Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (12 page)

CHAPTER 19

Ireland.
Erin.
Home.

Isolde stood on the deck and filled her lungs with the sweet soft air of the beloved land, a breath of beauty like nothing else in life. For the first time in all these dank and dreary weeks she could smell the coming of spring. But whenever she came back to Ireland, it was always spring.

“When the Old Ones made the world,” her mother used to say, “they chose this island for the finest people on the earth. They gave it green hills and valleys and the leap of the salmon and the kiss of the silver rain. They filled it with fighters and talkers and princes and poets and those who love the craic. Then they gave it to the Goddess, who gave it her own name, and entrusted it to a line of Queens to love and care for as only women can.”

And now they were racing home with a stiff wind in the sails and every rope and mainstay dancing a joyful jig. Ahead of them Dubh Lein lay smiling a welcome through a lavender twilight tinged with green and gold. Wheeling above the cliff, a great sea-eagle dipped its white tail in salutation, and roamed away across the sky, dwarfing the little figures on the quay below.

Ireland.

Erin.

Home.

But could it be home without Mother? Or Ireland without the Queen? Isolde paced the deck, staring out through the dusk. She swallowed a sigh. When she was alive, the Queen’s only answer to questions had been a toss of her head, and she would never answer now.

“The Queen!”

“Queen Isolde!”

“The Queen!”

Isolde stepped into the prow and raised her cloaked arms like wings as she scanned the waiting throng. In the front stood a troop of armed men, their lances glinting in the last light of the sun. At their head she could see a handful of the old Queen’s knights, the veteran Sir Doneal gleaming in silver mail, and Sir Vaindor smoothing back his hair. And was that Sir Tolen, standing at the back? No, the tall figure shading his face was another man and Tolen was nowhere to be seen. Did he think he had to keep out of her way because he had been her mother’s chosen one? Well, he’d soon learn he had nothing to fear from her. But where was Sir Gilhan, her own counselor and friend?

Blithely, the ship came to rest at the dock. As the sailors handed her down into the waiting crowd, the first knight to kiss her hand was one she hardly knew.

“Your Majesty,” he cried with a dazzling smile.

The prowl of a wild cat, a predatory gaze, the feral smell of danger, hot and
strong . . . Beware!
Briskly, she drew her hand out of his grasp. “Sir Breccan, I think? When I saw you last, you were still a boy.”

His handsome young face darkened. “Boy no longer, my lady, as you see.” He gestured to his men. “You know my chief knight, Sir Ravigel, of old? And his nephew, Tiercel, another of my kin?”

Ravigel was the tall, broad-shouldered knight she had mistaken for Tolen from the ship. He bowed his head and greeted her on one knee, but Isolde could tell at a glance what he was. Scarred hands, eyes of stone, and a killer’s smile—what was a man like this doing at her court?

A grim foreboding settled on her soul. She turned back to Breccan. “Where is Sir Tolen? I expected to see him here.”

“My poor brother?” Breccan’s well-shaped face took on a tragic air. “Alas, he’s dead.”

Isolde suppressed a start. “Dead? How?”

“He fell from a clifftop—such a loss . . .”

You killed him
came to Isolde like a blow. She looked around. There was Vaindor, yes, still stroking his thinning curls, standing next to Sir Doneal with his weather-beaten face and blue-eyed stare older than the mountains of the moon.
But where was . . . ?

She set her chin. “And Sir Gilhan?”

Another doleful sigh. Breccan shook his head. “No man knows.”

She could not suppress her anger. “What do you mean?”

His gaze flickered to Sir Ravigel at his side. “They say he has disappeared.”

She snorted with disgust. “No man disappears, sir, in this land of ours. Least of all the Queen’s chief counselor and a lord of state. When was he last seen?”

He laughed openly, and she felt the first chill of fear. “Setting off into the forest to take counsel of the Queen’s Druid, Cormac. Now both of them are lost, no man knows where.”

Isolde’s heart turned to ice.
No man but you, sir.

Breccan stepped forward. “But you have other men to serve you, lady, men with younger minds and stronger swords. And Ireland can only be grateful for new blood ’round the throne.”

“Men like you, sir?”

“Myself above all. My knights and I are yours, body and soul, sworn to serve you in the legions of death.”

He bared his strong white teeth in a winning smile and the smell of wolf was all around them now. She looked at the other men standing on the dock, and one by one their glances slid away. All her mother’s knights and lords were afraid of him.
So be it.
She nodded to herself.
There
is not a soul here that I can trust. No man to fight for me, not one.

She drew a long, steady breath.
Then I’ll fight for myself.

“Come, sirs,” she cried gaily, “why are we lingering here? I’m longing to set foot in Dubh Lein again.”

Vaindor thrust himself forward. “Yes, Majesty!” he cried. “Let us bring you home!”

“Bring the Queen home!” came the chorus on all sides. Young and old now rallied around to pledge their allegiance and offer her their swords.

But it was Breccan, she noted, who gave orders to disembark the ship—Breccan who shadowed her half a pace behind as she greeted the rest of the crowd on the windswept quay—and Breccan who commanded the ring of steel that encircled her every step as she made her way up from the harbor and entered Dubh Lein.

A MISTY BLUE TWILIGHT had settled over the hills. The evening winds had lulled themselves to sleep and the birds had long ago tucked their heads under their wings. The two-legged world had also gone to its rest. But Isolde prowled the vastness of Dubh Lein sleepless and alone, with nothing but fear to keep her company.

At last she came back to the Queen’s house, chilled to the bone. Glittering coldly in the moonlight, the great white building loomed up ahead of her like a reproach.
If only I had come back sooner . . . I should have been
here. If I had been, Cormac and Gilhan would be safe.

