The Lady of the Sea (11 page)

chapter 13

D
arkness and devils, how he loved this land! Already he adored its soft contours and gentle mounds, like a woman lying down for him, ready to welcome his love. And yes, he would love the woman as well, when she came. As she must, this Queen of the Irish, this Isolde, whose fate might have made her a ruler but who’d been born a woman, too. She was coming, he knew it, like a falcon to his hand. Nothing could stop him now.

Grinning, Darath strode out of his makeshift tent to roam the smoke-filled darkness of the beach. All around him the campfires of his men bloomed through the rosy twilight, and their shadowy figures clustered hungrily around each leaping blaze. The game in the woodland was plentiful, and they were filling their bellies as they had not done for years. Darath drank in great lungfuls of the soft Irish mist and his heart leaped up. Great Gods above, here even the air was warm! He punched his fist into his palm to release his joy. The doubting Cunnoch would sing a different song now.

He came to the edge of the water where the boats lay at rest. Not drawn up too high on the shore, he had seen to that: they needed to be ready to escape if the Irish attacked. But that was looking less likely as every day passed.

In truth, how could it have gone better from the start? he exulted. A predawn landing and a lightning raid. Blue Pictish faces blazing through the dark, subduing the screaming natives with fire and sword.

And then the essential of any successful conquest: a show of blood.

“Kill them!” he roared. “No mercy!”

Now the screaming was coming from his own men, too, as they slaughtered and slashed and thrust and hacked. The bravest of the bog-dwellers had gone down to the darkness at once. Those still alive had abandoned all resistance then.

He and his men had triumphed like this from the moment they had made land. They had set up camp without danger and staked out their land. And now they must make ready to receive the Queen.

Queen Isolde, he gloated, his Queen, his by victory, by the rules of war. She’d have had his messenger, she would be on her way. How soon would she be here?

He strode about in boyish excitement, silently accusing his dead father’s shade. Old man, we should have invaded this country long ago. While you were sick and dreaming and lying with your battle-slaves, we could have trampled these bog-dwellers underfoot and made their women into broodmares for our sons. We’d have had snug villages by now and fertile farms, vineyards even, as they have farther south . . .

He slammed his fists together. Well, we shall have them all now. He stroked the side of his boat and patted its great curving prow like a household pet. The hideous wooden head with its bulging eyes and sharp teeth looked back at him with a terrible grin. You’ll do it, master, the carved monster leered, there’s no doubt of that. As soon as Isolde comes, you’ll be King.

“King Darath?” came a cry from the dark.

He hurried back up the beach, increasing his stride. A handful of knights stood at the door of his tent, with Cunnoch at their head. A larger group lurked in attendance in the darkness behind.

Darath gestured toward the interior, where a torch lit up a rough table bearing goblets and a flagon of mead. More light came from a standing brazier in the corner, where a small wood fire scented the air with pine. Once inside, he provided the older knight with a stool and scrutinized Cunnoch with care. “Be seated,” he said with some ceremony.

Cunnoch stared at him impassively. “Thank you.”

“You will drink mead with me?”

Darath poured a generous beaker, intent on rewarding Cunnoch for what he had done. On the day of the raid, the older knight had leaped with the first from the boat and fought madly, joyously, unflaggingly, like a boar in rut. He had shown all the best of his animal nature—and his loyalty, too. When the killing was done and the prisoners stowed away, they had feasted together like brothers, and Darath was content.

But it would take more than that to confirm him in Cunnoch’s eyes, Darath knew. His father’s old friend would judge him not on that first success, but on what followed it. So what was Cunnoch bringing him tonight?

He was aware of Cunnoch’s unreadable gaze as the older man eyed him over the rim of his cup. “You have news for me?” he asked.

Cunnoch took his time draining down his mead. “Findra is back from Dubh Lein. From the Queen.”

Darath felt a tightening in his chest. “He must have ridden like the devil. Well, bring him in.”

Findra’s eyes were blue with fatigue as he shouldered into the tent. But a smile of triumph warmed his weary face. “She will come,” he declared. “She will attend you here.”

Now Gods and Great Ones, thanks . . .

An answering flush raced hotly through Darath’s blood. “She will yield. I shall be her King.”

“Does she accept our demands?” came Cunnoch’s voice from behind.

Findra grinned, his teeth white in his travel-smirched face. “Her lords say she’ll make terms with the King when she comes.”

“So,” Cunnoch grunted.

