The Lady of the Sea (34 page)

chapter 48

W
here are we going?”

“To safety, my love. Have no fear.”

To the wildwood, then. That’s the safest place Tristan knows.

“Where are we now?”

“Getting there, lady.”

“Is it much farther?”

“Not too far. Hold fast to me and I’ll bring you there.”

Yes, bring me to the wood. Then we shall be safe.

“It’s so dark, Tristan.”

“Courage, sweetheart. Not much farther now.”

“But it must be midnight or more. When shall we be there?”

“Soon, soon.”

Soon, soon, soon . . .

“Are we there yet?”

“Almost, my lady. Can you see a light?”

“Where?”

“Straight ahead.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Look again, lady. Look through that clump of trees.”

“Over there?”

“Yes. I set the lamp in the window to light us in.”

“Oh, Tristan—it’s the castle in the wood . . .”

“Don’t weep, my love. I swear we’ll be safe here. No one knows the secret of the hidden grange. Hush now . . .”

There was a lengthy pause. Then he said, “Oh, lady, oh my love . . . Do you hear the owls calling and the roe deer’s cry? The whole of the wildwood is welcoming you home.”

“T
HIS WAY, SIR.
”

The Audience Chamber gaped ahead, stark, cold, and bare. But all too soon it would be filled with warm, jostling bodies, when the crowd of people at the gate would be admitted to the presence of the King. Mark himself would not make his entrance till all the petitioners had been admitted to the hall. But when he came, he would take his seat on the dais, and Sir Nabon made for it with a deliberate tread.

“Follow me, sir,” he encouraged the knight close behind. “If you stand here by the throne, you’ll be first to speak to the King. And I know he’ll be anxious to hear what you have to say.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the knight with a courteous bow.

Nabon waved his hand. “No thanks are due. A message from your mistress is of the highest importance to her vassals here. How is Queen Igraine?”

The knight’s handsome young face suffused with respect and love. “As ever, Sir Nabon, a wonder to us all. Ageless and beautiful, merciful and wise.”

Nabon grunted in misery, eyeing the sealed parchment the knight carried in his hand. Mark would need more than the old Queen’s mercy to right the cruel wrongs he’d committed of late. And Queen Igraine was only mortal, after all. What could she do?

He wanted to weep as if his heart would break. If it had not broken already, with Tristan dead. And Isolde as good as dead too, locked up with the dead and dying by the will of the King . . .

Stop it, old fool! he chided himself fiercely to banish the tears gathering in his eyes. The Mother herself will not let Isolde die. And who knows but that this knight has brought help from Queen Igraine?

He turned his gaze to the knight. The newcomer was regarding him with a sympathetic but puzzled scrutiny.

“Are you well, sir?” he asked.

“Of course I’m well, yes, yes.” Tetchily, Nabon brushed the question aside. “Let’s just make sure you’re the first to speak to the King. He won’t be long now.”

From the corridor came a distant, slow-growing roar. Nabon nodded.

“The guards have admitted the people. Any minute they’ll come pouring in. Just make sure you hold your ground.”

Moments later the doors of the chamber went back and a tide of humanity washed into the room. Old and young, thin and fat, well-dressed and poor, all thrust their way in and flocked toward the dais. Behind them came the weaker vessels: women with children and babes in swaddling clothes, the aged, the lame, and the infirm. The sour smell of their bodies came in with them: soiled clothing, stale food, and greasy hair. But rising above it, breathing from every form, was the fragile scent of expectancy and hope.

Hope? thought Nabon bitterly. There was nothing to hope for from Mark. But Igraine, now . . .

He looked again at the knight holding the old Queen’s message in his hand. Perhaps there was something here?

“Make way for the King!”

The heralds were busy clearing a way through the crowd. Behind them came Mark decked out in full array, gowned and cloaked in ermine and silk and velvet of royal red. He wore his father’s crown upon his head and seemingly half the gold of Castle Dore round his neck. He looks almost dignified, thought Nabon bitterly. Let’s hope he receives Igraine’s knight with dignity, too.

But following Mark were half a dozen young men who made Nabon’s heart sink to his boots. Gods above, he snarled, that ever I should regret Andred’s death. But since Andred had gone, there was no one to restrain the King. Mark wanted what he wanted, like a child, without thought of the consequence. And without Andred to check Mark’s violence and greed, the King had become increasingly dependent on rogue knights like these, unscrupulous men of little chivalry.

