And dear God, any fire would be welcome now in this cold land! Shivering, Arraganzo knew with grim certainty that he would never be warm again till he was back in Rome. But he would never pray to God to spare him this trial or take him from this place. He had a task to fulfill, and he would not flinch.
He peered out through the curtains of his traveling litter and saw a watery sun, with pale wisps of cloud riding in a washed-out sky. Another dreadful morning in this place, promising another dank and dreary day. Yet they called this summertime. He supposed he should give thanks it was not pouring with rain. And how far had they journeyed now? Every one of the tidy fields, little walls, and gray stone dwellings in this God-forsaken country looked the same. But the oafs he had hired at the port said they would reach Castle Dore by midday. He sniffed the moist, clinging air with deep mistrust. The end of the journey could not come too soon.
And then what? What would he find at the Christian settlement? The monks’ leader, for instance; could he work with him? Arraganzo knew from twenty years’ experience as a prince of the Church that a fellow Christian was not necessarily a willing and useful brother in Christ. And the farther from Rome, the more these communities followed their own way. Indeed, the most fervent believers could be the most willful, especially in outlying places like this. But the brotherhood here, founded by the pious Jerome, had given no trouble before. And its present leader, the old man’s disciple, Dominian, was said in Rome to be sound . . .
Arraganzo adjusted himself on his cushions and mused on. What did they know of Dominian? An ambitious man, certainly. He had long been in touch with Rome, clearly hopeful of preferment in due course. He had made himself the King of Cornwall’s confessor, that was good, but for years now he’d been defeated by Mark’s Queen.
To be sure, King Mark’s pagan fancy had proved stronger than them all. By now, even the Pope on his crimson throne knew that the King had never brought Isolde to his bed, and the woman herself had never abandoned the faith of Avalon or her belief in the Mother-right. But Dominian had failed to get Mark either to consummate the marriage or to set the whore aside. Would he be ready now to try something new?
Arraganzo stroked his chin. We shall see. But either way, the will of Rome must prevail. This monk, this Father Dominian, would cooperate in full, or letters of dismissal would soon be making their way from Rome.
And at least the place would surely have a fire. However benighted they were, they must offer him warmth and shelter from this cold. After that, all things were possible, and God was good. With His aid, they would prevail. Allowing himself to dream of the triumphs to come, the Cardinal Legate shrank back into his furs and closed his eyes.
LORD, LORD, A THOUSAND BLESSINGS on Your holy name . . .
Trembling with joy, Dominian communed with his God, giving thanks for the miracle that deserved never-ending praise. Despite the age-old pain in his crumpled spine, the little priest knew once again the joy he had known before. Here and now, reaching out in this spare, cold chapel in mystical delight, yes, here, at any moment he would touch the face of God . . .
“Master! Master!” came a wild cry from behind.
The divine essence shivered and the moment was gone. In an ecstasy of loss, Dominian struggled to his feet, holding back tears of rage as his pupil Simeon ran up. In the name of Almighty God, what could justify this violent invasion, this tearing of the veil?
“Master, come!” the young monk panted. “There’s a stranger on the way—come, you’ll see . . .”
And see they did, at the settlement’s main gate. Winding up the hill came a long line of horses and mules, a princely escort for the closed litter at its heart. Slowly, the procession drew up on the green with its ring of low cells where the monks spent their days. The litter came to a halt, the curtains twitched, and there he was.
“Greetings, brothers in Christ!” rang out in the accents of Rome.
With a fearful heart, Dominian saw a figure of supreme elegance in a cardinal’s red robes, one whose lean, taut frame and erect bearing made him look taller than he was. The stranger had long, graceful hands and a delicately molded face with large, deep-set brown eyes and a fine aquiline nose. He smelled of pomade and all the rare scents of the south, and he made no attempt to conceal his superior air.
He stared at Dominian. “You are the leader here?”
Without waiting for an answer, he handed Dominian a scroll. It was heavy with the seals of the Curia itself, the private office of the Pope in Rome.
