“Gods above, what—”
“My lord, my lord!”
Trembling with shock, Odent’s knights spurred forward, only to find themselves surrounded by Breccan’s men. Ravigel rode up to take charge, peering with interest at the lifeless hulk.
“Your lord is no more,” he called out. “My lord is your lord now. He claims this fortress by the rules of war, and all those who will not serve him must leave at once. Ride back to the castle and tell all your fellows the same.”
In silence they watched Odent’s knights ride away.
“Breccan—” Tolen began hoarsely, his fingers unconsciously feeling for his neck.
But Breccan’s attention was focused ahead. “Follow them, Ravigel. Don’t let them raise the castle and bar the gates against us before we get in.”
“Yes, my lord.” Ravigel was already moving away. “Then we ride after Sir Fideal?”
Breccan tore his gaze away from the mountaintop. “Fideal?”
Ravigel nodded meaningfully. “If he’s going to oppose you, better take care of him first.”
Breccan gave a scornful laugh. “What, kill that old fool?”
“Not so old, sir. And a doughty fighter in his day.”
“His day is done,” said Breccan dismissively. “He won’t trouble us.”
“It’s the work of a moment, my lord.” Ravigel tenderly fingered the glistening edge of his blade. “Why not make sure?”
“Fideal is nothing.” Breccan waved a contemptuous hand. He frowned. “Now the Christians, they’re a different thing. If they’re against me, you can have free rein.”
“Gods above, Breccan, there are hundreds of them, maybe thousands now!” Tolen recoiled, aghast. “You can’t kill every man who stands in your way.”
Breccan stared into his brother’s face with the eyes of death. “There’ll be no trouble if they do what I say. The only question is, who else wants to die?”
CHAPTER 5
Long hours in the saddle, driving forward into the night. A brief stop while she rested, stretched out on Tristan’s shield, and he threw himself down on the ground among the men. Then on, and on, till day and night became one, and all she saw was the sorrowful face of the moon. She was aching in every limb, trembling with fatigue.
Or with fear? Do you dread to see your husband again?
Enough!
Ruthlessly Isolde silenced the troublesome voice in her head. Right or wrong, she had to go back to Castle Dore, and the going would always be hard at this time of the year. They’d had the last warm days of the season in Camelot and were riding now into the driving cold. A wind as sharp as elf-arrows sliced their flesh, and the first snows of winter were gathering overhead in the ominous bellies of the fat purple clouds.
“Not far now, madam,” came a sharp Welsh voice at her side.
“Thank you, Brangwain.” She gave the maid a smile. But still too far for my peace of mind, came the next thought. Far from joy or the hope of joy whenever I see Mark.
Mark . . .
Unbidden, a vision rose before her of a tall, ungainly figure striding in from the hunt, angry eyes peering suspiciously around, lank sandy hair falling over a long, heavy face. She gripped her reins in a spasm of self-disgust. Why did she marry this man? A king, yes, but born without the natural dignity of the humblest serf. A knight, but with less notion of chivalry than one of his own horses charging into the joust. A man who had lived to middle years without shedding the foolish boyhood habits learned long ago. A husband who had never shared her bed.
Enough, enough.
Nothing will change Mark now.
How different it had been ten years ago. Arriving at Castle Dore for the first time, she had seen a great palace newly built on the foundations of ancient kings, with a little town winding crinkle-crankle around its walls, a snug harbor and a quay below, and all had welcomed her with open arms. Even Mark himself, her bridegroom-to-be, had looked fine enough that day in royal red.
But had any young bride ever made such a willful choice? Dug a grave for her heart and leapt so blindly in? Isolde raised her face to the heavens, dry-eyed. Ten years ago she had wept all the tears she had to shed.
Too late now to lament the misunderstandings that had driven her and Tristan apart, and encouraged her to tie herself to Mark. Too far down the road to regret the rift with her mother that had made her want to seek another country, another world, another life.
Mother . . .
Gone away now into the silent land.
Lost and gone.
