Gasping for breath, Tristan ran back up the path. He found the giant’s head where he had left it, but there was no sign of the girl. “Damn her lovely eyes, where did she go?” he whispered furiously. “What a family they are! Both of them, stubborn as oxen. He wants her back, she doesn’t want to go. I’m blessed if I know what to make of them.”
Then he heard the splash of oars in water. He turned and raced back down the path. A cloaked figure sat in the boat, struggling with the oars, while the craft spun slowly in the eddy.
“Wait!” he cried. “Wait for me!” He swore under his breath, flung the head into the keel, and leaped, catching the gunwale and falling heavily on top of his grisly prize. “Damn! Ugh! What a filthy mess! And you! What do you think you’re doing? Let me have those. Go sit in the bows—there’s a bench and a skin of water. Get out of my way now and be still.”
But of course she went rigid as soon as he made it into the boat. She did not move or speak. He had to lift her and carry her forward to where he wanted her to stay. He rowed the boat to the edge of the eddy and watched the moving sea. He had not left it too late after all. The tide had turned and was on the ebb. He pulled hard out into the current; the boat swung, lifted, steadied, and slid silently past the towering granite walls. He thought he heard shouts from atop the cliff, but he hardly cared. He was nearly out of bowshot and heading fast for the open sea, and, most important of all, Kaherdyn’s God was with the silent black-haired beauty in the bows. Ryol’s men were powerless against him now.
At dawn he sailed past the breakers into the little bay where he had first landed in Lanascol. Kaherdyn and his friends waited on the shingle in subdued excitement. When he felt the keelrib scrape the sand, Tristan stepped out into knee-high water and carried the girl ashore. She stood on the shingle before her brother, wrapped in Tristan’s cloak. This time her brilliant eyes were firmly on the ground.
“She has not said a word since I first saw her,” Tristan told Kaherdyn. “She has not touched water. Or food. And she needs a tunic.” He lowered his voice. “In truth, Kaherdyn, I believe she is not well. She has been hard used. The man—the man was a beast.”
Kaherdyn put his arms around his sister. “Iseulte, Iseulte. It will be all right now. Everything will be all right.” But she shrank from his touch and clutched the cloak tighter around her. He frowned. “What happened, Sir Tristan? How did you get her out? How did you find her? Where is Ryol now?”
Tristan beckoned him closer to the keel. “I found her in his bedchamber, half dressed, and took him as he prepared to lie with her. Do not fear, he is dead.” He reached into the keel and drew out the head by its lank red hair. Time had done nothing to improve its appearance. Two of the boys gagged; even Kaherdyn turned green. “I’ve brought a trophy home to give the queen, your mother.”
Kaherdyn was startled. “How did you know?” he whispered. “How did you know he took Iseulte as revenge against my mother?”
Tristan smiled gently. “I didn’t until I met him. Then I guessed. He was, er, a man of appetites.”
Kaherdyn’s face went white. “My father fought him and took his lands. All but that godforsaken island and a strip of beach. But he didn’t kill him because Ryol begged his pardon and swore an oath of fealty.”
Tristan laid a hand on his sleeve to stop him. “It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me. Just take this giant’s head to your mother and let her do with it what she wills.”
Kaherdyn nodded. “Maybe now she will sleep at night.” He turned to his sister. “Come, Iseulte. It’s all over. All of it. Forever.”
He stretched out his hand to her, but she stood motionless in the sand, head down, as rigid as a tree.
Tristan shook his head. “Give her time. Get her home to her mother as fast as you can. I don’t think she wants men around her. Not even boys. Did you bring a horse for her?”
Kaherdyn looked desperately at Tristan. “You’ll come with us, won’t you? You’ve got to—I can’t manage her alone.”
Tristan bowed. “I am at your service, Prince Kaherdyn. Give me the horse and I’ll carry her home.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve dragged her down the giant’s tower and across half his island. She’s used to my gentle touch by now.”
