Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (30 page)

CHAPTER 51

The sun rose in a haze of purple and gray. Troubled clouds lurked on the horizon, drawing down the day before it had begun. Isolde left her cabin and mounted to the deck, feeling the twilight seeping through her soul.
This is the evening of my life, and the darkness is near.

The rich salty smell of the ocean came toward her, wild and free. Beyond the harbor she could see the swell of the waves, as welcoming as a woman’s bosom, soft and round. She nodded to herself.
Tonight the
Mother will take me in her arms. I shall sail out to sea and I shall find my love.

A brisk rustle of skirts behind her announced Brangwain’s approach. “A fine day, lady,” the maid said heartily.

Isolde did not turn.

“Well, a new day,” Brangwain went on hollowly. And a new life for you, lady, she wanted to say, but did not. “To Ireland, is it, on the morning tide?”

Isolde shook her head. “Into the sunset, Brangwain. To the Islands of the Blessed, when the tide runs free.”
And into the arms of the Mother to
meet my love.

Brangwain moved around to face her. “I shall come with you,” she said decisively.

Isolde smiled at the maid’s attempts to thwart her plans. Brangwain knew that she would never take any life but her own. “I forbid it,” she said clearly. “I shall go alone. You must stay behind to take word to Cornwall and the Western Isle, and tell our true story when Tristan and I are gone.”

Brangwain twisted her hands and paced to and fro. “What about Ireland, madam? You’re our Queen! Would you leave our land ungoverned and prey to wicked men?”

“Queens of the Western Isle have come and gone. Erin herself will endure for a thousand years. She will not lack a worthy guardian after me.”

“Lady, you have had a great sorrow, but sorrows pass.” And Sir Tristan was not the only man in the world, she tried to convey. You will love and be loved again. Life goes on.

There was a pensive silence. “Sorrows?” Isolde questioned, almost to herself.
Sorrows may pass indeed, but I am sorrow itself.

Brangwain held out both hands. “Lady, I beg you, do not do this thing—”

“No more words.” Again the Otherworldly smile. “You’ve helped me all my life. Stay with me now. I need an old boat, at the end of its life. Then flowers, whatever can be found now that summer’s gone.”

A boat? And flowers? Numbly, Brangwain trailed behind her mistress the length of the quay and out onto the sea wall as Isolde spoke earnestly to the fisherfolk and sailors busy working there. At last she settled on a small, open boat, an ancient but shapely craft in a sea-washed green. It was short work, then, to arrange for it to be moored where the evening tide would carry it out to sea.

And never had Isolde looked more beautiful, Brangwain noted with an aching heart. In her simple green gown, with her red hair unbound, she blazed like a flower of the forest that lives for a only day. Dazzled by Isolde herself as much as by her gold, the old seaman who sold her the boat was ready to fulfill her every whim.

“Holes in the sides, lady?” he queried, scratching his head.

Isolde traced a line along both sides of the hull. “Here, and here.”

Brangwain nodded grimly to herself. Low enough to admit enough water to scuttle the boat. High enough to take Isolde far out to sea, where the waves were deep and she could not swim back to shore.

Isolde moved away, her eyes on the distant fields beyond the town.

“I’m going for the flowers,” she said.

“Let me help you.”

Isolde smiled. “I want to go alone.”

Beyond the little harbor and the town, the countryside lay open to the noonday sun. Green fields and rambling meadows ran along the bay to the cliffs above. Isolde struck off up the hillside, quite alone.
Except for
you, my love.

For he was still on this earth, she could tell. His spirit was with her now, he was at her side.
You’re so close, I can touch you if I put out my hand.
She gave him a dreamy smile.
You’re waiting for me, I know.

Above her a lark sang in the cloudless sky. Without warning a mighty sea eagle flew out of the sun, then glided serenely away on its rippling wings. She watched it with speechless delight.
Is that you, my love? Your
spirit soared like that, proud and free. You are free again now, wherever your
spirit roams.

As I shall be, when I sail on the evening tide.

Alas, no, Isolde. You will not sleep with your love tonight.

It was the voice of her mother dropping through the veils of cloud like the song of the lark.
Your life is not yours to squander. You threw it away
once when you married King Mark without love. You may not do so again.

