Ashes of Heaven

by C. Dale Brittain

  “It is because of the queen, is it not?” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “You loved her as no man should love his lord and uncle’s wife, and he discovered that love.”

  “Isolde, my dearest wife, my only love,” he got out. “I love you so much. I even made a poem about us:

  “A man, a woman,

  A woman, a man,

  Tristan, Isolde,

  Isolde, Tristan.”

  Isolde Fair Hands shook her head sadly. “Your life and your soul are both in danger, dear husband. Do not lie to me. That poem was composed for the queen of Cornwall.” He was unable to answer, unable to create any more lies. “Shall I call for a priest, so that you may confess all your sins while there is still time?”

  “No, no, not yet,” he muttered. “The queen may arrive in time.”

  “If she loves you, she is certain to come speedily,” said Isolde tartly. “Unless news of your marriage to me has hardened her heart against you. I shall ask Curvenal to summon a herbalist, for he may be able to help you even without the secret herbs of Eire.” She rose and started to stride away, then stopped and came back. “Tell me, Tristan, was there anything you ever loved about me, other than my name?”

  He forced himself to rise on an elbow and open his eyes. “There is much I have always loved about you, dearest wife. Your spirit. Your laugh. Your loyalty and good sense. Your face and form and sweet kisses. You are like the glory of a summer day.”

  “I should not have asked,” she said and turned away again. “There is nothing I can hear you say and not know that you once said it to the other Isolde.”

  The ship cut through the choppy waters of the channel, its red sails stretched taut. Isolde sat on the deck, very pale, a leather bag full of herbs and potions next to her. She kept turning around and around the cameo ring on her finger. Brangein, standing at the rail, thought that the queen looked as though she could use some of her potions herself.

  Kaedin had tried to offer his services to the queen, to bring her something to eat or drink, but she just waved him away without a word. “I fear Queen Isolde may be ill,” he said quietly to Brangein.

  Brangein shrugged. “An illness that many women suffer. Most of the time they do not die of it.”

  Kaedin looked at Brangein’s profile, beautiful but now cold and unsympathetic. “So she did not tell the king she was leaving for Bretagne?” he said. “I would not have put to sea if I had known.”

  “King Mark would not have agreed to let the queen go. He loves his nephew, in spite of everything that has passed between them, and you could see how distressed he was to learn that he was gravely wounded. But even to save Tristan’s life he would not have let the queen travel in her condition.”

  “But you yourself hope to see Tristan live?”

  “No!” Brangein turned to face him, dark eyes flashing. “I would be happy to see him die. But the queen is my cousin and has always been like a sister to me. When it became clear that she would go to Tristan no matter what, little heeding the danger to herself, not even heeding his cruelty to her, I had to accompany her.”

  Kaedin shook his head. “I just want to save the life of my brother-in-law and friend.”

  “You consider Tristan your friend? Perhaps you do not know him very well. Truly, Kaedin, have you never had suspicions of his conduct?”

  Kaedin threw up his hands. “At one point I— But no. I have always been certain that Lord Tristan is a brave and true man.”

  Brangein made a small, dismissive sound. Kaedin strained his eyes to see if the coast of Bretagne might possibly be visible yet and said nothing more.

  The coast of Bretagne appeared as a dark smudge on the horizon. The queen rose and looked ahead, a bit of pink coloring her cheeks. “He must still live. Sweet Brangein, tell me that he is still alive.”

  “I have no way of knowing,” said Brangein coldly.

  “And he must still love me. Please say that he still loves me. Even though he is married, he wants me beside him in his desperate illness.”

  “Only because he doubts that your mother would come all the way from Eire.”

  Isolde frowned. “Sweet cousin, you are little support to me in my sorrow.”

  “A sorrow you have entirely inflicted on yourself,” said Brangein mercilessly.

  “At least he will know, from the moment someone spots this ship and its red sails, that I am on it, and that will give him hope and strength.”

