Drifting around the hall, clustered together or moving in ones and twos, were twenty or more slender, laughing young women, each lovelier than the last. Tristan sighed with relief. Here at last were the people of the castle—but where were the men?
Now the girls had seen him, and he found himself the focus of many pairs of curious eyes, all the sweet-faced, willowy girls giggling and whispering as they looked him up and down. Their bright silks rustled as they talked and they nodded their heads together like a garland of flowers. Tristan drew in his breath and gave thanks that his love for Isolde was true, or he might have found it hard to resist the sideways glances and inviting smiles.
“Sir . . .”
The tallest of the maidens came toward him with a gliding tread. She was as slender as a hazel-twig in March and robed in pale, filmy garments the color of catkins in spring. She had long, glossy hair in a vivid chestnut brown, and the coloring to match. Her veil flowed around her shoulders like a woodland stream, and her smile lit up the night. She dropped him a low curtsy. “Welcome, sir, to the Castle Plaisir de Fay.”
Plaisir de . . . pleasure of what?
Fay . . . fayerie . . . floated through his mind, but it made no sense. He put a hand to his head. His brain would labor no further today. “Madam, how may I call you?”
The nut-brown maiden smiled at him again. “Falsamilla, lord.”
Falsa—what? Another name to conjure with. Manfully, Tristan pressed on. “Will you lead me to your lord and lady to make my greetings to them?”
“My lord?” A cascade of shrill laughter filled the air. “We have no lord, sir. Our lady rules here alone.”
“A widow, perhaps?” Tristan asked, and earned another high-pitched laugh.
Confused, he took in the sumptuous hangings on the wall, the rich carpets underfoot, and the regal dais at the end of the hall. Beneath a deep canopy of mulberry silk stood a low but elegant chair like a royal throne. Tristan turned back to Falsamilla. “Is she a queen?”
The maiden glanced up at him with mischief in her eyes. “Our lady will tell you all you need to know.”
Another of the gorgeous girls was at his elbow, holding a pitcher of silver and an ornate goblet of gold. “You’ll take some wine, sir? Our lady will be here very soon.”
Tristan bowed his head, mesmerized by the stream of ruby liquor pouring into the gold. “Thank you, yes.”
He stared at the gaggle of young women, whose excitement seemed to be reaching a fever pitch. “Tell me about your Castle Plaisir de Fay,” he demanded brusquely, to cover his unease. “Who is your lady?”
An odd, husky voice sounded in his ear. “They call me Duessa, sir.”
He had not heard her come in. Gods above, he thought wildly, these women must move on wheels instead of feet. Unless it’s a fetch, a spirit of the place . . . He forced himself to turn.
But the figure standing before him looked mortal enough, and womanly too, from the tip of her headdress to her fine satin shoes. Her gown was of black silk damask, rich and plain, and cut like a nun’s habit in its simplicity. She wore a tall pointed casque of black velvet, and around the base gleamed a coronet of red gold. Over it all floated a silver-spangled veil, and behind it he could see no more than her eyes.
Her eyes were like dark stars. Tristan felt his mind slipping away. Was it the headdress that made her so imposing, or her lean, fierce frame? Her soft shoulders or her hard, jutting breasts, straining against the severely modest gown? He shook his muddled head. Gods above, what was she, widow or Queen? Neither, or both?
Slowly she put back her veil. “Welcome, sir.”
She stood calm and unsmiling, waiting for him to speak. In silence he absorbed her shapely presence, large dark eyes and ivory skin, till her sharp white teeth flashed in a sudden smile. Yet still he thought there was something secretive about her deep-set eyes, and wondered if the long, pale face had ever seen the sun. And a sweet secret it seemed to be too—a pleasure crying out to be enjoyed. Her dark, puckered mouth was like a wild loganberry waiting to be picked. Without warning, he saw himself feasting on her overripe lips, nipping them with his teeth till the juices flowed . . .
Goddess, Mother!
Hot with shame, he turned his face to the fire. “My lady,” he forced out, “I find myself benighted in this wood. May I crave the shelter of your roof tonight?”
“Oh, sir . . .”
