Isolde Page 4

  The Queen turned, anguished afresh to see her daughter's clear blue-green gaze and skin like a wild rose.

  "Isolde, you don't know…" She fell back, clutching at her heart. "Goddess, Mother," she cried, "I can't bear this! Oh—oh, my love—"

  Isolde took in the haggard, tear stained face and drew a breath. This is the moment. Speak! "Madam, it's said you will advance Sir Marhaus—send him to Cornwall—"

  "Curses on Brangwain for betraying me!" the Queen cried, rearing up. "They warned me that all those from the Welshlands are Merlin's kin. Take her, then, let her serve you, I want her no more!"

  "I shall be glad to take Brangwain as my maid," Isolde said firmly. "But Sir Marhaus—"

  "What?"

  "Why should he go to Cornwall? if you send him to make war, we offend the Old Ones, the Otherworldly keepers of the land."

  "Wrong, Isolde!" The Queen threw her long legs to the floor and paced away furiously into the gloom. "We offend them far more if we keep our men idle here at home."

  Isolde followed. "But why should we make new enemies, when we have old ones across the sea?"

  "The wretched Picts?" The Queen gave a dismissive laugh. "Marhaus says their King is failing, and their Prince is a boy. We have nothing to fear from them."

  "Mother, even the Romans feared the Painted Ones!"

  "Listen to the child!" The Queen turned on her with alarming suddenness, then her snapping black eyes softened and she brought a tender hand to Isolde's cheek. "Little one," she said intently, "you must leave this to me." A pageant of emotions played over her long, mobile face. "One day you will be Queen here, the spirit of sovereignty and the mother of the land. Then you will know when to strike." Her voice hardened as her mood swung again. "And then you'll know that it's better to instill fear in others than to suffer it ourselves!"

  Oh, Mother, Mother—"You sent me to Avalon to learn the faith of love, not fear."

  The Queen wheeled around on her again. "Isolde, do you talk to me of love?" she cried furiously. "A miserable virgin—a girl who denies all the joy the Goddess gives?"

  Isolde flushed with anger. "Mother, have a care—"

  But the Queen raged on. "Gods above, every girl of your age on the island has seen her first Beltain by now! Every one has danced at the feast and lain down among the fires, watching and waiting for the stranger she can love."

  Isolde's temper flared. "You call it love? Creeping to a bed on the bare hillside to lie with a man she has never seen before?" Her voice deepened. "You rule your body, Mother—I rule mine!"

  The Queen's eyes glowed with an unearthly fire. "But, Isolde, to wake in the bracken with the man of the dream—a man from another country, tall and unsmiling in the dark. Maybe not even a mortal, but one of the Fair Ones themselves, hungry for mortal love. At Beltain, the doors of the Otherworld stand open, and the Fair Ones long to enter the circle of the Goddess as we do. And we creatures of earth add our vigor to Her struggles, as the Mother strives with the sun to be born anew."

  Isolde stood transfixed. Suddenly she saw a mist rising, a ring around the moon, and a tall stranger shining in the night. Goddess, Mother, bring me to my love—

  "And that's not all!" The Queen's voice came from very far away. "You refuse to take a lover here at court! How long has Sir Palomides courted you now? Any other girl would thrill to a Saracen knight, a king in his own land and a hero in ours. And still you rebuff him with your girlish ways and little frozen smiles." She strode around the chamber in increasing agitation, plucking at her gown. "I know what I must do! I shall hold a tournament and the prize shall be your hand. All the knights of chivalry will compete, and the worthiest will be yours."

  "Madam, no!" Isolde cried. A strange sensation passed over her and she seemed to hear slow hoof beats approaching down the avenue of time. Was that a mounted figure, the shape of a man? She brushed the sight away. "I will know my knight when he comes."

  "Your knight is here!" The Queen seized Isolde's arm in a ferocious grip. "And you'll forget all about Marhaus when you mate with Palomides! You need a lover, since you're jealous of mine!"

  Isolde met her mother's wild black eyes and did not flinch. "Hear me, madam!" she said passionately. "I wish you joy of Sir Marhaus, as I wished all your companions before. I know you must maintain your vigor, when your vital life is the life of all the land. A queen changes her consort for the good of all."

