The Lady of the Sea (19 page)

chapter 27

H
ow are you, my dear girl?”

Lovingly, Isolde reached up and stroked the satin-smooth nose of her sweet-natured mare. These pure white native ponies with their cornflower blue eyes had been bred for the Queens of Ireland since time began. Though shy, they were fleet and fearless and never held back. And this one, she knew, had no fear of the Painted Ones.

“You want to go out, my dear?” Isolde whispered in the mare’s long, silky ear. “Well, you shall. Would you like to ride over the marshes today to see the birds?”

She swung cheerfully into the saddle and looked about. The first breath of autumn had brought a welcome bite to the air after the long endless days of summer heat. Soon the bright red and yellow leaves would be dancing about the yard, and the breeze already bore the tang of the turn of the year. Isolde stroked the mare’s neck. “Ready for a gallop, then?”

All around her the stable yard was abuzz. Familiar with the hubbub of the morning ride, Isolde did not notice the excitement in one corner, where a group of the stable lads were still recovering from the appearance of the stranger in their midst.

“Remember the colors on him?” sighed one, lost in hero worship. “On his face, I mean, and the patterns on his shoulders and arms?”

“Yes, but when he gets into the tiltyard, it’ll be his strength that counts,” put in a small, skinny youth. “He looked as if he could take on an ox.”

“And he’s going to battle Sir Tristan?” giggled a third. “They’ll kill each other. Neither of them will give in.”

“Hush your mouth, lad.”

Suddenly the stable master was among them, clipping ears left and right. “The Queen’s riding today,” he went on, “so get about your work, all of you.”

Heads ringing, the lads scattered, bobbing and bowing to Isolde as they ran. She watched them with amusement and a deeper impulse, too.
May the Mother bless you, boys.
These were her people, and she loved them as her life. Every little thing like this made her glad to be home.
You will have many Queens and rulers in the Western Isle,
she thought,
but never one who loved you as I do.

The morning sun was glancing over the grass. Raising her head, she saw the messenger she had sent to Darath hastening back toward her through the outer gate. “So, sir,” she hailed him. “What news from the King of the Picts?”

The messenger shook his head. “The King was not with his people down by their ships. They said he’d come up here to the castle to attend on you. But as I came past the tiltyard, I saw him there.”

Isolde did not move. “In the tiltyard?”

“In combat with Sir Tristan.” The messenger shook his head. “I don’t know how that came about.”

Oh, I do. It started the moment they met.
“Thank you, sir.”

The messenger bowed and disappeared. Isolde sat on her horse like a woman of stone.
Darath and Tristan fighting? Goddess, Mother, the madness, the sadness of men! Who started this? Did it matter, when they both wanted to do it, no matter what the cost?

She paused in sudden fear.
Oh Tristan . . . fighting with a wounded shoulder, too?

Even so, you could still kill Darath.

Or maybe he’ll kill you.

She leaned forward over the horse’s neck. “Hurry, hurry! Go for me, girl,” she breathed.

The mare sprang into a canter, clattering over the cobbles as fast as safety allowed. Isolde clapped her spurs to the mare’s heaving sides.
Goddess, Mother, let me not come too late!

“A
GAIN, SIR
!”

Panting, Tristan hardly recognized the sound of his own voice. Gods above, what a fool he had been! Whatever had possessed him to throw down a challenge when he was exhausted and Darath was fresh in the field? When he had an injury and the Pict was fighting fit? And more, when his opponent was a much younger man?

Tristan gritted his teeth. That had been the worst folly of all. Endowed with the raw animal strength of youth, Darath was beating him. In this fiercely fought contest, the King of the Picts had the edge.

Which only made Tristan want to kill him more hotly and hopelessly with every stroke.

“Again!” he cried hoarsely. “Again.”

But his enemy needed no encouragement. Darath was already hacking and swinging with the best.

Indeed, he had shocked Tristan from the very first. All his life, he saw now, he had been better than those he fought. Even at the court of Arthur and Guenevere, where the best knights in the land were to be found and the knights of the Round Table practiced their skill, only Lancelot or Gawain could occasionally bring him down. Lancelot had an unequaled suppleness and athleticism, and Gawain an almost unbeatable height and bulk. But he, Tristan, had both.

Or used to have, he cursed himself with a hard-breathing oath. When Darath returned, he had reentered the tiltyard at a gallop, bearing down on Tristan like avenging doom. Taken by surprise, Tristan had felt the wind of Darath’s spear as the deadly blade caught him and sliced his side. With a swift sideways feint he’d missed the worst of the blow, but the sharp point had laid open the flesh and given him a painful wound.

First blood to Darath, then. Tristan spat with rage. Gods, how he hated him! In the second charge, fury lent strength to his spear, and, to his delight, the blow landed fair and square. But Darath took the impact, stayed in the saddle, then rode on. Tristan gasped in disbelief. Never had he seen that before.

“Again!” he called. “Again!” But nothing he could do succeeded in bringing his opponent down.

Still, I’ll wear him down in the end, ran through Tristan’s fevered brain. Get him off the horse, fight him on the ground. That’s where his own height and weight would surely tell. But while Tristan was still contemplating that, Darath flung himself out of the saddle, all too eager to continue with dagger and sword. Tristan reached for his own sword, Glaeve, with little of his customary verve.

“Come, friend,” he whispered bleakly, “let us do what we can.”

