Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (37 page)

With the other beaten warriors, Andred was making a graceful exit from the field, bowing to the cheering crowds as he left. In the center of the arena, only two great figures remained, as Tristan and Gawain held the field alone.

"Away, the Orkneys! Away, away, away!"

Yelping like a wolfhound in full cry, Gawain charged. Tristan eased toward him at a slow canter, apparently oblivious to his enemy's furious approach. Only at the last minute did he touch his spurs to his horse's sides. The willing beast gave a massive leap forward just as Gawain prepared to lunge. Tristan's lance slipped under Gawain's guard, found the center of his breastplate, and dealt him a resounding blow. Unhorsed, the big knight fell heavily to the ground.

The trumpets sounded. "Sir Tristan it is! Sir Tristan!" the heralds declaimed.

"The champion! The Queen's champion!" caroled the delirious throng.

Panting, Tristan drew up below the Queen's gallery, his quivering, snorting horse throwing sweat and foam. Isolde rose to her feet to greet him, trembling with joy. He tugged off his helmet and made a formal bow.

"On behalf of the King," he proclaimed, "I lay my victory at your feet."

"On behalf of the King," Isolde cried, "I accept your triumph, sir."

"Sir Tristan—!" came an unexpected voice.

Isolde turned. Farther down the gallery, cooing like a dove and leaning seductively over the edge, was—
Lienore!

The girl was almost falling out of her gown. Her pouting breasts could have kissed Tristan's startled face. Isolde stared in fury and opened her mouth to speak. But Lienore was impervious to reproof.

"Sir Tristan, you have fought well," she called, unabashed. She reached into her low-cut gown and fished out a scrap of lace. "The ladies salute you. Here's for you, sir—from us all!"

The handkerchief fluttered slowly to the ground. Tristan sat on his horse like a man of stone and Lienore's voice chimed on shamelessly as they all stood by. "Sir, I look forward to renewing our acquaintance today. Call on me to honor the Queen's champion as he deserves."
Her acquaintance with Tristan? What did the trollop mean? This is too much!
With smiling calm, Isolde moved forward to take charge.

"Sir Tristan, go with the blessing of us all!" she cried as warmly as she could. "The Queen accepts your championship with grateful pride!"

Hours passed before she could talk to Tristan alone. The evening came on with feasting in the Great Hall, then long hours of dancing and talk as the fires roared up the chimneys and the candles burned down. She saw him passing by many times, meeting former friends from foreign tournaments, or conversing with Sir Nabon and the lords. Sometimes he was speaking with court ladies, though never, as far as she could see, with Lienore. She herself was constantly with King Mark, as Mark attended on the High King and Queen.

At last she drew aside for a moment, drawing breath in an alcove of the Great Hall with the faithful Brangwain.

"It's late, Brangwain," she said. "Time for bed?"

"Madam?"

They had not heard him come. She forgave his cold and formal bow as he stepped in—even at this hour, the court was still awake, the musicians played on, there were prying eyes.

"Sir Tristan." She nodded formally. "You are welcome here."

He moved toward her, turning his face away. She could smell his manhood scent, musky and strong.
Why didn't he speak?

"The Lady Lienore—" she heard him say.

"Tell me," she said.

Staring out at the dancers, he addressed her from the side of his mouth. "Whatever she said, I never knew her before."

He's lying!
flashed madly into her mind.

"Never?" she said graciously, keeping up her public smile. "She claimed acquaintance with you."

"Not as you'd call it—"

"Oh, sir—"

Isolde's smile grew sweeter, and she acknowledged in passing a departing courtier's bow. "What would you call it, then?"

He shook his head. "On my oath as a knight—"

Wild fears flooded her.
He knew her before, and he loves her still. He will go to her quarters tonight, while I'm in the Queen's House alone
—

The smoke from the candelabra stung her eyes. "What?"

He was very pale. "I may not tell you."

"May not?" she hissed.

"Lady, I have sworn an oath of chivalry—"

"And you have sworn a deeper oath to me!" Suddenly she was beside herself. "Tell me what you mean, or leave me at once!"

Stepping forward, he dropped to one knee, and began a muttered tale. She watched as his color changed to an unhappy red, then back to a pallor again.

