"Oh, you will, Isolde, you will!"
Isolde froze with shock. She had braced herself for wild tears and reproaches, but her mother's triumph was open and unalloyed.
"You forget, my dear," the Queen said in a voice vibrating with satisfaction and menace alike, "the Queen's Tournament is attended by lords and crannog- dwellers, by the highest in the land and those from the farthest bog and fen. I have sent to every hidden corner of the island, even to the Land Kin, the lost folk who were here before the Old Ones and mated with them when they came." She gave a high, dangerous laugh. "Why, the Fair Ones themselves will step out of their hills and hollows to see who wins the love of the future Queen."
Her voice took on an incantatory note. "All the people of the Western Isle will be there—your people, Isolde, those who will take you as their Queen. They will watch from dawn to dusk as each knight sheds his blood for you, breaks his bones, risks his life. At the end of the day, one man will stand alone, the champion of champions, a consort fit for a queen. That man will be a worthy partner of your bed and sword. The people will see him as your chosen one. And when they demand it of you—how will you refuse?"
~~~
A TOURNAMENT?
And the Princess to marry the champion, come what may?
Tristan paced the floor of his chamber and fought down his rage. Only a moment ago, it seemed, they had been riding in the forest without a care, then a white-faced Brangwain had confronted them with the news that had sent Isolde running to the Queen's House, tight-lipped and trembling with shock.
"Wait for me," she had said. "I shall return."
Since then he had been tossing on a sea of anger and dread. It was intolerable to see the Princess treated like this. What should he do?
A dull ache began at the top of his leg and his fingers flew to the throbbing in his thigh. His injury was not fully healed, he knew, and traces of the poison still lingered in his bones. Any exertion, and the wound would break out again. Why torment himself, then? It was nothing to him what the Princess and her mother did. He'd be leaving the island as soon as he was well.
All true, murmured another part of his mind. But you have remained here long after you could have gone. You have seen the sun rise and set in a merry face and a cloud of bright hair. You have gazed into eyes of such mystery that the man who once looked into them would never cease to hope.
"I have sworn my allegiance to King Mark!" he cried in his soul. "I have to go back."
Leave here? the inner voice went on. Here where you have found a welcome that has fed your heart's desire, and known again the warmth of a mother's touch?
He groaned aloud. "But I'm here under false pretences, I'm lying to her with every word I say."
And in danger of your life every moment, if the truth is known. Yes, a hard fate, my dear.
"No harder than hers, if this tournament takes place!" He resumed his distracted pacing. "She has no knight. And I'm here as a pilgrim, without armor or horse—Gods above!" He could have torn his hair.
Think, man! he besought himself thickly, only think! You still have Glaeve—He paused to consider the mighty sword lying idle among his baggage, and hurried on. Glaeve's time would come. They had shed enough blood for now.
But Isolde—
There was a light step in the corridor and a knock at the door. "Excuse me, sir—" She was standing outside the door with her head bowed. "Will you walk in the garden?" she said in a low voice.
"At your wish, madam," he returned hurriedly. He knew she could not enter his chamber alone.
At the end of the passageway Brangwain curtsied to him and followed as Isolde led the way silently down the stairs. In the Queen's garden an autumn sun filled all the air with gold, and the last roses gamboled around the walls.
She came to a halt beneath a rustic arch where ivy and honeysuckle met overhead. The sun was warm on his back, but he could feel his fever rising and began to shiver again. He gazed at her imploringly, but she would not look up.
"It is true," she said in the same listless tone. "The Queen has called a tournament to determine which knight is fittest for my hand."
The blood drained from his heart. "It is no surprise," he said hollowly. "You will have to marry, if you are to be Queen." He could hear his voice sounding sicker with every note. "And you must have many admirers." He turned away. A beautiful woman like you, he did not say.
She colored and dropped her gaze. His soul congealed.
"This tournament—" he began, and broke off. He could not bear to see her brought so low. He wanted to kill all the combatants and overthrow the Queen.
