Crooning, he fingered the deadly, shining blades. He loves them! Isolde stood gripped with shock. Mesmerized, she watched the play of his hard brown hands and the glinting gold bangles snaking up his naked arms. His kingly bronze collar depicted a savage boar, and his belt bore a pair of stags fighting to the death. Already she felt his unbridled animal power. Smiling a wide, white smile, Darath struck home.
“Lady, I’ve offered you my bed and sword. What’s your reply?”
Isolde gathered her strength and struck back. “What would your countrymen say to a ruling queen?”
“Only what they’ve said for a thousand years,” he laughed. “We Picts trace our descent through our mothers, as you do here. The women rule, the men go to war.”
Isolde raised her eyebrows. “Is it so?”
“From the dawn of our race. You and I spoke of the time of the mingling of our blood, when our forefathers courted your foremothers and won them as wives, on condition they could always be queens.”
“I remember,” Isolde cut in. “And the bravest of our women returned to strengthen your land.” She paused to get his attention. “As some may do again.”
Darath cocked his head, suddenly alert. “The women of Ireland return with us to our land? How?”
Good! She had taken him off balance. She could see he had no idea what she meant.
“We have women here in Ireland who still long for lusty lovers and men they can trust. Your people are weakened by famine and sickness and the loss of your crops. Let your men woo and win the boldest of our girls, and we’ll send them to Pictland with grain for their sowing and cattle for their byres. There’s not a female in Ireland who can’t raise a crop and milk a cow. You and your men can take back our living treasure to restock your land anew.”
“Take back?” he demanded, unsmiling. “You have decided, then, that we must leave?”
“Oh, I think you know you must,” she replied in her gentlest tones. “Or we’ll hack you to pieces and sweep you into the sea. This is your choice. You may leave your bones to rot on Ireland’s shore or depart with honor and with the best of our women as wives.”
His eyes widened, then darkened again. “Why should I believe you?”
She laughed in her throat. “Believe me, this is the best of what we have. I’m offering you honest plain dealing between a woman and a man, the way of the Mother as it has always been.”
“The way of the Mother?” Catching her mood, he drew nearer, a dark light in his face.
She stepped forward to meet him and gave him her hand. “The way of a man with a woman since time began.” She looked into his eyes and pushed on. “What do you say to my proposal, sir?” she asked huskily, lowering her gaze.
He took her hand and drew her toward him with an uncertain grin. Isolde suppressed another gleam of delight. So I’ve surprised you again. Good, good!
“Your proposal, lady?” he said urgently. “What about mine?”
The tattoo on his shoulder was gorgeous, rich, and strange. Her fingers itched to follow its lavish scrolls and trace the curves right up to the base of his throat. The strong scent of him reached her now, the moorland tang of his skin and the oil in his hair, the leather of his kilt and the sharp smell of danger he conveyed. Breathing deeply, she laid her hand on his chest with teasing slowness and prepared to disengage. “Oh, sir—”
She was rewarded with another sideways glance and for the first time felt ahead in this battle of wits. Only keep him guessing, she schooled herself, play him to and fro, and you’ll win the day. Then there’ll be peace for Ireland and throughout all the isles. No killing at all, but the chance of love for our women and the hope of new life.
New life, yes!
She scented the smell of victory in the air. An unfamiliar sense of her own power bloomed in her heart and ran triumphing through her veins. It lasted till she caught a commotion in the corridor, the jangle of spurs and a sudden shout from the guards.
“Out of my way!” she heard. “I must see the Queen.”
Then the door opened and Tristan came striding through.
chapter 24
At first, all he saw was Isolde. The long, slow evening was fading into dusk, and her fiery hair burned dark in the silver light. Her sea-washed eyes called to him as they always did, her fine green gown shimmered with her every breath, and already he could feel her body in his arms.
