Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (13 page)

Salt spray fell round them like a weeping cloud. Merlin stood on the prow of the ship, arms raised, cloak flapping, chanting above the roaring of the tide. With his wand in his hand, he wove a string of spells, charming the sea to speed the boat on its way. But still he could hear the soft sigh in every wave,
Hurry, Merlin, hurry, or you will come too late!

Within the inner chamber, the talking had gone on for hours. Things had gone quiet in the small hours, then the tears and anger had started up again. Arthur was accounting to his wife for the sudden appearance of a bastard son, and none of those listening envied him at all.

The four companion knights had been in attendance all night, sprawled in the antechamber, snatching a little broken sleep. Lienore's casual claim that Arthur had fathered her son had scattered the royal banquet to the winds. Arthur and Guenevere had withdrawn in frozen shock, promising to meet Earl Sweyn and Lienore the next day. Since then, they had not left the inner room.

Now the sun was up, its golden fingers warming the dusty room. Gawain yawned, heaving himself out of his chair, and crossed to a window to greet the day.

"How much longer do we have to wait?" he mourned. Outside the June dew was pearling the grass and he hungered for the hot thrill of the chase, thundering through the woods or charging at the thickets to flush out the wild boar. He turned to Kay. "How long will the Queen keep him dangling like this?"

"As long as it takes," snapped Kay. The air was stale with the bodies of four men and the dapper little knight was longing to escape.

"Well, I still don't believe it!" Lucan jumped to his feet and raked a hand through his hair. "Not Arthur—he's too pure!"

"You're right about that," growled Gawain, who had felt Arthur's displeasure at his own amorous exploits often enough. He grinned at Lucan. "Now if it had been you, you wretch…"

"More likely to be you!" Lucan retorted. "But there were so many knights there, how can we know what happened so long ago?"

"It's true." Kay shook his head. "But Guenevere's not the woman to forgive him, all the same."

"It's a lot to forgive." Bedivere's quiet voice surprised them all.

Lucan stared. "What, a moment of madness eight years ago, before they were married, before they even met?"

Bedivere shook his head. His mild brown eyes were full of foreboding and pain. "A moment that's brought him a child, when the Queen herself has no offspring of her own? And a son besides, who might inherit the kingdom, when she must want to keep the Summer Country in the rule of queens?"

Lucan shrugged. "At least we have an heir, and a likely one, too."

Gawain scratched his head. "He's a fine boy," he agreed, stroking down his rough fair hair, "and he favors our kin. Why don't we bring him to court, teach him everything he should know?" His big chest swelled. "I could take an interest in the lad myself, if he's Arthur's son, he's my kinsman too."

"Gawain, hold your tongue!" Kay could have howled with rage. "Don't you see that bringing young Sweyn to court would mean having the mother and grandfather there too? A pair of scheming crooks who'd give Arthur no peace—"

There was a thunderous knocking at the outer door. The guards threw it open and a travel-stained rider was shown in, carrying a scroll. "Message for the King!"

The inner doors opened to the sound of weeping within, and Arthur came out. "Yes?"

The rider knelt and delivered his missive with a broad smile. "From the King of Cornwall, sire. He has defeated the Irish challenge for the throne. Your mother, Queen Igraine, is safe in Tintagel and the champion of the Western Isles is no more."

Arthur's face cleared. "Thank you, sir." He set down the scroll and bowed, surveying the signs of the messenger's long, hard ride. "We shall attend to this later. You will be well rewarded for your pains."

He watched the man go, then met the waiting eyes with a pallid smile. "That's some good news at least. No need to press on to Cornwall till we've dealt with things here." He paused and gave a hollow sigh. "It could be true, you know, what they're telling us." His anxious eyes sought Kay. "We were at that tournament. You must remember it?"

Kay nodded. They had spent hours talking of nothing else. "We went for the jousting," he said stiffly. "To try our skill."

Gawain laughed self-consciously. "And don't forget the fair. We knew there'd be jugglers and acrobats and all strange things. And we wanted to meet some girls…"

Arthur paced to and fro, avoiding their gaze. "You remember the fortune-teller?" he asked in a low voice.

The fortune-teller? A hot flood of memory rushed over Kay. Flashing black eyes, two heaving mounds of olive-skinned flesh, a fearsome set of white teeth, and a wildcat grin—she had frightened him then, and she terrified him now. He forced himself to laugh. "She stopped you in front of her tent."

