The woodland then seemed all dreary and dark, and the way ahead full of loneliness and despair. Riding back to Mark, he had chosen the route through the Forest Hazardous, in a fever to return to Mark as fast as he could. If he took the broad high road, white and dusty with the comings and goings of everyday souls, he would only fall into conversation about the court and the King and the Queen, and his fragile resolution to return to Mark would be undone. Then his sacrifice would be in vain, and all his honor would go for naught.
The forest it had to be, then. But its looming dark outline struck him with a strange sense of dread. Roughly, he tried to shake his courage awake. It’s a sunshiny morning in the fullness of spring. What is there to fear?
Set back from the path where the forest began stood a low hovel surrounded by an outlying patch of land with a few spring plantings and a byre for a pig or a cow. Built of stones and mud, thatched with branches and dried leaves, it was a poor dwelling with a hole for the window and another sealed by a rough oaken door. There were many such on the fringes of great woodlands, home to any lowly forester content to live off the soil and the bounty of the woods. The owner had carefully marked out his small terrain, and Tristan could see him now, laboring on his plot.
The smallholder straightened up as Tristan approached, leaning on his hoe. His honest face was weathered like the oaks around, and a warm, loamy smell came from him as he moved. “Greetings, lord,” he called in the accent of the land.
“Good day to you, sir,” Tristan courteously returned.
The old man pointed forward down the track. In the forest ahead, the branches formed a dense roof against the sky and the sun dimmed down to a dull greenish light. “There’s a madman in the wood,” he said simply. “Beware.”
“Alas, poor soul,” Tristan cried. He could not imagine what it must be like to lose his mind. “Who is he, does any man know?”
“He’s a knight and a fine one, too, but no one knows his name. And no more does he remember who he is. He thinks every man wants to kill him, so he attacks all that come. You’d best avoid him, lord.”
“Indeed I shall,” Tristan said sorrowfully. “There’s nothing but grief and dishonor in such a fight. Can you tell me where he is?”
The old man stepped up to the edge of his domain. “See there,” he offered, “where the path divides? He’s made himself a rough camp in a clearing down the right-hand track and hung his spear and shield on the nearest tree. That’s the place to avoid.”
“Thank you, good sir.”
Deeply saddened, Tristan set off down the left-hand track. What had happened to overthrow the stranger knight’s mind? A cruel sadness, for sure. The loss of his lady, it could only be that. There was nothing worse.
Isolde my lady . . .
My lady lost and gone.
Bitterly, he noted the savage repetition of his own grief. Would he lose his reason, too?
The horse pressed on step-by-step through the wood. Now the way was narrow and the trees overgrown. A thick canopy of leaves covered the path, and the undergrowth pressed in from both sides. In the warm green half-light under the shadow of the ancient oaks, gilded insects hovered with a drowsy hum. Lulled by the regular movement of the plodding gray, Tristan fell into a dreaming wakefulness. With a fleeting return of good cheer, he thought of his days on the road as a young knight, riding merrily from tournament to tournament. In those days, his loyal gray charger had known the high roads of France, Spain, and Gaul better than he had himself.
And they hadn’t a care in the world. Yes, those were the days—
“Hold!” screamed a voice in his ear. The same instant, the blade of a sword flashed before his eyes.
“Have at you!” Tristan screamed back in horror, fumbling frantically for his sword. A gauntleted hand was groping for his reins as a knight in full armor lunged out from the side of the track. The terrified horse whinnied wildly and reared up, almost throwing Tristan off. Reeling, he took in the glint of the newcomer’s fine armor, the edge of a vicious blade, and the metal grille of a visor, grinning like a skull. The crest of the stranger’s helmet was as high as his horse. Tristan saw the size of his attacker and smelled the stranger’s madness in the air. Alas, poor soul, he cried again in his heart. But save yourself, Tristan! followed swiftly, too.
Would he die here? Any second he expected to feel the point of the sword in his unprotected face. Then the knight dropped the reins and leaped back to the side of the track. Dismayed even more, Tristan saw his opponent groping for the remains of a tattered chivalry.
