Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (31 page)

CHAPTER 53

Oh, my love, my love...

The shock was almost too much. “Are you alive?” she gasped.

In answer he lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Never more so.”

His voice was warm and husky, his grip strong. He was clad in a smooth leather tunic and freshly laundered shirt with the old torque of knighthood gleaming at his neck. Yet now she could see the deep shadows under his eyes, and the signs of recent suffering on his face. With a fresh shock she saw that the gleam on his skin she had taken for the glow of the moon was the pallor of strain.

“How are you? What’s happened?” Babbling, weeping, she plucked at his shirt front. “Blanche told me you were dead!”

His face tightened. “She gloated to me that the sails you were flying were black. I passed out and the doctor said I’d died to stop her from trying to revive me with one of her remedies.”

He was swaying on his feet.

“Let’s sit down,” she said anxiously.
Oh, my love, my love.
Joy and doubt raged to and fro in her mind.
Are you truly alive? Or is this all a dream?

He drew her to a sofa against the wall. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she made out a small, low chamber, little more than a hermit’s cell, with a bed, a beaker, a table, and a chair. But in truth she could not see much through her tears. Weeping, shaking, she could not let go of his hands.
You’re alive.
She gave an uncertain laugh.
I’m going mad. I must stop
talking to you inside my head.

“Tell me everything that’s happened,” she said in a tremulous voice. “When I got back to Cornwall, you’d just sailed away. I know you asked them to send you to me, but Andred sent you here instead. He told me he thought you meant Isolde of France.” She could not hold back a bitter laugh. “He was lying, of course.”

Tristan nodded tensely. “I know. As soon as I came ’round, I realized I’d been tricked. I wrote to you every day—”

“You wrote to me?” she interrupted incredulously. “I wrote to you, and you never once replied.”

“Oh, lady—” Tears stood in his eyes. “I never had a single line from you. Then you wrote to tell me that our love was at an end—”

“Brangwain told me that.”
Oh, sweetheart. Our love ended?
She could not catch her breath.

“—and that you were reconciled with Mark, and a child was on the way—”

“A child?”
Now she was gasping with rage. “I didn’t know the details. The letter said I was reconciled with Mark? And you believed it?”

He stared at her earnestly. “After so long without a word from you, yes, I did.”

Isolde stared back at him, baffled.
How could you believe it?
Then came an unhappy thought.
I was more faithful than you. I never gave up hope.
But she could not say that now.

“It was Andred, I’m sure,” she said furiously.

“Who else?” She watched Tristan intently as he pieced it out. “And Blanche must have intercepted the letters we wrote. All the messengers reported to her as they went to and fro.”

“Blanche.” Isolde clenched her fists.
There she is again. There’s no avoiding it.
She took a painful breath. “Your wife.”

“Yes.” His eyes roamed away from her now, angry and wild. But his grip on her hands grew fiercer as he spoke. “I betrayed you, lady. Gods above, how I’ve failed! No man on earth could have been a greater fool.”

“Betrayed me?”
So it’s true.
She felt sick. “You went to bed with her.”

He recoiled as if he had been stung. “Never!” he cried in a fury. “I never touched her. I only married her because she begged me to. She said it would save her from a marriage she could not bear. She swore she’d get it annulled as soon as she was free.”

“But she broke her side of the bargain?”

An ugly flush of shame disfigured Tristan’s face. “Yes, she did,” he said with difficulty. “On the wedding night, she wanted me in her bed.”

Ye Gods, why don’t men ever know the way women’s minds work? Why don’t
they understand the power of female desire?

“And that’s when you jumped out of the window and got hurt again?”
Gods above, this man!

“I deserved it,” he said savagely.

Isolde struggled to stay calm. “You shouldn’t have married Blanche, we both know that. But if nothing took place between you—”

“That’s not all.” He leapt to his feet and roamed around the room. “There’s something else . . . something you don’t know.”

“Maybe I do.”

Painfully she recalled Mark, Andred, and Elva, all enjoying a lecherous chuckle at Tristan’s expense.
He’s a dark horse, Tristan . . . the filthy
wretch found a lover and holed up to pleasure a lady for weeks on end.

“Mark told me you were delayed in a castle,” she forced out. “With a lady. And her maids.”

“Castle Plaisir de Fay. The lady’s name was Duessa. The lady Falsamilla was the chief of her maids.”

Duessa,
Isolde pondered feverishly.
Falsamilla.

“It was the lady’s habit to take passing knights to her bed. She threw me into her dungeon when I refused. Then Falsamilla offered to help me to escape. But in return she wanted—”

I know what she wanted.
“She wanted the same from you as her mistress had.”

