by Anna Elliott
The wind had blown a fresh covering of cloud across the moon, making it too dark, now, to see Trystan’s face plainly. He was a shadowed outline against the rocks, nothing more. Isolde could feel his eyes on her, though, and he said, after a moment, “And if you die for it?”
Isolde lifted her shoulders. “The stars will still shine tomorrow.”
The silence seemed to stretch on longer this time, and Isolde shivered, feeling the familiar tug of remembrance the words always brought. This time, though—maybe because of all she’d spoken of for the first time in seven years—she felt a sudden sweep of desolation, wide and empty and bleak as the surrounding moors. Safer, maybe, she thought, to lock away the times when she’d laughed until her ribs ached or heard a voice she loved that didn’t come on the wind. Safer not to recall the girl who thought she’d one day tell the fire-tales to her own child. Because this self—the one she was now—never would.
Safer, but lonely, as well.
When she looked up, Trystan was watching her, an expression she couldn’t read at the back of his eyes. Then he looked away and said abruptly, “It’s been a long day, and tomorrow will likely be longer still. You’d better get what rest you can.”
He must have felt Isolde’s hesitation, for he laughed and said, “You needn’t worry. Here.” He bent to pick up the knife and tossed it over to lie at Isolde’s feet. “I won’t sleep again, but you can have charge of this, all the same.” He paused, then added, almost as though reading her thoughts, “You can trust me. I gave you my word I’d see you safe from Marche’s guard.” He stopped. It was still too dark to see his face, but she could feel his faint smile. “And apart from anything else, my younger sister would skin me alive if I broke a promise I’d made.”
Isolde was so surprised she stopped, midway to reaching for the knife, and looked up at him again, straining her eyes to see into the shadowed dark. “You have a sister?”
Trystan was silent a beat, then he said, “That’s seven questions you’ve had, now, to my one. But yes. In a way, at least. A long time ago.”
WHEN ISOLDE WOKE, TRYSTAN WAS GONE. Trystan was gone, and she was surrounded by men, helmeted and armed—and one and all of them bearing on their shields Cornwall’s badge. Marche’s men.
Isolde sat up, every muscle stiff from a night on the cold, hard ground. For a moment, she felt nothing—nothing at all. And then, as suddenly as before, anger filled her like wine poured into a drinking horn, so powerful that for a moment the world spun around her and bright specks darted before her eyes, the blood roaring in her ears.
Slowly, the world steadied, and her vision cleared. She’d been right about the rain. A chill, blowing mist was driving down, dampening the leather tunics and war helms of the men. None she knew by name, though one she recognized by his broken nose and bruised, battered face as the man who had fled the beach the night before last.
They were all staring at her, as though uncertain what their next move would be, and Isolde slowly sat up and straightened, the anger hissing through her veins.
And he’d gone to make his dirty bargain while she was asleep. That thought brought a fresh burst of anger. That Trystan hadn’t even had the courage to betray her face-to-face.
The men were still watching her—five of them, she now saw, standing in a half circle about the entrance to the sheltered niche where she lay. Then one of them—a short, heavily built man with a draggled beard and pale, watery eyes—stepped forward.
“Get up.” His voice was rough. “You’re coming with us—now.”
Trystan must then, she thought, have succeeded. Must have bargained for Hereric without revealing that he himself was the escaped Saxon prisoner they sought. Isolde drew herself up. The tide of anger was still breaking in furious waves against her ribs, and she didn’t even pause for thought before she spoke.
“Very well,” she said. “But first—the man who sent you here to find me.”
The heavily built man had started to approach her, but at that he stopped, the watery eyes narrowing. “Man? What man?”
“He’s the prisoner you were sent out to find. The Saxon who escaped from Tintagel. Marche will reward you richly for his capture. And he must still be in the area. He was wounded. He can’t have gotten far.”
For a long moment, the bearded guardsman stared at her, as though trying to judge whether or not she spoke true. Then, abruptly, he turned to the men behind him. “Gorlan, Mael,” he barked. “Go and search.”
