And now the entire court had fallen silent, all staring at the dais and waiting for the audience to begin. Nabon’s flesh crawled. Happily, Igraine’s knight seemed not to notice Mark’s entourage as he stepped forward and gave his deepest bow.
“I bring you a message, sire, from Queen Igraine. My lady, your overlord, salutes you through me and desires you will read these words from her own hand.”
With another flourish he knelt and delivered the scroll to Mark at the foot of the throne. “I am also ordered to wait for your reply,” he went on. “I’ll be ready to leave as soon as you’ve decided what you wish to say.”
“Very well.”
Mark stared at the letter with dread swelling around his heart. What did it mean? What would Queen Igraine say?
Forcing himself to act, he broke the seal. The black letters within leaped out at him like spiders and seared his eyes. Every word frayed his self-control and heated his blood.
QUEEN IGRAINE TO HER VASSAL AND SUBJECT KING MARK, GREETINGS FROM THE ROYAL STRONGHOLD OF THE ANCIENTS, TINTAGEL ON THE ROCK.
SIR, WE HAVE HEARD SAD NEWS OF THE DEATH OF YOUR NEPHEWS AND THE SORE FATE OF YOUR QUEEN. AS WELL YOU KNOW, YOU HOLD YOUR THRONE ENTIRELY AS OUR VASSAL AND ONLY BY OUR GOODWILL.
WE REQUIRE YOU THEREFORE TO COME TO TINTAGEL FORTHWITH AND PRESENT YOURSELF IN PERSON BEFORE OUR THRONE. YOU MAY ACCOUNT FOR YOUR ACTIONS WHEN YOU COME AND MAKE ALL EXCUSES THEN THAT ARE FITTING TO BE MADE. BUT YOU MUST KNOW THAT SUCH TREATMENT AS YOU SEEM TO HAVE GIVEN TO YOUR QUEEN WILL NOT BE ENDURED IN THE LAND WHERE THE MOTHER RULES. DEEDS OF EVIL CANCEL OUT YOUR VASSAL BOND TO ME. PREPARE YOURSELF THEREFORE TO LAY DOWN YOUR THRONE.
Lay down the throne?
Mark choked back a laugh of murderous, seething rage. So he’d lost his lands and his throne because he’d got rid of his treacherous nephew and put his whore of a wife into the leper house? God Almighty, he should have strangled her long before this with his bare hands!
Steadily, the mist rose behind Mark’s flaming eyes. Strangled Isolde? He should have had her burned. Stoned. Flayed. Torn limb from limb.
And now . . .
He felt himself slipping. He could see the dark abyss ahead.
And now he must go to Tintagel and face the old Queen? An odd smile split his face. Well, he’d go there indeed, but with an army of men. They’d storm the fortress and take the castle on the rock, then he’d hang the old Queen by her fingernails from the very top.
Or else he’d have her burned, like Isolde.
Stoned.
Flayed.
Torn limb from limb.
“Sire? Sire?”
It was the chamberlain, shaking in every limb. “Sire, there’s an army of lepers at the gate. Their leader says he’s brought news that you’ll want to hear. But already the guards have barricaded all the doors. They won’t let him in except by your special command.”
Mark’s brain twitched and sang like the string of an overstrung bow. “Then give it them!” he shouted wildly. “Let him in, you fool!”
“Admit a leper?”
“God save us, they’re unclean!”
Crying out in fear, the waiting petitioners began to make for the door. Swiftly, a crush developed as they trampled each other in the rush to get out.
“Back! Back!” howled the oncoming guards, forcing a way through with their pikes. Behind them walked a lean, muffled figure, his bandages round his face, slowly and sardonically swinging his wooden bell.
“Unclean!” he cried with a terrible laugh. “Unclean.” He reached the foot of the throne and made a clownish bow. “News of your Queen, my lord.”
Mark’s soul leaped up with a wild, dreadful hope. “Is she dead?”
