The Lady of the Sea (10 page)

At the heart of the forest stood the Druids’ sacred grove, the broad grassy clearing where Cormac would be found. Only a great event like the death of the Queen would draw him away from here into the false and dangerous world of the court. Here Cormac prayed and worshipped in a world of his own, a sweet green universe of love and faith. Here the young Druids studied with him for many years to learn Cormac’s wisdom and his secret lore. And here Isolde had come to learn from him, too, seeking knowledge that only he could impart.

Now the woodland fell silent as they drew near. The flighty ash trees and fluttering willows reined in their low chatter, and the white doves roosted soundlessly overhead. The clearing lay at the end of a long grassy ride, and the afternoon sun had made it a pool of gold. One tall shadow in the green gloom under the trees betrayed the presence of the man they had come to seek.

“Here, madam.”

Brangwain slipped from her horse and took Isolde’s reins. Slowly, Isolde dismounted and walked forward through the blinding sun in the clearing to the purple and blue shade on the other side. What would she say to Cormac now she was here?

She raised her eyes to his dark, steadfast gaze and saw with relief that he had not changed at all. In a world where the Gilhans and Vaindors grew old and gray, the Chief Druid remained eternally himself. His face, always grave and lined, looked no older, and his thick black hair showed not a trace of gray. He still wore his simple dark robes of indigo dye, though other Druids progressed to fine white wool as they reached the highest rank.

Best of all, she saw that the Druid mark pulsed with undiminished fervor between his brows. She heaved a sigh of relief. She had come to the right place. Swiftly, she prepared herself to hear what he said. Cormac always spoke without preamble, that was his way.

The Druid inclined his head, fixing her with his deep-set eyes. “You are troubled, daughter.”

“More than troubled, sir. Our land is in danger. You know the Picts are here?”

Cormac closed his eyes. “I heard their oars beating on the water as I slept. Then I saw their sails in a waking dream.”

“Was that all?”

“All except fire and blood and screams in the night.”

Isolde shuddered. “They only know how to kill. Do we have to kill, too?”

Cormac’s eyes lit with an Otherworldly fire. “The Mother teaches us to love, not hate.”

“But must we fight them to protect our own?”

A warm smile of encouragement transformed Cormac’s face. “You are fighting already. But with words and your own sharp wits, not with swords.”

“Then you think it’s right to refuse their demands? My lords are afraid that we’ll anger the King of the Picts and draw down his fury on the rest of the land.”

“Trust your own judgment,” Cormac said quietly. “That is the reason the Old Ones made you Queen. They did not choose in vain.”

Isolde bowed, deeply humbled. “Thank you, sir,” she breathed.

Cormac reached out a hand and laid it on top of her head. As he blessed her forehead, she felt a tender glow. “Ah, my daughter,” he sighed. “You are right to love the land. You are its spirit and its sovereignty, and you must not fail. But your heart is divided. Tell me, what is your grief?”

Isolde groaned. “I fear my marriage to King Mark is at an end. But I also fear to make the wrong move now.”

“You are wise,” Cormac said intently. “It is always easier to break than to repair.”

Isolde clasped her hands in misery. “There’s nothing for us to repair. We were married by the Christian rites, but we have never been man and wife.”

“Then you have never been truly married, in the eyes of their God or ours.”

“But do I have the right to leave him? I made a vow. I took him by the hand.” Age-old memories stabbed at her as she recalled the long-ago service in the chapel on the rock, the sonorous Latin, the smell of incense, the chanting of the choir. Above all, the tall figure at her side in Cornwall’s royal red, not the man of her heart in the blue of Lyonesse. Another hot grief, another mortal pang.
Why did I ever agree to marry Mark? If I had married Tristan, I would not be alone now.

“Am I honor-bound to stay with Mark?” she cried. “I made a promise!”

The Druid fixed her with his burning gaze. “So did your husband. Has he kept his?”

Isolde stopped to consider. “Never,” she said quietly. “He had a mistress on our wedding day. They say the affair is waning, but she still haunts the court. I have never been his, and he has never been mine.”

“Then the church of King Mark joined two souls in a lie. Our Goddess teaches the truth of the heart above all.”

Isolde nodded.
Religion should be kindness. Faith should be love.

“Where there is no faith, there can be no true love,” Cormac declared in his dark, resonant tones. “Your marriage to Mark was dead before it began. Give it an honest burial after all these years. That is the last office that you owe to him.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Isolde fervently. She felt suddenly lighter as she turned away. She would go back to Mark and dissolve the marriage in person, face-to-face. Then she could start afresh on open terms. She could live her own life. She could . . .