And now the entire court had fallen silent, all staring at the dais and waiting for the audience to begin. Nabon’s flesh crawled. Happily, Igraine’s knight seemed not to notice Mark’s entourage as he stepped forward and gave his deepest bow.

“I bring you a message, sire, from Queen Igraine. My lady, your overlord, salutes you through me and desires you will read these words from her own hand.”

With another flourish he knelt and delivered the scroll to Mark at the foot of the throne. “I am also ordered to wait for your reply,” he went on. “I’ll be ready to leave as soon as you’ve decided what you wish to say.”

“Very well.”

Mark stared at the letter with dread swelling around his heart. What did it mean? What would Queen Igraine say?

Forcing himself to act, he broke the seal. The black letters within leaped out at him like spiders and seared his eyes. Every word frayed his self-control and heated his blood.

QUEEN IGRAINE TO HER VASSAL AND SUBJECT KING MARK, GREETINGS FROM THE ROYAL STRONGHOLD OF THE ANCIENTS, TINTAGEL ON THE ROCK.

SIR, WE HAVE HEARD SAD NEWS OF THE DEATH OF YOUR NEPHEWS AND THE SORE FATE OF YOUR QUEEN. AS WELL YOU KNOW, YOU HOLD YOUR THRONE ENTIRELY AS OUR VASSAL AND ONLY BY OUR GOODWILL.

WE REQUIRE YOU THEREFORE TO COME TO TINTAGEL FORTHWITH AND PRESENT YOURSELF IN PERSON BEFORE OUR THRONE. YOU MAY ACCOUNT FOR YOUR ACTIONS WHEN YOU COME AND MAKE ALL EXCUSES THEN THAT ARE FITTING TO BE MADE. BUT YOU MUST KNOW THAT SUCH TREATMENT AS YOU SEEM TO HAVE GIVEN TO YOUR QUEEN WILL NOT BE ENDURED IN THE LAND WHERE THE MOTHER RULES. DEEDS OF EVIL CANCEL OUT YOUR VASSAL BOND TO ME. PREPARE YOURSELF THEREFORE TO LAY DOWN YOUR THRONE.

Lay down the throne?

Mark choked back a laugh of murderous, seething rage. So he’d lost his lands and his throne because he’d got rid of his treacherous nephew and put his whore of a wife into the leper house? God Almighty, he should have strangled her long before this with his bare hands!

Steadily, the mist rose behind Mark’s flaming eyes. Strangled Isolde? He should have had her burned. Stoned. Flayed. Torn limb from limb.

And now . . .

He felt himself slipping. He could see the dark abyss ahead.

And now he must go to Tintagel and face the old Queen? An odd smile split his face. Well, he’d go there indeed, but with an army of men. They’d storm the fortress and take the castle on the rock, then he’d hang the old Queen by her fingernails from the very top.

Or else he’d have her burned, like Isolde.

Stoned.

Flayed.

Torn limb from limb.

“Sire? Sire?”

It was the chamberlain, shaking in every limb. “Sire, there’s an army of lepers at the gate. Their leader says he’s brought news that you’ll want to hear. But already the guards have barricaded all the doors. They won’t let him in except by your special command.”

Mark’s brain twitched and sang like the string of an overstrung bow. “Then give it them!” he shouted wildly. “Let him in, you fool!”

“Admit a leper?”

“God save us, they’re unclean!”

Crying out in fear, the waiting petitioners began to make for the door. Swiftly, a crush developed as they trampled each other in the rush to get out.

“Back! Back!” howled the oncoming guards, forcing a way through with their pikes. Behind them walked a lean, muffled figure, his bandages round his face, slowly and sardonically swinging his wooden bell.

“Unclean!” he cried with a terrible laugh. “Unclean.” He reached the foot of the throne and made a clownish bow. “News of your Queen, my lord.”

Mark’s soul leaped up with a wild, dreadful hope. “Is she dead?”

His burning brain reeled. Now that Tristan and Andred had gone, if she were dead, too, there’d be no one alive left to tell the tale. Then he could say that all three had died of a terrible fever that had driven them mad. Possessed by evil spirits, Tristan had killed Andred, then hurled himself madly to his death, and Isolde had run away to the leper house. Dead, yes! How marvelous.
Yess, dead!

