Isolde

by Isolde (v1. 1) [html]

  "I heard you, sir." Isolde drew a breath. Try again. "And I must tell you this. I care for my own reputation as much as yours. What passes here is between us alone."

  "Good! Good! Well, I've been here long enough." Mark heaved himself to his feet. Thankfully he found his way to the door. Still time to rejoin the carousing in the Knights' Hall—boast about Cornwall invading virgin lands, conquering the Island of the West—

  And tomorrow he could hunt in the morning as he always did, any bride would want time alone to rest—

  "Farewell, sweetheart," he caroled as he clattered down the stairs. "I will leave you in peace!"

  Leave me, just leave me, sir—

  Already she knew she would know no peace that night, only a dry-eyed communion with the creatures of the dark. Screech owls and flitter-bats would be her companions now, alone and sleepless in her marriage bed.

  Chapter 40

  There is no gift but love.

  No pain, no bane, but love—

  He was at a standstill now, after raging and weeping till there were no more tears to shed. At midnight he had flung out of the palace and taken his sleepy, startled horse for a breakneck ride. Returning at dawn, exhausted and covered in mud, he dropped onto his pallet in his clothes and fell asleep.

  Or rather into a drowse, tormented by bad dreams. He saw again the tall veiled figure in the church turning its sightless head to him in reproach. You, Tristan? Isolde seemed to say. Why did you have to give me away? But why not? She had no father, no uncle, no brother to her name. He was the only one in Cornwall who knew her at all. Didn't she know he'd have to give her away?

  And again at the wedding feast—from the dais, she'd given him the same sense of her overwhelming disappointment and distress. He sweated with shame. Did I fail you, lady, did I fail?

  Of course you did, fool! You betrayed your only love! A black bat of despair flew around his head, shrieking, and he fought it off. Lay me with my mother, was his last dreaming thought. Shroud me with my true love, I shall not awake.

  But he woke in a lowering noon to see a sickly yellow sun hanging in the sky. The mud from his late-night ride had fouled his sheets, and his bed stank of horses and sweat and grief. All the fears of the small hours rose up to ambush him again.

  Mark had had her body—how many times by now? He was her husband, after all, entitled to enjoy her in bed. Any man with red blood in his veins would do all that, and more. Memories of loving Isolde himself brought new torments, new jabbing pains. Did she do for him what she did for me—did he—did they—

  His mind revolted.

  No! She loves you, not him.

  He leapt up from his bed and strode around his chamber to ward of evil thoughts. She loves you, fool! There was a little comfort in that, for short while.

  Mark could have forced her, though, if she tried to refuse. This new fear came all too soon. His uncle was certainly capable of that and more, especially if his wounded pride was at stake. Groaning, Tristan saw Mark's hand raised in anger, his powerful arms pinning Isolde down, his body bucking and driving like a stag in rut, and Isolde's fists vainly pounding his naked back. He ground his knuckles into his eyes to drive the sight away.

  But what if Mark didn't have to force her, if Isolde opened her arms to him willingly, joyfully spread her legs? More black bats came screeching around Tristan's head. Did she greet Mark with wine, perfume the chamber with fragrance, blandish him to her bed? He forced himself to go on. She wasn't a virgin any longer, after all. She had lain down with him, she could lie down again. After loving him, she might have feared a child was on the way. To make her new husband free of her body would be a perfect cover for that fear, that shame. If she gave birth after this, whose child would it be? Would he spend a lifetime bowing and scraping to a supposed son of the King, when in fact the boy was his own? How would he ever know?

  Dark thoughts attacked him like a swarm of bees. Goddess, Mother, would he ever forget the horror of the wedding feast, trapped at the knights' table under Andred's curious gaze? The constant fear of betraying himself, when he felt sure that his cousin must have noticed something amiss. The grim aftermath when Mark and Isolde had left, forced to go on drinking with the knights, glassily pretending to join in the good cheer.

