At least she had Arthur, though. A sudden stab of envy pierced Isolde so sharply that she gasped. Arthur may have strayed once as a youth, but the great kindly-eyed warrior was Guenevere's for life. Whereas she… Isolde clenched her fists and willed herself to hold back her tears.
For the love between Arthur and Guenevere was hard to bear. Castle Dore was overrun now with guests, but amid all the hurly-burly, the devotion between them was plain. They sat together at dinner in the Great Hall, murmuring and smiling, sharing their every thought. Meanwhile, the man at Isolde's side boasted and drank too much, laughed too loudly, and made foolish jokes, while the man of her heart was away at the Knights' Table, nowhere to be seen. All she could do was hold her head high and smile. And smile, and smile, defying the cruel hour.
But Guenevere had noticed much and guessed more. Almost without words, Isolde found the shadows around her secret gently illuminated, and her sadness shared. With the utmost delicacy Guenevere conveyed her understanding that a man like King Mark could never be Isolde's chosen one. With a husband so hard to love, it went without saying, a woman must love elsewhere.
Nothing more was said, but Isolde's sore heart was eased. She knew from her days on Avalon that she could trust Guenevere. And Guenevere knew that a woman must always choose, and a queen must have her knights. Where the Mother-right ruled, thigh-freedom was never in doubt.
Freedom to love where she chose—
Oh, my love, my love, where are you?
Brangwain's voice sounded in her ear. "They're starting, madam!"
"Thank you, Brangwain."
The trumpeters and heralds were beginning their circuit of the field. Isolde leaned forward to watch, thankful that the loyal maid was at her back. Somewhere among the court ladies lurked the King's mistress and her coterie. Isolde shivered. She could go nowhere these days without meeting Elva's inky gaze and serpentine smile. Like Lienore in Guenevere's life, the fateful Elva would not go away.
"Hear ye!"
The sudden bray of trumpets split the air. The herald marshal strode out into the expectant hush and surveyed the crowd with an imperious eye.
"One joust for all," he bellowed, "by order of the King! A general melee, all knights admitted at once. The winner to be the knight who stands his ground and holds the field alone when all are done."
A general melee—
Oh, my love, my love—
Isolde knew at once what this would mean. In single combat, Tristan could beat any knight on the field, even three at a time. But in a general free-for-all, the best of the knights became targets for many spears. Tristan could be attacked from behind, unhorsed and trampled, even killed—
She was suddenly aware that she was making little whimpering noises of distress. She turned to see Guenevere's eyes on her, luminous with sympathy.
Guenevere leaned forward. "You fear for your knight?"
How did she know? Isolde nodded wanly. "Yes, I do."
The herald marshal split his lungs again. "The King's tournament for his marriage will begin, in honor of the Queen!" he brayed. "The winner to be acclaimed as Queen's champion, by right of his prowess. All who challenge for the Queen's favor come now into the ring!"
The great gates of the knights' enclosure swung back and the contestants poured onto the field, each furiously galloping forward to take a stand. The grassy space filled with a hundred armored figures and became a sea of flying banners, bobbing plumes, and thundering hooves.
Then a last, lone figure bounded onto the field. Both horse and rider were magnificently clad in Ireland's colors, emerald green and gold. On his sleeve the knight sported a rosette of white trefoils, the flower of the Western Isle. His silver breastplate was adorned with two fighting swans and his helmet bore a pair of swan's wings, their every feather lovingly worked in gold. Even the trappings of his horse, from the green plumes on its head to the gold threads woven into its tail, echoed his armor and declared his love.
Tristan, my own—
Isolde laughed, in spite of herself. She might have known that he would enter last, yielding up his natural advantage to give others a better chance. Already the rain-soaked field had turned to mud, and the hardiest competitors had seized the best stands around the edges of the field. Tristan, she saw, had no such options now. He was out in the center of the arena, undefended and alone.
Oh, my lord—my love—
"The Queen's champion!" roared the delighted crowd.
