Isolde

by Isolde (v1. 1) [html]

  "Good lads! Now off you go." A smiling Brangwain pressed silver into their hands and ushered them out.

  Tristan watched them all disappear and bowed to Isolde again. "Farewell."

  "A moment, sir." Isolde snapped. She signaled to Brangwain.

  The maid crossed to the nearest box and opened it. Inside the box lay two objects wrapped in silk, one above the other, carefully cushioned in fine straw.

  Tristan froze. A faint sound wove its way into the room, two high voices calling in ethereal harmony. Isolde nodded. She could see at once he knew what they were.

  "Glaeve?" he said in disbelief. "And my harp?" Tears started to his eyes.

  She stared at him. "Did you think we'd keep them? We're not savages in Ireland, sir!"

  The soft, sweet sound grew higher and more intense. Hidden in their veils of silk, the two treasured objects were crying out for his hand.

  Isolde struggled for breath.

  The touch of his hand—

  Oh, the feel of him—

  And I am married to the land.

  "Well, there they are, sir." She turned away. "You are free to go."

  Behind them, Brangwain was moving quietly about the cabin, unpacking boxes and bundles and clearing the floor. The silence was broken by a sudden stir and running feet on the boards overhead.

  "Cast off, there! Hoist the mizzen!" came the captain's cry. Groaning, the ship left the dock and slipped into the swift pull of the tide.

  "No holding her, sir!" hollered the first mate. "Running fair and free."

  "Into the sunset, then, mister," the captain sang back. "Let her go!"

  "Aye, aye, sir! All the way home!"

  Tristan looked up. Isolde's eyes were huge, blind pools. Her mouth had lost its shape, and her fingers were pulling her skirt.

  "Leave us, Brangwain," he said quietly.

  The maid gave one startled glance, then vanished through the door.

  Isolde looked around. Her mind felt like lead. Where's Brangwain?

  He stepped forward, all his coldness gone. "Why are you making this marriage?" he said earnestly.

  "You—you dare to challenge me?" Her anger flared. "When you lied to me—deceived me—led me astray—"

  To her horror, her voice cracked and broke.

  But he held her gaze and his steadfast voice went on. "I do not excuse the lies I told to you. But I never planned to deceive you, or even to come here at all." He gave a grim smile. "I passed out after fighting Sir Marhaus, and came around to find myself in the stronghold of his Queen. I was half dead, and in the hands of my mortal enemy. I woke up with a false name, and all I could do was live by it, or die."

  Goddess, Mother, yes—

  With a pang she saw him lying injured on the bed, his suffering eyes casting wildly round the room, his sheets soaked with sweat as he fought to move his limbs. Waking in the arms of the enemy, too weak to move—he must have been in terror for his life. She felt a creeping shame. And I blamed him for that? What would I have done?

  "And then you and I—" He paused and cleared his throat. "You— we—we rode out together and became friends."

  Friends? she pondered. Was that it? A great dreariness seized her. No. More, much more. I thought you were my true love and my knight.

  "More than friends," he said in the same low, earnest voice. "So I ask you again—why are you marrying King Mark?"

  Fury cracked her indifference, and stung her to retort. "Tell me why I should not!"

  She saw him take a long breath. "The King is marrying only because his barons are insisting that he take a queen," he said at last. "So he needs to be married, but he does not want a wife."

  He does not want me? "But he must want a child!"

  "That, too, is more his barons' idea than his own. As far as Mark's concerned, he has an heir." He laughed harshly. "He has two. You'll meet my cousin Andred, his brother's son. And I stand before Andred in the Mother-right."

  Isolde felt the ground shifting beneath her feet. "This is a dynastic alliance," she said stoutly, "to secure peace."

  Tristan gave an irritated laugh. "Our King will not attack Ireland! And would your Queen be tempted to challenge Cornwall again?" His face darkened with scorn. "I do not think so, Princess."

  In spite of herself, she rose to meet his ire.

