“If we had, we could have stopped her sending for Tristan,” Hoel moaned in distress. “The Gods alone know where that piece of folly will lead! We only just escaped war with the Gauls. We don’t want King Mark up in arms as well.” He reached out to his son. “Put a stop to this nonsense, will you, Kedrin?”
Kedrin was not sure that any force on earth would stop Blanche. But his sister had to be consulted, so here he was. With a fixed smile and a jaunty air, he knocked on her door.
“Blanche!”
As always, his heart lifted at the sight of his sister in her dainty gown, seated before her mirror as pale and perfect as a pearl in its shell. Here in this quiet room washed with creamy loam, Blanche’s narrow bed was the one she had slept in as a child, and she still used her old girlhood dressing-table and chair. The low-ceilinged chamber even smelled like a young girl’s room, fragrant with lavender and rosewater. Today she wore a simple chamber gown of silver-white silk, and her hair, unbound, shone like snow in the sun. She rose to greet him with a loving kiss. “Good day, brother.”
“And you, sister,” he returned affectionately, settling down on a plump sheepskin settee. “So Jean de Luz has gone.”
“Oh, pouf!” She waved a dismissive hand. “Father never listens to a word I say. I could have told him beforehand De Luz would be wasting his time.”
Kedrin nodded calmly. “I told him that. And now you’ve written to Sir Tristan to invite him here? But he’s sworn to obey his lord. What if King Mark won’t agree?”
She caught one of the pale locks of hair around her finger and began winding it up. “It doesn’t matter. Tristan’s on his way.”
“What?” Kedrin started. “How d’you know?”
The little hand waved again. “Oh, I know.”
Gods above! Kedrin fought back a gasp of shock. “But if he doesn’t . . . ?” he resumed uncertainly. “What then?”
“Oh, he will.”
Kedrin wanted to weep. “Hear me, sister,” he said heartily. “No princess of France should have one suitor alone. A lady like you should have legions of lovers clamoring for your hand, and knights from all over the world swooning at your feet.”
The baby-blue eyes took on a soft, drifting look. “Yesss,” Blanche murmured. “Yesss.”
Kedrin leaned forward with an understanding air. “Now, of course, you’ll have eyes for Sir Tristan alone. But believe me, sister, it keeps a man on edge to know that there are others in the running beside himself. Let other knights court you too. I’ll summon them myself, the very best.”
Blanche paused to consider, twirling her wayward curl.
Other men? The very best?
Other men to make Tristan jealous, to ensure that when he saw his rivals, he would not delay . . . ?
Oh yessss!
“If you say so, brother, let them come,” Blanche breathed, dropping her eyes. “And if others come and Tristan beats them all, at least I’ll know I’ve chosen the right man. And then our father will surely be satisfied,” she added virtuously. “He will know I have made a careful, prudent choice.”
Oh, my dear sister . . .
Blanche did not know, Kedrin would swear, that her innocent pupils had narrowed as she spoke and her innocent air of roses and lavender had been overlaid with the taint of deceit. She claimed to love Tristan, yet even before they met him, she was ready do anything to arouse his jealousy. Treachery was the element in which Blanche lived. Indeed it was not treachery to her but common sense, to make sure that she got what she wanted, whatever the cost.
Kedrin sighed. Some women are born to scheme, and you are a queen among them, sister mine. But you don’t always know what you want, he thought tenderly. You’re like a child crying for the red apple even though it carries poison in its heart. Well, I’ll protect you, I’ll look out for you.
And he would not deceive her. However she twisted and turned, he would teach her trust. “The very best men,” he repeated. “But one above all.”
“Yes?” She turned her face to her mirror and practiced a shy, dimpled smile.
“You’ll have seen him already at some of our tournaments last year— the King of . . .”
“Ouesterland?” Blanche’s head went back. “The knight they call Saint Roc?”
So she had noticed him. Kedrin suppressed a grin. “The very same. The Chevalier Jacques Saint Rocquefort, to give him his full name.”
