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

by Rosalind Miles

  The feast of Beltain, a queen-making, and a full moon—no wonder that so many had swarmed to join in the ceremonies on the Hill of Queens. But the full moon was the sign that Breccan wanted too, the time to claim the bargain he had made with her flesh.

  Breathing hard, she slipped her hand into her bodice and felt for her mother’s dagger where it lay between her breasts, silently murmuring the runic words on its blade.

  morrighan they call me, and my name is death. whoever wrongs my mistress, I drink his blood.

  Be ready then, friend, she sent back, comforted, smoothing down her robe. She had dressed today for the moment of acclaim when she mounted the Queen stone in the face of all the tribes. What could she wear to be seen from every mountainside in the light of the rising moon?

  They found it at last in her mother’s secret store, a part of the Queen’s house to which only she had the key. Through a small unused door behind a worn and dusty tapestry, they came upon jewels and gowns never seen before.

  “Madam, look, look! And here!” Brangwain’s dark eyes were out on stalks. From ceiling to floor, the chamber was hung with cloaks made of the feathers of peacock, raven, and swan, glittering gowns encrusted with jewels or gold disks like the face of the moon, and gossamer silks tumbling in rainbow cascades. Every garment, every mantle, every thread breathed out her mother’s presence, heavy with its haunting scent of musk.

  Brangwain was in her element. “Well, lady, this? Or this?”

  In the end they chose a kirtle of dancing silks, its glassy green surface the color of Ireland itself. With it she wore a bodice of emeralds and gold, set with a silver breastplate of a swan in majesty. Over it came a gold overgown with a high standing collar, a queenly train, and great white sleeves like wings. On her head she wore Ireland’s mighty diadem of queens, a deep circle of emeralds rumored to be the crown of the Goddess Herself. Beneath it she let her rich, red-gold hair run free. What better crowning glory for a woman of the Western Isle?

  “Oh, my lady—” Looking at her mistress, Brangwain was ready to weep with joy.

  “Thank you—thank you, Brangwain!”

  Isolde had looked in the mirror with a pang of dread: who was this gorgeous stranger in the misty glass? Behind the sad, white, face she caught an echo of a pair of dancing eyes and a merry smile. Her heart seized. I will never be that laughing girl again. Then the beauty of the green and gold dazzled her eyes and she felt the first shoots of spring. A new strength came into her like the voice of the winter-bound earth. Your springs will flow, Isolde. You will flower again.

  Flower as Queen, and be with Tristan again . . . Dreaming, she rode on.

  Behind her, Breccan saw the still form and scowled. Gods above, what had got into Isolde, sitting her horse like a statue, half asleep? They were nearly there. But he should do nothing. She’d made it plain enough that his place lay behind. Time enough to change all that when he was King.

  Breccan chuckled softly. So you thought I’d never be King, brother? he sneered. Well, you’re justly rewarded. See me now, and despair!

  Rage filled his brain, coloring his thoughts with blood, and he sent Tolen packing with a final sneer. Tonight I take your place as the Queen’s chosen one. I’ll have Isolde, whether she wants me or not. I’ll break her down, turn her inside out.

  And . . . if she resists . . . ?

  Tell me, brother, can’t women die as easily as men?

  CHAPTER 24

  The Queen’s chariot came to rest at the foot of the hill. The woman Druid stepped forward and threw up her arms. “Welcome, lady, to the Hill of Queens.”

  At her sign, the veiled women around her bowed and took up the cry. “The Queen leaves us, and the Queen comes again!”

  “The Queen! The Queen!”

  Now the hillsides came alive in sympathy and the bowl of the valley resounded with the call of drums. A thousand dark figures on the mountains took up the beat, while the boldest began the ancient funeral games of leaping through the fires.

  “New life!” a thousand voices rang over the darkling plain. “The Queen journeys through the Beyond, and the Queen comes again.”

  Isolde felt the Druid’s hand upon her arm. “Lady, this way.”

