Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (29 page)

CHAPTER 49

The little ship nestled comfortably at the quay. Isolde stood on the deck with Brangwain, containing her soul with a desperate calm. Never had a landing seemed so wearisome, so long. Each grappling hook, every rope, every bantering exchange between the sailors and the men on the dock ate into her soul.
Help me, Mother, help me. Bring me to my love.

The ship’s captain came toward her, cap in hand. “Will you disembark, my lady? An escort of men at arms is here for you.”

She had dressed for this in her simplest array.

“No need to outqueen Blanche,” she told Brangwain lightly, silencing the jealous murmurings of her soul. “I haven’t come here as Queen. I am here to see Tristan.”

If he still lives
hung unspoken in the air.
And if not, the Western Isle in
all its glory is nothing to me.

So she left the ship in a gown of plain green silk, green for the heart of the woodland, green for the sea. But Brangwain had had her way with the royal jewels of the Western Isle, and Isolde stepped out with the crown of the Queens of Ireland upon her head and ropes of crystal and emerald at her neck and waist. With the little troop of guards marching ahead and Brangwain behind, she climbed up from the harbor and followed the men through the town.

Castle Hoel lay beyond on a low hill, its back to the forest, its handsome face to the sea. The slow descent of evening silvered its roofs and towers and drifted down on its courtyards in wreaths of lilac and gray. Isolde felt the weight of her fear growing with every step.
Where are you,
Tristan? Are you there, my love?

“This way, my lady.” The leader of the men at arms pointed to a low white building ahead. Isolde nodded.
The infirmary, of course.
In spite of herself, her heart leapt in her breast.
Not the graveyard nor the crypt, so
there is still hope. Goddess, Mother, save him! Save my love.

The lights of the infirmary beckoned through the growing dark. As they gained the threshold, a low, mournful sound rang out.

“What’s that?” Brangwain cried.

Isolde could not speak.
It’s the bell the Christians ring when someone dies.
Have I come so far and missed you now, my love? Is this your death knell?

Confronting her in the doorway was a young woman dressed in white, clasping her long white hands with a trembling air. Isolde drew a breath. Was this her rival? This pale-eyed, pouting girl, her white face disfigured with tears?
Why, she’s only a girl. She’d have seemed like a child to
him. He could never have loved her as he loved me.

The young woman threw back her head and came forward with a regal air. “Queen Isolde, welcome!” she declaimed. “I am Queen Blanche of Castle Hoel and Lyonesse.”

Castle Hoel and Lyonesse.
It sounded like a hiss. For some reason, an angry swan came into Isolde’s mind. She inclined her head.

“Greetings to you, madame,” she said distantly. “I am here to see Sir Tristan.”

Blanche gave an ugly grimace. “Oh, so?”

Isolde leaned forward to add weight to her words. “By his invitation, lady. Please take me to him at once.”

“You came to see my husband?” Blanche let out a high, cracked laugh. “You’re too late.”

Somewhere in the castle the death knell tolled again.
So the bell was
for you, Tristan. Oh my love, my love . . .

The hateful voice chimed on. “He died a few minutes ago.” Blanche’s pale eyes flashed. “You missed him by a hair.”

And that pleases you, of course.
Isolde nodded. “May I see him?”

“See him?” Blanche shook her head. “Oh, no!” What, let this tall, queenly woman with the fathomless green eyes know that she herself had no access to Tristan? That as the nurses came forward to lay him out, the doctor had banished her from her husband’s side?

“Give him peace in the grave, at least,” he had said. Blanche winced to recall the withering contempt and knew the rebuke would be with her all her life. Well, the doctor would soon be on his way, dispatched with a flea in his ear to take his skills elsewhere. But for now . . .

She squinted at Isolde disdainfully. “You want to see my husband’s body? No, that’s not possible. My husband has already been taken away.”

Your husband, your husband . . . is he yours now forevermore?

Isolde straightened her back. “Then I’d like to visit his grave.”

“He will have no grave. In this country we give our dead back to the sea.” And a good thing too! she was longing to say. The sooner he’s gone, the better it will be. Did I ever love him? Did I really kiss that disgusting, cold, clay-like face?

Given to the sea.
Isolde nodded dumbly.
Our first mother, from which all
life springs. The last circle of the Goddess for men whose graves lie there.

