Cunnoch gestured toward the window, which framed a skein of wild geese forging its way through the sky. “Autumn’s here now and winter’s on its way. Once the storms set in, we’re caught like rats in a trap. The Queen won’t even have to call up her knights. When our supplies are exhausted, we’ll die of hunger as we’d have done if we’d stayed at home.”
Again he received the same bland, empty look. “I know,” Darath said.
Cunnoch gritted his teeth. “Why are we here?” he ground out.
Darath fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “To win the Queen.”
“In marriage?” Cunnoch fumed in disbelief. “She’s playing with you, boy. She won’t marry you. Sir Tristan’s her knight, and there’s many here who’ll swear he’s her only love.”
“And he’s gone.”
“Forever?”
Darath bared his teeth. “I’m ready to deal with him if he comes back.”
“And of course Isolde would be pleased if you did that,” Cunnoch scoffed. “D’you think she’d ever forgive you for killing her knight?”
Darath sighed. Why was Cunnoch trying to provoke him? Sooner or later he’d have to admit he was right. “Hear me, Cunnoch—”
“Sire—” came a voice from outside. The door opened and a servant entered with a bow. “This way, if you please, King Darath. The Queen begs your attendance now.”
chapter 29
How beautiful are Thy ways, O Lord our God!
Sighing with satisfaction, Dom Arraganzo pressed forward into the Audience Chamber of Castle Dore. If he had ever doubted God’s wisdom in making women the lower creatures of His world, he saw the divine purpose now. It was absolutely right that the female of the species should be kept out of the world, restricted to nunneries and confined to women’s quarters when they were at home. Dealing with the two daughters of the King of Dun Haven had made him more thankful than ever that he lived his life among men.
For the two Princesses walking behind him now were a living advertisement for the sins of Eve. Oh, he was sure they were following him demurely enough, as they all made their way into the presence of King Mark. With his liberal chastisement, their father had certainly taught them how to behave. But what a pair they were!
The fat one—lean as he was, Arraganzo could not think of her any other way—Theodora as they called her, embodied all Eve’s greed, cupidity, and lust. The thin one, Divinia, was consumed with the same beady-eyed curiosity that had caused the Fall of Man, a deadly hunger to know things women should not know. Neither of them had a shred of respect for men, not even a Papal Legate or their father the King. Arraganzo sighed. It was clear to him now why their father had beaten them so much. If he’d been the King of Dun Haven, he’d have laid on the rod himself.
Still, they would undoubtedly interest King Mark. Either of them would make a stir on her own, and together they formed a challenge to any man. One round and plump as a pudding, one slender and fragile like a hazel twig in spring. One dark, one fair; one inviting, one cool and remote. The fat one trussed up in a rich mulberry velvet with a heavy gold train, the thin one floating in a cloud of pale blue voile. Arraganzo reviewed his own handiwork with pride. Whatever could be done for these two girls had been done to the hilt.
And now they were about to be put to the test. Ahead of them Mark gazed openmouthed from his throne, already transfixed by the sight of them. Around him, the busy courtiers whispered and stared, assessing the procession as it came along. In the front, Arraganzo was a vision in scarlet from his cardinal’s cap to his hand-stitched kidskin boots. Behind him came the two sisters, striking in their contrasted shades of earth and sky, attended by their maids in virginal white. Bringing up the rear like two dark clouds were the black-clad Dominian and his pupil, Simeon. Arraganzo purred with delight. No wonder Mark was goggling like a fool. Castle Dore had never seen anything like it before.
They came to a halt at the foot of the throne. Dominian moved forward with a clumsy bow.
“Your Majesty,” he proclaimed, “may I present a visitor from the Holy See, the Pope’s emissary from Rome, the Cardinal Legate of Spain?”
Mark gazed at Arraganzo, overawed. “We are honored, my lord.”
“Oh, sire, the honor is mine.” Arraganzo made a courtly Spanish flourish and stepped aside. “And may I commend two young Christian princesses to your care.” He waved a hand at the fat one. “Princess Theodora,” he declaimed.