His burning brain reeled. Now that Tristan and Andred had gone, if she were dead, too, there’d be no one alive left to tell the tale. Then he could say that all three had died of a terrible fever that had driven them mad. Possessed by evil spirits, Tristan had killed Andred, then hurled himself madly to his death, and Isolde had run away to the leper house. Dead, yes! How marvelous. Yess, dead!
“Not dead, sir, no,” said the leper with a leer. “In fact, the opposite. Lively enough to have made her escape.”
Mark’s eyes bulged. “She’s escaped?” he yelped. “Got away?”
The leper nodded. “I left a houseful to watch her while I went to town, knowing she was too ill to move.” He shrugged. “When I got back, she was gone.”
Gone . . .
Mark felt himself slipping again. “She was sick, you say?” he asked hoarsely.
“She had a fever. She was too weak to sit up or walk by herself.”
A dark shaft of horror opened at Mark’s feet. If Isolde had left the leper house in that state, who had taken her away? Who would have wanted to do it? Who would have cared for her enough to risk his life?
There was only one answer.
God Almighty, could Tristan be alive?
Mark could not bear it. Yes, it was true that Tristan’s body had never been found. And, of course, when another body had been washed ashore, he had used it to convince Isolde that Tristan was dead. Indeed, those who saw it thought it might have been Tristan himself. It was about his height and weight, and the dead man was impossible to recognize because his features were gone.
But Tristan never had hammertoes, as the dead man had. Still, dressed in Tristan’s clothes and Tristan’s boots, with an old ring on his finger from the royal treasury, he looked convincing enough. And every day Mark expected to hear that Tristan’s real corpse had been found.
So far, it had not.
God have mercy, was he still alive?
Nabon hurried forward. “The Queen’s gone, did he say? And in a state of fever, too? We must find her, sire. I’ll send for the healers, and we’ll get out a search party. I’ll get the torches and dogs here at once—”
“Silence, Nabon,” Mark hissed. Inside his head, the world was breaking apart. But one thing was becoming increasingly clear. Tristan himself could be alive or dead. But someone had spirited Isolde from the leper house. She could not be allowed to get away. He had to find her and this unknown accomplice at once.
“Hot pursuit!” he cried. “Raise a hue and cry.”
“Hear me, sire.”
“I want the country scoured from end to end.”
Nabon clutched his head. “Sire, I beg you—” he cried.
“Raise all the knights and barons under your command,” Mark ordered, his eyes aflame. “We ride at once to hunt Isolde down.”
chapter 49
All round the ancient grange, the forest slept. Tucked deep in its narrow valley, the house slumbered, too, enjoying the sweet calm of ages beneath its thick roof of trees. Overhead, a slender new moon silvered the green of the leaves, and the night-roosting birds sighed and held their peace. But in the midnight woodland, one soul was awake. The man slipping silently through the trees came to rest beneath a towering oak and paused for thought. This was the place. The fugitives had to be here.
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his hands. He had to admit it was a good place to hide. A narrow track leading into an almost invisible cleft in the hillside veiled by long fronds of trailing ivy and honeysuckle. Yes, they were in there, he was sure of that. Moving forward again with great stealth, the dark figure staked out the narrow approach to the hidden grange.
It was true there were no signs of human presence and little to be seen. If they’d come on horseback, the horse had been turned loose a long way back, and hardly a blade of grass had been disturbed. Yet still he’d wager his life they were inside the house buried deep in the side of the hill, with a dark lantern and a banked-down fire. And if they were in there, he’d found what he sought.
But careful now, he schooled his impatient heart. Move slowly, watch and wait. No mistakes now, not so near the goal. He must pause and think and plan. And when he was ready, that would be time to act.
The mournful moon retreated behind a cloud. A deeper darkness fell
upon the earth, and the night grew darker still beneath the thick roof of leaves. Better and better, he prided himself, the best. Oh, this had been very well done, and the triumphant ending would justify it all!
“TRISTAN?”
Isolde came to herself with a groan. When would she stop waking in a panic, dreading to find herself back in the cell? But before the fear had had time to take shape in her mind, he was at her side. “Yes, my love?”
At the sight of him, she could not hold back a smile. “Nothing—I only wanted to know you were here.”
