Ashes of Heaven Read online

  Mark glanced up again and this time waved him into the group. “If you are going to be of our court,” he said, “you need to hear the worst. A messenger came this morning from Gales.”

  “Morold,” said Tristan quietly. It was exactly what he had feared.

  Mark did not seem surprised that he had heard of Morold. “This will be the fourth time that he has come. Every five or six years he has sailed from Eire to our coasts, just about this time of year, and demanded tribute. When he did not come last year, we hoped he would not come again, but our hopes were baseless. Indeed, each time we have hoped it was the last, but he always returned. The first time he demanded copper, the second silver, and the third gold.”

  “And you’ve always paid?” Tristan asked. “Why not defy him to do his worst?”

  “The first time,” Mark continued, as though not hearing the question, “the king of Gales refused to pay and had his coast ravaged. Rumor has it that the same thing happened in Scotia. Here in Cornwall, Rivalin said that he would fight Morold in single combat and was nearly killed. The second and third times both we and the king of Gales paid at once. We thought the gold would be the final demand....”

  “And what is he demanding this time?” Tristan persisted.

  “This time he wants our sons.”

  Tristan turned from one man to another, not understanding. When King Mark seemed unlikely to go on, one of the courtiers said, “The king of Gales gave Morold fifty young boys, handsome and trained in courtly manners, to be taken into servitude in Eire. I understand that his great lords drew lots, to see who should give up their sons. They wept as they did so, but thought it better to lose their youths to a foreign court than to have many more people killed by Irish raiders. It seems to have sufficed, for Morold sailed away with the boys without attacking the coast. We now fear Cornwall is next. But Morold may demand less of us, for we have always had to pay less tribute than Gales. Perhaps instead of fifty we shall only lose thirty boys.”

  “But this cannot be!” burst out Tristan. “We cannot allow young men to be sent into vile servitude, fifty or thirty or even one. Fathers should give their lives for their sons, not the other way around! We must fight these Irish raiders, not allow them to take the boys of Cornwall!”

  “Gales could not fight them,” said Mark, “and they have more knights and soldiers than does Cornwall.”

  “By God!” cried Tristan. “If I am to be heir to Cornwall, Uncle, then I cannot stand here quietly and let Cornish youths be taken into servitude! When Morold of Eire first came, I understand, he offered to leave if anyone could defeat him in single combat. I shall challenge him myself!”

  Mark looked at him fully for the first time since he had arrived. “Tristan, my nephew, my heir! For the love you bear me, do not do this! Your father Rivalin was nearly destroyed by that monster. I could not bear to lose you so soon after I found you.”

  “That was years ago, before I was even born,” said Tristan, almost complacently. “Morold is an older man now, and I have just been knighted.”

  “Rivalin too was young and strong! What can we hope of you that your father could not accomplish?”

  Tristan gave him a quick, sideways glance, and it was not as full of respect and affection as the way he usually looked at his uncle. “Three things will support me,” he said, more quietly. “The mercy of God and the rightness of my cause are two. The third is my skill as a fighter. You may not have heard this, Uncle, but I defeated the armies of the duke of Bretagne in open battle, and I killed Duke Gilan with my own hand, in vengeance for my father’s murder. So I have won where Rivalin could not. And I shall defeat the champion of Eire as well.”

  When the royal Irish fleet came into Tintagel harbor, the Cornish court knew what would be demanded of them. But Morold appeared surprised when told that they were willing to risk all in a single combat.

  His long black hair was streaked with grey, but his arms and chest appeared just as formidable as when he had first come to Cornwall. “It is many years since anyone has dared challenge me,” he called up to the castle. “I look forward to the exercise. But you need to begin choosing the boys you will send back to Eire with me. I had only planned to ask for thirty, in memory of the hospitality I once received here from King Mark and his sister. But when I win this combat, be warned, I shall require fifty Cornish youths.”