She was suddenly aware that the Druid was waiting patiently, his eyes still locked on hers. “What is it, sir?” she cried.

“Nothing for you to fear.” To her relief, she saw warmth in his gaze and the glimmer of a smile. “We spoke of what you owe to your husband King Mark. Never forget what you owe yourself.”

“Myself?”

“To yourself and to the land. Long ago, our ruling Queens changed their consorts every year, for the health of the ruler and the health of the tribe. The chosen one was given to the earth, and his seed and his blood brought forth the next spring’s crops. Then he was granted life for three years, then five, and then seven. These days, the former chosen ones of the Queen live out the rest of their days in her band of knights. But the Queen still has the right to change her consort at will.”

Isolde listened mesmerized. She had heard as much.

“Your foremothers had the Mother-right, Isolde,” Cormac’s sonorous voice rolled on. “Just as you have now. The right the Mother gives every woman to choose her mate. For a queen, this right is also a duty, a duty to the land. The Queen of the Western Isle chooses for us all.”

“Then I may put Mark away and take Tristan as the partner of my life?” Isolde whispered, hardly able to put her hopes into words.

“Certainly you may,” Cormac responded. He was smiling openly now, a rare sight. “And remember you are still in the shadow of the great Queens of the past. Two partners in one life is a modest score.”

Isolde thought of her own mother, who was never without a Companion of the Couch, and smiled wanly back.

“And when you take a new companion, you may give back to the Mother what the Great One gave to you.” Cormac leaned forward urgently. “New life, Isolde. New birth. You give to the land what it gave you when you were born. A new link in the chain of being that binds us all.”

Could it be?

Isolde held her breath. Could she break free of Mark and live openly with her love? Could they even . . . ?

A great longing blossomed within her that would not be denied.
Oh, to be with Tristan and to bear his child!
Her mind convulsed.
A boy, with his fearless bearing and truthful gaze. A girl with his fair hair and loving smile. And more little ones, too. More children like him to love . . .

Then his loss, his absence, came back to her again and grief swept her from head to foot. She turned to Cormac with desolation in her soul.

“I thought he’d follow me,” she cried. “But where is he, do you know? Is he coming? Will he soon be here?”

Now for the first time, the Druid would not meet her gaze. “Alas, lady,” he groaned, “alas . . .”

Stepping back into the shadows, he looked away. The warm green gloom reclaimed him, and he faded into the forest before her eyes. Only the echo of his words lingered behind.

Alas, alas . . .

chapter 12

O
n—get on!”

Whispering, Tristan spurred his horse onward into the wood. Behind him, the mad knight’s raving had faded away and the sound of his tortured sobbing was no more. As soon as he got to a town, Tristan resolved, even a village, he would send the poor soul help. But now he urged his mount to its fastest pace. “Onward, my friend. Get on!”

Willingly the gray bounded down the woodland track. The soft loam underfoot lent a spring to the galloping hooves, and the pathway opened before them into the cool green depths. Tristan did not stop till a good distance lay between him and the desperate knight.

Goddess, Mother . . .

A fearful thought overwhelmed him. If he had not seized the chance to get away, he’d have died like a dog in the wood and Isolde would never have known. When he failed to arrive at Mark’s court to obey the King’s command, she would have thought of him as a faithless man. If he never again contacted her after that, she would be sure he was a recreant knight who had broken his oath to them both, and simply slipped away to find an easier life. A traitor knight . . . The thought that she would despise him was more than he could bear.

Isolde, Isolde, my lady, my lost love . . .

It was a good while before he could find any comfort in his heart. But slowly the woodland took him to itself, as it always did. He heard the welcome of the forest birds, as flights of wood pigeons tumbled and sang overhead. A herd of fallow deer stopped to greet him with large-eyed stares, then bounded away, laughing and leaping for joy. A tiny shrew lifted her snout disdainfully as she passed: Out of my way, sir, I’m busy. Why, what a ridiculous size you great humans are . . .

“Bless you, little Mother,” he breathed. He drew in the verdant richness of his surroundings, feeling his heart revive. Oak and elm flourished overhead, every tree a riot of green in the full flush of the year. He rode through white drifts of wild cherry and groves of crab apples ripening their red and yellow fruit in the sun. He came to a river and followed it to a ford, a sheet of still water lying like beaten gold. He passed through the ford and went on, pressing deeper into the forest hour by hour. After a while, he began to wonder if he had lost his way. No, he mused. Hold fast to the path, and trust to the Great Ones to bring you to the light.

