Yeesh. I am so sorry for not updating sooner! Here is chapter three...
Note: Isolde's mother, the queen of Ireland, is referred to as Isolde the Elder.
Chapter Three
"It seems wrong that we should have such a feast, so soon after uncle's..." a knot formed in her throat. "Do father and mother care at all, Brangwain?" Isolde sat on her bed, her fists clenching and unclenching the green fabric of her rather plain dress. Three days passed since the burning of her uncle's body, and the whole of her father's court and castle seemed asbusy and productive as ever. To one such as Isolde, who thought and felt things very deeply,her whole world stopped.
"Of course they care, child." Her companion and handmaid of near ten years (since the young princess was eight), sat down by her, and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "I know that you feel like the world will end. Your uncle's death..." she tsked. "Horrible thing. But life goes on. And you cannot stop living. Death...is just another part of life, lass. Like everything else."
"You sound like mother," Isolde sniffed.
"Good thing that I do, or else you would be weeping away in here instead of going to that feast, where you belong!" Brangwain laughed, and went to the wardrobe, which held dresses in almost every hue. "Now, what do you wish to wear?"
Isolde stood, and indicated her gown. "This."
"No, no! Too plain."
"I don't wish to attract attention tonight. That is the point." Often, she would love to just...be, not taking her place on the dais beside her mother and father, simply...existing. "And I know what you are going to say," she added, as Brangwain opened her mouth. "That as a princess, I do not belong down below with as such commoners. I...don't...care." She picked up her skirts, and humphed. "You may be my handmaiden and dear friend, Brangwain, but you say the silliest things sometimes." She left the room, heading for the Great Hall, where all feasts of her father's were held. Upon her arrival, she sat down as far away as possible from the dais, ignoring curious stares. "Mind your own business," she snapped at the gawkers.
The court of Goram was envied by all of Ireland. It was every bit as lavish as the courts of Britain, a once-proud nation, now, divided. Funny that many of those said tribes asked for Irish warriors, and never faltered in paying tribute. It seemed that only one tribe, the tribe of Cornwall, could not handle such as thing as a tribute. Because of King Mark and his beloved champion, Tristian's, stubborness, Morholt was dead. Goram thought of nothing but his people. All he wished was for the Cornish king to pay tribute to his country, for it was Irish warriors that died defending Mark'speople. Why were such violent actions necessary?
"My dear wife," he sighed, as a servant poured wine into his goblet. His towering frame came second to Morholt's, and his ginger hair and beard were flecked with the grayness of age and time passed. His golden crown perched atop his head was also worn down, with age. "I tire of sending our best over there, and half of them turning up dead."
"You carry a heavy weight." Isolde the Elder smiled, and placed a comforting hand on her husband's shoulder. If one saw, then one would notice that the Irish queen looked remarkably like her younger daughter, save for her lightened hair. "Do not carry it around your neck like a millstone."
"As always, dear one, you speak with the utmost of truth." Goram smiled, and glanced out at the room. Men and women of court sat at the tables provided; servants poured wine and took plates away; ministrels played tunes for those who cared to listen. "Dear...who is that?" He pointed at an unfamiliar ministrel of court. "I've never seen him before."
Isolde the Elder regarded the young ministrel...he barely looked above twenty years of age, but his height made up for any misgivings about his age. His hair was wild, unruly, and a light dust-colored brown. Though his hair was not the most fascinating thing about him; it paled in comparison to how ghost-like his complexion was. Almost transparent. "I don't know dear..." a rupture of applause sounded from where he was playing, "...however, it seems that he is well-liked...ministrel, ministrel!"
Tristan looked up from his playing, and smiled. Ah, that must be the queen. No wonder she and the man beside her (whom he assumed to be her husband) towered over everyone else; they sat on the dais, as was the custom of royalty. Feeling a fresh wave of pain radiate through him, he gritted his teeth against the pain and made his way over to the king and queen. "Majesties," he said, bowing. "I bestow my sentiments upon you."
"Dear ministrel, you play beautifully." Isolde the Elder smiled. "Pray tell, what is your name?"
"Tri-Tantris, majesties," he said, bowing once more. Dear God, why did he almost say his true name? Was his guise ruined? Thankfully, they didn't notice.
"Tantris, I so hoped that you could meet my daughter." Goram's eyes glanced out at the hall again, not seeing any clue as to her whereabouts.
"If she rivals her mother in beauty, you best watch...watch..." The poison from Morholt's blade finally took its' toll, and he fell to the ground, a black haze washing over him. He did not remember much, save being picked up, the sound of the rushing ocean, and the coolness of soft sheets.
"Oh, my God. Is he alright?" Isolde forgot about being anonymous, and rushed forward to the dais, mumbling excuse me to the various ones that were out of their chairs.
"He's been poisoned, dear one. Look at his arm." The queen had rolled up his sleeve, and Isolde hissed. The left arm was mottled with bruises; the veins were a deep, angry red and purple. Isolde the Elder motioned for a few servants to come and assist her. "Come, let us get this man, and go to the healing chambers. Isolde, come with me."
"Yes, mother." She retrieved the minstrel's harp, and followed. The healing chambers of Ireland's best healer were in the out of doors: a small dirt hut, built near the solid walls of a stone cliff. The sounds of the ocean waves were easily heard from the hut's only room: a small, dark room; even with a roaring fire, it gave off a slight foreboding air. A single bed rested along the right wall; along the back wall of the room there were shelves, and the shelves were stocked with various herbs and remedies. Completing the room was a worktable, the centerpiece. The queen used this to mix and prepare the remedies. "You," the queen said, pointing to the servants, mainly one in particular, who held the ministrel with absolutely no difficulties. "Help him to the bed." They obliged, and left upon dismissal.
"Isolde..." she moved closer to the man now lying on the bed, unable to take her eyes off of him. He was truly beautiful, almost as if he were a mythical being, rather than a man. "...Isolde!" She snapped out of her adoration, and paid heed to her mother's request, "...check his forehead."
"Mother, he burns." She shook her head.
"Remove his shirt, Isolde; I have to see his arm to tell what remedies to use." Nodding, she undid the laces of his shirt and slid it off, tenderly avoiding his injury. If she cared to look, she would notice that his body seemed chiseled, sculpted, almost as if from marble. Not the issue at the moment. The arm was the central focus; the source of the poison was a deep, gashing wound on his left shoulder. This made the veins discolored and angry; whether it was responsible for the bruises on his arm, no one could say.
"I know exactly what to use." Humming an old Irish melody, the queen moved to the shelves and selected a few herbs, going to the worktable and fashioning them into a kind of salve, concealed within a little cooking kettle. All this was done in barely any time, and she applied the balm to his arm, frowning as the ministrel moaned in pain. "The balm will sting, but it counteracts the effects of the poison." Finishing up, she gave the small kettle to Isolde. "There. That should do for now. Watch over him; I will send Brangwain to check in on you."