Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (16 page)

The air in the chamber lay heavy, like a pall. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the light, and he picked up the signs of mourning everywhere. Headdresses and jewels lay scattered on the floor. A tray beside the door held an empty flagon of wine and a few crusts of bread, clearly all that was keeping the Queen alive. Farther in, a great stand of armor dominated one wall, displaying a winged helmet of gold, a great shield of bronze, and a breastplate carved with swans in silver and gold.

He caught his breath. The workmanship was far in advance of anything he had seen before. Made for Marhaus, of course, to reward the champion when he came back in triumph to the Queen. He reached out in wonder.

A furious howl came slicing through the air. "Don't dare to touch!"

He whipped round and blanched at what he saw. "Your Majesty—"

The Queen lay huddled on the bed, her long plum-colored hair torn out by the handful and tumbling around her like blood. Her face was scored with the marks of her nails and tears stood in her bruised and swollen eyes. As he watched, she began to beat her breast.

"Are you looking for my love?" she keened, throwing back her head. "Don't you know he's gone?"

Alas, poor lady—

Palomides felt his soul dissolving in grief. He fingered the hilt of his sword. "All the world knows, madam," he rejoined sorrowfully, "when a hero has gone."

"
Yesss
!" She lunged forward, then drew herself up like a queen. "You're a sensible man," she said grandly, peering through the gloom. "And I know who you are." Her red-rimmed eyes narrowed. "Why are you here?"

"To win your help," he said abruptly. He shook his head hopelessly and spread his hands. "I have courted your daughter, and failed."

"Failed?" Her red-black eyes shot fire. "How?"

"I offered to make her my queen, and she refused." He bared his teeth. "She said that, like you, she was married to the land."

"Not so!" The Queen leaned forward with a savage laugh. "If she were, she would have taken a consort by now. We would have a young princess to follow after her, and a brood of other children around the throne." She spat with disgust. "But she will not make the choice."

Palomides's large eyes darkened. "Sooner or later, all women must make the choice. And no woman refuses a knight of the Saracens or a king of my tribe." He turned his gaze on the Queen. "Give her to me, Majesty, or I must take her by force. She has dishonored me!"

The Queen favored him with a sardonic smile. "In our country, sir, women may choose and refuse. And sooner or later, a queen has to choose." She laughed harshly. "Never fear, sir, I've destined her for your bed."

He started. "What?"

The Queen threw back her hair. "I shall hold a great tournament for her hand, with many knights."

His face cleared like sunrise at sea. "And I shall win," he said simply. "God will fight for me."

The Queen smiled like a mother tiger on her cub. "And when you do, Isolde must choose you. The champion will become the chosen one. Isolde must have a consort, because she must have a child."

What a woman!

"Majesty—"

Palomides's huge eyes took on a fervent glow and he looked at the Queen in awe. His mind flew back to the senior sultanas who ruled his father's household when he was a boy, women of ancient knowledge and brooding power. Such would this lady be as time went on.

And she had planned all this. Isolde would be his! The dark chamber faded and he saw ahead long days of happiness and nights of bliss, galloping beside Isolde across burning sands, lifting the dusky veil of her pavilion under a desert moon—

"Sir—"

He came to himself with a start. The Queen was bearing down on him through the gloom. She was near enough now for him to smell the salt of her tears.

"See, lord, see?"

She opened her hand. Lying on the palm was a fine sliver of metal glinting in the dim light. He knew at once what it was. All Dubh Lein now knew how Marhaus had died. But why would the Queen treasure such an ill-omened thing?

Keening to herself, the Queen turned on him again.

"Revenge," she moaned, "will I have my revenge?"

Palomides shook his head. "Lady, lady," he said sorrowfully, "who can say?"

"Come here, Sweyn! Over here!"

The Earl pricked up his ears. That sounded like Gawain. And the boy should be there too, if what the horse master had told him was true.

He quickened his pace into the stable yard, impervious to the blooming of a glorious day. And there they were, in a whirl of horses and grooms, Gawain and Lucan busy mounting up, calling to young Sweyn as Lienore crossed the courtyard toward them with her son by the hand.

"Good lad!" Lucan laughed, flashing his even white teeth. "You did well last time. We'll make a knight of you, young Sweyn, never fear."

