THE WOODLAND LAY BEFORE THEM, dark and deep. Drained as she was by the Council meeting and all that ensued, Isolde still felt her spirits reviving as they rode under the trees. The rich humming silence, the busy denizens with their unseen lives, the primeval smell of leaf mold, moss, and pine, the sense of a great secret slumbering at its heart, all brought Isolde a quickening in her blood. This is what draws Tristan back to the forest and always will. In that instant, she felt close to him again. But even this fragment of comfort was fraught with pain. Where are you, my love?
She gritted her teeth.
On. Get on.
There’s still work to be done.
She had toiled all day with Sir Gilhan and her knights, reviewing the defenses round Dubh Lein. Among those who attended were several younger men, who all paid keen attention every time she spoke. One in particular, Sir Niall, had made himself useful with probing, intelligent questions and quiet asides. As they stood in the courtyard discussing the chances of attack, he brought up a weakness that others had overlooked.
“Remember the Dark Pool below the castle, madam,” he murmured respectfully. “It breaches the walls where the river flows in from outside. This must surely have been taken care of long ago, but with your permission, I’ll check that it’s still safe.”
“Safe?” snapped Sir Gilhan, clearly nettled, “of course it’s safe.” The river entrance had been barred against invaders long ago; he had overseen it himself.
In truth, it was all as Sir Gilhan had said and no more had to be done. But Isolde had drawn strength and comfort from the young man’s concern. Truly, there were wise and loyal knights in Ireland now. She need have no fear of finding them when the need arose.
And now, she could turn to the real work of the day. Mounting up, she set out for the forest, with Brangwain riding behind. Slowly, she turned her thoughts to what lay ahead. Indeed, he would surely be waiting for her already, standing motionless in the shadow of his favorite tree. A Druid’s ears could hear the mole tunneling in the darkness of the earth and the whisper of the spider as she spins. She leaned forward and gave her horse’s mane an affectionate tug. He will certainly hear you coming, my flat-footed friend.
Yes, Cormac will be there.
High in the sky, the round-bodied, gleaming sun stood trembling at the high point of summer, and all the forest about her seemed alive. Rustling, the silver birches leaned down to gossip as she passed, and the wood pigeons chuckled musically from every bough. As they went deeper in, a hare stopped at the side of the path and bowed her head.
“Good day to you, little Mother,” Isolde murmured.
“It’s a good omen, lady,” she heard Brangwain say.
And that was not the first sign of the Goddess they had had that day. When they came to the forest, its edges were foaming with May blossom, the tree of the Great One in every place where She was known. May trees lined the green tunnels as they plunged in, their branches laden with blossoms in white, pink, and red, every color of love from the pure to the passionate. And all those shades of love I feel for Tristan.
Then, as the greenways narrowed, they came to an oak in the center of the path. All around its broad, rugged trunk were strands of honeysuckle and ivy, closely entwined. Many years ago, in the morning of their love, she and Tristan had taken these two plants as the image of their love. “Neither one without the other,” he had whispered then. “Both our hearts entwined for all our lives.” Seeing them, Isolde could not hold back her tears.
At the heart of the forest stood the Druids’ sacred grove, the broad grassy clearing where Cormac would be found. Only a great event like the death of the Queen would draw him away from here into the false and dangerous world of the court. Here Cormac prayed and worshipped in a world of his own, a sweet green universe of love and faith. Here the young Druids studied with him for many years to learn Cormac’s wisdom and his secret lore. And here Isolde had come to learn from him, too, seeking knowledge that only he could impart.
Now the woodland fell silent as they drew near. The flighty ash trees and fluttering willows reined in their low chatter, and the white doves roosted soundlessly overhead. The clearing lay at the end of a long grassy ride, and the afternoon sun had made it a pool of gold. One tall shadow in the green gloom under the trees betrayed the presence of the man they had come to seek.
“Here, madam.”
Brangwain slipped from her horse and took Isolde’s reins. Slowly, Isolde dismounted and walked forward through the blinding sun in the clearing to the purple and blue shade on the other side. What would she say to Cormac now she was here?