“That’s good!” More than good, Darath crowed inwardly. He pressed a beaker of mead into Findra’s hand. “Drink,” he said softly. “Now, is the Queen still the beauty they say?”

Findra gave a lascivious chuckle and threw the drink down his throat. “Oh, sir . . .” He groped for the words to flesh out what he had seen. “You’ll enjoy her,” he said at last. “She’s worthy of your sword.”

Cunnoch laughed. “Well, many a great queen finds a true partner in a lusty, bloodstained lad, a war-wise fighter and a man of might. Whatever her spirit, you’ll master her in bed. And until then . . .” He turned to the opening of the tent and hailed the men outside. “Now! In here.”

From the darkness came a volley of curses and the sound of scuffling feet. Half a dozen knights entered, struggling with a muffled captive who was resisting them all the way. Panting, the leader of the knights thrust the prisoner forward and tore off the covering. Fighting, cursing, and filling the tent with fiery rage, a woman like a creature at bay stood before them all.

And not only a woman. From the jeweled band encircling her forehead, the gold chains round her neck, and the touches of ragged finery in her dress, Darath knew she was some kind of leader, even a queen. But where had she come from? He had heard of the fabled Irish coloring and seen for himself Queen Isolde’s red-gold hair, blue-green eyes, and milky skin. This woman had a tumbled mane as black as night, coal-black eyes, and a tawny skin. An older race had sired her in an older age, and the single word she spat out was in an older language still.

But they all knew her curse meant the kiss of death. Darath’s eye’s bulged, and he bit back a superstitious oath.

Cunnoch looked her up and down, unperturbed. She returned his stare with scorn, settling her womanly body on her heels and drawing her dark wraps around her as if ready to fight. Cunnoch laughed. “Yours, boy, and well worth bedding, too. She’s the choicest of the local women, the men say.”

“Spoils of war,” chuckled Findra, his eyes alight. “And she’s no mean prize. The people here take their lead from her. She can foretell the future and read men’s minds.”

Darath looked at the woman and fastened his eyes on her. “Is this true?”

She held a long pause before she began to speak. When she did, she used her darkly accented voice like a dagger, stabbing him with every word. “You want to know the future?” She spat on the floor with relish. “The Queen will not come.”

Darath gasped. “What?” Fury gripped him. He would kill her. Now.

Her eyes wounded him again. “Kill me,” she said contemptuously. “But she will not come.”

Darath stared. She could hear his thoughts. What else could she do? “You can cast the future?” he muttered.

She raised her lip in a sneer as her only reply.

He drew the dagger from his belt, gripped her wrist, and dug the point into the flesh of her breast. “Cast, then. Unless you want to die.”

A bloodstain blossomed on the darkness of her gown and the blood ran down. Ignoring it, she shrugged off Darath’s grip and crossed over to the brazier, drawing a battered leather pouch from her waist. As she opened it, Darath shivered, though he could not have said why.

The woman closed her eyes and rocked back on her heels, crooning to herself in a rough guttural tongue. Soon she was lost to them and far away, but the strange chant went on. Darath felt a sudden wild loneliness grip his heart. Cunnoch and Findra were as still as stones, and he felt he was alone in all the world.

The murmuring grew louder as the song gathered pace. Moving like a sleepwalker, the woman plunged her hand into the pouch and drew out a fistful of herbs and feathers, shining pebbles, skin, and bones. As she threw it all up into the air above the brazier, Darath caught a flash of amber and pearl falling into the flames. The feathers settled last and flared up with a sudden, brilliant blaze. He did not want to think about the tiny bones.

He waited, willing his heart and mind into a dreaming calm. This was great magic, he knew, precious and rare. Only one old crone in his own land had had the skill to cast the runes, and she used to divine by pouring oil on water in a cauldron of black oak. She could call up figures in the rainbow-colored fluid and make them move in a magic far older than the Druid kind. But she saw too much, and his father had had her killed. After that, there was no one to do this work.

A rich smell from the brazier filled the air. Now it came to Darath that he would never be hungry again. Warmth ran through him, and he felt himself lying in his mother’s arms. Then he saw the first girl he had loved, pink and laughing as she took him into her. Many girls and women had followed, and he knew again the same rough, rising lust he’d felt for every one. Next a tall, lissome figure swam into his ken. A cloud of red-gold hair fell round her like a cloak, and her sea-blue eyes saw into the future and beyond. Gold encircled her head, her neck, and her waist, and a band of men surrounded her with heads bowed. Darath’s heart leaped and danced and sang in his breast. It was the Queen of Ireland—Isolde the Queen.

