Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

“You don’t understand!” cried Isolde, sobbing harder than ever. “Look at his sword, look at the missing shard.” Brangein picked up the sword, and the queen blanched, suddenly understanding all. “This Tantris, this minstrel as we knew him, is in fact Tristan, the knight who killed my uncle Morold!”

  The queen slowly released her daughter. “Let me see for myself,” she said quietly and held out a hand. Brangein gave her the sword, and the queen closely examined the nick in the blade. Then, without seeming to hurry, she spun around and put the point at Tristan’s throat.

  His eyes grew wide as he tried unsuccessfully to shrink away. “My queen, I am under your sworn protection!” he said with a gurgle. “As you value your salvation, you cannot kill me!”

  The queen hesitated for a moment, and in that moment Brangein put her own hands on the hilt to tug it away. Tears were pouring down her face, but she said, “You cannot harm someone under your protection! All honor and religion demands that we let him live. The man is right. And do not forget that he slew the bog-dragon and kept Isolde safe from the steward Paranis.”

  The queen’s shoulders slumped, and she let Brangein take the sword. “Tell us the truth this time, Tristan or Tantris or whatever your name is,” she said. “Did you kill my brother? Who are you really? And why have you come twice to Eire?”

  Tristan sat up cautiously, breathing hard. All three women were weeping, and their eyes were cold, but they listened attentively as he told the whole story. He told it as truthfully as he could: Morold’s demand for a tribute of boys, the agreement to settle the question by single combat, the poisoned wound that had made Tristan come to Eire for healing, and his present wooing expedition to win Isolde for the king of Cornwall.

  “I deeply regret, most gracious ladies, that I killed a man so close to you,” he finished. “I would give up almost anything, other than my hope for Paradise, rather than see your lovely eyes fill with tears. But I could not act otherwise—and, as you know, Morold came very close to killing me as well.”

  They made no answer, so after a moment Tristan pushed on. “Morold had demanded the youth of Cornwall, and, as someone once almost sold into slavery myself, I could not allow them to go. We fought in single combat, with agreed-upon terms and no interference or trickery. He had, years ago, nearly killed my father in a similar duel, and if he had I would never have been born, so I could bear him little love. In this case, God and right were on my side. Morold was a fighter all his life, and I am sure would have preferred to die in combat than in doddering old age. Before he died he forgave me, and I beg you to forgive me as well.”

  Brangein and Isolde, clinging to each other, still gave no reply. The queen, standing with fists on her hips, had a different question. “And are you married yourself? Do you have children?”

  Tristan shook his head. “I have never married or fathered children.”

  “And yet you claim that you dared to face the bog-dragon, not for yourself, but for another?”

  “King Mark is my uncle, the brother of the mother I never knew, for she died giving birth to me. He has made me his heir, and I owe him everything. These lovely ladies know how fondly one may hold one’s uncle. For Mark and for the kingdom of Cornwall, I was willing to face not only your brother’s battle skills but the rage of the giant beast—for Mark and for the hope of having Isolde’s beauty constantly near me in Tintagel.”

  The princess looked at him then with a slightly softer expression than she had had for the last half hour. She immediately frowned again, but her frown was no longer as ferocious.

  “I will be like a brother to the fair Isolde,” said Tristan. “I shall stand beside her in Cornwall as her champion, to honor both her and my uncle.”

  “And why,” the queen demanded, “should we be willing to have Isolde leave home to marry this uncle of yours?”

  “He is a great king, my lady, and Cornwall is a wealthy kingdom. The princess must marry someday, and she will never find a better husband than Mark. You do not wish her to have to chance marrying someone like Paranis! The court of Tintagel is refined and courtly, where the princess will receive all honor as queen. Mark has never married before, so she will not be expected to raise another woman’s children.”

  “I met Mark once, years ago,” said the queen thoughtfully. “Our acquaintance was brief, but even as a youth I found him gentle and polite. Perhaps not one to evoke great passion, but happy marriages do not require great passion.”

