Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (42 page)

"No trace of him? You couldn't find him at all?"

"No, lady." Brangwain could feel the tears of weakness rising to her eyes. She was very tired. "I told you—" Her voice trailed off.

"Thank you, Brangwain."

Isolde took a pace away. Why couldn't she accept what Brangwain said? The maid had described in detail how she had searched the forest, asking everywhere. But Tristan was not there. Her knight had vanished as if he had never been.

She shook her head in despair. Seven days and nights alone, under guard in the Queen's House, must have softened her wits. What had she been hoping for? She drew a breath.
Only to know that my love has come to no harm
.

Well, Brangwain had answered that. Tristan had gone to earth as surely as a fox. And tomorrow at dawn Mark would come to take her to the Pool of Tears. So be it. There was no more time.

She could not bear to see the dread and disappointment in her maid's loyal eyes. She reached out and pressed her hand. "Oh, Brangwain— you're so good."

"It wasn't goodness, lady." The maid clenched her teeth. "I just don't want you to die."

"I won't die, Brangwain." Isolde smiled. "You know I can stay under water for as long as I like."

Brangwain nodded. It was true. Water had been a second mother to Isolde all her life.
Look at me, Brangwain
! A lithe, brown, laughing child bobbed up from her pool of memories and dived down again with a merry splash. She drew a ragged breath. "But the shame, lady! Being led out before all the people—I thought I could spare you from that."
Isolde's chin set. "No shame, Brangwain, when they see I'm innocent. Now, help me to prepare."

Dawn broke like thunder, hurling angry red flames up in the sky. When they came, she was ready for them, poised and calm. She wore her lightest shift beneath her overgown, and Brangwain had covered her in grease to ward off the cold. For the rest, she would trust to her skill and pray to the Gods.
Embrace your fate
, the Lady had said. She was ready for the water's cold kiss now that Tristan was gone.

From the stable yard, a distant clatter of hooves heralded Mark and his men. She stood in her window watching the love star fade.

Tristan, Tristan, when this is over, I shall search for you throughout the world.

And when I find you, we shall never part.

She took a last look round the chamber. "Come, Brangwain."

The cold in the courtyard bit her to the bone. Sharp gusts of wind flurried the snow on the ground. The cobbles, the mullions of the windows, every stone of the walls, were all outlined in thick tracings of hoarfrost and her breath was turning to ice in front of her face. For the first time she felt the sharp tooth of fear.
I chose the wrong ordeal. It's the worst time of the year
.

A lengthy procession was filing into the courtyard below. At its head rode Mark, Andred, and Dominian, the sun's red rays streaking their faces with blood. Behind them came Mark's knights, with a troop of men-at-arms riding in the rear. Holding himself aloof, Sir Nabon was looking as grim as ever in his life. From their set faces, Sir Wisbeck and most of the other lords shared his hatred of this, too. Isolde's spirits lifted. When this was over, she would have many new friends.

"This way, lady."

It was the burly captain of the guard. She mounted her horse and took her place in the procession with Brangwain at her side.

The way led down from Castle Dore, out of the town, and along the clifftop below. All the townspeople had turned out to line the road, men, women, and children buzzing with anger and disbelief. Mark and his men rode into a wall of silence, broken by hostile glares. Behind them, the muttered protests swelled and grew.

"What's all this about?" cried one hardy soul.

"What's she done?"

"Nothing!" came from several throats.

"The King's mad!" shouted the bravest of all.

Mark colored, then wagged his finger at Andred. "Isolde won't go through with this, you'll see!" he ground out. "She'll confess and beg my forgiveness, then they'll know I was right!"

Riding behind the knights, Isolde saw sympathy on all sides. Many were weeping openly, and some could not help crowding into her path to touch her stirrup in blessing or kiss her hand.

"Bless you, lady!" sobbed a young mother, rocking her child in her arms. "May the Mother bring you safely through your ordeal!"

Her husband beside her shook a massive fist. "What's the King doing?"

"Listening to the Christians!" came an ironic cry.

A number of angry voices took up the refrain. "He's hag-ridden by his priests!"