She put out her hand. Her low, husky voice wrapped him around in warmth. “Sir Tristan, my maidens and I are honored to greet you tonight.”
He gasped. “You know my name?”
“Oh, sir,” she said gravely, “all the world knows you. The great hero who rides the gray horse is known far and wide.” Her long arms floated out to embrace the hall. “Even here, where my maidens and I hide away.”
“Hide away?” Tristan cried impetuously, “why should you do that? Your maidens are the fairest to be seen, and your ladyship would grace any court on earth.” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “Lady, how should I address you? I would not wish to insult your dignity.”
For a second he thought that a whole life flashed violently behind the brooding, coal-black eyes. She turned her dark gaze upon him, and a shudder passed through him as he felt its force. The next moment she was herself again. “ ‘Lady’ is the finest title of them all.” She lifted her hand. “Let us eat.”
Within minutes, the maidens had raised a handsome trestle on the dais and dressed it for a feast. In a few airy passes the table was set with linen and silver and bowls of flowers and fruit. Plates and goblets followed, and candles and pitchers of wine. Then, out of nowhere, it seemed, a royal seat appeared for him, and the Lady Duessa, smiling, took her throne.
Seated beneath the rich red canopy, the lady raised a ruby-studded goblet and the wine in her cup gleamed in the candlelight like blood. “To the health of our guest, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse.”
“Sir Tristan, Sir Tristan!” Standing around the table, the maidens rustled together like flowers in a field. Tristan rose to his feet to accept the toast. “And to you, lady—blessings on the Castle Plaisir de Fay!”
Never in his life had Tristan seen roast pork so succulent that it fell apart under the knife, or beef so richly marbled that it melted from the bone. Dish after dish of jelly, broth, and brawn appeared and disappeared in the deft, whisking hands. Meanwhile salads and nuts and cheeses and a thousand sweet delights came to keep them company on the groaning board.
The lady ate sparingly, Tristan noticed, and drank even less. She’s right not to drink, he thought owlishly, as he felt the warmth of the wine spreading through his brain. As she picked at her food she spoke of a hundred things, and her hot, husky voice flowed in and out of his head. Now and again she fell silent, smiling into his eyes. Before long a thought took shape in his mind: this lady lives alone, without the company of men. Lives alone, sleeps alone, but seems to desire some other fortune tonight . . .
Again he felt the unwelcome pricking in his loins. Goddess, Mother! he choked in silence. Have you lost your mind? As a knight on the road, such things had come his way, but never since he swore his faith to Isolde had he turned aside to take these casual pickings when they arose. Never once had he yielded to the pleas of a lovesick virgin or stooped to pleasure the lady of a castle when her knight was away.
And could he forget his vow to Isolde now? He groaned inwardly. Out, man! Get out! Once safely away from here, he could relate this whole adventure to her without shame. He could tell her all, because there would be nothing to tell.
His mind racing, he hastened through the remains of his meal. The lady, he noticed, had stopped eating a while ago. He waved a hand toward her and sketched out a bow. “Madam Duessa, I am keeping you from your rest. And I myself—” He pretended to yawn, then gallantly covered it with his hand. “Forgive me, lady, if I forget all courtesy. I have ridden too far today, I must retire.”
“Of course.” She gave a gracious smile and rose to her feet. “My maidens will escor
t you to your rest.”
“Thank you.”
He leapt up with alacrity and crossed to draw back her chair. As he did so, the tapestry on the wall caught his eye. He saw a tormented knight lying on the ground, holding up his hand to a lady dressed all in black. Now he could read the dying man’s last words: “LA belle dame sans merci has me in thrall.” And the lady had deep-set eyes and a secret, mulberry mouth like the lady here—
Goddess, Mother, and all the Great Ones, I was not wrong!
Changing color, he recoiled with a violent start and realized his mistake at once. The lady, he saw, had gone unnaturally pale.
“Till tomorrow, then,” he cried too eagerly, backing away with an awkward bow. “I hope I do not offend you, lady, by retiring now.”
“No offense at all. On the contrary.”