  Then just as he thought he could slip away, there was Mark bouncing back into the Knights' Hall in triumph, returning from the Queen's House with his tail up like a farmyard dog. Hours then of Mark's vile boasting of his triumph between the sheets and the knights' drunken mirth, toasting the Queen's health with loud ribaldry. Mark's arm like lead round his shoulders, wine running down his chin, and his sodden insistence that Tristan drink along. His own loathing compliance, for fear of betraying himself.

  And betraying her.

  But tonight she had betrayed him with Mark.

  No! His was the first betrayal when he sold her to Mark. All the rest came from that.

  And now she was married, she was Mark's, and there was no escape. But did he have to stand by from now on and see her bedded every night? Could he even pretend to be a loyal knight to the King when he was longing every second to beat him to death?

  Time to leave court then, to take to the road. A lone knight could lose himself out in the world. He had done it before, he would gladly do it again. It was a good clean life, riding from tournament to tournament, living on his winnings, sleeping on his shield—and more than good enough for a man who had nothing else.

  On the way, then, out of this stinking sty. He cast a look at his bed. Better than stewing here like a pig in his own filth. Get cleaned up, bid farewell to her, then beg the King's leave to depart. He glanced at the sky. Half the day was wasted, blown away, gone. But still he could be miles down the road before night fell.

  ~~~

  "How are you, lady?"

  Pressing into the silent chamber, Brangwain scarcely dared ask. Many hours had passed since she had admitted the King, and not long afterward curtsied him out again. When Mark left, she had waited a long while in the antechamber in case Isolde needed her, before creeping to her own bed. Now noon had come and gone, and there was still no sound from within.

  But she had to disturb her mistress if Sir Tristan was here. Whatever had happened between her and the King, Isolde would want to be told that.

  "Good morning, madam."

  Fixing a smile on her lips, Brangwain sailed in. Isolde was sitting motionless beside the hearth. The fire was long dead and the room was dank and drear. But the still figure by the fireside was beyond feeling cold.

  Brangwain dropped to her knees with a cry. "Oh, my lady—did he-"

  A wan smile lifted Isolde's lips. "No."

  "Then—"

  Isolde nodded like a child. "I am safe for the moment."

  How safe? For how long? Brangwain bit back her thoughts. "Sir Tristan is here to see you," she said quietly. "He has come to say good-bye."

  "Good-bye?"

  Brangwain nodded. "He is leaving court."

  She stared in disbelief. "He can't!"

  "Tell him so, madam. He is waiting outside."

  Isolde sprang to her feet. "Let him in!"

  "At once."

  The door opened and closed as the maid complied. He came toward her all curled and groomed, as spruce as a bridegroom on his wedding day. The sight of him hurt her eyes—how dare he look so fine?

  And how dare he look so cold, so indifferent? Has he forgotten all we said and did? Is he glad I'm married and out of his way?

  She had no time for greetings. "In the church yesterday," she said bleakly, "by what right did you give me away?"

  He smiled grimly to himself. He could not help betraying her, it seemed. "The service requires the bride to be given away. There was no one else to do that for you."

  "Ah, your Christian rituals!" A smile of contempt twisted her pale lips. "In my faith, sir, women give themselves. We do not belong to men to be traded like sheep."

  He was in no mood for this. He could not bear
to look at her, hollow-eyed as she was from last night's exertions, marked and bruised by sex, gray from lack of sleep.

  "The King ordered it," he said shortly, glancing at the door.

  He can't even talk to me! He can't wait to get away. Her temper flared. "And do you always do what the King wants?"

  "No longer, lady," he said crisply. "I am going away."

  She had not believed it. "What?"

  "I am leaving court."

  She fought for breath. "Why?"

  "To seek tournaments and deeds of arms. No prowess is to be gained by lingering here."

  "You said there'd be tournaments here," she said madly, "a month of celebrations at least, with King Arthur and many other kings and knights."

  He gave an impatient sigh. "That much is true. King Mark has proclaimed a tournament, and they are all on their way."

  She thrust out her chin. "Are you too proud to fight in such company?"

