at his side.

  He fixed his hollow eyes on Blanche, breathing heavily. “You wronged me, madame, with a grievous lie, and it almost cost me my life.” He gestured to the doctor. “But for this good man, I would have died at your hands. He recovered me, and he must not suffer for that.”

  Blanche could not speak. Tristan read her bloodless face and pressed on. “But I wronged you too. I should never have promised to marry you without love.” He glanced at Saint Roc. “I could have set you free from this man in some other way. But it seems freedom from him is not what you seek now.”

  “I—I—” Blanche gabbled. She could not look at Tristan, at Isolde, at Saint Roc. Even the doctor’s calm gaze stung her like a whip.

  Tristan took a deep breath and steadied himself on Isolde’s arm. “From my heart, madame, I’ll make amends for what has passed. Call on me if you suffer any wrong, and I’ll do all that I can in honor to set it right.”

  There was a breathless pause. “And on your side,” he resumed, “you must swear to get this mock-marriage annulled. You know that I never came into your bed. Nothing passed between us to make us man and wife.”

  Saint Roc stirred. I knew it. What sadness, what madness, they must have endured that night.

  Blanche found her voice. “Annulled?”

  Tristan nodded gravely. “You must go to your priest and get the marriage set aside. All the world must know that our marriage is null and void.”

  All the world? More gossip, more shame . . . Blanche cried aloud in pain.

  And suddenly Saint Roc was at her side. “Courage,” he said in a low voice, taking her hand. “I’ll help you. I won’t leave you now.”

  “You won’t leave me?” Blindly, she turned her naked face up to his.

  “I promise. But you must promise too.”

  Blanche turned to Tristan and Isolde. “I promise,” she faltered. “I’ll do what you say.”

  Isolde stared at her earnestly. “You’ve broken your word before. Can we trust you now?”

  Saint Roc laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You have my word.” he said clearly. “And the doctor will not suffer for what he has done; I’ll take care of that too.”

  Tristan bowed. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Isolde. “Come, my Queen.”

  And as suddenly as they had entered, they were gone. Saint Roc moved back to Blanche and lifted her hand to his lips.

  “Another great shock, my Princess,” he said as lightly as he dared. “But all for the good.”

  Blanche nodded dumbly. She did not trust herself to speak. But she knew Saint Roc understood.

  “Now there’s much to do,” he resumed. “We must go together to your father and tell him all this.” He gave her his sardonic grin. “Or as much as you decide. I don’t think he’ll want to know more. Then we’ll put through the annulment, and you will be free. After that—”

  He broke off. She lifted her eyes to his face. “What?”

  There was not a hint of humor about him now. “After that, you must tell me when I may court you, woo you, and win you, and take you away to my kingdom as my Queen.”

  “Now. Let’s start now.”

  Even her voice was different, Saint Roc noticed with a lift of his heart. He eyed her cautiously. “Life in my kingdom is harsh. You’ll have to change your ways, my Princess.”

  “And so will you,” she retorted with a flash of her old fire. “I know what old bachelors are.”

  He took her in his arms. She smelled of salt tears and sweet wispy hair and lavender and rose. The road ahead would not be easy, he knew. But she was the woman he wanted, come what may.

  “Changing together,” he murmured. “That’s what marriage is. Kiss me, Princess.”

  He kissed her very gently. Blanche threw back her head. Bride, wife, and widow, and she’d never encountered this? She reached up to touch his lips with her white hand.

  “Kiss me again.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Oh, my love, Tristan, my love . . .

  At first she could hardly let him out of her sight. She was only content when he was close to her and she could touch his face, kiss his eyes, and hold his hand. She marveled at the lift and turn of his head, his fearless gaze, and the smile that lit up his face, as if she were seeing them all for the very first time. Most of all she treasured the scent of him. It was something she never knew she’d missed till he returned.

  But as always, they had to beware of the gaze of the world. “Never forget, my lady,” Tristan reminded her sadly, “that a thousand eyes always follow a queen.”

  And on board as they were now, sailors and attendants were never more than a few feet away. So Isolde remembered to nod coolly and dismiss Tristan, and he would bow and withdraw, despite his desire to take her in his arms. It was a harsh restraint on both of them. After the long cruel winter of the months apart, the return of spring brought too little time in the sun.

  Yet Tristan was alive when she’d given him up for dead! Every morning now as Isolde came to consciousness, the uprush of happiness almost took her breath.

  And every day he was recovering his strength, another cause for joy she kept hidden in her heart. He had suffered far more than he knew, and even to her he would not admit how badly hurt he was. But the healing began as soon as the ship put to sea. The gentle rocking of the waves, the fresh salt air, and the calm, unchanging rhythm of the days all brought him back to himself.

