Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (26 page)

CHAPTER 43

Sometimes it was like a sickness, then a sharp, scalding pain. That was like childhood when she stumbled too near the fire or knocked a boiling pot over her hand. But most of the time it felt like nothing at all, because she refused to believe it was happening.

And to her—Blanche, Queen of Lyonesse? No, it was ludicrous. Tristan hadn’t meant to fall, wasn’t every red-blooded groom as drunk as a lord on his wedding night? And there was no reason to think he had hurt himself overmuch. He’d soon be back with his tail between his legs, and then she’d make him pay for doing this.

Arranging her face in a serene smile, Blanche called for her maids, left her chamber, and proceeded in stately fashion to the Great Hall. The whole day had passed in a fruitless search for Tristan while she lay in her chamber and waited for him to return. Since he hadn’t, she would face the world alone. And what better time than now, while the glow of the wedding still lay over all the court? Whatever happened, a bride and bridegroom were forgiven everything in the first flush of wedded bliss.

Now the Great Hall lay ahead, tender with the magic light of the hour when day reluctantly hands over to night. The last of the sun lay like gold on the polished floor, while banks of candles beamed down from the walls. Massed heaps of summer blooms flamed on the wide hearths, roses and peonies, foxgloves and guelder flowers, all filling the air. Dotted throughout the high-vaulted chamber, the court bloomed too, ladies fragrant in flower-like silks, knights and lords richly clad in silver and satin, velvet and ancient furs. She might have stumbled upon a fairy cave.

“Yesssss . . .”

Blanche gave a hiss of satisfaction. With or without my husband, this is my place.

“The Queen of Lyonesse!” bellowed the chamberlain as she stepped in.

All eyes were upon her now, and she knew she had never looked better in her life. Her white satin gown shimmered with crystal and pearls, and the gossamer veil gleamed with silver filigree. Fine ropes of seed pearls adorned her long white neck and glistened on her wrists and encircled her waist. But best of all was the tall, queenly crown she wore as a sign of her new royalty. Another treasure from King Hoel’s ancient store, it sat like a tower on her small round head, its high gold walls blazing with stones like fire.

“Your Majesty—”

“Your Majesty—”

“Oh, madame—”

Nodding and smiling, Blanche progressed through the court, accepting the congratulations on all sides. Ahead of her, King Hoel and her brother Kedrin stood waiting on the dais, sharing looks of unease. Where was Tristan? was written on their knotted brows.

“Madame, let me touch your robe . . .”

An ancient dame reached out a trembling hand. “Bless you, Princess. Once a woman’s married, all the secrets of the Mother are hers.”

Once a woman’s married . . . ?

And there it was again, the stinging distress. Were they all thinking that? Suddenly she thought all the courtiers were giving her sly glances and greasy stares, the men at the back grinning behind their hands, the women sharing coy blushes and the bold-eyed, curious stares of those who longed to know a man and now took her for one who had. But it was false. She was married and not married, she was a virgin yet she’d been naked in a bed, alone with a man.

And the man she loved had willfully put her in this predicament?

Had he ever loved her at all?

Her head swam. Had she ever loved him?

Gods above, how the roses stank! The oversweet savor was more than she could bear. Faces pressed in upon her, surrounding her on all sides. She had to get out.

“Ah, Majesty—what a sight you are.”

Saint Roc, it was Saint Roc. Blanche turned to him with a wild impulse of relief. But she mustn’t encourage him. She felt her hand seized and raised to the wretched man’s lips as she groped for a cutting response.

“You are magnificent tonight,” he purred. “But where is your husband? Where are you hiding him?” He raised his eyebrows and sardonically scanned the hall. “I was hoping to pay my respects to the King of Lyonesse.”

Respects? She stifled a hysterical laugh. “The King is indisposed,” she said distantly. “The excitement of the wedding was too much for him. He’s suffered a slight recurrence of his injury.”

“Alas, alas,” said Saint Roc without a trace of regret. “So we commiserate with him, no? And in the meantime, we enjoy your company?”

He was still holding her hand. Was she dreaming, or were his fingers playing with her palm? He was certainly staring too deeply into her eyes. To her horror, she felt her blood stirring under his questioning gaze. Could he possibly know what had happened last night?

Last night . . .

Why had Tristan fled from her embrace?

Why?