She raised her eyes to his dark, steadfast gaze and saw with relief that he had not changed at all. In a world where the Gilhans and Vaindors grew old and gray, the Chief Druid remained eternally himself. His face, always grave and lined, looked no older, and his thick black hair showed not a trace of gray. He still wore his simple dark robes of indigo dye, though other Druids progressed to fine white wool as they reached the highest rank.
Best of all, she saw that the Druid mark pulsed with undiminished fervor between his brows. She heaved a sigh of relief. She had come to the right place. Swiftly, she prepared herself to hear what he said. Cormac always spoke without preamble, that was his way.
The Druid inclined his head, fixing her with his deep-set eyes. “You are troubled, daughter.”
“More than troubled, sir. Our land is in danger. You know the Picts are here?”
Cormac closed his eyes. “I heard their oars beating on the water as I slept. Then I saw their sails in a waking dream.”
“Was that all?”
“All except fire and blood and screams in the night.”
Isolde shuddered. “They only know how to kill. Do we have to kill, too?”
Cormac’s eyes lit with an Otherworldly fire. “The Mother teaches us to love, not hate.”
“But must we fight them to protect our own?”
A warm smile of encouragement transformed Cormac’s face. “You are fighting already. But with words and your own sharp wits, not with swords.”
“Then you think it’s right to refuse their demands? My lords are afraid that we’ll anger the King of the Picts and draw down his fury on the rest of the land.”
“Trust your own judgment,” Cormac said quietly. “That is the reason the Old Ones made you Queen. They did not choose in vain.”
Isolde bowed, deeply humbled. “Thank you, sir,” she breathed.
Cormac reached out a hand and laid it on top of her head. As he blessed her forehead, she felt a tender glow. “Ah, my daughter,” he sighed. “You are right to love the land. You are its spirit and its sovereignty, and you must not fail. But your heart is divided. Tell me, what is your grief?”
Isolde groaned. “I fear my marriage to King Mark is at an end. But I also fear to make the wrong move now.”
“You are wise,” Cormac said intently. “It is always easier to break than to repair.”
Isolde clasped her hands in misery. “There’s nothing for us to repair. We were married by the Christian rites, but we have never been man and wife.”
“Then you have never been truly married, in the eyes of their God or ours.”
“But do I have the right to leave him? I made a vow. I took him by the hand.” Age-old memories stabbed at her as she recalled the long-ago service in the chapel on the rock, the sonorous Latin, the smell of incense, the chanting of the choir. Above all, the tall figure at her side in Cornwall’s royal red, not the man of her heart in the blue of Lyonesse. Another hot grief, another mortal pang. Why did I ever agree to marry Mark? If I had married Tristan, I would not be alone now.
“Am I honor-bound to stay with Mark?” she cried. “I made a promise!”
The Druid fixed her with his burning gaze. “So did your husband. Has he kept his?”
Isolde stopped to consider. “Never,” she said quietly. “He had a mistress on our wedding day. They say the affair is waning, but she still haunts the co
urt. I have never been his, and he has never been mine.”
“Then the church of King Mark joined two souls in a lie. Our Goddess teaches the truth of the heart above all.”
Isolde nodded. Religion should be kindness. Faith should be love.
“Where there is no faith, there can be no true love,” Cormac declared in his dark, resonant tones. “Your marriage to Mark was dead before it began. Give it an honest burial after all these years. That is the last office that you owe to him.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Isolde fervently. She felt suddenly lighter as she turned away. She would go back to Mark and dissolve the marriage in person, face-to-face. Then she could start afresh on open terms. She could live her own life. She could . . .
She was suddenly aware that the Druid was waiting patiently, his eyes still locked on hers. “What is it, sir?” she cried.
“Nothing for you to fear.” To her relief, she saw warmth in his gaze and the glimmer of a smile. “We spoke of what you owe to your husband King Mark. Never forget what you owe yourself.”
“Myself?”
