Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (30 page)

"Princess Isolde!" roared Mark above the fanfare. "Welcome to Cornwall, my bride—my wife!"

"There. Over there."

Lucan leaned forward over his horse's neck and pointed through the trees.

"We've got them!" Gawain cried.

They could all see it now, a faint flicker of firelight dancing through the wood. As they watched, other fires sprang up around the first. A good-sized group was making camp ahead. They had run the Gypsies to earth, and none too soon.

"You're right, Lucan." Kay looked around at the dank, dripping pines and the dense undergrowth in the last of its autumn decay. Tonight they would sleep with the travelers and there would be yet more nights on the road before the bliss of clean linen, lavendered sheets, and a warm, curtained bed. But this was the end of the trail.

"On, then," Kay said urgently.

Step by step the deep forest thinned out till the tunnel of knotted pines widened into an open, grassy space. Ahead of them burned the largest of the fires, a great blaze of red and gold lighting up the sky. Around it dusky figures came and went, some throwing down cushions and rugs, others tending the flames. The wide clearing was dotted with rough tents, and between them, the Gypsies' stubby ponies grazed at will.

The knights dismounted and led their horses toward the fire. Twenty or so of the travelers were taking their places around the leaping flames, men and women of all ages settling down with their children and dogs. One dark-faced man toyed with a strange instrument, making odd flights of melancholy sound, while another softly tinkered on a drum.

"Sirs!"

A tall figure rose to his feet as the knights approached. He was loosely clad in a short jerkin of leather over a full white shirt and voluminous breeches tucked into high leather boots. A gold ring pierced one ear and the handsome, swarthy face was lit by a humorous smile.

"You have found us at last!" He chuckled. "You have been long on the way."

Kay grinned mirthlessly. "You knew we were following you?"

"We are the Roma. We know everything," said the Gypsy airily. "I am Zrladic, the king of this tribe. Tonight you will feast with us and sleep in our tents." He bowed courteously to a young woman lounging at his feet. "And if the Gods are with us A'isha will dance for you. Now, let my men take your horses, and tell us why you have come."

With a flourish, Zrladic returned to his cushion by the fire. Uneasily Kay complied, all too aware of A'isha's hard gaze. He tried not to look at her sensual, olive-skinned face and tumbling black hair, hennaed nails, full body, and light, low-cut gown.

"We are knights of King Arthur," he began, "on a quest for the King. Years ago, at a tournament, one of your women told fortunes in a tent. We need to speak with her." He looked around. "Is she here?"

"She is everywhere." Zrladic gave a bland, impenetrable smile. "The woman you saw was the Old Mother of our people, and she has the Sight. You want to talk to her?"

"Yes," said Kay firmly.

The musician raised his head, languid as a harebell on its stalk, and struck a sardonic chord. "But will she speak to you?"

"Why not?" Kay demanded defensively.

A'isha laughed derisively, pursing her mulberry mouth. "The Old Mother would say, why should she?"

Kay paused, taking time to collect himself. "A child was born," he said stiffly. "We need to know how it came about."

"How it came about?" Zrladic grinned. He threw a sly glance at A'isha, who laughed back. "Our women can show you how babies come about, if you don't know."

Kay stared at him, seething. "We need to find out who fathered this child!"

"A child belongs to its mother." A'isha rolled her hips carelessly from side to side. "What does it matter who the father is?"

Kay's eyes bulged. "It matters to the man!"

"Women don't need men." A'isha shrugged. "Men betray."

Bedivere flushed and thought of his first and only love. "Ah, lady, women do, too."

"We're here to get at the truth!" Gawain cried.

A'isha yawned and got up, stretching her long brown arms above her head. Her breasts writhed luxuriously inside her bodice, and the dark hairs in her armpits moved like living things. Gawain looked at her and struggled to hold on to his mind.

"The truth, you say, Sir Gawain?"

A'isha laughed huskily and spat on the ground. "Truth is the stranger who always comes to stay. Admit him to your tent, you have him for the rest of your life." Her black eyes stabbed through the night. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Gawain stared at her suspiciously. "D'you think I'm a fool?"

Lucan snorted with mirth. "Gawain, don't ask!" He fingered his long red locks and flashed his widest smile. "Forgive us, lady," he said winningly. "We only seek the truth for the sake of our King."

