Footsteps sounded in the passage outside the solar. They sprang apart as the door swung open and King Mark entered.
He looked from one to the other, taking in their flustered expressions and rapid breathing. But he only said mildly, “Tristan, you know that I have been hoping to begin to involve you in royal justice-giving. Two of my castellan lords have brought their quarrel to court, and I would like you to assist me in making peace between them.”
“Of course, Sire,” said Tristan, and immediately left with the king, without even a backward glance toward Isolde.
That evening Isolde sat brushing her hair in front of her glass, while Brangein held the candle. “Tristan and I have taken your advice, Brangein,” said the queen, “and utterly renounced our love for each other. We shall be to each other as brother and sister. Now that the bishop has declared the charges of adultery against us to be completely false, we can begin anew, as friends but as nothing more.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” said Brangein in a neutral voice.
“But it will be torment to see him daily,” Isolde continued, “without being able to show him how much I love him. I am sorry, Brangein, that you will never know the fullness of love: to have your heart and mind utterly taken by another, and then to give him your maidenhead to bind you together forever. Our stratagem of substituting you for me in Mark’s marriage bed preserved my honor, but I regret that it deprived you of the joy of coming to your true love as a maiden—assuming that you ever know the stirrings of love.”
“I appreciate your kind words,” said Brangein, still without inflection. “There are worse men to whom I could have given my virginity.” The candle did not waver in her hand.
Isolde frowned at her reflection and plucked an errant hair from an eyebrow. “As Tristan and I were saying our final goodbyes this afternoon, the king interrupted us. It would have been quite a joke on us if he had found us kissing, something he has never seen in spite of all his suspicions, just when we were renouncing our love forever! But he saw nothing and has no doubts about us.”
“That is good.”
“But I was not able to tell Tristan that he holds a special place in my heart that will never be given to another. I do not dare send him a note, for there are jealous watchers at court who would like to revive all the king’s suspicions. So I would ask you, if you can speak to him unobserved, to carry this message for me.”
“I do not intend to carry messages of adulterous love,” said Brangein.
Her voice was clear and stern. Isolde turned to her in surprise. “There is nothing sinful in this. We have already had our final embrace.”
“If you love someone other than your husband, it is still adultery, even if you do not lie with him.”
“Come, Brangein, do not tell me you have already forgotten the love potion!” She shrugged and put away her hair brush. “There is nothing that Tristan and I can do to change our feelings for each other. I would have thought that you would be happy that we are taking your advice! Now you may leave me, for the king will be here shortly, and I have saved all my embraces for him.”
During the winter Tristan became more and more involved in the giving of royal justice. He soon grew to enjoy its complexity, the uncertainty whenever a case began whether those who sought an answer to their legal difficulties would have to be judged by Cornish law, by the law common to the whole British isle, by church law—which could cover not just churchmen but also oaths and marriages—or by the laws of a distant mercantile port. Some cases were straightforward; for example, by Cornish law a shipwreck always belonged to those who found it, regardless of what the merchants who had owned the ship might argue. Others, especially disputed inheritances, could stretch on for weeks. Simple cases were decided in the great hall of Tintagel, but more complex ones required that everyone ride the cold and muddy roads up to the lonely stone circle on the downs.
“Royal justice is a king’s chief responsibility,” Mark told Tristan one evening, as they lingered over a last glass of wine in front of the fire. “As you are my heir, it is important that you understand all its workings—especially as you did not grow up in Cornwall. No one should say after I am gone that a foreigner forced foreign law on my people.”
“But you will be king for a great many more years yet,” Tristan said, “long enough that no one will even remember that my mother bore me in Bretagne rather than Cornwall. And although I rejoice each day that I am your heir, Sire, I am sure that before long you will have a little prince whose claims will take precedence over mine.”
Mark looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said slowly, “according to the common British laws which all of the kingdoms of the isle follow. But in ancient days of Cornwall, or so I understand, a sister’s son took precedence over a man’s own son.”
Tristan, who had been enjoying the fire’s warmth after a long day of riding through swirling snow, did not like the king’s sudden seriousness. “As soon as you and the queen are blessed with a baby boy,” he said lightly, “I will happily defer to him. I was heir to Parmenie though I never knew it, and I was happy to give up my claims to my foster-brother. I never knew that I was heir to Cornwall until a few years ago, and I will yield, just as readily, a crown I have yet to wear.”
Mark suddenly smiled and slapped Tristan on the knee. “This is why I love you, nephew. There is no selfishness in you. But sometimes,” he added more soberly, turning back to the fire, “I doubt that the baby prince of whom you speak will ever be born. It may be that the queen is barren.”
This was certainly not what Tristan needed to hear at this point in the evening. “You were talking a year or two ago about going on pilgrimage,” he said, pouring himself more wine. “Perhaps the two of you should visit some shrines together and pray earnestly for a child. You would not have to travel far. I hear that there are several very holy sites here on the British isle, and I know there are more across the channel. Just wait for summer before you go.”
“Your advice is good, nephew,” said Mark, and to Tristan’s relief he drained his glass and rose. “Again, you show your unselfishness in your hope for a little prince. I have drunk enough tonight; any more and I might become sentimental.”