"Then she dragged us in," Arthur muttered, looking at the floor.

"It was packed with people waiting to have their fortunes told," Bedivere put in quietly, "and more Gypsy women, dancing and selling ale."

"What else?" demanded Arthur hoarsely.

Kay could still see the rich and glittering gloom, the dark silken hangings, the odd pinpoints of light. "It was very dark."

Arthur rounded on them. "But the brazier, d'you remember that?" he demanded. "They threw herbs and crystals on it, and made sweet fumes?"

Sweet fumes, oh yes—

Tears started to Kay's eyes. Breathing their rich savor had made the little knight as tall as Arthur and as wise as Merlin himself. Like a slow-worm in spring, he had shed his dark hair and skin and had been reborn in all the fair splendor of Arthur's comely kin. In this fume-filled sleep all women had loved him as much as they loved Arthur, and one above all had loved him and claimed him for her own.

Bedivere sat very still, remembering, too. "Sire, we saw wondrous things in the fumes that day."

Things beyond speech—almost beyond recall. Bedivere sighed with wonder. His own seeing had been of the Welsh Marches, the magical hinterland of his childhood home. There as a boy he had seen the Fair Ones walk, for they loved the misty borderlands between one world and the next. With the fumes, they had come to him again, and this time he had seen the Shining Ones wrapped in their veils of light. One above all, a great womanly veiled shape, brooding above the waters of the sea…

"Great things we saw, sire… as you must have done, too," he trailed off lamely.

Arthur drew himself up. "In truth, I can't quite remember what I saw. But I swooned in the fumes and slept, as we all did. So a woman could have taken advantage of me, Guenevere says." He tried a manly laugh. "That's the only way this thing could have come about."

Yes and no, Arthur, Kay wanted to say, but would not. "What now, my lord?" he forced out.

Arthur's face cleared. "Well, at least I have a fine son. if Earl Sweyn can convince me that the boy is mine, then he must be acknowledged, and I've told Guenevere so." He smiled. "Of course his mother will have to come to court as well, and his grandsire besides, if the Earl can leave his lands."

Kay gasped. Already he could smell the sweet stink of disaster ahead. "But, sire—"

Arthur held up his hand. "No buts, Kay," he said reprovingly. "A knight will always honor his own son." He gave a rueful smile. "I may have done wrong, but I will turn it to good. I shall honor my oath of chivalry while I live."

Wrong, Arthur, wrong! Kay's inner voice screamed in his ear. We need no dubious bastards, cunning whores, and crooked kingmakers around the throne.

"My lord—"

It was Guenevere, translucent with sadness, standing in the door. The gold at her neck and waist caught the rising sun as she shook out her white silk gown. "Sir, if we are to welcome your newfound son to court, there is one above all who should be there."

Kay's heart leaped in his chest. Clever woman, clever Guenevere! If any man could tell true Pendragon from false and reject a false pretender without delay—

Arthur's brow relaxed. "Merlin!" he cried joyously. "He's the man. We must send for him." He smiled fondly. "He'll be so proud that I have a son!"

Maybe—maybe not, thought Kay thankfully. But Merlin will know.

He could tell from his fellow knights' faces that they felt the same. "We'll get him here, sire," he said.

If it is not too late.

Kay shivered as he heard a cry from another world:
Hurry, Merlin, hurry, or you will come too late
!

Sorrow behind, and nothing but trials to come
—

Goddess, Mother, help me and strengthen me now.

"Take care of the Queen, Brangwain. She will sleep soon, when the all-heal starts to work."

Straightening her back, Isolde stepped out of the Queen's House and crossed the damp cobblestones of the courtyard to the Great Hall. High over the castle great blue and black clouds labored with unshed tears and a weeping mist was rolling in from the sea. She nodded.
Yesterday we laid the champion to rest. Today the whole world is grieving for his death
.

In the Great Hall the Queen's lords were waiting around the green baize council table with Sir Gilhan at their head. She saw their open surprise as she approached and moved calmly to the place of honor to take the Queen's seat.

The bronze arms of the throne were cool to her fevered palms.
Will they accept me?

"Welcome, my lords," she said.

