The Bleak and Empty Sea

  The Bleak and Empty Sea Copyright © 2017 Jay Ruud

  Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-893035-73-7

  E-book ISBN 13: 978-1-893035-75-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017951278

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher, Encircle Publications, Farmington, ME.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual places or businesses, is entirely coincidental.

  Book design: Eddie Vincent

  Cover design: Eddie Vincent

  Cover images © Dmytro Zinkevych/Shutterstock

  Published by: Encircle Publications, LLC

  PO Box 187

  Farmington, ME 04938

  Visit: http://encirclepub.com

  Printed in U.S.A.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Ruud, Jay, author.

  Title: The Bleak and empty sea : the Tristram and Isolde story / Jay Ruud. Series: A Merlin Mystery

  Description: Farmington, ME: Encircle Publications, LLC, 2017.

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-893035-73-7 (pbk.) | 978-1-893035-75-1 (ebook) | LCCN 2017951278

  Subjects: LCSH Tristan (Legendary character)--Romances--Adaptations. | Iseult (Legendary character)--Romances--Adaptations. | Arthurian romances--Adaptations. | Merlin (Legendary character)--Fiction. Arthur, King (Legendary character)--Fiction. | Great Britain--History--Medieval period, 1066-1485--Fiction. | Historical fiction. | Mystery fiction. | BISAC FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General.

  Classification: LCC PS3618.U88 B54 2017 | DDC 813.6--dc23

  Dedication

  For Lucas and Elijah

  Öd und leer das Meer!

  Wagner, Tristan und Isolde (Act III, scene 1)

  Acknowledgements

  The basic source for modern versions of the Arthurian legend is Thomas Mallory’s fifteenth-century compilation Le Morte Darthur, an amalgam of mainly French sources from the earlier Middle Ages. The stories of Arthur and Morded, of Gawain and Lamorak, of Lancelot and Guinevere, come essentially from this source. The text of the Whitsunday oath recited by Knights of the Round Table in the fourth chapter is modernized from Malory. The character of Merlin and his infatuation with the nymph Nimue is also from Malory, but Merlin himself is introduced as a character in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s twelfth-century History of the Kings of Britain, which first describes Merlin and the moving of Stonehenge, and more importantly depicts Merlin as a soothsayer who utters inscrutable prophecies from a kind of trance. The story of Arthur on Saint Michael’s Mount also comes from Geoffrey.

  The story of Tristram and Isolde (and the faithful Brangwen) is told most famously in Gottfried von Strassburg’s early thirteenth-century verse romance Tristan. Gottfried’s poem lacks an ending, however, and it is usually assumed that the end would have followed the story as told in the twelfth-century version by Thomas of Britain, which describes the wound, the black sail, and Isolde’s death. The story is also told in a more modern version in Wagner’s opera Tristan und Isolde (from which the novel’s title and headnote come). Malory includes tales of Tristram as well (Tristram is the English spelling), and the character of the rival knight Sir Palomides in my text comes from Malory.

  Gildas is the name of a sixth-century monk whose text De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae first introduces a depiction of Arthurian-era battles into written European history. Nennius was a Welsh monk whose Historia Brittonum names Arthur as the leader of the British in their battles against the Saxons, although Nennius lived in the ninth century and was not contemporary with Gildas.

  Saint-Malo is the setting of Marie de France’s twelfth-century Breton lay Laustic, or “The Nightingale,” the story told by Captain Jacques in the novel. The monastery attached to the Cathedral of Saint Vincent in Saint-Malo was founded in 1108. The Cistercian abbey at Beaulieu was founded in 1204. Its first abbot was Abbot Hugh. Saint Dunstan’s Abbey in Hereford is fictional.

  I should probably say a word about canonical hours, and the keeping of time in the novel. Before the development of accurate clocks, medieval people often thought of the day as broken up by the established times for divine office as set by monastic communities. There were eight of these hours or offices, and the bells of churches, monasteries, and convents rang out to call their members to do the work of God, to sing the holy offices, at those times. Assuming a day in spring or fall, with approximately equal twelve-hour periods of day and night, the office of prime would occur around sunrise, about six A.M. according to modern notions of time. The next office, terce, would be sung around nine A.M., sext would be around noon, none at about three P.M., vespers at six P.M., compline about nine P.M., matins at midnight and lauds around three A.M. These are the approximate times for events in the novel.

