The Lady of the Sea (3 page)

chapter 3

A
pearly twilight was falling on the wood. The long green shadows deepened under the trees, and the brief April sunset faded into night. One by one, all the busy creatures of the day slipped to their holes. With a thousand small murmurs and soft rustlings, the forest slowly settled itself for sleep.

The long line of knights and horses wound through the dusk. At the head of the troop, the tallest knight reined in his stallion and threw a gauntleted fist in the air. The last silver light lingered over his long, well-formed limbs, steadfast bearing, strong features, and thoughtful gray eyes.

“Halt there, every man!” he cried, “while I speak to the Queen.”

Turning, he cantered back down the leafy track. In the center of the convoy were two female figures, the taller mounted on a delicate white mare, her companion at her side in the sober garb of a maid. With a sigh of content, he drew the pine-laden air deep into his lungs.

Isolde . . .

As always, the sight of her brought back the same raw catch in the depths of his heart. His horse’s hooves drummed on the forest floor, and the swift rhythm ran singing through his veins: Isolde my lady, Isolde my only love.

Ah, Tristan . . .

Her heart in her eyes, Isolde watched him approach. The tall body she had loved for so long still sat lightly in the saddle, even after a grueling day’s ride. His smile lit up the gloaming, and his hands around her waist as he swung her down from her horse made her feel alive.

He made a formal bow, “What’s your wish, madam?” he asked. “Shall we press on to Castle Dore, or make camp here for the night?”

“What’s my wish?”

Undecided, Isolde looked around the forest glade. Beside her, Tristan stood waiting for her to speak, and his familiar musky scent called to her irresistibly through the twilight air. She wanted to hold this moment forever, sheltering in the warmth of his great body, suspended with him in eternal time and space. Tomorrow they would be back at Castle Dore, face-to-face with King Mark and all their inescapable cares.

Back at Castle Dore?

The shadow of the future darkened around her as she stood. Then, dropping through the gentle evening mist, came a sound as soft as a sigh:
Isolde, no.

No?

She waited, pregnant with danger, as the word came again.

No longer.

Never more.

Even after all these years, she knew her mother’s voice.

You are a Queen, Isolde, and one of long line. Your foremothers were warriors and battle ravens, the sovereignty and spirit of the land. See how they saved our people time after time, and even beat the Romans back to Rome!

Suddenly she was a child again, watching her mother’s powerful figure flashing to and fro in a flurry of hissing red silks and clattering jet.

But Mawther—

Isolde felt raw grief stinging her throat. How long was it since her mother had died?

Hear me, little one. You are Queen now. What did I always teach you? No tears, no fears.

What are you saying, Mawther?

Queen as you are, you have the power of every woman, too. No woman should wait on a man to determine her fate. Your life lies before you, your future is in your hands. You must live out your destiny, and you alone must decide.

Must I? Must I?

Yes. You must choose.

Isolde felt herself trembling from head to foot. So it had come at last, the moment she had been avoiding for all these years. The moment when her mother, her conscience, or the Great One, call it what you will, had laid bare the painful twisting and turning of her tortured life. Married to one man but in love with another from the start. Publicly a loyal consort, but in private a faithless wife.

She could still hear the faint echo quivering through the air.

No longer, Isolde.

Choose.

You must choose.

Ahead of them lay a parting of the ways, one road running south to Castle Dore, the other leading to Tintagel on the opposite coast. Isolde’s senses swam.
Goddess, Great One, help me! What should I do?

“Lady?” The concerned voice of Tristan reached her through the mist.

She came to herself with a shudder, and opened her eyes. “Pray you, set up my pavilion,” she said clearly. “We camp here tonight.”

O
H, THE RAPTURE OF THE TIME
they had spent at Camelot, away from King Mark’s court! Yet now it was over, how short it had been. Brooding, Isolde watched her knights taking care of the horses and setting up the tents. When she had set out on the embassy to Arthur and Guenevere, the time with Tristan had stretched ahead like a dream. Now in the dark forest so near to Castle Dore, grim thoughts and fears lurked like outlaws behind every bush.

In the distance, Tristan passed among the troops. Isolde sighed. How long had she loved this man? And in all those years they had never been able to live openly together, sharing their thoughts and dreams as others did. Sadness descended on her like the evening dew. Was she doomed to live a life of stolen bliss, trapped like a fly in amber at Mark’s court?

Choose.

You must choose.

“My lady?” The familiar voice of her maid sounded in her ear. “They’re ready for you now.”

“Thank you, Brangwain.”

Turning, Isolde met the bright blackbird eyes of the woman who had come from the Welshlands to nurse her as a child and had never left her side. Those who knew Brangwain called her “Merlin’s kin,” and the lean, unyielding figure in her plain, dark dress clearly had something fierce and Otherworldly in her air. But now her olive-skinned face wore a broad smile as she nodded up the track. “See, lady?”

Isolde’s heart lifted. “I see.”

Tristan was coming toward her with that well-loved smile and reaching for her hand to lead her through the trees. Her royal pavilion stood in a clearing bathed in the last of the day’s golden light, its entrance swagged back in welcome, its interior warm with bright rugs and burning braziers. One young knight was strewing the hot coals with herbs, and the sweet tang of rosemary and thyme scented the air. Another set out a tray of mead and honeycakes, while Brangwain disappeared into the inner chamber to prepare the bed. Tristan thanked the knights and dismissed them with a smile, then turned to face her, his eyes bright with joy.