Sharp unshed tears were stinging the back of her eyes. She turned her gaze on Blanche, dilated and wild.
So he’s gone. And you hastened his death.

Blanche gave a strident laugh. “I know you must hate me.”

“Hate you . . . ?”

How young she was. Isolde shook her head. No, Blanche would never be important enough for that. “This is no time for hate. May your Gods bring you to a better life.”

“Me?” Blanche’s pale face assumed a furious frown. “What d’you mean?”

What did I mean?

A tremor racked Isolde from head to foot. Her sight faded, and she saw an angry sea. Raging waves dashed themselves on rocks at her feet and spent their force against the cliff behind. She was standing in the waves, she was the waves, she was the sea. With spray in her eyes and spindrift foaming her hair, she heard a voice.
Speak for me now. You are the
Lady of the Sea.

In a voice like the tide, she began to speak. “Your nature is formed like the ocean to beat on the shore. But the ocean rages alone, though it floods the whole earth. If you seek a true partner for life, look for still waters and calmer inlets where love may rush in.” Dimly she caught Blanche’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh, yes! Love is coming for you, though Tristan was not the man.”

She paused. “Love is waiting for you,” she repeated. “He is here.”

She saw a light of apprehension dawn in Blanche’s eyes. “I . . . I—”

“You fear to lose yourself in the love of a man. But remember, men and women together make up the world. The love of another transcends our own selfish will. Love alone will bring you to the land of your heart’s desire.”

She bowed and turned away. “And so, farewell. Come, Brangwain, let’s be gone.”

“At once, my lady.”

Brangwain gave Blanche the deepest, fullest curtsy of her life. Rising to her feet, she leaned forward with a scornful smile. “My lady may forgive you,” she hissed, “but the Great Ones won’t!”

Triumphantly, she hurried after Isolde. “Well, lady? What now?”

The bell began to sound again overhead. Isolde paused, her head tilted to one side as she counted the melancholy strokes. “Why, nothing,” she said in a voice as flat as a child’s. “Unless to die.”

“Die, lady?” Brangwain gasped. “What nonsense is this? You aren’t going to die.”

The death knell rang between them with the sound of doom.

Not die?
Isolde shook her head.
When my love is dead?
She drifted out through the courtyard and down into the town. A weeping woman pulled at Isolde’s sleeve. “Is it Sir Tristan?” Her frame was racked with sobs.

Isolde nodded.
So they loved you here as much as they did at home. Of
course they would. All the world loved Tristan.

Ahead of them the little ship rode at anchor in the quay. Isolde could still taste the salt of the voyage in her eyes and mouth.
So will it be for my
love when they give him to the sea.

The sea was ebbing with a dying sigh. The solitary bell tolled on overhead. Isolde made her way down through the town with Brangwain, scarcely feeling the cobbled streets beneath her feet.
On such a tide I shall
leave the world. This time tomorrow, I shall be gone.

She moved forward with new purpose, and the green mists of night took her in their embrace.
Wait for me, sweetheart, where the sea meets the sky.

“What now, lady?”

Isolde turned. There was a new, transcendent light in her eye.

Brangwain bit back a sudden alarm. “Come, lady,” she said roughly, “let’s get to the ship. We should sail for Ireland tonight.” Fear clutched at her stomach.
Or anywhere,
please the Gods . . .

Isolde gave an Otherwordly smile. “Let’s get to the ship. It is time to die.”

CHAPTER 50

Yes, summer was on the wane. Never mind, the hunting was even better in winter when the game was scarcer and the dogs were more fierce. Savoring the first chill of autumn, Mark strode out of his private apartments and crossed to the Audience Chamber with a spring in his step. What would it be today? Mark glanced idly about the chamber as he took his throne. One or two odd souls clutching petitions, shouldn’t be hard to get rid of them. And the others? Nothing to speak of. A few brisk exchanges, and then away to try out that new hunter, the big bay. An awkward great thing and ugly from muzzle to hocks, but a heart as big as a haystack, he’d go all day . . .

“Sire—”

It was Andred.

Reluctantly, Mark wrenched his mind back from the stables as his nephew spoke. Glittering in black and silver, he cut a distracting figure with Elva beside him shimmering in serpentine green, and Mark struggled to grasp what Andred was trying to say. “Gone?” He frowned suspiciously. “What d’you mean, gone?”

“The Queen has fled, my lord. Sailed away.”

