Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (21 page)

CHAPTER 34

Was there any country in the world as fine as France? Or any castle to compare with the court of King Hoel and its honey-colored sprawl of turrets and towers?

Smiling, the Chevalier Saint Roc strolled out of the castle gatehouse and into the warmth of the sun. Before him lay wide, well-tended garden walks, winding their way between neat tangles of knot-grass and flowering shrubs with succulent beds of fragrant herbs beyond. All along the sunlit castle walls, stands of ancient roses were fumbling their way to life. Spring came early to this sweet southwestern kingdom, he noted approvingly, and on every side he saw the tender green shoots lit with shafts of gold. He sighed with contentment. Was not a king’s garden a fine place to be on a warm April day, when the sun himself was making love to the blushing earth?

Making love? Saint Roc permitted himself an ironic grin. These tentative overtures and soft sighing winds were not what a Frenchman would call the sport of kings. Let the English have their horses, cats, and dogs. We in France prefer women, and our women want to be loved.

Yet perhaps this shy, sideways approach of spring, so gently warming up to the full-blooded heat of summer, had a message for him on his mission here. That was how a virgin should be approached by a man of the world, a man who loved women, as he had come here to do.

He chuckled softly and fondled the hilt of his sword. Oh, Madame Blanche was a virgin, he had no doubt of that. Of course she had greeted him as a woman well versed in courtship, and he laughed again to recall her disdainful manner and the toss of her small fair head.

“The King of Ouesterland?” she had said as they met, making his kingdom sound like the very end of the world.

“Jacques Saint Rocquefort at your service, madame,” he had said, highly amused. “But they call me Saint Roc.”

Then he had made a brief bow and walked away, letting the knight behind him take his place. Gods above, it was the oldest trick in the book. When it piqued her interest, as he thought it would, he knew how green she was.

Green, yes, but gamesome too. That night she held the whole court to ransom with dancing and games, involving every soul there in forfeits and fooling and all kinds of fun. And what simple pleasure she had shown and shared, setting aside her royalty like a cloak. Ah, what a woman! His spirit stirred to recall how freely she moved between princess and child.

“Where is the King of Ousterland? Here, sir,” she had called imperiously as she took the floor, beckoning him to the place at her side.

“Alas, madame,” he had replied, fingering his thigh. “An old war wound troubles me. I cannot dance.”

She flushed sharply and turned away. But as she did, he caught the hurt glance of a child. What’s the matter, don’t you like me? Why won’t you play with me?

And it had touched his heart.

Your heart, Saint Roc? came a sardonic inner voice as he reached for a rose on the wall and picked the first bud. Could that gnarled, half-forgotten organ he once called his heart, battered and misshapen by too many women and wars, be brought back to life by the look in the eyes of this child?

Child? scoffed his inner voice with growing delight. Look again, Saint Roc. Tripping out of the gatehouse with a girlish air was a tall womanly figure, her straight back and the purposeful set of her head betraying her determination in every step. From her baby-blue gown and lace headdress to the tips of her dainty kid shoes, Blanche was a portrait of sweet simplicity. But Saint Roc had known whores like this, pure-faced girls who would take a man in their arms, only to stab him all the better in the back. On guard then, Saint Roc, he grinned, feeling his blood rise.

Blanche came straight toward him like a bee to a flower. “Greetings, sir,” she caroled sweetly. “What a pleasant surprise to meet you in the garden today.”

Surprise? He had no doubt that she was looking for him. He played idly with the rose he held in his hand. “As well as can be expected, Princess,” he sighed.

Blanche swept him from head to foot, noting with growing approval the lambskin tunic slashed with ochre and black, the well-fitting breeches and hand-worked cambric shirt, and knew that all this was for her, and her alone. Yes, he would have been finer without the scars on his sword hand and that questioning, ironic glint in his eye. And when Tristan came, he would be bigger too, as a hero should be, not like Saint Roc, of average height and build.

But the body before her was hard and well-honed and trim, and one that many women would welcome in their bed. Only fair men could be truly handsome, as Tristan was. But still there was something about a thick head of glossy dark hair, cropped like a soldier’s and neat as a tutor’s black cap. Yet what could it be, if she only liked fair men?