  Isolde seemed to grow more energetic the closer they grew to land. “Tristan’s friend Kaedin seems a handsome young man,” she said to Brangein with a smile. “Perhaps you should take him as your lover.”

  “But I want no lover!” said Brangein, shocked. “If I did, it would be a man I honored and respected, not someone I had just met! And he has certainly shown no interest in me.”

  “He just needs some encouragement,” said Isolde lightly. “Smile at him. Speak sweetly to him. He is just the heir to some Breton castle, whereas you are the cousin of a queen. He will be flattered and pleased and will court you most honorably. He will not even mind that you have lost your maidenhead.”

  Brangein started to speak, then turned abruptly away.

  “You must marry someone sometime,” persisted Isolde. “As mistress of this castle of his—Karke, is that its name?—you would be near Tristan and would be able to arrange matters properly whenever I visited.”

  Brangein looked briefly at her cousin, then away again. “In the name of God! I despair of you, Isolde. Tristan is dying, you may still have honor as the queen of Cornwall but neither the love nor respect of the king, and all you can think of is a stratagem for your pleasure.”

  “I think only of love,” said Isolde softly. “God created love between man and woman when we were still in Eden, and we must obey its dictates.”

  This time Brangein did not merely turn her head but paced away without answering.

  Soon the black cliffs of Bretagne rose above the ship, and Isolde stood pressed against the rail at the ship’s prow, as though willing the ship to go faster, straining for the first sight of Parmenie’s towers.

  Brangein said to Kaedin, “I saw Parmenie once, many years ago when I was a little girl. My cousin Morold was sailing from Ispania to Eire, and we went by. It seemed a delightful castle.”

  “It is,” said Kaedin. “Curvenal is an excellent lord, and his people love him. All will be sad with him for the illness of his foster brother.”

  But before they could reach the castle, the wind shifted. It now blew off the Breton coast, pushing the ship away from shore. It strengthened steadily, whining in the rigging and whipping the sea into a froth. As the clouds drew down and the gale built, it became clear, even to Isolde who stood at the ship’s prow as though she could speed them through will alone, that they would be driven back from their goal.

  The captain, ignoring his passengers’ objections, steered away from the coast and the jagged rocks against which the waves smashed. He ordered the sails reefed and shouted for the passengers to go below decks, but Isolde refused to obey, and neither Brangein nor Kaedin would leave her. They did let themselves be lashed in place, like the barrels on deck. Salt spray soon soaked them, as great waves broke over the ship, and the ship tilted and creaked as though it would break apart at any moment. The coast disappeared, and there was nothing to be seen but waves rising as high as the mast.

  Kaedin struggled to master his fear, clenching his teeth and trying to tell himself that a knight and the heir to a castle should not be frightened by some rough weather. Neither stern reminders of knightly bravery nor fervent prayers seemed to help. But Isolde seemed curiously calm, whether because she was unafraid or because she had completely given up hope, he could not tell.

  Toward evening, in a lull in the gale, the queen said, “I remember that Tristan often told the story of his first visit to Cornwall. He had been caught in a storm like this and was thrown on the Cornish shore. Thus began his life as heir to Cornwall. Would it not
be a jest if I were thrown back on the Cornish shore rather than being able to reach him, and his life thus ended?”

  “You are not making a jest of it, I trust, my lady?” said Kaedin uneasily.

  Brangein ignored the queen’s comment. “Isolde, dear cousin, you must go below decks. You are soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably. If this goes on, you will lose the child.”

  “I do not care what happens, except that I pray God that I not lose Tristan,” said the queen, her voice still unnaturally calm. It was as though her mind and voice belonged to some other person than the bedraggled figure with dripping hair who sat lashed in place.

  A shout from the foredeck warned of an islet ahead. The helmsman was able to change direction to avoid it, but just as the sailors were trying to trim the sails to the new direction a sudden gust ripped through the topmost sail, even though reefed, opening a great gash in its center.

  The captain bellowed orders, and the sailors scrambled to bring the sails down before any more ripped. In the lee of the islet the wind and waves were a little calmer, and the anchors went over the sides.

