Ashes of Heaven Read online

  “He is a member of King Mark’s court at Tintagel,” the pilgrim continued. “When we met him he had been separated from his companions during the hunt, but he soon found them again. We ourselves were given hospitality at Tintagel, and we saw him there eating and conversing with the king. He has a lovely voice for singing hymns or love-songs.”

  “Did you notice,” Rual asked, not yet daring to hope, “if he wore a woman’s cameo ring on his littlest finger?”

  “Why, yes!” said the second pilgrim. “I did notice such a ring. I thought it most likely a love-token.”

  “And so it is,” said Rual in delight. He was barely able to suppress a shout of joy. He pulled out a handful of silver coins. “May the Son of the Maid reward you, good fathers. From your cockleshell badges, I gather you are making a pilgrimage to Ispania? Buy yourselves some horses and ride. It is a long way.”

  And he galloped off, to find the nearest harbor from which he might be able to take passage to Cornwall.

  He had given the pilgrims most of his remaining money, so he had to sell his own horse to pay for his passage, and even so he could not find a ship going to Cornwall. But he did find a ship that carried him across the channel, and he set out to walk the final miles. During the days that he walked, along a grass-grown track that followed the highest ridge of the downs, he alternated between hope that he would find Tristan safe with his uncle, and despairing certainty that the young man of whom the pilgrims had told him was someone entirely different, and he would end up in Tintagel without any way even to get home to Parmenie.

  King Mark’s summer festival had just begun when he finally reached Tintagel. Mark’s vassals and bannermen were arriving at court, dressed in their finest, crowned with flowers. Rual, in his stained and worn clothes, weather-beaten and browned from the sun, his hair and beard filthy and matted, felt completely out of place. Would Tristan even recognize him? Would he be ashamed to have to admit to such a father?

  Or might Tristan not be here at all, so his whole trip had been completely in vain?

  A group of beggars gathered by the gates of the castle, hoping for alms. An elderly retainer shuffled out with a platter of food left over from dinner.

  “Excuse me, good sir,” said Rual, “could you tell me if there is a young man, a page perhaps, named Tristan here at court? He is a handsome youth with honey-colored curls, and he has a lovely voice for singing.”

  The retainer looked at him in surprise, for Rual’s cultured voice did not accord with his clothes or hair. “There is a squire named Tristan of that description here at court,” he answered. “He is quite a favorite of King Mark, and he will be knighted by the king at the conclusion of the festival.”

  “I knew him before he came to Cornwall,” said Rual, almost shyly. “Perhaps he would be willing to meet me again.”

  The beggars, having eaten their fill, had moved off. “Come with me,” said the retainer, feeling sympathy for this ragged man—a knight down on his luck, he judged. “The whole court is out at the pavilions in the meadow.”

  “I couldn’t possibly intrude on the festival,” said Rual, almost in panic.

  “Just come with me. I will tell him an old friend wishes to see him.”

  And so the retainer led Rual to the edge of the meadow, and in a few minutes he saw Tristan coming toward him.

  It was Tristan, wearing the same brilliant red that Rivalin had once loved to wear, and with a garland around his neck. Even after hearing that there was a squire here named Tristan, Rual had not dared be certain. “Here is the countryman of yours who said he knew you,” said the retainer.

  Tristan saw him, frowned, and then his eyes grew wide. “Father?” And then he gave a shout of delight, threw his arms around Rual, and lifted him off the ground. “Father! What are you doing here? And what has happened to you?”

  The retainer, smiling, slipped away unnoticed.

  “I came to find you!” said Rual joyously. “When you were abducted, and then there was that great storm, we all feared you were either sold into slavery—or drowned.”

  “Dearest father!” said Tristan, embracing him again. “I would have come home shortly. I have made most excellent friends here in Cornwall. King Mark is almost like a second father to me—or perhaps an older brother. He has promised to knight me in a week’s time! And then he and I together were to sail to Bretagne. Tell me, are my mother and brother well?”

  “They were the last I saw them,” Rual answered, “but I have scarcely seen them more recently than I have seen you. Do not let me disturb your festivities; I know I am too worn and dirty to join in.”

