Brangwain stared at the frozen face. "For Cornwall, madam?"
"To marry the King."
Brangwain suppressed a gasp. "You would do this?"
"It is decided." Isolde's voice was cold.
The maid was stupefied. "You will marry the King?"
Isolde fixed her with a frozen eye. "It is not what you'd think. We don't follow the Man-God from the East, so I won't have to grovel to my husband and promise to obey him as Christians do. King Mark holds his lands as a vassal of Queen Igraine, and as long as I can follow the Mother-right, I can be my own woman in Cornwall just as I am here. And besides"—she paused indifferently—"I can always come back to Ireland whenever I like."
She has no idea what marriage means, thought Brangwain, whose own lively sense of the blessed state had kept her firmly single all her life. If you love your husband, you won't want to leave. And if you don't, he'll do all in his power to force you to stay.
"Indeed, lady," said Brangwain unhappily, "it's true that Ireland will always be your home. But marriage?"
"Within there!"
The voice of the guard sounded at the door. Brangwain hastened to open it, and returned, veiling the hope in her eyes. "It's the knight from Cornwall, madam. Sir Tristan has heard your decision and begs an audience with you."
Isolde waved a hand. "I will not see him."
"But, my lady—"
Isolde did not hear. "I will make this marriage, tell him that. And Cornwall and Ireland will be allies for all time." She stared out of the window at the grey veils of fog blotting out the horizon and making the whole world one.
My country—
The land—
Whatever the future, whatever her false knight had done, the island was hers, both now and evermore. Its dark earth was her flesh, its shining waters flowed through her every vein, its seas fed her soul. Its trees were her sisters, its hills her brothers, its waves her playfellows, its people and their shy, tousled children her closest kin. Gods and heroes chose this place as their home, and we petty mortals are blessed to call it ours.
In the darkest place of her soul, she made a vow. Western Isle, sacred isle, land of Erin, home—from now on, you must be lover and mother, tutor and nurse to me. I will never love again, now this love is dead. I will guide my steps by you, and you will lead me to the light.
Later she was to think, How could I have been so blind—so uncaring—thoughtless—willful—rash?
But she was young then and drunk with sorrow, and it was nothing to her to throw her life away.
Chapter 34
There were many good things about being one hundred years old. Or two hundred, or three, whatever she told them she was.
The wizened creature in the chair folded her papery hands and grinned. In truth, she had no idea how old she was. When she was born, no one around her could count. But she knew she was older than anyone else alive. And old enough for them all to fear a woman who could not die.
The old woman closed her lizard eyes and smiled. In truth, that was the best of her tricks, convincing the people that her powers could defy time. And when the Dark Lord came for her, as she knew he must, they would all still believe that her spirit lived on, and would go on obeying her teachings as they did now. Then indeed she would have cheated death.
Which would come whenever the Dark Lord decreed. And it could not be long. Her body had wasted till she was now more cricket than woman, a crooked thing of leathery skin stretched over fragile bones. Her wrinkled skull had long ago shed its hair, and she could not remember what it was to have teeth. Even her eyebrows and eyelashes had vanished and she knew she looked like a monstrous baby, ancient yet newborn.
But as close to the grave as she was, life could still be good. There were many worse things than to sit by a fire like this, holding out her hands and drawing the warmth of the flames into her crumbling bones. The darkness in the cavern was good, too, because her old eyes could pierce the gloom, though for decades now she had told them she was blind. Even better was to be cared for in the hardest of winters when others starved, and carried everywhere so that her feet never touched the ground. Best of all was to have outlived every other wise woman on the island, and become the Nain, the one who held power from the Mother Herself and was the mother of every soul alive.
She grinned again. She loved being the Nain. The Nain smiled upon marriages, or divorced warring couples with a frown. She gave babies to childless women and revived flagging unions with the help of a range of liquors to arouse the weakest spouse.
That was life. The Nain dealt in death, too. She blinked indifferently.
You conceived a child while your husband was away?
