The members of his court had taken a break for food and drink. They hailed him as he rode up, but he had no attention for any of them but Brangein. She had dismounted with the rest and was eating a hard-boiled egg. Mark swung down from his horse and seized her by the wrist.
“Come with me,” he said. “I want you to see something.”
Her eyes searched his face, seeing excitement and fear chasing each other across it. “What have you found?”
But he did not dare tell her before the others—almost he thought he might have imagined it. “Come, you will see for yourself.” As they rode rapidly back through the glades toward the Cave of Lovers, he told her how he had followed the white hart and discovered his wife and nephew asleep with a sword between them.
“Do you think it too late, Brangein?” he asked. “Will they ever forgive me? Isolde tried to reassure me of their innocence, and I would not believe her! Instead I sent them off into the wilderness to live as best they could. Suppose they had been killed by a bear! How could they survive the winter? Do you think it too late to bring them back to court?”
“Let us see if it is really them, and not a phantasm,” said Brangein, who was very surprised by Mark’s account of the naked sword. “Whatever it may be, your majesty,” she added earnestly, “I hope that you will not give yourself additional suffering over it.”
But Mark was too excited to listen.
Isolde woke and stretched. She started to roll toward Tristan and remembered the sword just in time. Instead she stood up, listened but heard no indication of hounds or horn, and reached for her clothes.
That was when she noticed that the window had been partly screened.
She woke Tristan, and they went cautiously outside to find a trace of footprints under the window. It was the first sign of another human they had seen for over two months. “Someone stood here and looked at us,” she said, frightened. “But who could it be? And why would anyone put sticks in our window?”
“It cannot be someone who wishes us harm,” said Tristan, “for he left us in peace and quietly went away again. And if it was a brigand, I’m sure he saw that we have nothing worth stealing.”
“Mark?” suggested Isolde. “He may have discovered us and gone to summon the rest of the court, to summarily order us not only out of Tintagel but also out of Cornwall. If so,” she added thoughtfully, “he will have to give us some money for our passage and new clothes.”
“But we cannot leave the Cave of Lovers!” Tristan protested.
They tried to follow the footprints, to see if there had been more than one person. A horse had grazed near theirs in the meadow, but they found only two sets of hoof prints: one coming, one leaving.
And then they heard, in the distance but rapidly approaching, the beat of galloping horses and the clatter of harness. They took each other by the hand, not knowing whether to hope or fear.
Mark and Brangein reined up hard at the edge of the meadow. Mark was off his horse in a flash, throwing Brangein the reins, and went down on his knees before the queen. “Dearest Isolde, sweetest flower of womankind, empress of my heart, can you ever forgive me?”
For a second Isolde’s chief thought was how strange it was to hear another man’s voice after hearing only Tristan’s all summer. She lowered her head in acknowledgment but did not answer.
“I was wrong to send you away,” Mark continued, his voice on the edge of breaking. “I never should have doubted your purity. Is it too late for me to assure you of my complete faith in your innocence? You have been deprived of your home, and I of your sweet presence, all because of misplaced jealousy. Your anger toward me was entirely justified. In Christ’s name, I beg you, I beg both of you, return to Tintagel. Return to my bed, dearest queen, return to the honors that are rightfully yours.”
Isolde recollected herself and said sternly, “And if I forgive you and agree to return to Tintagel, will you lay aside forever all your suspicions and accusations?”
“Yes, yes! Sweetest Isolde, I swear it, I shall never doubt you more. All that doubt has given me is unbearable misery.”
Isolde caught Tristan’s eye over his head. It was just the merest glance, but in their weeks together they had learned to understand each other’s slightest gesture. Hers was a look of relief and triumph.
“And Tristan, my dearest nephew,” said the king, “how could I have ever turned against you, my sister’s son and my own heir? Please, both of you, tell me that you will return to court with us today.”