But to live without Tristan, Mother—without love—

Ah, little one, all lovers must live without love in the end.

You never did. You always chose love.

And do you choose to be like me?

Isolde came to herself with a shudder. Mother, no! Your choices brought Tolen and Breccan into our land and led to the deaths of good men like Fideal. A fearful thought descended on her like a blow.
I must
choose life, not death.

But Tristan—Tristan . . .

The wind stirred, and a cloud rose over the sea. She watched the soft mass roiling and changing shape and heard the strong, sonorous tones of the Lady rolling toward the shore.

Never forget you are married to the land. You are the Sovereignty and the
spirit of the isle.

Isolde’s soul rebelled.
Tristan is more to me than all the Western Isle!

Little one, little one—
the Lady’s stern voice sounded deep inside her mind.
You cannot give up your kingdom for any man. You have made the mystical marriage of the Queens with the land. That is the union you may not
escape.

The land . . .

Isolde wanted to weep. She thought of Cormac and Sir Gilhan: Surely Ireland would always be safe with them?

But Gilhan is old. He may die, and Cormac too. And how long before
another Breccan appears? If I am the spirit and Sovereignty of the isle, can I
abandon it and leave it to its fate? Oh, my poor country, unmothered like an
orphan child.

The Western Isle came before her with its black mountains and emerald loughs, its silver breezes and its sighing rain. She saw the people with their laughing eyes, the broad, short-legged cattle in the fields, the bright salmon flashing like life itself from pool to pool.

A pain sharper than any before almost took her breath.
What is all
this to me, now that Tristan has gone? May I not join him? I want to be with
my love.

The Lady’s voice was fading into the wind.
You will. But not now. Say
farewell to your grief.

“Lady, is that all?”

She caught a last sigh.
Hold fast to what you have and keep the faith.

Keep the faith . . .

With Tristan, or with the land?

All afternoon she wandered the meadows and clifftops, searching for flowers. But then came a wind from the sea and the unmistakable smell of evening in the air.
Hurry, Isolde, hurry—remember the tide . . .

As she came down the hill, she could see that her boat lay moored at the end of the harbor wall, ready for the sea. She drew a deep breath of satisfaction into her lungs.
This is for you, sweetheart. I will keep the faith.

But hurry, hurry—the night tide will not wait . . .

She hastened down to the quay. The sailors who passed her averted their eyes, and she knew they had seen the boat and guessed what she meant to do. To them, she was an ill-omened thing, already marked out for the legions of the dead. To speak to her now would be to invite bad luck, and her spirit might take one of them on its last journey, all against their will.

But I choose life, not death.

“The blessings of the Mother be upon you,” she murmured to dispel their fear.

At the mooring, she gasped with pleasure when she saw the boat. Armfuls of red-gold bracken lay in feathery heaps, side by side with fat cushions of green-black ivy, their leaves splashed with gold. Sprays of acorns, oak apple, and rose hips were all laid out like offerings to the Lady of the Sea. Isolde had not shed a tear since she heard of Tristan’s death, but now she could not hold back.
Oh, Brangwain—my last true
friend . . .

There was no sign of the maid. Well, she would not be far. Isolde filled the boat with crisp, dry bracken and thick branches of glossy yew. On top of it she laid armfuls of rose bay willow herb with its silky, scented tufts, then sweetened it with clover and wild thyme. Posies of sturdy pink thrift clustered in the prow, and garlands of bittersweet took up the stern. Chanting softly, she wove a wreath of black bryony and dogwood as red as blood.
Red for our love with its heart of hidden flame, red
for the truth and glory of your life.

It was getting dark. She sang and prayed contentedly as she worked, oblivious to the shadows gathering around. As she finished, Brangwain appeared, striding along the dock through the evening mist. Isolde left the boat and joined her on the quay.

“Oh, Brangwain . . .” She gestured behind her at the floral array. “How can I ever thank you?” she said quietly.

“It’s nothing, lady.” Red-eyed, Brangwain thrust something thin and heavy into her hand. “For your journey.”

