Tristan gritted his teeth. That had been the worst folly of all. Endowed with the raw animal strength of youth, Darath was beating him. In this fiercely fought contest, the King of the Picts had the edge.
Which only made Tristan want to kill him more hotly and hopelessly with every stroke.
“Again!” he cried hoarsely. “Again.”
But his enemy needed no encouragement. Darath was already hacking and swinging with the best.
Indeed, he had shocked Tristan from the very first. All his life, he saw now, he had been better than those he fought. Even at the court of Arthur and Guenevere, where the best knights in the land were to be found and the knights of the Round Table practiced their skill, only Lancelot or Gawain could occasionally bring him down. Lancelot had an unequaled suppleness and athleticism, and Gawain an almost unbeatable height and bulk. But he, Tristan, had both.
Or used to have, he cursed himself with a hard-breathing oath. When Darath returned, he had reentered the tiltyard at a gallop, bearing down on Tristan like avenging doom. Taken by surprise, Tristan had felt the wind of Darath’s spear as the deadly blade caught him and sliced his side. With a swift sideways feint he’d missed the worst of the blow, but the sharp point had laid open the flesh and given him a painful wound.
First blood to Darath, then. Tristan spat with rage. Gods, how he hated him! In the second charge, fury lent strength to his spear, and, to his delight, the blow landed fair and square. But Darath took the impact, stayed in the saddle, then rode on. Tristan gasped in disbelief. Never had he seen that before.
“Again!” he called. “Again!” But nothing he could do succeeded in bringing his opponent down.
Still, I’ll wear him down in the end, ran through Tristan’s fevered brain. Get him off the horse, fight him on the ground. That’s where his own height and weight would surely tell. But while Tristan was still contemplating that, Darath flung himself out of the saddle, all too eager to continue with dagger and sword. Tristan reached for his own sword, Glaeve, with little of his customary verve.
“Come, friend,” he whispered bleakly, “let us do what we can.”
Morethanthat, sir, morethanthat, the great blade hissed in response. Heartened, Tristan hefted his weapon and stepped into the fray, but his enemy was already hacking about him with a flurry of swinging blows. Recoiling, Tristan planted his feet on the ground and communed with his Gods. Let me beat this vile wretch, he prayed. Strengthen my arm, for the sake of my lady and love.
“Have at you!” Darath growled.
“And you!”
Tristan’s stomach clenched as he ducked another swing. Leaping forward, he brought Glaeve down with all his force, and had the satisfaction of seeing Darath’s head running with blood. The next moment he caught sight of Isolde in the morning sunlight, spurring madly toward the tiltyard across the plain. She was racing down from the castle, and even at this distance he could see the anger in her every move.
“Hold, sir!” he cried hoarsely to Darath, dropping his sword.
“D’you yield?” Darath shouted eagerly.
“Never!” Tristan snarled. He gestured toward the horizon. “But see there—the Queen.”
The flying figure drew nearer with every stride. Together they waited, catching their breath and leaning heavily on their swords. Isolde watched the heaving, panting figures as she galloped up and could hardly contain her rage.
“So, sirs,” she ground out, dragging the mare to a halt. Then her eye fell on Darath, his face a mask of blood. Her gaze switched to Tristan, and she raked him from head to foot.
“How did this begin?” she said in a deadly voice.
Darath saw Tristan’s discomfort and gave a wolfish grin. “With a challenge, Your Majesty.”
“Whose?” demanded Isolde in the same frozen tone.
Tristan stepped forward. “Mine.”
There was an endless silence. Then Isolde fixed her eyes on the men on the ground and addressed them both. “You’re injured, King Darath. You must retire to your ship, and I’ll send my own healer to dress your wound. Sir Tristan, you will attend me back to Dubh Lein. And I shall feast you both in the Great Hall tonight.”
She turned away without waiting for a reply.
Goddess, Mother . . .