  When Rivalin had rushed down from the castle to challenge Morold, everything had been arranged very quickly. This time the duel was arranged more formally, for three days after Morold’s arrival. The combat would take place on a small island off the coast, where no one could interfere with their fight. On the day of the battle, Morold sailed over in a small boat, alone except for his great black charger, and anchored just off the islet. He splashed ashore and mounted, then rode rapidly back and forth several times, his spear couched, getting the feel of the footing for his charger.

  Tristan meanwhile led his horse onto a raft, the steed already saddled and protected by a fall of chain mail. It was a horse he had brought from Bretagne, one quick and strong, on whose back he had first perfected his jousting skills. Mark stood by the jetty, wringing his hands.

  “Tristan, dear nephew, there is still time to give this up! I am sure the boys who will be taken to Eire will be well treated in their new homes. Otherwise why demand those well-born, of courtly bearing? They will not be dead!”

  “Do not say so, Uncle,” said Tristan, little deference or respect in his voice in spite of his gentle words. “Even if I am wounded to death it will not matter if I can save fifty boys from servitude. And I do not intend to be wounded to death. You would do better to pray that God will support the right than to try to dissuade me.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he sculled the raft out to the island. When he and his horse had come ashore, he pushed it off, so that it drifted away on the waves.

  Morold looked up from adjusting his charger’s saddle strap. “Why set your raft adrift?” Seabirds circled and called high above them, irritated at men on an islet that was normally theirs alone, and the water foamed white along the black shore.

  “Two men came to this island,” Tristan replied, “but only one will leave alive. Hence only one boat will be necessary.”

  Morold chuckled. “I understand that Rivalin, the champion of Cornwall I defeated many years ago, was your father. I defeated him but did not kill him. Now you are hoping that I will kill you outright?”

  “I am intending to kill you.” And Tristan settled his helmet on his head.

  “I have been a fighter all my life,” Morold said conversationally, “and have killed many men, though I prefer not to do so unless I have to, and I always ask God’s forgiveness afterwards. Perhaps it would be fitting if, after I nearly killed Rivalin a generation ago, his son should kill me. If it happens, you will need God’s forgiveness but you already have mine. Will you in return forgive me if I kill you?”

  “Yes, yes,” Tristan said impatiently, checking the balance on his lance. “But it will not happen.”

  “You seem an excellent young man, if a bit headstrong and overly confident of your abilities,” Morold continued. “I once knew a young man like that myself—and I do not mean your father. Dozens of men have tried to defeat me, but none have yet succeeded. It would be a shame to have to kill you. We can still resolve this by parley.”

  “The only parley to which I will listen,” Tristan shot back, “is your agreement to leave Cornwall without taking any boys away with you—and demanding no more tribute in the future.”

  “That,” said Morold with a frown, “shall never be. The High King of Eire demands that all you heathen kingdoms pay the tribute regularly. The only condition under which I will let you leave this island alive is if King Mark agrees to the tribute of fifty boys.”

  “Then there is no use talking further,” said Tristan. “Prepare yourself for battle!”

  The two quickly mounted and wheeled their chargers around, so that they had the full lengt
h of the islet between them. Then they settled their lances into position, kicked their steeds, and rode at top speed toward each other.

  Everyone on shore held their breath—Mark’s court assembled by the jetty, and the Irish warriors standing a little ways away, by their beached ships. Both horses flew across the stony island, and both riders aimed their lances true. The lances struck full upon the other’s shield and shattered, bits of broken wood flying everywhere.

  Both riders swayed a little but remained in the saddle. They shot past each other, wheeled their steeds around, and whipped out their swords. Then they began to slash at each other, steel ringing on steel, or thudding hollowly against shield.

  Here Morold’s greater height and weight served him well, for he rained down blows on Tristan so heavily and rapidly that the latter could scarcely get in a blow in return. He stayed behind his shield, blocking blow after blow, shifting his horse’s position with his knees as he tried to thrust in return.

  But his thrusts were of little effect, for both his arm and his sword were shorter than Morold’s. Seeing how little danger he was in from Tristan, the champion of Eire swung his shield around to his back, grasped his great sword in both fists, and struck with even greater force and speed.

