The Lady of the Sea (18 page)

chapter 25

N
ight had settled over Dubh Lein hours ago. The guards at the gates were drowsing over their pikes, and the prying eyes of the court had long closed in sleep. But Brangwain hurried through the shadowed corridors with her heart in her mouth. She did not trust that painted devil, the King of the Picts. And if he knew she’d been scouting the corridors so that the Queen could slip into Sir Tristan’s quarters unobserved . . .

Brangwain heaved an angry sigh. Oh my lady, my lady, she mourned, what ill luck you had. What spiteful demons brought Sir Tristan here just as you had the Pictish King by the hand? And why was Sir Tristan already wounded and sick?

That at least they had dealt with, Brangwain reflected with a faint return of hope. Whoever attacked him had given him an ugly cut, but he was easier now. Brangwain sighed with the sense of one job at least well done. On Isolde’s express orders, she had gone herself hotfoot with herbs and salves to minister to him.

When she got back to the Queen’s chamber, Isolde was waiting by the door.

“All clear, my lady,” Brangwain breathed.

Isolde nodded her thanks and slipped out as light as a ghost.

“Wish me well, Brangwain.” Her words floated over her shoulder as she hurried away.

“I do, I do.” The maid crossed all her fingers and plaited them into a knot. “Goddess, Mother, go with her all the way.”

W
ILLOW BARK FOR REDUCING HIS FEVER
, she’d ordered that. It would work against bone pain, too, if his wound was deep. Honey-salve for the sword-cut and all-heal to knit his flesh, he’d had all that. But she needed to see him to know how badly injured he was. And she could not do that till all the world was asleep.

Oh, Tristan, Tristan . . .

Feverishly Isolde hastened through the dark corridors to Tristan’s side. She could hardly contain her tension.
Almost there . . .

He was leaning out of the window as she came in, staring into the dark. He turned toward her, heavy with the smell of the night and the wildness of the midnight in his eyes. He had thrown off his jerkin and sword-belt, and his shirt hung loose above his dark breeches and boots. Now she saw the dressing on his shoulder where it met his neck, and could tell at once it was a considerable wound. But that was nothing to the hurt in his eyes.

They stood staring at one another in silence, then both spoke at once.

“How are you? What happened?”

“Lady, that stranger knight—?”

They broke off again, as tongue-tied and awkward as lovers half their age, and the pain between them as deep and wide as the sea.

Tristan was the first to recover. “I beg you, lady, tell me why the Pict is here?”

She felt angry and guilty at once. “The Picts have made landing on our northern shore,” she said levelly. “Darath invaded with a mighty force of men.”

He let out a sharp breath of surprise. “What did they want?”

“Ireland’s total surrender to their will.”

Tristan gasped. “Is that all?” he said sardonically.

Isolde hesitated. She dared not tell him of Darath’s advances to her. “Yes,” she said stiffly. “That’s all.”

He gave an angry laugh. “Isn’t that enough? And when I arrived, I suppose you had summoned him to dismiss his demands with scorn?”

Oh, Tristan . . .

Isolde groaned inwardly. “No, I had not.” She drew a careful breath. “I’ve been negotiating with him since he arrived.”

“I don’t understand,” he said. He was very pale. “Why don’t you take up his challenge?”

“And go to war?”

He nodded, his eyes on hers. After so long apart, the sight of her was a radiance to him, like sunlight on water or starshine dancing at night. For her sake, he could do anything.

“Sound the trysting horn, lady,” he urged, “and raise all your knights. We can beat these invaders away from Ireland’s shores.”

“That has been done. All the knights of the island are here at my command.”

Tristan’s face cleared. “Then I’ll lead your army and drive their King out myself.”

She could hear the edge of rivalry in his voice. “Alas, no,” she said in a low voice. “It may not be.”

“Gods above, why not!” he cried in a sudden passion. “The knights of the Western Isle aren’t afraid of the Picts. I’ll direct the battle. You shall command it from the nearest hill.”

