Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  “Ah, yes, Isolde told me about your wife and children,” said the queen. “Seven children, she said?”

  “Four boys and three girls,” he answered. “Two of the boys are twins.” Or had it been two of the girls? He quickly tried thinking of names in case he had to provide them: Florete, Blancheflor, Curvenal, Mark—no, he did not dare use Mark.

  But the queen was not concerned about the names. “I hope I can meet your wife at some point, minstrel Tantris,” she said. “She is lucky to have such a devoted husband. But I trust she realizes that it is not necessary for a woman to bear a child every year! Perhaps I could give her some helpful information.”

  “You are too kind, my queen,” Tristan murmured, bowing. “But she would be loath to leave Gales. I know she and the children grow eager for my return.”

  And so within a week Tantris was provided with a boat, small enough that he could sail it himself, and a great many presents from the king and queen. Isolde gave him a handkerchief, on which she had carefully embroidered, “From your pupil.”

  “Your wife should not be jealous of your pupil, I trust,” she said, taking his hand and looking into his eyes. “You have taught me well, Tantris, both music and the ways of the heart. May God speed your journey.”

  He thought about her all the way back to Cornwall.

  He had been gone for six months. The royal court of Tintagel was amazed to see him back again, alive and well, laden with rich gifts. “We thought you dead!” more than one person told him, and he thought he sensed in their tone more than a little disappointment.

  King Mark, however, was delighted to have his nephew home again. “And did you really go to Eire?” he asked at the great feast he immediately ordered in Tristan’s honor.

  “Yes, straight to the court of the king who had been demanding tribute of us!” said Tristan, pleased to be the center of attention even while he was wondering why not everyone shared the king’s joy.

  “I thought you were going to Sicilia,” one of the courtiers said dubiously.

  “No, I went to seek healing at the hands of Queen Isolde, sister of Morold. She is learned in the healing arts, and she was able to draw out the poison from my wound. I lived in her court for six months without being recognized as the man who had slain her brother.”

  “What a feat!” said King Mark proudly.

  But not everyone at court shared his opinion. “Did you, by any chance, see the fifty boys sent to Eire from Gales?” the steward asked. “Did you attempt to rescue them?”

  “No,” said Tristan a bit sharply. “I was near death myself when I arrived, and I was in constant danger of death my entire stay, if anyone had recognized me. I did not have the leisure to worry about what happened to some boys whose king would not even protect them from Morold and his demands.”

  “You know,” said someone behind him, speaking just low enough to suggest that he was not intended to overhear, “overcoming Morold as Tristan did was quite a feat, the feat of a trickster, for the Irish champion was far bigger and stronger. And living in the court of Morold’s sister for six months, without detection, was also the work of a trickster—even a magician. We are told that Tristan is the nephew our king never knew he had, but—”

  King Mark interrupted. “Life has been sad and dull without you, Tristan!” he said in a loud voice. “All of Cornwall’s wealth is yours, and was waiting only for your return. We are all amazed at your ability to find healing at the hands of your enemy! But the long months must have been dark and worrisome for you. Tell us: was there not anything at the Irish court to give you diversion, as you slowly recovered your health?”

  “There was one,” said Tristan, “the princess Isolde! She is the daughter of the High King of Eire and is the most beautiful creature ever found on earth since God created Eve. She knows every courtly occupation and performs them all to perfection. She is especially gifted in singing. I was given the pleasant task of tutoring her and of teaching her the harp.”

  “Another act of a trickster,” said the voice behind him, quieter this time. Tristan heard, though he was not sure the king had.

  “She is still a maid,” he continued, “who likes to play love songs but has never yet felt the stirring of love’s true passion in her breast. Such a beautiful and accomplished princess shall someday make a fine wife for a man of the highest nobility. The Emperor himself would not scorn her as his bride.”

  “Aha,” said the voice behind him.

