Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea

by Rosalind Miles

  She could still hear the faint echo quivering through the air.

  No longer, Isolde.

  Choose.

  You must choose.

  Ahead of them lay a parting of the ways, one road running south to Castle Dore, the other leading to Tintagel on the opposite coast. Isolde’s senses swam. Goddess, Great One, help me! What should I do?

  “Lady?” The concerned voice of Tristan reached her through the mist.

  She came to herself with a shudder, and opened her eyes. “Pray you, set up my pavilion,” she said clearly. “We camp here tonight.”

  OH, THE RAPTURE OF THE TIME they had spent at Camelot, away from King Mark’s court! Yet now it was over, how short it had been. Brooding, Isolde watched her knights taking care of the horses and setting up the tents. When she had set out on the embassy to Arthur and Guenevere, the time with Tristan had stretched ahead like a dream. Now in the dark forest so near to Castle Dore, grim thoughts and fears lurked like outlaws behind every bush.

  In the distance, Tristan passed among the troops. Isolde sighed. How long had she loved this man? And in all those years they had never been able to live openly together, sharing their thoughts and dreams as others did. Sadness descended on her like the evening dew. Was she doomed to live a life of stolen bliss, trapped like a fly in amber at Mark’s court?

  Choose.

  You must choose.

  “My lady?” The familiar voice of her maid sounded in her ear. “They’re ready for you now.”

  “Thank you, Brangwain.”

  Turning, Isolde met the bright blackbird eyes of the woman who had come from the Welshlands to nurse her as a child and had never left her side. Those who knew Brangwain called her “Merlin’s kin,” and the lean, unyielding figure in her plain, dark dress clearly had something fierce and Otherworldly in her air. But now her olive-skinned face wore a broad smile as she nodded up the track. “See, lady?”

  Isolde’s heart lifted. “I see.”

  Tristan was coming toward her with that well-loved smile and reaching for her hand to lead her through the trees. Her royal pavilion stood in a clearing bathed in the last of the day’s golden light, its entrance swagged back in welcome, its interior warm with bright rugs and burning braziers. One young knight was strewing the hot coals with herbs, and the sweet tang of rosemary and thyme scented the air. Another set out a tray of mead and honeycakes, while Brangwain disappeared into the inner chamber to prepare the bed. Tristan thanked the knights and dismissed them with a smile, then turned to face her, his eyes bright with joy.

  Isolde could not meet his loving gaze.

  Goddess, Mother, show me what to do.

  She took off her headdress and shook out her thick mane of hair. Without the tall casque and all-enveloping veil, she looked suddenly smaller, vulnerable, and young. A familiar pang of love pierced Tristan’s heart. No one would believe that this girlish creature with her tender air was a queen and warrior who had seen almost forty summers on the earth.

  Tristan watched her in wonder. Oh, how he loved her, how he loved her hair! Its red-gold depths were lit with glints like fire, and her vital spirit lived in its spring and bounce. He longed to seize it by the handful and pull her into his arms. But time enough for that.

  “We did well in Camelot,” she said, struggling to raise her spirits with a light tone. “It’s important to grasp what Arthur and Guenevere face.”

  “It’s a twofold challenge,” Tristan agreed somberly. “The Quest will be scattering their knights far and wide just as spring brings the Norsemen raiding the eastern shore.”

  “And none of the knights wants to stay behind in defense. Sir Gawain and Sir Galahad could hardly wait to take to the road. But if they all go out, who will take care of the land?”

  Tristan nodded. “The Grail is a wonderful prize for the knight who succeeds. But the danger of invasion is always there.”

  Isolde’s mood deepened. “For Ireland too. You remember the dispatches that came in last night? The Picts are going to trouble us again, it seems.”

  “The Painted Ones?” Tristan drew in a breath of alarm. “Alas, they’ve always been a savage race, born to fight.”

  A race of savages . . .

  Fearful images of wild and daubed barbarians rose before Isolde’s eyes. “The word has reached Dubh Lein that their king is dying, and their young prince Darath is waiting to show his strength.”

