Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels by Rosalind Miles Page A
Authors: Rosalind Miles
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Scripture.” Dominian’s smoldering eyes sparked into fire. “Our God Himself has commanded, ‘Thou shalt have none other gods before me.’ ”
Jerome shook his white head. “Jesus said, ‘Whatsoever you would have men do unto you, do you likewise unto them.’ And did not He teach us to love one another, even to the smallest child, ‘for of such is the kingdom of God’?” He fixed his blind eyes on Dominian, burning with tears. “You call them pagans. You yourself were reared in the faith of the Mother and were just such a benighted soul when you came to me. You resisted every word of our Christian truth. Should I have put you to death?”
The younger man clenched his fists. Never had he been so at odds with his mentor before. “You oppose this? You do not see the need?”
Jerome laid his hand upon his heart. “Not on God’s earth.”
Dominian felt something tearing in his breast. “You have been too long among these pagans, Father,” he said brutally, winding up his scroll. “They ask in Rome what we are doing here, why we delay the righteous work of God. They say the way to win souls is not through weakness, but through deeds.” He threw a hostile glance around the small whitewashed cell bare of all but a wooden beaker of water and a cross over the door. “But perhaps you’ve withdrawn too far from the world.”
Jerome bowed his head and spread his hands. “What deeds?” he asked in a low voice.
Dominian smiled like a wolf. “The Queen set out for Ireland, weeks ago. But she never reached the port. God willing, she’s been overtaken by outlaws or ravished by some rogue knight. But wherever she is, God has given us time to work on the King.”
He rose from the chair and knelt beside the bed. Taking Jerome’s papery hand, he placed it on his head and noted the old man’s tears beginning afresh.
“Give me your blessing, Father,” he muttered in hot tones. “King Mark is the key to the kingdom now that Isolde has gone. When I have him in my hand, all this land is ours.”
ALREADY THE BRIEF DAY was closing in. The salt mist was rolling mournfully off the sea and the crying of winter-starved birds echoed overhead. Daylight had left the towers of Castle Dore not long after noon, and endless hours of darkness lay ahead. Andred sighed, and set down his wine in deep content. Shallow souls might love the summer or the weak, piping spring. But was there any better time of the year than winter, when life itself ran down to its very roots? When the ghost of the sun struggled each day to be born and died weeping before dark? When lesser men huddled like dumb creatures in their dens and no one saw what sharper men chose to do?
So yes, he could bear the darkness and all that midwinter brought, the long hours of drinking in the knights’ hall with their raucous braying and their lightning brawls, their stupid boasting and the smoke and the stink. He looked around the Great Hall and smiled to himself. He could even bear Mark because Mark was his, the darkness in Mark was his, and he could work with it any way he pleased.
And he had won that right by learning to please Mark. This midwinter feast and the revels he’d arranged now had all been devised to tickle the King’s lightest whim. What did it matter that the older lords were not pleased, Sir Nabon openly dissatisfied, and old Sir Wisbeck and the pompous Sir Quirian frankly at a loss. They all remembered the fine feasts of the past when the whole of the Great Hall became a living bower. When holly and ivy filled the great vault of the roof and the red and white winter berries were everywhere.
But such beauty meant nothing to Mark. He loved to see a blazing yuletide hearth making the air thick with tallow, smoke, and sweat. He wanted to watch his dogs nosing among the rushes and fighting for scraps, and laughed uproariously whenever one of them lifted its leg or added its droppings to the waste on the floor. All he demanded was his favorite wine,
Jerome shook his white head. “Jesus said, ‘Whatsoever you would have men do unto you, do you likewise unto them.’ And did not He teach us to love one another, even to the smallest child, ‘for of such is the kingdom of God’?” He fixed his blind eyes on Dominian, burning with tears. “You call them pagans. You yourself were reared in the faith of the Mother and were just such a benighted soul when you came to me. You resisted every word of our Christian truth. Should I have put you to death?”
The younger man clenched his fists. Never had he been so at odds with his mentor before. “You oppose this? You do not see the need?”
Jerome laid his hand upon his heart. “Not on God’s earth.”
Dominian felt something tearing in his breast. “You have been too long among these pagans, Father,” he said brutally, winding up his scroll. “They ask in Rome what we are doing here, why we delay the righteous work of God. They say the way to win souls is not through weakness, but through deeds.” He threw a hostile glance around the small whitewashed cell bare of all but a wooden beaker of water and a cross over the door. “But perhaps you’ve withdrawn too far from the world.”
Jerome bowed his head and spread his hands. “What deeds?” he asked in a low voice.
Dominian smiled like a wolf. “The Queen set out for Ireland, weeks ago. But she never reached the port. God willing, she’s been overtaken by outlaws or ravished by some rogue knight. But wherever she is, God has given us time to work on the King.”
He rose from the chair and knelt beside the bed. Taking Jerome’s papery hand, he placed it on his head and noted the old man’s tears beginning afresh.
“Give me your blessing, Father,” he muttered in hot tones. “King Mark is the key to the kingdom now that Isolde has gone. When I have him in my hand, all this land is ours.”
ALREADY THE BRIEF DAY was closing in. The salt mist was rolling mournfully off the sea and the crying of winter-starved birds echoed overhead. Daylight had left the towers of Castle Dore not long after noon, and endless hours of darkness lay ahead. Andred sighed, and set down his wine in deep content. Shallow souls might love the summer or the weak, piping spring. But was there any better time of the year than winter, when life itself ran down to its very roots? When the ghost of the sun struggled each day to be born and died weeping before dark? When lesser men huddled like dumb creatures in their dens and no one saw what sharper men chose to do?
So yes, he could bear the darkness and all that midwinter brought, the long hours of drinking in the knights’ hall with their raucous braying and their lightning brawls, their stupid boasting and the smoke and the stink. He looked around the Great Hall and smiled to himself. He could even bear Mark because Mark was his, the darkness in Mark was his, and he could work with it any way he pleased.
And he had won that right by learning to please Mark. This midwinter feast and the revels he’d arranged now had all been devised to tickle the King’s lightest whim. What did it matter that the older lords were not pleased, Sir Nabon openly dissatisfied, and old Sir Wisbeck and the pompous Sir Quirian frankly at a loss. They all remembered the fine feasts of the past when the whole of the Great Hall became a living bower. When holly and ivy filled the great vault of the roof and the red and white winter berries were everywhere.
But such beauty meant nothing to Mark. He loved to see a blazing yuletide hearth making the air thick with tallow, smoke, and sweat. He wanted to watch his dogs nosing among the rushes and fighting for scraps, and laughed uproariously whenever one of them lifted its leg or added its droppings to the waste on the floor. All he demanded was his favorite wine,
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