  Information on sea travel in medieval England, especially on the single-sail Cog ships common around 1200, can be found in Richard Gorski’s Roles of the Sea in Medieval England (2012) and in N.A.M. Rodger’s The Safeguard of the Sea: A Naval History of Britain, 660-1649 (1997).

  The chess match in chapter three is actually drawn from the compilation of games on the “Best Chess Games of All Time” web site http://www.chessgames.com/perl/chesscollection?cid=1001601

  Chapter One

  Unwelcome News

  Tristram was dead.

  Sir Dinadan had interrupted us in the king’s private chamber to bring us the news immediately upon his return from Brittany. And Dinadan had been there to see it.

  We had been talking about Camelot’s two newest arrivals, Perceval and Mordred. Or, to be fair, I was in the room to wait upon the knights who were discussing them. There was Sir Gareth, his older brother Sir Gawain, Sir Lancelot, Lancelot’s kinsman Sir Bors, and of course King Arthur himself. I was asked to attend as Gareth’s squire, since they naturally needed somebody to pour their wine. So I stood on one side of the table holding a bottle of claret, while Lovel, Sir Gawain’s new squire, stood across from me, holding a bowl of fruit, just in case the king or any of his closest counselors should get a craving for something cool to munch on during their debate, a debate that was becoming more heated by the moment. Lovel seemed a bit out of his element: he was trying hard to stay awake, since we’d been standing mute for a good hour and the council seemed no closer to reaching any kind of decision. I couldn’t blame him; he was new, chosen to replace Sir Florent, who not long before had been invested himself as a Knight of the Round Table, only to leave the table almost immediately to marry Nimue, one of the chief retainers of the Lady of the Lake. Sir Florent himself had replaced the murdered Sir Lamorak, and his departure had left a vacancy among the hundred and fifty knights of the table, one that the king sought to fill at the great feast of Pentecost, just a week hence. Florent, Gawain’s eldest son, had now also been replaced as his father’s squire by the great courtier’s second son, and Lovel had a steep learning curve. I say that myself as one whose curve had once been the steepest of any squire in Camelot.

  “Look here,” Sir Gawain was saying. “This Perceval does not deserve to be made a knight of the table before your own nephew, Sire. Think how that puts our family to shame. Especially when he is the brother of that same Lamorak who shamed our mother in such a vile fashion. Your own sister, milord…”

  “That same Lamorak that you and y
our brothers ambushed and killed in recreant fashion?” Sir Bors jumped in. “Saving your honor,” he added with a glance toward Gareth.

  My lord Gareth nodded, though his scowl betrayed a suppressed anger. Sir Gawain’s red face suggested no such suppression. He sputtered, “Recreant? You say so, do you? If we were not in the presence of the king, I would throw my gauntlet in your face and see whether a foot of steel in your gullet will seem recreant to you!”

  “Cousin, you go too far,” Sir Lancelot spoke calmly, relishing the role of peacemaker. “No knight of King Arthur’s table can be called recreant. We do not know all of the circumstances behind that rumored ambush, but I daresay you might have a different perspective if the ambushed knight had indeed been defiling your father’s bed.”

  “Your dead father’s bed,” Gareth added. “Of course, let us not forget that my brother Gaheris killed our mother. I can’t see that either side is without blame here.” I had never heard him defend his brothers’ actions in the matter of Lamorak’s murder, but if it were a question of loyalty to family or to the fellowship of King Arthur’s knights, he would always choose the latter. Still, I could see that he was feeling some strain in this situation, but wanted to join Lancelot as a peacemaker. If Lancelot could restrain Bors, then Gareth seemed determined to assuage Sir Gawain’s ire. “It’s true I was not present at the ambush, but I can’t condemn outright what Gawain, Agravain, and Mordred did there.”

