Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels

by Rosalind Miles

  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—”

  “What?” she spat.

  A dark glory spread across his face. “That I’m King already, in all but name.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “But more than that, madam . . .”

  She stood gripped by the flare in his eyes.

  “You are mine,” he went on in a cold passion, “mine to take and use as I wish. That’s what women were created for, and Queen or not, you were made the same.”

  “So then,” Isolde breathed, “I must be Queen as your plaything, or not at all?”

  With a swift and brutal move, Breccan pulled her into his arms and held her fast. “And which do you choose?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Don’t fight.

  Don’t move.

  Think!

  His mouth was so close she could taste the sourness of his wine. Sighing, she placed a light hand on Breccan’s chest and disengaged herself as winningly as she could.

  “Not yet, sir,” she breathed with a tantalizing smile. “No hunter enjoys what is too easily caught.”

  Breccan’s frown changed to a wolfish grin. Gods above, how he loved a woman who loved the game!

  “True enough,” he said huskily, feeling a welcome warmth spreading through his thighs. Appreciatively, he surveyed her lithe figure and full breasts, relishing the joy of her body to come. And she was right, the chase should not be rushed. You’ve tumbled too many kitchen sluts and chambermaids, he chuckled to himself. Only a fool would try to force a queen.

  “You’ll take me for your chosen one?” He gave a lazy laugh.

  “And more.” Isolde steadied herself, conscious of the powerful body not two feet from hers. “I’ll go back to Cornwall and leave you here as my knight. Then you can rule unchallenged in the Western Isle.”

  “Go back to Cornwall?” he snorted derisively. “And let you raise an army to reclaim your land?”

  “Not at all.” Isolde summoned up a flattering smile. “I have to return to Cornwall. I am Queen of two kingdoms and I have no knight.” She forced a self-pitying sigh. “I’m all alone.”

  So! Breccan’s mind raced. He had done what they all said he would never do. Isolde was his.

  His! Again the promise of pleasure warmed Breccan’s loins. Then a tendril of doubt made its way into his mind. He frowned. “How do I know you’re not just playing with me?”

  How young he is, she thought. She widened her eyes and soothed him with a smile. “You know that a queen can’t rule without a knight. All the other knights answer to you, so if you refuse, no man in Ireland will draw his sword for me.”

  That at least was true. “Not a single one,” he agreed.

  Isolde reached for her most honeyed tones. “There’s no man in the whole of the island to compare with Breccan.”

  Breccan stroked back his hair. “True again,” he purred. “I can kill any man alive. So, lady—”

  Once again an iron forearm was around her waist and a ho
t red mouth was groping toward hers.

  She closed her eyes. “Forgive me, sir,” she murmured. “But this is not the time. Like all women, I am subject to the moon . . .”

  Her voice trailed off. Cursing lightly, Breccan let her go. “Till the new moon, then.” He grinned. “When I shall return.” He turned toward the door.

  Is it over? She hardly dared to hope. “Brangwain?” she called.

  “My lady?”

  Briskly, Brangwain ushered Breccan out, then stepped back into the room. In silence they listened as he gave orders to the guard, and shared a glance of despair. Was there nowhere in Dubh Lein his power did not reach?

  Isolde turned to Brangwain. “You heard what he wants,” she forced out.

  “I did.”

  “What are we to do?”

  The maid’s lips compressed into a thin line. “Leave it to me, lady— leave it to me.”

  THEY LEFT AS THE STARS were shedding the last of their glow and the glittering sky was fading toward dawn. The owls in the bell tower had come home to roost, and every soul in the palace lay asleep. Veiled in gray to blend into the night, they slipped through the shadowy corridors like wraiths. As silent as mice, they moved down and down, through Dubh Lein’s dark passageways to the place beneath.

