Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (19 page)

A gleaming figure bounded onto the field, resplendent in armor and trappings of mulberry black.

Isolde nodded. "And Sir Palomides, of course."

She could not keep the caustic tone out of her voice. From his blood-black crest to his sinister, glistening spurs, the Saracen king outstripped every other knight. His sword was of shining silver, a gold crown adorned his helmet, and a crescent moon of solid gold gleamed on his shield. When he rode up before them, he was careful to show all due reverence to the Queen. But Isolde read the glint in his eyes and knew his mind.
Not yet, sir,
she told herself through gritted teeth.
You may not yet look at me like that and think, "You're mine!
"

Slowly the procession wound its way round the grassy arena, passing before the viewing tower to greet the Queen. One by one she welcomed each knight by name, and bowed to those who came with their fellow knights as a troupe. A dashing band from Little Britain galloped in with their blue and white banners held aloft, loudly proclaiming that a knight of France would surely carry the flag.

"
Pour l'amour des dames!
" they caroled as they cantered past. "For the love of the ladies, we will do splendid things!"

Behind them came a dozen or so men with wind-burned skins and brilliant, staring eyes. At their head rode a boy of twelve or fourteen, tall and well-built, showing teeth as white as a wolf's in a fearless laugh. Like all his men, he wore a length of checkered plaid, kilted round his waist and passing over his shoulder to hang down his back. His only armor was a set of oxhide guards on his forearms and shins, and an ancient breastplate of molded and figured bronze.

Yet still he had a kingly air of command, and a gold coronet held back his thick, curling hair. As he drew up before the viewing tower, he stared at her as if he had never seen a woman before. All this she saw and hardly noticed as her eyes took in the strangest thing of all. The faces of all the men entering were tattooed with blue.

Blue, purple, and more: scrolls of rose and amber, indigo, black, and red began on their cheekbones and ran down their necks, shoulders, and arms. Laughing, they bantered to and fro in an unknown tongue, a high guttural sound like the call of otters or foxes coughing in a distant den.

Isolde leaned forward, entranced. "Who are they, Brangwain?"

"Picts, lady!" Brangwain laughed. "Our ancient enemies from the far north of the island of the Britons across the sea." She nodded to the boy riding at their head. "That's Darath, their young prince. They say he's a promising boy. They'll have brought him here to flesh his sword." She gave a reassuring smile. "They're here for the sport, lady, not to win your hand."

The heralds' cry rang out around the field. "Let the contest begin!"

At the sound of the trumpets the grassy arena erupted in a free-for-all, as each knight took on the nearest opponent and tried to beat him down. Some conflicts were swiftly decided, as age and treachery outwitted youth and hope. Isolde watched one wily old warrior baffle a series of novices by drawing them out to heroic, exhausting deeds, yet always evading the point of each flailing sword. But no sooner had he tumbled his last young foe to the ground than he was humbled in turn by another knight, who rode head and shoulders above the rest.

"That's Sir Byrrell the Big," murmured Brangwain in her ear. "His father was a giant, did you know?"

Isolde shook her head. She neither knew nor cared. She was watching Palomides, and what she saw made her sicker as the day went on.

For the Saracen knight was unbeatable, it seemed. With his stallion rock-solid beneath him, he was holding his ground and winning every bout. While others roared and bellowed and charged about, he simply cut and thrust, remaining uninjured by staying clear of the fray. Fighting shrewdly, he drew out his opponents to feats of pointless excess, then knocked them from their horses in one contemptuous sweep.

As she watched, she could tell that he chose every bout with care, allowing the better knights to defeat and exhaust one another while he took on lesser foes. In truth his chivalry was only skin deep, it seemed. When the young prince of the Picts attacked him boldly and pressed him hard, she saw Palomides goading his stallion to rear up and strike the boy down.

The next instant the biggest of the Picts drove his horse forward to thrust the young prince out of the way, while the rest formed a ring around him and rushed him from the field. Isolde shook her head. Palomides was lucky that the warrior who had taken the full force of the falling hooves was more intent on protection than revenge. As the knight galloped after his fellows, bleeding from the head and with one arm hanging uselessly by his side, she knew that the Picts would not overlook such treachery again.

