“Oh, look, Tris—a swing!” Isolde cried. Someone had flung a thick rope over the main branch of an oak, creating a pendulum that swung out over a pool in the river. “Do come here, Lover, and give me a push.”
“Not now, Pet,” Tristan replied, too engrossed in his game to pay her much mind. “Maybe Palomides will help you.”
Palomides was busy trying to get Elaine’s kitten down from the tree where it had fled at the first sight of Caesar. The estimable wolfhound was getting old and slow and had shown no interest in the cat at Court, but it was no good trying to explain that to a feline that seemed to take delight in scaring itself.
“Someone call me?” Palomides inquired, returning the kitten to its owner with an elegant bow.
“Take care of Izzy, will you, my friend?” Tris responded, not even looking up from his game.
The Arab turned and gave Isolde such a dazzling smile, I almost choked. There was love and adoration written all over his face, and his beautiful dark eyes seemed to drink her in, as though he could absorb her very soul through them. I looked away hastily, wondering what sort of spell the Irish girl put on men.
“Is Palomides as smitten by Isolde as I think?” I asked Lance later, when we took Caesar for a walk by the stream. “He looks to be wearing his heart on his sleeve.”
“He is, indeed. And hopelessly so. Sometimes I think the Greeks were right about love being sent as a punishment from the Gods. Not only does Isolde ignore him completely, Tristan is his idol. We talked about it last week—the man is very sensitive and the whole thing is terribly hard on him.”
“But he could have his choice of many other women,” I mused. “They flock around him almost as much as they do around you.”
“Ah,” answered the Breton, “but what is easy to hand isn’t necessarily what you want.”
The perversity of human nature made me laugh. “Maybe he just can’t resist Isolde’s beauty.”
“Maybe,” Lance agreed. “Some men don’t realize that true beauty comes from within.”
I glanced at him quickly, wondering if he was really that impervious to women like Isolde and Elaine, and caught him watching me with a secret smile that threatened to burst into a grin no matter how hard he struggled to hide it.
“You don’t know, do you?” he asked obliquely, and I shook my head.
“Know what?”
“How beautiful you are.”
I stopped dead still, unsure whether he was teasing or not.
“To think, Caesar, that she had no idea how the sun gets tangled in her hair, or that her neck is as white and elegant as a swan’s…”
His tone was light and playful as he talked to the dog and the blush that had overtaken me when he first spoke began to fade as I realized he wasn’t going to confront me directly.
“Nor does she know how graceful her body is, like a birch tree swaying beside a stream. Even her feet are wonderful, planted firmly on the ground, and altogether I could stare at her for hours and never tire of seeing the moods that move across her soul. Yet it is amazing how oblivious she is to all these things.”
“And how determined to remember that we are each of us bound to Arthur, in our different ways,” I said firmly, directing my reply to Caesar and patting the top of his head as I spoke. The wolfhound stood between us, delighted to be the center of so much attention.
“Now will you look at her.” Lance gently tugged the animal’s ear. “You must tell her I would have neither of us do anything that would hurt the King…but surely to laugh a little; to catch a moment of beauty and know there is another who sees it, too; to look with trust upon each other as well as Arthur…that need not be treacherous or deceitful.”
I watched in silence as Lance’s hand slid over to mine, and then we were holding hands and staring directly into each other’s eyes. “You see, it isn’t so terrible, is it?” he said with a grin.
A wild, free laugh welled up inside me like a great cartwheel of joy that wanted to leap forth in singing and dancing. I had no more idea of where it came from than I knew where the crushing weight that lifted from me had gone to…it was simply coursing through me in a fine fierce flow of love and living.
“You’re right,” I acknowledged, lifting my chin and still looking him full in the eyes. “It isn’t so terrible.”
And so we made the vow—the promise to share without fear this one magical summer while still keeping faith with Arthur.
After that the days became a gathering of rainbow hues and star-filled nights. Never had I seen so many flowers, or whistled so many tunes, or laughed so much for the sheer pleasure of being.
The whole world came alive, lovers and houseguards and ladies-in-waiting all taking part in this season of delight. I couldn’t tell if everyone was touched by the enchantment or only seemed so in my eyes, but the result was a time so rich and vibrant, it surpassed even my most splendid dreams.
Racing the horses along the shore, we laugh and jest when Griflet’s mount throws him in the surf. Staring into the coals after the flames die down and the embers turn to molten gold, we point out castles and towers, dragons and other shapes from childhood fantasies. Frieda regales us with Saxon folktales, while Palomides recalls scraps of stories he remembers from before his parents’ death—and we all wonder aloud about what Arabia is like. Both day and night Tris plays his harp, making up music and songs to fit the mood.
And always there is the magic of sharing with Lancelot; humor or triumph or sympathy flowing between us without words, our eyes meeting in silent recognition above the group. Like dancers in a dream, both responding to the same music yet never touching, we skipped and leapt and spun apart through the firmament of gay times; lifting each other with laughter, guiding each other with a smile, turning slowly, soft and tender, into each other’s sphere as we drew together in the quiet times…It was security and freedom at the same time—a flowering of all the things I’d missed for so long, and I luxuriated in the fullness of it.
