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The arrival of the Irish princess sends whispers through the splendid castle at Cornwall. They call her Isolde the Fair, they murmur in the kitchens as scraps from the nightly feast are collected. Ancient magic runs through her veins-- her mother was a sorceress, and her mother before her.
The ship arrives late, past sunset, and the princess is brought in with little fanfare. More will follow tomorrow, a wedding and eventually a coronation; but for now, only a handful of guards, led by the knight Tristan, accompany the princess. She comes bearing little, certainly not the trappings of royalty, even one from such a small, embattled land as her own. One maid and a handful of trunks, little more.
A hastily arranged marriage, a sentinel at the door opines, watching the group retreat into the castle and huddling closer to a brazier to warm their hands against the stiff wind coming off the sea. Given by her parents to a man twice her age in exchange for peace. His insight is only met by shrugs from his companions.
Another man adds, They say she's quite beautiful, even for an Irish lass. More than deserving of her fair title. That earns a much more enthusiastic response, at least.
~~~
Ladies in waiting stand expectantly by the door of the queen's chambers; their respectful poise and downcast eyes are betrayed by keen anticipation at seeing the foreign princess. With darting eyes and cheeks flushed with excitement, they await her arrival, only to be disappointed by a mere fleeting glimpse before being shooed away unceremoniously by her companion.
She scarcely looks like I'd imagined, they whispered. Not at all like a princess, but instead a feverish, feral thing.
Did you see the look in her eyes?
They say she's a witch, a potion-maker, a sorceress. That she has the power to control men's hearts and minds.
They are interrupted by the sudden opening of a door and the forceful arrival of the companion, a tall, strong women, her cheeks still reddened by the cutting ocean wind. That is enough! We'll have no more of your gossip, she said. Now off!
And with that, the girls shuffle back to their own quarters, adjacent to the queen's, to prepare for the quickly-approaching wedding.
~~~
The wedding comes and goes without trouble; the flush on the princess's cheeks is assumed to be excitement, the tear in her eye simply bridal joy. In whispers it's suggested that she never wished to marry their king, that perhaps she loved another in her own country, never to be seen again.
Brave Tristan is spotted frequently at the castle these days, and admired by every woman from cook to chambermaid. The princess, soon to be queen, seems to avoid him at all costs.
It's due to him being the one who took her to Cornwell, a scullerymaid whispers to her counterpart as they work in the castle kitchens.
No, a second girl replies, it's on part of him being the one who killed her lover.
A gasp; a clatter.
Brigit, you've made me drop the plate!
~~~
It's with one of Tristan's own men that the trouble starts. A courtier of Tristan's mentions offhandedly to a stableboy that he senses something is amiss, and the stableboy tells his brother, who tells a chambermaid he fancies, who tells quite nearly everyone.
Tristan is in love with fair Isolde.
Brave Tristan has fallen in love with the Irish princess. It's true, it is, I swear it!
Melot said so himself-- he has seen the way Tristan's eye searches for the princess in a crowded room.
When the ladies in waiting hear about it, it's as if a revelation has been made. The scandal of Isolde, wedded to their king, yet pursued by his nephew, is simply the most fascinating bit of gossip to ever reach their ears.
In an instant, the maids and ladies of the queen become ever-attentive to her every need. Despite Isolde's reclusiveness, and Brangane's watchful stare, a startling idea seems to form, from whispers of hushed conversations overheard through doors and long halls. The speakers become the listeners, silent and ever-observant.
In their queer voices, their strange accents, a dialogue, overheard as Brangäne and Isolde sequester in the queen's study one grey afternoon.
I can't make sense of it, dear Brangäne. I have thought of every motive, every means. Within my chest, what once was an anger so great has ceded, surrendering in an instant to something more foreign.
What, my lady?
Something I swore I would never feel again. Never again, after the death of Morold, would I allow such things to pass. But it transcends even that... I have within me a fire, a bliss, that consumes me. It occupies my thoughts, my breaths, my flesh and bones. I can only think of him. Always, forever, him.
A heavy sigh, heard even though the walls. Then Isolde, again: It could all have been so perfect. It would all have been so perfect, were it not for how I feel for-- him!
Silence. Footsteps.
Pressing their ears to the lacquered wood door, the maids scatter like chickens before Brangäne can find them, disappearing into the passageways of the labyrinthine castle once more.
~~~
The maids' tale of a forbidden but reciprocated love is met with equal parts incredulity and shock. By now it seems the whole castle speaks of it, though never aloud. It becomes a sort of game, like watching characters in a staged drama unfold their tale in real time, with each day bringing a new piece of information to the ears of eager listeners.
Tristan is away, and I heard the queen weeping in the gardens today.
Tristan has returned, and one of the queen's ladies spotted a blemish on her-- a bruise of most suspicious character-- on her person while dressing her today. Where? Well, I shan't say--
Fair Isolde left her chambers under the cover of night, and was not spotted returning until nearly dawn.
Their eyes met at court today, and it was like a spell was cast over the both of them. She's used her sorcery to steal his heart, I say.
Perhaps his majesty the king knows. Perhaps he has allowed her to take a lover.
Marke? Nonsense. He loves the queen as any husband does, and heroic Tristan as a son.
He'll find out eventually, and then what will happen? Death to the both of them.
~~~
Shh-- don't you dare make a sound.
Are you sure it's them?
Sure as the day-- I'd recognize their voices anywhere. His Breton, hers Irish. It's them.
What's this--
Shh- it's Tristan and queen Isolde.
Together? Where?
Beyond those walls-- in the courtyard. Elowyn swears she heard them.
I did, I tell you!
Quiet, girl!
Hesitant footsteps. A gasp.
Don't go any further-- the lady Brangäne is there, keeping watch outside the gate.
Then it must be true, what they say.
One of us must go around and have a listen.
~~~
A particularly brave soul takes it upon himself to scamper across the path between the cold stone wall and a hedge at the perimeter of the sheltered courtyard.
What he hears, in whispered tones meant only for another, all but confirms every rumor. Fair Isolde is in love with brave Tristan. Not only in love, but a filled with a passion that most bards could only dream of, much less sing about. The noble spy crouches in the shadows, scarcely breathing, cheeks reddening with every moment-- every overheard confession, every sound of a stolen kiss--
He turns to retreat, curiosity ceding to dignity, having heard more than enough to make for a good story. A twig snaps; branches rustle. Across the path, hidden from the view of the lady and the lovers, the sound causes more than one nosy servant to disappear back into the castle walls before they can be discovered. Footsteps, shuffles.
In the distance, Brangäne's voice sounds, an taut whisper threaded with urgency-- Someone comes near!
A frightened gasp.
Tristan's voice-- Worry not. Night will protect us, hold us, shelter us in its divine embrace. And though the chains of day may come, so too will the freedom of night, when I will seek you again, and find heaven in your arms.
A sigh. Faithless man. If only we could be joined together in the eternal night, that I may never leave your side again!
My beloved--
My life.
A kiss.
Until the darkness comes again, until we shall defy the day and never be parted again-- I shall think of you.
How it pains me to leave you. My Tristan. My love.
My Isolde.
The night grows quiet again, with only quiet footsteps retreating into the distance. Leaves rustle; a lone owl calls.
Shortly, whispers of a different kind will fill the air, that of a storyteller and rapt listeners, turning lives into folklore, stolen secrets into grand tales; for now, it is peaceful. But my, what a story there is to tell.