The Lady of the Sea (28 page)

chapter 39

S
o, Andred?”

Andred paused. He must not openly show his delight, he knew that. He must not even glance toward Dominian, who must surely be rejoicing at this turn of events as much as he was. But could there be anything more thrilling than Isolde’s declaration of divorce and his uncle’s rage? The King’s dull, pebbly eyes were glittering like polished stones, and he was slashing around him savagely with his hunting whip.

And Tristan, too. Oh, you have done for yourself now, dear cousin of mine, Andred exulted darkly. Did you think for a moment that Mark would let you go? He bit back a sudden wild laugh. What knight has ever left Mark’s service before, let alone one who thought he could ride off with the King’s wife?

“And I talked of a great welcome feast, Andred?” Mark raged on. “I promised to honor the pair of them in open court? God in heaven, and I boasted that Isolde had come back to me to renew her vows?” He writhed with shame, almost beside himself.

Andred sighed. “Sire, you were not to know what they planned. They must have been deceiving you for years.”

“And I believed them,” Mark yelped. He rounded on Dominian, who was standing hunched to one side, his hands in his sleeves. “What a fool I look now, eh, Father? What a driveling fool.”

Fool indeed and worse, Andred rejoiced to himself. A flabby-mouthed boaster, a deceived husband, and a king with no understanding of people or events. Silently, he set himself to stoke the flames of revenge.

“Alas, sire,” he said mournfully, “if only you had not sworn to give Cornwall an heir.”

Mark’s eyes bulged. “God Almighty, yes, I did that, too!”

“Before the year was out, I think you said. And now the whole country is waiting for the Queen to be with child . . .” Andred spread his hands and allowed his voice to trail off.

Mark’s color deepened. “And now the two of them must think they’re home and free.”

Dominian nodded. “They’ll be sailing away to Ireland as fast as they can.” He paused. “Probably today.”

Mark could not bear it. “God in Heaven, I’ll never live this down.”

Unless . . .

Dominian set himself to add fuel to the fire. “Remember, sire, that God is on your side. If the Queen will not accept her wifely destiny, you may set her aside. Then the way is clear for a Christian marriage.”

“Set her aside? You mean confine her to a nunnery and let her end her days there?” Mark paused. “That’s far too good for her.” He paused for thought. Both Isolde and Tristan should suffer as he was suffering now. They should both die.

Dominian tensed. Lord, Lord, he prayed, do I have the pagan whore in my hand at last?

“Sire, let me urge you to act,” he said with all the burning force he could command. “You must—”

Must, must!

The throbbing in Mark’s head intensified. When would these weevils stop telling him what to do?

“Oh, I’ll do it, never fear.” Mark gave a horrible laugh. “Don’t forget, Father, you told me that God had given every man the instrument to control his wife. It’s the mark of manhood, to show that men were born to rule. The weapon they may use without mercy if they choose.”

Dominian brought his hands together. “All true, my son.”

“I’ll do it, then.” Mark’s eyes were very dark. “I’ll find her in her chamber and do it now.”

G
ODS ABOVE, IT WAS STIFLING IN HERE
! Isolde paced her chamber, struggling to breathe. Was the stale air of the court choking her after the freedom of the forest and the life she had lived with Tristan? Or was it a looming fear she could not escape?

She tried to gather her thoughts. Tristan had gone down to the harbor to command a ship. When he returned, they could simply slip away.
Get ready, then, and go. You need nothing from here. Everything you want is in Ireland.

But still the walls and ceiling seemed to be closing in.
Too hot, too hot . . .

She tore off her headdress and tossed it onto the bed. Crossing to the window, she threw open the casement, surprising a sad-eyed dove roosting on the ledge. Fluttering away, the graceful creature flew in a circle, then returned to its perch. Just as I did, Isolde thought, her mind darkened with fear. Flying free as a bird in Ireland, I came circling back here.

Restlessly, she paced up and down the chamber.
Goddess, Mother, tell me what to do.
Mark gave us soft words, but there was something dark and dreadful in his eye. Did we make the wrong decision when we returned?