She could hardly wait till she had Tristan alone. Riding back up the castle mound, acknowledging the bows and greetings of the people along the way, had never been such an ordeal before. She struggled to contain her temper as they made their way up through the courtyards to the Queen’s House and into the safety of her chamber. Being forced to keep pace with Tristan’s slow, painful movements enraged her still more. Gods above, he’d already been wounded once. Was he determined to injure himself again? Or had he only wanted to hurt Darath, whatever the cost to her hopes of making peace?
Brangwain took one look at her mistress as they came in and slipped away. “If you need me, lady, I shan’t be far away . . .”
The door closed behind the maid’s anxious back. Isolde turned on Tristan. His clothes were splattered with mud, and he reeked of sweat and the iron stink of blood. His eyes were black, and his face was wreathed in pain. Still, she must speak.
“You had a reason for this challenge, sir?”
Tristan felt his heart failing. This icy coldness was more than he could bear. With an effort he brought himself to meet her eye. “I thought I’d defeat the Pict and drive him from these shores.”
“When you knew I favored negotiation?” Isolde flared. “When I wanted to avoid bloodshed above all else?”
“This was man-to-man,” he returned stiffly. “He came upon me in the tiltyard and braved me out.”
So you had to fight him, of course. With an effort, Isolde bit back the sharp retort. “For Ireland’s sake, all I wanted was to keep the peace.”
“If you say so, lady.”
Isolde tensed. Was that a flicker of scorn in Tristan’s eye? “What would you say, sir?”
“The King of the Picts is a personable man,” he said harshly. “Any Queen might take pleasure in dealing with him. And many men would count themselves lucky to be in his place.”
“You think there is something between us?”
“I can see it with my own eyes.”
“Be careful, sir.” Isolde held herself very still. “This is statecraft, not seduction, whatever you may think.”
“Isn’t it both?” he flashed back. “You married King Mark to save Ireland from war. Who could blame you if you tried the same again?”
She fought for control. “The same again—?”
Tristan did not flinch. “Buying off the King of the Picts by offering yourself.”
She gasped with rage. “You think I—?”
“You are the Queen. You will do what you will do.”
“Do you doubt me?” she cried.
“Lady, I don’t. But a man like the Pict plays a woman like a fish on a hook.”
“And you think I’m a woman like that?” She was almost beside herself.
All women are clay in the hands of unscrupulous men, leaped into his mind, but he managed to leave it unsaid.
“You may be playing him, too,” he said slowly. “But should I stand by in silence when I see him fooling you?”
“Fooling me? How?”
“Flattering you. Courting you with fine words. Treating you like a woman and not like a queen.”
Was it true? Isolde felt a tide of blistering ire. “And you would have done better?”
“Yes, indeed,” Tristan fought back. “I would have beaten the Pict and forced him to yield. If I had, he’d be gone by now.”
“Oh, so?” She could hardly contain her rage. “From what I saw in the tiltyard, he was beating you!”
The look of hurt on his face was his only reply. Angrier than ever, she tried to console herself. How dare he mistrust her so? How could she ever have called this man her true love, when he knew her so little and doubted her so much? And how could he be a suitable consort to h
er now or the father of her child?
She felt him moving toward her and looked up. His face was dark with a passion he could not express. “Send him away,” he said on one low, intense note. “Send him away, or I must leave you now.”
She looked at him with the blind black anger of love and for a terrible moment wished that he were dead. “Go, then, if you must.”
“Lady—”
The look in her eyes made Tristan catch his breath. He had never wanted her more in all his life. Blindly, he moved to fold her to his chest. If only he could take her in his arms. But to his shock, she recoiled from his touch like the plague.
“I can’t love you like this,” she said with a fierce intensity. “If I lie with you, we could have a child. I’ll never bring a child of anger into the world. If we do this at all, it must be with love.”
“You wanted my child before.” A new horror struck Tristan. “It’s the Pict, isn’t it?” he said wildly. “You want a child by him!”
