While the western sky reddened beyond the castle and the swallows flew back to their nests for the night, the two of them stood there, her blue dress fluttering in the breeze, the blond head and the chestnut head close together, sometimes kissing, sometimes murmuring softly to each other. It was only due to the lavishness of King Mark’s feasting that there was still any food left when at last they walked, hand in hand, back toward the pavilions.
VI
When the festival week drew to a close at Tintagel, most of the king’s Cornish guests headed home to their own castles and manors. But those from Parmenie stayed on as honored guests. Rivalin had won the tourney as he had won the bohort, and many maidens smiled at him, some shyly, some boldly. But he kept his smiles for the princess Blancheflor, and some speculated openly that he might never return home to Bretagne.
Then one day a messenger came to Tintagel, bearing a warning from the king of Gales.
The messenger was exhausted from a long, desperate ride, and his horse nearly dead. When he gave his message to the royal court of Tintagel, his voice was heavy both from weariness and from despair. “The king of Eire has sent his fleet out, attacking and pillaging. He has a new war-captain, a terrible man from the south, against whom none dare stand.”
“If you would hear my counsel,” said Rivalin eagerly to King Mark, “you will call out your bannermen at once and march to help defend the coast of Gales.”
But Mark shook his head. “Horsemen and footmen will be too slow. By the time we reached Gales, the fleet would long be gone. Besides,” and he frowned at the messenger, who now sat on a low stool, thirstily drinking a flagon of beer, “this sounds very unlike King Gurmun of Eire. As High King, he has enough trouble maintaining authority over all the minor kings and lords of his island. I understand there are still dragons back in the mountains if he ever craves excitement. And his court is already rich. Why should he turn to raiding? Perhaps some renegade captain has assembled a few ships and decided to fly the royal insignia.”
The messenger looked up, pushing back the sweat-matted hair that had fallen across his face. “This was the royal fleet.”
Mark shrugged. “If so, then one good bout of raiding will have satisfied him. It is too late to help Gales, although of course we would have wished to if we could have, and Eire will never attack Cornwall.”
The messenger slowly rose and poured the rest of his beer into the rushes on the floor. “Let me have a horse, and I will leave at once, so you need think about Gales no more.”
“You should have listened to him,” said Rivalin when he was gone. “We cannot conclude that all our summer days will be feasting and dalliance. And I liked that man’s wit—he surely knows how to return blow for blow!”
But Mark only laughed. “The king of Gales is too timorous. One Irish pirate ship, and he imagines a full-scale attack.”
Four days later, twenty ships, flying the green harp of Eire, rounded the point and crowded into Tintagel harbor.
Mark and Rivalin looked down at them from the guardroom over the gatehouse. The portcullis had hastily been lowered, the drawbridge raised, and bowmen angled at all the lower windows. Even the hundreds of armed men pouring off the ships would have trouble breaching Tintagel’s walls.
“If they plan to starve us out,” said Mark complacently, “I trust they brought plenty of provisions. We have enough food for six months or more, and our own wells within the walls. They will tire of ship’s biscuits and brackish drinking water long before our own supplies give out.”
Blancheflor, watching with her ladies, did not know whether to be frightened or excited. Tintagel castle had never been attacked, not since before she was born.
A man emerged from the mass of warriors: someone tall, with long black hair tossed back over his shoulders, and a great two-handed broadsword strapped on his back.
Blancheflor, peeking out the window of her solar, gave a startled gasp. “It’s Morold of Ispania!” It had been a year, but there was no mistaking his stance, his sword, or the way he looked at the castle in assessment.
Morold strode toward the base of the castle but stopped just out of bowshot. There he stood with feet planted and his fists on his hips. “King Mark!” he shouted up. “Enemy of Christendom! The king of Eire demands that you pay him tribute as penalty for your sins!”
The warriors behind him shouted and shook their fists at the castle. Mark too recognized the man who now claimed to be speaking for the Irish king. “Enemy of Christendom?” he said to Rivalin in surprise. “What can he be talking about?”
