Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (2 page)

"Cornwall?" Merlin gasped. "But the Queen of Cornwall has no enemies. She rules for King Arthur, and she will protect the kingdom with her life."

"All the more reason for an enemy to strike at the King through her."

"Arthur installed King Mark there as her vassal," the old man cried, "to keep the old Queen safe."

The boy shook his head. "The danger now is more than King Mark can withstand."

Merlin gripped the reins in a trembling hand. "Danger—from where?"

"From the Island of the West."

"Ireland!" Merlin struck his head. "As the seabird warned me!"

Black thoughts rained down like thunderbolts on his head. A long-suffering land, ruled by an unruly queen. A people who relished warfare as much as they cherished love and laughter and the joy the Goddess gives. And Cornwall, a fine prize for any invader—a rich and fertile land, as green as Ireland and as beautiful, a mere step across the water for the skillful sailors of the Western Isle.

So—Ireland striking at Cornwall.

There was no time to lose. He turned to the messenger. "You have done good service, boy. What is your name?"

The young man's head went up with unconscious pride. "My name is nothing. I serve the Lady, and the Great One who made us all."

"But yourself—?" Merlin probed.

A rare smile made the boy's face beautiful. "Set me down as one who loves Ireland and her Queen."

Merlin frowned, his thoughts darkened by memories of a face ravaged by the misery of beauty, a body racked by passions beyond her control. "The Queen of the Western Isle?"

"Herself." The boy let out an ecstatic breath. "And her daughter, the Queen who is to be."

"Isolde, yes," Merlin agreed fervently. "Well, boy, to Cornwall it is!" He raised a hand in farewell. "First I must speak to the King. After that I shall follow you down the Great West Way."

He stood and watched the messenger gallop off. Then a gentle laugh behind him warmed his soul.

"No need to tell Arthur, Merlin, he is here." There was another chuckle. "But you knew that." Merlin turned. The cloaked figure in the shadows made a courteous bow, steadying his horse in firm but quiet hands. "I did not mean to intrude on your meeting here. But Guenevere saw you leave the hall and urged me after you."

"You are welcome, Arthur." Merlin's gaze roved over the newcomer's lofty frame and strong-featured face, clear gaze, and thick fair hair, and he sighed with delight. Not even his old lord and master, Uther Pendragon, had gripped his heart like this. Hastily he recollected himself and arranged his features into a forbidding scowl. "You have not come too soon."

Arthur's gray eyes were troubled. "War in Cornwall, then? When we still face the invaders on the Saxon shore?"

"And trouble within Ireland, too," Merlin said grimly. "But not as we think."

Arthur stared. "How so?"

Merlin closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to gather around his head like moths. "Ireland is at peace. Her people have no reason to seek war. But if her Queen is nursing some dream—some desire—"

As she always did, he added to himself. Half woman, half goddess, the Queen's dreams were her desires. Especially when she was under the sway of a man. And when was she ever without one man in the shadow of another, treading hungrily on his rival's heels?

"She must want to extend her kingdom," he mused on. "And she has many good knights who adore her, men who would fulfill her every desire—" He broke off, his eyes opaque.

"But why attack Cornwall? What does the Irish Queen want?" Arthur wondered, his eyes never leaving the hawk-like face.

Merlin gave a sharp bark of laughter, "if only she knew! She is a creature of the lightest whim. Her passions rule her life."

"Then they must rule her country, too, since the Western Isle still keeps the Mother-right."

Merlin grinned savagely. "With a vengeance, boy! Queens have ruled there from the time before time. In her own eyes, the present Queen is as good as the Goddess Herself. She takes the best of her knights as her lovers, not caring that they get younger every year, and changes her consort whenever she likes."

"But she has a daughter, the maid they call La Belle Isolde?" Arthur demanded.

"True." Merlin paused. "And there's hope in that. Isolde will never support her mother's scheme. Young as she is, she has the best interests of her country at heart."

"But can she convince her mother not to make war?"

Merlin looked past Arthur with an impenetrable stare. "We shall see. I must ride to King Mark in Cornwall, and bid him prepare."

Arthur leaned forward urgently. "Tell him to make all speed to Tintagel to defend my mother. Guenevere and I will follow you with a force of men."

