Isolde never knew if the sound of the crutch dragged her from sleep, or if some other sense warned her of the dark figure approaching through the door. But suddenly she was coming to the surface from the depths of a heavy dream. She was lying on the floor and someone—a man—was standing over her.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
There was no reply. All she could see was a candle clutched in a none-too-steady hand and a muffled figure looming behind the flame. She strengthened her voice. “Who is it? Answer me.”
There was a long, slow pause. “A friend,” she heard at last.
A friend? She did not know the hoarse, breathy voice. The newcomer held up his candle.
“See, lady?” he said.
She could see nothing. Who was it? Isolde tried to sit up, determined to confront the intruder on his own terms. But as she did so, her head swam and she fell back. Goddess, Mother, this fever . . . She broke out in a cold, clammy sweat.
The newcomer moved a step forward, and the candle trembled in his hand. Her eyes failing, Isolde could not hold him in her view. Then her sight shimmered, and she guessed what he was. The tall, shrouded figure was a fetch, a spirit of Otherwhere, one of the three worlds, perhaps, or the astral plane. A ghost warrior even, come from the world below, or a messenger from the Dark Lord Penn Annwyn, sent to bring her home. A dew lay on his rusty rags that was neither rain nor seawater nor mist, but like the tears of the Mother for the sorrows of the world. Was he her death?
“Who are you?” she said wonderingly, without pain or fear.
His voice when he spoke was bitter, strange, and remote. “A homeless wretch who has to hide his head. A poor castaway like all the inmates here. Except you. You’re the Queen.”
“The Queen?” Isolde’s face cracked in a mirthless smile. “Yes, that’s true.”
“And still married to the King?”
“True again, sir.”
What did it matter to him? she wondered. Why was he questioning her relationship to Mark?
Unless . . .
Her heart lurched with fear. Unless he planned to take her to his bed. She was the only woman not deformed and disfigured in all this house of disease. If his thoughts were turning that way, he could take her now.
Goddess, Mother . . .
Her mind labored to save herself. But he’ll leave me alone if he fears to offend the King.
Yess!
Madrona had saved her from Lazaran by using this ploy. It was the only weapon she had, alone as she was.
“Yes, fellow,” she said strongly, “I’m the wife of the King. I’m here under his protection, and his men are watching us now.”
She heard him catch his breath. After a heavy pause, he began again. “If the King is protecting you, why has he put you here?”
“I am here of my own volition,” she heard herself say. “Having crossed the path of some lepers, I feared I had caught the disease. So I persuaded the King to let me retreat to this house, to find out if I was infected or not. But the King is anxiously awaiting my return.”
“Is he, now?” Again she caught the heavy, indrawn breath. “But around town they’re saying that you’re to be burned. For treason and adultery, they say.”
She tried for a careless laugh. “You know better than to believe what people say.”
“So you’re not in danger?”
Gods and Great Ones . . .
Isolde’s senses swam. She was dreaming, she knew. She must be, if she thought she knew the voice, a voice she’d never hear again this side of the grave. She raised a hand to her head and felt the fever raging to her bones.
But the voice . . . ?
He sounds like—
No! No, no.
Her heart convulsed. It was a trap, it must be. If he sounded like Tristan, it was another man.
Who was he, then?
Gods above, who knew what he was?
She summoned the last of her strength. “Get out!” she shrilled. “I am still Queen. Leave this place at once.”
But instead he came closer, lowering his voice. The wavering candle danced round his hooded face. “Answer me this, lady. I hear you have lost your love.”
Lost my love?
Lost Tristan?
She could take no more. Let him do what he wanted with her, she would never deny her true love for any man’s threat. Whatever he did, it would only hasten her end and bring on the time she would be in Tristan’s arms.
“Lost my love? Not so.” Isolde gave an Otherworldly smile. “He comes to me between daybreak and evening tide, between dawn and dusk. He waits for me on the margins of the day, and his hand helps me forward into dark or light. At the water’s edge, he is always waiting for me. And when I come to the last crossing, he will be there.”
