Who was that ancient loon? With a surge of anger, Palomides returned the glare and strode over to Isolde's side.
"Let me help you, Princess," he said solicitously. He turned and raised a hand to summon his knights. "We can take care of these men."
Isolde gave him a smile. He means well—and I should treat him well.
"Thank you, sir." She gestured toward the litter. "This man is very sick. Let's get him and the old pilgrim up to the castle as fast as we can."
Palomides's eyes widened. "You mistake me, lady," he said. "You must have nothing to do with riffraff like this. My knights will deal with them."
Isolde stared. "But he's come to me to be healed."
Palomides waved a contemptuous hand. "He's a dead man, Princess— the only thing to do is send him back to his ship."
She could feel her face flaming. "If we help him fast enough, he might live."
"And bring diseases to Dubh Lein that would kill us all." Palomides's eye flickered over Merlin in his shabby robes. "Like his unsavory friend. Why concern yourself with wretches like these?"
She drew a breath. "Sir Palomides, you are a stranger here at court. In my own country, I know what to do."
His anger now was plain. "I tell you, Princess, they are not for you."
He tells me?
Gods and Great Ones!
Her temper flared. "This man is dying while we wrangle here!" She turned to the sailors and pointed the way up the hill. "Sirs, bring him up to the castle. We'll take care of him."
"I'll prepare the infirmary, lady," Brangwain said, moving briskly away.
"Till tomorrow then, Princess." Sir Palomides was taking a furious leave, tugging at the point of his beard.
Isolde shivered. Did I think this man could he my knight? The next thought was even colder. And the stranger, too—what was I thinking of?
A lonely wind was coming in off the sea. Torn, ragged clouds were fleeting across the sky, and the moon was gone.
It was madness—moon madness—I lost my mind. Lost my mind to a dream, not to love itself. When my knight comes, he will not be a dream.
The castle lay ahead in the gathering dusk. The lights of the infirmary beckoned through the dark, countless tiny swan lamps flickering like stars. She forced herself to move up the castle hill.
Hurry, hurry—
The infirmary was blazing with light through the open door. "Are we ready, Brangwain?"
"Vervain, antinomy, lady," the maid called, "all here. And we've taken care of the old man who brought him in. He was offered a bed for the night, but he wanted to be on his way."
Hastily Isolde wrapped herself in a clean apron as Brangwain bound up her hair. She hurried over to the figure on the table in the center of the room. "How is he?"
Brangwain followed. "The wound's in his leg, they say."
"Let me see."
He lay on his back, his eyes closed and his face as pale as his shirt. A rough length of linen lay across his loins, and his legs were bare. A shallow pulse was fluttering in his neck, and he had a huge engorged wound in the front of his thigh. The flesh around it looked like a rotten plum, and she could see the quick of the sore, black and festering.
She stood irresolute. Never had she missed her Druid father as she did now. What if I fail and he dies like Marhaus?
Brangwain's voice came again. "We're ready, lady," she said steadily. "The men are standing by to hold him down."
Isolde drew a breath. "Good." She rolled up her sleeves and reached for her instruments. "Then let's begin."
~~~
Afterward Tristan could remember crying out, but only in the caverns of his mind. He knew he must not flinch or make a sound as the small steely fingers probed his wound, in case the grip faltered on which his life now turned. He floated out of his body on a sea of pain and his spirit grew strong as it roamed the air. With his senses heightened beyond their normal pitch he could hear the two women murmuring as they worked, and rested in the soft cat's cradle of their voices weaving to and fro.
At the end he could feel their sadness in the air like dew. You have done your best, he wanted to say, but could not. His whole being dwindled down to a pinpoint of pain, and he drifted away.
Goddess, Mother, save him—
Holding his wrist, Isolde felt the feeble pulse fluttering in and out, and threw down her instruments in distress.
"It's not enough!" she cried. "The poison has entered his bones, and nothing will cure the flesh that does not scour the whole body to drive the evil out."