Isolde could not meet his loving gaze.

Goddess, Mother, show me what to do.

She took off her headdress and shook out her thick mane of hair. Without the tall casque and all-enveloping veil, she looked suddenly smaller, vulnerable, and young. A familiar pang of love pierced Tristan’s heart. No one would believe that this girlish creature with her tender air was a queen and warrior who had seen almost forty summers on the earth.

Tristan watched her in wonder. Oh, how he loved her, how he loved her hair! Its red-gold depths were lit with glints like fire, and her vital spirit lived in its spring and bounce. He longed to seize it by the handful and pull her into his arms. But time enough for that.

“We did well in Camelot,” she said, struggling to raise her spirits with a light tone. “It’s important to grasp what Arthur and Guenevere face.”

“It’s a twofold challenge,” Tristan agreed somberly. “The Quest will be scattering their knights far and wide just as spring brings the Norsemen raiding the eastern shore.”

“And none of the knights wants to stay behind in defense. Sir Gawain and Sir Galahad could hardly wait to take to the road. But if they all go out, who will take care of the land?”

Tristan nodded. “The Grail is a wonderful prize for the knight who succeeds. But the danger of invasion is always there.”

Isolde’s mood deepened. “For Ireland too. You remember the dispatches that came in last night? The Picts are going to trouble us again, it seems.”

“The Painted Ones?” Tristan drew in a breath of alarm. “Alas, they’ve always been a savage race, born to fight.”

A race of savages . . .

Fearful images of wild and daubed barbarians rose before Isolde’s eyes. “The word has reached Dubh Lein that their king is dying, and their young prince Darath is waiting to show his strength.”

“And Ireland must tempt them. It’s so close to their land.”

Isolde laid both hands on her center. “Darath will invade, I feel it. They will need me in Ireland, I see that, too.”

Tristan knew her too well to doubt a word she said. “Then we must go to Ireland, lady,” he said cheerfully. “But you must not fear. The Picts are no more than pirates, by sea and land. They’ll be no match for your knights and men.”

He does not understand.
Isolde shook her head and turned away.

Tristan moved forward and gently took her hand. “Lady, what is your trouble?”

I must choose.

She turned on him abruptly. “When we go to Ireland, we should not return.”

He started at the passion in her voice. “What, not come back to Cornwall? Why on earth . . . ?”

“Mark’s jealous of you. And that’s making me afraid.”

“Alas, lady,” he groaned. “If only we knew why.”

“Why? Oh, Tristan—”

She looked at him with eyes of aching love. Nearing forty, he still had the frank, open look of his boyhood, though the strong planes and angles of his face had deepened with experience and time. His fair hair sprang up from his broad forehead as thickly as it always had, and the blue of his eyes still made her catch her breath. Best of all, he never noticed how heads turned for him, male and female alike. He might have been born to put other men to shame.

And seen against Mark, who had height but not strength and royalty without a trace of dignity, who was cursed with a long, ill-made body with a muddy face and thin, graying, sandy hair—a knight who had no prowess with sword or spear and not a thought in his head of chivalry . . .

Was it any wonder that Mark felt belittled when Tristan was near?

Mark.

My husband, Mark.

Isolde struggled to collect her wayward thoughts. Tristan, too, was floundering, she could see.

“We have always tried to respect and honor him,” he said in a low voice. “So why do we have to leave now? Is there anything new?”

“Yes, indeed.” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “The Christians are increasing their power every day. They have sworn to overthrow the Goddess, and Mark does not care. That priest of his, Dominian, feeds his vanity to gain control, and Mark builds them churches to buy absolution from his sins.”

Tristan shifted uneasily. “His sins—?”

“Gods above, Tristan, how long has he flaunted his mistress in my face? And what’s that snake-like Elva but a sin?” Suddenly she could bear it no more. “Look at him, Tristan. He’s a wretched apology for a man and for a king. He’s—”

“He’s my kinsman, lady,” Tristan broke in, his face alive with pain. “I beg you, remember that.”

What?
Isolde stared at him. His look of reproach cut her to the quick. She opened her mouth for an angry retort, then the sound she had heard before came once again, falling through the air like the evening dew.

Never more.

It is time to choose.

She came toward Tristan and took his hand. “I must not go back to Mark or to Castle Dore,” she said intently, her voice very low. “I cannot sustain this marriage any longer.”

Tristan started in alarm. “What?”

Isolde held her breath. Suddenly the way ahead was clear. “I shall go back to Ireland. My country needs me. I should not be here.”

Tristan felt a hollow sickness invade his heart. “But Cornwall—”

“—must do without me,” she said implacably.

Never had he seen her look so cold. He struggled to understand. “But—”

“I married Mark to keep Ireland safe. The danger’s been over now for twenty years. There’s no reason for me to remain as Cornwall’s Queen.” She looked away. “Still less as Mark’s wife, when I’ve never gone to his bed.”

He flushed and looked away. “I know.”

She forced him to meet her eye. “Come with me to Ireland. We’ll forget Mark and Cornwall and join our lives together in my own land.”