  Encouraged, Tristan continued, “Isolde will find that Cornwall is peaceful, now that, forgive me, Eire will no longer be demanding tribute. And,” with a smile, “Mark also recalls that meeting with you years ago, and he still remembers your spirit and great beauty.”

  “I will always think of you as Tantris, the minstrel with the silver tongue,” the queen said in exasperation. “You could talk your way out of anything. But I will speak with my husband, and although you may still die by the sword, it will not be by my hand.”

  Tristan recovered his skiff and sailed back out to the ship he had left anchored outside the harbor. The Cornishmen were delighted to see him. “We had thought you dead!” they told him. “With no news or word from you for days, we thought you must have been killed by the bog-dragon, if not first by an Irishman. If you had not come today, we had determined to leave with tonight’s tide.”

  “The monster is dead, and I am not,” he said, a bit complacently, “though I faced it alone with nothing beyond my sword and shield. And now my wooing on behalf of King Mark is going very well. I need all of you to come to court with me, as representing Cornwall’s interests in the betrothal.”

  And so the ship came into harbor, and Tristan, who was now known as a friend of the royal court, introduced his companions to the harbor marshal. When the men from Cornwall saw the honor the Irish gave him, a few began to murmur that there must be some trickery here, and to recall earlier incidents when they had considered Tristan a trickster.

  The Irish and the Cornish all met in King Gurmun’s hall. The king sat on the high dais, with his queen and daughter on either side of him. Isolde’s eyes were red, but her face was composed.

  Tristan stood before the king, wearing new clothes which the queen had obtained for him, and a number of the ladies whispered how handsome he was, how well-favored in face and form.

  “For too long,” he said, “there has been enmity between Cornwall and Eire. We are both Christian lands, although a rumor unfortunately began long ago that we of Cornwall were Moors or pagans. Blood has been shed and tribute given, all because of this unfortunate misunderstanding. But it is now time to bring it to an end, to restore peace to both our lands.”

  There was a general murmur of assent from both groups in the hall, the Cornish and the Irish. Several recognized Tristan as the knight who had killed Morold, but with the queen, Morold’s sister, sitting calmly listening to him, they felt they could not say anything.

  “To begin to heal that rift,” Tristan continued, his voice taking on the lilt of a story-teller, “I came to Eire to defeat the bog-dragon that had devastated your countryside. After all, I had played my own role in increasing the distrust between Eire and Cornwall, in killing your champion in a duel. Thus it was only right that I face the beast. It was I who slew it and cut the tongue from it.”

  Much of this was happening too fast for Gurmun’s courtiers, who were still trying to accept that the queen had not taken vengeance on her brother’s killer, and who were startled to learn that this enemy of Eire should boast of being the dragon-slayer.

  They had little time to consider it properly. The queen rose from her seat by King Gurmun. “I can attest to that claim. I went myself to the dread lake, when I heard the beast was slain, and found there this knight with the bog-dragon’s tongue close to his breast. He would have died had I not found him in time.”

  The royal court was already interested in Tristan—and several were whispering that he reminded them of the minstrel Tantris who had been there the previous wint
er—but at this they became even more attentive to what he had to say.

  “Now that the bog-dragon is dead,” he went on, “it is time to make peace. The tribute that we of Cornwall already gave, the tribute of copper, silver, and gold, we remit to you. It is in the past and may be forgotten.”

  King Gurmun, who had been leaning forward with a frown, relaxed and sat back in his seat.

  “I would like to seal our peace with a betrothal,” said Tristan, “for that is the surest way to guarantee that the peace will be maintained. You, your majesty, promised that any who slew the bog-dragon might woo the princess Isolde, and that I would like to do—but not for myself, rather for my honored uncle, King Mark of Cornwall.”

  “We will hear your terms,” said the queen. “I would never have allowed the man who killed my brother to marry the princess himself, but we shall consider a wooing on behalf of another.”

  “What dower would Mark offer his bride?” asked King Gurmun.

