“Indeed I do.” Isolde could not hold back. “On May Day, when this knight claims that Sir Tristan held me in his arms, he was in France. He had been at the court of King Hoel, mortally sick, for a month before that, and remained there for weeks afterward. This whole story is a pack of lies!”
The old Queen moved back to her throne. Her wand sang like a battle-axe as it swung toward Taboral. “What do you say now, good sir?”
“Your Majesty—” Taboral was sweating in panic. “I must have made a mistake . . .”
“Do you wish to reconsider?”
Taboral pressed a beefy hand to the side of his head. Reconsider? He floundered, shaking his head.
Igraine pressed on, her mellow voice chiming like a knell. “Did you see them on another occasion, perhaps?”
Could he say that? Taboral entertained a sudden, ridiculous hope. But hearing Andred’s muttered curse behind brought him back to earth. No, he’d only bring more trouble down on all their heads.
He was aware that Igraine was regarding him with pity and contempt. “Is there any truth at all in your story, sir?”
Taboral gulped. “Well, I—”
“Or in that of Sir Fer de Gambon, your fellow here?”
Taboral’s glance of panic toward De Gambon gave them both away.
Igraine looked at De Gambon. “Sir, do you want to speak out in your own defense?”
“No, madam.” De Gambon fixed his sickly glance on the floor.
Igraine’s remorseless summary embraced them both. “You are liars, then, both of you, out of your own mouths.”
“I knew nothing of this, believe me, Queen Igraine!” Mark started to babble in a high-pitched voice.
“My lord,” Andred interjected in a low voice. Urgently, he tried to convey his thought to Mark: leave this to me, I can still save the day . . .
“Hold your tongue!” Mark shrilled hysterically. “I’ll never listen again to a word you say.” He pointed at Andred. “He started this, lady. These men are his knights. I didn’t know anything till he came to me with this tale!”
“And you came to me, King Mark,” Igraine said implacably. “We are adjudicating your complaint. You asked for truth and justice. You shall receive no less.”
“Truth and justice, yes.” Mark was gibbering with dread. “But I did nothing to deserve—”
“What was it you demanded for Sir Tristan?” the old Queen inquired. “‘He deserves no less than to be cast out alive, stripped of his titles, honor, and dignity,’ you said. Is that still your verdict on faithless men?”
“Madam, I—” Mark was sweating freely, and his eyes were rolling wildly in search of help.
Isolde drew a breath. “Your Majesty, may I beg you, hold your hand . . .”
She was rewarded at once by a smile from Igraine. “Say on.”
She held out both hands in appeal. “The King has always held Sir Tristan in high regard. Tristan has no other kin but the King. May I beg you to make peace between them now? I know that Sir Tristan would be reconciled if he could.”
Igraine’s hooded eyes seemed to survey both future and past in one sweeping glance. “Ah, little one,” she said in a voice like the sound of the sea. “For thousands of years women have dreamed of peace while men have made war. But the time will come when all the world will be one, all its people living in harmony, not dying in hate.” A sudden shaft of sunlight lit up her face. “And you are right, Isolde. I shall make peace today, never fear.”
Goddess, Mother, praise and thanks to you . . .
The old Queen smiled. All the wisdom of her years stood in her eyes. “Let us praise the great Gods that the truth has emerged. We owe you a debt of gratitude, King Mark.”
Me?
Gratitude?
Mark wanted to howl out loud and beat the ground with relief. Gods above, the old Queen could have stripped him of his kingship and banished him from the land. Then he, not Tristan, would have had to trail a lance along hot and dusty roads, drifting through foreign lands. His name, not Isolde’s, would have been dragged through the mud for all men to jeer at and urchins to throw stones. He would have been . . . He would have had to . . .
Ye Gods, why hadn’t he thought of this before? Panic filmed Mark’s brow and filled his hands with sweat. He’d come within a hair’s breadth of disgracing himself, and it was all Andred’s fault. He should have warned him, advised him, saved him from all this.
Yet in fact, he’d saved himself. A glimmer of light stole back into Mark’s craven eye. Now that he knew what fools Taboral and De Gambon were, he could send them packing before any more damage was done. In truth, he’d been a fool to believe Andred against Tristan, when the lad had so often proved his loyalty and was honest to a fault.
