“Who else?” Mark shot back. He took a step toward her. “My wife in truth, Isolde, as well as in name.”
“Sir, we have been ceremonial partners, you and I,” she forced out. “Our marriage has been a sham for all these years, and we must put an end to this pretense.”
“You’re right about that,” Mark agreed with a coarse laugh. He seized her by the wrist. “We’re going to make this a marriage in the eyes of the world. A full married union, Isolde, what do you think of that?”
Triumphantly, he looked at Dominian for approval, and saw that Tristan was standing aghast, as pale as death. As well he might, Mark rejoiced. A child would put an end to any hopes Tristan had of Cornwall’s throne. And that would show them all who ruled here as King.
Goddess, Mother, help me . . .
“Sir, I cannot contemplate what you suggest.” Resolutely, Isolde struggled to set Mark straight. “If you’re thinking that way, then you’re deceiving yourself. I’ve taken spiritual counsel in Ireland, and my Druid has pronounced that our marriage is ended, if it ever began. From this moment on, I can no longer be your wife.”
“You’ve consulted your Druid, lady?”
It was Dominian, violently thrusting his squat body to the fore. “What has a pagan priest to do with this?”
“Our Druids have the same spiritual authority that your Christian priests claim. And mine confirms my judgment that this marriage is no more.”
“And this gives you the right to end a marriage by your own will?” the priest mocked savagely. “How can that be? You married the King by the rites of our Holy Church, and our God allows women no say at all in that.”
Isolde’s temper flared. “Under the Goddess, priest—”
“Your Goddess is no more!” Dominian shrilled. “We have taken your temples and overthrown your shrines. Your so-called Hallows are now lost to the world, and in times to come, no one will remember that a woman God once ruled. All men will know the story of our Holy Grail, and not a soul will know that we took it from the loving cup of the Mother when she supplied all who came to her feasts.”
“Oh, priest—” Isolde could not contain herself. “D’you think people are fools?” She gave a bitter laugh. “Yes, your followers are ruthless, determined, and strong. Violent men always win in the short term. But in times to come, all women, and men, too, will understand that you usurped all the powers of our Goddess, our Mother the earth, to feed all her children and provide for all who come.”
“Blasphemy!” put in Dominian with a face of fire.
Isolde thrust her face into his. “Do you know, priest, or do you care that our very word ‘lady’ means ‘She who feeds us with bread’? That your men priests have only wine to pass off as blood, while every mother gives her blood to make the human race?”
Dominian’s face was glistening with bile. “In the name of God, hear me—”
“No more.” She waved a hand. “Faith should be kindness. Religion should be love. You will never convert me to a religion of sin and death, least of all one that gives your sect the right to destroy all other beliefs. It may take a thousand years, but a day will come when all men and women will know that you and your kind overthrew the Great Mother and installed a God of hate.”
She turned toward Mark and felt herself swelling with power. “I am Isolde, Queen of the Western Isle, and I divorce you now, King Mark of Cornwall and the isles. All bonds are dissolved between us from this time forth. You are no longer my husband, and I am not your wife. Let us think and speak kindly of one another in times to come. You will find me in Ireland, and you will always be welcome there.”
There was an echoing silence. Tristan stepped forward and fell to one knee, offering the hilt of his sword to Mark.
“I, too, must take my leave of you, King Mark. My duty to the Queen demands that I follow her as her knight. I beg Your Majesty to grant me my discharge from your service with honor on both sides.”
Mark groped for words. “Go then,” he said thickly. “A true lord releases his knight at a request like this. And the same must be true of a husband.” He turned to Isolde. “Take up your new life in Ireland. You are free to go where you like. I wish you both well.”
Free?
Free to go?
Isolde could not believe it. Her head was reeling. Am I dreaming this?
Suddenly, she felt Tristan’s hand gripping her elbow, urging her toward the door.
“Out, lady. We must get out,” came a fierce, almost soundless whisper in her ear.
