The Lady of the Sea (12 page)

chapter 15

N
othing disturbed the quiet of the moonlit bay. One by one the Pictish ships eased their way out of the rocky harbor and slid silently out to sea. Then the darkness was broken by the mournful cry of an owl. Another answered from further inland, and a third on the mountain high above echoed the trembling call.

Moments later a dark figure slipped to a hidden beacon whose blaze could not be seen from the sea. As the fierce animal-headed prows nosed onward down the coast, other owl cries and other beacon fires sent the warning south. In between, a fleet of runners and riders helped to carry the word to Dubh Lein. By the time Darath’s ships made the harbor on a golden summer dawn, Isolde had been waiting for him for days. But then, she had been ready for him from the first.

“He will come,” she told Sir Gilhan and her lords, “and we shall send him away with words, not with weapons. We shall give him peace, not war.”

Old Sir Doneal grunted and pulled a face. “Words don’t fill bellies, lady. He’ll want more than that.”

“He needs something to take to his clan,” Sir Gilhan put in gravely. “They’ll starve in the winter else.”

Vaindor smiled, and Isolde did not like his smile. “And women. The Picts always want women. They used to raid us for brides in the days gone by.”

Isolde froze his unwanted interruption with a stare. “That need not concern us now. He’s approaching the port, you say? Be so good as to bring him to me as soon as he lands.”

But not to the palace, she decided. Any invader, even a ruling king, must be kept at arm’s length. Later she might admit him to Dubh Lein, if the negotiations went smoothly, step-by-step. But for now she would challenge him at the place where he came in, confronting him the moment he set foot on Dubh Lein’s soil. Accordingly, she had the royal throne carried out of the palace and set up on the clifftop high above the bay.
I am Queen here. Thus far and no farther you may go
was the message she planned to convey.

What was he? she thought for the hundredth time, awaiting him now ensconced on the throne of Queens. The morning air was alive with glinting salt crystals breathed out by the restless sea, and the sun played warmly on her face and hands. Light winds lifted her hair and teased at the hem of her robe as she pondered on. Barbarian or king, knight, warrior, killer, or all of these? How should she receive him? What to wear?

These speculations had taken up many hours of discussion with Brangwain. In the end, she had dressed to receive a king, in richly fluting silks of Ireland’s royal green. A green mantle of power hung from her shoulders, while an emerald-studded breastplate signaled war. More emeralds adorned her wrists, neck, and waist, and the emerald crown of Queens blazed on her head.
Well done, Isolde,
said a cold inner voice.
Fit for a king.

But not this King,
another voice struck back.
Where is my King, Tristan of Lyonesse? Oh, my love, my love . . .

Grieving, she could hear her mother now.
No tears, no fears, Isolde. Remember you are Queen.

I hear you, Mawther.

No more tears.

No more.

She saw Sir Gilhan move forward to greet the Picts at their ships down in the bay and usher them onto the path leading up the cliff. Knowing she was in full view of the men below, she descended from the throne and slowly, imperiously turned to face the sea, catching the wind in her cloak like great billowing wings. Only when she heard the tramp of footsteps behind did she turn back. What she saw before her made her catch her breath.
Oh, fool, Isolde! You thought you’d be dealing with a savage and you meet a king.

Moving confidently toward her across the springy turf was a tall, lean, handsome man, cradling a bronze and gold boar-crested helmet in the crook of his arm. He wore a kilt of finely tooled leather studded with bronze and a short, sleeveless tunic of heavy oxhide, revealing broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. Round his neck was a massive jewel on a thick gold chain, carved in the likeness of a snarling boar. Four daggers of different sizes hung from his waist, and he balanced two short stabbing spears in one hand. Bangles of gold circled both his wrists, and a coronet of gold held back a thick mane of hair.

But all this paled beside the splendor of his face and arms. Indeed all his body, as far as she could see, was gorgeously decorated in shades of blue and violet, purple, indigo, and rose. She thought of the name the Romans had given his tribe, Picti, “the Painted Ones,” in their own Latin tongue, but this color would never wash off. She could see the tiny raised puckers and indented scars where the dyes had been pricked deep beneath the skin.

He came to a halt, reveling in the impact he had made. Behind him stood his band of warriors, all as lean and taut as he was, all painted, too. In a tight circle at his back stood a cluster of older knights, hard-faced and hungry, already staring her down. As she readied herself to brave them in return, Darath raised his hand and signaled them to fall back. She saw anger and resistance on every patterned face, and muttered cries flew between them in their strange, strangled tongue. Then one knight, older and harder than the rest, gave a sign of reluctant assent and they withdrew.

“Queen Isolde?” he called.

She bowed and he came bounding forward, clearing the grass between them in a few rangy strides. The wind off the sea tangled his hair as he came, and he crackled with life in the glint of the morning sun. Reaching her, he scented the air like a stag, and looked hungrily around.

“So this is the fabled Island of the West?”

Isolde opened her arms to take in the rocky clifftop, the white shore below, and the wide span of the headland drifting with daisies and pink thrift. “We call it so. Greetings, King Darath. Welcome to Dubh Lein.”

He grinned, a startling flash of white against the marvelous colors of his face. “We have met before.”

Isolde gave a slight, superior smile. “I do not think so, sir.”

“Then think again,” he laughed, undeterred. “I fought before you at a tournament in Dubh Lein, when all your suitors competed for your hand.”

Was he being insolent? She did not know. “Did you so? I forget.”