  Blazing swan-lights lit the low passageway of ancient stone, and the walls of the inner chamber flamed with crystal fire. Behind them came the Queen’s waiting women carrying the comforts they had brought from Dubh Lein. As Isolde watched, they moved steadily to and fro, setting out the dainty cakes and wine to sustain the Queen on her quest, her bronze bed of state, her carved wooden throne. Soon the chamber was equipped as it had been in life, bright with the Queen’s jewels and face colors, her polished glass and treasured copper comb.

  “We are ready,” the Druid called to those waiting by the door. Trembling with the effort, a party of the Queen’s old knights carried her in on her bed of shamrock and laid her down. One by one they knelt to make their farewells, kissing her hand and blessing her sleeping head. Moments later the chamber filled with sound. The Druid led the chant in a voice like the earth itself, and Isolde followed the ancient hymn in a trance.

  Goddess, Mother, take your daughter to yourself.

  She knew love and war, and lay with heroes and fools. She sang with the Battle Raven in full cry and lay down with the dead and keened upon their bones.

  From the hard love of men, she had her true reward, the beautiful daughter that she dreamed she would have. Speed her journey, Great One! Set her soul among the stars!

  And grant us the ancient right of Queens, Mother to daughter, Isolde to Isolde since time began.

  Go now, pilgrim wanderer, to begin life anew. And welcome, Isolde, to this land of Queens!

  The plangent song soared to one last haunting note. In the echoing silence, the swan lamps began to flicker and die.

  “Come, lady, come . . .”

  She felt the hand of the Druid on her arm, drawing her forward into the night outside. A fair moon was smiling a blessing down from the sky, and she stood on the threshold, fighting tears and joy. All eyes were upon her. It was time. Her body sang, pregnant with newfound power.

  “Lay the Queen to rest!” she commanded in ringing tones. “And bring me to the stone!”

  Groaning, the tallest among the women rolled the black disk of granite into place to seal the door, then surged with her up the hill. Now the slopes were crowded with onlookers, the tribesmen and women jostling Breccan’s knights and those who had made the journey from Dubh Lein. One above all, she thought, lean and gray-haired, seemed to want to speak to her, and she paused to read the message in his eyes. But the hand of the Druid was firm upon her back. “On, lady, on!”

  The hillside lay green and gleaming under the moon. On the top stood a large, flat rock higher than a man’s head, with a few rough footholds cut into its side. Alone on this eminence lay lia fáill, Ireland’s stone of destiny for her royal Queens. Now its high mystical call trembled through the night. Approach, Isolde, draw near, this is your time.

  Isolde steadied herself and prepared to mount. My time?

  Time to embrace your fate and take your place in the Sacred Isle’s line of Queens. Only follow the dream.

  She felt her spirit laughing and dancing for joy. I shall! And I shall find it, I and my true love—

  “Allow me, lady . . .”

  Without warning a harsh voice rang like a knell in her ear. Breccan stood beside her, gripping her hand. Behind him she could see Ravigel and Tiercel and forty or so of his knights. But she was not afraid. Soul and body on fire, she thrust him away “Back!” she commanded throatily, raising her voice to echo to the hills. “Let no man approach. The Queen mounts alone.”

  Turning, she surged up the side of the rock, finding its shallow footholds effortlessly. This is my destiny—mine and mine alone . . .

  She thought she heard the stone itself crying out, calling her onward, come, Isolde, come! Above it soared the yearning cry of the crowd, every voice resounding with the same re
frain.

  “Our Queen is gone—give us back our Queen!”

  Your Queen . . .

  Isolde stepped to the edge of the stone and threw up her arms. “I am your Queen!”

  “The Queen!”

  The drums of the land kin throbbed and the women keened. Sighing, the wind rose to greet her, and her upraised sleeves filled like mighty wings. Suddenly she was swan and woman, she was Queen, she was Erin herself. She was the land and the sovereignty of the land, she was the sea and the spirit of the sea. Her brothers were the black mountains and the hollow dells, her sisters the rushing rivers and the silver streams. She was every marsh and meadow, and every oak, every thorn, every shamrock was born of her flesh. Neither flesh nor fowl, no, not a tiny, hapless wren would suffer in this island if the Queen could raise her hand.

  One more step . . .

