Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea

by Rosalind Miles

  Tristan, Tristan, my love . . .

  She moved forward and took him by the hand. “Can we talk of something else?”

  He did not respond, she saw with a sinking heart. But she pressed on as lightly as she could. “You know we spoke before about having a child.”

  “A child?” He looked as if he had never heard the word.

  “Our child, Tristan.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “And now it may come about, just as we talked of it in Castle Dore.”

  “We—?” Tristan turned away. “How may this be?”

  His coldness was infectious. “I have seen the Lady,” she said stiffly. He made no reply.

  Gods above, did he have to make it so hard? “To have a child,” Isolde repeated in rising distress. “I have taken the way of the Mother to unlock my womb.”

  “So.” Tristan set his shoulders, a sign she recognized. And still he would not answer her or warm to her touch.

  Did he believe her? She could not read his face. What was he thinking? His gaze was as opaque as milk. But suddenly she knew he did not trust her anymore. Above the wholesome scent of herbs and salve, she caught the sharp smell of doubt and rank distrust. And already he was drawing away from her, like a hurt creature of the forest seeking its lair.

  She reached out in panic. “At least lie down with me for comfort. Let me hold you in my arms.”

  The gaze he turned on her was wild and aloof. “You must excuse me, lady.”

  “Excuse you . . . ?”

  Goddess, Mother . . .

  Her heart plunging, Isolde pulled away. In all these years, he had never refused her before.

  “I—” He broke off and turned his face away.

  Isolde nodded, humbled and aghast. “Oh, your wound, of course . . . I’m sorry, I should have thought . . .”

  He bowed his head. Neither of them could speak. Sadness fell between them like a weeping cloud. She gathered her forces and moved toward the door.

  Never before had they parted without a kiss. She stood, hoping but hopeless, waiting for his farewell. But he did not stir.

  “Good night,” she said, in a voice not her own.

  She had to strain to catch a low murmur in reply. She left him standing like marble, an image of nobility and pain. She was not to know that the fever from his wound had flared up again and his body was aflame. But above that, one thought was poisoning his mind and coursing through his veins like boiling oil.

  She does not love me.

  She’s chosen Darath the Pict.

  And if she’s taken the way of the Mother to unlock her womb, it’s because she wants his child!

  chapter 26

  Madam, you haven’t had a wink of sleep all night.”

  Isolde smiled sadly at Brangwain. And neither have you, she did not need to say. They both knew that the maid, like a faithful shadow, slept when Isolde slept, ate when she ate, and laughed and wept with her, too. Now, in the gray light of dawn, Brangwain’s dark-complexioned face looked drawn with fatigue, and there was a deeper question in her sloe-black eyes: what’s to be done?

  With another strained smile, Isolde acknowledged her concern and turned away: I know, Brangwain, I know.

  The very thought of Tristan was a pain as sharp as toothache, as bad as the gnawing of the inward cankers that ate people alive. Isolde caught her breath. Goddess, Mother, whatever shall we do?

  “I was so longing to see him,” she said hollowly.

  Brangwain nodded. “I know.”

  But not like this, hung between them like a sigh.

  “I must not lose sight of Ireland,” Isolde murmured. “I can still save our country from war.”

  “Ireland, always Ireland.” Brangwain pursed her narrow lips. “You must think of Sir Tristan, too.”

  “Oh, I do, Brangwain, I do.” Isolde held back a sad smile. Brangwain always championed Tristan with all the passion of her steadfast heart. “But I can’t behave as I want while the Picts are here. I can’t have him at my side during the day, I can’t eat with him and dance with him at night, I can’t even send to greet him in the morning in case someone spies the messenger going to and fro.”

  “You’re right not to trust the Picts,” Brangwain agreed grimly. “That Cunnoch of theirs is a dangerous man. And any of them could have bribed the servants to snoop around.”

  Isolde felt a wild impulse to laugh. My own servants spying on me? On us, on our love?

