Isolde stared. And this man seeks my hand? Loathing gripped her guts and ran like fire through her blood.
"Your Majesty!" he cried. "I claim the victory here—and the prize!"
The Queen rose to her feet, flashing Isolde a look of triumph and delight. "Sir Palomides," she crowed, "you have fought well—"
"Hold there!"
A stranger knight was galloping down the field. He was clad from head to foot in silver-white armor burnished like a pearl, and a mighty silver sword swung by his side. But his shield was unmarked, and he carried no banner or flag. Beneath the snowy plumes of his helmet, as white as the wings of a swan, a sharp visor like a metal beak concealed his face.
Isolde felt the hand of fate constrict her heart. Who are you, stranger? her inner voice cried out.
The newcomer came to a halt facing Palomides.
"I challenge you to single combat," he called in a muffled voice, "for the hand of the Princess, who will be Queen of this isle!"
"No!"
Black clouds of anguish covered the Queen's face. She leaned over the gallery rail, her eyes raining daggers on the scene below.
"Heralds!" she shrilled, "close the lists! The tournament is over. This knight may not compete!"
The herald marshal stepped forward. "Majesty, the lists are still open till the new champion is proclaimed. This challenge is within the rules of the day."
"Quit the field, coward!" the Queen howled to the newcomer. "Sir Palomides has been fighting all day. It is against the laws of chivalry to offer battle to an overbattled knight."
"True, madam," the stranger called back. "But today I have fought hard battles of my own. The knight and I will find ourselves well matched. And he alone will decide on my challenge now." He turned to Palomides with a courteous bow and raised his voice until all could hear. "Sir, I know you for a noble king and a man of might. You hear the heralds: I challenge you to the field."
Palomides curled his lips in an elegant snarl. "And I know you for a knight with no name. I have beaten every man on the field today. When I have you down, I shall not be merciful."
The stranger waved a gauntleted hand. "I offer single combat till the loser yields up his sword." He paused. "The winner to extract any forfeit that the loser must swear to pay."
Any forfeit…
A savage sense of triumph swept Palomides's soul. His God was with him, he could feel it in his bones. He would win this battle and make this knight his slave. The fool had forfeited his life out of his own mouth, and what better way to end a victorious day? The Queen already cherished him like a son. And as soon as he had Isolde in his grasp, he would make himself more than a son to his new mother-in-law…
He focused again on the stranger knight and smiled like a panther marking down its prey. "You will do battle, sir?"
"I will. Swear to accept my terms!"
"I swear." Palomides slapped down his visor. "Have at you, then!"
Isolde never knew how long the two knights fought. The clash and thud of their weapons, the smell of the trampled grass and then of their blood, the screams of the charging horses, all blended in a dream of misery that gripped her, body and soul. In growing dread she tracked the sun down the sky, and dared not contemplate the moment when darkness would come. The day was dying in a burst of gold and red, and soon it seemed that her new champion's bold challenge was fading, too.
For his strength was ebbing with the light, and every blow he took weakened him. At last Palomides's swinging sword swept him from his horse, and he lay on his back on the ground, unable to move.
"So!"
With a sardonic laugh, Palomides vaulted from his horse and approached the fallen knight.
"You are mine now, sir," he cried gloatingly. "By your own oath, you have forfeited your life to me. It is my will to enslave you for the rest of your life."
There was no answer from the figure lying on the grass. Palomides frowned and stepped nearer.
"D'you hear me, sir?" he cried. He hefted his sword and brought the point to the stranger's throat. "Answer, slave, or you'll never speak again."
The next moment he felt the sword wrenched out of his hand and a cold metal gauntlet close like a vise on his wrist. Pulled forward, he lost his balance and found himself flipped over onto his back while the stranger leapt up and stood over him, sword in hand. Gibbering, he felt the point pierce the flesh beneath his chin, and a warm trickle of blood ran slowly down his neck. With the fragments of his mind he saw the red seeping through the joints of the pearl-pale armor and knew that his enemy was bleeding heavily, too. But he could only babble, "My life!— spare my life—let me live—"
"Sir, you may live, and love," came the sorrowful voice. "But nevermore here. You must leave the Island of the West, never to return. You must forsake the Lady Isolde and never write to her, talk to her, or see her again."
