A Winter's Tale

[Banquo's Ghost]

Thank you Ludens, for your views. I have a reader!

I trust that Chapter Seven will provide you with some further insight into both Siobhan and MaolColm's plans.


A Winter's Tale: Chapter Seven

Siobhan came out into the clear morning air and relished the taste of salt in the breeze. The day had dawned in glorious majesty and a pure, unblemished sky stretched from horizon to hill-crest. The winds had shifted during the night, so the sea-breeze was light and warm, tantalising with a tang of salt.

The fresh smell of the new day helped flush away the stale fumes of Gospadruig's hut from her lungs. It was still early when she had rapped on his door and the fool had not recovered himself from the befuddlement of the night. His habitual lethargy irritated Siobhan to irrationality, but she needed him to be about her business, as other matters would hold her attention this morning. Now that she had planted the seed in the fertile muck of his mind, she could refresh herself in the diamond air and watch.

Enjoying the inspiration of the morning, she leapt gracefully out of the ditch. She stretched languidly like a cat newly let out, and then ran across the grass, jumping over the intervening trenches, exhilarating in her athleticism. She wrapped herself in the feeling of movement, of exertion, of control. Too quickly, she was at her destination and she relaxed, padding down the flagstone stairs with precise steps. She knocked on the thick, forbidding door.

Brangain opened the heavy wood, her long brown hair brushed and beaded having been awake for several hours. She was quizzical and slightly defensive, but her voice held respect and courtesy. Altogether a valuable servant, thought Siobhan, and thus someone to be taken into account.

"I am here to see Princess Iseult," said Siobhan, letting her expression twinkle with friendship. "I thought we might go for a ride, clear out the cobwebs."

Brangain showed little surprise, but her brow creased in a tiny gesture of indecision. "Please come in."

Siobhan entered the hut and glanced at the cluttered interior. Bags and boxes were still packed and piled in carefree collections, with no apparent organisation. Several had been pulled rudely from under their fellows testifying to chaotic attempts to discover their contents. It was understandable. The real unpacking would be done tomorrow, after Iseult had moved into her new husband's house.

The princess herself was sitting on the smartly made bed, wrapped in a loose gown, not yet dressed for her wedding day. She drew a comb through her long hair and strands of the fine-spun gold lifted to float freely in the fierce shaft of sunlight piercing the roof. The hair drifted lazily like the flickering trails of falling stars. As she saw Siobhan enter, she put the comb down and stood up.

"I hope you won't mind the intrusion, Iseult," said Siobhan, smiling, "but I fancied taking a brisk ride to enjoy the morning, and the thought occurred that we could get to know each other better. Would you like to join me?"

Iseult looked at her, an odd expression on her face. "Where are you going?"

"Just down to the sea, by the cliffs. Not too far, because I have to be somewhere this afternoon." Siobhan tilted her head in a familiar bird-like affectation.

Iseult smiled. "I would love to. I'm so glad that I don't have to stay locked up here all day." She unbelted her robe. "Brangain, fetch me my riding leathers."

Waiting for the princess to change, Siobhan studied the interior of the hut more carefully, looking for anything that might be out of the ordinary. The baggage was in such a jumble that it was difficult to distinguish anything and she soon gave up the search. Turning back to Iseult, she saw her tying the last laces on her jacket. The maidservant was picking up a cloak of her own from the wall hook.

"Lady Brangain," she said, "would it not be best for you to stay here and get things ready without interference? We're just going to have a sisterly chat."

Brangain smiled with pride at the mistake. "Thank you, princess, but for sure I'm not of any blood. And if I might, I could do with some time to get set."

"Of course, Brangain," nodded Iseult. "We won't be long."

So, thought Siobhan curiously, it is true that the girl fancies herself more noble. A useful notion, for what flattered usually shone light on the soul, and the possession of Brangain's soul might prove useful.

"Let's be away then," said Iseult, standing already by the door. Siobhan followed her out into the sunshine.

"The horses are over there," she said, pointing over to the monolith that stood between the village and the hill track. A servant held the animals gently as they approached.

