“Ah, sir, there we differ in our theology.” Eustan was smiling broadly now and stroking his chin. “You believe that you are called to do the work of God. We believe our Lord can do His own.”
Breccan stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“If God wills the destruction of the Queens, He will bring it about,” Eustan said harshly. “He does not require His servants to join in squalid plots to overthrow the rulers of the land. We are here to glorify His name, to help His people and to live holy lives. Tell me how any of those are served by helping you.”
Squalid plots . . .
Breccan was aware of Ravigel’s cold breath in his ear. “Cut them down, lord. You’ll get nothing here.”
Yes! Cut them down, make this arrogant priest eat his words and choke on his own blood. A red mist gathered behind Breccan’s eyes. He saw Tiercel’s hand on his sword and heard Ravigel’s heavy breathing as he scented a kill, and trembled with delight. Then Tolen’s warning came ringing in his ears. You can’t kill every man who stands in your way. You’ll never make yourself King if you do that.
Killing Odent was one thing, a cruel husband and a brutal lord who’d be mourned by none. But to kill a dozen unarmed holy men—for so the story would be told, despite the welter of clubs and sticks and scythes— no, that would damn his name forever in the land. No matter that most of the folk did not follow the Christian faith or give a fig for the Christian’s God. In Ireland, the freedom to live was a sacred thing.
He gave a ghastly smile and a slight shake of his head, telling Ravigel, no.
“Well, sir?” came the monk’s uncompromising voice. “We say God will decide, not human ambition and greed. Do you disagree?”
There was nothing to say.
AFTERWARD, RIDING BACK down the mountain, Breccan’s fury grew. Defeated, humiliated in front of his men and sent packing with a holy flea in his ear—with every step of his horse, another sharp insult clouded Breccan’s brain.
“I told you so, Breccan.” Riding beside him on the narrow track, Tolen reached for his water-bottle and brought it to his lips. Only when a ruby trickle ran down his brother’s chin did Breccan realize what was happening.
Tolen drinking again? When he was drunk already, in a place like this? Didn’t he see the sheer drop at the side of the track? Breccan’s fury peaked. Gods above, if his horse shied, he could kill them all!
Tolen released a fat belch of contentment. “Listen to me, little brother,” he began expansively. He laid down his reins on the patient horse’s neck and took another deep pull on his wine. “You need to learn a thing or two from me—”
Breccan looked into the chasm at the edge of the path. “Tolen, take care. One slip and—”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Tolen laughed nastily. “You’re not King yet.” He poured a steady stream of wine straight down his throat. “And you’re not going to be if you keep on like this.”
“How so?” Only Tolen’s guardian angel would have recognized the shadow of gathering menace in Breccan’s voice. But any hope of protection was far away.
Tolen’s face flushed. “You won’t do it, brother,” he said thickly, “because you don’t understand the game. The Christians don’t care about you, you’re nothing but a petty warlord to them. And you think you can make yourself Isolde’s chosen one? She won’t look at you, she’s already married to a king. If you take her by force, you’ll have all Ireland on your back. But you don’t see any of that. You’re a fool, little brother, and you always were.”
With the sense of a speech well made, Tolen fumbled for his bottle again.
Oh, the comfort of cold steel. Breccan curled his fingers back into his sleeve and coaxed his hidden blade down into his hand. Come, my little love, time to go to work. Easy now, that’s right. Then as I laugh and clap Tolen’s horse on the rump—go!
There was a terrible scream. Recoiling from the dagger in its flank, Tolen’s horse leapt sideways, lost its footing, and fell from the narrow path. For the rest of his life Breccan would remember his brother’s vacant look as he groped for his reins while the earth fell away. For a second, horse and rider hung suspended over the void. Then dropping into the silence of eternity, they were gone.
The ride came to a halt. Ravigel rode back up the line and peered over the edge. Far below lay two small remote figures, pale and still.
Ravigel blew out his cheeks. “Terrible thing, sir, to lose a brother like that.” He looked Breccan hard in the eye. “But a riding accident can happen to any man.”
“Yes,” agreed Breccan, his eyes moist with grief.
“And Sir Tolen had been drinking since we set out. All the men will say that.”
“Yes. Thank you, Ravigel.”
Breccan arranged his face in an attitude of loss as the knights crowded around to mutter and bow their heads. Bereavement would suit him, he knew. Tears were easy, he should shed a few now.
As he did, Tolen’s words came back to him, and he crowed with inward delight. You were right, dear brother, I couldn’t kill every man standing in my way—but I could kill you!