“And he’s one of the knights you suggest?” Turning, Blanche saw herself in the glass, fetchingly caught between a shrug and a pout. She liked it so much that she did it again. “Well, bring him here if you like.”
“Sister, it shall be.”
Dropping a kiss on his sister’s head, Kedrin hastened through the palace to his father’s side. He found him in his chamber, staring at the wall. “She’s agreed!”
Hoel turned his head. “She remembered Saint Roc?”
“At once,” Kedrin laughed.
“Well, he was always the hardest fighter of the day. Not the best, but the most determined of them all.”
“It’s true, Tristan beat him that time Blanche saw him first,” Kedrin conceded. “But he fought to the end like a wolf, he never gave up.”
“Well, he’s got the right spirit, if that’s what we want. But is it? He can’t offer much in the way of land.”
Kedrin shook his head. “Blanche will have plenty of her own.”
“Will he make her happy?” Hoel said doubtfully. “He’s a hard man, they say.”
“He comes from a hard place.”
“Roc by name, rock by nature, eh?”
“It’s what Blanche needs, whether she knows it or not.” Kedrin drew a breath. “Trust me, sir, he’s a man of weight. And he’s the man for us, if he’ll take it on.”
Hoel bowed his head. “Send for him, then,” he said in deep weariness. “This madness with Tristan is going to ruin us all. Offer him anything to change Blanche’s mind!”
CHAPTER 28
Westward, ever onward into the west.
On...on...
The road stretched ahead of them, white in the morning sun. The hillsides now were in full springtime green, a stinging viridian almost too bright for their eyes. Every tree was in leaf, every bush home to nesting birds, and the earth beneath throbbing with new life. Sitting back in the saddle, Isolde gave her horse its head. Any other day she would have enjoyed this ride to Breccan’s estate.
Breccan . . .
She could not think of the dead knight without pain. The Mother loved you, Breccan. You were handsome, gifted, and brave, truly favored among Her sons. One of Her blue-eyed daughters could have loved you, and given you sons and daughters of your own. You could have chosen life, Breccan, new life, not death. And instead you have gone down to the House of Death and the earth lies over your eyes.
And now she was riding west, crossing the island with a handful of knights. Since Breccan’s unexpected death, there had been no trace of Cormac and Gilhan. Today she was bringing the search to Breccan’s own lands.
Breccan’s? She smarted at another painful memory. Lough Larne was never Breccan’s estate at all. The fine castle and rich lands around had all been given to Tolen by the doting Queen. Still, Lough Larne had become a place of delight for them both. On rare occasions at least, Isolde knew that her mother’s quicksilver soul had found peace here and love.
And as they crested the sheltering mountain ridge, she could feel it too. Ahead of them the green hillside ran down to a valley with the lough at its heart. Mirrored in the still, silver waters stood the white castle, commanding the head of the valley with its airy crenellations and tall towers. Not far away was the sea, bringing the sparkling tang of salt on the morning air. For a moment Isolde saw her mother again, leaning out from her tower in welcome, her veil lifting in the breeze. Come, Isolde! Hurry, little one.
Her eyes blurred. No tears, no fears.
Onward . . .
Always on . . .
And here if anywhere, they must find
Gilhan and Cormac. After so long, there was nowhere else to look. She had had the island scoured for miles around Dubh Lein, widening the fruitless search with every sweep. And every day her sense of hopelessness grew. Cormac’s a man of the spirit, how will he bear such a long imprisonment? And Gilhan’s too old to be locked up, he was old when I was young . . .
Goddess, Mother, help me.
Without her mother’s chief counselor and Druid, how would she deal with a land in disarray? Wise heads and sturdy souls were needed now to bring the country back from long neglect, and avert the threat of famine when winter came. Already she had sent many of the knights and lords back to their lands, to hearten the people and prepare for the harvest to come. There was more to be done before she could leave Dubh Lein, but with Gilhan and Cormac, the country would be safe.
Leave Dubh Lein and set out to find my love . . .