Tristan seemed about to speak, but Isolde spoke first. “Yes, of course, my own and dearest husband! I have missed you sorely. And of all our suffering here in the wilderness, the worst has been knowing that I had lost your regard and trust.”
“Then saddle your horses at once,” said Mark, leaping up and smiling broadly, “and we shall ride for Tintagel!” He threw his arms around Isolde and kissed her passionately.
“Brangein,” the king said when after a moment he came up for air, “you have always been right and always been wisest. From now on I shall heed your advice better than I have so far!”
Neither Brangein nor Tristan had spoken since Mark had dismounted. Now Brangein only nodded, a little sadly. Tristan sighed, shrugged, then said, “It will just take me a moment to go back to the cave. I need to get my weapons and harp.”
II
Home in Tintagel, Brangein watched and waited in resignation. Everyone appeared delighted to have Tristan and Isolde back in the castle. Because the king was clearly so pleased to have them again at court, all those he asked agreed with him that Isolde had showed true constancy in lying with a sword between herself and Tristan, and that anyone who said otherwise was nothing but a base slanderer.
Brangein had, in the queen’s absence, taken over the supervision of the castle. The second morning after the lovers’ return, she and Isolde were seated in the solar, watching the mist rising and dissolving in the early sunlight, when the chief cook came in.
“We have just received a shipload of eels, my lady,” he said to Brangein. “Shall we bake them or stew them?”
“Stew them,” she said promptly. “That is how King Mark prefers them. And if there are more than we can eat today, smoke the rest.”
As the cook went out, Isolde lifted her eyebrows quizzically. “When did you become the expert on the king’s preferences?”
“The king,” said Brangein a bit tartly, “prefers to have the affairs of Tintagel arranged by someone who is actually present, not away enjoying herself with her lover.”
Isolde frowned, but after a moment the frown faded. “Will you ever cease chiding me, cousin?” she said lightly. “Remember, we did not leave in search of pleasure, but because the king exiled us. And did you not hear about the sword down the middle of our bed?”
Brangein did not answer, but only shook her head.
For the first week or so, she saw no sign that the two were meeting clandestinely, but then one day she walked with them on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Isolde wore all new clothing, scarlet and cobalt blue, and her hair, freshly washed, floated in a golden cloud around her.
The wind, coming to Cornwall over hundreds of miles of open ocean, filled their lungs and set the gulls swirling overhead. Brangein thought that, if she were only slightly lighter, she might rise and whirl away in a sudden gust. But it had been a long time since she had imagined herself a sea bird. Below them the waves repeatedly broke over the dark rocks, rough with mussels and winkles, and retreated in green streams, like a gigantic woman pulling back her long, wet hair.
“I missed the sea,” Isolde said, stretching her arms wide so that the wind caught her sleeves. “I never realized how accustomed I had become to the sight of the waves stretching to the horizon or to the call of the gulls. But I was born and raised in a port city, and in Tintagel the ocean is all around. Did you not miss it too, Tristan?”
“I had other things to occupy my mind,” he said shortly.
Isolde laughed. “My min
d was occupied as well, sweet friend. I first realized that I had been missing the tang of salt in the air when we returned.”
“And did you miss being queen?” he asked, an undertone of hurt and anger in his voice.
Isolde seemed to be deliberately ignoring his tone. “Of course! This is the position for which my parents always prepared me. Our summer in the cave will forever hold a sacred place in my heart, but you know we had to return here at some point. It would have been no use being the queen of rocks and trees!”
Tristan stopped, hands on hips. “And now that you are queen of Cornwall again, do you intend that we should once again be as brother and sister? I do not know all your feelings, my lady,” and his voice was intense, “but you must be far stronger than I if you can alter at once from constant love-making to cold distancing. I cannot summon passion to me and then lightly dismiss it again.”
Brangein, who was standing not ten feet away, thought she ought to say something, but she hesitated to interrupt. And they could not have overlooked her—perhaps, she thought, they had gone beyond caring. After all, she already knew all their secrets.
