Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  Blancheflor lay awake until the first light of dawn outlined the shutters at the window, awake because she was too happy to sleep. She wished that this night might never end and she might hold her lover to her like this forever.

  VIII

  Morold and the Irish war fleet left, as promised, as soon as their chests were full of copper. Rivalin recovered rapidly, taking broth the first day and bread and cheese the second, and refusing all the herbalist’s potions, in spite of dire warnings of what would happen to the balance of his bile without them. His nose healed quickly, with a small bump that seemed only to accentuate his good looks.

  Sometimes Blancheflor’s ladies sat with him, sometimes Mark’s men or his own knights. All told him repeatedly how proud they were of him, how brave he was and how generous of spirit. But he remained sober and thoughtful, never quite so carefree again as he had been before his fight with Morold.

  Mark could not quite understand Blancheflor’s feelings. Most of the time she seemed joyous, gladly sitting beside Rivalin for hours while he was still confined to bed, then walking with him in the meadow as he regained his strength. But often it seemed to him as if she were waiting for something, sitting with her head cocked as though expecting some news or some event, something that did not come.

  In early autumn, when the nights were growing chilly and the servants had stacked split logs by all the castle fireplaces, a merchant ship came to Tintagel harbor with a message for Rivalin.

  He received the message while sitting at Mark’s table. He frowned at the seal, then broke it with his thumb and unrolled the parchment. He read the message silently, his lips moving only slightly, rolled it up without comment, then unrolled it and read it again.

  “May I ask if this is evil news?” Mark asked at last.

  Rivalin’s frown deepened. “It is. My castle of Parmenie is besieged. Rual, my steward, has enough supplies but fears for what the attackers may do. It is only due to a brave page climbing over the wall at night and getting a message to a passing ship that Rual was able to get word to me.”

  “But who could be attacking you?” asked Mark in distress. “It is not— It is not Morold of Eire, is it?”

  Rivalin almost smiled for a second, then shook his head. “No. I shall not need to face him again. It is Duke Gilan, my own liege lord. I had hoped that if he had time to consider, he might realize how right I was to bring fire and rapine to his lands. Apparently he only took the time to consider how to wreak vengeance.”

  “But what will you do?” asked Blancheflor, reaching over to squeeze his arm. It was hard and unresponsive under her hand.

  At that he suddenly grinned, looking much more like the Rivalin that Mark’s court had first learned to know and love than the man he had been the last three months. “I shall attack the attackers, of course,” he said, “and free Parmenie from this evil. I must leave at once, before the autumn winds make the passage of the channel too dangerous.”

  “You will leave Tintagel?” Mark asked. “Can I send knights with you, to assure your victory?”

  Rivalin laughed. “I appreciate your offer, my noble friend, but it will not be necessary. My men and I will defeat Duke Gilan easily. And then,” and he took one of Blancheflor’s hands and kissed it, “when I have proved myself in battle, by next spring if not before, I shall return and claim the princess as my bride!”

  Rivalin was ready to leave just three days later. His ship, which had been idle for months, was pulled up, scraped, and recaulked, and all the sails and lines checked and renewed. Mark sent presents of brooches and fine clothes with his guests, but Rivalin refused repeated offers of weapons or more fighting men.

  On the morning when he was ready to leave, Mark and his court came down to the harbor to see him off, but the princess Blancheflor was not with them.

  Rivalin stood uncomfortably, eager to be gone with the tide but not wishing to leave without bidding his lady farewell. His men were already on board, preparing to sail. A page ran back to the castle, but Blancheflor was not in her chamber.

  “This parting must be too difficult for her,” said Mark, trying to sound hearty. “I know she will miss you sorely. But I am sure I speak for both of us in saying that we hope to see you again very soon, by next spring at the latest.”