Slowly, she turned her face away from him. She could see it all. “So you did betray me,” she said hollowly. An anguish worse than the fear of his death caught her unawares.

“Yes, I did!” he cried. “But not as you think. She wanted a kiss, that’s all, for letting me go.”

“You kissed her? Falsamilla?”

“Yes.”

Isolde nodded.
The brown-haired woman. I knew.

Tristan crossed the floor and slumped heavily in the chair. “I betrayed you.”

A heavy silence fell. Isolde’s heart was burning.
Ah, love, after we were
true to each other for all these years?

Tristan heaved a groan from the depths of his soul. “I failed you, lady. And my knighthood oath.” He buried his head in his hands.

“No!” Isolde found herself surging to her feet.
Should he suffer for one
kiss? When the woman he kissed saved his precious life?

“You’re my love,” she burst out, giddy with sudden joy, “and you’re alive! You were right to get out of that cell. Don’t you think I’d rather have you here, now, in my arms?”

Tristan looked up, a gleam of hope on his ravaged face. “Can you forgive me?”

“When I have you back with me again?” Gently, she reached for his hand and brought it to her lips. “Oh, my love, it’s not much to forgive.”

He took her in his arms. Neither could say which one of them wept first, but they both felt their tears falling like healing rain. After a while they kissed, heart-hungry but tremulous too, like lovers who have suffered more than they know.

They sat for a long time in the candle’s glow. Beyond happiness now, Isolde gazed steadfastly into the flickering flame, sheltering her soul within the strength of his.

At last she raised her head. “I have a ship at the dock, ready to sail. We can leave for Cornwall at once.”

Tristan frowned. “I have to see Blanche first.”

Her eyes flared in alarm. “Can we trust her, after all she’s done?”

He laughed harshly. “Not in the least. But sooner or later, she has to be told I’m alive. And I have to end this marriage. She must set me free.”

“But the doctor . . . ? Blanche will know he deceived her. Won’t she punish him? Make him pay for it?”

Tristan gave a crooked smile. “I asked him about that. He says he’s the King’s doctor and the Prince’s too, and he’s sure they won’t let him suffer because of Blanche.”

“So we deal with Blanche.” Isolde forced a smile. “And afterward?”

Tristan gripped her hands and kissed her again. “We put to sea, my Queen! The open sea!”

CHAPTER 54

She made a beautiful widow, it had to be said. Smiling behind his hand, Saint Roc watched as Blanche wandered around her apartment, a picture of grief. Some might find her fragile skin too pale, her eyes too large, her mouth too sorrowful, he could see that. But her child-like air of loss, her swollen eyelids, and tearstained face still tugged at his heart. And he had to admire the vigor with which she was mourning a man she hardly knew. Yes, Blanche was certainly making the most of Tristan’s death.

Indeed, it was plainly the best part she’d ever had. Already he could see her exquisitely clad in black, accepting condolences, with her brother or himself hovering attentively at her side. This was a role she could play for the rest of her life. But he was not born to dance attendance: the Chevaliers of Saint Rocquefort were adventurers and kings. Still, what was he doing now but awaiting her pleasure, dangling about in her chamber like a tassel on her gown?

And why had she summoned him to tell him about Tristan before informing anyone else, even her father the King? It meant he was Tristan’s chosen successor, to be sure. But as what? Would she ever allow him to grow into a partner, lover, and husband?

“Oh, Tristan . . .”

A fresh burst of anguished crying filled the air. Blanche buried her face in the sofa, dazed with fear. Tristan was dead. Dead! She still could not believe it. How had it all gone wrong?

Trembling, Blanche peered between her fingers at the pensive Saint Roc. Why wasn’t he paying attention? Tears filled her eyes again. Didn’t he know that she’d only called him here to comfort her distress?

“Sir?” she called out in a shaky voice.

“Madame?” he responded with a formal bow.

“I shall never forget him! He was the most wonderful husband a woman could ever have. Oh, Tristan—” Blanche rose unsteadily to her feet. “And now I must tell my father and all the court—”

“And notify his kinsman King Mark in Cornwall.” He paused. “There will be others too.”

She put a hand to her head. “It’s all too much. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Only if you promise to be guided by me,” he said gravely, his eyes fixed on hers. “I am not here to serve you, you have many good souls for that. I am here, as I was from the first, to win your hand.”

Blanche’s face filled with color and she caught her breath. She could not decide if she was flattered or outraged. Gasping, she made a play for the upper hand. “Will you make love to a widow while her husband’s still warm?”

“Yes,” he replied simply. “When I know that the widow was hardly a wife at all.”

“Hardly a wife?” she flared up. “What do you mean?”

