Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (9 page)

She could hardly speak. "Cormac, I—"

"No words."

He held up his hands, palms outward, in a gesture of defeat. The Druid mark was pulsing between his brows. "Some men are fated to dwell forever outside love's house, and never know the enchanted place within. My love is always broken torchlight, shining where it is not felt. Farewell, Princess. Think of me in your prayers."

Step by step he withdrew under the trees. His parting words reached her from far away.

"Have faith, lady. Trust to your knight."

A strange agony seized her and she shuddered from head to foot. "I have no knight!" she cried.

There was no reply. The evening birds were calling through the trees, and the earth was softly breathing out the dews of night. Cormac was lost to sight, part of the woodland again, no more than a deeper shadow in the forest shades. She turned away.

A last farewell whispered through the trees.
Trust to your knight. He will come to you
.

In the King's private chamber, the air was dank with fear. The side tables were loaded with food, but no one could touch it, though noon had come and gone. Shuffling on his throne, throwing glances of desperation around, King Mark eyed his advisers resentfully.

"In the name of God," he moaned, "Merlin promised us a champion! Why doesn't he come?"

Father Dominian hunched his black shape forward, like a spider preparing to strike. "Druids are dream weavers, sire. Merlin must have lied."

"Or the knight he promised us may be dead," Andred put in, furrowing his brows with concern.

"Where's Merlin himself, then?" lamented Mark, nervously shifting his ungainly legs around. "There's Marhaus at our gates, Merlin nowhere to be found, and no hope of a knight to take Marhaus on!"

There was a silence as all three men relived the horror of recent days. First the dark sail in the channel, then the great ship looming larger as it neared Castle Dore. Next a grim war band of Irish knights marching up from the quay, and at last the appearance of the Queen's champion himself.

Mark's gut twisted with shame. Why was it that the very sight of the knight from the Western Isle had robbed him of what little courage he had? Was it the champion's powerful, threatening frame, his dead eyes, his hideous array of weapons or his slow, predatory stride? None of these, Mark decided in the misery of fear, but his white, wolfish smile. Here was a man who would kill because that was his nature, and his pleasure, too.

The champion came to a halt at the foot of the throne. He threw Mark a glance of pure contempt, then his scornful cry went ringing around the court.

"Vassals, today a new ruler claims you for her own. The Queen of the Western Isle offers Cornwall her full protection and a mother's love. You will pay tribute to her from now on, and take her as your new sovereign and Queen."

Mark bit his knuckles as he remembered it, stifling a low moan. The champion had challenged in a loud, manly voice, and he could answer only in the accents of a fool.

"We have a sovereign lady," he had blustered in a voice not his own, "our Queen Igraine. She holds the land for her son, King Arthur himself. And he'll be on his way here now, I promise you that!"

"The High King himself!" cried Marhaus mockingly, rolling his eyes. "Then pray to your Gods, sir, that he gets here in time. I shall renew this challenge for three days. If no man answers me, your land is mine by the rules of war."

Three days—and this was the third. What hope was there now? Already his barons had left him in disgust and taken to their estates, vowing to defend their own lands if the King could do no better than this. Their leader, Sir Nabon, had talked angrily of Mark's father, openly wishing the old king were still alive. With a groan, Mark recollected himself and struggled to cut a more regal figure on the throne.

"So, lords," he ventured as boldly as he could.

Outside the window the harsh clatter of a raven sounded through the air. A raw panic leaped up and gripped Mark by the throat. "What time is it? The champion must be here!"

Andred started. "Not yet, uncle, I swear!"

But he will come.

Standing with Simeon beside the throne, Dominian folded his hands inside the sleeves of his gown and began a silent prayer.
Saepe expugnaverunt, Domine
… Many a time, O Lord, have they fought against us, all Your enemies—

He bowed his head. Dear God, Lord of Hosts, he went on humbly, You did not choose to make me a fighting man. But spare us from this swordsman of the pagan Queen. Send us a miracle, Lord, large or small.

"Sire!" There was a flurry at the door.

"Marhaus!" howled Mark, covering his eyes with his hand.

"No, sire," came the voice of the chamberlain. "But a stranger knight begs to see you—shall we let him in?"