“You have not lost faith, then.”
She laughed through her pitiful cracked lips. “I’ll sooner lose my life.”
“But they say that Tristan is dead.”
“Not to me.” Again the ethereal smile. “Never in all three worlds to me.”
“And the King is giving it out that you’ll die, too.”
“Very likely.”
“And you’re not yourself, lady. How long have you been sick?”
Now the voice was familiar in its every urgent throb, and the mists were gathering inside her head. “No matter. I have a fever. Go away now. Save yourself.”
“Save myself? When you lie here so ill? Goddess, Mother—”
She heard a stifled oath. Then the stranger was on his knees beside her bed, seizing her hand and bringing it to his lips. “Oh, lady, lady—”
I have died, she thought, and gone to the Island of Bliss. I know this voice . . . this hand . . . this kiss . . .
The stranger was weeping quietly at her side. It was a long time before he found his voice. When he spoke, she knew what he would say.
“Ah, lady, lady . . . Do you not know me, my love?”
chapter 47
Tristan alive?
Oh, oh . . .
Tristan here and folding her in his arms?
Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .
Her senses spun. Or Tristan dead and with her in the Otherworld? Was it all her sickness and the madness it brought? She could not tell.
It came to her then. I have lost my mind. Or else I have died, he has died, and we’re walking the world between the worlds. How could Tristan be alive when she had seen his great body, his clothes, and his ring?
“Who are you?” she said hollowly.
By way of answer, he crushed her to his chest, raining kisses on her lips, her head, her neck. Tears as soft as dew fell on her upturned face as he muttered his broken thoughts into her ear. Wherever we are, she thought in a dream, this is Tristan, this is the man I have loved. His kiss on her throat revived a thousand joys, and his scent embraced her, musky and hot and strong.
“Tristan?” she said timidly, like a child.
His heart surged. Gods above, how she had suffered while he’d been away! He could hardly bear to hold her thin body and look into her eyes, shadowed with horrors too great to be borne. As he cradled her in his arms, he felt her burning skin and saw her cracked, parched lips. A thought came to him like the call of a distant bell: I shall kill Mark. The man who will do this has no right to live.
Slowly, her darkened eyes fastened on his face, then wandered away round the cramped, fusty cell. She raised a hand, but it fell back into her lap. I have no strength, she thought, but she was too weak to tell him even that. A soft breath of laughter escaped her, and she saw a sudden flare of panic in Tristan’s eyes.
Why was she laughing at such a difficult time? Goddess, Mother, have I lost my mind?
“Lady, I know you’re not well, but tell me if you can. These men Mark has set to watch you—are they here in the leper house or in hiding outside?”
“Nowhere.” She laughed again. “There’s no one there.”
“You made it up?” He laughed in disbelief. “What for?”
S
he shook her head, too weak to reply. But he understood.
“You thought I’d come to rape you,” he said savagely. “So you wanted me to think the King’s men were on guard.”
When you’d come to save me, she wanted to say. And I only succeeded in dragging the whole thing out. Because then you had to find out if it was true. And I kept up the whole story to protect myself.
But she could not get any of the words out of her mouth. It was all too hard.
“Lady—”
She became aware that Tristan was bringing the beaker to her lips. Obediently, she tried to force some of the water down. Tristan watched her in evident pain. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “when did you last eat?”
“Are we dead?” she replied inconsequentially.
“I don’t think so, lady,” he said smiling, his eyes on her face. “I’d like to convince you that I’m still alive.”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. She raised a hand to his face. “Mark brought me your dead body.”
“Oh no, lady,” Tristan laughed harshly. “Not mine.”
“But he wore your clothes.”
“Easily obtained from my quarters by Mark’s men.”
“And he had the ring I gave you on his hand.”
“Your father’s ring?” Tristan held out his left hand. “But see, I have it still. And you know I’d lose my hand rather than this ring.”
