Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (39 page)

She laughed, and waved a dismissive hand. "Mark could not touch me."

"Think, madam." He held his temper. "King Mark is no lover of women, there's a danger in that. He's ruled by the Christians, too, their priests are round him night and day. You know what they think of women—and what they do."

She shuddered. Every girl in the Western Isle knew how the Christians treated women in the name of their God. When their Good Book taught them that all evil came through Eve, men could punish women throughout eternity.

Her fragile mood veered like a weathervane. How could he stand there gleaming in white and gold, as tall and fine as a stag at the head of the glen, and talk like this?

"We only need to be careful," she said stubbornly. He wanted to believe her. He loved her when she spoke as bravely as this. He saw her small chin set and his heart ached. "We shall be," he said. Her spirits turned again. "If we are, then we have nothing to fear."

She looked into his face. She wanted to feed on his mouth and drown herself in his eyes. She felt the warmth blooming at her center, the raw feeling for him still strange and dangerous. Shivering, she longed for the safety of his arms.

She leaned toward him and gestured to the nearest couch. "Will you sit with me, my love?"

"Gladly I will." He bent down his head toward hers and gently touched the letter in her hand. "We must talk about this, lady."

"Later." She laid her hand on his. "Afterward."

High above, the sun paused in the sky, then hid behind the clouds. The sky darkened, and the muffled figure watching from the cloisters below saw the two heads meet in a tender intimacy, then draw back out of view. Sheltering in the shadows, he had endured the bitter cold without much hope that his vigil would bear fruit. But the couple he could see through the glass were far too close for a queen and her knight. Isolde and Tristan were lovers, and here was the proof.

Andred stood for a second to calm his heaving heart. Then he raced away, careless of the ice underfoot. One thought possessed him, beating through his rising blood.

Bring the King here—

Fetch the King—

Fetch the King!

"Yes, yes, Father—the Lord's work, certainly."

Mark shifted irritably in his seat and tried to quell the resentful shuffling of his feet. God Almighty, what was wrong with these priests? Weeks of wind and rain, and now, when the sun was shining at last on fields covered in snow, when the horses were raring to get out and the game would be sportive from lack of food, then Father Dominian had to launch into a sermon apparently destined to go on for ever and ever, world without end, amen.

Dominian and his eternal shadow, Simeon. Mark gazed sourly at the youth waiting patiently for his master by the door. They were everywhere now, the black brothers of Dominian's community—why couldn't he read his infernal lectures to them?

"We must accept how narrowly we have won this land to the Christian faith," Dominian droned on. "Your Majesty must consider—"

Must, must, must!

Mark blocked his mental ears and turned his mind to better things. A day in the Trembling Forest, now, charging through the trees with the hounds in full cry—that was a sound to warm the meanest heart, better than choirs of angels all singing at once.

"—as Your Majesty must agree."

Must, must, must—-

Sulkily Mark returned to reality. "What?"

"About Queen Igraine, sire," Dominian said forcefully. He had no compunction about bullying Mark in the name of the Lord.

"Igraine?" Mark spluttered madly, "What of her?"

Dominian stared at him implacably. "We need to win her to God and secure the Hallows of the Goddess for our own use."

"What?"

Mark gasped. Igraine was as old as Tintagel, older than the sea. Aloft in her palace on the rock, unseen by common folk, she had kept the worship of the Goddess for so long that many believed she was the Great One Herself, if Dominian thought that she would turn to Christ, he was madder than he thought. "What are you saying, man?"

Dominian's eyes were burning with a hard, bright flame.
Ecce nunc, Domine
, see, Lord, behold how I do thy will—

He leaned forward. "Sire, give me leave to write to Queen Igraine. She must have access to the Lady—she must know where the Hallows are. If we can open a dialogue, by degrees we can work these women to our Christian purposes." He bowed, and threw Mark the bribe. "If you agree, I'll have the letter ready to sign when you come back from the hunt."

The hunt, at last! Mark sighed with relief. Dominian was a sensible fellow after all. This plan of his should lead to interesting things.

"Good work!" Mark uncoiled his legs and stood up. "I agree—"

"Sire!"

