Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (12 page)

The door flew open, and Sir Houzen came thrusting in. "Is he gone?"

Isolde nodded. She could not speak.

Houzen glared at her with eyes of fire. Then he laid a hand on Marhaus's shoulder and bowed his head. "Have no fear, my lord," he cried bitterly. "The wretch who murdered you won't be far behind."

The look in Sir Houzen's eyes chilled Isolde's soul. "How so?"

The knight gave a malevolent glimmer. "Marhaus thought it was a secret he would never tell, but we all knew. He poisoned his dagger when he went into battle, in case he couldn't win outright with the sword. That's why he was champion for so many years. One touch of it, and his enemies were dead."

"For sure?" Isolde heard a roaring in her ears.

Houzen nodded, and his face set in a vengeful grin. "As this last one will be now, big as he is."

"The knight from Cornwall?" The roaring increased. Isolde shook her head. What did it matter to her? Why should she care?

"Yes! Marhaus struck him in the thigh, and even you, Princess, can't cure him of that!" Houzen's laugh of triumph rang round the room. "He's a dead man now, Tristan of Lyonesse!"

"Get on, old fool, get on!"

Muttering sharply to himself in the Old Tongue, Merlin pushed his way through the tangled undergrowth. Twilight was blooming in shades of purple and gold and soon all the stars would be doing their dance of fire. But here in the depths of the forest, dusk had turned to darkness long ago. He tugged on the leading rein.

"Mend your pace, damn you!" he grumbled to the mule plodding behind.

Briars tore at his legs, and studded his gown with thorns.

"Let an old man through, brothers," he chided irritably, and he heard them sniggering like schoolboys as they obeyed. Ahead of him, one oak tree towered over others nearby. Merlin set his course for it with a prayer of thanks.

The oak tree had come from an older world than this. Time had worn away the earth round its base, and now its roots writhed above the ground in fantastic shapes. Through a split in the bark, its hollow trunk led down to a warm, sandy den below. Merlin gave a weary grin. Tonight he would rest here and call the place his home.

Rest…

He could feel every one of his ancient bones creaking, craving to lie down.

"Yes, yes," he told them tetchily, "soon, soon."

His thin lips curled. Tomorrow he would make for Arthur's side again and hurry to the castle of Earl Sweyn. But tonight… A crazy tune took shape and flew round his head like a bee. Soon he would be safe and snug in the underground cave.

At the foot of the tree, he unbridled the mule and turned it loose to graze. Then, slipping through the hollow in the trunk, he dropped down into the space beneath. With practiced hands he felt in his saddlebag for his flints and soon raised a light. Contentedly he set his back against the wall, and looked around.

Above him the roots of the tree made a strong, domed roof, curving down to a dry sandy floor. Along the walls were cushions of fragrant bracken and dried leaves for his aching limbs. The air was rich with the sweet, loamy scent of the earth, and he feasted on the savor for his evening repast. Then, wrapping himself up in his cloak, he lay down and drifted away.

Sleep came soon, great waves of fatigue breaking over his head. Smiling, he sailed the dreamless depths of night, and set his course for the mountains of the moon. How long he wandered there he did not know. Then the voice of the sea rushed softly through his mind.

Merlin, Merlin
—

He stirred. "Who calls?" His sleeping eyes looked out beyond his den and he saw the wide ocean with a great shape above.

The figure bowed and leaned down to him, rippling across the sky.
Hear me, Merlin. Your path tomorrow does not lead to Castle Sweyn
.

He sat up urgently. "Not to Arthur—why?"

The veiled shape nodded.
You must take the road to Cornwall, to Castle Dore
.

Now he was bright awake, and scrambling to his feet. "Tristan?"

Tristan.

"Defeated by Marhaus?" He groaned in dread. "Surely not! What then? I saved his father-—must I save him, too?"

Save Tristan, too.

So! Merlin could not speak. Fumbling around in the dark, he seized his bag and forced his skinny body back up through the hollow tree. Above him in the moonlight, the pale figure floated in the void, her soft voice now the wind rushing through the trees.
Hurry
—
hurry
—

He stumbled forward and bridled up the mule. Then, sobbing with tension, he set off back down the track.

