The Lady of the Sea (33 page)

chapter 46

G
od speed you, Sir Gawain.”

The whole castle had turned out to see Gawain on his way. All except Tristan and Isolde, he thought heavily. His heart bursting, he acknowledged the cheers and waves on all sides. Every one of the servants hanging out of the windows, crowding the courtyard and filling every door, bore him the same goodwill, he knew. And the little priest who had just addressed him spoke for them all.

“Thank you, Father,” he replied.

The priest squinted at him. “Where lies your way?”

“I am going to seek my three brothers and take up the Quest with them.”

Dominian’s coal-black eyes burst into fire. “God will bless you, my son,” he said fervently. “You and your fellow knights. And one of you will bring home the Holy Grail.”

Gawain rubbed a rough hand across his chin. “Not I, alas,” he said ruefully. “It’s said that the Knight of the Grail must be peerless in battle, the finest fighter of our fellowship. Most of us think that that’s Sir Lancelot.”

Dominian’s face darkened. “God has also decreed that the knight who succeeds in this most holy quest must be free from sin. And Sir Lancelot is—”

“Is what, sir priest?” Gawain broke in with a truculent air.

Father Dominian gave an angry cough. “He is known to be the knight who serves Queen Guenevere. Too closely, some men say.”

Gawain stared him down. “Come, Father,” he said heartily, after a pause. “Even in a Christian kingdom, a queen must have her knights.”

Mark twitched his shoulders and stepped forward. Jesus and Mary, what an oaf Gawain was, to speak of knights and queens after what Isolde had done! But the big knight had no idea of her treachery with Tristan, that was plain.

“Enough of this,” Mark cried. “It’s all superstition; we don’t know the truth.” He turned to the priest. “Tell me, Father, how can the Grail prophecy come about? Where will you find a man without stain or sin?”

“In a pure virgin, on the pattern of Jesus Christ himself,” Dominian replied with a baleful glare. “Our Lord was not known to women, as you know.”

“Well, we have one like that in Camelot now,” said Gawain thoughtfully. “The boy Galahad might work your miracle. He’s a knight of the Round Table, too, young as he is. He’s only just come to court, and he has no interest in women, as far as I can see.”

Dominian switched his gaze from Gawain and stared balefully at Mark. “And all men know how women lead men to sin.”

“True, alas,” Gawain said grimly. “As I know to my cost. Well, let me be on my way. The rest of us may never find the Holy Grail, but we can honor King Arthur by taking up the Quest. We can all glorify the Round Table Fellowship and do deeds of worship as we go along.”

“Indeed you can,” cried Mark. God Almighty, he raged inwardly, would Gawain never go? With a clumsy gesture, he clapped Gawain on the back. “Remember me to your dear brothers, Sir Agravain, Sir Gaheris, and Sir Gareth. King Arthur must be grateful for such fine kin. You four Orkney princes will be an adornment to any quest.”

“God bless you, Sir Gawain,” Father Dominian said intensely. “May He watch over your every step and speed your way.”

Gawain moved forward and took the reins of his horse. “Thank you both.”

Mark stepped back and raised his hand. The heralds on the battlements raised their trumpets and flourished a fine fanfare of farewell. The silver notes slid down through the chilly dawn air as Gawain mounted up and made his last farewells. Then he turned his horse out through the gateway with a leaden heart.

Not another word of Tristan or Isolde on Mark’s lips, he pondered in some distress. Why wouldn’t Mark talk of them? It was as if they had never lived.

“Goddess, Mother,” he muttered, “save me from the Christians and their prayers, and watch over my steps as I go. And if you can—” he paused to scratch his head—“I beg you, give me some understanding of what has happened here.”

T
AP, SCRATCH . . .

Tap, tap, scratch . . .

Isolde never knew if the sound of the crutch dragged her from sleep, or if some other sense warned her of the dark figure approaching through the door. But suddenly she was coming to the surface from the depths of a heavy dream. She was lying on the floor and someone—a man—was standing over her.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

There was no reply. All she could see was a candle clutched in a none-too-steady hand and a muffled figure looming behind the flame. She strengthened her voice. “Who is it? Answer me.”

There was a long, slow pause. “A friend,” she heard at last.

A friend? She did not know the hoarse, breathy voice. The newcomer held up his candle.

“See, lady?” he said.

She could see nothing. Who was it? Isolde tried to sit up, determined to confront the intruder on his own terms. But as she did so, her head swam and she fell back.
Goddess, Mother, this fever . . .
She broke out in a cold, clammy sweat.

The newcomer moved a step forward, and the candle trembled in his hand. Her eyes failing, Isolde could not hold him in her view. Then her sight shimmered, and she guessed what he was. The tall, shrouded figure was a fetch, a spirit of Otherwhere, one of the three worlds, perhaps, or the astral plane. A ghost warrior even, come from the world below, or a messenger from the Dark Lord Penn Annwyn, sent to bring her home. A dew lay on his rusty rags that was neither rain nor seawater nor mist, but like the tears of the Mother for the sorrows of the world. Was he her death?

