Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea

by Rosalind Miles

  chapter 14

  All done, sir.” The Seneschal smiled wryly and flexed his gnarled old hands. “It’s many a year since I armed a knight for battle, but I promise you, it’s been done with care.”

  Tristan bowed. “I have no doubt of that.”

  Bemused, he surveyed himself in the long glass against the wall, clad in the finest armor the castle could provide. A borrowed helmet of bronze gleamed on his head, adorned with the head of an eagle and glinting with a fierce pair of ruby eyes. He had set aside his own light traveling shield for a massive antique sheet of molded bronze, emblazoned with the sign of the eagle again. A breastplate of bronze protected his upper body, and he wore thigh guards and armlets of the same design.

  Yet even the familiar kiss of cold metal on his skin and the well-known bite of the straps did not seem real. He had promised to take up arms against a man he did not know, a stranger knight who had never done him wrong. But the lady swore he had wronged her and now he had to do battle on her behalf, driven by his honor and his knighthood oath. And if the lady had told the truth about his opponent, he had to prepare himself for a terrible fight.

  So be it. Still struggling with his feeling of disbelief, he took his horse and rode into the wood. “Kill him!” the lady had demanded, and he was not prepared to go as far as that. But he owed her some action against her enemy.

  “How will I find him?” he had asked the Seneschal.

  “Take the road eastward from the castle till you come to a hollow oak,” was the reply. “He has set up his pavilion in the clearing there. You’ll see his shield and spear hanging from the tree. That’s the signal he’s ready to give battle to all who come.”

  A wan morning light lit the forest path. The woodland shone invitingly ahead, welcoming him to its green, fragrant depths. A blackbird on a branch cocked its head toward him, and he read a peaceful greeting in its bright-gold eye. Then he caught the sharp, sideways glance of a killer and saw a red-gold fox slipping lithely through the grass. Even here, he sighed, death stalked in silence, and the predator was always out for its prey.

  The path turned and he glimpsed the hollow oak, a gaunt ancient of the forest, huge and strange. But there was no sign of shield or spear. As he paused and cast around, somewhat at a loss, he caught a glint of armor in the distance and the clash of arms. Had the stranger knight already found an opponent today?

  He pressed on down the track. Now the trees were thinning toward a clearing ahead. In the center of a wide grassy circle, three knights were struggling in a confused melee. Two of them were violently attacking a third, a much bigger man, who must surely be the lady’s enemy by his strength and height. He was broad-shouldered, too, and a fierce fighter, but hard-pressed to hold two opponents off. Already the grass underfoot was trampled and bruised, and the two knights’ horses had wandered a good way off to graze. Whatever the quarrel and whoever the two knights were, they had clearly been fighting the third for quite some time.

  Tristan saw the attackers’ swords fall and fall again, one on the big knight’s helmet, one on his back.

  “Hold there!” he shouted, spurring forward. “Parley, in the name of chivalry.”

  He bore down upon the trio, waving his sword. The two newcomers fell back unwillingly, while the third knight bowed his helmeted head and leaned heavily on his sword, gasping for breath.

  Vaulting from the saddle, Tristan turned his horse loose to graze and confronted the two knights. “Explain yourselves, sirs,” he said sternly. “Two knights may not battle one, as you well know. How has this breach of chivalry come about?”

  The two knights exchanged a glance, and one who seemed to be the leader nodded his helmeted head. “Parley?” came his muffled voice through the metal grille.

  “Parley,” Tristan returned forcefully. “No more swords. You shame us all if you strike again.”

  The leader lowered his weapon and raised his visor, breathing heavily. At his signal, the second did the same. Tristan saw two flushed faces whose very similar dark eyebrows, strong cheekbones, and jutting jawlines proclaimed that they were brothers, even twins.

  “We are knights of King Arthur,” the first began, fighting to regain his breath. “We have left his court to go out on the Quest.”

  “Balin and Balan at your service, sir, sons of Sir Rigord of the Ravine,” panted the second. A fleeting light of pride passed over his face. “We are following in the steps of those greater than ourselves. Sir Galahad and Sir Gawain have passed this way.”