The bearded man—the leader, he must be—watched the two soldiers depart, his back momentarily turned to Isolde. Isolde shifted position, and as she did her hand brushed against something hard. The hilt of the knife, she realized. Tossed to her by Trystan the night before and now lying hidden by the skirt of her gown.
With an effort like fighting free of the tide’s pull, she forced the anger back and tried to think, her eyes moving over the three remaining men. Too many for her to stand a chance of escape. Still, if she could get the knife secreted in her girdle, she would at least be armed.
“All right. Come on.”
The bearded man had turned back to her and spoke with grating impatience. As well as being the leader, he was oldest of the group by ten or fifteen years—about forty, at a guess.
Quickly, Isolde grasped the knife through the fabric of her skirt and rose to her feet, holding the knife fast in the folds of cloth, out of sight. She pulled her traveling cloak close about her, and then, under its cover, slid the knife upward until it was free of the fabric and she could grip the hilt. She nearly dropped it, then, and her heart lurched as the smooth bone of the handle slipped on her sweat-dampened palm. But at last she managed to slide the knife into her girdle. And without any of the men seeing what she’d done.
The next moment, though, she thought the effort would prove vain, for the leader of the party turned to his two remaining men and said curtly, “Hold her. I’m going to search her. She may be armed.”
The bearded man’s hands were powerful, covered with thick black hair to the wrist, the fingernails long and rimmed with dirt. The thought of having those hands on her, moving over her body—
Then she looked up, meeting the guardsman’s eyes, and saw in their look enough to make cold fear crawl through her as she remembered what Trystan had said on the beach. And where their leader goes, she thought, the rest will surely follow. Like wolves bringing down a sheep after the leader of the pack has leapt for the animal’s throat.
But, as with wolves, if the leader of the pack was injured or frightened, the rest might turn tail and run.
In a flash, her eyes had swept over the older guardsman, taking in the swollen joints of his knuckles, the slight stiffness in his gait as he advanced toward her. Then she drew herself erect.
“Stop.” The word came out like the crack of breaking ice, and the man drew up sharply, at first startled, then angry.
Isolde drew in a slow breath, hoping, as never before, that her guess was true. Then, “Touch me,” she said, “and I’ll make you pay for it in pain. You’ve an ache in your joints, haven’t you, when the rain and damp come as they have today? The dampness gets into your bones so that some days you can scarce grasp the hilt of your sword or raise an arm above your head.”
She stopped. The man had sucked in his breath and was staring at her, a flicker of fear beginning to show at the back of the pale, watery eyes, though it warred, for the moment, with disbelief. The men behind him—the younger ones—were beginning to look frightened as well, shifting their weight and muttering uneasily among themselves. Isolde met the first man’s gaze without flinching.
“Touch me,” she said again. “Lay one finger on me, and I’ll make you writhe on the ground like a worm. Your bones will turn to fire within you and your joints will swell and pop like the fat on a roasting pig.” She stopped, her eyes still on the bearded man’s. Then she lowered her voice. “Touch me,” she said, very softly, “and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
Bo
ok III
Chapter Twenty-one
THE AIR OF THE PRISON cell was as damp and vile as before, the reek of filth and mold and decay strong enough to catch at the back of Isolde’s throat and make it hard to draw breath. Something squeaked and rustled amid the straw at her feet. It was cold, too, and she locked her arms tight about herself, trying to stop shivering.
She’d had neither food nor water, and her stomach felt hollow, her head light with hunger, her throat achingly dry. But they’d left her a saucer lamp—a wick floated in a small dish of oil—and the feeble light it cast was enough, at least, to show her the dank walls around her and the muck-strewn floor. Isolde glanced down at the place where she’d hidden the knife, burying it beneath a heap of dirt-encrusted straw. She might have frightened the guardsmen who’d captured her out of a search, but she couldn’t count on the next men she confronted being as easily driven away.
And, she thought, sooner or later—
Almost as though the thought had summoned him, the bolts outside were drawn back and the door swung open. Isolde froze. Chilled and exhausted, dirty and aching, she felt as though she’d used up every last grain of her courage in facing down the guards.
