Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (10 page)

Marhaus swaggered to a halt.

"King Mark!" he cried, his eyes bright with scorn. "Is this your champion, the lad that rode in with the harp on his back?" He swiveled his gaze toward Tristan, and grinned through his open visor like a shark. "What are you doing here, boy?" He gave a jeering laugh. "Get back to your country, while you still can."

"Sir Marhaus!" Tristan grinned back, and felt an almost sexual stirring in his loins. He knew the very accents of this boast and would enjoy taking his loudmouthed opponent down. "On behalf of the King of Cornwall, I accept your challenge," he cried out. "And if I win the day, I shall spare your life."

"No quarter!" came Marhaus's harsh reply. "I fight to the death."

Tristan paused. He had not expected this. "Sir, this challenge of yours is not worth your life."

Marhaus's eyes widened in disbelief. "You will not kill!" he cried, crowing with delight.

Tristan raised his voice. "My vow of chivalry means I choose life, not death!"

"The man who has never killed is a virgin!" Marhaus taunted. "Well, boy, prepare to die."

Marhaus's mocking laughter filled the field. Behind him all his knights were chortling, too. Anger flooded Tristan's veins. "The Great Ones, sir, will be the judge of that." He gripped his sword. "Lay on!"

There was a sinister chuckle. "Have at you, then!"

Laughing, Marhaus slammed his visor down. Then he moved toward Tristan with a slow sideways gait, swinging his hissing broadsword around his head. "Come on, boy!" he called.

Already Glaeve was keening in response. Tristan brought the cold blade to his lips: Patience, brother, not yet. The next second he felt Glaeve leap in his hand as the great sword rose to meet an unforeseen attack. With a swift prayer of thanks, Tristan blocked Marhaus's vicious thrust, and furiously set himself to match the sword strokes as they came.

For Marhaus was fighting now like a wild boar, thrashing venomously to and fro. Feinting to the right, attacking from the left, he slipped his sword under Tristan's defense and pierced his side. Tristan felt the blood running down inside his armor and cursed his opponent's speed. Before long he had had his revenge, and knew that he had wounded the champion in return. But Marhaus gave no sign that he had been hurt. Doggedly Tristan struck out and renewed the assault.

On they fought, and on. Step by step the sun climbed up the sky, and began its slow descent.

Goddess, Mother, help me—

Tristan lifted his eyes to the horizon, cursed Marhaus in his heart, and prayed for the time when his youth and strength must wear his enemy down.

The day wore on. Now the trampled grass was a sea of mud and blood, and the evening shadows were lengthening over the land. Above their heads the sky was loud with ravens, and great flocks of birds were making for their roosts. Tristan's soul sickened at the iron smell of blood and he longed to lay Marhaus out on the broken earth.

Suddenly Marhaus let loose his battle cry, and leapt forward, whirling his massive sword around his head. Dazzled by the great blade flashing through the air, Tristan did not feel the dagger in Marhaus's left hand find the chink in his leg guard and bite into his thigh. Parrying Marhaus's sword stroke, he rallied his forces for a counterattack, assailing Marhaus's head and shoulders with a rain of blows. But the fire had gone out of Marhaus's attack, and he ducked away from every stroke.

Baffled, Tristan noted the change in tactics and felt a sudden fear. Why was Marhaus retreating from the battle now? Breathing deeply, he called on the woodcraft of his youth, and steadily tracked his prey all over the field. As he went, he was aware of a stinging in his thigh and he felt his body take fire. Then the heat left him and he was weak in every limb. A creeping numbness stole over him, and Glaeve's hilt felt loose in his hand. With a surge of despair, he knew he was losing his grip.

Come
—

Tristan, come
—

A thin singing reached his ears, and he knew that Glaeve was trying to rally his master's forces, calling Tristan to himself. But the wound in his thigh was a throbbing point of pain and his legs would not move. Muttering, Tristan heaved the weapon high above his head: I hear you, brother, come, be my good friend now. Struggling to hold the sword aloft, he knew this was his last blow; he would not be able to lift its weight again. As he angled the blade to strike, he felt it slipping from his nerveless grip.

In despair, he heard Marhaus laugh, and he knew that his enemy thought he was done. Triumphing, the champion made no move to finish him off, but dropped his guard and stood waiting for Tristan to fall. Like a man in a dream, Tristan lifted his eyes to see Glaeve split Marhaus's silver helmet along its seam and cleave the champion's skull.