  V

  Tristan quickly settled into the life of the court. So far he had spent little time in Cornwall, his new home, and very little of it as King Mark’s acknowledged nephew and heir. He began growing a mustache, such as the king wore, to indicate his new status.

  Planning was already beginning for the great summer festival, more gay than it had been for years, because this time there was no fear that the end of the summer would bring a demand for tribute. Tristan assisted in the planning for the bohort and the tourney, went hunting with the rest of the court, and on rainy days, when the salt waves crashed against the shore below the castle, entertained the company with all the songs he had brought back from Eire.

  Yet not everyone seemed as pleased with his presence as they had been the year before, when Tristan was just a shipwrecked merchant’s son from Bretagne. Every few days he would enter a room or come around a corner to find several men in close conversation, and they would break off abruptly and give him rather insincere smiles.

  The king’s steward, Marjodoc, appeared especially displeased to have Tristan permanently at court. One day Tristan was standing by a window and heard him talking quietly in the courtyard. “I fear he really is the king’s nephew,” Marjodoc was saying, “for he does resemble the princess Blancheflor, God rest her soul. But what of his father? That one was an untrustworthy man, from all we hear, killed when he attacked his own liege lord. Young Tristan takes after him, I fear. And he arrived here with no wealth of his own, just the expectation of Mark’s!”

  The other man said something, too low for Tristan to hear. Marjodoc laughed. “Yes, that would be most appropriate. I shall speak with Mark myself.”

  Tristan, standing silently, heard them move away. His father untrustworthy? He clenched his fists, thinking he should challenge Marjodoc to a duel, even as he knew that he could not challenge his uncle’s steward solely on the basis of something overheard.

  But he was not surprised when, a few days later, Marjodoc said at dinner, before the whole court, “Have you given any thought to marrying, sire? We received a message this afternoon that the queen of Gales has just given birth to the king’s third son. It would be good to have a little prince here at the Cornish court as well.”

  “The king of Sussex has married again, I hear,” put in another courtier. “The child his first wife died in bearing is, I hear, strong and healthy, but the king does not wish to trust to just one heir.”

  “Though he is still far behind the king of East Anglia,” said another with a laugh. “The last I heard, he had had twelve children by five wives!”

  Tristan waited for Mark to repeat what he had told him last summer, that he would not take a wife or father any children, because Tristan was his heir, but the king only waved away his men’s comments with a chuckle. “Twelve children! Let us be glad this is not East Anglia.”

  The next day, when Mark and Tristan were in the king’s solar together, Mark said, “Tell me more of the princess Isolde of Eire. You must have had a chance to observe her closely. I believe I met her mother once, many years ago, but I was scarcely more than a boy myself at the time.”

  Tristan was happy to oblige. “The princess is the most fair flower of Eire. She sings more beautifully than the nightingale and plays with rare talent on all instruments. When I first arrived in Eire the only instrument she did not play was the harp, and it was my happy task to instruct her in it—and an apt pupil she proved! She is full of spirit yet can also be gentle, and is in all ways courtly and refined. She is so enchan
ting that any who observe her find a new joy in life.”

  “Does she have many suitors?” asked Mark.

  “Her father’s steward is, I believe, enamored of her, but she has no feelings for him. I did not learn of any other suitors, though I have little doubt that all the lords of Eire would court her if they could. Her parents seem devoted to her and protect her from unsuitable attention, for she is their only child. I do not expect they would allow her to marry anyone less noble than a king.”

  “That is entirely right,” said Mark, “for as she is heiress to the high throne of Eire, her husband may some day claim that honor. Their sons would have two kingdoms to divide between them.”

  “The high throne of Eire would seem cheap compared to the love of such a princess,” said Tristan.

  Mark stretched his legs out in front of him and looked off into the distance. “I told you, Tristan, that I would not marry without first informing you.” This was not precisely how Tristan remembered it, but he kept silent. “But after you were almost killed last year, I began thinking that it might be better to have more than one possible heir. For a king is responsible to his people, and if I died heirless, then many other kings might all converge on Cornwall to squabble over my succession.”