Dimly, she heard an echo from the window where the white dove perched.

Wrong, came a sorrowful cooing. Wrong, wrong.

“Is that you, Little Mother?” Isolde gasped for breath and hurried across the room.

True, true. Solemnly, the lovely creature awaited her approach.

“Have you come to tell me that we shouldn’t have come back?” Isolde forced out. “But we thought in all honor to Mark that we should return.”

Wrong, wrong, cooed the dove. All the sadness of the world shone in her large dark eyes.

Isolde’s heart tightened. “Mark is my husband now of twenty years. He’s Tristan’s kinsman, too. I thought we would be safe.”

Wrong, wrong.

Isolde willed herself to stay calm. “So now we must get away from Mark as fast as we can.”

The bird dipped her sleek white head. True, true.

“And there’s Andred.” Now Isolde’s inner voice joined the anxious debate. “He’s against us, too.”

Two large round teardrops stood in the dove’s dark eyes. True, true, she lamented, too true.

“Goddess, Mother, why did I ever think we’d find safety here?” Isolde cried in despair. Closing her eyes, she tried to piece out a plan.

“I’ll send for Tristan and we’ll fly at once. But will Mark pursue us? The world is wide, Little Mother. Where should we go?”

She opened her eyes. But the bird had flown. The next moment a harsh voice sounded in her ear.

“Talking to yourself, Isolde? Losing your wits?”

A sick terror seized her.
How did he get in?

She turned, holding down her fear. Mark stood before her, breathing heavily, so close that she could feel the pulse of his throbbing rage. A livid flush discolored his face, and a strange odor hung about him that she had not known before.

“What is your will, sir?” she said evenly.

“My will? Oh, that’s good.” He gave a frightening laugh. “When did you ever care about that?”

Isolde drew a breath. “What is this?”

“Why, nothing but your husband, come to claim his rights. You’ve fobbed me off for over twenty years. But every bird comes home to roost at last.”

A tremor seized her.
His rights?
She stared at Mark in horror. His eyes were black with anger, and he was tugging open his tunic at the neck. Now she recognized the unpleasant smell that hung about him like a dead man’s shroud.
It’s the smell of sex, and sex with him would be death.

She shuddered with revulsion.
Goddess, Mother, no!

Mark saw it and lost all control.

“You’re too good for me, is that it?” he shouted, beside himself. Now he knew what to do. He’d drag her down from her pedestal and squeeze her windpipe till those green eyes popped. He gripped her by the throat.

“Come here!”

“Mark—” She struggled to break his hold.

A vicious blow caught her across the head. “You’re mine now, don’t you see?” he panted. “You came back of your own free will, and I’ll have my marriage rights, by God I will!”

He tightened his grip on her neck till she could not breathe, but still the stink of him filled her nose and mouth. He hit her again in the face, and she tasted blood.

Don’t go down, don’t go down . . .
Her senses reeled as she fought to stay upright.

“You’re mine, Isolde,” the hot hissing voice came in her ear again. Knocking her down, he fell on top of her with all his weight and drove the breath from her body.

“Don’t fight me,” he rasped.

Steadily, he increased his pressure on her neck. Isolde felt her lungs bursting, and her senses swam. The flagstones beneath her were as cold as the grave. One thought alone filled her tormented mind.
I have taken the way of the Mother to unlock my womb. If he rapes me now, I could bear his child.

Now his mouth was slobbering into hers and sucking at her face. His hand was clawing at her breasts, tearing her bodice, heaving up her skirt. Never had she felt so doomed, so helpless, so weak. Great tears of hopelessness gathered in her eyes.

Then a voice from the cradle came dropping through the air.
No tears, no fears, Isolde. Remember you are Queen.

Remember, Mother? May I never forget!

Screaming inside, she heaved up her body, throwing Mark off to the side, and furiously brought up her knee between his legs. With all her force, she did the same again, then jabbed her fingers into his eyes, clawing at his face.

