Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea

by Rosalind Miles

  “Forgive her appearance, sir.”

  It was the doctor, a quiet, older man with a face of deep concern. “My lady suffers from a tormenting skin complaint, and lying in cool water is her only relief. So she spends much of each day in the bath, shunning the sun.”

  Tristan thought of the sun on his back on this morning’s ride and shuddered with pity for her. Now he could see that the whiteness of her arms was discolored with angry blotches of pink and red. “What a grievous affliction,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  But the lady had heard what he said. “Grievous, yes, it is,” she said agitatedly, “but that’s not all. I would not be suffering like this—trapped like this—but for an evil knight who has me in thrall.”

  “How, lady?” Tristan gasped.

  “He wooed me—said he wanted to marry me—but all he wanted was my castle and my land,” she ran on in the same breathless, broken delivery. “He deceived me cruelly—offered himself to me as a good man, then made my life a misery when I refused. All he wanted was to take my land—then force me to enter a convent against my will.”

  Tristan nodded sadly. There were many rogue knights and fortune hunters who preyed on heiresses left alone and undefended as this lady was.

  “And now he keeps me here as a prisoner—in a trap—waging war on any knight who ventures near. He means to break me down—he tries to kill any man who might rescue me.” She held out her wasted arms in a pitiful appeal. “He’s a fearful fighter. No other knight has ever had him down. You must kill him for me! That’s the only way I’ll be safe.”

  Tristan gasped. “Lady, in chivalry we aim not to kill. Can’t you send your Seneschal to lay your plight before the Queen? She would be ready to right such a grievous wrong.”

  “No one would believe me!” The young woman reared up in the bath, and her attendants leaped forward to preserve her modesty. Furiously, she dropped back. “He’s a prince of deception,” she shrilled. “And I have no one to fight him. We daren’t leave the castle while he rules the wood.”

  Tristan thought of the old men around her and frowned in despair. That at least must be true.

  The young woman’s eyes rolled pitifully in her head, darting from side to side like a trapped fish. “He’s here—he’s listening—he knows what we say,” she exclaimed.

  “Lady, we’re alone in this chamber, and your own men are guarding the door,” Tristan cried. “How could that be?”

  “Evil souls can take any shape they choose.”

  The golden-bronze eyes had turned to hard nuggets of coal. She raised one thin arm like a wand. “Will you defend me? Will you do battle to save me from my enemy?”

  Gods above . . .

  Tristan cast desperately about. “Have you truly no knight, lady? No man who will raise a sword in your defense?”

  “I had a knight.” Her small face puckered and collapsed. “The best knight in all the world. He was my love, faithful and true to me—my only friend—he loved me all my life—”

  She was gasping and crying together, fighting for breath. Tristan felt like a monster. “Where is he now?”

  Another burst of frantic, gulping tears. “My enemy killed him through guile and treachery.”

  “Lady—” Never in his life had Tristan been at such a loss.

  “Sir, if you please . . .”

  There was a soft footfall behind. It was the doctor again, shaking his head. “My young lady has spoken enough for one day.”

  “Yes, of course.” Tristan turned to him with overwhelming relief. “Who has the care of her?”

  The old doctor bowed. “I do.”

  “She has no relatives?”

  “None that we know of. Her father lived in seclusion after her mother died. When he knew he was dying himself, he left her to our care.”

  “And the castle at large?”

  “We have the Seneschal and a few menservants and maids. They all served my lady’s father when she was a child.”

  Aged retainers then. Tristan nodded. No young knights to defend this pitiful creature, only a middle-aged doctor and a household of elderly men. He frowned, perplexed. “Have you found nothing to help her?”

  “Oh, sir—” The doctor passed a hand over his brow. “We have tried all we know. White water lily, that’s a known soothing agent for the skin, and lotion of cinquefoil, for a cleansing wash.”