Tristan . . .
How he’d missed him! And how good to have him back again, fit and well.
“King Mark?”
He looked up to see the old Queen’s eyes assessing him. A wry smile lit the shrewd, ageless face.
“Go, sir,” Queen Igraine said gravely. “Leave Tintagel in the knowledge that your name is clear, just as the names of Isolde and Tristan are too. Neither man nor woman can impugn your honor now, or that of your nephew or Queen. And be assured that your throne is safe too. Neither your Queen nor your nephew has designs on it. You are my chosen vassal as Cornwall’s King, and you will remain so as long as my faith and trust in you endures.”
“Peace and joy be upon you, gracious Queen!” Mark trumpeted in a frenzy of relief. God and His blessed Mother, was he going to get off as lightly as this? Get out, man, out, as fast as you can. He contorted his long limbs into a frantic bow. “Farewell, Majesty. Your vassal kisses your hand.”
In a noisy flurry, Mark and his men hastened out. Queen Igraine rose to her feet and descended from the throne. Leaning on her staff, she took Isolde’s hand. The sun behind her back tipped her white hair with fire and bathed every mote of the air in liquid gold.
“Go forward, my dears, into the world of light,” she said tenderly. “No danger or treachery can follow you now. You have answered your accusers and vindicated your names. King Mark must accept that you had no malice against him and these plots are false. Mark will forget all this on his first day in the saddle, as soon as he is back home at Castle Dore.”
Home.
Ireland, Erin, home.
The word struck Isolde with a peculiar pain. “I must go back to my country. I cannot leave Ireland ungoverned any longer now.”
The Queen pressed her hand. “Go, Isolde. The Western Isle will always be your fate. You are its Queen and the spirit of the land. It is the mystic marriage that none may break.” She turned to Tristan and touched his hand. “And you, Sir Tristan, you know where you must go.”
A shadow like night passed over Tristan’s face. “Alas, lady, I do.”
CHAPTER 58
The little ship strained at her moorings to be free. Above her, the massive primeval rock reared up out of the sea, clinging to the land by its thread of stone. On the rock stood the castle that was old before time was born. Brooding to itself as it had done for the last thousand years, the dark mound of Tintagel hunkered down in the twilight waters against the night ahead. A mewling, weeping tide raced toward the far horizon and its dying gleam. Not a star shone in the cloud-laden sky.
Isolde heard the wandering cry of the sea birds, wailing like lost souls. Wait for us, we are wanderers too. Salt encrusted her lips and blinded her eyes. She hardly recognized the sound of her own voice. “Farewell.”
The wind howled and wept around her mind. Farewell? Oh, my love, my love . . .
Tristan’s voice was raw. “When you reach Ireland, will you write to me?”
Every hour, every day. “I shall. And as you ride with Mark, think of me?”
Tristan gave a bleak nod. “Every thought of my soul will be yours.”
The sea raged around the rock. Must we part? hung between them like mist on a newly turned grave. But they both heard the soundles
s answer. Yes.
“Farewell, lady.” Tristan’s eyes were bright with tears. “Let me bring you on board.”
In silence they mounted the gangplank and he led her to the rear, away from the bustle of the seamen as they made ready to sail. A small rosy lamp shone out steadily on the stern. “If you stand here, by the light,” he said, “I can watch you from the land as long as my eyes can see.”
She nodded and looked around. They were quite alone. The faithful Brangwain was making ready below, and the captain and his men were busy elsewhere.
It will be a long, hard winter. But all winters in the end give way to spring. “When the seaways open again, I shall return to Castle Dore.”
He shook his head. “I shall come to you in the Western Isle as soon as I judge that it’s safe to leave.”
Till then, we shall keep the faith. Holding fast to his hands, she repeated the anthem that had bound them in faith and truth through all these long years. “This love will never leave us now, neither for weal nor for woe.”
“Never,” he echoed, his voice breaking. “Farewell till springtime, my lady and my love. When the primroses peer and the swallows come back to the land, look for me then, among the migrant souls. I shall not fail.”
She brought his dear hand to her lips.
“Look for me when the love star shows her face. Every night when she shines in the sky, I shall set a candle in my window to shine for you.”