  Rivalin glanced toward his ship, where his men were occupied and not looking at him. “I had hoped to give her some final assurance of my affection, some token of my esteem,” he said with a frown. “But I must go. Reassure her that I shall think of her every day until we are together again. Thank you again, noble friend, for in you and your court I have found a home dearer to me than any besides Parmenie itself!”

  He boarded his ship with a bound, the mooring lines were loosed, and the ship sailed out onto the sun-kissed waves. The breeze filled the sails, and quickly the water foamed white under the bowsprit. The ladies of the court waved furiously until the ship had vanished from sight.

  On board, Rivalin kept watch until the black towers of Tintagel were no longer visible. Twice he walked from stem to stern of his ship, but without seeming to notice anything there. Then he said gruffly, “I shall be below if you need me,” and took the narrow steps that led down below the deck. His men, busy, still did not look at him.

  The sound of the waves was loud against the ship’s side. At first everything was too dim, after the sunlit deck, for him to see anything, but then he realized that someone else was there already.

  He took two steps. “Blancheflor?”

  And she was in his arms, clutching him desperately to her, holding him as tight as the night after his fight with Morold—the last time they had been alone together.

  “What is this?” he asked, when after a few minutes he lifted his face from her kisses. “My dearest, my beloved, I cannot take you with me! I am going into battle, and I could not bear to endanger you. We are not far from Cornwall—there is still time to take you home. Did you not believe me? Did you not believe I would return for you in the spring?”

  “I almost lost you once, Rivalin,” she said, her voice low and intense, “and I could not bear to lose you again! If you are in danger, I want to share it. And—” He voice grew even lower, and she dropped her forehead against his chest, “—and next spring will be far too late.”

  “Far too late for what, dearest Blancheflor?” But in a heartbeat he knew what she was about to say.

  “I am with child, Rivalin!” She lifted her face, her eyes bright with suppressed tears, but whether of anger or of sorrow he could not have said. “What would my brother say, when he saw my waist starting to thicken, my belly growing with a fatherless child? He would cast me out of Tintagel rather than face the shame of his royal sister giving birth to a bastard!”

  “Mark loves you far too much for that,” he said distractedly, but she was not listening.

  “For three months I have waited, Rivalin! Waited to marry you. When you went to fight Morold, you said you would ask for my hand on your return. When I came into your bed that night, I considered us already married in the eyes of God. But we are not married in the eyes of men! I will not return to Cornwall unless you intend to exchange your vows with me this very day.”

  “But if I do not return you, Mark will be distracted with worry!”

  “Not for long. I left a message on his pillow, before coming secretly to the ship. I told him that you and I had decided to marry at your home of Parmenie, but that I could not face the pain of saying goodbye to my beloved brother in person, and that we would all be back together next summer.”

  “Then,” said Rivalin, with the sudden smile that she loved, “we shall be married in Parmenie. My whole intent has been to prove myself worthy of you before we were joined forever, but I will never let anyone think shamefully of you. If our child is a boy, we shall name him Canel, after my father. I hope Mark will forgive me, but I am so happy not to be parted from you!”

  The siege of Parmenie had lasted over a month when Rivalin’s ship came into the harb
or on the evening tide. He recognized Gilan, his liege lord, even from a distance by his black armor. The tents of the besiegers looked tattered, from long use and from occasional sorties by the men of Parmenie. The castle itself appeared untouched, its walls as high and solid as ever.

  Duke Gilan came halfway down the stone stairs to the harbor. He was heavy-set, with grizzled hair and beard, and an axe in his hand. He and Rivalin stared at each other across a bowshot’s distance.

  “I renounce my allegiance to you as a false lord!” Rivalin shouted. “First you insulted me unprovoked, and now you have dared attack my castle! Well, this siege is about to be lifted. I am here at the head of a whole fleet.”

  “I see only one ship with a dozen men,” said Gilan in a rough growl.

  But the princess Blancheflor stepped up beside Rivalin and answered him boldly. “The fleet of Cornwall is but twelve hours’ sail behind us,” she called. “I am the princess of Cornwall, and Lord Rivalin is my beloved. My brother the king is coming with all his might to lift the siege. If you are wise, you will be gone before morning!”