Running feet sounded in the corridor, and Andred burst through the door. "Treason, sire!" he gasped.

Mark began to tremble. "What?"

Andred came to a halt, panting for breath. "My cousin Tristan is plotting with the Queen!"

"Tristan?" Mark gaped. "With the Queen?"

"They're together now, in the solarium."

Dominian stepped forward, his face alight with a wild curiosity. Dear God, could this be?

Mark stood rooted to the ground. "But why should the Queen—"

Andred showed his teeth in a savage grin. "Remember Ireland was our enemy, sire! To them, the death of Sir Marhaus went unavenged."

"What are they plotting?" Mark made a wild clutch at him. "Tell me, Andred, I have to know!"

"Queen Isolde's mother may want to invade again. Now Isolde's here, they have a spy within our gates." He gestured hastily to the door, "if we hurry we can—"

"Would Isolde betray me like this?" Stupefied, Mark hit his head. "Would Tristan?"

Death and damnation. Andred struggled for control. If he couldn't get Mark to the solarium, the lovers would get away!

"Sire." He chose his words with care. "Indeed, some of your courtiers, too, have reported strong concerns about the Queen and Sir Tristan."

"What about them?" cried Mark in desperation.

"They fear Sir Tristan has approached the Queen—in forbidden ways."

Mark's mouth fell open. A thousand fears went jangling through his brain. "You mean—?" he said thickly at last.

Andred nodded, looking agonized. "Alas, sire, that I had to tell you this!"

"Women are sinful creatures, we know that," Dominian put in tensely. "But-—"

"Tristan?" Mark had gone very white. "And Isolde?" A look of vicious fury crossed his face. "I treated her so well! if she's done this to me—"

"They're in the solarium now, together, alone. You may overhear them there if you want, and not be seen." Andred leaned forward urgently. "What is your will?"

"God's body, Andred, d'you need to ask?" Mark snarled. He reached for his sword. "Take me to them! Lead the way!"

Outside the sky was dark with the threat of fresh snow, and the afternoon was well advanced. Heavily muffled, they slipped through frozen courtyards, and there was no one to see as they gained the solarium and stealthily climbed the back stairs. They crept up the narrow steps on silent feet, their swords drawn and ready in their hands. Give me Tristan, Andred clamored silently to his Gods, give him to me now!

At the top of the stairs was a small platform, and ahead of them a thick curtain reaching from ceiling to floor. The space they stepped into was cramped, fusty, and dark and they huddled together, craning for every sound. At first they could hear nothing but their own stifled breath and the beating of their hearts. Awkward as ever and hampered by his cloak, Mark had stumbled audibly on the top step and Andred was sure they would be discovered at once. But as their pulses slowed and their eyes adjusted to the gloom, he knew that the couple in the solarium had heard nothing at all.

For the two speakers were alive in a world of their own. The muffled voices reaching them in their gloomy hide were so interwoven with each other that nothing else could exist. The velvet murmurs and honeyed tones betrayed a couple in closest contact, drowsing head to head.

They're making love! Gods be thanked, caught in the act! Andred's venom peaked. I have you now, Tristan, you are in my hand. He sneaked a look at Mark. The King's eyes were bulging with concentration as he tried to make sense of the tender, fugitive sounds from within. Andred grinned to himself. The trap was laid, the prey deep in its toils. His finger was on the spring.

The lovers' words came faintly to their ears.

"—King in danger now—"

They heard Tristan laugh. "What's a King when a man holds the Queen?"

Then Isolde's voice, husky with love and the weight of satisfied desire. "And a queen has her knights."

"How so, lady?"

"The arrow finds the target, the hunter strikes down the stag—"

Tristan chuckled softly. "And the knight takes the King?"

What?

In the darkness behind the hanging, Mark's brain burst. They were lovers, they were plotting against him, just as Andred said. With this talk of arrows and killing, they were going to murder him, and make Isolde Queen. And here was his faithless wife wallowing in her treachery, vaunting her adultery with Tristan, with any of his knights she pleased—

"Traitors!"

Howling, Mark threw back the curtain and burst into the room. Hastily Andred leaped after him, quite unprepared. The wide gallery stretched away before them, flat as a field. Tucked into a side alcove midway down, Isolde and Tristan sat together at a table, their heads as close as those of lovebirds in their roost.