Goddess, Mother . . .

“Enough men have died already. Many poor crannog-dwellers perished when the Picts came in.”

Tristan tossed back his hair. “Then I’ll challenge him to single combat,” he said furiously. “I’ll beat him like a dog and force him to withdraw.”

“I want to avoid any fighting,” she said slowly. “For now, I want to see what talk of peace will do.”

“Peace?” Tristan’s eyes flared. “Madam, war is the only language he’ll understand. Kill or be killed, that’s the law of the Picts.”

Would he ever share her passion to keep the peace? “We may not kill,” she said stubbornly. “It is against our faith. You know the Mother teaches love, not death.”

He paused. A new coldness had entered his tone. “Even when they’ve killed your people?”

She heard her own voice growing colder as she replied. “Even then. Wrong added to grievous wrong does not make a right.”

He looked at her with a strange and hostile regard. “This Darath . . . their King—”

Could he possibly say the name with more contempt? “Yes, sir,” she answered through gritted teeth.

“You know he would kill you if he wanted to?”

“Kill me?”

Whatever she had been expecting, it was not this. Kill her? Darath? The man who had flattered and caressed her, blandished her to his bed?

“That’s ridiculous.” Isolde set her chin. “You don’t know him. You can’t say that.”

Tristan turned away, defeated. Believe me, I know, hovered on his lips. There’s no mistaking a killer when he looks you in the eye. Why would Isolde defend a man who had murdered her people and invaded her land?
Because she cares for him!
fell on his mind like a blow.

He could hardly bear to think it, let alone put it into words. Does she love him?

Surely she can’t?

No, Isolde, no!

The gulf between them widened as they stood. She put out her hand to touch him and, with a dull horror, saw him flinch away. A thin film of sweat broke out on his brow, and she saw him sway.

“What happened to you?” she said in deep distress.

“I was ambushed on the road.” He laughed bitterly. “By the knights of King Mark, no less. One struck me, but it’s nothing. It’s a clean wound; it will heal.”

“Mark ordered your death?” She could not believe it. “Whatever for?”

“Because I sent word I was leaving him to follow you.”

Isolde closed her eyes. So Tristan had made the choice she was praying for him to make, then he’d arrived to find her with another man . . .

Oh, Tristan, no . . .

“And Mark tried to kill you? No, no,” she said helplessly. “It could not be.”

Tristan stared at her implacably. “He sent Fer de Gambon and Taboral under Andred’s command. They waylaid me. They were out to take my life.”

“There you are, then,” she cried, grasping at straws. “It’s Andred, not Mark, behind this. Mark’s a coward, but he’s not a murderer.”

“Trust me, lady . . .”

Tristan clenched his fists and cursed himself for a fool. Why hadn’t he brought the rogue knights along with him? She’d have had to believe him if she’d heard it from their own mouths.

“Lady, lady,” he groaned from the depths of his heart. “Mark tried to kill me. Your husband wants me dead!”

Isolde stared at him in anger. It could not be true. His mind was inflamed from his wound. He was not well. “Oh, sir . . .”

But why were they arguing like this? She hadn’t seen him for weeks, and still he hadn’t even tried to touch her hand. Why didn’t he reach out for her, take her in his arms? If only he would hold her, kiss her, lie with her skin to skin. Whenever they’d been at odds with each other before, making love had always set them right . . .

Tristan, Tristan, my love . . .

She moved forward and took him by the hand. “Can we talk of something else?”

He did not respond, she saw with a sinking heart. But she pressed on as lightly as she could. “You know we spoke before about having a child.”

“A child?” He looked as if he had never heard the word.

“Our child, Tristan.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “And now it may come about, just as we talked of it in Castle Dore.”

“We—?” Tristan turned away. “How may this be?”

His coldness was infectious. “I have seen the Lady,” she said stiffly. He made no reply.

Gods above, did he have to make it so hard? “To have a child,” Isolde repeated in rising distress. “I have taken the way of the Mother to unlock my womb.”