King Mark leaned out of the King's gallery. "Oh, clever!" he shouted gleefully. "Well done, sir!"
He turned to King Arthur. "See the Queen's colors, sire?" he boasted. "And her emblem, the fighting swans? That's my nephew, Tristan, the best knight of them all. I told him to look after my Queen—and see how he has!"
Already the melee was heaving like a living thing.
"Have at you!" Tristan cried through the thin wintry air, as he set spurs to his horse and charged into the press. With his first rush, she saw four knights cannon into one another and fall from their saddles, toppling like pins.
"Away, the Orkneys! Away, away!"
At the other end of the field, Gawain was thrashing about him, roaring like a bull. Pausing to laugh at his friend, Lucan found himself taken in the side by a knight half his size, and paid for his amusement with a heavy fall.
Goddess, Mother, my father would be proud of me!
With his back to a corner, Kay was doing better than he dared to hope. Years of knighthood training with his father, Sir Ector of Gore, could not compensate for the little knight's lack of stature, but the tactics Sir Ector had taught him were clear and sound. Ducking and weaving, Kay had kept his lance firm and straight, and marveled at how many wild enthusiasts had run onto his point. He only had to withstand the impact and their own momentum would send them flying backward off their horses, spinning through the air.
Gods above, am I learning to joust at last?
Kay was still enjoying his newfound skill as two knights charged him together and had him down.
At the heart of the melee, Tristan plunged and thrust, light spinning from Glaeve's busy point. He was the only man on the field with the strength to fight two-handed, his spear in his right hand and his sword in his left, but despite his prowess, his chivalry never failed. Time and again Isolde saw him spare a weaker opponent, or pull back from the melee to avoid spilling blood.
Now the field was beginning to thin out, and those who survived fought on in a sea of mud. The fallen knights picked themselves up and limped off with rueful groans while the riderless horses kicked up their heels and galloped blithely off the field. With her face set in a cheerful public smile, Isolde watched anxiously as Tristan began to work his way around the edge of the field where the strongest had taken their stands.
But wherever Tristan was, the melee followed him, stronger and weaker knights alike jostling to take him on. Amid the heaving throng, no one would have noticed the knight in dark armor, stalking Tristan like a shadow in the rear. But with the sixth sense of the hunter, Tristan tensed and swerved to the side, just in time to avoid a spear point from behind.
The melee parted as Tristan wheeled around and the attacker was exposed. Andred was driving toward Tristan, his spear aimed at Tristan's back. Spurring forward, Tristan bounded toward Andred, bellowing with rage. With more fury than skill, he hooked the point of his spear under Andred's breastplate and tossed the smaller knight backward over his stallion's rump. Under the eyes of the crowd, Andred hit the ground with a crash calculated to knock all the breath from his body, and lay on his back, spread-eagled in the mud.
In the King's gallery, Mark's eyes bulged like a schoolboy's, and he jeered with coarse delight.
"You asked for that, Andred," he yelled. "You tried to take him by stealth—unchivalrous, sir!"
Waving feebly, Andred raised his visor and picked himself up. His face was pale, and the silver trace of his harelip throbbed vividly as he spoke. But still a courageous smile played over his lips. He ge
stured ruefully to his battered armor and the fine silk banner trailing in the mud.
"Beaten by a better man!" he sang out.
Isolde stiffened. He hates us. Elva does, too. You don't know that, she chided herself, you have no proof. Yet why could she not believe a word Andred said?
With the other beaten warriors, Andred was making a graceful exit from the field, bowing to the cheering crowds as he left. In the center of the arena, only two great figures remained, as Tristan and Gawain held the field alone.
"Away, the Orkneys! Away, away, away!"
Yelping like a wolfhound in full cry, Gawain charged. Tristan eased toward him at a slow canter, apparently oblivious to his enemy's furious approach. Only at the last minute did he touch his spurs to his horse's sides. The willing beast gave a massive leap forward just as Gawain prepared to lunge. Tristan's lance slipped under Gawain's guard, found the center of his breastplate, and dealt him a resounding blow. Unhorsed, the big knight fell heavily to the ground.