Take this.
You thought your moon times were over and childbearing done?
Take that.
She never hesitated to give these unwilling mothers a draft of the liquor that meant death for the child. Far better an instant passage to the Otherworld than life as the family dog, beaten and cursed. And if the child still insisted on being born, it was the Nain who unflinchingly drew the newborn from the womb and plunged it face down in the birthing box before it could draw breath.
The Nain grunted. The fine ashes of the birthing box were an easy delivery from life compared with some. And once it slipped its earthly shell, every soul was free to walk the astral plane and return at will. As she would very soon.
But till then—
She leered out into the cave. On the other side of the fire, three old women dozed and muttered, their heads drooping like dead flowers awaiting winter's scythe. The Nain stared and blinked her eyes. As they felt her cold milky gaze, the three helpers twitched and mumbled and jerked themselves awake. The Nain had heard something, they knew.
And here it came again, a faraway rustling high above. Soon they could hear rapid footsteps and frantic, frothing silks, feel the troubled soul forging its turbulent way till a wavering swan light loomed up out of the dark. Behind it stood the Queen, panting with haste. She set down the swan lamp and advanced, holding out her hands.
"Help me, Nain," she implored. "Isolde is sailing to Cornwall to marry the King. The first time a woman lies down with a man, it should be one her heart longs for and adores. Or else the dark stranger at Beltain, when the fires call through the darkness and all the world sings."
She shivered, besieged by hot memories of a wide hillside dotted with points of flame, warm shadows, beds of bracken, and the night vibrating with dancing and drumming and lovers' moans. How often had she turned aside herself, ravished by a wild beauty, to lie with a man of no country, tall and shining in the night? It stabbed her to the heart that her own flesh, her daughter, would never know such bliss.
"She'll have to lie down with a man she does not love. But she might! She still could," the Queen cried feverishly, "if you'll help her now."
The Nain glimmered at her. Yes, a woman's first lying down should indeed be the first of the three joys the Mother gave to women, the bliss of love, the fulfillment of children, and the satisfaction of a life well lived.
"Can you do it, Nain?" The Queen brought her hands together in prayer. "A drink to make her love her husband and forget the man of her heart?"
"You want an elixir—a distillation of desire?" The Nain bared her gums in a smile of assent. Already her three crones were moving round the cave. One assembled a metal tripod over the fire, the second hung a small cauldron on it, while the third unerringly sorted through a tangle of pink, red, and tumescent purple flowers.
"Weeping-heart," she chanted, tossing them into the pot. "Love-lies-bleeding, marry-me-quick."
Her sister crone approached with a deep glass of ruby liquid pulsing with inner light. "The souls of red roses," she intoned, "distilled from the desert sands—attar of the heart of a princess of Araby, who died because her lover was hated by her kin." Chanting, she poured it into the cauldron to cover the flowers.
The third came forward with a flagon of red wine. "The soul of the grape, to
make the best drink these lovers ever had."
Chanting, the three old ones went to and fro. Strange roots and fragments of bone, bitter herbs and aromatic gums, powders of haunting fragrance and drops of nameless liquor found their way into the pot. Over a slow flame, the contents swelled to a low, rolling boil, and the smell of rising heat filled the air.
The chant went on. The Queen pressed her fingers to her temples and a drugged and dreamy look passed over her face.
Yesss—
In all her years of making earth magic, she had never found a man who excited her as Tolen did now. He did not know how to adore her body, as Marhaus had done, nor did he care to learn. But every time he rolled off her, groaning and sweating, the touch of his hand or the sight of his narrow hips made her want him again. The very ways he satisfied her hunger left her hungering for more.
A fine frenzy gripped her. Already she could feel his hands on her breasts, his head between her thighs.
"Hurry, hurry," she moaned, her eyes growing dark with desire. "There's not much time—they sail on the evening tide."
"Patience," crooned the Nain. "Sooooon—"
Now the cauldron was humming to itself in low, gurgling tones. The ruby liquid convulsed and called out in the voice of an underground sea.
