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

by Rosalind Miles

  We again? thought Isolde in distress. She drew a weary hand across her eyes. “Maiden, I—”

  Tears of sudden hopelessness caught at her throat. “I want to talk to the Lady,” she said stubbornly.

  Whirr, whirr . . .

  The wheel spun on and the capable hands flashed to and fro. “The Lady thought I could help you. Young women have their store of wisdom too.”

  Isolde clenched her fists. “I beg you, maiden, tell me where the Lady is.”

  “As you will.” The girl bowed her head and gestured to the wheel. “Watch.”

  Isolde frowned. Watch the wheel? The girl heard her thought and nodded her shining head. Her right foot plied more vigorously up and down and the thread spun out faster as the pace of the wheel picked up.

  Whirr, whirr . . .

  The only sound was the hissing of the wheel. Isolde fixed her eyes on the flashing spokes and watched the fine filament of wool spinning out around the rim. Soon the hissing and spinning dissolved into one and the cave around them began darken and fade. As she watched, it seemed to Isolde that the maiden was weaving her thread from the sand at her feet and forging the shining grains into a silver web.

  Whirr, whirr . . .

  The spinning wheel spun on, growing bigger with every turn. Now the spider-fine net was studded with silver stars, weaving its way across the roof of the cave. Star by star the roof itself melted into the void, and the little spinner was a maiden no more. Her slight figure shivered and swelled till her head touched the stars and her womanly body filled the astral space. The flimsy wraps quickened and lengthened, veiling the towering form from head to foot. From behind the gauzy draperies came a well-loved voice.

  “Ah, Isolde! Do you not know me?”

  Isolde felt herself spinning with the wheel. “Lady!”

  “Who else?” There was a mellow chuckle.

  Isolde laughed for joy. “How could I forget you are maiden and mother and wise woman in one?”

  The tall form inclined her head. “Open your heart, then. Speak.”

  “Oh, Lady—”

  Isolde felt herself drowning in a tide of woes. “Lady, I have come into my kingdom and it is not mine. My mother ended her life in disarray, and now her enemies beset me on all sides.”

  The great head moved sorrowfully up and down. “One above all.”

  “Breccan, yes!” Isolde spat. She could hardly bring herself to say his name. “He wants to make himself my knight. But I have a knight, faithful and true to me.”

  “Tristan?” There was a sigh like the wind off the sea. “Ah, little one, knights may fail. Men weaken, their flesh decays, and even the best go down to the darkness in the end.”

  “I know that!” Isolde cried, feeling the floodgates of her grief give way. “It was not Tristan’s fault he had to go. But now I’m alone and no man in Dubh Lein will take up arms for me.”

  There was a long silence before the Lady spoke. “There are always men who love the Mother-right. In the mountains above Dubh Lein there is one who will give his heart’s blood for you.”

  “One man?”

  The shrouded head nodded. “Put your faith in him. He will not fail.”

  Hope and anguish leapt together in Isolde’s heart. “How shall I find him?”

  “He will come to you.”

  Isolde felt herself overwhelmed by despair. “One man alone against Breccan and his knights?”

  A sad smile reached her through the layers of filmy gauze. “Every man in the world had a mother once. Awaken those who love the Mother-right, and he will not be alone.”

  “But Breccan—” Isolde could not hold back a flood of furious tears. “Can you stop this madness, Lady? Can you make him believe in a faith of love, not death?”

  The Lady shook her head. “Breccan’s fate was spun a thousand years ago. Even the Mother cannot hold back the wheel.” The honeyed tones darkened. “Every man chooses the path his feet will tread. Breccan is not your concern.”

  “Not Breccan?” Something in the words stabbed Isolde with dread. “Then what—?”

  The Lady bowed her head and did not speak.

  Isolde’s heart seized. “Tristan!” she gasped. “Is he dead?”

  “Not dead, nor dying, no.”

  “But in danger?”

  Another aching silence filled the air.

  Isolde felt the blood rushing to her head. “Tell me!” she forced out. “If Tristan is doomed to die, I want to know!”