But the heralds had not seen Palomides spurring his horse, and took the beast's rearing as an accident of war. So they noted down another win for the Saracen, and his tally now placed him at the head of the field. The last few of the knights attacked bravely, but Palomides beat them all down. One by one he disposed of the survivors, steadily, savagely, like a slaughterman at play.

At last he held the field alone as the champion, bathed in the angry light of the setting sun. In a dream of disgust she watched him ride up to the Queen's tower, raise his visor, and make a deep bow. His face was that of a stranger, masked with dust and sweat.

Isolde stared.
And this man seeks my hand?
Loathing gripped her guts and ran like fire through her blood.

"Your Majesty!" he cried. "I claim the victory here—and the prize!"

The Queen rose to her feet, flashing Isolde a look of triumph and delight. "Sir Palomides," she crowed, "you have fought well—"

"Hold there!"

A stranger knight was galloping down the field. He was clad from head to foot in silver-white armor burnished like a pearl, and a mighty silver sword swung by his side. But his shield was unmarked, and he carried no banner or flag. Beneath the snowy plumes of his helmet, as white as the wings of a swan, a sharp visor like a metal beak concealed his face.

Isolde felt the hand of fate constrict her heart.
Who are you, stranger?
her inner voice cried out.

The newcomer came to a halt facing Palomides.

"I challenge you to single combat," he called in a muffled voice, "for the hand of the Princess, who will be Queen of this isle!"

"No!"

Black clouds of anguish covered the Queen's face. She leaned over the gallery rail, her eyes raining daggers on the scene below.

"Heralds!" she shrilled, "close the lists! The tournament is over. This knight may not compete!"

The herald marshal stepped forward. "Majesty, the lists are still open till the new champion is proclaimed. This challenge is within the rules of the day."

"Quit the field, coward!" the Queen howled to the newcomer. "Sir Palomides has been fighting all day. It is against the laws of chivalry to offer battle to an overbattled knight."

"True, madam," the stranger called back. "But today I have fought hard battles of my own. The knight and I will find ourselves well matched. And he alone will decide on my challenge now." He turned to Palomides with a courteous bow and raised his voice until all could hear. "Sir, I know you for a noble king and a man of might. You hear the heralds: I challenge you to the field."

Palomides curled his lips in an elegant snarl. "And I know you for a knight with no name. I have beaten every man on the field today. When I have you down, I shall not be merciful."

The stranger waved a gauntleted hand. "I offer single combat till the loser yields up his sword." He paused. "The winner to extract any forfeit that the loser must swear to pay."

Any forfeit…

A savage sense of triumph swept Palomides's soul. His God was with him, he could feel it in his bones. He would win this battle and make this knight his slave. The fool had forfeited his life out of his own mouth, and what better way to end a victorious day? The Queen already cherished him like a son. And as soon as he had Isolde in his grasp, he would make himself more than a son to his new mother-in-law…

He focused again on the stranger knight and smiled like a panther marking down its prey. "You will do battle, sir?"

"I will. Swear to accept my terms!"

"I swear." Palomides slapped down his visor. "Have at you, then!"

Isolde never knew how long the two knights fought. The clash and thud of their weapons, the smell of the trampled grass and then of their blood, the screams of the charging horses, all blended in a dream of misery that gripped her, body and soul. In growing dread she tracked the sun down the sky, and dared not contemplate the moment when darkness would come. The day was dying in a burst of gold and red, and soon it seemed that her new champion's bold challenge was fading, too.

For his strength was ebbing with the light, and every blow he took weakened him. At last Palomides's swinging sword swept him from his horse, and he lay on his back on the ground, unable to move.

"So!"

With a sardonic laugh, Palomides vaulted from his horse and approached the fallen knight.

"You are mine now, sir," he cried gloatingly. "By your own oath, you have forfeited your life to me. It is my will to enslave you for the rest of your life."

There was no answer from the figure lying on the grass. Palomides frowned and stepped nearer.

