Isolde smiled. “Think again, sir.” She drew her sword and flourished it over her head. At her signal, the dark forest came to life. A thousand lances glinted among the trees, and a thousand rays of dancing, broken light flashed on the arrowheads pointed at the Picts.
“It’s an ambush!” screamed Cunnoch, diving for his sword. “She’s going to kill us all!”
“Agnomon, here!” Already Findra had gathered the staring young man to his side and was prepared to sell his life for his sister’s son.
“You have nothing to fear,” Isolde called back to them in ringing tones. “Your lives are safe. My word is still is my bond. And you see I’m alone and undefended among you here. But I give you a choice. Take the offer I have made to your King, woo our women, and marry those who will consent. If they are unwilling to leave their native place, wed them and make your homes here. You’ll be dearly welcome if you stay in Ireland with us.”
They were staring at her like rabbits at a snake. Determinedly, she pressed on. “For every woman who goes back to your land, we’ll send cattle and grain. She and her man and her children will always be able to come back to the Western Isle at any time. And any man of the Picts who marries one of our women becomes one of us, too. That is our offer.”
She paused, and drew a deep breath. “Take it, and peace and plenty lie ahead. Refuse it”—she gestured toward the forest with its hidden force of men—“and we give you war, blood, and defeat.” She lifted her sword and swung it through the air. “Like my mother and all my foremothers they call the battle ravens of the Western Isle, I shall sweep you into the sea.”
“But lady—” Darath’s face was glistening like a man in the throes of death. “I wanted your love,” he said in a faint, ghastly voice.
Isolde shook her head sadly. “Sir, I am not for you. Somewhere the woman awaits you who will be your Queen. And all women are queens where the Goddess rules.”
Darath mustered a sickly grin. “Perhaps,” he murmured.
Isolde nodded. “Take time to consider your choice. We sent orders ahead that you and your men are to be welcomed here. But you have your own welcome, as you can see.”
Smiling, she indicated a group of the villagers drawing toward them up the path from the beach. At their head was the tall young woman Darath had noticed before, with a cloak of black hair and piercing forget-me-not eyes. She wore a handsome cloak of silver gray fur, and her step had the leap of a salmon in spring.
“Welcome, strangers,” she called boldly, eyeing the Picts up and down. “I am Medhebar, the head of this village here. Do you come as enemies or friends?”
Isolde looked at Darath. “What will your answer be?”
“Friends, lady,” he cried hoarsely.
Medhebar opened her arms and gestured to her basket of fish. “Then come and feast with us. You’re just in time for the catch.”
Already the younger Picts were jumping down from their mounts. Cunnoch still sat on his horse, snarling fiercely at all around, but Findra and Agnomon were yielding, Isolde could see. She smiled at Medhebar. “Thank you for your gracious hospitality. We are pleased to accept.”
As she dismounted, she saw that more and more of the Picts were doing the same. She turned to speak to Medhebar, who was still keenly assessing the newcomers with open interest and delight.
There was a voice in her ear. “Lady, what of me?”
Darath stood before her like a man bereft. Suddenly he looked young and forlorn, a lost boy. But there was only one answer she could make to Darath now.
“Sir, your fate lies before you. Another woman is waiting to take you to her arms.”
“Not you, then.” He gritted his teeth, and she felt his pain. Then he flashed the familiar grin and tossed back his hair. “At least give me something to remember you by.”
She laughed, startled. “What?”
He held an endless pause. “A kiss.”
Isolde paused. But why not? He was a gallant loser, and the peace she had won for Ireland was worth the price.
“Come here,” she said. As he stepped toward her, she took his face between her hands and kissed him on the lips.
“Lady!” he gasped. She felt him trembling. Then he threw his arms round her and crushed her to his chest.
“Again!”
Oh, Tristan . . .
Once, long ago, Tristan had kissed another woman, and the fear that he’d been unfaithful had killed her heart. But then she learned that the woman had helped him escape from prison and that he had bought his freedom with that kiss. I am not betraying Tristan, she told herself. Or if I am, I am buying Ireland’s future with this kiss of mine. I am making allies of the Picts, not enemies.
