Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle

The First of the Tristan and Isolde Novels

THREE RIVERS PRESS • New York

Copyright © 2002 by Rosalind Miles. Map copyright © 2002 by Rodica Prato.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Three Rivers Press, New York, New York. Member of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.

www.randomhouse.com

THREE RIVERS PRESS and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.

Originally published in hardcover by Crown Publishers, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 2002.

Design by Lauren Dong

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Miles, Rosalind.

Isolde, queen of the Western Isle : the first of the Tristan and Isolde novels / Rosalind Miles.

1. Iseult (Legendary character)—Fiction. 2. Tristan (Legendary character)—

Fiction. 3. Cornwall (England : County)—Fiction. 4. Knights and knighthood—Fiction. 5. Arthurian romances—Fiction. 6. Adultery—Fiction.
7. Ireland—Fiction. 8. Queens—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6063.I319 I86 2002
823'.914—dc21
2002019435

ISBN 1-4000-4786-2

At the time of King Arthur and Queen Guenevere, there was a king called Meliodas, lord of the country of Lyonesse. By fortune he wedded the sister of King Mark of Cornwall, a lady both good and fair. Then he was unjustly cast into prison when his wife was great with child, and her travail came on betimes. She was delivered of a son after many grimly throes, and she called the boy's name Tristan for her sorrows, and so she died.

Then Merlin brought Meliodas out of his prison, and the King married another queen, who hated the young Tristan with all her heart.

So she ordained to poison him, but it happened that the Queen's own son drank the poison, and fell down dead. Then the King took her by the hand, and drew his sword and said, "Tell me what drink this is, or I shall slay thee." And she fell to her knees, and told him why she would have slain Tristan, so that her children should enjoy the land.

"Well then," said the King, "you shall have the law."

And so she was damned by the assent of the barons to be burned. And as she was brought to the fire, young Tristan knelt to his father and begged a boon.

"You shall have it," said the King.

"Give me the life of my stepmother," said Tristan.

"Take her, then," said the King, "and may God forgive her, if you can."

So Tristan went to the fire and saved her from her death. Then the King sent the young Tristan into France to learn deeds of arms, and Tristan became a knight great in all chivalry for his bigness and grace.

Then the Queen of Ireland sent her champion to King Mark of Cornwall to demand tribute, and King Mark could not withstand him, so the cry went out for a knight to do battle against him. Then some of his knights counselled King Mark to send to King Arthur for Sir Lancelot of the Lake, that was at that time named the most marvellous knight of all the world. But others said, "Have ye forgot your sister that married King Meliodas of Lyonesse, that hath a son that is become a fair bold knight?"

So Sir Tristan rode to his uncle, King Mark, and took the battle on. And the Queen of Ireland who made that war had a daughter who was known for her beauty through all the world as La Belle Isolde…

—
Morte D'Arthur

Night fell across the forest, tree by tree. A rising moon shone through the tangled branches, and one by one the creatures of the day slipped to their silent beds. In the shadows, the mounted figure waited, brooding on what was to come. His cloudy robes and long gray hair blended with the night, and his hooded eyes never left the road ahead. Any rider coming from Ireland had to pass this way. And the messenger was coming, he knew it. There was nothing to do but wait.

Leaning forward, he stroked the neck of his patient mule, and a crooked smile played over his ancient face. All his life, Merlin mused, he had known how to wait. Through all his lives, as Druid, seer, and magic child, he had watched and endured as the world went by. He drew in the rich smell of the woodland, sensing the pulse of the living earth. Beneath the moldering leaves of winter, he could feel the approach of spring. This, too, he had long awaited, through a hard season racked with storms and snow. All winters in the end gave way to spring.

But now—

Merlin's heart groaned in his breast. "Gods, give us peace!" he prayed. "Or if not peace, grant me a little time!"

Peaccce
—
tiiime
—a mocking night wind whisked his words away. The old enchanter ground his yellow teeth. "I know, I know!" he moaned to the empty air. "You warned me, and I did not hear!"

