Two Love Stories: Tristin and Isolde | What is Love?

TRISTIN AND ISOLDE

A Retelling of the Legend

Anne Kinsey

Published by Castell Books at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 by Anne Kinsey

All rights reserved

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Table of Contents

A note from Anne

What is Love?

Epigraph

Epilogue

Other Books by Anne Kinsey

The stair tower was cold, the air so moist that droplets of water clung to the stone walls. Furious blasts of wind swept through the slits which served as windows, causing the torch mounted along the wall to flicker. The stairs, tightly spiraled, were so steep that Isolde pressed a palm against the wall for balance as she tiptoed down.

She reached the landing. The door to her parent’s room was made of heavy wood bolted together with strips of metal. She knew from experience where the boards separated just enough so that, when she pressed her ear to the door, she could hear what her parents were saying. She knelt to listen.

She heard the fire snapping and cracking as someone put on more wood. Then her mother said, The terms are fair.

Yes, her father said. Very fair.

What followed was silence. Isolde waited, shivering again. The silence went on so long she feared they wouldn’t say any more even though this was the time they usually discussed important matters. Then her mother said, Given the things said about the King of Cornwall, perhaps you should just accept his proposal.

His nephew is here with one dozen armed men ready to do our bidding. Why not have them get rid of the river creature?

There was a pause followed by rustling sounds. Why not, indeed? her mother said.

Footsteps in the room sounded as if they were coming toward the door. Isolde stood up straight, and, as swiftly as she could without making noise or risking a fall, hurried back up the stairs to the next landing.

The wind blew again in a furious gust, this time entirely blowing out the torch overhead, leaving her in darkness. The door to her own room was slightly ajar, showing the light within, so she could feel her way back. Brangwain, her personal maid, was just inside, waiting for her. Seeing Isolde, Brangwain opened the door wider. The hinges creaked loudly.

Once Isolde was safely in the room with the door closed, she said, That knight, Tristin, brought a proposal from King Mark of Cornwall. My father will send Tristin to kill the river creature.

I knew it!

A shudder went through Isolde.

Here, said Brangwain, picking up a thick quilt. Put this around your shoulders. Come warm up by the fire.

Isolde and Brangwain sat together on a cushioned bench near the fireplace. Isolde wrapped her skirts around her legs and hugged her knees.

Isolde’s bedroom was dominated by a large hooded fireplace, the room sweetened with the scent of herbs mixed with the floor rushes. The room contained a curtained bed draped with burgundy velvet, a bench, a wardrobe, a chest, and three high-backed chairs with tasseled cushions. With the exception of a few tapestries hanging from rods, the gray stone walls were bare. A mirror hung on the wall near the door. High on the opposite wall was a small arched window.

Do you think Tristin will kill the river creature? Isolde asked.

Of course he will!

The creature that terrorized the villages along the River Slanley was said to be a cross between an extraordinarily large snake and a lizard the size of a man. It was described by some as green with scales, and by others as silvery with skin like chain mail. Some villagers claimed that the creature breathed fire.

Whenever a boat was hurled against the rocks and destroyed, or a farm animal was drowned, the destruction was said to be the work of the river creature. Most recently the creature attacked a child who had waded into the water. The child died from the creature’s deadly bite. The local villagers begged Isolde’s father to find a way to get rid of the creature.

Did you see him? Isolde asked softly.

Who? asked Brangwain, startled.

Tristin!

I did. He’s King Mark’s nephew.

I saw him, too. He is very handsome.

You should not be thinking about Tristin, said Brangwain. You are not going to marry the nephew. You will marry the uncle.

A man old enough to be my father!

"He’s not as old as that! And he’s a king, not a mere man, a king praised by everyone who knows him. He’s said to be fair, and just, and honest."

Isolde hugged her knees tighter and looked into the fire, which was crackling comfortingly. The flames were low, the logs mostly glowing embers.

Tristin, Isolde said again, and sighed deeply. She liked the very sound of his name.

"The man you will marry is Mark," said Brangwain firmly.

Brangwain and Isolde were almost the same age. Brangwain’s family had been in the service of Isolde’s father, the King of Leinster, for three generations. Brangwain had been personal maid and companion to Isolde for the past five years. Because Isolde and Brangwain had lived so long in such close proximity, they were more like kinswomen than princess and servant. They even bore faint resemblance. Both had vivid blue eyes and pretty oval-shaped faces, and both were tall and slender, but they were never mistaken for sisters. Even strangers knew at a glance that Isolde, who was always perfectly coifed and groomed, and who moved with grace and confidence and spoke in a voice that was at once musical and lovely and commanding, was of much higher birth.