  “Unlikely,” said Gilan. But he and his men turned and headed back up to the siege camp. From the highest tower of Parmenie, someone was eagerly waving.

  “Very persuasive,” said Rivalin to Blancheflor with a smile. “I almost believed you myself! But let us anchor the ship a little distance away for the night, in case Gilan has the idea of sending someone swimming out to board us.”

  At dawn the next day, they sailed back to Parmenie, to find Duke Gilan and his men gone. Their tents, their horses, and their supplies had all vanished overnight, leaving only trash and the black scars on the land where they had built their fires.

  As they looked up toward the castle, hardly daring to believe it was true, the main gates were thrown open, and a man and woman came rushing out. Rivalin vaulted over the rail onto the dock and raced up the stairs to meet them.

  Smiling all over his face, he brought them back down to the ship. “This is my steward, Rual, and Florete, his most excellent wife,” he told Blancheflor. Florete was holding a tiny baby in her arms. “They maintained Parmenie’s defenses even better than I would have myself!”

  “The duke is gone, but I fear not forever,” said Rual. “He is a cautious man, and he may have believed your threat of a whole fleet, but he shall soon be planning new attacks. You would be wise, during the coming winter, to send him messengers with fair presents and words of repentance and reconciliation.”

  Blancheflor frowned, hearing this, and shivered with more than the cold of the autumn breeze.

  But Rivalin only laughed and shrugged Rual’s concerns away. He turned to Florete. “But you did not tell me in your message that your child had been born!”

  “We thought you would be more interested in the threat to your castle than in our family,” said Rual with a smile.

  “You are my family,” said Rivalin stoutly. “And here,” he continued, “is my fair lady Blancheflor, princess of Cornwall. I have brought her home to marry her, to make her the new mistress of Parmenie. I know you shall learn to love her as I do.”

  Rual bowed respectfully, but his wife Florete shifted the baby to one arm, put the other around Blancheflor, and kissed her on the cheek. “So our Rivalin has finally found someone to make him settle down,” she said with a smile. “I wish you every happiness with him! I have known him since he was a little boy. Always troublesome, but always so lovable!”

  And that very afternoon, Rivalin and Blancheflor were married in Parmenie’s great hall. Before his men, with Rual and Florete smiling with pure pleasure, the two swore to love each other and stay true to each other until death, and exchanged rings in token of their oaths. Blancheflor put Rivalin’s ring, too large for any of her fingers, on a silver chain around her neck, but he put her cameo ring on his littlest finger.

  And that night, when all the court tucked them into bed together in his chamber and then finally left them by themselves, they held each other with great joy, knowing that this time there was no need for Blancheflor to slip out with the first morning light.

  IX

  The winter months were quiet at Parmenie. Heavy green icicles formed on the cliffs leading down to the sea, and the harsh winds swirled snow around the castle towers, but inside they were snug and safe. Several times Rivalin sent out scouts to see what Duke Gilan was doing, but he seemed to be spending the winter quietly at his own castle.

  Blancheflor asked once if he had sent the duke the gifts and the messengers that Rual had counseled, but only once, for Rivalin’s laughing reassurances, that nothing of the sort was necessary, were so easy to believe. She became ever more radiant as the child grew within her, and sometimes when she and Rivalin lay abed she would put his hand on her belly, to feel the baby moving. “Canel, for your father, if it is a boy,” she said. “But what if it is a girl?”

  “We would name her Blancheflor, for you, of course,” he said, “but it will be a boy, conceived in the aftermath of battle. You brought me back to life with your strength that night, and our son will be strong, brave, and a fearless warrior.”

  “And a peerless lover, like his father,” she said with a smile that brought out her dimples.

  “I need to tell you something, sweetest friend,” he said in a different tone, one that immediately made her sit up in alarm. “I had news today.”