  Balin scowled. “We were riding through the forest when we came upon this knight. We offered him single combat, but he set on us both at once.”

  “Without warning, not a single word,” Balan added furiously. He pointed to a bleeding wound in his neck. “And he drew blood at the first attack.”

  Tristan listened and sighed. So the lady was right. The stranger knight was a man without honor, it seemed. He eyed the bent figure across the clearing, still breathing heavily and leaning on his sword, then turned back to the brothers and reached for a gentler tone.

  “That was unchivalrous, indeed. Nevertheless, I must ask you, sirs, abandon this unfair fight.”

  Balin shook his head decisively. “He has injured my brother, and that injures me.”

  “Take it as a victory.” Tristan pointed to the stranger’s bowed shoulders and defeated air. “You’ve beaten him, any man can see that.”

  Balan thrust out his chin. “Oh no, sir. Blood will have blood. He broke the laws of chivalry, attacking like that. We don’t owe him a moment’s courtesy.”

  Balin laughed unpleasantly, showing his teeth. “And it’s no dishonor for two to set on one when the one is big and strong enough for two. Let me advise you, sir, to be on your way. You’ve no call to meddle with us like this, and I swear to you, this knight will not escape.”

  Tristan stepped forward. “Whatever he offered you, sirs,” he said with emphasis, “you may not break the oath that you have sworn. You’re knights of King Arthur, you say, following Sir Galahad and Sir Gawain. What would they say to this?”

  But he looked into a face of angry disdain.

  “My brother is myself,” said Balin slowly. “And I am he. We were born twins, and we live and die as one. Whoever is rash enough to attack either one of us can expect no courtesy or kindness at our hands.”

  “No parley, then!” came a bloodcurdling cry from behind. The stranger knight was coming back into the fray. With renewed vigor and answering screams of rage, the two knights leaped forward and set about him again. As Tristan watched, they had him to his knees.

  “Hold there,” he shouted, but his words were drowned by the clashing swords, screams, and jeers. Gods above, was he forced to intervene? Groaning furiously, Tristan slammed down his visor and reached for his sword. He would have to defend the man he had come to fight.

  Already he knew it would be one of the worst engagements of his life. Many a time he had fought against two or more, and in the thick of a tournament, too, with spears and arrows falling all around. But never before had he fought two brothers, twins who seemed to share one mind, one purpose, one intent. Each knew the other’s movements like his own, and together they became one terrible foe.

  And Tristan’s partner gave him no support. The big knight fought only for himself. Indeed, he seemed oblivious that Tristan was there. As the great figure cut and thrust, grunted, screamed, and lashed out, there was no hope of fighting together against the common enemy. The stranger’s great strength and reach and his furious sweeping blows kept his opponents at bay, but did nothing to help the man fighting at his side.

  So Tristan bore the brunt of the brothers’ rage. Their first blows fell on him before he was aware. But he knew at once the warm sticky sensation of blood running down his side. The next second two swords were descending on his head as both brothers made him the target of their rage. Only a lightning parry and a sudden flurry of sharp jabbing blows thrust the brothers back and gained Tristan a brief respite. B
ut moments later, they were on the attack again.

  “The tide must turn,” he muttered to himself behind his visor, “and the day must end.” But of all his battles in recent tournaments, few or none had tried his strength like this. The stranger knight at his side was clearly suffering, too, and his armor was stained with blood. The brothers were hard and determined fighters, and their grudge against the stranger made them doubly dangerous.

  At length Balan unexpectedly missed a stroke, wavered, and fell back. Balin threw his brother a swift glance of concern and lost his rhythm, too. Howling, Tristan hurled himself between them, swinging with all his strength from left to right. One sweep of his sword sent Balin sprawling to his knees, while the blow on the return stroke laid Balan flat on the ground.

  Scrambling forward, Tristan set his foot on the fallen knight’s chest and stuck the point of his sword into Balan’s throat. Already Balin was scrambling to his feet, sword upraised, returning to the attack.

  “Yield, sir,” Tristan cried hoarsely, “or your brother dies.”

  Behind him he heard the stranger knight laughing in triumph.

  “You heard the word,” came a deep, exultant cry. “Yield!”

