Tristan and Iseult (15 page)

When all was over, Bedenis with the few men left of his hunting party rode, grimly and heavy-hearted, home. He had avenged the insult to his house; but he had lost good friends in the fighting; and he had slain the King, and he knew that sooner or later he himself must be hunted down.

NEXT MORNING, SEARCHERS
from the city found Tristan and Karherdin lying beside their horses against the rocky outcrop, surrounded by the warriors they had slain before they were overcome. Karherdin the King was dead, and Tristan sore wounded, and seemingly with scarce a breath of life left in him.

They cut branches and wove them into rough hurdles, and carried them back to the city, one to lie in his own chamber in the high castle while Iseult of the White Hands bathed his wounds and sought to staunch the slow crimson bleeding; one to lie before the altar in the church, with candles burning at his head and feet.

Next day, Karherdin was buried with all the solemn pomp with which kings are laid in their graves, while all Brittany mourned for him. And from far and wide the physicians whom the Princess Iseult had summoned came to try their skill for the healing of Tristan’s wound. One after another they tried their remedies, and one after another they failed. Once again it was as it had been after his battle with the Morholt. The wound sickened and Tristan grew weaker day by day.

He knew that once again there was only one person in the world who could heal him, and that was Iseult of Cornwall. But whether she could heal him or no, he
longed for her, if need be just to see her face once more before he died; and the face of Iseult White-hands became like a stranger’s that had no meaning. At last, he sent for Karherdin’s armour-bearer – that same Bryn who had come with them on the last visit to Cornwall – and taking the ring from its thong about his neck, gave it to him. ‘Take this ring to the Queen of Cornwall; tell her how it is with me, and beg her to come to me quickly, for if she does not, then I must die. And when you return, if she is with you, cause the ship that carries you to show white sails; but if she will not come, then let the sails be black, for then it will be time to put on mourning for me.’

So Bryn disguised himself as a merchant, and took ship for Cornwall; and he came to Tintagel and into the Queen’s private apartments, under the pretence of having jewels to sell that might interest her. When they were alone together save for Brangian, the Queen bade him show his wares if he had anything worth looking at.

‘In truth,’ said he, ‘I have one jewel that you may find worth your looking at, lady. It is this.’ And he held out to her the gold ring she had given Tristan so long ago.

The Queen looked down at it in silence, and the blood drained from her face, leaving her white as snow, and then flooded back so that her cheeks blazed like fire, and her eyes were brilliant as a falcon’s. ‘What message comes with this ring,’ she said at last.

‘My lord begs you come to him, for he is sore wounded, and must die.’

Then the fire drained from her cheeks and she was
again as white as snow. ‘How does this come about?’ she asked.

And the armour-bearer told her all the story.

‘Wait,’ she said, ‘while I gather the things that I need.’ And to Brangian, ‘Bid Perenis have my horse waiting beyond the orchard, and a fresh horse for my lord’s armour-bearer. And meanwhile, give him food and drink. I shall not be long.’

Brangian said, ‘Three horses, my lady. You must let me ride with you.’

‘No,’ said Iseult, ‘for your life is here, and whichever way the wind blows, I do not think that it will blow me back to Cornwall again.’

And so, at last, without a backward glance, Iseult of Cornwall left her husband and her country, her crown and her honour, and rode south with Tristan’s messenger, taking with her nothing but a little carved box containing the herbs and salves of her leechcraft. And it was not until the Court gathered in the Great Hall at evening, and her place beside the King’s High Seat was empty, that the King or any man knew that she was gone.

Meanwhile, in the high castle above the city on the coast of Brittany, as the time drew near for Bryn’s return, Tristan lay on his bed seeming like one already dead save for the life that still burned in his fever-brilliant eyes. And one thought ran like a caged and tormented thing round and round within him: would the sail of the ship, when it came, be white – or black? White or black? White or black?

Now Iseult of the White Hands had seen that the woman’s ring was gone from about his neck; and as she sat beside him in the long nights while the fever
raged through his body, she heard him talking and talking in the wild waking dreams of his sickness; and so she knew that he had sent for the other Iseult, and of the signal of the white sail or the black. And jealousy tore at her, for she thought, I have been his loving and faithful wife these five years and more; and what has she done for him, this other woman with my name? What has she done for him save leave him without a heart in his breast? And yet now it is to her he turns, and he looks at me as though his eyes had never touched my face before.

And the days went by and the nights went by, and there were storms and then flat calms at sea that delayed the ship. And Iseult saw with an aching and terrified heart that waiting for the ship was the only thing that still held Tristan to life.

And then one morning, when the first sunlight stole into the room, Iseult rose from her night-long watch beside the bed, and went to the window that looked towards the sea to feel the cool air on her forehead. And there, out on the blue water, a ship was heading in to harbour from the direction of Cornwall. And the sail was as white as the underside of a gull’s wing.

Joy and grief welled up together within her; joy that the one person who could perhaps save Tristan was coming to him; grief that it was the woman he loved as he had never loved
her
. Her eyes were suddenly blind with bitter tears, and the joy and the grief fought each other within her so that she seemed filled with a kind of war.

She heard a faint movement from the bed, and Tristan’s voice, so weak that it was only a whisper, asked, ‘What do you see out there?’

‘I see a ship, far out but heading for the harbour.’

‘From what direction does she come?’

‘From the direction of Cornwall.’

There was another movement from the bed, sharp and agonised, and when she looked round she saw that he had fought up on to one elbow, and she saw the fear and the longing in his eyes. ‘Look again and tell me – what colour is the sail?’

