Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  He scarcely seemed to hear her. He took a deep breath. “I know that you have the same affection for the queen that I have,” he said then. “I have known her less than a year, you for her entire life, but we are united in caring for her.”

  Brangein had been sitting with her eyes cast down shyly, but at this she looked up at him. It was much easier to discuss Isolde than herself. “I remember when she was born, a beautiful baby with golden hair. Everyone at the Irish court doted on the princess. I was only a little girl myself then, and as she grew up she was more like a sister to me than a cousin. I shall not deny that we have quarreled at times, but I came to Cornwall to support her in her new kingdom.”

  “Perhaps you can help me,” said Mark diffidently. Now it was his turn to be shy, and he would not meet her eyes. “Rumors have begun to spread at court, that the queen, well, that is, that the queen loves Tristan more than she loves me.”

  “Impossible!” said Brangein without hesitation, even though at his words winter coldness seemed to invade the gentle spring air. “Tristan killed Morold, her dear uncle. Why should she love him?”

  “Then you have not heard these rumors?” Mark asked, leaning forward eagerly.

  Brangein shook her head, looking out at the new spring leaves. “Sire, you are making yourself miserable in listening to slander. Has Isolde given you any indication that she does not love you?”

  “No, no,” said Mark a bit distantly. “She is attentive and affectionate at all times. Ever since I first bedded her on our wedding night, she has been dearer to me than life, and she has told me many times that she loves me too.”

  There was a brief pause. “Then why not believe her?” said Brangein, laying her hand, greatly daring, on Mark’s. “After all,” with just the slightest tremble in her voice, “when a maiden gives her virginity to a man, he will always be the king of her heart.”

  “I do believe her,” said Mark. He shaded his eyes and frowned toward the salt waves. “But I keep looking for any indication, any sign, that her feelings for Tristan are what they should not be.”

  “That is,” said Brangein, “you are constantly seeking to destroy your own joy in your marriage.” She spoke slowly but with complete conviction. “You will never prove to yourself that Isolde is true to you through looking for signs. When you find no proof of her falseness, you will not be satisfied, but will instead wonder how she managed to conceal matters so cleverly. If you want ‘proof,’ you will look for years, never ceasing unless by some hazard you do find some sign that will destroy us all. Do not do this, sire! If you believe that Isolde is faithful, you do her a great disservice in trying to prove her false.”

  “You are right,” said Mark tonelessly. He was silent for a moment, then added, “I am thinking of sending Tristan back to Parmenie.”

  “Sending him away!” Brangein cried. “But why?”

  “Well, it might end the rumors,” said Mark uneasily. “I hate to do it, for I would rather have him near me at court than anyone else. Only the queen is dearer to me than he is. But if he were gone no one could say that he and the queen met secretly, and I might be able to judge her affection for him by how she reacted to his absence.”

  “Sire, please, listen to me,” said Brangein. “These doubts only make you seek your own unhappiness. If you send Tristan away, then those who suspect him will say that all their suspicions are proven true! I do not know who is spreading such rumors, but I would guess it is someone jealous of your nephew. If they make you exile him for no reason, then they will have triumphed!”

  Mark was silent for a moment, then said, “But have you not noticed them speaking together sometimes?”

  “What else would you wish?” said Brangein. If she did not actually answer his question, then she would not be lying to him. “That they should scorn each other’s company? Your wife and your nephew must see each other daily. Although Isolde may hate him, she is polite to him for your sake.” When Mark frowned she added, “Sire, admit it, if Isolde snubbed him every day at dinner, you would still make yourself terribly unhappy, wondering if this was only a facade to hide her true feelings!”

  At this Mark smiled. “Your advice is good, Brangein.” He squeezed her hand. “You are a sweet and sensible woman. My dear sister Blancheflor taught me that a good woman should always be trusted. In the years since her death I had started to forget, but you have taught me again.”

  He whistled as they walked together down the stairs, but Brangein was thinking that now Mark’s trust was misplaced in two women: Isolde and herself.

  When spring was in full flower, Mark announced that he planned to go hawking for a week or two. Tristan joined eagerly in the preparations, but on the day before the royal party was to set off, he did not come to dinner, instead sending word that he had taken ill. That evening he had himself carried to a tent out in the meadow, saying that he did not want to risk infecting anyone else.

  “He is no more ill than I am,” Marjodoc told the king privately. “He only wants to stay behind so that he can be close to the queen.”

  But Mark laughed. “I told you long ago to give up these ideas. If he wanted to be near her, why not stay in the castle? I believe in my wife and, to be frank, I am beginning to wonder what is your real reason for making such baseless accusations.”

  Marjodoc wisely made no answer, but he began planning how he would discover them together.

  On the first day that the hawking party was gone, Marjodoc kept a surreptitious eye on Isolde, but she merely went about her regular activities and went nowhere near the meadow. Meals were taken out to Tristan, who sent back word that he hoped he would feel better within the week. The second day was the same, as was the third.

