Isolde

by Isolde (v1. 1) [html]

  "Lady, lady," he wept, "give me leave to go. I have lost my lord. The moon shines on a world where he is gone, and I must wander till I find him again."

  Goddess, Mother, help him—

  Isolde rose to meet Houzen and took his hand. "Go with our blessing, sir," she said steadily. "And may you find your lord."

  Tears stood in her own eyes as she watched him go. They would not see Houzen again. Wanderer, seafarer, he was fated to search by land and sea till he joined his lord in the world beyond the worlds. Isolde shook her head. Goddess, Great One, she swore to herself, if men are ready to die for each other like this, grant me a man who will love me and want to live!

  Sir Doneal's rusty old voice broke into her reverie. "Forgive an old man, my lady," he said abruptly, "if I say—"

  Isolde favored the old man with a kindly smile. "What, sir?"

  Sir Doneal looked out through the walls of the chamber and she saw with him the emerald-green rolling pastures, low black hills, and pearly sky of the island they so loved.

  "Peace, lady, will bring other challenges. The Queen is sick with grief for Marhaus's death." He paused. "If she follows him, all our hopes lie with you." He paused again. "Only you, lady. You are all we have."

  She felt the sudden weight of countless eyes. There was a fragile silence as all their unspoken thoughts clamored in the hollow hall, beating like wings.

  We need an heir for the throne of the Western Isle.

  Or at least a champion—one to fight for the kingdom by day, and lie by the ruler at night.

  Breathing heavily, Isolde sat back in her chair. To her horror she saw Sir Vaindor toss back his chestnut curls and smile unmistakably into her eyes. He raised his eyes to the roof, and stroked his chin. There was no need for words.

  Goddess, Mother—

  She could scarcely contain herself. If they think, any of these lords—

  But another voice was sounding in her head.

  Yes, Isolde! Every girl of your age has seen her first Beltain by now. Every one has danced at the feast and lain down among the fires, watching and waiting for the stranger she can love. And you're still a miserable virgin—a girl who denies all the joy the Goddess gives—

  Mother, Mother, spare me—

  And you know all the hopes of our line lie with you! I've made powerful earth magic with countless men, but only your father could ever put a child in my womb. The seed of the rest was too weak to mingle with my blood. You must give us the child who will save our house.

  Mother, women are not cattle made to breed—

  But you scorn all men! You even refuse a lover here at court. Any other girl would thrill to a Saracen knight—

  Sir Palomides, yes, it's true—he's courted me faithfully since he saw me at his first tournament and stayed on here in the hope of winning my love.

  —a king in his own land and a hero in ours—

  I know—and a man of honor and a valiant knight—

  —yet you still rebuff him with your maidenly ways and little frozen smiles.

  Yes, Mother, yes—I should have given him a chance.

  She was dimly aware of the silence in the room. Looking around at the solemn faces, she collected herself.

  "Thank you, Sir Doneal," she said. "I shall bear this in mind." She raised her head. "So, lords, may I carry your deliberations to the Queen?"

  The council was over. Patiently she endured the lengthy farewells, then recrossed the courtyard in a sombre mood. Sir Palomides—indeed, she had given him no thought. Now she saw again the Saracen knight's keen gaze and courteous bow, felt the strength of his arm as he handed her down from her horse, and recalled all the times he had appeared at her side, seemingly with no other desire than to please.

  Trust to your knight. He will come to you.

  Cormac's Druid blessing floated softly down through the air.

  My knight?

  Palomides? The prince from the East with his warm brown eyes, his gleaming golden skin, his gentle ways? Palomides, who walked every evening in the garden, watching the tower window where she slept, keeping a nightly vigil of hopeless love?

  Could it be?

  The Queen's House lay ahead in the setting sun, its white crystal facade glittering with shafts of light, red, pink, and gold like a million broken hearts. The doors opened to greet her and Brangwain was there.

  "The Queen's at peace, lady," the maid called. "Fast asleep."

  Palomides?

  Could it be? came drifting down the air.

