Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (28 page)

"It is done."

The liquid in the cauldron released a plume of glassy smoke and subsided with a sigh. The Nain collapsed into the arms of two of her supporters, and was carried back to her chair. The third lifted the cauldron from the fire, carefully decanted its contents into a flask, and pressed it into the hands of the Queen.

The flask was of old red gold, with a great ruby for a stopper and thick bands of ancient rubies round its waist. The Queen clasped it to her breast and knelt before the Nain.

"Thanks to the Mother," she whispered, her tears falling like rain.

"Thank yourself," the Nain said in her worn-out voice. "For giving your daughter Isolde what she deserves. Thanks to you, she will know the love of a man—a love greater than you and she can dream. Whoever drinks this drink will share a lifelong faith and truth. Hatred will never part them, and their love will never die." Her voice rose to an eldritch scream and she closed her eyes. "Either shall love the other all the days of their lives!"

"Bless you, bless you, bless you!"

Weeping, the Queen took a pearl ring from her finger and pressed it onto the Nain. Then she hastened from the cave.

Hurry, hurry—up to the world above—

The tide is rising—they'll be taking ship soon—

"Brangwain!"

She found the maid in her own chamber, packing her effects for the voyage. Seeing the maid standing amid heaps of boxes and hampers, the Queen checked her impetuous rush and drew back.

"Oh, Brangwain," she said sorrowfully, "what have we done?"

Brangwain's black eyes crackled with fire. Madam, you began all this when you let your love for Sir Marhaus defeat your duty to the land, her dark gaze said louder than any words. But too late for reproaches now.

She dropped the Queen a cold curtsy. "Madam?" she said.

The Queen looked away. "I do not trust you," she muttered. "You are Merlin's kin."

"Like all the Welsh, lady." Brangwain gave a crooked smile. "It is in our blood."

The Queen held out the gold flagon, its ruby eyes gleaming dully in the evening light. "This must go with Isolde when she sails."

Brangwain eyed it warily. "What is it?"

"A cordial to compose her on her wedding day. To settle her stomach and ease her virgin pains. She must share it with her husband when he comes to her bed." The Queen paused, watching Brangwain closely. "It is a mother's gift to her daughter for her first lying down."

Brangwain hesitated. "It is a hard thing she is going to."

The Queen nodded. "And this can help her. I know you love your mistress," she said insinuatingly. "So you will not deny her that."

Brangwain made up her mind. "I'll take it, madam." She held out her hand. "For her wedding day, you say?"

"Yes! To compose her. And to keep his love all her life." The Queen thrust the flask at Brangwain. "Be sure to give it to her just as I said."

Brangwain took the heavy gold object and clasped it to her heart. "I will."

It is done as the Nain promised, thought the Queen, trembling with relief. Brangwain is as true as steel, she won't fail. When Isolde marries King Mark, she will know a love greater than she or I could dream. Together they will share a lifelong faith and truth. Hatred will never part them, and their love will never die. Dreamily she recalled the Nain's last cry: "Either shall love the other all the days of their lives!"

So rejoicing, she went out into the night. And overhead all the demons of death and destruction came to life and danced with delight at the feast of evil ahead.

New life
—

A new country, marriage to a stranger, another world-
—

Bending her head against the bitter wind, Isolde felt for the handrail and made her way onto the ship. A thin sleet seeded the wind with pinpoints of ice and she could feel the gangplank slipping beneath her feet. Soon they must face the mountainous wintry seas, but wherever they landed, there would be no safe harbor for her. She was leaving Ireland, her mother, everything she called home. And with a man she hated and despised.

Tantris
—
Tristan
—
taunter
—
trickster
—whatever he called himself, the man she had never known. But whoever he was, she would never know him now.

As soon as they reached Cornwall, she decided, they would never be alone again. They would keep a dignified distance and whatever had passed between them would fade and die. She would become King Mark's wife, and everything else would be subordinated to that. As she passed these thoughts through her mind, it came to her that she did not know what marriage to King Mark would mean. But women married all the time, she could surely do it, too. She would meet her husband at the dock and be married at once. There was no turning back.

