The Lady of the Sea (30 page)

But the great battered body now lying on the deck was not one of them. He would never see his mother’s face again, or sit by the fireside listening to old tales. Some woman who loved him would be mourning his absence, too, waiting to welcome him home to her arms. But the dripping hulk would have only one last resting place. Six feet of earth would be his housing now.

“Land ahoy!”

The lights of Castle Dore appeared at the head of the bay. Already they could hear the crash of the waves on the beach and the raw rattle of shingle in the dying tide. Out at sea, the silvery bar of the horizon darkened slowly toward night.

The captain folded his hands and lifted his gaze to the sky.

“Lady, take this soul,” he prayed. “He’s just one of the lost family of the sea.”

chapter 42

A
savage sea howled round Tintagel rock. Overhead, the birds ran screaming before the storm and found what shelter they could from the furious wind. The creatures of the sea slunk down to the depths, and night-riding demons terrorized the sky. Inside the ancient fortress, the earthly occupants slipped fearfully to their beds. But a light burned steadily in the topmost tower, and within the spacious chamber, all was calm.

A tall figure stood at the open window, impervious to the wind and the driving spray. The sea dew settled on a fine white head and added new brilliance to the crystals in the ancient crown. The stately form held a shuttered lantern in her hand whose beam fell on a storm-battered seagull on the window ledge. Trembling, the bird poured out her troubled heart. And alone in her aerie, old Queen Igraine listened with a heart that echoed the brave messenger’s distress.

“So then?” she questioned the seagull from time to time, stopping her to make sure she had the story right. At last she gently touched the bird’s snowy head. “You have done well, my dear. Rest now till daybreak. You will be safe here.”

She watched from beneath hooded eyelids as the bird’s head dropped wearily upon her ruffled breast. Then she turned back into the room, pacing the floor.

“In the name of the Mother,” she muttered, “we may not forgive.”

The candles burned on. Then an angry clacking brought her to the window again. Perched on the ledge high above the ocean’s roar was an old sea eagle, his windblown feathers tipped with gray and white. As Igraine approached, he fixed her with a glaring yellow eye and opened his beak.

Igraine listened to the furious cawing with a stony face, then held up her hand. “No more, Merlin!” she commanded. “I know all this and more.”

Enraged, the bird resumed his high-pitched rant, his raw screeching notes blending with the howling of the wind.

“Yes, I know, I know,” Igraine repeated. “But all this was written a thousand years ago. If you’d been there, could you have saved Tristan?”

She paused, ignoring the eagle’s protests. “But think of Isolde, half-raped, then cast alive into a house of death. Punished by the one who promised to protect her when she gave him her hand. A woman alone, overpowered by men. What of her fate, Merlin, tell me that?”

T
HEY THOUGHT SHE WAS ALONE
, but what did they know? When they left her in the darkness of the cell with nothing but water and a lump of stale black bread, they thought she’d run mad from loneliness and despair. And once the light of the lantern had faded into blackness again, it was hard, yes, hard to keep her spirits up. But those who had condemned her to this place had no sense of the world that lay beyond their ken.

Good day, Isolde.

Isolde smiled. She put out her hand and felt the greeting from a sleek-as-satin nose.

“Good day to you, Little Mother,” she said warmly to the small, unseen presence that drew up to her side.

How are you?
A wave of loving concern lapped over her like a midsummer tide.

She gave a rusty laugh. “Not as well as I should be, but better than I could be, and that’s the truth.”

Hold fast to that, Isolde,
came the heartfelt response.
Do not let Mark break your spirit. Let all that you endure strengthen your resolve.

She burst out laughing. “Mark break my spirit? He’ll have to kill me first.”

Beware of that, Isolde.
She heard a deep sigh.
I fear he plans to do that, to take your life.

“What, murder me? No, never.” She hesitated, sucking in her breath. “Oh, I know he wants to bring me to my knees. He couldn’t wait to tell me Tristan was dead. It’s a lie, of course. I know that Tristan would never take his own life.”

But Mark also came to renew his attack on you.

Frowning, Isolde shifted her back to find a more comfortable place against the unyielding rock. “He pinned me against the wall and tried to touch me, that’s true. He pushed me into a corner and turned my stomach with the way he smelled. But as soon as he began, I struck back. And he remembered what had happened last time he made that mistake.”

There was a soft whisper of amusement in the dark.
Oh, Isolde, it’s good to see that Mark has not destroyed your spirit.

She felt a sudden surge of sardonic mirth. “Nor will he, Little Mother, as long as I walk this earth.”

There was a sudden silence. Then her unseen visitor spoke in a voice full of tears.
Oh, Isolde . . .

Isolde craned forward anxiously. “What is it?”

Listen!

“I can’t hear anything.”

Alas, alas . . .

The voice was fading away. A sick dread swept through Isolde. “Don’t leave me, Little Mother, don’t go—”

Farewell.

The air stirred, and the creature was gone. A few moments later she heard what the sharp, shell-like ears had already caught. Slow, careful footsteps on the stone stairway meant that one of her tormentors was coming down. And more than one, to judge from the voices reaching her now.

“Careful, man. Keep your end up. I can’t get him down by myself.”

“This is madness. Gods above, what a weight!”

“King’s orders, remember? And watch your tongue. The King’s not far behind.”

The second speaker groaned and gave a laugh. “But will he give us a hand to get this back up again?”

Now the shuffling and grunting was drawing up to her door.

“Stand aside,” she heard the captain of Castle Dore say.

Then came the jangle of great keys and the solid oak swung back. All she could see was the captain’s lantern, like a sudden starburst in a moonless sky. Then slowly her eyes took in the scene behind.

