"Good night, sire. Good night, my lords."
"A health to the Queen!"
"And again!"
"The Queen! The Queen!" Peal after peal of cheers carried her from the hall.
The icy chill of the night would cut flesh from bone. Thankfully she gained her chamber and the comfort of a fire. She stood staring into the flames as Brangwain swiftly helped her out of her robes and wrapped her in a soft chamber gown.
"You triumphed twice today, lady, first at the ordeal, then at the feast," the maid said, her dark face flushed with pride. "You've made yourself Queen here indeed!"
"Yes," she said listlessly. It was true. Why did she feel so wan?
As ever, Brangwain picked up her mood. "I'll leave you, then, madam," she said quietly. "Send for me if you need me in the night."
"Thank you, Brangwain."
Wearily she watched the maid slip out of the door. She drifted to the window, too heartsick and weary to sleep. Where was the girl who had ridden out with Tristan on those dewy mornings in May? Gone like the green leaves of summer, years ago.
She had never felt so spent, so unhappy, so old. Her head was throbbing, and she could hardly move for pain. Stiffly she leaned her forehead against the window. Goddess, Mother, help me—where is my love?
Where? Where? mocked her reflection in the glass. She gazed out into the peace of the night. Legions of stars spangled the velvet sky, and the walled enclosure behind the Queen's House slumbered under a full moon. Thick frost-covered ivy mantled the four walls below, and all the lawns and paths were blanketed in white. The beauty, the midnight stillness, were balm to her grieving soul. She fancied she could see stars dancing on the shimmering lake of snow.
Where is my love?
She raised her eyes to the moon, aching in her soul. Then she saw a slight movement in the garden below. She looked and thought a shadow darker than the others slipped through a silver splash of moonlight between the trees.
She tensed, her senses aroused, but nothing moved. Impatient with herself, she turned away.
And there it was again, a gray shape flitting behind a bush. Softly she opened the window onto the night. The crouching figure moved as stealthily as a great cat. But this was a two-legged stalker, she was sure. So which of the human predators was on the prowl? Andred? she thrilled, or Mark? She shook her head. Neither of them would do his own dirty work.
The shadow was silently approaching the foot of the wall. She could make out the shape clearly now, a man wrapped from head to foot in gray. He was dressed like a beggar or a pilgrim but he moved like a creature of the forest, without fear. Suddenly, strangely, she was quite unafraid.
Head down, the hooded stranger stood assessing the ivy, then began to climb. The massive old creeper groaned and strained under his weight. Foot by foot, hand over hand, he found the holds he needed and made his way confidently upward like a great cat. Come to me—come—
As he reached the window, he threw back his hood. But already she knew the face that she would see. Oh—oh—oh—
He jumped up onto the sill and then down into the room. His face was pale and shadowed with fatigue. But his eyes were the eyes she had seen in her dreams and his crooked smile was the sweetest thing on earth. Whimpering, she flew into his arms. He smelled of the snowy night and the dark outside. He smelled clean and fresh, he smelled of himself, of— "Tristan!"
"Lady, lady," he soothed.
He stroked her cheek with a million tiny touches, each one food for her soul. She reached up and took his dear face between her hands. The light stubble on his jaw pricked her palms and she had never felt a more glorious thing in her life.
Kiss me, she wanted to say. But he was already lowering his wonderful head. They kissed till she was drowning, dying in his arms. She had forgotten the hardness of his lips.
Gasping, they broke apart. She found herself laughing with delight. "They told me you'd sailed away!"
He laughed softly in response. "I took a ship to throw Mark off the scent. But I paid the captain to sail only to the next bay."
Her mind was racing. "And you were the beggar who came to me at the pool!"
Tears stood in his eyes as he smiled back. "I have been beggar and pilgrim for your love."
"And a leper, too! What made you think of that?"
"I had a dream." He looked at her awkwardly. "A strange child with staring eyes came to me and told me what to do. I knew if I knocked you down then picked you up, you could swear on your oath that I had held you in my arms."