“It was your child I wanted!” she burst out. She knew the pain between them was growing every moment, but she could not stop.
“But not now?” She could see he was white with shock. “You don’t want a child of mine—?”
“How can I?” she raced on. “First you insist on choosing Mark over me. Then you come back without warning and make trouble like this.” She turned away from him, ready to tear her hair. “How can I even think of bearing your child?”
He could hardly speak. “You mean to discard me. Then you’ll take the Pict.”
“No, I won’t!”
“Will you make him your knight? Will you take him to your couch?”
“Tristan—”
“Will you marry him?”
“This is nonsense! Believe me, Tristan—”
“How can I?”
Isolde clutched her head. “D’you think I’m lying?”
Did he think that . . . ? A thousand devils were dancing in Tristan’s head.
Yes, he did, this very minute . . .
No, never in the world . . .
Clutching his head, he cried out like a stag in a trap. Betrayed, began to hammer at his mind. Betrayed by Isolde, ambushed and betrayed by Mark. There was no one left to trust in all the world.
He went through the sketchy motion of a bow. “I must leave you, lady,” he said hoarsely. His eyes were as black as pits.
Terrified, Isolde reached out a hand. “Don’t—”
But already he was halfway out of the room. And beaten in body and mind, she let him go.
chapter 28
A cloud-laden wind was sweeping in from the sea. In the woodlands behind Dubh Lein, the fiery berries of the rowan were setting the margins of the forest aflame, but everything else in the world was drowned in gray. Isolde stood in her window watching the falling rain. Oh Tristan, Tristan . . . Where are you, my love?
Meanwhile, she had to deal with Darath, and that was hard. Harder than ever, now that Tristan was gone.
Gone? Yes, without a farewell. Yet still she could hardly believe it. Where are you, my love?
At first she thought she would see him again that night, when all the court assembled in the Great Hall. They’d quarreled bitterly, that was true, but by nightfall all her anger had drained away. Remorse and fresh hope tripped over one another in her mind. We can do better, love, we’ll recover from this . . . I should have been more patient and loving, more, more, more . . .
Then her heart leaped with the fresh and joyful thought, At least he’s still here. Tristan’s here in Dubh Lein and he loves me still. Thinking like this made Darath fade from view. When I feast them together tonight, Tristan will outshine Darath as the sun outshines a star.
Tristan, oh, my love . .
How long till evening comes?
“Come, Brangwain, make me fine,” she ordered the maid, her skin crackling with excitement at the thought of seeing Tristan again. The long, slow, silvery hour when twilight descended and the fires were lit had always been her favorite time of the day. Old friends and new gathered by ones and twos, communing by candlelight as the wine went round. For Isolde, the scent of apple wood on the hearth and the candles’ soft glow, the ruby gleam of the wine and the warmth of the flames, all blended together into one seamless joy. Tristan was here. He would be waiting for her now.
But he was not there when she entered the Great Hall. As she moved among the crowd, her eye never left the door. Where are you, my love? Hurry, come to me, I am here.
But he did not come. Sir Gilhan and her lords, her courtiers and her knights, all claimed her attention and wanted her company. Darath appeared in the doorway surrounded by his knights, and they made a magnificent entrance clad in leather, bronze, and gold, drawing breathless sighs from every woman in the room. The salt of the sea and their own wild animal tang came in with them, and the air in the chamber quickened with their approach. And still Tristan did not come.
“He must be keeping to his chamber, lady,” Brangwain said, her face tight with concern. “To rest and recover himself.”
Numbly, she agreed But his last words loomed dark in her mind. I must leave you, lady, he had said. Leave her? Did he mean leave and go away? Or had he simply intended to bid her good night? She could not get fears like this out of her head.
When did she know for sure that he would not come? Was it when her eyes were squinting from looking at the door, and she could no longer order the servants to delay the feast? When Darath seized her hand to lead her to her seat, and she knew he would not have dared if Tristan had been there? When she saw Darath’s men exchange a flurry of bright-eyed nods and grins, and she knew they were sharing their master’s triumph in their strange, yelping tongue?