  Tristan had a cold premonition where this conversation was heading. But Mark suddenly laughed. “Yet you survived, and thus I have an heir! I am still determined never to marry, unless my bride shall be as fair and accomplished as was your mother.”

  And Tristan was left wondering if Mark had been about to tell him something entirely different.

  The next day the steward Marjodoc and several others again started asking Mark when he planned to take a wife. But this time the king’s answer was different from what he had said before.

  “You are too persistent,” he said. “And your arguments are good. So I have decided that I shall take a wife.” He paused to smile. “And, you will be pleased to hear, the bride I have chosen for myself is Isolde of Eire!”

  Marjodoc was surprised and appeared disturbed, but Tristan was dumbfounded. “How did you meet the princess?” he asked at last. “And how did you obtain King Gurmun’s consent?”

  “I have never met her,” said Mark, still smiling, “nor spoken with her royal father. But your description of her has fired my imagination, so that I wish to marry no other maid but her.”

  “But,” said Marjodoc slowly, “how will you win this maiden?” He paused to cough. “Your nephew killed the Irish king’s champion, and the king will never allow his daughter to marry you.”

  Mark shrugged good-humoredly. “That is up to you. You have urged me to marry, and I have chosen the one woman who might equal Blancheflor in beauty and accomplishment. If you cannot find a way to bring her here, then I am afraid there is nothing more to be done.”

  Tristan, relieved, thought that he would have to congratulate Mark privately on finding a way to avoid marrying when he did not wish to do so.

  But Marjodoc appeared to be thinking hard. In a moment he said loudly, “So, Tristan, when will you leave for Eire?”

  “Leave for Eire?” said Tristan in surprise.

  “Of course,” said Marjodoc smoothly. “After hearing of your skill in persuading Morold’s sister to heal Morold’s slayer, I know that you are the perfect man to persuade the king of Eire to give King Mark his daughter.”

  Tristan swung toward the king. “Sire,” he said desperately, “I know I told you that Queen Isolde did not know who I was! There was no skill or persuasion involved, just the Lord’s mercy and my own hiding of my true identity.”

  “It would be a dangerous undertaking, in truth,” said Mark, frowning. He had not anticipated Marjodoc’s reaction any more than had Tristan. “I would prefer to send another, rather than you.”

  “Surely not, your majesty!” Marjodoc replied, feigning shock. “We have heard of nothing for the last year but the courage and skill of your nephew. And surely someone so close to you—and so familiar already with the Irish court—will make a perfect ambassador in this delicate matter! Unless,” and he paused to look at Tristan with a sneer, “you are too frightened, my young lord?”

  “I’m no coward!” Tristan shot back. “If my uncle the king wishes it, then of course I’ll go!”

  “Well,” said Marjodoc, smiling broadly, “we all heard the king say he wishes to marry Isolde the Blonde. How big a boat will you require, and how many men? How soon will you sail?”

  In the following days, as preparations inexorably began for a trip Tristan still hoped to avoid, Marjodoc seemed inordinately pleased that Tristan would be wooing on King Mark’s behalf. “He hopes to see me dead,” Tristan thought. “He does not care if Mark marries or not, as long as I myself am gone.”

  He could have, he knew, simply sailed home to Bretagne, told Rual some story about why he was not going to live in Cornwall after all, and tried to forget the days when he had been a royal heir, while rejoicing that he would at least have a long life. He would not reclaim the castle of Parmenie from Curvenal, having once given it to him, but Parmenie had never really been his anyway. He had always thought, growing up, that he would become the chief courtier at his older brother’s castle, setting a tone of high culture and style, or even become steward for some great duke or king, and he could always dust those childhood plans off again.

  But then he would never see the princess Isolde again, and Marjodoc would rejoice that he had rid himself of Tristan so easily. He could not simply flee to safety. Instead he would get his revenge on Marjodoc by wooing Isolde for his uncle and bringing her safely back to Cornwall.

