Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (23 page)

"Isolde!"

The voice came again, a rich cascade of sounds, sweet like spring water over stones, mellow like the roaring of the deep. "Draw near the fire, Isolde—draw near."

Dazzled, she looked around. In front of her burned the largest of the fires, its red-gold flames keeping time with the music of the voice. In the shadow behind it she saw a domed alcove carved out of the living rock, with a stream in full spate sighing and whispering at its feet.

Through the leaping flames she saw an oddly shaped throne and the misty shape of a woman, veiled from head to foot in Otherworldly light. Her cloak gleamed with the silver of a salmon's skin, and her filmy robes shone like the sea at night. In her right hand she held a scepter of red coral, and her left bore the ring of the Goddess, set with pearls. Pearls of moon-white, shell-pink, smoky gray, and black shone from her headdress, neck, and waist, and Isolde thought she was seeing the Great One Herself.

"No, Isolde," came the musical voice, a hint of gentle amusement in its tone. "I am only a servant of the Great One, one of the Three. The Lady of Avalon is my second sister, and the youngest is the Lady of Broceliande. I am the oldest of the sisters, indeed, I am the oldest in the world. The sea was here before all things and from its womb came life itself."

Understanding came to Isolde like the dawn. "You are the Lady of the Sea?"

The Lady inclined her head. "My sister knew you were in sorrow, and sent you to me."

"Your sister—the Lady of the Lake?" Isolde marveled. Joyous memories of Avalon flooded her brain. "You all dwell by water?"

"The way to the Otherworld lies across water, and only by water can we reach the world between the worlds." The Lady paused. "But you are a child of water, you know that." She leaned forward, and Isolde felt the full force of her unseen gaze. "Tell me, Isolde—what troubles you?"

"My country." Isolde did not hesitate. "Our land. We have made an enemy of Cornwall. What will happen to us? I have to know."

There was a silence. "Ah, little one," the Lady sighed, "is that all?"

"Yes!" Isolde trembled.
No!
thundered through her mind.

She clenched her fists. "I do not ask for myself. My mother the Queen is not…"
Not herself? Not well? What can I say
? Hopelessly she shook her head. "I don't know what to do."

"The Mother knows. That is not your concern." The sea-green draperies fluttered. "You are here to ask about your faraway love."

"He is not my love!" Isolde colored hotly and her fingers flew to Tristan's emerald ring on her hand. "No, Lady, I told you—the Queen—and the land—"

"Hear this, then." The resonant voice carried the ghost of a smile. "The Queen makes powerful earth magic with her young men. But your spirit will walk the mountains of the moon."

Isolde was entranced. "Lady, tell me how!"

The Lady rose from her throne. "Follow!"

Suddenly she was gone. Gathering up her shift, Isolde leapt over the fire and stepped across the rushing stream. Then she saw that the alcove housing the throne gave onto a fold in the rock leading through a natural archway to an unseen place beyond. From within came a pearly glow and a silence too deep for joy. Taking a breath, Isolde ventured in.

The Lady stood in a cavern of white quartz, each glittering fragment shining like a thousand stars. Her arms were outstretched as if to embrace the world, and her shapely figure swayed rhythmically from side to side. Her voice was as old as the hills.

"Look carefully, Isolde. This is your fate."

Within the circle of her outstretched arms stood an ancient altar half as old as time. On it rested four antique objects forged in massive gold.

"Look, look, Isolde," the Lady crooned. "The Hallows of the Sea—the sacred relics of our worship since time began. These are the four treasures of the Goddess, left behind by the Shining Ones for our delight." One by one the gauzy arm drifted over the treasured things. "The Cauldron of Plenty from which the Mother feeds all who come. The Loving Cup, to succor all who thirst. Her Spear of Light, to guide the way for the strong. Her Sword of Power, to champion the weak."

The Lady stirred, and the sands shifted around her feet. "These are your fate and your task. You must defend the Mother-right in the Western Isle. In doing so, you will make desperate enemies. You will need powerful moon magic to fight your cause."

Isolde brought her hands to her mouth. "Is it all dark for me, Lady, ahead?"