The heavy oak doors rolled back on their iron tracks. Tristan looked in, his hope rising with every beat of his heart. Within the chamber the sun was pouring through the windows, bathing the occupants in rays of light. Slowly he made out a king, a knight, and a priest on the dais at the far end, and the gilded shapes dazzled his eyes. Blood of my blood, throbbed joyfully through his veins, my mother's brother the King and my cousin the knight, both my own kin. And a man of God, to share faith with us all.

Now he saw the rosy fire on the hearth, the rich furnishings, the side tables laden with welcoming food and wine, and his heart soared. Goddess, Mother, praise and thanks for this.

How had he come here? He hardly knew. He had scrambled back up the cliff and mounted his horse, his body moving without volition while his mind raced with all that he had seen. At Castle Dore he hardly saw the fine white walls and thriving little town, so busy was his soul on the astral plane. Only when he entered the King's chamber and saw its three occupants waiting for him did his roaming mind and body come together as one.

He fixed his eyes on the King and stepped forward with a bow. "I hear you face a mortal challenge, sire," he said boldly. "Grant me to answer it, and I shall redeem your land!"

"Sir?" Gaping, Mark looked the newcomer up and down. With a wild surge of relief he took in the towering height and exceptional physique, and knew that this knight could hold his own with any man. A moment later he saw that the knight's broad shoulders and strong frame made him look older than he was. The young man carried himself like a seasoned warrior, but a powerful innocence lit his bright brown eyes and the same sweetness shaped his full, wide mouth.

The eyes—the mouth—

"Who are you?" he gasped, though he already knew.

"I am the son of your sister, who died in the forest giving birth to me."

"Young Tristan?"

Weeping, Mark heaved himself out of his throne and folded Tristan to his chest. "God in Heaven, Nephew, but you are welcome to me!" He held Tristan at arm's length and looked him up and down. "Oh, poor Elizabeth, how you remind me of her!" His lips trembled, and his eyes filled again with tears. "Did you know she was my twin? The best part of me died with her. Now God has sent her back to me in you!"

Awkwardly Tristan drew back. He could see the dark-haired knight beside the throne eyeing him with an impenetrable stare. He had hoped for a warmer welcome from his cousin than this.

"My lord—" he began.

"And I thought I'd lost you," Mark rushed on, "after that terrible business in Lyonesse. God Almighty," he burst out in sudden rage, "when your father married again, why did he make such a dreadful choice?"

Tristan looked away. "My stepmother was a princess of the blood."

"From Little Britain, wasn't she? Well, they're all false, the French!" cried Mark. "He should have married one of our own. No woman of Lyonesse would have tried to poison you so her own son could be king." He gave an angry laugh. "But you were the one who had to go away."

"I could not stay at court when they were reconciled," Tristan said with an unmistakable note of reserve and pain. "I was too much of a reminder of all they had to forget."

"But you saved her life!" Mark swung a clumsy punch at Tristan's arm. "Quite a hero—after what she did to you."

Tristan's head went back in unconscious dignity. "Any man would have done the same."

Mark bared his teeth in an unpleasant grin. "Not I."

Tristan stared. "But surely, sire, a woman—a queen—should never be killed?"

Mark returned his stare. "Even when she tried to kill her husband's son?"

Tristan shook his head. "Woman is life and the source of life," he said decisively. "And under the Great One, every woman is a Goddess and a queen."

Oh, you young fool! Fastidiously adjusting his gown, Dominian observed Tristan with pitiless contempt. Every woman is a witch, my son, as you will find out.

Mark slapped Tristan's shoulder approvingly. "You have a good heart, nephew, I'll say that." His slack face hardened. "But if I'd been your father, I'd never have pardoned her." Something dark and cruel played at the back of his eyes. "Death by fire would have been a merciful end. A queen of mine who betrayed me would fare far worse."

Tristan stood still. For a long moment he felt the earth falter in its course and a shadow of the future darkened his path. What is this? he chided himself. Mark had no queen. And any queen of Mark's could be nothing to him.

"My Lord—" he began.

But Mark had launched onto another tack. "Your mother loved you," he said mournfully, clutching at Tristan again, "and God knows how your father loved her!"