Simeon gave Theodora a violent jab in the back. Prompted, Theodora fell to her knees and clasped her hands. “Sire, give us your blessing.”
“And the Princess Divinia,” Arraganzo intoned.
Hearing her name, Divinia knelt, too. “Bless us, sire,” she breathed in a high, lisping voice.
Arraganzo leaned forward. “Their father the King is dying,” he said quietly. “He begs Your Majesty will take them as your wards.”
“My wards, eh?” Mark murmured, stroking his chin as he eyed the two girls up and down. The well-covered one was a fine-looking wench, to be sure, but the half-starved waif in blue was appealing, too. And both were staring at him with huge sad eyes as if he were the most important man on earth. Well, nothing wrong with that. Nice to see two young women showing such mature judgment and good sense.
He turned to Arraganzo. “Soon to be orphans, you say?”
Arraganzo inclined his head. “Unless they find a new father in yourself. A king should be a father to his people, as Our Lord decreed. And sometimes he may be more.”
Mark’s shriveled spirit soared. Oh yes, oh yes. It would be an excellent thing to have these two beauties at court, hanging on his every word and following him devotedly to and fro. He could certainly be a good father to them, and maybe more. Well, to one of them, at least. Now, which one?
Then an inner prompting made him shake his head. He turned to Arraganzo with regret. “Alas, I have another commitment I can’t escape.”
Arraganzo raised a magnificent eyebrow. “And what is that?”
“The Quest for the Holy Grail,” said Mark importantly. “Half the knights of the Round Table have already set out, and my knights and I must play our part in that. We’d have been on the road by now but for Tristan’s treachery and desertion, the villainous wretch.”
Dominian folded his hands. “Sire, the Quest is not your concern. You may leave that to King Arthur and his knights.”
Arraganzo nodded. “There is more than one way to do God’s work, my son.”
“But I swore to join them,” Mark protested. “The names of the Grail knights will never die. I want to be remembered along with Lancelot, Gawain, and Galahad. We’ll still be honored in a thousand years.”
Arraganzo stepped forward, drawing himself up. “Do not desire to join the fellowship of the Grail,” he said commandingly. “The Quest they follow is only one of many of God’s works. As you see, He has another task for you here. The lives of these two virgins lie at your feet.”
Virgins, eh? Mark felt his interest quickening at the thought. Virgins, yes, of course, they wouldn’t have known any men. Neither of them would scorn him and spurn him as Isolde did. And fresh meat would be more than welcome after the stale, resentful mistress he had cast off.
“And think of this, sire,” Arraganzo resumed. “The Holy Grail is the pure vessel of Christ’s passion and the symbol of His love. It can only be found by the most peerless knight in the world, free from sin, without weakness, taint, or shame.”
He paused, closely watching Mark’s face. Not me, then, was clearly written in every twitch of the King’s muddy countenance and shifting, flickering eyes. Certainly not me.
Arraganzo seized his moment and pressed on. “For the rest of mankind, there is another grail. That is the holy innocence of a maiden, whose pure body they desire to penetrate. Mortal men may possess that holy grail through carnal knowledge of a virgin’s inviolate vessel when they plunge themselves in her maiden form.”
“Is it so?” Mark was overwhelmed.
“It is Go
d’s word and will,” the Cardinal Legate averred in his most thrilling tones, “His sacred mystery revealed to His lesser creation here on earth. A man loses himself in a woman to gain what all men seek. That is the terror, that is the miracle.”
Mark looked at the two Princesses with new eyes. Terror and miracle, eh? he chuckled to himself. Which was which? The fat one could well be a terror, but the shy one might prove to be a miracle. The quiet ones were often the best in bed.
“So, sire?”
Arraganzo, Dominian, the two Princesses, and Simeon the young monk were watching Mark in a silence that gripped all the court. He struggled to find a masterful, kingly tone.
“If God wills me to take these two lost maidens under my wing,” he declared in ringing tones, “it shall be done. Bring them to my privy apartments, where I may consider their needs.”