  But on the third night Marjodoc, unable to sleep, rose and went quietly down to the main gates of the castle. There were no other lights than his candle and no sound but his own footsteps. The gates were closed, with two knights as always standing guard. In fact they were sitting, not standing, as he approached, and he thought he saw dice being pocketed as they jumped to their feet at the sound of his step, but he had other concerns.

  “Has anyone gone out tonight?” he asked. “Or last night?”

  “No, nothing has happened at all, sir,” the knights told him, a bit breathlessly.

  “Well, I intend to go out for a walk,” he said. “It is a lovely moonlit night.” The knights, not daring to object, unbolted the gates, and Marjodoc went out, pulling his cloak around him.

  He could hear waves booming against the rocks on the castle’s seaward side, but he went instead toward the meadow. Tristan’s tent stood by itself, casting a blue shadow in the moonlight. Marjodoc, trying to breathe soundlessly, walked around it without hearing any noises from within.

  Frustrated, he started back toward the castle, keeping in the shadows. The bells in the castle chapel were ringing midnight. He was thoroughly convinced that Tristan, that trickster, was using the king’s absence to meet secretly with the queen, but he had to catch them in the act.

  And then he caught a glimpse of something white coming toward him.

  He stepped deeper into the shadows and watched, hardly breathing. It was Isolde.

  She walked quickly but quietly, glancing about. Marjodoc, glad for his dark cloak, wondered what the knights at the gates would say when he questioned them.

  No. Of course. She must have come out of the postern gate. As the queen, she would have the key. The knights would never have seen her.

  Marjodoc followed her at a distance. She was now at the edge of the meadow. And a figure emerged from the tent.

  He clenched his fists in triumph. He had them now. Tristan ran across the meadow to meet Isolde and clasped her in his arms. A long kiss, and they walked together back toward the tent, his arm around her waist and her head on his shoulder.

  Marjodoc was about to burst out of hiding and run after them, but he stopped himself. It would do little good for him to confront them. They would deny everything, and Mark would be
happy to believe them. The king would have to see this for himself.

  And as steward, he had been given a schedule of where he would most likely find the king each day of the hawking expedition.

  Two nights later, Tristan stepped out of his tent when he heard midnight being rung at the castle. The moonlight cast sharp shadows, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. He looked toward the castle, waiting for Isolde.

  And noticed that there was something wrong with the shadow of the tree nearest his tent.

  He carefully did not look up. The leaves obscured shapes, but there seemed little doubt. There was at least one and probably two men perched in the tree, watching him.

  His first thought was that he did not have his sword, because a man languishing in illness would not expect to use a weapon.

  But his second thought was that this danger was not something he could have used a sword against anyway. The shadows seemed to be those of a stout man and of a tall, slim one. The most likely watchers were the steward Marjodoc and King Mark.

  Isolde would be here any moment. How could he warn her?

  He yawned and stretched as though not realizing he was observed. Off toward the castle he caught a flash of white in the moonlight. She was coming.

  Every night he had run to meet her at the edge of the meadow. Tonight he did not. She stepped out into the moonlight, saw him, realized he was not coming to meet her, and stopped. A call from a solitary night bird was the only sound.

  From her angle, he hoped, she would be able to see the figures in the tree, lit by the moon, even though they would be partially obscured by leaves and branches. “Thank you for coming, my lady,” he called in his most formal tones, “but do not approach too closely, for I would not wish to infect you with my illness.”

  She hesitated, as though wondering if she ought to return immediately to the castle, but in a moment she began walking slowly toward him. Would she throw herself into his arms, removing all doubt for the watchers? Or would she be furious with him, if she had not spotted the men in the tree and imagined that he had turned against her?

  She stopped a dozen yards away. “And does this illness bother you gravely?” she asked, her tone as formal as his.

  He closed his eyes in a brief prayer of thanks to whichever saint might look after lovers. “I am a little better during the nighttime,” he said, “which is why I sent word for you to come at this hour. But it is my old wound. I believe it has become infected again and is spreading its poisons through my blood. I feel just as I did back when I sought healing at the court of Eire.”

  He hoped she could understand that sentence as saying that he loved her as he had loved her ever since he first met her, for he did not dare be clearer, and he knew what he would have to say next would wound.

  “If you have nothing more to tell me than that you are ill,” she said coldly, “which I already knew, then I must ask why you have asked me to come speak with you, which you should know is injurious to my honor and the king’s, if any were to see us together.”

  Her coldness sounded real. Was she just playing her part very well, or was she furious that he did not defy the king and the whole world for her love?

  From above came the faint sound of a cough, quickly choked off. Neither Tristan or Isolde looked up. The cough sounded like Marjodoc.

  “You may not have heard this,” she continued, “but there are those at court who have been saying that I am untrue to the king! Therefore I must be especially careful of my honor. I fear that Mark himself may believe the accusations, and that if he knew we were meeting like this, at midnight, he would never again show me any affection. These base accusations deeply sadden me, for I can swear before God that the only man I have ever truly loved is he who had my maidenhead.”

  Encouraged, Tristan said, “I shall not detain you long, my lady, only long enough to relay a message. It is more for King Mark than for you, but I deliver it to you because the king is gone, and by using you as my messenger I hope I can indicate to him how sad this makes me. But I must go away.”