“Who are you?” she said wonderingly, without pain or fear.

His voice when he spoke was bitter, strange, and remote. “A homeless wretch who has to hide his head. A poor castaway like all the inmates here. Except you. You’re the Queen.”

“The Queen?” Isolde’s face cracked in a mirthless smile. “Yes, that’s true.”

“And still married to the King?”

“True again, sir.”

What did it matter to him? she wondered. Why was he questioning her relationship to Mark?

Unless . . .

Her heart lurched with fear. Unless he planned to take her to his bed. She was the only woman not deformed and disfigured in all this house of disease. If his thoughts were turning that way, he could take her now.

Goddess, Mother . . .

Her mind labored to save herself.
But he’ll leave me alone if he fears to offend the King.

Yess!

Madrona had saved her from Lazaran by using this ploy. It was the only weapon she had, alone as she was.

“Yes, fellow,” she said strongly, “I’m the wife of the King. I’m here under his protection, and his men are watching us now.”

She heard him catch his breath. After a heavy pause, he began again. “If the King is protecting you, why has he put you here?”

“I am here of my own volition,” she heard herself say. “Having crossed the path of some lepers, I feared I had caught the disease. So I persuaded the King to let me retreat to this house, to find out if I was infected or not. But the King is anxiously awaiting my return.”

“Is he, now?” Again she caught the heavy, indrawn breath. “But around town they’re saying that you’re to be burned. For treason and adultery, they say.”

She tried for a careless laugh. “You know better than to believe what people say.”

“So you’re not in danger?”

Gods and Great Ones . . .

Isolde’s senses swam. She was dreaming, she knew. She must be, if she thought she knew the voice, a voice she’d never hear again this side of the grave. She raised a hand to her head and felt the fever raging to her bones.

But the voice . . . ?

He sounds like—

No! No, no.

Her heart convulsed. It was a trap, it must be. If he sounded like Tristan, it was another man.

Who was he, then?

Gods above, who knew what he was?

She summoned the last of her strength. “Get out!” she shrilled. “I am still Queen. Leave this place at once.”

But instead he came closer, lowering his voice. The wavering candle danced round his hooded face. “Answer me this, lady. I hear you have lost your love.”

Lost my love?

Lost Tristan?

She could take no more. Let him do what he wanted with her, she would never deny her true love for any man’s threat. Whatever he did, it would only hasten her end and bring on the time she would be in Tristan’s arms.

“Lost my love? Not so.” Isolde gave an Otherworldly smile. “He comes to me between daybreak and evening tide, between dawn and dusk. He waits for me on the margins of the day, and his hand helps me forward into dark or light. At the water’s edge, he is always waiting for me. And when I come to the last crossing, he will be there.”

“You have not lost faith, then.”

She laughed through her pitiful cracked lips. “I’ll sooner lose my life.”

“But they say that Tristan is dead.”

“Not to me.” Again the ethereal smile. “Never in all three worlds to me.”

“And the King is giving it out that you’ll die, too.”

“Very likely.”

“And you’re not yourself, lady. How long have you been sick?”

Now the voice was familiar in its every urgent throb, and the mists were gathering inside her head. “No matter. I have a fever. Go away now. Save yourself.”

“Save myself? When you lie here so ill? Goddess, Mother—”

She heard a stifled oath. Then the stranger was on his knees beside her bed, seizing her hand and bringing it to his lips. “Oh, lady, lady—”

I have died,
she thought,
and gone to the Island of Bliss. I know this voice . . . this hand . . . this kiss . . .

The stranger was weeping quietly at her side. It was a long time before he found his voice. When he spoke, she knew what he would say.

“Ah, lady, lady . . . Do you not know me, my love?”

chapter 47

T
ristan alive?

Oh, oh . . .

Tristan here and folding her in his arms?

Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .

Her senses spun. Or Tristan dead and with her in the Otherworld? Was it all her sickness and the madness it brought? She could not tell.

It came to her then.
I have lost my mind. Or else I have died, he has died, and we’re walking the world between the worlds.
How could Tristan be alive when she had seen his great body, his clothes, and his ring?

“Who are you?” she said hollowly.

By way of answer, he crushed her to his chest, raining kisses on her lips, her head, her neck. Tears as soft as dew fell on her upturned face as he muttered his broken thoughts into her ear.
Wherever we are,
she thought in a dream,
this is Tristan, this is the man I have loved.
His kiss on her throat revived a thousand joys, and his scent embraced her, musky and hot and strong.

“Tristan?” she said timidly, like a child.

His heart surged. Gods above, how she had suffered while he’d been away! He could hardly bear to hold her thin body and look into her eyes, shadowed with horrors too great to be borne. As he cradled her in his arms, he felt her burning skin and saw her cracked, parched lips. A thought came to him like the call of a distant bell: I shall kill Mark. The man who will do this has no right to live.