He rose to his feet. Barely containing themselves, the courtiers bowed as the King, the Princesses, and the men of God left the chamber, then fell to gossiping with a vengeance as they all followed out. At last the chamber was empty but for a lone figure lurking in the shadow of the dais. Breathing heavily and gripping the hilt of his sword, Andred tried in vain to still his raging discontent.
What else, he fumed, did the jealous Gods have in store for him? First the failed ambush as Tristan rode to the port, leaving his deadly rival alive and at large after all the money he had spent to achieve the opposite result. Then those cretins Fer de Gambon and Taboral limping back to court, ready to blackmail him as soon as they dared. Already he could hear their weaselly demands: We need money, sir, and a place at court, then help us to a piece of land or a small estate. He sucked in his breath and gave a mirthless grin. He’d probably have to kill them now, of course. The only question was when.
And now the accursed Christians were on the move. Andred groaned aloud. If they got Mark interested in a Christian girl, that scarlet-clad eminence from Rome would have the marriage to Isolde annulled before you could say “pagan whore.” That very night one of those princesses would be in Mark’s bed. Nine months later there’d be a bouncing Christian bairn and Andred would be as Isolde and Tristan were, no longer wanted or needed, a part of Mark’s past.
And with no hope of coming to the throne.
So, then . . .
Motionless, Andred thought long and hard. What to do? Wait till he saw which princess caught Mark’s eye, then have her killed before the wedding day? Lay false information that they were unchaste and get them both sent back to Dun Haven in disgrace? Poison them with a draught that mimicked the wasting sickness that was so often the death of young maids? Or better still—he laughed soundlessly—poison Mark?
He laughed with bitter delight. Already he could see Mark falling prey to the cleverer of the two Princesses who were even now trotting happily into the King’s House. A savage, baleful grin took over his face. Do what you will, uncle dear, I shall have you in the end. And princesses both, enjoy your time in Castle Dore. It will all be over before you’ve even begun to understand what you’re doing here.
chapter 30
The mountain range lay black against the sky. Below it, the land ran gently down to the sea, where the line of the forest broke around a sheltered bay. From a distance, the whole landscape seemed asleep. But the early morning foxes, weasels, and stoats, like the ravens, crows, and blackbirds wheeling overhead, were intrigued to see that they had company.
Winding down the valley came a procession of horses and men, bright with lances and banners and gleaming with silver and gold. The new dawn, still red and raw in the sky, lit their path through the trees and down to the sandy shore. Isolde rode with Darath at the head of the glittering line, while all his companions and knights rode behind. Apart from the few who had stayed to guard the ships, all the Picts were there in force.
As they had to be, Isolde knew, if her plan was to succeed.
If . . .
No one trusted her judgment, she knew. She could hear the Picts now muttering behind her back, sharing their doubts and dissatisfaction in dark tones. Even though she did not understand what was said, there was no mistaking Cunnoch’s sharply expressed suspicion and its echo in Findra’s low, guarded replies. Findra’s young kinsman, Agnomon, was staring and muttering to himself as he rode along. All Darath’s men were against her, that was plain. Even their familiar strong, heathery smell had changed to something more feral and furtive as they hid their fears.
And in Dubh Lein, too, her lords had dismissed her scheme. In her own home and heartland, even the loyal Sir Gilhan had turned against her as he never had before.
“It’ll never succeed,” he said flatly. “Not with the Picts.” He leaned forward across the Council table, folding his battle-scarred hands. “At least take a troop of our soldiers to keep you from harm.”
Isolde shook her head. “That would only convince the Picts they have something to fear.”
Gilhan frowned in despair. “Madam, this may well cost you your life.”
“My life?” She had laughed then, an unconvincing trill. “As long as our men do their part, the Picts won’t kill me. Why should they?”
“Oh, madam—” Sir Doneal burst in with savage scorn. “A Pict never needs a reason to kill. If they spurn your offer, kiss the world good-bye.”
The world and Tristan.
