CHAPTER 18
How long will it take? Gods above, man, who knows the secret of a woman’s heart?”
Furiously, King Hoel tugged at his thinning beard and favored his old friend De Luz with a red-eyed glare. And what a friend the King of the Basques had proved, he thought remorsefully, making the long journey over the mountains at this time of the year. Hoel looked across the small private chamber at his guest and was heartened to receive a forgiving smile in return. All might yet be well.
“More wine?” he offered. “Sweetmeats? Nuts?”
He must make much of De Luz. A journey like this was always hard and no man wanted to leave his lands when winter was at last giving way to spring. But good man that he was, De Luz had heard and heeded the cry of an old friend. He sat now, grave-eyed and understanding, as Hoel opened the subject of his quarrel with Blanche.
“Marriage is a weighty thing,” De Luz said in comfortable tones. “Every woman needs time to make up her mind.”
“Not Blanche.” Hoel groaned aloud and reached for his goblet of wine. “You know she refused King Amaury de Gaul? Sent him packing with a flea in his ear?”
De Luz nodded gravely. “The whole of France knows that.”
There was a moment of heavy silence between the two. If the story had reached the Basque country, Hoel reflected savagely, then De Luz must also know that they’d been lucky to escape the threat of war. Hearing of Amaury’s treatment at Blanche’s hands, his enraged mother wanted to avenge the insult to her son. Aged as she was, the old battle-queen of the Gauls was still a formidable foe. Only a formal embassy with Prince Kedrin at its head, delivering fulsome flattery and gifts of gemstones and gold, had served to appease her wrath.
And it must not happen again! Hoel made up his mind. “Help me, old friend. Give me your advice.”
De Luz opened his arms. “With all my heart.”
“Blanche wouldn’t marry Amaury because she wants another man.”
“Ah,” said De Luz, who was not surprised. “Has she said who?”
Hoel took a gulp of the thick red wine and sluiced it dolefully around his mouth. “She’s set her heart on Tristan of Lyonesse.”
“But Sir Tristan,” De Luz said gently, “is—”
“Yes, yes!” Hoel broke in. “Sworn to the Queen of Ireland these ten years and more. Her knight. Her—whatever you call it . . .”
De Luz nodded. This was worse than he feared.
Hoel looked at his old friend, breathing heavily. “So you understand. She needs a flesh-and-blood suitor, not some romantic dream. And we must find her one. A man who will love her, as you loved Roxane.”
“Roxane, yes . . .” De Luz thought of his long-dead wife with a sadness as fine as the mist on the mountains of home.
“Think, then, man!” Hoel pressed him. “Who do you know? Give me some names.”
“I shall certainly consider it,” De Luz said quietly. “But you know we can do nothing without Blanche’s consent. We’re not Christians, remember. Our women are not chattels to be given away.”
Hoel sighed. “Just speak to her, will you, De Luz? Turn her mind toward marriage if you can. And if you can’t, at least talk some sense into her!”
There was another pause.
“Let me go to her,” De Luz said at last. “Where is she now?”
THE WINTRY DAY was drawing to a close. In the square, whitewashed room, the white-clad attendants were lighting the evening lamps and mending the fires. The clean healing smell of herbs hung in the air, mingled with the sweetness of beeswax on the tables and floors. Looking around, Blanche felt the familiar upsurge of pride. No matter that none of this had been her work, or even her thought. It was how an infirmary ought to be, and she wanted the best. She smiled a satisfied smile. Clad all in white, swathed in a large, important apron with a brisk headdress and a white veil holding back her hair, she fancied she looked like the Goddess Herself at work. The sick were lucky who found themselves in her care!
As this one was now. Fluttering her eyelids in exquisite sympathy, she leaned over the withered ancient in the nearest bed. A gentle sleep had softened the lines on his face and he breathed easily, his crabbed hands at peace on his chest.
By his side stood a tall, stooped man with a careworn face and troubled eyes. With him was an older woman in a spotless white apron and head-cloth, holding a vial.
Blanche nodded to him. “So, Doctor, how is he now?”