“Get off me!” Howling, she tore at his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and kneed him again and again without remorse. “Leave me alone!”

With a cry of agony, Mark rolled away, hunching himself into a protective ball. Instantly, she was on her feet and running for her life.

Tristan, Tristan . . .

She burst out of the chamber and into the corridor.

“Lady!”

Tristan stood frozen in surprise outside the door. As he looked at her in horror, she could see herself through his eyes, beaten, bruised, and torn, blood trickling from her lip. Gasping, he caught her body in his arms, breathless at the livid marks on her neck.

“Mark?” he demanded in a choking voice.

She nodded. “He—”

“Ohhh . . .”

He could not speak. Beside himself, he cradled her in his arms, showering kisses on her face and her poor mottled neck. Then their lips came together in the deepest need and despair. They kissed as if the kiss were their last on earth.

Then a sound from behind made them spring apart. Andred stood in the corridor with a troop of men, smiling the worst smile they were likely to see. “At last,” he said softly. “Now we know.”

Tristan ground his teeth. “Andred—”

“No more words, traitor.” Andred held up his hand. “You must speak to the King.”

He nodded behind them as Mark came limping up. Long red scratches marked his face from forehead to chin, and Isolde took a forlorn pleasure from the sight of his battered eyes and mouth.

Andred bowed to Mark, unable to contain his delight. “We’ve caught them, sire, in each other’s arms.”

Tristan bowed to Mark. “My lord,” he said thickly, “I beg you, let me speak.” But Mark ignored him.

“Arrest them both, Andred,” he ordered through swollen lips. “But imprison them apart to await separate fates.”

Tristan stepped forward with his hand on his sword, “Sire, I must be with the Queen.”

Mark swiveled his gaze toward Tristan with a black-eyed stare. “Oh no, my dear nephew, the Queen must be with me. And as for you, Andred knows what to do with a traitor, don’t you, Andred?”

“Yes, sire,” Andred put in, grinning like a pike.

“Go to it then,” Mark ordered. He snapped his fingers at the captain of the guard. “Take the Queen away and hold her under lock and key till I come to the cells. Don’t look so aghast, Isolde. Surely you knew I’d reserve your punishment for myself?”

chapter 40

H
e should have killed Andred, Tristan saw that now. He’d had his hand on his sword; he could have finished him off then. But he’d hesitated to strike, and now they were lost.

He could have . . .

He should have . . .

Fool! Useless fool!

“So, Tristan?”

Andred was at his side, bursting with joy. Behind him stood half a dozen men-at-arms.

“I have you now, Tristan!” he exulted. “You heard the King’s orders. You are in my hands.”

Dazed with shock, Tristan felt his sword torn from his grasp and his hands roughly bound behind his back. Helplessly, he watched Mark and his men make a wall around Isolde and lead her away. He saw her head turn toward him as they approached and caught her last aching glance as the tall, burly forms hid her from his view. Then she was gone, and only the lingering trace of her scent remained.

My lady.

Oh, my love.

And he had allowed her to fall into Mark’s filthy hands?

Fool! Triple times fool.

“So, Tristan?” Andred’s joyful voice came again at his side. He turned and felt his own sword prick his throat. As he stood there, bound and defenseless, Andred waved Glaeve in his face and deliberately jabbed him again, delightedly watching the blood running down his neck.

Was Andred deaf? Tristan wondered dully. Didn’t he hear the furious screaming of Glaeve, snarling and resisting in Andred’s usurping grasp? Kill, kill! howled the great sword in outrage. Kill him, master, kill!

Andred lowered the sword.

“That’s enough for now,” he chuckled, his eyes alight. “We don’t want you to die too soon.”

Behind Andred stood the captain of the guard. As Tristan looked at him, the good man looked away, shock and resistance written on his face.

“Have no fear, soldier,” Tristan said hoarsely. “The Gods will never blame you for this.”

