Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (34 page)

Like all women in such marriages, Isolde soon found that she could be happy as long as her husband was engrossed elsewhere. And so they continued till the old moon waned, and Isolde woke in the knowledge that the new moon was here and her moon-time had not come.

Goddess, Mother, help me
—
help me now
—They were near the top of the cliff, they both knew that. The sound of the sea was calling them, step by step, and the thunder of the surge could be felt beneath their feet. But the going was hard, and they could not see their way. The track they had followed through the woodland petered out here, and the ground rose steeply ahead. They were surrounded by dense thickets of conker-colored bracken and wild briar on all sides.

Could this be the place? They could go no farther on horseback, that was plain. Stifling her misgivings, Brangwain helped Isolde to dismount, and tied the horses to a tree. At least they had the best of a fine winter day. A genial sun smiled down from a pearly sky and, with the forest behind them, the wintry air was even warm.

It's here somewhere, I know it, Brangwain muttered to herself. She suppressed a sigh. Isolde must never suspect what it had cost to get her here. But from the moment they knew Isolde had missed her time of the month, Brangwain had been searching tirelessly for help.

The dread of disclosure dogged their every step, if the Queen called for the King's doctors, every soul in Castle Dore would know it within hours. If she sent for a wise woman, the story would be the same. So Brangwain had to ask in Isolde's place, and far away from Castle Dore. For weeks now she had been slipping out quietly, riding to distant settlements to seek help as if she wanted it for herself.

Brangwain shuddered. How many wretched old women had she encountered on her search? Half-mad, toothless old crones scratching for herbs by the wayside, whose one hope was a handful of something to eke out their daily bread, and whose wildest dream was a rabbit for the pot?

If she had expected help from them, she found none. They all saw through her pretense, and in the midst of their own hard lives, had little kindness to spare. Some even enjoyed her discomfort as they questioned her.

"So your fine lady's in trouble, eh? She needs help?"

"From someone who knows herbs." Brangwain responded as coldly as she dared. "Do you—"

"Not I, lady! My green fingers are all thumbs!"

Cackling, one old crone held up her stumpy hands, enjoying seeing the fine lady shiver as they always did. Arthritis, leprosy, all the diseases of the old and poor, what did they know of such things, court ladies in velvet gowns?

Sometimes, it was worse.

"So your lady has played belly-to-belly and her tail-flowers haven't come? What is she, a pretend virgin who's getting a babe for her basket before a husband for her bed? Or a pious widow with a good name to keep up? Or one of the Christian sisterhood who have forsworn men, all except for the lusty lad who comes in to chop the wood?"

And on, and on. But the maid persevered. At last, taking a bite of supper in a faraway inn, she had ventured to question the landlord's daughter, a big, bold wench with jutting breasts and an inviting eye. if Brangwain knew anything about young women, this one would have had good reason to seek out the service they needed now.

"You're looking for a wise woman—one who knows about… Not I, lady—I never heard of such a thing!"

Brangwain listened to the wide-eyed girl's overemphatic denial, and knew she was near. So she was not surprised when a group of woodmen quietly downing their ale in a corner volunteered news of just such a woman, if she could find her.

"Up beyond here," said the oldest, waving a callused hand, "where the forest lies up to the edge of the cliff and the briar's above your head." He shook his head. "But it's a wild place. Some say she hides her door in the hillside if she doesn't want to be found. She lives by the hawthorn, below the top of the cliff—"

"No, not by the hawthorn," guffawed a hoary-headed ancient with a friendly eye. "It's past the stand of oaks where the owlets roost—"

"No, no."

You follow the track from the valley, they agreed in the end. Up the hillside, till you can't go anymore. Then left and left again, widdershins all the way. Not much of a path at the top, hardly anything at all. But you get to the face of the rock and there she is.

And there she is? thought Brangwain, staring grimly at the wilderness ahead. Bramble, elder, bracken, and stinging nettles rioted away before them, all taller than head height in the glory of their winter red and black. Aloud she said, "We're nearly there, lady. Let me lead the way." Then, with more conviction than she felt, she gathered up her skirts and forced her way in.