And the cruel jealousy burst up in her, and for that one moment she was filled with rage against him. And the words were spoken before she knew it, ‘I have no need to look again. The sail is black.’

She saw the light go out of his eyes; and he fell back on the pillow and turned his face from her towards the wall. She ran to bend over him and heard him whisper, ‘Iseult! Iseult, why did you not come?’ and knew that it was not her he called to; and as she put her arms round him and gathered him close, a great shudder ran through him, and she was left calling his name and clinging to him, and knowing that he was dead.

Her cries brought her ladies running, and then Tristan’s armour-bearer; and then the steward was there and the priest. Tristan’s body was made ready for burial, and laid on a bier hung with white silk, and borne into the church, to lie where Karherdin had lain with candles at his head and feet.

The wind blew offshore all that day, and it was close to evening before the ship from Cornwall could enter harbour. And the first sound that Iseult of Cornwall heard from the city was the church bells tolling. As she stepped ashore she asked the first man she met,
‘Who do the bells toll for?’ But every bell-beat fell like a stone upon her heart and she knew the answer before ever he told her.

‘For the Lord Tristan who lies in the great church yonder waiting burial.’

Bryn the armour-bearer would have come with her, but she waved him fiercely back, and went forward alone. With her head held high as though it still wore the weight of a crown, she walked up through the mourning city, between the silent crowds that lined the street. She looked neither to right nor left, but followed the sound of the tolling bells, until she came to the church door, and saw the bier before the altar, and the candles at the head and feet; the clergy and the gathered nobles, and the woman silently wringing her white hands, her hair unbound in mourning, who stood close beside the bier.

She walked up the church, until she too stood beside the bier and faced the other woman across Tristan’s body.

Then Iseult of Cornwall spoke, clear and cool under the tolling of the bell. ‘Lady, stand further off, I pray you; for I have the right to be nearest him. I mourn him more than you. I loved him more than you.’

A murmur ran round the church, and Iseult of the White Hands gave her back look for look. ‘That, I doubt,’ she said, ‘but he loved you more than ever he loved me.’ And she stepped back and left the place closest beside him to the other woman.

Then Iseult of Cornwall stooped and drew aside the embroidered pall, and looked long and long into Tristan’s face. ‘Love, you sent for me, and I came,’
she said. ‘I am too late to bring you back, but I can go with you, and so we shall be parted no more.’

And she lay down on the bier, close beside him, and put her arms about him and kissed him long and sweetly on the mouth. And with the kiss, her heart broke, and her spirit left her to go after his. And there were two bodies on the bier, where there had been one.

Iseult of the White Hands was torn with grief for her one moment of blind jealousy; and she caused Tristan and Iseult to be buried together in a noble tomb. But they were not left to lie there long, for when word of their deaths reached King Marc, he spoke no word of sorrow; but he took ship for Brittany, and with the Princess’s leave, brought their bodies back to Cornwall; and there again they were laid in one grave side by side.

And out of Tristan’s heart there grew a hazel tree, and out of Iseult’s a honeysuckle, and they arched together and clung and intertwined so that they could never be separated any more.

Rosemary Sutcliff was born in 1920 in West Clanden, Surrey. With over 40 books to her credit, Rosemary Sutcliff is now universally considered one of the finest writers of historical novels for children. Her first novel,
The Queen Elizabeth Story
was published in 1950. In 1972 her book
Tristan and Iseult
was runner-up for the Carnegie Medal. In 1974 she was highly commended for the Hans Christian Andersen Award and in 1978 her book,
Song for a Dark Queen
was commended for the Other Award. Rosemary lived for a long time in Arundel, Sussex with her dogs and in 1975, she was awarded the OBE for services to Children’s Literature.

THE CHRONICLES OF ROBIN HOOD

THE QUEEN ELIZABETH STORY

THE ARMOURER’S HOUSE

BROTHER DUSTY FEET

SIMON

THE EAGLE OF THE NINTH

OUTCAST

THE SHIELD RING

THE SILVER BRANCH

WARRIOR SCARLET

THE LANTERN BEARERS

KNIGHT’S FEE

DAWN WIND

THE MARK OF THE HORSE LORD

THE WITCH’S BRAT

THE CAPRICORN BRACELET

BLOOD FEUD

FRONTIER WOLF

FLAME COLOURED TAFFETA

THE DRAGON SLAYER

THE HOUND OF ULSTER

THE HIGH DEEDS OF FINN MACCOOL

SUN HORSE,

MOON HORSE

THE LIGHT BEYOND THE FOREST

THE SWORD AND THE CIRCLE

THE ROAD TO CAMLANN

BONNIE DUNDEE

A CIRCLET OF OAK LEAVES

THE CHIEF’S DAUGHTER

THE TRUCE OF THE GAMES

SHIFTING SANDS

THE CHANGELING

EAGLE’S EGG

“WE LIVED IN DRUMKEEN” (with Maggie Lyford-Pike)

SONG FOR A DARK QUEEN

A LITTLE DOG LIKE YOU

THE ROUNDABOUT HORSE

LITTLE HOUND FOUND

THE SHINING COMPANY

For Adult Readers

LADY IN WAITING

THE RIDER OF THE WHITE HORSE

SWORD AT SUNSET

THE FLOWERS OF ADONIS

BLOOD AND SAND

Non-Fiction

HEROES AND HISTORY

HOUSES AND HISTORY

Biography

RUDYARD KIPLING
:
A BODLEY HEAD MONOGRAPH

Autobiography

BLUE REMEMBERED HILLS