  Turning, she approached lia fáill and fell to her knees. Bending her head, she brought her cold lips to the stone. Make me worthy, Goddess, Mother, of this crown I wear. Give me strength to bear its burdens and meet its demands. Let me not fail the least of my people’s desires. May I live and die in their enduring love.

  This is my vow, Great Mother. Accept my oath. With her soul in her hands, she leapt up on lia fáill.

  She felt the stone quake and tremble beneath her feet. Be it so! groaned the granite from its rocky heart.

  Be it so! cried the night-flying eagle overhead.

  Be it so! echoed through the golden air.

  “Be it so!” howled the crowd. “Lia fáill has cried out!”

  The cry resounded from the distant hills. “The stone has spoken! The stone has cried out for the Queen!”

  “The Queen, the Queen, the stone has cried out for the Queen!”

  The torrent of sound rang off the mountainside. Tearing their hair, the land women beat their breasts and opened their throats in the wild ululation known only in the Western Isle. Now, the night was alive with hectic screams and cries. In the deep purple void, her mother was with her again. I told you, Isolde, one day you would be Queen . . .

  You did, Mawther, you did.

  “A king! A king! A queen deserves a king.”

  She had not heard him come. Wild-eyed, Breccan had mounted the stone, bellowing his acclaim, and was striding toward her with a naked sword in his hand.

  “A king for the Western Isle!” he shouted through the gloom. “And I am here—your Queen’s chosen one!”

  Goddess, Mother—!

  A fresh burst of cries and cheers answered his words. Brandishing the sword, he reached up and pulled her down from lia fáill. Now she stood at his side, under the moonlit shadow of his sword, but menaced far more by his wide, white, wolf-like grin.

  A hollow wind blew mournfully over the hill.

  Lady, where is the knight you promised me?

  And Tristan too? Has he failed me, is he dead?

  “So, lady . . . ?”

  Breccan was pulling her to him, his wolf’s breath hot on her neck. She reached for the comfort of the dagger at her breast. Whatever I have to do, Lady, it will be done.

  CHAPTER 25

  King Breccan . . .

  The cries of the crowd thundered in his ears. His heart pounding, Breccan tasted the darkness within him and found it good. Good? Never better! His starved soul crowed like a cock. This was the finest moment of his life.

  King Breccan. Already his knights had fallen to their knees, every man with his hand on his heart. The very hillsides lay hushed with reverence, and Breccan’s spirit soared. Now at last he had come into his own.

  Breccan’s jaw tightened and his head began to throb. All men would respect him now, even this white-faced creature at his side. Yes, even Isolde, who thought she would be Queen. His anger peaked. She’d be the first to feel his boot on her neck.

  “So, madam . . .”

  He seized Isolde’s arm and pushed her from the rock, forcing her none too gently down the steps. He was King from this moment on. If her fool of a husband dared to come to her aid, he’d be dealt with too. But a Cornish vassal king could never threaten him. There could be no denying his right to rule.

  King Breccan . . .

  His head swam as he watched her descend. Then flying like a bird, he leapt down from the rock. He was kin to the eagle, he was King!

  King Breccan?

  Isolde felt her way carefully down the rock. Coldly she swore an oath: Breccan would never touch her flesh again. And no man could seek to destroy the Mother-right and live. Still, calmly, now . . . She must not lose control. But as soon as the moment came—kill! Kill!

  Blinded by her thoughts, she did not see the man waiting collectedly at the foot of the rock.

  “King Breccan?” came a quiet voice in her ear. “Lady, is this your will?”

  A sob of exultation burst from Isolde’s lungs. Goddess, Mother, praise and thanks—he has come!

  Standing before her was the man she had noticed as she climbed the hill, a lean knight in his middle years, grizzled but erect, and armed from head to foot. His piercing gaze had an Otherworldly air, and for a moment she caught the look of the Fair Ones again. This is my knight. He has come to me.

  “My king?” she cried in a passion. “Never! No!”

  Breccan stared at the stranger. “Who’s this?”

  The knight returned his stare. “When I served the Queen who has gone, she called me her Faithful One. My name is Fideal.”

  Fideal?

  Breccan froze like a stag in the forest at the hunter’s tread. The dead Queen’s onetime champion? The old fool that Ravigel had urged him to put down?

  Now Gods, be with me!