  “Nonsense,” said Tristan with a grin. “How could I send you away, Father? I am so happy to see you!” And he took Rual firmly by the elbow and almost dragged him to the royal pavilion. There King Mark reigned, dressed in bright green and blue—but, as always, wearing a black armband.

  He looked up in surprise to see Tristan arm and arm with what looked like a beggar. “Your majesty,” said Tristan, “the greatest good fortune! This is my father, Rual of Parmenie! He traveled all the way from Bretagne to be sure I had survived storm and shipwreck.”

  Those nearby immediately began whispering among themselves: this must be the courtly merchant of whom they had heard, who had brought Tristan up like a young nobleman. So why did he look like a vagabond?

  “You are most welcome!” said Mark, much too dignified to comment upon the other’s appearance. “I understand you are a merchant of Arromanches?”

  Tristan laughed. “I am sorry to have deceived you, sire! When I first arrived in Tintagel, before I grew to know you, I was afraid to tell you my father’s true identity for fear he might be your enemy. I planned to tell you all before we sailed for Bretagne. But now I am most happy to inform you that my father is a noble knight and lord of the castle of Parmenie.”

  Rual shook his head, smiling. The relief of finding Tristan alive and well, this warm welcome at Cornwall’s royal court after all his weary weeks of searching, made him almost incapable of speech, but he knew that he had news for Mark that would overwhelm him with joy.

  “Not lord of Parmenie,” he said affectionately to Tristan. “I am but the steward, for the heir of Lord Rivalin.”

  Mark had started at the name of Parmenie, and at the name of Rivalin the color went out of his face. “You knew him? Rivalin was my brother-in-law. After his death I did not have the heart to hear more of Parmenie, but I assume he must have had an heir of some sort—a cousin, perhaps?”

  He shook his head and recovered his smile. “But you are surely weary and hungry from your long journey from Bretagne, Lord Rual! Bathe and refresh yourself, and you can tell me more of Parmenie. I believe,” with his head cocked to one side, “you sent me a letter once, but it must have been more than fifteen years ago.”

  The king’s servants took Rual back to the castle, where he was able to wash the grime from his body in a deep tub, have his hair and beard trimmed, and put on fresh clothes. The tunic and cloak laid out for him were of elegant cut and material, and he wondered guiltily if King Mark had ordered his servants to choose something from his own wardrobe.

  Tristan came to find him. “I had not realized that King Mark knew anything of Parmenie,” he said. “Why did you write him a letter, long ago? And imagine, he was Rivalin’s brother-in-law! But, Father, surely Rivalin had no heir, did he? If so, why have we never met him? Won’t Curvenal inherit the castle some day?”

  “You will learn all,” said Rual with a smile. “But now, I hope that the king has spread a fine repast for his guests, for hunting for you has been most hungry work!”

  The soft evening breezes played around the king’s court as they ate and danced. All of them watched the king, Tristan, and Rual, who now looked much more like a noble lord, even if in face and features he was not very like Tristan. They were delighted that Tristan was reunited with his father but wondered how he had come here, and what was the meaning of “Parmenie,” a name they had overhea
rd. Several were quite sure they had heard it before.

  “Now, Father, we have had enough riddles!” said Tristan, when he and Rual and King Mark had eaten and were sitting in the king’s pavilion.

  Rual took a sip of wine. The three all had glasses in their hands. “First of all,” Rual said, “I am not really your father.”

  Tristan’s mouth fell open and he nearly dropped his wine. “Father! I mean— But surely my most excellent mother never—”

  “No, my dear Florete has always been true,” said Rual with a smile. He spoke to Tristan but was watching the king. “But she is not in truth your mother. Your true parents, Tristan, were named Rivalin and Blancheflor.”

  There was a crash. King Mark had dropped his glass.

  IV

  It took much of the evening to tell the whole story: how Mark’s sister had gone back to Bretagne with Rivalin, her beloved, and married him; how she had died bearing Tristan, only three days after Rivalin was killed; and how Rual and Florete had long kept the boy’s identity a secret because they feared Duke Gilan, Rivalin’s old enemy.

