Chapter 3-Weddings and Lies

Isuelt stood in her room, admiring the dress that had been made for her wedding to Marc. It was a light blue color with a twelve-inch train. Little sapphire beads were sewn on the bodice in the design of a blooming rose. Around her neck she wore a necklace with sapphire jewels and on her head she wore a silver circlet imbedded with little sapphires. Her hair was free of any hairstyle and she wore a simple, light blue veil over top of it. She had dismissed Hannah and the three other handmaidens that had been assigned to her when she arrived a few minutes before. If only this dress were for her wedding to Tristan, not to Marc. He was a good man, that she could tell, but he was foolish when it came to funds and his people were poorly ruled. A soft knock came on the door and Tristan and Hodain walked in. He was wearing brown breeches and a light green tunic and he was carrying a bow in his hand.

“You look beautiful,” he commented.

“Thank you. Are you not going to the wedding?”

“No. I sent a message to my uncle earlier telling him that I was not feeling well this morning and that I would not be able to make it to the wedding.”

“What are you doing then?”

“Going hunting. It is the one thing that gives me peace these days.”

“Well, good hunting then.”

“Isuelt, after this day-”

She put her finger to his lips. “Shh. Do not tell me now. Tell me when you return from your hunt.”

He nodded and then walked from the room. A single tear ran down her cheek at the prospect of loosing Tristan forever once her vows were said.

 

 

Tristan put the hood up on his cloak and then thundered out of the palace, Hodain running alongside his black mare. He was sure the guards would not notice a single man leaving the palace and heading to the woods beyond. It happened more than often with the king’s hunters. Furry was eating away at his soul but he also knew that he could not continue his secret affair with Isuelt after she had sworn to love Marc and only Marc until death did they part. When he came to the edge of the woods, he pulled Eshtaol to a stop and dismounted. He took his quiver off his saddle and attached it to his back. Then he fit an arrow to his string and began walking quietly through the forest with Hodain searching for scents. He did not really want to kill anything but he knew that just searching out his quarry would calm his nerves. They wandered around the forest for a good two hours before he gave up his search and headed back to where he had tethered Eshtaol. The sun was well past set by the time he returned to the palace and, just as he had hoped, Marc had already returned to his chambers with his new bride. He gave his horse to one of the pageboys and then headed to his own chambers. Matthew, his manservant, who Tristan had made swear that he would not let anyone in to see him as he was “sick” and did not wish for any visitors, met him. He told Tristan that he had stayed in the room all day and when some guests for the wedding came to visit him, he had placed his own son in Tristan’s bed and told them, after letting them see that “Tristan” was in bed and was not permitting anyone to see him.

“Thank you, Matthew, you have been most kind today.”

“I would do anything for you, My Lord.” 

“And for that I am most grateful. Where’s Isaac?” he asked, referring to his second manservant.

“I guess he is still cleaning up from the wedding and the feast. Will you be sick tomorrow?”

“Just for awhile. Go and fetch Isaac for me.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Matthew bowed and walked out of the room.

Tristan sat down on his bed, took off his tunic and boots, and then pulled the covers back incase he got any unexpected visitors while Matthew was away. All too soon there came a knock on the door so Tristan shoved his tunic and boots under the bed and then laid down and pulled the covers up to his chin. The door opened and he closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep.

“Tristan?” came a hesitant female voice. He wanted to open his eyes and see who it was but he stopped himself. “You’re still asleep then.”

He heard whomever it was sit down in the chair Matthew had placed next to the bed and then sound of water being rung out of a cloth. Then he felt the cool cloth touch his head and he started a little.

“It’s all right.” The voice was soft and calm.

He heard the door open and then the footsteps of two more people. Who else was going to come and visit him?

“Olivia, come. The boy needs his rest. He is very ill,” came a strong male voice.

“I am sorry, father. My curiosity for whom this Tristan boy was that everyone speaks so highly of plagued me and I just had to see him for myself.”

“Well now you have seen. Let us not trouble the family of De Cornwall and De Lyoness anymore. The horses are ready to go.”

“But why must we leave so late at night?”

“It is a long way to the docks.”

“Must we spend another three months on one of those things?”

“It would take twice as long by land. Now come along.”

“Yes father.” She put the cloth down on the table by his bed and then walked out.