He fingered the wound on his thigh. "I'd fight for you myself," he said passionately, "but for this." He gave a furious laugh. "I'd give your supposed champion a beating he wouldn't forget!"
"But you said—" She stared at him, alarmed. "You told me you don't fight—you're a man of peace."
"Yes, yes, so I am." The blood flooded his face. "But once—long ago, I—" He stumbled to a halt. "No matter," he resumed with difficulty. "That's all over now."
"And besides—"
He could see her struggling to get back to the world they had known.
"You're not well enough yet to think of anything like that. You've been very ill." She gave him a gaze that would have melted stone. A welter of wild impulses seized him and he fought them down.
"Well, lady, what must be, must be," he said harshly. "So, a tournament then—and may the best man win!"
~~~
"You can't set sail tonight?"
Merlin bared his teeth, and clenched his crabbed hands like an eagle snatching a lamb. "Can't or won't?" he demanded threateningly.
But the weather-beaten figure before him was not to be put down. "Same thing, sir," he said stolidly, "when the weather's like this." He nodded at the sky, where oily, ragged clouds were driving furiously before the wind. His battered face set in determined lines. "No going out tonight."
Merlin tried another tack. "You're a man of wide experience, I know," he said flatteringly. "And knowledge has its price." He felt for the leather pouch in the bosom of his gown and allowed the captain to hear its suggestive chink. "There's gold here, man, redder than any sky. How much would it take for you to put out tonight?"
The man chuckled. "You may set your life at whatever price you like, sir." He rolled his eyes. "But there's no money on earth to buy mine."
"But my business calls me to the Western Isle!" Merlin stared out in a frenzy over the wind-lashed waves. "A sudden turn of events—there's danger there, even disaster, and I cannot delay." He turned and met the steady, sea-washed gaze. "Surely there's a man here who would go—"
He gestured toward the little cluster of white stone dwellings huddled round the bay. But even as he spoke, the hope died on his lips.
The wind now was whipping the words out of his mouth and drowning them in a high, rising whine. He did not catch the captain's dry farewell as the man departed, rolling with the gale. Drooping, Merlin turned his face into the storm and sent his spirit winging through the void.
"May your Gods be with you, boy," he growled hopelessly. "And your Princess, too. May the Mother fight for her now—I cannot!"
Chapter 23
At the end of the day, one man will stand alone, a worthy partner of your bed and sword. The people will see him as your chosen one. And when they demand it of you—how will you refuse?
She had tossed all night with her mother's words hissing and whispering through her broken dreams. Yet still the day of the tournament dawned too soon. Lingering in her chamber, Isolde drove Brangwain to sharp-tongued irritation as she fretted over every gown the maid brought out for her to wear. First she chose a simple silk as white as bone, only to throw it off in favor of something stronger and less maidenly. Then she thought that the dark indigo velvet made her look too austere, like the women Druids of the ancient days, and off that came in a frenzy, too.
At last she settled on her favorite emerald green, wi
th a cloak of gold and a veil of silver gauze. A deep diadem of pearls held back her unruly hair, and crystals and pearls shone at her neck and waist. Brangwain had insisted on a glimmer of coral on her lips and cheeks, and the maid at least was pleased with the result. But Isolde had never felt more unhappy in her life.
As they left the castle, she could not contain her rage. How dare you, Mother, how dare you do this? The tournaments I remember were golden days of glory and of grief. But today, while the knights are fighting for their lives, you and I have a battle of our own. For I will never consent to this scheme of yours!
The day was fine for the tournament, dry and clear, but every step brought a darker cast to her thoughts. Now even her skill as a healer was failing, it seemed. The pilgrim's wound had broken out again when the tournament was announced, and a low fever returned to all his limbs.
This morning she had found him pale and shaking in a sweat-soaked bed, and he would surely be worse by the end of the day.
Goddess, Mother, help him, she prayed distractedly. I should be with him now—I should be at his side.