  “And Ireland must tempt them. It’s so close to their land.”

  Isolde laid both hands on her center. “Darath will invade, I feel it. They will need me in Ireland, I see that, too.”

  Tristan knew her too well to doubt a word she said. “Then we must go to Ireland, lady,” he said cheerfully. “But you must not fear. The Picts are no more than pirates, by sea and land. They’ll be no match for your knights and men.”

  He does not understand. Isolde shook her head and turned away.

  Tristan moved forward and gently took her hand. “Lady, what is your trouble?”

  I must choose.

  She turned on him abruptly. “When we go to Ireland, we should not return.”

  He started at the passion in her voice. “What, not come back to Cornwall? Why on earth . . . ?”

  “Mark’s jealous of you. And that’s making me afraid.”

  “Alas, lady,” he groaned. “If only we knew why.”

  “Why? Oh, Tristan—”

  She looked at him with eyes of aching love. Nearing forty, he still had the frank, open look of his boyhood, though the strong planes and angles of his face had deepened with experience and time. His fair hair sprang up from his broad forehead as thickly as it always had, and the blue of his eyes still made her catch her breath. Best of all, he never noticed how heads turned for him, male and female alike. He might have been born to put other men to shame.

  And seen against Mark, who had height but not strength and royalty without a trace of dignity, who was cursed with a long, ill-made body with a muddy face and thin, graying, sandy hair—a knight who had no prowess with sword or spear and not a thought in his head of chivalry . . .

  Was it any wonder that Mark felt belittled when Tristan was near?

  Mark.

  My husband, Mark.

  Isolde struggled to collect her wayward thoughts. Tristan, too, was floundering, she could see.

  “We have always tried to respect and honor him,” he said in a low voice. “So why do we have to leave now? Is there anything new?”

  “Yes, indeed.” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “The Christians are increasing their power every day. They have sworn to overthrow the Goddess, and Mark does not care. That priest of his, Dominian, feeds his vanity to gain control, and Mark builds them churches to buy absolution from his sins.”

  Tristan shifted uneasily. “His sins—?”

  “Gods above, Tristan, how long has he flaunted his mistress in my face? And what’s that snake-like Elva but a sin?” Suddenly she could bear it no more. “Look at him, Tristan. He’s a wretched apology for a man and for a king. He’s—”

  “He’s my kinsman, lady,” Tristan broke in, his face alive with pain. “I beg you, remember that.”

  What? Isolde stared at him. His look of reproach cut her to the quick. She opened her mouth for an angry retort, then the sound she had heard before came once again, falling through the air like the evening dew.

  Never more.

  It is time to choose.

  She came toward Tristan and took his hand. “I must not go back to Mark or to Castle Dore,” she said intently, her voice very low. “I cannot sustain this marriage any longer.”

  Tristan started in alarm. “What?”

  Isolde held her breath. Suddenly the way ahead was clear. “I shall go back to Ireland. My country needs me. I should not be here.”

  Tristan felt a hollow sickness invade his heart. “But Cornwall—”

  “—must do without me,” she said implacably.

  Never had he seen her l
ook so cold. He struggled to understand. “But—”

  “I married Mark to keep Ireland safe. The danger’s been over now for twenty years. There’s no reason for me to remain as Cornwall’s Queen.” She looked away. “Still less as Mark’s wife, when I’ve never gone to his bed.”

  He flushed and looked away. “I know.”

  She forced him to meet her eye. “Come with me to Ireland. We’ll forget Mark and Cornwall and join our lives together in my own land.”

  He stared at her. “But lady, he’s my kinsman—my only kin. And I swore a lifelong allegiance to him.”

  She held his gaze and willed him to be strong. “Set Mark aside, if you can. There’s something else that dearly concerns us both.”

  He was quite lost; she could see it.

  “What else?” he said in misery, running a hand distractedly through his hair.

  Goddess, help me . . . She drew a long, slow breath. “If I’m ever to have a child, it must be soon.”