  “Fern poultices, too,” put in one of the women on the dais, “and drops of ragged robin to calm her down—”

  “All this and more,” the doctor interrupted, dismissing the woman with a brisk jerk of his head. He paused, and, like the Seneschal before him, seemed to be picking his words with care. “My lady is, shall we say, at the mercy of her fear. Of this evil knight who holds sway over her, who rampages at large in the wood and will let no one pass.”

  Tristan gritted his teeth. “It is true, then?”

  The doctor hesitated. “It is true that she hates and fears him with all her heart.”

  “And on top of all this,” Tristan mourned, “to suffer a dreadful, disfiguring ailment, and the loss of her mother, her father, and her knight . . .”

  Alas, poor young thing. But still—

  Tristan paused. Why was he wrestling with himself to know what to do? The lady was a woman alone, undefended and plainly sick. Could anyone have a clearer call on his strength, his truth, his knighthood oath?

  You swore to assist all those weaker than yourself, he groaned inwardly, the child, the widow, the orphan, the oppressed. This lady is oppressed and an orphan, too. You undertook a life of chivalry to help such as she.

  And without Isolde, that is all you have. You chose your honor above a life with her. What else can you live by now?

  Tristan closed his eyes and looked into the void. Warm as it was in the chamber, he saw a future suddenly growing dark and cold. This was not his quarrel, and the Gods knew he had no stomach for this fight. But the lady’s demand could not in honor be refused. He had to take on this battle with her enemy.

  chapter 13

  Darkness and devils, how he loved this land! Already he adored its soft contours and gentle mounds, like a woman lying down for him, ready to welcome his love. And yes, he would love the woman as well, when she came. As she must, this Queen of the Irish, this Isolde, whose fate might have made her a ruler but who’d been born a woman, too. She was coming, he knew it, like a falcon to his hand. Nothing could stop him now.

  Grinning, Darath strode out of his makeshift tent to roam the smoke-filled darkness of the beach. All around him the campfires of his men bloomed through the rosy twilight, and their shadowy figures clustered hungrily around each leaping blaze. The game in the woodland was plentiful, and they were filling their bellies as they had not done for years. Darath drank in great lungfuls of the soft Irish mist and his heart leaped up. Great Gods above, here even the air was warm! He punched his fist into his palm to release his joy. The doubting Cunnoch would sing a different song now.

  He came to the edge of the water where the boats lay at rest. Not drawn up too high on the shore, he had seen to that: they needed to be ready to escape if the Irish attacked. But that was looking less likely as every day passed.

  In truth, how could it have gone better from the start? he exulted. A predawn landing and a lightning raid. Blue Pictish faces blazing through the dark, subduing the screaming natives with fire and sword.

  And then the essential of any successful conquest: a show of blood.

  “Kill them!” he roared. “No mercy!”

  Now the screaming was coming from his own men, too, as they slaughtered and slashed and thrust and hacked. The bravest of the bog-dwellers had gone down to the darkness at once. Those still alive had abandoned all resistance then.

  He and his men had triumphed like this from the moment they had made land. They had set up camp without danger and staked out their land. And now they must make ready to receive the Queen.

  Queen Isolde, he gloated, his Queen, his by victory, by
the rules of war. She’d have had his messenger, she would be on her way. How soon would she be here?

  He strode about in boyish excitement, silently accusing his dead father’s shade. Old man, we should have invaded this country long ago. While you were sick and dreaming and lying with your battle-slaves, we could have trampled these bog-dwellers underfoot and made their women into broodmares for our sons. We’d have had snug villages by now and fertile farms, vineyards even, as they have farther south . . .

  He slammed his fists together. Well, we shall have them all now. He stroked the side of his boat and patted its great curving prow like a household pet. The hideous wooden head with its bulging eyes and sharp teeth looked back at him with a terrible grin. You’ll do it, master, the carved monster leered, there’s no doubt of that. As soon as Isolde comes, you’ll be King.

  “King Darath?” came a cry from the dark.

  He hurried back up the beach, increasing his stride. A handful of knights stood at the door of his tent, with Cunnoch at their head. A larger group lurked in attendance in the darkness behind.

