Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (6 page)

"May all your Gods go with you, boy," he breathed.

Carefully Tristan picked his way down the trackless cliff. Halfway down, a small hawthorn tree clung to the furzy turf, blooming its heart out in blossoms of foaming white, and he rested there, braced against its knobbly trunk. As he went on, bright tufts of lichen, orange, black, and green, offered themselves to his grasp and he came across toeholds carved in the face of the rock. Nearer to the ground the cliff sloped and the climb became easier, till at last it felt like going backward down a rough flight of stairs. But still he was trembling in every limb by the time he reached the shore.

The tide was out, and a half-moon of wet sand was densely crowded with jagged, sea-washed rocks. A dozen or twenty, all higher than himself, clustered around a taller rock leaning back against the wall of the cliff, like maidens dancing attendance on the lady they served. Tristan smiled. So—three times among the Maiden rocks…

He began to circle, making his mind a blank. Around he went and around, till it seemed to him that the rock he had called the Lady was beckoning to him, leaning away from the cliff. Behind it he glimpsed a shadow, like the mouth of a cave. Moving forward, he threw a last glance around. A mighty sea eagle hovered overhead, and the air throbbed with the force of his clamorous wings.

Tristan stood for a moment, then saluted him with a solemn wave. Near the shore, a great salmon leapt in a shining arc to inspect him, and Tristan met his yellow eye and greeted him, too. Where the sea met the shore, he thought he saw female forms riding the white crests of the waves, laughing girls like mermaids slipping in and out of the foam, but he could not be sure. Yet still he felt bright eyes all around him and knew that whoever the Lady was, her sea courtiers guarded her well. With a swift prayer for their blessing, he slipped into the crack in the rock.

At once a dark tangle of boulders barred his way. Threading his way through, cursing his size and bulk, he found himself in a low tunnel leading into the side of the cliff, surrounded by a darkness like that of a tomb. Now he was wading through water, and the pebbly base of the stream was slipping beneath his feet. Losing his balance, he threw out a hand and his fingers met a slimy mass of seaweed on the wall. Cursing, he forced himself on.

He did not know how far he went into the dark, only that the crashing of the waves outside became a distant roar. Each time he thought he was there, the low passage turned and led him on again. But then he came to the end of the tunnel and could no longer doubt. Brightness surrounded him, and he found himself looking into places he had never dreamed of. He took a long breath of the warm, sweet air and his mind filled with the simple, joyful thought,
I have come to the place where the Fair Ones live
.

A great peace invaded his soul. He thought of the mother he had never known and it seemed to him that all his life had been tending toward this point.

Whatever it was, he was not afraid. "I am ready, Mother," he murmured, and stepped forward into the light.

A mounted troop rode slowly through the trees. The long procession, bright with lances and flags, had left the broad highway behind, and now followed a path through the heart of the wood. Overhead the dark pines had knotted themselves into a thick roof of spiny green, and the air beneath was stale and moldering after the fresh spring outside. A dank morning dew on the branches dripped onto horses and men, and through all the vast forest, not a bird sang.

At the head of the column, riding behind the King, Gawain shuddered and looked round. The eldest of the Orkney princes, Arthur's closest kin, Gawain proved his courage every time he took up arms. As well built as Arthur, and born with a rougher streak, he was the only knight who, in jousts and tournaments, could bring his great kinsman down. So he knew his fellow knights would not mistake his reluctance for fear as he pointed ahead. "Ye Gods, Kay," he growled, "what are we doing here?"

Kay sighed. He knew Arthur loved Gawain as the first of the knights who had rallied to his side when he pulled the sword from the stone, but that did not make Kay care for the big Orkneyman any more. As Arthur's foster brother, brought up with him from boyhood, Kay was quite sure who Arthur's first knight had been.

"You know as well as I do, Gawain," he snapped, his sallow face flushing with mild ire. "We're heading for Cornwall to relieve King Mark. And on the way, we're calling on Earl Sweyn."

Gawain shook his head. "But why?" he persisted. "He lives harmlessly here and we hardly know he's alive. Why turn aside from our road to flush him out?" His broad face brightened. "We should be in Cornwall for the battle there."

Gods, these beef-witted, blood-crazed Orkneyans! Kay held back a groan. "A king must know his lords if he's to keep the peace. Remember what happened as soon as King Uther died? All his lands were lost, and we had to fight to get them back."

"So!" Gawain nodded owlishly. "Earl Sweyn could be an enemy?"