“The Gods?” Andred burst out laughing. “What do they care? But I’m forgetting, cousin, that you’ll soon be with them yourself. When you get to the Otherworld, you can tell them what you think. Forward, then!”

He waved Tristan’s sword and pointed down the corridor. Uneasily, the men-at-arms formed up.

“This way,” Andred ordered. “To the cliff.”

Why to the cliff? Tristan wondered with unnatural calm. Because it would be easier to make his death look like an accident? Or simply because the tide would bear his body out to sea?

Out to sea . . .

Goddess, Mother, yes!

He closed his eyes in prayer. Out to sea and drifting with the tide. Far, far away from the world with its terrible hurts and its hatreds, its fever and fret. Floating into the arms of the Lady, the Mother of us all. Goddess, Mother, Lady of the Sea, he prayed, may my fate be no worse than this.

And my lady’s.

Oh, Isolde, my sweetheart, my lady, my only love. His heart clenched like a fist. Oh, my love, my love, what are you suffering now?

A heavy hand fell on shoulder.

“Come on, sir,” the captain muttered under his breath.

Prodded forward, Tristan stumbled where he was led. Leaving the castle, they climbed to the top of the cliff. A high wind moaned around the headland, lashing the sea, and the air was heavy with great weeping tears. Gods and Great Ones, Tristan prayed from the depths of his heart, if you’re weeping for my lady, take pity on her now.

“Come on, sir. On you go. Up the hill.”

Up and up.

Where were they taking him?

With every step, his misery increased.

The road curved around a bluff and crested the top of the cliff. Below them, the sea beat on the rocky shore. Where was he destined to breathe his last, Tristan wondered with sardonic detachment, or would any of these rocky outcrops do?

The road rounded the last craggy bluff. Clinging perilously to the edge of the cliff, a little stone building lay ahead on the side of the road, and suddenly he saw where they were taking him. Gods above, it was the chapel on the rock, the church where Mark and Isolde had been married and he himself had given the bride away!

Suddenly, he felt again its wintry cold, the desperation of a place imbued with the chill of death. They called it a chapel, but it was no more than a simple cell, built in ancient days by one of the earliest holy men in these parts. The holy man had chosen its location, too, a stark structure of cold stone on the edge of a cliff, hovering over a dizzying drop to the sea below. The old hermit had been so strict and pure of heart that he could not bear to live near lesser mortals loaded with sin. Tristan shivered. Who would choose to shun his fellow men and live such a drear, lonely life? Why did the Christians make everything so hard?

The captain’s gruff voice sounded again in his ear. “This way, sir. In you go.”

Rough hands thrust him over the threshold, and he found himself inside a bare, whitewashed cell. Thin slits in the side admitted a dim light, and an unglazed window at the end overlooked the sea. Below it stood a simple black square of stone. This was the altar where the old hermit had prayed long ago, and where Father Dominian had married Isolde and Mark.

Tristan gasped. Gods and Great Ones, was this Andred’s idea of a joke? His sight faded, and he saw himself standing in the little chapel by Isolde, as he had done on that ill-fated day. Through the mists of time, he saw again the white-robed choristers, the stone altar blazing with candles, and the priest in his glittering vestments intoning the prayers. His head swimming, he thought he could still hear the ancient stone walls echoing with the sound of the long-dead choir caroling hymns and psalms to welcome the bride.
Jubilate Deo,
swam across his mind, Rejoice, rejoice in the Lord . . .

The priest’s voice rose over the choir. Beloved in Christ, we are gathered here—

Now Isolde stood beside him as she had that day, veiled from head to foot in white silk like a shroud of snow, a winter queen: cold hands, cold heart, all cold. Mark stood beside her in red fox fur and red velvet, with Cornwall’s ancestral gold crown on his head and a rich show of jewels adorning his hands, neck, and breast.

Outside the unglazed window, a winter sun shone as white as a sea-washed bone. A biting wind blew in through the slit in the wall, bringing with it a flurry of snow. In a dream, he watched the white flakes drifting to the ground.

Who gives this woman to be married to this man?

I do.