Then this springtime love for the pilgrim will he gone.

As he is gone already, and this hateful gaudy stranger come to take his place.

She could see him now, waiting for her on the deck, acting the lordly master of the ship. She watched him give the captain and crew orders to cast off, then turn with a bow to welcome her on board.
As welcoming as a man can be
, she thought, simmering with disgust,
with a frozen sneer on his face and a distant gaze that never meets my own
.

"This way, my lady."

Only the sleet in her face was icier than his tone. Bowing, he ushered her forward along the deck, and down a narrow flight of steps to the space below deck. Oddly, it was colder here than out in the wind.

Taunter
—
trickster
—
pilgrim
—
liar
—

"Go ahead, sir."

She waved him on, squared her shoulders, and followed, her head held high.
Soon I shall he alone
.

The low passageway smelled of wood soaked by the sea, the tang of brine as sharp and salty as tears. Where's Brangwain? she thought querulously. Surely she's seen all the boxes on board by now?

"The Queen's cabin."

Striding ahead, he threw open a door. "King Mark has had this fitted out for you." She was not to know that this was all Tristan's work after Mark had handed over everything to him, and he would never tell her now.

"Thank you."

She followed him over the threshold into a low spacious cabin. Rows of gleaming portholes ran along each side, all smoldering with the fiery remains of the day. The sleet had stopped and the dying sun poured its red and gold into a bright, warm boudoir, lovingly made for a queen. Beechwood tables and chairs, all bolted to the floor in case of storms, clustered against the walls, and plump sheepskin couches huddled around a blazing stove. At the back of the cabin a great bed took up an entire bulkhead, curtained and canopied in Cornwall's royal blue.

The air was fragrant with burning applewood. Did she like it? She did not seem to care. Hovering tensely, Tristan watched as Isolde moved forward and took off her wrap. Instantly he noted her mournful gown of dark winter green. Why was she making herself dull and ugly like this? In his mind he saw her again as he had known her first, riding out in a green gown like springtime, when the daffodils come.

A wild yearning seized him for the muffled figure, the long strong limbs, the cloud of fiery hair. He wanted to peel off her thick woollen wrappings, bend her rigid body till it softened into his, submit himself in turn to the tyranny of her touch. He felt her brush past him in the narrow space, and had to fight down a wave of savage desire. The next impulse was a gasp of disgust. Gods above, man, she's your uncle's promised wife!

And she hates you.

He could not keep that thought at bay. She will not want to see you or talk to you. She is only enduring this voyage till she reaches Cornwall and can bid you a frozen farewell. When you tried to see her in Ireland, how many times did she send you away without a civil word? He stifled a bitter laugh. Keep your distance, then.

He opened the door, and bowed. "Excuse me, my lady." Time to be gone.

"Be careful, there! Watch what you're doing, lads!"

Shaking the sleet from her cloak, a lean dark form blew through the door, alternately scolding and urging on the hapless boy who was struggling along in her wake with a massive trunk. Behind him came others burdened with boxes and traps, who followed him into the cabin and set down their load.

"Good lads! Now off you go." A smiling Brangwain pressed silver into their hands and ushered them out.

Tristan watched them all disappear and bowed to Isolde again. "Farewell."

"A moment, sir." Isolde snapped. She signaled to Brangwain.

The maid crossed to the nearest box and opened it. Inside the box lay two objects wrapped in silk, one above the other, carefully cushioned in fine straw.

Tristan froze. A faint sound wove its way into the room, two high voices calling in ethereal harmony. Isolde nodded. She could see at once he knew what they were.

"Glaeve?" he said in disbelief. "And my harp?" Tears started to his eyes.

She stared at him. "Did you think we'd keep them? We're not savages in Ireland, sir!"

The soft, sweet sound grew higher and more intense. Hidden in their veils of silk, the two treasured objects were crying out for his hand.

Isolde struggled for breath.

The touch of his hand
—

Oh, the feel of him
—

And I am married to the land.

"Well, there they are, sir." She turned away. "You are free to go."