A strange child with staring eyes.
She nodded. "You know who that was?"
He stared at her. "No."
"It was Merlin—Merlin Emrys the Bard!"
"How d'you know?"
"Everyone in Ireland knows that wandering child."
He was very pale. "But why should he bother with us?"
Isolde paused. "Not for me," she said slowly. "I never met him in my life. Nor for my mother, I'm sure, though he loved her long ago." She hesitated. "If he took pains with us, it must have been because he cared about you."
Tristan shook his head. "But he doesn't know me!"
"He knew your father. And for Merlin, that would be enough." Brooding, she heard a voice on the vagrant wind. Tristan, Arthur, and myself, yes, even the great Merlin, lost boys, every one! Motherless, fatherless, nameless, and homeless, too, flying boys becoming wounded men.
"So Merlin told you to disguise yourself?"
He grinned unexpectedly, a boyish laugh lighting his whole face. "But not as a leper, lady," he said proudly. "That was my idea. I thought that was the best disguise I could get."
She shuddered. "But weren't you afraid?"
"Of catching leprosy? Yes." Tristan looked at her earnestly. "But, lady, you know I would never endanger you. The poor soul I took the bandages from had lain in the snow for days. The ground was frozen, so the lepers couldn't bury him, and I knew the cold would purify the rags."
She nodded. Everyone knew that the little creatures that caused disease could not survive the frost. Tristan was safe from infection, and she would be, too.
And here he was now, his big body calling hers with his every breath, drawing her to him with every beat of his heart. Already her skin was pricking against her shift. She came into the shelter of his cloak. "Love me?" she said.
Wordlessly he cupped his hand to her breast and kissed her again. Then he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Panting, they renewed their endless, timeless love. Then the last wave broke over their heads and brought them home.
~~~
Shivering, he awoke with the first yellow fingers of dawn. Nowadays he never knew more than the half-sleep of the hunted, the fear that kept him trapped between animal and man. Isolde was lolling against him heavily, like a child. He watched and waited, cradling her in his arms, till a sickly light was creeping up the sky. Then he steeled himself to act.
He stroked her face. "Lady?"
She opened her eyes, still windmills of desire. "Yes?" she said huskily, reaching out for him.
Gently he disengaged her arms from around his neck. "I must go."
She was instantly awake.
"Go?"
She opened her mouth to protest, but no words came. They both knew he endangered his life by being here.
He forced a cheerful smile. "Away with me, then."
She could not bear it. "Where will you go?"
"Lady—" He took her in his arms. "I can't tell you."
"What?" She pulled away in alarm. "But I must know where you are."
He groaned. "Lady, if you know that, you'll be in danger, too!"
She nodded, biting her lip. if Mark thought she knew Tristan's whereabouts, he was capable of anything to find it out. "He's declared a blood feud against you, did you know that?"
"No." He paused, brooding. "But I knew he would." He was suddenly alert. Gowned like a beggar, he did not even have a sword. All the more reason to go!
He leapt from the bed, shrugging on his clothes. The fire had gone out and the room was as cold as the grave. Isolde jumped up and wrapped herself in her chamber gown. Haplessly she trailed him across the room.
He was at the window now, throwing open the casement, looking for a safe way down. She could see he was already miles away in his head.
Don't leave me!
"I—" she began hopelessly, then shook her head. There was nothing to say.
He turned back and folded her into him, tucking her quivering head beneath his chin.
"Never forget I love you," he said tenderly. "Wherever I am, I shall be thinking of you. Wherever you are we are one, like the sea and the land. Neither exists without the other and together they make a world."
She could not speak.
He put her gently away from him. "No tears," he whispered. "I shall return."
She looked at him through a mist of pain. "I shall be with you everywhere you go. My spirit will travel with yours every step of the way. Every evening I shall light a candle with the evening star. Whenever you want me, call me and my soul will come to you."
The draft from the open window chilled her to the core. He chafed her icy hands and brought them to his lips. "I shall see you again, my love. Till then, keep faith."