His kiss was fleshy yet hard, a boy’s kiss, not a man’s. Again her deep hunger for Tristan began to stir. Where are you? Will I find you again? If I do, can you forgive this? Can I ever forgive you?
She hardly felt Darath disengage from her, but she could tell he was reluctant to let go his hold. As she opened her eyes, his were shining with desire.
“Darkness and devils!” he cried passionately. “If only you would take me to your bed! Think what ancient dragon magic we two would unleash, the warrior daughters we would make and the blood-drinking sons. It’s a sin against nature to deny me that.”
“You will have warrior girls and fearless boys,” she promised him with a smile. “Believe me, that is written in your stars.”
“As you are in mine,” he murmured, kissing her hand. “Call on me again if ever you need a sword. I’ll be your champion till the day I die.”
“And before that, sir, you will bring your Queen and your warrior brood to visit us here.” She paused for emphasis. “In peace. You must swear an oath of peace.”
“That may be hard.” Darath glanced broodingly at his lords. “Still, we have had the blood adventure we wanted when we left. Our hungry swords have had their meat and drink.”
“And lady, you have given us a promise of hope,” Findra put in. “If we go back with all the goods you have promised us, we are not leaving here as beaten men.”
“And remember, we leave with our lives.” Agnomon’s strange yelping voice had lost none of its power to disturb. “With all our blood still beating in our veins, not spilled in a foreign land to fatten the earth.”
“That too, boy,” Cunnoch agreed with a dangerous grin. “If that’s all we care about.”
“Think, Cunnoch—” Darath leaned forward intensely to engage the older knight.
Cunnoch made a fiery response, and the talk went to and fro. Isolde stepped quietly away, holding her peace. There would be more arguments yet among the Picts, she was sure of that. Cunnoch would not readily abandon his lust for war, and at least some of the knights would follow him. And the women of the village would take some hard wooing by the Pictish men: they thought too well of themselves in Womenswold to yield at the first blush.
But as was the way of the world since time began, the young men would try. She saw with interest that the younger Picts were already shaping up to the challenge. While Darath and his knights remained huddled in a tight conclave, some were shyly approaching the unmarried girls, others boldly approaching the young mothers, tousling the heads of their babies and teasing the boys.
This will succeed, came to her with deep thankfulness. It will come about. It would take time—how long, Mother, how long?—and her work would not be complete till the last of the Picts had sailed with the last of the brides.
That meant weeks, even months, of patient discussions, easing the fears and concerns of both sides. These were big decisions, and they could not be rushed. But then she would be free to leave Ireland and follow Tristan, wherever he had gone. She would have done her duty to the land, and she’d be free to seek her love.
And then—Goddess, Mother, speed my sails and direct my flight!
Then, and only then, could she take ship to look for Tristan. But she would search high and low. She would never give up.
And
one day . . .
One day . . .
I shall find you again, my love, though you’ve gone to the ends of the earth.
chapter 31
A low gray light was glimmering through the trees. All the world was asleep underneath the forest’s green eternal roof, and the woodland creatures still huddled in their holes. It would be noon before the brooding red morning sun lent any warmth to the dank, chilly earth. But the woodman moving quietly along the narrow path knew when his quarry would be out that day, as he knew many things town people never guessed.
Yet he would be a townsman before he died. Let it be soon, Great Ones, soon! he implored his Gods. The life of the forest had kept his father contented for three-score years. His brothers and sisters likewise all serenely carried on the ancient ways. But ever since boyhood, he had craved the world of the town.
His sharp eyes glistened. The men there wore cloaks and tunics of fine wool, not rough hempen shirts, homespun breeches in dull woodland green, and pelts for a coat. They had daggers and swords swinging at their sides, while he had only his short, pointed killing stick in one hand, a bow in the other, and half a dozen arrows on his back.
