Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels

by Rosalind Miles

  “It sounds like that. Everyone but us.” She turned her head and a shadow crossed her face.

  “Lady—” He knew at once what was troubling her. “No one will notice that we’ve turned aside. Everyone straggles as the hunt spreads out, and no one cares when the others get back.”

  “I know. And I wanted to be with you so much.” She smiled into his eyes. “We haven’t been alone since we arrived.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Queen Guenevere has been enjoying your company.”

  “And yet I’ve been so sad these last few days.” She gave an uncertain laugh. “I don’t know why. There’s something coming. Something in the stars. . . .” She fixed him with her large-eyed, luminous stare.

  Tristan knew her too well to brush her fears aside. “Then let us make the most of our time while we’re here.”

  “Away from Mark, you mean?”

  Her voice was unnaturally sharp. Tristan caught his breath and drew her to his chest. “Lady, I—”

  She pushed him off and paced wildly away. “Gods above, Tristan, why did I marry him?”

  He looked away. “Because I betrayed you. Because I was a fool.”

  She turned on him. “I wouldn’t let your worst enemy say that!”

  “When he sent me to woo you, I should not have gone.”

  “I could have refused him.” Her lips tightened. “I was angry with you, and I threw my life away.”

  “Lady, lady—” He gathered her into his arms. “You married for your country. You wanted to keep Ireland safe.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and clung fiercely to the great body sheltering hers. “I feared Cornwall would make war on the Western Isle.” She gave a twisted smile. “Well, I was wrong about that too.”

  The unspoken thought came between them like a curse.

  Because the King is a coward. And even worse, a fool.

  “Lady, lady,” he sighed, “how were you to know that Mark wouldn’t go to war? Even a coward can turn vicious if provoked.”

  She nodded. “And he still could.” She gave a bitter laugh. “So I tied myself to him for life, as a woman and a queen.”

  He paused. “Yet the Great Ones have smiled on us too.”

  “Yes.”

  Isolde fell silent. They both knew how different it might have been. If Mark had insisted on his marriage rights, when his barons were clamoring for an heir—if he had not been happy to leave her alone and spend his time with his mistress, his horse, and his hounds—if he had been jealous of Tristan . . .

  Tristan sighed. “The Gods weave both joy and sorrow into human lives. We have been blessed with a love beyond earthly dreams.”

  She gave a watery smile. “You’re right.” She leaned back into the safety of his arms. As she did, a cloud veiled the face of the sun and a shadow fell across the woodland like a great hand. She turned in fear. “What’s that?”

  Tristan stiffened. Born in a hollow tree, he was a creature of the woodland, and had ears like a faun. He cast about, scenting the air like a bloodhound, then pointed ahead. “Over there.”

  Hurriedly, he assisted her to mount, and together they rode forward through the trees. The light was fading and a sweet mist was rising from the earth, fragrant with leaf-mold and golden days on the wane. Tristan pressed forward unerringly, a hunter on the scent.

  “There, madam.”

  Standing on the edge of the forest was a still, strange figure clad in lichen-green.

  Tristan spurred toward him without fear. “Sir, what’s your purpose? Do you seek the Queen?”

  The stranger turned toward them as Isolde drew up. A lean, boyish figure, he had the eyes of one who slept too little and saw too much. With a brief bow to Tristan, he fell to one knee and offered Isolde a ring. “Your Majesty.”

  Emeralds and gold, winking in the sun—the ancient ring of Queens. The scent of bergamot came drifting down the wind, her mother’s musky fragrance from the east. Now she knew the sadness that had been haunting her for days. “My mother . . . ?”

  “Alas, lady . . .”

  Tristan read her face. “Speak, man!” he cried.

  The messenger bowed his head. “The Old Ones have called the Queen to the Otherworld. She was not sick, and she suffered no pain. But her fiery spirit wore out her mortal shell and she slipped the coils of earth for the Beyond.”

  Isolde nodded, white to the lips. Her mother had lived and loved, laughed and wept at twice the pace of a normal soul. She reveled longer, drank deeper, and suffered more than any mortal frame could hope to withstand. She had never been destined for the drowsy peace of the fire-side, the soft sinking into widow’s cap and shawl. Small wonder that the Dark Lord had called her to his side.