"Darkness and devils!"

With a scream, Marhaus threw his own sword to the ground and gripped Tristan's blade in both hands to tear it out of his head. He threw it down, then stood swaying like a tree about to fall as the sun sank behind him in a pool of blood.

"Let me die standing," Tristan heard him cry. "Let me see my death!"

Tristan threw back his head and howled. "Gods above, if I could have avoided this—!"

Stumbling forward, he pushed up Marhaus's visor, and looked into the champion's empty eyes. "You need help, sir," he cried hoarsely. "Let me call your knights."

Marhaus's face was running with blood from the wound in his head.

Suddenly a raven appeared out of the darkening sky, and alighted on his shoulder with a fierce grip.

"So! The last enemy!" Marhaus gave a savage laugh. "I did not think that I would see him yet."

The champion's gaze was fixed and Tristan knew that Marhaus foresaw his death. Now he could see the hero light growing stronger around Marhaus's head as his enemy's bright eyes faded and grew dull.

"Bear me to my ship, get me back to the Western Isle," Marhaus commanded hoarsely. "The Queen's daughter will heal me, if anyone can."

"At once, sir."

Tristan turned and waved up Marhaus's knights, standing frozen in grief at the edge of the field. In silence they hurried forward and carried the champion away.

King Mark came striding up with Andred and Father Dominian. "God bless you, nephew, for this victory!"

Together they watched as the stranger knights took Marhaus on board ship, and began frantic preparations to cast off.

"So perish all our enemies," exulted King Mark. "Now I can send to King Arthur and tell him of our success. We shall not need his help, or that of his knights." He threw his arms around Tristan. "Thanks to you!"

"Sire…" Tristan felt a great deadness from head to foot. What was wrong with him?

Andred stepped forward with a broad, manly smile. "Well fought, sir."

"Now I may truly claim you as my own," cried King Mark. "Kneel, nephew, for your knighthood oath to me!"

Tristan fell to his knees. Dimly he reached for the King's proffered hand.

"Father Dominian?" Mark called.

The priest came forward, making the sign of the cross. "Sir Tristan," he intoned, "do you take the King as your liege lord? Will you honor and defend him, keep all evil from him, and treat his enemies as if they were your own?"

Tristan bowed his head. "I will."

He gripped Mark's hand and brought it to his lips. A wave of sickness broke over him, and he struggled to remain upright.

"Do you swear fealty to the King above all others, never to betray him to your dying day?"

Tristan felt a cold wind brush his cheek. "I do."

"Arise, Sir Tristan!" cried Mark in a voice full of tears. "Now you are mine till death!"

Tristan struggled to his feet, and found himself folded in the King's embrace. Taken off balance, he swayed and clutched at Mark for support.

Mark recoiled. "What is it?" he said fearfully. "Are you ill?"

"No, sire." Tristan felt a red shaft of pain shooting up his thigh. "I am overbattled, nothing more."

"It was a hard-fought fight," Andred said wonderingly, watching Tristan rocking to and fro.

Dominian eyed Tristan's pale and sweating face. "And it seems to have cost Sir Tristan more than he knows."

A dull mist swirled through Tristan's aching head. Have no fear, sire, I am well enough, he wanted to say. But something else altogether came out of his mouth.

"I pray you, lay me beside my mother," he said, and fell to the ground.

The meat was stringy and the wine was bad. Sour smoke from the smoldering fires filled the caverns of the roof, and the sweating servants were too few for the guests. On the high table, even the good-natured Arthur was inwardly rejoicing that they would stay here for only one night. But Earl Sweyn sat at Arthur's right hand, lost in delight. His grandchild, young Sweyn, was the son of a king!

And Arthur had no sons, there was no other heir. Gods above! The Earl felt like hooting and yelping with glee. Deliriously he blessed the ancestors who had dignified the name of their line, dropping the "herd," from "swineherd" and turning "swine," into "sweyn." The race of Sweyns, who had started out keeping pigs, would end as kings, and father a line of kings.

And none of this Arthur knew! The Earl hugged himself with glee. He was longing to see the King's face when the story came out. But the whole thing needed exquisite handling. It would take time, and care, and cunning to succeed.