He moaned with delight. Isolde was his, she was coming, he would hold her in his arms. But then he saw that the men who had bowed before her were now all speeding away from her on all sides. Some hastened to the gatehouse, others to the battlements, and a third group into the armory, reaching for silver mail and weapons of war. Above it all rang out the two voices of war, the thin cry of the tocsin and the call of the trysting horn.

Darath opened his mouth in vain rage and could not speak. She will not come. She is making ready for war. An emptiness gripped him, cold and vast and stark.
She will not come.
Slowly the visions faded. But long after they were gone, the sound of the trysting horn echoed inside his head.

The woman’s voice murmured below it, hoarse and drained. “The Queen is deceiving you. She is delaying to defend her stronghold and calling up her men. She will not come.”

Darath turned away, exhausted. He knew it was true.

“Don’t believe her,” said Cunnoch in deep anger. “Take her to bed, use her the worst way you can. You’ll get the truth out of her then.”

“I won’t touch her.” Darath shook his head. “She’s a witch, she’s nothing. I have come for a queen.”

Cunnoch heaved himself up and grabbed the woman by the hair. “I’ll take her, then.” He dragged her to the door.

Darath shuddered in superstitious fear. “And suffer her undying curse on all our heads? You must be mad.” He blocked Cunnoch’s path and met his hot-eyed fury head on. “Let her go. Get all the men to the boats. We’re sailing to Dubh Lein.”

chapter 14

A
ll done, sir.” The Seneschal smiled wryly and flexed his gnarled old hands. “It’s many a year since I armed a knight for battle, but I promise you, it’s been done with care.”

Tristan bowed. “I have no doubt of that.”

Bemused, he surveyed himself in the long glass against the wall, clad in the finest armor the castle could provide. A borrowed helmet of bronze gleamed on his head, adorned with the head of an eagle and glinting with a fierce pair of ruby eyes. He had set aside his own light traveling shield for a massive antique sheet of molded bronze, emblazoned with the sign of the eagle again. A breastplate of bronze protected his upper body, and he wore thigh guards and armlets of the same design.

Yet even the familiar kiss of cold metal on his skin and the well-known bite of the straps did not seem real. He had promised to take up arms against a man he did not know, a stranger knight who had never done him wrong. But the lady swore he had wronged her and now he had to do battle on her behalf, driven by his honor and his knighthood oath. And if the lady had told the truth about his opponent, he had to prepare himself for a terrible fight.

So be it. Still struggling with his feeling of disbelief, he took his horse and rode into the wood. “Kill him!” the lady had demanded, and he was not prepared to go as far as that. But he owed her some action against her enemy.

“How will I find him?” he had asked the Seneschal.

“Take the road eastward from the castle till you come to a hollow oak,” was the reply. “He has set up his pavilion in the clearing there. You’ll see his shield and spear hanging from the tree. That’s the signal he’s ready to give battle to all who come.”

A wan morning light lit the forest path. The woodland shone invitingly ahead, welcoming him to its green, fragrant depths. A blackbird on a branch cocked its head toward him, and he read a peaceful greeting in its bright-gold eye. Then he caught the sharp, sideways glance of a killer and saw a red-gold fox slipping lithely through the grass. Even here, he sighed, death stalked in silence, and the predator was always out for its prey.

The path turned and he glimpsed the hollow oak, a gaunt ancient of the forest, huge and strange. But there was no sign of shield or spear. As he paused and cast around, somewhat at a loss, he caught a glint of armor in the distance and the clash of arms. Had the stranger knight already found an opponent today?

He pressed on down the track. Now the trees were thinning toward a clearing ahead. In the center of a wide grassy circle, three knights were struggling in a confused melee. Two of them were violently attacking a third, a much bigger man, who must surely be the lady’s enemy by his strength and height. He was broad-shouldered, too, and a fierce fighter, but hard-pressed to hold two opponents off. Already the grass underfoot was trampled and bruised, and the two knights’ horses had wandered a good way off to graze. Whatever the quarrel and whoever the two knights were, they had clearly been fighting the third for quite some time.

Tristan saw the attackers’ swords fall and fall again, one on the big knight’s helmet, one on his back.

“Hold there!” he shouted, spurring forward. “Parley, in the name of chivalry.”

