Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (33 page)

"Good-bye?"

Brangwain nodded. "He is leaving court."

She stared in disbelief. "He can't!"

"Tell him so, madam. He is waiting outside."

Isolde sprang to her feet. "Let him in!"

"At once."

The door opened and closed as the maid complied. He came toward her all curled and groomed, as spruce as a bridegroom on his wedding day. The sight of him hurt her eyes—
how dare he look so fine?

And how dare he look so cold, so indifferent? Has he forgotten all we said and did? Is he glad I'm married and out of his way?

She had no time for greetings. "In the church yesterday," she said bleakly, "by what right did you give me away?"

He smiled grimly to himself. He could not help betraying her, it seemed. "The service requires the bride to be given away. There was no one else to do that for you."

"Ah, your Christian rituals!" A smile of contempt twisted her pale lips. "In my faith, sir, women give themselves. We do not belong to men to be traded like sheep."

He was in no mood for this. He could not bear to look at her, hollow-eyed as she was from last night's exertions, marked and bruised by sex, gray from lack of sleep.

"The King ordered it," he said shortly, glancing at the door.

He can't even talk to me! He can't wait to get away
. Her temper flared. "And do you always do what the King wants?"

"No longer, lady," he said crisply. "I am going away."

She had not believed it. "What?"

"I am leaving court."

She fought for breath. "Why?"

"To seek tournaments and deeds of arms. No prowess is to be gained by lingering here."

"You said there'd be tournaments here," she said madly, "a month of celebrations at least, with King Arthur and many other kings and knights."

He gave an impatient sigh. "That much is true. King Mark has proclaimed a tournament, and they are all on their way."

She thrust out her chin. "Are you too proud to fight in such company?"

He felt his temper rise. "Yes, madam," he said evenly, "such company is indeed too much for me." He swept her a sudden bow. "Your Majesty will excuse me. I am going to the King—your husband—to beg leave to go."

"Go?" she said, possessed with a terrible dread. "Go where?" Still he would not meet her eye. "Anywhere."

"Tell me the truth," she said huskily. "Do you have to go?" He looked at her for the first time. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me." She stepped forward and engaged his eyes. "I have given you my love. And it will never leave me now for weal nor woe." He recoiled. "You can't mean it anymore! You're married to the King!"

"By the rites of the Christians." She gave a bitter laugh. "Indeed, you were there. But to those who follow the Goddess, it was no marriage at all."

He could not bear it. "Your husband the King tells a different tale." She colored as if he had struck her in the face. "So Mark has been boasting of his prowess last night? Tales of our amorous exploits are all over Castle Dore?"

He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away, ashamed. "Yes." She flew at him like a wildcat. "And you believed him?"

"No!" He wheeled back to face her, and met her eyes. "Yes," he mumbled, dropping his own.

"Tristan, how could you? You know what the King is like!" She broke away from him and began to weep.

"And I believed him!" He threw his arms in the air. "Gods above," he cried, "I have betrayed you again!"

"After the love we shared—" She looked at him, drowning in grief. "How could you trust in him and not in me?"

"He is my King. I have sworn him my oath."

"When we lay together, you swore your truth to me."

He was almost beside himself. "I have to honor him. He's my only kin!"

She stared at him. "I thought you had a father. Is he dead?"

He gave a high, cracked laugh. "Dead to me!"

She sat up. "How so?"

He clenched his fists and took a pace or two away. "When my mother died, he took another wife. She hated me, though I never did her harm. She wanted her own son to be king in my place."

Isolde gasped. "So she—"

"She tried to poison me. But her own son took the cup by accident and fell down dead. She was sentenced to be burned, but when they brought her to the stake, I begged my father to spare her life."

"And he granted it?"

Tristan nodded. "He told me I could save her from the fire. But afterward he had to take her as his wife again." His mouth twisted painfully. "So he sent me away."

Her anger rose. "He sent
you
away?"

"He sent me into France to learn deeds of arms. And that was the start of my life in chivalry." Tristan looked at her and his face began to burn. "And without that," he said intensely, "I would never have found you."