  “We always loved you like our own son,” said Rual, “but we knew someday your uncle would want to meet you. God be praised, it has happened even better than we hoped, for King Mark has learned to know you and love you even before he knew you were his nephew.”

  “I thought I recognized that ring!” cried Mark, who had kept silent for most of Rual’s story. “It is one Blancheflor always wore.”

  “She gave it to Rivalin when they were married,” said Rual, “and we gave it to Tristan when he was a boy—even though we never told him why.”

  “I am glad you preserved her memory so faithfully,” said Mark, “for she was the finest woman God ever put on this earth. I have never completely given over mourning for her, and I have long been reluctant to marry, for no woman I have met could be her equal.”

  Tristan, like Mark, had been mostly silent while Rual was speaking, dumbfounded to discover that the people he had always thought were his parents were only his godparents. And he realized at last who King Mark had reminded him of—the king had reminded him of his own reflection.

  At last he said, “This is all very strange. My whole life, I thought you were my father, good sir. Now I discover I had another father, brave Rivalin. But from having two fathers I am now reduced to having none, for I am no longer your son, and Rivalin is dead! I must remember all the stories you told me about him, when I thought only that he was your friend, and consider them anew, knowing that he fathered me.”

  “You will never be fatherless, Tristan,” said Mark, and his eyes were strangely bright in the dim pavilion. “In ancient Cornwall, the legends tell us, the tie between an uncle and his sister’s son was even closer than that between father and son. Stay here in Cornwall with me, and I will always be like a father to you, in memory of my dear sister Blancheflor.”

  Tristan was silent for a moment, then said, “I thank you, dear king and uncle, I thank you with a depth of feeling I cannot express.” He dropped to his knees and kissed the king’s hands. “But my first responsibility is in Bretagne. I must attack Gilan, who killed my father, for his death has gone unavenged far too long.”

  At this Rual became very disturbed. “Tristan, son, do not think of this! There is no need for vengeance. Your father had a hot temper, and he indeed began the quarrel with Gilan, all those years ago, by ravaging his lands in return for an imagined insult. Gilan besieged Parmenie castle in response, but he lifted the siege when Rivalin came home. Rivalin was slain when he himself rode out to bring war to Gilan. It is far too late to say who was most at fault or to speak of vengeance. The duke allowed me to stay in the castle in return for my oaths of allegiance, and though the oaths were bitter in my mouth I knew they were necessary, for they brought us years of peace. The war has been over since you were born; there is no need to reopen the conflict. And, Tristan,” and his voice broke, “I could not bear to lose you again.”

  “Your advice is always wise,” said Tristan, but he spoke a bit distantly. While King Mark pressed Rual to give him details of Blancheflor’s one winter as lady of Parmenie, and Rual assured him that during her brief time with them everyone had learned to love her beauty, grace, and modesty, Tristan sat brooding, occasionally frowning or turning a word over silently on his tongue, and once clenching his fist before him.

  At last he said, interrupting an account of Blancheflor’s industry in making little clothes for her future son, “We should keep to the plan we had, your majesty. As soon as I am knighted, we should sail for Bretagne.”

  Tristan was knighted a week later, at the close of the summer festival. He and a half dozen other squires spent the night before in the castle chapel, praying that they might always use their strength to help the weak and defenseless. In the morning they took off their old clothes, bathed, and put on new garments of pure white linen. Pages led them out into the meadow.

  There, before all his court, all his vassals and bannermen and Lord Rual, King Mark knighted Tristan: he buckled on a sword belt with a newly forged, exquisitely sharp blade; fastened on his spurs; and gave him a new shield, emblazoned with the arms of Cornwall.

  Then the king kissed his nephew on both cheeks and, before all the nobles of the land, he said, “Behold Tristan, a lordly knight! Always remember, the sword here at your side is consecrated to God’s service. Be proud with the haughty, but merciful to the meek. Always show generosity and loyalty to those around you. Be truthful and straightforward in all your dealings. Remember the glory and honor that is knighthood, and shape your life to observe that honor. And always, in whatever you do, love all ladies and respect them.”

