Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (35 page)

"Help me, Lady!" Isolde could hardly speak. "I love Tristan and I'm married to King Mark. Will I ever be together with my love?"

The cloudy shape lifted her head. "The land and the sea are one, but always apart."

Always apart?
She cried out in pain. "How shall we bear it?"

"Remember you come from a line of warrior queens." The Lady's rich voice rang out. "Be strong in them for yourself and for your love."

A new fear was born. "Why for him?"

"He was born in sorrow, as all men are. Cast out of the circle of the Goddess, they are fated to spend their lives in the quest to return."

"He was born of a great love, too," Isolde cried. "His mother ran wild in the woods for the love of her lord."

The Lady sighed her thousand-year-old sigh. "Ah, little one, even the greatest love has sorrow at its heart. And the deeper the love, the deeper the grief it brings."

"Grief?" Another shaft of fear. "Will I lose him, Lady? Will he die?"

"That is not the trial you will face."

"Will he betray me, then? Will he fail?"

"Only the Mother never fails. The rest must fade and vanish, just as all life in the end ebbs away to the sea."

"What must I do?"

The great foamy shape pulsed like the wind on the waves. "Embrace the fate that has brought you to this place. Child of the sea though you are, you chose a landsman to love. Married to the land, you must be a sea-wife, too. Therefore sorrow and joy must be yours till you come to the place where they are one."

Embrace your fate
. Isolde bowed her head. "So be it."

The Lady's deep, rhythmical tones beat onward like the tide. "But remember, Isolde—those who follow the Goddess can always enter the dream."

Through the leaping flames, she saw a rising mist. The tall figure was growing and expanding, filling the room. The luminous eyes lingered fondly on Isolde in a last blessing: "May you dream your dream and become all that you have dreamed."

"Lady, don't leave me—don't go!"

Weeping, Isolde held out her hands. The muffled shape was fading into the shadows, and the room itself was melting into the mist. She felt the wind brush her face and a chilly dew from the sea settled on her skin.

A low call echoed through the night. "Farewell."

The sea sighed and the Lady was gone. The air softly mourned her passing, and a flock of night birds called from the hillside, long wailing cries of woe. Isolde felt herself welling over with grief. These were the children she would never have, lamenting that she would never bring them to life. Then wreaths of silver-white fog, drifting shapes of gray, blue, green, and black, rose up around her and she saw no more.

She came to herself alone on the cold hillside. Thorns and briars tore at her skirt, and a mist off the sea was drifting down like rain. The first lights of evening were appearing in the sky, and the love star on the horizon bloomed with a steadfast fire.

Farewell
, she heard from a faraway place.
May the Mother go with you everywhere you go
.

She gathered herself up and rose stiffly to her feet.

Embrace your fate
, the Lady said.

So be it.

My soul is given to Tristan and I am married to the land.

My children must be the good deeds I can do.

Down the hillside she could hear the horses whickering softly to each other and Brangwain conversing quietly with both of them.

"Brangwain?" she called. "Are you there? I'm coming down."

Cornwall at last! After all this time on the road. Kay leaned forward in the saddle for the first sight of Castle Dore. Would there be a bed here to comfort his road-weary bones? With a feather mattress and fine linen sheets—all a man could dream of at the end of a wild-goose chase, trailing halfway around the country with nothing but failure at the end?

"King Mark's palace, is it?" grunted Lucan, riding at Kay's side. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and stretched out his legs. "Well, so far, so good."

Did Lucan mean the fine castle up ahead, all decked out with banners for the tournament? wondered Kay. Or the way in which Arthur had taken the news? Either way, what the red-haired knight said was true.

Castle Dore beckoned warmly in the distance, sitting snugly on its round hilltop, smiling in the sun. Behind it a lazy sea washed the rocky shore, freshening the air with a welcome salt breeze. The flags of many countries hung from the battlements and the bright standards of kings and knights flew from every tower. And Arthur was riding calmly ahead of them now, apparently unruffled by what he had heard. If only, Kay mourned, we could have brought better news…

But Arthur had shown a truly noble resignation when Kay reported that the fortune-teller was dead. Guenevere, too, had loyally hidden her disappointment that the truth of young Sweyn's birth would never be revealed, and bowed to Arthur's ruling that a knight must acknowledge his own. The Sweyns would return to Camelot with him, Arthur decreed. There he would notify his council of barons that young Sweyn should be officially recognized as the High King's son.