Framed by the doorway, a pair of shadowy figures began struggling with a heavy burden into the cell. Staring in disbelief, she watched two men-at-arms manhandle a makeshift stretcher through the door. On it lay a tall, well-built body covered by a cloth.

Not Tristan.
She could not breathe.
Goddess, Mother, say it isn’t so . . .

Panting, the men set the litter down on the floor. Behind them Mark entered, treading on their heels. A grin of sadistic delight disfigured his face.

“Remember, Isolde, I told you Tristan was dead?”

She forced herself to speak. “Yes, and I throw that lie back in your teeth.”

Mark’s eyes lit up. He pointed to the body on the bier. “Then who do you think this is?”

Isolde held her breath.
Don’t say anything. Don’t play his game.

But Mark needed no other audience but himself. Reaching down, he twitched the cloth off the motionless form.

“Let me show you, dear wife!” he crowed.

Goddess, Mother . . .

On the bier lay a man with Tristan’s broad shoulders and narrow, horseman’s hips. He had Tristan’s long legs, too, clad in his fine woolen breeches and boots, though sea-stained now like the tunic he wore. Still, she knew the blue tunic and the tattered cloak.

But not even the dead man’s mother would have known his face. Battered beyond all recognition, it was a featureless mass of dead flesh and bone. Her eyes shied away, and she could not look at it. But one thought pierced her mind.
This could have been Tristan when he was alive.

Oh, my love, my love . . .

“It’s not true,” she said hoarsely. “It’s a trick.”

“You think so?” Mark hissed. His eyes were very bright. Reaching down, he picked up one of the dead man’s hands. On the ring finger gleamed a band of antique gold.

“Ohh—” She thrust her fist in her mouth.
Goddess, Mother,
she howled in the madness of her soul,
help me, help me now!

It was the ring she had given Tristan when they first pledged their love. It was all she had had from her father, her mother’s first chosen one, a knight and hero of Ireland she had never known. He had died in battle before she was born, but he had left her this ring, and all her life she had waited to give it to her true love. It had fitted him perfectly, a deep band of red gold on the fourth finger of his broad brown hand. She had seen it there, held it, and kissed it for twenty years.

Ohhh . . .

Isolde closed her eyes.
Have you left me then, love? I never thought you’d go ahead of me to the world between the worlds. But I knew in the end that this world would break our hearts.

Opening her soul, she soared into a lament.

You were the best and truest knight that ever lived. You were the gentlest in war and the most fearless in peace.

Not a horse but knew the kindness of your hand, not a widow or a child but felt the strength of your arm. No companion knight relied on you in vain, no lady but was honored by your courtesy.

You were handsome in body and soul, generous beyond measure, and brave beyond all reproach. You were my first love, and you will be my last. There is no love, no life, for me without you.

Go then, my love and my delight. Wait for me in the world between the worlds and I shall follow, I shall be with you soon.

She turned to Mark, quite composed. Never would she let him see her grief.

“So, sir, you have your triumph. Do what you will with me, I am done with you. If you will not release me, I will live out my life in prison now that Tristan has gone. It can’t be long now you’ve almost starved me to death. And I pray you, trouble me no more. I’d die a thousand times rather than see you again.”

Mark’s face turned livid. “I can make you think again,” he said thickly. “You know the penalty for a treacherous, adulterous queen.”

Isolde shrugged. “Take my life; it holds nothing for me. I shall keep faith with Tristan till the seas rise to swallow me or the earth lies heavy on my bones.”

Mark could not believe it. How could she cheat him of his rightful revenge?

His mouth worked with a passion he could not contain. “I’ll burn you alive!”

She gave a ghostly smile. “Then I shall be with Tristan.”

He moved toward her with slow, deadly steps, his face glistening with menace.

“You say that now,” he spat out. “But death at the stake is a terrible way to die.”

Isolde shook her head. “You offer me the very thing I seek.”

“Think about it, my dear. It will help you mend your ways.”

“Oh, sir.” She was infinitely weary now. “None of us dies a death of our choosing or by our own desire.” She paused. “But while you threaten me with death, spare a thought for your own. We all come from the cauldron of rebirth. If you hound me so cruelly to my grave, how will you answer the Old Ones in times to come?”

“Words, empty words,” Mark scoffed. His eyes were alight with new venom. “I must bring down your pride and your beauty, too, since that’s been the basis of your pride. Your beauty has been the ruin of you, so I must arrange the ruin of it in turn.”

“Do what you will,” she said quietly.

He rounded on, his face wild and alight. A mad vein was jumping at the side of his eye.

“Oh, I shall, never fear. And I have the very thing in mind for you. If I burn you to death, you’ll only suffer for a while. Then the winds will scatter your ashes and, as you believe, the Mother will take you home. But what do you say to a slow death, my dear wife? Not so very painful to the body, alas, more of a creeping numbness in every limb. But an endless, exquisite agony to the soul.”

Isolde looked at him, struggling to hide her fear. What did he mean?

Mark cocked his head to one side and held up his hand. “D’you hear that?”

Click, clack . . .

Click, clack . . .

The noise in the corridor made her blood run cold. With it came a heavy, shuffling tread and the regular thud of a stick on the ground. A limping figure was advancing toward the door, dragging its feet and sounding a wooden bell. Already she knew what the next sound would be.

“Unclean! Unclean! All good folk fly this place . . .”

It was the cry of the leper from the earliest times. Frozen, she saw a tall, muffled figure in the doorway, hooded and stooped in a covering of filthy rags. His hands and feet were bound up in bandages yellow with pus and stained with blackened blood. He clutched a wooden clapper in the remains of his fist.