Iseult mounted and waited for Siobhan to dismiss the lad and join her, flicking her hair in the caressing breeze like an eagle impatient to fly. Prodding her horse forward, Siobhan pointed down the sweep of the hill where the track wound towards the harbour.

"Just beyond that spur is a long stretch of sand. It's a fine gallop through the surf."

Iseult shifted in her saddle, anticipating the ride. "Sounds wonderful, Siobhan." She paused for a long moment. "You know, I'm glad you came today. It's been a long time since I had a sister."

Siobhan smiled tenderly, disguising the thought in her heart. She said, "We are to be sisters, Iseult, I insist. This can be a wretchedly small island with the only men worth talking to being Tristan and Coinneach. We have a lot to share."

"It's odd, but after the things Tristan told me you were the one person I really wanted to get to know. I was quite taken aback when I first saw you at the stone."

Siobhan laughed. "Tristan says a lot of things that mislead. I was unsure of you too. You might have been a threat."

"To whom?"

"To our whole way of life." Siobhan carefully manoeuvred her horse down a steep incline. The low waves crashed onto a pale strip of sand sweeping into the distance, far yet but enticing. The horses nodded their heads vigorously, sniffing the salt air with wide nostrils and eager anticipation. "The Dalriadans have taken advantage of Cruithne custom for a long time in the south. Coinneach's vulnerable, especially with this new Christianity. I want to see a Pict hold the chieftainship of Orcade, not the creeping Irish."

Iseult shook her tresses in the fiercer breeze, luxuriating in the tang of the salt. "That sounds like we should be enemies. Why then, do you want to be my friend?"

"I know that you're here under protest, Iseult. That's one thing. And I've perhaps there's more to you than meets the eye. Tristan sings your praises all the time. He says that you'd never hurt or betray Coinneach, and I believe that."

"Thank you." Iseult watched her horse's hooves dig a pattern in the soft sand. "You keep calling him Coinneach," she said after a little while. "You don't approve of his conversion?"

Siobhan snorted. "Of course not. It makes us weak."

"How so? Faith has always made me strong."

"Has it? Perhaps for you, grown in it. But Coinneach no longer raids the rich lands of Caledon because he has been told it's a sin. He no longer rules the clansmen with the necessary harshness, because he must be merciful. He reels with guilt because the Christ killed his wife for his persecution of the Church. He is barely a king, and the warriors of Orcade are no longer whispered of with fear because to be ourselves once more would mean the punishment of Hell." She spat the last word. "No-one owns my soul, and rather than give it up I will send your Christ to his own Hell."

Realising that Iseult was staring at her with an expression little short of shock, she smiled sweetly. "I get passionate about Coinneach's failures."

Iseult shrugged. "I don't see them as failures. But then I hardly know anything of the islands. But you can be proud and Christian, like my father. Perhaps I can help Mark to show you that."

"Perhaps." Suddenly, Siobhan spurred her horse into a furious gallop, charging toward the breaking surf and ploughing into the water, sending up a curtain of spray. She plunged through the sea, bounding through and over the wave crests, splashing like a centaur into the distance.

Caught by her companion's mood and eager to join her, Iseult galloped into the bright water after Siobhan, whooping and laughing with delight. The two girls raced through the swirling waves together, thrilling in the freedom and effort.

A while later, soaked through with sea foam and enjoyment, they led their horses to a flat rock near the sea and lay down to dry a little in the strong sun.

"You're very fond of Tristan," said Iseult after a long while simply enjoying the silken touch of the sunshine. "Why did you give him up?"

Siobhan propped herself up on her elbow. "I haven't."

Iseult opened her eyes and rolled her head to meet the frustratingly closed gaze. "He seems to think that you have."

"I had no idea that you and he were so close. In my experience, Tristan is a very closed book."

Iseult closed her eyes again, fearing that perhaps her soul was much too visible. "I have had no-one else to talk to since I left Erin. He has become my friend. But I was guessing; for a while he seemed attracted to my maidservant Brangain, so I simply assumed you and he were no longer involved."

Siobhan laid back on the warm rock. "Tristan is an unusual man, Iseult. He hides what he feels in reality, but gives a convincing display of understanding feelings. He is too kind to be real." She let her head loll gently to one side so that she could see Iseult's face. "Nonetheless, he is an exhilarating lover."