Outside the castle walls, an excited throng streamed around them on all sides. While her guard struggled to hold the people back, within minutes, farmers were pushing their plump, red-faced wives forward to greet her, and mothers were holding out their children for her to bless.
"That's the Princess!" she heard on countless lips. "Today she'll have a champion and a chosen one!"
Again the unspoken fury filled her veins. Mother, I cannot—I will not submit to this.
Now the jousting field lay before them in the sun, its rough grass new-mown for the day's events. The meadow beside it was dotted with brightly colored pavilions, and humming with pages and squires running to and fro. Many of the knights turned out to bow and salute her with admiration in their eyes, but Isolde passed them all by with scarcely a glance. At the end of the day, one of these will stand alone. Well, so be it. Whoever he was, he would be nothing to her. She gave a crooked grin. How will I refuse, Mother? Wait and see!
On the far side of the field, the Queen's gallery loomed up darkly in the eye of the sun. Tensely Isolde climbed the wooden tower, feeling her resentment mounting with every step. She could hear her mother's laughter as she approached, and its strident echo set her teeth on edge.
"D'you hear that, Brangwain?" she demanded despairingly.
"Courage, lady!" the maid shot back under her breath.
In the center of the gallery, the Queen stood wide-eyed and glittering, surrounded by her knights. She had thrown off her dusky mourning attire and blossomed in crimson and red like a damask rose. Looking at the tall young men in their silver coats, Isolde felt a rush of raw distaste. With Sir Marhaus gone, they would all be sniffing round her mother: Sir Claig, Sir Finneail, Sir Tolen, which of them would bed her now? The next moment she felt the weight of all their eyes as every head swiveled intently toward her. Who will win you today, Princess? Who will we have to honor as your chosen one? was written in every gaze, and she cursed her mother again for doing this.
"Princess Isolde!"
It was the Queen's councillor Sir Gilhan, marking her appearance with a sweeping bow. The same question was hovering in his eyes.
You, too? she wanted to say, but her heart failed. With a murmured word of greeting, she turned away.
"Isolde, come here!" the Queen called with a triumphant smile, imperiously beckoning Isolde to her side. "You said it was too late in the season for a tournament, but see for yourself…"
One wild, white arm moved out over the field below. Gritting her teeth, Isolde forced herself to look. Now she could see that there were far more pavilions than she had thought, their flags blazoning their knights' origins from far and wide.
"See, Isolde?" came her mother's voice in her ear. "The King of the Blacklands, King Faramon of the Green, the Lord of the Isles, they're all here." She smiled exultantly. "And Sir Palomides, of course. Whoever wins will be a worthy choice."
Isolde did not trust herself to speak. Below them the knights were already pouring onto the field, lean, eager figures in red and silver, blue, white, and gold. Like brilliant birds of prey they stalked the field, fighting to hold their horses back from the charge. The roaring crowd greeted each one with delight, loudly cheering their heroes on by name.
"This way, sirs!"
Marshaled by the heralds, the combatants formed a procession to parade round the field and bow before the Queen.
"Isolde, look!"
The Queen was in ecstasy, her sensual soul responding to every move. One by one she scanned the nodding plumes and multicolored banners flying in the sun.
"Look, there's Sir Tennel!" she cried, clutching at Isolde's arm. "And Sir Saffir and Sir Epin of the Glen."
A gleaming figure bounded onto the field, resplendent in armor and trappings of mulberry black.
Isolde nodded. "And Sir Palomides, of course."
She could not keep the caustic tone out of her voice. From his blood-black crest to his sinister, glistening spurs, the Saracen king outstripped every other knight. His sword was of shining silver, a gold crown adorned his helmet, and a crescent moon of solid gold gleamed on his shield. When he rode up before them, he was careful to show all due reverence to the Queen. But Isolde read the glint in his eyes and knew his mind. Not yet, sir, she told herself through gritted teeth. You may not yet look at me like that and think, "You're mine!"
