Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (36 page)

So Nabon had suspected that Tristan might like the girl? Andred dismissed the idea with contempt. Not Tristan. He took no interest in the ladies of the court, still less a piece like that. From what Andred had seen, the young hunter of Lyonesse had no eye for the game.

Andred shook his head, puzzled. It was odd that the handsome young knight cared so little for women or girls. Tristan was a man of the world, after all. Indeed, he had spent his life knocking round tournaments, where there was plenty of such excitement as a matter of course.

Andred paused. When a man showed no interest in women, his desire could lie with other men—common enough between knights— but he'd swear not in Tristan's case. More often, it meant that the knight's heart was already given away, pledged to the woman of the dream.

Ha! Did that mean Tristan was stalking other prey? In another part of the forest—and if not among the court ladies, perhaps even in the royal demesne?

No, surely not! Andred found himself holding his breath. Could Tristan—even for a moment—be thinking that way of the Queen?

Just now he had seen Tristan look at Isolde, then hastily look away again.
Could it be?

He shook himself roughly. Who knows? It was only a glance, after all. But stranger things happened—and it never hurt to keep watch.

Yes, he would watch Tristan closely—no, both of them, Tristan and the Queen. Elva would be a good ally, too, for she could follow Isolde where he could not.

The fertile mind spun on. Within minutes his thoughts were hatched. And all the spirits of evil awoke in their slimy lairs, yawned, stretched, laughed, and prepared to act.

The tournament would be fine after all. Beforehand, it had rained for days and the winds off the sea made it hard to set up the knights' pavilions and the heralds' booths. Tallest of all, the great open-fronted viewing galleries for the kings and queens cost the workmen many a hammered thumb and muttered curse. But despite all fears, the day itself dawned bright and clear, and the grassy arena had never looked more green, moist, and gleaming in the morning sun.

The far meadows were dotted with pavilions in every hue, each small round tent its owner's home from home. Inside, sweating squires and pages toiled from early dawn, scouring their knights' armor and burnishing swords and spears. Farther in, eager groups of combatants were gathering in the knights' enclosure on the edge of the field, ready for the fray. Greetings and curses flew in equal measure as the horses bounced into one another in their excitement, bucking and rearing and dancing up and down.

The townspeople were thronging merrily out of the town, all work suspended in honor of the great event. For most, it was their first chance to see the new Queen, and anticipation ran high.

"She's Queen of the Western Isle, they say," volunteered one busy young mother, struggling along with a child on her hip and three others in tow. "In her own right."

"That's her mother," returned her husband, deftly fishing his firstborn from under the hooves of a passing knight. As one of the carpenters, he cast a professional eye over the two galleries facing each other across the arena, ready for the kings and queens. Not a bad job, considering… "She won't be Queen of Ireland till her mother dies."

"And is she the beauty they say?"

"What, the Queen?"

He turned his mind back to the tall, elegant figure who had come down to the field in the worst of the weather to cheer the workmen on. A beauty? Yes, but that wasn't it—

His mind struggled with a hundred tender thoughts. How could he put into words that shining cloud of joy she brought with her and the airy sense of delight she left behind? How could a man even talk about her without making other women feel like common clay? He looked at his dear wife's raw red cheeks and gap-mouthed grin, a tooth lost for every child, and nodded up ahead.

"See for yourself," he said fondly. "There she comes."

A party of ladies was making its way over the grass, chattering like birds. At its head Isolde led Guenevere up the steps into the Queen's viewing gallery, where two tall thrones stood looking down on the field below.

"The way, sire!"

Across the arena Mark was effusively welcoming Arthur into the King's gallery with the older lords. Isolde bowed to Arthur politely and tried not to stare, but since Guenevere had confided in her last night, the story absorbed her mind. Could that noble presence in red and gold, that gracious young King with the frank, open face, have unknowingly fathered a child?

Unthinkable. She shook her head, bewildered. But if Guenevere said so, it had to be true. And there was worse, it seemed. Now the mother had appeared from nowhere, and Arthur felt honor bound to take the child as his own. As soon as the woman was named, Isolde knew her at once. She had noticed the girl the moment the procession arrived, and distrusted her on sight.

