The best of men—
"The pilgrim has gone." She made her voice sound strong. "I thought I loved him. I was wrong!"
"Ah, Isolde, do not speak too soon. A great and mighty love will come to you." She paused. "But at a great price. The Great Ones wrote this in the stars before you were born."
She could not bear it. "Will I have my love? Or will I have to die to be with him in the Otherworld?"
"Ah, little one, death wedded love a long time ago. But a green fire runs through your veins, and you will come at last to the land of your heart's desire."
That will be when I die. Isolde felt her heart splitting in two. "Lady, will I ever get back to Avalon?"
"All waters run to Avalon in the end."
The cry surged up from the depths of her soul. "What must I do?"
"Watch the bubble rising in the foam. When it breaks, follow its path to the sea." She paused, and Isolde felt the great eyes shining through the veil. "My maidens will guide you back to the Dark Pool. Tomorrow you will think all this was a dream. But remember, the Mother gave you and your foremothers the sovereignty of the isle. You are married to the land."
The Lady's words hovered in the warm windless air. Isolde groaned. "When will I find peace?"
"Do right by your country, and you will find peace."
The vast brooding figure was fading before Isolde's eyes. She stretched out her arms and the emerald ring on her finger glowed with pale fire. "How will I know?"
The sonorous voice reached her faintly through the rising mist. "You will awake from your dreaming and be that which you have dreamed."
So be it!
Isolde pulled the emerald ring off her finger, kissed it, and laid it on the altar with the Hallows of the Sea.
I am married to the land. I give this to the sea. Turning, she left the crystal chamber and did not look back.
Chapter 29
The clearing lay open to the fading light. Reining in his horse, Kay looked at his companions and gave a triumphant grin. In the center of the grass lay a bed of ashes surrounded by a ring of blackened stones. Other traces of habitation told the same tale—the remains of a Gypsy encampment, without a doubt.
Gawain's broad face lit up. "They were here!"
"Here and gone," Lucan complained.
Gods, give me patience! Kay suppressed a furious groan. "But we're catching up with them all the time, you know that."
"The sooner the better," said Bedivere quietly.
Kay nodded. For mile after mile they had tracked the band of Gypsies on their time-honored routes, and they were closing on them now. But unless they encountered them soon, they would have to give up. The autumn chill was beginning to bite, and soon winter would put an end to adventuring for the year, unless they wanted to freeze to death as they slept.
Even now, before they began to wake to the glitter of frost crystals mantling their blankets, a bed would be more than welcome, Kay had to admit. He was not made of rough outdoor stuff. But nothing mattered if they could find the fortune-teller and put an end to Arthur's misery. Kay's heart lurched. For a vivid moment he was back in the castle of Earl Sweyn, hearing again Lienore's smirking boast, You fathered this child, and watching the shadows gather around Arthur's noble head. He could not bear to see him in such pain.
So, find the Gypsies, and fast! He caught Gawain's eye and nodded toward the path leading out of the clearing. "That way. We'll follow them till night falls."
They plunged into the forest. The day grew darker now with every step, and a dismal rain drove needle points of drizzle into their faces and clothes. Hunched into their cloaks, they did not see the swineherd at the side of the path till he bellowed, "Welcome, masters!" and tugged off his battered hood. The toothless grin split a pockmarked face and he was clothed in hairy pig hide from head to foot. His charges snuffled happily round his legs, as much a part of the woodland as the herdsman himself.
"So, churl," said Kay, wrinkling his nose at the ripe odor, "who's your lord round here?"
"It's Sir Turquin, sirs, the lord of Castle Malheur." The swineherd waved a hand. "But see for yourselves—the castle's hard by."
Warm water and a bed—Kay's spirits rose. He reached into his pouch for a coin to reward the man. "Here's for your pains."
"Sir Turquin?" puzzled Gawain as they rode away. "Have I heard that name?"
Lucan grinned. "Only rumors that he has no chivalry—that knights are lost on the road around here and never seen again."
"A rogue knight?" pondered Gawain. The blood lust of the Orkneys filled his veins. "Let's take him on, then! We're four against one."
