Tristan 5: Black Sail, White Sail

Isolde looked out over the grey sea toward Brittany, where she knew her love would be. Tristan had lived for a time as a beggar in the forest before being banished by Mark to Brittany. King Mark, despite Isolde’s pledge of fidelity did not want his rival back in court. Isolde had spies crossing the channel to give her word of Tristan and his life in France. The sky met the horizon with a slice of white denying her any glimpse of land.

She heard a footstep behind her and a lady in waiting stood patiently for her mistress to turn away from the sea.

‘I am so sorry to have to tell you my lady, Sir Tristan has been taken gravely ill. He is nursed at his bedside by his wife, Isolde of the White Hands, but he does not acknowledge her or respond to her attempts to heal him.’

Isolde stood rigid with grief and cold. the Cornish sea wind sliced at her ears and cheeks. Tristan had been the one true love of her life. Even though he had married another and lived so far away she always felt his presence close to her heart.

‘You are the most gifted healer of all, Queen Isolde,’ said her lady in waiting, taking her arm. ‘Tristan waits for you I know he does. Go to him, my lady, it is time.’

‘That I will,’ said Isolde and she walked back along the cliff path and down to the harbour at Fowey where her boat waited for her.

‘Arrange for the crew to take me to Brittany as a matter of urgency,’ she commanded.

‘Yes, my lady.’

Isolde stood on the quay and waited. Her whole life had been taken by her love for Sir Tristan of Lyonesse if only they could have been together from the beginning when she sang him back to health in her home in Ireland. If only he could have been fighting for her himself and they had come to Cornwall a young couple about to begin their life together. They had been happiest when they had their freedom in the forest before being chased into the freezing river waters. No longer would she pretend she was simply Mark’s Queen for her heart had always belonged to another and to him she would sail.

Tristan lay in a bed by his window, it was open to the smell of the sea. His hand flinched at the thought of his wife Isolde of the White Hands.

‘I have sent for a ship from Cornwall,’ he told his wife weakly. 'I wish for Isolde of Ireland to come to heal me, she is the only one who can save me now.'

Isolde of the White hands felt a wave of rage surge through her; she saw reason no more. It was she who had nursed Tristan all these months, she who had loved him, become his wife and given him a home. In his final hours all he could think of was another Isolde one who could heal, one who held his heart.

‘Tell me Isolde,’ whispered Tristan, ‘if the ship sails a white sail, I know Isolde is onboard and has come to me. If the ship sails a black sail, she had stayed at home in Cornwall and ignored my plea.’

Isolde of the White Hands looked out over the sea, she saw a boat breaking through the horizon. She trailed her eyes on it and saw a white sail flying in the wind.

‘Tell me,’ said Tristan.

Isolde took a deep breath and looked away from her husband who lay dying on the bed. ‘The sail is black,’ she said sharply. ‘You have only me, your wife to love you.’

Within the hour Tristan had died of sorrow and loss. And as his life passed away Queen Isolde stepped off the boat and walked up the beach to tend him. Her heart too was broken as she lay upon Tristan’s body and wept. Her life was soon lost to a broken heart and word was sent to Cornwall.

King Mark had carved a stone in remembrance for his queen and his nephew. Beside it he planted two briar roses. The roses grew to entwine and always bloomed together.