One misty morning day we went together to meet the shepherds who looked after his flocks, our hair growing spangled by the fog as we trudged through the heather.
We rarely touched, but on that day I slipped when climbing down from a stile and Lance caught me full against his body.
“Steady there,” he cautioned as we leapt apart like guilty lovers, laughing awkwardly at the desire that suddenly flared between us.
Neither of us spoke of it, but after that we were careful not to do things alone and always took at least one other person wherever we went.
So it was that Elaine accompanied us to the hermitage. Lance often visited the holy man who had dug out a cave beside the riverbank; this day he was bringing the fellow a portion of oats.
The hermit was out when we arrived, no doubt gathering herbs or communing with his God, but Lance carried the bag of grain into the grotto. When he didn’t come back I peered through the doorway to see why.
The cave had been made into a tiny chapel, hardly big enough for more than two people. There was no altar for sacrifice—only a table, simple and unadorned. A bowl of oil held a floating wick and its tiny flame cast soft shadows into the corners.
The air of sanctity was oppressive, as though the clean winds of heaven had never touched the place, and I was surprised to see Lance kneeling before the table, offering a prayer to the Power it represented.
When he rose, his face bore that strange, inward look that had mystified me during my convalescence at the convent. Now, as then, his spirit was engaged in some inner quest, and even though our eyes met when he came out, there was no spark of recognition and sharing. It was clear I had no place in this particular experience. A chill slid over my shoulders, and I followed after him in silence.
“Dreary old place,” Elaine averred when we were mounted and riding away. “Can’t imagine why you keep coming back here.”
Lance made no effort to reply, and Elaine began to natter at him. “You aren’t planning on becoming a Christian, are you? M
y father converted after he was wounded—spends all his time praying for a miracle to heal him. That’s all very well for him, but I’m not interested—there’s so much a Christian can’t do, on pain of sin or something. And I wouldn’t want to marry one.
She cast a lissome glance his way, but the Breton might as well have been deaf for all the attention he paid.
I watched her covertly, amused by her reaction because it could have been my own. She had yet to realize, however, that there was something between Lancelot and his Gods that brooked no interference. It was a part of his nature that would never be accessible to any woman—herself, or me, or anyone else.
***
The strand where the river meets the sea holds a small settlement of fishermen. Shanties of all kinds and shapes cluster there, for the surf washes the doorstep of Saxon and Celt and Pict with equal ease. Yet no matter how scattered their origins, the people fit into this miniature world with a peacefulness and pleasure that touched my heart. It was one of the reasons Lance took to calling his steading Joyous Gard.
Palomides was as fond of the town as Lance and I, and we invited him to come along when we went to buy fish from the men who hauled their little boats up on the shore.
“I just wish he would treat her more kindly,” the Arab said as the three of us rode home one afternoon. “It’s none of my business, but I hate to see a man take advantage of a woman.”
I had not thought of Tristan and Isolde’s romance in those terms, and I paused to reconsider the matter.
“Yes, I know they’ve been blessed—or cursed—by the Gods to love this way…but that doesn’t mean he has to be such a boor. I suppose one doesn’t have a right to tamper with another person’s moira, but they got into another row last night, and I was hard-pressed not to step in. Not,” he added humbly, “that she would have thanked me for it…fated to love forever, indeed!”
“It’s awfully convenient, that love potion, isn’t it?” Lance remarked. “I can’t really think of an easier way to get around one’s own responsibility.” He brought the back of his hand to his forehead, feigning distress. “After all, the Gods made us do it.”
I burst out laughing, and even Palomides smiled before Lance turned to him, suddenly serious. “What do you know of the Arab Gods?” he asked.
“Not much…not much at all,” our Middle Eastern friend responded. “In fact, there’s a great many things I don’t know about my mother-country. I sometimes dream of going there to see what it is like; I might find it more home than Britain, after all.”
***
It was a chance remark, one of thousands in that flower-strewn summer, and it passed without notice or thought. Who could have guessed that within the year we would all be scattered on very different paths, and the summer at Joyous Gard would be only a lovely memory?
Chapter XXXI
Isolde
That’s it. I’ve had enough!” The child-bride of Cornwall flung herself into my chambers with the energy of an angry Goddess.
“Just because I’ve given over everything in the world to be with him doesn’t mean I deserve to be treated like a dog. Worse than a dog, even,” she added hotly. “At least he speaks to his dogs when he comes in.”
I was hard-pressed not to grin; how often had I wished Arthur would look on me with half the tenderness and concern he used to show Cabal.
“What’s Tris done this time?” I asked. The lovers’ quarrels had gotten louder and more frequent as the summer ripened, and there was no way not to notice them.
Isolde moved around the room restlessly, finally coming to a halt at the open window. “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “I mean, it isn’t just this time, it’s the whole situation: his lack of interest now that we’re away from Mark…my guilt…our mutual shame. There are times when loving him so much is what the Christians would call sheer hell.”
“Maybe,” I ventured, “it isn’t whether you love him or not that matters so much as it is what you do about it.”
I wasn’t sure the Irish girl would brook any criticism, being convinced that her love was destined by the Gods, but to my surprise she turned to me and lifted one eyebrow in query.
