Come—
Tristan, come—
A thin singing reached his ears, and he knew that Glaeve was trying to rally his master's forces, calling Tristan to himself. But the wound in his thigh was a throbbing point of pain and his legs would not move. Muttering, Tristan heaved the weapon high above his head: I hear you, brother, come, be my good friend now. Struggling to hold the sword aloft, he knew this was his last blow; he would not be able to lift its weight again. As he angled the blade to strike, he felt it slipping from his nerveless grip.
In despair, he heard Marhaus laugh, and he knew that his enemy thought he was done. Triumphing, the champion made no move to finish him off, but dropped his guard and stood waiting for Tristan to fall. Like a man in a dream, Tristan lifted his eyes to see Glaeve split Marhaus's silver helmet along its seam and cleave the champion's skull.
"Darkness and devils!"
With a scream, Marhaus threw his own sword to the ground and gripped Tristan's blade in both hands to tear it out of his head. He threw it down, then stood swaying like a tree about to fall as the sun sank behind him in a pool of blood.
"Let me die standing," Tristan heard him cry. "Let me see my death!"
Tristan threw back his head and howled. "Gods above, if I could have avoided this—!"
Stumbling forward, he pushed up Marhaus's visor, and looked into the champion's empty eyes. "You need help, sir," he cried hoarsely. "Let me call your knights."
Marhaus's face was running with blood from the wound in his head.
Suddenly a raven appeared out of the darkening sky, and alighted on his shoulder with a fierce grip.
"So! The last enemy!" Marhaus gave a savage laugh. "I did not think that I would see him yet."
The champion's gaze was fixed and Tristan knew that Marhaus foresaw his death. Now he could see the hero light growing stronger around Marhaus's head as his enemy's bright eyes faded and grew dull.
"Bear me to my ship, get me back to the Western Isle," Marhaus commanded hoarsely. "The Queen's daughter will heal me, if anyone can."
"At once, sir."
Tristan turned and waved up Marhaus's knights, standing frozen in grief at the edge of the field. In silence they hurried forward and carried the champion away.
King Mark came striding up with Andred and Father Dominian. "God bless you, nephew, for this victory!"
Together they watched as the stranger knights took Marhaus on board ship, and began frantic preparations to cast off.
"So perish all our enemies," exulted King Mark. "Now I can send to King Arthur and tell him of our success. We shall not need his help, or that of his knights." He threw his arms around Tristan. "Thanks to you!"
"Sire…" Tristan felt a great deadness from head to foot. What was wrong with him?
Andred stepped forward with a broad, manly smile. "Well fought, sir."
"Now I may truly claim you as my own," cried King Mark. "Kneel, nephew, for your knighthood oath to me!"
Tristan fell to his knees. Dimly he reached for the King's proffered hand.
"Father Dominian?" Mark called.
The priest came forward, making the sign of the cross. "Sir Tristan," he intoned, "do you take the King as your liege lord? Will you honor and defend him, keep all evil from him, and treat his enemies as if they were your own?"
Tristan bowed his head. "I will."
He gripped Mark's hand and brought it to his lips. A wave of sickness broke over him, and he struggled to remain upright.
"Do you swear fealty to the King above all others, never to betray him to your dying day?"
Tristan felt a cold wind brush his cheek. "I do."
"Arise, Sir Tristan!" cried Mark in a voice full of tears. "Now you are mine till death!"
Tristan struggled to his feet, and found himself folded in the King's embrace. Taken off balance, he swayed and clutched at Mark for support.
Mark recoiled. "What is it?" he said fearfully. "Are you ill?"
"No, sire." Tristan felt a red shaft of pain shooting up his thigh. "I am overbattled, nothing more."
"It was a hard-fought fight," Andred said wonderingly, watching Tristan rocking to and fro.
Dominian eyed Tristan's pale and sweating face. "And it seems to have cost Sir Tristan more than he knows."
A dull mist swirled through Tristan's aching head. Have no fear, sire, I am well enough, he wanted to say. But something else altogether came out of his mouth.
"I pray you, lay me beside my mother," he said, and fell to the ground.