  “Go away!” She took a step toward him, holding out her hand, then straightened and stepped back. After only a few seconds’ pause she added coolly, “I am sure that Mark will be sorry for your absence. When will you leave?”

  A branch creaked in the tree, but Tristan pretended not to notice. “I hear that there is a merchant ship in the harbor, heading across the channel tomorrow. I intend to be on it. If my mortal life will be brief, then I would like to see my foster family once more. If God grants me healing, I hope that I may return to Cornwall again. But tell me, lady,” knowing both what he hoped to hear and what she must say instead, “will you yourself be sorry for my absence?”

  “I will be sorry only as it gives pain to my dear husband and king,” she said. “As you know, Tristan, I have sought from Christian charity to overcome the hatred I long felt for you. But your absence will still be to me, I cannot deny it, something of a relief. Yet I know Mark will feel it deeply. He has often told me that you are dearer to him than life itself, that simply seeing you brightens the darkest day, and that if he could do as he wished then he would always have you at his side.”

  That did not sound like Mark’s feelings. That sounded like Isolde’s.

  But he could not answer other than formally. “Thank the king for that kind sentiment when you see him,” he said. “Tell him that for me he is always the king not just of Cornwall but of my deepest heart. Perhaps when I return, you yourself will feel somewhat less harshly towards me. For now, I wish on you all the blessings of the Maiden Mother.”

  “And I wish them on you as well. Good night, Tristan.”

  “Good night, Isolde.”

  And she turned and started back toward the castle, her gown brushing against the grass of the meadow. Tristan, not able to bear seeing her slowly disappear, and fearing the watchers would spot his tears, plunged back into the tent, threw himself on the bed, and pulled the blankets over his head.

  IV

  They were all delighted to see Tristan back in Parmenie. The castle was much smaller than he remembered, but every inch still seemed like home. But after the first two days, everyone returned to their regular activities, and he felt somewhat at loose ends, wandering around the castle or riding out to visit old friends, all of whom were more interested in their own lives than in hearing tales from Cornwall.

  The biggest surprise was that Curvenal was married. “I meant to write you and tell you,” Curvenal said with a laugh. “Why should I have waited to marry? As soon as I became lord of Parmenie the families of half the noble young ladies of the duchy dropped by the castle with their fair daughters in tow, just to visit, they said! My own Karsie was the fairest of all, and the only way to keep the other ladies out of the way was to marry her. Maybe if we have a son I’ll send him to Cornwall to be trained in knighthood.”

  The lady Karsie was plain, Tristan thought, in spite of sparkling eyes. But when Curvenal smiled down at her and at their infant daughter, it made his heart turn over, thinking of Isolde.

  Except that Isolde would never be his wife, and they could never have a child together.

  Curvenal’s daughter had the fair skin and dark hair of both her parents. She frowned at Tristan from her mother’s arms, and when he bent down to appear to admire her properly, she shot out a tiny hand and seized him by the nose.

  Both Curvenal and his wife thought this hilarious. “She gets her spirit from you, dearest love,” said Curvenal.

  But she answered, “If I had had so direct an approach, you might have married me at once, rather than after six weeks of trying to fight through the other would-be ladies of Parmenie!”

  Rual and Florete were more interested in Tristan’s doings than was Curvenal, and they listened attentively to his account of his fight with Morold, his wound, his healing in Eire, and his successful wooing of Isolde on Mark’s behalf. But when he was finished, and they had both said how pleased they were that he had survived al
l his harrowing adventures, they immediately began talking about Curvenal and Karsie and the likelihood that their new little granddaughter would shortly begin to crawl.

  Rual and Florete both seemed older than Tristan remembered. It had been nearly two years, he reminded himself, and since turning over direction of the castle to Curvenal they had become less active, but he thought he would have remembered the lines in their faces and the whiteness of their hair.

  And there was no one to whom he could talk about Isolde.

  When after a few weeks he prepared to return to Cornwall, saying that he needed to be there to help prepare for Mark’s summer festival, Florete wept and Rual’s mouth drooped, but within half an hour they were both laughing again over their granddaughter.

  “Come visit again soon,” said Curvenal. “And do not be like me, and at least send me a letter when you decide to marry!”

  As Tristan watched the towers of Parmenie disappear behind the stern of the merchant ship on which he took passage, he wondered if he would ever see them again.

  Back in Cornwall, Mark was delighted to have him home. “May God be praised, that you are healed!” he cried, embracing Tristan. “I have not had an easy moment since I returned to Tintagel and learned that you had left. What would I have done if you had died in Bretagne?”

  “But I did not die,” said Tristan with a smile. “I had feared my blood was poisoned, but I think I may have let a slight indisposition prey unduly upon my mind. The air and food of my home place, and the kind affections of my excellent foster parents, soon mended all. I am very glad to see you, sir,” he added in full sincerity, “and to know how much I was missed.”

  Isolde stood back, but her eyes were dancing. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered. Tristan went down on one knee before her. “Before I left, my lady, you said that you hated me. May I hope that you have been able to overcome this feeling, at least in part, during my absence?”