She thought of him all the time. In ten years, they had rarely been apart. Being without him was like losing the use of her hands. Tristan was her last thought as she lay down at night and her first as she opened her eyes on another gray dawn. When the wind had sighed and sobbed round Dubh Lein, when the clouds overhead were heavy with unshed tears, she felt all the world was grieving for her loss.
There was no comfort to be had in this long delay. Nothing but death or disaster could have kept him from her side. Had he been ambushed by some rogue in the wood, as they were waylaid by the pitiless Sir Greuze? Had he reached Castle Dore and fallen foul of Andred or Mark? All these pangs kept her awake at night. But one fear above all kept her trembling in her bed. Have you left me, sweetheart? Have you found another love?
But Tristan unfaithful? Her one true love, so devoted for so long? It seemed to her that she betrayed him every time the thought came into her mind. As soon as she found him, she would solve the riddle of his absence, fold him in her arms, feed and fill the hollow at her heart.
Tristan . . . oh, my love . . .
But to do that she had to find Cormac and Gilhan first. What had Breccan done with them? And what a fool she had been to let Ravigel go! On the terrible night when Breccan and Fideal died, she never once thought to detain and question him. Ravigel had broken his sword and laid it with his master, then kissed Breccan’s sword and taken it for his own. Blind with loss, he had mounted and ridden away, surrounded by the rest of Breccan’s band. And with them had gone any knowledge of where the prisoners might be.
For they were nowhere to be found. No castle, no cave, no fortress or abandoned hermitage held the men, and Isolde was forced to acknowledge that the searchers had drawn a blank. Yet she would not give up. Time to try Lough Larne. And if you don’t find them there? She put the thought away.
Now the castle lay before them with its tall white towers, its stables, barns, and byres. The leader of the knights gave a cheerful grin. “Leave it to us, lady. We’ll find them, if they’re here.”
Gods above, they must be! There’s nowhere else.
“The steward, my lady.”
The knights were ushering forward a man of middle height with a keen-eyed, military bearing and an honest air. Isolde knew him as the castle’s longtime custodian and the steward of the former Queen. Isolde bowed. “Sir, you know why we’re here. Can you think of anything that might help?”
The steward shook his head. “Sir Breccan didn’t come here, my lady. Sir Tolen was always our lord.”
“So he never knew the place at all?”
“Oh, that he did.” The steward brightened. “They were born hereabouts, Sir Breccan and all his kin. That’s why the Queen gave Sir Tolen this estate. She wanted him to have his own place on the family’s ancestral land.”
Isolde’s pulse quickened. “Then he grew up ’round here?”
“Very near,” the steward confirmed. His broad face creased in a reminiscent smile. “The brothers used to ride these hills like the hobgoblins of hell, tormenting the life out of the ancients who lived ’round about.”
“The ancients,” said Isolde slowly. “Is there anyone here who might have known them in those days?”
The steward paused for thought. “It was so long ago that most of them are dead.”
“There must be some.” She tried to compose herself. “I beg you, sir, think!”
The man considered. “There’s old Friya.”
“Who?”
“She used to be their nurse. She served in the household and took care of every one of the boys as they came along. She worshipped them all, but Breccan was her favorite, she’d do anything for him. She’s so old now that she doesn’t know who she is, mad as a March hare, they say. Her married daughter in the village wants to take her in, but old Friya won’t leave that place of hers on the cliff. Says she’s always worshipped the Mother above Lough Larne and isn’t going to end her days somewhere else.”
He laughed unhappily. “She’s the oldest living creature for miles around, lady, but she’s not much use to you. She’s mad now and she sees things, those who know her say.”
A disregarded soul, who lived alone? Old, mad, and loyal to Breccan all her life?
Isolde raised her head. “Where does she live? Can you take me there?”
CHAPTER 29
On the ridge above Lough Larne a dense, untamed woodland covered the hillside as far as the edge of the cliff. The narrow pathway would only admit one traveler at a time, and no horses had passed this way for many years. Heedless of briar and bracken, Isolde gathered up her skirts and plunged in, almost treading on the heels of the knight leading the way.
“Here, madam.”