There it was again, the pain that would be with her till she died. The hot musky scent of the Queen’s Chamber flooded her memory as the voice of her childhood echoed in her ears.
Why don’t you love me, Mawther?
I always love you, little one.
Why do you leave me, then, to be with those men?
There was never an answer, and never would be now. The Queen had been in thrall to her own beauty all her life, and too many around her had been moths to that fast-burning flame. Born to love and be loved, she had lived for love alone and lost herself along the way. No wonder then that she had lost her hold on the land and also her place in her only daughter’s heart.
Lost . . .
Lost and gone . . .
Tears stung the back of her throat and filled her eyes. You are not lost to me, Mother, she swore in her soul. The Otherworld is only a step away. At the dawning of the day and at every moon’s midnight, I shall remember you.
A raw drizzle began, driving needles of cold rain into her skin.
“Lady?” came a concerned voice from behind. Riding at the head of the troop bringing up the rear, Tristan had read her drooping spirits from the set of her shoulders and the sad incline of her head. She turned and put her heart into her eyes: all the better for your love.
“Journey’s end!” came the cry from the head of the troop. One by one the weary horses plodded to the edge of the ridge, and Castle Dore lay below them in the mist. Isolde shivered. Far from joy and hope of joy when we enter there.
Tristan urged his horse alongside hers. “The lookouts at the castle won’t have seen us yet,” he said quietly. “We could still make straight for the port and bypass Castle Dore.”
She shook her head. They had had this discussion so many times. “No. I must see Mark.”
“As you will, madam.” Bowing curtly, he spurred to the head of the ride. “D’you hear me, Captain?” he shouted. “The Queen’s orders are onward to Castle Dore!”
THOUGHTFULLY STROKING his mustache, Andred hurried into the King’s Chamber with his mind on fire. Only Elva and those with Druid sight knew that he had been elf-shotten in the womb, and the thick growth concealed a harelip, but Andred felt the silvery scar at times like this.
“The Queen here?” he greeted King Mark with well-feigned surprise. But he had known the very moment Isolde and Tristan crested the mountain ridge and started down to Castle Dore. Whatever happened, he was not going to be taken by surprise.
The Mother-right! he yelped in his hungry heart. Why did women rule, when men should have control? Why was Mark no more than a vassal of the old Queen Igraine, and not a man of power in his own right? When these Queens like Igraine and Isolde traced their rights from the Great Mother, then the sooner the Old Faith was destroyed, the better it would be. Why, even King Arthur, High King of all the land, still deferred to his mother as Cornwall’s overlord. So Queen Igraine’s hold over Mark was absolute. Darkness and devils, he prayed to his Gods of blood and bone, bring the Christians to power as soon as may be!
The Christians—they knew that God had granted women to be subject to men. The King’s confessor, Father Dominian, had been cursed by his Maker with a poor, twisted frame, but his sharp mind held that idea above all. Moreover, he was determined that this truth would be known throughout the islands, come what may. Looking at the black-clad priest, Andred’s spirits rose. Between them, they would surely win the day.
“Yes, the Que
en’s back, nephew, what do you think of that?” cried Mark in boisterous tones.
Smiling, Andred eased himself into the task of dispelling his uncle’s good humor with seeds of doubt.
“Then let me assist you to make ready for Ireland without delay,” he said encouragingly.
Mark stared. “What?”
“And Sir Tristan will remain behind, of course.”
Mark shook his head. What in the name of God was Andred trying to say? “What d’you mean, nephew?”
“Sire . . .” Andred treated him to another smile. “Surely Sir Tristan should stay here in your place. Your Majesty will want to accompany the Queen yourself.”
“To Ireland?” Mark started. “Why, in heaven’s name?”
To assert your sovereignty, fool! Andred wanted to shrill in the King’s ear. To be there as Isolde’s King when she claims the throne, and so advance your own right to rule! Carefully, he veiled his gaze and pressed on.
“Her Majesty is recently bereaved,” he said unctuously. “She must welcome your support.”