  With a sharp lurch, Breccan saw that the old fool he had supposed was not so old after all. Fideal had the spare fighting frame of a much younger man, and a muscular body taller than his own. And a two-handed fighter as well, armed with sword and stabbing spear, the hardest to beat. But worst of all, Breccan saw with deep disquiet, was the look in the newcomer’s eye. His pale gaze had the finality of one who had bid farewell, to life, to love, and all that he called his. Here was a man ready and willing to die.

  “Go, fool, whatever they call you!” he said roughly, to cover his sudden fear. He seized Isolde’s arm. “Leave the Queen. She has not sent for you.”

  Isolde tore herself contemptuously from his grip. “The Queen gives her own orders. And you, Breccan, will leave my kingdom, never to return.”

  Breccan’s mouth fell open. “What?”

  She leveled her eyes on his. “You are banished, Sir Breccan,” she said thickly. “On pain of death. Leave my land at once.”

  “Never!” Breccan swore, reaching for his sword.

  Fideal gave a thin smile. “The Queen has spoken.”

  “And a sword speaks loudest of all.”

  Without warning, Breccan lunged violently at Fideal. Gods above, he’d kill this old wretch, then by all the powers of darkness he’d kill this vicious queen!

  The onlookers scattered in fear. Neatly evading Breccan’s slashing sword, Fideal grinned mirthlessly to himself: so!

  Everything he knew about Breccan had prepared him for a treacherous onslaught like this. His own sword was already in his hand. “Have at you, then!”

  Breccan’s only answer was another slash and thrust, followed by a furious hail of blows. Grimly, Fideal blocked the young knight’s approach, parrying the glinting blade-strokes one by one. He was lighter on his feet than Breccan, Isolde saw with relief. But Breccan had youth on his side, and brute strength enough to beat any man down. Grunting, he drove at Fideal like a bull, his sword swinging and thrusting in a glinting arc.

  Time and again Fideal deftly evaded attack as Breccan charged, overshot, turned and charged again. On the next run, Breccan whirled around, then came at Fideal sideways, like a crab. Fideal crouched to meet the sinister scuttling approach. At the last moment Breccan straightened up and sliced at the older knight’s shoulder with a sickening blow. Fideal’s sword fell from his hand and
his arm dangled uselessly at his side. Roaring with triumph, Breccan bounded forward to plant his foot on Fideal’s blade.

  “Yield, sir!” he exulted. “You’re a dead man else.”

  Fideal raised his dagger and beckoned mockingly. “Come and bury me, then,” he cried. “Or do you need your brother to do it for you?”

  “My brother . . . ?”

  Gasping, Breccan hefted his sword and swung it around his head. Gods, he would have Fideal’s head for this! But first he would hack him living, limb from limb. Grinning, he surged in for the kill—kill him now!

  After that, kill Isolde!

  Then every voice would cheer for King Breccan . . .

  King Breccan!

  His ears ringing with imaginary cries, Breccan lunged at Fideal. Blinded with blood-lust, dazzled by his own bright dreams, he hardly saw Fideal duck under his sword or felt the dagger slip into his armpit under his outstretched arm. His mouth was still spitting curses and boasts as the sharp blade pierced his heart.

  “What—?” he began to protest, but speech and understanding had already fled.

  From the side of the ring, Isolde watched as Breccan’s body fell lifeless to the ground. Farewell, Breccan. May your Gods go with you as the Lord of Darkness takes you for his own.

  Dead—Breccan’s dead . . .

  A low rising wind mourned around the mountaintop. Now the funeral cry was spreading across the hills as keening tribeswomen added their lamentations to the night.

  Isolde looked up. “Who called this man master?”

  “I did.” Ravigel came forward, his eyes as empty as the dead man’s.

  Isolde gestured toward the pitiful hulk on the ground. “Take charge of your lord. Give him the burial he might have deserved.”

  Ravigel beckoned Tiercel and a handful of Breccan’s knights. “It shall be done.”

  In silence she watched the knights bear Breccan away. Then she turned to Fideal with a tremulous smile. White and drawn, her defender stood holding his injured arm, watching her with an air of Otherwordly patience and something close to love.