Something unfathomable passed behind her eyes. Smiling, she moved toward him and gave him her hand. He bent his head to brush it with his lips as she spoke again.
“Sir Tristan, in a house of women, I have made it my custom to take passing knights to my bed. My maids will bring you to my chamber tonight.”
The next moment she was caressing his temple and stroking the side of his neck. “You are a hero, Sir Tristan, the greatest who ever wandered into my wood. Let us show you how my maidens and I welcome a man like you to Plaisir de Fay.”
CHAPTER 17
A wave of disgust broke over Tristan’s head. Gods above, he cursed with slow-rising anger, you have had nothing from me, lady, to encourage this! Carefully, he withdrew himself from her touch and straightened up to look her in the eye.
“Your ladyship flatters me beyond my deserts,” he said as coldly as he could. Gods, Gods, Gods, if only he had not drunk so much wine . . .
“Oh, sir . . .” She glimmered at him, her dark eyes like moons. Sick at heart, he saw two fathomless pools of desire, hungry black pupils dilated in the hope of what was to come.
He shook his head. He wanted to stride away, brush her off like the town cat that rubbed up against his leg. But he had taken her bread and salt, and the shelter of her roof had saved his life. He drew himself up and bowed.
“Madam, I may not abuse your hospitality that way,” he said stiffly. “In all honor, I am bound to you as a knight—”
“Honor?” She was no longer smiling, but feral and dangerous. “Honor is a code among men. In a house of women, d’you think we care for that?”
“Ussssss? Care for thaaaaat?”
Belatedly, he saw that all the maidens had drawn closer to Duessa in angry ones and twos, their flower-like faces as dark as their mistress’s eyes. He shuddered and came to himself, aware that a sticky sheen of sweat was covering his face.
“Lady, my honor is all that I possess. It is against my oath of chivalry to pay for my bed tonight with bed-service to you. I shall always remember that you saved my life, and for that I shall be your champion till I die. Call on me ever afterward to defend you against the wrong of any man.”
Duessa raised her hand and gave him a tremulous smile. “Forgive me, sir, if I offended you.” She dropped her eyes. “Loneliness makes savages of us all.”
“No offense, my lady,” he replied hastily. “You are Queen here. It is your place to command.”
She showed him her white teeth. “Then allow me to command you to your rest. You are overworn for one day.”
Free, Gods be thanked! “Madam, I owe you more than words can say,” he said fervently, pressing her hand.
“Till tomorrow,” she said, waving him away. She raised a hand for the maiden. “Falsamilla will take you to your chamber.”
Tristan had never bowed more devotedly in his life. “Thank you, lady, and goodnight.”
Rejoicing, he followed the wavering candle of the maid through miles of dark corridor and up a flight of torchlit stairs. At last Falsamilla paused and threw open a door.
“Your chamber, sir,” she proclaimed.
Was it safe? Tristan stepped forward cautiously, still half expecting a trick. But the apartment before him was furnished for a king. Vast tented hangings hung over the great bed, like a knight’s pavilion in the Holy Land. The chairs and tables hewn out of massive black oak would accommodate any man’s bulk, and an armor-stand loomed in the corner for his helmet, sword, and shield. Tristan released a slow sigh of relief. He had not been brought to Duessa’s chamber after all.
A low fire was glowing on the hearth. Falsamilla gestured to a hand-bell by the door. “If you require anything, sir—”
“Nothing, thank you.” He ushered her to the door. “Not even a cup of water in the morning to break my fast. Your lady will understand I must leave at dawn.”
Leave at dawn . . . yessssssss.
Thankfully, he rested his back against the door, threw back his head, and closed his weary eyes. Bed . . . Get to bed . . .
He was almost too tired to move. Stumbling, he made his way to the window and opened the casement on the starlit sky. The face of the heavens was studded with pinpoints of gold. He fixed his eyes on the love star and began his devotions with a flowing heart. My lady, oh my love . . . As he prayed, his soul left his body and his spirit sped like an arrow to Isolde’s side. For a while they wandered on the Plain of Delight. Then, grieving, they parted and came back to earth again.
Oh, my lady . . .