“Going gently to join the Old Ones,” the doctor replied. “His race on earth is run.”
Blanche raised her head sharply. “But I thought we could save him.”
The doctor shook his head. Why did the Princess always refuse to accept the limits of human power? “Madam, there is no saving men from natural death. This old one has lived his life, and the Mother is calling him home.”
Blanche’s mouth set in an unpleasant line. “What about this?” She gestured to the tiny bottle in the woman’s hand. “A draught of great power, you say.”
The doctor took a breath. “Of great power, but sadly little use. Its only function is to arrest the onset of death. It cannot cure or prevent what nature has determined must occur.”
“It arrests the onset of death?” Blanche widened her eyes into a strident stare. “And you say it’s of little use? Ask the old man what he thinks of that.”
The woman leaned forward earnestly. “Lady, I’ve nursed many to their deaths. When the Mother calls, old souls are glad to go.”
Blanche eyed her with disfavor and pointed to the vial in her hand. “Is that why you kept the knowledge of this from me?”
The doctor frowned. “Lady, this tincture buys life at a heavy cost. Yes, the sufferer wakes and lives and speaks again, it’s true. But the spirits that possess his body are not his own. When Merlin used it to keep Uther Pendragon alive, the King spoke in other voices and lost his mind.”
“Uther may have lost his mind already, dying young as he was and leaving a war-torn kingdom without an heir,” Blanche returned sarcastically. “But what do I care about Uther? I want to see how this works.” She reached for the flask, pulled out the stopper, and dropped the entire contents into the old man’s mouth.
Within minutes a flush of warmth had returned to the withered gray skin. The old man’s breathing deepened, and they saw the signs of movement returning to his limbs. As they watched, his eyes opened and fastened on Blanche in a glance of adoring love. “Lady—” he began.
“There you are!” Blanche made no effort to keep the triumph from her voice. “Now we’ll see how he goes on. Watch him closely, Doctor. I’m relying on you.”
With a sweep of her snowy skirts she turned away, in time to catch a new arrival at the door. Smiling, she moved forward to greet her father’s old friend, the King of the Basques. “Your Majesty,” she cried, curtsying.
“Princess Blanche,” he responded warmly, kissing her hand.
She rose to her feet and raked him from head to foot. I know why you are here, her bold scrutiny conveyed. And why should you think you can persuade me when others can’t? Kedrin, too—I know my dear brother has a hand in this.
She forced herself to sound cold. “My father sent for you to talk to me, I think?”
His quizzical face took on a gentle air. “My old friend only seeks your happiness. Every father hopes to see his child fulfilled, not led astray by false hopes and dreams.”
“They aren’t false!” Blanche cried, to her fury feeling the tears rising in her throat. “My knight is true. And he will come to me.”
Suddenly, she was a lost child again, crying for her dead mother, Daddy, I want . . . He had given her anything she wanted then, and he would now.
De Luz saw the overbright eyes and trembling lips, and yearned to take her in his arms, comfort her sadness, stroke her pearly skin. All at once he saw how Amaury de Gaul had lost his heart. Beware, De Luz, beware. This maiden will love only once in her life, and you are not the man.
“Let me never come betwe
en a maiden and her dream,” he said huskily, aching with tenderness for her stubborn, wounded heart. “Our dreams are sent us by the Great Ones themselves, to teach us how to love. But lady, when you dream of a man so far out of your reach, you may never hope to possess him in this life. You condemn your spirit to walk the Otherworld, pining for joy and fulfillment that can never be.”
“You think so, sir?” Passionately she brushed him aside. “Why should I listen to you? I wouldn’t allow Sir Tristan of Lyonesse himself to take charge of my life and tell me what to do.”
He could see her face quivering with anger and hurt. “Let me promise you that no man will try to—”
“I shall see to that!”
De Luz felt a chill of fear. “What will you do?”
“It’s done!” she triumphed. “I’ve sent word to King Mark of Cornwall that a tournament will be held for the hand of the Princess of France. And if his nephew sees fit to be there, the Princess is likely to smile upon his suit.”