Now—
Standing over the cauldron, the Nain held out her crumpled hands and began the words of power. The air throbbed and thickened, and the Queen found herself struggling to breathe as the Nain drew down all nature's force into the pulsating elements.
"Alia purim ut philaranon manag robis elter dan—"
Was the spell sounding in the cave, or inside her head? Was it even on this human plane at all? The Queen caught her breath. The force was building, building—she wanted to cry out. Suddenly the darkness of the cave was split by thunder and lightning, and a scream issued from the center of the earth. The Queen hugged herself in fear. When the power of nature was harnessed to pervert true love, the very voice of nature would protest. The Nain had indeed torn the elements apart as she made them release their secrets in her quest to counterfeit true desire.
"It is done."
The liquid in the cauldron released a plume of glassy smoke and subsided with a sigh. The Nain collapsed into the arms of two of her supporters, and was carried back to her chair. The third lifted the cauldron from the fire, carefully decanted its contents into a flask, and pressed it into the hands of the Queen.
The flask was of old red gold, with a great ruby for a stopper and thick bands of ancient rubies round its waist. The Queen clasped it to her breast and knelt before the Nain.
"Thanks to the Mother," she whispered, her tears falling like rain.
"Thank yourself," the Nain said in her worn-out voice. "For giving your daughter Isolde what she deserves. Thanks to you, she will know the love of a man—a love greater than you and she can dream. Whoever drinks this drink will share a lifelong faith and truth. Hatred will never part them, and their love will never die." Her voice rose to an eldritch scream and she closed her eyes. "Either shall love the other all the days of their lives!"
"Bless you, bless you, bless you!"
Weeping, the Queen took a pearl ring from her finger and pressed it onto the Nain. Then she hastened from the cave.
Hurry, hurry—up to the world above—
The tide is rising—they'll be taking ship soon—
"Brangwain!"
She found the maid in her own chamber, packing her effects for the voyage. Seeing the maid standing amid heaps of boxes and hampers, the Queen checked her impetuous rush and drew back.
"Oh, Brangwain," she said sorrowfully, "what have we done?"
Brangwain's black eyes crackled with fire. Madam, you began all this when you let your love for Sir Marhaus defeat your duty to the land, her dark gaze said louder than any words. But too late for reproaches now.
She dropped the Queen a cold curtsy. "Madam?" she said.
The Queen looked away. "I do not trust you," she muttered. "You are Merlin's kin."
"Like all the Welsh, lady." Brangwain gave a crooked smile. "It is in our blood."
The Queen held out the gold flagon, its ruby eyes gleaming dully in the evening light. "This must go with Isolde when she sails."
Brangwain eyed it warily. "What is it?"
"A cordial to compose her on her wedding day. To settle her stomach and ease her virgin pains. She must share it with her husband when he comes to her bed." The Queen paused, watching Brangwain closely. "It is a mother's gift to her daughter for her first lying down."
Brangwain hesitated. "It is a hard thing she is going to."
The Queen nodded. "And this can help her. I know you love your mistress," she said insinuatingly. "So you will not deny her that."
Brangwain made up her mind. "I'll take it, madam." She held out her hand. "For her wedding day, you say?"
"Yes! To compose her. And to keep his love all her life." The Queen thrust the flask at Brangwain. "Be sure to give it to her just as I said."
Brangwain took the heavy gold object and clasped it to her heart. "I will."
It is done as the Nain promised, thought the Queen, trembling with relief. Brangwain is as true as steel, she won't fail. When Isolde marries King Mark, she will know a love greater than she or I could dream. Together they will share a lifelong faith and truth. Hatred will never part them, and their love will never die. Dreamily she recalled the Nain's last cry: "Either shall love the other all the days of their lives!"
So rejoicing, she went out into the night. And overhead all the demons of death and destruction came to life and danced with delight at the feast of evil ahead.