Iseult’s heart flinched, and then in the same instant she caught herself and turned her upset into feigned shock, sitting up and covering her mouth with a hand. "You mean, you and he...?"

Siobhan cocked her head, put on the wrong foot by such an extreme reaction. "Yes, of course."

Iseult gasped behind her hand. "But you're not married. How could you?"

Siobhan sat up and looked at her companion with a complete lack of comprehension. Then an understanding began to dawn. She relaxed and began to laugh to herself, shaking her head. "I told you, Iseult, I'm not a Christian. It doesn't matter to me." She stood up and stretched languidly. "You people have such double standards. Your Church ignores a man's indiscretion but a woman is some foul, sinful thing if she's not an innocent virgin on her wedding night. Do you have any idea how many women your husband-to-be has been with, and that's not counting the rapes on raids?" Siobhan's face softened from its mocking sneer when she looked at Iseult and saw her look of distress. "I'm sorry, Iseult. It's just that Coinneach won't be able to tell whether you're a virgin or a sheep. I wish you had known a real lover before you spend your life in his bed."

Iseult stared at the waves, hoping the subject could be changed, relieved that her misdirection had worked. She hated the very thought that Tristan had been with this woman, yet it felt curiously far off, as if it had happened in another lifetime. As the silence drew out, she decided to turn the conversation back onto Siobhan.

"So," she said at length, "why haven't you married? Surely your son would have a good chance of becoming king?"

Siobhan stiffened and her face fell into a bitter tightness. "Perhaps," she snapped.

"I'm sorry." Iseult looked to the sky, pleading for some inspiration. She did not want to continue and ask further because of the quiet venom underlying Siobhan's clipped statement. "We should be getting back."

Siobhan let her tension fall out into a long smile. She held out her hand. "Yes, we should. I'm sorry too. I haven't talked to anyone like this for years. I'm out of practise. I don't want to offend you."

Iseult relaxed as she rose and returned the smile. "Don't worry. I like honesty even if it hurts a little." She climbed down from the rock, jumping carefully to the soft sand, evading a clutching wave.

Siobhan watched her with a smile as thin as winter sun on a coffin lid. The golden-haired girl climbed into the saddle and sat waiting, breathing the air deep into her lungs and luxuriating in the feel of her hair blowing in the wind. Honest people, she reflected as she clambered quickly down to join Iseult, are so much easier to deal with.

***

Brother MaolColm sighed deeply as he saw yet another misplaced candlestick. He trotted over to the altar and arranged it properly, standing back to admire the beginning of the end of this wedding preparation. Proud of his efforts, he allowed himself a long appreciation of the ambience he was creating for this royal occasion, the culmination of his mission here. He could hear the breaking sea far below the wide, colourful window on which he had painstakingly painted a representation of Moses bringing down the Commandments. That window spread light throughout his chapel, now the most visible symbol of what he had achieved here amongst the violent pagan. Much more though, the marriage between Mark and the beautiful Christian Iseult would cement the faith forever in these important islands. He would finally have tamed the Wolf of the north and brought him docile to lie at the divine feet of the Lord.

A metallic clang brought him out of his reverie, and he half-turned to see MacDubhgall with a comical look of apology on his face, the long, gold crucifix he held still vibrating with the force of its collision with a stone pillar. MaolColm tutted and waved the big man over in his direction. "Carefully, Dubhgall, carefully."

A movement caught his eye as MacDubhgall stepped past him to the altar, and he watched impassively as Prince Tristan incarnated from the blinding rectangle of sunlight thrown through the chapel doors. The prince was dressed in his full finery, crimson leather from Iberia, aureate silk from Constantinople, a finely woven cloak from Brittany and precious jewellery crafted by the goldsmiths of half a dozen exotic lands. Framed by the halo of noon-light, he looked like a messenger from God, as if the archangel Michael had rested a while from his wars against Satan. MaolColm's lip curled at the unbidden image, knowing this man to be far from an archangel's piety.

