Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (27 page)

But Goddess, Mother, what are we to do? her dark soul demanded frantically, adrift in confusion and fear. Why was marriage with Mark the question, when Tristan was the man? She would never forget Isolde's face as Tristan spoke and could not bear to look at her daughter now. Seated like a statue at the table, Isolde was a ghost of herself, no more.

What to do? The Queen covered her eyes, if only Marhaus were here! Tolen was a perfect companion for her horizontal hours, but no match for Marhaus at any other time. But you know what Marhaus would say! she rallied herself. He'd say marry her, marry her off. Who counts here, Isolde or you? Remember who is Queen.

And would that be so bad? It would certainly be a good match, perhaps even a great one in time. The Queen's fertile mind bloomed. With a union like this, Isolde would be Queen of two kingdoms as time went by. And if Arthur and Guenevere failed to have an heir, Isolde could even become High Queen of all the Islands in their place—

But could Cornwall's King be a worthy partner for her? Frowning, the Queen tried to remember what she knew of Mark. A weakling, Marhaus had said when he wanted to attack. A cowardly knight who was afraid to fight. Yet a man could be too bold, Marhaus, she mourned. If you had been more of a coward, I would have you still. But you rushed headlong into the House of Death.

And weak? her swift mind ran on. That was a good fault in a man. With a weak husband, a woman could have her own way. Isolde could rule the King and his kingdom and take lovers where she liked, Tristan perhaps?

A glimmer as old as the world lit her midnight eyes. Yes, she thought with deep certainty, he'd be the first. And if Isolde bore him a child, who would question that? Both Ireland and Cornwall obeyed the rule of Queens. Where the Mother-right ruled, the mother was the only parent who counted.

The Queen's clouded face relaxed into a secret smile. If Isolde marries the King, she'll have husband, kingdom, lover, and children, too. The Western Isle will have another homeland across the sea, and I shall have new life—new life at last!

Tears started to her eyes and a bevy of spirit children skipped through her dreams. Yes, things might yet turn out as she had hoped, better even, the best!

She turned back to the table. Time to get rid of these gray-beards full of wind.

"—for the good of the country," she heard.

Sir Gilhan was lecturing Isolde across the green baize while she listened, pallid and staring, without a sound. "You will be Queen, lady, and a queen must marry, after all."

The Queen came forward and raised her hand. "Thank you, my lords, for your good counsel here. The Princess and I will discuss the King's offer. It is time to decide."
Time to decide
—

Isolde stirred. She knew without thinking what the Queen would say. Sir Gilhan's words, too, were coursing through her mind. A good marriage, with a ruling king—a union of equals—for the good of the country and the promise of peace. She drew a deep breath.

Remember, Isolde—you are married to the land. Do right by your country, and you will find peace.

A cold strand of comfort wrapped itself round her heart. The land would never leave her, lie or betray. And inner peace must be her only goal now.

She stuck out her chin. "Your Majesty, why delay?" She rose to her feet and spoke as coldly as she ever had in her life. "The King of Cornwall has offered for my hand. We shall tell the Cornish envoy that I accept."

The word went around the palace like lightning from mouth to mouth. Waiting in Isolde's chamber, Brangwain was the first to hear it from Isolde herself.

"Make ready, Brangwain, organize all my effects, books, papers, everything, not just my clothes. We are leaving for Cornwall. We sail on the fairest tide."

Brangwain stared at the frozen face. "For Cornwall, madam?"

"To marry the King."

Brangwain suppressed a gasp. "You would do this?"

"It is decided." Isolde's voice was cold.

The maid was stupefied. "You will marry the King?"

Isolde fixed her with a frozen eye. "It is not what you'd think. We don't follow the Man-God from the East, so I won't have to grovel to my husband and promise to obey him as Christians do. King Mark holds his lands as a vassal of Queen Igraine, and as long as I can follow the Mother-right, I can be my own woman in Cornwall just as I am here. And besides"—she paused indifferently—"I can always come back to Ireland whenever I like."

