The Lady of the Sea (23 page)

Even then, she nearly passed it. But a voice from long ago murmured,
It is here.
Dismounting, she secured her horse’s bridle and turned the beast loose to graze. Slipping into the narrow cleft, she plunged through bramble and fern and found her way to the door. She was troubled to see that the low door looked unopened since the last time they left. But Tristan of all men knew how to cover his tracks. Of course, he would make the entrance look undisturbed.

Oh Tristan, Tristan, my love . . .

Trembling, she opened the door. Passing over the threshold and into the wide hall, she had to hold back her tears.
Goddess, Mother, how I love this place!
Ivy mantled all the windows, and every room was bathed in greenish light. But all the rooms inside were clean and dry, and a sweet loamy fragrance hung in the air. After the chill of the forest, the old grange was warm, and she felt a kindly welcome in the soft green gloom.

Her heart soared. “Tristan?” she called. “Are you there?”

She moved eagerly forward through the well-furnished apartments, bright with rugs and tapestries, all glimmering with the same woodland light. One room gave onto another, low, spacious chambers floored in mellow oak, looking out through green curtains of ivy to the forest beyond. Still calling, she threw open a pair of doors.

“Tristan? Are you there?”

A slight movement on the floor caught her eye. A brown wood mouse sat up on her haunches, holding Isolde in a long, steady gaze. Her huge dark eyes were liquid with unshed tears, and her fragile pink hands were clasped in deep concern.

Isolde stood stock-still. “What is it, little Mother?” she whispered fearfully.

The small plump creature bowed her shining head.
You know, Isolde, what has brought me here.

And suddenly she knew. Tristan was not there. And the Gods alone knew where in the world he might be.

chapter 32

T
he tiny messenger bowed again and was gone. Isolde moistened her dry lips and tried to form a word of blessing as she went.
Thank you, Little Mother. The truth must always be welcomed, however it hurts.
Yet still her inner voice said,
He must be here.

“Tristan? Are you there?”

Nothing but echoing silence throughout the house.

Tristan, where are you?

Answer me, answer me, love!

You’re here, aren’t you?

I’m coming, I’ll find you, never fear.

Blindly, she crashed through room after empty room. But she would not give up hope. At the top of the house was the attic, and there, if anywhere, Tristan must come to rest. She had nursed him there for weeks as he recovered from his near-fatal battle with the knight who had owned the castle before. After that they had briefly stayed on, living for the first time almost as man and wife, and her sore heart revived to remember the joy of that time. Tucked away under the eaves, the long rambling attic chamber looked out over the trees, and all day long the sun filled it with light. It had little round windows that smiled like kindly eyes, and the birds in the branches used to sing them to sleep.

And now it stood empty and gaping, bare of everything except a film of dust. Disturbed by her entrance, the tiny motes leaped and danced, lit by the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. Unmoved, the solid old four-poster bed, the oak chairs and tables, and the dusty armor-stand all stared back as if to say, Greetings, lady, what are you doing here? Half dazed, she watched them as her last hope died. Tristan was not here. He was not in the house. He had not returned like a wounded beast to his cave.

Wrong, Isolde!
She stood nursing her failure, aching with emptiness. How could she have been so wrong?

In a dream, she turned and left the empty house. Her horse came at once to her call, and she mounted without thinking and set off into the wood. Where am I going? she wondered, and back the answer came.
Search the wood. The truth lies in the wood.

Closing her eyes, she placed herself in the Goddess’s hands.
Take me to Tristan,
she prayed,
help me find my love.
A dove called mournfully from a distant pine, and the trees overhead sighed and nodded their heads.

In . . .

Deeper in . . .

As the afternoon lengthened, she scoured the depths of the wood, checking this way and that for any signs of life. At last she saw a thin plume of smoke rising above the trees, and the forest thinned out toward a clearing ahead. A little farther and a low hovel came into view, its door standing open to catch the last of the sun. She caught a glimpse of someone inside and shivered with the violence of sudden hope. Had Tristan taken shelter in this woodman’s hut?

Tristan, Tristan . . .

Now she was near enough to see through the door. In the fading light, the rough, windowless croft was already dark inside, but she could make out the shape of a man moving around. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in woodland green
. . . Oh, Tristan . . . Tristan . . .

In a passion of haste, she threw herself down from the horse and stumbled frantically to the door.

Tristan, Tristan, are you there, my love?

But the tall man who blocked her entrance was not Tristan but a hard-faced, bearded stranger with a brace of dead partridges dangling from his hand. Behind him more game hung swinging from the roof, and the air was full of the stink of curing pelts. He had recently killed, she could see; he had blood on his hands.

“I heard you coming, lady,” the woodman said unpleasantly. “What d’you want with me?”

He had another smear of blood on his right cheek. On the floor of his hovel lay heaps of the day’s kill. A mouthful of broken teeth flashed as he spoke, and there was something hostile in his level stare. Isolde drew herself up. Did he think she was going to try to steal his precious catch?

“Forgive me if I intruded into your domain,” she said stiffly. “I am seeking another man, and I thought he might have sheltered here.”

She’s looking for the stranger.

A shoot of triumph ran through the woodman’s brain. It has to be him, there’s no one else hiding round here. And just look at the woman who’s asking after him now. To judge from her, whoever he may be, there’ll be money in this for sure.

Greedily, he eyed Isolde up and down, taking in the rich velvet riding habit, the soft leather cloak, and the matching gloves and boots. Jewels in abundance, too, at her neck and waist. Her headdress was far finer than any he’d seen in town, and the Shining Ones themselves might have woven her veil.

Who was she? Never mind. He could smell money, money in his hand.

“No offense,” he said carelessly. “Who are you looking for, then? I might have seen him, I’m out in the forest all day.”

