Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  When he put his hand on hers this time she did not pull it away. “I always liked Tantris too,” she said. “I was sorry when he left and thought his elderly wife in Gales must be a happy woman, in spite of the seven children.”

  “Now you are mocking me!”

  “One good aspect of Tantris,” she said, a smile coming and going at the corner of her mouth, “he could always make me laugh.”

  “That we can keep, if you wish, without any of the deception.”

  She sighed and took her hand from his, to tug her cloak closer around her. He had his harp slung across his back, and now he took it and played quietly, picking out a few melodies but not trying any complete songs. He finished one scrap of a tune and then strummed the strings idly for a moment, wondering if it might be possible to make a song that would capture the rush of the waves and the calls of the seabirds. He was startled to hear singing behind him.

  It was Isolde, who had picked up the final tune he had played, the song the two of them had sung together in Gurmun’s hall. Her voice was soft but clear.

  “I am fated to sing of that I would willingly forget,

  For I feel tormented by him that I adore.

  I love him more than anything in this world.”

  Tristan stood very still, looking out across the foam-flecked waves rather than at her. In a moment he slipped away, leaving her engrossed in watching the sea. But he hoped that she would not say again that she hated him.

  The patchy clouds gave way to full sun as they drew further from Eire’s shore. Isolde had stayed on deck, but late in the afternoon she darted back into the cabin and emerged with a harp. Tristan had been watching her all day from the opposite side of the ship, and he now moved back toward her. Her face had a determined look as though she had quite deliberately put all thoughts of Eire behind her.

  “King Mark shall be pleased that his new queen plays better than any minstrel,” she told Tristan, with a flash of the good humor he had always known in her when he was the wounded Tantris. “You watch—your pupil kept on practicing after you were gone.”

  She tuned her harp and played a lively song he had not heard before, in which a young woman outwitted an unsuitable lover. She followed with a love ballad, but this one had a happy ending.

  “I was going to offer to give you more lessons to ease the tedium of the journey,” he told her with a smile, “but soon you will be offering lessons to me!”

  “Will there be opportunity for music lessons at Tintagel?” she asked.

  He considered, both the question she asked and what he thought she might really be asking. “When you are queen of Cornwall,” he said, “no one will tell you what you may or may not do, whether it is to learn the harp, teach the harp, or whatever else you may wish. King Mark is a good man, who will love you and give you all you need.”

  “My mother tried to tell me the same thing. But why should he love me?”

  Tristan smiled. “He does already. I told him about you, about your beauty, your learning and wit, your skill in playing the harp and the sweetness of your singing. How could anyone not love a charming maiden with golden hair and an angel’s voice and eyes that laugh and tease?”

  “But will he not hate me as the niece of the man who demanded tribute of Cornwall?”

  “He will not hold Morold against you. Nor will he allow anyone at his court to do so. And even if he did, you will have a protector in me.”

  She smiled and frowned at the same time. “And will this protector be the trickster Tantris or Tristan of Parmenie?”

  “Whichever one will serve you better. To you I am always Tristan, and Tristan alone, but if you need a trickster you shall have him.”

  II

  Isolde, who had earlier refused all food, agreed to eat the cheese and hard biscuits Brangein brought her. She sat on the deck with the toes of her slippers emerging demurely from under the hem of her skirt. Tristan sat down beside her, their harps next to them.

  “I am glad, as someone almost sold into servitude myself, that I was able to rescue the youth of Gales,” he said, more to have something to talk about than out of any real interest in the boys going home in one of the other ships. “But I never understood why your father wanted them.”

  “It was my uncle, not my father,” said Isolde, nibbling on a piece of cheese. “He said that he was going to train up an army of his own, an army of courtly young men who would fight even better than the warriors of Ispania. I believe he thought that if he became regent someday for a son of mine, it would be good to have an army loyal to him alone.”

  “But your uncle never had a chance to train his army,” said Tristan, “and Cornwall never sent him any boys at all.”