Slowly, her darkened eyes fastened on his face, then wandered away round the cramped, fusty cell. She raised a hand, but it fell back into her lap.
I have no strength,
she thought, but she was too weak to tell him even that. A soft breath of laughter escaped her, and she saw a sudden flare of panic in Tristan’s eyes.

Why was she laughing at such a difficult time?
Goddess, Mother, have I lost my mind?

“Lady, I know you’re not well, but tell me if you can. These men Mark has set to watch you—are they here in the leper house or in hiding outside?”

“Nowhere.” She laughed again. “There’s no one there.”

“You made it up?” He laughed in disbelief. “What for?”

She shook her head, too weak to reply. But he understood.

“You thought I’d come to rape you,” he said savagely. “So you wanted me to think the King’s men were on guard.”

When you’d come to save me,
she wanted to say.
And I only succeeded in dragging the whole thing out. Because then you had to find out if it was true. And I kept up the whole story to protect myself.

But she could not get any of the words out of her mouth. It was all too hard.

“Lady—”

She became aware that Tristan was bringing the beaker to her lips. Obediently, she tried to force some of the water down. Tristan watched her in evident pain. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “when did you last eat?”

“Are we dead?” she replied inconsequentially.

“I don’t think so, lady,” he said smiling, his eyes on her face. “I’d like to convince you that I’m still alive.”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. She raised a hand to his face. “Mark brought me your dead body.”

“Oh no, lady,” Tristan laughed harshly. “Not mine.”

“But he wore your clothes.”

“Easily obtained from my quarters by Mark’s men.”

“And he had the ring I gave you on his hand.”

“Your father’s ring?” Tristan held out his left hand. “But see, I have it still. And you know I’d lose my hand rather than this ring.”

She reached for his hand and stroked the band of gold. With its strong lines and simple design, it would have been easy to copy or substitute. And Mark would have had no problem in deceiving her in the darkness of the cell, when his only motive had been to torment her.

“But I did see a body,” she said sorrowfully. “Whose do you think it was?”

“Alas, who knows?” Tristan groaned. “Some poor drowned soul washed up at Castle Dore. Travelers, fishermen, those who don’t wish to live, there are many who die like that, the lost children of the sea.” He paused with a grim sigh.

Isolde felt her tears beginning anew. “But my love, my love . . . Andred took you off to kill you. How did you survive?”

“I jumped from the window of the chapel on the cliff.”

“With a sheer drop onto the rocks below?”

Tristan nodded. “I didn’t care if I lived or died. But I made the mightiest leap of my whole life. I thought I was jumping into the arms of death, and I meant to embrace the Dark Lord with all my strength.”

Isolde looked at him enthralled. Born in the wild, Tristan could leap like a stag, and his powerful frame would have taken him far from the shore.

“So you cleared the rocks?” she asked, marveling.

“With the help of the Goddess, I did. And the tide that day was unusually high. As I jumped, the sea rose to meet me and broke my fall.”

Isolde gave a beatific smile. “The Lady takes care of her own. But what happened then? Oh my love, my love, wherever have you been?”

He reached out to stroke her face to comfort her. “I was swept out to sea on the turn of the tide,” he returned. “And then I exhausted myself, struggling to get back. When I was finally picked up by a ship, I was close to death.”

“And they brought you back,” Isolde said joyfully.

Tristan laughed. “Alas, no. The ship was bound for France. I found myself set down on their coast without a penny to my name and hardly a stitch to cover my nakedness. But the captain took pity on me and trusted me. He lent me some money and helped me to an inn. I rested there till I’d recovered my strength, then made my way back by the fastest ship.”

“And found me gone,” Isolde said grimly.

“Indeed I did.” Tristan’s voice darkened at the memory. “Mark is giving it out that you are dying and may be dead.”

“Of leprosy?”

“Or some other dread disease.”

Isolde tried not to sound bitter. “That would suit him very well.”

Tristan lightly shook her shoulder. “Except that you aren’t going to die.” Briskly, he crossed to the sacking over the door and squinted down the long hall to read the sky outside. “The day is waning. It’s time we were on our way.”

Isolde passed a hand across her face. “But where are we going? How are we going to live?”

There was a muttering from the inner room.

“Lady, we have to go,” Tristan replied urgently. “We mustn’t be caught here when the others return.”

“Goddess, Mother, yes!” Isolde gasped. How could she have forgotten the danger they were in? She tried to get to her feet.

“Let me help you.”

Tristan could not bear to watch her struggling. His heart burned to see her wan and wasted frame and the charcoal smudges round her suffering eyes. Swiftly, he leaned down and took her in his arms.

“I’ll carry you to my horse,” he said. “It’s not far. That’ll be the quickest. We have to get away as fast as we can.”

“I can walk,” she protested hoarsely.

He brushed this aside. “Lady, we have to get you out of this leper house. Then I’m taking you to a place where we’ll both be safe.”

Will we?
The unspoken words hung trembling between them.

Will I be free of leprosy?
ran through Isolde’s fevered veins.

Can I keep my lady safe? beat in Tristan’s mind.

But one thought chimed between them in perfect accord.

Whatever happens, we shall never be divided again.