“My commission,” purred the newcomer with all the self-satisfaction he had shown before.
Numbly, Dominian opened it, concealing the sudden rush of dismay as best he could. “You are the Cardinal Legate of Castile and Seville . . . ?”
“Luis Carlos Felipe Arraganzo da Sevilla y Cadiz y Pinca y Salamanca and so forth and so forth,” replied Arraganzo with a wave of his elegant hand. “At your service and God’s.”
Dominian hunched his shoulders, exquisitely conscious of his coarse black habit and misshapen spine. On all sides, the brothers were gathering around in a frenzy of excitement, some gawping like half-wits, others nudging, giggling, and scratching themselves. “My lord, I do not know why we are favored with your visit—”
“I am here to urge greater efforts upon you in the name of the Mother Church.”
“You have come from Rome?”
“From the ear of the Pope himself,” Arraganzo sleekly confirmed. “Believe me, your labors here are of great importance to us. You did well to win King Mark to the Christian faith. But one great and enduring obstacle remains before Christianity can triumph in this land.”
Dominian bunched his fists in silent fury. “I know.”
“His Holiness requires King Mark’s pagan Queen to be defeated,” Arraganzo sailed on. “Without delay.”
“My lord, this has been our aim for twenty years,” Dominian protested. “And we’re making some progress now. I’ve proved to the King that his wife is defying his rule. If he subjects her to his will, as I’m urging him, there could yet be a child born to him and the Queen.”
“By what miracle will this happen, since they are known to be so bitterly estranged?” the Cardinal cruelly inquired. “Will God arrange another virgin birth?”
“Sir—” Tears of humiliation leaped to Dominian’s eyes.
Arraganzo noted them dispassionately and pressed on. “Indeed, the Holy Father knows your work is sound. But it must succeed.”
Dominian could have howled. “How?”
The Legate made a steeple of his hands and brought them to his lips. “You say Mark could tame the pagan Queen and bring her to his bed. But why wait for that?”
“Why wait for Isolde to return from Ireland, you mean?”
“No. Why wait for the King to act, if he ever will? Why not place before Mark a lovely young Christian or two, to inflame his desire to put his wife away?”
Inflame? Desire? Dominian pressed his fingers to the side of his head. “Oh, sir—”
Jesu Maria . . . Arraganzo watched Dominian’s confusion with unbridled contempt. The poor sexless creature was more backward than he thought. Thank God they were more worldly-wise in Rome.
With a patient sigh, Arraganzo began again. “You must know all the Christians in these parts. Which of the petty kings has a fine daughter, one fitted by nature to turn King Mark’s mind to lust?”
Lust? God forgive us! Dominian’s spirit recoiled. “I do not know,” he said brusquely.
Arraganzo fixed him with a pitiless eye. “Brother, those who do the work of God must not shrink.” A faint smile pursed his lips. “Search your memory. Review every Christian maiden you know in the spirit of earthly desire.” He sketched a cross in the air. “I absolve you here and now of any sin.”
Dominian’s stomach turned. A girl for the King to lust after? A cold sweat filmed his palms and the back of his neck. Jesu have mercy, how in God’s name did he know? Trembling, he forced his reluctant mind to obey.
“Theodora,” he said at last. “The eldest daughter of the King of Dun Haven, farther up the coast. God has cursed him with wives who die in childbed, leaving him many unwanted daughters and never a son. I saw him a month ago, when his last Queen died.”
Arraganzo raised an elegant eyebrow. “And is the girl fit for God’s work in this?”
Dominian nodded eagerly. “Oh, very devout. She knew her catechism when she was only—”
The Legate cut him off with a sharp sigh. “God will take care of her immortal soul. But her body . . . ?”
“Formed for childbearing,” said Dominian uncomfortably. “You could say plump and well shaped for . . . for whatever a man desired . . .”
Fat breasts and an ample rump, translated the Legate in silence, feeling reassured. There was a pause.
“And—” Dominian burst out, then broke off.
“Yes?” probed the Legate softly.