  Isolde chewed on a biscuit. “My parents will have to raise the heir to Eire by themselves,” she said without interest, then stuck out her tongue. “I need something to drink with this biscuit, and not that scummy water in the barrel in my cabin.” She hopped to her feet. “Wait here. I have an idea.”

  She hurried away and was soon back with a curiously-made glass bottle, a bottle whose long neck was curved around in a complete circle. In it was a dark red liquid. “My mother bought a cask of wine from Ispania off a merchant ship last year. She was experimenting with putting the wine in bottles and sealing them with wax, to see if the wine would stay drinkable longer. I am sure this is one of those bottles.”

  “The queen sent wine to Cornwall with you?” Tristan asked with a smile. “But King Mark buys wine himself.”

  “He may not buy wine from Ispania, which my mother assures me is the best. She sent a number of different potions and bottles with me, including the wine. I am sure she thought I would wait to drink this until I reached Cornwall, but if I drink just a little wine each day and reseal it, I will not perish of thirst before I reach there.”

  She loosened the seal and poured some into a tin cup. The curved neck made it difficult to pour smoothly; she concentrated with the tip of her tongue between her teeth. Then she sipped and smiled. “I do believe that the sealed bottle has helped keep the wine young. Taste it and see if you agree.”

  He took the cup, his fingers brushing against hers. The wine was strong, with a fiery undertone to its fruity taste. “You are right,” he said, smiling at her, “King Mark does not buy wine like this.”

  They shared the cheese and biscuits, passing the cup back and forth. Several times they refilled it, for the biscuits were very dry.

  Isolde held up the bottle to assess how much was left. “We may have drunk a bit too much to make this last all the way to Cornwall. But no matter. I believe there are several more bottles in the luggage, and if King Mark does not buy wine like this, then it may be because he does not appreciate it.”

  They heard a step and looked up to see Brangein hurrying toward them. “Isolde, you didn’t—” Then she stopped in horror, staring from one to the other. “What have you done?” Her black eyes flashed, and suddenly she seized the wine bottle from Isolde’s hand and hurled it over the rail, into the sea. It floated for a second, then the long curved neck filled with seawater and a wave broke over it.

  Tristan and Isolde jumped to their feet. Isolde seized her cousin by the shoulders. “Brangein, what is it? Is there something wrong with that wine?”

  Brangein broke away, her face dead white. “I should never—” She gasped for breath, then suddenly straightened and composed herself. “No, nothing is wrong.” She shook her arm free and started walking back toward the cabin, then ran the final steps.

  Tristan and Isolde looked at each other. “Something is wrong,” she said, then shook her head at having stated something so obvious.

  “Poison?” asked Tristan slowly. He tried to sense what was going on in his stomach and flexed his fingers, waiting for tingling numbness, but nothing seemed amiss. His only feeling was a kind of dull resignation, that he might have survived a battle with the duke of Bretagne’s men, a deadly wound, and a fight with a bog-dragon, only to be brought down by a cup of
wine. “Would your mother have sought to poison King Mark? Or,” with a sudden thought, “me?”

  But Isolde shook her head emphatically. “She never used poisons. Many in Ispania did—even my uncle. But she taught me that her skills must always be used for healing, not for harm.”

  “Unless,” said Tristan quietly, “there were things she never shared with you.”

  “But shared with Brangein?” Isolde shook her head again, even harder. “Brangein is just our poor little cousin. My mother would never tell her something and keep it from me.”

  “She told her what was in that bottle,” Tristan commented.

  They followed Brangein into the cabin, where she sat on the bed, her mouth twisted and a handkerchief balled up in her hand. “Please tell us, sweet Brangein,” said Tristan gently, “are we about to die from a poisoned draught?”

  She looked up in surprise and managed to answer, though her voice came out husky. “Die? No. Of course not.” She took a deep breath. “It was wine. Nothing more. I already told you.”