Somewhere riding in the rear, then—Kay gnashed his teeth at the thought—were the hated Sweyn family, every one of them. Gods above, how he detested the smug, slippery Earl and his polecat of a daughter with her bastard brat. Darkness and devils, was young Sweyn to be the King's son now?

Enough!

Kay shook himself fiercely, and filled his lungs with the clean briny air. He had to stop thinking like this, put it out of his mind. He had tried to save the King and he had failed. He couldn't go on reproaching himself for the rest of his life.

The little knight shifted his travel-worn bones in the saddle, reaching for what crumbs of comfort he could find. The sun was shining, and the weather had been clear for days, so the journey from Castle Sweyn had been quick. And, as always, he took pride in riding behind Arthur, following his great foster brother as he had done all his life. Approvingly he surveyed the knights of the fellowship of the Table, who would lay down their lives for one another or the King. Yes, there was something great here, something great. He felt his sore heart turn.

And this tournament of King Mark's would surely bring more cheer. There'd be knights here from far and wide, old friends not seen for years, fond reunions and joyful candlelit cups of wine late into the night. All these things meant far more than charging into a ring to knock over as many men as you could!

Not that Gawain would ever think that way, Kay thought with a sardonic grin. But the rumbunctious Orkneyan could be gentle, too, and in the course of this journey he had made a new best friend. There he was now, riding with young Sweyn, yarning expansively while the boy hung on his every word.

Kay had to laugh. Well, those two were happy enough, boys together for all eternity. And ahead now he could see a great group on the terrace in front of the palace, waiting to welcome them with trumpets and drums. That must be King Mark in red, with his Queen at his side, and was that his nephew, the fair young man in blue towering over him?

The path began to wind down toward Castle Dore. Kay shook his head, feeling better in spite of himself. He closed his eyes, caught midway between hope and prayer. Gods and Great Ones, all might yet be well!

Looking out from the terrace at the stately procession winding its way up the hill, Tristan shielded his eyes as he stared into the sun. So that was the High King, Arthur himself, the great figure in red, head and shoulders above the rest? And behind him in the block of glittering lances borne by the knights, the big, burly knight riding with a child— that must be Gawain, the King's first companion and his closest kin.

And the short, dapper figure in fine armor? Sir Kay, of course, and next to him, Bedivere. With deep excitement, Tristan put names to faces he had not seen since he was a youth. In those days, when he traveled to tournaments as his father's squire, the great men of the Round Table had seemed heroes beyond his ken. Had he ever thought that within a few short years, he would be competing with them on equal terms? Or more than equal? He grinned to himself, knowing that he could sweep ten knights like Kay from their saddles in one thrust.

And he would, too, as soon as the tournament began. But how would his uncle rise to the challenge of entertaining Arthur and a dozen vassal kings? King Mark looked royal enough, he saw with some relief, in a fine red tunic edged with fur and a richly furred cloak to match. The crown of Cornwall kept down his awkward hair, and he was waiting calmly for Arthur to arrive. Tristan took a breath. This was a friendly event, a celebration indeed. Mark should do quite well.

Behind Mark, Andred, too, was finely dressed, from the feather in his cap to his soft black leather boots, and both Prince and King were set off by their eternal black shadow, the priestly Dominian. Around Mark were all his councillors, led by Sir Nabon, Sir Wisbeck, and Sir Quirian, every one arrayed to greet a king. Someone—Tristan suspected Sir Nabon— had a keen eye for the occasion and knew what Cornwall should do. So the heralds stood ready in their multicolored tabards, the trumpets had their instruments to their lips, and the drummers were poised to second them with a thunderous roll. Tristan sighed and relaxed. He did not know that he outshone them all in a tunic of Lyonesse blue, with the gold torque of knighthood round his neck and a simple fillet of gold holding back his hair.