“You are sadly mistaken, southron!” Rivalin shouted down. “We are excellent Christians, much better Christians than you are! If you leave at once, we may let this insult pass!”
“Do not try to distract me with pointless chatter,” Morold called back. “And I will not deal with you, whoever you are. My business is solely with King Mark of Cornwall.”
The warriors from the ship shouted in evident agreement. Mark pushed himself into the arrow slit next to Rivalin. “I am here! Last summer you received hospitality at my hands, Morold of Ispania, and this is not how a Christian would repay! And why do you claim the right to speak for the king of Eire?”
“My sister is his queen. My royal brother-in-law has heard too much of your ungodly ways.”
“The Irish queen?” said Mark in surprise, in a low voice. “The woman who was here with Morold?” But then he shook his head and shouted, “I demand that you take your ships and your men and leave my kingdom at once!”
Morold smiled with a flash of white teeth, visible even at a distance. “If you wish us to leave, listen to our demands!”
“You are in no position to make demands!” Mark shouted back. “We are safe from you unless you plan a year-long siege.”
Morold smiled again. “Your royal person may be safe, but not your fields, not your villages, not the fishing fleets, not even the famous Cornish tin mines of which we have heard so much.” He paused to let the threat sink in. “But we are good Christians, and we would gain little pleasure in killing the defenseless. Thus I have an alternate proposal for you.”
“Proposals? Demands?” Rivalin called back. “You make bold claims, southron, but we have seen little yet to back them up.” But his words rang hollow, for twenty ships full of heavily-armed men seemed capable of backing up any threat the Irish king’s war-captain might make.
Morold signaled behind him, and five great chests were brought forward. He flipped them open to show that they were empty. “Fill these chests with copper,” he said, “and we shall leave. For now.”
The Irishmen behind him laughed and hooted. Mark looked at Rivalin and his counselors. “We could afford five chests of copper,” he said quietly, “but what does he mean by ‘for now’?”
No one answered him. He leaned out again and called, “You promise to leave if we pay you enough, but for how long? There is little inducement to pay what you demand if we know you will soon be back for more!”
“Five years,” said Morold. “Maybe six. Long enough for you to regret your infidel ways and turn to Christianity.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mark to his men. “Why does he keep claiming to be fighting for Christ? We are no Moors.”
“Because he is drunk on the idea of booty,” said Rivalin, “and this is the only way he can persuade the men of Eire to attack other Christians.”
“So this is your only offer?” Mark called down. “If we give you five chests of copper, you go away for a few years, but if we refuse you will lay waste to Cornwall?”
“There is one other option,” Morold replied. The men behind him fell silent as he slowly unstrapped his broadsword and hefted it in both hands. “If any man of you dares face me in single combat and wins, then these ships will return without booty to Eire and shall trouble your coasts no further.”
“And if you win?”
They were all growing tired of Morold’s flashing grin. “Then you shall be short one knight
and shall still owe me five chests of copper.”
“I’ll do it!” said Rivalin. His fists were clenched, his face flushed with excitement. “That southron talks boldly, but a little Breton steel in his belly will shut him up fast enough!”
Mark frowned. “Rivalin, my friend, I will not ask this of you! You are of Bretagne, not Cornwall. This is not your quarrel.”
Rivalin dropped to one knee. “Grant me this boon, I pray! Let me honor you for the hospitality you have shown me by ridding your kingdom of this annoyance.”
“Do you need time to consider, King Mark?” Morold called from below. “Or are you starting to weigh out your copper already?”
“I cannot let you do this!” said Mark to Rivalin. “If any dare stand against the Irish champion, it will have to be me.”
But his voice trailed away as he spoke. No one needed to point out that he was still not long out of boyhood, without half of Morold’s strength. The king of Gales had apparently found no one who dared stand against the southern warrior—or at least no one who could—and had had his kingdom ravaged as a result.
“I have to fight him myself,” Mark continued in a small voice. “I swore at my coronation to protect my people.”
