Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (38 page)

He turned courteously to Earl Sweyn, standing speechless at Lienore's side. "And you, sir, will be glad to have your daughter with you as you raise the men and money we require of you. Each lord must pay his due to keep the Saxons at bay. We shall be sending overseers to assess your lands."

Another hint of a smile crossed Arthur's lips. "We have heard much about your poverty, sir. We look forward to finding out that it is not as bad as we feared. Farewell." He rose to his feet and offered Guenevere his hand. "Come, my Queen."

"Sir—" The look Guenevere gave him in return left no doubt that the royal couple would lose no time in celebrating the morning's discovery and renewing their love.

Gawain looked round chortling, as Arthur and Guenevere left the room.

"A son, eh?" he cried, marveling at himself. He poked Lucan in the ribs, then dragged all the companion knights away. "Come on, then! Let's go and see my son!"

Goddess, Mother, thanks
—

"Shall we walk, sir?" Isolde followed the procession joyfully, leaning on Tristan's arm. She smiled into his eyes. Now, where in Castle Dore could they be alone?

Standing in the empty room, Earl Sweyn refused to look at Lienore. "You knew, didn't you?" he said thickly.

Lienore lifted first one creamy shoulder then the other in a glorious shrug. "I knew it was one of them."

"Couldn't you tell?" he screeched.

Another shrug. "All men are big in the dark." Or think they are, said her lascivious eyes.

He was gasping for breath. "You played me for a fool!"

"No more than you played yourself, Father," she said carelessly. "You wanted Sweyn to be the son of the King." Her white teeth showed again in a derisive grin. "I knew they wouldn't remember. And I didn't think they'd find out."

"Did it ever occur to you to tell the truth?"

She laughed openly at that. "You called me Lienore, Father! I was born to lie down wherever I liked, and lie about it afterward."

"Well, Lienore, you'll have a long time to enjoy the joke," he struck back. "As soon as we get home, I'll have you put in a convent for the rest of your life." He began to feel better. "And with a large enough endowment from me, I daresay the holy sisters will find you a cell all to yourself. They should also assist your penance with a diet of bread and water and vary your confinement with the liberal use of the whip!"

Lienore treated him to her sunniest of smiles.

"You can't do that, Father," she said innocently. "If you do, I'll tell the King how much land and money you've really got. Then he'll make you hand over far more than you want to to keep the Saxons at bay."

She leaned forward and whispered lovingly in his ear. "I think you should give some of it to me—for your grandson, of course. His father's a prince of the Orkneys, after all, we don't want to look mean. Or else Arthur might learn exactly what you're worth. Just tell me what you'd like to do, Father dear."

The first snow of winter fell silently overnight. The white flakes floated down like goose feathers, till all the earth lay in an enchanted sleep. The sun rose on a white wonderland, and all the world seemed spellbound and made anew. In the stable yard, the lads were playing joyfully in the snow; the older grooms were bantering as they settled to their work and Andred took his horse and rode out with evil in his heart.

And no finer day for it, he thought with darksome glee, as he turned his horse's head toward the wood. Since Tristan had come, his path had been marked by storms. Now at last, the future was set fair.

Andred grinned mirthlessly. Tristan would never know what he had done. Andred snatched down deep breaths of the sharp, frosty air and shivered, but not with cold. Once again he relived the shameful fall at the tournament when he had been so contemptuously tossed over his horse's backside. Mark's jeering laugh would ring in his ears till he died.

He lifted his head sharply. He could hear it now, echoing around the wood.
You asked for that, Andred!
Any moment the leafless trees would be craning their bare branches to sneer at him and snigger behind his back. He stiffened his resolve. Nothing to do but press on.

With a touch of his spurs, he signaled to his sleepy horse to pick up the pace. In the still, white heart of the forest lay the remedy for all his pains. No one else ever came to the old hermitage, moldering beneath its mound of dead leaves and earth. The healer who lived there had long ago passed beyond mortal aid, taken back to the arms of the Mother who gave him birth. But his were not the skills that Andred sought. There were more ways than one of healing life's deadly wounds.