  Darath gestured toward the interior, where a torch lit up a rough table bearing goblets and a flagon of mead. More light came from a standing brazier in the corner, where a small wood fire scented the air with pine. Once inside, he provided the older knight with a stool and scrutinized Cunnoch with care. “Be seated,” he said with some ceremony.

  Cunnoch stared at him impassively. “Thank you.”

  “You will drink mead with me?”

  Darath poured a generous beaker, intent on rewarding Cunnoch for what he had done. On the day of the raid, the older knight had leaped with the first from the boat and fought madly, joyously, unflaggingly, like a boar in rut. He had shown all the best of his animal nature—and his loyalty, too. When the killing was done and the prisoners stowed away, they had feasted together like brothers, and Darath was content.

  But it would take more than that to confirm him in Cunnoch’s eyes, Darath knew. His father’s old friend would judge him not on that first success, but on what followed it. So what was Cunnoch bringing him tonight?

  He was aware of Cunnoch’s unreadable gaze as the older man eyed him over the rim of his cup. “You have news for me?” he asked.

  Cunnoch took his time draining down his mead. “Findra is back from Dubh Lein. From the Queen.”

  Darath felt a tightening in his chest. “He must have ridden like the devil. Well, bring him in.”

  Findra’s eyes were blue with fatigue as he shouldered into the tent. But a smile of triumph warmed his weary face. “She will come,” he declared. “She will attend you here.”

  Now Gods and Great Ones, thanks . . .

  An answering flush raced hotly through Darath’s blood. “She will yield. I shall be her King.”

  “Does she accept our demands?” came Cunnoch’s voice from behind.

  Findra grinned, his teeth white in his travel-smirched face. “Her lords say she’ll make terms with the King when she comes.”

  “So,” Cunnoch grunted.

  “That’s good!” More than good, Darath crowed inwardly. He pressed a beaker of mead into Findra’s hand. “Drink,” he said softly. “Now, is the Queen still the beauty they say?”

  Findra gave a lascivious chuckle and threw the drink down his throat. “Oh, sir . . .” He groped for the words to flesh out what he had seen. “You’ll enjoy her,” he said at last. “She’s worthy of your sword.”

  Cunnoch laughed. “Well, many a great queen finds a true partner in a lusty, bloodstained lad, a war-wise fighter and a man of might. Whatever her spirit, you’ll master her in bed. And until then . . .” He turned to the opening of the tent and hailed the men outside. “Now! In here.”

  From the darkness came a volley of curses and the sound of scuffling feet. Half a dozen knights entered, struggling with a muffled captive who was resisting them all the way. Panting, the leader of the knights thrust the prisoner forward and tore off the covering. Fighting, cursing, and filling the tent with fiery rage, a woman like a creature at bay stood before them all.

  And not only a woman. From the jeweled band encircling her forehead, the gold chains round her neck, and the touches of ragged finery in her dress, Darath knew she was some kind of leader, even a queen. But where had she come from? He had heard of the fabled Irish coloring and seen for himself Queen Isolde’s red-gold hair, blue-green eyes, and milky skin. This woman had a tumbled mane as black as night, coal-black eyes, and a tawny skin. An older race had sired her in an older age, and the single word she spat out was in an older language still.

  But they all knew her curse meant the kiss of death. Darath’s eye’s bulged, and he bit back a superstitious oath.

  Cunnoch looked her up and down, unperturbed. She returned his stare with scorn, settling her womanly body on her heels and drawing her dark wraps around her as if ready to fight. Cunnoch laughed. “Yours, boy, and well worth bedding, too. She’s the choicest of the local women, the men say.”

  “Spoils of war,” chuckled Findra, his eyes alight. “And she’s no mean prize. The people here take their lead from her. She can foretell the future and read men’s minds.”

  Darath looked at the woman and fastened his eyes on her. “Is this true?”