“Or,” Tristan continued, even more intensely, “are you happy to transfer your affections from me to Mark, since he can give you jewels and fine furs, whereas all I can give you is my love?”
Isolde stepped close to him and took his hands. “I told you that I promised Christ we would give up our love for each other, in return for allowing me to pass safely through the ordeal, until such time as He should free us from that promise. When Mark exiled us, and we had to go live in a cave together, that clearly ended the agreement.”
Brangein coughed, very embarrassed and disturbed by this conversation and trying to attract their attention.
Isolde glanced toward her but then continued to speak to Tristan, standing close beside him and holding both his hands. “Christ must intend for us to be together. Mark has realized his suspicions have made him far more miserable than they have made us, and henceforth he will be determined not to see what is before his eyes.”
Brangein finally spoke. “The king is a good man! You have caused him nothing but pain!”
But Isolde replied, “I do not intend for him to see or hear anything that might cause him pain. The king is dispensing justice, up at the standing stones, and will not be home until tonight. I am going to the royal chamber, and I want you, Brangein, to make sure that no one disturbs me—except of course the one whom I invite there.”
Brangein stamped her foot hard, though it made little sound in the thin grass. The wind caught her cloak, and it snapped in the air behind her. “Enough! Guard your chamber yourself! I have protected you, lied for you, and given up my own innocence for you, but I am done! Henceforth I shall do nothing to protect you from your own folly!”
The gulls still cried overhead, and the waves still boomed against the base of the cliff, but for a moment everything seemed very still. The two women glared at each other, but then Isolde shrugged. “Do what you like, sweet cousin. But I would have thought you would want to make sure that Mark is not pained by hearing tattle-tales.” She smiled up at Tristan, tucked his hand under her arm, and turned to start back toward the castle.
In the following months Brangein thought Mark blind: either blinded by his love for Isolde, who was unfailingly sweet and tender toward him, or else by a fear that if he saw what was immediately before him it would bring back all the anguish he was trying so hard to hide away.
But rumors began to circulate at court. For the two years that Mark had—with excellent reason—doubted Isolde’s constancy, there had been essentially no rumors. The lovers had been carefully discreet, and only Mark and Brangein, those who knew them best, had been able to interpret truly their smiles and glances. Although Mark had spoken to Brangein of rumors—and had asserted them at Isolde’s trial—in fact few whisperers at court had coupled Tristan and Isolde.
Now all that changed. When the two passed and their hands brushed, the light brushing often turned into a warm squeeze. They sometimes disappeared into the woods together for an hour while the warm weather yet lingered, to emerge picking twigs out of their hair. Sometimes when everyone else would be eating dinner they would be curiously absent, arriving just as the meal was almost over. To entertain the company during the winter evenings, they played duets on their harps, and when they played love songs they always seemed to be looking into each other’s eyes. No one dared say anything to Mark, but his story of the naked blade between the sleeping couple was now widely discredited.
During the winter Brangein wondered how much longer this could go on. Members of the court would soon, she feared, start showing open disrespect toward the king. Already conversations often stopped when he came into the room, and there was faint tittering heard when he had just left. But to all of it he seemed oblivious, and if he had doubts, he did not share them with her.
When spring came, and the apples bloomed in the orchard, Isolde again went to sit there with her ladies. Even Brangein, who had avoided her cousin all winter, came out to enjoy the scent of the blossoms. The queen did not invite Tristan to join them, but at the end of the afternoon she said, “The air is so warm and sweet after the winter, that I wish to sleep out here tonight. Let me have a bed made up.”
Mark was away, visiting some of his castellans, and not expected back until the next day. None of the ladies questioned why the queen should prefer to sleep among the apple trees rather than in the royal chamber in his absence. A feather bed, sheets, and damask coverlets were carried out into the orchard, and a tarpaulin was erected over the bed, just enough to shelter her if a shower came up but not enough to hide the night sky. After dinner, Isolde and her ladies repaired there, but she quickly sent them back to the castle, saying she wished to enjoy the stars in solitude.
