Isolde Page 2

  "Your Majesty—"

  Brangwain hastened forward and drew her mistress through the ornate double doors, shooing away the maids following on her heels. "Later, my dears," she said softly, watching their young faces droop at being shut out. "Never fear, the Queen will send for you." She closed the door.

  "Brangwain, where are you?"

  The voice from inside the chamber was raw and harsh. The Queen threw herself down on a couch, tore off her headdress, and cast it to the floor. "Where is he, Brangwain?" she demanded wildly, shaking out her hair.

  The rich henna-colored mop tumbled down to the flagstones, staining the gleaming surface with the color of blood. Racking sobs shook the long body with the passion of a child.

  Brangwain was caught between pity and despair. "Sir Marhaus is here," she said steadily, "waiting for you."

  The Queen leapt to her feet and paced frenziedly to and fro. "He must not go to Cornwall!"

  "To Cornwall, madam?" Brangwain paused, all her senses suddenly alert. The lilt of the Welshlands she had carried from her birth grew stronger. "Why should he go there?"

  The lithe figure turned on her, wild-eyed. "No reason!—it's nothing—where is he?"

  "In your private quarters, madam."

  Feverishly the Queen crossed the chamber, throwing open the doors to the room within. Outside the window the storm had reached its peak, and streams of rain pelted the greenish glass. As her eyes searched the shadows, she caught the strong, compact form standing in the far casement, outlined by the misty light. She knew every inch of the well-knit, battle-hardened body and had wept and marveled over its every scar. Though he was ten years or more her junior, he had lived and fought hard all his life, and every one of his wounds had been taken for her. Goddess, Mother, how she loved him! If she lost him now—

  She shuddered with yearning and dread. Her fingers ached to touch the brown skin beneath his red leather tunic, his linen shirt, the great gold pendant on his breast set with her emblem, a pair of fighting swans. His strong musky scent rose to meet her, and she could bear it no longer. "Marhaus!" she cried, and hurled herself into his arms. "Lady, hush."

  The knight stepped forward and gathered her to his chest. With a practiced hand, he stroked her neck and throat, supporting her with a sinewy brown arm.

  "What is this, madam?" he asked lazily, his mind already turning toward the great bed with its billowing hangings, anchored like a ship at the far end of the room. He loved her in her passions, when she came to him quivering with rage or grief, and she loved him for releasing her from the storms and impulses she could not control. Afterward she would lie quietly in his arms, sated and appeased, remembering nothing but the bliss they shared.

  So she would be now, he decided, feeling her trembling from head to foot. "Come, lady," he said roughly. "Let's to bed." She stiffened against him.

  "No!" she said shrilly, her black eyes alight with flames of fear. "I have seen it, Marhaus! You must not go!"

  "Not go to Cornwall?"

  He froze like a wolf in the forest, ready to leap. "My ship stands in the harbor," he said menacingly. "My knights and men have boarded, and you shame me now by saying I must not go?"

  "You must not go to Cornwall," she babbled, already afraid of his anger, but more afraid of silencing her fears. "I know you said that the whole country would drop into your hand—"

  "And so it will." His calm was more dangerous than any threat. "Think, madam—there's none to defend it but an ancient queen in Tintagel, and a coward king who knows not how to fight. You agreed I could challenge him for the throne. One little joust, and I win this land for you!" His voice hardened. "Do not deny me now!"

  "I must!" she cried. "Queen Igraine had Cornwall from her mother in a line stretching back to the Mother Herself. It is against the will of the Great One, to make war against those who rightly rule."

  Marhaus flushed. "This is your daughter talking, this is Isolde! Now you see the folly of sending her to Avalon to learn their weak, womanish faith of love, not war!" He stared at the Queen. "Your lovely daughter, La Belle Isolde," he added hurtfully, sounding each word like a slap in the face. "The beauty of the Western Isle."

  Her hands flew to her face, to the tiny lines and creases her mirror knew so well. "Don't torture me!" She clutched at her head, crying out with pain. "Isolde's young, that's all. Any girl of twenty is still beautiful. The people only call her that because she heals their sicknesses and cares for them."