Then he saw that she was not alone. Two figures were standing at the end of the chamber, Isolde and a man he did not know. A Pict, that was clear from his painted face and body, but whoever he was, he was standing too close to Isolde, far too close. They were not heart to heart or lip to lip, but the man’s keen brown eyes did not hide the secret of his desire. Already the painted stranger could picture Isolde’s long slender body lying next to his, Tristan could tell.
And Isolde? His head reeled. When he came in, she had been smiling, almost glowing with delight. Isolde smiling at this . . . this barbarian the way she always used to smile at him? And then leaping away from the stranger, dropping his hand? Tristan saw all this and could not believe what he saw.
He stared at Isolde as if he were seeing a ghost. A pale flush of horror had silenced her now, but she had been deep into her dealings with the Pict, that was plain. He had not slept on the voyage, daydreaming of this moment, and see what he had found. He laughed in disbelief and could not breathe for pain.
Goddess! Mother! Isolde berated herself in a torment of grief. If only he’d come at another time! Then I’d have been beside myself with delight, rushing forward to throw myself into his arms. And now he’s caught me with another man, a candlelight banquet ready by the wall and the sense of love in the air.
Darath’s love.
His rival.
Another man.
There was no sound but Tristan’s labored breath. The three stood like standing stones, trapped in a moment as long as eternity. But every nerve and vein in Isolde was on fire. Tristan—oh, Tristan—why did you come like this?
She knew at once how it must look to him. It came to her in a second of bleak awakening that he’d never been present at her meetings with fellow rulers before, had never watched her mix statecraft and seduction as all women leaders did. It must look to him as if she desired Darath. Goddess, Mother, show me what to do!
And she could not even greet him as her body craved. One glance at the hawk-eyed Darath told her she had to keep up the pretense that Tristan was only one of her knights. Oh, my love . . . I can’t even hold you or kiss you or touch your hand. Aching in every nerve, she stepped forward to meet him with a hollow smile.
“How are you, sir?” she said in her brightest tones. “I am glad to see you here.”
False, brittle words. The smell of betrayal hung heavily in the air. Tristan looked at Darath and hot loathing filled his mind. The Pict was shorter than he was but almost as big-built, with shoulders like a stallion’s and well-muscled thighs and flanks. He wore the deep bronze belt of a warrior, carved with running stags, and the boar collar of a king with the same hammered design.
Yet there was something womanly and repulsive about his braided hair, each knot knitted tightly at the scalp, then woven into its neighbor across his broad head. The florid blues and purples of his tattooed skin darkened his face like a creature of the night, and his eye upon Tristan had all the kindness of a wolf. Was it for this barbarian that Isolde had decked herself out in her favorite silks and emeralds with a hundred adornments besides?
Gods above, was she courting him? A lightning bolt of panic split Tristan’s brain. Isolde had married before to keep Ireland safe. She only took Mark as her husband when she feared he would invade the Western Isle. Now, with Darath on her doorstep, would she try it again?
The Gods alone knew.
For a moment Tristan tasted the madness of jealousy, then he struggled with himself to set it aside. The Pict was a King, a fellow knight and a guest. The laws of chivalry and hospitality demanded that he be treated well.
“My name?”
Darath felt Tristan’s hatred and grinned. He loved to provoke these old men. “I am Darath the Pict,” he threw out, “and I yield to no man.”
Isolde treated him to a flashing stare. “Come, sir, you both meet as Kings. We’ll have no fighting talk.”
“As you wish,” Darath shrugged. He would not concern himself with this blundering fool. Whoever had said he was the Queen’s chosen one? If he’d been anything to Isolde, he’d have been here at her side.
A cruel laugh twisted his face. And look at him now, pale and sweating and speechless as a ghost. Get to your bed, old man, he conveyed in a soundless sneer. What, has the sea voyage been too much for you?
Isolde followed Darath’s gaze. With a shock, she picked up Tristan’s pallor and the sickly gray sheen on his skin. His left arm was hanging awkwardly at his side, and he was swaying on his feet.
Goddess, Mother, are you sick, Tristan? What’s happened to you?
