Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea

by Rosalind Miles

  Of course, Sir Andred paid her better than the King, she knew he would. Well, she’d have been a fool to try to spy on Andred, he was far too sharp. But when she told him what the King wanted her to do, she’d guessed he’d reward her richly for betraying Mark’s plans. And in return, she only had to carry back to Mark what Andred told her to say.

  She reached for the purse, savoring the weight of the coin in her hand. An alehouse, she suddenly decided. No more making beds.

  “Thank you, sir.” She made a fulsome curtsy and was gone.

  Mark did not notice her go. He circled the chamber again, scenting the air. How he loved these hot, lazy dog days at the end of the summer, when even the dew of the morning lay warm on the grass. When the noonday sun quivered in a sky like glass, and the evening brought brilliant sunsets of glittering gold. When a man could spend all day in the saddle swimming in the sweat off his horse’s back, then sleep in the forest in his boots and begin again next day.

  As he would now. Grinning with pleasure, he reached for his riding crop. Now, where to go? He was already on horseback in his mind and racing away over the sunburned heath when he heard an altercation at the door.

  “The King’s going hunting, he’s not to be disturbed—”

  “Out of my way, man! He’ll want to see this!”

  Mark heaved a furious sigh. Jesus and Mary, could a man have no peace?

  The door opened and Andred hurried in. “A letter, sire. From Sir Tristan.”

  From Tristan.

  Mark’s heart died.

  It would be the same as Isolde. She had written, too, to say she was not coming back.

  Sick with betrayal, Mark took the letter and tore open the seal. The black letters ran together like a spider’s crawl.

  TO MY LIEGE LORD AND KINSMAN, KING MARK OF CORNWALL AND THE OUTER ISLES:

  SIRE, YOU HAVE BEEN MY GOOD LORD THESE MANY LONG YEARS AND I HAVE NOT THE SKILL IN WORDS TO THANK YOU FOR THAT. I HAVE SERVED YOU AS BEST A MAN MAY WHO, ALAS, HAS MORE THAN HIS SHARE OF THE WEAKNESS OF MANKIND.

  BUT NOW I MUST CRAVE YOUR LEAVE TO GO ELSEWHERE. GIVE ME YOUR BLESSING AS I DEPART YOUR SERVICE FOR ANOTHER LIFE. I GO TO SERVE QUEEN ISOLDE IN THE WESTERN ISLE. FROM THERE I SHALL NEVER FAIL TO REMEMBER YOUR GOODNESS AND TO PRAY FOR YOU.

  YOUR SERVANT AND LATE LIEGE MAN,

  TRISTAN OF LYONESSE

  Mark stood without moving as his soul turned to stone. Tristan was leaving his service, abandoning him? He preferred to serve Isolde? So much for the wretch’s allegiance. Pray for me, villain? he cried inwardly. You’d better start praying for yourself!

  And the Quest? Mark wanted to scream aloud. He had boasted that Cornwall would join the Quest for the Grail, and now Tristan’s desertion had put a swift end to that. As Cornwall’s champion, he was leaving the country unprotected, too. Was there no end to these betrayals, blow after blow?

  Slowly Mark’s mind unraveled: He’ll pay for this. Tortures and revenges flashed across his mind, jostling with tormenting images: Tristan exulting and laughing at him up his sleeve; Isolde mocking him for his absence from her bed; Isolde and Tristan sneering at him together, rejoicing in their power to destroy his peace.

  Mark forced himself to breathe normally. They would both pay for this, they had to, or he would go mad. Now, what to do? He’d do it, whatever it was. He was the King.

  “A letter from Sir Tristan, sire?” Andred asked, furrowing his brow in false concern. “Does that mean—?”

  Snarling, Mark threw the letter in his face. “See for yourself!”

  Andred scanned the letter with a soaring heart. So Tristan had left Mark to follow the Queen? Better than all, the best! Proof positive that Tristan was a traitor and the lover of the Queen. Still, he must tread carefully to bring this home. The slippery Mark would be even more unstable now.

  Still pretending to read the letter, Andred watched Mark from under his eyelids as the King prowled the room, lashing out at everything in his path. One blow from his heavy riding crop sent a flagon of wine crashing to the ground, another scored the flesh on the back of one of the dogs. Howling, the poor creature limped off to lick its wound. Andred braced himself to withstand the oncoming storm.