She turned to the shelves along the walls of the room. The light from the swan lamps shone over bottles and jars of greenish glass. She moved between them, her fingers remembering their contents from their smooth, cold sides: juniper, sundew, foxglove, wild bryony-—
"Every poison has its opposite," she said stubbornly. "Somewhere in here lies the answer to his grief."
Her sight shivered and she saw a woody dell, deeply overshadowed by a thick forest roof. Nothing grew in the gloom but nightshade, hemlock, and yew, and she knew she was looking into a poison grove. In the center a small yellow many-headed flower burned with a sickly flame, and its thin leaves groped like witches' fingers in the air. Its little mouths turned to her with a venomous grin. Do you know me, Isolde!
Isolde smiled. Yellow spurge. Oh yes, I do. I know your name, my dear.
The lamplight danced in and out of the bright fluids on the shelf. Her hand went to a pale liquid the color of life itself. "This is the antidote."
She looked back toward the table and her smile vanished. "Hurry, Brangwain, hurry," she panted, reaching for the jar, "while there's still time."
~~~
The lamps in the infirmary burned late that night, and for many nights. And outside, Palomides prowled the shadows like a watcher of the deep, while Isolde never left the sick pilgrim's side. At last the Saracen could bear it no longer. Pale and heavy-eyed after a night of fitful sleep, he rose early and dressed with unusual care. Then he crossed the courtyard, surrounded by his knights, and knocked at the door of the Queen's House to see the Queen.
The distraught, thin-faced girl who answered looked as if she had not slept for a week. She stared at Sir Palomides with fear in her eyes. No, the Queen could not—she dared not—the Queen had forbidden any visitors—she'd be whipped—
Only when he threatened to have her whipped himself did she conduct them to the Queen's chamber and vanish inside. There was an interminable wait in the drafty corridor, then the maid's pale eyes reappeared round the door, a finger beckoned, and he was within.
The chamber stretched before him like a cave. The maid closed the door behind him and whisked away. Black drapes blocked the windows and the only light came from a few flickering swan lamps hidden in holes round the walls. A moment of doubt darkened the Saracen's soul. This was a house of mourning— why was he here?
The air in the chamber lay heavy, like a pall. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the light, and he picked up the signs of mourning everywhere. Headdresses and jewels lay scattered on the floor. A tray beside the door held an empty flagon of wine and a few crusts of bread, clearly all that was keeping the Queen alive. Farther in, a great stand of armor dominated one wall, displaying a winged helmet of gold, a great shield of bronze, and a breastplate carved with swans in silver and gold.
He caught his breath. The workmanship was far in advance of anything he had seen before. Made for Marhaus, of course, to reward the champion when he came back in triumph to the Queen. He reached out in wonder.
A furious howl came slicing through the air. "Don't dare to touch!"
He whipped round and blanched at what he saw. "Your Majesty—"
The Queen lay huddled on the bed, her long plum-colored hair torn out by the handful and tumbling around her like blood. Her face was scored with the marks of her nails and tears stood in her bruised and swollen eyes. As he watched, she began to beat her breast.
"Are you looking for my love?" she keened, th
rowing back her head. "Don't you know he's gone?"
Alas, poor lady—
Palomides felt his soul dissolving in grief. He fingered the hilt of his sword. "All the world knows, madam," he rejoined sorrowfully, "when a hero has gone."
"Yesss!" She lunged forward, then drew herself up like a queen. "You're a sensible man," she said grandly, peering through the gloom. "And I know who you are." Her red-rimmed eyes narrowed. "Why are you here?"
"To win your help," he said abruptly. He shook his head hopelessly and spread his hands. "I have courted your daughter, and failed."
"Failed?" Her red-black eyes shot fire. "How?"
"I offered to make her my queen, and she refused." He bared his teeth. "She said that, like you, she was married to the land."
"Not so!" The Queen leaned forward with a savage laugh. "If she were, she would have taken a consort by now. We would have a young princess to follow after her, and a brood of other children around the throne." She spat with disgust. "But she will not make the choice."