Mark threw an uneasy glance his way. “Surely Isolde can handle this alone?”
He is afraid, thought Andred pitilessly. He fears to lift a sword in his wife’s behalf. Gods above, a king and afraid? The old cry of anguish ran through his veins again: if I were King . . .
Dominian thrust forward his head on its twisted neck. “But the Queen is not alone. You are her husband, sire, and she must welcome your support. Indeed, perhaps if you and the Queen were together in Ireland as man and wife—”
“No!” Mark leapt up, twitching in every limb. After ten years, he knew that the secret of Isolde’s childlessness was known to every soul in Castle Dore, but he was damned if he’d have it noised about like this! And he was double-damned if he’d let some eunuch of a priest lecture him on the duties of the marriage-bed.
He folded his arms and struck a commanding pose. “I shall not go to Ireland. I am needed here. I’ll send a troop of men along with the Queen, an army if she wants. But she must be in command.”
Andred nodded toward the door. His ears had picked up sounds that others had missed, the jingle of approaching spurs and the swish of a gown. “Then you may tell her so yourself, Uncle, for here she is.”
The King’s Chamber was sour with the smell of dogs and the stale overlay of last night’s drink. A tangle of wolfhounds sprawled on the floor and an overturned goblet lay at the side of Mark’s throne, unheeded by all. Isolde caught her breath. Goddess, Mother, the foul smell in here! Well, Mark always passed his time like this when she was away. So be it.
She moved forward, feeling for whatever comfort she could find. “Your Majesty.” She curtsied to Mark and bowed greetings to Andred and the priest.
“No, no, I must say Your Majesty to you!” Mark caroled fatuously, with an ungainly bow. “We meet as monarch to monarch now, not husband and wife.”
Isolde held back a sigh. “I have to go to Ireland, sir,” she said.
“But of course. Your kingdom awaits you, and you must claim your throne.” Mark stepped toward Tristan and gave him a clumsy hug. “And while you’re away, Tristan and I will hunt!”
She did not look at Tristan. “Alas, I fear Sir Tristan must go with me.”
“What?” Mark scowled like a schoolboy deprived of a treat. “But you’ll have plenty of knights in Ireland—all the Queen’s men.”
“Not so, sir . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know who to trust. But Tristan is your kinsman, so his loyalty is beyond reproach.”
“My kin, eh? The only man you can trust?” Mark swelled with vanity. “Well, honor is the watchword of our house. Take him, then. I can see why you want him there.”
Fool again, fool! chimed through Andred’s brain. You are giving your wife into the arms of her paramour. Coward that you are, you are even glad that Tristan will face the dangers that are rightly yours, and make himself King of Ireland in your place. Who can wonder that he usurps you in your wife’s bed!
But how to prove it? He stared at Isolde, then switched his gaze to Tristan. He felt it in the marrow of his bones that these two were lovers. It breathed from them, shone out in their every move. Look at them now, their eyes fixed firmly ahead, both knowing of old not even to share a glance. But he ground his teeth in vain. He needed proof, hard proof, before he could go to the King.
As I shall, he vowed, before too long . . .
Dominian stepped forward. “Queen Isolde?”
“Yes?”
Middle age had not improved the little priest, Isolde saw, feeling her compassion stir. His misshapen body grew more crooked every day, and his skin, like an old, well-oiled parchment, was yellow and translucent with pain. But nothing had extinguished the black fire in his eyes, burning with the fervent light of faith.
Dominian folded his hands firmly inside his sleeves. “We all need guidance, my lady, in the ways of God. As you go to Ireland, you will take one of our holy fathers with you to begin your reign?”
You will . . .
It was hardly a question. Oh, the impudence of this ranting priest!
“Thank you, Father, no,” Isolde replied with strained courtesy. “Ireland has many holy men of its own. And my foremothers have governed Ireland since time began. I need no priest to inaugurate my rule.”
Was she dreaming, or did Dominian flash her a mad glance of triumph: oh, you will, madam, you will! Suddenly the chamber was thick with dread.
