“Tell me,” she breathed.
There was a weighty pause. “Know, then, that you are destined to be my natural successor in time to come. You are the spirit of the sea, just as you are the sovereignty of the land. You were born in the sea, you grew up by the sea, and you will become one with the sea in the end.”
Isolde could hardly breathe. “I?”
“You, indeed. You will know the waking sleep of the Druids, the dreaming consciousness in which you see both the future and the past and realize they are one. You will feel every beat of the ocean and the running of the rivers and the standing of the lakes. My two younger sisters, the Lady of Broceliande, the sacred lake in Little Britain, and the Lady of the Lake in Avalon, will hold you as their dearest kin and take you for their own. All this will come once you embrace your fate.”
Isolde closed her eyes and clasped her hands. “I do.”
Far below, a soft flurry of small creamy waves broke over the rocks, and a deep sigh of contentment echoed over the sea. Isolde felt the mark of the Goddess blazing on her forehead with a calm, painless fire. Her shoulders bore the weight of a shining cloak of feathers, swan or raven, she could not tell, and a bright crown of stars hovered above her head.
“You are crowned now, my dear,” the Lady said joyfully. “All the world knows you are the Queen of the Sea.”
She stretched out a hand, and Isolde found herself walking the astral plane in a clear and starlit night. From her vantage point above the clouds, she saw heaving, verdigris seas and purple skies, ice-capped mountains and lakes of glass strung out over the surface of the earth like pearls on a chain. High overhead, a radiant moon smiled down. Bathed in its delicate, flower-like silver light, Isolde saw the rounded green flank of a hillside crowned with white blossoms, like a woman lying down. The scent of sweet water rose to greet her, and she heard the drowsy cooing of doves in every tree.
Avalon.
Sacred Island.
Home.
Now the hillside itself opened to her view. In its glittering, cavernous depths she saw King Arthur at the Round Table, surrounded by his knights. Old Merlin stood guard over the starlit forms, all sleeping their final sleep, but all as fine and handsome as they had been in life.
Oh, oh . . .
She felt the age-old wisdom of the Old Ones and the innocence and hope of a child new-born. Somewhere her mother was shining down on her, with the blessing of all her mighty foremothers in the land. The life force of the Lady and the power of the sea flowed through her veins, and with it the gift to mediate its fullness, grace, and beauty to the world.
“See, Isolde? You are not alone.”
The Lady’s voice came from far away. “As you take up your burden with Tristan, remember that there are others who guard and protect these islands, too.” One long white arm fluttered back toward Avalon. “What you see there has yet to come about. King Arthur and his knights have not yet fought their final battle and entered their last sleep. But they are the eternal keepers of the land till the land itself is no more.”
Now a primeval, oceanic power was approaching with the force of a tidal wave. Isolde saw all the world and all the stars above spinning their way through eternity, and her eyes dazzled with the glory of it all.
The Lady’s voice came again. “Watch the wheel, Isolde, always watch the wheel. The wheel is the sea, rolling around our world. The wheel is the world and the lives that flourish there. The wheel is the shape of life and of time itself. Our faith teaches us how to watch that wheel and to follow the wheel of the year every year of our lives.”
Isolde cried out in rapture. “I shall follow the wheel!”
The Lady laughed, a rich and joyful sound. “And never fear, Isolde, it will follow you. Wherever you go, you will have that strength within.” She opened her arms again in another wide embrace. “See, Isolde, see?”
Far, far below, an emerald-green island floated in a silver sea. Isolde could not speak.
Ireland.
Erin.
Home.
The beloved land, which now she could rule with Tristan at her side. Dimly she heard the Lady’s voice again.