Without warning, the man gestured and stepped aside. Directly ahead, rising not more than four or five feet from the ground, stood a rough hovel built of forest loam and roofed with dead leaves.
The knight eyed the strange dwelling askance. “I’ll go in first, my lady, and make sure it’s safe.”
His sword was drawn in his hand. Isolde shook her head. “No, sir. I shall be safe enough from this lady, I think.”
Stooping, she entered the low dwelling and found herself in the gloom. The hovel’s one small window was covered with a tattered piece of sacking, shutting out the light. Cautiously, she took a pace or two across the floor of trodden earth, and paused to look around. There was nothing but a stool, a wooden bowl, and a pile of moldy rags heaped up against the wall. That would serve as the place both to sit and to sleep and perhaps as the old woman’s clothing and bed covering too. It was a place of desperate poverty, hardly fit for human life.
But someone lived here, she could tell, and sooner or later the inhabitant would appear. Isolde turned toward the door to tell her knights to wait. As she did, a thrill of horror rooted her to the floor. The pile of rags had a pair of yellow eyes.
Mad eyes, as wild as March winds, peered out at her from beneath the heap of cloth. Meeting their frightened gaze, Isolde quelled her own fear. Don’t be afraid. I shan’t do you any harm.
She bowed her head politely. “Dame Friya?”
There was no response. Breathing hard, she tried again. “I am Isolde, come to call on you.”
The pile of rags did not move. Isolde paused. All she could hear was the sound of the sea, beating on the shore below the cliff. Then without warning, a young cat with eyes as mad as its mistress slid into the room. Seeing Isolde, it arched its thin back and hissed, fixing her with a yellow, spangled stare. An odd sensation ran through her, and she began to feel dizzy and sick. Suddenly she knew that she had to get out.
She groped for the door. Then a cracked laugh disturbed the musty gloom. “Behave, Malkin, none of your mischief now. Don’t scare the lady away, we don’t often have visitors here.”
The cat dropped her eyes and slunk off. Isolde watched uncertainly as the nondescript bundle of rags parted and an aged woman crawled out onto the floor. Slowly she heaved her skinny form to her feet. Her filthy garments were no more than rags, and her gray hair hung in elf-locks down her back. A battered black hat clung to the side of her head, len
ding a poignant air of lost dignity and better days. Two odd, light eyes rolled behind her matted fringe, and a strange little smile flickered and was gone. She nodded to Isolde.
A rank smell filled the room. Isolde swallowed hard. “Madam Friya, they say you’ve lived all your life ’round Lough Larne.”
The old woman waved a filthy hand. “They say, they say,” she said grandly. “What do they know?”
Her voice was crusty but supremely confident. Isolde pressed on. “Did you know Sir Breccan?”
“Know him?” An unexpected cackle startled Isolde with its intensity. “No, I didn’t know him,” she said scornfully, “not the finest of my nurslings, no, no, no!”
“When did you see him last?”
Friya stared. “See him here, or there?”
Goddess, Mother, she’s mad . . . Isolde felt close to tears. “Where?”
“In the Otherworld. He’s gone with the Dark Lord, everyone knows that. The Mother sent him to the House of the Dead. And he’ll give ’em a rousting, if I know my boy!”
“But here on earth, here at Lough Larne . . . ?”
The oddly assorted eyes flashed from side to side. The old woman played suspiciously with the hairs on her chin.
“He was never here,” she pronounced at last. “Never here,” she repeated in a loud singsong voice.
Never here? Isolde’s stomach clenched.
“My lord . . . my dead boy . . ” Friya crooned, hugging herself in her skinny arms and rocking to and fro.
Hopelessness broke over Isolde like a wave. If Breccan was never here, then neither were Cormac and Gilhan. Why was she troubling this poor old soul?
“Never here,” she echoed emptily.
So be it.
Time to go.
She took a step toward Friya to bid farewell, and was startled to receive a flashing smile. The old woman was nodding and winking like one possessed, her ancient elbows twitching with nudges she could not hold back. Twice she opened her mouth and twice closed it, unable to speak.
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 17