News came to Tintagel that a great boar had been seen in the hills: not just another pig such as everyone set loose in the spring to forage and rounded up in the fall after it had fattened on acorns, but a wild boar more than twice the size of a man, with vicious tusks and a temper to match.
The whole court rode out to the hunt, laughing and trying not to poke each other with the long boar spears they carried. Tristan and the chief huntsman led the pursuit, tracking the boar with hounds and by following the marks of its hooves through the snow. Isolde soon lost interest and handed the spear she had taken to a knight, and instead just chatted with her ladies. King Mark found himself riding next to Brangein.
“Did the Irish court often go boar hunting?” he asked her.
“I do not recall any boars in Eire,” she said, smiling at him, “though once, when I was still a little girl in Ispania, my cousin Morold helped track one through the mountains. He made it sound terribly ferocious! But after the bog-dragon which Tristan slew, I do not think I shall be greatly impressed even by a wild boar.”
“And Tristan is taking the lead in this hunt again,” said Mark. “He is a very brave young man.” He paused for a moment and looked away across the snowy fields. “He seems to fear neither God nor me in his love for the queen.”
Brangein reined in her horse hard and stared at him. “Sire! Do not tell me you are falling prey to your old doubts! Isolde proved her innocence by oath and ordeal, and the bishop nullified all charges against her.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mark unhappily. “But I still find myself watching them, almost without ceasing—and yes, I know what you are about to say, I am watching in order to find that which will destroy all my joy. It is the same as when one has had a wound and cannot help but finger the spot and pick at the sc
ab, even knowing it will hinder healing. Only a few weeks after the trial, I came upon the two of them unexpectedly, and I could swear that a second before they had been in each other’s arms. Since then I have observed smiles, glances, whispered words.” He sighed heavily, his breath a white cloud in the freezing air. “I have pretended not to notice and have tried to treat Tristan as a king should treat a trusted heir, but I have noticed.”
“Smiles and glances mean nothing by themselves,” Brangein said firmly. “You yourself have sometimes smiled at me.”
“You see, Brangein, I love them both, but I do not trust them. I trust you more than my own wife!”
“If you trust me,” she said slowly, “then believe this. I know for certain that there is nothing illicit between them, that they are to each other as brother and sister.”
“And brother and sister may love each other deeply if chastely,” Mark agreed a bit reluctantly, “as I myself know well.”
Brangein nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She could, she thought, with only a word, destroy everyone’s happiness: the king’s, Tristan’s, Isolde’s—and her own. If she told Mark that Isolde’s present chastity was very recent, and that while there was nothing illicit now between her and Tristan, there certainly had been before, then the entire court would suffer grievously, never to recover.
Quite a lot of power to reside in the words of a poor little cousin!
“You smile, Brangein,” said the king. “Tell me your thoughts!”
She gave him a quick, startled, glance, for she had not realized she was smiling, and then shook her head. “I was only thinking that a king who can command many lords and ships ought to be able to command his own fears.”
Mark did not chuckle as she intended. He merely shook the reins without answering, and the two started after the rest of the hunt, now far ahead. Just when Brangein thought he had no more to say, he added, “Perhaps, if the queen gives birth to a son, it will not really matter if it is mine or Tristan’s. After all, it will be better than if she proves barren! And the child will either be mine, or the grandson of my dear sister Blancheflor. In either case the baby will have a good claim to Cornwall.”
Brangein made a sound that was almost a snort. “When fifty youths were brought to Eire from Gales,” she said, “I grew to know them fairly well. They were all in despair whether they would ever see their homes and families again—but they were young and powerless, not kings, and they all felt less despair than you do, though they had far more reason!”
At this Mark finally laughed. “It must seem to you, Brangein, that all I do is complain to you of a wound I have given myself! I shall take your words to heart, try to trust my wife, and try henceforth to speak to you, my truest friend, of happier topics. But now, let us see if we can catch up to the hunt, and you can tell me how much bigger a bog-dragon is than a boar.”
VIII
One day in the spring, Isolde and her ladies took blankets to the orchard and spread them under the trees, so that they could enjoy the apple blossoms. The sound of the sea was faint and distant, almost lost in the humming of bees visiting the flowers. Petals, white blushed with pink, floated on the breeze, and the blossoms’ perfume surrounded them.
Even the oldest trees in the orchard, whose limbs were dark and jagged, bloomed with the fresh promise of spring. After an hour of letting the sun soak into hair and bare arms, Isolde sent one of her ladies to bring her harp—and Tristan.
“It is a long time since you had a lesson, pupil,” he said teasingly, sitting down beside her and her ladies and tuning his harp. “You will have forgotten all the songs I once taught you.”
“But I have been practicing on my own,” she replied, trying not to smile and failing. “I often play for the king in the evening. It is you who will have forgotten everything.”
“Well, then,” said Tristan with a chuckle, “we shall have to have a contest. Brangein? Ladies? Request a song from each of us, and you can judge which plays better.”
“A love song!” several ladies called out.