  In the heart of the ancient citadel lay the Throne Room of Queens. Isolde led the way into the great vaulted chamber and paused before the throne on its lofty dais. Made of black bog oak that had been old when the world was young, it loomed stark and forbidding in the light of the moon, pulsing with secret power. Beneath it rested the stone of destiny, the treasured lia fáill handed down from the earliest dwellers in the land. Slumbering until a new queen awakened it, the stone never failed to cry out when the rightful ruler took her predestined place. Isolde’s sight faded, and she saw her mother seated once again upon her throne, her black eyes snapping with delight, her lovely, powerful face vibrant and alive.

  Oh, Mother, Mother . . .

  Tears of loss choked her throat. Then she felt Brangwain’s hand on her arm. “She has come to bless our venture.”

  Isolde shivered. Or to give a warning of disaster ahead?

  “This way, madam.”

  Firmly, Brangwain drew her down the room and around the back of the throne. A low archway in the wall behind the dais led down to a darkness deeper than night. Isolde groaned. Suddenly she was a frightened child again: This way, Mawther? Oh, it’s dark down there!

  No fears, Isolde. This is the way of Queens.

  Where are we going? Why are we going down there?

  No tears, no fears. Remember you will be Queen.

  What’s down there, Mawther? Tell me, tell me, please . . .

  The Dark Pool, child. The gift of the Goddess to Dubh Lein.

  Tell me, Mawther—

  I’ve told you—

  Tell me again, Mawther, please . . .

  Once, long ago, when the world was young, the Shining Ones wove our island out of sunshine and rain. Then its beauty caught the eye of the Great One herself and she made it her chosen place and gave it her name. She called it Erin the Fair after herself, and filled it with wise women and poets and Druids and heroes and queens. Then other lands needed her and she left with the Shining Ones for the Plains of Delight. But she gave us the sun and the softest rain in the world, and when these two kiss, the rainbow they make is the Mother’s pledge to the world.

  Pledge of what, Mawther?

  Religion is kindness. Faith should be love.

  A long-ago feeling of peace filled her heart. “So, Brangwain . . . ?”

  She took the maid’s hand and they left the moonlit chamber, making their way downward without fear. The darkness enfolded them like a mother’s arms, and they knew they were not alone in the warm, echoing void. The air around them was full of gentle murmurings, and the sweet smell of sacred water rose to welcome them.

  Now a faint glimmer was reaching them from below. As their eyes adjusted to the dark, they saw a great underground lake, the Dark Pool from which Dubh Lein took its name. Serene and gleaming, it lit the darkness like the face of the moon as it silently beckoned them on: This way . . . this way . . . do not be afraid . . .

  At the foot of the steps lay a silver expanse of sand, and beyond it the sweet water that gave Dubh Lein its life. Isolde felt her feet sink in the soft sand with another spring of hope. On, on . . .

  Slowly, they circled the still, glassy lake.

  “There, lady!” came Brangwain’s triumphant tones.

  “Where?” Isolde strained to see.

  Brangwain chuckled with satisfaction. “Where I told them to be.”

  A dark barge lay drawn up on the farthest shore, lost in the shadows of the endless night. A short, shaggy creature clad in damp, shiny pelts stood upright in the prow, eyeing them as shyly as a water vole in the reeds. At his feet crouched a boy who might have been any age, his eyes like moons in his head, his wild, starved face at one with his animal wraps.

  Brangwain nodded. “So, sir? You are here for my lady and me?”

  The boatman surveyed them with a friendly gaze. His eyes fell on Isolde, and the soft, coughing sound of the Old Tongue whispered through the air, “You are the Throne Woman, seeking the Lady of the Sea. We will take you where you want to go.”

  Murmuring to the boy, he held out a sinewy paw to help them into the barge. Then he drew a deep breath of the sweet air into his lungs and poled off strongly into the darkness ahead.

  CHAPTER 21

  The only light came from the moon-like face of the lake. The boat slipped over its silvery surface to the back of the cave where the rocky roof met the water and there seemed to be no way through. But the boatman tossed his pole to the left, to the right, then back again, till he flicked the unwieldy barge through a crack in the rock hardly wide enough to let them through.