  Isolde raised her head. “How did she die?”

  He gave a sorrowful smile. “Blessing your name. And she did not die alone. My master traveled with her to the edge of the void.”

  “Your master?” She looked at him through a mist of tears. Golden eyes, woodland ways, green gown—Merlin, of course. “Thank you, sir.” Covering her eyes, she turned away.

  Tristan frowned. “Madam, there must be more.”

  The strange youth nodded. “My master bids you return without delay.”

  Isolde tensed. “Why?”

  “The hungry sea, he says, howls ’round your isle. There are land rats and water rats, gnawing night and day. Moths lay their eggs in the fabric of what is rightly yours. Hungry mouths, hungry seas, hungry men.”

  Isolde stared at him, distracted. “Hungry men?”

  Tristan nodded bleakly. “And one above all?”

  “Yes, sir.” The messenger held his gaze. “One indeed.”

  “Thank you.” Tristan dismissed the young man with a bow. Together they watched him fade into the dusk.

  Oh Mother, Mother . . . Isolde fought back her tears. “What does he mean?”

  Tristan’s eyes followed the green-clad messenger, then he turned back to her. “Remember, lady, at Pentecost last year, when your mother the Queen was making much of her knight?”

  “Sir Tolen, you mean? When she pledged him her undying love before all the court, and told him he would be the last of her chosen ones?”

  “That very night. And remember his brother Breccan?”

  “How angry he was? Yes, of course. But he was only a boy.”

  Tristan smiled sourly. “Boys in Ireland soon become men. Then later he challenged Tolen—”

  Her mind raced away. “You mean he’s jealous of his brother? He thought he should be the next chosen one?”

  “Beyond that,” he said somberly. “With your mother gone and yourself out of the country, as you are . . .” He paused for emphasis. “Breccan may decide that Ireland has no need of queens.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He raised his head, looking out on the falling night. “Breccan would not be the first to dream of making himself King.” He raised his head, looking out on the falling night. “We must get to Ireland as fast as we can. If we make for the Severn Water, we’ll find a ship there.”

  “But I have to go back to Cornwall to tell Mark.”

  “Don’t you think he knows?” He gave an angry laugh. “Andred’s men are everywhere.”

  Isolde shook her head. “I have to show him courtesy.”

  “Lady, send a messenger. We have a hundred trusty gallopers.”

  “He is still my husband,” she said stubbornly.

  “Yes indeed.” Tristan nodded bleakly. If only you did not lay between them like a sword. He made a formal bow. “Go via Cornwall then, lady, if you choose. But you heard Merlin’s warning. If you value your throne, you will not linger here.”

  She reached out and pressed his hand. Sadly, they rode together out of the wood. The last rays of the sun lay across the plain, lighting the way back to Camelot. Ahead of them the great castle glimmered in its green hollow, the mists of evening wreathing its white battlements and the bright banners flying from its gilded towers.

&
nbsp; Afterward they knew they had had the last golden day of the season, a living reminder of how the Summer Country got its name. Even late in the year like this when the rest of the world shivered and grew cold, long hours of sunlight still blessed this enchanted land. Of all the kingdoms in the islands, summers were longest there. For the two of them, it was the summer of their love. But even then, they knew that winter must come.

  CHAPTER 4

  Night falling on a day of cruel cold, sleet in the air, and a wild wind on the mountains to blow them all away—Gods above, winter had roared in with a vengeance before a man could beware. And what mad-heads would hunt in this weather, when the whole of the island was wracked by these terrible storms?

  Fearfully, the old woodman raised his eyes from his bundles of sticks and watched the cloaked riders streaming across the horizon, dark figures outlined against the setting sun. The black horsemen and hounds were hunting human prey, not boar or deer, he was sure. Well, the world was a sadder place since the old Queen died.