He bore down upon the trio, waving his sword. The two newcomers fell back unwillingly, while the third knight bowed his helmeted head and leaned heavily on his sword, gasping for breath.

Vaulting from the saddle, Tristan turned his horse loose to graze and confronted the two knights. “Explain yourselves, sirs,” he said sternly. “Two knights may not battle one, as you well know. How has this breach of chivalry come about?”

The two knights exchanged a glance, and one who seemed to be the leader nodded his helmeted head. “Parley?” came his muffled voice through the metal grille.

“Parley,” Tristan returned forcefully. “No more swords. You shame us all if you strike again.”

The leader lowered his weapon and raised his visor, breathing heavily. At his signal, the second did the same. Tristan saw two flushed faces whose very similar dark eyebrows, strong cheekbones, and jutting jawlines proclaimed that they were brothers, even twins.

“We are knights of King Arthur,” the first began, fighting to regain his breath. “We have left his court to go out on the Quest.”

“Balin and Balan at your service, sir, sons of Sir Rigord of the Ravine,” panted the second. A fleeting light of pride passed over his face. “We are following in the steps of those greater than ourselves. Sir Galahad and Sir Gawain have passed this way.”

Balin scowled. “We were riding through the forest when we came upon this knight. We offered him single combat, but he set on us both at once.”

“Without warning, not a single word,” Balan added furiously. He pointed to a bleeding wound in his neck. “And he drew blood at the first attack.”

Tristan listened and sighed. So the lady was right. The stranger knight was a man without honor, it seemed. He eyed the bent figure across the clearing, still breathing heavily and leaning on his sword, then turned back to the brothers and reached for a gentler tone.

“That was unchivalrous, indeed. Nevertheless, I must ask you, sirs, abandon this unfair fight.”

Balin shook his head decisively. “He has injured my brother, and that injures me.”

“Take it as a victory.” Tristan pointed to the stranger’s bowed shoulders and defeated air. “You’ve beaten him, any man can see that.”

Balan thrust out his chin. “Oh no, sir. Blood will have blood. He broke the laws of chivalry, attacking like that. We don’t owe him a moment’s courtesy.”

Balin laughed unpleasantly, showing his teeth. “And it’s no dishonor for two to set on one when the one is big and strong enough for two. Let me advise you, sir, to be on your way. You’ve no call to meddle with us like this, and I swear to you, this knight will not escape.”

Tristan stepped forward. “Whatever he offered you, sirs,” he said with emphasis, “you may not break the oath that you have sworn. You’re knights of King Arthur, you say, following Sir Galahad and Sir Gawain. What would they say to this?”

But he looked into a face of angry disdain.

“My brother is myself,” said Balin slowly. “And I am he. We were born twins, and we live and die as one. Whoever is rash enough to attack either one of us can expect no courtesy or kindness at our hands.”

“No parley, then!” came a bloodcurdling cry from behind. The stranger knight was coming back into the fray. With renewed vigor and answering screams of rage, the two knights leaped forward and set about him again. As Tristan watched, they had him to his knees.

“Hold there,” he shouted, but his words were drowned by the clashing swords, screams, and jeers. Gods above, was he forced to intervene? Groaning furiously, Tristan slammed down his visor and reached for his sword. He would have to defend the man he had come to fight.

Already he knew it would be one of the worst engagements of his life. Many a time he had fought against two or more, and in the thick of a tournament, too, with spears and arrows falling all around. But never before had he fought two brothers, twins who seemed to share one mind, one purpose, one intent. Each knew the other’s movements like his own, and together they became one terrible foe.

And Tristan’s partner gave him no support. The big knight fought only for himself. Indeed, he seemed oblivious that Tristan was there. As the great figure cut and thrust, grunted, screamed, and lashed out, there was no hope of fighting together against the common enemy. The stranger’s great strength and reach and his furious sweeping blows kept his opponents at bay, but did nothing to help the man fighting at his side.

So Tristan bore the brunt of the brothers’ rage. Their first blows fell on him before he was aware. But he knew at once the warm sticky sensation of blood running down his side. The next second two swords were descending on his head as both brothers made him the target of their rage. Only a lightning parry and a sudden flurry of sharp jabbing blows thrust the brothers back and gained Tristan a brief respite. But moments later, they were on the attack again.

“The tide must turn,” he muttered to himself behind his visor, “and the day must end.” But of all his battles in recent tournaments, few or none had tried his strength like this. The stranger knight at his side was clearly suffering, too, and his armor was stained with blood. The brothers were hard and determined fighters, and their grudge against the stranger made them doubly dangerous.