  "So?" The Queen widened her eyes, then gave a tremulous smile. "Then you know more than I thought, Isolde."

  "Champions fall, men grow older, flesh decays," Isolde pressed on furiously. "So we hold new championships, to let younger men triumph in their turn. As the Mother at Beltain renews herself with the young sun, the God Bel, so the Queen may restore herself at will."

  The Queen's eyes were huge and luminous. "For the life of the people," she murmured dreamily.

  She had to break into the dream. "But, Mother—a queen does not choose for herself. It may be her duty to renew the marriage of the sovereignty with the land by taking a new consort every year—"

  Her mother stiffened. "Yes?" she said dangerously.

  "—but a queen is married to her country, not to one man." She paused for emphasis. "She must choose for her country, not for the man she loves. If you send Sir Marhaus to Cornwall, that will not help us here in the Western Isle!"

  "Isolde, enough!" the Queen raged. "Who is Queen here, madam, myself or you?"

  Isolde shook her head. "We hold this island in a line of queens. Our foremothers had it from the Great One Herself. In Her name, we should not make this war." She raised her voice. "Sir Marhaus must not go!"

  "Too late!" A peal of mocking laughter echoed around the room. "Marhaus has gone! He sailed on the evening tide!"

  Chapter 6

  The high road lay open and shining in the morning sun. Ahead was a granite coast of soaring cliffs and ragged inlets, and the moist air was sharp with the tang of the surge below. A young knight was dreaming his way down the hill, singing along with the sea. Sometimes he heard sweet tunes on a fairy wind and wove them into fleeting melodies. But more often he sang his own songs of delight, especially on golden days like this.

  Other days the sounds in his head 'were harsher and the music still and sad. The knight frowned, and a flurry of bleak thoughts chased one another across his well-made face. The life he had been living was hard, seeking gain and glory at foreign tournaments, living in camps or on the road, eating and sleeping with the worst and the best. But from his birth he had stood too near the sorrow at the heart of things.

  At the foot of the hill the road dipped, then rose again to another mighty crag. His horse, a powerful gray, twitched his ears and fell into the rhythm of the song. To the right of them now the cliff dropped away to a sheltered cove, where the waves sighed and sobbed on the rocky shore. The knight saw the salmon leaping and the plump gray seals basking in the sun and his spirits rose again. "Tirra-lirra," he sang, "lirra-li."

  The noonday sun shone on his silver helmet and the gold torque of knighthood round his neck. Across his back he carried a silver bow, with a silver quiver of arrows ready to his hand. Next to it hung a shapely silver harp just large enough to sit to the curve of his body when he played. His battle sword swung from his saddlebag beside a gold and silver shield, and he wore a slender ring of emeralds on the little finger of his left hand. His thick cloak was woven of summer green and gold, and his tunic was the color of ivy in winter when its black berries bloom.

  Near the shore the road divided into two, one track leading inland toward the great bluff ahead, the other winding along the cliff above the rocks. At the fork in the road he saw a poor aged man in a ragged tunic and a cloak of flea-bitten fur, leaning on a staff of knotted yew. His legs were clad in bindings of rough cloth, and a beggar's bowl dangled from the cord around his waist. A tangle of wild gray hair spilled from his battered hood, and even in the spring sunlight, his withered arms were blue with cold.

  The knight had travel
ed too far to take any stranger on trust, and his sword was never far from his right hand. But on closer acquaintance the old man seemed harmless enough.

  "Greetings, old sir," he called, drawing up his horse. "Would you care to ride? If so, mount up, you need walk no further today."

  The beggar turned, and from beneath the tangled mat of hair, the knight felt the shock of a glinting, golden gaze. With one bony hand the old man waved the offer away. "You come from Lyonesse?" he demanded brusquely.

  The knight's fair face clouded. "Not recently," he said with pained reserve.

  The old man craned forward, leaning on his stick. "So you have no news of the King's son—they called him Tristan, I believe?"

  The knight stared. "I am Tristan, sir. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason," returned the old man imperturbably. "But, meeting you, it came into my mind. Once I knew Lyonesse well, but I have not been there since the boy was born." He gave a courteous bow. "And boy no longer, I see, but a fine young prince. You have been traveling, my lord?"