31 THE QUEEN OF LANASCOL
Hidden deep in the Wild Forest of Broceliande, the green clearing of Benoic shone like a rare jewel. A slow river curved around fields and meadows dotted with cattle and standing stones, only to disappear again into the impenetrable forest. In the middle of the clearing rose a low hill ringed by a thick wall of wood and stone. Within this encircling wall the town of Benoic grew and thrived. From the main gate a broad road, paved with stones, swept uphill to the king’s house at the top.
Tristan looked about him with interest as Prince Kaherdyn led his troops through the gate, past saluting guards, past staring townspeople, up the curving ride to the fortress on the hill. He was not sure what he had expected of Lancelot’s birthplace, but it was not this tiny jewel embedded in the wilderness. The king’s house, part dwelling, part fortress, was made of wood and wattle. He had imagined something more like Camelot, large, impressive, built of dressed stone in the Roman style, built to last. But when they rode into the paved courtyard, where sentries stood at attention with polished swords, where grooms ran out from nowhere to take their horses as soon as they dismounted, where the captain of the guard embraced Kaherdyn with tears in his eyes and barked orders that were instantly obeyed, his sense of disappointment faded. Small and simple it might be, but it was a fortress nonetheless, with a pervading sense of order, calm, and discipline.
His last doubt died when the great bronze doors swung wide and Queen Dandrane herself came out to greet them on the steps. Her skin was the pale cream of her daughter’s, but her face was Kaherdyn’s, even down to the gray-green eyes, the tilt of her lips, and the bountiful chestnut hair. She was dressed plainly in a gray shift with an etched copper belt, but she needed no adornment. Age had lent majesty to her beauty. Her eyes flew to her daughter, standing between Tristan and Kaherdyn with head bowed low, but the queen greeted her son with only a tremor in her voice, thanked Tristan warmly for his help, and begged his attendance at a feast to be held that night in his honor. She sent for servants to show him to his quarters, asked if he required a razor or a bath, and ordered water and mead sent to his chamber, along with a wreath of wildflowers to sweeten the air.
As Tristan turned away to follow the servant indoors, he saw the queen take her daughter in her arms. For a moment, the wide gray-green eyes lifted to his. They were swimming with tears.
The feasting hall was large, Tristan noted in surprise, nearly as large as his own in Lyon’s Head, but it was only half full, and half of its occupants were women. Everyone rose when the queen entered. Tristan hardly recognized the plainly dressed mother he had met that afternoon. She swept into the hall like a ship into harbor, royally adorned with gold at ears, throat, waist, wrists, and fingers, her rich hair bound in golden netting and a band of beaten gold across her brow.
She stood at Tristan’s side and raised her winecup. “Tristan of Lyonesse,” she said, smiling, “a toast in your honor.” The hall erupted with cheering. Everyone drank to him again and again, calling out wishes for health and long life.
The queen lowered her voice and leaned toward him. “You must be wondering why we are so many women. Ryol himself is the reason. Nearly all our fighting men outside the house guard have died trying to bring my daughter home. Their widows are here, for the feast is held in honor of all those who risked their lives for her, and for me.” Her kind face grew sad. “These women have lost nearly as much as their husbands, and more than you. They have lost their livelihoods. I maintain them now.”
“My lady queen is very kind,” Tristan murmured.
“It is only just. Why should they starve because their husbands died in my service? They are not much of a burden. In Benoic, everyone works together.”
Servants swarmed around them wit
h baskets of bread, platters of roasted meats, and bowls of dried fruits and nuts. Tristan’s cup was refilled as soon as it was emptied with a neat wine far richer than any he had tasted in Britain.
“I owe you my son’s life, as well as my daughter’s,” the queen said gravely. “It was against my will he led that band of children out of Benoic. I ought to punish him for disobedience, but I cannot. I am too happy to have him back. I thank you for that, too.”
“He’s a brave lad,” Tristan replied, “and a determined one.”