She fumbled a bow toward Mark.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said hollowly. “We shall send from Ireland to hear news of you, and we shall always be glad to have your news in return.”
Trembling in every limb, she let Tristan lead her away. Her legs would hardly carry her to the door, but beyond it lay the world she had longed for all her life.
We shall be safe and free now, Tristan and I.
Goddess, Mother, thanks!
“May God bring you both everything you deserve,” Mark called after them. But they did not stop to ponder what he meant.
chapter 39
So, Andred?”
Andred paused. He must not openly show his delight, he knew that. He must not even glance toward Dominian, who must surely be rejoicing at this turn of events as much as he was. But could there be anything more thrilling than Isolde’s declaration of divorce and his uncle’s rage? The King’s dull, pebbly eyes were glittering like polished stones, and he was slashing around him savagely with his hunting whip.
And Tristan, too. Oh, you have done for yourself now, dear cousin of mine, Andred exulted darkly. Did you think for a moment that Mark would let you go? He bit back a sudden wild laugh. What knight has ever left Mark’s service before, let alone one who thought he could ride off with the King’s wife?
“And I talked of a great welcome feast, Andred?” Mark raged on. “I promised to honor the pair of them in open court? God in heaven, and I boasted that Isolde had come back to me to renew her vows?” He writhed with shame, almost beside himself.
Andred sighed. “Sire, you were not to know what they planned. They must have been deceiving you for years.”
“And I believed them,” Mark yelped. He rounded on Dominian, who was standing hunched to one side, his hands in his sleeves. “What a fool I look now, eh, Father? What a driveling fool.”
Fool indeed and worse, Andred rejoiced to himself. A flabby-mouthed boaster, a deceived husband, and a king with no understanding of people or events. Silently, he set himself to stoke the flames of revenge.
“Alas, sire,” he said mournfully, “if only you had not sworn to give Cornwall an heir.”
Mark’s eyes bulged. “God Almighty, yes, I did that, too!”
“Before the year was out, I think you said. And now the whole country is waiting for the Queen to be with child . . .” Andred spread his hands and allowed his voice to trail off.
Mark’s color deepened. “And now the two of them must think they’re home and free.”
Dominian nodded. “They’ll be sailing away to Ireland as fast as they can.” He paused. “Probably today.”
Mark could not bear it. “God in Heaven, I’ll never live this down.”
Unless . . .
Dominian set himself to add fuel to the fire. “Remember, sire, that God is on your side. If the Queen will not accept her wifely destiny, you may set her aside. Then the way is clear for a Christian marriage.”
“Set her aside? You mean confine her to a nunnery and let her end her days there?” Mark paused. “That’s far too good for her.” He paused for thought. Both Isolde and Tristan should suffer as he was suffering now. They should both die.
Dominian tensed. Lord, Lord, he prayed, do I have the pagan whore in my hand at last?
“Sire, let me urge you to act,” he said with all the burning force he could command. “You must—”
Must, must!
The throbbing in Mark’s head intensified. When
would these weevils stop telling him what to do?
“Oh, I’ll do it, never fear.” Mark gave a horrible laugh. “Don’t forget, Father, you told me that God had given every man the instrument to control his wife. It’s the mark of manhood, to show that men were born to rule. The weapon they may use without mercy if they choose.”
Dominian brought his hands together. “All true, my son.”
“I’ll do it, then.” Mark’s eyes were very dark. “I’ll find her in her chamber and do it now.”
GODS ABOVE, IT WAS STIFLING IN HERE! Isolde paced her chamber, struggling to breathe. Was the stale air of the court choking her after the freedom of the forest and the life she had lived with Tristan? Or was it a looming fear she could not escape?
She tried to gather her thoughts. Tristan had gone down to the harbor to command a ship. When he returned, they could simply slip away. Get ready, then, and go. You need nothing from here. Everything you want is in Ireland.
But still the walls and ceiling seemed to be closing in. Too hot, too hot . . .
