Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (7 page)

CHAPTER 9

Think again, devil!”

Bursting like a boar from a brake, Tristan hurled himself violently from his saddle and seized Greuze by the neck. Locked together, the two men fell heavily to the ground as their panicking horses shied and scrambled away, scattering the men at arms as they went.

“Brangwain!” Isolde cried, reaching for her sword. Her mother’s great battle companion came singing from its scabbard, the cabochons on the hilt firm and fast in her hand. But the maid had already drawn her own weapon and advanced on Greuze’s men.

“Get back, all of you!” Brangwain shouted.

“Halt!” With an answering shout of defiance, Isolde took up a position across the clearing, defending the space where Tristan and Greuze were struggling on the grass.

Her mother’s battle-cry joyfully filled her throat as she pointed her sword at the figures fighting on the ground. “One step farther and your lord dies!”

“She’s a banshee!”

“No, they’re witches both!” Baffled and cursing, the knights fell back.

Tristan leapt to his feet and tore his blade from its sheath. Greuze was only a moment behind, snatching up his own sword from the ground.

“So, sir, we fight,” Tristan panted. “To the death, I think?”

“Your death, slave!” Greuze forced out through gritted teeth. “And I’ll make it a slow one, when I have you down.”

The leader of the knights leaned forward urgently. “What’s your will, my lord?”

Greuze gave a scornful laugh. “Watch and learn!” he shouted back. “I’ll deal with this knight, then you can do with these women whatever you like.”

“Set on, then!” Tristan cried. He advanced on Greuze, his great sword Glaeve flickering like a dragon’s tongue. But Greuze leapt on to the attack with a stroke so violent that it almost knocked Tristan down. Isolde’s stomach clenched. Greuze’s claim to be a deadly warrior was no idle boast.

She could see from the set of Tristan’s shoulders that he knew it too. Rallying, he set about Greuze with a flurry of long, sweeping strokes, varied with unexpected, jabbing moves. Before long Greuze’s blood-colored armor had a sickly sheen as a show of red seeped from a shoulder-joint.

The dying sun slipped slowly down the sky. High overhead the roosting birds rose chattering from the trees, disturbed by the clash of swords. Isolde gauged the progress of the fight from the combatants’ labored breath, and reckoned every blow from the groans of pain. She saw Tristan’s head running with blood, and recoiled.
Goddess, Mother, spare
him—spare my love.

The clearing was turning to mud as the fight went on. Minute by minute and hour after terrible hour, the two knights attacked and fell back, feinted and came again. Isolde heard and counted every stroke and knew that Tristan could not escape unscathed. Soon Tristan’s breastplate was covered in blood and one arm swung numbly at his side.

But Greuze himself was in even poorer shape. The big knight was floundering like a bull at bay, swinging his heavy head to and fro. Tristan had gored him with many deep wounds, and he was swaying from loss of blood. As Isolde watched, Greuze’s lifeblood ran down, puddling with the mud around his feet, and he fell to his knees.

Strike—now . . . Kill, kill!

“Have at you!” Tristan screamed.

He had one last moment, he knew, before his strength failed. He threw down his sword and staggered forward fumbling madly for his dagger, and took his enemy’s head in the crook of his arm. The only sound was a soft departing breath as Tristan found the gap at the base of the helmet and drove home the blade. A spout of blood issued from Greuze’s neck, and his body slumped to the ground.

“My lord—”

The leader of Greuze’s knights fell to his knees. One by one the rest of the men followed him. Tristan stumbled toward Isolde, covered in blood.

“Your Majesty,” he gasped, “your enemy is dead! I lay this triumph at your royal feet.”

“And we accept it,” Isolde proclaimed. Turning to the knights, she gestured to the figure on the ground. “Your lord is gone. I am your lady now. By the fortunes of war, I claim this castle for Sir Tristan, King of Lyonesse.”

The leader of the knights nodded his close-cropped head. Slowly he stood up, a short, stocky figure with a battle-hardened air, bowing first to Isolde then kneeling to Tristan. Reversing his sword, he offered up the hilt. “You have won this combat in all chivalry. We accept defeat at your hands.”

Tristan laid one hand on the weapon, swaying on his feet. He did not feel his blood running down to the ground. “So, sir, your name?” he rasped.

“They call me Yder, sir.”

“From the Welshlands, lady,” Brangwain muttered. Her own accent was very marked.

Yder overheard her. “From Caer Narvon itself,” he proclaimed with open pride.

Brangwain treated him to a flinty smile, then turned back to Isolde. “A land of true men, lady: tight, but true,” she said quietly. “If he’ll serve our lord, you may trust him with your life.”