  Faint in Tristan’s ears were the shouts from the shore—shouts of triumph or of encouragement, but he could not tell from which side. He tried to shrink back behind his shield—and raised it too high. Morold’s sword swung in a mighty arc and struck him on the thigh. Slicing through jamb and chain mail, the blade cut deeply into Tristan’s leg, so that the bright blood flowed. In a second his saddle was slick and red.

  Morold drew back then, as Tristan gasped, wavered, clutched at his wounded leg, and somehow managed to stay ahorse. The pain was so great that it seemed not even part of him, as though it belonged to another person.

  “You fight well, young Tristan!” called Morold and took off his helmet, leaving only the mail coif on his head. His sword he balanced across his knees. “You fight better than your father did, if you find consolation in that. Do you account yourself fairly defeated now?”

  “No!” cried Tristan, although he had to force the words out, feeling as though there was no air in his lungs. “I will never yield to you!”

  Morold shook his head. “I really do prefer not to kill you, and you must now agree that you are in no condition to kill me. And let me warn you of something else. The edge of my blade is poisoned, so even if you still somehow managed to defeat me and get off this island, you would find yourself quickly hastening toward death.”

  “A true knight would not use a poisoned sword!” said Tristan, and it came out much less loudly and firmly than he intended.

  “A fighter who learned his trade among the Moors of Ispania might,” Morold replied grimly. But then he smiled. “As I know poison, I also know the antidote. My sister, Queen Isolde of Eire, is learned in all potions and herbcraft, and she will know how to draw the poison from your wound before rather than after it kills you. Come, Tristan. We two should not be enemies. We both are fighters trying to make a life for ourselves in lands that are not our own. Yield to me, and I swear that I shall take you back to Eire so that Queen Isolde can heal you. You shall live at the royal court with us, a much finer court, I may say, than Tintagel.”

  “And the fifty boys you have demanded as tribute?” gasped Tristan.

  “They will accompany us. For I have defeated you, and I shall certainly not give up what I have rightfully won.” Morold smiled, almost lazily. “Come, Tristan. Do I have your agreement?”

  For answer Tristan spurred his horse with his good leg, and charged straight at Morold. Before the Irish champion could react, Tristan’s horse had struck his opponent’s full in the chest, bowling over both horse and rider. The great broadsword went flying.

  Morold jumped back to his feet at once, snatching up his sword. Tristan, his teeth set against the pain, pulled his good jousting horse back around and charged again.

  But Morold was ready. He swung his sword two-handed at the horse as it came at him, slicing into the foreleg just below the steed’s chain mail. The horse stumbled and gave a great scream of pain. Morold dodged out of the way as the horse went down.

  Tristan managed to jump free just in time, though the pain of landing on his wounded leg was such that for a moment he thought he might black out. When after a few seconds he could see and think again, Morold had found his helmet, where it had rolled away, and was racing back toward his horse.

  In a moment he would be back in the saddle, settling his helmet on his head, able at his ease to ride down Tristan now that he was horseless.

  But Tristan, not having had to chase after the helmet, was closer to Morold’s steed. He staggered toward it, coming up on the other side from the Irish champion. Morold saw him coming and was quicker. He already had his hand, still gripping his sword, up on the saddle’s pommel and was putting his foot into the stirrup on the horse’s left side as Tristan reached the horse’s right.

  And with strength born of desperation and despair, he tossed his shield aside and swung his sword two-handed, straight down onto Morold’s wrist.

  He screamed in agony as the steel cut between his hauberk sleeve and his gauntlet, and his own sword clattered to the ground. His horse plunged forward. Tristan swung again, and this time his sword bit into the mail coif on Morold’s head, nicking the blade.

  Morold went down slowly, blood spurting from both wrist and head. His helmet once again rolled away.