Away to his left stood Isolde at the head of her ladies, waiting to greet Guenevere. She, too, was clad in flowing sea-blue today, with ropes of blue-green peridots round her waist. A tall headdress rose above her crown, and a gossamer veil frothed behind her to the ground. The pale winter sun caught her marigold hair and a radiance came from her like the brightness of the sea. Seeing her was a blessing, and Tristan blessed her silently with humble love.

She turned and smiled at him, and in spite of himself he was suddenly smiling, too. This was one of the best parts of loving her, the infectious joy they gave one another freely, as a gift. The next second he made himself look sharply away. Fool! If he wanted to guard against discovery, he must not be seen gazing at her like this, misty-eyed with love.

But to look at her and not look at her with love—it was hard! With every day that passed, he loved her more. True, she often sighed and wept in his arms, and he had had to learn that the merry girl he loved had another side to her nature and struggled with secrets he could not share. A while ago she had been pale and huge-eyed with concern, and it had taken a day-long ride with Brangwain to restore her spirits again. She was better now, but he knew there would be no such simple answer to the grief at the heart of their love. Their times together were snatched and always too short, and it was a running sore to see Mark at her side.

But the King would not force himself on her, they both knew that now. And Mark himself had insisted on making Tristan Isolde's knight.

"Take care of the Queen for me, nephew," he had proclaimed. "With matters of state to attend to, I can't be with her as much as I'd like. And women need attention, you know that. They're not like men."

"Women are not like men?" Tristan bowed, wondering what other insights would fall from his uncle's lips. "If you say so, sire."

The sudden bray of the trumpets brought him back to himself. The procession was drawing up to the terrace and the greetings began.

"Your Majesty! We are honored."

Mark knelt to King Arthur in fealty and kissed his hand. To his left, Isolde was welcoming Guenevere with a formality that did not conceal her bubbling delight. Tristan nodded. Of course—the two Queens had been girls together on Avalon, studying with the Lady in the House of Maidens there.

Tristan bowed to Arthur with a trace of awe. Then his attention was caught by a hatchet-faced man in the rear. His burnt-velvet riding habit and fine whip and boots proclaimed him a lord, but the sorry nag he was riding said a poor one, too. Yet he was clearly a force to be reckoned with.

But the girl at his side did not seem to care. She was young enough to be the lord's daughter, but, to Tristan's eye, she treated her father with unfilial contempt. Still, she had every good reason to be pleased with herself. The face she turned up to the heavens had the bloom of a renegade angel, and when she smiled, her soft peony mouth showed a set of perfect, white, small teeth.

Tristan looked at the father again. Had he seen him before in France or Little Britain, when he left Lyonesse and went adventuring? Or before that, when he was too young to compete, while he was still a squire?

Lost in thought, he looked up to see the young woman's eyes fixed on him in frank appraisal, and knew with deep discomfort that she was assessing him sexually, raking him up and down. Stung, he noticed that her gown was cut so low that if she coughed, she would fall out of it. She locked her gaze on his and the tip of a rosy pink tongue peeped out through her lips. Flushing with annoyance, he thought, I have seen you before, madam, and you did not see me.

He was suddenly aware of Sir Nabon at his side. The councillor nodded smoothly toward the girl. "A fine young woman, no?" he said, staring at Tristan with interest.

No! Tristan wanted to retort, but could not. "Fine indeed," he said shortly, trying to move away.

To his annoyance, Nabon moved in closer, assessing the red flush he knew was coloring his cheeks. "The lady Lienore, daughter of Earl Sweyn," he said, still scrutinizing Tristan's face. "You know her of old?"

"Not I," said Tristan, more vehemently than he meant. What's it to you, sir? he wondered irritably, then regretted it at once. A knight should always honor an older knight.

"Come, sir!" he said as cheerfully as he could. "Let me escort you in."

The guests were all dismounting in a happy hubbub, and the procession was beginning to wend its way indoors.

"This way, sirs! We mean to feast you royally in Castle Dore." Keeping up a welcoming banter, Andred chatted easily with Kay as he ushered the companion knights into the hall. But following the exchange he had just witnessed, his sharp eyes and keen mind were busy elsewhere.