Oh, Tristan, Tristan, where are you, my love?
Her heart wept. Then her mother’s voice came dropping into her ear. No tears, no fears. Remember you are Queen.
She stiffened her spine. And a queen does what is best for the land.
She felt a hot hand on hers and came back to herself. “You are silent, lady. What are your thoughts?”
It was Darath, of course, riding too close to her side. She flashed him an enigmatic smile. “Why, nothing I care to reveal.”
“No?” His bright eyes were alive with malice. “Let me guess. You’re pining for Sir Tristan, your long-serving knight.”
Had she realized before how cruel he could be? With a great effort, she shrugged the comment off. “A queen will always have her knights.”
He looked around and laughed with open disdain. “Even here?”
She speared him with a glance. “A thousand knights leap to my bidding here. Why do you worry about one?”
Darath returned her shrug. “He was a gallant opponent when we fought. I hope his wounds have not taken a turn for the worse.”
What wounds? Oh, Tristan, did you suffer more than I knew? She struggled to recapture a light, bantering tone. “Enough of Sir Tristan. The King of the Picts has all my interest now.”
As does delaying you here till the storms of the season set in, she did not say. Keeping you and your Picts in Ireland as winter descends. Do you see that, sir? Do you understand the game?
Her thoughts were thudding so loudly she felt he must hear. If not, you play into my hands. You invaded our land in midsummer, when the sea was calm. But now—she looked at the wintry sea and wanted to laugh—trapped by storms, cut off from hearth and home, my enemy becomes my prisoner.
And I alone hold the key to this island of ours.
“See, sir.”
She pointed ahead through the trees. As the forest thinned out, they saw a wide natural harbor with a row of neat houses behind, all clustered together around the edge of the bay. Between the forest and the houses lay a ring of tidy homesteads and well-kept farms, sheltered by the trees from the worst of the winter storms.
On the beach, a row of fishing boats lay drawn up above the waterline, each with its ropes and nets coiled neatly inside. Passing between the houses and pausing to laugh and gossip on the sand were the women of the village, old and young, many of them with babies on their backs and children round their knees, but all healthy and strong. Most had the red-gold hair and pale skin of Ireland, but here and there were some with a fall of hair as black and glossy as a beetle and eyes as blue as a speedwell in spring. Even in the dull light of a December day, the village teemed with life.
She turned to Darath and gestured to the scene below. “What do you notice here?”
He was dazzled by the women, she could see, especially the tallest, a queenly young thing with a basket of fish at her feet. He shook his head, unable to tear his eyes away. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Isolde questioned. “Look again. Some time ago a huge shoal of fish was seen far out at sea, greater than any have ever seen here before. All the men, young and old, took to the boats to harvest this rare tide. None of them came back. Ever since we call the village Womenswold, ‘the place of women,’ in our tongue.”
She had caught his interest, she could see. “What happened?” Darath demanded, openmouthed.
“No one knows. A great wave, perhaps, to overwhelm the fleet, or some monster of the deep. Afterward the sea threw up the masts and timbers of the sunken ships. But the men were gone as if they had never been.”
Darath’s gaze swiveled back to the beach. “So all these women live here as widows or virgins in a world without men?”
“And not by choice,” Isolde agreed somberly. “Their life is very hard.”
She pulled her horse around and looked Darath in the eye. Behind him she could see Cunnoch and his knights, tense and alert, drinking in every word she said.
“Sir, when we met,” she began, “you spoke of the past, when the men of your land wooed the women of ours. Here in this village it could happen again. If you and your men court these women and win their consent, I promise a bride-gift for each marriage made. Do this, and you and your men will return to Pictland far richer than you came, with grain for your barns and cattle for your byres. Above all you’ll have strong healthy women to renew your race. And there will be kith and kin bonds between us from now on.”
He gave an arrogant laugh. “I came here for a queen, not for a fisherwife. And I will not leave without taking you to my bed.” He turned to look at his knights, grinned widely, and raised his voice. “We refuse.”
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 20