  "Princess indeed, sir," she spat, "and a princess must marry, too. The King of Cornwall is a good match for me." She thrust her chin in the air. "And I have no doubt that he will love and respect me in time—that we will come to an understanding as man and wife—"

  "Goddess, Mother!" he muttered. He knew there was no way to soften this. "King Mark has a mistress," he said brutally. "She cares for all such needs."

  Isolde froze. "Who is she?"

  "The wife of one of his barons. She is the leading lady of the court." The Lady Elva's long white face and virulent black stare came into his mind, and a new fear was born. "She will be jealous of you. She will hate you for supplanting her."

  Jealousy, hate, and another faithless man—

  Palomides, Tristan, Mark—Goddess, Mother, is there no man in the world I can call my own?

  "Gods above," she burst out. And I never thought of this? She raged round the cabin in a spasm of self-hate. "I thought—" Gods above, how could I be so rash—so blind? For the first time, she turned and looked him in the eye. "I thought—no, it was madness—I did not think!"

  "Oh, lady," he groaned, "this is all my blindness, my evil doing, my stupidity."

  She had never seen anything as deep and dark as his eyes. "I don't understand." She felt a growing dread. "What did you do?"

  "Lady, lady," he cried. "I betrayed you to this! I told my uncle about you—praised you to the skies. He spoke of an alliance with Ireland, and I thought he meant your mother the Queen. So I pledged him that I would win him his heart's desire." Loathing choked him, but he forced himself to go on. "I swore it on the soul of the one I love. Then I found out he wanted to marry you!"

  She felt her heart, her mind tearing at once. "And you had given him your oath?"

  He was the picture of misery. "Sworn to him as my liege lord, my King, my kin. A threefold promise I can never break."

  Horror seized her. On the soul of the one you love—you were talking about me!

  You swore to win me as his bride when you could have come back for me yourself.

  We could be sailing now as man and wife. And instead—

  Darkness covered her eyes and she felt a roaring in her head. The floor groaned and buckled beneath her feet. "Lady, lady!"

  She felt his hand beneath her elbow and his arm round her waist. He supported her across the cabin and lowered her onto the couch. Sick to her soul, she leaned back against the cushions and gave herself up to grief.

  "Hold on, lady—I'll get you something."

  She could hear him searching the cabin, muttering to himself. Then he crossed back toward her and sat down at her side. He took her hand and the cold rim of a drinking flask nudged her lips.

  "Drink this," his voice said in her ear. "Brangwain must have brought it in case you were sick."

  The scent enveloped her and she felt herself sailing high above the earth, riding the billowing clouds. Golden clearings beckoned from the heart of dark forests, tiny boats rocked sweetly on long, rolling waves, coracles of love for bodies and souls entwined. Somewhere a dark fear stirred, and a cloud like a warning hand passed over the sky. Then his voice came again. "Drink."

  She drank, and was a child at her mother's breast, then a woman feasting on her lover's mouth. She tasted sunlight and dancing, tears and eternal night. She saw into the chambers of his heart and walked with him through the caverns of his mind. His hand in hers was all the strength she sought, all she needed to sustain her life. His sorrows smote her like a sword, and his joys were the greatest she could know.

  She saw again the green ivy and trusting honeysuckle as they entwined together on the castle wall. Two lives, one love. Two bodies, one
green soul.

  So.

  It is done.

  She opened her eyes. Her head swam in a fine ether, she felt fresh and new. Tristan sat beside her, holding her hand. For the first time she saw his fine tunic of pearly leather studded with gold, his white silk shirt, his silver girdle and the gold torque of knighthood round his neck. This is not vanity, she thought. He did this for me.

  "Lady, lady—" he said brokenly.

  She pressed the flask into his hands. His beauty was too much for her to bear. "Drink."

  He took it unquestioningly, like a child. As he drank, she saw on his face all she had felt, and more. She traveled with him to the place where he began, alone in the dark wood when his mother died.

  Great tears stood in his eyes. She reached out to kiss them with her fingertips.

  "Oh—oh!" he gasped. "You're warm—"

  He took both her hands in his, and brought them to his lips. As he looked up, he gave her his soul in his eyes.