A muffled candle lit the little room, and he knelt beside her in silence in the shining gloom.
“I’ll never leave you now,” he said at last. “I’ll always be here.”
She looked round the comfortable den with an uneasy laugh. “Not here, don’t say that, it’s bad luck. Not anywhere in Cornwall. We must get away.”
He took her hand. “Lady, I swear we’ll set out for Ireland as soon as you’re well enough to move.”
“And that won’t be long. Oh, Tristan, how can I thank you for nursing me back to health?” She lifted his hand and placed in on her forehead. “See, the fever’s all gone, thanks to you.”
He laid the back of his hand against her cheek. “It’s true,” he said tenderly. “You are better today.”
“And I’ll be able to ride again in a day or two. It’s only a question of building up my strength.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “And thank the Gods, I didn’t catch leprosy. We’re so lucky I was spared.”
“Well, the fever was bad enough,” Tristan replied. “You could have died from that.”
“And I’m sure a lot of those poor lepers will,” Isolde sighed. “There will always be sudden infections like that when a lot of sick people are huddled together in one filthy place.”
A shadow passed over his face. “If only I’d come for you sooner than I did. But it took me so long to get back from France.”
“Oh, my love, I won’t hear another word,” she said firmly. “You came as fast as you—”
“Ssshhh!”
Without warning, he froze and laid a finger on her lips.
Isolde started. “What—?”
He shook his head at her: Don’t speak!
“There’s someone outside,” he mouthed.
Goddess, Mother, save us . . .
She could not move. They sat in silence, as she frantically strained her ears. There was nothing to hear but the night sounds of the wood. Then . . .
Was that a stealthy footstep right outside the door . . . ?
She could smell the living essence of her fear.
“Courage, lady,” Tristan hissed. He pulled her close to his chest. “Listen to me,” he whispered in her ear. “This is what we’ll do . . .”
THE VALLEY HE STOOD IN was as dark as the grave. So no one saw the intruder as he left the shelter of his tree and glided forward through the starless night. Mantled with thick curtains of ivy and huddled into the hillside like part of the rock, the hidden old grange kept its secrets well. But the newcomer had had long enough now to understand how it lay.
This way, then . . .
Quietly, easily, man . . .
Some distance from the door, he paused to think again. Careful, now. All could still be lost. But they were inside for sure, and this was the only way out. He could not miss them now.
Around him, he knew, the whole valley waited and watched. The night-roaming creatures cowered in their holes, and even the soft loamy earth forgot to breathe. Trembling, the moon hid its head. It is time, thought the watcher to himself. It is time.
Silently, he lowered his visor to cover his face and unsheathed his sword. There should be only two of them inside, but it always paid to be careful at times like this. Hefting the weapon in his hand, he moved forward, intent on the ivy-curtained door directly ahead. To his surprise, it swung back on its hinges and a shaft of candlelight streamed out into the dark. Behind the candle, a female figure craned forward, shaking with fear.
“Who’s there?” she called. “Who’s there?”
Isolde! The intruder laughed. Gods above, there she was . . .
Still laughing, he strode forward through the door. The next second he felt a kick like a horse in his back and found himself sprawling face downward on the floor.
Tristan slammed the door and jumped on the prostrate form.
“Quickly!” he gasped, planting his full weight on the intruder’s back. “Quickly now, tie his hands.”
In an ecstasy of haste, Isolde fumbled to tie up the stranger’s wrists with all her force. Then she drew her dagger and dug the tip of the blade into the soft flesh behind the intruder’s ear.
Tristan scrambled to his feet and leaned down to roll the helmeted figure onto his back.
“Who is it?” Isolde cried. “Surely Mark can’t have found out already that I’ve escaped? And he must still think you’re dead.”
“I don’t know,” he panted. “But I’ll get the truth out of this fellow now.” He wrenched off the heavy helmet. “So, sir,” he cried savagely, his knife at the stranger’s throat. “Who are you, and what d’you want?”
Isolde leaned over him. “And don’t expect any mercy from us, if you’ve come from Mark,” she said furiously.