"Who knows? But the King must take note of a large estate like this, midway between Cornwall and Camelot." He shrugged. "The Earl has a lot of tenants, Arthur says, so it's not clear who owns much of the land." He gave a sardonic laugh. "And that's as good a way as any for a landowner to get out of parting with the men and money that the King needs."

"To fight the Saxons," Gawain put in importantly, with the air of one who understands the game.

"Not only the Saxons." Kay suppressed the weary urge to turn over the conversation to the good-natured Bedivere riding at his side. "All the petty kings who still resist Arthur's rule, the rogue lords and knights, outlaws and masterless men—there's much to be done to restore peace in the land."

"So Earl Sweyn… ?" Gawain puzzled on. "He lives alone here in the depths of the forest with his daughter, they say—did he never bring her to court or to a tournament?" A misty look passed over the bright blue eyes. "I think I remember the name, once, long ago—Kay, you were there too, d'you remember it?"

Kay was saved by a sudden shout from the head of the line. "Castle Sweyn up ahead, sir, still a good way off. But the scout says we'll be there before noon."

Kay smiled sourly. "There you are, Gawain. The castle, the Earl, and doubtless the daughter, too—you can ask them yourself."

The sun high in the sky, not a breath of rain, all the pathways clear now that spring had come—any man would be glad to ride out on a day like this. And any horse would be dancing about on its toes, snuffling the sweet air with delight at the chance of a gallop through the woods. Any except this sorry bunch of nags, dull-eyed and stark in the coat, hanging their miserable heads over their stable doors as if it were their last day on earth.

Yet what could he do? Cursing, the stable master patted the last hairy rump, and stepped out of the stable with a sense of defeat. This one had been the last hope and now it was gone. Bad enough to have no horse in the stable for any master, but worst of all for Earl Sweyn.

Trembling outside in the yard was the groom, a runt of a youth already too friendly with the Earl's heavy hand. Meeting the huge, fearful eyes in the pale, starved face, the stable master jerked his head toward the barn.

"Hop it, lad," he said not unkindly. "Make yourself scarce till the Earl's gone. The mare's lame, all right. No sense in letting him take it out on you."

Twitching like a rabbit, the boy bolted for cover and the stable master watched him go. Even the grooms here were the worst to be had. Oh, the place was fine enough for a king, with its handsome cobbled courts and an array of towers and battlements any lord would be proud to call his own. Only a man like Sweyn would think of trying to run a nobleman's castle like a tightfisted churl.

"Wake up, man!" came a harsh, cawing voice behind. "Where's my horse?"

"My lord?" The stable master turned as slowly as he dared. "Cast a shoe, sir, and torn her sole. She can't be ridden today."

"Cast a shoe?" The lean, choleric figure in front of him slapped his whip balefully against his boot. "She was shod only last week."

The stable master kept his gaze steady and made no response. Every lad in the yard knew that the Earl used the worst farrier for miles around, in his eternal quest to pinch a few pence. Only the best of everything for himself, of course—the finest leather for his boots, even for his whip, and burnt velvet for his habit with a rich cloak to match—not bad for a man who couldn't spare a farthing to keep a good horse on its feet.

The Earl read his silence and glowered, hunching his short body like a crow about to strike. "What about the gray?" he said menacingly.

"Spavined, sir. Like I told you, he shouldn't have been sent out in the fields."

"Well, the big bay then, that great useless brute!"

The stable master stared stolidly ahead. "Got the bots." He lifted his hand and began to count on the fingers of one hand. "The chestnut's shoulder-shotten and the gelding—"

"Shoulder-shotten, spavined, they'll have the staggers next! Keep your horse cant to yourself, dolt, and hold your tongue. Are you telling me there's no horse to ride today?"

"Yes, sir."

And that'll mean old Tom gets another night in the hovel where he's lived for the last forty years, thought the stable master with satisfaction, watching the same realization pass over the thin face with its beak of a nose, clenched mouth, jutting cheekbones, and cold black eyes. All the castle knew that the Earl was going to cast out the old herdsman and his wife and not a soul dared defend them for fear of sharing their fate. But the Gods had given them a reprieve today. "My lord! My lord!"

It was one of the guard, running from the lookout tower. "There's a troop of men coming, sir," he cried, "a hundred knights and more, with a great lord at their head and a lady in white and gold." The Earl stood thunderstruck. "What banner?"