It was a fragment of slate, marked up with ancient runes. Tracing the marks with her fingers, Isolde made it out.

bel Ami,
si eczt de nouz
ne vouz sanz mei,
ne mei sanz vouz.

“ ‘My handsome love, this is our fate, neither you without me, nor me without you.’ ” Isolde hugged it to her breast. “Where did you get it?” she asked huskily.

“From a wise woman at the end of the town. I knew she’d have something to—” Brangwain turned away, struggling to master her voice. “Of course, it’s in the language of these parts,” she said darkly, regaining her fragile control, “but you’ll understand that.”

Isolde smiled. “We all speak the same language in the end,” she said tenderly. “And the Great Ones understand every word.”

Slowly, she drew in the deep, sweet breath of the sea. The mist swirled and lifted like a curtain, and the evening star laid its beam all the length of the harbor, a silver path reaching out to worlds unknown. The waves lapped on the shingle where the quay pushed out from the shore, and a great stillness filled the bay.

Isolde nodded to herself and met Brangwain’s eye. “I shall not leave you tonight. When the Mother calls me will be time enough to go. We’ll send the boat out in tribute to my love. May it ease his passage to the world beyond the worlds.”

“Lady, lady . . .” Brangwain’s voice cracked and she dissolved in tears. “Praise the Gods! And you’ll be with Sir Tristan in a better place. Then he’ll never leave you. He’ll serve you there forever and a day.”

Isolde nodded. “In that world, there is no parting and no pain.”

Did Isolde know, Brangwain wondered, glimmering through her tears, that she was radiant with beauty, alive with her own light? Elf-shining, they called that look in the ancient days, when only the Old Ones and the Great Ones had such a power. Well, one day you’ll be among them, my nursling, my charge. And may the Goddess bring you to the land of your heart’s desire.

Isolde looked at the boat. “Candles, Brangwain, if you please?”

“Gladly, lady.” With wings on her heels, Brangwain flew to fulfill the request. Together the two women lit a dozen swan lamps and set them among the flowers. The little craft glowed with life, the flames pulsing like a living heart.
Just so were you, my love, in your life. And so I will remember you to the end of mine.

“Ready?” Isolde called in a low, fervent tone.

Brangwain moved to the rope secured to its cleat on the quay. “Ready, madam.”

“We must wait for the turn in the tide.”

Together they listened to the song of the sea, waiting for the hungry, withdrawing cry. With a sobbing sigh, the sea began to ebb, slowly at first, but with an increasing roar.

The moon soared over the horizon, flooding the world with light. Isolde looked up at the great kindly face and her heart overflowed.
I am
ready.

Bless my offering, Mother.

Bring it to my love.

CHAPTER 52

Already the current was beginning to tug at the boat. Blinded by unshed tears, Isolde stood on the quay. Farewell, my love, till we meet again. She held out her hands in blessing. “Cast off, Brangwain,” she called.

The boat slipped away from its mooring, running fast and true. Together they watched it vanish into the dusk. Then from the darkness behind them, Brangwain felt a tug on her sleeve.

“Are you Queen Isolde?” said a childish voice.

Turning, Brangwain saw a boy of no more than eight, emerging like a wraith from the mist. His bare feet and ragged clothes proclaimed him to be one of the town urchins, children of the streets who lived by their wits. An unwashed, dog-like smell seeped from him when he moved.

Isolde came forward. “I am the Queen,” she said gravely. “Speak to me, little sir.”

The child nodded. “If you’m the Queen, you mun follow me.”

“Why so?”

“I’m sent by one to do you a good turn.” His grubby face brightened. “He gid me good money for it. He can help you, he says, by the white sails and the black.”

Isolde stood still.
By the white sails and the black . . .
A message about Tristan, it must be. Perhaps even one he left her before he died? She patted the boy on the shoulder. “Lead on, sir.”

Already the child was darting off into the night. Isolde hurried after him, anxious to keep him in sight. Brangwain swung into step beside her, drawing up her cloak to cover her head.

“Where are we going, lady?” she asked grimly. “Do you know?”

Isolde shook her head. But the boy was leading them up from the harbor and toward the town. Behind it lay the black bulk of the castle mound.
Back to the palace, to hear of Tristan’s last words?