Lienore dropped her eyes modestly to the ground. "Be good to him, sirs," she said in a soft, musical voice. "The Mother Herself will bless you for taking care of a fatherless child."

"This way then, young man!"

The two knights clattered out of the stable yard with young Sweyn and his pony between them, the small boy overshadowed by their bulk. Armed with his own small helmet, shield, and lance, he was a miniature knight from head to foot. Transfixed, the Earl did not hear Lienore approaching till her voice dropped into his ear.

"Well, Father?"

He came to himself with a start. "What d'you mean?" he snapped.

"I mean things are going well," she returned, undeterred. "Guenevere thought she'd thwart us by sending for Merlin, but while they waited, they've all fallen for young Sweyn."

"And some of them for you," the Earl retorted savagely. "I've seen Gawain and the others sniffing around you like dogs." He glared at her. "We want no more bastards, d'you hear?"

She raised one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Not even if it's the King's?"

"What?" His eyes bulged. "Are you saying…"

Lienore surveyed the horizon and savored the pause. "No," she said. "Not yet."

"But you mean—"

She fixed him with eyes that matched her dainty blue gown. "Oh yes, Father," she said serenely. "It needs only time."

"Time!" The Earl fought down a nervous laugh. Seducing the King— Gods above, would another bastard endear them to the King? Or would King and court see her for the trollop she was?

"Look, Lienore," he began, with a menacing frown.

"Look yourself," she replied indifferently, pointing toward the gate. A withered old man in a threadbare pilgrim's gown was making his way into the courtyard with slow, limping steps. The Earl hastened forward with his whip upraised.

"Be off with you!" he roared. "We want no beggars here!"

The old man turned, and smiled into his eyes. He raised a hand, and the Earl found he could not move. As he stood motionless, frozen in rage, the pilgrim threw back his hood and straightened up. Shaking out his rich gray locks, he seemed to swell and grow, no longer a crippled beggar but a calm and stately old man.

His golden gaze fell on Earl Sweyn and he smiled. "Good day, my lord," he said courteously. "Will you take me to the King?"

"Merlin!"

Arthur's joyful bellow split the air. "God only knows how dearly we've longed for you here!"

Behind Arthur, Guenevere's lovely face was wreathed in smiles. "You are welcome, sir."

Merlin disengaged himself from Arthur's embrace and paused to cast an unfavorable eye over the low sofas with their yellowing sheepskin pelts, the battered tables, and worm-eaten chairs. His mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. Yes, time I was here.

"You have heard the news from Cornwall?" Arthur began. "They have fought off the threat from Ireland, for now, it seems. We intend to press on to King Mark to make sure."

Merlin nodded. "But that, I think, is not your main concern now?"

"No." Arthur took a deep breath. "Merlin, there's a child here they say is my son."

Guenevere leaned forward, as pale as a lily in her silken gown. "I do not trust the woman," she said tremulously. "But the child—"

"He's a wonder, Merlin," Arthur said simply, unable to keep the pride out of his voice.

Merlin strolled away to the window. "I have seen the boy."

Arthur started forward. "Where?"

Merlin waved a hand. "Just now, in the courtyard, riding out with Lucan and Gawain." A gleam of something like malice crossed the ancient face. "He has a princely air. And a man needs a son."

Guenevere's lips compressed into a thin line. She knew that Merlin was jibing at her and had never felt her childlessness more painfully than now. "Only if his mother is to be believed."

Arthur winced under his wife's baleful stare. "Did I lie with her, Merlin?" he cried desperately. "Is the boy my son?"

There was a pause, then Merlin shook his head. "Ask the Old Ones, boy. This is beyond the reach of my simple art."

Simple art! Guenevere's eyes searched the old enchanter's face. "But surely you can tell if he's Arthur's son?"

Merlin's eyes were opaque. "My stars are dark. I cannot see so far." He spread his sinewy hands and shrugged resentfully. "Even a Lord of Light does not know everything!"

Arthur's face was filmed with sweat. "Help me, Merlin," he said in a voice not his own. "What shall I do?"