  “We will spend the night here,” the captain announced. “We do not dare ride the storm out—the channel is too treacherous. Everyone will go below and try to get dry—and that means everyone, even queens.”

  Isolde obeyed meekly, allowing Brangein to help her off the deck, now not pitching as badly as it had been. Both women were shaking with wet and cold as they and Kaedin went down the narrow stairs, he murmuring prayers of thanks to the saints. They all dropped into the straw provided for beds and slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.

  V

  At dawn, Brangein came out on deck, to find the channel calm and the sky nearly cloudless. The captain was unhappily inventorying his sails.

  “Lord Kaedin wants us to set red sails,” he said. “But I’m down to one. I hope that will do.”

  “I think the red sails are a curse,” said Brangein firmly. “After all, it is not the season for such storms.”

  “On the channel it’s always the season for storms,” said the captain darkly.

  “Try white sails today,” Brangein continued as though she had not heard him. “No use inviting a curse.”

  And so when the breeze picked up, just enough to belly out the canvas, the sailors hoisted white sails, and the ship again headed toward the coast of Bretagne, while Isolde and Kaedin still slept below.

  A servant had been looking out to sea from the top of Parmenie’s highest tower. He came clattering down the stairs to find Isolde Fair Hands. “A ship is coming! I have just spotted it in the distance.”

  She sat beside Tristan, stroking his hair. Florete was back home again and had sat with him for a while, but she was so exhausted and sad that Isolde Fair Hands had sent her off to get some rest. For the last day Tristan had not spoken or seemed to hear those around him, but at the lookout’s words he opened bleary eyes. “What color sails?” he croaked.

  “White sails,” the man answered unhappily.

  “Two days ago,” Isolde commented, “before the storm, you said that you had seen a ship with red sails.”

  “Then this must be a different ship,” the man answered.

  Tristan sighed softly. He had seemed to rally two days ago, when told of the distant sighting of red sails, and had sat up and even briefly stood, but when the gale had driven the ship away he had grown rapidly worse, as though the effort to stand had taken the last of his strength.

  “Watch again,” said Isolde, “to see if it is Parmenie’s ship.”

  Curvenal came into the chamber as the lookout hurried away. He sat down beside Tristan, whose eyes had again closed. “You were always an excellent brother,” he said quietly, looking straight ahead, as though not knowing or even caring whether Tristan could hear him. “I regret that I never thanked you properly for making Parmenie mine. I pray the Maiden Mother that you may yet live, but if you do not, and if she gives us another son, we shall name him Tristan.”

  Isolde glanced up at him. “There may be many boys who carry that name. I was thinking of using it myself.”

  Curvenal tried to smile at her. “Perhaps it shall become a royal name, as yours has. For I would guess that King Mark of Cornwall will also wish to honor his nephew.”

  Isolde looked down and did not answer.

  The lookout returned half an hour later. Isolde glanced at his face and did not need to ask.

  But Curvenal said, “Our ship, with white sails?” When the lookout nodded, he said resignedly, “Well, it was too much to hope that the queen of Cornwall would risk shipwreck to cross the channel, just to save her husband’s nephew.” He squeezed Tristan’s unresponsive hand. “I’ll go down to the harbor to meet the ship and see if there is any news.”

  When he was gone, Isolde Fair Hands said gently, “Is it time to send for a priest, dear husband?”

  “I am so sorry,” Tristan managed to get out. “I have hurt you, I fear, beyond the power of even God’s priest to forgive.”

  Curvenal had had the priest from the village staying at the castle all week, and in a moment he was there, bringing incense and holy water as well as his Bible. Isolde Fair Hands stepped away, so that he might hear Tristan’s confession in private.

  Tristan forced himself to open his eyes. He had deliberately allowed himself to be wounded, knowing that the wound might kill him, and though he now wished he could live, he must begin by confessing himself a suicide.