Unsettled, she went on the offensive again. “You sound like an old man. How old are you?”

“Old enough,” he said grimly, thinking of his checkered past.

“But young enough to dance,” she returned, staring at him hard. “When your leg gets better, I mean.”

She dropped her eyes demurely, and he had to laugh. What a girl, what a woman she was!

She returned to the attack. “So you’re king of a great kingdom?”

“Whoever told you that?” He laughed quietly to himself, enjoying the joke. “My kingdom is one of the smallest and meanest in France. One half lies in the shadow of the mountains, while the other lies open to the wind and the sun. Our crops are meager and our cattle half starved. If you’re counting my assets, lady, count again. But our people have the stoutest hearts on earth.”

He gave a reminiscent grin. “And Gods! How they love to fight. A wilderness like ours produces wild men. I have made it my task to settle their disputes, and stop them killing each other for the sake of a few sheep or goats.”

“A fair aim.” Blanche looked at Saint Roc’s steady gaze and was impressed. “Why have you never married?” she shot back.

His answer surprised both of them, and himself most of all. “I was waiting for you.”

In silence he presented her with the rose. Gasping, she took it from his hand. Then her eyes flared in alarm. “Is that true?”

He held up both hands in surrender: lady, don’t ask.

There was a lingering silence. Blanche bit her lip. “Then I must tell you to set aside your hopes,” she resumed shakily. “You and I will never marry.”

He glimmered at her with an air of mystery. “Never is too long a word to say.”

She drew back sharply. “Sir, I have given my heart to another man.” Slowly, she let the rosebud fall to the ground.

To her fury, she saw signs of amusement crinkling the corners of his bright black eyes. “And has he given you his in fair exchange?”

How dare he? She struggled to find the right words. “All that concerns you, sir, is that your suit is dead.”

He was laughing openly now. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

Why was she bandying words with this arrogant fool? “Then think again!”

Saint Roc fixed his eyes on the rose rambling around the wall. “Your brother tells me that you summoned Sir Tristan here.”

Blanche stared at him. “Indeed I did.”

“And did he reply?”

“What is that to you?”

Saint Roc saw the ice forming in the pale blue eyes and was undeterred. “You can never enjoy Tristan. You will never have his love. He loves the Queen of Ireland, and her alone.”

“Is that all?” Blanche burst into mocking laughter to cover her relief. “Every knight loves his lady. That’s part of their courtly oath.”

“Not as he does.”

Blanche’s heart gave a violent leap. “How?”

There was an endless pause. “Forbiddenly.”

“Forbiddenly?” She was fighting for breath. “Tell me what you mean!”

Oh, my poor girl. Saint Roc took in the startled eyes and trembling mouth, and felt a spring of pity he did not know he had.

“It is not known for sure,” he began carefully, “and Sir Tristan himself would never speak a word. But those who hear the whispers in the night say that he’s the Queen’s chosen one. Her companion of the couch. Her bed-slave, if you will.”

A flash of revulsion distorted the angel face. “I don’t believe it!”

“Oh, you will, madame, you will.”

Reaching for his dagger, he cut a fresh rose from the wall. For a moment he studied its fragrant, half-open heart, then brought it to his lips.

“You are the rose of France, my Princess,” he said, half mockingly, half in a tone that neither of them understood. “And whether you like it or not, I will marry you.”

“Pouf!” She blew him away, her long white hands flapping madly, her face dark with distress.

“As you wish, madame.”

Still smiling, he pressed the rose into her hand. As he did, they heard a servant calling from the castle gate.

“Lady, they’re searching for you all over the castle, you must come at once. There’s a ship of Cornwall lying at the dock bearing the King’s nephew, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse. He’s sore wounded, the sailors say, and he’s come here to you for your care.”

Goddess, Mother, thanks!

Blanche threw back her head in triumph and turned on Saint Roc. “You’ll marry me, you say, when I’m destined for Sir Tristan himself? Who but the Great Ones could have brought him here?”