Slowly the procession wound its way round the grassy arena, passing before the viewing tower to greet the Queen. One by one she welcomed each knight by name, and bowed to those who came with their fellow knights as a troupe. A dashing band from Little Britain galloped in with their blue and white banners held aloft, loudly proclaiming that a knight of France would surely carry the flag.
"Pour l'amour des dames!" they caroled as they cantered past. "For the love of the ladies, we will do splendid things!"
Behind them came a dozen or so men with wind-burned skins and brilliant, staring eyes. At their head rode a boy of twelve or fourteen, tall and well-built, showing teeth as white as a wolf's in a fearless laugh. Like all his men, he wore a length of checkered plaid, kilted round his waist and passing over his shoulder to hang down his back. His only armor was a set of oxhide guards on his forearms and shins, and an ancient breastplate of molded and figured bronze.
Yet still he had a kingly air of command, and a gold coronet held back his thick, curling hair. As he drew up before the viewing tower, he stared at her as if he had never seen a woman before. All this she saw and hardly noticed as her eyes took in the strangest thing of all. The faces of all the men entering were tattooed with blue.
Blue, purple, and more: scrolls of rose and amber, indigo, black, and red began on their cheekbones and ran down their necks, shoulders, and arms. Laughing, they bantered to and fro in an unknown tongue, a high guttural sound like the call of otters or foxes coughing in a distant den.
Isolde leaned forward, entranced. "Who are they, Brangwain?"
"Picts, lady!" Brangwain laughed. "Our ancient enemies from the far north of the island of the Britons across the sea." She nodded to the boy riding at their head. "That's Darath, their young prince. They say he's a promising boy. They'll have brought him here to flesh his sword." She gave a reassuring smile. "They're here for the sport, lady, not to win your hand."
The heralds' cry rang out around the field. "Let the contest begin!"
At the sound of the trumpets the grassy arena erupted in a free-for-all, as each knight took on the nearest opponent and tried to beat him down. Some conflicts were swiftly decided, as age and treachery outwitted youth and hope. Isolde watched one wily old warrior baffle a series of novices by drawing them out to heroic, exhausting deeds, yet always evading the point of each flailing sword. But no sooner had he tumbled his last young foe to the ground than he was humbled in turn by another knight, who rode head and shoulders above the rest.
"That's Sir Byrrell the Big," murmured Brangwain in her
ear. "His father was a giant, did you know?"
Isolde shook her head. She neither knew nor cared. She was watching Palomides, and what she saw made her sicker as the day went on.
For the Saracen knight was unbeatable, it seemed. With his stallion rock-solid beneath him, he was holding his ground and winning every bout. While others roared and bellowed and charged about, he simply cut and thrust, remaining uninjured by staying clear of the fray. Fighting shrewdly, he drew out his opponents to feats of pointless excess, then knocked them from their horses in one contemptuous sweep.
As she watched, she could tell that he chose every bout with care, allowing the better knights to defeat and exhaust one another while he took on lesser foes. In truth his chivalry was only skin deep, it seemed. When the young prince of the Picts attacked him boldly and pressed him hard, she saw Palomides goading his stallion to rear up and strike the boy down.
The next instant the biggest of the Picts drove his horse forward to thrust the young prince out of the way, while the rest formed a ring around him and rushed him from the field. Isolde shook her head. Palomides was lucky that the warrior who had taken the full force of the falling hooves was more intent on protection than revenge. As the knight galloped after his fellows, bleeding from the head and with one arm hanging uselessly by his side, she knew that the Picts would not overlook such treachery again.
But the heralds had not seen Palomides spurring his horse, and took the beast's rearing as an accident of war. So they noted down another win for the Saracen, and his tally now placed him at the head of the field. The last few of the knights attacked bravely, but Palomides beat them all down. One by one he disposed of the survivors, steadily, savagely, like a slaughterman at play.
At last he held the field alone as the champion, bathed in the angry light of the setting sun. In a dream of disgust she watched him ride up to the Queen's tower, raise his visor, and make a deep bow. His face was that of a stranger, masked with dust and sweat.
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