But you are betrothed to a handsome man, Brangwain! Why shouldn’t I want the same?

"You have no idea what King Mark looks like. Just because he’s thirty-five doesn’t mean he can’t also be handsome. Besides, I am betrothed to a handsome blacksmith. You are a princess, and you will marry a king."

This much was true. Unless something went wrong – unless the river creature killed Tristin instead of the other way around, or unless some other mishap occurred before the wedding could be celebrated – she would indeed marry Mark, King of Cornwall.

Next morning just after sunup, a flourish of trumpets came from the courtyard below, and the castle gates clanged open. Isolde pushed the bench against the wall, stood on top and cranked open the window’s casement. She looked out just in time to see Tristin ride through the gates, followed by a dozen of knights on horseback, some wearing partial armor, all carrying lances or other hand weapons. They thundered across the lowered drawbridge.

Over a tunic of deep blue, Tristin wore an armor breastplate that had been polished to brilliance. On his shield was emblazoned the Cornish coat of arms. His stallion was white, draped in a splendid cloth woven with blue and gold thread. Immediately behind him rode three knights each carrying the Cornish flag bearing a bold white cross set against a black background.

Stopping just across the drawbridge, Tristin reigned in his stallion, a spirited horse that pranced in place as if ready to take flight. Tristin held the reigns firm, turned back toward the castle, and looked up at the towers. When he looked directly toward Isolde, her heart beat rapidly. Instinctively she ducked from sight.

Then, summoning her courage, she put her face back to the window. Why shouldn’t she look directly at him? After all, if he managed to kill the river creature, he would be escorting her across the sea to Cornwall. They’d see plenty of each other if that happened.

Tristin did not seem to pay any particular attention to her window. Did he see her, she wondered? Did he know she was watching him? He was so handsome she caught her breath. His dark hair hung thickly to his neck, framing his finely chiseled face.

He turned his horse and galloped away with the ease and skill of a natural horseman. What was it about him, she wondered, that filled her with longing and something almost like a sweet sadness? After all she’d seen him only from a distance. When he’d first entered the castle keep two days earlier, she’d watched him from a hiding place on a balcony. When he’d gone out hunting with her father and brothers, she’d watched their riding party gallop away from behind the battlements. What did she know of him, other than that was utterly appealing and the nephew of her future husband?

She pressed her cheek to the cool metal grating and watched until he disappeared from view.

In fact, Tristin had seen Isolde in the window, and he guessed immediately who she was from the light golden red of her hair which caught just enough of the hazy sunlight to glow like a halo around her face.

Just a year earlier, Tristin’s uncle Mark announced he’d never remarry. He said he was perfectly content to leave his kingdom to his nephew Tristin. He’d put off his noblemen who were anxious about the succession by saying, I will not remarry unless my bride’s eyes are as blue as the summer sky on a perfectly clear morning, and her hair is the color of spun gold tinged with the blush of a rose. And of course she must be every inch a royal princess.

You jest, said Lord Denoalan, one of his nobles. Finding a royal princess of marriageable age was difficult enough – specifying hair and eye color, particularly such exquisite coloring – was nothing short of unreasonable.

I do not jest, King Mark had said. Until such a princess is available to be my bride, I will not remarry.

Soon afterward, Lords Denoalan and Godwin asked permission to leave the court. Mark gave them permission, glad to see them go. They had been making trouble lately, stirring up the old rumor that Tristin was not in fact the legitimate son of Mark’s sister, and therefore, not legitimate heir to the Cornish throne.

Four months later, Lords Denoalan and Godwin returned and requested an audience saying they brought a gift which would please the king, a gift which may even alter the course of his life and the destiny of the kingdom.

The kingdom of Cornwall was a wealthy one, with rich deposits of tin and copper. All one had to do was walk along the rocky shores to find tin and copper deposits among the gravel. Fortune seekers came from all over to gather the ore, paying a tax to the Cornish king for any metal they took away with them. As a result, Tintagel’s main keep, which also served as a throne room, glittered with opulent luxury. The walls were lined with richly embroidered tapestries of gold, silver, blue and red. The great hall was aisled like a church, with a domed ceiling set with tin panels. On display were full suits of armor of exquisite workmanship. The hall was lit by sunlight coming in through high windows set with glazed glass imported from Rome.