  Tristan nodded. "Across Gaul and down through France, following jousts and tournaments and deeds of arms." He gave a sardonic laugh. "I had a lot to learn."

  "But you proved a great hero—success came to you?"

  "Success?" Tristan thought of the days in the ring and the nights on the hard ground, the stink and the crowds in the camps and the screams of wounded men. "Perhaps. I cracked a few heads and won my share of the spoils."

  "But you did not find a lady!" The old man cackled. "And a knight is nothing without a lady, just as a man is lost till he meets the woman of the dream?"

  "Wherever she lies."

  Suddenly Tristan had had enough of this. He straightened himself in the saddle and took up the reins. "Can you tell me, old sir, where this road leads?"

  "Why, this is Tintagel, boy," the beggar cried. "Over that bluff lies the castle of Queen Igraine. The high road will take you there, but it's not for you." He pointed to the track along the cliff. "There lies your way."

  With an effort, Tristan kept his irritation in check. "Sir, I go to Tintagel to pay my respects to Queen Igraine. Then I'm going on to find tournaments and feats of arms."

  "You will, boy, you will. But before that—"

  The old man raised his curious yew wand. There was a soundless stirring in the air and Tristan grew cold. "What do you mean?"

  The beggar fixed him with a glittering eye. "There is a lady craves a word with you," he said abruptly. "And by your oath of chivalry, you may not refuse."

  Gods above, would he never be free of the old man? Tristan drew a breath. "Refuse a lady? Never. But what does she want with me?"

  The old man cackled. "She will show you where your pathway lies."

  A woman who would show him where his future lay?

  Tristan laughed aloud. Of course! She must be a fortune-teller, and this old man directed her trade! He'd seen these women at the tournaments, dark-faced Gypsy queens with dancing girls and music and all manner of good things. Well, why not? He might as well see her. He wouldn't get rid of the old beggar any other way.

  He vaulted from his horse. "Show me."

  The old man drew near, seizing Tristan's arm. "Leave your horse here," he commanded. "He will not stray. Then make your way down the face of the cliff. When you reach the sea, circle three times among the Maiden rocks and the way will open to you."

  They had reached the edge of the cliff. The sea was pounding on the rocks below. Tristan felt the rushing, roaring wind, and looked up the high road to the world he knew. Beyond the great bluff lay a broad smiling plain, while dread and desire alike drew him down to the sea.

  "Go, boy, go!" cried the old man tetchily. "The Lady of the Sea waits for no man."

  "So be it." Tristan turned and, lowering himself over the edge, began to climb down the cliff face.

  Shaking his head sorrowfully, the old man watched him go till the spread-eagled figure looked no bigger than a fly on a wall. Then the air shivered and changed shape as the ragged beggar became Merlin again, his golden eyes glowing, clad in his robes of power. Extending his arms, the old enchanter made the sign of grace in the air over Tristan's head.

  "May all your Gods go with you, boy," he breathed.

  Carefully Tristan picked his way down the trackless cliff. Halfway down, a small hawthorn tree clung to the furzy turf, blooming its heart out in blossoms of foaming white, and he rested there, braced against its knobbly trunk. As he went on, bright tufts of lichen, orange, black, and green, offered themselves to his grasp and he came across toeholds carved in the face of the rock. Nearer to the ground the cliff sloped and the climb became easier, till at last it felt like going backward down a rough flight of stairs. But still he was trembling in every limb by the time he reached the shore.

  The tide was out, and a half-moon of wet sand was densely crowded with jagged, sea-washed rocks. A dozen or twenty, all higher than himself, clustered around a taller rock leaning back against the wall of the cliff, like maidens dancing attendance on the lady they served. Tristan smiled. So—three times among the Maiden rocks…

  He began to circle, making his mind a blank. Around he went and around, till it seemed to him that the rock he had called the Lady was beckoning to him, leaning away from the cliff. Behind it he glimpsed a shadow, like the mouth of a cave. Moving forward, he threw a last glance around. A mighty sea eagle hovered overhead, and the air throbbed with the force of his clamorous wings.