“Isolde’s taken ship?” Mark’s eyes bulged. He chewed on his lower lip. “Without a word?”

Andred shrugged. “She sent a message from the dock, it seems, but nothing to explain this sudden haste.”

Standing beside Andred, Elva fluttered her silks and nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty may guess where she has gone.”

“Back to Ireland?”

Andred spread his hands. “I fear not, sire. They said on the dock the ship was bound for France.”

Mark paused. “She’s gone to Tristan?” A slow anger began to beat inside his skull. Already he could hear the gossip in the town.

The Queen’s gone! Hopped off and left the King, gone to France, they say, following her knight.

What’s the King going to do?

And then the sneering whisper, the contemptuous laugh. The King? Nothing. He can’t control his wife.

He can’t control his wife . . .

Without warning, his father burst across his mind, sword and horse-whip in hand, shouting and bullying as he’d done all his life. “Gods above, boy, can’t you do anything? Where’s your authority? You’ll never make a king.”

And now Isolde had gone to Tristan. What did it mean? Gnawing on the side of his thumb, he tried to think. Dominian would say she was not a dutiful wife. Well, that was true. He gave a bitter laugh.

But Dominian was nothing. In truth, Andred’s nods and hints concerned him more. What had Andred been saying in recent weeks? That Tristan would do more for Isolde than any other knight? That he never left her side? Meaning what? Mark twitched and tossed his long legs about. Meaning something he did not want to think.

And Tristan, what was his game? He must have recovered long ago from his wound. Was he staying in France to draw Isolde there, ready to welcome her as soon as she arrived? Was his marriage to the French princess a sham? But then why marry her?

“Sire?”

Mark’s brain was buzzing like a beehive in spring. “What?”

It was Andred again. “There’s a letter, sire—in the Queen’s own hand.”

Mark’s meager soul shrank. “A letter? Who to?”

“To the Princess of France. I looked into her quarters to make sure she’d gone, and it was among the papers she left behind.”

Mark squinted through the window at the brilliant sky. Soon the day would be gone, and with it any chance to try out the great bay. And now this letter—furiously, he snatched it from Andred and opened it up.

To Your Highness of France
You have with you my knight, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse. To me he
is the one . . .

The rest of the sentence was heavily scratched out.

I have written him many letters without a reply. Is he too sick to
hold a pen? Too sick to read what I write, or know that I am writing to him?

If he is, this will be a grievous loss to m . . .

More heavy blotting obscured the next words.

Now word has reached me that you and he are to wed. You should
know he was sworn to me with unbreakable oaths. If he takes
you, he breaks his vow to me. If you take him, you take him
knowing that.

For ten years and more I have enjoyed his love . . .

HERE THE PEN trailed away and the letter broke off. The last line had been crossed through but could still be read. The meaning was plain.
For
ten years and more I have enjoyed his love.

Almighty God, were they lovers, then? Had Tristan been cuckolding him for ten years and more? And during all that time, had his wife who was no wife played him for a fool and given his marital rights away?

Malice poured like poison through Mark’s veins and his brain shriveled to a seething ball. If they’d shamed him, he would have his revenge. It shouldn’t take much to show the world what they were.

“Those knights of yours,” he said thickly to the waiting Andred. “Fer de Gambon and Taboral—are those their damned names?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And they’re good lads, would you say?”

Andred paused, his mind racing. “It depends on what Your Majesty wants them to do. But they’ll obey your bidding, sire, no questions asked.”

“No questions asked,” Mark repeated with relish. His pebbly eyes were unnaturally bright. “Good. Get them here, then. Order a supper for the four of us alone, and tell them to be in attendance for as long as I need.”

“Sire.” Andred nodded. What scheme was Mark hatching in his slender brain? “I go.”

“And Andred . . .” Mark’s venomous tones reached him at the door. “Command horses for us all tomorrow at dawn. Then send a galloper to—no, I’ll send him myself.” He gave a peculiar laugh.

“My lord . . .” Andred checked himself on the threshold. “May I ask what—?”

Mark threw him a filthy look. “Oh, I know you think I can’t do anything without you. But you’ll be surprised. We’re going on a journey and I’m going to—” He laughed again, an unnerving sound. “Well, I shan’t tell you what I’m going to do. But I’ll do it all the same.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Andred struggled for control. “And then?”

Mark flared his eyes. “You’ll see. And so will all the world!”