  Mark stood in the window and bayed like the dog he had hurt. “Who will deal with this traitor for me?”

  Andred stood stock-still. It was the call he had waited for all his life. I will. Trust me, I will.

  “Command me, sire. Tell me what is your wish,” he said, holding down his raging excitement as best he could. His head was spinning. Gods above, how far would Mark go?

  Mark’s face contorted. “He has broken his oath. He has dishonored me.”

  “Such treachery deserves any punishment at your hands,” Andred returned carefully, his eyes never leaving Mark.

  With a furious kick, Mark drove a stool against the nearest wall. “God, if I had the right men about me, he’d pay for this!”

  Andred saw the darkness gaping before him and his soul caught fire. What better chance would he have to bring Tristan down? He stepped forward with a new light in his eye. “You can trust me, sir. Only say the word, and I swear the traitor will pay.”

  “What?” Mark swiveled his red-veined eyes toward Andred. “How?”

  Andred’s mind was racing ahead. “If he’s only just told you he’s leaving, we can probably still catch him at the port. If you order him to be arrested and brought back here, that would give him a well-deserved shock.”

  A well-deserved shock, indeed. Smarting, Mark rolled the idea round his mind.

  “Of course, he’d have to be waylaid and overcome. Tied and bound, too, if he won’t come willingly.” He paused. “A little rough handling would teach him a lesson, sire.”

  Mark slapped his whip against his boot. Andred was right, Tristan should be stopped. With a vengeful delight he saw Tristan, beaten and chastened, dragged back to Castle Dore. He’d make him beg for his life on his knees before all the court, then he’d throw him in a dungeon for his pains. And what if he perished down there in one of those windowless, stinking holes? That would teach him to break his allegiance to his King. Indeed, it would be a lesson to them all.

  “Shall I do this, sire?” came Andred’s even voice. “Do I have your command?”

  Mark did not hesitate. “Yes, you do!” he cried recklessly. “Take a couple of knights, arrest the traitor Tristan, and return him to his true allegiance to me.”

  “And if he resists?” Andred pressed.

  “Ambush him, beat him, do whatever you like,” Mark shot back with murder in his heart.

  Gods and Great Ones, thanks!

  Andred wanted to laugh out loud. It was all the permission he needed to do his worst. And how would it be? In the heat of a fracas like that, any man could die. Perhaps through a blow to the head or by his own knife, when he drew it on others and they had to disarm him to defend themselves.

  Of course, if this happened to Tristan, it would be a terrible loss. He’d be irreplaceable, there was no other word. There would never be another knight like Tristan, so handsome, courteous, and bold. Tragic indeed, a truly tragic death. Andred held back a wolfish grin. Already he could hear his own pious laments.

  “Get about it, then,” Mark bellowed. “No time to lose.”

  “No, sire. Farewell.”

  In a frenzy of joy, Andred hurried from the room, his mind bubbling like a poisoned well. Oh, you are mine now, Tristan, count your last hours. Our uncle the King has delivered you into my hand, and by all the Gods, I swear your day is done!

  chapter 21

  Flaring up through the dawn, a line of campfires lit the darkness of the shore. Soon the wind from the sea filled the air with the hot scent of fish, hare, and partridge, roasted with wild rosemary and thyme. Seated by the first of the fires, Cunnoch hunched himself over his early morning mead and looked forward to eating his fill.

  And the free fish and game were all they were going to get here, he brooded, if Darath kept on behaving like a
love-struck fool. He turned his back on the King’s boat moored along the bay, and bitterly eyed Darath’s royal pavilion farther up the shore. The young turkey cock was preening himself right now, preparing himself for his next meeting with the Queen.

  Yet she’d told him already she would not see him today. Business of state, so they said, was taking up her time. Cunnoch laughed harshly. And how many times had the banquet she promised Darath been delayed?

  Oh, she’d met with him, talked with him, walked with him, even ridden with him, but there was still no sign of the agreement they craved. Cunnoch closed his eyes, and the ravening hunger of his race spilled from his soul. We want food, young Darath, not fine, flirting words. Land, not light glances from a pair of dancing eyes. There must be room here in Ireland for starving warriors to lay down their swords, or there’s nothing for us but kill, kill!