The cold air of farewell swirled round them both. She closed her eyes for a last famished kiss, and when she opened them again, he was gone.
Chapter 53
All winter long, the sea howled round the shore. The land lay locked in ice, the waves sighed and sobbed and Isolde watched and waited and kept the faith. Every day she walked by the sea and sent love thoughts flying like sea birds to bless Tristan, wherever he lay. And every twilight in the window of her chamber, she lit a candle as the love star bloomed.
The snow lay deep on the earth, stopping rivers and streams, keeping the cows pent up in the byre and the sheep in the fold. Slowly the world ran down to the death of the year and began the climb back to light and warmth. Good news! wrote Guenevere from the Summer Country and Isolde pounced on the letter as the horseman clattered in. She read it avidly, but it brought no good news for her.
I know you will rejoice with me, dear friend, when I tell you of the birth of our son, Amir. All the time I was carrying, I dreamed I was having a girl, but nothing in the world could be dearer than this royal scrap. You know his name means "Beloved" in the Old Tongue, and truly the Mother has blessed us with a marvelous child—already the image of his father, another Arthur, blue eyes, fair hair—and his hands!…
And on, and on.
Isolde threw it down and paced about the room. Guenevere a mother? At the tournament, she'd shown no sign of a child on the way. Gods above, I have lost count of time. My life is drifting past me in a dream.
Or was it the tournament itself that had brought this about? With a wistful pang she remembered Arthur's high spirits on the day they left and Guenevere's drowsy bedtime eyes at noon. The relief they shared that Arthur had not fathered Lienore's child may well have brought little Amir into the world.
Goddess, Mother, why can't I be glad for Guenevere? Is it because she has her own kingdom, her true love, and now her precious child while I have none of these?
Yet she did not feel jealous. In truth she felt nothing, all winter long.
With each day, life settled into a rhythm akin to sleep. Mark treated her with courtesy and a new respect. Dominian, too, had learned of her strength, and kept away from court. When he appeared, like Mark he looked at her with fresh eyes and a new humility. His failure with her, she could not help thinking, had been good for the little priest's soul.
Then one day came a soft wind from the west. The earth murmured and stirred, waking from its winter sleep. Isolde breathed the new sweetness in the air and saw the streams thawing and the rivers beginning to flow. Green shoots cracked the dryness of her heart and fleeting thoughts and impulses visited her in dreams. At last she awoke in a pool of warm, clear light, and knew what she had to do.
She found Mark in the King's House, calling for his knights.
"You're going to Tintagel?" He stared at her. "Then on to Ireland to visit the Queen?"
"I should call upon Queen Igraine to pay my respects. And from there I can take ship for the Western Isle. My mother must see me, she says. She has been writing to me all winter long."
"Yes, well—"
Isolde away? And for a long time, too? Mark looked ahead down a long sunlit avenue of bachelor days. His favorite hound thrust a wet nose into his palm and he saw untrammeled hours of hunting with his knights and roughing it in the forest, no more dining at the High Table next to the Queen.
Gods above! Mark's unsteady mind reeled at the visions of joy ahead. He could make Elva mistress of some quiet hunting lodge in the wood, and visit her anytime. He could have Dominian back as his confessor, now that he'd learned his lesson and was so much easier now. On feast days he could be drunk at breakfast, insensible by noon.
He could—
He could—
Standing quietly at Mark's side, Andred read his uncle's thoughts and enjoyed his own. Tristan was already done for and out of the way. With Isolde gone, too, there would be no threat from her. Mark would be his from morning to night—when not otherwise occupied in Elva's good hands--
Thoughtfully Andred stroked his upper lip. The elf mark glowed under his fingers as his mind played on. Already he could guess which of the lonely hunting lodges would be Mark's love nest, and looked ahead to safe secret hours with Elva when Mark had gone. He hid a discreet smile behind his hand. This was good. It could be very good.