She turned to Darath. “Sire, I have had your proposal and you have had mine. Let us take time to consider, then meet again.” She switched her attention to Tristan. “And Sir Tristan, you have traveled hard today. You must be ready to take to your quarters and rest.”
“Till tomorrow, then.” Darath sauntered forward and lingered over kissing Isolde’s hand.
“Tomorrow, my lady,” Tristan echoed in a deadly tone.
“Good night.”
Stiffly, Isolde bowed them both out of the room. Even then she dared not give vent to her distress. The walls of a palace had ears, and her enemies and invaders were at the gates. When the stronghold of Dubh Lein was her own again, then she could weep her fill.
Tristan, Tristan, my love, forgive me?
Goddess, Mother, spare him. Spare us both.
chapter 25
Night had settled over Dubh Lein hours ago. The guards at the gates were drowsing over their pikes, and the prying eyes of the court had long closed in sleep. But Brangwain hurried through the shadowed corridors with her heart in her mouth. She did not trust that painted devil, the King of the Picts. And if he knew she’d been scouting the corridors so that the Queen could slip into Sir Tristan’s quarters unobserved . . .
Brangwain heaved an angry sigh. Oh my lady, my lady, she mourned, what ill luck you had. What spiteful demons brought Sir Tristan here just as you had the Pictish King by the hand? And why was Sir Tristan already wounded and sick?
That at least they had dealt with, Brangwain reflected with a faint return of hope. Whoever attacked him had given him an ugly cut, but he was easier now. Brangwain sighed with the sense of one job at least well done. On Isolde’s express orders, she had gone herself hotfoot with herbs and salves to minister to him.
When she got back to the Queen’s chamber, Isolde was waiting by the door.
“All clear, my lady,” Brangwain breathed.
Isolde nodded her thanks and slipped out as light as a ghost.
“Wish me well, Brangwain.” Her words floated over her shoulder as she hurried away.
“I do, I do.” The maid crossed all her fingers and plaited them into a knot. “Goddess, Mother, go with her all the way.”
WILLOW BARK FOR REDUCING HIS FEVER, she’d ordered that. It would work against bone pain, too, if his wound was deep. Honey-salve for the sword-cut and all-heal to knit his flesh, he’d had all that. But she needed to see him to know how badly injured he was. And she could not do that till all the world was asleep.
Oh, Tristan, Tristan . . .
Feverishly Isolde hastened through the dark corridors to Tristan’s side. She could hardly contain her tension. Almost there . . .
He was leaning out of the window as she came in, staring into the dark. He turned toward her, heavy with the smell of the night and the wildness of the midnight in his eyes. He had thrown off his jerkin and sword-belt, and his shirt hung loose above his dark breeches and boots. Now she saw the dressing on his shoulder where it met his neck, and could tell at once it was a considerable wound. But that was nothing to the hurt in his eyes.
They stood staring at one another in silence, then both spoke at once.
“How are you? What happened?”
“Lady, that stranger knight—?”
They broke off again, as tongue-tied and awkward as lovers half their age, and the pain between them as deep and wide as the sea.
Tristan was the first to recover. “I beg you, lady, tell me why the Pict is here?”
She felt angry and guilty at once. “The Picts have made landing on our northern shore,” she said levelly. “Darath invaded with a mighty force of men.”
He let out a sharp breath of surprise. “What did they want?”
“Ireland’s total surrender to their will.”
Tristan gasped. “Is that all?” he said sardonically.
Isolde hesitated. She dared not tell him of Darath’s advances to her. “Yes,” she said stiffly. “That’s all.”
He gave an angry laugh. “Isn’t that enough? And when I arrived, I suppose you had summoned him to dismiss his demands with scorn?”
Oh, Tristan . . .
Isolde groaned inwardly. “No, I had not.” She drew a careful breath. “I’ve been negotiating with him since he arrived.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. He was very pale. “Why don’t you take up his challenge?”
“And go to war?”