“So.” Tristan set his shoulders, a sign she recognized. And still he would not answer her or warm to her touch.

Did he believe her? She could not read his face. What was he thinking? His gaze was as opaque as milk. But suddenly she knew he did not trust her anymore. Above the wholesome scent of herbs and salve, she caught the sharp smell of doubt and rank distrust. And already he was drawing away from her, like a hurt creature of the forest seeking its lair.

She reached out in panic. “At least lie down with me for comfort. Let me hold you in my arms.”

The gaze he turned on her was wild and aloof. “You must excuse me, lady.”

“Excuse you . . . ?”

Goddess, Mother . . .

Her heart plunging, Isolde pulled away. In all these years, he had never refused her before.

“I—” He broke off and turned his face away.

Isolde nodded, humbled and aghast. “Oh, your wound, of course . . . I’m sorry, I should have thought . . .”

He bowed his head. Neither of them could speak. Sadness fell between them like a weeping cloud. She gathered her forces and moved toward the door.

Never before had they parted without a kiss. She stood, hoping but hopeless, waiting for his farewell. But he did not stir.

“Good night,” she said, in a voice not her own.

She had to strain to catch a low murmur in reply. She left him standing like marble, an image of nobility and pain. She was not to know that the fever from his wound had flared up again and his body was aflame. But above that, one thought was poisoning his mind and coursing through his veins like boiling oil.

She does not love me.

She’s chosen Darath the Pict.

And if she’s taken the way of the Mother to unlock her womb, it’s because she wants his child!

chapter 26

M
adam, you haven’t had a wink of sleep all night.”

Isolde smiled sadly at Brangwain. And neither have you, she did not need to say. They both knew that the maid, like a faithful shadow, slept when Isolde slept, ate when she ate, and laughed and wept with her, too. Now, in the gray light of dawn, Brangwain’s dark-complexioned face looked drawn with fatigue, and there was a deeper question in her sloe-black eyes: what’s to be done?

With another strained smile, Isolde acknowledged her concern and turned away:
I know, Brangwain, I know.

The very thought of Tristan was a pain as sharp as toothache, as bad as the gnawing of the inward cankers that ate people alive. Isolde caught her breath.
Goddess, Mother, whatever shall we do?

“I was so longing to see him,” she said hollowly.

Brangwain nodded. “I know.”

But not like this, hung between them like a sigh.

“I must not lose sight of Ireland,” Isolde murmured. “I can still save our country from war.”

“Ireland, always Ireland.” Brangwain pursed her narrow lips. “You must think of Sir Tristan, too.”

“Oh, I do, Brangwain, I do.” Isolde held back a sad smile. Brangwain always championed Tristan with all the passion of her steadfast heart. “But I can’t behave as I want while the Picts are here. I can’t have him at my side during the day, I can’t eat with him and dance with him at night, I can’t even send to greet him in the morning in case someone spies the messenger going to and fro.”

“You’re right not to trust the Picts,” Brangwain agreed grimly. “That Cunnoch of theirs is a dangerous man. And any of them could have bribed the servants to snoop around.”

Isolde felt a wild impulse to laugh.
My own servants spying on me? On us, on our love?

She had come to Ireland to be free, and here she was trapped again in the toils of secrecy and deceit. Her soul convulsed.
Oh, Tristan, surely we must breathe the open air before we die! I beg you, help me to deal with the Picts and put an end to the threat we face. Don’t destroy the fragile truce I’m building with Darath. Trust me to do right by the country and by you.

She closed her eyes and put her whole heart into a prayer.

Have faith, my love.

Hold on.

A sad-faced sun was climbing up the sky and its pale, chilly rays were finding their way into the room.

“I must send to Darath,” Isolde said slowly. “But I shan’t even mention what we talked about last night. It’s vital to keep him guessing about what happens next.”

“Well, Sir Tristan’s arrival will have helped us there,” Brangwain put in with a sardonic smile. “The King of the Picts can hardly have been ready for that.”