"I have broken my oath as a knight to tell you this," he said with dull fury at the end. "I swore to myself that I would not breathe a word. But that is how I know the Lady Lienore."

So that is how you know the Lady Lienore.

Isolde could not help herself. "Sir—"

She was laughing, a rich, full-throated, gurgling sound. Tristan raised his head.

"Lady, what?" The last thing he expected was this.

She was staring at him strangely, smiling down at him.

"Would you say that again," she inquired, with light he did not know dancing in her eyes. "Tell the King all you just told me?"

He started. "Tell it to Mark? Why would he want to know?"

"No, no." She shook her head with the same mysterious delight. "Tell the High King. King Arthur himself."

The next day dawned with a rank December chill. A weeping mist rolled in from the sea, and all Castle Dore shivered in its sad embrace. But Isolde awoke with a wicked grin in her heart.
There is justice. And there is faith and truth
.

She sent to Guenevere as soon as it was light. The little page was soon back with beads of mist shining in his hair. The Queen would see them in the Guest House at once. Before long she was crossing the courtyard with Tristan at her side.

They had hardly spoken, and she could see he had not slept. He hated this, she knew. But as she stole a look at his face through the white, writhing fog, she knew he would not fail.

The best apartment in the Guest House had been given to the High King and Queen. The low audience chamber was newly furnished, its walls as white as a fresh fall of snow, its satin floors scenting the air with the golden smell of beeswax and summer in its prime. Copper pots full of berries brightened the wintry rooms, and a sea-coal fire burned with a cheerful flame. Isolde stepped in with a steady heart.
Yes, this is right. This is what we should do
.

At the end of the room, a grave-faced Arthur sat on a low dais beside Guenevere, with the four companion knights standing at his side. Across from them, Isolde saw with an unpleasant sensation, were Lienore and her hard-faced father, Earl Sweyn. She drew a deep breath. What else had she expected? Sooner or later they would have to know.

King Arthur leaned forward, beckoning them to approach.

"Welcome to you both," he said in a troubled voice. "My Queen tells me you have knowledge to share with us." He gestured earnestly to the

Sweyns standing at his side. "I invited the Earl and his daughter to be here because this concerns them, too. You all know each other, I think."

"We do, sire," cried the Earl fulsomely, grinning like a rat. Isolde could see he was ready to jump out of his skin with delight. At last, said his nods and smiles, a reliable witness who will confirm all Lienore said!

Arthur turned back to Tristan. "You were at the tournament in question, eight years ago?"

Tristan bowed stiffly. "Sire, I was, though not yet as a knight. The lord I served then was fighting at the tournament, and I followed the crowd to the fortune-teller's tent."

"What?" Kay twitched with excitement. "You saw us there?"

"I saw all of you." He laughed self-consciously. "I was only a squire. You would not have noticed me."

Arthur nodded gravely, and indicated Lienore with the utmost courtesy. "But you saw this lady," Tristan colored. "I did."

He made a confused bow toward Lienore. "I saw everything," he said stoutly. Only Isolde could hear the reluctance in his voice. "There was a great crowd of people in the tent. The Gypsies had partitioned it with hangings to make different rooms. Knights and ladies were meeting and talking in the main part, while the Gypsy women sang and danced and sold them ale."

"What else?" demanded Arthur hoarsely.

"The tent was dark, even though it was midday," Tristan went on with difficulty, at a loss to describe the rich silk hangings shutting out the daylight, the strange lamps here and there, the shining, scented gloom. "But there were braziers giving some light and making sweet fumes. One by one, those who wanted to have their fortunes told were taken off to another part of the tent. And from time to time I saw a knight give a Gypsy some money, and lead a lady away."

"Aha!"

Earl Sweyn strutted forward, flourishing like a barnyard cock. He paused, holding them hostage to the moment, savoring his power. "So you saw my daughter leave, escorted by the King."

"Alas!" Arthur muttered. He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand. Guenevere straightened her back and changed color as she braced herself for what was to come.

Isolde stared at Tristan and briefly caught his eye.
Go on
.

He cleared his throat. "No, sir."

There was a stunned silence.

Earl Sweyn turned a livid shade of gray. "No? You're lying!" he shouted, fumbling for his sword. "Someone's paid you to deny it! I'll make you say who it is!"