  Isolde gained the threshold and stepped into the hall. "I'll go to her now. Then get me out of this wretched gown, it's too heavy to bear! After that…" She paused, and the answer came. "After that we'll take a walk in the garden—it will be lovely at this time of day."

  "The garden?" Brangwain's blackbird eyes were suddenly alert. "As you wish." Then the narrow face softened into an understanding smile. "But first let me help you change. You'll want to look your best."

  Isolde paused and shook her head. "No, not at all," she said crisply.

  Look her best? Why would the maid think that? She turned away. "Not at all," she repeated. "We're only going out to take the air."

  Chapter 18

  The evening lay before them, cool and sweet. White wisps of cloud rode in a pink and blue sky, and all the land was bathed in an opal light. Isolde came out of the lower courtyard with Brangwain at her side and felt her spirits lifting step by step. All around them the gardens of the castle ran down to the sea below, and their feet trod softly on the green trefoil. The trees were in the fullness of late summer leaf and trailing red roses hung down their heavy heads, breathing out their fragrant souls before they died.

  Could it be?

  She knew she would come before him like a cascade of sweet peas, pink, white, and violet fluttering as she moved. She would not admit that she had dressed for him, but still she was glad he would see her in her lightest silks, floating through the dusk with a veil of creamy lawn over her hair.

  And there he was, attended by his knights, a group of unsmiling, dark-faced men in silken robes. He was standing apart from them in the place where he stood every night, on the edge of the terrace giving out over the sea. From there he had a clear view of the tower where she slept and could watch till her last candle went out.

  Seeing her, he started like a boy. "Lady?"

  "Sir Palomides."

  She gave him her hand as his knights bowed low and respectfully backed away.

  "Princess, you honor me," he said, pressing her fingers to his lips. His voice was heavy with the accent of his birth and the guttural tones rang strangely in her ear. "How is the Queen?"

  "She is not well."

  "I am sorry she is so sick," he said earnestly. "I waited on her today to condole with her in her loss."

  Or to press your suit with me? came to Isolde, but she shook it off. In Palomides's country, even a king had to court a sultana if he wished to win her daughter, as a mark of respect. And a Saracen knight always honored his wife's mother.

  His wife's mother?

  Gods above, was she thinking of marriage now? Hastily she turned her attention back to the knight. He had the largest, darkest eyes she had ever seen, and his well-trimmed beard and mustache were the same lustrous black. He wore a tunic of amber silk shot through with gold, and a long flowing overgown with sleeves like the wings of a bat. His damask train swept the ground, and a length of crushed silk was wound turban-style round his head, holding back his gorgeous pomaded hair.

  His stare unnerved her. Why did he look like that?

  "Ah, lady!"

  He seemed to sense the fluttering of her pulse, moving a step nearer and lowering his tone. "The Queen your mother suffers now for love," he said, watching her closely. "But love should bring joy, not grief. When a man and a woman come together as one, they honor the Creator who has made them flesh. Your faith and mine are alike in this. Our God bids us rejoice in our bodies as much as your Goddess does."

  H
e reached gently for her hand. The pearl in his ear trembled like a teardrop ready to fall, and his great liquid eyes never left hers.

  "When a knight meets his true lady," he urged, "he honors her like the Goddess-Mother Herself. He does not make his way to her bed because the boundaries of her kingdom lie next to his. He does not take her like a slave girl for his pleasure, then pass her on to his knights."

  Isolde's stomach lurched, and she tried to compose herself. Don't be a fool! He's telling you honestly that a king may court a woman out of policy, and a ruler must choose a partner for the good of the land. And he's saying that he's loved other women before. That's the way of men, you've known that all your life. She gritted her teeth. Fool again, girl, to think that somewhere a man is waiting for no one but you as you have been waiting for him—waiting to enter the dream—

  "And for a lady—a pure lady," the dark voice went on, "the love of a man can be a blessing indeed. His joy becomes her joy when they are joined as one, and he teaches her all she needs to know. She gives her soul to him and he cares for it like a bird with a broken wing. All his life he will love and shelter that little bird."

  Little bird?