  But he heard himself babbling something entirely different and realized that he was repeating what Tantris the Minstrel had falsely confessed when he was trying to find a way into the royal castle of Eire. Then he had been wounded with a poisoned blade, so he should have died then, not now, but then he had still had hope.

  Tristan looked up at the priest, who was frowning in concern, and managed to compose himself to confess his true sins: suicide, adultery, and the slaying of many men, especially Morold and the old duke of Bretagne. Pride, deceit, and lust came up as well.

  When he was finished he felt strangely light, as though he might not even have to die, but would just shrivel and blow away like an old dry leaf. In a way, he thought, it was a relief that the ship was coming home with white sails. It meant he did not have to struggle any longer. He tried to explain this sensation, but he was no longer sure he was making sense. The priest frowned even more markedly but at last made the sign of the cross on his forehead with holy water and hurried out of the room, looking back in some trepidation.

  Isolde Fair Hands came back and sat down next to Tristan. She did not speak, and he felt himself beginning to drift away, no longer anchored to his body. Even the pain of his wound was growing distant. He tried to ponder Christ’s saving grace but could think only of Rual coming to rescue him when he had unwisely challenged all the kitchen boys at once. When rapid footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, he hardly heard them.

  His wife gasped, and her hand tightened convulsively on his good shoulder. He came back to himself, with an effort like swimming upstream against a powerful current, and opened his eyes.

  Standing by his bed, with Curvenal and Brangein on either side of her, was Isolde the Blonde.

  He tried to speak but could do no better than to croak, “Beloved.” She dropped to her knees beside his bed.

  “I came as quickly as I could,” she said, her voice anguished as she took in his white face, through which the shape of the skull showed, and his arm all green from the wound. “Dearest lover, my own heart’s delight! Do not despair, for in spite of everything I love you still. I have brought my mother’s herbs and potions to heal you.”

  Tristan managed to answer, though his voice came out cracked and low. “It is too late, sweet friend. I shall be dead within the hour. But it is good to see you one more time.”

  Isolde Fair Hands stood abruptly, taking in the other Isolde’s golden hair, which appeared freshly washed, her pink-tinged cheeks, and a graceful hand bearing her own cameo wedding ring. Sh
e stepped away, drawing Curvenal and Brangein with her. “We should let them say their goodbyes in private,” she said shortly.

  Tears welled up in the queen’s eyes. “Tristan,” she murmured, “do not leave me! I cannot live without you. Our lives are entwined forever. Let me at least try some of the potions that brought you back from death before. Together we have experienced heaven on earth. Do not go to the next world without me!”

  “Do not desire to go with me,” Tristan got out. “I have been shriven, but unless God’s mercy is far beyond anything mortals deserve, I am going straight to hell. We thought our love was heaven, but we have done nothing but create hell on earth—for us and for all of those we love.”

  “Do not say that!” gasped Isolde the Blonde. “Do not say our love will lead to hell!”

  Kaedin came into the room, shaking his head. “I am sorry, dear sister,” he said quietly, with none of his usual bravado. “I brought the queen as quickly as I could, but we were delayed by a storm on the channel. I know Tristan wanted us to set red sails, but when the storm finally cleared the captain told me the red sails were cursed.”

  Isolde Fair Hands took her brother’s arm and squeezed it without a word.

  But Curvenal was gaping at Tristan and the queen. She was stroking his hair and kissing him all over his face, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Did I hear correctly?” Curvenal asked in a low voice. “Can it be true? Is Tristan her lover?”

  No one had said anything to Brangein or even seemed to notice her. But now she said, “He is, and he has been since before her marriage to King Mark.”

  “But— But—” Curvenal looked at Brangein, seeming unsure who she was, looked at Isolde Fair Hands, and closed his eyes. “I cannot believe it! Not my brother Tristan! This changes what I— This is so unlike what he—”

  When he seemed unable to continue, Kaedin commented, “Is this what you tried to tell me on the ship, Brangein? Isolde, dear sister! I would never have consented to your marriage if I had known!”