“Dismount, sir,” the stranger shouted wildly. “This is no ambush, but a challenge, knight to knight. Arm yourself and prepare, I grant you that.”
Gods above . . .
Tristan steadied the trembling gray and held his breath.
“Come on, sir!” the madman cried again. “I know you have come to kill me, but I’ll fight you fair. I’m a man of honor, a knight of King Arthur’s court.”
King Arthur’s court? Tristan wanted to weep at the pitiful delusion. Yes, and you must be one of the Round Table, too.
Alas, alas . . . How could he escape from this with his honor intact?
The stranger read his face. “You don’t believe me!’ he trumpeted. His body shook, and he emitted a volley of strange cries. “See here, then!”
Jerking, he dropped his sword and threw up the visor covering his face. “See, see!” he cried.
Tristan took one glance and looked away. All he could see were a pair of rolling eyes, a gaping mouth with a thick, red lolling tongue, and an unkempt mass of overgrown hair and beard. A sour odor reached him, like that of a beaten dog. Clearly, the poor creature could no longer care for himself.
And there was nothing to be done for him here. With a sudden wild resolution, Tristan caught up his reins and clapped spurs to the sides of his horse. When he reached the next town, he could send back a few strong men to bring the knight the help he so desperately needed. But alone, he was powerless. And he had to avoid a battle at all costs.
“Go!” he whispered in the ear of the faithful gray. The willing horse made a great leap for its life, bounding down in the track with frantic, fearful strides. Within moments, they had left the stranger knight behind. But it would be much longer before Tristan could forget the dreadful curses that followed them, or the desolate sobs when the knight realized that he had been abandoned and left behind.
chapter 9
A high tide lapped the foot of Tintagel rock. Flocks of seabirds were swooping overhead, and Isolde fancied she heard the old Queen’s farewell below their plaintive cries.
“May the Great One go with you, Isolde! Return when you will, you will find me here.”
Standing in the stern of the ship, she raised her hand with tears of gratitude starting in her eyes. “My thanks to you, dear lady, and farewell.”
Before them the sea lay smiling, as calm as a lake. For the rest of the day, the sun shone down from a cloudless sky, the west wind filled the sails, and the little ship bowled merrily over the deep. Isolde paced the deck, dismissing Brangwain’s entreaties to go below. The maid could rest in the cabin all she liked. But why should she coop herself up when she could watch the dolphins sporting around the hull or follow the play of the light on the changing sea?
“Off you go, off you go. I’ll rest when we get to Dubh Lein,” she promised Brangwain. But precious little respite awaited her there, she knew. The men of her Council in Ireland were old and frail. Her mother’s chief councillor, Sir Gilhan, and the Great Druid known as Cormac had seemed ageless to her when she was young. But their best strength and skill had been spent over the years, and like all men, one day they must die.
She must find new councillors, then. And if the Picts were stirring, they must prepare for war. Yet were they sure that the Picts would invade? They had had no word of their old King dying or the Pictish ships putting to sea. Old men can cheat the Dark Lord many times, she consoled herself. Perhaps the old King has recover
ed and he’s feasting his knights even now. The thought gave her some passing comfort as she gazed out over the sea.
“Good day to you, Majesty.”
The captain came toward her with a smile. “We’ll make Dubh Lein in good time,” he declared, and her spirits rose again. Leaning over the prow, she tasted the salt of the spray and relished the beauty of the wave beneath the keel. Lulled into a wakeful dreaming, she heard the call of her land from across the sea.
Ireland.
Erin.
Home.
Then the wind dropped and the day began to fade. The sun sank in a sullen ball of fire, and twilight found them becalmed on a sunless sea. The rising moon looked down with an anxious light as night drained the sea of the brightness of the day. Isolde did not see the depths beginning to stir, but slowly the waves began lifting in an oily swell. Soon the boat was pitching and yawing with a sickening roll. She clung onto the prow and began to feel the onslaught of the waves. As she watched, they grew fiercer, slamming into the hull with increasing force.
“Ahoy, ahoy!” she heard the lookout cry.