Merlin cackled to himself. "Oh, sir," he said softly, "think how often the Queen your mother has defended herself."

A hunter's moon broke through the watery cloud. The woodland track lay before him, as bright as day. Merlin lifted his eyes, and reached for the mule's silken reins. He felt the open road calling him like a lover, and itched to be gone. The Queen of the Western Isle, eh? he pondered with an inward smile. Out of the darkness of time, a vivid figure came striding toward him across the astral plane, her flame-colored silks hissing around her heels. Then the bright vision faded and he saw a broken bird beating her wings in pain, turning on the male beside her with the fury of the damned.

"Merlin?"

Arthur's voice came to him through a mist. "What ails you, sir?" the young King asked in concern.

Merlin's sight cleared and he straightened up. "Nothing," he said brusquely. "A secret lost in a dark forest, long ago." The gaze he turned on Arthur was full of pain. "Let me go now. And may the Gods grant that I get there in time!"

Storm clouds raced over the island like maddened sheep. The sea beat on the shore and the old stronghold of Dubh Lein bowed its head to the wind and rain as it had done for a thousand years. High above the bay, its lofty towers and battlements sheltered a sturdy keep, eternally defending the approach to the Western Isle. Now the last of the winter sleet lashed the sea-washed stones, and a troubled twilight hovered, ready to fall.

In the center of the fortress, the Queen's House rose from the living rock, a curious, ancient dwelling of shining white quartz. Many secrets lay hidden within its glittering walls, and a spring of sweet water fed a deep pool below. The Dark Pool, as the people called it, was no more than a wise thought by the ancients, to build their citadel where fresh water would not fail. Why then did they all fear it and take it as one of the Queen's enchantments, her secret way down to the world below?

The soberly dressed woman moving through the Queen's private apartments allowed herself to smile. Perhaps because they feared the Queen herself?

Not without reason. The lean figure shivered and drew a breath. In all the years she had waited on the Queen, no one could ever say what her mistress would do. And Queen or no, she had grown to her middle years without ever losing the urgent desires of a child. When would she learn to use her power for the good of all?

"Brangwain?"

"Here, madam!"

Startled, the woman turned toward the door as a shapely figure in fluttering silks burst into the room. She was brightly clad in shades of gold and red, but her strong, lovely face was dark with distress. Great clusters of black jet swung from her neck and ears and clattered round her waist as she moved.

"Dismiss the maids!" she gasped. "And send for Sir Marhaus!"

"Your Majesty—"

Brangwain hastened forward and drew her mistress through the ornate double doors, shooing away the maids following on her heels. "Later, my dears," she said softly, watching their young faces droop at being shut out. "Never fear, the Queen will send for you." She closed the door.

"Brangwain, where are you?"

The voice from inside the chamber was raw and harsh. The Queen threw herself down on a couch, tore off her headdress, and cast it to the floor. "Where is he, Brangwain?" she demanded wildly, shaking out her hair.

The rich henna-colored mop tumbled down to the flagstones, staining the gleaming surface with the color of blood. Racking sobs shook the long body with the passion of a child.

Brangwain was caught between pity and despair. "Sir Marhaus is here," she said steadily, "waiting for you."

The Queen leapt to her feet and paced frenziedly to and fro. "He must not go to Cornwall!"

"To Cornwall, madam?" Brangwain paused, all her senses suddenly alert. The lilt of the Welshlands she had carried from her birth grew stronger. "Why should he go there?"

The lithe figure turned on her, wild-eyed. "No reason!—it's nothing—where is he?"

"In your private quarters, madam."

Feverishly the Queen crossed the chamber, throwing open the doors to the room within. Outside the window the storm had reached its peak, and streams of rain pelted the greenish glass. As her eyes searched the shadows, she caught the strong, compact form standing in the far casement, outlined by the misty light. She knew every inch of the well-knit, battle-hardened body and had wept and marveled over its every scar. Though he was ten years or more her junior, he had lived and fought hard all his life, and every one of his wounds had been taken for her. Goddess, Mother, how she loved him! If she lost him now—

She shuddered with yearning and dread. Her fingers ached to touch the brown skin beneath his red leather tunic, his linen shirt, the great gold pendant on his breast set with her emblem, a pair of fighting swans. His strong musky scent rose to meet her, and she could bear it no longer. "Marhaus!" she cried, and hurled herself into his arms. "Lady, hush."