CHAPTER 8
Throughout the winter forest no birds sang. Damp glistened on the leaves of every tree, and all the woodland shrank back to its frozen roots. Untamed from primeval times, the forest rolled on for mile after shadowed mile, roofed by the matted branches of old oaks, walled in by thickets of elder and tangled briar. The only ways through the wood were narrow, hidden tracks. Cornwall’s last wilderness guarded its secrets well.
A dank chill stirred the air as they approached. A shiver ran through the underwood, and the track narrowed till they had to travel in single file, Tristan and the strongest of the troop in front, then Isolde and Brangwain in the middle with the rest of the guard behind. The horses were uneasy as they went in, rolling their eyes and flattening their ears to their heads. Nervously, they trod forward over the rotting leaves. Isolde leaned forward and patted her mare’s soft neck. Yes, it’s a dark, strange place, but take heart, my dear.
She gave a sigh of relief. It was worth any trial to be away from court. This forest could be the worst place in the world, but we are together, I am with my love. Joyfully, she drew the living air of the forest into her lungs, the moist, clean smell of the leaf-mold, the pure breath of the trees. There was no evil in nature, she was sure of that. If any darkness lay hidden in this forest, it came from the heart of man.
Man . . .
She felt the faintest prompting of unease. “Sir . . .” She called up to Tristan riding ahead. “Who owns this land?”
“The forest, my lady?” Tristan frowned and reined back. “No knight that I know of.”
He paused as half-remembered rumors nagged at his mind. What was it he’d heard, a rogue knight who lived here unseen, lord of a disappearing castle that no man could find again? He suppressed a snort of disgust. Nonsense, every word, like the tales of the Fair Ones coming out of their green hills and hollows to steal mortals away. They were all armed, including the women, Isolde riding with her mother’s broadsword at her side and Brangwain ringed with steel. And escorted by Castle Dore’s best troops, they had nothing to fear. No, there was no need to trouble the Queen with this.
But Isolde knew him too well. “What is it? We don’t have to go this way, after all. We could miss out the forest and go by the high road.”
“Madam, we must get to Ireland by the shortest route,” Tristan said brusquely.
Isolde sighed. “I know. I fear we have wasted too much time as it is. Merlin never in his life sent a warning in vain.”
Tristan nodded. “Onward, lady!” he said crisply, and on they went.
Slow as a slug, the winter sun crawled up the sky. But little of its warmth reached the earth below. Underneath the trees lay a dimly lit, cold, green world, and the deeper they went into the forest, the darker it became.
Now the undergrowth itself looked pale and sick, as if tainted by some evil in the heart of the wood. But Isolde saw glossy ivy and sturd
y honeysuckle on every tree, and had to smile. Years ago she and Tristan had vowed to be just as faithfully entwined, two living creatures growing together as one. She greeted them now like old friends: how are you, my dears? I am glad to see you here.
At the head of the troop she saw Tristan lift his head sharply and read his face at once. He could hear the glowworm polishing his lamp in the grass or the smallest ladybird calling her children home. “What’s amiss?” she called.
He shook his head. “Nothing I can see.”
Brangwain stirred uneasily. “My lady—”
She could see the warning in the maid’s clever dark eyes. Like all those from the Welshlands, Brangwain was Merlin’s kin and saw more than mortal sight. She turned to Tristan again. “Should we turn back?”
He shook his head. “Anyone in the forest knows that we’re here. If they want to take us, they could ambush us any time. But they’ll probably leave us alone. No ruffians will attack a mounted troop, and outlaws have every reason to lie low.”
“So we press on?”
With an effort, she resisted the urge to smile into his eyes. Even here among a handful of trusted men, she had to be careful not to betray their love. But in Ireland, in my own land, surely we’ll be free? Her heart lurched. No, not even there, as long as there are prying eyes and tattling mouths, burning to carry bad words back to Mark. Suppressing the ache in her heart, she drove her horse on.
The short day was ending and it was darker now. The path had dwindled to a winding trail, and the raw cold and damp were settling into their bones. Yet Isolde’s spirits were growing lighter with every step. Surely Tristan was right. If any villains were sheltering in the wood, they must have decided by now to leave them alone.
Ahead of them the path widened into a clearing closely walled by trees. Here, great clusters of ivy rioted with the faithful honeysuckle, hand in hand amid banks of bracken and furze. The peace of a thousand years hung over the dim green space, and pale fingers of light brushed the forest floor. Isolde’s heart lifted. They could camp here—even make a fire.
Not for the first time, Tristan read her thought. “So, lady, what’s your will? Rest here, or go farther before the light fails?”
Isolde laughed. “Rest a moment, at least. How much longer will the daylight last?”
She did not hear the rustle in the undergrowth, as soft and stealthy as a snake in the grass.
“Lady—” Tristan froze, pointing like a dog.