There was a sudden flurry in the prow. “Man the shrouds,” came the captain’s voice, “then prepare to cast off.”
“Aye, sir.” One of the ship’s lads flew past, fleet and barefoot. A volley of further commands followed him. The evening wind lifted.
“I must go,” he said.
No, stay! Stay on board with me. We’ll sail to Ireland and leave the world behind.
“Yes,” she said.
Step by step she watched his leaden tread as he left the deck and returned along the rocky quay. He stood on the causeway, facing her in the stern. Already he was smaller and farther away.
“Ready, mister?” the captain’s cry rang out.
The answering call echoed around the bay. “Ready when you are, sir!”
“Let her run, then, out to the open sea.”
The boat slipped her moorings like a hare from a trap and ran with the tide. The great rock of Tintagel, Tristan, and all the world dissolved as Isolde’s eyes filled with tears.
She fixed her eyes on the lamp before her in the stern of the ship. Behind it she could still make out the tall, well-shaped body she had worshipped in a thousand acts of love. Already she was aching for the comfort of his nearness, the warmth of his hand. How long till she saw his beloved eyes again, touched his face, kissed his lips, felt him in her bed? Too long! Already she could feel his loss, taste her own tears.
Watch the lamp, watch the lamp. As long as you can see it, he won’t be gone. She knew he would be making the same bargain, as long as I can see the light on the stern, she’ll still be with me, she won’t really be gone.
Now there was nothing but the small, rosy light of the lamp and a silence like the ending of the world. As she stood, held in time as fast as amber and afraid to move, hope came dropping through the twilight like an evening prayer, and she saw all their past and future in the tiny flame. Even so is our love, burning as it can, yet refusing to go out. As all flames do, it will flicker in a hostile wind and shrink from the rain, but it will never die.
She moved to the rail of the ship and leaned out into the darkness, raising a hand toward the unseen shore. Come to me when you can, my sweetheart, my love. Whenever you come, you will find me there.
The Characters
Amaury de Rien Place, King of Gaul Suitor to Blanche and hopelessly in love with her
Andred, Sir Cousin of Tristan and nephew of King Mark of Cornwall, son of Mark’s brother and mortal enemy of Isolde and Tristan
Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, son of Uther Pendragon and Queen Igraine of Cornwall, husband to Guenevere, father of Amir, and leader of the Round Table fellowship of knights
Blanche, Princess of France Daughter of King Hoel of Little Britain in France, sister of Kedrin, courted by King Amaury and the Chevalier Saint Roc, but determined to have Tristan as her love
Brangwain Lady in waiting and personal maid to Isolde, formerly maid to Isolde’s mother and nursemaid to Isolde when she was a child, born in the Welshlands and thought to be “Merlin’s kin”
Breccan, Sir Knight of Ireland, brother of Sir Tolen, youngest son of the clan of Companions of the Throne, greedy for power and determined to make himself Isolde’s king
Cormac Chief Druid of Ireland, formerly of the Summer Country, deeply loyal to Isolde
Darath Prince of the Picts, only son of the King, young warrior feared in Ireland as threatening to attack
De Luz, Jean, King of the Basques Old friend of King Hoel and husband of the late Queen Roxane
Doctor Chief healer at the infirmary run by Blanche in France where Tristan is taken to recover from his head wound, friend to Tristan against the impulses of Blanche
Dominian, Father Christian priest, head of the Christian community in Cornwall and Father confessor to King Mark, abandoned as a child and cared for by Brother Jerome
Doneal, Sir Veteran knight of Ireland, member of the Queen’s Council
Duessa Lady of the Castle Plaisir de Fay who seeks to entrap Tristan and win him to her bed
Eamonn of the Ridge, Sir Knight of Cornwall who competes against Tristan in the tournament held by Mark
Elizabeth, Queen of Lyonesse Late mother of Tristan, wife of King Meliodas and sister of King Mark of Cornwall, lost in the forest when her husband was imprisoned, and died there giving birth to Tristan