  "You are the woman of the dream," he said.

  She had waited to hear him say this from the time before time. "And you are my knight."

  She knew they had been touched by the Goddess, and would remember this trembling moment all their lives. He stretched out his hand and touched her face.

  "I love you," he said, feeling how strange and wonderful the words were in his mouth. "More than life itself."

  "And I love you." It sounded like a prayer. "More than all three worlds."

  He held her soul in his hands, and she could not breathe. His finger-tips brushed her eyes, and suddenly she was melting, dissolving, like the waters of Avalon.

  "This love will never leave us now," she wept, "neither for weal nor for woe."

  His heart was weeping, too. "Enough, lady," he said huskily. Then, kissing her tears away, he led her to the bed.

  Chapter 36

  Into the sunset, mister—running fair and free—

  His arms around her felt like coming home. His hands were firm and quiet, as they had been on the reins of his horse when they rode in the woodland in the springtime of their love. With every touch she felt her love for him wrapping itself round her heart like a briar rose, thorns and sweetness together, piercing deep down into her heart's blood.

  Deftly he parted the heavy folds of her gown. He has done this before, floated through her mind, but she did not care. Her whole body was trembling, hoping for him now. As he reared above her, his eyes, his face, flared red and gold in the sun's dying fire. Now she saw signs of his birth in the wild woodland, the blind lovelights lifting the corners of his eyes, his ears like a faun's, his strong white teeth.

  His lips were kissing away the last of her tears. "My sword is yours," he breathed, "my soul, my body are yours."

  The hot green scent of the midsummer forest rose from him, filling the wintry chamber with delight, and she caught the scent of the great roe deer in his pride. The joy of him, the unspeakable wonder of him, stopped her breath. She wanted to bury her face in his long, tangled hair, worship his bigness, take him to her soul.

  All around she could hear the roaring of the sea. Laughter coursed through her, and she took his face in her hands. Like a hungry orphan she fed on its hard planes and boundaries, rejoicing in the pricking of his stubble, his hard jaw, his full, strong lips. Kissing him, she knew that she had never dreamed of knowing his mouth as she did now.

  "Oh, my lady—my love—"

  He had never imagined how sweet she would be. Marveling, Tristan floated in the world between the worlds. All his loves of the past shrank to nothing against the loveliness that fell from Isolde like light. Watching her face as he held her, he felt every one of her quicksilver changes and basked in her gentle joy. In wonderment he traced the tiny lights glimmering on her temples, her cheekbones, at the corners of her mouth. Surely the Fair Ones had kissed her in her cradle as she slept?

  Lying in his arms she smelled sweeter than mown grass in summer, as clean and fresh as a waterfall in spring. Beneath the gloomy gown of winter green she wore a soft shift of palest lace and lawn. Trembling, he loosed its countless ribbons and ties, then shrugged out of his clothes so that they both were free.

  Naked, he could worship her body's sweet hills and hollows, the honeysuckle ripeness of her breasts, their delicate rose-pink tips and creamy skin. Her body was fuller and richer than he had dared to hope, her whole frame flushing warmly under his kiss, her breath changing as he touched the silky softness at the top of her legs.

  He gentled her for a long, loving time, and she felt the clock of life itself suspended as she waited for each caress. At last he came into her in one swift, sure move, and she cried out in pain. Then a dark glory seized her, and she gripped his flanks, drawing him deep into her as he shuddered and called to her in throes of his own. Panting, they clung together, two bodies, one soul, surging and soaring in a sightless sea.

  Had he come from the Otherworld? She had known tall men in plenty, though few as big-built as he was, with such gentleness. Other knights, too, had his nobility, and would give their lives to succor orphans and the aged and those weaker than themselves.

  But no other soul in the world burned with his special grace. She knew without knowing that the Old Ones had been with him at his birth. Drowsing, she dared to hope that She who was the Mother of them all had held his poor mother in Her arms as she labored and died.