She reached for his hand and stroked the band of gold. With its strong lines and simple design, it would have been easy to copy or substitute. And Mark would have had no problem in deceiving her in the darkness of the cell, when his only motive had been to torment her.
“But I did see a body,” she said sorrowfully. “Whose do you think it was?”
“Alas, who knows?” Tristan groaned. “Some poor drowned soul washed up at Castle Dore. Travelers, fishermen, those who don’t wish to live, there are many who die like that, the lost children of the sea.” He paused with a grim sigh.
Isolde felt her tears beginning anew. “But my love, my love . . . Andred took you off to kill you. How did you survive?”
“I jumped from the window of the chapel on the cliff.”
“With a sheer drop onto the rocks below?”
Tristan nodded. “I didn’t care if I lived or died. But I made the mightiest leap of my whole life. I thought I was jumping into the arms of death, and I meant to embrace the Dark Lord with all my strength.”
Isolde looked at him enthralled. Born in the wild, Tristan could leap like a stag, and his powerful frame would have taken him far from the shore.
“So you cleared the rocks?” she asked, marveling.
“With the help of the Goddess, I did. And the tide that day was unusually high. As I jumped, the sea rose to meet me and broke my fall.”
Isolde gave a beatific smile. “The Lady takes care of her own. But what happened then? Oh my love, my love, wherever have you been?”
He reached out to stroke her face to comfort her. “I was swept out to sea on the turn of the tide,” he returned. “And then I exhausted myself, struggling to get back. When I was finally picked up by a ship, I was close to death.”
“And they brought you back,” Isolde said joyfully.
Tristan laughed. “Alas, no. The ship was bound for France. I found myself set down on their coast without a penny to my name and hardly a stitch to cover my nakedness. But the captain took pity on me and trusted me. He lent me some money and helped me to an inn. I rested there till I’d recovered my strength, then made my way back by the fastest ship.”
“And found me gone,” Isolde said grimly.
“Indeed I did.” Tristan’s voice darkened at the memory. “Mark is giving it out that you are dying and may be dead.”
“Of leprosy?”
“Or some other dread disease.”
Isolde tried not to sound bitter. “That would suit him very well.”
Tristan lightly shook her shoulder. “Except that you aren’t going to die.” Briskly, he crossed to the sacking over the door and squinted down the long hall to read the sky outside. “The day is waning. It’s time we were on our way.”
Isolde passed a hand across her face. “But where are we going? How are we going to live?”
There was a muttering from the inner room.
“Lady, we have to go,” Tristan replied urgently. “We mustn’t be caught here when the others return.”
“Goddess, Mother, yes!” Isolde gasped. How could she have forgotten the danger they were in? She tried to get to her feet.
“Let me help you.”
Tristan could not bear to watch her struggling. His heart burned to see her wan and wasted frame and the charcoal smudges round her suffering eyes. Swiftly, he leaned down and took her in his arms.
“I’ll carry you to my horse,” he said. “It’s not far. That’ll be the quickest. We have to get away as fast as we can.”
“I can walk,” she protested hoarsely.
He brushed this aside. “Lady, we have to get you out of this leper house. Then I’m taking you to a place where we’ll both be safe.”
Will we? The unspoken words hung trembling between them.
Will I be free of leprosy? ran through Isolde’s fevered veins.
Can I keep my lady safe? beat in Tristan’s mind.
But one thought chimed between them in perfect accord.
Whatever happens, we shall never be divided again.
chapter 48
Where are we going?”
“To safety, my love. Have no fear.”
To the wildwood, then. That’s the safest place Tristan knows.
“Where are we now?”
“Getting there, lady.”
“Is it much farther?”
“Not too far. Hold fast to me and I’ll bring you there.”
Yes, bring me to the wood. Then we shall be safe.
“It’s so dark, Tristan.”
“Courage, sweetheart. Not much farther now.”
“But it must be midnight or more. When shall we be there?”
