Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (41 page)

A long silence fell as she looked round the room. One by one the lords nodded and she smelled triumph—she could disregard Mark sulking on his throne. He would have to follow whatever his council agreed. She took a deep breath of delight. She had won!

The next moment she met Andred's hard black eyes. You are mine, madam, said his insolent stare. Your paramour may have slipped through my hands, but the dearest thing he loves is still in my power. Prepare yourself, then. I mean to hurt and destroy.

Behind her back, she made the sign against the Evil Eye. "Sir Andred—" she began boldly.

"Never intended any evil, you say?"

Andred favored her with a long, silky smile. "Then you can have no objection to the King's demand. This commission will clear your name and establish the truth." He turned back to the King. "Sire, give us permission to proceed and build up the case."

Build up the case
—

Isolde heard a dark wind from afar.

There is no proof, hut Andred will make it up. He will bribe my servants to say Tristan came to my hed
—
that they heard us plotting and saw us embracing, which no man ever did
—

With a sudden bleak insight, she saw the whole game.

And there will be letters, too, that we never wrote. Letters from Tristan, promising to kill Mark.- Replies from me promising to make Tristan King. Then the charge against me will be treason for sure, not simple suspicion as it is now.

Her heart almost burst in her breast.

No remedy hut to strike first!

"Enough of your commission!" She turned on Mark. "I claim the right to clear my name!"

"Clear your name?" Andred sneered. "Madam, how?"

"Listen and learn!" she blazed. "And hold your tongue, Sir Andred, when your Queen speaks."

A hush fell on the room. She could see Mark frozen with fear in his seat, and it gave her strength. "I demand the right of ordeal!" She stared around at the lords, daring them to refuse. "Some of you will have seen it. You all know what it is."

Sir Nabon held his head and groaned aloud. "Madam, you don't know what you ask! This is not for a Queen—"

"Sir Nabon, a queen is the same as a goose girl before the law!" she said feverishly. "And I know the ordeals—earth, water, fire."

Nabon leaned forward and appealed to Mark. "You cannot permit this, sire!"

A look of childish cunning came over Mark's face. "What can't I permit?"

Nabon could have struck him. "The risk to the Queen!" he cried. "Sire, you know what this means!"

"Yes!" cried Mark in a fit. "Seven times through the fire, seven days in the earth, or seven times seventy underwater without air."

"I choose the ordeal by water!" Isolde threw back. "I demand it as my right!"

At last! Mark leapt to his feet in delight. The arrogant witch had played into his hand.

"Then you shall have it, madam!" he shouted. "In seven days' time! Till then, you'll be kept in the Queen's House under arrest."

He stalked to the door and turned back, his dull eyes alight. "You're not in Ireland now. Ask your Great Mother to save you from the Pool of Tears—for no man or woman has come out of it alive!"

Seven days from today, madam—at the Pool of Tears!"

Threatening and cursing, Mark stormed out of the council chamber, followed hurriedly by his lords.

In the courtyard outside, a lean, hooded form curtsied to the ground as the King swept past. She kept her head bowed too as the Queen was taken away, tall as she was, still dwarfed by the men-at-arms. Only when the courtyard was clear did Brangwain raise her head. In a week, the Queen would be thrown into the Pool of Tears to drown. Tristan could save her, if she could track him down. But where would she find him? Where would he have gone?

Anywhere! her anxious heart replied. Then the stubborn strain of the Welshlands came into play. No man disappears into thin air, least of all a big fellow like him. He loves my lady like his life. He'd never run away and leave her, he can't be far.

Brangwain sighed. Where would Tristan have gone? He fled the solarium only a step or two ahead of the guard. He'd need food and shelter and somewhere to take cover if the King went after him with his men-at-arms. So where? Not to the sea to take ship—that would carry him too far away from all he held dear. Nor would he find shelter on the shore—the beaches were too barren for a man to hide, and it would be all too easy to be trapped in a cave.

Think, now! she scolded herself feverishly. Where would he go?

It came to her like the dawn rising through the trees.

Where but the woodland?

Where else would a hunter hide?

Goddess, Mother, praise and blessings on your name!