Oh, my love
—
my love
—

She held out her arms and he came to her without words. She drew him down to her side and took both his hands. "I am all your kin now, and you are mine. You are my chosen one. Say you won't leave me—you won't go away!"

"You are my lady," he said huskily. "I will not leave you now. You are the spirit I was born to serve."

"You walked with me in the world before the worlds. I will be at your side through the worlds to come." She looked down at their hands, closely entwined. "You pledged your love to me with your mother's ring. I have not lost it. It is in a safe place, far away. One day we shall have it back again."

He gave a broken smile. "Till you do, love, you must wear it in your heart."

For the last time she stroked her father's ring, then drew the heavy gold band off her finger and threaded it onto his. "Wear this for me," she said.

"I will." He brought it to his lips. "I beg you, lady, be handfast with me?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "I will."

They cupped their right hands together, palm to palm, then clasped their fingers firmly around each other's thumbs.

"Fast hand, fast heart," Isolde prayed, closing her eyes. "From now on, I am yours."

"Heartfast, handfast," Tristan echoed. "From now on, I am yours, your servant, your knight, your champion to the death."

"Handfast, we are married now by the most ancient rite. The Goddess loves a handfast above all." She took him in her arms and kissed him on the lips. "Oh, my love—come to bed."

Gods above, -what was Isolde thinking of?

Pacing the antechamber, Brangwain hardly dared to ask. She was a married woman now—the only man who should be admitted to the Queen's bedchamber was the King! And Sir Tristan had been closeted with her for how long?

The maid smiled grimly. Long enough for a very long good-bye. She crossed to the window and watched the sun sinking in a sky as yellow as bile. Madam, madam, she prayed, wringing her hands, we're not in Ireland now. Send Sir Tristan out of your chamber and out of the house! The Gods only know what will happen if you don't—

"Holla there! Is the Queen within?"

Brangwain froze. She did not know who was banging on the courtyard door below. But she could tell that the imperious female voice would not be denied. She heard the visitor admitted, and moments later came the loud clacking of a fashionable lady's painted wooden heels on the stairs. With an effort, Brangwain collected herself and threw open the chamber door.

Stalking down the corridor, her head held high and her long body ramrod straight, came the Lady Elva with her maids in tow. Seeing Brangwain, she gave a glittering smile and surged past her into the chamber as if it were her own.

"So?" she said unpleasantly, looking around. "This is your lady's chamber—her special place?"

Brangwain looked at her, struggling to wipe her feelings from her face. Gods above, did the King's mistress ever wear anything but that vile green? And not even the sweet woodland shades of summer or spring, but mottled colors like the skin of a sick snake?

Yet if she, of all the souls at court—if she saw Sir Tristan—knew he was here in the inner room with the Queen—

"The Queen is indisposed," she announced trenchantly, still holding the outer door open, willing the wretched woman to leave.

"So." Elva nosed round the room, fingering the fine hangings, staring at her long face in the mirror against the wall.

What did she want? Scraps of gossip filtered back to Brangwain from the servants' hall. She loved King Mark, they said, laughing behind their hands. She'd give anything to be Queen. Sharpened by fear, Brangwain read the message of the furious back and interfering hands. She thinks she ought to be here—this is her place.

"Your mistress is indisposed?" Elva gave a final twirl before settling herself elegantly in a chair. Her two maids took up their stand behind her, eyes everywhere. "She will see me, I think."

Brangwain stared straight ahead. "She has given orders not to be disturbed."

Elva's lips parted in a contemptuous smile. "Not even for the King?" she said silkily.

Brangwain felt herself flush. "I don't understand, lady."

"I am here on his orders." Elva's eyes were suddenly ablaze. "To call on the Queen and pay my respects."

Was it true? There was no way to know. Brangwain took a few rapid breaths. "The Queen will be sorry to miss you," she said, clasping and unclasping her hands. "I shall give her your greetings and tell her you came."

"No need for that," Elva cocked an ear toward the inner door and gave another venomous smile. "I can hear her stirring. I'll wait till she comes out."

Goddess, Mother
—
comes out with Tristan? Hanging on his arm, kissing him farewell?
There were definite sounds of movement in the inner room. Brangwain's heart sank like a stone.