Her lovely mouth widened. “ ‘Stubborn’ is the word I use.”
Tristan grinned. “It ill becomes me to disagree with my host while I drink her wine and eat at her table.”
She laughed lightly. “I like your manners, Sir Tristan. I thank you also for the giant’s head. I’ve had it stuck on a spike at the main gate. The villagers have built a bonfire and are dancing around it.” Her smiled faded. “As hideous as it is, I thank you for bringing it back to me. Now, perhaps, we can begin to put this horror behind us.”
“And your daughter?” Tristan asked gently, seeing the despair behind her smiling eyes. “How does she fare now that she is home?”
“Iseulte is ill. He has damaged her spirit far more than her body. Her body will heal, but . . .” She turned away as her lips quivered. “The brute has robbed her of her innocence, of the person she used to be. At the moment she is no one. It is too soon to know who she will become.”
“Let time pass.”
“Indeed. It is my only hope.”
Silence fell between them. All around them people ate and drank, talked and laughed and jested, but the queen sat quietly and stared at her plate. Her sorrow fell like a shadow across Tristan and stilled his appetite.
“My lady Queen of Lanascol,” he said formally, “I have come a long way without knowing my destination, yet God has washed me ashore on your doorstep and shown me how I may be of service. Kaherdyn has told me your husband is away on a pilgrimage. If you would do me the honor, allow me to stay in Lanascol and serve you, at least until he returns.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “The honor is mine, Sir Tristan. You offer me a service I could not buy with all the gold in Lanascol. And you want nothing in exchange but to live in Benoic? What does a man like you want with a place like this? We are too small for your scope.”
Tristan shook his head. “Nay, lady. There is something about this place—I have wanted to see it since my boyhood, when my father told me tales about his campaigns with Lancelot and Arthur. In a way, it’s like Camelot to me. Some of the old magic of those golden days still clings to it.”
A quick smile lit her lovely face. “I understand you. I, too, would have liked to know those men. But Lancelot died before I was married to his son, and I never met him.” She hesitated, lowering her gaze. “We were married beside his grave on our way home from Wales. That’s as close as I ever came to him.”
“From Wales?” Tristan said quickly. “Are you Welsh, then?”
“Indeed. I grew up in Gwynedd. King Maelgon was my father.”
Tristan stared at her openmouthed. “But Percival of Gwynedd is Maelgon’s son!”
The queen’s features lit with joy. “Val is my brother. My twin. Oh, I have not seen him for so long! Tell me what you know of him, I pray you.”
Tristan’s head reeled. “I have been sent here,” he whispered. “Indeed, I have been sent.” He steadied himself with an effort. “Percival is the greatest king in Britain. He holds Wales together in the only unity that embattled kingdom knows.”
“I meant,” she said gently, “tell me about him. When I left his wife had just borne him a son. She was a beautiful girl, if a little vain. King Pelleas’s daughter Guinblodwyn. She disliked me, but that was only natural. Being twins, Val and I were so very close. We shared everything. I hoped that when I left they would grow closer and come to friendship once again.” She looked at him expectantly.
“I don’t know what their past has been,” Tristan said evenly, “but they are hardly friends now. When I was in Gwynedd they did not speak or share a bed. She’s widely considered a witch, I gather, and has gone back to the pagan practices of her childhood.”
“I am so very sorry to hear that. Poor Val . . . You were in Gwynedd?” Tears misted the queen’s eyes. “How I envy you. I have so longed to see my homeland again. How have the children fared? When I left—let’s see—little Essylte was two and Melleas a baby. They must be grown by now. Are there any others?”
Tristan’s throat tightened. “Percival has two sons living. Melleas and Logren.”
“Two boys, how wonderful! And what became of young Essylte? She promised fair, as I recall.”
Something struck in Tristan’s chest and he could not breathe. He saw the queen’s gaze sharpen. He struggled hard to find his voice. “Have you not heard? Percival married Essylte to my uncle Markion, King of Cornwall. Now she is High Queen of Britain.”