Palomides's large eyes darkened. "Sooner or later, all women must make the choice. And no woman refuses a knight of the Saracens or a king of my tribe." He turned his gaze on the Queen. "Give her to me, Majesty, or I must take her by force. She has dishonored me!"
The Queen favored him with a sardonic smile. "In our country, sir, women may choose and refuse. And sooner or later, a queen has to choose." She laughed harshly. "Never fear, sir, I've destined her for your bed."
He started. "What?"
The Queen threw back her hair. "I shall hold a great tournament for her hand, with many knights."
His face cleared like sunrise at sea. "And I shall win," he said simply. "God will fight for me."
The Queen smiled like a mother tiger on her cub. "And when you do, Isolde must choose you. The champion will become the chosen one. Isolde must have a consort, because she must have a child."
What a woman!
"Majesty—"
Palomides's huge eyes took on a fervent glow and he looked at the Queen in awe. His mind flew back to the senior sultanas who ruled his father's household when he was a boy, women of ancient knowledge and brooding power. Such would this lady be as time went on.
And she had planned all this. Isolde would be his! The dark chamber faded and he saw ahead long days of happiness and nights of bliss, galloping beside Isolde across burning sands, lifting the dusky veil of her pavilion under a desert moon—
"Sir—"
He came to himself with a start. The Queen was bearing down on him through the gloom. She was near enough now for him to smell the salt of her tears.
"See, lord, see?"
She opened her hand. Lying on the palm was a fine sliver of metal glinting in the dim light. He knew at once what it was. All Dubh Lein now knew how Marhaus had died. But why would the Queen treasure such an ill-omened thing?
Keening to herself, the Queen turned on him again.
"Revenge," she moaned, "will I have my revenge?"
Palomides shook his head. "Lady, lady," he said sorrowfully, "who can say?"
Chapter 20
"Come here, Sweyn! Over here!"
The Earl pricked up his ears. That sounded like Gawain. And the boy should be there too, if what the horse master had told him was true.
He quickened his pace into the stable yard, impervious to the blooming of a glorious day. And there they were, in a whirl of horses and grooms, Gawain and Lucan busy mounting up, calling to young Sweyn as Lienore crossed the courtyard toward them with her son by the hand.
"Good lad!" Lucan laughed, flashing his even white teeth. "You did well last time. We'll make a knight of you, young Sweyn, never fear."
Lienore dropped her eyes modestly to the ground. "Be good to him, sirs," she said in a soft, musical voice. "The Mother Herself will bless you for taking care of a fatherless child."
"This way then, young man!"
The two knights clattered out of the stable yard with young Sweyn and his pony between them, the small boy overshadowed by their bulk. Armed with his own small helmet, shield, and lance, he was a miniature knight from head to foot. Transfixed, the Earl did not hear Lienore approaching till her voice dropped into his ear.
"Well, Father?"
He came to himself with a start. "What d'you mean?" he snapped.
"I mean things are going well," she returned, undeterred. "Guenevere thought she'd thwart us by sending for Merlin, but while they waited, they've all fallen for young Sweyn."
"And some of them for you," the Earl retorted savagely. "I've seen Gawain and the others sniffing around you like dogs." He glared at her. "We want no more bastards, d'you hear?"
She raised one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Not even if it's the King's?"
"What?" His eyes bulged. "Are you saying…"
Lienore surveyed the horizon and savored the pause. "No," she said. "Not yet."
"But you mean—"
She fixed him with eyes that matched her dainty blue gown. "Oh yes, Father," she said serenely. "It needs only time."
"Time!" The Earl fought down a nervous laugh. Seducing the King— Gods above, would another bastard endear them to the King? Or would King and court see her for the trollop she was?
"Look, Lienore," he began, with a menacing frown.
"Look yourself," she replied indifferently, pointing toward the gate. A withered old man in a threadbare pilgrim's gown was making his way into the courtyard with slow, limping steps. The Earl hastened forward with his whip upraised.