The forester stepped out of his hut, lifted his face to the nip of the frosty air, and gave humble thanks. You're a fool, man, he grumbled cheerfully to himself as he set off with his dog at his heels. You should be praying for the Great Mother to take this away. All the other forest-dwellers hated the snow, cursing the hard weather that bound up the earth like stone, freezing the water and starving them of their food.

But he loved the mornings when he woke to find the well-worn paths and familiar scenes all white and shining, an enchanted land. He marveled at the way the Mother's hand lovingly redrew every branch of every tree, burnishing every twig, gilding each blade of grass. The woodland became to him then like the Great Hall of the Gods, every chamber opening onto other wide chambers of glittering white, all roofed with a stark tracery of dark branches, hung at night with stars.

His dog plunged off into the snow, yelping with glee. For a moment he yearned for four legs too, to romp through the forest like that. The cold pinched his face like a lover's caress, and he dragged it into his lungs with a primal need. Wondering, he watched the dawn breaking through the trees, the fine fingers of light striking fire from the ice and snow. Every mote in the air sparkled as it danced around his head. Winter killed many, he knew. But on mornings like this, he never felt more alive.

If only these early winter snows were not so short! Already he was lamenting the coming loss of this white kingdom, his wonderland. He felt the frost biting his ears and caught himself up with a laugh. Well and good for him to abide the groaning of his belly, but he couldn't inflict that on a weeping wife and a brood of bleating bairns. It was one of the things that had kept him single all these years. But a man needed a wife and children all the same.

Years afterward he thought that if he'd been a father then, he would have noticed the child. Or perhaps he'd have seen the boy if he hadn't been light-headed with hunger, floating on the fumes from his empty belly, dreaming his way through the trees. He only knew that when he passed the cloven oak, there was no one there. At the crossroads beyond, he whistled to his dog—now where had old Nipper gone? "Good dawning to you, sir." He turned with a start. At the side of the track behind him stood a child in woodland green. His pale, half-starved face was luminous with cold and his threadbare cloak hung off his skinny form. The thin boyish body was at odds with the child's wizened face, but many children of the forest grew old before their time. This one had a rabbit dangling from his hand. At least the family that had sent him out foraging would eat tonight. All well and good, the forester thought, till he met the child's staring eyes.

"Who are you, lad?" he said roughly, to cover his fear. "What's your name?"

"Emrys, sir."

His voice was as old-young as his little wrinkled face. Its high tones held the sound of the cataract on the black mountain and the upraised sea beating against the shore.

"Emrys," said the forester, to gain time. "One of the names of old Merlin, was it, in days gone by?"

"Merlin Emrys the Bard?" The child gave a strange, sweet smile. "It was and is."

"You're from the Welshlands, then?"

"Once." The child's eyes spun like cartwheels in his head. "Long ago."

The forester felt a sudden urge to be gone. "Well, I'll leave you, young sir."

The boy took no notice. "Have you seen a knight in the wood?"

The forester laughed in surprise. "Plenty, lad. Why d'you ask?"

A piteous eagerness flooded the scrawny face. "Tell me!"

"Why, the King hunts every day with his knights—"

"No, no!" cried the child tetchily, like an angry old man. "A Cornish knight. Here in the forest in the last few days, traveling on his own."

"What like?"

"Big-built, well-favored, tall and broad. But he moves like a hunter, and he's gentle with man and beast."

The forester felt an urge to know such a man. "No," he said with a curious sense of regret, "not a sign."

The child cried out sharply, as if he were in pain. "Not so much as a footprint in the snow?"

"None," the forester answered.

He was longing to say yes, and slowly it came to him that the child knew that. But how? Could he read his thoughts? A deep unease gripped him. Gods above, was he even a child? Who could say in the name of the Great Ones how old the boy was?

Suddenly the forester did not want to meet the staring gaze, the huge eyes containing all the colors of the world. Yet he could not avoid the scenes that unfolded there. He saw a pit beneath the earth and two dragons fighting, the red against the white. He saw a bloody battle raging till all the men of one kin lay in a valley, bleeding their hearts away, while a bard on the hillside above ran mad with grief. He saw a red dragon rampaging on a snowy field and blue-black dragons consuming their own kin. He saw more than he could think about for the rest of his life. And all this in a skinny young urchin's eyes?