Mark thought so, too. "Go with God, lady!" he cried, kissing Isolde's hand. "And don't hurry your business, return whenever you will!"
~~~
Within days she was on the road, leaving Castle Dore to the loud blessings of the townsfolk and cheery exhortations to speed her return. Sighing, she settled herself to the journey ahead. It was still early in the year for traveling, and the going was hard. The tracks were clogged with mud and the horses were slow, struggling uphill all the way. But every painful step, they heard the calling of the sea. Now as twilight came down, the great bluff of Tintagel reared up to meet them, massive and wild. Once they crested the ridge, the ancient fortification lay before them in the dusk.
Overhead, gulls fled crying to their nests, and the sky was melting down in bronze and gold. As they rested their horses at the top, the bruised scent of wild thyme rose from beneath their feet, and the red earth bloomed like passion as rich as blood. On the edge of the cliff ahead stood a castle, defended by a ring of stout walls. Beyond it, out in the bay, lay an inner castle, built on a massive rock rising above the waves, connected to the land by a fragile outcrop of stone. Washed roundabout by the sea and reached only by a flight of stone across the void, this truly was the loneliest place on earth. And this was the home of Arthur's mother, old Queen Igraine.
Slowly they wound down the hill to the outer gate.
"Here, ma'am?" cried the captain of the guard.
"Yes, soldier," Brangwain called back. "Say that Queen Isolde of Cornwall and Ireland craves an audience with their Queen."
Within minutes, the gates swung open and a mounted knight appeared in the courtyard beyond. "This way, Your Majesty. Queen Igraine will see you tonight."
The outer castle was bigger than it seemed. The knight led them through courtyard after courtyard till they reached the edge of the cliff. Ahead lay the rocky islet crowned by the Queen's castle, and the flight of stone steps leading across the gulf. In the cliff face below, the sea thundered in and out of a mighty cave. The knight followed her eyes and laughed.
"That's Merlin's cave, madam. Not that we see Lord Merlin when he comes. Queen Igraine is the only one who knows his whereabouts." He gestured ahead. "Follow me."
Night had fallen, and it was very dark. The breeze off the sea was rising to a gale. The knight's words were whipped away by the wind. "This way, lady—this way!"
She never knew how she crossed the thin ribbon of stone across the black chasm over the waves below. As she ventured out, she thought that dark things tugged at her, swooping around her head, and she heard elfin voices calling, Come! Come! The knight gave her his hand, but when the wind roared round, beating them to their knees, she gave her soul into the hands of the Great One and prepared to die.
Goddess, Mother, bring me to my love—
Did she imagine what she felt then, the warm whisperings in the heart of the storm and strong unseen hands bearing her up? But suddenly the rocky bridge felt safer beneath her feet and as she struggled on, a light glowed in the castle ahead.
At last they gained the safety of the other side. At the top of the steps was a tiny postern gate. As the knight set his hand to the latch, a wisp of memory fluttered into her mind. When Uther Pendragon fell in love with Queen Igraine, he made a bargain with Merlin to possess the Queen. The old enchanter demanded the child of the encounter as his reward, and the newborn Arthur was given to him out at a postern gate to nourish as his own.
Here then was the start of Arthur's story, the beginning of the journey that had led to Guenevere and Camelot.
Ghosts—ghosts—
The knight pushed open the gate and she drew a ragged breath. There are many ghosts in this place. Perhaps Igraine herself will prove to be a phantom, a spirit fetch. Or else my own hopes are deceiving me.
They stepped into a deserted courtyard beyond and passed through the echoing halls of a darkened house. Where she would have expected servants, torches, bright fires, there was no one to be seen. The voice of the knight sounded again and again. "This way, my lady—this way."
One hall led into another, all dark, linked by long corridors and flights of stairs. She could not count how many steps they climbed. Here and there she caught the swift scurry of feet or turned to see the benign amber gaze of a pair of small eyes shining in the gloom. Everywhere came the dull, rhythmic pounding of the surge. But nothing else stirred in the vast sea-girt house.
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