  Tristan, panting hard, jerked his sword free. “Is it time to go home to Eire, Morold? Are you wounded and in need of healing herbs? Will your sister Isolde be able to cure you with her potions? I’m so sorry I won’t be able to accompany you! But I’m sure that Tintagel is a much finer court. When you are home, be sure to tell the king of Eire that God has judged him in the wrong, and that he can demand tribute no more.”

  Morold’s eyes rolled up, and Tristan was not even sure he heard his mocking words. His final blow went into the neck.

  Tristan ripped off the hem of his tabard to tie up the cut in his thigh, which now was burning like fire. But he could not let the Irish see how badly he was wounded. He thought he had just enough strength left to do what he had to do. Leaving both horses, the living and the dying, and the dead man, but taking his shield, he splashed out to Morold’s boat, the cold salt water stinging his wound almost unbearably. He sailed back the short distance to the jetty and stepped ashore, with a determination not to limp.

  King Mark’s court was all cheering for him, but he had only enough energy left for the Irish.

  “You came here to collect tribute,” he said, holding his shield before him so that the bloody wound on his thigh was hidden. He was shaking now, but his voice came out strong if a bit high. “Well, there is tribute over there on the island which we of Cornwall are happy to offer you. Indeed, I am sure that King Mark would be pleased to pay you tribute of this kind whenever you might come here again. So collect what we offer, take it back to the king of Eire, and tell him that whenever he wishes to receive such honors from us again, we will be happy to give them.”

  The Irish gave no answer to his mockery but quickly dragged their boats into the water and went aboard. Tristan sat down at King Mark’s feet, his strength gone, to watch as they stopped briefly at the islet to collect Morold’s lifeless body and his riderless steed.

  Only when their sails were up and the fresh winds leaned the ships toward the waves did he say to Mark, “I’m afraid I notched the sword you gave me on the Irish champion’s mail.”

  PART THREE - Isolde the Blonde

  I

  Tristan’s wound did not heal. It bled little after the first day, but it became infected at once, and the flesh around it was raw and red. On the third day he agreed to let it be cauterized with iron fresh from the flame, and though the pain was so intense he lost consciousness, the wound became infected again almost immediately.

  The efforts of the cas
tle herbalist were useless. Neither draughts given Tristan to drink nor powders sprinkled into the open wound had the slightest effect. Within a week his thigh had begun to stink so badly that few would even visit his chamber, and both his leg below and belly above had taken on a greenish hue.

  King Mark, in distress, sat by Tristan’s bedside, a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. “There are herbalists in the kingdom of Gales, I have heard, who may know other remedies. I shall send for them at once. I hate to see you suffering like this, dearest nephew, even though I am sure that God will soon reward you for all you have done by making you sound again.” He did not believe this last comment, and Tristan knew it.

  “I have a better idea, Uncle,” he said. “While lying here I have been thinking of what Morold told me during our duel. He said that his sister, Queen Isolde of Eire, would know how to draw the poison from my wound. I shall therefore sail to Eire myself.”

  “Not to Eire! After you killed their champion, they would kill you on sight!”

  “At a certain point,” said Tristan, staring at the ceiling, “there is little difference between dying and being killed. Besides, no one will recognize me. The warriors who accompanied Morold remember a vigorous young knight, not someone barely able to walk and stinking with decay. Prepare a skiff for me, Uncle, and I shall leave tomorrow before dawn, going alone so that I shall endanger no one other than myself. Tell those who ask that I have gone to the medical school in Sicilia to seek healing. If I do not return, send word to my foster family in Parmenie that I have always loved them.”

  Although his leg was useless, Tristan’s arms were still strong enough for him to sail the skiff single-handed. Taking only a harp and enough food and water for two weeks, he set off toward Eire, under the brilliant blue sky of late summer. Navigating by the sun and the stars, he came within a week to a mist-wrapped green coast, and headed north for several more days along it. He saw no one during this time, although the gulls drifted, interested, above him. His wound started to seem to him to have a separate existence of its own, and it was with difficulty that he kept himself from talking to it. At last, much weaker than when he had left Cornwall, he came at evening into the harbor of the Irish king.