Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels by Rosalind Miles

hair. “And now they’re all dead,” she said sweetly, “and he’s King of Lyonesse.”
    Kedrin laughed. “If you must have a king, dear sister, there are plenty ’round here.”
    Blanche set her chin and ignored him. Her voice rang like icicles in the wind.
    “Sir, I shall have him, whether you want it or not. I shall invite him to a tournament, then at the right time, you can treat with him for my hand.” She curtsied and moved to the door. “I think you’ll both agree that I am right.”
    The two men watched her go. Kedrin stepped up close to his father so that none could overhear. “You can’t permit this, sir. You’ve heard the talk about Sir Tristan and Queen Isolde.”
    “Yes, and it may mean nothing,” Hoel said stubbornly. “Every queen has her knights. But still . . .” He heaved a sigh, with the memory of his own loveless marriage unhappily keen and fresh. “Whatever there is, it bodes ill for another love. A knight may worship his lady in all purity from afar. As long as he serves Isolde, Tristan can never love Blanche as she deserves.”
    “And as she wants!” Kedrin cut in. “Any man who loves Blanche will have to yield to her every whim. And that’s not Sir Tristan, from all I’ve heard.”
    “You’re right,” agreed Hoel grimly, pacing around. “He’s not the man for her. And for the sake of the kingdom, surely we can find her a nearer alliance than Lyonesse.”
    He snapped his fingers at his son. “Ride tonight to Amaury of Rien Place. If she wants a handsome young knight, he’s dashing enough.”
    “And near enough, too. We might even join the two kingdoms together in time.”
    “In your time, maybe,” grunted Hoel, “not in mine. For now, let’s keep Sir Tristan out of France.”
    The two men locked eyes. One thought hung in the air between them.
And if we can do that, Goddess, Mother, then we’ll bless Your sacred name
all our lives!

CHAPTER 7

    Gods above, was there a better season than winter, when the cold sent the blood singing through your veins and bit into your lungs? Breccan released his breath in a sigh of contentment and watched the misty plume fade into the air. And what could be finer on a bitter day like this than a brisk gallop into the hills? With a short visit, say, to a handful of pitiful monks, a show of swords to stiffen their resolve, and then back for an evening’s carousing in the Knights’ Hall?
    He stamped his feet for warmth and looked about. All around him the frozen stable yard rang with the dawn clatter of hooves as the riders made ready to go out. To his left, Ravigel was ordering the knights with his habitual stone-faced command, while his nephew Tiercel listened attentively at his uncle’s side. Breccan nodded. Yes, Tiercel would do well. The young knight was bold and sharp, and he knew how to go with the current when the tide of affairs was running fast and free.
    As it was now.
    Unlike Tolen, alas. His dissolute brother knew nothing except his own low lusts and desires. Breccan watched the bloated figure weaving its way into the yard and felt his good humor draining away. He could smell the stale reek of wine as his brother approached. Gods above, it was one thing to get drunk every night as every knight did, but since when had Tolen breakfasted on wine as well?
    Breccan paused. Since the Queen died, Tolen had been red-eyed and weeping every morning, and reeling drunk by noon. Could he have loved her? Snorting, Breccan put the thought away. A true knight never felt such weakness, whatever nonsense the poets and dream-weavers put about. Still, was Tolen any longer a knight at all?
    “So, brother,” he greeted him sourly, “ready to ride?”
    “Ready for anything!” said Tolen thickly, with the remains of a tattered bravado in his air. “Where do we go?”
    “On a spiritual journey, brother.” Breccan gave a cynical laugh. “To call on our brothers in Christ.”
    Tolen gaped. “The Christians? What for?”
    “For the same