For the signs had come, there was no doubt of that. Even in Camelot, joyfully ensconced with Arthur and Guenevere, he was always Merlin, and Merlin never slept. First of all, a month and more ago, wandering in the wilds, he had been enveloped by a soft wind from the west, full of sad murmurs and foreboding cries. Then a week or so afterward, alone in his chamber when all the court slept, he had heard the sound of women's voices raised in grief, keening over a battleground as women did in the distant isles. With it came a seeing such as only a Druid can bear. The same trembling in the wind had brought him the sight of women washing their warriors' bloodstained garments at a ford, and the stark glimpse of a green hillside darkened by gaping graves.

After that had come the saddest sign of all. On the first day of spring, all the court had turned out to greet the newborn sun, reveling in the pale beams warming the earth. Merlin had lagged behind as the short day ended and the crowd turned back to Camelot. On the outskirts of the forest, before the approach to the great palace with its white towers and golden roofs, he saw a windblown sea bird, miles from any shore. Bravely she battled over the darkling plain, and came to rest at last in his open arms.

She held a bright green trefoil in her beak. With infinite gentleness he took it from her and wrapped the small spent body in his cloak, cradling her in the bosom of his gown. She raised her long white neck and fixed him with an angry, tender eye. D'you hear, Merlin? she asked him without words.

"I hear," he replied softly in the Old Tongue, and blessed her head. Then she tucked her head under her wing, and breathed her last.

He touched the shamrock then, and knowledge came. The word was coming from the Western Isle—the plant with three leaves had no other home. Ireland, the Island of the West—he closed his eyes and memories sharp as knives stabbed him to the quick. Suddenly he was a love-crazed youth again, studying on the Druids' own sacred island, pursuing the Goddess in the place She called home, the land so beloved by the Old Ones that they had made it the sweetest spot on earth.

Gods above, how he had loved Her then! And any woman in Her shape or form. And in return, many women had loved him. At the height of his love for the Great One, he had found his power. Afterward he returned to Ireland whenever his spirit failed, and always found there the succor that he sought. Indeed, on one such visit, many lives later, the Queen of the Western Isle herself had come to him, and taken him for her own.

"The Queen," he breathed in delight, "ah, yes, the Queen." Gods, what a woman, born to have her way with any man! A warmth pulsed through him and he brought his crabbed hand to his lips in a phantom kiss. Fine days, they were, and even rarer nights. He would not forget.

But for days now he had felt the coming of another messenger. All day at court he had heard the Great Ones whispering in his ear, and at the end of the dinner hour, he had slipped away. His white mule had come at once to his call, and as soon as he was out of the palace, his spirit had soared. Whatever was coming, he would meet it here in the forest under the stars, and wherever it led him, he was ready for the task.

The mists of night were rising from the ground. All around him the creatures that loved darkness were venturing from their holes. A hunting vixen slipped past him through the grass, and soon he heard her victim's dying cries. A life had ended, but her young would live: life and death were all one in the end. Whatever came, it was only a new beginning to that age-old dance, a dance he had been treading since time began.

The old man eased his skinny haunches in the saddle and waited on. At last the mule pricked up its ears and raised its heavy head.

The old man cackled. "You hear it too, my dear?"

Soon the earth throbbed with the distant drumming of a horse's hooves. Merlin eased forward to greet the rider as he came.

And here he was, a cloaked figure flying furiously through the dark. Merlin broke his progress with a hail. "Ho there, traveler!"

"Lord Merlin?"

In the pale moonlight Merlin saw a youth, thin-faced and tense with purpose, his dark hair standing on end. He wore a rich woollen wrap of deep sea-green, fine breeches, and a pair of well-made boots. Gold jangled at his wrists and round his neck, and a band of gold held back his long black hair. He had the look of a young priest, a holy dreamer who had given his life to a Great One he worshipped and adored. Now he was fighting to hold down his panting horse as recognition spread across his face.

"Sir, it is you I seek!" he cried with relief. "I am sent to tell you that there will be war within the month!"

"I knew it!" Merlin gnashed his teeth. "Where, boy, where?"

"Cornwall will be attacked, the Druids say."