  Tristan stood for a moment, then saluted him with a solemn wave. Near the shore, a great salmon leapt in a shining arc to inspect him, and Tristan met his yellow eye and greeted him, too. Where the sea met the shore, he thought he saw female forms riding the white crests of the waves, laughing girls like mermaids slipping in and out of the foam, but he could not be sure. Yet still he felt bright eyes all around him and knew that whoever the Lady was, her sea courtiers guarded her well. With a swift prayer for their blessing, he slipped into the crack in the rock.

  At once a dark tangle of boulders barred his way. Threading his way through, cursing his size and bulk, he found himself in a low tunnel leading into the side of the cliff, surrounded by a darkness like that of a tomb. Now he was wading through water, and the pebbly base of the stream was slipping beneath his feet. Losing his balance, he threw out a hand and his fingers met a slimy mass of seaweed on the wall. Cursing, he forced himself on.

  He did not know how far he went into the dark, only that the crashing of the waves outside became a distant roar. Each time he thought he was there, the low passage turned and led him on again. But then he came to the end of the tunnel and could no longer doubt. Brightness surrounded him, and he found himself looking into places he had never dreamed of. He took a long breath of the warm, sweet air and his mind filled with the simple, joyful thought, I have come to the place where the Fair Ones live.

  A great peace invaded his soul. He thought of the mother he had never known and it seemed to him that all his life had been tending toward this point.

  Whatever it was, he was not afraid. "I am ready, Mother," he murmured, and stepped forward into the light.

  Chapter 7

  A mounted troop rode slowly through the trees. The long procession, bright with lances and flags, had left the broad highway behind, and now followed a path through the heart of the wood. Overhead the dark pines had knotted themselves into a thick roof of spiny green, and the air beneath was stale and moldering after the fresh spring outside. A dank morning dew on the branches dripped onto horses and men, and through all the vast forest, not a bird sang.

  At the head of the column, riding behind the King, Gawain shuddered and looked round. The eldest of the Orkney princes, Arthur's closest kin, Gawain proved his courage every time he took up arms. As well built as Arthur, and born with a rougher streak, he was the only knight who, in jousts and tournaments, could bring his great kinsman down. So he knew his fellow knights would not mistake his reluctance for fear as he pointed ahead. "Ye Gods, Kay," he gr
owled, "what are we doing here?"

  Kay sighed. He knew Arthur loved Gawain as the first of the knights who had rallied to his side when he pulled the sword from the stone, but that did not make Kay care for the big Orkneyman any more. As Arthur's foster brother, brought up with him from boyhood, Kay was quite sure who Arthur's first knight had been.

  "You know as well as I do, Gawain," he snapped, his sallow face flushing with mild ire. "We're heading for Cornwall to relieve King Mark. And on the way, we're calling on Earl Sweyn."

  Gawain shook his head. "But why?" he persisted. "He lives harmlessly here and we hardly know he's alive. Why turn aside from our road to flush him out?" His broad face brightened. "We should be in Cornwall for the battle there."

  Gods, these beef-witted, blood-crazed Orkneyans! Kay held back a groan. "A king must know his lords if he's to keep the peace. Remember what happened as soon as King Uther died? All his lands were lost, and we had to fight to get them back."

  "So!" Gawain nodded owlishly. "Earl Sweyn could be an enemy?"

  "Who knows? But the King must take note of a large estate like this, midway between Cornwall and Camelot." He shrugged. "The Earl has a lot of tenants, Arthur says, so it's not clear who owns much of the land." He gave a sardonic laugh. "And that's as good a way as any for a landowner to get out of parting with the men and money that the King needs."

  "To fight the Saxons," Gawain put in importantly, with the air of one who understands the game.

  "Not only the Saxons." Kay suppressed the weary urge to turn over the conversation to the good-natured Bedivere riding at his side. "All the petty kings who still resist Arthur's rule, the rogue lords and knights, outlaws and masterless men—there's much to be done to restore peace in the land."

  "So Earl Sweyn… ?" Gawain puzzled on. "He lives alone here in the depths of the forest with his daughter, they say—did he never bring her to court or to a tournament?" A misty look passed over the bright blue eyes. "I think I remember the name, once, long ago—Kay, you were there too, d'you remember it?"