Marche hadn’t spoken, but was advancing slowly toward her, step by step. Isolde’s chest felt suddenly tight, and she had to clench her hands and fight with all her will to keep from stepping back, from pressing herself against the far wall. At last they stood face-to-face. Marche wore the scarlet-and-ermine robes of the High King, a broad fillet of gold around his brow. His dark eyes locked with hers. And then, still without speaking, he raised his hand and struck her, hard, across the face.
Pain shot though her and her vision darkened, but she didn’t lose consciousness. Isolde felt him hit her again, and then throw her to the ground, felt his hands fumble, then savagely rip at the bodice of her gown. She thought, It’s going to happen again. And then, with a sick certainty, This time I’m not going to be able to bear it without crying out.
Isolde gritted her teeth, her eyes still tightly closed. But nothing happened. And then she felt Marche kick her, furiously, in the stomach, so that she rolled over and almost did cry out with the pain. She opened her eyes. And saw. And understood.
The blow had knocked the breath out of her, and as she struggled for air, blinking back tears, she seemed to hear Dera’s voice, slow and drugged with the poppy syrup as it had been three nights before. I was lucky, though. Heard afterwards from another girl what happens if he can’t manage with you at all.
Marche lashed out and struck her again, a savage blow to the head that made her vision blur again. Isolde gritted her teeth, bracing herself for another blow, knowing that there was absolutely nothing to stop him from treating her the same. And then—
A memory came unbidden into Isolde’s mind. Marche, breath reeking of ale and drunken vomit, hands fumbling in the dark. And gasping out a name. Modred.
With an effort that left her dizzy and breathless, Isolde pulled herself straight. Her stomach still felt hollow, her throat clogged with fear, but she looked up at Marche and said, her lip curling, “Go ahead and beat me…if it makes you feel…more of a man. I’ll enjoy…telling the men you place on guard…just what made you strike those blows.”
Marche’s face went red, then faded, abruptly, to the mottled white of utter fury. With a wordless grunt of rage, he seized Isolde with one hand, scooping up a handful of filthy straw from the floor with the other, then forced her lips apart and ground the muck savagely into her mouth.
Isolde choked, gagging, just as the figure of a guardsman appeared in the cell door way.
“My lord. There’s a messenger come in for you. Rode in just a few moments ago. Says it’s urgent and can’t wait.”
For a long moment, Marche didn’t move but stood staring down at Isolde, his breath still coming fast and hard. Then he dropped his hold on Isolde’s arm and stepped back, his jaw tight.
“You think I’d dirty myself on you in any case? You can stay here and rot, for all I care, until you face trial for witchcraft.” Marche paused, his lips twisting in a small, tight smile. “The hearings will begin tomorrow morning in the king’s council hall.”
ISOLDE SANK DOWN ONTO THE STRAW, leaning her head back against the chill, moisture-slick wall and closing her eyes. Her lip was bleeding, and she could feel a swelling bruise on her cheek. The muscles of her stomach still burned, and her ribs felt as though they were on fire—though she judged that none, at least, were broken. The pain was worse if she tried to fill her lungs completely. So she sat without moving, trying to keep her breaths shallow and light.
A trial for witchcraft, she thought. I might as well have let Marche batter me to death here.
She opened her eyes and looked at the flickering saucer lamp. In this windowless underground cell, she had no way of knowing the hour or judging the passage of time, save by the burning of the oil. But morning couldn’t be more than a few hours away. A few hours, then, and she would be tried, and condemned, and killed. Stoned to death. Or burned. For she had no doubt of the trial’s purpose. It would serve as an excuse for Marche to kill her, that was all.
Isolde watched a curl of smoke rise, hover, then dissolve in the cold, dank air. She felt…nothing. Nothing at all. She shivered. Frighteningly numb.