The entire court gathered in the great hall of Tintagel Castle to see the gift Lords Denoalan and Godwin brought. King Mark, sitting on the throne, looked every inch the king, his beard full and dark with a touch of gray at his temples, his hair coarse and thick. He had a battle scar running from his cheek to his forehead. His brows were heavy, threaded with gray. He was lean and muscular, his eyes sharp and intelligent. On his head he wore a crown. Today because the occasion was informal, he wore a small circlet of gold.

Tristin stood in the place of honor nearest the throne, beneath the richly embroidered canopy over the throne proclaiming Mark’s royal estate.

The guards at the door announced the arrival of Lords Denoalan and Godwin. The king nodded to the guards, who swung open the doors. Lords Denoalan and Godwin entered and bowed ceremoniously to King Mark. Both men were in their early thirties, both had suspicious natures. Lord Godwin, the taller of the two, turned back and gestured to two pages, who also entered carrying a large canvas wrapped in rose-colored satin.

Lord Godwin unveiled the canvas to reveal a painting of a breathtakingly beautiful girl wearing a gown of pale shimmering green. Her eyes were indeed was the pure luminescent blue of a summer sky on a clear morning. Her hair was like spun gold tinged with a soft blush red. She was slender, with long graceful arms. Her face was all sweetness and sensuous curves – her chin pert and rounded, her nose straight, her lips bow shaped.

King Mark stepped down from his throne and came closer to study the painting. The others – his attendants and knights and lords then in service – also stepped forward for a better view.

May I present Princess Isolde of Leinster, said Lord Denoalan.

The king was silent for such a long time, his courtiers became restless. All his energy was concentrated on the portrait, his eyes bright, his breathing slow and measured. Others who didn’t know or understand the king as well as Tristin probably saw nothing in his carefully impassive face, but Tristin knew that his uncle was powerfully moved.

I commend the remarkable talent of the painter, the king said at last, but such a girl can only exist in the imagination of an artist.

Oh, but she is real, said Lord Godwin softly, very real. I saw her myself.

Is the painting a good likeness? King Mark asked.

No, my liege, Lord Godwin said. He paused dramatically and said, "It is not a good likeness. She is much more beautiful than this."

How is it that she is not betrothed? King Mark asked.

She has only recently reached the age allowing for betrothal.

Mark turned abruptly from the painting and returned to his throne, where he sat very straight. Tristin, seeing his mood, said, Shall we leave you, my liege?

Yes, please, King Mark said.

What shall I do with the painting? Lord Godwin asked the king.

Leave it here.

Tristin didn’t have a chance to talk to Mark alone until much later that evening when they sat in the king’s private presence chamber playing a game of chess. Like everything else in Tintagel Castle, the chess pieces were of the best quality, cast in bronze and exquisitely sculpted. Mark moved a castle and looked up.

Will you marry her? Tristin asked. His tone betrayed nothing except simple curiosity.

Do you think I should?

She is said to be as charming as she is beautiful, so I see no reason why you should not try for her hand. Besides, if you will only have a royal princess with such hair and eyes, you may not have much choice.

It’s your move, said Mark.

Tristin disliked the game of chess, but played it because it was Mark’s favorite pastime. The game suited Mark, who was contemplative and inward and thoughtful. Tristin was a man of action who disliked sitting so long. He was often impatient with the game’s long silences, and usually lost simply because he lacked the ability to suppress his restlessness long enough to plan as many moves ahead as was necessary to pose even a challenge to so expert a chess player as Mark.

Tristin moved a knight. Instantly Mark took his piece. After a few more moves, when it was clear Tristin had lost the game, Mark said, There are many who would not understand if you so peacefully accepted my remarriage.

Why wouldn’t I want you to remarry? I’m tired of all the jealousy and back-biting. If you have a son and heir, the succession would be settled as it should be.

People will still wonder, said Mark.

Don’t forget, if I wanted a dukedom of my own, I could have it. I like it here.

Mark moved his castle and said, I don’t think I should marry her.

Why not? asked Tristin, startled.

She is so young. I don’t believe she’d be happy with a man so much older.

Nonsense. There is nothing old about you. You are the King of Cornwall. Of course she would be happy with you.

What about you? Mark asked. Isn’t it time for you to stop fooling around with village girls and find a wife worthy of your station and estate?

I have thought about that, too, Tristin said. One day, perhaps, I shall return to Brittany and find a wife there.

For many days, Tristin and his men hunted along the shores and inland waterways of the River Slanley without catching sight of the creature. They carried longbows, lances, and throwing axes. Swords and regular axes would be useless against so fierce a beast. In each of the villages along the river they asked about the creature. They were regaled