And there it was, the light in the forest before it was truly dark. Glimmering through the trees stood a castle of fine white stone, with delicate arches and towers and floating traceries. A ribbon of silver water ran round its base, and its airy walkways and battlements smiled down on their own reflection shining below. It was a palace fit for a princess, for a fairy queen. Tristan urged his horse forward. On these warm summer nights when he loved to lie out in the wood, he had no intention of asking for the favor of a bed. But courtesy dictated that he should call.

He drew up to the gatehouse. “Ho there!” he called.

“Within, sir,” came the reply.

Moments later, the great iron-studded double doors rolled back and two or three ancient retainers came into view. Puffing and straining, they threw wide the gates and bowed him in. In the courtyard stood another elderly man, clad in handsome but antiquated robes of rust-red velvet and carrying a staff. The breeze fluttered his white hair as he stood, and his kindly eyes smiled from a deeply wrinkled face.

“I am the Seneschal,” he called, bowing deeply, “and you are welcome here, sir. May we know your name?”

Tristan vaulted from the saddle and returned the bow. “Sir, I am known as Tristan of Lyonesse.”

Already the old servants were fussing round the horse and leading away the gray. The broad courtyard they stood in boasted many handsome stables on either side. But hanging their hairy heads out of their stalls were no more than three or four horses, when thirty or forty would have been expected in an establishment of this size. He turned to the Seneschal. “Whose castle is this, pray?”

“We serve the Lady Unnowne.”

“You have no lord?”

The old man’s face saddened. “Not since our young lady’s father passed away. He built this castle as a present for his bride, a great beauty he brought all the way from France. But she never throve here away from her native land and she died when our lady was still only a child. Then last year he died, too, and our young lady fell into a sickness herself.” He gave a rueful smile. “Some say that this is an ill-omened place.”

Tristan felt an odd shiver, despite the heat of the sun. “Surely not,” he said courteously. “But tell me, sir, what court does your lady keep here? I have only stopped in passing to pay my respects. Will she receive me, or should I be on my way?”

“She will want to see you,” the Seneschal said confidently. “But do not expect a lengthy interview. Our Lady Unnowne has—” He hesitated, and seemed to be choosing his words with care. “She has not been well for some time. But you’ll see for yourself.”

As they spoke, the Seneschal had been leading the way out of the courtyard and up a broad flight of steps. More graceful stairs and wide corridors followed till they stood before a handsome carved oak door. As they approached, another gray-haired attendant moved forward to open it.

“My lady’s chamber.” The Seneschal ushered Tristan over the threshold, then stepped back. “Prepare yourself, sir, for the sight of her.”

Tristan started. “What?”

The door closed behind him with a muted click of the latch. Overcoming his unease, he looked around. He was standing in a long, high-ceilinged chamber with fine furnishings and hangings on every wall. But all the windows were swathed in linen to dim the light, and a stale, fusty, choking air hung in the room. In the gloom at the end of the chamber stood a low dais, with long green curtains and a canopy of green silk edged with gold. On the dais was a deep bath of copper, with a high back and white sheets draped across it like a bed. And in the bath lay a lady, staring at the door.

Behind her were two women attendants, gowned in white, both hovering ready to minister to their charge. In the shadow by the wall stood an older man, a doctor by his bearing and dark garb. A table at his side held many liquids in colored bottles and pots, and weird-smelling pastes and potions in countless boxes and jars. The scent of lavender and chamomile rose from the bath.

“Approach, knight!” the lady called.

Her voice was light, husky, appealing, and oddly young. Tristan made his way forward, baffled. What illness was this? All he could see of the lady were her shoulders, face, and neck, and a pair of thin white arms lying forlornly along the sides of the bath. A white cloth like a nun’s headdress veiled her head, and a few strands of baby-fine hair snaked out from beneath. Her face was a tight, tiny triangle, as white as her veil, with a frightened, pinched mouth. Her small hands were clenched into fists, the fingers curled over the thumbs like a child’s. How old was she? He looked into eyes of flashing bronze and gold. Eighteen? Thirty-two? He had no idea.

“Forgive her appearance, sir.”

It was the doctor, a quiet, older man with a face of deep concern. “My lady suffers from a tormenting skin complaint, and lying in cool water is her only relief. So she spends much of each day in the bath, shunning the sun.”

Tristan thought of the sun on his back on this morning’s ride and shuddered with pity for her. Now he could see that the whiteness of her arms was discolored with angry blotches of pink and red. “What a grievous affliction,” he muttered beneath his breath.

But the lady had heard what he said. “Grievous, yes, it is,” she said agitatedly, “but that’s not all. I would not be suffering like this—trapped like this—but for an evil knight who has me in thrall.”