Sir Gilhan would never betray her, she was certain of that. If he had gone, it would have been against his will. He had fought for the Mother-right all his life—had he died for it now?

And Cormac? Was he dead too? Her skin prickled. If he were alive he would certainly be here. Nothing but death would dim that mystical light.
Well, I shall find you, sirs, and give you burial.

And they were not the only men lost and gone. Feasting in the hall, with all Dubh Lein gathered to toast her return, she saw gap after gap where her mother’s knights used to be. This one had left court to travel, she was told, others were trying their skill at foreign tournaments, and still others had joined a quest to the Holy Land. Many had left quietly to live on their own estates. Did she remember Sir Odent, or old Sir Fideal?

Of course she did. But her mother had driven them away with her rampant demands and voracious sexual greed.
And now I am alone and no
knight will raise a sword in my defense.

She groaned aloud.
Goddess, Mother, send me some good men!

One above all, Great Mother.

Send me back my love.

Gods above, where could Tristan be?

She rose to her feet and surged over to the great bay window, threw open the casement, then set a candle to shine out through the dark.
Forgive me, love, that I did not do this at dusk. I know you’ll have made your
remembrance of me tonight, you never fail.
With a pang of guilt, she pictured Tristan out on the road, cold and hungry, sleeping on the ground. She had the warmth and attention of a court, he had nothing but his faith and love for her.

Trembling, she lit the candle and made a prayer.
Gods and Great Ones,
guide my true love’s path. Speed his steps and bring him safe to me.

“Madam!”

The door burst open and Brangwain flew into the room. “Sir Breccan is here to see you with a troop of men.”

“He wants an audience?” Isolde stared. “At this hour?”

Brangwain shook her dark head. “Send him packing, lady. There’s nothing can’t wait till tomorrow. He has no right to be here.”

And spend a sleepless night not knowing what he planned? Isolde shuddered. “Admit him, Brangwain.”

Brangwain crossed to the door. “This way, sir.”

“Thank you.”

His scent came before him into the room, hot and musky like a stag in rut. His long thick hair had been perfumed and groomed into sleek, smiling curls lying on his shoulders like living things. His own smile was respectful, and he came toward her with a modest air. But there was no mistaking the triumph in his eyes.

Calm, stay calm . . .

He was coming in a blaze of red and black, dark wool breeches tucked into black leather boots, a red leather jerkin studded with garnets and gold. His shirt, as white as his smile, was of fine cambric, embroidered with gold thread at the neck and sleeves. A gold ring hung from one ear, and the gold torque of knighthood encircled his strong neck, fashioned like a snake devouring its own tail.

“Your Majesty.”

He bowed and gave her his hand. The back of it was cross-hatched with silver scars, a sharp reminder of his fearlessness in close combat and many battles fought and won. She set her teeth: know your enemy. Breccan was a fearsome adversary in peace or war.

And worse—his sinewy grip and flashing smile were disturbing her now in ways she would not admit. With a rush of anger very close to shame she found herself watching the prowling figure, compelled by his every move. Not as tall as Tristan but superbly made, he had the shoulders of a warrior and lean horseman’s hips. His narrow waist was defined by a broad leather belt, and his muscular brown forearms were marked like his sword hand with scars.

“It’s very late, Sir Breccan,” she said distantly. “What brings you here?”

He smiled winningly. “Only the desire to serve you, my Queen.”

She bowed. “Your loyalty does you credit.”

He took an easy step closer. “Your Majesty will have need of every sword. These are dangerous times.”

Isolde stood her ground. “Only if we allow them to be.”

“Ah, but danger lurks unseen.”

Subtly he had drawn himself nearer still. Isolde drew herself up and looked him in the eye. “I beg you, keep your distance, Sir Breccan. Let me say, too, I don’t wish to have your advice. Beltain is coming, I must bury the Queen and take up the reins of the kingdom as Queen myself. Till then, I give you leave to withdraw.”

“Withdraw?”

A peal of mocking laughter filled the room. “No, lady, I am here to stay.” He stretched out his hard brown hand and gripped her wrist. “You forget I come from the clan of the Companions of the Throne. My brother was the Queen’s last chosen one. I am the last of the line till my sons are born.” He paused, breathing hard, his handsome face faintly bedewed with sweat. “Born to you, Majesty, as it must surely be.”

“Born to
me
?” Gasping, she flung off his grip. “You forget yourself, sir. A queen makes her own choice of the man she loves and I made my choice, many years ago.”

“But the old ways change. Nowadays the people demand a king to rule alongside their Queen.”

“Not in my lifetime.” She took a contemptuous step backward. “Go now. You have already said too much.”

Breccan did not move. A light she could hardly endure had come into his eye.

“Come now,” he said huskily, throwing back his hair. “One man alone cannot sustain a queen, your mother taught you that.” He laughed with all the cruelty of youth. “Old men weaken and their manhood fails. You need a young man to refresh your rule.” One hand idly played with his sword while the other unselfconsciously rested on his thigh. “No one else in Ireland can match me in bed or battle, come what may. Therefore I must be King, and you will be my Queen.”

“Never!” she swore.
What, am I dreaming this?

He laughed. “How long did you linger in Cornwall?” he demanded insolently. “Every day you were away I built up my power.”

“Your power?” She laughed in his face. “You have no power! Only the strength of the bully to spread terror on command.”

He leaned back, idly studying his fingernails. “You were asking about Sir Gilhan . . .”

Isolde froze. “Where is he?”

He gave a malevolent laugh. “In good company.”

Her heart plunged. “With Cormac.”

“The Druid indeed.” He smiled with delight. “Your mother’s cherished adviser—and yours.”

She could scarcely control herself. “So you imprison an old man, and a man of the Gods?”

A soft chuckle was his only response. “Only to show you—”