"We all walk in darkness. We all seek the light." Suddenly the great womb-like chamber was filled with love. "Courage and strength in life are demanded of men. Women bring wisdom and power to life's feast. The best of men and women join hand and heart to share all these and more. Then the circle contains all being and no one may break it, just as no force on earth can hold back the sea."

The best of men
—

"The pilgrim has gone." She made her voice sound strong. "I thought I loved him. I was wrong!"

"Ah, Isolde, do not speak too soon. A great and mighty love will come to you." She paused. "But at a great price. The Great Ones wrote this in the stars before you were born."

She could not bear it. "Will I have my love? Or will I have to die to be with him in the Otherworld?"

"Ah, little one, death wedded love a long time ago. But a green fire runs through your veins, and you will come at last to the land of your heart's desire."

That will be when I die.
Isolde felt her heart splitting in two. "Lady, will I ever get back to Avalon?"

"All waters run to Avalon in the end."

The cry surged up from the depths of her soul. "What must I do?"

"Watch the bubble rising in the foam. When it breaks, follow its path to the sea." She paused, and Isolde felt the great eyes shining through the veil. "My maidens will guide you back to the Dark Pool. Tomorrow you will think all this was a dream. But remember, the Mother gave you and your foremothers the sovereignty of the isle. You are married to the land."

The Lady's words hovered in the warm windless air. Isolde groaned. "When will I find peace?"

"Do right by your country, and you will find peace."

The vast brooding figure was fading before Isolde's eyes. She stretched out her arms and the emerald ring on her finger glowed with pale fire. "How will I know?"

The sonorous voice reached her faintly through the rising mist. "You will awake from your dreaming and be that which you have dreamed."

So be it!

Isolde pulled the emerald ring off her finger, kissed it, and laid it on the altar with the Hallows of the Sea.

I am married to the land. I give this to the sea
. Turning, she left the crystal chamber and did not look back.

The clearing lay open to the fading light. Reining in his horse, Kay looked at his companions and gave a triumphant grin. In the center of the grass lay a bed of ashes surrounded by a ring of blackened stones. Other traces of habitation told the same tale—the remains of a Gypsy encampment, without a doubt.

Gawain's broad face lit up. "They were here!"

"Here and gone," Lucan complained.

Gods, give me patience!
Kay suppressed a furious groan. "But we're catching up with them all the time, you know that."

"The sooner the better," said Bedivere quietly.

Kay nodded. For mile after mile they had tracked the band of Gypsies on their time-honored routes, and they were closing on them now. But unless they encountered them soon, they would have to give up. The autumn chill was beginning to bite, and soon winter would put an end to adventuring for the year, unless they wanted to freeze to death as they slept.

Even now, before they began to wake to the glitter of frost crystals mantling their blankets, a bed would be more than welcome, Kay had to admit. He was not made of rough outdoor stuff. But nothing mattered if they could find the fortune-teller and put an end to Arthur's misery. Kay's heart lurched. For a vivid moment he was back in the castle of Earl Sweyn, hearing again Lienore's smirking boast,
You fathered this child,
and watching the shadows gather around Arthur's noble head. He could not bear to see him in such pain.

So, find the Gypsies, and fast!
He caught Gawain's eye and nodded toward the path leading out of the clearing. "That way. We'll follow them till night falls."

They plunged into the forest. The day grew darker now with every step, and a dismal rain drove needle points of drizzle into their faces and clothes. Hunched into their cloaks, they did not see the swineherd at the side of the path till he bellowed, "Welcome, masters!" and tugged off his battered hood. The toothless grin split a pockmarked face and he was clothed in hairy pig hide from head to foot. His charges snuffled happily round his legs, as much a part of the woodland as the herdsman himself.

"So, churl," said Kay, wrinkling his nose at the ripe odor, "who's your lord round here?"

"It's Sir Turquin, sirs, the lord of Castle Malheur." The swineherd waved a hand. "But see for yourselves—the castle's hard by."

Warm water and a bed—Kay's spirits rose. He reached into his pouch for a coin to reward the man. "Here's for your pains."

"Sir Turquin?" puzzled Gawain as they rode away. "Have I heard that name?"

Lucan grinned. "Only rumors that he has no chivalry—that knights are lost on the road around here and never seen again."

"A rogue knight?" pondered Gawain. The blood lust of the Orkneys filled his veins. "Let's take him on, then! We're four against one."

