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

reason that we went to see Odent. We need their support for what we’re going to do.”
    “What you’re going to do, brother, not I,” Tolen said rudely. “Our kin are prominent enough for me. If you go any further, you’re going to unseat the Queen.” He belched and tenderly rubbed his groaning gut. “And that I’ll never do.”
    “Never, brother?” Breccan’s face closed like a fist.
    But Tolen did not notice his brother’s gathering rage. “Oh, I won’t oppose your trying to win favor with the lords and Druids, that’s fair enough. But the Christians? Why bother with them? They’re nothing but a handful of hermits and fanatics starving in cells.”
    Why bother? Breccan wanted to strike Tolen to the ground. He forced himself to stay calm. “Wrong again, brother. They’re the coming men. See what gains they’ve made in these islands since they arrived. They were just a handful of men in a rowing boat, and now they have churches and communities everywhere.”
    “Yes, but—”
    “And it will go on. They’re men with a mission, brother. They mean to take over the world.”
    “Gods above!” Tolen thought of the grim, chanting monks and their mad-eyed leaders, and gave up. “How can you deal with them?”
    “As I deal with all men, by joining their interests to mine. They want the freedom to pursue their faith. When I have power in the land, I can give it to them.”
    “But surely—” Tolen gave a blustering laugh. “That tale of theirs about the man-god who hung on a tree—it’ll never challenge the Mother faith. The Great One has seen many such come and go.”
    Breccan stared at him. How could this fool be his own flesh and blood? He looked around the yard. The horses were dancing about, on fire to be gone, the men mounted and awaiting his command, and he was wasting his breath.
    “Mount up,” he said curtly. “We’re going to see Brother Eustan and his men.”
    “Men, yes.” A spark of understanding lit Tolen’s fuddled brain. “That’s it, isn’t it? You need the Christians because their God demands the rule of men.”
    “Praise the Lord!” Breccan rolled his eyes. “Yes, the Christians refuse to recognize women in authority. Under them, the rule of Queens is dead.”
    A primal jealousy stirred in Tolen’s depths. “King Breccan, then?”
    Breccan winked and flashed him a smile as white as a pike’s. “Mount up, brother” was his only response. “It’s a long ride up into the mountains, and we’re burning good daylight here!”
    FOR THE BEAUTY of the earth and the glory of the skies . . .
    For all Thy creation that swims, crawls, or flies, we praise Thy name, O Lord.
    Offering prayers and thanks, at peace with the world, Father Eustan crossed the rough green between his cell and the low wooden chapel, where a handful of black-clad brothers were already pressing in. The grass underfoot was spangled with hoarfrost, each blade of grass glinting with its own light. When they sang the first office at prime, a rosy dawn had been fingering the small community of cells with a cold, fiery light. Now the sun was up, but there was still no warmth in the sky.
    But Eustan did not see the poor dwellings or feel the frost tormenting his raw, sandaled feet. His eye fell on a blackbird, pecking its carefree way around the green. He drank in the boundless perfection of the sunlit morning and his heart rejoiced. How beautiful are Thy works, O Lord our God . . .
    It was colder inside the chapel than out, and he shivered as he passed under the rough wooden cross above the door. But soldiers of Christ vanquished the frail flesh, and those who could not, Eustan sadly but sternly sent away. God demanded men who could bear the cruel itching of the monkish habit, the poor diet, the rules of silence and the ever-broken sleep, and still rise up smiling to chant the hours and praise His holy name.
    And here they were, his followers, a dozen of God’s finest, bright-eyed and bold, standing