  She had come to Ireland to be free, and here she was trapped again in the toils of secrecy and deceit. Her soul convulsed. Oh, Tristan, surely we must breathe the open air before we die! I beg you, help me to deal with the Picts and put an end to the threat we face. Don’t destroy the fragile truce I’m building with Darath. Trust me to do right by the country and by you.

  She closed her eyes and put her whole heart into a prayer.

  Have faith, my love.

  Hold on.

  A sad-faced sun was climbing up the sky and its pale, chilly rays were finding their way into the room.

  “I must send to Darath,” Isolde said slowly. “But I shan’t even mention what we talked about last night. It’s vital to keep him guessing about what happens next.”

  “Well, Sir Tristan’s arrival will have helped us there,” Brangwain put in with a sardonic smile. “The King of the Picts can hardly have been ready for that.”

  “No, indeed.” Isolde felt her spirits rally. Brangwain was right; Tristan’s sudden appearance could be turned to good account. It had certainly taken Darath by surprise. And Tristan loved her. He would not fail her now.

  She threw back her head. “Send to Darath,” she ordered crisply. “Tell him the Queen bids him welcome to the day. Say that I may ride today or I may not. Ask him to hold himself in readiness to meet later on. But only if affairs of state permit.”

  HE WOULD GO TO THE TILTYARD, that was the thing to do. Never mind the wound in his shoulder, anything was better than pacing like a caged beast in here. Tristan glanced around his quarters, feeling the walls closing in. He had always before loved the loam-washed apartment, with its fragrant, honey-waxed floors of golden oak. Its spacious rooms and rich furnishings seemed to him a mark of Isolde’s love, and here they had known many passing moments of joy.

  But with every thought of Isolde, the memory of Darath came treading heavily on its heels. Shaking, Tristan realized that he had never felt jealousy before. Now it stalked his mind like a lover’s bane, and he knew he would neither sleep nor eat till it went away.

  What was she doing now? he tormented himself. Was she with that painted creature, with him? He could not name the Pict, even in his own mind. The sun was up; the Pict could be with her already, smiling at her side. Or perhaps she had only pretended to send him away last night, and he’d shared her bed . . . ?

  And what about his men, that whole pack of tattooed barbarians camped out on the shore? Peace and kindness, she had insisted, faith and love. But didn’t she see that the Picts must be strengthening their hold every day? Sooner or later it would come to a battle, he dared swear to that. If ever he’d seen an animal born to fight, it was Darath the Pict.

  And born to . . . ?

  No!

  He would not think of Isolde that way.

  The madness of jealousy jabbed at Tristan again. With a flash of horror, he saw that he would gladly kill Darath, strike him down now! Then, in the coldness that followed the hot rush of blood, he’d abandon him like a dead dog and leave his body for the crows and wolves. The thought sickened him. Tristan, Tristan, what have you become?

  Hurry, hurry, leave this place, get out . . .

  With fingers as dead as sticks, he fumbled on his armor and reached for his sword and lance. Outside the chamber, the air was chill and sweet as late summer took on its early autumn tones, the wholesome world of nature a welcome respite from his overheated thoughts.

  “Sir Tristan!”

  “Why, there you are, sir.”

  As he strode through the palace and down through
the outer courts, knight after knight hastened forward to shake his hand.

  “Sir Tristan, by all that’s wonderful,” one cried. “God’s above, you are welcome here.”

  Laughing, another appealed to his fellows standing around. “Who better to lead us against the Picts?”

  “Welcome back to Dubh Lein, sir.”

  “Thank you. Thank you.”

  Every warm greeting revived Tristan’s flagging heart. He had a part to play here, he knew it. Isolde loved him, and he had the knights’ respect. They would follow wherever he led, and she would not fail him now. And she always had the interests of the country at heart. She knew what a queen had to do.

  He pressed on to the stables with a lighter step. Once mounted and in the saddle, he turned the gray toward the tiltyard, stroking his neck. He could hardly feel the wound in his shoulder now. Yes, this had been the right thing to do.

  “Just a pass or two for exercise, old friend,” he murmured. “To blow the cobwebs away.”