  This last was so obviously false that it did not deserve an answer. But Tristan thought that her surprise at the suggestion of poison was genuine.

  “Will you not tell us what was in the bottle?” asked Isolde wheedlingly, but Brangein just shook her head without looking at them.

  They wandered back onto the deck, where the sun still shone as though nothing had happened. They recovered their harps, and Tristan strummed absently, hardly knowing what he was doing.

  “It must have been a potion of some kind,” said Isolde, “but not meant for us. Perhaps some sort of elixir to prolong life? Something to be used only in a final effort to save the dying?”

  “But then Brangein would not have thrown it away,” Tristan objected. “Who can it have been meant for, if not you and me? King Mark? I doubt the queen even knows of anyone else in Tintagel.”

  “I cannot think why my mother would tell Brangein about a potion but not me,” said Isolde, frowning, “or why, once I had drunk it, she would insist it was nothing. Yet she clearly feels at fault. She was not there when I came into the cabin and found the bottle, and she must believe she should have been guarding it somehow. There could have been something—”

  Suddenly she seized Tristan by the arm. “No! It cannot— Yet it might—” Her voice trailed off. She slowly released his arm and turned her back on him.

  “Isolde!” He dropped his harp and moved around to face her, but she would not look at him. “What have you guessed? Dearest princess! I have sworn always to be open and honest with you! Do not be like Brangein and refuse to say what you know.”

  Her eyes, brown flecked with green, looked into his then. “No,” she said, low and determined, “I am not like Brangein. But I believe I understand her reluctance to speak. This is a potion we should never have drunk. She hopes that if we do not know what it is, then its effect may be lessened.”

  “And its effect is—” When she stayed silent, he took her hands in his. “You have guessed, dear Isolde. Do not keep it from me.”

  She breathed in and out. “Brangein is mistaken. If it is what I believe, the effect will be the same whether or not the person who drinks it knows. Otherwise, why should Brangein have been told but not me?”

  “And it is—”

  She leaned her head against his chest. Her voice was so quiet he could hardly hear her. “It was a love potion.”

  He had his arms comfortingly around her shoulders. “A love potion?” he asked in wonder. “Is there in truth such a thing?”

  “It seems there is. My mother must have instructed Brangein to serve it to King Mark and me on our wedding night. And now instead—”

  He turned her face up toward his. “But this is impossible!” he said, trying to keep his voice down and barely succeeding. “You and I cannot love each other. Mark is my lord, my uncle, my king. You are meant to be his queen. Just this morning you said that you hated me. If I were to love you—” For a second his arms tightened around her shoulders. “It is impossible!” he repeated.

  Suddenly Isolde laughed. The laugh was so unnatural, so unlike her, that for a moment Tristan thought it a sob. “Now I understand why Brangein did not wish to speak. It is, as you say, impossible! Love potions exist only in songs and old stories. My mother instructed Brangein to tell Mark and me, after we had drunk, that the wine would make us love each other, to encourage us to do so. But it would have had no effect otherwise.”

  “And since we know that,” said Tristan, his arms still around her, “then we need not fear what may happen.”

  “Good, good,” said Isolde, still with that unnatural laugh. “I shall return to our cabin now and reassure Brangein that I know all and do not blame her, and that nothing ill will come of it.”

  She turned and Tristan turned with her; she fit nicely under his arm. They walked together, hips touching and strides matching. “I shall see you tomorrow, Tristan,” she said quietly. “I need to speak to Brangein alone.” And she slipped from his arm and into the cabin.

  In the morning Isolde emerged from the cabin with harp in hand, to ask Tristan brightly to give her a lesson. He worked with her for several hours on different forms of harmony, notes that would support the melodic line or notes that would seem to run counter to it until all was resolved at the end. Neither one of them mentioned the love potion.