"No!"
A howl of fury racked the Queen. Eyes bulging, she leapt forward and gripped the rail. "I decree otherwise! And I am Queen here still!"
Isolde embraced her mother in a sadness almost too great to bear. "Madam, it may not be—Sir Palomides gave his word."
The new champion looked up at the Queen and began again. "Sir, the same is true for all the ladies of this land," he intoned, leaning heavily on his sword. "You must swear to leave them all for the rest of your life, on your honor as a knight."
"I swear!"
Screaming, Palomides seized the dagger in his belt and slashed at the straps that held his armor in place.
"See, see!" he howled, hurling his heavy breastplate to the ground. "I shall never bear arms in this cursed land again!" He looked up at the gallery and held out his arms. "This is for you, Princess," he wept. "All for you! Bid me farewell to a life of sorrow, for I shall never find joy in love again."
Isolde's heart stirred. "Sir, for every man there is the woman of the dream," she called back. "Your true love waits for you, hopes for you, longs for you, even as I speak."
His huge and beautiful eyes filled with tears. "She will be you, my Princess, in another skin." His bow swept the ground. "Farewell."
"Farewell." She raised her hand. "May your God bring you safely back to your own land."
She bowed, and gravely watched him walk away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the stranger knight heavily remounting his horse, preparing to approach. Goddess, Mother, spare me—have I escaped a knight I knew for a man with no name, no face?
"Isolde, what shall we do?"
Her mother was weeping piteously by her side. "We must have new blood!" she muttered madly. "The land needs new blood to keep our line alive." Closing her eyes, she began on a mumbled prayer.
"Mother—"
The sound of departing hooves took Isolde by surprise. She turned. The stranger knight was galloping off the field. What, gone already, stranger, without a word? Wounded, too, when I should have taken care of you? Will I ever know who you are, or be able to thank you for setting me free?
Isolde drew a deep breath and her spirits soared. The stranger had gone, but so had Palomides. Now she could hurry back to the pilgrim and tell him that the clouds hanging over her had vanished clean away.
The pilgrim…
Suddenly she saw his face with new clarity, and found herself longing to see him, to be at his side. If the threat of the tournament had made him take to his bed, then would these glad tidings make him better again?
Impatiently she endured the delay as the tournament dispersed and the Queen processed back to the castle, attended by her knights. At last she was hastening to the pilgrim's chamber with Brangwain on her heels. From the end of the corridor, she could see that his door was ajar.
"Sir?" she called joyfully, as she knocked and hesitated only a moment before stepping through.
There was no light in the chamber, and she thought he must be asleep. A silver moon shone in through the window and gently traced the still outline on the bed. Moving forward as her eyes adjusted, she could not believe wha
t she saw. The pilgrim lay on his back in a pool of blood and there was no sign of life in his clouded eyes.
Chapter 24
Marhaus, why did you leave me?
Who can I trust now? Who will tell me what I need to know?
Snarling, the Queen prowled her chamber, black thoughts flying around her mind like bats. Who was the stranger knight, and what did he want? Where had he found the courage to defy a Queen?
She groaned aloud, tearing at her gown. And why did he leave? Isolde was his as soon as he beat Palomides. Why didn't he stay to claim her as his prize?
She bit her knuckles to stop herself from crying out. Outside the window a quiet moon was sailing over a lazy sea, and she should be sleeping, too. Instead she was walking the floor, walking the floor…
Gods, she missed Marhaus! Unconsciously she reached for the silken pouch she wore round her neck and felt inside for the fatal sliver of metal, the last trace of him she had. if you hadn't left me, my love, she mourned, you'd have saved me now. When Palomides failed me, you would have challenged the stranger and beaten him to the ground.