Chapter 13
The meat was stringy and the wine was bad. Sour smoke from the smoldering fires filled the caverns of the roof, and the sweating servants were too few for the guests. On the high table, even the good-natured Arthur was inwardly rejoicing that they would stay here for only one night. But Earl Sweyn sat at Arthur's right hand, lost in delight. His grandchild, young Sweyn, was the son of a king!
And Arthur had no sons, there was no other heir. Gods above! The Earl felt like hooting and yelping with glee. Deliriously he blessed the ancestors who had dignified the name of their line, dropping the "herd," from "swineherd" and turning "swine," into "sweyn." The race of Sweyns, who had started out keeping pigs, would end as kings, and father a line of kings.
And none of this Arthur knew! The Earl hugged himself with glee. He was longing to see the King's face when the story came out. But the whole thing needed exquisite handling. It would take time, and care, and cunning to succeed.
And of course, Arthur could always have children with Guenevere, he cautioned himself, almost unnerved by the giddy visions in his head. They were still young, and many couples were slow to bring forth. But as the only child of another only child, Queen Guenevere came of poor breeding stock. And even if she had twenty sons, young Sweyn would still be the first.
Young Sweyn—soon to be royal Sweyn, for surely Arthur must make his bastard a prince, once the truth was known—the Earl laughed aloud. And the lost boy, the child without a name, would have a father at last. What a blessing Lienore had disobeyed his orders to stay out of sight!
Lienore—
He looked toward his daughter, sitting next to the Queen, nodding demurely at Guenevere's every word. Clad in a modest, well-cut gown of cornflower blue, she was the picture of innocence, and with her son at her side, of maternal devotion, too. The Earl snickered to himself. With her flawless skin and round-eyed stare, she could have sat for the Christians as an image of their Virgin and Child.
Joyfully he recalled the moment it had all changed, when he had followed her pointing finger, gasping with shock. "The King got you with child? He's the man who ravished you?"
"Not ravished, no," she said with a lascivious glint, "But he's Sweyn's father. He was the man in the tent."
"You're sure?" he had grilled her, reeling with half-formed hopes. "There were hundreds of men at the tournament."
She pointed again at Arthur's broad shoulders and massive frame. "Not as big as he was." Something indescribable fleeted across her face. "That's something I'll never forget."
What did she mean? If only he knew what had happened that dreadful day! But he'd been far too busy wooing fat knights with even fatter estates and foolish, rich old lords, and he'd been only too happy to let the girl run and play. What harm could she come to in a Gypsy tent?
Knowing his daughter, he had escorted her to the very door, well aware of all the knights and squires sniffing around. But Lienore had sharp wits as well as twitching desires, and the fortune-teller's tent had more entrances than one. All this he had learned six months later and more, when the bulge in Lienore's belly could no longer be concealed. A bastard for the Sweyns! The Earl ground his teeth, feeling again the torment of that shame. And Lienore had been locked up for the rest of her term, when she had barely redeemed herself by bringing forth a boy.
And Gods above, what a boy, big and fair, bringing a warmth, a joy never known—
To his horror, the Earl felt his eyes misting with tears
and hastily redirected his attention toward his guests. At the head of the table sat the King himself, handsomely clad in royal red and blue, the great dragon of the Pendragons rampaging across his magnificent chest. On his left, Guenevere smiled round the table, radiant in a gown of white and gold. Her cloak was the misty blue of Avalon, her gold diadem trembled with crystals and pearls, and the candlelight bloomed on the moonstones at her neck and wrists.
"So, sir," Arthur asked, his clear gray eyes on Sweyn. "What is your holding here?"
He wants money, the Earl thought. Or men. "Indeed, my lord-" he gave a hopeless smile—"a few poor acres of sandy soil, fit only for goats."
Arthur searched his face. "But your lands are extensive, are they not?"
Sorrowfully the Earl shook his head. "Serfs and petty farmers who never pay their rent—alas, these wretches hold most of it, not I."
"But if you have tenants-" Arthur reached for his goblet and drained the thin red wine—"how many men can you summon to the horn?"
"The horn?" the Earl repeated, as if he had never heard the word.