Not entwined in the act of love, Andred saw to his rage. What then?

The couple were poring over a black and white board. On the silver and ebony squares, pawns, knights, kings, and queens pranced to and fro, carved in crystal and jet. As he watched, Isolde's hand reached out and took Tristan's king. Gods' body, blood and bones, they were playing chess!

But Mark's jealous eyes saw what Andred did not, the light from another world in Isolde's smile. The same primordial pain stirred in his heart as when he first knew that Tristan was a fighter of great prowess. He would never win praise and honor like Tristan by deeds of renown. And now it came to him like a scream of rage that he would never enjoy that rapt love in a woman's gaze. Men like him commanded mirth, not adoration, and were laughed at wherever they went. He caught a tender chuckle. As these two were laughing now!

Isolde heard the sound of booted feet and raised her head. Over Tristan's shoulder she caught a dark, hurtling figure, sword upraised. "Tristan!" she screamed. "Lady—"

Behind the first cloaked attacker came another, but Tristan was in motion before she knew. Driven by blind instinct, Tristan leapt to his feet and turned on the intruders without thought. One furious blow sent the first flying to the floor, dropping his sword as Tristan struck him again. With the speed of a cat, Tristan snatched up the weapon and faced the second, disarming him, too. The first scrambled to his feet as Tristan, flaming with rage, set about his assailants with swinging blows. Lost in a fighting frenzy, he chased after the hooded figures down the hall, landing blow after blow on their retreating backs. At the top of the stairs he paused for breath and allowed the fleeing pair to get away. "So!"

Tristan turned back toward Isolde in triumph, breathing heavily. Shaken, she watched the fighting fury leave him as he came to himself again. "Cowards!" he said thickly. "Did you see how they screamed and ran? I never heard such a noise in my life."

She was on her feet, stabbing him with her eyes. She threw back her head, her mouth twisted with anger and distress. "Gods above, Tristan, what have you done?"

His anger ebbed away like the tide. "What do you mean?"

"Do you know who they were?" He had never seen her look so deathly pale. "It was the King and Andred."

He threw down Mark's sword as if it stung his hand. "I attacked the King?"

Her face, her eyes, her lips were gray and bloodless now. "You beat him like a schoolboy. He will never forget the shame." She wrung her hands, striding up and down. "And it's treason. You tried to kill the King."

"Not so!" he cried angrily. "If I'd wanted to kill him, he'd be dead!"

She shook her head. "He'll never think that. He'll want you dead now."

"My armor." He bunched his shoulders and turned toward the door. "I must go and get ready to fight."

She wanted to scream. "Tristan, think! He'll never agree to single combat with you! He'll send a troop of men to take you by force. They're probably on their way now!"

He stared at her stupidly. "But a knight may not ambush another knight—"

"Mark doesn't care about the rules of chivalry!" she shrilled. "He thinks only of himself." She ran at him and struck him with her fist. "You must go!"

"Go?" He looked at her like a child. "Go where?"

Goddess, Mother, help me!
"Mark is planning your death, I know it! You have to get away!"

He smiled and shook his head. "I will not flee."

"If you don't, you'll be dead by tonight!"

He looked at her. "I must take that chance," he said simply.

It was no use. Isolde took a breath. "Sir Tristan," she said, mastering her rage. "What am I to you?"

He gave a look of infinite sweetness. "You're my lady, my love, and my Queen."

"Then as your Queen, I order you to go."

He gasped and the blood left his face. "What?"

"Obey my command!" She could not look at him. "Leave Castle Dore this instant, and do not return."

There was a wind from Avalon and the sun shivered and fled. "If I must go, come with me!" he cried. "Let me take you away!"

Tears stood in her eyes. She shook her head. "I cannot. Go!"

Overhead the noonday sky grew black. Tristan stood for a second, like a man of stone. Then with a look of burning reproach, he caught up his cloak and sword, knelt to kiss her hand, and strode out of the hall.

She stood and watched the broad frame receding and his head disappearing down the stairs. One thought alone haunted her ravaged mind.
I have lost my knight. I have lost the only true love in the world
.