  But several times as he was demonstrating which strings she should pluck, his fingers would close around hers, and they remained still for several minutes, her hand warm in his. At one point, when she was concentrating hard and moving both hands rapidly over the strings, the sea breeze blew her hair across her face, and he gently pushed it back, then kept turning one curl around and around on his finger while she continued to play.

  “Have I mastered these harmonies, do you believe?” she asked at last, turning her face to his. They were only inches apart, so close that Tristan could not even smell the tang of the sea over the delicate scent of her perfume.

  He caught his breath. “You are doing marvelously well, pupil,” he said. “I believe the sailors have been enjoying your playing as much as I have.”

  She looked up; indeed, several sailors had been watching and listening. She shifted slightly to be a little further from Tristan, then rose to her feet with sudden decision. “Let us go around to the far side of the ship and watch the waves. Perhaps we shall see a whale.”

  Around on the other side of the cabin was a bench, where they sat side by side in silence. Their hips and shoulders touched, and under the cover of their cloaks she took hold of his hand. Their faces they kept resolutely turned out to sea, but if there had been a whale they would not have seen it, for they kept glancing sideways at each other. Both of their breasts rose and fell rapidly, as though they were running hard, rather than sitting quietly as the Irish ship cut through the waves, bringing them ever closer to Cornwall.

  Tristan kept repeating the words “loyalty” and “honor” to himself, almost like a prayer. Honor demanded that he be loyal to Mark, his uncle, who had made him his heir and had never denied him anything. Both his and Isolde’s honor would be destroyed if anyone found out that they loved each other—and he himself would know even if no one else did.

  But all these concerns seemed trite and meaningless compared to the woman beside him. After an hour he began quietly humming.

  “What is that?” Isolde asked. “It is no tune I recognize.”

  “Oh, just a little ditty I have been turning over in my mind,” he said nonchalantly.

  She turned to face him fully. “I am your pupil, Tristan, and you have sworn to hide nothing from me.” She smiled. “Even if it is just a silly little song, I would like to hear it, if it is one you created yourself.” And her fingers tightened on his.

  He returned the squeeze, then murmured, looking again out to sea,

  “A man, a woman,

  A woman, a man,

  Tristan, Isolde,

  Isolde, Tristan.”

  S
he kept her eyes on his face. “A good refrain, but you need to write the verses that will go with it.”

  “Does it need verses?” he asked.

  Suddenly she stood up. “All this sun and wind will harm my complexion if I am not careful. King Mark expects a delicate and lovely bride. I should go back into the cabin at once.” She paused. “Come with me, and you can teach me this new tune.”

  They went around the corner and into the cabin, where indeed it was shaded and no wind blew. Brangein sat by the window, sewing.

  “Oh,” said Isolde. “I had not expected that you would be here.”

  “Where else should I be?” Brangein asked reasonably. “Your mother asked me to finish embroidering this shift for your wedding night, and I cannot sew on deck, where the wind would constantly catch my work.”

  “Of course,” said Isolde. She and Tristan sat down, side by side, on a chest. “I am hungry,” she added after a few moments, when the silence seemed to stretch out.

  Brangein put down her sewing and brought out cheese and hard biscuits, the same as they had eaten the day before. “I’ll wash mine down with water!” said Isolde lightly, taking the tin plate Brangein handed her.

  “Your mother sent only enough cheese for you and me,” said Brangein to Isolde, as Tristan helped himself from her plate. “There is a little salt beef as well, but not much. I do not mind sharing, but I warn you that we may soon be eating nothing but ship’s biscuits.”

  “Thank you, Brangein,” said Isolde. “I am sure we will manage somehow. Perhaps there are pickled herrings or other foods on board to tempt us as well. And before long we shall be in Cornwall.”

  Brangein returned to her sewing. The water tasted flat, nothing like the wine they had drunk the day before.

  “You know, Brangein,” Isolde said as she brushed the crumbs from her lap, “we saw a whale, swimming between our ship and the other two. It was quite a sight. I think you would enjoy seeing it too.”