Kay's black eyes snapped. "We're knights of King Arthur, on a mission for the King. He won't meddle with us. Ride on, I say!"

"Knights of King Arthur? We are honored, sirs. Open the gates there! Let the lords ride in."

At the castle, the warmth of the welcome more than made up for the cold journey there. Attentive servants divested them of their sodden clothes, helped them to unarm, and wrapped them in fine gowns of velvet and fur. Soon they were standing in a lofty hall with fires of oak and holly roaring on the hearths, and half a dozen knights standing around the walls.

And the man hastening toward them looked far more knight than rogue, with a jovial smile and a lean face of indeterminate age. He had the body of a man in his thirties who had lived sparingly and fought hard, and was dressed for the tiltyard, in short tunic and silver mail. Only a pair of odd and colorless eyes and an old sword wound on his forehead marred his appearance in the mellow candlelight.

"Knights of the Round Table?" He came forward eagerly, spreading wide his arms. "I am Turquin of Malheur. Welcome, welcome! Will you feast with me tonight?"

Afterward Kay could hardly remember the meal, as platter after platter of venison, pork, and duck poured through the hall, each salty broth or rich, herb-laden brawn more flavorful than the last. Four roast hogs' heads, each with an apple in its tusked mouth, glared sulfurously as their host carved for the four knights in turn. Then the jellies, the custards, the figs, the nuts, and the wine—above all, the wine, flowing in gold and ruby streams from flagons that never ran dry—Kay's head began to swim.

Across the table from Kay, seated at the right hand of their host, Gawain, too, had been freely indulging himself.

"Our thanks to you, sir!" he cried expansively, raising his goblet to Sir Turquin in a toast. "We are in your debt. Call upon us in honor, and we shall repay."

"Indeed I shall." Sir Turquin leaned forward, his thin face suddenly alive. He gestured to his men standing around the walls. "We're all knights here, wedded to honor and the sport of arms. I have devised a game that will amuse you, sirs, a custom I follow in the name of chivalry." He smiled. "All my guests are my prisoners till I set them free. They must fight for their freedom, in single combat with me."

Lucan's hand flew to his side and he furiously cursed the absence of his sword. "You'll hold us to ransom?"

"No, no!" Sir Turquin laughed openly, showing his teeth. "Let others trade bodies for gold, that doesn't interest me." His odd eyes rolled, and he spread his hands. "Prowess, lords, that's the only thing."

Gawain knuckled his eyes and tried to clear his head. Gods above, if only he hadn't had so much to drink!

"So you challenge one of us?" A slow smile spread across the Orkney-man's face. He would take on this fight, and Sir Turquin would regret the day he was born.

"Gawain—" Kay began warningly.

But Gawain did not hear. "We accept your challenge, sir!"

"Gawain, no!" Kay cried in dread. "We don't know what the challenge is!"

"Kay, one Orkneyman is worth any ten men alive!" Gawain chortled. "I'll fight him for our freedom, and beat him bloody, too!"

"Ah, Sir Gawain," sighed Sir Turquin, grinning like a death's head, "if only you could! But you are in my power, and therefore I set the terms. I choose whom to fight—and my choice is not you." His eyes left Gawain, and alighted on the weakest man in the hall. "I choose Sir Kay."

Kay gagged with fear. "What?" He looked at Sir Turquin's knights, their mailed bodies planted as if for attack, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Some were grinning openly, others were simply bored, and he could see they had watched this scene many times before.

"What's going on?" Gawain's mouth fell open. He looked around in bafflement and his small eyes sharpened in a sudden glare.

"You only fight battles you can win?" Lucan stared at Turquin with undisguised contempt. "And this is your prowess?"

"Yes, indeed, sir," Turquin agreed. "In honor of the great fellowship where one day I will sit."

Bedivere gasped. "At the Round Table?"

"Yes, indeed." Turquin smiled again. "You are its heroes now. But I am readying myself to take your place."

"By treachery?" Bedivere choked, wishing in despair he had not given up his sword.

Sir Turquin laughed and stroked his pointed nose. "By chivalry," he said patiently, as if to a child. "First I'll defeat the knight I can dispatch, then imprison the rest of you till I can beat you, too."