“You are the sovereignty, Isolde, and this is your land. It is the home and birthland of the Mother Faith. Once, long ago, a mighty race, the Tuatha Dé Danann, peopled these shores. From the north came the sword of power, which the hero Nuada of the Silver Hand swung against Ireland’s foes. He was the chosen one of the first Queen, and she made him her King. The south sent the spear of light from the armory of Macha, battle-queen of great Lug, the God of light. The table of the Goddess-Queen Danu gave us Her loving cup from the west. And from the east came Her ever-flowing cauldron of plenty that the Dagda himself, the ancient father of the Old Ones, had brought to the Western Isle. When the Tuatha Dé Danann left to join the Shining Ones on their thrones, they gave us the Stone of Destiny, lia fáill, which still cries out under Ireland’s rightful Queen. These are the Hallows of the Goddess, the treasures of Erin.”
The Lady paused. “This is your destiny, Isolde, this is your fate. Now you will feel in yourself the force of all things that live and breathe in this world of ours. Every plant, every leaf, every tree will be alive to you, as real to you as you are to yourself. Already the rains of Erin weep in your heart, and her sun shines through your smile. You are the land of Ireland, the blessed land. And it is for you to take forward the message now.”
Isolde struggled to find her voice in the glittering void. “I know of only one. Religion should be kindness. Faith is love.”
The tall gauzy figure inclined her beautiful head. “We must be saved by that hope. Only faith can save us. Only love.”
Only love . . .
Shivering, the world around Isolde dissolved, and the tall shape of the Lady began to drift away.
“Farewell, Isolde.”
A bubble of fear rose in Isolde’s throat. Don’t leave me, Lady! Don’t go!
Then a new calm sprang up in her heart with a deep well of joy. From now on, I am she, and she will be with me always. Strength is within.
She raised both her arms and felt her cloak streaming out behind her like great wings. “Farewell, Lady, farewell!”
chapter 54
A mighty peal of thunder rang through the sky. The clouds boiled and rolled and danced round Isolde’s head, then without warning she felt grass beneath her feet. As she stumbled against the rough tussocks of the clifftop, a strong hand gripped her elbow and held her up. It was a grip she would have known through all the three worlds and beyond.
“Tristan!” She came to herself with a start. “What are you doing here?”
He laughed with joy. “I heard the Lady calling, and I followed you.”
“Then you know what she said?”
“I heard it all, my love.” A look of unspeakable sweetness passed over his face. “And at last I can truly call you my Queen. Together we’ll rule this land and hand it on to the children we shall have.”
A pang of fear entered her heart like a knife. “Children? Oh, my love, dare we hope for that? The Lady said nothing about it.”
Another clap of thunder drowned her words. Without warning, a great wind drove in from the sea, howling and screaming like a banshee of the Western Isle. The trees on the clifftop groaned aloud and bent cracking to the ground. Above them, the skies were racked with tempest, rain, and fire as a mighty storm took all Cornwall by the throat.
“Here, lady.”
Swiftly, Tristan pulled her inside his cloak. Huddled within the shelter of his strong arms, she felt the waves pounding the rocks below. One after another, huge walls of water were rolling in from the sea, hovering for a moment like massive creatures catching their breath, then spending their fury as others behind them pressed in to renew the attack. High over their heads, the heavens were at war with themselves, thunder and lightning raging across the clouds and raining fire and water on the waves below. Isolde shook with fear. Goddess, Mother, save us when the sea meets the sky!
The wild waves lashed the coast, and the storm gained in fury with every breath they drew. Hurtling inland, gusts of wind flattened trees and shrubs, rampaging like a madman freed from his chains. The force of the lightning seemed to split Isolde’s brain.
“Oh, my love,” she howled, her rising fear keeping time with the raging storm. “Remember my mother’s curse when we first met?”
He looked at her with eyes wide with fear. “Your mother cursed us? I never knew.”
No, of course you didn’t, you were not there.
Now she was flying on the wings of fear, borne back twenty years and more to a distant past. She saw her dead mother alive and in her prime, maddened by the loss of her lover, killed by Tristan’s hand. No matter that the lost knight had invaded Cornwall on the Queen’s own command and that Tristan had been forced to defend Cornwall against the unjust attack.
At the time, no punishment was too great for Tristan in the eyes of the Queen. And Isolde, too, had been the unwitting subject of her mother’s curse. The memory and the fear of it were with her now.