But Rivalin clapped him on the shoulder. “No one doubts your courage, sire. But grant me this boon, this opportunity to prove myself. All I shall ask in return, if I overcome this braggart, is the hand of your sweet sister.”
Mark’s face lit up at this, although he still did not agree. “I do not wish to see you dead! I do not doubt your skill, but I also do not trust those Irish warriors not to slay you even though you are victorious in single combat. And it will be of little value to the princess to have you die in proving your love to her.”
But Rivalin was not listening. “The king of Cornwall has his champion!” he shouted down to Morold. “What sureties will you give that you will behave chivalrously, that you will engage in single combat on the terms you have suggested, and that your men will not try to kill Mark’s champion when he has bested you?”
“I swear it as a Christian,” Morold called back. “Come down, show me what skill you imagine you possess, and none shall interfere in our fight. If you win, we leave at once and forever. If I win, the most likely outcome, then we will still need five chests of copper to keep us from raiding Cornwall’s coast.”
“Then arm yourself!” Rivalin shouted, almost unable to restrain his glee. He rushed out and nearly collided with Blancheflor.
She had come racing down from her solar, having overheard the whole conversation with Morold. “Rivalin! Do not go! I cannot bear it!”
He threw his arms around her, heedless of everyone looking on, and kissed her hard. “Do not worry your lovely head, my sweet friend. I have never met a foe I could not overcome.”
She clung to him, not letting him by. “Rivalin! Do you remember how you vexed my heart? If you, if Morold— I shall not speak of vexing then, I shall speak of my heart’s death!”
But Rivalin only laughed. “This fight is all that is needed to make me fully worthy of you, once I free your beloved homeland of this threat. We shall feast together tonight!” And he was gone, to don his armor and sharpen his sword.
Mark and Blancheflor watched together from the gatehouse. The sunlight was soft, the only sounds the waves against the shore, the murmur of leaves in the breeze, and the calls of birds in the meadow beyond the castle. The narrow postern gate opened slowly. Rivalin slipped out and balanced along the narrow bridge over the sea-washed ditch protecting Tintagel’s flank. He then strode confidently down the hill toward the harbor, apparently unworried that an Irish bowman might shoot him or a dozen Irish warriors set on him.
Blancheflor clung to her brother’s arm. “He is so brave,” she whispered, fighting tears, “and so foolhardy.”
Mark put his cheek against hers. “He is doing it for you, sweetest sister. Let us pray that love will make him strong.”
Rivalin’s chestnut curls shown bright as copper in the sun. His helmet was under his arm, his shield brightly burnished, and his sword ready at his belt.
Morold waited, clad in helmet and breastplate. He had chosen the ground, on the lawn where Blancheflor had once feasted him and his sister, in full view both of the castle and of his men, who had pulled back toward the jetty.
Rivalin settled his helmet over his head, hefted his shield, and raised his sword. “Pray to whatever false god you worship, southron!” he shouted. “It will do you no good. Then come and do your worst!”
Morold’s voice was hollow from inside his helmet. “As you wish, champion of Cornwall.” As he whirled his broadsword, almost lazily, and rushed the younger man, Blancheflor buried her face in Mark’s shoulder.
VII
The Irish brought Rivalin’s limp form to the bridge leading to the postern gate. His bright armor was all streaked with blood. “I believe you still owe me five chests of copper,” Morold called up. He did not sound triumphant, only weary. “In thanks for the hospitality you once showed me, I shall accept three.”
When the Irish had moved away again from the castle, Mark’s men hurried out for the body. “Sire!” one shouted, bending over him. “He still lives!”
Blancheflor, pale as death herself, rushed to bring hot water and bandages as they carried him inside. They put him in a chamber far away from the great hall, where he would have quiet, and stripped off his badly-dented armor. He lay unresponsive, his eyes shut, breathing shallowly. His body was bruised and bloody, but it looked as though the armor had protected him from the worst cuts of Morold’s terrible broadsword. His face was one mass of blood from a broken nose.