“Sometimes she has a . . . a certain look in her eye.” Dominian was squirming. “Then she drops her gaze again, like the perfect Christian virgin she is.”
A perfect Christian virgin.
Yes, indeed.
The Legate smiled as a hot-eyed minx rose and danced before his eyes. He nodded. “And her father the King is nearby, you say? Where does he live?”
chapter 11
Greetings, Your Majesty.”
“And indeed to you.”
“Good day, my lady.”
“And to you. And to you.”
Her heart in her eyes, Isolde watched her lords filing stiffly into the chamber and taking their seats round the Council board. How had they all so suddenly grown old?
True, Sir Gilhan had served her mother, and Sir Vaindor, sitting at his side, had once, long ago, been the Queen’s chosen one. Sir Doneal had been the leader of the late Queen’s knights, a position Isolde had confirmed as soon as she came to the throne. They were all her loyal supporters, trusty to the core. But looking down the table at the line of grizzled heads, Isolde knew she would need more than these old courtiers to defeat Darath the Pict.
Oh yes, my enemy, I already know your name. She brooded, tight-lipped. As you must know mine. But that is all you will ever know of me. She paused to hold down her rage. That ever the Picts had made landing on her shores!
She could still feel in her throat the sickness of disgust when Sir Gilhan had met her on the quay and broken the news. She could hardly take it in.
“The Picts?” she echoed stupidly. “Here? Now?”
“A great force of them, madam, made landing and have held their ground. Those are the first reports.”
A night’s sleep, torn and fitful, had done little to diminish the shock. With Brangwain’s help, she had dressed carefully to meet her councillors.
“I know you, lady,” Brangwain said, her olive-skinned face tight and drawn. “You’ll want to be at your best, every inch a Queen.”
Brangwain, too, had been at her best, as Isolde had hoped. The maid had prepared her mistress with more than her usual care. Now Isolde knew that a pale, queenly visage, enlivened with touches of pink, looked out at the world above one of the finest gowns that the royal wardrobe could afford. Her mother’s crown sat with a comforting weight on her head, and she drew a melancholy joy from wearing the emeralds and green silk of Ireland once again.
But even in daylight, she was still racked by last night’s dreams. Fearful images had haunted her all night long of wild invaders with blood on their swords, turning hideous blue faces toward her, jeering as they killed.
Goddess, Mother, spare my beloved land . . .
Weeping, she mourned the homecoming she might have had, the peaceful return she had hoped would heal Tristan’s loss. Never before had it failed her, this dearly loved home of her heart. Once again her mother’s voice came drifting down the winds of memory from her earliest days:
D’you hear me, little one?
I hear you, Mawther.
Long, long ago, when the world was young, the Shining Ones made our island out of sunshine and rain. Then the Great One Herself came here to live, and called it Erin the Fair, because there was no finer land in all the world.
Erin, Mawther?
She gave it her own name. Then other lands cried for her, and she had to leave. When she left, the Shining Ones left us, too, to live forever on the astral plane. Now they shine down on us from the world between the worlds, and we mortals struggle below as best we can. But they left us the sunshine and rain, and when these two kiss, the rainbow they bear is the Mother’s word to us all.
Word of what, Mawther?
Religion should be kindness. Faith is love.
Erin, Isolde wept now.
Erin, Ireland, home . . .
And then the dark secret of the founding of Dubh Lein, an ancient settlement built for safety over a Dark Pool, where the Little Water flowed into the Greater, and both rolled on down to the sea . . .
Dubh Lein . . .
Isolde’s sight shivered. And would the Pictish invaders soon be lording it here in Dubh Lein, their bare, hairy feet under her table, their tattooed bodies stretched out in her bed?
Not while I live.
So then, what is to be done?
She stared out through the window at one of those delusive days of summer, when the sun shines down from a sky as white as bone. All the world seemed fair on brilliant days like these. But those tempted out to enjoy it would meet a cutting wind and shadows as cold as the grave. And even so was life itself, every day. Beware, Isolde, beware.