Alas, poor Tristan. And poor Hoel, my unhappy old friend. But above all, poor, willful, deluded Blanche. Gods above, where will this end?
“You’ve invited Sir Tristan by name?” De Luz drew a breath. “Will he come?”
“Will he come?” Blanche let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “What finer alliance for Cornwall than the throne of France?”
“The throne of France!” came a wild echo from behind. The sick man Blanche had left only minutes ago was fighting to sit up, shouting and crying out. The doctor and his assistant were struggling to hold him down, and the breath rattled in his throat as he spoke.
“Cornwall will be here!” he screeched. “Lyonesse will attend. King Mark will command it. The knight will come!”
His eyes were bulging as if they would burst from his head, and the sinews were standing out in his scrawny neck. “Here! Here! Lyonesse will be here!” With one last cry, he coughed up a pool of blood, then fell backward and lay still.
“Goddess, Mother, take this child of yours . . .”
Moving forward to the bedside of the dead man, De Luz folded his hands and gravely began the ancient prayer of farewell. Frowning, the doctor and nurse straightened the old man’s limbs and closed his eyes. But Blanche sped out of the infirmary with joy in every step. Tristan is coming. My knight will be here.
CHAPTER 19
Ireland.
Erin.
Home.
Isolde stood on the deck and filled her lungs with the sweet soft air of the beloved land, a breath of beauty like nothing else in life. For the first time in all these dank and dreary weeks she could smell the coming of spring. But whenever she came back to Ireland, it was always spring.
“When the Old Ones made the world,” her mother used to say, “they chose this island for the finest people on the earth. They gave it green hills and valleys and the leap of the salmon and the kiss of the silver rain. They filled it with fighters and talkers and princes and poets and those who love the craic. Then they gave it to the Goddess, who gave it her own name, and entrusted it to a line of Queens to love and care for as only women can.”
And now they were racing home with a stiff wind in the sails and every rope and mainstay dancing a joyful jig. Ahead of them Dubh Lein lay smiling a welcome through a lavender twilight tinged with green and gold. Wheeling above the cliff, a great sea-eagle dipped its white tail in salutation, and roamed away across the sky, dwarfing the little figures on the quay below.
Ireland.
Erin.
Home.
But could it be home without Mother? Or Ireland without the Queen? Isolde paced the deck, staring out through the dusk. She swallowed a sigh. When she was alive, the Queen’s only answer to questions had been a toss of her head, and she would never answer now.
“The Queen!”
“Queen Isolde!”
“The Queen!”
Isolde stepped into the prow and raised her cloaked arms like wings as she scanned the waiting throng. In the front stood a troop of armed men, their lances glinting in the last light of the sun. At their head she could see a handful of the old Queen’s knights, the veteran Sir Doneal gleaming in silver mail, and Sir Vaindor smoothing back his hair. And was that Sir Tolen, standing at the back? No, the tall figure shading his face was another man and Tolen was nowhere to be seen. Did he think he had to keep out of her way because he had been her mother’s chosen one? Well, he’d soon learn he had nothing to fear from her. But where was Sir Gilhan, her own counselor and friend?
Blithely, the ship came to rest at the dock. As the sailors handed her down into the waiting crowd, the first knight to kiss her hand was one she hardly knew.
“Your Majesty,” he cried with a dazzling smile.
The prowl of a wild cat, a predatory gaze, the feral smell of danger, hot and strong . . . Beware! Briskly, she drew her hand out of his grasp. “Sir Breccan, I think? When I saw you last, you were still a boy.”
His handsome young face darkened. “Boy no longer, my lady, as you see.” He gestured to his men. “You know my chief knight, Sir Ravigel, of old? And his nephew, Tiercel, another of my kin?”
Ravigel was the tall, broad-shouldered knight she had mistaken for Tolen from the ship. He bowed his head and greeted her on one knee, but Isolde could tell at a glance what he was. Scarred hands, eyes of stone, and a killer’s smile—what was a man like this doing at her court?
A grim foreboding settled on her soul. She turned back to Breccan. “Where is Sir Tolen? I expected to see him here.”
“My poor brother?” Breccan’s well-shaped face took on a tragic air. “Alas, he’s dead.”