She could not think of eating. Tristan was alone in his quarters. Was he injured, was he ill? But enthroned on the dais in full sight and sound of all, she could not even send a servant to find out for fear of drawing attention to herself. And Brangwain was probably right after all. Perhaps he only wanted to be left to rest. If he needed help, he could always send for her.
The night was long. She forced herself to entertain Darath royally, talking and laughing with his companions, too. But every moment dragged by like impending death, and she could not fight off a sense of dread. Now the feast was waning as the night wore on, and her hopes were fading, too. Dully, she watched the candles’ winding shrouds making their way down each white, waxen stem.
At last all the farewells were made, and she could withdraw. In the chamber, Brangwain helped her to disrobe and hastened away.
“Till tomorrow, lady,” she whispered. “And may the Great One Herself watch over you tonight.”
Dry-eyed, Isolde nodded and retired to bed. She would not weep. Tomorrow she’d send for Tristan and repair this rift. She’d make him see that she loved him after all. She would make things better. Everything would come right. Tossing and turning, she dozed in and out of newly minted hopes and bright dreams.
A fitful night gave way to a troubled dawn. Dense, clay-colored clouds boiled up from the face of the sea and lumbered over the horizon, darkening the sky. Crosswinds rose to meet them and it started to rain. Rivulets of water ran down the greeny glass as Isolde stood in her window watching time tick away. Time passed unnoticed but for slow loss of hope. And still the clouds wept till all the world dissolved in tears.
Where are you, Tristan? Where are you, my love?
“News from the harbor, lady.” Brangwain came through the door grimly shaking the rain from her cloak. “My lord has taken ship.”
“Taken ship? Without saying good-bye?”
“They said at the quay that he sailed away last night.”
“On the evening tide?”
“No, at noon.”
That meant he had gone straight from her chamber down to the dock. Isolde’s mouth was dry. “Where did he go?”
Brangwain pursed her lips. “No one knows. He boarded the ship, paid the captain, and away they went.”
Gone,
then, without a word. All her rage returned and filled her to the brim. Is this the way to treat a woman who has loved you faithfully for all these years? Is this how you leave me—without a word of good-bye?
Isolde’s head lifted and her shoulders snapped back. You may leave me, sir, but I will not leave you. As soon as I can, I’ll come seeking you.
She fixed her eyes on Brangwain. “Any word from the King of the Picts?”
Brangwain snorted in disgust. “He’s here, madam, in attendance outside. He says he’ll wait all day if he has to, but he’ll see you in the end.”
“Very well.” Isolde drew a breath. “I did not send for him, and I can’t deal with him now. Let him wait.”
THE KING OF THE PICTS MADE TO WAIT like a servant—like a dog? Brooding, Cunnoch watched Darath from beneath his lids as the younger man paced the antechamber to and fro. Darath had lost his mind to this Irish queen, that was plain. All that Cunnoch and the others had warned him against had come true.
And still the young fool would not hear him. Furiously, the older knight eyed the faint rays of sun through the window and resolved to try again. They had walked up to Dubh Lein in the first chilly fingers of dawn and waited out the downpour that ensued. Now the sky was clear, and there was no reason why the Queen and Darath could not walk or ride out. Except that she wanted to keep him dangling here.
Cunnoch crossed to the window and pretended to study the sky. “The rain’s stopped,” he announced unnecessarily. “If the Queen won’t see you, we should get back to the ships.”
Darath stretched his lips in the semblance of a grin. “Oh, she will.”
“What makes you think that? I swear she has no intention of seeing you today.”
“I have a better opinion of her than you do.”
Cunnoch shook his head. “Why d’you trust her?” he growled. “Can’t you see what she’s doing to you?”
Darath looked at him with an expressionless stare. “What’s that?”
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 19