At length Balan unexpectedly missed a stroke, wavered, and fell back. Balin threw his brother a swift glance of concern and lost his rhythm, too. Howling, Tristan hurled himself between them, swinging with all his strength from left to right. One sweep of his sword sent Balin sprawling to his knees, while the blow on the return stroke laid Balan flat on the ground.

Scrambling forward, Tristan set his foot on the fallen knight’s chest and stuck the point of his sword into Balan’s throat. Already Balin was scrambling to his feet, sword upraised, returning to the attack.

“Yield, sir,” Tristan cried hoarsely, “or your brother dies.”

Behind him he heard the stranger knight laughing in triumph.

“You heard the word,” came a deep, exultant cry. “Yield!”

With a groan of rage, Balin threw down his sword. As he heard the weapon thudding to the ground, Balin spread his arms wide in the age-old gesture of surrender.

“I yield,” he croaked.

“Take your horses, sirs, and be on your way,” Tristan forced out, struggling for breath. He gestured to the red-brown crusts on the stranger knight’s armor and the fresh trail of bright red seeping down his own side. “You have fought well, and your blood has been repaid with blood. You have restored the honor of your house. May all your Gods go with you on the Quest.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Balin gave him a reluctant bow, then helped his brother to his feet. Tensely, Tristan watched the two knights limp off, Balin supporting the stumbling Balan with a brotherly arm around his waist. At the far side of the clearing, Balin called up their horses and then helped Balan to mount. Then, taking up Balan’s reins as well as his own, he led his brother slowly out of the wood.

Gods above, they’ve gone!

Gasping, Tristan fell to the ground and dropped his head between his knees. The reek of sweat and blood rose all around him as he gave himself up to relief. Goddess, Mother, thanks! The battle had been won without death or serious injury. Better still, he had saved the big knight’s life, and by the laws of chivalry the stranger must now become his friend. He still had to challenge him about the lady in the castle, but whatever happened, they would fight no more today. Both of them were wounded and both had lost blood. Both were exhausted, and it was time for peace.

He lifted his visor and turned. The stranger knight was still standing in the clearing, sword in hand. Thankfully, Tristan heaved himself to his feet, sheathed his sword, and stepped forward to meet him, holding out his hand.

“So, sir, we meet at last,” he said with a courteous bow. “I’m glad I was able to—”

A silver flicker caught the corner of his eye. He raised his head in time to avoid a rising blade. In mortal terror he leaped out of the way. But the blade flashed again. The stranger knight was aiming for his heart.

“Have at you!” came a terrible scream. The stranger fell back, then swung his sword two-handed like an axe. To his horror, Tristan saw the great body hurtling toward him to attack.

“Sir! Sir!” he shouted in wild protest, to no avail. Nothing could stop the stranger knight’s forward charge.

In an instant, the knight was upon him. Madly, Tristan ducked under his sword.

“Hold your hand, sir,” he howled. “I’m not your enemy. I’m Tristan of Lyonesse, a knight of—”

“Then defend yourself, Tristan of Lyonesse!”

Still screaming, the stranger knight whirled around and attacked him again. Desperation lent Tristan unwonted strength. Lashing out like a cornered stag, he swung the flat of his sword against the side of his opponent’s head and knocked him off his feet. A second blow to the back of the head as the stranger went down dropped him like a stone to the ground.

Now Gods defend us . . .

Fresh blood was seeping from the knight’s armor where his headpiece met his neck. In a panic, Tristan fumbled with the knight’s helmet. Was he alive? Sweating, he struggled to turn the knight on his back, overcome with fear for his motionless foe. Blows like that could render any man unconscious, even near death.

“Air,” he muttered thickly to himself, “must give him air.” He pushed up the heavy visor and the knight’s face came into view.

“Hear me, sir,” he began hoarsely, then lost his voice.

Oh, the Gods—surely not?

A sick sensation erupted in Tristan’s gut. The wild eyes were closed, and there were no hoarse threats and cries, but there was no mistaking the matted hair and beard. Here again were the beetling eyebrows, hollow cheekbones, and tortured face he already knew.

“Alas, alas!” he cried. Tears of pity rose to Tristan’s eyes. Lying before him, bloodied and brought down, was the pitiful creature he had spared before. The fate he had tried to avoid had caught up with him here. He was looking at the madman in the wood.