The Lady of the Sea (2 page)

Merlin shook his head. “Blood will be shed, I know it. If you love Isolde, bid her to leave Cornwall at once. She will only be safe if she goes back to her own isle.”

“So Isolde must flee to Ireland and take refuge in Dubh Lein? Indeed it is her fortress, her castle, her ancestral home. But what makes you think she will find safety there?”

Merlin started. “Why not?”

“Ah, Merlin—” The Queen glimmered at him. “I thought a Druid’s ears could catch the song of a babe in its mother’s womb and the turn of the tide of every faraway sea. Did you not hear of this, Lord Emrys the Bard?”

Was she playing with him? Merlin hid his rage behind an iron grin. “Hear of what, I beg you?”

“There is trouble in Cornwall, you say. But the wolves are gathering around Dubh Lein, too. Ireland’s green hills and valleys are in danger now.”

“From what?” Merlin cried, ready to tear his hair. “From whom?”

Isolde gave him her thousand-year-old stare. “From a race of invaders who were old when these islands were young. From the men of an ancient tribe who fell back to the northernmost mountains when the Romans came, but lived to drink from the skulls of the stragglers when the legions withdrew.”

Merlin’s eyes were alight with a yellow fire. “The Picts? The tribe the Romans called the Painted Ones for their hideous tattoos?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“But what have they to do with Isolde?”

“They are the ancient enemies of her race. Her mother fought many hard battles to turn them from Ireland’s shores.”

“And they are stirring again?” Merlin let out his breath in a satisfied sigh. “All the more reason, then, for Isolde to go back to Ireland to repel their attack.” He smiled broadly. “So Isolde will be fully occupied in Ireland, that’s plain. And when Mark’s reign ends in Cornwall, you and I are agreed that Tristan will rule?”

“Why not Isolde?”

“Isolde?” Merlin tensed. “But Mark has two heirs already, his blood kin. Against them, Isolde has no claim.”

“None at all?” The Queen smiled her ancient, secret smile.

“She’s Mark’s wife, yes, of twenty years,” Merlin snapped. “But marriage to the King is no claim to the throne.”

“Nor is being nephew to the King, if the King’s claim is not secure.”

“What?” Merlin felt the ground slipping from beneath his feet.

“King Mark is my vassal. He only holds the throne through my goodwill. As his overlord, I can appoint another in his place.”

Darkness and damnation, that it would come to this . . .

Merlin struggled to hide his dismay. “You would make Isolde the Queen of Cornwall in her husband’s place?”

“Why not?” Igraine laughed, a mellow, warming sound. “She would do better than Mark. And the people would be happy if I did.”

Merlin’s eyes bulged. “Mark would never accept it.”

“He has no power to refuse.” She leveled her eyes on his. “But what do you care about Mark? Or about Isolde herself?”

Merlin puffed up his green velvet chest. “Madam, I assure you—”

“Oh, Merlin—”

Igraine broke away and strode around the room, her silks hissing like the ebbing sea. “The spirit that made you take Arthur away from me is with you still. You claimed Tristan, too, when he was a boy, and you’ve watched over him ever since. These are the only sons that you’ll ever have, and you’re determined they’ll never suffer as you did, outcast and alone.”

Alas the Gods . . .

Grief upon grief rose before Merlin’s eyes. He saw himself again as a fatherless boy when his mother, a princess of the Pendragons, was cast out for bearing a bastard son. His own newborn son came back into his mind, in the arms of his dear young wife, who had followed her child to the grave. Once again he felt himself hunted through the forest as he was after Uther Pendragon died, and his tears for his great kinsman flowed anew. “Madam, I beg you—”

But the bell-like voice chimed on. “You care nothing for Isolde. You only want Tristan to succeed, like all your lost boys. You turned Arthur toward the Christians and promoted their faith because they invest power in men. Now you want to get rid of Isolde, because the sons of Merlin must reign alone. I see it all.” She pressed her long fingers to her temples as the visions came thick and fast. “You mean to use all your ancient Welsh dragon-power to destroy the Mother-right.”

“No, no,” Merlin screeched. “I protest—”

Igraine held up her hand. “Fight for your fatherless men all you like, I shall defend Isolde and the Mother to the end.”

“Hear me! On your own head be it—”

“Oh, sir—” Igraine turned on him, swelling like a stormy sea. “Go back to the Welshlands and your crystal cave. Learn there if you can the simple secret of life. All men are lost without a woman to love. Woman is the circle that contains all life itself, all that is human in its journey from birth to death.”

