Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (25 page)

"How old?"

How old? Tristan gasped. How did he know? He caught at the nearest straw. "About your years, sire."

"Pouf!" Mark threw his long legs around, muttering to himself, then returned to the attack. "Sole ruler, no?"

"Established by the Mother-right," Tristan said. "And a queen of great power."

"So the rule passes down from queen to queen?" Mark mused.

Tristan saw an odd light in his uncle's eye. "Without challenge, sire," he said wonderingly. "They keep the Old Faith in the Western Isle."

"Tell me, nephew—" Mark began in a strange voice.

Tristan stared. Smiling, twitching, Mark was trembling in every limb.

Attend, Tristan, attend,
cried his inner voice.
Something is happening— something Mark himself does not know—

A look of infinite cunning crossed Mark's foolish face. "What would you say…" He laughed excitedly. "What would my barons say… to a union of dynasties?"

Tristan felt a cold breath from the Otherworld. "A union?" he stuttered.
I am losing my mind.
"With whom, sir?"

"With Ireland!" Mark cried, flushing bright red. He pounded Tristan's shoulder. "What d'you think of that?"

He wants to marry the Queen! Goddess, Mother, praise and thanks!

A
world of joy opened before Tristan's eyes. New hopes ran babbling through him like a woodland stream.
If he marries the Queen, any danger of war is at an end. With Mark as her husband, the Queen must forgive us for the death of Marhaus, and I will see my only love again—

Dimly he heard Mark's voice running on. "She's a fine woman, you say."

A tall shape in red and black, fluttering silks and velvet, glowing with garnet and jet swam across Tristan's mind. He closed his eyes. "The finest," he breathed.

"And no fool, if all you say of her is true."

"All true, and more."

"But will she agree?" Mark surged on fretfully. "There must be other men—"

A hundred at least—maybe more,
Tristan thought, amused. He cleared his throat. "But none like you, sire," he said truthfully. "A ruling king. No one else can offer her Cornwall, this land of ours—"

"Our country, yes, what a prize for the Western Isle," Mark declaimed. Sentimental tears stood in his eyes. "And no more war! We shall give them and ourselves a future of love and peace!"

Tristan hastened to agree. "With this marriage, sire, our two lands are one."

He could hear music on the astral plane.
I will come to Isolde!
he rejoiced.
She will come to me.
He closed his eyes, and hardly heard his uncle's closing words.

"This is my desire, Tristan. Swear to it now and, by God Almighty, whatever it is, I swear you will have yours!"

"Sire, I gladly swear!" Joy overcame him, and he could not hold back. "I swear by the Great Ones and the Mother of them all to fulfill your desire." He laughed in ecstasy. "I swear on the life and soul of the woman I love. I swear by my hopes of the future and my dearest memories of the past."

Tristan, Tristan, hold on
—

He thought he heard a voice from far away, but he could not stop now. "I swear this on my beloved mother's grave."

"Then this marriage must be!" Mark's joyful voice reached him from miles away. "She cannot refuse!"

Tristan was delirious.
My love, Isolde my love, I shall see you again—

"You have sworn your oath, then, Tristan, and you will not fail," Mark boomed in his ear. "The Queen will surely be glad to give us her daughter's hand. I know you will bring back Isolde as my bride."

The horizon was lost in a line of blinding spray. The ship bucked and reared in the storm like a runaway horse, as wall after wall of water broke over her prow. The wind howled through the rigging and all around him the sailors were scrambling up and down, some white-faced and silent, some volubly cursing their gods. Turning, Tristan left the deck and went down to his cabin, praying for death.

But the little ship would survive the storm, he knew. The tough Cornish craft had seen worse seas than this. It was late in the season to sail, and the voyage was hard. But no one doubted they would reach Dubh Lein alive.

He was chilled to the bone. His lips were cracked, and he could taste the salt spray on his face like tears. Shivering, he pulled off his wet clothes and threw himself down on his bed. The coarse blanket hardly warmed him, but he did not care, for these things were mere pinpricks now. Every day without joy, or hope of joy, was his fate.

And all done by his own hand!