  "She's a dreamer." Marhaus paused to weigh his words. "And a fool."

  She flew at him, ready to scratch out his eyes. "She is my daughter! Show her some respect."

  He caught her wrists in a savage grip. "Madam, respect yourself! Who is Queen here, Isolde or you?"

  Her face suffused with blood. "I am! And I say you will not make this war!"

  "Give me a reason!"

  "We need no more kingdoms. Ireland is enough."

  He looked at her with contempt. "Only yesterday you were hungry for Cornwall's safe harbors and green fields. Tell me the truth."

  "If you challenge Mark, I fear for your life!"

  "My life?" His disbelieving laughter filled the room. "The King of Cornwall could not kill a headless snake!"

  "He might not be your opponent." She clutched at him. "One of his knights might take up the challenge and fight you in his stead."

  He threw her off in disgust. "King Mark has no knights worth fearing! What decent man would serve a wretch like him? I know them all, and I can beat them all." He showed his white teeth in a savage grin as he thought of a secret he would never tell.

  "You cannot go!" She was trembling so violently now that she could hardly stand. "I had a seeing—just now, as the storm came on—"

  He was suddenly still. He knew her Otherworldly skills too well to ignore this. "A seeing? What?"

  She closed her eyes, crooning in misery. "I saw a battlefield through a mist of blood—two knights fighting to the death—and one man down, face down in the mud—"

  "One man down?" He let out a cry of triumph. "Why, then, you saw my enemy, not me. No man in Cornwall could have me down!"

  Her eyes dilated and he read the question in their midnight depths. Could this be true? Dear Gods, could it be?

  "Enough of this," he said forcefully, taking her in his arms. "Send me to Cornwall, and I swear I'll lay the kingdom beneath your feet. I'll make King Mark your vassal, not Igraine's, and if he refuses, I'll send you his head in a box. Believe me, lady, the silly toad will scramble to kiss your hand!"

  "Marhaus, no," she moaned.

  He seized her face in one cruel hand. "Then you choose to keep me here as your lapdog? You allow all men to say, 'There goes the Queen's bed-slave'?"

  "No!" She struggled to be free. "You are my champion and my chosen one. Is it not enough that I took you to my bed? All the world knows you are the companion of the throne."

  "But not King." Swiftly he tightened his grip.

  She gasped with pain. "Oh, I know you, Marhaus! Your heart believes that you should be King!"

  "Only if you are my Queen. And only if you give me leave to carry your name and glory through all the world." His fingers found the silken hollow of her throat and moved down to brush her breast. "I shall blazon your beauty in countries yet unknown, and force their occupants to eat my sword." He buried his hand in her hair and drew her head back for a lingering kiss. She quickened like lightning at his touch, and his flesh stirred.

  "Come, lady," he said thickly, turning toward the bed. The storm had passed and great shafts of evening light were bathing the crimson hangings in pools of gold. She would stretch out in the sun as sensual as a cat, he knew, awaiting her pleasure and taking it fully too.

  He stroked her face, then opened the front of her gown, taking her heavy, full breasts in both his hands. "First let me love you as a queen deserves. Then afterward—" He paused. "I shall sail for Cornwall and bring a new world under your command!"

  Chapter 3

&n
bsp; "Here, Princess—up here!"

  Moving with care across the rain-washed roof, the old courtier leaned over the battlements and waved down to the courtyard below. Among the busy throng going to and fro, there was no mistaking the slim figure darting across the cobbles who responded at once with a merry wave.

  "Mind your footing," he called, "after all this rain."

  The tiny form acknowledged his concern and hastened on. Watching the young woman skim past the keep and dart into the tower, the old man saw again the child she used to be, a young sprite as playful as a fountain, with a laugh of endless joy. Goddess, Mother, he prayed, praise and thanks for this girl! If there is any hope for Ireland, it lies with her.

  And there she was, surging through the turret door onto the battlements, her face glowing, her smiling eyes alight. Up here she looked small no longer but lissom and well-formed, her body as slim and supple as a reed, her whole being reaching out for what was to come. Her tumbling hair shone like the sunset against her woollen wrap, and the gleam of her skin was the glow of the white trefoil. She wore a cloak of green and a gown of gold and within it she bloomed like the first flower of spring.

