Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels by Rosalind Miles Page B
Authors: Rosalind Miles
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shoulder-to-shoulder in the humble space, heads bowed in prayer. He moved through them to the low altar, rejoicing in his soul, and turned to face his flock. “Brothers in Christ . . .” he began.
AND THEY CALL this a holy place? Grinning like a wolf, Breccan did not try to hide his contempt. When he was King, nothing would be too fine for him. And these people who preached the coming of the King of Heaven contented themselves with living in ruins like these?
All around him he could hear Tolen, Ravigel, Tiercel, and the rest of the knights thinking the same thing. The ride here had been hard, picking their way along narrow mountain paths to a ring of standing stones where the Christians had settled in the remains of the old stone circle and built their huts. No wonder their wretched hovels looked ready to fall down, fashioned as they were out of broken rocks.
Clever, though. Breccan chuckled to himself. Living so humbly, they’d never be the envy of the folk who lived around here, or arouse their mistrust. They had won the people’s hearts in other ways too. They lived cleanly, devoted themselves to their God, and shared all they had. Those who fell sick were more than glad of their simple ministrations and wholesome care. Yes, they were good men. Breccan sucked his teeth. This could prove harder than he had thought.
He nodded curtly to Ravigel. “Ride on and give them warning of our approach.”
Ravigel bowed.
Breccan watched the knight spurring away, and the worm of resentment turned again in his heart. Why couldn’t he count on his brother Tolen like this? Breccan’s lip curled. Brother . . . ? Suddenly he knew he no longer held any kinship with the dull-eyed thing sweating and swaying vacantly on his horse, reeking of wine and, he dared swear, fear.
Fear? Oh, Tolen! A dull rage swept him. Time was, big brother, when you yielded to no man, beat down any knight at arms and royally sated the Queen in her own bed. And now—he felt the cold wind of fate brushing his cheek—now you are nothing. And a danger to me, even worse.
“Sir?” Ravigel was cantering down the track. “Father Eustan says he will see you now.”
“He will see me?” muttered Breccan. What, a religious fool dictating terms to him? He reminded himself that he needed Eustan’s support. And when the monk knew what they’d come for, things would soon change.
“On, then!” Breccan cried.
Keenly, he pressed forward up the mountain path. But one glance as they drew near made him think again. Father Eustan was surging out of the chapel with his monks at his back and drawing himself up on the green as if to repel an attack.
“Greetings, lords,” he called dourly. “Welcome to our humble house of God.”
“And greetings to you.”
Smiling, Breccan swung down from the saddle and threw his reins to Ravigel. Carefully, he studied the man facing him. Tall, lean, and impassive, Father Eustan gave little away. Like all his kind, he wore a long black habit of the coarsest wool, belted at the waist with a length of rope. A raw tonsure disfigured his shaven head, and his feet were cracked and bleeding from the cold. But the large, lustrous eyes burning deep in their sockets showed no concern with this. Here was a man who cared only for his God.
“So, sir,” he challenged with a unfriendly stare. “What can a handful of Christ’s messengers do for you?”
Breccan paused. Where was the gentle, timid Christian he’d imagined?
“I am Breccan, a knight of the Queen,” he struck back as suavely as he could. He gestured toward Tolen. “And brother to the late Queen’s chosen one.”
Too late he realized that the half-glazed creature at his side did nothing to enhance his claim. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on. “We are here to help you. We have come to offer you our protection in these troubled times.”
“Troubled? How so?” The monk’s large brown eyes held Breccan in a disbelieving gaze. “And why should we need protection
AND THEY CALL this a holy place? Grinning like a wolf, Breccan did not try to hide his contempt. When he was King, nothing would be too fine for him. And these people who preached the coming of the King of Heaven contented themselves with living in ruins like these?
All around him he could hear Tolen, Ravigel, Tiercel, and the rest of the knights thinking the same thing. The ride here had been hard, picking their way along narrow mountain paths to a ring of standing stones where the Christians had settled in the remains of the old stone circle and built their huts. No wonder their wretched hovels looked ready to fall down, fashioned as they were out of broken rocks.
Clever, though. Breccan chuckled to himself. Living so humbly, they’d never be the envy of the folk who lived around here, or arouse their mistrust. They had won the people’s hearts in other ways too. They lived cleanly, devoted themselves to their God, and shared all they had. Those who fell sick were more than glad of their simple ministrations and wholesome care. Yes, they were good men. Breccan sucked his teeth. This could prove harder than he had thought.
He nodded curtly to Ravigel. “Ride on and give them warning of our approach.”
Ravigel bowed.
Breccan watched the knight spurring away, and the worm of resentment turned again in his heart. Why couldn’t he count on his brother Tolen like this? Breccan’s lip curled. Brother . . . ? Suddenly he knew he no longer held any kinship with the dull-eyed thing sweating and swaying vacantly on his horse, reeking of wine and, he dared swear, fear.
Fear? Oh, Tolen! A dull rage swept him. Time was, big brother, when you yielded to no man, beat down any knight at arms and royally sated the Queen in her own bed. And now—he felt the cold wind of fate brushing his cheek—now you are nothing. And a danger to me, even worse.
“Sir?” Ravigel was cantering down the track. “Father Eustan says he will see you now.”
“He will see me?” muttered Breccan. What, a religious fool dictating terms to him? He reminded himself that he needed Eustan’s support. And when the monk knew what they’d come for, things would soon change.
“On, then!” Breccan cried.
Keenly, he pressed forward up the mountain path. But one glance as they drew near made him think again. Father Eustan was surging out of the chapel with his monks at his back and drawing himself up on the green as if to repel an attack.
“Greetings, lords,” he called dourly. “Welcome to our humble house of God.”
“And greetings to you.”
Smiling, Breccan swung down from the saddle and threw his reins to Ravigel. Carefully, he studied the man facing him. Tall, lean, and impassive, Father Eustan gave little away. Like all his kind, he wore a long black habit of the coarsest wool, belted at the waist with a length of rope. A raw tonsure disfigured his shaven head, and his feet were cracked and bleeding from the cold. But the large, lustrous eyes burning deep in their sockets showed no concern with this. Here was a man who cared only for his God.
“So, sir,” he challenged with a unfriendly stare. “What can a handful of Christ’s messengers do for you?”
Breccan paused. Where was the gentle, timid Christian he’d imagined?
“I am Breccan, a knight of the Queen,” he struck back as suavely as he could. He gestured toward Tolen. “And brother to the late Queen’s chosen one.”
Too late he realized that the half-glazed creature at his side did nothing to enhance his claim. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on. “We are here to help you. We have come to offer you our protection in these troubled times.”
“Troubled? How so?” The monk’s large brown eyes held Breccan in a disbelieving gaze. “And why should we need protection
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