She has no idea what marriage means, thought Brangwain, whose own lively sense of the blessed state had kept her firmly single all her life. If you love your husband, you won't want to leave. And if you don't, he'll do all in his power to force you to stay.

"Indeed, lady," said Brangwain unhappily, "it's true that Ireland will always be your home. But marriage?"

"Within there!"

The voice of the guard sounded at the door. Brangwain hastened to open it, and returned, veiling the hope in her eyes. "It's the knight from Cornwall, madam. Sir Tristan has heard your decision and begs an audience with you."

Isolde waved a hand. "I will not see him."

"But, my lady—"

Isolde did not hear. "I will make this marriage, tell him that. And Cornwall and Ireland will be allies for all time." She stared out of the window at the grey veils of fog blotting out the horizon and making the whole world one.

My country
—

The land—

Whatever the future, whatever her false knight had done, the island was hers, both now and evermore. Its dark earth was her flesh, its shining waters flowed through her every vein, its seas fed her soul. Its trees were her sisters, its hills her brothers, its waves her playfellows, its people and their shy, tousled children her closest kin.
Gods and heroes chose this place as their home, and we petty mortals are blessed to call it ours
.

In the darkest place of her soul, she made a vow.
Western Isle, sacred isle, land of Erin, home
—
from now on, you must be lover and mother, tutor and nurse to me. I will never love again, now this love is dead
.
I will guide my steps by you, and you will lead me to the light
.

Later she was to think, How could I have been so blind—so uncaring—thoughtless—willful—rash?

But she was young then and drunk with sorrow, and it was nothing to her to throw her life away.

There were many good things about being one hundred years old. Or two hundred, or three, whatever she told them she was.

The wizened creature in the chair folded her papery hands and grinned. In truth, she had no idea how old she was. When she was born, no one around her could count. But she knew she was older than anyone else alive. And old enough for them all to fear a woman who could not die.

The old woman closed her lizard eyes and smiled. In truth, that was the best of her tricks, convincing the people that her powers could defy time. And when the Dark Lord came for her, as she knew he must, they would all still believe that her spirit lived on, and would go on obeying her teachings as they did now. Then indeed she would have cheated death.

Which would come whenever the Dark Lord decreed. And it could not be long. Her body had wasted till she was now more cricket than woman, a crooked thing of leathery skin stretched over fragile bones. Her wrinkled skull had long ago shed its hair, and she could not remember what it was to have teeth. Even her eyebrows and eyelashes had vanished and she knew she looked like a monstrous baby, ancient yet newborn.

But as close to the grave as she was, life could still be good. There were many worse things than to sit by a fire like this, holding out her hands and drawing the warmth of the flames into her crumbling bones. The darkness in the cavern was good, too, because her old eyes could pierce the gloom, though for decades now she had told them she was blind. Even better was to be cared for in the hardest of winters when others starved, and carried everywhere so that her feet never touched the ground. Best of all was to have outlived every other wise woman on the island, and become the Nain, the one who held power from the Mother Herself and was the mother of every soul alive.

She grinned again. She loved being the Nain. The Nain smiled upon marriages, or divorced warring couples with a frown. She gave babies to childless women and revived flagging unions with the help of a range of liquors to arouse the weakest spouse.

That was life. The Nain dealt in death, too. She blinked indifferently.

You conceived a child while your husband was away?

Take this.

You thought your moon times were over and childbearing done?

Take that.

She never hesitated to give these unwilling mothers a draft of the liquor that meant death for the child. Far better an instant passage to the Otherworld than life as the family dog, beaten and cursed. And if the child still insisted on being born, it was the Nain who unflinchingly drew the newborn from the womb and plunged it face down in the birthing box before it could draw breath.

The Nain grunted. The fine ashes of the birthing box were an easy delivery from life compared with some. And once it slipped its earthly shell, every soul was free to walk the astral plane and return at will. As she would very soon.