  Kill and tear down, destroy, slash, and burn . . .

  “How now?” came a well-known voice as Findra drew up. With him was the youth Agnomon, his sister’s son, staring at sights no one else could see.

  Cunnoch scowled and shook his head. He could find no easy greeting, no friendly words.

  Findra nodded at Darath’s pavilion, tipped now with the red-purple and gold of the rising sun. “So we wait another day on the will of the Queen?”

  “What else?” Cunnoch fixed him with an eye of stone. He gestured to the army of men along the shore. “We trail after the rump of a woman, like motherless colts.”

  Agnomon quivered, and his strange eyes looked into a future that was plainly taking place before his troubled gaze.

  “A white mare,” he cried, “a white mare. And a herd led by a mare does not survive.”

  Findra guffawed his agreement. “He’s right, you know. There’s a hard winter ahead when the hay runs after the horse.”

  “Darath?” Cunnoch said grimly. “He can’t help himself. He’s in a fever to have her. And there’s only one cure for that.” He paused and tugged reminiscently at a lock of his hair. “You remember that woman you ran mad for when we were young? She led you a dance just like this. You had to take her by force and kill her in the end. It was the only way you could get her out of your mind.”

  Findra looked away. He remembered the woman all too well with her sharp eyes as black as sloes, thin body, and raven hair. But what was it that had filled his loins with fire, made him wild to possess her, then, when she refused him, had driven him out of his mind? He shook his head. Gone, all gone.

  He gave a noncommittal grunt. “Well, Darath can’t hope to take a ruling queen by force.”

  “Never.” Cunnoch stared out across the bay. “But we can surely stop her from destroying him.”

  He got to his feet. Suddenly he had no stomach for roasted hare. Abandoning Findra and Agnomon without a word, he strode up the beach and entered Darath’s tent.

  “By your leave,” he said rudely as he thrust his way in.

  Darath sat on a camp stool at the table, oiling his hair. A stone pot of reeking bear grease stood at his elbow, and before him was a makeshift mirror of fire-blackened glass. Lifting his head, he grinned as Cunnoch scowled at him and took a seat. So the old curmudgeon had come to vent his spleen? Well, let him do his worst.

  The silence deepened. Darath sucked in a breath of air, and the thick stench of the bear grease gave him strength. He cocked an eye at Cunnoch. “How goes it with you?”

  “You’re letting the Irish Queen make a fool of you,” Cunnoch said flatly. “She’s playing you like a fish on the end of a line.”

  “Not so.” Darath gave a confident laugh and shook his oily locks to and fro. “I have hooked her, in truth.”

  Cunnoch’s eyes bulged. “Whatever makes you think that?”

  “I saw her and spoke with her. You did not.”

  “That’s why her witchcraft hasn’t worked on me,” Cunnoch retorted. “But she’s got you in her grip.”

  “By no means.” Darath grinned. “Believe me, Cunnoch, I’m winning this battle of wits.” His grin broadened, and he gave a lascivious wink. “She’s mine, I tell you. She’s falling in love with me.”

  Darkness and devils, what a young fool he was. Cunnoch steadied his voice. “On the contrary, you’re in love with her. You’ve fallen like a tree in the forest, by the head. Beware of love, boy. It steals your manhood away.”

  Gods above, these miserable old fools . . .

  Darath turned away and began deftly braiding his hair. Filling his mind with Isolde, he let Cunnoch’s droning reproofs wash over his head. “You think you can court her strongly and get your own way . . . You’ve convinced yourself that she simply can’t refuse . . . She means to flatter you till your resolution is lost and you’re too soft to make war . . .”

  Yes, Cunnoch, yes. Say what you like, old man. Smiling, Darath flashed his teeth at his own image in the glass and patted down his braids. In truth, he was looking well . . .

  Cunnoch saw the smile and despaired. Roughly, he rallied his forces for another attack. “And she’s married, of course.”

  “Of course.” Darath gave a dismissive shrug. “But she’s a follower of the Goddess, so she can change her consort whenever she likes. And since she’s still childless after all these years, I’d say it’s high time she did.” He chuckled and stroked his thigh. “She needs a lover. A new knight.”