  In the next cavern they encountered darkness absolute, primeval night. They glided on through cavern after cavern, over lake after lake, till Isolde lost all sense of time in the glimmering dark. On they went, through the purple-black void, through the kiss of the velvet silence and the warm, fragrant air. The thought of Tristan came to her like a dull ache, and she hopelessly craved to hold him in her arms. Tristan, where are you? Where are you, my love?

  Now they could see a faint light ahead. The boatman gave a sharp laugh like an otter’s bark, and his dark face lit with joy. Talking excitedly in the Old Tongue, he drove the barge onward with powerful strokes. Imperceptibly their steady rhythm gave way to a slower, deeper sound swelling up behind. Isolde tensed. It was the low persistent call of the sea.

  In the distance lay the edge of the lake and a shining semicircle of golden sand. Farther back, scattered heaps of rock tumbled up to meet the walls of the cave. And nestling everywhere—

  Isolde caught her breath.

  My mother’s emblem.

  The spirits of Ireland itself.

  Gathered on the sand, or half hidden in the rocks, were countless swans, some lying with their heads beneath their wings, others watching their approach with unblinking eyes. In the forefront a queenly female rose to greet them, spreading her vast wings. This way, she said without words, craning her long white neck, this way, my dears.

  In silence the boatman handed them onto the shore. Brangwain nodded toward the swan. “They knew you were coming, my lady. I’ll wait for you here.”

  Isolde pressed her hand and turned away. Mutely, she followed the direction of the swan’s pointing beak and made her way forward through the rocks. As she left the shore, the scattered stones began to take on recognizable shapes, like those who might guard the approach to the Lady of the Sea. Here were a circle of maidens and there a pair of mighty sea eagles, brooding over a tangle of porpoises at play. Once again she felt the low, strong pulse of the tide. This is sweet water still, but we are drawing near to the heart of the sea.

  Now the guardian stones seemed to lean aside and a jagged archway appeared in the cavern wall. The darkness deep
ened. She ducked her head and shouldered her way in. With a thrill of fear, she felt the walls of the narrow passage closing in.

  Resolutely, she drove herself forward. On—get on . . .

  Before long she caught a shaft of broken light and heard a strange whirring sound she could not place. The singing of the sea grew louder now, borne on the throb of the warm briny air. A few strides later she stepped out of the rocky passage into a warm, lighted space and caught her breath.

  She stood in a low cave, its roof and walls bright with gray, green, and mauve crystals in all the shades of the sea. Fine white sand made a welcoming carpet underfoot. A sea-coal fire crackled on a nearby stone and a torch on the wall lit the rosy gloom.

  “Greetings, Isolde.”

  Whirr, whirr . . .

  At the side of the cave sat a girl at a spinning wheel, her foot plying the treadle up and down, her busy hands teasing out the thread. Startled, Isolde took in a young maiden on the tender brink of womanhood, with the clear-eyed look of a virgin and a body still unawakened to the joy the Goddess gives. Her bright hair was looped back from her temples with seed pearls and shells, and her skin had the sheen of spindrift off the sea. She wore a gown as light as the froth on an ocean wave and a misty, floating veil. A girlish delight shone from her sea-green eyes as she nodded to Isolde and beckoned her in.

  “You did well to find us,” she said in kindly tones. “You are truly welcome here.”

  Us? Isolde looked around. There was no one else in the cave.

  “I came to see the Lady,” she said stiffly. “Where is she?”

  The girl’s eyes danced. Her laughter had the surge of an ocean wave. “The sea is everywhere. She has left me here in her place.”

  Bleakly, Isolde surveyed the girl’s foamy draperies and the sweet, grave features half hidden by the veil. Who was this busy little spinner, hardly more than a child? And how could she take the place of the Lady of the Sea?

  The young girl was regarding her with a glance of timeless age. “You have brought your sorrows to the right place,” she said gently. “We can help you here.”