A dull, unhappy flush spread over her neck. “So, sir,” she forced out with a hollow gaiety, “did you dance at my wedding? Did your bad leg hold out?” Resolutely, she twitched her hand out of his grasp.

Saint Roc arched his eyebrows and prepared to enjoy himself. She had married Tristan to make him jealous: he was entitled to a little sport at her expense. “Dance, madame?” he sighed. “I could not dance. The pain I suffer lies not in my leg.”

“Where, then?”

“In my heart. You have broken my heart.”

“How so?”

Another soulful sigh. “You were too good for me. I offered you my all, but it was not enough. A lady like you, a beauty, and a healer too . . .”

“Alas, it’s true . . .” In spite of herself, Blanche was enjoying this.

“So I lost you,” he pressed on. “To my eternal grief.”

Somehow, Blanche noticed, he had recaptured her hand. Well, he was suffering, to be sure. She felt moved to comfort him. “Oh, sir—”

“Why should I dance last night,” he broke in, staring into her eyes, “when I knew that you lay all night in another man’s arms?” He paused with teasing emphasis, his voice throbbing on every note. “When the jewel I craved was given to him, not to me.”

My jewel, yes!

Blanche’s blood ran roaring through her veins. Any other man would be proud to make me his bride. But Tristan looked at me like a monster. I wanted to love him and he was ready to kill himself to get away from me . . .

Her face flamed. Hard bright tears burst in the corner of her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, and gasped for breath.

Saint Roc froze. How had he hit that nerve? What had he said? That she’d lain in his rival’s arms, given him the treasure of her maiden-head . . .

Gods and Great Ones, she’s still a virgin! Taking in Blanche’s quivering lips and wounded eyes, Saint Roc wanted to laugh. This was not a girl who had been tenderly led into the arms of love, or a woman rejoicing in newly discovered bliss. Then pity swept him: alas, poor child. What had happened in her chamber last night?

He locked eyes with her again. What she needed now was some comfort and the strength to face the court. “And your marriage, madame,” he picked up with new intensity, “has only increased your beauty in my eyes. All men must love you tonight. Every knight, every lord, would count himself in heaven to kneel at your feet.”

Blanche’s trembling stilled. Heartened, she noticed for the first time his crisp, curling hair as black as ash buds in March, his vivid brown eyes, his strong, even ruthless hands. His well-cut leather tunic was studded as if for war, and not one but two bright daggers gleamed at his waist. This was a man.

Not a weakling like Tristan, to take fright and flee like a girl. Well, wherever he was, he was reaping his just deserts. He could be lost in the woodland now, after falling like that. If he was, serve him right. In fact, it might be the best outcome if he never came back at all . . .

Blanche straightened her back and thrust her head in the air. I am Princess of France and Queen of Lyonesse. A beauty and a healer, Saint Roc said . . .

His seductive voice sounded again in her ear. “So, Majesty, will you dance?”

“Dance with you, sir?” She turned and looked him boldly in the eye. “All night, if you will.”

CHAPTER 44

With an eye on the sun, Brangwain rode out of the stable yard and made for the high road. Already she was warming to the solid, slow beast who would be her companion today. The broad-backed cob was everything she wanted, steady and strong. She leaned forward to pull the warm, furry ears and drew comfort from his wholesome grassy smell. “To the woods, then, my friend,” she murmured. “Now, which way?”

The horse turned his head and good-naturedly nudged Brangwain’s boot. You have the reins, lady. You decide.

The high road stretched before her, white with dust. Dark green on the far horizon spread the Lady Wood, covering the mountainside with oak and pine. Above it the ghost of a moon still hung in the sky, gilded by the rays of the morning sun. Brangwain smiled again, more hopefully this time. The moon, a clear sign of the Goddess, and a deep woodland running away out of sight? He was there, she knew it. Hold on, sir. Hold on.

She gave the horse his head. Soothed by the regular sound of his plodding hooves, Brangwain watched the forest drawing nearer step by step. With every clopping footfall, her confidence grew. I’ll find you, my lord, if you’re there.

If you’re there. Shivering, she thrust the thought away.

And still the dark forest clung to the mountaintop, silent and aloof. In the valley below lay a wide shining lake, its glassy surface sheltered by an arch of trees. Weeping willow and slender silver birch leaned over the still water like praying hands.

And praises to the Great One, she was nearing it at last. Ahead of them the lake lay shimmering in the heat. A soft mist rose to welcome them as they came up. Brangwain bowed her head. Greetings to you, lady of this lake. Bless my search, I beg you, for my lady’s sake.