He nodded, his eyes on hers. After so long apart, the sight of her was a radiance to him, like sunlight on water or starshine dancing at night. For her sake, he could do anything.
“Sound the trysting horn, lady,” he urged, “and raise all your knights. We can beat these invaders away from Ireland’s shores.”
“That has been done. All the knights of the island are here at my command.”
Tristan’s face cleared. “Then I’ll lead your army and drive their King out myself.”
She could hear the edge of rivalry in his voice. “Alas, no,” she said in a low voice. “It may not be.”
“Gods above, why not!” he cried in a sudden passion. “The knights of the Western Isle aren’t afraid of the Picts. I’ll direct the battle. You shall command it from the nearest hill.”
Goddess, Mother . . .
“Enough men have died already. Many poor crannog-dwellers perished when the Picts came in.”
Tristan tossed back his hair. “Then I’ll challenge him to single combat,” he said furiously. “I’ll beat him like a dog and force him to withdraw.”
“I want to avoid any fighting,” she said slowly. “For now, I want to see what talk of peace will do.”
“Peace?” Tristan’s eyes flared. “Madam, war is the only language he’ll understand. Kill or be killed, that’s the law of the Picts.”
Would he ever share her passion to keep the peace? “We may not kill,” she said stubbornly. “It is against our faith. You know the Mother teaches love, not death.”
He paused. A new coldness had entered his tone. “Even when they’ve killed your people?”
She heard her own voice growing colder as she replied. “Even then. Wrong added to grievous wrong does not make a right.”
He looked at her with a strange and hostile regard. “This Darath . . . their King—”
Could he possibly say the name with more contempt? “Yes, sir,” she answered through gritted teeth.
“You know he would kill you if he wanted to?”
“Kill me?”
Whatever she had been expecting, it was not this. Kill her? Darath? The man who had flattered and caressed her, blandished her to his bed?
“That’s ridiculous.” Isolde set her chin. “You don’t know him. You can’t say that.”
Tristan turned away, defeated. Believe me, I know, hovered on his lips. There’s no mistaking a killer when he looks you in the eye. Why would Isolde defend a man who had murdered her people and invaded he
r land? Because she cares for him! fell on his mind like a blow.
He could hardly bear to think it, let alone put it into words. Does she love him?
Surely she can’t?
No, Isolde, no!
The gulf between them widened as they stood. She put out her hand to touch him and, with a dull horror, saw him flinch away. A thin film of sweat broke out on his brow, and she saw him sway.
“What happened to you?” she said in deep distress.
“I was ambushed on the road.” He laughed bitterly. “By the knights of King Mark, no less. One struck me, but it’s nothing. It’s a clean wound; it will heal.”
“Mark ordered your death?” She could not believe it. “Whatever for?”
“Because I sent word I was leaving him to follow you.”
Isolde closed her eyes. So Tristan had made the choice she was praying for him to make, then he’d arrived to find her with another man . . .
Oh, Tristan, no . . .
“And Mark tried to kill you? No, no,” she said helplessly. “It could not be.”
Tristan stared at her implacably. “He sent Fer de Gambon and Taboral under Andred’s command. They waylaid me. They were out to take my life.”
“There you are, then,” she cried, grasping at straws. “It’s Andred, not Mark, behind this. Mark’s a coward, but he’s not a murderer.”
“Trust me, lady . . .”
Tristan clenched his fists and cursed himself for a fool. Why hadn’t he brought the rogue knights along with him? She’d have had to believe him if she’d heard it from their own mouths.
“Lady, lady,” he groaned from the depths of his heart. “Mark tried to kill me. Your husband wants me dead!”
Isolde stared at him in anger. It could not be true. His mind was inflamed from his wound. He was not well. “Oh, sir . . .”
But why were they arguing like this? She hadn’t seen him for weeks, and still he hadn’t even tried to touch her hand. Why didn’t he reach out for her, take her in his arms? If only he would hold her, kiss her, lie with her skin to skin. Whenever they’d been at odds with each other before, making love had always set them right . . .
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 17