In the end, she must have fallen into a half-waking doze, for when the sound of the bolts being drawn back came again, her head snapped up. If Marche had returned—
But it was not Marche who stood in the doorway. Isolde’s heart had started to pound, and she shut her eyes and repeated the words, trying to steady herself. Not Marche.
“Father Nenian.”
The priest stood uncertainly in the doorway an instant longer, then came forward, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dark. His face looked drawn with distress.
“Lady Isolde. I’m more sorry than I can say to see you here. To see you—”
He broke off. With an effort, Isolde drew the torn edges of her gown together. Her swollen mouth made speaking painful, but she raised herself to meet the priest and said, “You shouldn’t be here yourself, Father. If it’s true I’m to be tried for a witch, there’s danger for anyone seen to speak with me.”
Father Nenian hesitated. He had held a loaf of bread, wrapped in cloth, and a jug of wine hugged tight to his body, and now he seemed to remember them, for he set them down on the floor before saying, “I thought, Lady Isolde, that you might wish the comfort of confession. Before…before tomorrow.”
“The comfort of confession?” Isolde repeated. Her mouth twisted. “You mean in case I wish to confess to witchcraft, you can offer me absolution before I burn?”
Father Nenian drew back slightly at her tone. Then he said, quietly, “I have never thought or called you witch, Lady Isolde.”
“I’m sorry, Father.” The effort of moving stretched her bruised ribs, and Isolde sucked in a sharp breath, but she touched the priest’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said softly again. “I know you have not. Though I’ve often wondered why.”
Father Nenian’s eyes met hers, their gaze clear and bright as the water of a spring pool. “I was given to the Church when I was five, raised by priests and holy men. I know little of the evils of the world. But I do know of good.” He stopped, then said, simply, “I see goodness in you, Lady Isolde.”
For a moment, Isolde’s eyes stung with unexpected tears, and when she could speak, she said, “Thank you, Father. And thank you for the food, as well.” She lifted the jug of wine and took a swallow, the liquid cool in her parched throat.
Father Nenian waved the thanks away, his face still anxious. “I only wish, my lady, that I could do something more for you.”
Isolde wondered for a moment whether she ought to tell Father Nenian of Marche’s betrayal. Whether he might be able to persuade the rest of the king’s council that the High King had formed an alliance with the Saxon Kentish king. Far more likely, though, she thought, that they would say he’d been ensorcelled by t
he Witch Queen. Or that Marche would simply have him killed.
So in the end she shook her head. “You’re a good man. And the people here will have need of good men in the days to come. Don’t throw your life away along with mine.”
Father Nenian was silent, then he said, a little uncertainly, “If you should wish the rite of confession, Lady Isolde—”
Isolde shook her head. “No,” she said. “But I thank you again, Father. You were kind to come.”
Chapter Twenty-two
MARCHE STOOD ON A HALF dais erected at the head of the room before the curtained doorway that led to the courtyard. He wore, still, the gold fillet about his brow, and his ermine-lined cloak was flung back from his shoulders; his arms were half raised. His voice echoed harshly in the silent, listening hall.
“We are gathered here to consider the charge of witchcraft and sorcery brought against the lady Isolde.”
The words seemed to come at Isolde through a muffling fog. The emptiness, the frightening numbness, were still there. But as Marche spoke, she thought that if she had been able to feel anything at all, she would have felt a kind of savage satisfaction at seeing him avoid her gaze and keep his face turned away from the corner where she had been set to stand.
The king’s council hall felt cold in the gray light of morning, the fire in the great central hearth unlit. The benches were as crowded as before, the faces as taut and watchful as when Isolde had last entered this same room. Not even a week ago, she thought. It seemed a lifetime.
After Father Nenian had gone, she’d not slept again, and so had been awake and at least braced when the guardsman had come to bring her here. She’d not been allowed water for washing, and she could smell the odor of the prison cell clinging about her gown and tangled hair. The bruise on her cheekbone ached, and her ribs still throbbed fiercely with every breath, but she forced herself to stand straight, to let her eyes move over the rows of dukes and petty kings, most of them surrounded by knots of their men-at-arms.