He pressed on undeterred. “I know, too, that Sir Tristan was no real husband to you. He never knew you as I do, and therefore could never partner you as you deserve.”

“As you can, I suppose?” she cried out in rage.

He gave a sardonic smile. “Only if you hear me and heed my words.”

“Heed your words?” Blanche widened her eyes and madly puffed out her cheeks. “When you speak so rudely as this to a woman who has lost her husband, a poor widow—”

Widow, widow, widow—there’s your answer, Saint Roc. He held up a hand. “I shall leave you, madame, to your widowhood.”

“Leave me?” Blanche’s mouth fell open. This was not what she planned. Her world of certainty slipped on its axis again, and she felt the abyss at her feet. Misery gripped her. What’s happening to me?

“—see the Princess now.”

Muffled voices sounded in the corridor outside and there was a sudden sharp confusion at the door. A frightened attendant appeared, wringing her hands.

“Don’t be angry, madame. I know you gave orders you weren’t to be disturbed, but I couldn’t refuse the King—”

Blanche leapt forward. “My father?” she cried in alarm.

“Your husband, madame.”

Since this was the only time he’d use the word, Tristan had resolved to give it full value now. His reward was to see Blanche gagging with horror and Saint Roc rooted to the ground as he came in leaning on Isolde, with the doctor and Brangwain at his side.

He fixed his hollow eyes on Blanche, breathing heavily. “You wronged me, madame, with a grievous lie, and it almost cost me my life.” He gestured to the doctor. “But for this good man, I would have died at your hands. He recovered me, and he must not suffer for that.”

Blanche could not speak. Tristan read her bloodless face and pressed on. “But I wronged you too. I should never have promised to marry you without love.” He glanced at Saint Roc. “I could have set you free from this man in some other way. But it seems freedom from him is not what you seek now.”

“I—I—” Blanche gabbled. She could not look at Tristan, at Isolde, at Saint Roc. Even the doctor’s calm gaze stung her like a whip.

Tristan took a deep breath and steadied himself on Isolde’s arm. “From my heart, madame, I’ll make amends for what has passed. Call on me if you suffer any wrong, and I’ll do all that I can in honor to set it right.”

There was a breathless pause. “And on your side,” he resumed, “you must swear to get this mock-marriage annulled. You know that I never came into your bed. Nothing passed between us to make us man and wife.”

Saint Roc stirred. I knew it. What sadness, what madness, they must have endured that night.

Blanche found her voice. “Annulled?”

Tristan nodded gravely. “You must go to your priest and get the marriage set aside. All the world must know that our marriage is null and void.”

All the world? More gossip, more shame . . . Blanche cried aloud in pain.

And suddenly Saint Roc was at her side. “Courage,” he said in a low voice, taking her hand. “I’ll help you. I won’t leave you now.”

“You won’t leave me?” Blindly, she turned her naked face up to his.

“I promise. But you must promise too.”

Blanche turned to Tristan and Isolde. “I promise,” she faltered. “I’ll do what you say.”

Isolde stared at her earnestly. “You’ve broken your word before. Can we trust you now?”

Saint Roc laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You have my word.” he said clearly. “And the doctor will not suffer for what he has done; I’ll take care of that too.”

Tristan bowed. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Isolde. “Come, my Queen.”

And as suddenly as they had entered, they were gone. Saint Roc moved back to Blanche and lifted her hand to his lips.

“Another great shock, my Princess,” he said as lightly as he dared. “But all for the good.”

Blanche nodded dumbly. She did not trust herself to speak. But she knew Saint Roc understood.

“Now there’s much to do,” he resumed. “We must go together to your father and tell him all this.” He gave her his sardonic grin. “Or as much as you decide. I don’t think he’ll want to know more. Then we’ll put through the annulment, and you will be free. After that—”

He broke off. She lifted her eyes to his face. “What?”

There was not a hint of humor about him now. “After that, you must tell me when I may court you, woo you, and win you, and take you away to my kingdom as my Queen.”

“Now. Let’s start now.”

Even her voice was different, Saint Roc noticed with a lift of his heart. He eyed her cautiously. “Life in my kingdom is harsh. You’ll have to change your ways, my Princess.”

“And so will you,” she retorted with a flash of her old fire. “I know what old bachelors are.”

He took her in his arms. She smelled of salt tears and sweet wispy hair and lavender and rose. The road ahead would not be easy, he knew. But she was the woman he wanted, come what may.

“Changing together,” he murmured. “That’s what marriage is. Kiss me, Princess.”

He kissed her very gently. Blanche threw back her head. Bride, wife, and widow, and she’d never encountered this? She reached up to touch his lips with her white hand.

“Kiss me again.”