“How, lady?” Tristan gasped.

“He wooed me—said he wanted to marry me—but all he wanted was my castle and my land,” she ran on in the same breathless, broken delivery. “He deceived me cruelly—offered himself to me as a good man, then made my life a misery when I refused. All he wanted was to take my land—then force me to enter a convent against my will.”

Tristan nodded sadly. There were many rogue knights and fortune hunters who preyed on heiresses left alone and undefended as this lady was.

“And now he keeps me here as a prisoner—in a trap—waging war on any knight who ventures near. He means to break me down—he tries to kill any man who might rescue me.” She held out her wasted arms in a pitiful appeal. “He’s a fearful fighter. No other knight has ever had him down. You must kill him for me! That’s the only way I’ll be safe.”

Tristan gasped. “Lady, in chivalry we aim not to kill. Can’t you send your Seneschal to lay your plight before the Queen? She would be ready to right such a grievous wrong.”

“No one would believe me!” The young woman reared up in the bath, and her attendants leaped forward to preserve her modesty. Furiously, she dropped back. “He’s a prince of deception,” she shrilled. “And I have no one to fight him. We daren’t leave the castle while he rules the wood.”

Tristan thought of the old men around her and frowned in despair. That at least must be true.

The young woman’s eyes rolled pitifully in her head, darting from side to side like a trapped fish. “He’s here—he’s listening—he knows what we say,” she exclaimed.

“Lady, we’re alone in this chamber, and your own men are guarding the door,” Tristan cried. “How could that be?”

“Evil souls can take any shape they choose.”

The golden-bronze eyes had turned to hard nuggets of coal. She raised one thin arm like a wand. “Will you defend me? Will you do battle to save me from my enemy?”

Gods above . . .

Tristan cast desperately about. “Have you truly no knight, lady? No man who will raise a sword in your defense?”

“I had a knight.” Her small face puckered and collapsed. “The best knight in all the world. He was my love, faithful and true to me—my only friend—he loved me all my life—”

She was gasping and crying together, fighting for breath. Tristan felt like a monster. “Where is he now?”

Another burst of frantic, gulping tears. “My enemy killed him through guile and treachery.”

“Lady—” Never in his life had Tristan been at such a loss.

“Sir, if you please . . .”

There was a soft footfall behind. It was the doctor again, shaking his head. “My young lady has spoken enough for one day.”

“Yes, of course.” Tristan turned to him with overwhelming relief. “Who has the care of her?”

The old doctor bowed. “I do.”

“She has no relatives?”

“None that we know of. Her father lived in seclusion after her mother died. When he knew he was dying himself, he left her to our care.”

“And the castle at large?”

“We have the Seneschal and a few menservants and maids. They all served my lady’s father when she was a child.”

Aged retainers then. Tristan nodded. No young knights to defend this pitiful creature, only a middle-aged doctor and a household of elderly men. He frowned, perplexed. “Have you found nothing to help her?”

“Oh, sir—” The doctor passed a hand over his brow. “We have tried all we know. White water lily, that’s a known soothing agent for the skin, and lotion of cinquefoil, for a cleansing wash.”

“Fern poultices, too,” put in one of the women on the dais, “and drops of ragged robin to calm her down—”

“All this and more,” the doctor interrupted, dismissing the woman with a brisk jerk of his head. He paused, and, like the Seneschal before him, seemed to be picking his words with care. “My lady is, shall we say, at the mercy of her fear. Of this evil knight who holds sway over her, who rampages at large in the wood and will let no one pass.”

Tristan gritted his teeth. “It is true, then?”

The doctor hesitated. “It is true that she hates and fears him with all her heart.”

“And on top of all this,” Tristan mourned, “to suffer a dreadful, disfiguring ailment, and the loss of her mother, her father, and her knight . . .”

Alas, poor young thing. But still—

Tristan paused. Why was he wrestling with himself to know what to do? The lady was a woman alone, undefended and plainly sick. Could anyone have a clearer call on his strength, his truth, his knighthood oath?

You swore to assist all those weaker than yourself, he groaned inwardly, the child, the widow, the orphan, the oppressed. This lady is oppressed and an orphan, too. You undertook a life of chivalry to help such as she.

And without Isolde, that is all you have. You chose your honor above a life with her. What else can you live by now?

Tristan closed his eyes and looked into the void. Warm as it was in the chamber, he saw a future suddenly growing dark and cold. This was not his quarrel, and the Gods knew he had no stomach for this fight. But the lady’s demand could not in honor be refused. He had to take on this battle with her enemy.