  Everyone cheered to see Tristan standing there in the strength of young manhood, the sun shining golden on his hair, and his uncle beside him, not yet old himself, his back unbowed and his hair untouched with silver. Rual stood quietly to one side, his eyes moist, to see the boy he had loved like a son knighted by such a king.

  Then Tristan himself buckled on the swords and fastened the spurs of the squires who were becoming knights with him. All were anxious to begin the bohort, and several started toward their tents, to remove the white robes of their knighting and put on bright colors.

  But King Mark stopped them. “My people,” he called, “on this glorious occasion, I wish to tell of a decision I have made!”

  Those who had started off turned back quickly. Mark rarely announced momentous decisions. Whispers ran through the crowd as a number noticed that he was not wearing his black armband for the first time since any of them could remember.

  Mark spoke above the whispers. “My people, I have determined to make Tristan my heir! You see him here, my nephew, son of my late and dearly beloved sister Blancheflor, and I know that you have all come to love him as I do. I wish him to live here with me always in Tintagel, never lacking in wealth, for all that is mine in Cornwall is his!”

  The cheering burst out again, even louder. Tristan, smiling a bit bashfully, took off his cap and waved it to the crowd. This was, he thought, the most glorious moment of his life. His highest ambition until a very short time ago had been to be the chief courtier at his older brother’s castle. Just a few weeks ago, he had been abducted and feared he might soon become a slave in an infidel land. Instead he had discovered that he was not the younger son of Breton lord, but rather heir to a rich kingdom. Today he was a knight, and no one would defeat him in the bohort.

  All he now lacked was a woman to love.

  King Mark, as it turned out, did not accompany them back to Bretagne. “Now that you know your true identity,” he told Tristan, “I am sure there will be much you need to attend to.” They were seated in the solar at the top of the castle, where Blancheflor had once sat with her ladies, looking out across the treetops toward the harbor. “It may take you months to settle your affairs, not the few weeks we had spoken of for a trip. And I need to be here in late summer in case— Well, I need to be here.”

  “W
hat is happening then?” Tristan asked.

  “Probably nothing,” said Mark airily. “Probably nothing at all. When you are home in Parmenie and take up your rightful lordship, do not forget Cornwall. For you are my heir. I will not marry or have children except with your consent. I always told those who urged me to marry and to father an heir that I had never found a woman the equal of my sister Blancheflor. Indeed I never wished to have a lesser woman the mistress of Tintagel. But now in you I have something of my dear sister beside me again. Even if it is another year until you return, do not forget that this is your home.”

  V

  Tristan’s homecoming was glorious. Florete and Curvenal were overjoyed to have him and Rual back again, safe and sound. Rual immediately made him take his place in the great hall as true lord of the castle.

  Florete was delighted to hear that fate had taken Tristan to his uncle’s kingdom, and that he had come home a knight. But she said, “I had hoped to keep you with us a few more years, Tristan. A little castle like Parmenie will hold small appeal now that you know you have a kingdom waiting for you.”

  Curvenal was at first disbelieving, then irritated, then extremely proud of his younger brother. “So you didn’t know either,” he said to Tristan with a laugh. “Our parents kept their secrets well! I’m almost wondering if they’re about to tell me that I’m the son of the queen of Ispania!”

  Rual summoned all the lords of the manors around Parmenie, and when they had assembled he told them Tristan’s true identity: son of Rivalin and rightful lord of the castle. All gave Tristan their oaths of allegiance and received their lands from his hand in fief, many telling him that they had known it all along, that even as a boy he had looked like his father. He heard enough stories of Rivalin’s exploits and courage to keep him thinking for a long time.

  When the knights and manorial lords had gone home again, well fed and singing the new songs that Tristan had brought back from Cornwall, he said to Rual, “It is good to have the oaths of the men of the castellany of Parmenie, but I have never given my own oath of allegiance to my liege lord.”