  “This relates directly to what I was just saying,” Lancelot began, his square jaw jutting forth like a rock. “Mordred has performed no knightly services. The only action we know him to have taken part in is this…this thing with Sir Lamorak. Sir Perceval, on the other hand, has been out seeking adventures. He killed the Red Knight and took his arms, an encounter I witnessed myself, and knighted him instantly on the field, for the Red Knight had just insulted you, your grace, in your own court before riding off.”

  Arthur rolled his eyes at this. “Yes, yes, he was a young man with a hot temper and bad judgment. Not unlike some people in this room,” at which he glanced surreptitiously at Sir Gawain. “But I’m not sure the insult deserved instant death at the hands of a raw country boy…”

  “Which Perceval, or I should say Sir Perceval, certainly was at the time. But raw as he was, he came from good lineage: son of your ally King Pelinor, brother of Sir Aglovale and Sir Lamorak, both of whom have been knights of your table. And he followed that first adventure with a number of feats in which he defeated knights who were breaking the laws of your land, sending them to Camelot to kneel before you for judgment.”

  “The son of Pelinor will receive no welcome from me!” Gawain exclaimed, shaking his red hair vigorously. “The knight who killed our father? Gareth, this is intolerable!”

  “King Lot was killed in a fair fight, and he was a rebel against my lord Arthur,” Bors stated matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, yes,” Arthur admitted, waving away Lancelot’s arguments as if he had heard them a hundred times—as, in fact I’m pretty sure he had, at least half of them in the past hour since I’d been standing there—and essentially ignoring Gawain’s outburst, since he had doubtlessly heard it a thousand times. I know I had. “We are going in circles here and not reaching any kind of agreement. Does anyone have anything to say that has not already been said a dozen times in this counsel? I would welcome a new point of view.”

  Silence fell over the group. Gawain shook his long red locks, his green eyes burning with wounded family pride. Golden-haired Gareth leaned his head on his hand, his thumb under his chin and his index finger pointed up along his cheek, and gave a bemused smirk as he surveyed the other faces in the room. Stolid, stone-faced Bors merely glowered in Gawain’s direction, and my lord Lancelot, greatest of all Arthur’s knights—rivaled only by Lamorak and Tristram in prowess—crossed his arms, raised his dark eyebrows toward his flowing brown hair, and looked around questioningly, blinking his pale blue eyes. Finally, someone spoke.

  “Uh…I think there might be an easy way to fix all this…” came a small, squeaking voice from the opposite side of the table.

  Sir Gawain glared at his son, who had clearly broken protocol. “Lovel!” he barked. “Squires are here to serve and be silent. How dare you presume—”

  “He presumes because nobody else will,” King Arthur interrupted. “Let the boy speak. You were saying, Lovel, something about an easy fix?”

  “Well, yes, my…my lord, it…I mean, I guess it’s obvious, but…why, um, why don’t you just have a double-investiture, and install Perceval and Mordred as knights of the Round Table at the same time? Then nobody gets to say they were invested before the other. Nobody is disgraced by having the other ranked ahead of them…so, everybody is happy?”

  Sir Gareth latched onto his nephew’s suggestion immediately, though with his own sardonic flair. “Or at least everybody is equally unhappy, if our main goal is keeping the other fellow in his place. Why not, brother? It serves our purposes, does it not?”

  Gawain was unconvinced as he turned his glare toward Gareth, but Sir Lancelot was ready to give up the quarrel and move on to other things. He had a life outside of the king’s chamber, as I was well aware. “Done, for my part. As long as Sir Perceval gets his seat, I have no objection to your little brother having one as well.”

  “But Lamorak…” began Gawain, interrupting Sir Bors, who had started to grumble “What about Lamorak?”

  “Lamorak is dead,” King Arthur pronounced. “Nothing will bring him back. Nothing will undo what he did or what was done to him. We must move on in unity and in loyalty to the principles and ideals around which the Round Table was formed: A system of justice under the law, not one of revenge and more revenge. The commonwealth cannot survive that kind of worldview. I will not tolerate it in my realm. This must end here and now. As for the investiture, though, there may be some difficulty in putting young Lovel’s suggestion into effect: there is but one vacancy among the Round Table knights, created by Sir Lamorak’s demise—and, of course, Sir Florent’s departure. Only one knight can join the brotherhood at this time.”