Hurry, hurry-

"I go! I go!" he screamed to the careless sky. The vision was fading from his waking eyes, and the forest lay dark all around. But still the mellow voice pursued him like the incoming tide:
Hurry, Merlin, hurry, or you will come too late!

Gods above, how vile to be lying half dead, waiting for the dregs of life to drain away! With a hearty shudder, Andred stepped out of the sickroom, glad to be alive. It was bad to see any man suffer, and sickening to watch his uncle at Tristan's bedside, weeping like a girl. But how lucky that the gallant young champion should defeat the invader then die, leaving him sole heir to Cornwall as before!

Strolling down through the courtyard with the sun on his back, Andred tried not to smile. With the whole of Castle Dore watching and King Mark wild with grief, he must not seem to be enjoying himself. Still, he could not pretend to be sorry for Tristan's death. Only now did he realize what a shock it had been, the sudden appearance of a rival for the throne.

"Thanks be to God," he breathed piously. This turn of fate would be worth many candles in church when Tristan had breathed his last.

And it could not be long. Turning into the Knights' Hall, Andred permitted himself a grin that split his face. When Tristan collapsed on the battlefield, they had felt the fever raging through his limbs. And then they had found the poisoned wound that had set him on fire.

After that, there was little they could do. When the fever died, Tristan had taken a mortal cold, his limbs set like stone and his jaw locked in a grin like death. Then the great heat returned and his body filled with blood, till his arms and legs jerked wildly and could not be still. Mark had had him bled many times, and still the deathly cold came back worse than before.

Well, God was good. Tristan could hardly last another day. Andred sighed. By sunset, the shadow on his future would be gone.

"King Andred!" he whispered, and his eyes grew bright. To the tilt-yard then, while the sun shone. And how could it be otherwise, now that his own sun was rising once again?

The sickroom stank of rotting flesh, and worse. But the figure on the
bed was beyond care. Tristan lay like a marble knight on his tomb, and his breath was so shallow that each could have been his last.

Unconscious as he was, he could still hear all the doctors' low pronouncements, each one sounding unhappier than the last. In the heat of his fever, he had raged with distress at Marhaus's treachery, then the fire left him and he knew his life was done. He would never sit his horse again, never see another May morning or glory in the lovelight in a lady's eyes. Yet the Lady had promised him a true love—where was she now? Cold—all cold. He shivered uncontrollably, and began to weep. Then soft arms lifted him to another place, and he drifted away.

Pacing the chamber or sitting by the bed, Mark watched Tristan sinking and was in agony.

"God help me," he groaned, tears pouring down his cheeks. "I'd rather lose my kingdom than see him die!"

Dominian raised his head. What? Of course Tristan must die. Far better that the young knight should pass away swiftly than that a Goddess worshiper should come so near the throne.

"Compose yourself, sire," he said sternly. "We may not rail against the will of God."

But Mark was not listening. "We need more healers!" he cried feverishly.

"Sire, you have called for healers from far and wide." Dominian ground his teeth as he reviewed the false pretenders of recent weeks. First was the fever surgeon, a bright-eyed loon who brewed up his cures from the slime on the castle pond. Next came the leech woman, so greasy, fat, and sluggish that she looked like a leech herself. She brought hundreds of her hateful creatures on her back in a leather sling and covered Tristan with the black, blood-eating things.

Dominian felt his anger curdle in his throat. God preserve us from these pagan slaves, there was no end to their vile mummery. One old witch even wanted to lay cobwebs in Tristan's wound, swearing that they cured infections and had saved the great Alexander of Greece. He had seen to it that the old crone received a sound lashing for her lies, and told Simeon that the rule of God would mean witches like this hanging from every tree.

Well, he had done all he could. And Tristan would soon be with God—never had a soul so sick returned from the borders of the Otherworld. Dominian raised his hands and resumed his prayers.

There was a knock at the door. "Sire, your barons crave a word with you."

"Oh, God, no!" groaned Mark.

Reluctantly he followed the servant to the anteroom. Waiting for him were a dozen or so older knights and lords, with their leader, Sir Nabon, at their head. A tough, compact man of middle age, Nabon had given his youth and three fingers of his right hand to defending his country, and had headed its council for most of his adult life.