He bowed his head. “Madame, enough.”

But she could not hold back. “Did you think you’d appeal to me by attacking Tristan? And did you think for a minute that I’d believe those lies? You’re jealous of him, of course, I understand that. But you’re wasting your time, you have no future with me. I wish you good speed on your journey back to your lands. Go with your Gods, sir, farewell.”

“Go?” He was laughing, his sallow face alight. “Why should I go?”

To her fury, she saw that his expression was more sardonic than before. “Sir, don’t you understand a word I said—?”

He held up a peaceable hand. “Madame, I shall leave you now. But you must allow me to stay here at court to pursue my suit. I can wait on the will and pleasure of a woman like you. And I can’t wait to see this wooing between you and your new love.”

She was blazing with rage. “We shall see about that!”

His laughter reached her as she strode away. “We shall indeed, madame—oh, we shall.”

CHAPTER 35

Send me to Isolde,” he had said. Why then had he awoken in this strange place where they were all speaking in French? And how had he come by this hideous pain in his head, a cluster of lights and sharp stabbings every time he moved?

The last thing he remembered was leaving the field on his horse. After that, only fragments of sensation filled the void. Aching shoulders, yes, and his body worked beyond endurance, the reins lying loose in his hands as he gave his horse its head: he could feel it now. But what reins? What horse? What field? What country even, what joust? At this fearful thought, his riven mind collapsed and slid away into the cold beyond.

And there he met himself, or rather his other self, weeping and holding out her hands, and he took her in his arms and called her by her name.

Isolde.

Yes, that was her name, and without her, he could never be well again.

Because he was sick, he realized that too. He lay in bed like a dead man, unable to move. Only his senses were alive and they told him he was in an herb-scented sickroom, brought here for his wound to be healed. At this, the panic and dread began again. What sickroom? What country? What healer and what wound?

He drifted in terror, not knowing who he was. Yet whatever he was, where was Isolde now? And who was the being who attended him, all in white? The first day he managed to open his seething eyes, he saw her white hands fluttering over him like doves. Lightly they landed on his burning head and cooled the fever that was burning him alive. Then he saw a gown of filmy white and a white face above it, wimpled like a nun. Escaping from the white headdress were wisps of fine hair like the feathers of a swan, and he wondered if this creature was a swan-maiden, still bearing the curse of her enchanted kin.

But nun or nurse, angel or swan, she cooled the flames in his head by day, and chafed the warmth into his feet and hands at night. Her very skin had the sheen of mother-of-pearl, and her young body had the innocence of the unpossessed. It came to him that in the days of his youth, passing from tournament to tournament, he had learned how to tell a virgin from a woman of the camps. Floating now, he giggled to himself. So you have been a knight errant, then, in your time? You knew the tournaments, you knew the game?

Then he knew why he was here in this spotless white space smelling of herbs and salves. He had been injured in a fearful joust and brought to the castle’s sick bay to be healed. But where? He had to ask. The next time he saw the white creature swanning by, he marshaled the tongue lying dead in his mouth and jumbled out a few misspoken words.

A sweet face was instantly at his side. Startled, he thought he saw lovelight in her eyes, and his mind misgave.

Isolde?
he tried to say, but nothing came. His skin crawled. Had Isolde changed her shape into this maid? Why else would she love him and hang over him like this?

“Where are you?” he heard a soft, attentive sigh. “You’re in France, sire, at the court of King Hoel.”

“Sire?” He started violently. “You may not call me that! I am not a king. My father lives, the King of Lyonesse.”

A look of deep pity filled the forget-me-not eyes. “Your father died years ago, my lord. You have long been King of Lyonesse in your own right.”

Am I so? wandered through his brain. Well, then, so be it. He drifted away on a fathomless sea as snatches of speech hung about him in the air.

“. . . quite common, lady, after a blow to the head. Men can forget their names and even who they are.”

“Will he get his memory back?”

“Very likely, given time. You must help him to rebuild his shattered mind.”

What did it mean? He sank beneath the pain. But when the billows that rocked him brought him again to shore, he tried again, his lazy tongue flubbing every sound. “How did I get here?”