She tore off her headdress and tossed it onto the bed. Crossing to the window, she threw open the casement, surprising a sad-eyed dove roosting on the ledge. Fluttering away, the graceful creature flew in a circle, then returned to its perch. Just as I did, Isolde thought, her mind darkened with fear. Flying free as a bird in Ireland, I came circling back here.
Restlessly, she paced up and down the chamber. Goddess, Mother, tell me what to do. Mark gave us soft words, but there was something dark and dreadful in his eye. Did we make the wrong decision when we returned?
Dimly, she heard an echo from the window where the white dove perched.
Wrong, came a sorrowful cooing. Wrong, wrong.
“Is that you, Little Mother?” Isolde gasped for breath and hurried across the room.
True, true. Solemnly, the lovely creature awaited her approach.
“Have you come to tell me that we shouldn’t have come back?” Isolde forced out. “But we thought in all honor to Mark that we should return.”
Wrong, wrong, cooed the dove. All the sadness of the world shone in her large dark eyes.
Isolde’s heart tightened. “Mark is my husband now of twenty years. He’s Tristan’s kinsman, too. I thought we would be safe.”
Wrong, wrong.
Isolde willed herself to stay calm. “So now we must get away from Mark as fast as we can.”
The bird dipped her sleek white head. True, true.
“And there’s Andred.” Now Isolde’s inner voice joined the anxious debate. “He’s against us, too.”
Two large round teardrops stood in the dove’s dark eyes. True, true, she lamented, too true.
“Goddess, Mother, why did I ever think we’d find safety here?” Isolde cried in despair. Closing her eyes, she tried to piece out a plan.
“I’ll send for Tristan and we’ll fly at once. But will Mark pursue us? The world is wide, Little Mother. Where should we go?”
She opened her eyes. But the bird had flown. The next moment a harsh voice sounded in her ear.
“Talking to yourself, Isolde? Losing your wits?”
A sick terror seized her. How did he get in?
She turned, holding down her fear. Mark stood before her, breathing heavily, so close that she could feel the pulse of his throbbing rage. A livid flush discolored his face, and a strange odor hung about him that she had not known before.
“What is your will, sir?” she said evenly.
“My will? Oh, that’s good.” He gave a frightening laugh. “When did you ever care about that?”
Isolde drew a breath. “What is this?”
“Why, nothing but your husband, come to claim his rights. You’ve fobbed me off for over twenty years. But every bird comes home to roost at last.”
A tremor seized her. His rights? She stared at Mark in horror. His eyes were black with anger, and he was tugging open his tunic at the neck. Now she recognized the unpleasant smell that hung about him like a dead man’s shroud. It’s the smell of sex, and sex with him would be death.
She shuddered with revulsion. Goddess, Mother, no!
Mark saw it and lost all control.
“You’re too good for me, is that it?” he shouted, beside himself. Now he knew what to do. He’d drag her down from her pedestal and squeeze her windpipe till those green eyes popped. He gripped her by the throat.
“Come here!”
“Mark—” She struggled to break his hold.
A vicious blow caught her across the head. “You’re mine now, don’t you see?” he panted. “You came back of your own free will, and I’ll have my marriage rights, by God I will!”
He tightened his grip on her neck till she could not breathe, but still the stink of him filled her nose and mouth. He hit her again in the face, and she tasted blood.
Don’t go down, don’t go down . . . Her senses reeled as she fought to stay upright.
“You’re mine, Isolde,” the hot hissing voice came in her ear again. Knocking her down, he fell on top of her with all his weight and drove the breath from her body.
“Don’t fight me,” he rasped.
Steadily, he increased his pressure on her neck. Isolde felt her lungs bursting, and her senses swam. The flagstones beneath her were as cold as the grave. One thought alone filled her tormented mind. I have taken the way of the Mother to unlock my womb. If he rapes me now, I could bear his child.
Now his mouth was slobbering into hers and sucking at her face. His hand was clawing at her breasts, tearing her bodice, heaving up her skirt. Never had she felt so doomed, so helpless, so weak. Great tears of hopelessness gathered in her eyes.