Blancheflor and her ladies washed his body tenderly, his muscled arms and legs, his solid chest and belly, his curly hair, and all the crevices of his face which the blood had stained. Tintagel’s herbalist brewed a potion that he said would aid the young man to gain consciousness, but Rivalin could not swallow, and it just dribbled back out through slack lips.
“Either he will die in the night,” said the herbalist grimly, “or he will linger a few days without regaining consciousness before the soul departs.”
“Is there no hope?” Blancheflor asked quietly. Mark, hearing the tremor she was trying to suppress, and feeling sick with despair himself, put an arm around her shoulders.
“There is always hope,” said the herbalist, but not as though he meant it, and packed up his powders. “I recommend prayer.”
“My ladies and I shall keep watch tonight,” said Blancheflor. She squeezed her brother’s hand. “I shall call you if— I shall call you if I need help.”
It was evening, but no one had thought of making supper. Mark went off to the castle treasury to see how much copper they might have on hand, and Blancheflor and her ladies closed the shutters and settled down, with only a single candle to keep the shadows back.
Clean and lying among white sheets, Rivalin looked very young. The large bandage across his nose could not disguise how handsome he was. Several of the ladies wept softly, looking at him, but Blancheflor kept her face composed.
None felt like talking, and as the night drew on several began to doze in their chairs. At last Blancheflor roused herself to say, “There is nothing to be done here. I shall keep watch until morning, but you should seek your own beds.”
Too sleepy to protest, her ladies left her. Blancheflor took one of Rivalin’s hands in hers, brought it to her lips, and kissed it.
Holding his hand, she tried to pray, but found herself addressing Rivalin rather than God. “Dearest friend,” she murmured, “please do not leave me. You are all in all to me, food and drink, life and light. Until you came, I never realized how flat was my life, how dull, how meaningless. If you die, I shall lie down and die beside you.”
Had he moved? No, she thought, that had only been a trick of the light, the candle flame dancing from her own movement. But one of the bloody scrapes on his shoulder had reopened, and drops of fresh blood stood out on his pale sk
in. She dampened a cloth and carefully wiped the drops away.
“Blancheflor.”
The whisper was so soft that for a second she did not let herself believe she had heard it. But she had not imagined it. His lips moved, his eyelids fluttered. “Is this you, sweetest friend, or am I dead and in heaven?”
At this all the tears she had suppressed burst out, and she flung herself, sobbing, onto the bed beside him. “Oh, Rivalin, I thought I had lost you forever!”
It was quiet for a moment in the chamber, other than the sound of her sobs. Then he said slowly, “I have failed you, failed your brother. Perhaps it would have been better had the southron killed me outright.”
“No, no!” she insisted, sitting up and wiping her eyes, almost angrily, with the back of her hand. “It was a glorious fight. You were the bravest, the boldest—” Her voice broke, and it took her a moment to continue. “But Morold did not fight like a mortal man. He fought like a demon. Half a dozen men together could not have defeated him. That he did not kill you is only due to the mercy of God and your own skill as a knight.”
Rivalin did not answer at once, then said, very softly, “It is so cold.”
“I shall warm you,” she said without hesitation. The summer night was balmy, but his skin felt cool to her touch. This could be, she thought, a harbinger of death, but she would do all in her power to keep cold death away. She bolted the door, stripped off all her clothes so that they would not be stained by his wounds, and crept under the sheets by his side. There she pressed her body against his and wrapped her arms around him, trying with the living warmth of her own flesh to give warmth and life to him.
After only a few moments, he began to feel less cold, and he responded to her touch by holding her and kissing her, first cautiously, then more urgently, on her face, her shoulders, and her breast. She kissed him back with all her youth and strength, and life seemed again to course through him. Gently he laid himself on top of her and embraced her with the sweet embraces of love, and when at last he drifted off to sleep, his arms and legs still entangled with hers, he was warm all over.
Ashes of Heaven Page 4