Kay's black eyes snapped. "We're knights of King Arthur, on a mission for the King. He won't meddle with us. Ride on, I say!"
~~~
"Knights of King Arthur? We are honored, sirs. Open the gates there! Let the lords ride in."
At the castle, the warmth of the welcome more than made up for the cold journey there. Attentive servants divested them of their sodden clothes, helped them to unarm, and wrapped them in fine gowns of velvet and fur. Soon they were standing in a lofty hall with fires of oak and holly roaring on the hearths, and half a dozen knights standing around the walls.
And the man hastening toward them looked far more knight than rogue, with a jovial smile and a lean face of indeterminate age. He had the body of a man in his thirties who had lived sparingly and fought hard, and was dressed for the tiltyard, in short tunic and silver mail. Only a pair of odd and colorless eyes and an old sword wound on his forehead marred his appearance in the mellow candlelight.
"Knights of the Round Table?" He came forward eagerly, spreading wide his arms. "I am Turquin of Malheur. Welcome, welcome! Will you feast with me tonight?"
Afterward Kay could hardly remember the meal, as platter after platter of venison, pork, and duck poured through the hall, each salty broth or rich, herb-laden brawn more flavorful than the last. Four roast hogs' heads, each with an apple in its tusked mouth, glared sulfurously as their host carved for the four knights in turn. Then the jellies, the custards, the figs, the nuts, and the wine—above all, the wine, flowing in gold and ruby streams from flagons that never ran dry—Kay's head began to swim.
Across the table from Kay, seated at the right hand of their host, Gawain, too, had been freely indulging himself.
"Our thanks to you, sir!" he cried expansively, raising his goblet to Sir Turquin in a toast. "We are in your debt. Call upon us in honor, and we shall repay."
"Indeed I shall." Sir Turquin leaned forward, his thin face suddenly alive. He gestured to his men standing around the walls. "We're all knights here, wedded to honor and the sport of arms. I have devised a game that will amuse you, sirs, a custom I follow in the name of chivalry." He smiled. "All my guests are my prisoners till I set them free. They must fight for their freedom, in single combat with me."
Lucan's hand flew to his side and he furiously cursed the absence of his sword. "You'll hold us to ransom?"
"No, no!" Sir Turquin laughed openly, showing his teeth. "Let others trade bodies for gold, that doesn't interest me." His odd eyes rolled, and he spread his hands. "Prowess, lords, that's the only thing."
Gawain knuckled his eyes and tried to clear his head. Gods above, if only he hadn't had so much to drink!
"So you challenge one of us?" A slow smile spread across the Orkney-man's face. He would take on this fight, and Sir Turquin would regret the day he was born.
"Gawain—" Kay began warningly.
But Gawain did not hear. "We accept your challenge, sir!"
"Gawain, no!" Kay cried in dread. "We don't know what the challenge is!"
"Kay, one Orkneyman is worth any ten men alive!" Gawain chortled. "I'll fight him for our freedom, and beat him bloody, too!"
"Ah, Sir Gawain," sighed Sir Turquin, grinning like a death's head, "if only you could! But you are in my power, and therefore I set the terms. I choose whom to fight—and my choice is not you." His eyes left Gawain, and alighted o
n the weakest man in the hall. "I choose Sir Kay."
Kay gagged with fear. "What?" He looked at Sir Turquin's knights, their mailed bodies planted as if for attack, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Some were grinning openly, others were simply bored, and he could see they had watched this scene many times before.
"What's going on?" Gawain's mouth fell open. He looked around in bafflement and his small eyes sharpened in a sudden glare.
"You only fight battles you can win?" Lucan stared at Turquin with undisguised contempt. "And this is your prowess?"
"Yes, indeed, sir," Turquin agreed. "In honor of the great fellowship where one day I will sit."
Bedivere gasped. "At the Round Table?"
"Yes, indeed." Turquin smiled again. "You are its heroes now. But I am readying myself to take your place."
"By treachery?" Bedivere choked, wishing in despair he had not given up his sword.