  “He will assign the castle of Tintagel to her,” Tristan answered, “to be hers for life if Mark should die before her.”

  The Cornishmen looked at each other, concerned, but said nothing. After all, Tristan was Mark’s declared heir, so when Mark died, the person deprived of the castle would be Tristan himself.

  “A suitable dower,” said King Gurmun with a nod.

  One of the Cornishmen replied, “And what dowry will the princess bring to Cornwall?”

  Before the king could answer, Tristan put in, “I think a most appropriate dowry would be the young men of Gales who were taken from that kingdom. The kings of Cornwall and Gales have long been friends, and this gesture will satisfy King Mark—he will ask nothing for himself.”

  The Cornishmen might have objected, but they were given no chance.

  “I agree to all these terms,” said King Gurmun. “But my voice is not the final voice. The queen and I have always held that our daughter would not be forced to marry against her will. Isolde, what say you to this?”

  There was murmuring again, as those in the hall speculated on what discussions between parents and daughter must already have taken place. Isolde spoken low but clearly. “I hear that King Mark of Cornwall is a great man. Loath as I am to leave my home, if it means peace between our kingdoms, I am willing to marry him.”

  “And I shall stipulate,” said the king, “that our daughter’s oldest son may become the heir to Cornwall, but her second son shall be sent here to Eire, once he reaches the age of reason, to be raised and trained as the next High King.”

  “Excellent!” cried Tristan. “These men will witness our agreement. I shall also request a ship from you, your majesty, because there will not be enough room in the one in which I came for all those youths, and I wish the princess to have her own cabin so that she may make the journey in comfort. Let us all drink in honor of the peace between our countries!”

  PART FOUR - The Potion

  I

  Isolde, weeping, kissed her mother again and again as they stood on the dock. She was dressed in her finest, lace and cloth of gold, but her face was red and tear-stained beneath her sun-bright hair.

  Brangein, who would accompany the princess to Cornwall, lowered their luggage into the small boat that would row them out to the ship. She found herself humming an estampie as she handed the chests down to Tristan. She had not sailed anywhere since their arrival in Eire nearly twenty years ago, but now a whole new series of adventures was beginning. “Think of all the different places we shall see,” she said to the princess, but no one heard her.

  “Do not weep, dear daughter,” said the queen. “You were born and raised to marry a king. Even if King Mark proves not to be the romantic hero of those songs of yours, what is important is that he should love you. And with your beauty and charm, he will have no choice.”

  “But I shall be all alone!”

  The queen embraced her and stroked her hair. “Brangein shall be with you. The minstrel Tantris shall be with you—or rather Tristan, I should say. And I tell you, dearest daughter, from my own experience, that it can be a great comfort to have a brother, or someone like a brother, to stand beside you. Even if he is a trickster, you will feel differently about him if he employs his cunning for you.”

  King Gurmun had, in the end, provided two ships, one for the youths who wished to return home to Gales—although, as it turned out, some had declared themselves happy to stay in Eire—and the other for his daughter. The Cornishmen were sailing home in the ship in which they had arrived, except for Tristan, who accompanied the princess.

  “Come, my gracious lady, leave these tears,” he said, waiting to help Isolde down into the boat. “Leaving one’s home is always sad, but set your mind rather on the joyous welcome that awaits you in Tintagel, and the great king who will soon be your husband.”

  For a second Queen Isolde met Tristan’s eyes over her daughter’s head. She gave a small, rueful nod.

  After a last long embrace, the queen turned her daughter toward King Gurmun, who kissed her cheek and handed her down to Tristan. “Be brave, my lass,” he murmured. “Your blood is that of the high kings of Eire and the greatest grandees of Ispania.”

  Isolde gave his hand a final squeeze and allowed herself to be settled in the boat. Brangein stepped down and sat beside her. “I too had to leave my home for a foreign land,” she murmured, putting an arm around her cousin, “but I found a new homeland here in Eire. Cornwall shall be a new home for both of us.”

  Isolde brushed a hand across her eyes and nodded. At last, thought Tristan, and took the oars to take them out to the ship before Isolde should change her mind.