Nonetheless, for the moment he was tanaiste and thus important to the future life of the Church – at least for now. MaolColm strode down the aisle, arms outstretched in greeting. "Tristan, come in, come in. Ach, man, you're dressed finer than the king himself."

Tristan smiled and clasped the priest's hand warmly. "You flatter me, MaolColm. I have just come from the king and I am a beggar by comparison." He walked further into the chapel. "Mark wanted me to check that you had everything ready." He waved to Dubhgall, still struggling to slot the crucifix in it's holder.

"Those are beautiful," continued Tristan, pointing at the tall candlesticks of knotted gold that lined the back of the altar. "I don't remember those being here before."

MaolColm swelled with pride. "The king bought them from some Norse raiders while you were away. They are from Kent."

"Of course. I had forgotten how generous the English Church has been to us."

MaolColm's face dropped as he caught the barb of Tristan's words. He narrowed his eyes. "I refuse to justify myself to you, Tristan."

The prince laughed. "I'm not surprised. You haven't been able to, as yet. A good priest is always able to justify any action, MaolColm. Otherwise you might encourage your flock to think instead of bleat in tune with your hymns."

The priest felt anger rise into his throat like bile. "You're a damned heretic, Tristan ap Cystennin, and your thoughts are blasphemous. If I had my way, you'd be banned from this church of God."

"Unfortunately for you, my friend, God doesn't agree with you. Och, MaolColm, why don't you unbend a little? You're an intelligent man. Just read your gospels again and see if I'm not right."

MaolColm grunted. "I know the Word as well as you. Both Ephesus and the Council of Orange have confirmed your doctrines as heresy. The Church must have structure. Your ideas don't give anyone a lead."

"You put leads on dogs, MaolColm, not men."

"And what's more, I will not have you infect Princess Iseult with your barbarous heresies. Your attentions are already tainting her and I won't have it."

Tristan looked at him levelly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that your disregard of rules leaves you unaware of the bounds of decency. I have ears, you know."

"If you have an accusation to make, brother, then make it."

Even though Tristan's voice was still calm and light, something in the tone caused MaolColm to step back. "It is not me who makes it. I am merely warning you that such things are being said. A good Christian would not have got himself into a position where the pot could hold water."

Tristan sighed. "Who said what, MaolColm?"

"Gospadruig, this morning. He brought some water up to the chapel, and well, mentioned that you and the princess had been rather familiar at the feast last night, and that you spend a lot of time in her company. He said that people are talking."

Tristan sat down on the nearest of the stone benches. "MaolColm, are you a complete fool? Iseult and I have come to know each other as friends, and Mark has ordered me to be friendly with her to make her feel more at home. Gospadruig is a tattle-tale and makes life up as he goes along. Think man, about what you're saying. That I would put at risk everything I have here, and quite possibly embroil us in a bitter war with the High King of Erin. Iseult is like my sister, and will be just that in everyone's eyes after today."

"Nonetheless, I think you should see less of her."

"And disobey the king? Are you inciting me to insult his wife?"

"Well, no, but..."

"'No, but' is right, MaolColm. There are no buts when it comes to the king. I suggest you give less credence to lies and stories and devote a little more time to Iseult's spiritual happiness so it doesn't fall to me to be her only friend. Or doesn't the Church care for people far from home?"

MaolColm stayed silent, staring at Tristan's calm face to see if just once, he could find something in this damnable family's eyes.

"If you ask me," boomed Dubhgall from across the nave, "and you didn't, I'd give the same weight to Gospadruig's little story as I gave that one he put around last year about you and my eldest daughter."

MaolColm started and stuttered, "But Dubhgall, you know that was a lie."

Dubhgall shrugged. "Of course. I asked her and I trust her to tell the truth. But if I had believed Gospadruig without checking first..." The consequences were left unsaid but clearer than the summer sky outside.

MaolColm nodded quickly. "I see what you mean. But I have only your best interests at heart, Tristan. Rumours can do a man damage."

"Yes, they can." Tristan let his eyes hold the priest's for a long time, underlining Dubhgall's words. Suddenly, he sprang up, and grinned. "No matter. I'm glad to see that your holy concern extends even to heretics. If you will excuse us, MaolColm, I need Dubhgall with me to attend the king. I will see you later this afternoon."