At the head of the train, Dominian picked up the hubbub with a frozen smile.
Saepe expugnaverunt, Domine
, they have often fought against me, Lord, as I do thy work—but behold, how I triumph in the end!

The procession wound down through the town and set out along the cliff. A dense throng followed every step of the way, old and young, stray children and barking dogs. Before long they reached the rocky footpath leading down to the pool. The captain of the guard came forward to help her dismount.

The people surged forward, surrounding her, reaching out to touch her gown.

"Oh, my lady, it's cruel!" cried a woman in the crowd. Frightened by the commotion, a child began to cry. Turning to comfort her, Isolde did not see the beggar till she felt the blow. She only heard Brangwain's cry of horror and the shocked gasps of the crowd before a heavy body lurched into her and knocked her off her feet.

"Lady, lady, look out!" shouted Brangwain.

Goddess, Mother!

She cried out in fear. The next moment she felt herself caught up and cradled in a pair of sinewy arms.

"He's a leper, lady," she heard Brangwain scream. "Get away from him, get away!"

He smelled of blood and pus and rotting flesh. The arms holding her and the stumps of his hands were bound in bloodstained cloths, and his feet were shod in bloody rags. He wore the badge of leprosy on his breast and his beggar's gown was fouled beyond repair. Beneath his heavy cowl, Isolde saw a tangle of shaggy hair and a swath of bandages, and recoiled. Lepers lost their mouths and noses first of all. She could not bear to see what remained of his face. "Get off, you vile wretch!"

"Put her down! Leave the Queen alone!"

With blows and curses, the men-at-arms came swarming to her aid. The crippled figure hastily set her on her feet and reeled back cringing, holding his stumps over his head to defend himself. Now she could see what had once been a noble physique in the stooping frame. Her heart stirred. The leper must have been a fine warrior once, perhaps even a knight, before age and disease had brought him to this.

"Leave him!" she commanded. "Don't beat a poor old man!" Shamefaced, the guard pulled back. The leper hobbled off, his head buried between his hands, mumbling prayers for mercy between groans of pain.

"Gods above, lady!" It was Brangwain, fighting her way through the crowd.

Isolde smiled wanly and struggled to collect herself. "No harm done."
And perhaps some good?

Slowly an idea took shape in her brain. The ordeal to come required a solemn oath and there was no avoiding the interrogation ahead. She could swear innocence of treason, but what of her love for Tristan? Could this beggar stumbling against her in the crowd offer a way of escape? Was he perhaps even sent to her for this? Her frozen heart warmed.
Goddess, Mother, thanks!

The clifftop stretched ahead, with the sea roaring below. A howling wind whipped over the iron-gray waves, and chased a running tide back out to sea. The path led down a steep incline, and every stone beneath her feet was slippery with ice. Already the cold was piercing her to the core. And she had volunteered to swim in weather like this?
And stay under water for seventy times seven besides
—
Goddess, Mother, help me, it will be hard
.

"Here, sire!" came a shout from up ahead. "The Pool of Tears."

The procession wound around a ragged bluff and drew to a halt.

Isolde stepped forward and felt a cold sheen of sweat. She could see at once how the place got its name.

At the bottom of the cliff, many feet below, lay a deep black pool surrounded by jagged rocks. It lay as still as a sheet of glass, though beneath the unruffled surface it must have been fed by the sea. But there was no bottom to be seen, and the sides were sheer. It looked like nothing so much as a well, a dark shaft to the world beneath.

She was suddenly sick with fear, if she managed to dive in without striking her head on the side, how would they ever get her out again? Mark's taunt came back to her with renewed force.
No man or woman had ever come out of there alive
. She closed her eyes.
Yes indeed, it is a place of tears
.

The King and his knights arranged themselves round the pool, and Mark motioned Dominian to speak. The priest stepped forward and threw up his short arms.

"God of justice," he declaimed, "take heed of this woman today! We have brought her here to face Your eternal tribunal where all human souls meet their doom. Vengeance is Thine, O Lord. We commit her to Thy hands!"

And remember, King of Kings, he intoned silently, that this pagan Queen is the enemy of our faith. God, in your mercy, drown her like a rat!

"In the name of the Lord, amen!"