  “For my part,” Lancelot intoned graciously, speaking through his beaked Roman nose, “I forswear any revenge for Lamorak. True, Lamorak was my dear friend. Between him and Sir Tristram, I saw our trio as the three pillars of the kingdom. Now, Tristram and I—”

  In the midst of Lancelot’s speech, Sir Ywain, Arthur’s chamber guard for the day, stepped into the room and stood at attention. Startled by the interruption, Arthur looked up, questioning Ywain with his eyes.

  “My lord,” the knight began. “Sir Dinadan is outside. He begs immediate audience.”

  “Dinadan?” Sir Bors was surprised. “I thought he had been with Sir Tristram in Brittany.”

  “Obviously not anymore,” King Arthur responded. “Let him come in, Sir Ywain. Let us see what is so pressing. Perhaps an urgent message from Sir Tristram.”

  “Yes, my liege,” Ywain made a slight bow as he backed out of the chamber. The knights at the table looked at one another with curiosity, while Lovel scowled at me over their heads, shrugging his shoulders in bewilderment. And then Dinadan came in.

  Dinadan fell to his knees and bowed his head, avoiding the king’s eyes. His hair hung unkempt and unwashed around his shoulders. His habergeon was stained with rust and sweat. What I could see of his face looked haggard and begrimed, and there were lines along his cheeks that may have been the tracks of tears. “Your Grace,” he began. “I come with distressing news.”

  “Is it news…of Tristram?” Lancelot prodded. “He is in danger? Does he need our help?”

  “Not our help,” Dinadan murmured. “Our prayers.”

  “Prayers?” The king’s face turned a cloudy shade of gray, and I felt a cold hand tingling the back of my neck.

  “Sir Tristram is dead,” Dinadan said. And the room exploded.

  Gawain and Gareth were s
houting questions at Dinadan: How did it happen? Where? Was it in battle? Was it illness? Did Dinadan see Tristram’s body? Sir Bors was moaning aloud while King Arthur made indignant sounds of wounded royalty, as if death had not shown him the proper respect. But worst of all was the deep cry that came from Lancelot—the wild animalistic wail of “Nooooo” that rose from his bowels to fill the chamber. Nothing in my experience with the great knight had prepared me for that kind of reaction. It was personal. It was profound. It was hopeless.

  I couldn’t help but feel for him. If, as he had just said, he and Lamorak and Tristram had been the three pillars on whom the weight of Camelot rested, then the loss of Tristram following hard upon Lamorak’s death left him as the sole support of Arthur and all his ideals, as well as the whole realm and all the citizens within it.

  Besides which I knew what few others did: that the Great Adulterer saw in Tristram as in a smoky glass the dim reflection of his own circumstances. How could he help but see in Tristram’s death the presage of his own?

  The king was the first to recover his composure. “Tell us how it happened,” he said simply. “But first rise, Dinadan, you need not kneel there so long.”

  “My liege, please indulge me. I have not rested for several days; indeed it has been a week of constant rushing to come here with the news. Let me rest now on my knees as I give you the story as best I can. Know that I did not see him die, but I was with him when he took his wound. We were with Sir Kaherdin, his brother-in-law, and a posse of knights, including Kaherdin’s cousin Sir Andred, his squire Melias, and a few others. We had ridden at the behest of Duke Hoel, Kaherdin’s father, to put down a small band of marauding Norsemen that had been harassing the villages of eastern Brittany. We had pursued them to the coast off Mont St. Michel, where they turned to fight, their backs to the sea, and we slaughtered the main part of them and scattered the rest. But somehow, somewhere in the skirmish Tristram was wounded by somebody’s spear. It had been an attack from behind and he was slashed in his upper thigh, but it did not promise to be fatal, and we bound up the wound and carried him back to Kaherdin’s palace.”