“You asked to be sent here,” the white maiden purred. “You asked for me by name.”

How could that be, Tristan wondered, since he did not know her name? But this was only one of the mysteries that beset him now.

And this creature in white was his only way out of the mist. She was his lifeline, his all. If he ever hoped to get back to Isolde, it would be through her. She fed him, she talked to him, she had saved his life.

He was not to know that the hands that washed him and fed him and turned him were not hers. He did not see the nurses who labored while he lay unconscious, under strict instructions to call Blanche and disappear the moment he stirred. He did not hear the words of the doctor in the infirmary, battling to protect the sick man from Blanche’s consuming love.

“The cordial, Doctor—when shall we try that?”

When we want to kill him, Princess. Remember the old man? the doctor did not say. Sighing inwardly, he forced himself to flatter her, or the knight’s life was at stake. “Lucky is the man to have such a gifted nurse. Your royal touch is all that Sir Tristan needs.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Blanche basked in the doctor’s approval, warming to the keen-faced man and his thoughtful air. And he was right, she preened herself, about her healing touch. Day by day the patient grew stronger, till he could work his slow tongue around the next great question, “Lady, who are you?”

Oh, she had waited for this! Blanche’s heart bounded, and her vanity raced away.

She held out her hands and waved them before his face. “You may call me Blanche, sir, but that’s only my nickname, because of my white hands. My real name is Isolde, Isolde des Blanche Mains . . .”

The comatose figure in the bed came violently to life. “Isolde?” he cried thickly, lurching up. “Is she here?”

She could not believe it. “Isolde here . . . ?”

“She’s not here? Then where is she, do you know?”

She could see the agony of loss on his face and hear the hope catching desperately at his throat. An ugly impulse of vindictiveness invaded her soul. “She’s not here,” she said trenchantly. “Nowhere near. Queen Isolde is far away in the Western Isle.”

He was sweating and trembling like a stallion in a trap. “I must go to her. I must send her word.”

Go to her? Blanche felt her jealous soul boil with rage. She set her lovely features in a foxy smile. “All in good time, my lord.”

He fixed her with a wandering, feverish glare. “I must write to her.”

She gave a brittle laugh. “But you can’t write! You can’t hold a spoon, let alone a pen.”

A vivid flush of shame crept up his neck. “It’s true that I cannot do much for myself,” he said with difficulty. “But I could write something. And my lady would be glad to have it, I know.”

“And so she shall,” Blanche said heartily. She could see the beads of sweat standing on his brow. “As soon as you’re stronger.”

“Tomorrow, then?” he pressed, feeling his strength fading with every word.

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” she agreed in warm tones, “if you go on as you are.”

But tomorrow came and more tomorrows after that, with no sign of the pen and paper he asked for every day.

“YOUR LETTER TO Queen Isolde, sir? Yes, to be sure. As soon as you’re stronger . . . as soon as this is done . . .”

Tristan nodded, trying not to awake the great pain in his head. So many steps toward his recovery, and every one seemed so long—

“You can’t remember, sire, why you asked for me?” Blanche would demand, her baby-pale eyes aglow. “Surely you’d heard of me, and my skill with my hands? I’ve been known for their beauty all my life.”

She cocked her head on one side like a hopeful child, and he could not say no. Yet she wasn’t a child, she had to be twenty at least, only ten years younger than he was, perhaps even less. Why then did she seem young enough to be his daughter? And why did he care?

“Princess—” he began awkwardly.

But Blanche was blind to his hesitation. “And now you’ve simply forgotten who I am,” she pressed on grandly. “I’m famous as a healer throughout France. You must have known that, or else why are you here?”

He shook his head. He had no idea.

Blanche leaned forward, plaiting her long sinuous fingers into a knot. “You must revisit your past, sir, and tell me all you see.”

He had to recover his memory, she told him every day. So all the time he was working to regain his strength, the trickle of subtle probing never stopped. Day after day he would struggle to oblige. I owe her my life, he made a solemn vow. And whatever comes after, I must not forget.