Isolde followed. Brangwain's keen eyes must have seen a track through the clinging thorns, and, having come so far, she was not going to falter now. But the briars slashing at her face and hands and catching at her skirts only deepened the anxiety in her heart. Tristan's
child
—
a love child
—
could it be?

And if it is, whatever shall I do?

Slowly they forced their way uphill, foot by foot. Overhead the sun shone down and crisp bracken curled above their heads. The rich smell of the loam rose from the earth as they went. But a brisk salt breeze was blowing straight off the sea. The seductive beat of the surge was very close now.

Ahead of them the undergrowth ran right up to a wall of rock. Beyond it, Isolde guessed, the edge of the cliff plunged down to the sea below. A dank disappointment settled on her heart. Why did she think they would find the old woman's house? No one could live here.

Reaching the rock wall, Brangwain plunged off the side and began working her way along it, casting to and fro. Sick at heart, Isolde watched the maid disappear from view. Beside her, two little gilded flies were dancing in the sun. When the frost came they would be gone, swept away by winter's giant hand.
And so will we
, she thought.

Irritation seized her. What was she doing here? Fishing for moonbeams with nothing but wild hopes for bait. Well, it was over. She had to face the truth. Time to go.

She stepped forward. "Brangwain," she called, "the afternoon's almost gone. We must turn back."

"Here, lady! It's here!" There was no mistaking the triumph in Brangwain's voice.

Isolde started and felt a pang of fear. In this wild place? Reluctantly she followed the maid's call. Rounding a corner, she came upon Brangwain standing by the cliff face. Beside her, half hidden by tangles of ivy and woodbine, was an odd little door set into the hillside, so gnarled and low that it could hardly be seen.

"Good luck, my lady," Brangwain whispered stoutly, pushing open the door. "I'll be with the horses when you're done."

Isolde ducked her head and moved forward in a dream. Inside the door, a shallow flight of stairs led down to a warm, firelit space below. All around her she could hear the sound of the sea and as she felt her way through the gloom its sweet sigh and rhythmic call seemed stronger now. Slowly her eyes grew accustomed to the light. She was in a small, round, underground chamber with smooth walls of rock and a floor of dry, packed earth. A sea fire chuckled to itself on a rough hearth, and the smell of burning driftwood caught at her throat. Suddenly she was a child again, an imp dancing on the seashore in her golden days when she had no more cares than a wave of the sea.

The salt flames leapt up to greet her as she came in, rose-red, orange, and blue. By the fire sat a crooked old woman with wrinkled, work-worn hands. She was poorly clad in ragged, sea-stained black, and a battered black hat crowned her disordered hair. But beneath the tangled fringe Isolde saw a small kindly face with eyes like those of a porpoise, clever, bright, and sweet.

"Your maid did well to find me," she said in a voice like the wind on the sea. "But then, she is Merlin's kin." She patted the stool at her side. "Come and sit by me."

Isolde obeyed. The leaping fire threw its light here and there, making unseen things gleam and disappear and creating warm pools of rosy darkness all around. The old woman's shadowy garments seemed like part of the night and the rhythmic throb of the sea filled the room.

The old woman sighed. "What do you seek?"

Isolde felt a flush starting up her neck. "I have missed my monthly course."

The old woman squinted through her tangled hair. "And if you're with child, what then?"

Isolde saw herself growing heavier day by day, unable to conceal the deed of love, forced to carry her great belly before her as a mark of shame. She closed her eyes and dropped her head in her hands.

The old woman's voice sharpened. "If there is a child, shall we make it away?"

Isolde's stomach heaved. "Ohh—"

"It's easy to do," the old woman cackled. "There are twenty ways."

"Not for me." A sudden clarity flooded her like light. "Not for my child."

"But if you cannot own the father—" The old woman cocked her head inquisitively to one side. "Will you sleep with your husband, then, to father the newborn on him?"

"No!" Isolde recoiled. She had a sudden shaming urge to be sick. "Never," she said thickly. "I'd kill us both first."

There was a silence. When the old woman spoke again, her voice had changed. "What will you do?"