  Watching him, tending his beloved body, was her
greatest joy. When the spray dashed its salt in their faces, when the moon shone on a sea of silver as still as glass, her blood thrilled in her veins and she found herself wanting him. How long was it since she had taken him to her bed? Alone at dawn or preparing for sleep at night, she hungered for his body, for the touch and the feel of him. But a strange fragility hung about him still, and nothing must compromise his recovery. And every night when they parted for the sake of propriety, he to his cabin and she to hers, she fell asleep blessing her good fortune and calling down prayers on his name.

  And so the days passed. Dusk and bright morning, morning and shining dusk, slipped past like beads on a string. Floating between Castle Hoel and Cornwall, they crossed an ocean of unfathomable bliss. This enchanted interlude would be all too brief, she knew. But for the rest of her life she would never forget those sweet, irreplaceable, windswept days at sea.

  Yet they could not sail on forever, they both knew that. They had not bid farewell to their cares on shore.

  And shadows on Isolde’s side lay between them too. In the dead of night, when all the ship slept except for the lookout on the topmost mast, she sat in her cabin holding Tristan’s hand and told him of Mark’s hostility before she left. A solitary candle held them in its glow, and the shadows cast up by the sea seemed to listen as she spoke.

  Tristan heard her out in silence, reviewing her story in his mind. Mark’s insistence on exerting his marriage rights, his angry bullying, and the threat of a new knight who would guard her night and day, all sounded as if his suspicions had been dangerously aroused.

  “We must be on our guard,” he began grimly. “If Mark thinks he’s been injured, he’ll strike back. He’ll put revenge above pride, above reason, even his self-respect. And—”

  He broke off and fell silent, gripping her hand. It was left to Isolde to put his fear into words. “And he’s probably planning it now.”

  “Encouraged by Andred, of course.” Tristan gave an angry nod. “So we can’t arrive back together. Sailing into Castle Dore on the same ship would only fan the flames.”

  “You’re right.” Already she could hear the gossip Andred would put about. Sir Tristan was married in France, but the Queen flew over there like a mad thing and dragged him back!

  Tristan frowned. “We should land where we can, then I should go straight to Castle Dore to pay my respects. Then when you come back to court, I should go away, at least for a while.”

  “You’re right.” She returned his grip with a sigh. “And as long as you’re with Mark, I should stay away, until you convince him that he has nothing to fear.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Isolde paused. Where could she go? Who could she turn to without demeaning Mark?

  Someone above the fray . . . away from Castle Dore . . . living in a place of peace and repose . . .

  Mists swirled around her mind. Then a face of great beauty glimmered through the dark.

  “Igraine,” she said with quiet certainty. “Queen Igraine.”

  Tristan’s eyes widened. “Arthur’s mother in Tintagel?”

  “Yes.” Isolde nodded. “And Mark’s overlord.”

  She could see that he understood. “Queen of Cornwall in her own right,” he said slowly. “So Mark cannot object to your visiting her, queen to queen. And she’s wise beyond wisdom, they say.”

  “Yes, and more. Some say she is the Lady of the Sea. The Lady is seen in many places, but Tintagel is her home.”

  Tristan favored her with the smile she loved so much. “Queen Igraine will take care of you. Perhaps she’ll be a friend to you, too, when I’m gone.”

  When you’re gone.

  Isolde came to herself in pain and fixed her gaze on him. Now the snug cabin with its wooden walls, its sheepskin couches and canopied royal bed, seemed to mock the brief happiness they had encountered here. Must I lose you again, my love? When we’ve only just found one another, after all this time? “We’re like Guenevere and Lancelot,” she said in desolation. “He takes to the road to protect her good name.”

  Tristan’s tone was as bleak as hers. “As I must, too, for the sake of my Queen.” He raised his hand and touched the side of her face. “The most beautiful queen in the world.”

  Tristan . . .

  She looked at the candlelight gilding the hairs on his hand with a joy like grief. Then she turned to him and took his face in her hands. Half desperate, half transported, she fastened her lips on his.

  Oh—oh—She tore herself away, and kissed him again.

  The scent of his manhood reached her, and she heard him groan. “My lady—oh, my love.”

  His tunic was smooth beneath her fingertips. Kiss me, my love. She traced his forehead, his eyes, the outline of his lips, and knew them again, as she had the very first time. She had forgotten the wonder of his mouth. Kiss me, kiss me again.

  They came together like two waves at the place of magic where the ancients say the Otherworld meets the Great Sea. Careful, careful—it’s too soon came into her mind, and she drew back. But Tristan held her fast and would not let her go. His voice was thick with emotion in his throat. “Love me,” he said.