The girl was to the fore again at the feast that night and Isolde disliked her more. But why? As she showed Guenevere to her seat and took her own, Isolde struggled to be fair. Was it the girl's little blonde head held so appealingly to one side, or the wide-eyed innocent smile? The surreptitious way she assessed all the men or the disturbingly low-cut gown? Whatever it was, the young woman had her own strange aura and carried it with her everywhere, like a cat. And there she was now, farther down the balcony, standing demurely among the ladies but making Isolde uneasy with her every breath. Well, Castle Dore would soon be rid of her. But Guenevere would have this burden to bear for the rest of her life.

At least she had Arthur, though. A sudden stab of envy pierced Isolde so sharply that she gasped. Arthur may have strayed once as a youth, but the great kindly-eyed warrior was Guenevere's for life. Whereas she… Isolde clenched her fists and willed herself to hold back her tears.

For the love between Arthur and Guenevere was hard to bear. Castle Dore was overrun now with guests, but amid all the hurly-burly, the devotion between them was plain. They sat together at dinner in the Great Hall, murmuring and smiling, sharing their every thought. Meanwhile, the man at Isolde's side boasted and drank too much, laughed too loudly, and made foolish jokes, while the man of her heart was away at the Knights' Table, nowhere to be seen. All she could do was hold her head high and smile. And smile, and smile, defying the cruel hour.

But Guenevere had noticed much and guessed more. Almost without words, Isolde found the shadows around her secret gently illuminated, and her sadness shared. With the utmost delicacy Guenevere conveyed her understanding that a man like King Mark could never be Isolde's chosen one. With a husband so hard to love, it went without saying, a woman must love elsewhere.

Nothing more was said, but Isolde's sore heart was eased. She knew from her days on Avalon that she could trust Guenevere. And Guenevere knew that a woman must always choose, and a queen must have her knights. Where the Mother-right ruled, thigh-freedom was never in doubt.

Freedom to love where she chose—

Oh, my love, my love, where are you?

Brangwain's voice sounded in her ear. "They're starting, madam!"

"Thank you, Brangwain."

The trumpeters and heralds were beginning their circuit of the field. Isolde leaned forward to watch, thankful that the loyal maid was at her back. Somewhere among the court ladies lurked the King's mistress and her coterie. Isolde shivered. She could go nowhere these days without meeting Elva's inky gaze and serpentine smile. Like Lienore in Guenevere's life, the fateful Elva would not go away.

"Hear ye!"

The sudden bray of trumpets split the air. The herald marshal strode out into the expectant hush and surveyed the crowd with an imperious eye.

"One joust for all," he bellowed, "by order of the King! A general melee, all knights admitted at once. The winner to be the knight who stands his ground and holds the field alone when all are done."

A general melee
—

Oh, my love, my love
—

Isolde knew at once what this would mean. In single combat, Tristan could beat any knight on the field, even three at a time. But in a general free-for-all, the best of the knights became targets for many spears. Tristan could be attacked from behind, unhorsed and trampled, even killed—

She was suddenly aware that she was making little whimpering noises of distress. She turned to see Guenevere's eyes on her, luminous with sympathy.

Guenevere leaned forward. "You fear for your knight?"

How did she know? Isolde nodded wanly. "Yes, I do."

The herald marshal split his lungs again. "The King's tournament for his marriage will begin, in honor of the Queen!" he brayed. "The winner to be acclaimed as Queen's champion, by right of his prowess. All who challenge for the Queen's favor come now into the ring!"

The great gates of the knights' enclosure swung back and the contestants poured onto the field, each furiously galloping forward to take a stand. The grassy space filled with a hundred armored figures and became a sea of flying banners, bobbing plumes, and thundering hooves.

Then a last, lone figure bounded onto the field. Both horse and rider were magnificently clad in Ireland's colors, emerald green and gold. On his sleeve the knight sported a rosette of white trefoils, the flower of the Western Isle. His silver breastplate was adorned with two fighting swans and his helmet bore a pair of swan's wings, their every feather lovingly worked in gold. Even the trappings of his horse, from the green plumes on its head to the gold threads woven into its tail, echoed his armor and declared his love.