MaolColm bowed and watched the two warriors leave the church. Shaking his head, he went back to the altar to prepare for the ceremony now only a few hours away.

***

Mark stared at a tiny cloud that hung alone in the wide expanse of blue above his head, deliberately avoiding looking at the procession that was winding its way up the steep hill towards the chapel. He shifted his feet impatiently, caught suddenly between a wish that this was already over with and the desire that it might not happen at all. Searching for a little support, he glared malevolently into the darker confines of the little church, hoping to catch MaolColm's eye. Though he could see movement and shadows, his eyes could not pierce the brightness of the summer around him and so he could not discern anyone's identity. He ground his teeth and bit hard into the inside of his lip.

Unwillingly, he cast his gaze down. Still far below, the line of people and horses made steady, slow progress toward him. He could see the princess sat rigid and proud on her horse, being led to his side by her maidservant. The women of his clan scattered around her, singing and laughing, enticing the good spirits to celebrate with them. Iseult's face was impassive and slightly stern, as if she had set herself to bear this pagan preamble. Once again he felt sorry for her, out of place, far from her home and her own customs. He could not deny the ancient traditions their place here or half his people would condemn the marriage. He both old and new held him but the past still had the stronger grip on him.

A scuffed footfall behind him drew his attention and he smiled as he saw Tristan emerge from the chapel hefting a polished sickle. The prince came over to him and waved the implement airily.

"I hope your aim is in," said Tristan, grinning. "I don't fancy starving this winter."

"I'm thinking perhaps I should cut MaolColm in two rather than the kirn. He's a bigger target."

Tristan followed his uncle's gaze towards the woven corn stalks hung on the chapel doors. "I'm not sure that would help the harvest much, Mark, but you'd be popular."

Mark looked back down the hill. "She's coming."

Tristan's face lost its smile and he sighed.

"You don't approve, do you?" Mark's voice was toneless and matched the clarity of his eyes.

"I brought her here, remember?" Tristan did not meet the king's gaze. "It is for the best. Of course I approve."

"Liar." Mark smiled thinly. "You think like Siobhan, and always did. You think I'm weak and getting old."

"I think you're being made to feel guilty by people who should know better." Tristan laid a hand on his uncle's shoulder. "Tell MaolColm to be quiet. I find it a deeply religious experience."

Mark grinned widely and the light shone back in his eyes. He bunched his face up wryly. "I'm not going to be able to handle her, you know. She's too like Cairbre."

Tristan dropped his hand and shrugged lightly. "Then don't force it. Iseult's an understanding girl. Let things take their own course. God's plans will unfurl as they must."

Mark did not reply, and kept his eyes on the rapidly nearing procession. The women fanned out into a circle, and then a semi-circle, enclosing the front of the chapel. Brangain led the horse up to the waiting men and bowed.

Iseult sat high, still impassive, draped in a beautifully sewn linen robe, unbearably pale in the glare of the sun. The gentle breeze ruffled the mantle of down feathers across her shoulders. Her golden hair lay in a cascade, crowned with a plaited ring of wheat and barley stalks.

Tearing his gaze from her, Tristan saw that Mark was similarly transfixed and leant over to give him a sharp nudge. The king jumped, bringing a mischievous smile to Brangain's lips, but seemingly unseen by Iseult.

"Woman of the Irish, see this," shouted Mark, louder than he intended. He turned to Tristan who handed him the sickle. Flicking a glance at Iseult, he saw that her expression was still stony and distant. Hefting the sickle for its balance, he drew back his hand and hurled the blade at the chapel door.

There was a bang, and a muted gasp as the sickle bounced from the kirn. Mark growled a profanity under his breath, knowing that he had hit the thing with the blunt edge. Tristan leapt over to the door and whipped up the sickle, giving a shout of triumph. Swiftly he pulled the kirn from the door, sliced evenly in two. The crowd of women, for a moment unsure that their king had cut the kirn cheered as Tristan brought the head piece to Mark. But the king had seen his nephew's lightning cut of the straw as he picked up the blade.