“Not dead, sir, no,” said the leper with a leer. “In fact, the opposite. Lively enough to have made her escape.”

Mark’s eyes bulged. “She’s escaped?” he yelped. “Got away?”

The leper nodded. “I left a houseful to watch her while I went to town, knowing she was too ill to move.” He shrugged. “When I got back, she was gone.”

Gone . . .

Mark felt himself slipping again. “She was sick, you say?” he asked hoarsely.

“She had a fever. She was too weak to sit up or walk by herself.”

A dark shaft of horror opened at Mark’s feet. If Isolde had left the leper house in that state, who had taken her away? Who would have wanted to do it? Who would have cared for her enough to risk his life?

There was only one answer.

God Almighty, could Tristan be
alive?

Mark could not bear it. Yes, it was true that Tristan’s body had never been found. And, of course, when another body had been washed ashore, he had used it to convince Isolde that Tristan was dead. Indeed, those who saw it thought it might have been Tristan himself. It was about his height and weight, and the dead man was impossible to recognize because his features were gone.

But Tristan never had hammertoes, as the dead man had. Still, dressed in Tristan’s clothes and Tristan’s boots, with an old ring on his finger from the royal treasury, he looked convincing enough. And every day Mark expected to hear that Tristan’s real corpse had been found.

So far, it had not.

God have mercy,
was he still alive?

Nabon hurried forward. “The Queen’s gone, did he say? And in a state of fever, too? We must find her, sire. I’ll send for the healers, and we’ll get out a search party. I’ll get the torches and dogs here at once—”

“Silence, Nabon,” Mark hissed. Inside his head, the world was breaking apart. But one thing was becoming increasingly clear. Tristan himself could be alive or dead. But someone had spirited Isolde from the leper house. She could not be allowed to get away. He had to find her and this unknown accomplice at once.

“Hot pursuit!” he cried. “Raise a hue and cry.”

“Hear me, sire.”

“I want the country scoured from end to end.”

Nabon clutched his head. “Sire, I beg you—” he cried.

“Raise all the knights and barons under your command,” Mark ordered, his eyes aflame. “We ride at once to hunt Isolde down.”

chapter 49

A
ll round the ancient grange, the forest slept. Tucked deep in its narrow valley, the house slumbered, too, enjoying the sweet calm of ages beneath its thick roof of trees. Overhead, a slender new moon silvered the green of the leaves, and the night-roosting birds sighed and held their peace. But in the midnight woodland, one soul was awake. The man slipping silently through the trees came to rest beneath a towering oak and paused for thought. This was the place. The fugitives had to be here.

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his hands. He had to admit it was a good place to hide. A narrow track leading into an almost invisible cleft in the hillside veiled by long fronds of trailing ivy and honeysuckle. Yes, they were in there, he was sure of that. Moving forward again with great stealth, the dark figure staked out the narrow approach to the hidden grange.

It was true there were no signs of human presence and little to be seen. If they’d come on horseback, the horse had been turned loose a long way back, and hardly a blade of grass had been disturbed. Yet still he’d wager his life they were inside the house buried deep in the side of the hill, with a dark lantern and a banked-down fire. And if they were in there, he’d found what he sought.

But careful now, he schooled his impatient heart. Move slowly, watch and wait. No mistakes now, not so near the goal. He must pause and think and plan. And when he was ready, that would be time to act.

The mournful moon retreated behind a cloud. A deeper darkness fell upon the earth, and the night grew darker still beneath the thick roof of leaves. Better and better, he prided himself, the best. Oh, this had been very well done, and the triumphant ending would justify it all!

“T
RISTAN
?”

Isolde came to herself with a groan. When would she stop waking in a panic, dreading to find herself back in the cell? But before the fear had had time to take shape in her mind, he was at her side. “Yes, my love?”

At the sight of him, she could not hold back a smile. “Nothing—I only wanted to know you were here.”

A muffled candle lit the little room, and he knelt beside her in silence in the shining gloom.

“I’ll never leave you now,” he said at last. “I’ll always be here.”

She looked round the comfortable den with an uneasy laugh. “Not here, don’t say that, it’s bad luck. Not anywhere in Cornwall. We must get away.”

He took her hand. “Lady, I swear we’ll set out for Ireland as soon as you’re well enough to move.”