Isolde saw the knight’s face flicker into a smile. “You heard that, sir? Then what’s your reply?”

Sir Yder fell to his knees and offered up his sword. “Receive my allegiance, lady, you and your lord. And I swear I speak for the rest of the men. We took service with Sir Greuze in the Holy Land, before he began on these evil tricks.” He pointed to the body of La Pauvre, lying in the grass, and looked away.

Isolde felt angry tears rising at the back of her throat. “Alas, poor lady—we must bury her with the honor that is her due.”

“Take heart, madam,” Tristan said hoarsely. “She has what she must have been praying for all along, the freedom to escape her tormentor and be with her love . . .”

His voice trailed off. Isolde looked at him. His eyes were dilated and his skin very pale. “Sir Tristan . . .”

Sir Yder saw it too. “My lord—” he began in deep concern. As he spoke, Tristan crumpled to the ground.

Isolde vaulted from her horse. “Forward, all of you!” she cried. “Bring him up to your castle as fast as you can.”

“This way, Majesty!”

Two spears and a shield made the kind of litter knights used to carry their dead from the field. Four of the strongest took up the burden as Yder led the way deep into the wood. Greuze’s retreat was nearer than Isolde had thought, but without Sir Yder and the knights, they would never have found it at all. Hidden deep in a hollow, and built into the side of a hill overgrown by trees, Castle Pleure was a secret locked away from mortal eyes.

Indeed any traveler might have passed it unwares. There were no towers, no battlements, no flags, and the whole edifice was more of an ancient, rambling forest grange than a fortress for defense. Even the door was mantled with thick ivy, hiding the way in. Isolde nodded grimly. With his evil way of life, Sir Greuze had had good reason to bury himself here. But how would she find help for Tristan in such a remote place?

Stifling her fear, she stepped over the mossy threshold into a wide hall. After the chill of the forest, the place felt kinder than she expected, with a warm fire twinkling through the soft, greenish gloom. On either side she could see into well-furnished apartments with bright rugs on the floor, all glimmering with the same woodland light.

She turned to Sir Yder. “Where are the women? Who runs the household here?”

Sir Yder smiled. “There are none. We fend for ourselves.”

“Then where’s your infirmary, sir?”

Yder laughed. “Infirmary, lady? We have no such thing.”

Isolde looked at Tristan and her heart dropped. “Where do you heal your sick knights?”

“In the guardroom, lady.”

“No, that will never do. Show me where you keep your herbs or any healing salves you have.”

“We have none.” Yder shrugged. “Sir Greuze wanted no weaklings among his chosen men. If our wounds festered, he let us die.”

“Your best apartment then, somewhere with light and air!” Brangwain exploded. She gestured toward Tristan. “Gods above, man, don’t you see how bad he is?”

Isolde nodded, dry-mouthed.
A chamber for Tristan, yes, must get him to
bed.
She lifted her head. “Show me the cleanest and most peaceful room you have.”

Sir Yder fixed her with a gaze that spoke his grief. “This way, madam—this way. . . .”

She turned to Tristan. He was breathing hard and his face was very cold. His wounds were red and gaping like open mouths, but his flesh was already turning gray from lack of blood. One cut in his groin was slowly welling with blood. Isolde staunched the flow and felt for his pulse.

Brangwain pursed her lips. “I’ll take care of him, lady, while you go and see what they’ve got. Then I’ll scour the forest for herbs as soon as it’s light.”

Isolde nodded. “We’ll have to stay here till Tristan’s well again.” She paused. “Although Mark’s sure to be suspicious of any delay.”

What will he suspect? Will he guess that I’m prolonging the journey to
linger out of the way?

To be with Sir Tristan. With my secret love.

Isolde felt the dark shadows gathering like bats. She glanced at the bloodless figure on the makeshift bier. “But we can’t move Tristan, and we can’t leave him behind. What else can we do?”

CHAPTER 10

Like mother, like daughter?

Was one queen who had always been in love with herself to be replaced by another who followed her own will, even when her country was hungering for her return?

No, he would not—dare not—think of Isolde that way!

Cursing himself for his lack of faith, Sir Gilhan drove his horse onward into the wood. The dank air and rotting vegetation beneath the trees lowered his spirits still more, but the gray winter of his surroundings must not cloud his judgment now. Isolde must have had good reason to delay, and her absence had not provoked any threat to the country that he could see.