  “Alas, child . . .” The Lady’s voice was growing deeper with every sound. “There are more ways than one for a man to die. If a man loses his honor, then he suffers the double death of death in life.”

  “Loses his honor?” Isolde felt her mind giving way. Her sight shivered and she saw Tristan between two women, the first as dark as midnight, the other pale and fair-haired like a child. As she watched, a third woman appeared. Slowly, slowly, Tristan leaned his head down to the chestnut-haired newcomer and kissed her on the mouth.

  Goddess, Mother. No!

  Tristan unfaithful? No, it could not be.

  But the echo of the Lady’s words rang in her ears. Every man chooses the path his feet will tread. And even the Mother cannot turn back the wheel.

  What would Tristan choose? She hid her face in her hands and began to sob.

  “Save him, Lady! He’s more to me than all the Western Isle. I’d give my whole kingdom to keep him from harm.”

  “Little one, little one . . .” The Lady’s stern voice reached her through a mist. “You cannot give up your kingdom for Tristan. Every woman must live her own life to the full.”

  She could not bear it. “Lady—”

  Again she saw the shaking of the great head. “You are here to bury your mother and to claim your throne. When she is laid to rest on the Hill of Queens, you will make the mystical marriage with the land, as all the Queens of Ireland have done before. That is your task now.”

  Isolde raised her swollen face. “But Tristan . . . ?”

  “Never forget you are married to the land. You are the Sovereignty and the spirit of the Western Isle. That is the burden that you may not escape.”

  To her horror, she saw the great form beginning to fade. The sonorous tones rolled on. “In return you are granted the three joys of the Goddess—the bliss of your body, the suckling of the child at your breast, and the knowledge of a life well lived.”

  The Lady’s wraps were melting into the mist. “Two of the three are yours without dispute. For the third, only the Mother Herself holds that key. Hold fast to what you have and keep the faith.”

  Isolde poured her heart into her cry. “Don’t leave me, Lady!”

  There was no response. Slowly, the last wisp of gauze faded from sight. But like a great bell, the wondrous voice tolled on.

  “Go, Isolde, and do the duty that lies nearest to your hand. Your work lies here. And like every man, your Tristan must fend for himself.”

  CHAPTER 22

  You will learn, sir, that I mean what I say. You are mine now, and you are here till you give me your love. And only you can decide how long that will take.

  TRISTAN CAME TO HIMSELF in a bleak winter dawn with the voice of Duessa hissing in his ears. What, he groaned to himself, still here? All night long he had fought to keep fearful thoughts at bay, in between snatches of fitful sleep and broken dreams. Yet he was lying in a fine chamber, warm and safe in bed. What could the lady do to him, after all?

  He yawned and stretched, taking stock of the thin gray fingers of dawn curling around the edges of the shutters like dead men’s bones. Time to be on his way. He threw back the bedcovers and swung his long legs to the floor. Soon he’d be miles away from this cursed place, and all that happened last night would be just a bad dream.

  He dressed and pulled on his boots, then made his morning toilet as best he could. Strapping on his sword, he crossed the room with rapid strides and was not surprised to find the door still locked. So! He grinned, the lady had her pride, and no
w, it seemed, he must beg for his release. Well and good. Let the penitence begin. He reached for the bell by the door and rang it long and hard.

  Before long he heard the light tread of female feet. The door opened, and Falsamilla stood on the threshold, her face wreathed in a smile, holding a shining silver bowl breathing out a sweet mist of rosemary and rue.

  “Your toilet water, sir,” the lady in waiting chirped cheerily. “May I come in?”

  “Lady Falsamilla,” returned Tristan, charmed by her approach, “by all means.”

  Falsamilla moved forward and set down the bowl.

  “Madam, I must leave you with all speed,” he said courteously. “Will you send to the stables to have my horse prepared?”

  Falsamilla laughed. “Oh, sir, you must know that there’s no leaving now.”

  Tristan’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean?”

  “Last night you refused to take my lady to your bed. That means you’re her prisoner till you change your mind. Surely you can’t have forgotten that?”