"So, lady," Mark began. He was enjoying this. "You are here to meet your ordeal, and all alone. Did you know that the traitor Tristan, your paramour, has taken ship and fled?"

"Fled?" she muttered through cold lips.

"The whole village watched him sail away." A yelp of cruel delight escaped his lips. "He's gone, madam! Left you to your fate! Now what do you make of that?"

Isolde held herself very still.

Gone away, my love?

Far from Mark and Andred, safe from all of them?

"Thank you, sire." She dropped Mark a deep curtsy. "Your Majesty never gave me better news."

Mark nudged Andred in the ribs. "D'you hear that? I can tell she's ready to give in. At the last minute, I'll order the whole thing to stop. Then she'll be in my hands forever, she'll owe me her life." He slapped Andred triumphantly on the back. "I told you I had a plan!"

Gods above, is he mad? Stop the ordeal, when Isolde shows no sign of repenting or changing her mind? Andred fought down the urge to knock Mark himself into the pool. "Sire," he began, breathing deeply.

But Mark had moved on. "Where's the sergeant at arms?" he cried, waving his hand. "Do your office, man!"

"Here, sire!"

A tall figure clad in royal blue stepped forward with a scroll. "Hear me!" the sergeant proclaimed. "Any man or woman accused of a crime may claim the right of ordeal to clear their name. They must either pass seven times through the fire, or go under the earth and remain there for seven days, or take to the water and live seventy times seven without air."

Isolde listened calmly.
Seventy times seven
—she already knew what it was. Surviving the ordeal required those on the shore to count to seven times seventy with their hands on their hearts, listening for four hundred and more heartbeats, almost five. She could do it. She had swum under water often enough before and she was not frightened now. She stepped forward and threw off her outer clothes, willing herself not to shiver in her thin shift. No one must think she was afraid.

"Come, sir!" she cried. "I am ready. Hear my oath!"

The sergeant bowed. "We hear."

Isolde sent her voice ringing around the bay. "I swear by the Mother, by the Old Ones, and by the Shining Ones before them, by the three worlds and by the lives of all I love, that I never thought any treason to the King. I never intended it, planned it, dreamed it, or plotted it, and neither did Sir Tristan, on my mortal oath!"

Nevernevernever
, agreed the echo off the rocks.

Dominian leaned forward fiercely. "You are not only accused of treason, lady. What of your other duty to the King?"

Isolde met his eye. "What of it, sir?"

Andred stepped in, speaking with insulting slowness, as to a child. "It is said that Sir Tristan has handled your person forbiddenly. We saw you with him, head to head and hand to hand. Swear that he never touched you in any way—"

"That is a foolish oath!" Isolde shouted. "Sir Tristan has handed me aboard ship and helped me mount my horse. And many men touch a woman, whether she wants it or not!" She laughed wildly, and gesticulated to the top of the cliff. "You all saw that beggar hold me in his arms! Does that make me false to the King? I will swear on my soul that no man born of woman has cheated the King of what is rightfully his. And I will go to my ordeal now to prove the truth!"

"Go then, madam!" bellowed Mark vengefully. When would she give up this charade? He'd show her that he was more than a match for all this. He waved to the guard. "Proceed!"

"My lady?"

Isolde turned. A man-at-arms was standing at her side, a bunch of short cords dangling from his hand.

Isolde's stomach seized. "What's this?"

The guard could not meet her eye. "You must be bound, as the ordeal requires."

"No!" Isolde found her voice. "The ordeal is to remain underwater for the count of seventy times seven. To do that, I need to swim!"

"No, lady."

Dominian stepped forward, if ever she had doubted the monk's malignant hate, she saw it now. "We Christians have refined this ordeal in the light of God's truth. To remain underwater and live, you must convince Almighty God that you are innocent. The ordeal tests innocence, not whether or not you can swim. Therefore you must be bound."

"Sire!"

Isolde turned frantically to Mark. "I chose this ordeal as I knew it in the Western Isle. With us, the accused have the use of their limbs."

Mark's face flamed. Good, now he had her, he was almost there! He thrust his chin forward aggressively. "And as I told you, madam, you're not in Ireland now!"

Isolde held out her hands. "Forbid this, Mark!" she shouted. "This is murder, not justice!"