Summary

Tristan and Isolde are summoned before Arthur and Gwen, testing Tristan's loyalty and devotion amidst a treacherous ordeal.

Chapter 17 Silence Where Music Once Rang

Tristan rolled onto his back, the thin cot creaking under his weight. It'd been two nights he'd slept in his office, so utterly wounded that he'd separated from Isolde. He would speak with her – soon. For now, he couldn't look at her. Wrenched to the core, he slept alone and confused.

When he met her near five years past, there had been no outward sign of distress – so playfully combative in her banter that attracted him to her – now Tristan wondered if her love for him had been part of another of her performances.

And yet, could he blame her for keeping so dark a secret to breast? Could one disclose to new acquaintances deeds of murder and flight? Over time, could such a subject come up in casual conversation? "Oh, by the way, my love. I killed a suitor a few years past. Where's our next stake?"

He sighed heavily, shifting his body on the thin mattress. Had there been odd moments revealing cracks he'd dismissed? Interpreting reactions and accepting words only in affinity's bright haze now felt foolishly naïve. A cunning bard could compose ballads of truths and lies – so much nuance lived in silence between notes. Had she composed her escape around lyrics for him?

Though he could imagine nothing worse than this, did other secrets still dwell in her heart? Would he believe her no matter her answer…?

He must have drifted off because morning came and his eyes focused on Eric leaning over him, rousing him from sleep.

"My lord," Eric said. "The king summons you to the lesser hall in two hours."

Tristan's smacked his dry lips, muscles knotted as he stirred and slowly rose. "What was that?" he asked.

"King Arthur – he summons you."

Tristan crossed to the table and poured a goblet of water, not bothering to smooth disheveled hair nor wrinkled clothes down.

"My lord," Eric asked. "Is all well?"

"No, Eric—all is not all right," he rasped before drinking the water. He cleared his throat, flexed his neck, looked at his apprentice staring at him with concern. Tristan swallowed hard and shook his head, waved his hand regretfully.

"Isolde and I…" he trailed off, raked fingers through his hair. He opened his mouth, wishing to unburden himself, but the words lodged in his throat. How could he begin to express the ache inside him, the questions swirling like a storm with no safe harbor? It was still too near, too agonizingly fresh to give voice to, even with his trusted apprentice.

"It's... it will keep a time longer," he managed hoarsely. Right now the wound gaped open, the music between himself and Isolde jarred into a jangle of dissonance he could scarce endure. There would be a time for explanations, for sorting through this agonizing upheaval between them - but not yet. The pain ran too deep; the silence echoing where once sweet notes rang. He turned away, raking a hand over his face, unable to speak further of it.

"Allow me to fetch you fresh clothes and something to eat," Eric said gently. "We've two hours before your audience with the king. I'll return as quickly as I can." He reached for the door latch, then turned back. "I'm sorry, sir."

Tristan nodded solemnly, rubbed his forehead, his temple as the door closed. Tristan nodded solemnly, rubbing his temple as the door closed. A peculiar but stalwart man – that loyal apprentice. Unassuming perseverance unearthed an embezzlement scandal, justice served and kingdom treasury preserved through his steady auditing. Mighty are the pens of clerks just as swords of knights. Tristan determined to see Eric properly rewarded for prodigious efforts.

He plopped in the chair behind his desk with a sigh, papers neatly stacked and ink well ready for his day to begin. Eric would have to manage the office while he met with Arthur, though if the king needed more details on Sir Edmond and his ring of thugs, he had nothing new to add. Besides, Arthur's interest in this scandal was the least of his worries with his world crumbling around him.

Tristan shook his head. He didn't want to think about her – dwell on anything—but her! He raked both hands through tangled hair – his thoughts but raged against her.

She'd spoken little of her family, her past cloaked in mysteries half recalled in shadows. But Isolde was nobility – from high places – perhaps had flirted in the court of King Odin. How many other liaisons had she regaled with beauty and poise? She was certainly acquainted with one very powerful house whose matriarch's formidable presence commanded attention – but one who'd threatened to expose his beloved.

His beloved… or had those whispered eternal vows been but weapons to disarm him, rendering fool and protector both?

"Isolde!" Her name a curse wrenched from his lips. Tristan cradled his head; the back of his eyes burned. "Why have you done this – to me?! To yourself?!"

He cared not that she killed a pig who'd called himself noble but that she fled… right into his arms – andne'er a word to him about who she really was. All these years… Those sweet embraces… had he cradled but a serpent to his chest? Could he trust the words of a tongue so forked with deceit?

Tristan was thankful his thoughts had calmed before Eric returned and though his heart and pride was tossed in the deepest chasm, he still had duties to attend. After splashing water on face, he read through the neatly stacked pile of orders, focusing wholly on work until Eric bounced through the door with fresh clothes and a meal.

He forced talk of business as he dressed and ate to keep his mind from wandering – the scandalous trial he was witness in a few days – something new for them both. His and Eric's evidence would surely prove the embezzlers' guilt, perhaps they would be hailed as heroes in the eyes of some. Tristan cared none for that.