  Isolde's senses raced. I come from a line of battle hawks, warrior queens. My foremothers kept the Romans at bay, and never an iron sandal trod these shores.

  But somehow his fingers had found their way into the hollow of her hand and her palm was growing damp with springing dew. Her mind swam in the heady scent of his pomade, all the perfumes of Arabia, oil of lemon, sandalwood, and myrrh—

  "Let me woo you, lady. Take me for your own."

  His voice wound its way through her scattered thoughts as his fingers traced his wishes on her hand. "I will throw kings and kingdoms at your feet. I will rain the treasures of the Orient on your head, pearls for your tears, sapphires for your eyes. Let me take you to the black tents of my tribe. Admit me to the red pavilion of your heart!"

  He kissed the inside of her wrist and whispered in her ear. She was softening, he knew it, she was taking his imprint like wax.

  Her thoughts were swarming like a hive of bees.

  A queen needs a champion—

  —and the kingdom needs an heir—

  He is a king and a very valiant knight.

  —and babies have to be made lying down with men—

  Babies—

  She froze. Made with touches and kisses like this, and these odd sensations in her breasts and thighs? Was this what the maidens did at Beltain when they crept to their beds on the hillside with a man they did not know?

  Suddenly she was riding a hot wave of shame. I cannot do it! Tears sprang to her eyes. He has known slave girls and queens and I'm still a virgin, a wretched slow beginner in the game!

  Except to him, it seemed. The sensual words went on. She watched the red moist mouth moving to and fro, and glimpsed his thick tongue behind his fine white teeth. A sick sensation gripped her, and she could not breathe. Make a baby with this man? Never!

  "Thank you, my lord." She pulled back and broke away. "You honor me, but I cannot offer you the same honor in return."

  His eyes dilated. "Do not say so!" he said harshly. "We will talk of this again at a better time."

  Isolde shook her head. "I must take care of the Queen. And I have a duty to my country, too. She and I are married to the land."

  "You do not mean it!" He clutched his breast as though he had been stabbed. "You are my lady, and I am your knight!"

  Isolde looked away. "I will know my knight when he comes." Unconsciously her fingers sought her father's ring.

  "Who is he?" he cried jealously. "How will you know?"

  "I learned it—" She caught herself up. She should not share such things with the Saracen knight. "No matter. You must go your way, sir, while I go mine."

  "Princess, this cannot be!"

  She looked up into an expression she had never seen before, black and scowling, cold and set. Her back stiffened. "My lord, I—"

  "You will learn I am not to be scorned," he interrupted, staring intently into her eyes. "You are my—"

  "Lady, a ship, a ship!"

  There was a distant cry from far below and a bustle of sudden action down on the shore. The evening landscape was fading before their eyes, and a veil of silver mist lay over the sea.

  Sir Palomides leaned forward, peering into the dusk. "A stranger ship at the dock," he announced suspiciously. Then he stiffened, and his lustrous eyes grew opaque. "They have come for you."

  She started. She had heard that the men of his race had the gift of Sight. "For me—why?"

  He turned his unseeing gaze upon the ship. "Its sails are dark, like death," he said at last. "And you—" he fell silent, staring down the twisting road of time. "You," he resumed, "are life. You are what they seek." He gave a bitter laugh, and she knew he had seen more than he would say. "Death seeks life as the land seeks the sea."

  "Lady!" came the distant cry again.

  She looked at the stranger ship with its black sails. A small group was struggling down the gangplank, carrying the body of an unconscious man. Behind them limped a crooked old pilgrim, waving his arms and trying to take charge. She hastened down the path to meet them with Sir Palomides on her heels.

  Halfway between land and sea she encountered the ragged procession moving slowly through the gathering dusk. Coming toward her were four sailors bearing a rough litter and, lying on it, the figure of a man. The glimmering light played over his sleeping face and one battle-scarred hand rested lightly on his heart. She heard a rushing in the skies like the wind off the sea. Who are you, sir?