As was the late Queen herself, her spirit shape stalking the hillside before Isolde’s eyes. Shaking from head to foot, the tall, racked body in her favorite black and red clenched her fists like iron and stretched out both her hands.
“May the man who killed you die a fearful death,” Isolde heard again. “May all those he loves, and all who ever love him, suffer until the sea kisses the sky, and the trees bow down their heads at his cursed feet! May the woman who loves him never know peace or joy! May she sorrow for him until her heart turns black, as mine must do now for the loss of my lord!”
“Goddess, Mother, save us!”
Blasted by the memory, Isolde stood shaking as her mother’s shade dwindled away in the mist.
Mother, yes, your curse has come true. Tristan has indeed died more than one fearful death, by water, fire, and the sword. I have suffered for his love till I knew neither peace nor joy, and my heart has turned black with the death of hope.
And just as hope beckons for us, have you come to claim your revenge?
She turned to Tristan in a frenzy. “Oh my love, is this the end?”
“The end, Isolde?’
Soft laughter in the distance brought her to herself. Veiled in the shadows of the darkest hour of night, the Lady shone forth with a last dying ray.
“Oh, Isolde, little one, do you not see that the curse placed upon you both has been lifted at last?” There came another full-hearted chuckle. “Look about you, child. What do you see?”
In a daze, Isolde looked around and saw the seething billows leaping to kiss the sky. Inland, the hawthorn and furze bowed their heads to the ground, while mighty oaks lay prostrate in the earth’s embrace. Isolde’s soul leaped, too, delirious with relief.
It is true, then, as the Lady says. The trees are kissing the ground at my beloved’s feet, and the sea has met the sky. She raised a hand in farewell. All our sufferings are ended, Mawther. Go in peace.
A sharp bolt of lightning hit the velvet sky. Far off on the headland, the fading image of the Lady gleamed through the last of the night. The tall, fluttering figure leaned forward and unwound her veil.
A radiance filled the night, too bright to bear. As the filmy gauze fell away, Isolde saw the face of her mother alight with its quicksilver delight, its warmth of passion, its unfailing joy in love. But deeper than both was the Lady’s thousand-year-old smile. It shone from a face that had suffered in an all-too-human world.
A face with a crown of white hair and an air of majesty.
A face she knew almost as well as her own.
Why, of course—
Igraine.
She fell to her knees, dimly aware of Tristan kneeling at her side. The storm was dying now, and she could hear the Lady’s last words.
“Blessings on you both,” came whistling down the wind. “You will rule together in Cornwall wisely and well, and the memory of your love will never die. And blessings on the child that you will bear.”
“We shall vow any child of ours to the service of the land,” Isolde wept. “But no woman must suffer again what you endured.”
“Never, lady!” cried Tristan, his face wet with tears. “Losing Arthur, as you did. Losing your only child.”
There was a rustle of dry laughter like leaves in wintertime.
“My child has done well by the land, as well as he might. And so will yours. Any child of a knight like Sir Tristan and a sovereignty-bearing woman of Isolde’s acclaim will be a heroine in her own time and beyond. Or a hero of might, for we do not rate men any less.”
A last whisper drifted down and around them like a wind from the moon. Go with your Gods. Make the world a better place.
Then the Lady was gone. On the headland where she had stood, lia fáill, Ireland’s ancient stone of destiny, rose up from the mists of ages and shone like a beacon ahead. Around it clustered the ghosts of Cornwall’s primeval stones, the vast circles and long barrows built by Old Ones long ago.
Isolde gripped Tristan’s hand. “We must renew our vows to the land.”
Tristan folded both her hands in his strong, warm grasp. “We shall make it our deepest pledge. We’ll do everything Queen Igraine wants us to do. And when she comes again, we’ll ask her to bless our rule.”
“Queen Igraine!” Isolde marveled, lost in delight. She paused to take it in. “Who would have believed that Queen Igraine is the Lady of the Sea?”
Tristan faced her gravely, still holding her hands in his. “As you will be too, my love.”
Shall I?
Can I do this?