Then a voice from the cradle came dropping through the air. No tears, no fears, Isolde. Remember you are Queen.
Remember, Mother? May I never forget!
Screaming inside, she heaved up her body, throwing Mark off to the side, and furiously brought up her knee between his legs. With all her force, she did the same again, then jabbed her fingers into his eyes, clawing at his face.
“Get off me!” Howling, she tore at his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and kneed him again and again without remorse. “Leave me alone!”
With a cry of agony, Mark rolled away, hunching himself into a protective ball. Instantly, she was on her feet and running for her life.
Tristan, Tristan . . .
She burst out of the chamber and into the corridor.
“Lady!”
Tristan stood frozen in surprise outside the door. As he looked at her in horror, she could see herself through his eyes, beaten, bruised, and torn, blood trickling from her lip. Gasping, he caught her body in his arms, breathless at the livid marks on her neck.
“Mark?” he demanded in a choking voice.
She nodded. “He—”
“Ohhh . . .”
He could not speak. Beside himself, he cradled her in his arms, showering kisses on her face and her poor mottled neck. Then their lips came together in the deepest need and despair. They kissed as if the kiss were their last on earth.
Then a sound from behind made them spring apart. Andred stood in the corridor with a troop of men, smiling the worst smile they were likely to see. “At last,” he said softly. “Now we know.”
Tristan ground his teeth. “Andred—”
“No more words, traitor.” Andred held up his hand. “You must speak to the King.”
He nodded behind them as Mark came limping up. Long red scratches marked his face from forehead to chin, and Isolde took a forlorn pleasure from the sight of his battered eyes and mouth.
Andred bowed to Mark, unable to contain his delight. “We’ve caught them, sire, in each other’s arms.”
Tristan bowed to Mark. “My lord,” he said thickly, “I beg you, let me speak.” But Mark ignored him.
“Arrest them both, Andred,” he ordered through swollen lips. “But imprison them apart to await separate fates.”
Tristan stepped forward with his hand on his swor
d, “Sire, I must be with the Queen.”
Mark swiveled his gaze toward Tristan with a black-eyed stare. “Oh no, my dear nephew, the Queen must be with me. And as for you, Andred knows what to do with a traitor, don’t you, Andred?”
“Yes, sire,” Andred put in, grinning like a pike.
“Go to it then,” Mark ordered. He snapped his fingers at the captain of the guard. “Take the Queen away and hold her under lock and key till I come to the cells. Don’t look so aghast, Isolde. Surely you knew I’d reserve your punishment for myself?”
chapter 40
He should have killed Andred, Tristan saw that now. He’d had his hand on his sword; he could have finished him off then. But he’d hesitated to strike, and now they were lost.
He could have . . .
He should have . . .
Fool! Useless fool!
“So, Tristan?”
Andred was at his side, bursting with joy. Behind him stood half a dozen men-at-arms.
“I have you now, Tristan!” he exulted. “You heard the King’s orders. You are in my hands.”
Dazed with shock, Tristan felt his sword torn from his grasp and his hands roughly bound behind his back. Helplessly, he watched Mark and his men make a wall around Isolde and lead her away. He saw her head turn toward him as they approached and caught her last aching glance as the tall, burly forms hid her from his view. Then she was gone, and only the lingering trace of her scent remained.
My lady.
Oh, my love.
And he had allowed her to fall into Mark’s filthy hands?
Fool! Triple times fool.
“So, Tristan?” Andred’s joyful voice came again at his side. He turned and felt his own sword prick his throat. As he stood there, bound and defenseless, Andred waved Glaeve in his face and deliberately jabbed him again, delightedly watching the blood running down his neck.
Was Andred deaf? Tristan wondered dully. Didn’t he hear the furious screaming of Glaeve, snarling and resisting in Andred’s usurping grasp? Kill, kill! howled the great sword in outrage. Kill him, master, kill!
Andred lowered the sword.
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 26