Morethanthat
, sir,
morethanthat
, the great blade hissed in response. Heartened, Tristan hefted his weapon and stepped into the fray, but his enemy was already hacking about him with a flurry of swinging blows. Recoiling, Tristan planted his feet on the ground and communed with his Gods. Let me beat this vile wretch, he prayed. Strengthen my arm, for the sake of my lady and love.

“Have at you!” Darath growled.

“And you!”

Tristan’s stomach clenched as he ducked another swing. Leaping forward, he brought Glaeve down with all his force, and had the satisfaction of seeing Darath’s head running with blood. The next moment he caught sight of Isolde in the morning sunlight, spurring madly toward the tiltyard across the plain. She was racing down from the castle, and even at this distance he could see the anger in her every move.

“Hold, sir!” he cried hoarsely to Darath, dropping his sword.

“D’you yield?” Darath shouted eagerly.

“Never!” Tristan snarled. He gestured toward the horizon. “But see there—the Queen.”

The flying figure drew nearer with every stride. Together they waited, catching their breath and leaning heavily on their swords. Isolde watched the heaving, panting figures as she galloped up and could hardly contain her rage.

“So, sirs,” she ground out, dragging the mare to a halt. Then her eye fell on Darath, his face a mask of blood. Her gaze switched to Tristan, and she raked him from head to foot.

“How did this begin?” she said in a deadly voice.

Darath saw Tristan’s discomfort and gave a wolfish grin. “With a challenge, Your Majesty.”

“Whose?” demanded Isolde in the same frozen tone.

Tristan stepped forward. “Mine.”

There was an endless silence. Then Isolde fixed her eyes on the men on the ground and addressed them both. “You’re injured, King Darath. You must retire to your ship, and I’ll send my own healer to dress your wound. Sir Tristan, you will attend me back to Dubh Lein. And I shall feast you both in the Great Hall tonight.”

She turned away without waiting for a reply.

Goddess, Mother . . .

She could hardly wait till she had Tristan alone. Riding back up the castle mound, acknowledging the bows and greetings of the people along the way, had never been such an ordeal before. She struggled to contain her temper as they made their way up through the courtyards to the Queen’s House and into the safety of her chamber. Being forced to keep pace with Tristan’s slow, painful movements enraged her still more. Gods above, he’d already been wounded once. Was he determined to injure himself again? Or had he only wanted to hurt Darath, whatever the cost to her hopes of making peace?

Brangwain took one look at her mistress as they came in and slipped away. “If you need me, lady, I shan’t be far away . . .”

The door closed behind the maid’s anxious back. Isolde turned on Tristan. His clothes were splattered with mud, and he reeked of sweat and the iron stink of blood. His eyes were black, and his face was wreathed in pain. Still, she must speak.

“You had a reason for this challenge, sir?”

Tristan felt his heart failing. This icy coldness was more than he could bear. With an effort he brought himself to meet her eye. “I thought I’d defeat the Pict and drive him from these shores.”

“When you knew I favored negotiation?” Isolde flared. “When I wanted to avoid bloodshed above all else?”

“This was man-to-man,” he returned stiffly. “He came upon me in the tiltyard and braved me out.”

So you had to fight him, of course.
With an effort, Isolde bit back the sharp retort. “For Ireland’s sake, all I wanted was to keep the peace.”

“If you say so, lady.”

Isolde tensed. Was that a flicker of scorn in Tristan’s eye? “What would you say, sir?”

“The King of the Picts is a personable man,” he said harshly. “Any Queen might take pleasure in dealing with him. And many men would count themselves lucky to be in his place.”

“You think there is something between us?”

“I can see it with my own eyes.”

“Be careful, sir.” Isolde held herself very still. “This is statecraft, not seduction, whatever you may think.”

“Isn’t it both?” he flashed back. “You married King Mark to save Ireland from war. Who could blame you if you tried the same again?”

She fought for control. “The same again—?”

Tristan did not flinch. “Buying off the King of the Picts by offering yourself.”

She gasped with rage. “You think I—?”

“You are the Queen. You will do what you will do.”

“Do you doubt me?” she cried.

“Lady, I don’t. But a man like the Pict plays a woman like a fish on a hook.”

“And you think I’m a woman like that?” She was almost beside herself.

All women are clay in the hands of unscrupulous men, leaped into his mind, but he managed to leave it unsaid.

“You may be playing him, too,” he said slowly. “But should I stand by in silence when I see him fooling you?”

“Fooling me? How?”

“Flattering you. Courting you with fine words. Treating you like a woman and not like a queen.”

Was it true? Isolde felt a tide of blistering ire. “And you would have done better?”

“Yes, indeed,” Tristan fought back. “I would have beaten the Pict and forced him to yield. If I had, he’d be gone by now.”

“Oh, so?” She could hardly contain her rage. “From what I saw in the tiltyard, he was beating you!”

The look of hurt on his face was his only reply. Angrier than ever, she tried to console herself. How dare he mistrust her so? How could she ever have called this man her true love, when he knew her so little and doubted her so much? And how could he be a suitable consort to her now or the father of her child?

She felt him moving toward her and looked up. His face was dark with a passion he could not express. “Send him away,” he said on one low, intense note. “Send him away, or I must leave you now.”

She looked at him with the blind black anger of love and for a terrible moment wished that he were dead. “Go, then, if you must.”

“Lady—”