Closely following the child, they slipped unseen through insignificant alleys and darkened streets. Twisting and turning, they soon lost their way. But the surefooted child pressed on without looking back.

Wisps of watery cloud hung over the face of the moon. They flitted like shadows through the nighttime town, keeping careful sight of the round, bobbing head. Stumbling over cobbles, skirting foul-smelling puddles and open drains, the going was hard. With every step, Isolde’s misgivings grew.
Are we still in the town, or coming to the palace now?

They came to a nondescript door in a high stone wall.

“Are we here, boy?” Brangwain hissed. But the child signaled her to silence, then gave a low knock.

There was no answer. Isolde shivered.
Why has he brought us here?

The boy knocked again. The door opened and a tall man appeared with a candle in his hand. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I beg you, come in.”

They stepped over the threshold.
All-heal and savory, rosemary and rue,
and above it all, the unmistakable smell of blood.

The infirmary.

Where Tristan breathed his last.

They were in a room at the back of the building, low and white, but golden now with swan lamps gleaming on every side. Pots and jars and posies of fragrant herbs lined the walls on overflowing shelves. A large table was covered in ingredients, books, and scrolls, with surgical knives and saws scattered in their midst. Two or three doors led off to adjacent rooms, but there were no sounds of life. A solitary chair stood by the window, waiting for the occupant of the room. Isolde looked steadily at their guide. He was a man of middle age, his eyes shrewd and caring, his face lined with pain. His sleeves were rolled up and his tunic splashed with blood.

Isolde nodded.
The doctor, of course. He looks like a decent soul, honest and
kind. And with no one else to trust at the very end, Tristan might well have
turned to him.

She bowed her head in greeting. “You sent for me, sir? ‘By the black sails and the white.’ What did you mean?”
Words of love from my loved one?
A love token? A last wish?

The doctor leaned forward earnestly. “I heard you were getting ready to end your life. But there are still those who can try to repair your hurt. I have one such, here in our infirmary—”

So there’s no word from Tristan, no secret to learn. It’s nothing but a trick.

“Sir—” She held up her hand and firmly shook her head. “Let me go. The Mother calls me back to my own land. I must not delay.”

The doctor shook his head. “Our man is a noted healer,” he said stubbornly. “He has seen much—learned much—”

“Alas, sir.” She drew a ragged breath. “There are some hurts that the Gods themselves can’t heal.”

He paused, and she watched him choosing his words with care. “Sir Tristan thought well of this man before he died. Talk to him, I beg.”

“Tristan?”

She fixed her eyes on the ceiling. She wanted to weep. “Tristan thought well of me, sir, and doubtless of you, but still he died. Thinking is nothing now, and talking is even less.”

A great weariness seized her.
Wait for me, love, on the Silver Plain. The
road may be short or long, but I shall be there.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Only see him for a moment.” He gestured toward the nearest door. “He’s right here.”

She nodded to the doctor. “Do what you will.”

“You won’t regret it, madame. If you’ll follow me . . .”

Yes, yes . . .

She willed herself to go forward, beyond feeling, beyond hope.
Oh,
Tristan . . .
The loss of him came over her with a pain like death.

“This way, madame.” The doctor opened the door and ushered her through.

Oh, my love, my love. What can this healer say to cure me of you? The only
cure for a love like ours is death.

Silently, she began a prayer to ease her distress.
Star of the East, give us
kindly birth. Star of the South, give us love. Star of the West, give us gentle age.
And Star of the North, give us peace.

One candle alone lit the inner room. As she entered, she felt her soul tremble and break free, soaring and wheeling in the shining gloom.
Goddess, Mother, give us love and peace. No more pain and confusion, but freedom
and flight to the astral plain.

And now Tristan was coming toward her through the darkness, robed all in moonglow, his head crowned with stars. She stared at him and laughed with pure delight.
Have I died, then, my love? Are we together now?

Then the tall, starlit figure took her hand and she knew his touch. She saw his eyes, Tristan’s eyes, and heard his familiar voice. “You came to me with white sails. Can you forgive me, my Queen?”