  “News? From where? From Cornwall? Is—”

  “No, no, nothing has happened to your brother,” he said quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “Rather, it is news of my former lord, Duke Gilan.”

  “Rivalin, you cannot mean to attack him!” All the fear that she had managed to keep from her, since the morning they saw the siege of Parmenie lifted, was back again as though it had never been gone.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “he seems to mean to attack me. One of my scouts was able to enter his castle along with the beggars he was feeding. And everyone there was discussing his plan to bring a new army to Parmenie.”

  “But when? Surely he cannot mean to march in winter! Dearest Rivalin, your love has brought me so much joy, but to hear you talk like this brings me immeasurable pain!”

  “You were the one who taught me that the joy of love is also torment,” he said, trying to make it a joke and failing thoroughly.

  “My time will come within the next month,” she went on, pleading. “Surely nothing will happen before our baby is born! Please tell me that at least.”

  For answer he rose from their bed and paced back and forth, barefoot, clad only in his long shirt. The fire had died down to red coals, giving little light. “You will die from cold!” Blancheflor called. “Come back to bed and let me warm you!”

  He shook his head; she could just see the motion. “I fear I have lain in bed too long already. My only hope to defeat Gilan for good this time is to attack him before he can attack me. You are right that he will hesitate to ride out when he may still encounter snow; he likes to think himself a prudent man. Therefore I will raise my own army now, immediately, and be at his gates before he can even begin his preparations for war.”

  “But what of our child?” she persisted, almost wailing.

  He returned to bed and slipped in beside her, his feet like ice. “I shall return with booty to lay before his cradle when he is born,” he said, kissing her. “It should all be over within a few weeks, and then we can await Canel’s birth in complete security.”

  He pulled up the blankets and rolled over, and soon he was snoring softly. Blancheflor lay awake for most of the night, but this night it was not for joy.

  Rivalin rode out a week later, at the head of an army of knights from the castle, his bannermen from the nearby manors, and a small cohort of mercenaries. Blancheflor was quite sure that he had hired the mercenaries well before he said anything to her about attacking Gilan.

  She kept her tears back when they said goodbye. The angle of the morning sun suggested spring, a time of growth and renewal, but a thin skin of ice la
y across the puddles in the courtyard. Rivalin held her closely and kissed her eyelids, cheeks, and lips, but she could tell he was eager to be gone.

  “Young Canel will enjoy the story when he’s old enough to hear it,” said Rivalin with a smile, “the story of how his father returned victorious from the war just in time for his birth.” Blancheflor could not bear to answer.

  She knew Rivalin, and she knew how he fought. As she watched him ride away, she rested a hand on her belly and remembered his fight with Morold, which she had witnessed from Tintagel’s gatehouse. He fought with live swords the same way that he fought in the bohort or in the tourney: with a courage that allowed no sense of self-preservation, with a speed and determination that easily overcame any who entered the jousting lists against him.

  His quickness and fearlessness had not been of the slightest use against Morold. She did not dare hope that they would be of any use against Gilan.

  She forced herself not to think of it and instead concentrated on making sure everything was ready for the baby: the cradle, the swaddling clothes, the little blankets and caps. The first day, she knew, there would be no news. The second day, also a day unlikely to bring news, she spent working with the ladies who were sewing new clothes for her to wear in the spring, after her confinement. “I will want to look lovely again for Rivalin,” she told them—and told herself. The third day Florete asked her to help with the cheese-making, as a cow had just freshened. Blancheflor had never made cheese back in Cornwall, as the castle servants did all that, and in concentrating on the process she was able not to think about Rivalin for half an hour at a time.

  On the fourth day she tried to remember lullabies that she might sing to her baby, but all she could think of were the songs of tormented love that Rivalin had encouraged her to sing back at Tintagel. When she saw a small group of horsemen approaching the castle in the late afternoon, she already knew what was the dark shape strapped on a riderless horse’s back.