  Gods above!

  The old man shook his head, with a rueful smile. She always had the power to stop his heart. Would he ever harden himself against that trusting tilt of the head, that ardent air?

  "Princess Isolde!" he cried with a flourishing bow.

  "Good day to you, Sir Gilhan," she replied with a merry laugh, turning her face up to the watery sun. "And a grand day it is now the rain has stopped."

  Sir Gilhan smiled. "Lady, I'm at your command. What can I do for you?"

  The bright face became serious. "Sir, I need your help. You're the leader of my mother's council and before that you were her champion for many years. May the Mother grant me such knights when my time comes! But I have no one to advise me now." She shivered. "And if anything happened, I'm so ignorant!"

  "Not quite, Princess," he said gently. "You learned a great deal on Avalon when your mother sent you to study with the Lady of the Lake. The Lady found you could already read the writing in the wind, and see the Great One's purpose in the stars."

  Isolde's fair skin colored like a rose. "I was not the only one. Guenevere was there too. She was more gifted, she has the Sight."

  Sir Gilhan studied her. Did the dear girl not know she had her mother's Otherworldly air? That she had the same spirit of enchantment and a brightness like the sea?

  "Queen Guenevere is older than you are," he said. "You may well have the Sight, too, when your time comes. And don't forget the healing gift you have. Women in childbirth, sick babies, and knights half dead from the joust, you help them all." He chuckled. "I tell you, Princess, there's many a lord of the Queen's council who would gladly suffer some ailment for the pleasure of your cure."

  Goddess, Mother, the loyalty of these men!

  Isolde felt a sudden spring of love, and blessed him in her heart. "But until the Old Ones gift me with the Sight," she said impishly, "and the Little People whisper in my ear—will you tell me what I need to know?"

  He could not hold back a laugh. "Gladly!"

  "Then teach me, sir, what we have to fear. I've watched Guenevere and Arthur struggling to bring peace and justice to their land, and I want to do the same. We've had peace in Ireland all my life, but we must have enemies. Where are they now?"

  "Beaten back to their own lands, lady." Sir Gilhan felt a grim satisfaction warm his bones. "We fought many hard battles when your mother was young, and she fought hardest of all, leading us to victory time and time again. And Cullain, your father…" He pointed to the thick band of gold glinting on the middle finger of her right hand. It was all she had left of the man who had given her life, he knew.

  "Gods above, what a man! He was her first champion and chosen one, and he swore she'd never regret making him her choice. He fought beside her in every battle but the last when she sent him on alone, and together they were unbeatable. Once, when the Picts invaded, we drove them back to sea before they could leave their ships!" He chuckled. "Wait till you see them! They're battle mad, and a hideous sight with their wild tattoos. But your mother, the Queen, why, she…"

  Isolde listened entranced, seeing again her mother as she first remembered her. She'd seemed like a spirit from the Otherworld then, the tall, powerful figure at the helm of her battle chariot, racing round the training field in merciless mock-combat with her knights, her handsome face flaming, her silver sword flashing around her head. Isolde remembered her childhood delight and felt again the chill of betrayal as it slowly gave way to the endless sense of regret.

  She heaved an involuntary sigh. Why, Mother, did you never play war games with me, never train me for battle, never let me join in your councils debating peace or war? Was it the urge to protect her, as the Queen said, that had made her mother always hold her back? Or was it an aging woman's jealous fear of being supplanted by someone younger, by a girl already loved by the people and called La Belle Isolde?

  She dared not let her thoughts go that way.

  "—keep the peace here, as long as we command the head of the bay."

  Sir Gilhan was ending his tale. From the battlements they could see Dubh Lein's wide harbor and its strong defenses commanding the sea routes to the Western Isle. The castle itself was protected by deep ditches and stout walls, with towers and lookouts at each corner, and room for an army of men.

  Isolde nodded, satisfied. "If our enemies come again, then Dubh Lein is well defended from the sea."

  Sir Gilhan waved a hand toward the rear, where a massive gatehouse glowered out at the world beyond. "An attack by land would find us equally well prepared."