“No, indeed.” Isolde felt her spirits rally. Brangwain was right; Tristan’s sudden appearance could be turned to good account. It had certainly taken Darath by surprise. And Tristan loved her. He would not fail her now.

She threw back her head. “Send to Darath,” she ordered crisply. “Tell him the Queen bids him welcome to the day. Say that I may ride today or I may not. Ask him to hold himself in readiness to meet later on. But only if affairs of state permit.”

H
E WOULD GO TO THE TILTYARD,
that was the thing to do. Never mind the wound in his shoulder, anything was better than pacing like a caged beast in here. Tristan glanced around his quarters, feeling the walls closing in. He had always before loved the loam-washed apartment, with its fragrant, honey-waxed floors of golden oak. Its spacious rooms and rich furnishings seemed to him a mark of Isolde’s love, and here they had known many passing moments of joy.

But with every thought of Isolde, the memory of Darath came treading heavily on its heels. Shaking, Tristan realized that he had never felt jealousy before. Now it stalked his mind like a lover’s bane, and he knew he would neither sleep nor eat till it went away.

What was she doing now? he tormented himself. Was she with that painted creature, with
him?
He could not name the Pict, even in his own mind. The sun was up; the Pict could be with her already, smiling at her side. Or perhaps she had only pretended to send him away last night, and he’d shared her bed . . . ?

And what about his men, that whole pack of tattooed barbarians camped out on the shore? Peace and kindness, she had insisted, faith and love. But didn’t she see that the Picts must be strengthening their hold every day? Sooner or later it would come to a battle, he dared swear to that. If ever he’d seen an animal born to fight, it was Darath the Pict.

And born to . . . ?

No!

He would not think of Isolde that way.

The madness of jealousy jabbed at Tristan again. With a flash of horror, he saw that he would gladly kill Darath, strike him down
now!
Then, in the coldness that followed the hot rush of blood, he’d abandon him like a dead dog and leave his body for the crows and wolves. The thought sickened him. Tristan, Tristan, what have you become?

Hurry, hurry, leave this place, get out . . .

With fingers as dead as sticks, he fumbled on his armor and reached for his sword and lance. Outside the chamber, the air was chill and sweet as late summer took on its early autumn tones, the wholesome world of nature a welcome respite from his overheated thoughts.

“Sir Tristan!”

“Why, there you are, sir.”

As he strode through the palace and down through the outer courts, knight after knight hastened forward to shake his hand.

“Sir Tristan, by all that’s wonderful,” one cried. “God’s above, you are welcome here.”

Laughing, another appealed to his fellows standing around. “Who better to lead us against the Picts?”

“Welcome back to Dubh Lein, sir.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Every warm greeting revived Tristan’s flagging heart. He had a part to play here, he knew it. Isolde loved him, and he had the knights’ respect. They would follow wherever he led, and she would not fail him now. And she always had the interests of the country at heart. She knew what a queen had to do.

He pressed on to the stables with a lighter step. Once mounted and in the saddle, he turned the gray toward the tiltyard, stroking his neck. He could hardly feel the wound in his shoulder now. Yes, this had been the right thing to do.

“Just a pass or two for exercise, old friend,” he murmured. “To blow the cobwebs away.”

As they rode out of the castle, Tristan saw with relief that he had the tiltyard to himself. The long grassy enclosure held no other jousters thundering up and down, trying their skills on the targets all around. The straw knights sat on their wooden horses with their battered shields, waiting forlornly for a real knight to approach, and the rings dangling along the length of the track swayed idly in the breeze. Tristan could do what he liked. He chuckled with delight. Already he was starting to feel like himself again.

“Have at you, then!” he roared to the empty air.

He eased the gray forward, aiming for the target at the end of the green. Picking up the pace, he forgot the pain in his shoulder and blessed his luck that his sword arm was unhurt.