The trumpets sounded. "Sir Tristan it is! Sir Tristan!" the heralds declaimed.
"The champion! The Queen's champion!" caroled the delirious throng.
Panting, Tristan drew up below the Queen's gallery, his quivering, snorting horse throwing sweat and foam. Isolde rose to her feet to greet him, trembling with joy. He tugged off his helmet and made a formal bow.
"On behalf of the King," he proclaimed, "I lay my victory at your feet."
"On behalf of the King," Isolde cried, "I accept your triumph, sir."
"Sir Tristan—!" came an unexpected voice.
Isolde turned. Farther down the gallery, cooing like a dove and leaning seductively over the edge, was— Lienore!
The girl was almost falling out of her gown. Her pouting breasts could have kissed Tristan's startled face. Isolde stared in fury and opened her mouth to speak. But Lienore was impervious to reproof.
"Sir Tristan, you have fought well," she called, unabashed. She reached into her low-cut gown and fished out a scrap of lace. "The ladies salute you. Here's for you, sir—from us all!"
The handkerchief fluttered slowly to the ground. Tristan sat on his horse like a man of stone and Lienore's voice chimed on shamelessly as they all stood by. "Sir, I look forward to renewing our acquaintance today. Call on me to honor the Queen's champion as he deserves." Her acquaintance with Tristan? What did the trollop mean? This is too much! With smiling calm, Isolde moved forward to take charge.
"Sir Tristan, go with the blessing of us all!" she cried as warmly as she could. "The Queen accepts your championship with grateful pride!"
~~~
Hours passed before she could talk to Tristan alone. The evening came on with feasting in the Great Hall, then long hours of dancing and talk as the fires roared up the chimneys and the candles burned down. She saw him passing by many times, meeting former friends from foreign tournaments, or conversing with Sir Nabon and the lords. Sometimes he was speaking with court ladies, though never, as far as she could see, with Lienore. She herself was constantly with King Mark, as Mark attended on the High King and Queen.
At last she drew aside for a moment, drawing breath in an alcove of the Great Hall with the faithful Brangwain.
"It's late, Brangwain," she said. "Time for bed?"
"Madam?"
They had not heard him come. She forgave his cold and formal bow as he stepped in—even at this hour, the court was still awake, the musicians played on, there were prying eyes.
"Sir Tristan." She nodded formally. "You are welcome here."
He moved toward her, turning his face away. She could smell his manhood scent, musky and strong. Why didn't he speak?
"The Lady Lienore—" she heard him say.
"Tell me," she said.
Staring out at the dancers, he addressed her from the side of his mouth. "Whatever she said, I never knew her before."
He's lying! flashed madly into her mind.
"Never?" she said graciously, keeping up her public smile. "She claimed acquaintance with you."
"Not as you'd call it—"
"Oh, sir—"
Isolde's smile grew sweeter, and she acknowledged in passing a departing courtier's bow. "What would you call it, then?"
He shook his head. "On my oath as a knight—"
Wild fears flooded her. He knew her before, and he loves her still. He will go to her quarters tonight, while I'm in the Queen's House alone—
The smoke from the candelabra stung her eyes. "What?"
He was very pale. "I may not tell you."
"May not?" she hissed.
"Lady, I have sworn an oath of chivalry—"
"And you have sworn a deeper oath to me!" Suddenly she was beside herself. "Tell me what you mean, or leave me at once!"
Stepping forward, he dropped to one knee, and began a muttered tale. She watched as his color changed to an unhappy red, then back to a pallor again.
"I have broken my oath as a knight to tell you this," he said with dull fury at the end. "I swore to myself that I would not breathe a word. But that is how I know the Lady Lienore."
So that is how you know the Lady Lienore.
Isolde could not help herself. "Sir—"
She was laughing, a rich, full-throated, gurgling sound. Tristan raised his head.
"Lady, what?" The last thing he expected was this.
She was staring at him strangely, smiling down at him.