"The trysting horn, my lord," said Arthur patiently. "When you call your men to war."
The Earl gave a feeble shudder. "The Sweyns have avoided war for many years."
Arthur laughed grimly. "Do you hear nothing of the world beyond Castle Sweyn? Ireland is attacking Cornwall even as we speak, and God alone knows how they are faring there. And year after year, the men from the North break like waves on our eastern shore. They ravish our women and kill all the children and men, they burn down the houses and carry off all the grain. We need men and money to keep these sea wolves at bay."
Guenevere leaned forward, a thousand lights from the candles shining in her eyes. "And that's not all," she said earnestly. "We want to make the land safe from rogue knights and outlaws here at home. But the lords who should help us are often selfish and cruel themselves."
With this remark came a look that Earl Sweyn chose to ignore. "We have suffered, too," he said loudly, working himself up into a state of complaint. "Three bad harvests in a row, then the plague last spring carried off half my men. All I have left are cripples and ancients who can barely lift a hoe—"
"Not quite, my lord."
The Earl paused. He did not like the amusement in Guenevere's tone. "Madam, I—"
"Your grandson, sir, is more than all of this," Guenevere said joyfully, putting her arm round young Sweyn.
The child gazed up at her with a sturdy self-regard, and the Earl showed his teeth in a smile. "True, madam, he is the hope of our house. As you say, we have been blessed in him."
The boy put a trusting hand in Guenevere's and leaned into her to speak. "You are the Queen, they say."
Guenevere beamed at him. "They say true. And what do they say of you?"
The boy regarded her with a child's age-old eyes. "I am called like my grandsire, Sweyn. He is a great lord, you know."
A great lord…
The Earl glanced from the boy to Arthur, and a glow warmed his shrunken soul. The same fair hair with its promise of red-gold, the same wide, blue-gray eyes, sturdy body and lofty frame, all marked the child as Arthur's from head to toe. Lovingly he traced the resemblance and his thin lips twitched. Young Sweyn was a true heir of Pendragon and would follow the same destiny. With the help of his grandsire… The Earl's inner vision bloomed.
Farther down the table, Gawain looked at the Earl and dug his elbow into Kay's ribs, "If the King thinks he'll get men or money here, he's come to the wrong place!"
For once Gawain's right, thought Kay with unease. Sourly he took in the worm-eaten table and the meager feast. Below the salt, the viands had run out, and the lowest diners were feeding on bread and herbs. Kay's lip curled and he nodded to Gawain. "Who would have thought a wretch like that could be grandsire to such a fine boy?"
Gawain peered up the table with feigned interest, and laughed approvingly. In truth he had had eyes only for Lienore, and could not shake the conviction that she was watching him.
"Truly he looks more like our kin than like the Sweyns," he said to Kay. Then his eyes returned to the mother, a woman with the face of a cherub but, he would swear, the instincts of a polecat below. Gawain's broad face creased in a sensual grin and he flexed his massive shoulders contentedly. He could always tell a woman who relished the game. And this one reminded him of something—he'd remember it soon. They were here for only one night, but a man never knew… Gawain felt his flesh thicken and laughed to himself.
Kay read Gawain's expression and gave him an angry nudge. "We're guests here, man," he hissed in Gawain's ear. "Can't you behave yourself?"
Gawain gave a guilty grin. "Listen, Kay," he began. "I've seen the Earl's daughter before somewhere—no, don't laugh—"
Laugh all you like, thought the Earl viciously, watching the two knights. With a secret like this, the King was in his power. First he'd take Lienore and the boy to court and let Arthur get to know his son. Then he'd surreptitiously track down others who had been at the tournament and establish proofs of paternity that the King could not shrug off. If the price was right, someone would surely recall the great King Arthur rutting like a hog in a tent—
Earl Sweyn sighed with content, and reviewed his plan. As time went by, he'd find or make other allies, too. Arthur's barons must want an heir, so he'd surely have their support. The main thing was to play his cards close to his chest. Not a word of this must come out till the time was ripe.
Suddenly he felt a buzzing in his head and knew there was danger, though he could not say where. Arthur was playing tenderly with young Sweyn, and Lienore was staring at him with an unfathomable look in her wide, pale eyes.