  She moved forward like a woman in a dream. The stranger was dressed in the humble garb of a pilgrim, with a few traces of a more distinguished past. A cunning bronze brooch held his robe in place, and a fillet of gold held back his thick fair hair. By his side lay a harp and a broadsword in a plain leather sheath, and he wore an emerald ring on the little finger of one hand. In good health, she could see, he would be a fine-looking man. Now his skin was gray, his breathing was harsh, and his skin was like clay to the touch. Around him hung the stink of impending death.

  Did it matter? No. Never had she seen a man more beautiful. The moonlight lovingly caressed his face, sharpening the strong lines of his jaw, etching his cheekbones, deepening the shadows of thought around his eyes. His thick, glossy hair fell back from a broad forehead and a thousand little lovelights gleamed around his mouth.

  Oh—

  The world faded, and she trembled from head to foot. The old pilgrim thrust his way forward and bent over the man on the litter, and she saw his lips working but could not follow a word. Dropping through the veils of evening came one sound alone, a low, rich voice from distant Avalon. Hear me, Isolde—you will know your knight when he comes.

  And now her mother's voice sounded again in the great quiet all around.

  When the doors of the Otherworld stand open for love, a woman awakens to the man of the dream—

  A man from another country, tall and unsmiling, shining in the dark—

  Far away she heard the slow, sad roar of the incoming tide. Suddenly she was salmon and dolphin, sea-wife and mermaid, at home by land and sea. Her sisters were the kittiwakes crying in the air, and her brothers the otters whistling from their dam. Written in the sand she saw the footprints of a man, alone, unseen, coming her way. A wind from the Otherworld brushed her face, and she felt the approach of the great wave at the ending of the world.

  Goddess, Mother, tell me—

  Can it be?

  She looked up and saw a ring around the moon. A sweet mist rose from the sea and the tall stranger lay on the litter, shining before her eyes. But he was sick, he was dying, perhaps already gone. She laid her hand on his forehead and he stirred and looked up with the sweetness of a child. Then his wondrous lips parted and he laughed.

  She heard the tuneful ringing of the stars echoing the music of her heart. She threw back her head, holding down a famished howl of fear
and hope. "Who are you?" she cried.

  Chapter 19

  He asked them to lay him with his mother, and he thought they had. He knew it must be her, because he remembered the touch of her hand, and the look in her eyes as she watched him, full of pain. She had asked him, Who are you? and he did not know. He saw her now with stars flaming round her head, all robed in clouds. Then he heard her voice, and knew that he was wrong. She was not his mother. She was a spirit, a saint.

  "Who is this knight?" her voice said.

  "No knight, lady, but a poor pilgrim like myself," came an old man's whine. "We were sailing to the land of the Picts when a drunken sailor stabbed him with a poisoned knife. He gave me the last of his gold to bring him here."

  Did I do that? wondered Tristan. Perhaps I did. He felt the light touch again, and laughed for joy.

  "Can you save him, Princess? He's a lovely lad," the old man moaned.

  Who was this ancient, who seemed to know more about him than he did himself? It seemed to Tristan that he had heard the voice before. But that had been an old beggar on a clifftop when he saw the Lady of the Sea, not a pilgrim at all. His mind wandered off. It was all too hard.

  "Believe me, old sir, we will do all we can."

  The lady's footsteps retreated and he drifted peacefully again. Then he heard the old man's voice hissing in his ear. "Hear me! You are in Ireland, the land of your mortal foes. If you want to live, forget all you were. You are Tantris the pilgrim now, harper and bard."

  Tantris? He wanted to laugh. But the old man's voice came again, whispering inside his head like the sweet silver song of the sea. Sleep, Tantris, sleep—

  Suddenly there was nothing else he wanted to do.

  Sleep, Tantris, sleep—

  Kneeling beside Tristan's litter, Merlin watched the fluttering eyelids as the young knight slipped away. Then he tugged his pilgrim's gown tighter around his thin chest and got to his feet. So far, so good—now would the Princess come to Tristan's aid?

  He stiffened. Who was this gorgeous pampered stranger coming up? Merlin eyed the newcomer and felt the hackles rising on his neck. He knew with an animal certainty that the Saracen knight was his enemy and Tristan's, too, and bared his teeth in a feral grin.