He tossed on his hard narrow bunk like a man with the plague. His last meeting with Mark came back to him in waves of shame and rage. Thoughts of death descended on him again. How could any man be so foolish and hope to live?

Wild laughter rose in his throat and he choked it back. He had seen the odd looks the sailors were giving him now, and knew they had heard him raging and talking to himself. Any more of this madness, and they'd take him for a jinx on board. And that would mean mariners' harsh justice, rough hands in the night, a startled scream, and a swift passage to the sea's dark embrace, even if he was Prince Tristan of Lyonesse and the nephew of the King. No, no more strange noises now.

But Goddess, Mother, how to contain the grief? He thrust a fist in his mouth and gnawed on the side of his hand. How to forget the moment when Mark spoke out?

I know you will bring back Isolde as my bride.

Without warning he was back in Cornwall, hearing his love, his life, all blasted by the words from his uncle's mouth. The chamber where he stood gaping at Mark, the dying fire, the King's ashen face and staring eyes, had all dissolved in that moment of blind doom.

"No, no," he had gasped, and "Surely, sire, you don't mean—" But he had known the truth at once. He had sworn on Isolde's life, on his mother's grave, to woo and win his dear love for another man.

His stomach heaved. He had traded his life and Isolde's for Mark's offer of help, and would never make a more infamous bargain in his life. Mark would never help him in any way. The King had no interest in anyone but himself.

And seeing Tristan falter had sent his uncle into a frenzy of rage. As the young man floundered in panic, trying to take back his oath, Mark had shown a side of himself that filled Tristan with despair.

"You have given me your word," Mark had said, his voice trembling with spite. "If you break it now, I'll drive you from the land. I'll blacken your name from here to the Orkneys and beyond, and all the world will know you're a knight who is false to his lord."

"I am not false!" cried Tristan, his soul splitting in two.

"Prove it!" Mark's face quivered. "Or else live a rogue and a recreant all your days."

"But consider, sire!" He could hear his voice rising in despair. "The Queen of Ireland's a beauty—not past childbearing—and she rules in her own right—"

"Tristan, you're a bigger fool than I thought!" Mark's mouth twisted with contempt. "Why should I take the old woman when I could have the girl? Tall and well-fleshed, a good breeder, you said—that means fine haunches and fat breasts—any man would enjoy securing the succession with that."

A look Tristan dared not contemplate stole over his uncle's face. His gut revolted, and he could have spat at Mark's feet.

To think of Isolde with Mark—

That Mark should even think of her that way—

It was vile, beyond vile. It stank to heaven and above.

He loathed himself. How could he have been so rash?

But there was no turning back. Mark had charged ahead, summoning his council to draw up the terms of the treaty, ordering up gifts to present to his hoped-for bride. Reeling with shock, Tristan had gone through the preparations in a trance and taken ship, armed with Mark's formal offer of marriage and the barons' warm consent.

"Bring her back, Tristan! Cornwall needs a queen," a jovial Sir Nabon had rallied him. "And don't forget to look for a bride for yourself!"

"Sir—" He had mustered a feeble smile. But how he refrained from punching the smiling lord, he never knew.

And now… He bit madly on his fist again. Despite the bad weather, the ship would make Dubh Lein soon. He would march up to the palace as Cornwall's ambassador, flying all her flags. In formal audience he would ask the Queen of Ireland for her daughter's hand. And in that moment he would earn Isolde's hatred for the rest of his life.

Hatred?

He leapt up from his bed and paced around the tiny cabin, berating himself. No, worse—she'd despise him, see him as a loathsome thing. The best he could seem to her was a pitiful fool. The worst—an odious trickster and a liar, a man ready to pander to his uncle and betray his love on command—

No!

No more!

He howled with despair. He did not care who heard him anymore. He was on the road to madness, yearning for darkness at the end of the day.

But he had sworn to make this offer, and must endure the ordeal to the dregs. His only consolation was that Isolde would refuse. Not out of love for him—he had thrown that away. But she must surely love herself enough to laugh Mark's offer in the face.