The Lady of the Sea?
She gave a decisive nod. With Tristan, I can do anything.
Dawn was rising. The tide was turning, and the waves were awakening to the sun, mewling and scratching at the shore like newborn cats. On the wide horizon, a silver-blue sea melted into a rose and lavender sky. Below them lay Castle Dore, Cornwall’s stronghold, with Lyonesse beyond. Isolde drew Tristan toward her and pointed to the pathway ahead.
“Come, my love,” she breathed.
chapter 55
The sun rose higher over Cornwall’s rolling lands. Most of the country still slept. But from the depths of an ancient greenway rose a strange, high, bee-like drone. An old crooked man on an ambling white mule was raising his anthem to the breaking day.
“I am the hawk on the cliff,
The tear in the eye of the sun.
I am the salmon at the leap,
And the lake asleep under the gaze of the moon.
I am life, I am death, I am Merlin!”
“And Merlin has done well,” he cackled as he went along. “Arthur and Camelot at peace, the knights all embarked on the Quest . . .”
A voice in his ear broke into his reverie.
Ah, but Isolde and Tristan now—
“Who’s there?” Merlin yelped.
There was a mellow laugh. Oh, I think you know.
“Igraine?” The flame in his yellow eyes scorched the nearby leaves. There was no one to be seen. But a strong, mellow presence hovered near him in the air.
Yes, indeed. But I come with no evil intent. All has turned out well for Tristan and his lady, Isolde.
Merlin thrust his head in the air. “As I knew it would.”
So, old man? came Igraine’s voice again. Then why did they need Merlin’s hand in this? You are fated to be the never-failing guardian of these isles, ever wakeful around our island shores. You were never doing all this for Isolde, were you?
He flared his eyes again and enjoyed the green spurt and crackle of his fire. A laughing girl rose before him with hair like sunrise and a heart that danced like a wave of the sea. A young woman made of gold but wearing the green, with her love at her side and a soul that would be greater yet.
Isolde.
“Never, no,” he said musingly. “She had no need of me. That merry young soul had the leap of the salmon and the spring of a doe in the rut. A
ll that and the hands of a healer and the heart of a warrior queen.”
For her mother, then? You were her lover once.
Merlin grinned and felt the old heat scratching his loins.
“A wonderful woman, the Queen, one of the best,” he purred. “Foolish, yes, and led by her passions, like all women who love men more than themselves. But what a woman she was—what a queen!”
An infinite fondness swept his withered frame. She had made him a man, and he would never forget.
But would you have done all this for the old Queen alone? Igraine pressed on. Braved the wild seas in winter, set Tristan alongside Arthur, your heart’s darling, and the work of the House of Pendragon and the future of Britain, too? Why, Merlin, why?
“Ask me no more,” he burst out, wheezing through his teeth.
I must, the great voice rolled on. And you know the reason.
“You have to protect Isolde.” Merlin nodded his aching head. “As I fought for Tristan. Yes, yes, I worked and schemed to save Tristan. I never cared for Isolde, any more than I do for Guenevere. But both of them are happy enough now.”
A deep sigh drifted down through the trees. Tristan was the beating heart of your love and concern.
“Yes!” Merlin cried and found himself drowning in tears. “Tristan—Arthur—all these sorrowful lost boys. Motherless, fatherless, nameless, and homeless, too, flying boys becoming wounded men.”
And yourself, Merlin. Don’t forget yourself.
“Goddess, Mother, yes,” Merlin prayed. “Help the unmothered child—”
He saw through the mists of time the sadness of Tristan’s birth, the young mother dying in the depths of the dark wood, the huge eyes full of sorrow, the little body split apart by her travails with her great son.
For Tristan, then, the child of sorrow.
And for the mother who bore the sorrowful child.
“And I did not save her!” he grieved. “Fool! Fool! Triple fool!”
Well, let her sleep in peace. Cast your mind over the good that is to come.
Merlin knocked the tears from his eyes. Resolutely, he spun his agate-glinting, golden gaze through all the worlds he knew and the world to come.
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 35