Nabon stared unsympathetically at Mark's tearstained face. "Sire, we need your presence at our councils of state. You neglect your kingdom by grieving here."

Mark tensed. "Don't talk to me, I forbid it!" he shrilled.

But Sir Nabon had served Mark's father, and had no fear of the son. And with Mark as weak as this, there could hardly be a better time to drive a point home. "We were debating the succession again today, sire," he said trenchantly. "And our concern is all the stronger now Tristan is so sick."

"Indeed, yes," came the stern voice of Sir Wisbeck at Nabon's side. Wisbeck was so old, Mark brooded resentfully, that by rights he should be dead. But the soldierly frame was straighter than his own, and the white thatch covered one of Cornwall's best brains.

"A king's first duty, sire, is to his land," Wisbeck said gravely. "And if Sir Tristan dies—"

"Don't say that!" Mark cried superstitiously. "Tristan will live, he must! And don't forget there's my nephew Andred, too."

Nabon drew a breath. Mark would never know that his barons deeply distrusted Andred and would never accept him as their king. Tristan's appearance had seemed like a gift from the Gods, but that hope had hardly been born before it was gone. No, Mark must marry. Nabon returned to the attack. "Even with a hundred nephews," he growled, "a king needs a son."

Behind Nabon, a short figure thrust forward to be heard. Despite his strutting gait and unimpressive frame, Sir Quirian prided himself on his lineage and was much given to ideas of dynasty. "Without a son, my lord," he said loftily, "the throne is not protected when you die."

"Why should I die?" Mark blustered.

Sir Nabon clenched his fists. "For the same reason that we all do, sire!"

Mark eyed him fearfully and longed to knock him to the ground. "Well, then?" he muttered.

Nabon looked him in the eye. "You must take a bride. A fine young princess or, better still, a queen. One who will grace your throne and increase your lands."

Sir Wisbeck smiled encouragingly. "And give you many sons as time goes by."

Mark clutched his head. "Tell me who!" he shrilled.

There was a sudden commotion outside the room.

"Hold there, sir, you can't go in!"

"Out of my way, fools!"

The door burst open and Merlin came surging in. His green garments fluttered round him like leaves in a storm, and his yellow wand was groaning in his hand. One ring-encrusted finger was pointing at Mark, but his stinging curses fell freely on every head.

"Blindworms!" cried the old enchanter bitterly. "Asses, mules, and dolts!" His yellow eyes were flaming like winter suns, and his gaze found Mark and stabbed him where he stood. "What have you done to Tristan?"

Mark goggled at him. "He's had the best care that money could buy! Why, the astrologers alone—"

"Mountebanks, quacks, and frauds!" Merlin screamed. "You're killing him with this foolery, don't you see? You should have sent him to Ireland on the first tide!"

"To
Ireland
?" Mark's eyes bulged. "Why?"

Merlin threw up his hands. "Every poison has its antidote, but it's only found in the place where the poison grew. Surely you knew that?"

Mark stared at him in horror. "But Tristan can't go to Ireland," he gasped. "They'd murder him there!"

Merlin gave a furious laugh. "Your crooks and horse-leeches are killing him here!"

Sir Nabon stepped forward, to nods from the barons all round. "It must be Ireland then. But we'll have to conceal who he is, to protect him from their revenge."

"I saved the father." Merlin's eyes glowed like moons. "I can save the son."

"No!" Mark shed a few round, childish tears. "I don't want him to go."

Sir Wisbeck gestured toward the sickroom and shook his head. "Sire, we have no choice."

"He's too ill to be moved." Mark cast a desperate eye at the great figure lying motionless on the bed. "He won't live through the voyage."

Merlin snorted with contempt. "He'll die for sure if he stays!" He turned to the barons. "Sirs, will you give me your help? I have a ship lying ready at the dock."

Venus, the love star, was blossoming over the sea. The solemn group stood in the twilight on the misty quay, watching the dark-sailed ship as it drew away. Tristan's unconscious form had been installed belowdecks, and the boat was sailing on the evening tide.

At Mark's right hand, Dominian was silently praying for Tristan to pass into the arms of death. With his uncle's loud weeping in his ears, Andred, too, put on a sorrowful face and doomed Tristan in his heart. Let the tide take him, he prayed fervently, let the sea demons eat his bones.