  With a groan of rage, Balin threw down his sword. As he heard the weapon thudding to the ground, Balin spread his arms wide in the age-old gesture of surrender.

  “I yield,” he croaked.

  “Take your horses, sirs, and be on your way,” Tristan forced out, struggling for breath. He gestured to the red-brown crusts on the stranger knight’s armor and the fresh trail of bright red seeping down his own side. “You have fought well, and your blood has been repaid with blood. You have restored the honor of your house. May all your Gods go with you on the Quest.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Balin gave him a reluctant bow, then helped his brother to his feet. Tensely, Tristan watched the two knights limp off, Balin supporting the stumbling Balan with a brotherly arm around his waist. At the far side of the clearing, Balin called up their horses and then helped Balan to mount. Then, taking up Balan’s reins as well as his own, he led his brother slowly out of the wood.

  Gods above, they’ve gone!

  Gasping, Tristan fell to the ground and dropped his head between his knees. The reek of sweat and blood rose all around him as he gave himself up to relief. Goddess, Mother, thanks! The battle had been won without death or serious injury. Better still, he had saved the big knight’s life, and by the laws of chivalry the stranger must now become his friend. He still had to challenge him about the lady in the castle, but whatever happened, they would fight no more today. Both of them were wounded and both had lost blood. Both were exhausted, and it was time for peace.

  He lifted his visor and turned. The stranger knight was still standing in the clearing, sword in hand. Thankfully, Tristan heaved himself to his feet, sheathed his sword, and stepped forward to meet him, holding out his hand.

  “So, sir, we meet at last,” he said with a courteous bow. “I’m glad I was able to—”

  A silver flicker caught the corner of his eye. He raised his head in time to avoid a rising blade. In mortal terror he leaped out of the way. But the blade flashed again. The stranger knight was aiming for his heart.

  “Have at you!” came a terrible scream. The stranger fell back, then swung his sword two-handed like an axe. To his horror, Tristan saw the great body hurtling toward him to attack.

  “Sir! Sir!” he shouted in wild protest, to no avail. Nothing could stop the stranger knight’s forward charge.

  In an instant, the knight was upon him. Madly, Tristan ducked under his sword.

  “Hold your hand, sir,” he howled. “I’m not your enemy. I’m Tristan of Lyonesse, a knight of—”

  “Then defend yourself, Tristan of Lyonesse!”

  Still screaming, the stranger knight whirled around and attacked him again. Desperation lent Tristan unwonted strength. Lashing out like a cornered stag, he swung the flat of his sword against the side of his opponent’s head and knocked him off his feet. A second blow to the back of the head as the stranger went down dropped him like a stone to the ground.

  Now Gods defend us . . .

  Fresh blood was seeping from the knight’s armor where his headpiece met his neck. In a panic, Tristan fumbled with the knight’s helmet. Was he alive? Sweating, he struggled to turn the knight on his back, overcome with fear for his motionless foe. Blows like that could render any man unconscious, even near death.

  “Air,” he muttered thickly to himself, “must give him air.” He pushed up the heavy visor and the knight’s face came into view.

  “Hear me, sir,” he began hoarsely, then lost his voice.

  Oh, the Gods—surely not?

  A sick sensation erupted in Tristan’s gut. The wild eyes were closed, and there were no hoarse threats and cries, but there was no mistaking the matted hair and beard. Here again were the beetling eyebrows, hollow cheekbones, and tortured face he already knew.

  “Alas, alas!” he cried. Tears of pity rose to Tristan’s eyes. Lying before him, bloodied and brought down, was the pitiful creature he had spared before. The fate he had tried to avoid had caught up with him here. He was looking at the madman in the wood.

  chapter 15

  Nothing disturbed the quiet of the moonlit bay. One by one the Pictish ships eased their way out of the rocky harbor and slid silently out to sea. Then the darkness was broken by the mournful cry of an owl. Another answered from further inland, and a third on the mountain high above echoed the trembling call.

