Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (32 page)

Isolde sat without moving, staring into the fire. Her spirit was drifting off into the unknown. She knew she was like a cup about to crack, running over with the fullness of despair.
Could any other woman have been so wrong as this? Dug a grave for her heart and jumped in so blindly
?

"Your Majesty! My lords!"

Brangwain's sharp reproof resounded below. The hubbub subsided, and was followed by a flurry of sheepish farewells and the tramping of booted feet. Brangwain had dispatched the knights, it seemed. But not even she had the power to dismiss a king.

And here he was, announcing his presence with a rousing knock on the door.

"My lady Isolde?" Without waiting for a reply, Mark came striding in.

She got to her feet and faced him in front of the fire. His eyes were round and his cheeks inflamed with wine. Traces of the night's carousing were spilled all down his fine tunic, and the stale scent of drink came rolling toward her as he approached.

"Waiting for me, sweetheart?" He chuckled, in a boisterous imitation of a ladies' man. But already she could see the manly swagger melting away.

He is lost, like a child
, came to her with a pang of pity and distress. She made him a gentle curtsy. "How are you, sir?"

"Never better!" he cried thickly, waving his hands in the air. But she could see his eyes darting unhappily to and fro, and her awkwardness grew.

There was a strained silence. She gestured around the room. "Many thanks to you for making the Queen's House so fine." She stepped away from him. "Would you care to see?"

"Yes, why not?"

Obediently he followed her around the chamber, admiring the new wainscot, the fine hangings, the bright rugs. She could tell he had never seen them before.
Who fitted out the place so lovingly, then? Tristan?

At the far end of the room, like a great ship at anchor, loomed the bed of state. She turned-her back on it and led the way to the couch. "Be seated, my lord."

Nervously Mark complied, stumbling a little as he did. "Did I offend you, lady, coming with my knights?" A foolish look settled on his face, and he gave a blustering laugh. "Your lady-in-waiting was very stern with us!"

"No offense, sir." She spread her hands. "But our ways are very different in the Island of the West. Where the Goddess rules, women are—"

"Yes, yes," Mark broke in impatiently, clutching his head. God Almighty, he hadn't come here for a lecture on his wedding night! His shrinking brain was instantly prey to another lowering thought. With all the wine he'd been pouring down his throat, if he didn't act soon, there'd be no wedding night at all.

He brought his wandering eyes together and focused them fiercely on the woman at his side. She was good enough to be his bride. It shouldn't be hard then to do what had to be done. True, she was still a stranger— he'd hardly seen her since she arrived. But she was a damned fine woman, and every red-blooded male at court would like to be in his shoes tonight.

He laughed hollowly, and rolled a roguish eye.

"I'm a lucky man!" he told her, feeling for her knee. But she might have had legs of stone for all the joy they gave. With the very touch of her, his heart quailed.

Why isn't she Elva? came the mad, inner wail. Elva knew what to do! When she took him in hand, everything happened as it should. She only had to lay open the front of her gown, tease him with a flash of her small, hard breasts, and there he was—

Thinking of Elva, his flagging hopes revived. He screwed his eyes onto Isolde again, cloudily assessing her loose shift and open gown, and felt his sluggish manhood stir, if he could get her clothes off, see her naked, that'd do the trick. He threw a long arm round her shoulder and began to fumble at her breast.

"Come here," he muttered thickly in her ear.

The heat in the chamber fanned her face like fire. Through the window she could see a black and starless night.
Even the moon is hiding from me now. The Mother has turned her back on me—on us
—

Where are you, Tristan? Were you here with the knights before, to witness my shame? Or have you abandoned me, too?

Snuffling, Mark was mouthing her ear, paddling at her neck and feeling her breasts, pulling up her shift to expose her knees, her bare legs. Nausea broke over her and she could not breathe. She took Mark's hand from her gown and disengaged his arm.

"Excuse me, sir—" She pulled away.

"What?" Mark lifted his head, staring stupidly.

Her hands moved to her stomach. "I am not well."

Mark twitched and recoiled. "Is it catching?" he cried.