  Isolde paused. "But out in the country, where the people dwell in crannogs… ?"

  Sir Gilhan nodded. "It's true, the lake villagers have no defense."

  "And all over the island there are places where an enemy could land?"

  "There are indeed."

  She turned to face him. "Who would invade us?" Her question drew a wry smile from Sir Gilhan. "The same as always—our age-old enemies, the Picts." His smile faded. "Their lands are barren, ours are plenteous, and our nearness has often tempted them in the past. Their King is old, and the fire has left his sword, but his young son's already a fierce fighter, and they say he'll make his mark."

  "But not in Ireland," said Isolde crisply, "if we watch them as we should."

  The courtier gave her an approving grin. "Oh, we do, lady, we do. But there is more than one kind of enemy."

  Isolde felt again the shadow of her concern. "Say on."

  "Sometimes," the old knight said carefully, watching her face, "those who love a country can betray it for another, greater love."

  She stared at him. "What could be greater than loving our country? The land is our Mother, it's the Great One herself—it gives us birth, and at death it calls us home."

  Sir Gilhan looked away. His gaze was as gray and somber as the sea. "Sometimes a lesser passion may seem greater to one in love."

  She knew he meant her mother. "What are you saying?" she cried, flushing with shame.

  She felt him watching her again as he chose his words. "A knight may not speak against his lady, nor a lord against his queen."

  He is treating me like a child. Anger flooded her, and she looked him in the eye. "He may when a greater evil threatens us all," she said levelly. "Sir Gilhan, if you honor me, speak out."

  He bowed his head. "My fear is for the Queen. You know your mother has the spirit of incantation, and her passions are her gods."

  She braced herself. "Go on."

  "There are rumors that she means to advance Sir Marhaus—"

  "Sir Marhaus?"—Goddess, Mother, I knew it!—"How?"

  "He has been boasting that he will conquer new lands for the Queen—that she has given him her blessing to carry war over the sea."

  "You mean invade another country? Where?"

  Sir Gilhan shrugged. "Who kn
ows? But any attack will invite attack in return. We destroy our own peace when we go to war."

  And all for nothing.

  For my mother's love, and Sir Marhaus's pride.

  Suddenly she felt a thousand years old, no longer the girl who had stepped out so blithely onto the battlements before. She turned back to Sir Gilhan. "Well, sir, you have not trusted me in vain. I shall speak to the Queen and learn the truth from her."

  He nodded toward the door. "We may know it sooner than we think."

  Isolde turned. The dark shape of a woman appeared at the top of the steps. The neatly clad figure had a thoughtful, dignified air, and her calm movements showed an assurance far above her rank. Her face had lost the bloom of youth, but her dark-toned skin, bright eyes, and black hair coiled up in glossy braids still caught the eye.

  "It's Brangwain!" cried Isolde, mystified.

  Sir Gilhan craned his head. "The lady from the Welshlands who waits upon the Queen?"

  "Yes, and my nurse, too, when I was younger—though she was only a girl herself when she came to us."

  Brangwain approached with a curtsey. "Madam, a word?"

  Isolde spread her hands. "Always, Brangwain." She gestured to the knight. "You may trust Sir Gilhan. He knows my mind."

  Brangwain frowned. "Lady, forgive me if I speak out of turn. But the Queen said something strange about Sir Marhaus that I thought you ought to know—"

  "Sir Marhaus?"

  Isolde felt Sir Gilhan's troubled gaze. "Speak, Brangwain," she said steadily. "Tell us what you heard."

  Chapter 4

  Panting, the white mule climbed to the top of the cliff. Merlin slid down from the saddle and stared out at the setting sun. Below him the sea prowled around the rocky shore, and a flock of seagulls squabbled overhead. The old man threw wide his arms and eased his aching back. Cornwall at last! Ye Gods, it was good to be here.

  From the headland he could see the length of Cornwall and the country beyond, as far as the glittering point where the land disappeared into the sea. A grimace of satisfaction crossed Merlin's face. At least he did not have to fear for Lyonesse. Unlike the wretched Mark of Cornwall, the King of Lyonesse was both loyal and brave.