"Thank you," breathed Mark carefully as he took the straw bundle from Tristan's hand. He turned back to Iseult. "I claim you for my wife. May the land grow strong and fertile from our union."

Iseult dismounted and took the kirn from his hand. She nodded and allowed him to take her hand. As she stepped past Tristan, she stopped and handed him the straw. "This is yours, I believe," she whispered.

The bridal party walked into the church and strode up the aisle to the altar where Brother MaolColm waited for them with outstretched arms, his eyes and ears having been averted from the paganism on his very doorstep.

"In the name of the Christ, welcome," he said, pointing to the floor in front of him. Iseult made to kneel, but Mark pulled her back to her feet. Another of MaolColm's long-suffering frowns passed like a summer cloud and then he smiled.

"My bro...people, we have gathered in this holy place to witness the joining together of this man and this woman in the sacrament of marriage. United in God's love, we pray that they grow together in faith and love and are blessed from this day forward." As he spoke, MaolColm looked benevolently out at the packed chapel, imagining that it might be like this every feast day, and wondering if he might soon broach the subject of his founding a monastic settlement here. The myriad faces stared back, rapt with interest at his words, spellbound by the new mysteries of faith. Only the Princess Siobhan, standing near the doors and yawning deliberately when she saw him looking at her, seemed disinterested, and even Prince Tristan stared piously and humbly at the floor.

After finishing the blessings, MaolColm motioned the couple closer to take their vows. Both seemed nervous and he gave then a reassuring smile. "Mark MacGaetilach, King of the Orcades, you have chosen this woman Iseult of Erin to be your wife and queen. In the sight of God, will you cherish her, feed her, and love her until death parts you?"

There was a long pause, until Mark said finally, "Aye, I will."

Turning to Iseult, MaolColm saw that she had paled to almost the colour of her dress, her eyes blank and unseeing. Concerned, he leaned closer to her and whispered, "Are you all right?" She nodded slowly, so he shrugged and continued. "Iseult of Erin, daughter of the High King of the Irish, you have been chosen to be Mark's wife and queen. In the sight of God, will you accept his hand, and in so doing cherish him, obey him and care for him until death parts you?"

Though her lips moved, MaolColm could not hear her words. He whispered, "I can't hear." She nodded her head.

Accepting that as good enough, and not wishing to distress her further as he had sudden visions of the queen passing out in his church and thereby bringing bad omen on the whole enterprise, MaolColm hurriedly continued. "In the presence of God the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, and before these witnesses in Christ, I now pronounce you man and wife, king and queen."

There was a great cheer, led by MacDubhgall, and MaolColm tried desperately to wave the people down so he could proceed onto the consecration of the host. But the clan had broken ranks and were mobbing Mark and the unfortunate Iseult, lifting them up on their shoulders and carrying them in an unstoppable wave through the chapel doors, on the way to the nuptial bed. He knew that the pagan custom was for the newly-weds was to get the marriage consummated as soon as possible so that the blessing of fertility would not be lost, and he knew that this was most important with the king whose fertility was intimately associated with that of the land. Even so, he had still hoped that they might stay and celebrate Mass with him, and perhaps understand a little more of their new faith. Listening to the wild sounds of ribaldry and joy that were fading away down the hill outside, he sighed, and let himself be reasonably satisfied. There was still a long road to travel.

Looking back around the chapel, he realised suddenly that Tristan was still there, kneeling in prayer. Touched, he went over to the prince and laid a tender hand on the knotted shoulders. "Tristan, would you like me to finish celebrating Mass for you?"

Tristan lifted his head, and MaolColm gasped as he saw the grey of his eyes burning with danger, unveiled for once in a terrible glare of distress. Then the moment passed, as fleeting as if it had never been.

"I would like to be left alone," said Tristan simply.

MaolColm nodded, eager to get away from the young warrior. As he left the church through the sacristy, he cast a glance back at Tristan, kneeling hunched over and taut with some inner conflict. The last time someone had sat here like that had been a new convert who had just lost her mother to old age. There was no comfort for those shoulders, and MaolColm had been told in no uncertain terms that none was wanted. He shook the confusion from his neck and went about his tasks.