“Madam, I swear—”

Words, threats, and curses were pouring from Merlin’s lips. The old Queen stood for a moment surveying the tortured features and livid, twitching lips. Then she raised her hand and the young knight appeared at the door.

The old Queen bowed. “Safe journey, Merlin,” she said sternly, “and be warned. Leave Isolde alone. She must find her own way through the dangers ahead. She will triumph or fail, there is no middle way, and not even the Mother can turn back the wheel.”

chapter 2

H
ear us, King Mark!”

The man at the head of the table made a final appeal. “The Gods know I’ve been loyal to your house.” He gestured to the worn faces round the board. “We’ve all grown old serving you and your father, in war and peace. But we’re all agreed that you must take action now.”

Must, must . . . ?

The slack figure on the throne listened with dull rage. What, a sovereign in his own stronghold to be attacked like this? A King of Cornwall to be harassed by those whose duty it was to bow and obey? He could smell them all circling now, like beasts of prey. How dare Sir Nabon and his lords tell him what to do? He had called this Council. Let them obey him
—now!

His fist crashed to the table. “I am King here! And you, my lords, will hear me!”

Balefully, he stared down the length of the green baize. Who would challenge him? Not the white-bearded Sir Wisbeck, already a hoary ancient when Mark was a boy and now sailing serenely toward his eternal night. Nor the fat and pompous Sir Quirian, busily avoiding the King’s eye. Mark laughed sardonically. Quirian might be playing manfully with the hilt of his sword, but if swords were drawn, the stout knight would not be seen.

Fools! Didn’t they see that he was offering them fame beyond compare? Men would talk of the Quest for the Holy Grail for a thousand years. This nonsense about the succession must not throw him off. He hunched his shoulders and leaned forward, glowering.

“Arthur and his knights are all going on the Quest,” he pronounced. “Cornwall should be there, too.”

Sir Nabon watched every eye round the table turn toward the King, and stifled a sigh. Where was Isolde? No one else could deal with Mark at times like this.

Isolde . . .

A tall, lithe shape drifted across his mind, and he saw again the Queen’s cloud, womanly red-gold hair, thoughtful eyes, and quicksilver smile. Sourly, he eyed the King’s soft leather tunic and breeches of fine wool, the gold chain adorning his less than manly chest, and the undeserved torque of knighthood around his neck. Isolde had more royalty in her little finger than this man in all his ungainly body, no matter how richly he dressed.

Mark felt Nabon’s honest scrutiny and thrust out his chin. “How long is it now since Arthur sent word of the Quest? He’ll be leading his knights out on the road, and I should be, too.”

“Oh, sire—”

Sir Nabon’s voice was bleak with despair. “Your own kingdom craves your attention, not the Quest. In the north, the Picts threaten to overflow the Roman wall, and the savage Norsemen batter the eastern shore.”

Old Sir Wisbeck frowned. “Hear him, sire. A ruler must do what lies nearest to hand.”

Must, must . . .

There they were again.

Mark shifted on his throne, angrily crossing and uncrossing his long legs. “But the east coast is guarded by Arthur and Guenevere, and the Painted Ones will never come this far south. If they attack, they’ll make for Ireland, for sure. And God be praised, that’s in Isolde’s hands. That’s why she’s gone to Camelot on our behalf.” He straightened his narrow shoulders importantly. “Now, about the Quest—”

Nabon felt increasingly near despair. “But, sire, remember the dangers that lie nearer home.”

“We need to get our young knights out guarding the roads,” Sir Wisbeck agreed gravely. “Not lounging around here at the court, refusing to go to the tiltyard and drinking every night in the Knights’ Hall.”

“Drinking every night?” Mark’s little eyes narrowed. He kneaded his belly fondly, and gave a belch. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, sire,” replied Nabon loyally. “But the kingdom must come first. There’s no profit for Cornwall in joining the Quest for the Grail.”

There was a heavy pause. Then Sir Wisbeck’s frail, elderly voice dropped in once more. “And the Grail itself, sire, these objects the Christians seek—”

Mark turned on Sir Wisbeck. “The cup and plate from Our Lord’s Last Supper, yes,” he glowered, “and the sword and spear of His passion. What of them?”

Wisbeck’s milky eyes looked deep into the past. “Many of us knew these objects by another name, long before the Christians set foot in this land. To us, they’re the Hallows of the Goddess, sacred to Her for a thousand years.” He held up four fingers and carefully ticked them off. “Her loving cup of forgiveness, with which She reconciles us all. Her great dish of plenty, to feed all who come. Her sword of power, and Her spear of defense.”