  Tristan reached for a nonchalant air. “Indeed,” he said, giving a manly laugh, “your mistress joked about that with me. But great ladies often amuse themselves with such things. Today I shall beg her forgiveness and kiss both her hands, then be on my way.”

  Falsamilla laughed with him, shaking her head. “She won’t receive you again till you give her your love.”

  Tristan’s temper flared. “Never!”

  “Then you’ll have to stay.”

  Tristan threw back his head. “Lady, I know this is all some elaborate game—”

  “No, sir.” The maid fixed him with an unfathomable gaze. “Castle Plaisir de Fay is another world. My mistress is a great queen of necromancy, and those who love her pass a night beyond compare. Her skills outclass any woman in the world. By morning all her lovers are her slaves for life.”

  Tristan caught his breath. Unbidden, Duessa’s naked body flashed before his mind, the red fox fur cradling the ivory flesh, the throbbing nipples hungering for his touch . . .

  The blood thundered through his head. Out, man! Get out!

  “Forgive me, lady!” burst from his throat. His hand on his sword, he leapt wildly for the door. Tearing it open, he surged through. Free! Free!

  The corridor outside was lined with knights, a wall of swords, shields, and helmets as far as he could see. A drawn sword pricked his throat, and he felt real fear. Goddess, Mother, there are men here, whatever the women said. He heard Falsamilla’s voice cold in his ear. “I told you, sir. Now d’you understand?”

  Wildly, he surveyed the the knight who held him at bay. There was no glimmer of humanity in the eyes behind the iron grille. To the knight’s left and right were thirty or forty of the same, all with swords drawn, all ready for combat, and hungry, he could smell it, for blood.

  His blood.

  He spread his hands. “Sir—” he began hoarsely.

  The knight in front of him flexed his grip on his sword. With a thrill of horror Tristan caught sight of his opponent’s hand. Small, pale, and hairless, quite unscarred, with round pink nails. Almighty Gods, it’s a woman! They’re women and killers, every living one!

  Fear deep as vomit rushed into his throat. Hopeless, he knew that he could never smash his fist into a female face or strike out at soft breasts and bodies made for love. Head bowed, he felt Falsamilla seize his wrists and bind his hands.

  One thought obsessed his brain.

  I have betrayed my lady and my love. I came into this castle like a fool, then like a traitor, I let another woman come into my mind. And see now . . .

  Isolde . . .

  “Still harping on Isolde?”

  The savage cry cut through the air like a knife and the ranks of the women knights parted like the sea as Duessa approached. From her tall headdress to the hem of her hissing silks, she was clad all in black, and her eyes burned with a graveyard fire. She wore a man’s silver breastplate like the rest of her armed band, but the hard silvery shell only emphasized her high breasts and narrow waist. Gods above, man, Tristan groaned to himself in abject disgust. What, thinking about her body even now?

  Duessa laughed exultantly, and he knew she had heard his thought. “Do you know, sir, what you despised and cast away?”

  He stared at her, numb with shame. “Lady, no more—”

  “Yes!” She gave a horrible laugh and threw out both her arms. “Yours, Tristan—all yours!” came her plangent cry. “But you scorned me, and threw all this away.”

  Without warning Tristan saw the face of a child, quivering with age-old hurts too deep for tears. What had happened to wound her soul like this? And who had done this wrong? “Not I, lady,” he said wearily, “not I.”

  “Yes, you!” she shrilled in a passion. “You and your kind! Merlin, Arthur, Tristan, you’re all the same. And you’ll live to regret you were born of the race of men. Our dungeons are deep here at Plaisir de Fay. And down there you’ll waste your wretched life and die!”

  CHAPTER 23

  No tears, no fears, Mother.

  So you still hear me, little one?

  I hear you. And I shall listen for the rest of my life.

  THE LONG CAVALCADE straggled forward over the plain. Isolde eased her stiff body in the saddle and stared out at the line of chariots, horses, and men journeying into the eye of the rising moon. Once before, the Queen had brought her here as a child. Now she was bringing her mother to her last home.

  The Hill of Queens had stood on its sacred plateau guarded by a ring of high mountains since the Great One Herself had raised it from the ground. Seen from below as they rode in from Dubh Lein, its vast contours swelled up with deceptive gentleness, like the Goddess asleep. As she watched the great green flanks rising from the turf, Isolde thought there was no sweeter place to lie.