Groaning, he made ready for bed. Clumsy with fatigue, he unstrapped his sword and kicked off his boots, then pulled his tunic and shirt over his head. As he fumbled to turn back the covers, a last thought made its way through his wandering brain.
The door—bolt the door.
He was halfway across the room when he caught a sound. What was it? Straining his ears, he reached for his sword and glued his eyes to the door. Inch by inch the latch began to lift.
Without warning the fire on the hearth leapt into life, throwing up writhing flames of green and blue. The air in the chamber thickened till he could hardly breathe, and the door swung back on its hinges without a sound.
Duessa stood on the threshold, no longer darkly clad like a pious widow or a simple nun. Her body was sheathed in a gorgeous chamber gown of red fox fur, with a high standing collar and sleeves touching the ground. Beneath it she wore a wisp of flame-colored satin and embroidered slippers with low, velvet heels. For the first time he saw her hair, indigo black, and as deep as a starless night. It coiled in a lofty diadem on top of her head, secured with an ivory pin like a great cat’s tooth.
“Sir Tristan.”
She stepped into the room. With an onrush of rage, he saw himself through her eyes, half naked and trembling, brandishing a sword. Afraid of a woman? An unarmed female in a chamber gown?
Gods, what a fool he was making of himself! He threw down his sword. “Lady—” he began thickly, trying to calm his racing heart.
“No words.”
She moved up on him with all the confidence of a wife, and reached out a practiced hand. “You are mine, sir,” she murmured, showing her teeth. “You knew it from the moment we met.”
Tristan recoiled. “No!”
Duessa laughed. Then she shot out a hand and gave his nipple a painful tweak. “You’re a hunter, Tristan, and you know the sport. It adds to the conquest to play with such noble game.”
Tristan closed his eyes to master his choking rage. “I am not game for you or any woman in the world. I have given my sword and my soul to another for these last ten years.”
Duessa released a rich, condescending laugh. “Poor little Isolde, you mean?” she said indulgently.
“The Queen of Ireland, yes,” he said evenly, “I am her sworn knight.”
“Not in my kingdom. Your vows mean nothing here.” With deliberate slowness she raised her hand to her head, pulled out the ivory pin, and threw it to the floor. Coiling and uncoiling, her hair fell around her like a cloak. Blue-black and shimmering, it only half concealed her glistening flesh as she laid open the front of her gown to expose her breasts.
“Look at me, Tristan,
” she triumphed, “and drink your fill. Tonight you will exchange Isolde’s love for mine. With me you’ll be able to live free from deceit and hold up your head as a knight again.”
No more lies and deception, but unashamed joy and delight?
A cloud of bright visions flooded Tristan’s mind. He saw himself walking openly with his love and going freely to her bed. He would regain the honor he had lost when he broke his oath to Mark. Gods above, he betrayed his uncle every time he lay with his wife—
The next second, he caught Duessa’s eye and saw the temptation she offered for what it was. Maddened, he fought not to look at the great red nipples or the mounds of gleaming white flesh. Anger came to his rescue. “Lady, you must excuse me from your bed!”
“Never, sir.” Smiling her secret smile, she shook her head. “No man refuses me in Plaisir de Fay.”
“Then forgive one who has no other choice.”
He took her arm to thrust her from the room. But as he touched the cold-as-marble skin, she shot out a hand and gripped him by the throat.
A vicious pain shot through him. Gagging, he tried to break free, but she held him with an Otherworldly force. Madly he tore at her fingers, to no avail. “Lady!” he screamed.
She tightened her grip and the agony renewed. Even her voice had changed, hissing like a cat. “You are lucky, Sir Tristan, that my revenge stops here. You are the first to refuse me the custom of Plaisir de Fay.”
With the strength of a man she threw him to his knees, and the door slammed behind her sweeping form. In an ecstasy of fear he threw himself at the oak planking and drove home the bolt to keep her out. As he did so, he heard a key turning on the other side. Duessa’s voice dropped to an angry growl.
“You will learn, sir, that I mean what I say. You are mine now, and you are here till you give me your love. And only you can decide how long it will take.”
Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Page 11