Sir Turquin laughed and stroked his pointed nose. "By chivalry," he said patiently, as if to a child. "First I'll defeat the knight I can dispatch, then imprison the rest of you till I can beat you, too."
"You'd fight us at our weakest," scoffed Lucan, "and call it knighthood?"
"Prowess, sir," came the gentle correction. "Every knight must build his reputation by the sport of arms."
Kay could take no more. "Hold your tongue, sir," he snapped, "if I must fight you, tomorrow you shall have your sport. But we've heard enough from you for one day!"
"Now, Kay," Gawain chided thickly, "don't be unchivalrous." The great fair head wagged drunkenly from side to side. "Our host makes the challenge, so he has the right to set the terms."
Three pairs of eyes turned on Gawain in rage. "Gawain—" threatened Lucan.
"No, no, it's what d'you call it? Prowess?" Gawain protested loudly. He reached for his goblet, took a deep swig of his wine, then stumbled to his feet. His left hand fumbled around his body, reaching into his breeches to scratch himself as unselfconsciously as a child. "A toast!" he brayed. "A toast!"
"Gawain, sit down!" Kay yelped in a blind rage. He could see the knights around the wall nudging each other and sniggering, and he smarted with shame.
"Iss all right, Kay," Gawain mumbled, closing his eyes. "Our host's a man of honor an' a true knight." He waved his goblet at Sir Turquin and swayed dangerously. "Sir, lemme shake your hand."
Sir Turquin gave a scornful laugh and held up his hand in reproof. "Sir Gawain, you're in no fit state—"
"No, no, man of honor." Gawain set down his goblet, lunged forward, and grabbed Turquin's hand. "Shake," he mouthed.
"What—?" The next moment Turquin found himself jerked forward violently as Gawain pinned his arm to the table, and with his free hand sank the point of a dagger behind Turquin's ear.
"Where's your prowess now?" the big knight exulted in a voice suddenly not drunken at all. "It's all over, Turquin—-give up your challenge, or die!"
Turning, Kay saw Turquin's knights spring into horrified action, swords in hand. "Drop your weapons, all of you," he shouted, "or your lord dies!"
The leading knight hesitated. "My lord?" he appealed at last.
Turquin swiveled his ill-matched eyes, dumb with shock.
"He dies!" Gawain sang out joyfully. The battle cry of the Orkneys rang in his ears. He pushed Turquin's head down on the table and twisted the knife.
"Drop your swords!" came a shriek from the prostrate form.
One by one the knights' weapons fell to the ground. Lucan and Bedivere leapt to their feet and gathered them up. Exuberantly Gawain jabbed the dagger into Turquin's neck and grinned to see the bright spout of blood.
"Make your choice, villain!" he cried. "What is it—yield, or die?"
There was an endless pause. Then it came, like a dying gasp. "I yield."
Almost regretfully, Gawain lowered his dagger. Lucan and Bedivere seized Turquin by the arms and heaved him to his feet. Turquin's face was twisted with rage, and his unmatched eyes were spinning like wheels of fire.
"Well, sirs," he gasped. "You have beaten me." Breathing deeply, he struggled to find a normal voice. "The terms of my challenge are fulfilled. You are free to go."
There was a pause. "Alas, sir, no," came Bedivere's quiet voice. "You are no longer lord of Castle Malheur. It is Gawain's now, by the fortunes of war."
"And I yield it to the King," Gawain cried.
Kay nodded, a flush of wonder filling his sallow face. Gods above, Gawain had done well! He turned to face Turquin's knights. "From now on, you are knights of King Arthur and owe your duty to him."
"At the Round Table?" breathed the leader openmouthed, a world of new visions dancing before his eyes.
"Perhaps, in time." Kay waved him away. "Lead your men to Camelot to swear allegiance to the King and Queen."
"Yes, sir!" He knelt to kiss Kay's hand, then, with a word of command, led the knights from the hall.
Kay turned back to Sir Turquin. "You'll spend the night with us, under armed guard. Tomorrow you will go to King Arthur, too, and submit yourself to judgment at the King's hands." He looked at the tortured face, and felt his pity stir. "He and Queen Guenevere have sworn to rid the land of rogue knights. But if you truly wish to learn chivalry, you may find it there."