“To yourself and to the land. Long ago, our ruling Queens changed their consorts every year, for the health of the ruler and the health of the tribe. The chosen one was given to the earth, and his seed and his blood brought forth the next spring’s crops. Then he was granted life for three years, then five, and then seven. These days, the former chosen ones of the Queen live out the rest of their days in her band of knights. But the Queen still has the right to change her consort at will.”
Isolde listened mesmerized. She had heard as much.
“Your foremothers had the Mother-right, Isolde,” Cormac’s sonorous voice rolled on. “Just as you have now. The right the Mother gives every woman to choose her mate. For a queen, this right is also a duty, a duty to the land. The Queen of the Western Isle chooses for us all.”
“Then I may put Mark away and take Tristan as the partner of my life?” Isolde whispered, hardly able to put her hopes into words.
“Certainly you may,” Cormac responded. He was smiling openly now, a rare sight. “And remember you are still in the shadow of the great Queens of the past. Two partners in one life is a modest score.”
Isolde thought of her own mother, who was never without a Companion of the Couch, and smiled wanly back.
“And when you take a new companion, you may give back to the Mother what the Great One gave to you.” Cormac leaned forward urgently. “New life, Isolde. New birth. You give to the land what it gave you when you were born. A new link in the chain of being that binds us all.”
Could it be?
Isolde held her breath. Could she break free of Mark and live openly with her love? Could they even . . . ?
A great longing blossomed within her that would not be denied. Oh, to be with Tristan and to bear his child! Her mind convulsed. A boy, with his fearless bearing and truthful gaze. A girl with his fair hair and loving smile. And more little ones, too. More children like him to love . . .
Then his loss, his absence, came back to her again and grief swept her from head to foot. She turned to Cormac with desolation in her soul.
“I thought he’d follow me,” she cried. “But where is he, do you know? Is he coming? Will he soon be here?”
Now for the first time, the Druid would not meet her gaze. “Alas, lady,” he groaned, “alas . . .”
Stepping back into the shadows, he looked away. The warm green gloom reclaimed him, and he faded into the forest before her eyes. Only the echo of his words lingered behind.
Alas, alas . . .
chapter 12
On—get on!”
Whispering, Tristan spurred his horse onward into the wood. Behind him, the mad knight’s raving had faded away and the sound of his tortured sobbing was no more. As soon as he got to a town, Tristan resolved, even a village, he would send the poor soul help. But now he urged his mount to its fastest pace. “Onward, my friend. Get on!”
Willingly the gray bounded down the woodland track. The soft loam underfoot lent a spring to the galloping hooves, and the pathway opened before them into the cool green depths. Tristan did not stop till a good distance lay between him and the desperate knight.
Goddess, Mother . . .
A fearful thought overwhelmed him. If he had not seized the chance to get away, he’d have died like a dog in the wood and Isolde would never have known. When he failed to arrive at Mark’s court to obey the King’s command, she would have thought of him as a faithless man. If he never again contacted her after that, she would be sure he was a recreant knight who had broken his oath to them both, and simply slipped away to find an easier life. A traitor knight . . . The thought that she would despise him was more than he could bear.
Isolde, Isolde, my lady, my lost love . . .
It was a good while before he could find any comfort in his heart. But slowly the woodland took him to itself, as it always did. He heard the welcome of the forest birds, as flights of wood pigeons tumbled and sang overhead. A herd of fallow deer stopped to greet him with large-eyed stares, then bounded away, laughing and leaping for joy. A tiny shrew lifted her snout disdainfully as she passed: Out of my way, sir, I’m busy. Why, what a ridiculous size you great humans are . . .
“Bless you, little Mother,” he breathed. He drew in the verdant richness of his surroundings, feeling his heart revive. Oak and elm flourished overhead, every tree a riot of green in the full flush of the year. He rode through white drifts of wild cherry and groves of crab apples ripening their red and yellow fruit in the sun. He came to a river and followed it to a ford, a sheet of still water lying like beaten gold. He passed through the ford and went on, pressing deeper into the forest hour by hour. After a while, he began to wonder if he had lost his way. No, he mused. Hold fast to the path, and trust to the Great Ones to bring you to the light.