Yes, Isolde would reject him out of hand. Then he'd sail back to Cornwall and make his farewells there. Mark would blame Tristan for her refusal, and would never want to see him again.

And then—

Without his love, without his country or his kin—what then?

Then he would be alone, and no creature on earth would care if he lived or died.

So be it.

He stared out through the porthole at the heaving gray waves. Well, the world was wide. And all journeys in the end led back to the sea.

You are here to ask about your faraway love!

He is not my love! I thought I loved him, Lady, but
I was wrong
.

Isolde prowled her chamber, lost to herself. Through one window lay mountainous gray seas and skies, through another the barren land in the gray grip of winter all round. Every tree had lost its leaves and, throughout the palace gardens, not a bird sang. On the shore, the only sound was the heartsick cry of gulls, and every night, black frost was in the air. But nothing could match the bleakness she felt within.

The night she had seen the Lady, she had felt alive. But now the bright fires in the cavern, the cold thrill of the sea on her flesh, the warmth of the Lady's love, all these had gone as if they had never been. In their place was a hollow where her heart should be.

And her mind, too—she could neither think nor feel. When she thought of the pilgrim now, he had no face.

Tristan, you were called. But I never knew you at all.

In truth, she could hardly remember him. A vague sense of a tall, well-made form, a strong face, a firm hand, swirled around her head and made her body ache. When she yearned like this, words like
I love him
came into her mind. Then she thought of the tales he had told and the gossamer web of falsehood he had spun. And then
He lied, he deceived me
drove all thoughts of love away.

She moved back from the window and the grayness followed her.

Yes, that's it, I hate him, she said to herself. And in time she'd forget, people did, she knew. With luck, they would never hear of Cornwall again. Especially now that her mother had given up all thoughts of war.

Could it be
? Isolde wondered, leaden with lack of hope. Could they put all this behind them and forget?

Forget.

The voice came chiming from another plane, an echo from her girlhood days on Avalon.
The more you forget, the less there is to forgive
.

She squared her shoulders and got to her feet.
Forget, then. Start now
.

There is work to be done
. No
more lurking here, hiding from the world. No
more thoughts of Cornwall
—
of the past
—
of him
—

"Lady, lady!"

Brangwain whirled through the door, an Otherworldly light on her dark face.

"There's a ship sailing into the harbor, lady," she said urgently. "It's come from Cornwall to judge by the black sails, and the flag of Lyonesse is flying from its mast!"

A ship from Cornwall? Have they come in peace?"

The Queen burst out of her inner chamber like a bark in full sail. Her tall headdress shivered as she surged about the room and the jet at her waist and wrists rattled angrily.

"Has King Mark sent his champion to challenge us?" she demanded with a dangerous laugh. "Must we fight Cornwall after all?"

"No, no, Majesty." With the worn, weary love of long years, Sir Gilhan took in the tall, queenly frame, the expressive hands, the eyes like dark stars. Even now, he thought, she can still set all hearts alight. His face creased in a smile. "It seems that Cornwall has another offer in mind."

"What?" She stopped in her tracks and whirled around. "Sir Tristan is here, you say?"

"Moored at the quay, under flag of embassy," the old knight confirmed. "He has come in peace."

"For the hand of Isolde, it must be!" she cried huskily. Her eyes were like moons in her head.

"Whatever he's here for, madam, we must respect the flag," Sir Gilhan repeated carefully. "If Your Majesty feels any enmity toward him now—"

"Ah…"

The Queen paused, and struggled in her soul. In truth she still thought of avenging herself on Tristan, but her fury had faded along with her grief. Sir Tolen was not Marhaus, but he cheered her loneliness every time he warmed her bed. Tristan was less and less to her with every passing day. And, like it or not, here at last was a man Isolde could love. Gods above! Without that, there would be no lying down for the girl, no earth magic, no new life.

"Enmity? None!" The Queen waved an impatient hand and stalked away. "That's all in the past."

Sir Gilhan probed on. "So if the King wants a treaty to unite his country and ours… ?"

"We must rise above vengeance," the Queen proclaimed grandly, "for the good of the land!"