Yet try as she might, hour after torturous hour, she could not get from him more than any knight would say. And his courtly reserve only increased her desire to know more about her rival for his love. Tell me about Isolde! she wanted to scream.

But he would not do it. “War came early that year,” he would say, “so I had to leave. Nothing happened after that.” Or, “Queen Isolde was with her mother in Ireland, dealing with a threatened invasion from the Picts. There is no more to tell.”

And Blanche had to leave it at that.

At times like this it was very hard to bear the knowing smiles of Saint Roc and his laughing eyes. Her sardonic suitor was everywhere, it seemed. When she hurried to the sickroom at the start of the day, she would meet him on his way to the stables for his morning ride. When she left Tristan, there he was again, as if blown into her path by the evening breeze. At night in the Great Hall, he was always the first to raise his glass in a humorous toast to her health. When the minstrels played and the court danced, she could count on his quizzical glance as he stepped forward to offer her his hand: “My old wound sleeps tonight, lady, will you dance?”

Was he mocking her? To her fury, she could never tell. At times she would see an open grin of amusement on his sharp face. Yet there was no sign of malice in the nosegay of white blossoms, the posy of tiny sweetmeats, or other delicate favors he dropped in her way.

Yet still she felt that he scorned her, and smoldered in secret under his supercilious smile and knowing air. Soon she discovered that Tristan felt it too. The first time he left his bed, Saint Roc happened to be strolling airily past. With a tunic of fighting-cock red and a jaunty feathered cap, the knight Roc cut a dashing figure, as he clearly meant to do.

Tristan stiffened. “Who is that?” he demanded with narrowed eyes.

And Blanche’s small soul leapt to hear the raw note of male rivalry in Tristan’s voice.

Tristan heard it too, and sweated at the sound. Saint Roc’s hard-eyed, cynical stare pricked at his soul, and he loathed his own slow, limping progress and gasping breath. Does it please you to see my weakness? he snarled silently. D’you want to taste my strength? Yet he knew that he could not challenge a kitten, he was still so weak.

One night Blanche had him taken down in a carrying chair to feast with her father and brother in the Great Hall.

“My lord!” King Hoel rose to greet him, tears in his eyes. At his side, Prince Kedrin bowed deeply to Tristan, clasping both his hands. “We are honored, sire.”

Clumsily, Tristan heaved himself out of the chair. “The honor is mine.” Cursing, he felt his foolish legs give way, and surprised himself by sitting down again. But he had found his feet. He would walk again, and even ride and handle a sword in time.

Gods and Great Ones, thanks . . .

And now if it please you, bring me to my love . . .

Farther down the table, a lady in waiting was flirting with Saint Roc. Panting lightly to make her breasts flutter under his gaze, she stared boldly into his eyes and licked her lips.

“Look at her! Look!” Blanche was hissing like an angry swan. “That silly slut will find herself packing before the night is out. Any lady in waiting who flirts with her own lady’s suitor is no use to me.”

Tristan studied Saint Roc with new interest. “Is he your suitor?”

Blanche dropped her eyes and twisted her hands in her lap. “May I trust you, sir?” she breathed.

Why did she ask? Tristan felt his brain creaking like an overladen boat. “Lady, on my oath as a knight—”

“I hate him.” She raised great, sad eyes to his face and shed a tear. “But my father is forcing me to marry him.”

Tristan stared at Blanche. What, King Hoel, his gracious host, the kindly faced man across the table, talking easily to one of his lords? But fathers often wanted to dictate to daughters, he knew. And when thrones and dynasties were involved . . .

“That must not be,” he said roughly. “Not while any man can raise a sword in your defense.”

Blanche smiled then and seemed comforted, and soon after he heard her purring as a swan does when her egg is laid. After that he noticed Saint Roc looking at Blanche, and wondered what had provoked that sarcastic smile.

And if Blanche hated her unwanted suitor so much, his limping mind wandered on, why did she care if her lady in waiting courted him? But his head was throbbing. It was all too much for now. Tomorrow he would try to fathom it out.

And tomorrow, please the Gods, he would write to Isolde.