"Ah, there I can guide you, boy." Merlin stepped forward and took Arthur's arm, bowing to Guenevere. "Will you excuse us, lady? I shall walk with the King until dinner, then I must be gone." He steered Arthur possessively out the door.

Guenevere watched them go, then turned back to the room. Her large eyes were welling with distress, but her mouth was set in an attitude the companions knew. "Lord Merlin does not know the truth of this, it seems. We must look elsewhere."

Bedivere rose to his feet. "What shall we do, madam? Give us your commands."

Guenevere paused. "One woman knows." Her voice was implacable. "You must get it out of her."

Kay stared. "Madam, the Lady Lienore won't tell us the truth! She'll stick to her story like blood to a rusty knife."

"Not Lienore." Guenevere forced a smile. "The fortune-teller. Travel far, travel wide, but track her down."

Gawain's jaw dropped. "She could be anywhere!"

Lucan seconded him. "They're traveling people, madam. They don't stay in the same place from month to month."

"They don't, it's true." Kay shook his head. Slowly an idea was forming in his brain. "But they always take the same routes."

An answering light was dawning in Lucan's eye. "Tracks they've been following since time began, if we went back to where the tournament was held, we could trace them from there—"

"Yes!" Bedivere cried. "We could at least try."

The blood rushed to Lucan's head. If they took to the road, they'd be knights errant and have adventures again. They'd get at the truth and clear the King's name.

He pounded Gawain on the back, then punched the air. "To horse!" he cried. "To horse!"

He came to himself in deep water, drowning in the sea. Then the face of his uncle swam toward him through the glass-green waves and he knew that King Mark was drowning, too.

"Sir Tristan," the bloodless lips intoned, "do you swear to honor me above all others to your dying day?"

"I do!" he cried, willing it away.

But the spectral form seized him by the neck and drew him down. "Ah, Tristan!" cried Mark, in a voice full of tears. "Now you are mine till death!"

Then a small, strong hand cupped the back of his neck and raised his head. He heard again the voice he had heard before, saying, "Drink this." He had no sensation of drinking, but after a while he grew warm. Then he sank again, but into a different sea.

Icy currents kissed his face and froze his limbs. The spirit shape of his uncle howled and writhed around, and he knew it had come to drag him back down to the depths. With the last working part of his mind, he knew he was only reliving the oath to King Mark because it was the last thing he remembered in the world of light. But the darkness had claimed him now. A mortal chill settled around his heart, and the briny taste of death filled his mouth.

Then a woman's form came between him and King Mark. Through the surging waters he caught the gleam of a face like a lily, and a halo of bright hair. He looked up from the depths into a pair of bright eyes that danced like sunlight on waves, and forgot his oath.

Meanwhile, the voices around him became more cheerful by the day. One was an older woman from the Welshlands by her sharp, lilting tones. The other sounded like birdsong on a May morning or the rising sun breaking through the clouds. Soon he knew that the voice of gold belonged to the owner of the hard, clever little hands. Sometimes when she was nursing him a strand of her hair brushed his pillow or he felt the edge of her veil.

She smelled of the outdoors, fresh and clean and sweet, and always she carried with her the tang of the sea. When he sank, as he did, down to the cold dark place, he thought she swam after him and brought him back.

At last he awoke to a morning as fresh as the days when the Shining Ones ruled the world. Beside his bed stood a girl with smiling eyes and a flowing mane of hair, red as the sunset and golden as the dawn. She wore a sea-green gown and a fine fillet of gold with a simple white veil holding back her clustering curls. His mind was as clear as his flesh felt now, and he knew he was lying in bed because he was ill.

Lying…

He was lying in Ireland, whose champion he had killed. And nothing but lying and more lying lay ahead if he was to live.

"Who are you, sir?" came the girl's sparkling voice.

And he turned his face away because he could not lie.

"What's wrong with him, Brangwain? Why won't he speak to me?"

Brangwain raised her head from the task of sorting herbs. "I don't know, madam." She favored Isolde with an unfathomable look. "It's hard to tell what he thinks, he's so brave."

"Yes, isn't he?" Isolde cried. "He never flinched when I searched his wound, only smiled and closed his eyes."

Brangwain gave her another piercing look, while her busy hands worked. "And he's young and handsome, and for sure he's gently born."