The forest was silent, awaiting his approach. He threaded his way through the trees, ducking beneath frost-spangled branches, trusting his horse to keep on the narrow path. The snow showed passing traces of weasel, stoat, and fox, but otherwise the white wilderness was his. Tristan, Tristan, he thought, I will have you, you are mine.

The hermitage lay beyond a gaunt stand of pine, its low, domed roof scarcely higher than the snowdrifts around it. Behind it a white horse waited patiently, tied to a tree. Andred smiled. His remedy was here. He might have known that his doctor would not fail.

But which was the healer, which the sufferer now? came to him as he dismounted and tied up his horse. Both of us, he heard in his inmost heart. We are both the same, and together we shall prevail.

He stooped to enter the low doorway, noticing the familiar footprint on the threshold, the mark of a gloved hand on the latch. The tall, muffled figure inside hovered for a moment in the half-light, then came into his arms in a wordless embrace.

"Elva! Oh, Elva!" he sighed.

They held each other for a long time, their heads brushing the low roof. Then he put her away from him and stared into her eyes. As she gave him her gaze, her fire crackled into him and he forgot the cold. She smelled like a vixen in her lair and he could feel her narrow hips, her sharp, rangy bones, even through her furs. For a moment he thought of taking her now, on the bare earthen floor, and he could see from her hungry gaze that she felt it, too. But they both knew that there was work to be done. With a raw sigh, she pushed him off and paced away.

"So," he said softly. "What have we learned?"

Behind her, the wall of the cell glittered with snow crystals in a thousand intricate forms. But her eyes were a thousand times brighter as she smiled at him. "He does not sleep with her!"

"How do you know?"

"One of my women has a niece in the Queen's House—one of the maids. I've been paying her to watch and listen as the King comes and goes. When he enters Isolde's apartments, he does nothing but talk. And the maid insists he has never been in her bed."

"So—"

Andred paused. It was no more than he had heard already from the servants in his pay. But a wise man never told a woman all he knew. And what was happening now called for all the wisdom he had. He looked back at Elva with a peculiar pain.

"If he does not enjoy the Queen's body," he said levelly, "you must think the King will return to your arms again?"

She flared her eyes. "Yes!" she thrilled.

A dull ache began in Andred's heart: What a fool I was, what a fool. He and Elva had been lovers for so long that he thought nothing could break their secret bond. If she made advances to Mark, he told her, then between them, they could take control of the King. From the first she had protested that she loved only him, and he had had to work hard to wear her resistance down. In the end he convinced her that it would only strengthen their love. That at least had proved true. But it never occurred to him that she could love the King as well. What a fool I was—such a fool—

"What about the Queen?" He looked at her searchingly.

"Oh, she's happy enough!" said Elva with a relish that made him stare.

"What do you mean?"

Now she knew she was bringing him fresh news. "Who else is happy these days?" she asked teasingly.

He dared not let himself hope. "Who?"

"Tristan!" she shrilled, clapping her hands with delight.

"Lovers?" He could hardly breathe. "You have proof?"

"Not yet. But we can get it easily."

Darkness and devils—the blood roared in Andred's head. "Tell me," he said.

"He does not call on her in the Queen's House—they are too clever for that. But she walks every day in the solarium, and he goes to her there."

"The solarium?"

Yes, he knew the long gallery at the top of Castle Dore, built to catch the summer sun on a dull or rainy day. His mind ran on. "Now it's winter, they must have the place to themselves."

Elva nodded. "Her maid keeps watch on the stairs, and they're in there alone. They talk to each other for hours. Only talk," she added, with an obscure sense of loss that no man had ever wanted to do that with her. "They have other pastimes, too. They sing and he plays the harp."

The harp—

Andred sneered in his deepest soul. They must do more than talk. And how hard would it be to trap a harpist in love?

"But her maid only watches the way the courtiers come in," Elva pressed on. "There's a servants' staircase at the other end. It comes up behind the hanging on the far wall. You could bring the King to overhear them and catch them out."