“Like you and Lance?”
I flushed furiously, and she laughed. “Come now, you don’t think I could miss the signs of another clandestine love, do you? But I would guess you haven’t bedded yet, have you?”
I was so stunned by her directness, I simply shook my head.
Isolde leaned against the window frame and stared pensively out along the river to where the little estuary glimmered between the dunes, and the fishermen’s boats bobbed beyond the breakers. Her voice grew dreamy.
“Do you know what it is like, to lie cradled in the arms of a god? All passion spent, and still held close and dear by the man who holds your soul in his hands? I do not know if other women…if it is the usual way of things. All I know is that it isn’t like that with Mark…not like that at all. With my husband it is a duty, a kind of bumping, squirming athletics where I try to be as accommodating as possible to the mound of flesh that huffs and puffs above me, like a walrus scratching off barnacles. And when he’s finished, he just rolls off me with a grunt and goes to sleep. I’ve lain beside him, sleepless, night after night, wondering what is wrong, what I could do to make things better. I’ve even tried to talk with him about it…” She glanced over at me, searching my face for understanding.
“Did he listen?” I asked hopefully.
“Listen!” Isolde snorted, the fire coming back into her voice. “Listen? Only enough to decide that I was belittling his prowess as a man. Gwen, I tried so hard to be tactful. I even suggested that there was something wrong with me…that maybe I wasn’t built like other women, because I needed petting and touching and caressing a little. But that only made things worse. Oh, sometimes after that he’d fumble around a bit with my breasts, or even put his hands between my legs, but there was always something so…so furtive about it. It was as though he were afraid of being caught, or was placating me, half hoping I wouldn’t notice, like some nasty little boy who prays the girl he’s rubbing up against won’t realize what he’s doing.”
She shuddered violently and looked down into her lap.
“Perhaps, if Tris and I had not…come together…if I didn’t know what it could be like…” Her tone was low and vibrant, and even her averted gaze bespoke a kind of ecstasy. “Sometimes it’s fire and fury and a kind of immolation, and sometimes it’s gentle and tender and soft as the lapping of a wave on the shore of a lake, but always afterward there is that floating, expanding, indescribable beauty, and we hold each other in an embrace of pure joy. Oh, not the laughing, bantering play, though that’s there in the beginning, usually. No…this is something else. There is nothing I would not do for him, could not be for him…or him for me at those times.”
She shook her head and looked back at me, eyes alight with wonder and awe. I caught my breath, sure it was what Lance and I would have were we to bed—and knowing I mustn’t even think about it.
“So I put up with his boorish behavior, and become the fishwife myself, screaming at him with no better manners than he shows me…Ah, well,” she sighed, “no one promised it would be easy.”
Something in her voice brought back the memory of Igraine saying much the same thing. Perhaps it is the very nature of grand romances to be difficult.
***
That afternoon Lance and I walked slowly down to the grove, each of us quieter than usual.
The late August sunlight shimmered on the water and dappled the ground beneath the trees. The days were growing shorter, and before long we must decide what to do for the fall, for I doubted that Arthur intended to leave us stuck up here so far away from Cadbury through the winter months.
A thrush was singing, clear-throated and rich, from the top of a nearby tree, its song the very essence of this summer past.
If only there was some way to capture this peacefulness forever…to wear it as a talisma
n around my neck, to dip into it like an elixir and refresh my soul when times are trying.
“At least we have the memory,” Lance said softly.
“And a beautiful one it is, my friend,” I replied.
Of a sudden all the beauty of our stay at Joyous Gard welled up within me: companionship and understanding, playfulness and the simple, silent reassurance that had filled every day, graced every night. I’d even known what it was to feel beautiful, here in this enchanted retreat. Tears of gratitude and pleasure filled my eyes, and I turned away hastily, determined to avoid a scene.
“I have yet to try the swing,” I announced.
“Well, we’ll make up for that right now.” Lance grabbed my hand and we ran to the swing where he plopped me in the seat. “Hold on, M’lady,” he cried, releasing the guy-rope that kept it tethered to the shore and giving me a push.
And then I was flying, soaring, sailing out over the water, with the wind in my hair and those silly tears drying on my face. A rook in its acrobatics, an eagle in its soaring, even a Goddess in her majesty, were no more free than I was, and I pressed into the wind as though against a lover, letting the overflow of all the summer’s emotions sweep out and away on the rushing air.
Slowly the exhilaration faded, the arcs diminished, and I returned, content to be earthbound again. Lance reached out to stop me, settling his hands on my hips and holding both the swing and me safe against him. Defenseless, unguarded, I leaned back against him in sheer trust.
“You are my love…you, and no other,” he whispered, resting his cheek against my hair. “God knows if I shall ever get another chance to say it, and I want you to hear it at least this once.”
My spirit rose up, dancing, light-headed, enthralled. All the years of loving in silence, of never hearing, never really knowing how the other felt—all that uncertainty fled on the instant. Desire and rapture and a great surge of delight coursed through me, and I raised my arms to turn into Lance’s embrace, only to run into the ropes of the swing.
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 36