Guenevere half rose from her throne. Beside her Arthur was staring like a man in a dream. "My lord," she cried angrily, "remember where you are!"

Tristan threw back his head. "Believe me, sir," he said sadly. "The Lady Lienore did not withdraw with the King. King Arthur stayed with the others in the tent. He did not leave."

Earl Sweyn let out a howl of disbelief. "Not the King?"

He turned on Lienore, his face suffused with rage. For a moment Isolde feared for her, then she marveled to see the girl holding her head up, perfectly unafraid.

"Did you know?" the Earl cried.

Lienore shrugged. "It could have been him." She paused with a secretive smile. "It had to be one of them."

"One of them!" Earl Sweyn clutched at his head. "There must have been fifty men there. A hundred at least!"

He could not contain his rage. They were back where they were, only worse. Claiming false kinship with the King, they'd be the laughingstock of the whole kingdom now. "So I've got a fatherless bastard on my hands again—"

"Not so."

Tristan's voice chimed through the air like a bell. "Young Sweyn has a father, and a worthy one, too."

Kay started. "He knows!" he hissed to Bedivere.

Bedivere nodded slowly. "Of course he would!" he muttered. "He was there."

"Tell us, sir," said Arthur with grave authority.

Tristan shook his head. "Sire, I may not," he said desperately, "on my oath as a knight. I swore to honor every lady and act as a brother toward every knight. I cannot betray a fellow knight."

"He's right!" Gawain whispered loudly, punching Lucan on the arm. "A knight must keep his—"

Lucan punched him back. "Quiet, Gawain!"

Arthur frowned. "But you also swore fealty to your King, did you not?"

Tristan paled. "I did."

"And your King obeys the High King?"

Tristan bowed his head. It pained Isolde to see him torn like this. "Yes, sire."

"Then obey your High King's command!" ordered Arthur peremptorily. "Did you see who left the tent with the Lady Lienore?"

"I did."

"And did you know him?"

"I did, sire."

Arthur's eyes flashed dangerously. "Then on your sword, Sir Tristan, tell us who it was!"

Tristan's eyes turned to Gawain, Kay, Lucan, and Bedivere. The four companion knights stiffened in surprise.

"Forgive me," Tristan said sadly, then looked away. He took a step toward Arthur and knelt before the throne. "On your command, sire. The knight I saw leaving with the lady was… Sir Gawain."

No one moved. Gawain's jaw dropped and his eyes almost fell out of his head. He looked at Tristan, then at Lienore and at Tristan again.

"I?" he croaked. He shook his great body wildly and tried again. "You mean I had the joy of this lady's"—he collected himself—"company, and I never knew?"

Tristan nodded painfully. "That day in the tent," he said, "no one knew what was happening. You were all in a mist."

"I've got it!" Kay clicked his fingers. "It was the fumes from the brazier, wasn't it? They filled the tent."

"No, sir." Tristan shook his head. "It was the drink. I saw one of the Gypsy girls laughing as she poured the wine, and she winked and told me they put a spirit of forgetfulness into it."

"And you, sir?" Guenevere asked earnestly. "How did you escape?"

Tristan's smile made him look very young. "I was only a boy then, Your Majesty. I did not drink."

Isolde's heart swelled.
Oh, Tristan
—
oh, my love
—

Arthur's face was clearing like sunshine after rain. "Well, Gawain?"

"Sire." Gawain shook his great head and struggled to adopt a noble attitude. "A true knight accepts his own. I am honored to be the father of such a child."

He made a gallant bow to Earl Sweyn and his blue eyes lit up lasciviously as they fastened on Lienore. "And doubly honored in the embrace of a lady such as this." He turned to the King with another lavish bow, ogling the smiling Lienore in shameless lust. "Give me your permission, sire, to bring the boy and his mother to court."

"The boy, yes," Arthur agreed. His mouth twitched and Isolde could have sworn she detected suppressed amusement in the measured tones. "But young Sweyn must leave the house of women and become a man. And indeed a prince—for a son of the royal Orkneys is my cousin, too." He nodded gently to Lienore. "Lady, you will always be welcome as a visitor at court. But as soon as we have settled your son with us, we shall give you leave to return to Castle Sweyn."