And of course, Arthur could always have children with Guenevere, he cautioned himself, almost unnerved by the giddy visions in his head. They were still young, and many couples were slow to bring forth. But as the only child of another only child, Queen Guenevere came of poor breeding stock. And even if she had twenty sons, young Sweyn would still be the first.

Young Sweyn—soon to be royal Sweyn, for surely Arthur must make his bastard a prince, once the truth was known—the Earl laughed aloud. And the lost boy, the child without a name, would have a father at last. What a blessing Lienore had disobeyed his orders to stay out of sight!

Lienore—

He looked toward his daughter, sitting next to the Queen, nodding demurely at Guenevere's every word. Clad in a modest, well-cut gown of cornflower blue, she was the picture of innocence, and with her son at her side, of maternal devotion, too. The Earl snickered to himself. With her flawless skin and round-eyed stare, she could have sat for the Christians as an image of their Virgin and Child.

Joyfully he recalled the moment it had all changed, when he had followed her pointing finger, gasping with shock. "The King got you with child? He's the man who ravished you?"

"Not ravished, no," she said with a lascivious glint, "But he's Sweyn's father. He was the man in the tent."

"You're sure?" he had grilled her, reeling with half-formed hopes. "There were hundreds of men at the tournament."

She pointed again at Arthur's broad shoulders and massive frame. "Not as big as he was." Something indescribable fleeted across her face. "That's something I'll never forget."

What did she mean? If only he knew what had happened that dreadful day! But he'd been far too busy wooing fat knights with even fatter estates and foolish, rich old lords, and he'd been only too happy to let the girl run and play. What harm could she come to in a Gypsy tent?

Knowing his daughter, he had escorted her to the very door, well aware of all the knights and squires sniffing around. But Lienore had sharp wits as well as twitching desires, and the fortune-teller's tent had more entrances than one. All this he had learned six months later and more, when the bulge in Lienore's belly could no longer be concealed. A bastard for the Sweyns! The Earl ground his teeth, feeling again the torment of that shame. And Lienore had been locked up for the rest of her term, when she had barely redeemed herself by bringing forth a boy.

And Gods above, what a boy, big and fair, bringing a warmth, a joy never known—

To his horror, the Earl felt his eyes misting with tears and hastily redirected his attention toward his guests. At the head of the table sat the King himself, handsomely clad in royal red and blue, the great dragon of the Pendragons rampaging across his magnificent chest. On his left, Guenevere smiled round the table, radiant in a gown of white and gold. Her cloak was the misty blue of Avalon, her gold diadem trembled with crystals and pearls, and the candlelight bloomed on the moonstones at her neck and wrists.

"So, sir," Arthur asked, his clear gray eyes on Sweyn. "What is your holding here?"

He wants money, the Earl thought. Or men. "Indeed, my lord-" he gave a hopeless smile—"a few poor acres of sandy soil, fit only for goats."

Arthur searched his face. "But your lands are extensive, are they not?"

Sorrowfully the Earl shook his head. "Serfs and petty farmers who never pay their rent—alas, these wretches hold most of it, not I."

"But if you have tenants-" Arthur reached for his goblet and drained the thin red wine—"how many men can you summon to the horn?"

"The horn?" the Earl repeated, as if he had never heard the word.

"The trysting horn, my lord," said Arthur patiently. "When you call your men to war."

The Earl gave a feeble shudder. "The Sweyns have avoided war for many years."

Arthur laughed grimly. "Do you hear nothing of the world beyond Castle Sweyn? Ireland is attacking Cornwall even as we speak, and God alone knows how they are faring there. And year after year, the men from the North break like waves on our eastern shore. They ravish our women and kill all the children and men, they burn down the houses and carry off all the grain. We need men and money to keep these sea wolves at bay."

Guenevere leaned forward, a thousand lights from the candles shining in her eyes. "And that's not all," she said earnestly. "We want to make the land safe from rogue knights and outlaws here at home. But the lords who should help us are often selfish and cruel themselves."

With this remark came a look that Earl Sweyn chose to ignore. "We have suffered, too," he said loudly, working himself up into a state of complaint. "Three bad harvests in a row, then the plague last spring carried off half my men. All I have left are cripples and ancients who can barely lift a hoe—"