Well, not for much longer. He knew how to better himself. No other forester for miles around could equal his catch, and he had trapped and sold his furs and scrimped and saved, working like a dog. Even now, in the dead of the year, when all the earth slumbered and winter struggled to give way to spring, the game was there if you knew where to look. And if you had what it took to stay on the hunt while others gave up. He set his chin. He would not—could not—give up.
Not if he wanted to leave the forest behind. Yet he knew that for some, the world of tree and leaf that he longed to quit was a sweet refuge and a second home. While he dreamed of a brick-built house with shutters at the windows and a solid roof of tile, others came here to live under the shelter of bracken, wicker, and furze. Take the newcomer now, the stranger who had slipped in almost unnoticed a while ago. Whoever he was, he lived as lightly as an animal, moving from place to place. Despite the cold and damp, he made no fires and curled up like a fox in a hollow at the end of the day.
And here he was again. The woodman paused as he saw signs of a careful passage through the wood, traces so slight that they could hardly be seen. Could a wild dog, a badger, or a wolf have broken the tips of that fern and trodden those new shoots of grass? Yes, indeed. But was he sure that this animal was a man? Without a shadow of a doubt.
And what kind of man hid here and did not want to be seen? An outlaw, of course. But for every rogue or villain who tried to hide, there’d be half a dozen or more who wanted him caught. They’d often pay good money to know where he was. Money a poor man could use and needed now.
The morning sun was lifting above the trees. A squirrel stood poised on a branch overhead, illuminated by the sudden shaft of light. Moving with care, the woodman reached for his bow and arrow and shot it down. As he crossed the clearing to retrieve it, he thought of the price the glossy red skin would bring when he sold his pelts. Good enough, but not as much as the bounty he’d get for a human hide.
He scratched his thin beard and grinned. Next time he went to market in the town, he’d ask around. No harm in seeing if there was a hue and cry out for any wanted men. He flexed his shoulders, feeling the sun on his back. Spring was coming, it was getting warmer every day. And before winter, he’d have no need to care about rain, frost, or snow. The bad weather would be for those in the forest to bear, as they always had. But he’d be snug and warm. He’d be living in town.
I’M COMING, TRISTAN.
Wait for me, my love.
Was he still her love? She did not know.
Some days she yearned for him with a hunger so cruel she thought she was losing her mind. At other times, she felt like cutting him out of her life. After twenty years, that he could misjudge her so . . . mistrust her so . . .
Isolde lost her breath whenever she thought about this.
And to fail her so badly just when she needed him most, needed him both for herself and for Ireland, invaded by the Picts. But he only wanted to treat her as a woman, not as a queen. And he’d stupidly tried to deal with Darath man-to-man, not King to King nor even knight to knight.
Darath . . .
She drew the soft morning air deep into her lungs and felt comfort return. That at least had turned out as she had hoped. Weeks had gone by as Darath’s men courted the women of the Wold, who wanted to prove that they wouldn’t be easily won. Their leader had come to Isolde, laughing at the men’s pride. Medhebar’s fine eyes were dancing as she came through the door, pushing back her dark hair. She smelled of fresh winds and the wide open sea, and she would be a prize for any man. Isolde’s heart lifted to see such beauty. My people. My land.
“Lady, the Picts think they are offering us the world,” Medhebar said. “But we see a hard struggle ahead in a barren, stony land.”
Isolde paused. “I’m sure you’re right about that. But you struggle here, and your lives are often hard. Over there every woman would have a man at her side. Picts are loyal and strong and ready to play the man’s part. Here you have to be both women and men.”
Medhebar looked at her thoughtfully. “We hear other things, too. Some say that they kill their women from time to time.”
Isolde sighed.
Ah, Medhebar . . .
All men kill women from time to time. That is life.
In spirit, if not in body. That is love.
Aloud she said, “Men can only kill women if the women themselves are not strong. Your fate has taught you how to take care of yourselves. Those who go with the Picts will have the strength of the other women around them, too. Along with your faith in yourselves, that’s all you’ll need.”