"So, sirs." A'isha surveyed the knights. "Will the Old Mother see you?" She looked at Zrladic and something dark and veiled passed between their eyes.

"Let us ask her!" he cried. He jumped to his feet. "She alone will say. And while we wait, you will eat and drink!"

He clapped his hands, shouting orders in a language they did not know. Attendants slipped up to the knights and thrust goblets of crude red wine into their hands, the liquor as thick and meaty as bull's blood. Strange pieces of roasted meat followed, along with heels of chewy black bread and handfuls of dried herbs.

A sudden crashing chord split the peace of the night. Zrladic waved his wooden goblet in the air. "You are in luck, Arthur's knights!" he shouted. "A'isha will dance for you!"

The drummer struck out a heartbeat and the musician followed with cascades of rhythmic notes. A'isha sprang to her feet and, pacing, whirling, tossing her long hair around, began a lament. She sang of joy and death, of the hard love between men and women, of trust betrayed and faith and hope built anew. As she danced, she became the maiden at her first lying down, the mother cradling her newborn child, the wise woman reconciling life's sorrows at the end of her days. Kay saw the candles blooming around the bed of love, touched the soft down on the tiny sleeping head, shared the winter's dying fire.

In the light of the fire, A'isha's limbs flowed like liquid bronze. As she threw her long arms around her head, Gawain saw her red-black talons flicking through the dark and imagined their hennaed points raking his chest and back. Mesmerized, he stared at her breasts straining through her gown, and watched the dark fleshy globes bobbing and swinging till his head spun.

Dimly he heard Lucan laughing, and Kay's furious hiss. "Remember who we are! Don't disgrace us, Gawain!"

The music ended, and A'isha vanished into the night.

"Now, sirs," cried Zrladic, "you came to consult the Old Mother. Let us see if she will hear you." He jumped to his feet. "This way."

In silence they followed him over the darkened field. The Old Mother's tent stood removed from all the rest, dark and brooding against the forest wall. From its long, high ridge to the rich hangings over the door, it was clearly the home of one treasured by the tribe.
But does she know who lay with Lienore on that dreadful night?
Kay tormented himself.
And will she tell us if she does?

"Enter, sirs."

Zrladic lifted the thick drapes over the opening and led them in. They filed into a low, fragrant space, lit by fires in small braziers set against the walls. Zrladic crossed to the nearest and fed the glowing coals from a box at the side. It's the same stuff, Kay thought in terror, inhaling the scented smoke. It's the incense she was using the night we were there!

For a second he was back in the ill-fated tent, feeling love approaching to feed him with both hands. Tender hopes blasted him, and fragile joys, and for the first time he saw how the fortune-teller's fumes had preyed on their senses and stolen their minds away. He fought to hold on to himself.

"So, the Old Mother?" he demanded in a high-pitched tone.

Zrladic pointed forward without a word. At the far end of the dimly lit space, a gossamer curtain fell from ceiling to floor. "You may speak to the Old One. But she will not let herself be seen."

"Why not?" demanded Gawain roughly.

Zrladic smiled. "She will not give you her eyes."

Kay licked his dry lips. Was there no end to the tricks? Bravely he approached the curtain, leaving his companions in the rear.

"We come with a question, Old Mother," he called. "Will you answer it?"

The voice from behind the curtain was no more than a growl. "Ask."

Kay could see a shadowy presence behind the veil. "Our King is said to be the father of a child. We need to know if this is true."

The low growl came again. "Why do you need to know? A child belongs to the mother, not to any man."

"This child will be heir to a kingdom."

The voice was deeper now. "What if you never know?"

Kay shook his head. Desperation seized him. "We must know!"

A sigh like the hissing of a snake fluttered the veil. "Alas, you never will."

Kay's calm deserted him. "Never?" he shouted. "I don't believe you. You're just playing games." He sprang forward until stopped by Zrladic's arm. "Tell us the truth!"

There was an endless silence. Then Zrladic caught a sound they could not hear. He listened, then nodded to Kay. "if you must know, the Mother says you may." He drew the curtain back.

Reclining on a great heap of cushions lay A'isha, with a cluster of dogs by her side.

"Yes, sirs." She smiled, registering their shock.