  Moments later a dark figure slipped to a hidden beacon whose blaze could not be seen from the sea. As the fierce animal-headed prows nosed onward down the coast, other owl cries and other beacon fires sent the warning south. In between, a fleet of runners and riders helped to carry the word to Dubh Lein. By the time Darath’s ships made the harbor on a golden summer dawn, Isolde had been waiting for him for days. But then, she had been ready for him from the first.

  “He will come,” she told Sir Gilhan and her lords, “and we shall send him away with words, not with weapons. We shall give him peace, not war.”

  Old Sir Doneal grunted and pulled a face. “Words don’t fill bellies, lady. He’ll want more than that.”

  “He needs something to take to his clan,” Sir Gilhan put in gravely. “They’ll starve in the winter else.”

  Vaindor smiled, and Isolde did not like his smile. “And women. The Picts always want women. They used to raid us for brides in the days gone by.”

  Isolde froze his unwanted interruption with a stare. “That need not concern us now. He’s approaching the port, you say? Be so good as to bring him to me as soon as he lands.”

  But not to the palace, she decided. Any invader, even a ruling king, must be kept at arm’s length. Later she might admit him to Dubh Lein, if the negotiations went smoothly, step-by-step. But for now she would challenge him at the place where he came in, confronting him the moment he set foot on Dubh Lein’s soil. Accordingly, she had the royal throne carried out of the palace and set up on the clifftop high above the bay. I am Queen here. Thus far and no farther you may go was the message she planned to convey.

  What was he? she thought for the hundredth time, awaiting him now ensconced on the throne of Queens. The morning air was alive with glinting salt crystals breathed out by the restless sea, and the sun played warmly on her face and hands. Light winds lifted her hair and teased at the hem of her robe as she pondered on. Barbarian or king, knight, warrior, killer, or all of these? How should she receive him? What to wear?

  These speculations had taken up many hours of discussion with Brangwain. In the end, she had dressed to receive a king, in richly fluting silks of Ireland’s royal green. A green mantle of power hung from her shoulders, while an emerald-studded breastplate signaled war. More emeralds adorned her wrists, neck, and waist, and the emerald crown of Queens blazed on her head. Well done, Isolde, said a cold inner voice. Fit for a king.

  But not
this King, another voice struck back. Where is my King, Tristan of Lyonesse? Oh, my love, my love . . .

  Grieving, she could hear her mother now. No tears, no fears, Isolde. Remember you are Queen.

  I hear you, Mawther.

  No more tears.

  No more.

  She saw Sir Gilhan move forward to greet the Picts at their ships down in the bay and usher them onto the path leading up the cliff. Knowing she was in full view of the men below, she descended from the throne and slowly, imperiously turned to face the sea, catching the wind in her cloak like great billowing wings. Only when she heard the tramp of footsteps behind did she turn back. What she saw before her made her catch her breath. Oh, fool, Isolde! You thought you’d be dealing with a savage and you meet a king.

  Moving confidently toward her across the springy turf was a tall, lean, handsome man, cradling a bronze and gold boar-crested helmet in the crook of his arm. He wore a kilt of finely tooled leather studded with bronze and a short, sleeveless tunic of heavy oxhide, revealing broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. Round his neck was a massive jewel on a thick gold chain, carved in the likeness of a snarling boar. Four daggers of different sizes hung from his waist, and he balanced two short stabbing spears in one hand. Bangles of gold circled both his wrists, and a coronet of gold held back a thick mane of hair.

  But all this paled beside the splendor of his face and arms. Indeed all his body, as far as she could see, was gorgeously decorated in shades of blue and violet, purple, indigo, and rose. She thought of the name the Romans had given his tribe, Picti, “the Painted Ones,” in their own Latin tongue, but this color would never wash off. She could see the tiny raised puckers and indented scars where the dyes had been pricked deep beneath the skin.

  He came to a halt, reveling in the impact he had made. Behind him stood his band of warriors, all as lean and taut as he was, all painted, too. In a tight circle at his back stood a cluster of older knights, hard-faced and hungry, already staring her down. As she readied herself to brave them in return, Darath raised his hand and signaled them to fall back. She saw anger and resistance on every patterned face, and muttered cries flew between them in their strange, strangled tongue. Then one knight, older and harder than the rest, gave a sign of reluctant assent and they withdrew.