"D'you hear me, sir?" he cried. He hefted his sword and brought the point to the stranger's throat. "Answer, slave, or you'll never speak again."

The next moment he felt the sword wrenched out of his hand and a cold metal gauntlet close like a vise on his wrist. Pulled forward, he lost his balance and found himself flipped over onto his back while the stranger leapt up and stood over him, sword in hand. Gibbering, he felt the point pierce the flesh beneath his chin, and a warm trickle of blood ran slowly down his neck. With the fragments of his mind he saw the red seeping through the joints of the pearl-pale armor and knew that his enemy was bleeding heavily, too. But he could only babble, "My life!— spare my life—let me live—"

"Sir, you may live, and love," came the sorrowful voice. "But nevermore here. You must leave the Island of the West, never to return. You must forsake the Lady Isolde and never write to her, talk to her, or see her again."

"No!"

A howl of fury racked the Queen. Eyes bulging, she leapt forward and gripped the rail. "I decree otherwise! And I am Queen here still!"

Isolde embraced her mother in a sadness almost too great to bear. "Madam, it may not be—Sir Palomides gave his word."

The new champion looked up at the Queen and began again. "Sir, the same is true for all the ladies of this land," he intoned, leaning heavily on his sword. "You must swear to leave them all for the rest of your life, on your honor as a knight."

"I swear!"

Screaming, Palomides seized the dagger in his belt and slashed at the straps that held his armor in place.

"See, see!" he howled, hurling his heavy breastplate to the ground. "I shall never bear arms in this cursed land again!" He looked up at the gallery and held out his arms. "This is for you, Princess," he wept. "All for you! Bid me farewell to a life of sorrow, for I shall never find joy in love again."

Isolde's heart stirred. "Sir, for every man there is the woman of the dream," she called back. "Your true love waits for you, hopes for you, longs for you, even as I speak."

His huge and beautiful eyes filled with tears. "She will be you, my Princess, in another skin." His bow swept the ground. "Farewell."

"Farewell." She raised her hand. "May your God bring you safely back to your own land."

She bowed, and gravely watched him walk away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the stranger knight heavily remounting his horse, preparing to approach.
Goddess, Mother, spare me—have I escaped a knight I knew for a man with no name, no face?

"Isolde, what shall we do?"

Her mother was weeping piteously by her side. "We must have new blood!" she muttered madly. "The land needs new blood to keep our line alive." Closing her eyes, she began on a mumbled prayer.

"Mother—"

The sound of departing hooves took Isolde by surprise. She turned. The stranger knight was galloping off the field.
What, gone already, stranger, without a word? Wounded, too, when I should have taken care of you? Will I ever know who you are, or be able to thank you for setting me fre
e?

Isolde drew a deep breath and her spirits soared. The stranger had gone, but so had Palomides. Now she could hurry back to the pilgrim and tell him that the clouds hanging over her had vanished clean away.

The pilgrim…

Suddenly she saw his face with new clarity, and found herself longing to see him, to be at his side. If the threat of the tournament had made him take to his bed, then would these glad tidings make him better again?

Impatiently she endured the delay as the tournament dispersed and the Queen processed back to the castle, attended by her knights. At last she was hastening to the pilgrim's chamber with Brangwain on her heels. From the end of the corridor, she could see that his door was ajar.

"Sir?" she called joyfully, as she knocked and hesitated only a moment before stepping through.

There was no light in the chamber, and she thought he must be asleep. A silver moon shone in through the window and gently traced the still outline on the bed. Moving forward as her eyes adjusted, she could not believe what she saw. The pilgrim lay on his back in a pool of blood and there was no sign of life in his clouded eyes.

Marhaus, why did you leave me?

Who can I trust now? Who will tell me what I need to know?

Snarling, the Queen prowled her chamber, black thoughts flying around her mind like bats. Who was the stranger knight, and what did he want? Where had he found the courage to defy a Queen?

She groaned aloud, tearing at her gown. And why did he leave? Isolde was his as soon as he beat Palomides. Why didn't he stay to claim her as his prize?