Lucan was the first to find his voice. "Who are you?"

"I am the Old Mother you seek." She held his gaze with a world of kindness in her smile. "The Old Mother is always the leader of our tribe, our undying queen. When the earth goes over her eyes, her daughter takes her place."

"But Zrladic—the king?" stammered Bedivere.

"My father. My mother's first lover and husband when she was queen." She glinted at Zrladic, who grinned cheerfully back. "King till one of the young bloods kills him for his crown and a place in my bed."

"But the woman at the tournament—the fortune-teller?" Kay was beside himself. "
Where is she
?" he yelped.

"My mother?" A'isha laid both her hands lengthwise across her eyes. "Gone down to the House of Shadows. Penn Annwyn is her lover and husband now."

"The Dark Lord," muttered Bedivere. "King of the Underworld." Lucan gasped. "You're saying that she's dead?"

A'isha pursed her damask lips defiantly. "
Dead
is not a word the Roma say. She will come again." She smacked her palm against her breast, and her huge eyes welled. "My mother was more than a mother to us all. She must come back!"

"But not in this lifetime."

A terrible sadness filled Kay, and his stomach turned. I have failed you, Arthur, he mourned to the night air. "We must send to the King," he said dully. "He'll have to be told."

Gawain knuckled his head. "What'll he do?"

Kay frowned. "You know Arthur's sense of honor, he'll acknowledge the boy. Then we'll have Sweyns round our necks for the rest of our lives." Lucan drew a deep breath. "But at least he can leave Castle Sweyn. He'll be able to push on to Cornwall now to see King Mark."

"You're right." Kay tried to rally himself. "We should make for Cornwall ourselves and catch up with him there." He eyed Gawain's brightening face and tried not to be sour. "There'll be no war for you, Gawain, that's over and done. But there's sure to be tournaments and jousts galore."

"By the Gods, yes!"

Gawain surged to his feet. Already he could hear the call to the lists, feel the muscular thrum of the horse between his thighs, smell the broken grass of the arena sweetening the winter air. Then another, warmer thought softened his smile. "And young Sweyn, the boy—he'll be with Arthur, too. Our kin don't abandon their kin."

"So you'll have a playmate, Gawain." Lucan chuckled and punched his friend's shoulder fondly. "All boys together, you'll be."

At the head of the tent, A'isha was still lounging at her ease, watching the knights with eyes as old as time. Gawain turned to her, took a full survey of her inviting flesh, and could not resist.

"Lady," he said hopefully, "as knights of King Arthur, we offer you our thanks." He flashed his eyes and teeth as he had seen Lucan do. "And as a prince of the Orkneys, I lay my sword at your feet. A lady as lovely as you should not be alone. Allow me to come to your couch, and serve you tonight!"

Welcome to Cornwall
—
my bride
—
my wife
—

They were married in the chapel on the rock, a cell so ancient, the little priest told her, that it would bless their marriage ever afterward. It had been built, stone by stone, by one of the earliest holy men in these parts, a hermit so pure that he could not live near lesser humanity, loaded with its sins.

Isolde shivered. Even the candles and the heady incense on the altar could bring no warmth or welcome to this desperate place. This cell would bless their union? To her it was a stark housing of cold stone on the edge of a cliff, perched over a dizzying drop to the sea below. Who but a Christian would choose such a drear, lonely site? Why did they have to make everything so hard?

Jubilate Deo
—rejoice, rejoice in the Lord—

Half a dozen boys in white robes stood before a rough stone altar, caroling away. In front of them, the little priest was chanting the marriage rites. With his poor hunched body, black gown, and Christian vestments, Isolde knew him as the King's confessor, Father Dominian. But the others, the courtiers who now packed the cold space behind her and spilled out of the door and onto the clifftop beyond—who were they, all the people of this strange new world?

Sir Nabon she would recognize again—the King's chief councillor had knelt to kiss her hand and sworn, "Lady, I am now your servant, as I am the King's." She had looked into Nabon's shrewd eyes and known it was true. Here at least was one man she could trust.

And Elva, the King's mistress, there was no mistaking her. As Isolde had alighted on the quay and all the court ladies curtsied and bowed their heads, one alone had lifted her long neck above the rest and cursed her with a pair of mad, spangled eyes.