  “Have a child?” he gasped. “But we’ve always kept our love concealed.”

  “So I took the way of the Mother to close up my womb.” She nodded grimly. “But in my own kingdom, I can do as I like. And when I’m free to follow the Mother-right, that means I can change my consort and bear his child.” She paused and clenched her fists. “Your child, Tristan, if it’s not too late.”

  “My child?” He could not take it in. But he could see the tempest raging in her soul. Queen or woman, what am I to be? Wife, lover, and mother, or never in this life?

  “Come with me, sir,” she said suddenly.

  He stood like a bear at the stake. “You know I have sworn fealty to the King,” he said hoarsely.

  “I need you. He does not.”

  She could see the sweat breaking out on his brow.

  “But what of King Arthur—the Round Table—the Quest?”

  Isolde’s eyes flared. “What of them?”

  “I am one of that sworn fellowship,” he said tensely. “King Arthur may send for me to join the Quest. And I’m still Cornwall’s champion. King Mark may need me to defend the land.”

  She stared at him, unmoving. “What about our child?”

  Trembling, he caught her eye and looked away. A child? They’d never spoken of it. He had never thought of it before.

  And now, go to Ireland and bring a child into the world? Reveal the secret of their love to all? He’d be forced to leave the King’s service in disgrace, betraying all he had known since his life of chivalry began. And what of this new life she talked about, the little soul who would call him father and command his heart’s blood for the rest of his days? Could he do it? Or was he bound to fail?

  Fail the child, for sure.

  Fail Isolde and fail Mark.

  Fail, fail, fail . . .

  Yearning in anguish, Isolde watched him pace to and fro, feeling the clash of loyalties in his soul. Choose! cried her silent heart. Choose me! But already she knew the choice that he had made.

  “What will you do?” she said huskily.

  “What should I do?” he cried from the depths of his pain. “I owe allegiance to Mark and King Arthur and the Round Table, too. But you are my lady and my undying love. Who should I follow now?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she said hotly. “What should I do? As Mark’s wife, I should return to Castle Dore. But I choose love over duty. What will you do?”

  He looked into the distance, but all he could see was the void within himself. “You are the Queen,” he said awkwardly. “The sovereignty and spirit of the land.”

  “And you are the King of Lyonesse,” she said tremulously. “But in my arms, you are a man.”

  What did she mean? Tristan struggled to read the mystery in her eyes.

  She threw him a glance of despair. Hold me. Love me. Do not let me go.

  He covered his face with his hand to hide his grief. “Lady, I beg you, forgive me if you can,” he said huskily. “But I cannot go back on the first vow I made. I swore myself to the King before we met and pledged undying fealty on my soul. I lose my honor if I break that oath, and without my honor, I’m nothing but a recreant knight. And I could not be your knight if I broke my faith. I could not offer you a life of shame.”

  She was as pale as death. “So be it.”

  Tristan straightened up. “To Ireland with you, lady,” he said bleakly, “while I return to Castle Dore to keep pledge with Mark.”

  “Will you come to me afterward? When can I hope to see you again?”

  “Somewhere it must be written. But the stars are dark. For myself, I cannot say.”

  A cry of pain escaped her. “Must it be?”

  “Gods above, lady,” he said, his voice breaking, “I’d give my life to change it if I could. But there is no other way.”

  She stepped forward and lifted her hand to his cheek. “Love me one last time?”

  THE NEXT DAY AT DAWN they stood in the dark wood. Ahead of them lay the fork where the two roads diverged. The whole troop stood ready to depart, and there could be no last kiss or caress under the eyes of the men. But she could hear his thoughts.

  Every evening of every day, I shall pray to you, Isolde my lady, Isolde my only love.

  And every twilight when the love star glows, I shall light a candle to burn for you, sweetheart.

  Wait for me till I come to you again.

  Through the three worlds and beyond.

  Fail not.

  I shall not fail.

  Nor I, till the seas kiss the sky.

  Farewell.