Stepping through the trees at the head of the clearing came a blood-red figure on horseback, with a lady at his side. Behind them were a pair of mounted men. The knight’s fearsome armor covered a fighter’s hard, well-knit body, with powerful shoulders and strong quarters below. He wore his visor up, revealing his face. There was something unspeakably dreadful about the jutting forehead, the hollow cheeks, and square, lip-less mouth, grinning like the last smile on a skull. But all that was nothing to the lady at his side. She was sitting on her horse with a noose around her neck.
“Madam, look!” cried Brangwain, her hand flying to her mouth.
Isolde stared in horror. But for the rope, the lady was finely dressed in a rich cloak of fur trimmed with ermine and a riding habit of gleaming chestnut kidskin beaded with gold. Her headdress and veil were of tawny satin and lace, and her leather gauntlets were studded with jewels and pearls. But the hands that held the reins were roped like her neck, and her eyes were set in a wide, glassy stare. Her still, white face looked only half alive, dusted with the livid sheen of death.
The strange couple drew up facing them. Isolde could not take her eyes off the hideous rope. She glared at the knight. “Explain yourself, sir!”
The knight gave a smile as white as polished bone. “This is the Lady La Pauvre, widow of a noble knight. She is my captive by the rules of war.”
His voice, both rasping and sharp, pierced Isolde’s ear. “A poor lady indeed to find herself in your hands! And who are you?”
“The people around here call me Sir Greuze.”
Isolde’s eyes widened. “I know your name! You were refused admittance to the Round Table for the cruel habits you learned in the East.”
“And banished by the King, I believe,” Tristan cut in, “after your wife died by violence at your hands.” He stared at the knight in scorn. “Let us give you your full title, sir. You are known as Sir Greuze Sans Pitie—the knight without pity for a single soul.”
“True, every word.” A slow chuckle escaped the knight’s bloodless lips. “Pity, you say? When I was banished, no man pitied me. I suffered for ten years and more before I could slip back into this forest and start life again.”
“But the lady—look at her, man!” Isolde spat. “She is ill! She needs comfort and care, not treatment like this.”
Sir Greuze tugged on the rope and drew the lady to his side, poking and prodding her like a side of meat. “This one has disappointed me, I must confess. She was a beauty when I took her from her lord. But she lost her mind when I cut off his head.”
Tristan’s hand was already on the hilt of his sword. “You killed her lord?”
“I did indeed, though he fought like a Trojan to save her life. After that, she ran mad. Since then, she has never said a word. That was her revenge, the only way to thwart me of my prize.” He gave a hideous laugh. “I bedded her anyway, she was mine to use. But no amount of bedding or beating has brought her to herself.”
“Goddess, Mother!” Isolde could not contain herself. “How did she or her lord deserve this at your hands?”
Greuze leaned forward. “My fortress, Castle Pleure, lies a step from here. When a knight and his lady enter my domain, if the new lady is more beautiful than mine, I kill the one I have and take her instead.”
Tristan laughed in scorn. “And her knight stands by and lets you do this?”
“Oh, the knight usually challenges me.” He grinned. “And I always win.”
“Not today, sir.”
Greuze widened his eyes and smiled his bony smile. His sword lay in his hand, the sun glinting on its slender, cruel edge. “We shall see. But your lady is clearly more beautiful than mine, so you’ll agree that mine must die.”
He raised his sword and whirled it around his head. The blade hissed through the air, there was a sudden spout of red, then the lady’s head toppled onto her shoulder and bounced to the ground. Her headless trunk sat for one endless moment on her horse before crumpling in the saddle and following it down.
“Goddess, Mother!” cried Tristan hoarsely. “I’ll have your life for this!”
“The Great Ones will punish you, never fear!” Isolde shouted, beside herself. “Women are sacred wherever the Mother-right rules.”
“Sacred—” Greuze stared at her unmoved. “When you’re mine, I’ll have your tongue cut out.”
“Yours?” Isolde stared at him, trembling in every limb. “You’re mad.”
“Do you know who you insult?” cried Tristan. “This is Queen Isolde, and I am her knight—”
Greuze winked at him. “I know who you are.”
“Then you know that I never yielded to any man. And I give no quarter to a monster like you. I challenge you to the death, here in this grove. Make ready to die like the lady, without mercy or grace.”
Greuze opened his slit of a mouth to cackle like death. “You think so, sir?”
He nodded toward the edge of the wood. Emerging one by one from the undergrowth were a dozen knights, then fifteen, twenty, and more. Behind them came a rank of archers, bows drawn and arrows set to fly. Silently they surrounded the travelers, and every glinting point was aimed at Tristan’s heart.
Greuze watched them take their places, murmuring with delight. Then he turned to Tristan with a ravening smile. “So, sir, your Queen is mine, I think.”
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.
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 6