“And the Picts will be leaving hostages in Womenswold,” Medhebar added with a dancing gleam in her eye. “Some of their men want to stay back and marry here.”
Isolde laughed. “Then you have good surety that they will behave.”
She paused, her head on one side. Some of the leading Picts had courted Medhebar, flocking around her like moths to a flame. Darath himself had come to Ireland in search of a queen. Now that Isolde had refused him, would he think of Medhebar?
She smiled at the lovely young woman. “And you? What will you do?”
Medhebar gave her mischievous smile in return. “I shall go with the new brides to Pictland and see them settled there. Then I can see what that life might hold for me. After that I shall decide.”
Isolde nodded. Young as she was, Medhebar was wise. Grant me wisdom now, Great One, she prayed. Or at least the common sense that I should have at my years!
At last they all sailed away, and Isolde was free to leave. Now she could start the search for her lost love. All winter long she had thought and dreamed of Tristan. Now, with her duty done, she was in a fever to be gone.
But still the country came first. On her quest, she would find it hard without Brangwain. But she knew she had to search for Tristan alone. And who better to take care of Dubh Lein while she was away?
“Do this for me, Brangwain? And for my lord?”
“If you say so, my lady,” came the subdued reply.
It was not in Brangwain’s nature to defy Isolde’s command. But the maid could not suppress her concern as she said good-bye.
“Where are you going, lady?” she said, her lilting accent sharpened by distress. “At least tell me that.”
A soft, sad smile spread over Isolde’s face. “Why, I think you know already. Where else would Tristan be?”
Brangwain’s tensely coiled body relaxed in some relief. “Yes, of course, my lady. Now I understand.”
Isolde nodded. Where else would Tristan go but back to Cornwall and back to the wildwood? All the world knew that his mother had run mad with grief when her child was due and had given birth to Tristan in a hollow tree. Born in the depths of the forest, he had always been half woodland creature, half man, and he had carried t
he greenwood within him ever since. Oh my love, you may be a knight of the Round Table and King of Lyonesse, Isolde thought, but you are at one with the hawk and the stag in your heart.
“Cornwall, ho!” cried the captain as at last they embarked. The sea had been calm, even smiling, and the winds were kind. The weather smiled, and the voyage from Ireland passed by in a dream. The worst of the winter storms were behind them now, and the Lady had leveled the waters and made the way straight. Thank you, Lady. And Great One, my thanks to you.
Yet all the way over from Ireland she had asked herself, Will he really be there? The world was wide, and no one knew better than Tristan where a man could disappear. In his tournament days, he had ridden the high roads of France, Spain, and Gaul, and other kingdoms besides. He had seen lands of ice where the sun never rose, and others where for months it never set. They had talked, as lovers do, of traveling together to the very ends of the earth. Would he now try to lose himself there alone?
No, she knew the place, for sure. He would go back to Cornwall, but surely not back to King Mark. Now that he believed that Mark had tried to kill him on the road, would he risk his life by returning to the court? Would any man choose to reenter the lair of a wolf? Not unless he had completely lost his mind.
Yet it must be Cornwall, she was sure of that. A wounded beast always drags itself back home. Tristan had been a wanderer all his life, but there was one place on earth that he called his own. Long ago he had won an ancient castle by the fortunes of war, and the Gods themselves might have fashioned it for him. Locked away in the depths of the forest, it lay deep in a cleft in the mountain, overgrown by trees. Whoever had built it, back in the mists of time, had set it into the face of the hillside to keep it secret from passing eyes. The knight who owned it had killed many men for his sport and had chosen this retreat to hide from the world.
The dead knight had called his fortress Castle Pleure, because under him it had been a place of tears. When he claimed it for Isolde and she gave it to him, Tristan at once renamed it Castle Bel Content, for the great joy that they had discovered there. But the crumbling old grange was not really a castle at all. It had no towers, no moat, no battlements, no means of defense. All it offered was a sanctuary away from the court, and for many years they had found it a safe place to hide.
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 21