His fear was so real she could almost have pitied him. "No, sir," she replied. "I—I have a condition of women."
A condition most women have, I can't give my body to a man I don't love
—

She could see him torn between wounded self-importance and a sudden sharp dislike. "A women's indisposition?" He floundered. "Well, you're certainly as pale as a lily! What, a—a loss of blood, you mean, that sort of thing?"

That sort of thing, indeed. I am bleeding from the heart, from the deepest part of my soul
. She breathed deeply. "Then Your Majesty understands."

He goggled and licked his lips. "Well—"

"Thank you, sir."

Mark rubbed his head. What was going on?

Isolde took a breath. "I must crave your indulgence to postpone our wedding night—"

"What?"

"—for a good while, I fear." She paused. "I don't know when this will end."

"So? Well! Humph!"

Mark frowned, puzzling it out. He knew he ought to feel angry, cheated of his bride. But all he could feel was a spreading glow of relief.

Dimly he saw that Isolde felt it, too, and his mood changed. By God, she was his wife! She owed him obedience and respect, not a put-off like this. And what if it got about? He'd be a laughingstock throughout the land. His knights were all carousing in the Knights' Hall, toasting his wedding night. The whole of Castle Dore thought he was making a new heir for Cornwall now. And instead—

He leaned forward and gripped her wrist with a meaningful smile. "Well and good, lady—I release you from your duty for a little while. But remember, not a word of this to a soul!" Without warning, he dropped his jovial grin and an unmistakable hint of menace filled the air. "Don't make me look a fool!"

Or else I will make you pay for shaming me—

The unspoken thought hovered between them like a threat.
He means it!
She looked into the pebbly eyes and knew it was true.

"Rely on me, sir," she said steadily. "In our island, when a man and woman come together as one, these are the holiest mysteries the Goddess gives. We never cheapen them with common talk."
Still less the vile jokes of men who fear women, and cover their dread with drink and cruel mirth
, she could have said, but did not.

Mark shook his aching head. Goddess—holy mysteries—what was she talking about?

"Did you hear what I said?" he said irritably.

"I heard you, sir." Isolde drew a breath.
Try again
. "And I must tell you this. I care for my own reputation as much as yours. What passes here is between us alone."

"Good! Good! Well, I've been here long enough." Mark heaved himself to his feet. Thankfully he found his way to the door. Still time to rejoin the carousing in the Knights' Hall—boast about Cornwall invading virgin lands, conquering the Island of the West—

And tomorrow he could hunt in the morning as he always did, any bride would want time alone to rest—

"Farewell, sweetheart," he caroled as he clattered down the stairs. "I will leave you in peace!"

Leave me, just leave me, sir
—

Already she knew she would know no peace that night, only a dry-eyed communion with the creatures of the dark. Screech owls and flitter-bats would be her companions now, alone and sleepless in her marriage bed.

There is no gift but love.

No
pain, no bane, but love
—

He was at a standstill now, after raging and weeping till there were no more tears to shed. At midnight he had flung out of the palace and taken his sleepy, startled horse for a breakneck ride. Returning at dawn, exhausted and covered in mud, he dropped onto his pallet in his clothes and fell asleep.

Or rather into a drowse, tormented by bad dreams. He saw again the tall veiled figure in the church turning its sightless head to him in reproach.
You, Tristan
? Isolde seemed to say.
Why did you have to give me away?
But why not? She had no father, no uncle, no brother to her name. He was the only one in Cornwall who knew her at all. Didn't she know he'd have to give her away?

And again at the wedding feast—from the dais, she'd given him the same sense of her overwhelming disappointment and distress. He sweated with shame. Did I fail you, lady, did I fail?

Of course you did, fool! You betrayed your only love! A black bat of despair flew around his head, shrieking, and he fought it off. Lay me with my mother, was his last dreaming thought. Shroud me with my true love, I shall not awake.

But he woke in a lowering noon to see a sickly yellow sun hanging in the sky. The mud from his late-night ride had fouled his sheets, and his bed stank of horses and sweat and grief. All the fears of the small hours rose up to ambush him again.