"Be off with you!" he roared. "We want no beggars here!"
The old man turned, and smiled into his eyes. He raised a hand, and the Earl found he could not move. As he stood motionless, frozen in rage, the pilgrim threw back his hood and straightened up. Shaking out his rich gray locks, he seemed to swell and grow, no longer a crippled beggar but a calm and stately old man.
His golden gaze fell on Earl Sweyn and he smiled. "Good day, my lord," he said courteously. "Will you take me to the King?"
~~~
"Merlin!"
Arthur's joyful bellow split the air. "God only knows how dearly we've longed for you here!"
Behind Arthur, Guenevere's lovely face was wreathed in smiles. "You are welcome, sir."
Merlin disengaged himself from Arthur's embrace and paused to cast an unfavorable eye over the low sofas with their yellowing sheepskin pelts, the battered tables, and worm-eaten chairs. His mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. Yes, time I was here.
"You have heard the news from Cornwall?" Arthur began. "They have fought off the threat from Ireland, for now, it seems. We intend to press on to King Mark to make sure."
Merlin nodded. "But that, I think, is not your main concern now?"
"No." Arthur took a deep breath. "Merlin, there's a child here they say is my son."
Guenevere leaned forward, as pale as a lily in her silken gown. "I do not trust the woman," she said tremulously. "But the child—"
"He's a wonder, Merlin," Arthur said simply, unable to keep the pride out of his voice.
Merlin strolled away to the window. "I have seen the boy."
Arthur started forward. "Where?"
Merlin waved a hand. "Just now, in the courtyard, riding out with Lucan and Gawain." A gleam of something like malice crossed the ancient face. "He has a princely air. And a man needs a son."
Guenevere's lips compressed into a thin line. She knew that Merlin was jibing at her and had never felt her childlessness more painfully than now. "Only if his mother is to be believed."
Arthur winced under his wife's baleful stare. "Did I lie with her, Merlin?" he cried desperately. "Is the boy my son?"
There was a pause, then Merlin shook his head. "Ask the Old Ones, boy. This is beyond the reach of my simple art."
Simple art! Guenevere's eyes searched the old enchanter's face. "But surely you can tell if he's Arthur's son?"
Merlin's eyes were opaque. "My stars are dark. I cannot see so far." He spread his sinewy hand
s and shrugged resentfully. "Even a Lord of Light does not know everything!"
Arthur's face was filmed with sweat. "Help me, Merlin," he said in a voice not his own. "What shall I do?"
"Ah, there I can guide you, boy." Merlin stepped forward and took Arthur's arm, bowing to Guenevere. "Will you excuse us, lady? I shall walk with the King until dinner, then I must be gone." He steered Arthur possessively out the door.
Guenevere watched them go, then turned back to the room. Her large eyes were welling with distress, but her mouth was set in an attitude the companions knew. "Lord Merlin does not know the truth of this, it seems. We must look elsewhere."
Bedivere rose to his feet. "What shall we do, madam? Give us your commands."
Guenevere paused. "One woman knows." Her voice was implacable. "You must get it out of her."
Kay stared. "Madam, the Lady Lienore won't tell us the truth! She'll stick to her story like blood to a rusty knife."
"Not Lienore." Guenevere forced a smile. "The fortune-teller. Travel far, travel wide, but track her down."
Gawain's jaw dropped. "She could be anywhere!"
Lucan seconded him. "They're traveling people, madam. They don't stay in the same place from month to month."
"They don't, it's true." Kay shook his head. Slowly an idea was forming in his brain. "But they always take the same routes."
An answering light was dawning in Lucan's eye. "Tracks they've been following since time began, if we went back to where the tournament was held, we could trace them from there—"
"Yes!" Bedivere cried. "We could at least try."
The blood rushed to Lucan's head. If they took to the road, they'd be knights errant and have adventures again. They'd get at the truth and clear the King's name.
He pounded Gawain on the back, then punched the air. "To horse!" he cried. "To horse!"
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