Palomides…
Curses filled her heart and choked her throat. The handsome Saracen should be sitting here with her now, feasting in her chamber as her son-in-law elect, roast boar crackling on the hearth and the ripe juice of peaches running down his chin. Then he and Isolde would have made the feast of the flesh, and Goddess, Mother, yesss, what a coupling that would have been!
And then next summer, when the neap tides rose, there would have been a new queen for the Western Isle, another Isolde, a true child of the dream, a baby with huge dark eyes and hair as bright as corn—the Queen paused—if the earth magic she made for them that night was powerful enough, if her Gods were with her when Isolde lay down with Palomides and trod the path of womankind since the dawn of time.
But now—
Now the Saracen was wailing his way back East, and Isolde was dancing off with a light in her eye—to look in on the sick pilgrim—or so she said—
The pilgrim?
The Queen came to a sudden halt and closed her eyes.
Goddess, Mother, no!
Not that wretched invalid, that poor gray-coated thing, a miserable beggar, a man on a pilgrimage? No, no, it was impossible, Isolde couldn't care for him! Every woman knew that a holy man was only half a man, and this one was more than half dead!
But Isolde knew nothing—and something—or someone—had captured her mind and heart.
Frowning, the Queen tried to remember the tall figure she had seen at a distance, riding out with Isolde. If he was young and handsome, with a body most women would bed, any girl could love the first man she saw. And if Isolde liked him, she would be stubborn enough to want her own way—
The pilgrim?
The thought worked through her like poison, body and mind. She bunched her fists and kneaded her heaving gut. "Help me!" she groaned.
"My lady?"
A tall young knight reclined at his ease on the bed. Against the blood-red hangings his eyes were bright with promise, and his long body pulsed with feral grace. He preened himself visibly as she turned, then smiled and held out a hand.
"Will you join me, madam?"
"Sir Tolen!"
She bit back a curse. Mother of all confusions, why had she sent for him to keep her company? True, his clan was the finest in the isle, and many of his forefathers had been chosen ones. The lad himself had shown a careless glory in battle and his tall, rangy body promised much in bed.
But Gods above!
She wanted to tear her hair and lay open her skin. Better a lonely dinner of bread and herbs than flesh and wine with a witless boy! Or worse than witless—a youth with a scheme to advance himself through her, to love her and master her as Marhaus had done.
Marhaus, my love, my love…
"Majesty?"
He was watching her closely, more insistent now. Soon he would be reaching for her hand, thrusting himself on her, pulling her down—
He gave an insolent grin. "I am your knight, let me serve you," he insinuated, staring into her eyes.
"What?" She forced a laugh. "You are too young!" A frenzy seized her. They were all too young, now that Marhaus was gone.
He laughed and pushed back his hair. "Try me," he said.
Her eyes raked him, torn between need and despair. His teeth were very white, and his gaze held hers with all the raw confidence of his twenty years. She imagined her fingers brushing the soft stubble of his chin and cupping his hard young jaw to feed on his mouth. His chest would be smooth, his flanks lean and firm, and, young as he was, he would bear battle scars. Already she could feel the long silvery sword puckers brushing against her skin, and smell his young manhood, hot and raw and strong. Yes, she thought, yesss!
But first…
She nodded to him abruptly. "Wait here," she said.
She left the chamber and passed through a series of inner rooms, where her gowns hung in splendor from ceilings and walls, and little side tables groaned under combs and mirrors, scents and lotions and countless face colorings in their bowls of jeweled glass. In the last room of all, she picked up a swan lamp and lifted a hanging to reveal a hidden door. The key hung on a silken thread around her neck, and she locked it carefully behind her as she went through.
The light of the lamp shone upward into the dark. The worn stone steps wound upward through the thickness of the castle wall and she felt her way forward to another door at the top. As she opened it a dark cloud of birds rose in screeching flurries and swirled around her head. Unperturbed, she moved forward into the clamor of wings and flying claws, put down the swan lamp, and settled herself in a chair beside the hearth.