Goddess, Mother, help me, for I am encircled by my foes!
CHAPTER 6
The Queen gone? That bright spirit wandering in the void, lost forever in the astral plain?
The bowed figure on the throne set aside the letter and gave himself over to grief. Outside the window a steady rain wept with him, and he felt the cold in the depths of his heart. How like her to go out on a full, roaring tide, with the worst storm of winter raging overhead. Why had he never thought that she could die?
A sad smile lit his lips. All over the world, men would be asking themselves the same thing. Even here in France he was not the only one. Why, his old friend Ubert, King of the neighboring country, had spent a year in Ireland courting her in vain when they were both young and foolish enough for such things. Kings and princes, knights young and old, perhaps even the odd holy man or priest of the Christians, would be mourning her passage now.
His mind roamed on while the torches in the chamber burned low on the walls and the dogs shrank away from his sorrow, growling on the hearth. How had she met her death? She had lived for love: had she died for it too? Had her fierce passions shortened her crowded life? He nodded. It must have been so.
And now she was dead?
No, no, it was impossible, she was always so alive. He could see her still, flashing past in her favorite red and black, her beloved ropes of jet rattling at her neck and waist. She was with him now, he felt it, filling the quiet chamber at this moment as she had everywhere. He could hear her throaty chuckle, feel her teasing touch, and her fragrance came back to him with a pang as fresh as dawn.
Oh . . . oh . . . He could not hold back the tears. It seemed only yesterday that he had lain with her, skin to skin, held her beautiful long naked body against his heart, and begged her to marry him, to be his queen.
“I am already a queen,” she had said with her velvety, mocking laugh.
“And I am a king,” he protested hotly, “and worthy of your hand. I can lay a mighty kingdom at your feet.” But even then he had known that the whole of France would not buy her love.
“Ask me again, Hoel,” she had pouted, stroking his flank. “Love me now?”
So time went on, and how often had he asked her again, as the shadows lengthened over their youth and the golden days passed that would not come again?
So many unanswered questions, and now she was gone. He picked up the letter and began to read it again.
“From the queen’s lords of ireland to king Hoel of Little britain in the kingdom of france, know that we h
ave sustained a great sadness And loss ...”
A heavy silence fell. The young man standing quietly in the window looked on with the curiosity of youth, for loss and death had not touched him yet. But his father was suffering, he could see that, and his own task was to help him now.
“Sir,” he began as tactfully as he could, “you need a restorative? Let me order a glass of wine.”
“No, no,” muttered Hoel, covering his eyes with his hand. He could not look at his son. Clad in royal-red silk and velvet, with his sloe-black hair and eyes, Kedrin was a handsome young man, to be sure. But if the dead Queen had loved him and favored his suit, what fine-favored children would he have had with her.
The young knight watched his father closely and tried a new tack. “Sir, we must talk about Blanche. She was pressing me again this morning to know what you think.”
But Hoel was not listening. “You know I named her Isolde, after the Queen’s daughter?”
“Blanche? Yes, yes, you told us,” put in Kedrin hastily, who had heard the story a thousand times. “You wanted her to be a healer like the Queen’s daughter, too.”
He shook his head. No wonder Blanche had rebelled in childhood and given herself a new and different name. What girl would want to grow up under the shadow of her father’s great, lost love?
Hoel’s mood lifted. “Well, she’s done that, at least. She’s not as famed for her skill as young Isolde was at her age, but she’s only beginning as a healer, she’s still young. And the people swear by her hospital—”
Kedrin shook his head. “Father, Blanche wants more than that. She wants a knight, a lover, a husband, like any girl.”
“Not just a knight, Kedrin!” Hoel surged to his feet with a groan. “Gods above, ever since she saw him at that tournament when she was still a child, she wants the only man in the world that she can’t have!”
There was a cry from the guard in the corridor outside. “The Princess Blanche!”
Kedrin gestured toward the door with a rueful smile. “Tell her then, Father. She’s here.”
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 4