“My niece Essylte?” She paused, watching his face. “So that’s who it was. We get news from time to time here in the Wild Forest, but rarely is it recent. I knew Markion was High King, as I knew it was you who made him so. I had heard he took a Welsh princess to wife. But I did not know it was Essylte. Has she borne him a child?”
Tristan cleared his throat. “There is a son. Yes.”
“Then Percival’s grandson will be the next High King. What an honor she has brought to our house! And to yours.”
“Yes,” Tristan whispered. “Everyone who knows her honors Essylte.”
He looked away as he said her name, and Dandrane watched him thoughtfully. “I will accept your offer, Sir Tristan. You are welcome in Benoic for as long as you like to stay. No, don’t thank me. I will get more benefit from it than you, I have no doubt. But answer me a question, if you will. Why is the Lord of Lyonesse, and Markion’s honored nephew, willing to hide himself away in Broceliande?”
Tristan glanced at her nervously. “I am here because I cannot go home. My uncle the High King has banished me from Britain.”
She searched his face. “Is there a price on your head?”
“No. He doesn’t care if I live, so long as I don’t live in Britain.”
“And your lands?”
“Are in his hands.”
“You are the man he owes his crown to. Is Markion a tyrant, then? Or do you deserve his judgment?”
Tristan hesitated, but the clear gray-green eyes, Kaherdyn’s grave eyes, compelled the truth. “In his place I would have done the same. Or worse.”
“I see.” She looked around the hall. “I regret we have no bard to entertain us, but so few bards are left who remember the old tales, and fewer still who care to come through the forest to Benoic. When I was a girl in Gwynedd, we had the best bards in Britain. Ah, well. Time passes.” She rose, and the hall rose with her. “It’s time to lead the women out. Will you stay drinking with the men, Sir Tristan, or can I beg your company a little longer?”
He bent over her hand. “I am at your service, Queen Dandrane.”
She led him down a corridor flagged in stone to a large, square room with cushioned chairs and a thick woven mat upon the floor tiles. She dismissed the women who attended her and lit the lamps herself. Then she walked to the window and pushed open a shutter, breathing in the scent-laden air of a soft spring night. Candlelight glimmered like rainwater over the gold of her gown.
“I want you to raise me a fighting force that can protect Lanascol from men like Ryol. He was the worst, but there are other such men about. Men of ambition, but without honor. Our army died at Ryol’s hands. You’re a warrior; men will follow you, men will come to you to learn. My husband would do it if he were here. But I cannot gather the men I need myself. Will you do this for me, Tristan?”
“I will, my lady.”
“You must start from scratch, almost. There is no one left.”
“I will ride around Lanascol, from household to household, and seek out the young men. Let me take K
aherdyn with me. We will have you the makings of an army by summer’s end.”
He was rewarded by a smile of relief. “Thank you. I’m sure Kaherdyn would love to go.” She moved away from the window. “I also have a favor to ask you.”
“Ask, lady, and I will do it.”
“When you rescued Iseulte—when you found her in Ryol’s chamber—she was disheveled, Kaherdyn tells me, and needed your cloak to cover her nakedness. You, who saw her there, know what the brute used her for. I know it, and Kaherdyn, but—”
“Your secret is my secret,” Tristan said softly. “No one else in all the world need know what happened to your daughter. If you are worried what I might say as I travel about your kingdom, don’t be. I shall say nothing.”
“Thank you, but you know what wings bad news has. Everyone in all of Less Britain already knows. I ask for more than that.” She walked again to the window and looked out. “When he comes, he will come down that road and through the gate. Every day I watch for him. For the past month I have feared he would come before Iseulte came home. Now I am afraid he will come before she heals.”
“You don’t want your husband to know?”
She turned to him, her eyes bright with tears. “It is surely impossible to keep the truth from him. But when he learns it—” She shivered, and Tristan stepped closer.
“Will he blame her?”
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