  Especially in a tender, hopeful spring, when the earth was pulsing with the promise of new life. Soft winds sighed through the air overhead, and every returning swallow sang of love. Never had the grass looked greener, blessed and renewed by the gentle rain. Mile upon mile of green lawn ran before them bright with white and gold, as the daisies and celandines put forth their starry heads.

  Ahead of them lay the entrance to the Hill of Queens, a dark opening in the gathering dusk. Beside it rested a great black disk of stone, ready to seal up the door when the last rites were done. The long chamber running into the hillside was lined with white quartz and aligned to catch the rays of the morning sun. When the Mother smiled on this great work She had made, the rising dawn spangled the space with fire.

  Not a soul knew how many Queens lay here, or how many chambers the vast mound contained. This secret was held by the Keeper of the Hill, a woman Druid as old as the hill itself. Like her mother and all her foremothers, she was born into the sacred role of the Guardian of the Queens. She was waiting to greet them now, with her women on either hand. Robed in dark blue with the Druid mark between her brows, her tall, craggy form seemed part of the mountains themselves and her great face had seen ages come and go.

  The procession wound forward to greet them at the foot of the hill. At the head was the Queen’s chariot bearing the Queen herself, resting on a bed of green trefoil as if she were asleep. Pale as marble, her hair newly burnished with henna to copper and red, she was as lovely as she had ever been in life. Her long body was fragrant with all the herbs and oils her Druids had used to preserve it from decay. She lay now clad in rich silks of crimson and black, with her beloved ropes of jet at her neck and waist. A gold helmet with silver wings covered her head, and her breastplate bore a pair of fighting swans carved in silver and gold. Her head was pillowed on the bronze dome of her shield, and her faithful sword and war-axe lay by her hand.

  Goddess, Mother, thanks—wherever Cormac was now, at least the Queen’s Druid had been spared for the last essential office of her life, anointing her body to preserve it from decay. Among the sweet herbs and oils from the East, Isolde caught the scent of patchouli, and had to turn a
way. Then her mother’s voice dropped through the evening air: No tears, no fears. I am with you still. She breathed deeply and took strength from the familiar scent. The Queen’s undying favorite would be her fragrance now. Yes, I hear you, Mother. This is the way of Queens.

  Around the Queen’s chariot rode a handful of old men, the remains of her onetime band of lovers and knights. The oldest of them all drove the chariot, a knight shriveled like a cricket, no more than skin and bone. Isolde watched these faithful ancients with wondering eyes. May I be served no worse when my time comes.

  And that may be now. For Breccan’s knights were around her on every side, wave upon wave of bronze and shining steel. Breccan already held the island in his hand. And before dawn tomorrow he would make himself King.

  Goddess, Mother, help me!

  The familiar flare of panic caught her by the throat. Yet who could say what would happen in the hours ahead? At least she would become Ireland’s Queen. Darkening every inch of the turf around the Hill of Queens were those who would bring it about, tribespeople in their hundreds and thousands gathering here for days. Squat, earthbound creatures with small, sturdy women and hobgoblin children flashing sweet, broken smiles, they were the kin born of the land itself. And scattered among them she saw with wonder those who surely traced their descent from another race, men and women who could have been kin to the Fair Ones, tall, dark, and unsmiling in the secret night.

  There . . . and there . . .

  Catching more than one fleeting gaze of burning brown eyes, Isolde held her breath and allowed herself to hope. Could some of these lean, mysterious strangers even be the Fair Ones themselves, coming from their green hills and hollows to grace her great day? The next thought was not far behind. Or to fight for the Mother-right? Is the knight the Lady promised me already here?

  But the valley belonged to the land kin, she could see that. Camped on the slopes of the mountain they reveled and sang, their fires making the night as bright as day. Every year at Beltain, the God Bel came back from the house of darkness to warm the earth, and the Mother received Her lover with open arms. Then all the folk of the island came from crannog, bog, and fen, to celebrate the joy the Goddess gives.