  She held a long pause before she began to speak. When she did, she used her darkly accented voice like a dagger, stabbing him with every word. “You want to know the future?” She spat on the floor with relish. “The Queen will not come.”

  Darath gasped. “What?” Fury gripped him. He would kill her. Now.

  Her eyes wounded him again. “Kill me,” she said contemptuously. “But she will not come.”

  Darath stared. She could hear his thoughts. What else could she do? “You can cast the future?” he muttered.

  She raised her lip in a sneer as her only reply.

  He drew the dagger from his belt, gripped her wrist, and dug the point into the flesh of her breast. “Cast, then. Unless you want to die.”

  A bloodstain blossomed on the darkness of her gown and the blood ran down. Ignoring it, she shrugged off Darath’s grip and crossed over to the brazier, drawing a battered leather pouch from her waist. As she opened it, Darath shivered, though he could not have said why.

  The woman closed her eyes and rocked back on her heels, crooning to herself in a rough guttural tongue. Soon she was lost to them and far away, but the strange chant went on. Darath felt a sudden wild loneliness grip his heart. Cunnoch and Findra were as still as stones, and he felt he was alone in all the world.

  The murmuring grew louder as the song gathered pace. Moving like a sleepwalker, the woman plunged her hand into the pouch and drew out a fistful of herbs and feathers, shining pebbles, skin, and bones. As she threw it all up into the air above the brazier, Darath caught a flash of amber and pearl falling into the flames. The feathers settled last and flared up with a sudden, brilliant blaze. He did not want to think about the tiny bones.

  He waited, willing his heart and mind into a dreaming calm. This was great magic, he knew, precious and rare. Only one old crone in his own land had had the skill to cast the runes, and she used to divine by pouring oil on water in a cauldron of black oak. She could call up figures in the rainbow-colored fluid and make them move in a magic far older than the Druid kind. But she saw too much, and his father had had her killed. After that, there was no one to do this work.

  A rich smell from the brazier filled the air. Now it came to Darath that he would never be hungry again. Warmth ran through him, and he felt himself lying in his mother’s arms. Then he saw the first girl he had loved, pink and laughing as she took him into her. Many girls and women had followed, and he knew again the same rough, rising lust he’d felt for every one. Next a tall, lissome figure swam into his ken. A cloud of red-gold hair fell round her like a cloak, and her sea-blue eyes saw into the future and beyond. Gold encircled her head, her neck, and her waist, and a band of men surrounded her with heads bowed. Darath’s heart leaped and
danced and sang in his breast. It was the Queen of Ireland—Isolde the Queen.

  He moaned with delight. Isolde was his, she was coming, he would hold her in his arms. But then he saw that the men who had bowed before her were now all speeding away from her on all sides. Some hastened to the gatehouse, others to the battlements, and a third group into the armory, reaching for silver mail and weapons of war. Above it all rang out the two voices of war, the thin cry of the tocsin and the call of the trysting horn.

  Darath opened his mouth in vain rage and could not speak. She will not come. She is making ready for war. An emptiness gripped him, cold and vast and stark. She will not come. Slowly the visions faded. But long after they were gone, the sound of the trysting horn echoed inside his head.

  The woman’s voice murmured below it, hoarse and drained. “The Queen is deceiving you. She is delaying to defend her stronghold and calling up her men. She will not come.”

  Darath turned away, exhausted. He knew it was true.

  “Don’t believe her,” said Cunnoch in deep anger. “Take her to bed, use her the worst way you can. You’ll get the truth out of her then.”

  “I won’t touch her.” Darath shook his head. “She’s a witch, she’s nothing. I have come for a queen.”

  Cunnoch heaved himself up and grabbed the woman by the hair. “I’ll take her, then.” He dragged her to the door.

  Darath shuddered in superstitious fear. “And suffer her undying curse on all our heads? You must be mad.” He blocked Cunnoch’s path and met his hot-eyed fury head on. “Let her go. Get all the men to the boats. We’re sailing to Dubh Lein.”