Slowly the room returned to its previous calm. When all was still, a hundred or so jackdaws filled the abandoned chamber, perched on tables and the backs of broken chairs, roosting in the ragged hangings of the bed and perched along the beams. The walls and floor were covered with birdlime and the rotting remains of their prey littered the floor, but the Queen bore the slime and the stench without concern. Here in her divination chamber she would know the truth.
High on a beam in the center of the room stood the grandfather of all jackdaws, huge, ancient, and decayed. His molting feathers were patched with white and gray, and his bulging eyes had lost their coal-black gleam. But time had not taken the edge off his piercing, pitiless stare and she knew he could see beyond mortal sight.
So? The great bird emitted a raucous cry, hunched his skinny shoulders in question, and stood still.
She laughed. "No, Old Father, I have nothing for you today."
She laughed again as she thought of the times she had offered him raw meat in her mouth and his wings had kissed her cheek as he took the food. Next time she must bring him a plump mouse, or better still, a rat. But tonight—
"Tonight I must know the truth."
The jackdaw stared intently. The truth, he echoed, shifting from claw to claw.
"The pilgrim Isolde healed," she asked urgently, "does she love him?"
The mangy head nodded. Love him, love him.
"I knew it!" She clutched at her temples. "Will he bring us good, or harm?"
The harsh cry came at once. Harm, harm.
"If I gave him money, would he go away?" she persisted. "Or would he come back?"
The great bird clacked and shuffled his bulk around. Come back, come back, come back.
The Queen groaned. "For Isolde, yes?"
Isolde, yes.
Cold apprehension clawed at the Queen's gut. "And she'd have him?"
She'd have him, she'd have him, she'd have him.
"Goddess, Mother, no!" she bit the back of her hand. "She'd mate with him, instead of Palomides?" Her mind darted madly back to the tournament. "And the stranger knight, Old Father, what d'you know about him? Is he a famous knight? The son of a king?" A famous knight. The son of a king.
"A worthy partner then! But my daughter cared nothing for him." She gave a
sardonic laugh. "Isolde prefers a pilgrim to a knight, and a beggar to a king?"
The great creature cocked his head and fixed her with an Otherworldly look. Pilgrim, knight, he rasped, beggar, king.
The Queen froze. The bird clacked importantly and strutted up and down. Pilgrimknight, he crowed louder now on one breath, beggarking.
"What are you telling me?" She gasped for breath. "That the pilgrim and the knight were one? The beggar beat the king?"
The bird began a triumphant jig, cawing with every step, Pilgrim-knightbeggarking—
"No!"
The Queen snatched up the lamp and flew down the staircase, careless of her life. In her chamber Sir Tolen still sprawled at his ease on the bed till her commands brought him leaping to his feet.
"Assemble a band of knights! Bring them with swords drawn to the Guest House and meet me there!"
He was already racing through the door. "Lady, it is done!"
Muttering and crying, she swooped through the palace to the Guest House, traversing courtyards and cloisters like a spirit of the night. In the pilgrim's chamber, a maid was stripping the bed. The dirty linen lay bundled on the floor, the bed was empty, and the room was bare.
The Queen hovered on the threshold like a thundercloud. "Where is the pilgrim?" she cried. "Speak, simpleton, or I'll have you whipped!"
The little maid's face flooded with panic. "The—the infirmary," the girl stammered. "The Princess took him there—"
The Queen dismissed her with a toss of her head. "Leave me!"
The maid scrambled for the door, her round pale eyes like cartwheels in the dark. Hissing, the Queen pounced on the pile of linen and threw it about. Great bloodstains marked the whiteness of the sheets. Whoever lay in this bed had been wounded, and where but at the tournament? She nodded madly to herself and heard the jackdaw's words anew. The pilgrim is the knight. The beggar is the king.
King of where? Gasping, she tried to trace her way through, if the pilgrim were in truth a great knight and the son of a king—if Isolde truly loved him—and if this pilgrimage was not his life's vocation but merely a fleeting vow he had to fulfill—
Isolde Page 15