  He felt his temper rise. "Yes, madam," he said evenly, "such company is indeed too much for me." He swept her a sudden bow. "Your Majesty will excuse me. I am going to the King—your husband—to beg leave to go."

  "Go?" she said, possessed with a terrible dread. "Go where?" Still he would not meet her eye. "Anywhere."

  "Tell me the truth," she said huskily. "Do you have to go?" He looked at her for the first time. "Does it matter?"

  "It matters to me." She stepped forward and engaged his eyes. "I have given you my love. And it will never leave me now for weal nor woe." He recoiled. "You can't mean it anymore! You're married to the King!"

  "By the rites of the Christians." She gave a bitter laugh. "Indeed, you were there. But to those who follow the Goddess, it was no marriage at all."

  He could not bear it. "Your husband the King tells a different tale." She colored as if he had struck her in the face. "So Mark has been boasting of his prowess last night? Tales of our amorous exploits are all over Castle Dore?"

  He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away, ashamed. "Yes." She flew at him like a wildcat. "And you believed him?"

  "No!" He wheeled back to face her, and met her eyes. "Yes," he mumbled, dropping his own.

  "Tristan, how could you? You know what the King is like!" She broke away from him and began to weep.

  "And I believed him!" He threw his arms in the air. "Gods above," he cried, "I have betrayed you again!"

  "After the love we shared—" She looked at him, drowning in grief. "How could you trust in him and not in me?"

  "He is my King. I have sworn him my oath."

  "When we lay together, you swore your truth to me."

  He was almost beside himself. "I have to honor him. He's my only kin!"

  She stared at him. "I thought you had a father. Is he dead?"

  He gave a high, cracked laugh. "Dead to me!"

  She sat up. "How so?"

  He clenched his fists and took a pace or two away. "When my mother died, he took another wife. She hated me, though I never did her harm. She wanted her own son to be king in my place."

  Isolde gasped. "So she—"

  "She tried to poison me. But her own son took the cup by accident and fell down dead. She was sentenced to be burned, but when they brought her to the stake, I begged my father to spare her life."

  "And he granted it?"

  Tristan nodded. "He told me I could save her from the fire. But afterward he had to take her as his wife again." His mouth twisted painfully. "So he sent me away."

  Her anger rose. "He sent you away?"

  "He sent me into France to learn deeds of arms. And that was the start of my life in chivalry." Tristan looked at her and his face began to burn. "And without that," he said intensely, "I would never have found you."

  Oh, my love—my love—

  She held out her arms and he came to her without words. She drew him down to her side and took both his hands. "I am all your kin now, and you are mine. You are my chosen one. Say you won't leave me—you won't go away!"

  "You are my lady," he said huskily. "I will not leave you now. You are the spirit I was born to serve."

  "You walked with me in the world before the worlds. I will be at your side through the worlds to come." She looked down at their hands, closely entwined. "You pledged your love to me with your mother's ring. I have not lost it. It is in a safe place, far away. One day we shall have it back again."

  He gave a broken smile. "Till you do, love, you must wear it in your heart."

  For the last time she stroked her father's ring, then drew the heavy gold band off her finger and threaded it onto his. "Wear this for me," she said.

  "I will." He brought it to his lips. "I beg you, lady, be handfast with me?"

  Her eyes filled with tears. "I will."

  They cupped their right hands together, palm to palm, then clasped their fingers firmly around each other's thumbs.

  "Fast hand, fast heart," Isolde prayed, closing her eyes. "From now on, I am yours."

  "Heartfast, handfast," Tristan echoed. "From now on, I am yours, your servant, your knight, your champion to the death."

  "Handfast, we are married now by the most ancient rite. The Goddess loves a handfast above all." She took him in her arms and kissed him on the lips. "Oh, my love—come to bed."

  Chapter 41

  Gods above, -what was Isolde thinking of?

  Pacing the antechamber, Brangwain hardly dared to ask. She was a married woman now—the only man who should be admitted to the Queen's bedchamber was the King! And Sir Tristan had been closeted with her for how long?