Tristan felt an ancient pain tighten round his heart. "My nurse told me that when she died he laid her to rest in her wedding gown."

"With a garland of May blossom round her head." Mark nodded owlishly, like a great boy. "She looked…" His mouth twisted and the words tailed away, before a fresh idea set him off again. "You should have been called after me, did you know that?"

Tristan started. "No, sire."

Mark puffed out his hollow chest. "But Elizabeth called you Tristan before she died. And your father was true to that last wish of hers."

Dominian gave young Simeon an almost imperceptible nudge. "Mark will favor Tristan over Andred now," he murmured without moving his lips. "To those of the Old Faith, a sister's son is a man's closest kin, since in the old world, women always took precedence over men." A thin smile curved the edges of his mouth. "God has corrected that gross error now, of course."

"Nephew!" Mark took a step back and seized Tristan by the shoulders. "You are here in our hour of need. The Queen of the Western Isle has challenged us for the throne."

Tristan threw back his head. "I will take the challenge on."

A pang of conscience plucked at Mark's heart. God forgive him, was even his kingdom worth his nephew's life? "He is a fearsome fighter," he said in sudden dread.

Tristan smiled grimly. "Never fear, sire, I have met many such."

"God Almighty Himself has brought you back to me!" Mark blurted out. "And I'll treasure you as the son I never had. You'll save me, Tristan—I know you won't fail!"

A strange sensation knocked at Tristan's heart. "Uncle," he forced out. "Every man fails—"

"Sire! Sire!"

A trembling servant flew through the door. "The Irish knights are here, in a great band. They say the champion awaits you on the meadow beside his ship, if no man answers his challenge, then your throne is forfeit and our kingdom falls into his hands!"

Mark raised his head. "We are ready." He stepped forward with awkward dignity and took Tristan by the arm. "Nephew, come. Your enemy is here."

The meadow was sweet with tender buds of May, daisies and buttercups blinking in the sun. Beyond the level green they could see the river winding inland from the sea, and the ship from the Western Isle moored at the dock. In happier times, Tristan knew, this field must be home to the town market and its busy, crowded stalls, peddlers of all kinds, and Gypsy travelers who beguiled the townsfolk with their dark faces and exotic ways, then disappeared as mysteriously as they had come.

Already the townsfolk were streaming out of Castle Dore, as word of the challenge ran through the narrow streets. A troop of Irish knights were waiting at the far side of the grassy space, all armed for war. With the flag of the Western Isle flying overhead and every man glittering in silver from head to foot, they were a fearful sight, and the champion in their midst looked the fiercest of all.

So! Tristan paused for a moment to return the knights' war-like stares, then with King Mark at his side and a bevy of pages and squires in attendance behind, took up his stand at the side of the field. Already, he noted grimly, his opponent had staked out the place of advantage with his back to the sun. He felt the blood coursing through his veins. So be it, then! It was time to take arms.

The leading squire helped Tristan into a gleaming ox-hide tunic, its blood-dark surface inlaid with gold wire. Next to it a squire held up a great shield of golden-brown bronze, while a page brought forward a helmet shaped like a hawk about to strike.

Mark reached out to touch the bronze feathers of the bird, shuddering at its fierce emerald eyes. "Your father equipped you well," he said admiringly.

Tristan smiled. "These are my own arms, sire," he said. "Won by knighthood and the rules of war."

Mark's eyes widened. Only a great warrior would have arms as fine as these. To win such treasures, Tristan must have beaten the very best. So young, and already a fighter of such grace…

A primal jealousy stirred in Mark's deepest heart, and he could have cried out with pain. The next moment he forced himself to stumble out a blessing as Tristan picked up his weapons for the fray. "God speed you, nephew! May a thousand angels ride on the point of your sword."

"Sire."

Bowing, Tristan turned to face his enemy advancing down the field. Marhaus's shield bore the Queen of Ireland's crest, a pair of fighting swans with a trefoil above. The champion's silver helmet was adorned with great swan's wings, and his body was protected by plated armor of silver and gold. In his right hand he carried a massive broadsword, and two short stabbing daggers swung from his belt. From his silver-tagged boots to the thick gold torque round his neck, it was clear that the Queen of the Western Isle had equipped her knight like a king.