Isolde suppressed a start. “Dead? How?”
“He fell from a clifftop—such a loss . . .”
You killed him came to Isolde like a blow. She looked around. There was Vaindor, yes, still stroking his thinning curls, standing next to Sir Doneal with his weather-beaten face and blue-eyed stare older than the mountains of the moon. But where was . . . ?
She set her chin. “And Sir Gilhan?”
Another doleful sigh. Breccan shook his head. “No man knows.”
She could not suppress her anger. “What do you mean?”
His gaze flickered to Sir Ravigel at his side. “They say he has disappeared.”
She snorted with disgust. “No man disappears, sir, in this land of ours. Least of all the Queen’s chief counselor and a lord of state. When was he last seen?”
He laughed openly, and she felt the first chill of fear. “Setting off into the forest to take counsel of the Queen’s Druid, Cormac. Now both of them are lost, no man knows where.”
Isolde’s heart turned to ice. No man but you, sir.
Breccan stepped forward. “But you have other men to serve you, lady, men with younger minds and stronger swords. And Ireland can only be grateful for new blood ’round the throne.”
“Men like you, sir?”
“Myself above all. My knights and I are yours, body and soul, sworn to serve you in the legions of death.”
He bared his strong white teeth in a winning smile and the smell of wolf was all around them now. She looked at the other men standing on the dock, and one by one their glances slid away. All her mother’s knights and lords were afraid of him. So be it. She nodded to herself. There is not a soul here that I can trust. No man to fight for me, not one.
She drew a long, steady breath. Then I’ll fight for myself.
“Come, sirs,” she cried gaily, “why are we lingering here? I’m longing to set foot in Dubh Lein again.”
Vaindor thrust himself forward. “Yes, Majesty!” he cried. “Let us bring you home!”
“Bring the Queen home!” came the chorus on all sides. Young and old now rallied around to pledge their allegiance and offer her their swords.
But it was Breccan, she noted, who gave orders to disembark the ship—Breccan who shadowed her half a pace behind as she greeted the rest of the crowd on the windswept quay—and Breccan who commanded the ring of steel that
encircled her every step as she made her way up from the harbor and entered Dubh Lein.
A MISTY BLUE TWILIGHT had settled over the hills. The evening winds had lulled themselves to sleep and the birds had long ago tucked their heads under their wings. The two-legged world had also gone to its rest. But Isolde prowled the vastness of Dubh Lein sleepless and alone, with nothing but fear to keep her company.
At last she came back to the Queen’s house, chilled to the bone. Glittering coldly in the moonlight, the great white building loomed up ahead of her like a reproach. If only I had come back sooner . . . I should have been here. If I had been, Cormac and Gilhan would be safe.
Sir Gilhan would never betray her, she was certain of that. If he had gone, it would have been against his will. He had fought for the Mother-right all his life—had he died for it now?
And Cormac? Was he dead too? Her skin prickled. If he were alive he would certainly be here. Nothing but death would dim that mystical light. Well, I shall find you, sirs, and give you burial.
And they were not the only men lost and gone. Feasting in the hall, with all Dubh Lein gathered to toast her return, she saw gap after gap where her mother’s knights used to be. This one had left court to travel, she was told, others were trying their skill at foreign tournaments, and still others had joined a quest to the Holy Land. Many had left quietly to live on their own estates. Did she remember Sir Odent, or old Sir Fideal?
Of course she did. But her mother had driven them away with her rampant demands and voracious sexual greed. And now I am alone and no knight will raise a sword in my defense.
She groaned aloud. Goddess, Mother, send me some good men!
One above all, Great Mother.
Send me back my love.
Gods above, where could Tristan be?
She rose to her feet and surged over to the great bay window, threw open the casement, then set a candle to shine out through the dark. Forgive me, love, that I did not do this at dusk. I know you’ll have made your remembrance of me tonight, you never fail. With a pang of guilt, she pictured Tristan out on the road, cold and hungry, sleeping on the ground. She had the warmth and attention of a court, he had nothing but his faith and love for her.
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 12