Mark had had her body—how many times by now? He was her husband, after all, entitled to enjoy her in bed. Any man with red blood in his veins would do all that, and more. Memories of loving Isolde himself brought new torments, new jabbing pains.
Did she do for him what she did for me
—
did he
—
did they
—

His mind revolted.

No! She loves you, not him
.

He leapt up from his bed and strode around his chamber to ward of evil thoughts.
She loves you, fool!
There was a little comfort in that, for short while.

Mark could have forced her, though, if she tried to refuse
. This new fear came all too soon. His uncle was certainly capable of that and more, especially if his wounded pride was at stake. Groaning, Tristan saw Mark's hand raised in anger, his powerful arms pinning Isolde down, his body bucking and driving like a stag in rut, and Isolde's fists vainly pounding his naked back. He ground his knuckles into his eyes to drive the sight away.

But what if Mark didn't have to force her, if Isolde opened her arms to him willingly, joyfully spread her legs? More black bats came screeching around Tristan's head. Did she greet Mark with wine, perfume the chamber with fragrance, blandish him to her bed? He forced himself to go on. She wasn't a virgin any longer, after all. She had lain down with him, she could lie down again. After loving him, she might have feared a child was on the way. To make her new husband free of her body would be a perfect cover for that fear, that shame. If she gave birth after this, whose child would it be? Would he spend a lifetime bowing and scraping to a supposed son of the King, when in fact the boy was his own? How would he ever know?

Dark thoughts attacked him like a swarm of bees. Goddess, Mother, would he ever forget the horror of the wedding feast, trapped at the knights' table under Andred's curious gaze? The constant fear of betraying himself, when he felt sure that his cousin must have noticed something amiss. The grim aftermath when Mark and Isolde had left, forced to go on drinking with the knights, glassily pretending to join in the good cheer.

Then just as he thought he could slip away, there was Mark bouncing back into the Knights' Hall in triumph, returning from the Queen's House with his tail up like a farmyard dog. Hours then of Mark's vile boasting of his triumph between the sheets and the knights' drunken mirth, toasting the Queen's health with loud ribaldry. Mark's arm like lead round his shoulders, wine running down his chin, and his sodden insistence that Tristan drink along. His own loathing compliance, for fear of betraying himself.

And betraying her.

But tonight she had betrayed him with Mark.

No! His was the first betrayal when he sold her to Mark. All the rest came from that.

And now she was married, she was Mark's, and there was no escape. But did he have to stand by from now on and see her bedded every night? Could he even pretend to be a loyal knight to the King when he was longing every second to beat him to death?

Time to leave court then, to take to the road. A lone knight could lose himself out in the world. He had done it before, he would gladly do it again. It was a good clean life, riding from tournament to tournament, living on his winnings, sleeping on his shield—and more than good enough for a man who had nothing else.

On the way, then, out of this stinking sty. He cast a look at his bed. Better than stewing here like a pig in his own filth. Get cleaned up, bid farewell to her, then beg the King's leave to depart. He glanced at the sky. Half the day was wasted, blown away, gone. But still he could be miles down the road before night fell.

"How are you, lady?"

Pressing into the silent chamber, Brangwain scarcely dared ask. Many hours had passed since she had admitted the King, and not long afterward curtsied him out again. When Mark left, she had waited a long while in the antechamber in case Isolde needed her, before creeping to her own bed. Now noon had come and gone, and there was still no sound from within.

But she had to disturb her mistress if Sir Tristan was here. Whatever had happened between her and the King, Isolde would want to be told that.

"Good morning, madam."

Fixing a smile on her lips, Brangwain sailed in. Isolde was sitting motionless beside the hearth. The fire was long dead and the room was dank and drear. But the still figure by the fireside was beyond feeling cold.

Brangwain dropped to her knees with a cry. "Oh, my lady—did he-"

A wan smile lifted Isolde's lips. "No."

"Then—"

Isolde nodded like a child. "I am safe for the moment."

How safe? For how long? Brangwain bit back her thoughts. "Sir Tristan is here to see you," she said quietly. "He has come to say good-bye."