Tristan, my own
—

Isolde laughed, in spite of herself. She might have known that he would enter last, yielding up his natural advantage to give others a better chance. Already the rain-soaked field had turned to mud, and the hardiest competitors had seized the best stands around the edges of the field. Tristan, she saw, had no such options now. He was out in the center of the arena, undefended and alone.

Oh, my lord
—
my love
—

"The Queen's champion!" roared the delighted crowd.

King Mark leaned out of the King's gallery. "Oh, clever!" he shouted gleefully. "Well done, sir!"

He turned to King Arthur. "See the Queen's colors, sire?" he boasted. "And her emblem, the fighting swans? That's my nephew, Tristan, the best knight of them all. I told him to look after my Queen—and see how he has!"

Already the melee was heaving like a living thing.

"Have at you!" Tristan cried through the thin wintry air, as he set spurs to his horse and charged into the press. With his first rush, she saw four knights cannon into one another and fall from their saddles, toppling like pins.

"Away, the Orkneys! Away, away!"

At the other end of the field, Gawain was thrashing about him, roaring like a bull. Pausing to laugh at his friend, Lucan found himself taken in the side by a knight half his size, and paid for his amusement with a heavy fall.

Goddess, Mother, my father would be proud of me!

With his back to a corner, Kay was doing better than he dared to hope. Years of knighthood training with his father, Sir Ector of Gore, could not compensate for the little knight's lack of stature, but the tactics Sir Ector had taught him were clear and sound. Ducking and weaving, Kay had kept his lance firm and straight, and marveled at how many wild enthusiasts had run onto his point. He only had to withstand the impact and their own momentum would send them flying backward off their horses, spinning through the air.

Gods above, am I learning to joust at last?

Kay was still enjoying his newfound skill as two knights charged him together and had him down.

At the heart of the melee, Tristan plunged and thrust, light spinning from Glaeve's busy point. He was the only man on the field with the strength to fight two-handed, his spear in his right hand and his sword in his left, but despite his prowess, his chivalry never failed. Time and again Isolde saw him spare a weaker opponent, or pull back from the melee to avoid spilling blood.

Now the field was beginning to thin out, and those who survived fought on in a sea of mud. The fallen knights picked themselves up and limped off with rueful groans while the riderless horses kicked up their heels and galloped blithely off the field. With her face set in a cheerful public smile, Isolde watched anxiously as Tristan began to work his way around the edge of the field where the strongest had taken their stands.

But wherever Tristan was, the melee followed him, stronger and weaker knights alike jostling to take him on. Amid the heaving throng, no one would have noticed the knight in dark armor, stalking Tristan like a shadow in the rear. But with the sixth sense of the hunter, Tristan tensed and swerved to the side, just in time to avoid a spear point from behind.

The melee parted as Tristan wheeled around and the attacker was exposed. Andred was driving toward Tristan, his spear aimed at Tristan's back. Spurring forward, Tristan bounded toward Andred, bellowing with rage. With more fury than skill, he hooked the point of his spear under Andred's breastplate and tossed the smaller knight backward over his stallion's rump. Under the eyes of the crowd, Andred hit the ground with a crash calculated to knock all the breath from his body, and lay on his back, spread-eagled in the mud.

In the King's gallery, Mark's eyes bulged like a schoolboy's, and he jeered with coarse delight.

"You asked for that, Andred," he yelled. "You tried to take him by stealth—unchivalrous, sir!"

Waving feebly, Andred raised his visor and picked himself up. His face was pale, and the silver trace of his harelip throbbed vividly as he spoke. But still a courageous smile played over his lips. He gestured ruefully to his battered armor and the fine silk banner trailing in the mud.

"Beaten by a better man!" he sang out.

Isolde stiffened.
He hates us. Elva does, too. You don't know that
, she chided herself,
you have no proof
. Yet why could she not believe a word Andred said?