  The maid smiled grimly. Long enough for a very long good-bye. She crossed to the window and watched the sun sinking in a sky as yellow as bile. Madam, madam, she prayed, wringing her hands, we're not in Ireland now. Send Sir Tristan out of your chamber and out of the house! The Gods only know what will happen if you don't—

  "Holla there! Is the Queen within?"

  Brangwain froze. She did not know who was banging on the courtyard door below. But she could tell that the imperious female voice would not be denied. She heard the visitor admitted, and moments later came the loud clacking of a fashionable lady's painted wooden heels on the stairs. With an effort, Brangwain collected herself and threw open the chamber door.

  Stalking down the corridor, her head held high and her long body ramrod straight, came the Lady Elva with her maids in tow. Seeing Brangwain, she gave a glittering smile and surged past her into the chamber as if it were her own.

  "So?" she said unpleasantly, looking around. "This is your lady's chamber—her special place?"

  Brangwain looked at her, struggling to wipe her feelings from her face. Gods above, did the King's mistress ever wear anything but that vile green? And not even the sweet woodland shades of summer or spring, but mottled colors like the skin of a sick snake?

  Yet if she, of all the souls at court—if she saw Sir Tristan—knew he was here in the inner room with the Queen—

  "The Queen is indisposed," she announced trenchantly, still holding the outer door open, willing the wretched woman to leave.

  "So." Elva nosed round the room, fingering the fine hangings, staring at her long face in the mirror against the wall.

  What did she want? Scraps of gossip filtered back to Brangwain from the servants' hall. She loved King Mark, they said, laughing behind their hands. She'd give anything to be Queen. Sharpened by fear, Brangwain read the message of the furious back and interfering hands. She thinks she ought to be here—this is her place.

  "Your mistress is indisposed?" Elva gave a final twirl before settling herself elegantly in a chair. Her two maids took up their stand behind her, eyes everywhere. "She will see me, I think."

  Brangwain stared straight ahead. "She has given orders not to be disturbed."

  Elva's lips parted in a contemptuous smile. "Not even for the King?" she said silkily.

  Brangwain felt herself flush. "I don't understand, lady."

  "I am here on his orders." Elva's eyes were suddenly abla
ze. "To call on the Queen and pay my respects."

  Was it true? There was no way to know. Brangwain took a few rapid breaths. "The Queen will be sorry to miss you," she said, clasping and unclasping her hands. "I shall give her your greetings and tell her you came."

  "No need for that," Elva cocked an ear toward the inner door and gave another venomous smile. "I can hear her stirring. I'll wait till she comes out."

  Goddess, Mother—comes out with Tristan? Hanging on his arm, kissing him farewell? There were definite sounds of movement in the inner room. Brangwain's heart sank like a stone.

  Elva reached out a hand to a side table holding a copper bowl bright with winter berries and red and gold dried leaves. Beside it lay a little box of ivory, finely carved. Elva's snaky fingers pounced on it as her maids cooed with admiration in the rear.

  "Did the King give her this?" she demanded, looking up.

  Her eyes, her mouth were shot through with pain. Brangwain's heart heaved. She's jealous, she hates us, she'll do anything to ruin us now.

  Desperation sharpened Brangwain's wits. She closed the door and came forward with a knowing smile. "Oh, that and much more," she said gaily, waving her hand round the room. "He dotes on her, lady. I never saw a man so in love."

  "In love?" Shock thundered across Elva's face. "The King?"

  That's not what he's told her! Brangwain thought with savage glee. She picked up a pair of leather gloves, a present from Isolde's mother before they left. "Look at these, madam," she gushed, "lined with kidskin, and so finely stitched! He lavishes gifts on her every day."

  From the look on Elva's face, every word was poison to her ears. For a moment at least, Brangwain knew she had distracted her from the sounds of movement within. But if Isolde and Tristan came out together, drowsy with love—

  Ruthlessly Brangwain pressed her advantage home. "You should see her, lady, and you will," she cried. "Why, her skin's blooming—and her eyes, her hair—it's good for a woman to be loved the way the King loves her, every mortal inch—"

  "Hold your tongue, wretch!" Elva sprang to her feet.