  “She has a knight.” Cunnoch ground his teeth. “All the world knows that.”

  “What, Tristan of Lyonesse?” Darath said carelessly. “He’s nothing; a queen must have her knights. And he’s old. She’s ripe for renewal by a younger man.”

  “Don’t forget how old she is, too,” Cunnoch said viciously. “She could almost be your mother. Another year or two and you’d be young enough to be her son.”

  “And none the worse for that.” A look of raw lust lit Darath’s handsome face. “An older woman with a younger man, that’s the way of the Mother since the dawn of time.”

  Cunnoch was losing, he knew. But all his instincts made him fight to the end. “The Mother-right means she can change her consorts, you say. What if she casts you off in a time to come?”

  Darath tossed his head with all the confidence of youth. “I’ll be the one seeking fresh meat by then, not her. She’ll be on her knees, begging me to stay.” He looked into the future, and his face changed. “But I may not keep her that long. I can always kill her when she troubles me. And they all do in the end.”

  Suddenly the handsome features were ugly and cruel. But Cunnoch felt a fleeting reassurance in that. So the young whelp had not gone completely soft. And if he got Isolde into bed, he would not fail there, not when all the girls at home whispered of his prowess. If he bedded the Queen, that would strengthen their hand as they struggled with Isolde to stay. And afterward, it was true that an older woman would cling onto a young lover, that happened all the time.

  If Darath let her live, that is . . .

  He might bed her and wed her and kill her, and the Western Isle would be theirs . . .

  Cunnoch smiled for the first time for days. And now the Queen had said she wouldn’t see Darath today. So maybe he’d take the young King out on a hunt, just the two of them, so they could talk all this over in full. He could insist that Darath advance himself with the Queen, strengthen his hand, and shape up his ideas—

  “Sir! Sir!” came a shout from outside the tent. A guard threw back the flap. Silhouetted against the horizon was a womanly figure mounted on a white mare. The sun glinted on a cloak of red-gold hair, a silver breastplate, and a shining spear.

  “A white mare! A white mare!” came Agnomon’s cry from the beach. “The herd led by a mare can never survive.”

  The guard bowed. “A messenger from Queen Isolde, sir. She has sent to say, will you to ride with her today?”

  chapter 22

  The road fell steeply as it drew near the port. From the crest of the mountain ridge overlooking the sea, it carved its way down through thickly wooded slopes and narrowed sharply
between two rocky bluffs. Dense undergrowth masked the entrance to the stony defile, and the trees wove a roof of branches overhead. It was the perfect place for an ambush, they all agreed.

  An evening mist rose damply from the ground. Standing in the trees above the road, Fer de Gambon stroked his chin and looked nervously about. To his left, the powerful Sir Taboral was keeping a close watch on the highway, and farther off, two other shadowy figures waited in silence for their quarry to approach. In truth, Fer de Gambon had hoped to avoid an all-out attack, but Sir Andred’s word was law. Sir Tristan was an enemy of the King. He must be arrested and brought back to court.

  All very well, but . . .

  Back at Castle Dore, Fer de Gambon had argued as strongly as he dared that treachery would be better than violence if they wanted Tristan alive. It would be easy to bribe the captain of the ship as soon as he embarked. All it would take was a fat purse of gold to see Tristan trapped in his cabin with a boatload of burly sailors to bring him ashore.

  But the dark-faced Andred was adamant they must make the arrest themselves. There was gold in plenty, but it was to be used to hire a couple of local ruffians to back them up. Sir Tristan would never submit to their arrest, and he was too good a fighter for Fer de Gambon and Taboral to subdue him alone.

  “And when you find these bullies, tell them not to hold back,” Andred had instructed. “The King wants Tristan arrested, whatever it takes.”

  Fer de Gambon had followed his orders faithfully, and the two dark figures lurking with Taboral in the wood had been told they could use as much force as they liked to bring their man down. Brooding now in the damp midsummer wood, Fer de Gambon suddenly realized why Andred had been so careless of Tristan’s safety at the hands of two roughnecks he did not know. Sir Tristan was not destined to survive this ambush and return to court. Sir Andred planned to use the King’s orders to end his cousin’s life.