  They stood for a moment, lost in their private world till the soft jingle of a horse’s harness brought them to themselves again.

  He fixed her with his level gray regard. “Farewell, my lady” came to her through the cold silver-gray of the dawn.

  She could hardly speak for pain. “Fare you well.”

  Blue, green, and purple played around his head as he stood like a shadow of himself against the fading dark. He had the look of a faun in a midnight forest, wild and strange. Another moment and he would be gone.

  Oh, Tristan . . . Tristan . . .

  When shall I see you again?

  Already she knew it was tempting the Old Ones to ask. But never did she dream what the answer would be.

  chapter 4

  Isolde, Isolde . . .

  Had all the evil in the land sprung from this pagan whore? Or was his own sin to blame?

  “Lord, Lord, let me see Thy face!”

  Groaning, the priest Dominian covered his head with his cowl and drove his misshapen body into the wind. He knew the way through the wood so well that he hardly felt the tears blinding his eyes. Was it not enough that God had sent him into the world hunchbacked and lame, so malformed that his own mother had cast him away to die? Did the Almighty have to cast him out, too?

  Yet this was the way it had been all winter long. All that time, God had hidden His face. Of course the Almighty rejected those full of rage, Dominian knew that. Yet what else can I be, Lord, when You work against me? he railed inwardly, stamping along with his novice, Simeon, behind. Tell me why You have spared Isolde all these years?

  Frenziedly, he beat the dripping branches away from his face.

  “Isolde the pagan,” he muttered, “Isolde the rampant whore, who calls herself Queen when Holy Scripture forbids women to rule. And above her is Mark’s overlord, old Queen Igraine. These women are the enemies of our work. They share the friendship of their thighs with any man of their choice. Why do they flourish, Lord? We shall never win control in a land where thigh-freedom rules. We must have subject females, mute and chaste. The rule of Our Father in these islands means rooting out the Mother-right.”

  Dominian clutched his head. Surely God in His wisdom knew all this! Every time Isolde put to sea, He could have made the waves into her death waters, drowned the witch in a pool of her own tears. Once He had even held her life in His hand, when she had been accused of treachery and forced to undertake the ordeal
by water to clear her name. He could so easily have done away with her then. Yet each time He had spared her to triumph over His own people. Why had God betrayed him to this dark night of the soul? Neither in church nor in his private prayers had Dominian seen God’s face as he used to do.

  Usedtodo, usedtodo, mocked the wind in the trees. The forest path narrowed and the going was harder now. The new springtime growth of leaves on the trees impeded their way and every green shoot seemed to catch at their monkish gowns. Glaring about him, Dominian loathed all he saw. What fools people were to rejoice at the coming of spring! All it meant was melting snow and clinging mud, trees dripping down every man’s neck and the lowliest brambles tearing with renewed force—

  Lord, Lord, why do you hide Your face?

  Walking at his elbow, the novice Simeon stole a quick look at Dominian’s misery and averted his gaze. Surely his master knew the weather would be foul today? With the onset of the spring thaw, all the rest of the brethren had opted for indoor tasks, the pious in the chapel chanting Offices for the Dead and the practical scouring the dormitories for cockroaches and rats.

  And with his poor hunched spine and twisted leg, Dominian might have been forgiven an effort like this. But sleet or sludge, they all knew that their leader would seek out Jerome. Even in the worst of the snow, when the drifts were over his head, Dominian had got through to his old master’s cell, week after week. Sometimes he asked the brawniest of the brothers to clear the way. More often than not he struggled through alone, working his malformed body through the snow, hands and arms held high above his head, his short, stubby thighs pumping forward zealously with every step.

  For Jerome was his God on earth, his all-in-all. Some of the brothers had sneered at Dominian’s devotion and made it a subject for complaint. Others muttered about Dominian’s failure to defeat Isolde, and the spirit of disrespect had infected them all. Overhearing their whispers, Simeon had given one a bloody nose and broken another’s teeth, and had been thrashed himself for bringing violence into God’s house. But how else was he to defend his master against himself?