The stranger threw back his head. “Come from Mark, lady?” A burst of laughter shook his long, thin frame. He fastened his gaze on Tristan. “Why, Tristan, what kind of welcome is this? Do you not know me, old friend?”
“Know you?” Tristan leaped to his feet in a towering rage. “I’ve never seen you before in all my—”
But Isolde was staring at the newcomer with her eyes out on stalks. Gods above, how often had she seen this face?
And to think they had treated a knight of Camelot like this . . .
A fellow of the Round Table . . . King Arthur’s nephew, the closest kin of the King . . .
Goddess, Mother, forgive us!
“Look at him, Tristan!” she shrilled. “It’s Gawain!”
chapter 50
Gawain indeed!” the big knight chuckled in delight.
“Oh, my friend—” Tristan gasped. He reached for Gawain’s wrists and slashed madly at his bonds.
“Thank you, sir.”
The big knight lay on the flagstones rubbing his wrists and gently feeling the broken skin behind his ear. Tears sprang to Isolde’s eyes.
“And we attacked you—we feared you came from Mark. Oh, can you ever forgive us?”
Gawain heaved his great body off the floor and turned to face them with a somber air.
“Dearest lady, believe me, I would have done the same. King Mark is your enemy, there’s no doubt about that.”
Briefly, he recounted what had passed between him and Mark. Tristan listened impassively, but his eyes were alive with pain.
Oh, my love . . .
Isolde felt his sorrow resounding in her own heart. Alas, it still hurts you to know how Mark has changed. It is true he loved you once as his dearest kin, his knight, his champion, and his chosen heir. But he has long since nourished a deadly jealousy of you.
She turned to the newcomer. “You are welcome, Sir Gawain. I promise you we shall make up for this discourtesy.”
Tristan shook his head. “Gods above, old friend, how did you get here?”
“It’s a long story.” Gawain grinned. “Do you remember the madman in the wood?”
“The knight who had lost his mind?” Tristan gasped. A burst of understanding lit his face. “Was that you? And I didn’t recognize you then, either. Gods, what a blindworm I’ve been!”
“But you saved my life. And when I recovered, I went to Castle Dore to thank you in person for everything you’d done.”
Isolde heaved an angry sigh. “And doubtless Mark told you a string of terrible lies.”
“Of course,” Tristan said bitterly. “So how did you find out the truth?”
Gawain shook his head in puzzlement. “I hardly know. Mark told me you’d run mad and th
rown yourself off a cliff because the Queen had caught leprosy and gone to a leper house to die. I believed him at first. After all, why should the King of Cornwall make up a story like that?”
Tristan nodded grimly. Gawain was known to be a better fighter than a thinker, rarely one to question what he was told. Mark must have hoped that Gawain would carry this lying tale back to King Arthur and that the whole of Camelot and his fellow knights of the Round Table would swallow it, too.
He could tell that Isolde was thinking the same thing.
“What made you change your mind?” she asked Gawain.
“When I rode away, I had time to puzzle it out,” Gawain explained. “You were the King’s oldest nephew, his knight, his heir, and his closest kin. Andred had had a full ceremonial burial, yet he was holding no funeral for you at all. So you were obviously in some kind of disgrace.”
Tristan threw a glance at Isolde. “That’s right.”
Isolde caught her breath. “The King had discovered our love,” she said with difficulty.
“Ah,” said Gawain gently and without surprise. “Indeed, something of the sort occurred to me. So I left Castle Dore by the high road, as if I was heading off to join my brothers on the Quest. Then I slipped back under cover of darkness and made a few inquiries around the town. It didn’t take long to find out that Sir Tristan had been taken to the chapel under heavy guard and had never come out.” He bowed to Isolde. “And that Your Majesty had been first imprisoned and then carried off to the leper house under duress.”
Isolde closed her eyes. “What did you do then?”
“I went to the leper house to find you, madam. I thought that you’d tell me the truth about Tristan, whatever it was. And when I found you gone, I followed your tracks back here.”
“Well done, good sir,” Isolde said fervently.
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 32