  And no sign of Princess Isolde to take her place. The old man sucked on his teeth and chewed over the troubling thought. Well, Princess no longer—she’d been Queen Isolde ever since she wed the Cornish King, and now she was Queen of the island in her own right. Still, she’d been Princess long enough to wind herself around all their hearts.

  Mistily, he recalled a lithe, laughing child as playful as a wave of the sea. He saw her again riding the surge like a mermaid, the only daughter of a doting mother, born in delight to rule the land with love. But now even the far-flung crannogs were murmuring that it would not be so—that the great lords meant to dispossess her and take her throne.

  Yet could the Old Ones stand back and let that be? And the Great One Herself must resist it, She’d strike them down in the end. The old man shuddered. But evil men always followed their own will, and only a fool ever stood in their way. The wise man kept his head down, and made for home.

  Home, yes, while these wild ones were about. Ye Gods, his aching back! Straightening up, he whistled for his dog, and turned his back on his bundles for the day. Time enough to gather sticks tomorrow, when the black riders were no more. Whoever they were hunting, it need not be him. Muffling his head in his wrap, with his dog slinking low at his heels, he melted into the woodland and was gone.

  THE BAND OF RIDERS thundered along the ridge. On the side of the track the hillside fell away sharply to a mist-shrouded valley below. Ahead of them a dense stand of pines crowned the mountaintop, sheltering a natural fortress among the crags.

  At the head of the pack one rider let out a shout and dragged his horse to a halt.

  “What’s the matter, Tolen?” cried Breccan, reining in behind.

  “What are we doing here?” Tolen panted, pulling off his cap and knocking off the sleet. The raw tang of the frozen forest caught at his throat. “We’ve lost the light, we’ve seen no sight of game, and this wind’ll skin us alive if we go on.”

  “Patience, brother,” Breccan called, glancing around at his knights as they drew up. At his side rode Ravigel and young Tiercel, Ravigel’s kinsman, with twenty or so young knights behind. Breccan’s followers increased every day, Tolen noted uneasily, as more and more of the Queen’s men turned to him. Well, they had no one else to command their allegiance and take up the service of their swords. Where was Isolde? When would she be here?

  Breccan calmed his snorting horse and nodded ahead. “That’s Odent’s castle up there, beyond the pines. I thought we’d call on him.”

  “Odent?”

  Dimly, Tolen pieced together a memory of a squat, pugnacious man, a former champion of the Queen and briefly among those who had shared her couch. But as the Queen’s passion for younger knights increased and her interest in ruling grew less, Odent had given up in disgust and gone to live on his estate. Tolen squinted at Breccan. “He left court long ago. Why d’you want to see him now?”

  “Look around you, brother.” Breccan gestured to the wide sweep of the mountains and the valleys beyond. “From this crow’s nest, he controls all the land around. I want to know who he will support.”

  “Support?” Tolen kneaded his temples to try to clear his head. Darkness and devils, why did he drink so much?

  “What does it matter to you? That’s for Queen Isolde to find out when she comes.”

  Breccan pursed his lips. “She won’t be here for a while.”

  Tolen stared at him. “Why not?”

  “She probably doesn’t know the Queen is dead.”

  “But Gilhan was sending word—”

  Breccan looked out thoughtfully into the dusk. “Well, you know he sent one of the young squires of his household, because he didn’t trust any of us. With so many outlaws and ruffians on the roads, a messenger like that could easily come to harm.”

  Ravigel coughed, his pale eyes like stone. “Perhaps he already has.”

  Breccan looked at Ravigel and grinned, then turned back to Tolen again with a knowing wink. “Gilhan should have sent Ravigel. But he would insist on sending his own man.”

  Tiercel’s answering smile gleamed white in the dusk. “A good galloper, but no fighter, so I hear. I doubt he’d get as far as the coast alive, let alone all the way to Camelot.”

  Tolen’s bewildered gaze roved over the three knights. His brain felt like wool. “You’ve killed Gilhan’s messenger? Why?”

  Breccan looked at his brother with open contempt. “Don’t concern yourself.”

  What were they doing? Stumblingly, Tolen pieced it together in his mind. So Breccan wanted to keep Isolde out of Ireland now that she was Queen? He’d only do that if he wanted to get the throne, in order to make himself King. And that meant he’d have to face up to any opposition and get as many of the Queen’s knights as possible on his side.