  King Mark took him aside, his expression troubled. “You let Marjodoc bait you,” he said. “I really would prefer that you not go to Eire. I will never think you a coward.”

  “But Marjodoc will think so,” Tristan replied. “As will I.” He paused, studying his uncle’s face. “And you do like what you have heard of the princess of Eire, I believe.”

  “You have made her sound like such an excellent young woman that my thoughts are stirred by her,” the king admitted. “But I would rather have you here than lose you in a hopeless cause, trying to win a maiden who will never be won.”

  “If I set out to win her,” said Tristan shortly, “then she will be successfully won.”

  Mark burst into a broad smile. “I have faith in you, nephew,” he said, slapping Tristan on the shoulder. “For I am convinced that the princess will be the perfect wife for me, a queen with all the womanly virtues I remember in your dear mother Blancheflor, and I am also convinced that no other man but you will be able to bring her to me.”

  Tristan sailed with two dozen men, none of whom were entirely happy to be going with him. It was going to be much more difficult this time, he thought, to conceal that they came from Cornwall. Indeed, at some point he would have to tell King Gurmun so. He would have to stop being some adventurer who had come to the royal court and become instead Tristan of Cornwall—and not the minstrel Tantris. He tried not to think of the outcome of his conversation with the king and instead tried to imagine how pleasant it would be always to have his harp pupil at court in Tintagel.

  They had brought along enough goods that they could pass for a merchant ship, coming toward the end of its journey. When the ship reached the royal harbor of Eire, Tristan anchored outside it and had a skiff prepared for him.

  “What are your intentions?” the men asked nervously. “For our very lives depend on your plans.”

  “Wait here for me,” he told them, “until such time as you believe me dead. Then you may sail home to Cornwall and tell King Mark he will have to find another bride than Isolde the Blonde.”

  He sailed into the harbor in his skiff and was soon hailed by the harbor marshal. Dressed in simple garments that did not hide the chain mail beneath, with a cap pulled down over his hair and his new mustache darkened with charcoal, Tristan trusted he looked neither like the minstrel with the deadly wound who had drifted into the harbor in the
autumn, nor the tutor befriended by the royal court who had sailed out in the spring.

  “Is this Gales?” he called out. “Or have the saints been good and brought me to Eire at last?”

  “This is Eire,” the harbor marshal called back from his own boat. “Where do you hail from, and why did you think this Gales?”

  “May God reward you for your courtesy, good sir,” said Tristan. “I took passage with a merchant ship,” with a vague wave toward the mouth of the harbor, beyond which his own ship could be seen at anchor, “hoping to reach Eire, but we were blown off course, and the merchant’s navigator seems incapable of using an astrolabe. The captain believed this Gales, or even Bretagne, but I doubted him.”

  “You were right to doubt,” said the harbor marshal, “but what is your business in Eire?”

  “I have heard,” said Tristan, “that there is a fearsome bog-dragon not a day’s ride away, and I am eager to see it!”

  The harbor marshal laughed. “Normally a dragon would not make a man eager to see it. But you are not the first, though you may have come the farthest so far. I gather you heard of the king’s offer?”

  “Of course,” said Tristan, hoping the offer was what he thought.

  “Since it first began to ravage the countryside, no one dared stand against it. But an opportunity to woo a princess has given some men new courage!”

  “And I am among them,” said Tristan. The opportunity to woo a princess was precisely what he had hoped King Gurmun would offer in return for defeating a bog-dragon. After all, Gurmun was appreciably older than King Mark, and though he had an heiress, he must, like Mark, have started thinking of the future succession to his kingdom.

  Tristan brought up from the bottom of the skiff a large golden chalice, glistening in the sun and decorated with chalcedony. It had come from the treasures of Cornwall, and it had taken some effort to persuade Mark to part with it. The marshal seemed immediately to forget all about dragons in looking at the chalice.