I now pronounce you man and wife . . .

“Sir Tristan, ho?”

It was Dominian, the priest.

And here they all were now, in the present, just as they had been then, the little priest and a crowd of knights, all thrusting into the chapel, packing the cold space behind him and crowding the clifftop outside. Tristan laughed. He was going to die before an audience, it seemed.

Andred read his face. “Yes, we’re all here to help you make a good end,” he gloated. “Rest assured, Tristan, we shall pray for you.”

Dominian, too, could scarcely contain himself. “And I urge you to make your own prayers, Sir Tristan. You have grievously sinned.”

“Only by your laws, priest,” Tristan returned hoarsely. “Not by mine.”

The croaking of a raven sounded overhead.

“That’s your death warrant, Tristan!” Andred cried, reveling in his power. “We’re going to throw you from this chapel onto the rocks below. Then the sea will take your body, and when it’s found, no one will know how you died.”

Tristan flexed his wrists. “Andred—”

But Andred was not to be stopped. “Think of it, Tristan,” he crowed. “While Mark is punishing your lady, the fish will be feeding on your flesh and gnawing your bones.”

Tristan’s mind split. “Yours, Andred, not mine!” he howled.

The blood rushed to his head, and the world turned black. One thought alone was thundering through his veins. Dimly, he heard Glaeve’s fierce cry: Kill, master, kill! Swelling with rage, he clenched his fists and, with all the force at his command, broke free of his bonds.

“So, Andred!” he gasped.

Leaping forward, he wrenched Glaeve from Andred’s hand and drove the blade straight into Andred’s heart.

“Wha—?”

Andred’s eyes widened, and he slumped to the floor. His mouth fell open, and his soul fled from his body with its last ragged breath. Howling with rage, Tristan leaped across the lifeless form and flourished the point of his sword at the nearest knights.

“Bear witness, all of you,” he panted, “that I never wronged this man. Yet he has hated and pursued me for twenty years. Still, the Gods are just. In seeking my death, he has met his own.” He waved Glaeve round his head. “Tell this to all the world, if you call yourself knights. Now get out of here, if you wish to live!”

But they were already falling over one another in their haste to get through the door. With a final volley of curses, Tristan slammed the stout oak behind them and thrust home the bolt.

On the roof above his head, the raven gave one last ominous croak and flew away. Andred’s death knell then, not his. Tristan’s spirits soared with the bird into the airy void.

“Thank you, brother,” he cried.

He could hear the knights muttering and arguing outside.

“—what now?” he caught.

“Send for the King,” came another voice. “He’ll decide what to do.”

There was an unpleasant laugh. “Well, he’s safe enough here while the King makes up his mind . . .”

Tristan smiled and shook his head. Not for much longer.

He ran down the cell and lightly leaped up on the altar, then climbed through the window giving onto the sea below. Standing on the ledge, he looked down at the drop, light-headed with excitement and relief.

Below him, the sea lashed the rocks, and mountainous waves drove in to break themselves on the foot of the cliff. One after one, the white-crested, stormy billows raced madly into the shore and ran out again on a high, fretful tide. Tons of water shattered into shining pieces like shards of glass and then formed again with a sullen, menacing roar. He was almost too high to hear the voice of the sea, but he felt its sucking and sighing all the same.

Now he thought he saw maidens below him in flowing gray robes, splashing and sporting like seals among the waves. Fearlessly, they swam to and fro, floating between the sharp rocks, laughing and calling out to him. Come, Tristan, come! One swifter than all the rest leaped out of the water and dived back again in a tangle of bright hair, red-gold like Isolde’s in the morning light.

My lady . . . Oh, my love—

Come, come . . .

Every shell on the seashore was singing to him now. Tristan listened, and his soul was at peace. To jump from the cliff was no more than falling in love, a mighty leap of faith, springing off into fathomless nothingness to make safe landing on some far distant shore.

Wait for me, lady, in the World between the Worlds.

With one last prayer, he gathered all his strength and leaped into the void.