When he finally he heard the door shut, he breathed a sigh of relief and sat up, wiping the water from his head. He waited about another fifteen minutes before Matthew returned with Isaac. “I want the two of you to stay in here tonight. It is necessary.”

“Yes, My Lord,” they said as the bowed.

“Isaac, who of the guests had the name Olivia?”

“Quite a few of them. Why?”

“How many of them were young girls, perhaps younger than me?”

“Two. Again, why?”

“Who are their parents?”

“The first Olivia is the daughter of Baron and Baroness De Winfield of Briton. She is thirteen years old. The second is her third cousin. She is the daughter of Duke and Duchess De Bigot of Briton. She is twelve years old.”

“Which is the more curious?”

“That would be De Bigot’s daughter.”

“Thank you, Isaac. Did the wedding go well?”

“Yes. Some say that the Lady Isuelt cried through the entirety of the ceremony.”

Tristan looked down at his feet. “You both may retire now. I am sure I will not need of your services again until dawn.”

The two bowed to him again and then left to go to their beds in an adjacent room. Tristan moved across the room and gazed out his window that overlooked the courtyard. The Family De Bigot was riding swiftly out of the courtyard. Olivia’s cloak was flying out behind her and she was riding astride but what Tristan noticed more than anything about her was her long, sable hair. 

 

*          *          *

 

“Are you feeling better, my nephew?” Tristan heard his uncle ask as he woke up.

He rubbed his head. “Hardly.” He looked over and saw Isuelt standing next to Marc.

“Here,” she said as she leaned down, pressed her smooth cheek on his forehead and held it there, pretending to be checking on the temperature of his body.

“Meet me in the garden two hours after noon,” he whispered in her ear.

She lifted her head and said, “A few more hours of rest and your fever should go down enough for you to take short walks outside. Sleep well, sweet nephew.”

“That is good news, is it not? I will have Matthew bring you up some-”

“I already sent him. Thank you, Uncle.” He had not really but he knew he would end up eating something he did not want if Marc sent Matthew.

“Well, we’re going for a ride and I wish you could come along but, alas, you are ill. Perhaps you come another time.” He took Isuelt by the hand and began walking from the room. “Sleep well, my nephew,” he said and then closed the heavy oak door.

Tristan shot up in bed and screamed. Not having Isuelt just to himself anymore was frustrating and he wished to God that they were still on that ship, far out at sea and far away from Marc. Severely vexed, he got out of bed and began pacing the length of the room. He glanced at his journal and moved over to it. He sat down and flung the book open to his previous entry before they had put into port. He stabbed his quill into the inkbottle and began writing.

“Yesterday, my sweet Isuelt was stolen from me completely. She married my uncle as was intended but I did not attend. Instead, I told my uncle that I was suffering from a fever, which was the worst and best thing I could do at the time. But now I am confined to my room for a considerable amount of time to make my ‘fever’ convincible. But now I must tell Isuelt that we cannot continue on with our secret affair for I will not have her break her marriage vows to Marc for me. No, I would not.”

He shut the book and sighed. Then he returned to his bed to “sleep well” as his aunt and uncle had suggested.

 

*          *          *

 

The gardens in Cornwall Palace exceeded many a garden around the world. At the entrance of the garden stood two massive maple trees with their branches reaching up toward the heavens. Around their trunks grew snow plants and shooting stars. Once inside the garden, one lost track of all the different plants and flowers. Those that stuck in Tristan’s memory were the poppies, the tiger lilies, the lady slipper, the ferns, and most of all, the roses. Blancheflor had told Tristan that roses were his mother’s, Rivalen, favorite of all the flowers at Lyoness. Tristan walked through the garden, pretending to be wearing and squinting at the sun’s light. Matthew followed close behind, keeping a close eye on his master. When they came to the place where the ginkgo trees grew, Tristan turned to face Matthew. “Wait here for me.” The man nodded and then sank back into the trees. Tristan then continued to amble around the garden, nodding a greeting to those he met. Finally, he made it to the center where a four hundred-year-old willow tree stood. And under this tree stood Isuelt wearing a dress of red linen. Taking a deep breath, he walked up to her.

She flung herself at him and embraced him. “Oh Tristan, I am terribly miserably!”

“Come now. Uncle Marc is not all that bad.” He freed her from his hold.

“Oh, but he is! I have yet to smile here. How I wish I could return to Ireland!”

“Isuelt, listen to me. All will be fine in the end. The Queen of Cornwall must not let her people see that she is unhappy for they will to you for good counsel and happiness.”