  And now this man-child of sadness was hers to love, hers to care for and worship her whole life through. Curling into the shelter of his arms, she fell asleep.

  ~~~

  Tristan woke shivering, in a frozen dawn. The potbellied stove had gone out, and bright shards of frost spangled the portholes where last night's sun had shone. Beside him Isolde lay as golden as a dormouse at harvest, curled up in its nest. Love and terror fell on him in one blow. What have we done? What are we to do?

  Her eyes opened sleepily, as if he had spoken aloud. "We must tell the King," she said, covering a yawn.

  "Tell him what?"

  His tone was sharper than he meant, and she looked at him, huge-eyed. "The truth."

  "And shame him through all the world?" He laughed in despair at her simplicity. "The wedding's in hand and the priest is rehearsing the vows. The King's clerks will have sent to King Arthur and every other king in the islands and beyond—the Kings of France, of Gaul, of Little Britain, will be on their way to Castle Dore. Once you're married, there will be feasting and tournaments, a month of festivities at least."

  Her eyes darkened like rock pools at low tide. "I didn't know—"

  Tristan drove on. "He'll be waiting to greet you himself when the ship gets in. All the court will be there, his confessor, his advisers, his knights. And you'll tell him that the marriage is over before it's begun? That the man who won him his wife also took her away—his own nephew and sworn knight?"

  "He'd kill you," she said with bleak certainty.

  "Or I'd have to kill him. And then—" He groaned as if his soul would burst. "Then Andred and his nobles must pursue me to the death. A blood feud demands it. There is no escape."

  She threw her arms round him and hugged his head to her chest. "We could flee away!" she cried, but as she spoke, her inner voice demanded, Where?

  They were so close now that he heard her thought. "Alone, I could go. A poor knight can hope to lose himself in the world. But you were born to be a queen. Where does a queen hide her head?"

  "I'd rather be a milkmaid for your love!"

  "Queens are not milkmaids," he returned stubbornly. "The King would track us down. And queen or no, he would kill you, too."

  "What?" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Goddess, Mother, what kind of man is he?"

  "Like all men, lady," he said heavily. "Ready to kill when he's been betrayed."

  "Gods above, Tristan!" she burst out. "D'you want me to marry him?"

  "No!"

  But the thought hung between them, What else can we do? She clung to him fiercely. "Say you'll never leave me!" Yet eve
n as she said it, she knew it was a lie.

  ~~~

  They stood side by side on the topmost deck. Behind them Brangwain held herself upright against the wind and tried not to show the sorrow in her heart. One glance at Isolde had told her what had passed, even before Isolde had nodded and held out her hands, asking for whatever comfort the maid could give.

  The empty cabin itself spelled its own tale, from the still-sputtering fire Tristan had tried to light before he left, to the tangled sheets on the disordered bed. The white linen was stained with drops of red, proof positive in an enemy's hands that Isolde had given up her maidenhood in this bed and was no virgin when she came to marry the King. That at least Brangwain had swiftly taken care of, bundling the sheets into the stove to burn. But there was nothing to be done about the flask of the Queen's elixir, standing empty at the side of the couch. How was she to tell the Queen that the liquor had reached the wrong couple, and Isolde's fate was sealed? And Goddess, Mother, how was she to tell Isolde herself?

  In silence she had robed Isolde for the day. For a princess encountering a king, a bride meeting her husband, a queen-to-be greeting her future court, nothing was too good. So Brangwain had made her mistress a glory to behold, except for the wounded mouth and dream-dazzled eyes. And now the call had come, "Land ahoy!"

  Around them the wind lashed at the restless sea as a troubled dawn broke over the tortured waves. White mares crested the sighing, yearning surge and galloped feverishly toward the shore. From the sea, the long quay was almost hidden by the spray, but there was no mistaking the bright cloaks and silver mail of those waiting there. All the court seemed to be here, and the townsfolk, too. In front of the busy crowd stood the heralds in their multicolored coats, trumpets at the ready for a royal fanfare.

  "The welcome party is out in force." Tristan pointed bitterly ahead. "That's King Mark in the center, in the red," he said through chattering teeth. "My cousin Andred on the right, in royal blue."