Chapter 35
New life—
A new country, marriage to a stranger, another world-—
Bending her head against the bitter wind, Isolde felt for the handrail and made her way onto the ship. A thin sleet seeded the wind with pinpoints of ice and she could feel the gangplank slipping beneath her feet. Soon they must face the mountainous wintry seas, but wherever they landed, there would be no safe harbor for her. She was leaving Ireland, her mother, everything she called home. And with a man she hated and despised.
Tantris—Tristan—taunter—trickster—whatever he called himself, the man she had never known. But whoever he was, she would never know him now.
As soon as they reached Cornwall, she decided, they would never be alone again. They would keep a dignified distance and whatever had passed between them would fade and die. She would become King Mark's wife, and everything else would be subordinated to that. As she passed these thoughts through her mind, it came to her that she did not know what marriage to King Mark would mean. But women married all the time, she could surely do it, too. She would meet her husband at the dock and be married at once. There was no turning back.
Then this springtime love for the pilgrim will he gone.
As he is gone already, and this hateful gaudy stranger come to take his place.
She could see him now, waiting for her on the deck, acting the lordly master of the ship. She watched him give the captain and crew orders to cast off, then turn with a bow to welcome her on board. As welcoming as a man can be, she thought, simmering with disgust, with a frozen sneer on his face and a distant gaze that never meets my own.
"This way, my lady."
Only the sleet in her face was icier than his tone. Bowing, he ushered her forward along the deck, and down a narrow flight of steps to the space below deck. Oddly, it was colder here than out in the wind.
Taunter—trickster—pilgrim—liar—
"Go ahead, sir."
She waved him on, squared her shoulders, and followed, her head held high. Soon I shall he alone.
The low passageway smelled of wood soaked by the sea, the tang of brine as sharp and salty as tears. Where's Brangwain? she thought querulously. Surely she's seen all the boxes on board by now?
"The Queen's cabin."
Striding ahead, he threw open a door. "King Mar
k has had this fitted out for you." She was not to know that this was all Tristan's work after Mark had handed over everything to him, and he would never tell her now.
"Thank you."
She followed him over the threshold into a low spacious cabin. Rows of gleaming portholes ran along each side, all smoldering with the fiery remains of the day. The sleet had stopped and the dying sun poured its red and gold into a bright, warm boudoir, lovingly made for a queen. Beechwood tables and chairs, all bolted to the floor in case of storms, clustered against the walls, and plump sheepskin couches huddled around a blazing stove. At the back of the cabin a great bed took up an entire bulkhead, curtained and canopied in Cornwall's royal blue.
The air was fragrant with burning applewood. Did she like it? She did not seem to care. Hovering tensely, Tristan watched as Isolde moved forward and took off her wrap. Instantly he noted her mournful gown of dark winter green. Why was she making herself dull and ugly like this? In his mind he saw her again as he had known her first, riding out in a green gown like springtime, when the daffodils come.
A wild yearning seized him for the muffled figure, the long strong limbs, the cloud of fiery hair. He wanted to peel off her thick woollen wrappings, bend her rigid body till it softened into his, submit himself in turn to the tyranny of her touch. He felt her brush past him in the narrow space, and had to fight down a wave of savage desire. The next impulse was a gasp of disgust. Gods above, man, she's your uncle's promised wife!
And she hates you.
He could not keep that thought at bay. She will not want to see you or talk to you. She is only enduring this voyage till she reaches Cornwall and can bid you a frozen farewell. When you tried to see her in Ireland, how many times did she send you away without a civil word? He stifled a bitter laugh. Keep your distance, then.
He opened the door, and bowed. "Excuse me, my lady." Time to be gone.
"Be careful, there! Watch what you're doing, lads!"
Shaking the sleet from her cloak, a lean dark form blew through the door, alternately scolding and urging on the hapless boy who was struggling along in her wake with a massive trunk. Behind him came others burdened with boxes and traps, who followed him into the cabin and set down their load.
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