  As they rode out of the castle, Tristan saw with relief that he had the tiltyard to himself. The long grassy enclosure held no other jousters thundering up and down, trying their skills on the targets all around. The straw knights sat on their wooden horses with their battered shields, waiting forlornly for a real knight to approach, and the rings dangling along the length of the track swayed idly in the breeze. Tristan could do what he liked. He chuckled with delight. Already he was starting to feel like himself again.

  “Have at you, then!” he roared to the empty air.

  He eased the gray forward, aiming for the target at the end of the green. Picking up the pace, he forgot the pain in his shoulder and blessed his luck that his sword arm was unhurt.

  “Take that!” he cried. He slammed two of the straw opponents with a satisfying thud, sending each of them spinning as he galloped by. Returning down the other side of the green, he caught ring after ring on the point of his spear, dropping each one just as deftly in time for the next.

  The flying hooves of the gray cut into the turf, and he drew the smell of the newly bruised grass deep into his lungs. He felt the jolt in his injured shoulder with every stride, but he did not care. As he roared at the dummy knights and raced to and fro, every stab of the fiery pain made him feel more alive.

  “Go, friend. Go!”

  Leaning forward, he breathed his excitement into the horse’s ear. The willing gray hurtled eagerly up and down, turning tightly in its own circle at the end of every charge. At last its pale flanks were dark and foaming with sweat, and the pain in Tristan’s shoulder was too much to be borne.

  “Enough, boy,” he murmured, easing up on the reins. The horse slowed and came to a halt, snorting heavily. Only then did Tristan become aware of a figure on the shadows by the gate, leaning against the wall. When had this stranger wandered into the tiltyard unseen and stayed to watch his ferocious mock battles and war-like display?

  But it was not a stranger. It was the man he hated most in all the world.

  As their eyes met, Darath straightened up and slowly brought his palms together in mock applause. “Well ridden, Sir Tristan.” He waved sardonically toward the reeling straw dummies and wildly swinging rings. “You killed all your deadly enemies.”

  And I could kill you! In an instant, all Tristan’s good humor vanished like summer snow. What a fool he must have looked, what a fool! All the time he’d been galloping up and down and cavorting like a boy, the Pict had been laughing at him, enjoying the show.

  He could hardly speak for rage. The pain in his shoulder was much fiercer now, and he knew he was sweating from the strain. Darath sauntered toward him, smiling a slow smile. His white teeth gleamed in the sunlight, and Tristan wanted to knock them out of his head.

  “So, sir,” Darath went on, “I must leave you to your exercise. The Queen has sent for me.”

  Tristan tensed. Isolde had sent for this creature and not for him . . . and she’d be waiting for him now, in delight, in hope? He reached for the calmest tones he could find. “Farewell then, sir.”

  “Farewell.”

  Darath turned away, then swung back on his heel.

  “Unless—?” he murmured speculatively, eyeing Tristan up and down. He had nothing to lose. Isolde was not awaiting him; he had only made that up to annoy this old man. Maybe there was more sport to be had out of Tristan, after all? Old or not, he still looked like a fair fighter, and the chance of a pass in the tiltyard was not to be denied. Darath grinned. It was a while now since he had lifted a lance or swung a sword. And he’d vastly enjoy putting this great booby down.

  Darath flexed his shoulders and bunched his hands, then favored Tristan with a smirking glance. “Is your sport done for the day?”

  “It is.”

  “Is it indeed?” Darath persisted. “Must you leave?”

  Don’t listen to a word of this, urged Tristan’s inner voice. Ride away. But a sudden hot thought made him look at Darath anew. Here, right here in the tiltyard, he could deal with his enemy now. He could beat the filthy wretch hollow and force him to leave Ireland as the price of his miserable life.

  He ignored the pain shooting down his arm. “Must I leave?” he echoed Darath in mocking tones. “Not if Your Majesty will accept a challenge at my hands.”

  Darath stared at him. Then, with great deliberation, he drew the largest of his daggers from his belt and threw it to the ground. Tristan’s horse shied violently as it quivered between his hooves.

  “A challenge?” Darath laughed offensively. “I accept.”