Lucan turned to Gawain. "And in the meantime, my friend," he said admiringly, clapping the big knight on the back, "you can tell us how you did it. I thought you were drunk!"
Gawain laughed. "No more than usual," he said magnanimously. "And never too drunk to take an insult to the Round Table lying down."
"But the dagger," Bedivere puzzled. "They unarmed us when we came in. Where did that come from?"
Kay looked fondly at Gawain. "You had it up your sleeve."
"Ah, Kay," roared Gawain gleefully. "Never ask an Orkneyman where he keeps his secret weapon—in the name of chivalry!"
Chapter 30
"Lady, lady—"
Farewell, she had said.
Again and again he heard her voice ringing over the headland, and knew that she had put her heart into that parting cry.
Farewell.
There was no way back for him to the Western Isle.
All he could do was hope to forget—not Isolde herself, but the worst of the pain. On the voyage back, he kept to his cabin while his wounds healed, and the captain, a decent man, left him alone. The cliffs of Cornwall greeted him through veils of mist and rain, and there was a melancholy comfort in coming home. But there was no home for him till he could lay his head on Isolde's breast.
Lying in his chamber in Castle Dore, Tristan gazed out on a November landscape as drear as his hopes. Like the gray, sunless dawn, everything was dead to him now. Even Cornwall, once loved as much as his own land of Lyonesse, was drab and meaningless, a foreign place. He thought of the Western Isle and his sorrow welled up afresh. To be in Ireland now with the woman of the dream…
But she does not dream of you, came his inner voice.
She could! he protested vainly, soul in hand.
Once, perhaps. Not now.
Goddess, Mother, just to hold her, to rest in her arms! Grief as sharp as elf arrows struck him to the heart. Farewell, she had said, and You are nothing to me now.He would never touch her, kiss her, see her bright eyes again. He leapt to his feet, every breath a torment to his aching soul. The spacious chamber Mark had furnished for him felt like a cell. The warm loam-colored walls, the beeswax-scented boards, the fire laid ready on the hearth all mocked him with a comfort he could not feel. Out, he thought numbly, I must get out. He would walk or ride, he would go with the King to the hunt. He would take a turn in the tiltyard to build up his strength.
He would… he would… Tears filled his eyes.
Would he always be a poor thing now that she had gone? He stumbled toward the door, feeling his big body a burden, his whole being a barrier to his dreams. Outside the window lay a dank and wintry day. But even a wet and windy ride was better than this.
Oh, my lady—my love—
Out—he must get out—
Standing by the door were his riding boots, whip, and cloak. He had not eaten for days, and knew he should break his fast. But whatever he ate felt like dust and ashes in his mouth. Surging blindly out of his chamber, he took the nearest way to the stable yard, desperate to miss King Mark and all the court. As he rushed round a corner he saw too late the very thing that he wanted to avoid. Outside the Council Chamber he blundered into the King and his knights and lords, some also headed for the stable yard, to judge by their dress.
"Nephew!" caroled Mark, throwing wide his arms.
Tristan pulled up, a flush of embarrassment staining his face. "My lord!" he cried awkwardly, fumbling a bow.
He was suddenly aware of Sir Nabon, Sir Wisbeck, and others clustering round Mark, their expressions dark. With them stood Sir Andred, his face studiously blank.
"I was just about to send for you to the hunt!" Mark stepped forward and hugged Tristan to his chest. His moist eyes filled with tears. "By sweet Jesus, nephew, you are welcome to me."
Sir Nabon frowned and exchanged a glance with Quirian, signaling his impatience to be gone. Tristan sensed a tense and hostile atmosphere, and knew that for the barons at least, the council had not gone well. He forced a smile.
"You honor me, sire." With a sinking heart he saw Andred's dark stare turning his way. Let me go! he cried inside, I am not wanted here.
Mark peered at Tristan, dimly noting his gray face and desolate air. "Fully recovered, no? They tell me you do well in the tiltyard these days." He laughed jovially to cover his perplexity, and waved at his lords. "I'll have to send all my knights to take lessons from you!"
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