"A red dragon rampant on a white ground—it's the King, sir, with Queen Guenevere!"

"King Arthur? Gods above, no!"

The Earl bunched his hands and bit back a scream. The King and a hundred knights, coming here? Blanching, he saw a month's provisions gone, every living thing slaughtered to fill a hundred hungry mouths. God's blood and bones, he might as well have a flock of gannets in the place.

His mind reeled. Desperately he tried to master his sense of doom. Think, man, think—"Father!"

Raising his eyes, he shuddered and groaned again. Hurrying out of the main door of the castle was a figure in rose silk and velvet, her gown and veil streaming in the wind. "Father," she called, "is it true? The King and Queen coming here?"

"Lienore, not now!" he bellowed furiously. "Get back to your quarters, and stay there till they've gone!" If the King meets a family welcome, he groaned inwardly, we'll never get rid of him. "Go back, I tell you!" he screeched. "I want you out of the way!"

But the shapely figure did not check her stride. Shaking with rage, the Earl watched her coming on. How was it that he could make boys faint and soldiers weep, and have no control over this bitch of a girl?

Look at her now, he screamed silently, knowing that the stable master and the men-at-arms were watching her raptly, too, taking in the wide eyes, the moist lips and open mouth, the gown straining across the bobbing breasts—

"Get about your business, fools!" He scattered them with a snarl, fighting the urge to take after them with his whip.

Behind Lienore now he could see a waiting woman following her out of the doorway, with a child in tow. God's blood and bones! A fresh burst of rage battered at his heart. "Take the bastard away," he howled, "and lock him in his room!"

"Your grandson, Father!" Lienore returned with sublime indifference. "Your own flesh and blood."

She came to a halt before him, stroking down her rosy skirts. In repose her pink cheeks, delicate skin, and round, girlish eyes looked soft and cherubic, tempting to any man. But Earl Sweyn knew how deceptive her softness could be. His gaze turned to the boy, a tall, sturdy child of seven or thereabouts. "So it's not enough to bring a bastard home? You want to shame us now in front of the King?"

"I only did what every woman does," said Lienore. She raised her lovely eyes in an innocent look. "What your mother did to give birth to you."

Oh, the impudent slut! Earl Sweyn's fingers itched. If he hadn't known his departed wife so well, he'd have doubted this trollop could ever be his child. But he'd married Lienore's mother for her Christian piety, and got more than he expected, a wife unhappy from the first to come to his bed. Their struggles between the sheets had convinced her that sex with him was an unrepeatable sin, and as soon as Lienore was born she had withdrawn to a nunnery, where she lived to this day. Nothing he could say had been able to change her mind. And the girl gets that stubbornness from her, he thought venomously. But at least his wife knew who had fathered her child!

"My mother," he said with cruel emphasis, "had a ring on her finger when she lost her maidenhead. She didn't get so befuddled with drink she lay down with a stranger in a Gypsy's tent!"

"It wasn't drink," said Lienore, with what he would have sworn was a sly relish. "It was the fumes the fortune-teller raised." She closed her eyes. "Fumes," she repeated. "The rarest scent you ever smelled—"

"Fumes, you harlot?" He was yelping with rage. "I took you to that tournament to make a good match! I thought you'd come back with a husband for our house, not a babe in your belly and a cuckoo for our nest!"

Lienore reached out a velvet-covered arm and coolly plucked the child away from his nurse.

"He's not a cuckoo," she said carelessly, "he's a big fine boy." She tousled the child's thick, fair hair and treated the Earl to a smile every bit as cruel as his own. "Whoever his father was, he was a lusty lad. He could keep any woman happy all her life." Unlike you, Father, her innocent blue eyes said.

The Earl felt the child's bright gaze on him and suddenly did not care that his wife had left him and his daughter had proved a strumpet. His grandson was indeed a big, handsome boy, fair and open-faced, one any grandfather would be proud to call his own. The Earl secretly rejoiced that the lad had long, strong limbs, a clear gaze, and a fearless air, and nothing of his own dark, crow-like features and unimpressive build. When the time came—and now he was seven, it would come soon—the boy would leave the house of women to become a squire, a knight, and his grandfather's heir. And at that same time his dear mother, Lienore, to her great surprise, the Earl promised himself with a silent vengeful smirk, would find herself singing Hail Marys in the same nunnery as her mother, dispatched with an endowment large enough to make sure the good sisters kept her there all her life. He sighed with anticipation. Oh, it would be sweet, so sweet.