Now the deck was suddenly alive with crew, some scrambling up the rigging to reef the sails, others gathering to take orders at the foot of the mast. She made her way back toward them, hearing the captain’s commands already drowned out by the rising wind. Tensely, she followed the fearful gestures and cries. Far off on the horizon, twisting and turning in its own stream of light, a tornado was dancing across the face of the sea.
Within minutes it was upon them, a sudden hell of wind and black water falling with the weight of doom. Wave after mountainous wave reared up to block out the sky, then smashed down on the deck as if to crush them all. Winded and gasping, Isolde was soaked in icy water from head to foot. She clawed at the rail, secured herself with a rope, and clung on for dear life.
Now the ship was spinning in the tempest’s unearthly grip, twisting and groaning like a living thing. Every plank, rope, and spar struggled to withstand the strain as the vessel fought to resist the engulfing wind and sea.
“Aaahh!”
Screaming, a sailor plunged from the top of the mast and was lost in the black waters below. Moments later, a fearful crack rent the air as the topmast followed with a dying roar. Howling, the wind rose to toss it into the night, while the waves redoubled their furious onslaught on the hull.
Goddess, Mother . . .
Isolde clung to an iron stanchion and tried to pray. But with the next wave, the length of rail beside her splintered and was gone. As the storm reached its height, a fateful memory returned to increase her fears. Once, long ago, her mother, crazed with grief, had blamed Tristan for the death of the man she loved and put a fearful curse on him. Now the dread words returned to Isolde again.
May the man who killed my love die a fearful death. May all those he loves and all who love him suffer until the sea kisses the sky, and the trees bow down their heads at his cursed feet.
Unknowingly, the Queen had cursed Isolde, too. May the woman who loves him never know peace or joy. May she sorrow for him till her heart turns black, as mine must do now for the loss of my lord.
“Mother!” cried Isolde in terror, watching the waves grow taller with every second. A wind from the Otherworld roared over the sea as if in answer, and she shook with dread.
Is it time, Mother? Have you come for me?
She braced herself to allow the next wave to pass, then half fell, half scrambled back toward the mast. Half-drowned, the captain huddled at its foot, roped together with some of the crew.
“Here, madam!” he cried, lunging forward to grasp her hand. Roughly, he dashed the salt water from his eyes. “May the Gods forgive me for endangering you like this.”
“Courage, sir,” she shouted back through chattering teeth. “We shall laugh about this on land.”
The captain’s face took on a glassy smile. “Not in this life. Sooner or later the sea claims her own, and the Lady wants us now.”
“It’s nothing but a step,” the bosun cried with desperate gaiety at the captain’s side. “Then we sleep forever in the Mother’s arms. Think of it, madam. No more work for us. Eternal rest!”
Isolde forced a jaunty grin. “Not for me, sir!” she called back. “Not yet.”
Turning, she fought her way back down the side of the ship. At every step, a wave broke over her head and threatened to break her grip on the slippery rail. But a force she could not explain flooded every muscle and vein. Die now? Never. Grimly, she waded forward into the prow.
Now she felt the worst onslaught of the storm. Walls of water surrounded her, as high as she could see. Above her head, a mass of rearing, tumbling waves darkened the sky. A star blazed through the wet blackness, then it was gone. No thoughts, no words could be heard above the wind.
She stood for a moment in silence, gathering her strength. Her ears, eyes, and mouth were blocked with stinging brine. Then without a thought for her safety, she let go of the prow and threw her arms above her head. Screaming, she hurled her voice into the wind, frantic to make herself heard above the storm.
“Lady,” she appealed, “great spirit and soul of the sea, spare our lives! Calm the ocean, let us die another day. A great task awaits me in Ireland, and every living creature on board has his own race to run. Bring this ship safe to land for the glory of your name!”
The wind around her seemed to increase its lament, and wave after wave of water pounded down on her head. But with every word she felt her strength increase, and a warmth surged through her she had not known before. See, Isolde, I have lent you my power, flashed into her mind and was gone. The thought came to her, Am I dreaming? Are the waves abating and the waters growing calm?