  Oh, my beloved . . .

  She took him in her arms. All about them the winds sang in the sails, the candles and sea-shadows danced, and the night closed upon them as they rode the rolling sea.

  CHAPTER 56

  The angry sea hurtled toward the shore. The little ship edged boldly through the waves toward the great wild, black mass of Tintagel ahead. All around them the mast, the sails, the rigging, creaked and groaned in the wind, and the sailors’ cries echoed above it all.

  “Easy there, mister.”

  “Yare, sir, yare!”

  Isolde shivered. Coming to Tintagel by land was an awesome sight, she knew. As a new arrival crested the bluff and looked down from the top of the cliff, the great rock lay surrounded by water many feet below. Crowned with its ancient castle and cut off from the land, it loured like one of the Old Ones, defying time.

  Ring after ring of fortifications protected the approach by land. Watchtowers and high walls guarded the inner courtyards, and a strong garrison kept the world at bay. After that came the most fearsome thing of all, a narrow flight of steps across the void. A ribbon of stone, hardly worth calling a bridge, it was the only link between Queen Igraine’s castle and the land. One man with one weapon and one arm could have held it against all comers for as long as he wished. It was the best-defended place on earth.

  Yet by sea Tintagel looked even more impregnable. Rising sheer from the water, the black mass with its ragged, jutting crags seemed to offer no place to land. Only the skilled eye of a Cornish captain could have discerned the narrow causeway concealed in a fold of the rock and brought the ship alongside. From the little quay, a path ran up to the castle with many twists and turns. It was guarded by stout iron gates, and, like the stone stairs arching from the land, had been built to be defended by one man alone.

  “Come, my Queen.”

  With formal courtesy, Tristan helped Isolde to alight. She nodded with equal politeness as she stepped off the boat. From this moment on they must be lady and knight, no more.

  Yet they must not come to Tintagel like guilty souls.

  “You are a queen, and a great one too,” Tristan had insisted, his eyes flashing, as Tintagel drew near. “And I am a knight of Cornwall and Lyonesse. We shall show Queen Igraine the respect due to her. But we must never allow Mark or Andred to make traitors of us.”

  Gods above, how she loved him! Isolde could not hold back a beaming smile. You are fresh from my arms, we are only just starting the day, and already I want to take you back to my bed.

  Oh, Tristan . . .

  Later he had spoken earnestly to Brangwain, urging the maid to turn her mistress out like a queen.

  Brangwain gave him a frosty stare. “I always do, sir.”

  And Isolde herself had had to hide a smile. Yet when she stepped off the boat, she had to admit that Brangw
ain had wrought an extra miracle. The maid had come up with a gown of Irish green silk handwoven with tissue of gold and matched it with a cloak of gold shot through with shamrock green. Her hair had been tamed and braided into two thick ropes, glinting like copper in the morning sun. Ireland’s ancient Crown of Queens secured her veil, and a fall of lacy white trefoils foamed out behind. Her wrists and fingers flashed with emerald and gold, and emeralds the size of pigeon’s eggs adorned her neck.

  Head high, she stepped onto the causeway and looked around. The great bluff of Tintagel soared above them. Overhead they could still hear the moaning of the wind, but here in the shelter of the rock the air felt warm. The sea sucked and sighed at their feet, surging furiously through the channel between the great rock and the land.

  At the foot of the cliff opposite, the waves thundered in and out of a vast cavern, its ragged arch like the entrance to some mighty cathedral of the deep.

  Tristan gestured toward it. “Merlin’s cave?”

  Isolde nodded. “Or the Lady’s. Or a haunt of the Old Ones before Tintagel was born.”

  A mailed figure appeared behind the iron gate. “Your Majesty? Welcome to Tintagel. We were glad to hear of your safe arrival from France.”

  Isolde received the greeting without surprise. Queen Igraine had chosen to hold aloof from the world, but its doings seemed to reach her just the same. Knowledge came to her, they said, on the wind, and in every silent ripple of the sea.

  The gate swung open and a young knight stepped through. He gave a courteous bow. “Will it please you to ascend?”

  Together they climbed up the path. Emerging into a courtyard at the top, they saw a wide cobbled space surrounded by high walls. Ahead stood the castle, its graceful arched entrance approached by a steep flight of steps.

  “This way, Majesty . . . this way . . .”

  They passed under the lofty archway into an echoing Great Hall, where there was no one to be seen. Did invisible hands tend these halls and corridors, Isolde wondered, these elegant cloisters with their fine columns and marble walls? Did the same unseen helpers who brought news on the wind and waves take care of Igraine and answer her every need?