The nods and muttered courtesies as they sat down did nothing to answer the question
Who is with me now?
Of the dozen or so men round the table, some grizzled, others still in their prime, she could count on Sir Gilhan, she knew. And Sir Houzen, red-eyed and deathly pale: he would be mourning the loss of Sir Marhaus for a long time to come.

But the well-groomed knight opposite, appraising her with an oblique, dark-eyed stare—Sir Vaindor had been the Queen's champion and chosen one before Marhaus had defeated him and replaced him in her bed. Would he be scheming to get back into the Queen's favor now that his rival was gone?

And old Sir Doneal farther down the table, lighting up the gloom with his white hair and blazing eyes—he'd always been loyal to the Queen—what would he do now? Next to him she caught another cool survey, then another, and knew with a shock that the handsome Sir Vaindor was not the only man weighing up his chances after Marhaus's death.
Goddess, Mother, are they all hoping to get into my mother's bed?
Her stomach lurched as a worse thought was born.
Or
—
Goddess, no
—
surely not mine?

No, she was dreaming, this was too gross to be borne. Briskly Isolde took herself in hand. "The Queen has asked me to attend your meeting today."

Seated at Isolde's side, Sir Gilhan narrowly suppressed a snort of glee. From what he'd heard, the mourning Queen had no thought of her council, locked away in her own world of pain. But thank the Gods for this girl! She at least knew that a kingdom had to be governed, and was ready to try. She'd dressed for it too in a regal gown of rust-red velvet bright with gold beading on the bodice and sleeves. Tall and intent, her clustering hair held back by a woven gold fillet, she looked every inch a queen. Gilhan's subtle mind leaped eagerly ahead. Now, if she could rule for her mother, with their help—

"How is the Queen?" he asked carefully.

Isolde did not want to think of the deranged thing on the bed, tearing her hair and crying out for revenge. "She is not well."

Sir Gilhan assumed a sympathetic air. "The loss of Sir Marhaus is a grievous blow."

Isolde looked at Sir Houzen. "How did he die?"

Sir Houzen's head snapped back. "Like a knight of Ireland," he said defiantly, "valiant to the end! But the coward King of Cornwall brought in the greatest champion of Christendom against him, a knight who'd fought in France and Gaul, even the Holy Land."

Sir Gilhan leaned forward with interest. "Who's that?"

"Sir Tristan, they called him." Houzen's ravaged face composed itself in a sneer. "Tristan of Lyonesse. They said he was the King's nephew, but he was twice the size of the King."

"A giant, then?" queried Sir Vaindor, stroking his thick glossy hair and uneasily calculating his chances against such a man.

Houzen's eyes flamed. "A monster!" he affirmed. "Like a wild man of the woods."

Isolde shook her head. "So Sir Marhaus was overwhelmed?"

"And he must be avenged!" Houzen fixed Isolde with a bloodshot stare. "I beg you, lady, when the war band strikes back against Cornwall, grant me the command. I was his chief companion—it is my right."

War band?

Isolde leaned forward. "Sir—"

"Their champion's finished, Marhaus saw to that," Houzen raced madly on. "Their knights are cowards, they can't defend their King. One swift strike at his stronghold is all it'll take. I could do it with thirty— no, twenty-odd good men."

Around the table, Isolde saw, no man would speak. Every eye was on her, waiting for her response.

"And then?" she inquired in measured tones.

"Kill the King!" Houzen's swollen eyes lit up. "Pillage the town and put it to the sword—make every one of them pay for Marhaus's death. Then we'd lay the whole kingdom at our Queen's feet. And that would honour Marhaus as he deserves!"

They call this honor?

Yes, and my mother would, too!

She strengthened her voice. "My lords?"

An unhappy silence hung about the room. Sir Gilhan was the first to speak. "Marhaus is gone. Is this the best way to remember him?"

Sir Vaindor regretfully stroked his luxuriant mustache. "We'll miss Marhaus enough as it is. We can hardly spare the lives of more knights as well."

Isolde nodded, bleak visions of burned-out houses and ruined crops filling her eyes. "And the cost is not only in lives."

Sir Doneal gave a harsh, rusty laugh. Gods, what it was to get old! Once he would have relished such a fight, but not now. "Especially if the King of Cornwall strikes first!"

"Will he do that?" Isolde took a thoughtful breath. "Cornwall has never threatened us before."