Elva, Lady Mistress of King Mark, lover of Sir Andred, wife of a courtier, and enemy of Isolde
Eustan, Father Leader of Christian community in Ireland approached by Breccan to overthrow the Mother-right, but loyal to Isolde as Queen
Falsamilla Chief lady in waiting to Duessa, hostile to men but in love with Tristan and determined to make him her knight
Fer de Gambon Knight of Sir Andred employed by Mark to bear false witness against Tristan at the court of Igraine, and exposed by her
Fideal, Sir Knight of Ireland, formerly the late Queen’s champion and chosen one, who comes out of retirement to defend Isolde against Breccan
Friya Nurse to Breccan and his brothers long ago, fiercely loyal to him and living a hermit’s life, mad and alone
Gervase of Saint Katz Knight of Cornwall who competes against Tristan in the tournament held by King Mark
Gilhan, Sir Leader of the Queen of Ireland’s Council, knight of Ireland and loyal to Isolde
Glaeve Sword of power given to Tristan by the Lady of the Sea, inscribed with runic script
Greuze Sans Pitie, Sir Rogue knight injured in the Holy Land, lord of Castle Pleure, who waylays Isolde and Tristan and is killed by Tristan
Guenevere Queen of the Summer Country, daughter of Queen Maire Macha and King Leogrance, wife of Arthur, lover of Sir Lancelot, mother of Amir and friend to Isolde from their girlhood days studying with the Lady of the Lake on Avalon
Hoel, King of Little Britain in France Father of Blanche and Kedrin, friend of King Jean de Luz
Igraine, Queen Queen of Cornwall, wife of Duke Gorlois, beloved of King Uther Pendragon, mother of Arthur, Morgause, and Morgan le Fay, and supporter of Isolde
Ireland, Queen of See Queen of Ireland
Isolde, “La Belle Isolde” Princess of Ireland, daughter of the Queen and the Irish hero Sir Cullain, lover of Tristan, wife of King Mark and Queen of Cornwall and later of Ireland in her own right
Jerome, Brother Christian hermit and holy man, foster father and spiritual counselor of the abandoned Dominian
Kedrin, Prince Brother of Blanche and devoted to her, good son of King Hoel of Little Britain
Lady of the Lake Ruler of the Sacred Island of Avalon in
the Summer Country, daughter of the Lady of the Sea, and priestess of the Great Mother
Lady of the Sea Ruler of the sea, mother of the Lady of the Lake, and chief priestess of the Great Mother
Lancelot of the Lake, Sir Knight of the Round Table, lover of Queen Guenevere, son of King Ban and Queen Elaine of Benoic
Losiwith, Sir Knight of Cornwall who competes against Tristan in the tournament held by Mark
Lyonesse, Queen of See Elizabeth
Mark, King King of Cornwall, brother of Elizabeth, Queen of Lyonesse, uncle of Tristan and Andred, lover of Lady Elva, and husband of Isolde
Meliodas, King King of Lyonesse, husband of Elizabeth and father of Tristan, rescued by Merlin from imprisonment when his wife was lost in the forest and gave birth to Tristan
Merlin Welsh Druid and bard, illegitimate offspring of the house of Pendragon, adviser to Uther and Arthur Pendragon, former lover of the Queen of Ireland, and protector of Tristan
Nabon, Sir Leader of the Council of King Mark of Cornwall, supporter of Isolde
Odent, Sir Knight of Ireland, former champion and chosen one of the late Queen, murdered by Breccan for opposing him
Penn Annwyn Lord of the Underworld in Celtic mythology, the Dark Lord who comes to take his children home
Picts, the Fiercely war-like tribe of the north of modern Scotland, ancient enemies of Ireland, called Picti, the “Painted Ones,” by the Romans for their custom of vigorously tattooing their faces and bodies in a variety of colors
Plethyn of the Pike, Sir Knight of Cornwall, treacherous opponent of Tristan at the tournament in Cornwall
Queen of Ireland, the late Mother of Isolde, ruler of the Western Isle in her own right, descendant of a line of warrior queens, wife of the dead hero Cullain, and lover of many Companions of the Throne
Queen of Lyonesse See Elizabeth
Quirian, Sir Knight of Cornwall, member of the Council of King Mark, much obsessed by genealogy
Ravigel, Sir Knight of Ireland, leader of the band of Breccan’s knights, kinsman of Tiercel
Roxane, Queen Late wife of King Jean de Luz of the Basques
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 33