“A song of courage and adventure!” put in Brangein.
“Just do not sing of Guirun and his Paramour,” said another lady. “It is too mournful for a beautiful day like this.”
“I have no interest in mournful songs,” announced Isolde. “I shall begin with a love song.” She tossed back her golden hair and began to play, a quick, light tune, and in only a few measures Tristan joined her. When she began to sing, his voice was an octave below hers. Their eyes were on each other, their smiles for each other.
At the end of the song, Isolde said, “Well, my ladies, I think you can agree that I have not lost my abilities on the harp, no matter what Tristan may think. So, you can be the judges—which of us plays better?”
“You do, my queen!” they all chorused.
“Not fair!” cried Tristan with a laugh. “Of course your ladies will rule for you. I demand a more impartial court! Shall I summon the knights of the court, so that they can judge between us?”
“These ladies are the only judges we shall have,” said Isolde primly. “Perhaps I shall give you the choice of the next song, and then you will have no reason to doubt their judgment.”
Tristan immediately began playing a love song he had learned on his visit to Bretagne, one he had never sung to the queen. She listened, watching him closely, through the first verse, but then began picking out the accompaniment. By the second chorus, she was singing along with him.
“There!” she said when the song came to an end. “You tried to influence the judges with a low trick, but I hope I proved that I can play even a song I have never before heard! Ladies?”
“You are the best, my queen!” they all cried.
“The judges were clearly bought,” Tristan grumbled, though smiling as he did so. “I would leave at once and find judges of my own, if it were not so pleasant here in the orchard. Perhaps this will change the ladies’ minds!”
They continued to play and sing, mostly love songs but also songs of heroism, of successful tricks, and especially of the joys of spring. At last Isolde put down her harp, laughing and flexing her fingers. “I am no minstrel, who can play for many hours!”
“If I play one more song,” said Tristan cunningly, “now that you have stopped, will that mean that I have won our contest?”
“No!” cried Isolde and her ladies together. “They declared me the winner long ago,” the queen added, “and it is much too late for you to try another one of your tricks.”
“But I have a question,” one of the ladies asked, serious though the rest were laughing. “In all the songs, joy and sorrow are joined together in love. But which would give a lover the worse sorrow: to have the beloved die, or to see the beloved turn to another?”
“That is easy,” said Isolde promptly. “The most terrible sorrow would be to lose one’s beloved to death. Imagine a passionate young woman who loves a man, the finest man in the world, brave, handsome, gentle to her but fierce to his enemies, honorable and gracefully spoken. I will even give him the skills of being able to sing and play the harp.” She met Tristan’s eyes and gave him a saucy smile. “The young woman gives herself completely to love: her heart, her spirit, her sweet body. With him she experiences the most exquisite rewards of love, for they are always in complete accord, sharing one sorrow and one joy.
“But now, suppose that one day her lover falls ill and quickly wastes away. Imagine the young woman’s anguish! Her heart is breaking, and her tears flow without letup. She prays desperately that his life may be spared, even begging God to take her in her beloved’s place. But her prayers are not answered, and before long he is dead. As he is lowered into the grave she faints away, for she knows that she will never again hold him in her arms, never again hear his voice, never again walk with him among the spring flowers.”
There was a pause, as everyone, even Isolde, looked sober. But then Tristan said cheerfully, “I shall not let this argument pass unanswered! For in fact t
his imaginary young woman of yours does not suffer half as much as someone whose beloved has proven false. The pain of love is not possible without a living lover, for the philosophers tell us that love itself requires physical contact, so it will quickly wither away if one of the parties has died.
“Imagine instead a bold young man who has wooed and won a beautiful maiden. She has every accomplishment—except that she is skilled neither in singing nor playing the harp!—and is as beautiful as Helen of Troy herself, with golden hair and bright eyes. Her beauty pierces his breast, but the wound gives him joy, not pain. The young man believes that he has achieved complete happiness—until one day he espies her with another! For her love for him has cooled, and with a woman’s inconstancy, she has taken another as her lover. He can think of nothing but her and her treachery, and every thought is agony to him. This man feels far more sorrow that your lady in mourning!”
“Your argument fails,” Isolde retorted, “for much of the joy of love comes from contemplating the face and person of the beloved. Your young man can still achieve joy through gazing on the woman he adores, but my young woman will never again, this side of heaven, see the one she loves.”
“You are misquoting the philosophers,” Tristan replied. “The joy of contemplating the beloved turns to bitter sorrow if she proves untrue. And in the case I have presented, the young man sees his false lover constantly, and every sight of her is a cause for anguish, not for joy.”
Isolde sat up straighter. “You have not taken into account the power of hope. Your young man may still hope that his beloved will recognize her error and return to him, whereas my imagined young woman has no hope of seeing her beloved again, until they are joined in Paradise.”
“But you have missed a key point,” Tristan shot back. “Your young woman still has her memories of the joy she and her lover shared together. My imagined young man does not even have that, for in recollection all the happiness he had with his beloved has turned to ashes.” He turned to the ladies. “So tell us, esteemed judges, which one of these suffers the most?”
Ashes of Heaven Page 25
