Read Online Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels by Rosalind Miles - Free Book Online
Authors: Rosalind Miles
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from you?”
He gestured behind him to a thickset monk brandishing a stave. Next to him stood another burly form armed with a pitchfork, and another with a battling gleam in his eye. Next to him a young monk clutched a sickle, and next—Gods above! Breccan’s brain reeled. Were they all fighting mad, these servants of the meek and mild Jesus who preached love for all?
“Troubled, Father,” he resumed angrily, “because the old Queen has died. And who knows what will follow in her wake?”
“On the contrary,” said Eustan sharply, “we know very well. Isolde will succeed. She is the rightful heir and she is our Queen.”
“But your own faith—your own sacred texts—” Breccan heard himself stuttering and ground his teeth in rage. How could he be losing this battle of wits? “Your Holy Writ,” he resumed, breathing heavily, “tells us that man is made in God’s image and woman was formed for sin. Therefore your own Saint Paul instructed the world that no woman may hold power over men.”
A smile of amusement kindled the monk’s dark eyes. “But our Lord Jesus Christ was born of woman, as you may have heard.”
“But she didn’t rule over him,” insisted Breccan. “She was not his Queen. Your God has come to sweep all that away. We need a man of power to govern the land.” He remembered in time to put on a kingly smile. “And I am here to take that burden on.”
“Are you so?” Father Eustan pretended to think. “Well then . . .”
Darkness and devils! Breccan could have sworn the monk was laughing at him. Recklessly he pushed on.
“Either you’re with me or against me, monk. Support me now, preach me to your people, and I’ll build churches for you throughout the land. You and I together can do God’s will!”
“Ah, sir, there we differ in our theology.” Eustan was smiling broadly now and stroking his chin. “You believe that you are called to do the work of God. We believe our Lord can do His own.”
Breccan stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“If God wills the destruction of the Queens, He will bring it about,” Eustan said harshly. “He does not require His servants to join in squalid plots to overthrow the rulers of the land. We are here to glorify His name, to help His people and to live holy lives. Tell me how any of those are served by helping you.”
Squalid plots . . .
Breccan was aware of Ravigel’s cold breath in his ear. “Cut them down, lord. You’ll get nothing here.”
Yes!
Cut them down, make this arrogant priest eat his words and choke on his own blood. A red mist gathered behind Breccan’s eyes. He saw Tiercel’s hand on his sword and heard Ravigel’s heavy breathing as he scented a kill, and trembled with delight. Then Tolen’s warning came ringing in his ears. You can’t kill every man who stands in your way. You’ll never make yourself King if you do that.
Killing Odent was one thing, a cruel husband and a brutal lord who’d be mourned by none. But to kill a dozen unarmed holy men—for so the story would be told, despite the welter of clubs and sticks and scythes— no, that would damn his name forever in the land. No matter that most of the folk did not follow the Christian faith or give a fig for the Christian’s God. In Ireland, the freedom to live was a sacred thing.
He gave a ghastly smile and a slight shake of his head, telling Ravigel, no.
“Well, sir?” came the monk’s uncompromising voice. “We say God will decide, not human ambition and greed. Do you disagree?”
There was nothing to say.
AFTERWARD, RIDING BACK down the mountain, Breccan’s fury grew. Defeated, humiliated in front of his men and sent packing with a holy flea in his ear—with every step of his horse, another sharp insult clouded Breccan’s brain.
“I told you so, Breccan.” Riding beside him on the narrow track, Tolen reached for his water-bottle and brought it to his lips. Only when a ruby trickle ran down his brother’s chin did Breccan realize what
He gestured behind him to a thickset monk brandishing a stave. Next to him stood another burly form armed with a pitchfork, and another with a battling gleam in his eye. Next to him a young monk clutched a sickle, and next—Gods above! Breccan’s brain reeled. Were they all fighting mad, these servants of the meek and mild Jesus who preached love for all?
“Troubled, Father,” he resumed angrily, “because the old Queen has died. And who knows what will follow in her wake?”
“On the contrary,” said Eustan sharply, “we know very well. Isolde will succeed. She is the rightful heir and she is our Queen.”
“But your own faith—your own sacred texts—” Breccan heard himself stuttering and ground his teeth in rage. How could he be losing this battle of wits? “Your Holy Writ,” he resumed, breathing heavily, “tells us that man is made in God’s image and woman was formed for sin. Therefore your own Saint Paul instructed the world that no woman may hold power over men.”
A smile of amusement kindled the monk’s dark eyes. “But our Lord Jesus Christ was born of woman, as you may have heard.”
“But she didn’t rule over him,” insisted Breccan. “She was not his Queen. Your God has come to sweep all that away. We need a man of power to govern the land.” He remembered in time to put on a kingly smile. “And I am here to take that burden on.”
“Are you so?” Father Eustan pretended to think. “Well then . . .”
Darkness and devils! Breccan could have sworn the monk was laughing at him. Recklessly he pushed on.
“Either you’re with me or against me, monk. Support me now, preach me to your people, and I’ll build churches for you throughout the land. You and I together can do God’s will!”
“Ah, sir, there we differ in our theology.” Eustan was smiling broadly now and stroking his chin. “You believe that you are called to do the work of God. We believe our Lord can do His own.”
Breccan stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“If God wills the destruction of the Queens, He will bring it about,” Eustan said harshly. “He does not require His servants to join in squalid plots to overthrow the rulers of the land. We are here to glorify His name, to help His people and to live holy lives. Tell me how any of those are served by helping you.”
Squalid plots . . .
Breccan was aware of Ravigel’s cold breath in his ear. “Cut them down, lord. You’ll get nothing here.”
Yes!
Cut them down, make this arrogant priest eat his words and choke on his own blood. A red mist gathered behind Breccan’s eyes. He saw Tiercel’s hand on his sword and heard Ravigel’s heavy breathing as he scented a kill, and trembled with delight. Then Tolen’s warning came ringing in his ears. You can’t kill every man who stands in your way. You’ll never make yourself King if you do that.
Killing Odent was one thing, a cruel husband and a brutal lord who’d be mourned by none. But to kill a dozen unarmed holy men—for so the story would be told, despite the welter of clubs and sticks and scythes— no, that would damn his name forever in the land. No matter that most of the folk did not follow the Christian faith or give a fig for the Christian’s God. In Ireland, the freedom to live was a sacred thing.
He gave a ghastly smile and a slight shake of his head, telling Ravigel, no.
“Well, sir?” came the monk’s uncompromising voice. “We say God will decide, not human ambition and greed. Do you disagree?”
There was nothing to say.
AFTERWARD, RIDING BACK down the mountain, Breccan’s fury grew. Defeated, humiliated in front of his men and sent packing with a holy flea in his ear—with every step of his horse, another sharp insult clouded Breccan’s brain.
“I told you so, Breccan.” Riding beside him on the narrow track, Tolen reached for his water-bottle and brought it to his lips. Only when a ruby trickle ran down his brother’s chin did Breccan realize what
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