Farther down the table, another head nodded fervently. Sir Thalassan had sailed far and wide in his youth, and the faraway gaze of the seafarer was with him still. He stared at Mark unsmiling, as powerful memories played behind his eyes.

“At sea, we had another prayer, too,” he said slowly. “For us, the wide ocean was the holy grail, the mighty vessel in which the Mother holds the waters of life. And her platter of plenty is the never-failing earth.”

“Yes, well,” Mark huffed. “That was before the light of Christ was revealed. Father Dominian says that God has now given His true wisdom to the world, and all this Goddess-worship is a thing of the past.”

A new spark of awareness burned in Nabon’s eye. “And the Mother-right?” he said levelly.

Mark waved a lordly hand. “That, too, must pass.”

There was a thunderous silence. Only Sir Wisbeck dared put the thought they all shared into words.

“Then what of Queen Isolde, your consort and wife? Are you saying her rule in Ireland will be no more? And what of our own sovereign lady here in Cornwall, your overlord Queen Igraine? For a thousand years, both our countries have obeyed the rule of Queens.”

Nabon leaned forward urgently. “It may be true, sire,” he forced out, “that the rule of women is over and done. But whatever happens, you must name your heir. As long as you remain childless, the succession lies between your nephews Andred and Tristan.”

The succession, the succession . . .

God Almighty, there they were again!

Mark flung himself out of his chair and strode about the chamber, his long limbs jerking with rage. “You’re a pack of chattering jackdaws, all of you. I’m sick of hearing you repeat the same nonsense day after day. Hear me, Nabon—”

But Sir Nabon was not to be silenced now. “By your leave, sire,” he said trenchantly. “Sir Tristan is the choice of every man here.”

Mark turned on him. “And Sir Andred?”

. . . is powerful, ruthless, and determined to succeed, ran through Nabon’s mind.

“None of us will serve or follow him,” he rapped out.

So! Mark gasped. They don’t trust Andred. Why? What do they know about him that I don’t?

Sir Quirian took a breath. “We choose Sir Tristan, sire,” he said doggedly, “for his courage and courtesy that touches every soul. You saw him defeat the King of the Blacklands at the last tournament and then hand him the prize. It was to honor a close-fought battle, Sir Tristan said. But all the world knew it was pure chivalry.”

Tristan, always Tristan . . .

Smoldering, Mark heard the cheers of a thousand tournaments ringing down the years. He looked at the stout knight with rising hate. All his life, it seemed, Tristan had been putting him to shame. Didn’t Quirian know that every triumph of Tristan’s festered in Mark’s own heart? And Tristan himself surely knew that his prowess had always made Mark look poor and mean. And now every man round the table was pressing Tristan’s case.

A new resolution burst in Mark’s weak brain. Never would he name Tristan as his heir. Help me, God, he moaned inwardly. Lend me Your strength against Tristan, Andred, and all these meddling lords!

And Isolde.

A fresh wave of fury rose to scald his soul. Above all Isolde, with her cool, questioning stare, her fiery spirit that was always so cold to him, despite the promise of her flaming hair and her shapely body so queenly and aloof . . .

Inspiration seized him.

“God may yet bless our marriage and give the Queen a child,” he cried. “How can I name Tristan or Andred as my heir, when they could be displaced by a son of my own loins?”

“Your son?”

Nabon stared at Mark, caught between rage and despair. He ground his teeth. And how will this miracle child come about, he snarled inwardly, when all the world knows that the Queen never comes to your bed? When for years this marriage has been a hollow sham, and you have felt free to disport yourself elsewhere? Is this an answer to our just demands? Oh, our poor country, without a leader or an heir.

He wanted to take Mark by the throat and shake him as a dog shakes a rat. Then a deep unease crept over him like a mist off the marsh. What if Mark were not lying? What would become of Isolde if Mark suddenly demanded his marriage rights? As he could, oh yes, he could. Would he take her by force? Yes, even that. Driven by greed or vanity, Mark could do anything.

Alas, poor Isolde . . .

Revulsion gripped Nabon’s stomach. Surreptitiously, he wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip and read the same concern in his colleagues’ eyes.

“Just wait till my beloved wife returns,” caroled Mark. “Then we shall see.”

Around the table, the seated men tried not to meet each other’s troubled gaze.

Alas, alas, Isolde . . .

Isolde, Isolde, mourned the restless sea.

Goddess, Mother, help her. Help us all.

Nabon buried his head in his hands and began to pray.