She returned her gaze to the meeting. “So, my lords, it’s clear that your fears of a Pictish invasion were not misplaced. You say our enemies are hard upon us now?”
“Camped on the northern shore, by the crannog of Black Duig,” Gilhan confirmed.
“Did they make land without bloodshed?”
“Alas, no.” Sir Vaindor tossed his gray head and sleeked back the remains of his handsome curls. “There were none but bog-dwellers to resist them. Peat-cutters, charcoal-makers, they slaughtered them all.” He gave a boastful smile. “Now if any of your knights had been there to swing a sword . . .”
Ah, Vaindor . . . Isolde looked at him and fought down a bitter retort. Twenty years ago, you might have boasted of your strength. But what can you do now? Goddess, Mother, send me some younger men. Oh, Tristan, Tristan, where are you, my love?
“And what news since then?” she demanded.
Sir Doneal gave an angry warrior’s laugh. “A challenge has come from the Pictish King.”
“From Darath,” Isolde spat out, perversely savoring the name. Oh, I shall know you, sir, when we meet. “What does he want?”
Gilhan met her eye without flinching. “Nothing but full surrender of our land,” he said somberly. “You are to attend him, lady, at his settlement, with all your lords and knights, and there you will accept him as our King. Then you will bring him back to Dubh Lein to install him here.”
Install him?
Isolde bared her teeth in a furious grin. “As my ruler, my master, I suppose, whatever he wants. Well, those who surrender can’t hope to dictate the terms.” She thrust out her chin. “And has he the force to back up these demands?”
Sir Vaindor played unhappily with his hair. “The sea groaned under the weight of their ships, the locals say. Now row upon row of them darken the northern shore.”
“Fierce devils, the Picts, lady, and they love to fight,” put in Sir Doneal with a reminiscent gleam. “Three of our men could not stop one of them when his Gods had put him into a fighting fit.”
“Sir—” Isolde held up her hands. “There must be no more bloodshed.”
Sir Gilhan’s rheumy old eyes fastened on her in total trust. “Command us, lady, we are yours,” he murmured, smiling. “Tell us what is to be done.”
A pain as sharp as a fever ran through Isolde’s veins. Time was, old friend, when you would have instructed me. Must I be the master now? She put the thought aside.
“My lad
y—” Sir Doneal leaned forward briskly. “We shall make a good showing, believe me, when we go north. Already your knights are clamoring to attend—”
“Go north?” Isolde interrupted furiously. “We do not go north. We send back soft words and promises and we stay here. This sea rat, this pirate, this king rat, must attend on me!”
There was a nervous silence among the men. Vaindor’s mouth fell open. “But Majesty—”
“Why should a painted savage dictate to us?”
Vaindor bridled. “Because he has the men and the power to impose his will.”
“And if we resist?” Isolde challenged.
Gilhan shook his head. “I fear that would only make matters worse. If we provoke him, he could carry war into the rest of our land.”
“Or lay waste the north shore and kill more men,” Vaindor nervously agreed. “I say we should make peace.”
Isolde smiled grimly. “Oh, we shall. I tell you, sir, peace is my only aim. But it should be on our terms, not his. We must never submit to him. It can only get worse.”
Gilhan’s hand went to his sword. Suddenly he looked very old and drawn. “So we fight, lady?” he said as bravely as he could.
Isolde favored him with her sweetest smile. “Not yet, dear sir. No, let us play a game of delay and draw him south. While he waits, we gain time. Time to call in our men and sharpen up our swords, time to renew our defenses and make ready to fight.”
“Now the Gods be praised!” Sir Gilhan chuckled. “Truly you are your mother come again. I can see her now at the helm of her war-chariot, riding down the Picts, raining spear after spear on their heads. They did not look so fearsome then, battered and bloody, scrambling for their ships.”
Isolde compressed her lips. Let it not come to this. Aloud she said, “And we’ll drive them off again. Now let us take charge of the castle at every point. And good sirs, I pray you, call up all my knights. Send out the heralds, sound the trysting horn. Let every man who loves Erin rally to us today!”
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 8