For dangerous though he seemed, Breccan had not shown a dangerous hand. Indeed, to the best of Gilhan’s knowledge, the truculent young knight had done nothing at all. He had been away from court out hunting with his brother and his knights, amusing himself as harmlessly as any man in the land. If things continued as peaceably as this, Ireland could safely wait a while longer for her rightful queen.

But ye Gods, he mourned, where is the darling girl? A slim, laughing child with a fall of flame-colored hair danced across his mind, and he laughed to find his old eyes rheumy with tears. Girl, you old fool? he chided himself. She’s over thirty now. Will you always be thinking of the fine little imp she was?

Well, wherever she was, he mused, he had to keep the land safe. True, Breccan was carrying all before him at court, with every one of the younger knights his sworn follower now. But outside the court there was another world, an older universe of love and trust. In the heart of the forest, they kept the Old Faith. Here he would find the allies he needed now.

Still, he had to move with care. He had not sent to Cormac to announce his coming, for even in the forest, creatures had ears. He had no doubt he would find the Chief Druid here, for Cormac never left his sacred grove. And the only other soul who would attend was a man Gilhan would trust with his life. All might yet be well.

A watery sun struck downward through the trees. The short afternoon was fading. He should hurry on. Not too far ahead through the greenish gloom, the sacred grove lay basking in a pool of light. Gilhan emerged into the clearing from the damp and dripping wood, shivering with relief. Even in the dead of winter there was warmth here at the heart of the forest in the great circle of ancient oaks breathing out their wisdom to the world. The old knight drew the green fragrance down into his lungs and felt his soul expand. How fresh it was after the stale, sour air of the court!

Oh Gods, the court . . .

Unwittingly, he smelled again the raw odor of vaunting young manhood, sharp as cat’s gism and rank to his old nose. He growled in distress. Even away from court, Breccan and his young lions were hard to forget. But that was why he was here. “Onward!” he muttered. “No faltering now.”

A raven was croaking ominously overhead. Gilhan dismounted stiffly and tied his horse to a tree. Already his nagging doubts were turning into fears. Where was the familiar figure in his fleece-white robe? What business could have taken Cormac away?

In the heart of a thicket stood the Druid’s cell, a round dwelling underneath the mossy oaks. Walled with bracken and ivy and roofed by sweet leaf-mold, it was as much a part of the forest as a fold of the living earth. Here Cormac slept and prayed and passed his days worshipping the Great Mother, his only love. Here he received his pupils and taught those who cared to learn the Druids’ lore.

Approaching, Gilhan saw the door standing ajar. A handful of cold ashes blackened the hearth, and a wooden trencher with the remains of a meal lay upturned on the floor. From the dry crusts of bread and withered herbs, a week or more had passed since the Druid had sat by the fire for his frugal repast.

Gilhan picked up the bread and crushed it in his fist. What happened here? he demanded of the empty space. Moments later he was fumbling for his sword. With a terrible clarity he knew there was someone behind him
now!
Then the point of a knife dug deep into his ribs as a hand seized his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back.

“Easy now,” came an angry grunt as the attacker tightened his grip past the point of pain.

The breath of the assailant was cold on the back of his neck. Gilhan closed his eyes and made the old soldier’s prayer: let me die standing. Let me see my death.

“What’s your business here?” demanded the hostile voice. “Come to revisit the house of the man you killed?”

Gilhan gave a sharp barking laugh of surprise. “Is Cormac dead?”

“You know he is.” He felt a venomous jab of the knife in his back, and the blood began to trickle down his skin. “You know where he’s buried. You put him there.”

The knife moved again. Gilhan could take no more. “Gods above, man!” he burst out in a rage. “I came to seek his help! We both serve the Queen, I’m an old friend of his from court.”

“Who are you, then?”

“I’m the head of the Queen’s Council, and her champion long ago. Gilhan is my name. And I need Cormac alive.”

“How so?”

“I want him to stand with me against her foes. And if he’s dead, the trees of this forest know more of it than I!”

There was a heavy silence. When the unknown voice came again, it had changed. “You came for his help to support the Old Faith?”

“I swear it by the Great Ones themselves,” Gilhan spat. “On the soul of the one I love best. And that’s myself!”

There was a snarling laugh. “That’s a good oath.”

Gilhan felt himself spun round. Before him stood a young Druid, a burly well-set figure in an indigo robe. His broad face was flushed with passion and his eyes burned with honest truth.

Gilhan could see the Druid mark pulsing between his brows. His eyes widened. “You’re one of Cormac’s followers. Don’t you know where he is?”

A look of confusion crossed the bold young face. “No. He’s been gone a week and more.”

“But I thought he was always here.”