Elva reached out a hand to a side table holding a copper bowl bright with winter berries and red and gold dried leaves. Beside it lay a little box of ivory, finely carved. Elva's snaky fingers pounced on it as her maids cooed with admiration in the rear.

"Did the King give her this?" she demanded, looking up.

Her eyes, her mouth were shot through with pain. Brangwain's heart heaved. She's jealous, she hates us, she'll do anything to ruin us now.

Desperation sharpened Brangwain's wits. She closed the door and came forward with a knowing smile. "Oh, that and much more," she said gaily, waving her hand round the room. "He dotes on her, lady. I never saw a man so in love."

"In love?" Shock thundered across Elva's face. "The King?"

That's not what he's told her! Brangwain thought with savage glee. She picked up a pair of leather gloves, a present from Isolde's mother before they left. "Look at these, madam," she gushed, "lined with kidskin, and so finely stitched! He lavishes gifts on her every day."

From the look on Elva's face, every word was poison to her ears. For a moment at least, Brangwain knew she had distracted her from the sounds of movement within. But if Isolde and Tristan came out together, drowsy with love—

Ruthlessly Brangwain pressed her advantage home. "You should see her, lady, and you will," she cried. "Why, her skin's blooming—and her eyes, her hair—it's good for a woman to be loved the way the King loves her, every mortal inch—"

"Hold your tongue, wretch!" Elva sprang to her feet.

Wretch, yourself, thought Brangwain triumphantly. You came to crow over my lady, and got what you deserved. We'll show you that you aren't queen here anymore!

"Give your mistress my greeting," Elva hissed. Shafts of rage were flashing across her face. Crossing the room in a couple of strides, she could not wait to get through the door.

Eyes down, her two maids scurried after her like mice. Brangwain closed the door behind them, then began to shake. The sounds from the inner room were clearer now, murmuring voices soft with laughter and sleepy delight.

"Brangwain?" Isolde called. "Are you there?"

Brangwain watched in a trance as the inner door opened and Isolde stood on the threshold with Tristan, rosy with love. His arm lay across her shoulders and their every lineament breathed their satisfied desire.

Love had clothed them in Stardust, transported them out of this everyday world to a better place. Then Isolde saw Brangwain's face and the glory fled away.

"What is it, Brangwain?" she cried. "Tell me at once!" Outside in the courtyard, Elva flew away into the dusk. All she could think of was the scene ahead with Mark, when she would thrust all his lies down his faithless throat. He didn't love Isolde at all, he loved only her? Well, she knew better now!

Only later, after hours of jealous rage, did something occur to Elva that she had not thought of before. Why, if Isolde was so glowing with love, was she too indisposed to receive visitors? If her mistress was as happy as Brangwain claimed, why was the maid so tense? And why, if everything was perfect, was she pacing up and down and twisting her hands till her knuckles were white?

They would never after forget the terror of that moment, when Brangwain told them how near they had come to betraying themselves. So while Isolde retreated to the safety of her chamber, Tristan strode away from prying eyes, careful to look as cold and angry as when he came in. Isolde appeared for dinner in the Great Hall that night, resplendent in royal blue, crystals, and pearls, and set herself to smile and be gracious to the King. She knew she could play the part of Cornwall's Queen. Now that she and Tristan were one, she could do anything.

Every evening, then, in the glow of the candlelight, Mark rejoiced in his new bride. When she smiled on him like this, all the court believed he had made himself a hero in her bed. It was easy enough, he had found, to pass the night in the Queen's House with only himself and Isolde knowing that nothing took place. And if Elva wanted to be jealous without cause, accusing him of showering Isolde with gifts, then he would ignore her completely till she mended her ways. That would teach her a lesson and put her in her place.

He could trust Isolde, he knew that now. She would not betray them to the scorn of the court, still less to the mirth and derision of foreign kings. For they were all on their way to celebrate with him, the kings of France and Gaul and Little Britain, and many petty kings and knights besides. Arrangements for a great tournament were in hand, and even King Arthur would attend, it seemed. And with knights and kings on the way to the tournament and a new bride to flaunt when they came, Mark was happy enough.