But the stroll to the lesser hall offered no such distraction – for it was there it had all started and his thoughts churned ever fiercely the closer he came. With each step memories assaulted him – first glimpses of Isolde gliding across the dance floor, her melodic song caressing his soul as she sang for the queen's coronation. Then her flight from the hall followed by the world-crashing confrontation with Lady Donnchadhs. Now every treasured moment felt poisoned by betrayal. By the time Tristan reached the carved doors, resentment simmered to a boil once more. He paused, clenching his fists and jaw, striving to master himself before facing king and court.

Tristan stopped short upon entering, finding Isolde unexpectedly standing before the solemn-faced king and queen. After a hesitant moment, he stepped forward, avoiding her gaze, eyes locked on Arthur and Gwen instead. He offered them a brisk nod as he came to stand near but apart from Isolde, slightly annoyed with himself that he hadn't thought they'd summon them both.

Isolde turned to him, her voice thick with sorrow. "Tristan, I—"

"Isolde," he interjected tightly with a shake of his head, offering nothing more, not even a glance. Arthur and Gwen exchanged a brief, knowing glimpse at the frigid exchange.

Elbows on tabletop, Arthur's fingers were laced, his mouth pressed against them. Face void of emotions and blues eyes distance, the king gazed straight ahead. Gwen looked downward, her hands in her lap, she too solemn.

An ominous chill crept through Tristan as the hairs on his nape prickled upright. Glancing at Isolde now, her anguished eyes sparked alarms in his mind.

"What's happened?" he asked, returning his attention to Arthur and Gwen.

"The Donnchadhs of Cornwall have demanded the arrest of Isolde." Arthur lowered his elbows and looked at Tristan. "She's been accused of murder."

Tristan spun on his heels. The threat made good by Lady Donnchadhs. He turned just as quickly back to Arthur. "Well, you must offer sanctuary – protect Isolde."

"Tristan, given our fragile alliance with this kingdom," Arthur continued cautiously, "I cannot refuse."

"To hell with your alliances," he shouted, taking a step closer. "She's not leaving." Despite his broken heart and wounded pride, he would not have his beloved marched to her death if her word would not be believed.

"I cannot defy justice and tempt retaliation by refusing extradition. You have my deepest sympathy."

"You're sympathy?" Tristan roared, his fury erupting uncontrollably. "You would trade my love's life for diplomacy? Cast her to the wolves to appease strangers?"

His chest heaved, hands clenching and unclenching. This was the man he had once hated on principle – the privileged nobility who ruled while the common people suffered. He had scorned Arthur and all he represented. Yet fighting alongside him, seeing Arthur risk life and limb for people high and low, Tristan's disdain had turned to admiration. When Arthur restored him to grace, welcoming both him and Isolde despite their outlaw pasts, Tristan's gratitude swelled. He had come to respect this king above all others.

Now to see Arthur cast Isolde's fate aside so callously cut through his chest like a blade of ice, threatened to crush his spirit completely. Yet, in the dark corners of his mind, a thought flickered – could he too turn his back and leave Isolde to whatever fate awaited? Was there no one in this world worthy of trust when it mattered most?

"Tristan," Isolde gasped. "I've agreed to go willingly."

Her words stole his breath away, he closed his eyes – the thought of losing her strangling his soul. He shook his head, his thought a raging whirlwind of confusion and anguish.

Isolde stepped forward. "I cannot outrun justice forever, my love. I must face judgment with dignity."

"I'll ensure she receives a fair trial," Arthur added standing, taking Gwen's hand to rise. "If permitted to attend, Camelot will stand by her side during this troubling ordeal."

"And yours, Tristan," Gwen added. "We won't abandon you."

He searched Isolde's steady gaze, seeing courage and sorrow entwined. Yet his own pain gripped him. He loved her beyond measure, but found himself anchored by duty and paralyzed by her wounding revelations – that's all he could muster. To now walk beside her into peril after so raw a betrayal... it was too much to bear.

"I cannot, my love," he rasped, his voice breaking as anguish creased his features. "Though duty binds my feet to Camelot, my heart is rent, but nor I do not possess the courage to face what awaits in Cornwall."

"Tristan…" Isolde pleaded softly.

Visibly trembling, his face twisted with profound pain. Eyes swimming in anguish, he turned from her piercing, loving gaze.

Though stunned at his admission as well, Arthur called for the guards nonetheless. "Escort Lady Isolde to the dungeons. She'll be released into the custody of Cornish representative upon their departure."

He could not face her, unable to watch them shackle her slender wrists, each harsh clink driving nails into his heart.

"Tristan," Isolde cried softly, her voice breaking, "Please… come with me…"

Still, he could not meet her eyes, nor watch as she was led away in chains, his courage failing him completely.

"Tristan," Arthur began haltingly.

"Don't." He cut Arthur off with a glare before storming from the chambers – nothing left to say. No words could soothe the roiling agony, fury and tortured self-recriminations tearing through his battered soul. As he retreated down the stone corridors, Tristan wondered if he would ever again hear Isolde's sweet songs – if their joined melody was forever fractured by her rattling chains fading into echoed silence.