  There was no thought in Tristan’s mind now but kill! He cleared his throat and tried to find his voice. “They’ll find you a mount at the stables and assist you to arm. I’ll wait for you here.”

  Darath swept him an insolent bow. “Not for long, I hope.”

  The lean figure strode away in the sun. Watching him, Tristan felt himself growing cold. Shivering, he tried to reclaim his former heat: he’d need all the fire he had to do battle with the Pict. But the fine flame of hatred was gone. With growing dread he sat on the sweating gray, feeling his stomach for the fight draining away. One grim thought haunted him like a ghost. I wanted to kill you, Darath. Will you now kill me?

  chapter 27

  How are you, my dear girl?”

  Lovingly, Isolde reached up and stroked the satin-smooth nose of her sweet-natured mare. These pure white native ponies with their cornflower blue eyes had been bred for the Queens of Ireland since time began. Though shy, they were fleet and fearless and never held back. And this one, she knew, had no fear of the Painted Ones.

  “You want to go out, my dear?” Isolde whispered in the mare’s long, silky ear. “Well, you shall. Would you like to ride over the marshes today to see the birds?”

  She swung cheerfully into the saddle and looked about. The first breath of autumn had brought a welcome bite to the air after the long endless days of summer heat. Soon the bright red and yellow leaves would be dancing about the yard, and the breeze already bore the tang of the turn of the year. Isolde stroked the mare’s neck. “Ready for a gallop, then?”

  All around her the stable yard was abuzz. Familiar with the hubbub of the morning ride, Isolde did not notice the excitement in one corner, where a group of the stable lads were still recovering from the appearance of the stranger in their midst.

  “Remember the colors on him?” sighed one, lost in hero worship. “On his face, I mean, and the patterns on his shoulders and arms?”

  “Yes, but when he gets into the tiltyard, it’ll be his strength that counts,” put in a small, skinny youth. “He looked as if he could take on an ox.”

  “And he’s going to battle Sir Tristan?” giggled a third. “They’ll kill each other. Neither of them will give in.”

  “Hush your mouth, lad.”

  Suddenly the stable master was among them, clipping ears left and right. “The Queen’s riding today,” he went on, “so get about your work, all of you.”

  Heads ringing, the
lads scattered, bobbing and bowing to Isolde as they ran. She watched them with amusement and a deeper impulse, too. May the Mother bless you, boys. These were her people, and she loved them as her life. Every little thing like this made her glad to be home. You will have many Queens and rulers in the Western Isle, she thought, but never one who loved you as I do.

  The morning sun was glancing over the grass. Raising her head, she saw the messenger she had sent to Darath hastening back toward her through the outer gate. “So, sir,” she hailed him. “What news from the King of the Picts?”

  The messenger shook his head. “The King was not with his people down by their ships. They said he’d come up here to the castle to attend on you. But as I came past the tiltyard, I saw him there.”

  Isolde did not move. “In the tiltyard?”

  “In combat with Sir Tristan.” The messenger shook his head. “I don’t know how that came about.”

  Oh, I do. It started the moment they met. “Thank you, sir.”

  The messenger bowed and disappeared. Isolde sat on her horse like a woman of stone. Darath and Tristan fighting? Goddess, Mother, the madness, the sadness of men! Who started this? Did it matter, when they both wanted to do it, no matter what the cost?

  She paused in sudden fear. Oh Tristan . . . fighting with a wounded shoulder, too?

  Even so, you could still kill Darath.

  Or maybe he’ll kill you.

  She leaned forward over the horse’s neck. “Hurry, hurry! Go for me, girl,” she breathed.

  The mare sprang into a canter, clattering over the cobbles as fast as safety allowed. Isolde clapped her spurs to the mare’s heaving sides. Goddess, Mother, let me not come too late!

  “AGAIN, SIR!”

  Panting, Tristan hardly recognized the sound of his own voice. Gods above, what a fool he had been! Whatever had possessed him to throw down a challenge when he was exhausted and Darath was fresh in the field? When he had an injury and the Pict was fighting fit? And more, when his opponent was a much younger man?