“Soon, soon.”
Soon, soon, soon . . .
“Are we there yet?”
“Almost, my lady. Can you see a light?”
“Where?”
“Straight ahead.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Look again, lady. Look through that clump of trees.”
“Over there?”
“Yes. I set the lamp in the window to light us in.”
“Oh, Tristan—it’s the castle in the wood . . .”
“Don’t weep, my love. I swear we’ll be safe here. No one knows the secret of the hidden grange. Hush now . . .”
There was a lengthy pause. Then he said, “Oh, lady, oh my love . . . Do you hear the owls calling and the roe deer’s cry? The whole of the wildwood is welcoming you home.”
“THIS WAY, SIR.”
The Audience Chamber gaped ahead, stark, cold, and bare. But all too soon it would be filled with warm, jostling bodies, when the crowd of people at the gate would be admitted to the presence of the King. Mark himself would not make his entrance till all the petitioners had been admitted to the hall. But when he came, he would take his seat on the dais, and Sir Nabon made for it with a deliberate tread.
“Follow me, sir,” he encouraged the knight close behind. “If you stand here by the throne, you’ll be first to speak to the King. And I know he’ll be anxious to hear what you have to say.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the knight with a courteous bow.
Nabon waved his hand. “No thanks are due. A message from your mistress is of the highest importance to her vassals here. How is Queen Igraine?”
The knight’s handsome young face suffused with respect and love. “As ever, Sir Nabon, a wonder to us all. Ageless and beautiful, merciful and wise.”
Nabon grunted in misery, eyeing the sealed parchment the knight carried in his hand. Mark would need more than the old Queen’s mercy to right the cruel wrongs he
’d committed of late. And Queen Igraine was only mortal, after all. What could she do?
He wanted to weep as if his heart would break. If it had not broken already, with Tristan dead. And Isolde as good as dead too, locked up with the dead and dying by the will of the King . . .
Stop it, old fool! he chided himself fiercely to banish the tears gathering in his eyes. The Mother herself will not let Isolde die. And who knows but that this knight has brought help from Queen Igraine?
He turned his gaze to the knight. The newcomer was regarding him with a sympathetic but puzzled scrutiny.
“Are you well, sir?” he asked.
“Of course I’m well, yes, yes.” Tetchily, Nabon brushed the question aside. “Let’s just make sure you’re the first to speak to the King. He won’t be long now.”
From the corridor came a distant, slow-growing roar. Nabon nodded.
“The guards have admitted the people. Any minute they’ll come pouring in. Just make sure you hold your ground.”
Moments later the doors of the chamber went back and a tide of humanity washed into the room. Old and young, thin and fat, well-dressed and poor, all thrust their way in and flocked toward the dais. Behind them came the weaker vessels: women with children and babes in swaddling clothes, the aged, the lame, and the infirm. The sour smell of their bodies came in with them: soiled clothing, stale food, and greasy hair. But rising above it, breathing from every form, was the fragile scent of expectancy and hope.
Hope? thought Nabon bitterly. There was nothing to hope for from Mark. But Igraine, now . . .
He looked again at the knight holding the old Queen’s message in his hand. Perhaps there was something here?
“Make way for the King!”
The heralds were busy clearing a way through the crowd. Behind them came Mark decked out in full array, gowned and cloaked in ermine and silk and velvet of royal red. He wore his father’s crown upon his head and seemingly half the gold of Castle Dore round his neck. He looks almost dignified, thought Nabon bitterly. Let’s hope he receives Igraine’s knight with dignity, too.
But following Mark were half a dozen young men who made Nabon’s heart sink to his boots. Gods above, he snarled, that ever I should regret Andred’s death. But since Andred had gone, there was no one to restrain the King. Mark wanted what he wanted, like a child, without thought of the consequence. And without Andred to check Mark’s violence and greed, the King had become increasingly dependent on rogue knights like these, unscrupulous men of little chivalry.
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 31