  He hoped that once the Irish capital disappeared behind them that Isolde would cheer up, but she went straight into the cabin that had been prepared for her and Brangein and sat there, not moving or speaking, her face woebegone.

  He left her alone until the next morning, hoping that a new day would brighten her mood, but when he went to the cabin she would not look at him, but sat staring at nothing with dark-rimmed eyes. She had put aside the finery she had worn when bidding farewell to Eire and was clad in simple wool.

  “Has the motion of the waves made you ill, my lady?” he asked in concern, but she only shook her head without speaking.

  He sat down next to her and patted her hand, but she pulled it away sharply. “Go away,” she said in a low voice. “I hate you.”

  Brangein, on the other side of the cabin, gave a helpless shrug.

  “Come out on deck, sweet Isolde,” said Tristan wheedlingly. “The waves and sky long to greet you. You may hate me, but you cannot hate them.”

  For a minute he thought she would ignore him, but then abruptly she rose and went out onto the deck. He followed her and stood quietly beside her while she looked out across the bright waves. The two other ships were half a mile away, their sails rounded with wind. The breeze lifted and tangled Isolde’s hair, and gulls cried high overhead. A storm ran low and dark along the horizon, but a rainbow shimmered, thin to the point of invisibility, across it.

  “I know you have reason to hate me,” he said at last, his voice low. “I killed your uncle, and I am taking you far from your home to a land you have never seen. I must apologize, for I would never have willingly done anything to cause you sorrow. I too have left home and family—and indeed I lost my parents twice, first as an infant, then again last year.”

  “This is a riddle worthy of the minstrel Tantris, that liar.”

  “No, no, it is true, my princess! For my parents, Rivalin and Blancheflor, both died when I was born. I was raised by excellent foster-parents, but then last year I discovered that they were not my real parents, and learned for the first time that my real parents were long dead. So you see I speak true in saying I lost them twice.”

  She looked at him sideways, a touch of a smile at the edge of her mouth, but then she quickly turned away.

  “The torment of love and loss is fine in a song,” he continued, “but it is much worse
than the songs suggest when it happens to us in life. We weep at a sad song but then dry our eyes and look forward to a light-hearted tune. When we suffer the loss in reality, it stays with us both night and day.”

  This time she looked at him for a longer time but did not speak.

  They stood at the railing for half an hour in silence, side by side, watching the white foam and the play of clouds across the sky. Finally he said, “I know it hurts you sorely to leave your home and go to live with strangers, but at least you are not being abducted by northern pirates, disguised as merchants.”

  “What?” she said, turning to glare at him. “This is the scoundrel Tantris again, telling me impossible things.”

  “I am the scoundrel Tantris, it is true, but I am also Tristan of Parmenie, who was abducted from his home and nearly sold into servitude.” He told her the story briefly, how he had been kidnapped but had, due to great good fortune, ended up in his uncle’s kingdom of Cornwall. “So you see that I think of Cornwall as a safe haven, and I believe it can become one for you too.”

  She looked at him skeptically—but her eyes were no longer red. “Why should I believe anything Tantris tells me? Everything about your initial visit to Eire was a lie.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Not everything. I really was wounded, so badly that I would have died if you and your mother had not saved me. And I really am accomplished on the harp and, I believe, make a good teacher for a skilled pupil. And this story of my abduction is entirely true. You can ask King Mark about it. You can ask my foster-parents if you ever meet them.”

  He put his hand on hers, but she jerked it away. “One story may be true,” she said, her eyes glistening, “but how could I ever trust you again?”

  “Listen to me, loveliest Isolde,” he said, low but intense. “To some I may be a trickster, but I hated every moment I had to deceive you. When I look into your eyes it is like looking into the eyes of God. My soul is naked before you and can hide nothing. Believe me now—I swear that I shall never deceive you more. And even when I was Tantris,” and he paused, much less serious, to grin at her, “one part was entirely unfeigned. Tantris always liked you.”