"So you know the tales of Pendragon and their kin?" the child said softly. The forester flushed. Gods above, the boy was hearing his thoughts again.

The child's mood turned. "But Ronan, Ronan, you did not see the knight!" He struck his head. "He is lost, then. Grief upon me!" he cried. "Grief upon all of us!"

The forester gasped. How did the boy know his name?

"Never fear." The little ancient face stared into his. "You're a good man and good things will come to you."

"Be off with you!" he cried roughly, crossing his fingers against the Evil Eye.

A laugh like an old man's cackle leaked from the child's thin lips. "Gone already," he crowed, floating away.

Or that's how it seemed, when the forester pondered it afterward. All he saw was a sudden movement of the air, a flurry of snow, and the boy was gone. Like all the children of the forest, he knew how to steal away. But if he was truly one of them, why would he leave his rabbit at the forester's feet?

Goddess, Mother, thanks!

Tears started to the forester's eyes, and his head swam. He had had no idea how near to starving he was. Suddenly he knew that if he had not met the boy, he would never have gotten back to his hut tonight. Already he could taste the roasted rabbit, smell the herbs. Quick, then, he told himself, get home and eat! It took awhile to find his dog, cowering at a distance, and he knew it had witnessed something he could not see. But at last he coaxed it home and rewarded it with the parts of the rabbit that only dogs will eat.

At dusk he was by his fire, drowsing and replete, warm from the inside out, the best feeling in the world. Safe now in the faithful arms of his old wooden chair, he scoffed at himself for his starved fantasies.

Dragons and battles indeed! Why had he taken any notice of the boy? Then something came to him that banished sleep. Where the child had stood, there were no marks in the snow. The boy had come and gone without setting foot to earth. He had met a creature without being, without body at all—one of the Old Ones, the fathers of All-Being, the Lords of Light.

But who would believe him? He knew at once he could never tell a soul, not even the wife he dreamed of, the cheery, full-bosomed partner of his bed and board, if he did, he'd have to tell her what else he saw, the glories, the trumpets, the banners in the wind. And the big knight riding off in the fading light and the lady crying out and tearing her hair…

He came to with a start. Drums and trumpets, and lovers in the mist? No, it was all too much. Men like him tended their traps and kept their homesteads tidy till they found a nice wife. They went to market on Wednesdays to look for a plump jolly bride, and winter or no, he'd go this very week. But no more visions, no more fetches after this! Nothing but his daily life and its daily deeds.

Which is why, when the court lady came by, asking for the knight, he said nothing of what he'd seen. He heard the accent of the Welshlands in her anxious voice, and wondered in passing if she and the child were kin, but he did not tell her that there was another on the same trail. He saw her grief and fear as she talked of her mistress, and would have helped her if he could. But already he had put the strange child out of his mind, and as soon as the lady left, forgot her, too.

Market day, now! That was the thing. When the farmers' wives came to market to sell their eggs, they brought their daughters, too. Somewhere, he knew, there was a plump chicken for his pot.

Till Wednesday, then… Dozing by his fire, he allowed himself to dream.

Meanwhile the hunt went on. Mark led one troop of armed men into the forest and Andred another, searching to its very heart. All they learned was that an old man on a white mule had left the forest by one path, and a lady from the court had ridden away by another. None of them ever found Tristan, or knew where he went.

Only the seagulls flying over the rocky shore saw the tall, broad-shouldered figure coming down the cliff path. He made quite a stir as he rode through the village on the bay, catching all eyes. Even the busiest women stuck their heads out of their windows to take note of the stranger with the fine armor and handsome, ravaged face.

By the time he rode down to the harbor, half the village was watching him. They saw him dismount by a ship, talk to the captain, and lead his horse aboard. The village idlers hung about till the boat hoisted sail and headed into the wind. Some were still following its course far out to sea when night came down and the ship was lost to sight. With the lack of excitement in places as small as this, most regretted that the big knight had not stayed. But none missed him as badly as Isolde when Brangwain returned from the forest with the news that Tristan was lost and nowhere to be found.