“Take that!” he cried. He slammed two of the straw opponents with a satisfying thud, sending each of them spinning as he galloped by. Returning down the other side of the green, he caught ring after ring on the point of his spear, dropping each one just as deftly in time for the next.

The flying hooves of the gray cut into the turf, and he drew the smell of the newly bruised grass deep into his lungs. He felt the jolt in his injured shoulder with every stride, but he did not care. As he roared at the dummy knights and raced to and fro, every stab of the fiery pain made him feel more alive.

“Go, friend. Go!”

Leaning forward, he breathed his excitement into the horse’s ear. The willing gray hurtled eagerly up and down, turning tightly in its own circle at the end of every charge. At last its pale flanks were dark and foaming with sweat, and the pain in Tristan’s shoulder was too much to be borne.

“Enough, boy,” he murmured, easing up on the reins. The horse slowed and came to a halt, snorting heavily. Only then did Tristan become aware of a figure on the shadows by the gate, leaning against the wall. When had this stranger wandered into the tiltyard unseen and stayed to watch his ferocious mock battles and war-like display?

But it was not a stranger. It was the man he hated most in all the world.

As their eyes met, Darath straightened up and slowly brought his palms together in mock applause. “Well ridden, Sir Tristan.” He waved sardonically toward the reeling straw dummies and wildly swinging rings. “You killed all your deadly enemies.”

And I could kill you!
In an instant, all Tristan’s good humor vanished like summer snow. What a fool he must have looked, what a fool! All the time he’d been galloping up and down and cavorting like a boy, the Pict had been laughing at him, enjoying the show.

He could hardly speak for rage. The pain in his shoulder was much fiercer now, and he knew he was sweating from the strain. Darath sauntered toward him, smiling a slow smile. His white teeth gleamed in the sunlight, and Tristan wanted to knock them out of his head.

“So, sir,” Darath went on, “I must leave you to your exercise. The Queen has sent for me.”

Tristan tensed. Isolde had sent for this creature and not for him . . . and she’d be waiting for him now, in delight, in hope? He reached for the calmest tones he could find. “Farewell then, sir.”

“Farewell.”

Darath turned away, then swung back on his heel.

“Unless—?” he murmured speculatively, eyeing Tristan up and down. He had nothing to lose. Isolde was not awaiting him; he had only made that up to annoy this old man. Maybe there was more sport to be had out of Tristan, after all? Old or not, he still looked like a fair fighter, and the chance of a pass in the tiltyard was not to be denied. Darath grinned. It was a while now since he had lifted a lance or swung a sword. And he’d vastly enjoy putting this great booby down.

Darath flexed his shoulders and bunched his hands, then favored Tristan with a smirking glance. “Is your sport done for the day?”

“It is.”

“Is it indeed?” Darath persisted. “Must you leave?”

Don’t listen to a word of this, urged Tristan’s inner voice. Ride away. But a sudden hot thought made him look at Darath anew. Here, right here in the tiltyard, he could deal with his enemy now. He could beat the filthy wretch hollow and force him to leave Ireland as the price of his miserable life.

He ignored the pain shooting down his arm. “Must I leave?” he echoed Darath in mocking tones. “Not if Your Majesty will accept a challenge at my hands.”

Darath stared at him. Then, with great deliberation, he drew the largest of his daggers from his belt and threw it to the ground. Tristan’s horse shied violently as it quivered between his hooves.

“A challenge?” Darath laughed offensively. “I accept.”

There was no thought in Tristan’s mind now but
kill!
He cleared his throat and tried to find his voice. “They’ll find you a mount at the stables and assist you to arm. I’ll wait for you here.”

Darath swept him an insolent bow. “Not for long, I hope.”

The lean figure strode away in the sun. Watching him, Tristan felt himself growing cold. Shivering, he tried to reclaim his former heat: he’d need all the fire he had to do battle with the Pict. But the fine flame of hatred was gone. With growing dread he sat on the sweating gray, feeling his stomach for the fight draining away. One grim thought haunted him like a ghost. I wanted to kill you, Darath. Will you now kill me?