She did not need to think. "This is a child of love, and I will love it dear."

"If there is a child," the old woman corrected her with sudden gentleness. "You are in a strange country, with many trials to bear. At such times a young woman's moon days are easily disturbed." Behind the veil of hair, her eyes were as clear as a wave. "Let us see."

A gleaming globe of rock crystal lay on a table beside her, crooning to itself with its own light. The old woman cradled it tenderly in her wrinkled hands and stared into it, answering its song with a soundless hum of her own. Isolde watched in a dream of fear as unseen things danced and flickered in its liquid depths.

At last the old woman raised her ragged head. "There is no child."

No child—

A storm of tears swept over Isolde like a weeping cloud.

The bright eyes were watching her closely. "If you want a child, lady, it can always be."

Tristan's child?

"I cannot." She dared not think it. "A child needs a father and a home. I can give it neither, as things are."

There was an endless pause. "Then you must take the way of the Mother to close up your womb."

Isolde started. "What?"

The tangled head nodded inexorably. "Or a child will come."
Goddess, Mother
—

Isolde shook her head. "Close up my womb? How?" Outside, the wind howled, the sea moaned, and the air grew chill. Inside the cave, the fire shivered and sank down. The old woman took a tiny bottle from the table beside her, and held it out. "Drink this, and the Mother will seal up the seedbed of life in you."

Isolde heard the weeping of childless women everywhere. "Forever?" she gasped. "If I take it, will I ever have a child? Or will I be barren for the rest of my life?"

"Ah, Isolde—"

The old woman's sigh came from Avalon and beyond. "Not even the Mother herself can answer that."

Now the crying of children was sounding in her ears, weeping in vain from the world between the worlds, a legion of spirit children waiting to be born.
New life
, her mother always said when she prayed for a child.
No life
, could she choose that?

She stroked her temples with trembling fingers and tried to think, if she lay with Tristan, sooner or later a child must come. In truth, she should be grateful she was not carrying now. Complete avoidance of Tristan would keep her safe. Yet how could she bear never to love him again? She clutched her head in pain. Loving Tristan should mean bearing his children, not having to be barren for his love. Yet to bring a child of sorrow into the world? Surely there was enough suffering, they should not make more—

Goddess, Mother, tell me what to do!

"You must choose for the need you have now," came the old woman's voice.

The need I have now?

Anguish shot through her. She needed to be safe, and this was her chance. If she refused the old woman, would she ever find this place again?

"Choose," the old woman chimed softly again. She held out her hand.

Tristan
—

I choose you.

The little bottle of red-black liquor lay between them, pulsing with the banked-down force of life. Isolde reached out an unsteady hand and brought it to her lips.

Goddess, Mother, help me
—

The salt fumes made her gasp, but she drank it down. The raw tang of bitter alum filled her mouth, and she tasted the skin and bone of dead things and the ashes of green fires. Behind it came the fatal trace of foxglove, and she felt her senses swirl.
She has poisoned me
, came to her, and her body convulsed.
I will die here!

Wild terror swept her, and unspeakable fears.
Mark has had me followed. Elva has paid this woman to make me away
. Then, worst and maddest of all,
This is Tristan's doing, all his work! He wants me dead so he can be at one with his uncle again
—
he made her do this to me
—

The old woman's voice darkened in pain and reproof. "For shame, Isolde! Tristan is true to you."

"How do I know?" she cried in panic.

"Ah, little one—do you not know me?"

The old woman was dissolving before her eyes. In her place rose a great gleaming figure clad in Otherworldly light. Her blue-green robes ebbed and flowed around her feet and she was veiled in Stardust from head to foot. She smiled and the cave filled with a glow like the moon on the sea.

"Lady, Lady," Isolde cried, tears pouring down her face, "how can you be here? I left you in Dubh Lein!"

The Lady gave a low musical laugh. "Some meet me in Dubh Lein, some in Tintagel and some in Castle Dore. Others find me half a world away. The sea is everywhere." She paused and her voice grew deeper. "I am here now. Ask what you need to know:"