Behind them, Brangwain was moving quietly about the cabin, unpacking boxes and bundles and clearing the floor. The silence was broken by a sudden stir and running feet on the boards overhead.

"Cast off, there! Hoist the mizzen!" came the captain's cry. Groaning, the ship left the dock and slipped into the swift pull of the tide.

"No holding her, sir!" hollered the first mate. "Running fair and free."

"Into the sunset, then, mister," the captain sang back. "Let her go!"

"Aye, aye, sir! All the way home!"

Tristan looked up. Isolde's eyes were huge, blind pools. Her mouth had lost its shape, and her fingers were pulling her skirt.

"Leave us, Brangwain," he said quietly.

The maid gave one startled glance, then vanished through the door.

Isolde looked around. Her mind felt like lead.
Where's Brangwain?

He stepped forward, all his coldness gone. "Why are you making this marriage?" he said earnestly.

"You—you dare to challenge me?" Her anger flared. "When you lied to me—deceived me—led me astray—"

To her horror, her voice cracked and broke.

But he held her gaze and his steadfast voice went on. "I do not excuse the lies I told to you. But I never planned to deceive you, or even to come here at all." He gave a grim smile. "I passed out after fighting Sir Marhaus, and came around to find myself in the stronghold of his Queen. I was half dead, and in the hands of my mortal enemy. I woke up with a false name, and all I could do was live by it, or die."

Goddess, Mother, yes
—

With a pang she saw him lying injured on the bed, his suffering eyes casting wildly round the room, his sheets soaked with sweat as he fought to move his limbs.
Waking in the arms of the enemy, too weak to move
—
he must have been in terror for his life
. She felt a creeping shame.
And I blamed him for that? What would I have done
?

"And then you and I—" He paused and cleared his throat. "You— we—we rode out together and became friends."

Friends?
she pondered.
Was that it?
A great dreariness seized her. No.
More, much more. I thought you were my true love and my knight
.

"More than friends," he said in the same low, earnest voice. "So I ask you again—why are you marrying King Mark?"

Fury cracked her indifference, and stung her to retort. "Tell me why I should not!"

She saw him take a long breath. "The King is marrying only because his barons are insisting that he take a queen," he said at last. "So he needs to be married, but he does not want a wife."

He does not want me?
"But he must want a child!"

"That, too, is more his barons' idea than his own. As far as Mark's concerned, he has an heir." He laughed harshly. "He has two. You'll meet my cousin Andred, his brother's son. And I stand before Andred in the Mother-right."

Isolde felt the ground shifting beneath her feet. "This is a dynastic alliance," she said stoutly, "to secure peace."

Tristan gave an irritated laugh. "Our King will not attack Ireland! And would your Queen be tempted to challenge Cornwall again?" His face darkened with scorn. "I do not think so, Princess."

In spite of herself, she rose to meet his ire.

"Princess indeed, sir," she spat, "and a princess must marry, too. The King of Cornwall is a good match for me." She thrust her chin in the air. "And I have no doubt that he will love and respect me in time—that we will come to an understanding as man and wife—"

"Goddess, Mother!" he muttered. He knew there was no way to soften this. "King Mark has a mistress," he said brutally. "She cares for all such needs."

Isolde froze. "Who is she?"

"The wife of one of his barons. She is the leading lady of the court." The Lady Elva's long white face and virulent black stare came into his mind, and a new fear was born. "She will be jealous of you. She will hate you for supplanting her."

Jealousy, hate, and another faithless man
—

Palomides, Tristan, Mark
—
Goddess, Mother, is there no man in the world I can call my own?

"Gods above," she burst out.
And I never thought of this?
She raged round the cabin in a spasm of self-hate. "I thought—"
Gods above, how could I be so rash
—
so blind
? For the first time, she turned and looked him in the eye. "I thought—no, it was madness—I did not think!"

"Oh, lady," he groaned, "this is all my blindness, my evil doing, my stupidity."

She had never seen anything as deep and dark as his eyes. "I don't understand." She felt a growing dread. "What did you do?"