Arthur smiled at Lienore and ruffled young Sweyn's hair. "You are blessed in your son, my lady. Any man would be proud to call this boy his own."
Lienore paused, her fair head to one side. Suddenly Earl Sweyn knew where her silence was leading and opened his mouth to cry out. But he knew in the same moment that he was too late.
Lienore gave a sublime, malicious grin. "Well, sir, you can."
"Can what?" Now it was Arthur's turn to hesitate.
"What I say, sir," Lienore said blithely, fluttering her shoulders in a glorious shrug. "You fathered this child. You can call him your son."
Chapter 14
By the light of the candles, the figure on the table looked like a slumbering giant from a former age, a monster, not a man. But the blood, the quivering flesh and the stink of decay, these were all too human and meant only one thing. Isolde straightened her aching back and worked on. Whatever could be done to save Sir Marhaus, she would do.
Behind her the Queen prowled the chamber like a wild beast, whimpering in her throat. Goddess, Mother, how will she live if he dies? Firmly Isolde put the bleak thought away. Time enough to deal with her mother when this was done.
On the high wooden bench before her, Marhaus lay deeply unconscious, his handsome face in repose, his muscular frame relaxed. When his weeping knights had carried him from the ship, he had been alert enough to mock them as a gaggle of silly girls, and to check the Queen sharply when she wept too. Then he had pressed her hand to his lips and closed his eyes. Sir Houzen, the leader of his knights, fell to his knees and offered the fallen champion's sword to the Queen.
She snatched up the weapon. "Marhaus, what have you done?" she howled. Then she whirled it round her head and, keening like a banshee, sent it spinning into the sea. "Save him, Isolde!" she cried.
Isolde's heart was burning with words she could not say: Mother, his soul is leaving us on this tide. Let us not clog its flight to the astral plane. She took Marhaus's hand and its clamminess made her fear he had already begun his journey between the worlds. But when she felt his pulse, something whispered back. She gave a decisive nod to Marhaus's knights.
"The infirmary, sirs—and hurry! This way, if you please."
She strode ahead to the castle, making for the low, whitewashed hospice where all came to her with t
heir ailments and woes. Fumbling into a clean apron with Brangwain's help, she ran a practiced eye over the shelves of lotions and compounds in the spare, well-scrubbed healing place. As a girl she had seen such chambers hung with foul-smelling roots, and pieces of hare's foot, newt, and dried frog. Her own place, she promised herself, would have no noxious tubs of tallow fat and dung, jars of bats' eyes, or the shrunken remains of infants who died in the womb. All her herbs and salves stood in well-ordered rows, clear aromatic liquids and fiery lotions the color of amber and gold.
Brangwain followed her gaze. "Woundwort, feverfew, all-heal, my lady," she said quietly. "They're all there."
"Yes." Isolde nodded. "Everything we'll need for his injuries." The Queen strode in and began feverishly pacing the floor. And heartsease for my mother, she thought sorrowfully, at the end of this.
Swiftly she laid out her instruments, blessing the old Druid who had taught her all he knew. Before he died, Gwydion of the Welshlands had traveled as far as the land where bodies were kept sweet for their spirit's return with rich spices and unguents and yards of linen wraps. He had taught her the way to relieve pressure on a damaged skull, how to set bones, to cure an ague, to deliver a child. But here in Ireland, in a land at peace, she had never learned how to treat the wounds of war.
"In here, my lady?"
The knights bearing Marhaus were at the door. As they brought him in, a mighty storm darkened the sky. Soon the casements were washed with rivulets of rain, and bright streaks of lightning split the summer clouds.
"More light!" Isolde ordered as Marhaus was placed on the table under Brangwain's care.
Goddess, Mother, help me…
Isolde tensed as Brangwain slit open Marhaus's tunic to reveal the bloodied mess beneath. The raw gashes on Marhaus's chest were too numerous to count, some weeping pus, some gaping like open mouths. But as she took up her instruments, feeling the cold clean metal in her hand, her calm returned. Wherever your spirit walks, Lord Gwydion, be with me now.
Isolde Page 8