“I have already heard this from my husband.” She cupped his face in her hands. “But all I want to be is with you. Only than can I be truly happy.”

 Tristan removed her hands from his face. “Isuelt, listen to me. You know that I feel for you as strongly as you do for me, but this cannot continue. I cannot and will not let you break your vows to Marc. Yes, he has treated me with the least amount of fairness that he could for he has used my skill to his advantage but I do not have the heart to do the same to him. For as the Holy Book says, ‘Revenge is mine, sayeth the Lord’ and I cannot disobey God. It would be against my Christianity. Therefore, we cannot continue this for it would be for me to apply revenge upon my uncle which I do not wish to do.”

“But why, why can we not just run away? I-I would rather have it that way then any other.” Tears were beginning to flow down her face.

“Isuelt, we cannot. If we were caught, we would both be accused of adultery, which is also a great sin. Do you not see this?”

“But I love you, Tristan, and only you. I never loved Marhaus, for he was my uncle and only wed me to gain the throne. I do not love your uncle either. I just feel like another tool or another jewel that is kept locked in a box until it is time for it to be shown off. I do not want that!”

“I am sorry, Isuelt. There is nothing more for us. I have to think of my kingdom. If I am caught, then I would loose my throne and my people do not need a lifetime under Marc and his heirs.”

She looked away from him for a moment and then turned back. “Do one final thing for me?”

“Anything.”

She pulled him toward her and then kissed him one last time. But before they could pull away from each other, they heard Marc’s horrified voice not thirty feet away from them. “What is the meaning of this?”

Tristan pulled away from her but made no attempt to run away. He knew his uncle would learn soon enough for the priest’s words from mass a few day before still rang in his head: “Be sure your sin shall find you out.” He looked Marc straight in the eye. “I am sorry, Uncle.”

“Sorry! You’re with my wife and all you have to say is ‘Sorry?’ Well, I will teach you the meaning of your words!” He grabbed Tristan by the arm and began pulling him out of the gardens.

“MARC! NO! PLEASE!” Isuelt screamed as she ran after him.

He turned on her so quickly that she jumped back half a step. “Silence, woman! I will deal with you later!” He pulled on Tristan’s arm again, leader him father and farther away.

A thousand thoughts ran through Tristan’s head as he tried to keep pace with his vehement uncle. I deserve this. Whatever it is he plans to do, I deserve it. They entered the courtyard.

“Hail, Marc!” he heard a man yell. “How fares thy bride?”

“Not now. I must speak with my nephew,” he called back as he quickened his pace.

They entered a roughly hewn door and Tristan suddenly knew where they were going. They descended down a spiral staircase that was lit by sputtering lanterns. One ember flew and hit Tristan in the face, burning him. He ignored it as he tripped on the last stair and fell face first causing his nose to break and bleed. Marc pulled him roughly to his feet and began calling out for Alexander, the jailer. The man appeared a moment later, each of his bulging muscles accentuated by the flickering light. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“I need you to perform a lashing.”

“On whom?”

“Tristan.”

“The butcher? Did he give you some bad meat?”

“No, you fool, that Tristan,” he said, pointing to his nephew who was trying hard to stop the bleeding in his nose.

“What did the lad ever do to you?”

“It is no concern of yours! Just do it!”

“Yes, Your Highness. When shall I call the people together?”

“You shall not. This is not to be a public punishment.”

“How many lashes then?”

“Thirty-two.”

Alexander nodded and the pulled Tristan over to him. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”

Satisfied, Marc walked out to go and collect his wife to punish her as he deemed. Tristan followed Alexander to a place where cuffs hung on the wall. He placed his hands in them then he cut Tristan’s tunic off and threw it to the ground. “Where is your dog?” he asked, noticing that the animal was not with his master.

“I left him in my chambers.”

“It is for the best, I suppose.” Alexander selected a small whip he used to punish children who had been caught stealing and then said, “Brace yourself, lad.”

Tristan heard a snap and then felt the whip cut his flesh. He groaned but made no other reaction. He was used to pain. Again, the whip bit into his flesh. Two, he thought. All the time his mind screamed, You deserve this! He fought with himself, trying not to mentally abuse himself but the voices wouldn’t go away. Then, as the whip struck for the twentieth time and the blood began to flow like water down his back, he felt himself going limp and then he remembered no more.