And there it was, the light in the forest before it was truly dark. Glimmering through the trees stood a castle of fine white stone, with delicate arches and towers and floating traceries. A ribbon of silver water ran round its base, and its airy walkways and battlements smiled down on their own reflection shining below. It was a palace fit for a princess, for a fairy queen. Tristan urged his horse forward. On these warm summer nights when he loved to lie out in the wood, he had no intention of asking for the favor of a bed. But courtesy dictated that he should call.
He drew up to the gatehouse. “Ho there!” he called.
“Within, sir,” came the reply.
Moments later, the great iron-studded double doors rolled back and two or three ancient retainers came into view. Puffing and straining, they threw wide the gates and bowed him in. In the courtyard stood another elderly man, clad in handsome but antiquated robes of rust-red velvet and carrying a staff. The breeze fluttered his white hair as he stood, and his kindly eyes smiled from a deeply wrinkled face.
“I am the Seneschal,” he called, bowing deeply, “and you are welcome here, sir. May we know your name?”
Tristan vaulted from the saddle and returned the bow. “Sir, I am known as Tristan of Lyonesse.”
Already the old servants were fussing round the horse and leading away the gray. The broad courtyard they stood in boasted many handsome stables on either side. But hanging their hairy heads out of their stalls were no more than three or four horses, when thirty or forty would have been expected in an establishment of this size. He turned to the Seneschal. “Whose castle is this, pray?”
“We serve the Lady Unnowne.”
“You have no lord?”
The old man’s face saddened. “Not since our young lady’s father passed away. He built this castle as a present for his bride, a great beauty he brought all the way from France. But she never throve here away from her native land and she died when our lady was still only a child. Then last year he died, too, and our young lady fell into a sickness herself.” He gave a rueful smile. “Some say that this is an ill-omened place.”
Tristan felt an odd shiver
, despite the heat of the sun. “Surely not,” he said courteously. “But tell me, sir, what court does your lady keep here? I have only stopped in passing to pay my respects. Will she receive me, or should I be on my way?”
“She will want to see you,” the Seneschal said confidently. “But do not expect a lengthy interview. Our Lady Unnowne has—” He hesitated, and seemed to be choosing his words with care. “She has not been well for some time. But you’ll see for yourself.”
As they spoke, the Seneschal had been leading the way out of the courtyard and up a broad flight of steps. More graceful stairs and wide corridors followed till they stood before a handsome carved oak door. As they approached, another gray-haired attendant moved forward to open it.
“My lady’s chamber.” The Seneschal ushered Tristan over the threshold, then stepped back. “Prepare yourself, sir, for the sight of her.”
Tristan started. “What?”
The door closed behind him with a muted click of the latch. Overcoming his unease, he looked around. He was standing in a long, high-ceilinged chamber with fine furnishings and hangings on every wall. But all the windows were swathed in linen to dim the light, and a stale, fusty, choking air hung in the room. In the gloom at the end of the chamber stood a low dais, with long green curtains and a canopy of green silk edged with gold. On the dais was a deep bath of copper, with a high back and white sheets draped across it like a bed. And in the bath lay a lady, staring at the door.
Behind her were two women attendants, gowned in white, both hovering ready to minister to their charge. In the shadow by the wall stood an older man, a doctor by his bearing and dark garb. A table at his side held many liquids in colored bottles and pots, and weird-smelling pastes and potions in countless boxes and jars. The scent of lavender and chamomile rose from the bath.
“Approach, knight!” the lady called.
Her voice was light, husky, appealing, and oddly young. Tristan made his way forward, baffled. What illness was this? All he could see of the lady were her shoulders, face, and neck, and a pair of thin white arms lying forlornly along the sides of the bath. A white cloth like a nun’s headdress veiled her head, and a few strands of baby-fine hair snaked out from beneath. Her face was a tight, tiny triangle, as white as her veil, with a frightened, pinched mouth. Her small hands were clenched into fists, the fingers curled over the thumbs like a child’s. How old was she? He looked into eyes of flashing bronze and gold. Eighteen? Thirty-two? He had no idea.
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 9