The evening was mild, the breeze off the ocean gentle. The knights in charge of the castle guard were uneasy, but Isolde sent them briskly back to the castle when they came out at dusk to try to talk her into returning to the castle. “This is no different from when we set up the pavilions in the meadow for the summer festival,” she told them. “I am in no danger; no one has threatened Tintagel since Tristan killed my uncle. Now, will you or will you not obey your queen and leave me?”
The knights, knowing better than to grumble in her hearing, went back to the castle. The night was indeed quiet, a phosphorescent glow on the waves breaking below the cliffs. Just as dawn began to lighten the sky, hooves pounded on the road, and a shout came from below the castle gates: “Open for the king!”
The guards looked down from the gate house, and there, in the dim grey light, were King Mark and the half dozen knights who had accompanied him, all sitting tired horses. The guards opened the gates at once, and the riders clattered in. Mark left the others in the stables and went up the stairs two at a time toward his chamber.
But he was immediately back again. “Where is the queen?”
“She would not listen, sire! We did our best to dissuade her.”
“Dissuade her from what?” said Mark, tired and irritable.
“She insisted on making her bed under the apple trees in the orchard.”
Mark shrugged. “Then I shall find her there.” They opened the gates again, and he headed out.
Streaks of red stained the eastern sky. Mark walked slowly, the dewy grass brushing his ankles, thinking he would slip out of his clothes and just slide under the sheets with Isolde. There he would doze comfortably beside her warm form as morning came on. Birds were singing in the apple trees as he threaded his way between them. When he brushed a branch, a shower of white petals fell around him.
He spotted the bed, sheltered by its tarpaulin. Smiling, he quietly stepped up beside it.
And froze in sick horror. Isolde was indeed in the bed, but Tristan was beside her.
They slept, pressed close together, chest to chest, lips to lips, the naked arms that emerged from above the sheets wrapped around each other. They appeared to
have fallen asleep after some exertion.
For two years Mark had wished for certainty. Now he had it, and he yearned for the old days when all he had were doubts and suspicions.
He had tried to test them, to trap them, to discover them together. Now, when he was not even trying, he had succeeded. He wished despairingly that he had never tried to find out the truth, for now that he had it he felt as though the pain would tear his heart from his body.
A small sob escaped him as he turned away. He would have to go back to the castle and assemble the court, then bring them out as witnesses. His mind recoiled at the thought of what would have to happen next. But he could think of nothing but his wife and his nephew together, as in his heart he had always known they were, but which he could no longer deny.
And how would he break the terrible news to Brangein?
A sound woke Tristan. He had been dreaming they were back in the Cave of Lovers, and between waking and dreaming he pulled Isolde even closer, but when he opened his eyes, they were not alone in the forest. Instead, they were lying in Tintagel’s orchard, and a dozen yards away, walking away from them, was King Mark.
“Isolde,” he whispered. “Sweetest queen.” She stirred in his arms and slowly opened her eyes. “We are lost.”
Her lips were very close to his. “What is it?” she murmured sleepily and kissed him.
“Mark,” he whispered. “He saw us.”
She rolled over then and stared, horrified. Mark had almost disappeared, walking slowly through the apple trees toward the castle, but there was no mistaking him. His head was down and shoulders slumped.
Isolde clung to Tristan. “What shall we do?” she whispered, aghast. “Someone has betrayed us—Brangein!”
“No, no, no one has betrayed us but ourselves,” he answered, low and urgent. “We could not hope to escape his eyes forever. He will be going for witnesses. The court cannot find us together, to confirm what Mark has seen. We must flee immediately.”
She sat up, eyes round. “But where could we go? We cannot return to the Cave of Lovers, for Mark would find us there. Are we to live out our lives as exiles?”
Ashes of Heaven Page 27