Overhear them—fetch the King—catch them out—

Gods above,
yesss
!

It was at moments like this that he loved her beyond compare. One day, both Mark and her wretched husband would be no more. When he was King, she would rule at his side.

But not yet.

There were still too many obstacles in the way. He closed his eyes. Tristan was the greatest, and Isolde not far behind. If Elva was right, he could deal with them both in one fatal blow.

His heart soared.
When I am King
—

"They always go there around noon." He heard Elva's voice from very far away. "They'll be there now."

Now?

"This back way into the solarium," he heard himself say. "Tell me again."

Come to m
e, come to me, love!

The long gallery was filled with brilliant light. The sun sparkled off the snow outside and poured through the wide mullioned windows to warm the wintry air. Forgetting the letter in her hand, Isolde prowled the solarium with a joyful tread. Tristan was coming. That was all there was.

Goddess, Mother, thanks
—

For surely the Great One was smiling on them now. The tournament had ended with feasting and goodwill and King Mark in a high good humor with himself and the world. Arthur and Guenevere had left Castle Dore rejoicing, Guenevere wearing the sleek, drowsy-eyed look of a woman who has been well loved. Now that the shadow hanging over Arthur had gone, Isolde could see that their delight in one another had been born again. It was no secret that the royal couple had renewed their love.

With them had gone Earl Sweyn, far from happy, but grimly accepting what he could not change. At his side rode the still-smiling Lienore, and behind them Gawain with young Sweyn, the big knight doting absurdly on his newfound son. With a sigh, Castle Dore settled down for its winter sleep, and Isolde was looking to the future and daring to hope.

She glanced around the long gallery and her confidence increased. Built over a pillared cloister, it was too high to be overlooked, yet for all its seclusion it was open to all and therefore free of the danger they faced in the Queen's House. As a place of retreat for the court on rainy days, it had tables and couches and alcoves and room to walk and talk. For those who preferred to sit, there were diversions galore, riddle books and counters and games to pass the time.

No one came here now that summer had gone. The great space was too cold for the courtiers when there was no fire. But waiting for Tristan was warmth enough for her.
Any moment now—

"My lady!" came Brangwain's low warning from the stair. She heard footsteps bounding up from the cloister and the next moment he was striding through the door.

He cast off his cloak and came toward her, his eyes dark with love. "Forgive me, lady, if I kept you waiting here."

The smell of the wintry outdoors hung in his clothes and his beauty was almost too much for her to bear. His long hair was covered in drops of melted snow, and the cold had brought a rare color to his face. A golden down of stubble covered his cheeks, and she found herself pining for the taste of his kiss.

She felt suddenly shy.

"You are welcome, sir," she said.

He lifted his head like a pointer. "Is all well?"

More than well, now you are here, my love.

She lifted the letter she held. "From my mother."

He tensed. "Bad news?"

How little we know one another
, passed through her mind.
You must think
I
fear her, as you do
.

"Not at all." She smiled at him and watched as his dear face cleared.

"The Queen is well?"

"Never better." She laughed. "Her new knight Sir Tolen is all that she desires—he even seems to have driven Sir Marhaus from her mind. Her only complaint is that she misses me. She has important matters to discuss, she says. She wants me to return for a royal visit, queen to queen."

"If you did, lady—" Tristan paused.

She heard his thought—
We could be together in a safer place than this
. She would not think it. "We are safe enough here."

"I am not so sure." He took a pace away. "When I got to the stable this morning, Andred's horse had gone. And none of the grooms seemed to know where he went."

What was he talking about? "You were out riding early—why shouldn't he?"

He shook his head. "Perhaps I'm making something of nothing. It was a feeling—no more."

"Andred can't harm us," she said impatiently. "I am Queen here."

"Alas, lady—" He paused. "We are not in the Mother-country now." She stared. "Why, what could Andred do?"

"He has the ear of the King," he said grimly. "And the King has the power to do whatever he wants."