“And that won’t be long. Oh, Tristan, how can I thank you for nursing me back to health?” She lifted his hand and placed in on her forehead. “See, the fever’s all gone, thanks to you.”

He laid the back of his hand against her cheek. “It’s true,” he said tenderly. “You are better today.”

“And I’ll be able to ride again in a day or two. It’s only a question of building up my strength.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “And thank the Gods, I didn’t catch leprosy. We’re so lucky I was spared.”

“Well, the fever was bad enough,” Tristan replied. “You could have died from that.”

“And I’m sure a lot of those poor lepers will,” Isolde sighed. “There will always be sudden infections like that when a lot of sick people are huddled together in one filthy place.”

A shadow passed over his face. “If only I’d come for you sooner than I did. But it took me so long to get back from France.”

“Oh, my love, I won’t hear another word,” she said firmly. “You came as fast as you—”

“Ssshhh!”

Without warning, he froze and laid a finger on her lips.

Isolde started. “What—?”

He shook his head at her:
Don’t speak!

“There’s someone outside,” he mouthed.

Goddess, Mother, save us . . .

She could not move. They sat in silence, as she frantically strained her ears. There was nothing to hear but the night sounds of the wood. Then . . .

Was that a stealthy footstep right outside the door . . . ?

She could smell the living essence of her fear.

“Courage, lady,” Tristan hissed. He pulled her close to his chest. “Listen to me,” he whispered in her ear. “This is what we’ll do . . .”

T
HE VALLEY HE STOOD IN
was as dark as the grave. So no one saw the intruder as he left the shelter of his tree and glided forward through the starless night. Mantled with thick curtains of ivy and huddled into the hillside like part of the rock, the hidden old grange kept its secrets well. But the newcomer had had long enough now to understand how it lay.

This way, then . . .

Quietly, easily, man . . .

Some distance from the door, he paused to think again. Careful, now. All could still be lost. But they were inside for sure, and this was the only way out. He could not miss them now.

Around him, he knew, the whole valley waited and watched. The night-roaming creatures cowered in their holes, and even the soft loamy earth forgot to breathe. Trembling, the moon hid its head. It is time, thought the watcher to himself. It is time.

Silently, he lowered his visor to cover his face and unsheathed his sword. There should be only two of them inside, but it always paid to be careful at times like this. Hefting the weapon in his hand, he moved forward, intent on the ivy-curtained door directly ahead. To his surprise, it swung back on its hinges and a shaft of candlelight streamed out into the dark. Behind the candle, a female figure craned forward, shaking with fear.

“Who’s there?” she called. “Who’s there?”

Isolde! The intruder laughed. Gods above, there she was . . .

Still laughing, he strode forward through the door. The next second he felt a kick like a horse in his back and found himself sprawling face downward on the floor.

Tristan slammed the door and jumped on the prostrate form.

“Quickly!” he gasped, planting his full weight on the intruder’s back. “Quickly now, tie his hands.”

In an ecstasy of haste, Isolde fumbled to tie up the stranger’s wrists with all her force. Then she drew her dagger and dug the tip of the blade into the soft flesh behind the intruder’s ear.

Tristan scrambled to his feet and leaned down to roll the helmeted figure onto his back.

“Who is it?” Isolde cried. “Surely Mark can’t have found out already that I’ve escaped? And he must still think you’re dead.”

“I don’t know,” he panted. “But I’ll get the truth out of this fellow now.” He wrenched off the heavy helmet. “So, sir,” he cried savagely, his knife at the stranger’s throat. “Who are you, and what d’you want?”

Isolde leaned over him. “And don’t expect any mercy from us, if you’ve come from Mark,” she said furiously.

The stranger threw back his head. “Come from Mark, lady?” A burst of laughter shook his long, thin frame. He fastened his gaze on Tristan. “Why, Tristan, what kind of welcome is this? Do you not know me, old friend?”

“Know you?” Tristan leaped to his feet in a towering rage. “I’ve never seen you before in all my—”

But Isolde was staring at the newcomer with her eyes out on stalks. Gods above, how often had she seen this face?

And to think they had treated a knight of Camelot like this . . .

A fellow of the Round Table . . . King Arthur’s nephew, the closest kin of the King . . .

Goddess, Mother, forgive us!

“Look at him, Tristan!” she shrilled. “It’s Gawain!”