Damsel flies danced and hovered overhead, flirting with the lordly dragon flies. Horse and rider skirted the soft margin of the mere, scattering shining clouds of little winged blue-green things, as Brangwain drew the damp fragrance deep into her lungs and studied the gaps in the looming forest wall. Tell me, lady, which way? As she pondered, the horse set off without urging toward the farthest track. Brangwain stroked the muscular, comforting neck. Yes, you know the way, my friend.

The air was cool and fragrant under the trees, a welcome relief from the blazing heat of the sun. As they went farther in, the vast woodland was alive with the drowsy hum of summer insects on the wing. Tall trees soared like pillars on every side, supporting a dense leafy canopy overhead. Brangwain fell again into prayerful thoughts. She was in a living temple from an older world.

Now the sun was at its fiercest, and all the earth reveled in its hot embrace. Above her head the forest was roofed with fire, the leaves filtering the sun’s white-hot rays. Nestling among the boughs were pink-breasted wood pigeons and white-winged doves, roosting out of the heat of the sun. The air was heavy with the scent of pine, and the loam underfoot seemed to sigh with bliss.

She traveled onward, mile by laborious mile. The day was passing, she knew, but she could not tell the time because the trees were too dense to give her a sight of the sun.

Ride a little . . .

Cast around . . . Dismount . . .

Slowly, the air grew cooler under the trees. The dazzling sun had gone from the forest roof, and soon it grew harder to see in the light.

Now she could not silence the inner whispering. You can’t search the whole forest, you know. He could be anywhere, miles away from here. And if you do find him, will he still be alive? With all he’s suffered, he could be dead by now.

Her heart grew cold. I know.

At a fork in the path stood an ancient oak, its trunk densely covered with ivy and honeysuckle. Ten years slipped away, and Brangwain heard again the pledge Tristan had delivered to Isolde with shining eyes.
As the
ivy and the honeysuckle so are we. In the heart of the darkest forest, they flourish as one. And so it will be with us, two hearts, one soul, our lives so entwined
that each line and curve of one follows the outline of the other in deepest love.

Brangwain felt herself dissolving into tears.

Oh, my poor lady. Oh, my lord, my lord . . .

She hung down her head and wept. When she opened her eyes, the light was almost gone and the first dews of evening were rising from the ground. She could not seek for Tristan in the dark. Soon she would be benighted in the wood.

Goddess, Mother, help me . . .

There was a light scuffling in the wood behind. Turning, she saw a great deer among her offspring, regarding her steadily from a nearby glade. As tall as a six-point stag, she stood poised and erect, her russet flanks dappled with pale love-spots like all her kind. Sensing a stranger, her brood kicked up their heels and were gone, but the doe held her ground, her large dark eyes fixed on Brangwain.

Silence filled the forest.

“Greetings, Mother,” Brangwain heard herself saying in a reverent voice.

The graceful creature nodded. Greetings to you. She swung her head: this way.

Brangwain slipped from the saddle and tied the horse to a tree. A few strides and she reached the doe’s secret glade. But already the deer had moved on. Brangwain gasped in fear. Don’t leave me, don’t go! Roughly, she set about pulling herself around. There’s a reason for this. I know my lord is here.

She began to work her way around the clearing, lifting the bracken, probing the briars with a stick. After a while she took to feeling her way forward, sweeping the earth with her hands. Night had fallen on the forest, and the creatures of day had taken themselves to their beds. The evening dew had settled on the ground, and each plant, each leaf, felt cold and clammy now, like a dead man’s hand.

When she found it then, she hardly knew what it was. Something cold and sinewy and tightly curled. A man’s hand wearing a ring. It’s the ring my lady gave him when they fell in love. It’s Tristan.

Oh, my lord . . .

The thought came to her like a blow: he buried himself in this leaf-mold because he had no hope. He came here to die.

Brangwain threw back her head. Gods above, how can I tell my lady that you’re dead? In a fury she grabbed at the wrist and felt for a pulse.

The night mist was falling, its cold fingers caressing her face and chilling her to the bone. The scent of decay rose from the loamy earth, and a faraway raven cried out to the rising moon. Her trembling fingers could feel no sign of life.

“Gods and Great Ones, help me!”

Cursing, weeping, careless of torn flesh and broken nails, Brangwain sank her hands in the earth and began to dig.