The knight stepped forward and gathered her to his chest. With a practiced hand, he stroked her neck and throat, supporting her with a sinewy brown arm.

"What is this, madam?" he asked lazily, his mind already turning toward the great bed with its billowing hangings, anchored like a ship at the far end of the room. He loved her in her passions, when she came to him quivering with rage or grief, and she loved him for releasing her from the storms and impulses she could not control. Afterward she would lie quietly in his arms, sated and appeased, remembering nothing but the bliss they shared.

So she would be now, he decided, feeling her trembling from head to foot. "Come, lady," he said roughly. "Let's to bed." She stiffened against him.

"No!" she said shrilly, her black eyes alight with flames of fear. "I have seen it, Marhaus! You must not go!"

"Not go to Cornwall?"

He froze like a wolf in the forest, ready to leap. "My ship stands in the harbor," he said menacingly. "My knights and men have boarded, and you shame me now by saying I must not go?"

"You must not go to Cornwall," she babbled, already afraid of his anger, but more afraid of silencing her fears. "I know you said that the whole country would drop into your hand—"

"And so it will." His calm was more dangerous than any threat. "Think, madam—there's none to defend it but an ancient queen in Tintagel, and a coward king who knows not how to fight. You agreed I could challenge him for the throne. One little joust, and I win this land for you!" His voice hardened. "Do not deny me now!"

"I must!" she cried. "Queen Igraine had Cornwall from her mother in a line stretching back to the Mother Herself. It is against the will of the Great One, to make war against those who rightly rule."

Marhaus flushed. "This is your daughter talking, this is Isolde! Now you see the folly of sending her to Avalon to learn their weak, womanish faith of love, not war!" He stared at the Queen. "Your lovely daughter, La Belle Isolde," he added hurtfully, sounding each word like a slap in the face. "The beauty of the Western Isle."

Her hands flew to her face, to the tiny lines and creases her mirror knew so well. "Don't torture me!" She clutched at her head, crying out with pain. "Isolde's young, that's all. Any girl of twenty is still beautiful. The people only call her that because she heals their sicknesses and cares for them."

"She's a dreamer." Marhaus paused to weigh his words. "And a fool."

She flew at him, ready to scratch out his eyes. "She is my daughter! Show her some respect."

He caught her wrists in a savage grip. "Madam, respect yourself! Who is Queen here, Isolde or you?"

Her face suffused with blood. "I am! And I say you will not make this war!"

"Give me a reason!"

"We need no more kingdoms. Ireland is enough."

He looked at her with contempt. "Only yesterday you were hungry for Cornwall's safe harbors and green fields. Tell me the truth."

"If you challenge Mark, I fear for your life!"

"My life?" His disbelieving laughter filled the room. "The King of Cornwall could not kill a headless snake!"

"He might not be your opponent." She clutched at him. "One of his knights might take up the challenge and fight you in his stead."

He threw her off in disgust. "King Mark has no knights worth fearing! What decent man would serve a wretch like him? I know them all, and I can beat them all." He showed his white teeth in a savage grin as he thought of a secret he would never tell.

"You cannot go!" She was trembling so violently now that she could hardly stand. "I had a seeing—just now, as the storm came on—"

He was suddenly still. He knew her Otherworldly skills too well to ignore this. "A seeing? What?"

She closed her eyes, crooning in misery. "I saw a battlefield through a mist of blood—two knights fighting to the death—and one man down, face down in the mud—"

"One man down?" He let out a cry of triumph. "Why, then, you saw my enemy, not me. No man in Cornwall could have me down!"

Her eyes dilated and he read the question in their midnight depths. Could this be true? Dear Gods, could it be?

"Enough of this," he said forcefully, taking her in his arms. "Send me to Cornwall, and I swear I'll lay the kingdom beneath your feet. I'll make King Mark your vassal, not Igraine's, and if he refuses, I'll send you his head in a box. Believe me, lady, the silly toad will scramble to kiss your hand!"