But till then—

She leered out into the cave. On the other side of the fire, three old women dozed and muttered, their heads drooping like dead flowers awaiting winter's scythe. The Nain stared and blinked her eyes. As they felt her cold milky gaze, the three helpers twitched and mumbled and jerked themselves awake. The Nain had heard something, they knew.

And here it came again, a faraway rustling high above. Soon they could hear rapid footsteps and frantic, frothing silks, feel the troubled soul forging its turbulent way till a wavering swan light loomed up out of the dark. Behind it stood the Queen, panting with haste. She set down the swan lamp and advanced, holding out her hands.

"Help me, Nain," she implored. "Isolde is sailing to Cornwall to marry the King. The first time a woman lies down with a man, it should be one her heart longs for and adores. Or else the dark stranger at Beltain, when the fires call through the darkness and all the world sings."

She shivered, besieged by hot memories of a wide hillside dotted with points of flame, warm shadows, beds of bracken, and the night vibrating with dancing and drumming and lovers' moans. How often had she turned aside herself, ravished by a wild beauty, to lie with a man of no country, tall and shining in the night? It stabbed her to the heart that her own flesh, her daughter, would never know such bliss.

"She'll have to lie down with a man she does not love. But she might! She still could," the Queen cried feverishly, "if you'll help her now."

The Nain glimmered at her. Yes, a woman's first lying down should indeed be the first of the three joys the Mother gave to women, the bliss of love, the fulfillment of children, and the satisfaction of a life well lived.

"Can you do it, Nain?" The Queen brought her hands together in prayer. "A drink to make her love her husband and forget the man of her heart?"

"You want an elixir—a distillation of desire?" The Nain bared her gums in a smile of assent. Already her three crones were moving round the cave. One assembled a metal tripod over the fire, the second hung a small cauldron on it, while the third unerringly sorted through a tangle of pink, red, and tumescent purple flowers.

"Weeping-heart," she chanted, tossing them into the pot. "Love-lies-bleeding, marry-me-quick."

Her sister crone approached with a deep glass of ruby liquid pulsing with inner light. "The souls of red roses," she intoned, "distilled from the desert sands—attar of the heart of a princess of Araby, who died because her lover was hated by her kin." Chanting, she poured it into the cauldron to cover the flowers.

The third came forward with a flagon of red wine. "The soul of the grape, to make the best drink these lovers ever had."

Chanting, the three old ones went to and fro. Strange roots and fragments of bone, bitter herbs and aromatic gums, powders of haunting fragrance and drops of nameless liquor found their way into the pot. Over a slow flame, the contents swelled to a low, rolling boil, and the smell of rising heat filled the air.

The chant went on. The Queen pressed her fingers to her temples and a drugged and dreamy look passed over her face.

Yesss—

In all her years of making earth magic, she had never found a man who excited her as Tolen did now. He did not know how to adore her body, as Marhaus had done, nor did he care to learn. But every time he rolled off her, groaning and sweating, the touch of his hand or the sight of his narrow hips made her want him again. The very ways he satisfied her hunger left her hungering for more.

A fine frenzy gripped her. Already she could feel his hands on her breasts, his head between her thighs.

"Hurry, hurry," she moaned, her eyes growing dark with desire. "There's not much time—they sail on the evening tide."

"Patience," crooned the Nain. "Sooooon—"

Now the cauldron was humming to itself in low, gurgling tones. The ruby liquid convulsed and called out in the voice of an underground sea.

Now
—

Standing over the cauldron, the Nain held out her crumpled hands and began the words of power. The air throbbed and thickened, and the Queen found herself struggling to breathe as the Nain drew down all nature's force into the pulsating elements.

"
Alia purim ut philaranon manag robis elter dan
—"

Was the spell sounding in the cave, or inside her head? Was it even on this human plane at all? The Queen caught her breath. The force was building, building—she wanted to cry out. Suddenly the darkness of the cave was split by thunder and lightning, and a scream issued from the center of the earth. The Queen hugged herself in fear. When the power of nature was harnessed to pervert true love, the very voice of nature would protest. The Nain had indeed torn the elements apart as she made them release their secrets in her quest to counterfeit true desire.