“Oh, sir—”

Isolde hovered in an agony of doubt. If Tristan was here, this wretch was likely to know. But she could not trust him, she was sure of that.

Yet what harm could he do, living in the forest like this? If he talked about her, who on earth could he tell? And there was no one else to ask.

“Have you seen anyone?” she questioned, reaching for her purse. “Or anything?”

He pretended to think. “Yes, I have.”

“Who?” she burst out, her eyes wild with hope.

“Well, there’s the other woodlanders,” he said cunningly. “Them as live hereabouts.”

“No, not a woodlander,” she cried. “This is a knight I seek. A man of distinction. He comes from the court.”

A knight of the court. The woodman held his breath. Now he knew that the stranger was a court renegade, a knight on the run. The King himself might pay to know where he was.

“Sorry, lady.” He tugged at his scrubby beard and shook his head. “No one like that round here, we’re too far from court.” He nodded at the purse in her hand and gave a meaningful glance. “We’re all poor folk in the forest, every one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Drooping, she pressed a coin into his hand and turned to go. He watched her ride away sadly through the trees. A silver-green twilight was falling over the earth, and the sweet mists of evening were rising from the ground. The forester cocked a practiced eye at the clouds. Rain was on its way. There was no more hunting that he could do tonight.

But tomorrow . . .

Tomorrow he would make his way to court.

Yes, it would be a long way, but no farther than a determined man could walk. Someone there, maybe even King Mark himself, would surely pay for what he had learned just now. A runaway from the court was hiding in his wood, and a fine lady was scattering gold to find where he was.

The woodman clutched Isolde’s gold coin in awe, feeling his future unfolding as he stood. Then he took himself in hand. Just finish with the kill, my lad, and get yourself to bed. Tomorrow morning, you’ll want to be off at dawn. But as you go through the town, take a look at the houses there. One of them could be yours before the winter comes.

Get to court, tell the King, and see what happens then.

Off before dawn, that’s the way.

Just get to the King.

S
TART BEFORE DAWN,
that’s the thing to do.

Numbly, Isolde took up the reins and rejoined the forest path. Make a fresh start tomorrow, look farther afield. Night was falling, and there was no shelter here. Back in Castle Bel Content, at least she’d be warm and dry, and the food in her saddlebag would see her through the night.

Then tomorrow . . .

She put the thought from her mind. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself.

The twilight forest was settling for the night. All around her the woodland creatures were snuggling down in their beds with small contented snufflings and soft sighs. Loneliness fell on her like a weeping cloud.
Every bird, every bat has a mate; even the weasel and the tiny shrew have someone to comfort them. All except me.

As she made her way onward, a light rain began to fall.
All the world is in mourning for my love.

The bracken and fern grew tall at the side of the path. Brooding, she cut and slashed at it with her whip. Where was he? She had come all this way looking for him, when he should be seeking her to make his peace. He’d done all he could in Ireland to make things hard for her, then he’d disappeared. Was that the act of a loving partner or a loyal knight?

A watery winter moon shone fitfully through the trees. Farther down the path, she saw a hollow oak and knew at once she had not passed it before. In the gathering dusk, she had lost her way.

With a sinking heart, she retraced her steps. The drizzle was steadier now, and dark thoughts seemed to lie in ambush behind every tree.

If only Tristan had not challenged Darath and forced him to fight . . .

If only she had not been so ready to let Tristan go . . .

But she must not give way to dark thoughts.
Enough, Isolde,
she berated herself.
Keep to the path. That will bring you home.

If I can call it home when my true love is away.

Enough!

The cold and damp had pierced her to the bone. She huddled deeper into her mantle and tried to warm her fingers on the horse’s furry back.

“A little farther, my dear,” she whispered, stroking its neck, “and then we’ll go no more today.”

She knew she had to watch out for the entrance to the grange. The narrow crack in the hillside was so easy to miss. With a half sob of gratitude, she spied the way in.
Goddess, Mother, thanks!
Food, warmth, and shelter lay behind the clustering oaks.

She turned off the path and plunged into the undergrowth. A dark, hooded shape was standing beneath the trees. Fear choked her throat, but she stifled the urge to scream.
It’s him!
she howled inside.
It’s the woodman with blood on his hands. He’s followed me. He’s going to attack me now!

But he did not move. Muffled from head to foot in woodland green, he was waiting as patiently as a hunter for his prey. Her heart in her mouth, she tore the horse’s head around.

“Go!” she whispered urgently in its ear, clapping her spurs to its side.

Goddess, Mother, save me . . .

But the watcher in the dark was ahead of her. A powerful hand reached out, seizing her reins. The muffled shape was so near that she could smell the scent of the woodland on him, wild and strong. Whinnying in terror, the horse reared, but her attacker made a grab for the bridle and dragged the horse down. Madly, she raised her whip to lash at him, but she had no room to strike, he was much too close.

“Get off!” she howled, beating him with her fists. Vainly, she tried to spur the horse away. The poor beast screamed with pain and reared again.

Goddess, Mother, save us! Spare us both.

At last he wrestled the panicking horse to a halt. Then he threw back his heavy hood and tried to speak. The words choked his throat, but she heard them just the same.

“Lady, oh, lady—do you not know me, my love?”

She looked and did not know the man who spoke. Then she looked again and saw him clad in his own radiant soul-light, unmistakable. He was dressed in a tunic and cloak of woodland green, and the silver shield on his back caught the green of the trees overhead. Her soul soared in a starburst of delight. It came to her that she loved every star in the sky and every grain of sand on the earth below. She loved the leaves that framed his head in green and gold, and she would weave them into a bower where she could lie with him forever and a day.

Tristan . . .

All this ran through her mind as she heard the words, “Come to me, lady—my lady and my love.”