Slowly, the ship steadied, the wild motion of the sea subsiding as the wind died down. Now, on either side of the ship, the water teemed with life. Sea horses came speeding toward them, their white manes tossing on the crest of the waves, and she saw spirit shapes riding the swell all around. Silver figures swam like sea creatures around the hull, scattering white foam and glittering flakes of light. One by one they plaited their brilliant course about the ship, leaping and diving, soaring over bow and stern. Above the moaning of the dying storm, their joyful laughter resounded like tinkling bells. Isolde stood watching them in delight as the meaning of the visitation welled up in her heart. They are the servants of the Lady of the Sea. Her messengers and maidens, come to waft us home.
The storm was gone. Gasping, she strode back to the mast, shaking out the water from her hair. Suddenly she was cold to her bones, too cold to shiver, almost too cold to speak. The battered group of sailors awaited her, their faces etched with relief shadowed by a superstitious awe. Isolde confronted them in a silence no one could break. Then she felt a hand tug at her dress. The ship’s boy stood at her side, the smallest of the crew.
“You’re the Lady, aren’t you?” he said trembling, his eyes like moons, “the Lady of the Sea?” He waved a small, wet paw at the dying storm. “You calmed the waters. Is it over, then? Is us safe?”
He burst into floods of tears. Isolde stooped and took him in her arms. At the feel of his small, sturdy body, a hunger for a child of her own surged up from her center and spread all through her frame.
“Hush, little one,” she whispered, repeating the words of her mother when she was young. “No tears, no fears. You are safe with me.”
Am I the Lady? she wondered afterward, when she had seen the child fed and had watched over him while he fell asleep in the hold. Or did I become the Lady at the hour of need? Either way, a rare force had possessed her and it was with her still.
Warm again now and well fed in her turn, she sat alone in her cabin musing as the night went on. The Lady had come to her, she was sure of that. Now she must carry that forward into the trials ahead. With the Lady’s help, she would face down the dangers she feared. The Picts would most likely decide not to attack, once they knew that Ireland was defended by its Queen. Younger men would come forward to s
hare the burdens of state, and she would know Ireland’s matchless peace again.
She smiled sleepily. Brangwain was right, of course. She would rest and renew herself here, and if old Queen Igraine was right as well, she would win back Tristan’s allegiance and his love. In her waking drowse, Tristan came toward her holding a brood of dream-children by the hand, all chuckling and laughing as happy children do. Her body ached to hold him in her arms, and another tender longing blossomed in her heart. Your children, Tristan. Is that too much to hope?
As the night waned and the daystar shone in the sky, she slept at last and dreamed sweetly of roaming Ireland’s green hills and valleys with Tristan by her side. The joy of her dream bore her up through the voyage ahead and lasted until they came safely to Dubh Lein. Then a grave-faced Sir Gilhan met her at the dock with the word she had feared.
“Madam, the Picts have made landing on the northern shore, and their King demands your surrender with fire and sword.”
chapter 10
Jesu Maria, how he suffered for the Church! Was there anything worse than the misery of leaving Rome and traveling to a place like Castle Dore? And would any other envoy of the Pope risk his lungs, his life, even his immortal soul in this fog-infested, frozen, pagan land? These islands were indeed the end of the world. For the hundredth time, Dom Luis Carlos Felipe Arraganzo da Sevilla y Cadiz brought his scented pomander to his nose and contemplated his surroundings with truly Spanish disdain.
Yet the land of the Britons had to be won for the Church. As long as the Great Goddess was worshipped here, this false Mother was a challenge to the Mother Church.
Rome could not permit it.
“Thou shalt have none other Gods before me,” Arraganzo quoted approvingly to himself. “Exactly so.”
Of course, some Christians argued that the Church should not attempt to destroy the Great Whore. Christians had been chosen to receive the light of Christ, so they should have the grace to live with other faiths. What weakness, what folly was that? Why, the Jews called themselves God’s Chosen, and they killed Jesus Christ! No, pagan and heathen alike were destined for the fire.
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 7