"Would you say that again," she inquired, with light he did not know dancing in her eyes. "Tell the King all you just told me?"
He started. "Tell it to Mark? Why would he want to know?"
"No, no." She shook her head with the same mysterious delight. "Tell the High King. King Arthur himself."
Chapter 45
The next day dawned with a rank December chill. A weeping mist rolled in from the sea, and all Castle Dore shivered in its sad embrace. But Isolde awoke with a wicked grin in her heart. There is justice. And there is faith and truth.
She sent to Guenevere as soon as it was light. The little page was soon back with beads of mist shining in his hair. The Queen would see them in the Guest House at once. Before long she was crossing the courtyard with Tristan at her side.
They had hardly spoken, and she could see he had not slept. He hated this, she knew. But as she stole a look at his face through the white, writhing fog, she knew he would not fail.
The best apartment in the Guest House had been given to the High King and Queen. The low audience chamber was newly furnished, its walls as white as a fresh fall of snow, its satin floors scenting the air with the golden smell of beeswax and summer in its prime. Copper pots full of berries brightened the wintry rooms, and a sea-coal fire burned with a cheerful flame. Isolde stepped in with a steady heart. Yes, this is right. This is what we should do.
At the end of the room, a grave-faced Arthur sat on a low dais beside Guenevere, with the four companion knights standing at his side. Across from them, Isolde saw with an unpleasant sensation, were Lienore and her hard-faced father, Earl Sweyn. She drew a deep breath. What else had she expected? Sooner or later they would have to know.
King Arthur leaned forward, beckoning them to approach.
"Welcome to you both," he said in a troubled voice. "My Queen tells me you have knowledge to share with us." He gestured earnestly to the
Sweyns standing at his side. "I invited the Earl and his daughter to be here because this concerns them, too. You all know each other, I think."
"We do, sire," cried the Earl fulsomely, grinning like a rat. Isolde could see he was ready to jump out of his skin with delight. At last, said his nods and smiles, a reliable witness who will confirm all Lienore said!
Arthur turned back to Tristan. "You were at the tournament in question, eight years ago?"
Tristan bowed stiffly. "Sire, I was, though not yet as a knight. The lord I served then was fighting at the tournament, and I followed the crowd to the fortune-teller's tent."
"What?" Kay twitched with exc
itement. "You saw us there?"
"I saw all of you." He laughed self-consciously. "I was only a squire. You would not have noticed me."
Arthur nodded gravely, and indicated Lienore with the utmost courtesy. "But you saw this lady," Tristan colored. "I did."
He made a confused bow toward Lienore. "I saw everything," he said stoutly. Only Isolde could hear the reluctance in his voice. "There was a great crowd of people in the tent. The Gypsies had partitioned it with hangings to make different rooms. Knights and ladies were meeting and talking in the main part, while the Gypsy women sang and danced and sold them ale."
"What else?" demanded Arthur hoarsely.
"The tent was dark, even though it was midday," Tristan went on with difficulty, at a loss to describe the rich silk hangings shutting out the daylight, the strange lamps here and there, the shining, scented gloom. "But there were braziers giving some light and making sweet fumes. One by one, those who wanted to have their fortunes told were taken off to another part of the tent. And from time to time I saw a knight give a Gypsy some money, and lead a lady away."
"Aha!"
Earl Sweyn strutted forward, flourishing like a barnyard cock. He paused, holding them hostage to the moment, savoring his power. "So you saw my daughter leave, escorted by the King."
"Alas!" Arthur muttered. He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand. Guenevere straightened her back and changed color as she braced herself for what was to come.
Isolde stared at Tristan and briefly caught his eye. Go on.
He cleared his throat. "No, sir."
There was a stunned silence.
Earl Sweyn turned a livid shade of gray. "No? You're lying!" he shouted, fumbling for his sword. "Someone's paid you to deny it! I'll make you say who it is!"
Guenevere half rose from her throne. Beside her Arthur was staring like a man in a dream. "My lord," she cried angrily, "remember where you are!"
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