  Men like Odent.

  Tolen nodded to himself. So that’s why we are here.

  But sooner or later Isolde must return.

  “What about Isolde?” he said harshly. “You want to outwit her— usurp her—what?”

  “I told you, Tolen.” Breccan’s eyes grew hard. “Leave all this to me.”

  “Sir!” There was a cry from one of the knights. “Riders ahead.”

  Coming down through the dripping pines was a strongly built older knight on a great bay horse, with three or four knights in attendance riding behind. He was heavily muffled against the biting cold in a hooded cloak and thick woollen leggings such as woodmen wore. A broad leather belt held his wraps in place, but he wore no dagger and no sword swung by his side.

  “It’s Odent!” said Breccan. “And he’s unarmed.” His eyes gleamed.

  The older knight drew near and reined in his horse. “Breccan! And Tolen, too. What brings you here?”

  Breccan produced one of his best smiles. “Oh, the hunt, the hunt, and we’ve strayed out of our way. So we thought we’d pay you our compliments as we passed.”

  “Very gracious.” Odent peered at them from a pair of small, suspicious eyes.

  “And how is your dear wife?”

  “Dead, thank the Gods,” said Odent with relish. “Carried off by an apoplexy not long ago. And not dear to me for many a long year, the old shrew.”

  “Your fair daughter, then?” Breccan persisted, with clear memories of a short, blinking girl as ugly as her father, but his only heir.

  Odent snorted with cold mirth. “Fair enough to attract many like you. But she’ll be mistress of her own inheritance, that’s the way I’ve brought her up. She’ll never have to put her life in the hands of a man. But why all this talk? What’s the news with you?”

  “You’ve heard the Queen is dead?”

  Odent rolled his eyes. “Every crannog and hamlet has heard that by now. You’ll be telling me next that you’ve come to commiserate with me on her loss.”

  “The Queen?”

  Breccan shook his handsome head. He should have known better than to try to win Odent with words. Time to show his hand. “You hated the Queen. She kicke
d you out of her bed.”

  Odent’s small eyes festered. “What’s that to you?”

  Breccan smiled expansively. “A new life, my friend. A new world, new hopes, new ways. You’ve heard what the Christians say. A world without women at the helm. No more rule of Queens.”

  “Never.” Odent shook his head. “I lost my faith in this one, but that doesn’t mean we should get rid of them all. I’ve been watching Isolde for years. When she takes the throne, she’ll do very well.”

  “But the rule of men—”

  “Never, I said!” For a moment the old authority flared in Odent’s eyes. “Women are bad enough, but men are worse.” He cocked a sardonic eye. “As you well know.”

  Breccan breathed heavily. “Think of this, then. On all sides now they clamor for the rule of men. The Christians—”

  “The Christians?” Odent spat. “Would you honor that ignorant rabble above your own kind? Blood and bones, man, you’re one of the Queen’s sworn knights! And I’m not the only one who will stand in your way. Remember Fideal of the Glen? He’ll fight to the death to protect the Mother-right.”

  “Fideal?” Breccan sneered. “You think I fear him?”

  “Better men than you feared him in his day.” Odent’s face set. “Say what you like, he’ll oppose you, and so will I.”

  Breccan conjured up a pleasant smile and reached out a hand in farewell. “So you won’t give me your support? Well, let us part as friends.”

  Odent shrugged. “As you wish.”

  He leaned forward to clasp Breccan’s gauntleted fist, his mind already turning to a cup of mulled wine back at the castle and a hot roast to come. He did not see the blade concealed in Breccan’s left hand as the young knight made to clap him on the back, and he hardly felt the thin steel enter his neck. But his last word was drowned in a torrent of bright blood. “Fare—”

  “And farewell to you.”

  With deep satisfaction Breccan watched the older knight’s pupils contract to pinpoints of light, then he let go his hold on Odent as the light went out. With a last whisper of departing breath, Odent’s heavy body slid from the saddle to the ground.