The young man frowned. “Sometimes he takes to the mountains to worship the Great One and renew his love.”

Gilhan shook his head firmly. “He would not wander now.”

“Why not?”

“The land’s in peril since the old Queen died. He’d never put his moon-longings above our need. And he’d want to be here when Queen Isolde comes.”

“Where is she, then?”

It was Gilhan’s turn to frown. “She left Castle Dore in Cornwall, we know that much.”

“And now . . . ?” prompted the young man.

“I wish I knew.” Gilhan gave an angry sigh. “Lingering like this, she puts all our lives at risk.”

The young eyes widened. “Of what?”

Gilhan eyed him levelly. “If she doesn’t come forward to assert her claim to the throne, we may see a time when the Mother-right is no more.”

“Never!” the young Druid scoffed. “Not as long as men love nature and understand what gives them life.”

“Men like Sir Breccan, you mean?”

“Who’s he?”

Gilhan laughed harshly. “Pray to the Great One that you’ll never know.” He gazed around the clearing, his senses as sharp as a fox. “He’s been here, I know it. And if he has, he’s taken Cormac away.”

There was a shout from across the clearing. “Who’s there?”

Emerging from the trees was a spare figure of medium height, mounted on a great roan charger, heavily armed. His battle-hardened body and close-cropped gray hair announced him as a knight of more than middle years. But his cool gaze had lost none of its force, and his scarred hand still knew how to grip a sword. He was clad for combat in leather and hammered bronze, and as he dismounted and strode forward, Gilhan’s spirits soared.

“Fideal!”

To his horror, Gilhan felt tears pricking his eyes. Bluffly, he clasped his old friend to his chest. But Fideal stood back from his embrace and pushed him off.

“Why am I here?” he demanded. “Why did you send for me?”

Gilhan carefully surveyed the stony face. “I wanted to meet Cormac here with you. I need a few men who will defend the Great One and the faith we serve. And Isolde, our Queen, as she must be.”

Fideal stared bleakly around, taking in the young Druid as he moved away. “Where is Cormac, then?”

“Disappeared.”

“He’s not the only one, from what I hear.”

Gilhan started. “What d’you mean?”

Fideal smiled grimly. “Young Breccan has been hunting ’round these parts. He paid a visit to Odent of the Peak, and Odent had a fatal apoplexy as they talked. Then his brother Tolen, the Queen’s last chosen one, perished in a riding accident on the way back—”

“Oh, so?” Gilhan released a dry bark of mirth. “Tolen? The best rider in the land?”

“He was drunk, they said.” Fideal looked Gilhan in the eye. “But all the world knew he stood in Breccan’s way. He was too loyal to the Queen and the old ways. His death is a lesson to one and all. Those who want to survive must embrace the rising sun.”

“Gods and Great Ones preserve us!” Gilhan groaned. He reached for Fideal’s hand. “Stand by me now. I need your help, old friend!”

Fideal shook his head. A shadow of long-ago pain crossed his face. “I have forsworn the court.”

Gilhan spread his hands. “The Queen betrayed you, man, we all know that. But think of Isolde. She never did you any harm.”

“I cannot.” Fideal shook his grizzled head. “I broke my sword and cast it into the sea. I swore an oath that I would never return.”

Gilhan played his last card. “When terror strikes like this, no man is safe. Breccan and his dogs could come for you.”

Fideal laughed. “If Breccan cared about me, I’d be dead by now. He has already dismissed me from his mind.” He straightened up and gazed off into the dusk. “He knows that nothing will draw me back to the Queen’s side.”

Gilhan paused. “Not even at her death?” he asked gently.

“Above all, not now.” The clear gray eyes were fixed on something Gilhan could not see. “I hear the Otherworld calling. I’ll be with her soon enough.” He moved across to his horse.

Gilhan pounded his head in grief. “Gods above, man, won’t you think again?”

“Farewell.” Fideal swung up into the saddle and turned toward the west. He stared out into a sunset wreathed in blood. “Where’s Isolde? She’s the only one who can save you now.”

Gilhan’s heart congealed into despair. “If only we knew.”

The young Druid had long disappeared. Gilhan watched until Fideal was no more than a distant figure between the trees, then turned to go. As he did so, he heard the crack of a twig underfoot and a horse’s soft sigh.

Now the shadows on the edge of the clearing were taking on human form. Darkness settled on the forest, disguising the menacing figures gathering around.

“Who’s there?” Gilhan cried out in fear.

“Friends of Lord Cormac the Druid,” came a low chuckle. “He’s waiting for you, sir. Shall we take you to him now?”