But in truth, she could see it now. A dozen or so strangely tattooed men riding fearlessly into the field, with a tall, laughing boy at their head. Lightly armored and clad only in a breastplate and a length of worn plaid, he had seemed half-naked, a near barbarian against the rest of the visiting knights. Yet he had borne himself throughout with impressive ease, except for one moment, when his youthfulness came through. As he and his band passed the high viewing gallery where she and her mother sat, he had stared at her as if he had never seen a woman before. What was he then, twelve or fourteen? She’d been twenty herself, and that was twenty years ago . . .

She could feel his eyes on her now as they had been then, with the same boyish intensity but this time with a man’s frank sexual appraisal as he looked her up and down. She returned the gaze boldly. Well, well. The boy had become a man, and a fine one, too. A fierce humor creased the corners of his eyes and drew warm, attractive lines around his mouth. He grinned at her as if he could read her thoughts, and for a moment she saw the spirit of Cernunnos, the Horned One, the God of dark secrets and ancient, midnight woods.

Goddess, Mother, no!

To her horror, she felt her treacherous flesh beginning to answer his hot, lustful gaze. In the next moment came a spurt of sadness and rage.
Tristan, Tristan, why are you not here? And why have I had no word, no sign from you?
Without Tristan, she was vulnerable, she knew. And she had to defeat this kingly invader by herself.

This sea rat, this pirate, this predator.

This wolf.

She drew herself up, aware all too late that this only made her more attractive in his eyes. “So, sir,” she said as coldly as she could, “what brings you here?”

He flashed his lupine smile. “Life in our land is harsh. Your kingdom, lady, is a lush and fertile temptation to a red-blooded Pict.”

There was a warmth of sexual suggestion in his tone. Isolde forced herself to ignore it. “And this is the reason you invade my land?”

“Invade? Did not Your Majesty invite me here?”

“Invite you—?” She caught her breath, wrong-footed by his fearless effrontery. “I must have forgotten,” she struck back with biting irony.

His eyes caught fire and he heaved a meaningful sigh. “Just as you forgot the tournament where I competed in vain for your hand.”

Competed? There was no thought of it then, you were no more than fourteen, only there to try your skill.
“You were a boy among men,” she said dismissively.

He gave her his most winning smile. “Oh, lady . . .”

Boy no longer,
hung between them like a charm.

With his wolf’s instincts, Darath knew when to hold his peace. She was coming, he felt it, and she had been worth the wait. Twenty years ago she was already more than he had dreamed. Then Findra had seen her, too, and had no words for what he saw.

Now you see her again, he told himself feverishly, proud and aloof on this windswept cliff, the loveliest, rarest creature in the world. And her spirit, her courage like the Great One Herself, so beautiful, so bold, and so alone . . .

“Sir, no more words.” Isolde’s voice cut sharply through his reverie. “Why are you here?”

Inspiration came to him. “I have come in search of a queen.”

“A queen? But your father ruled alone, we understand.”

A spasm of regret crossed his face. “My mother died in childbirth, bearing me. Neither she nor her mother left a daughter to reign. When I marry, I must take one to rule. It is my task to give the clan a queen.”

Isolde laughed with disbelief. “You have come here for a wife?”

“With good reason, lady.” He chuckled again. “There is a legend among us that our ancestors came from a far distant land, adventurers and hard voyagers, men without wives. When they settled, they sent for wives to the Western Isle, and some of the boldest of your women were minded to accept. They had heard of the strength and prowess of the Painted Ones and thought they would make lusty lovers and tough and trusty companions for life. But they made it a condition of their coming that the succession to the throne should pass thereafter through the female line.”

There was a pause. The scent of his manhood reached her, musky and strong, and Isolde felt his bright brown eyes upon her, burning with a fire he could not suppress. She struggled to gather her wits.

“We have a tale of our own that echoes yours. Our bards say that the first arrivals in Erin came to our country from yours by a giant stone causeway linking the two lands. Then the Great Ones drowned the causeway in the sea, and they could not return. These were the days before boats, and the land bridge was gone. But when your people arrived and asked us for wives, those of our women who answered were going home.”

Darath’s voice assumed a caressing tone. “Have no fear, lady. Our Queens are the proudest women on the earth. Our men of power only hold sway from them. As I shall be pleased to do . . .”

What?
Isolde passed a hot hand over her forehead, grateful for a sudden cool gust of wind. Why was she talking like this, debating ancient history with this man? Time to remind this wretched intruder who was Queen.

She stepped forward. “Sir—”

But he came to meet her and boldly seized her hand, oblivious to the watching eyes around.

“Lady, I come to claim you, King to Queen. And you will come to me, woman to man. You and I will make powerful earth magic together, and your body knows that, too.”

He threw back his head and laughed, a peal of triumph that echoed round the bay. “You are mine, lady, whether you know it or not. Now, allow me to attend you back to Dubh Lein.”

chapter 16

S
ir—d’you hear me, sir?”

There was no response from the figure on the ground.

“Goddess, Mother, save him, save this man! That ever I should injure him like this . . .”

Weeping, Tristan loosened the metal guard protecting the stranger’s neck and frantically chafed his wrists, trying all he could to bring the poor soul to himself. At last he saw the knight’s purple-veined eyelids flicker beneath their wild mat of hair and sat back on his heels, half sobbing with relief. Gods and Great Ones, thanks! He was alive.

Eagerly, Tristan’s fingers sought the leather ties on the knight’s neck-guard, unlaced the helmet, and drew it off his head. Now for the first time he could see the mass of tangled hair and the unsightly growth of untended beard. How long since this man had been able to take care of himself? Impossible to say.

Suddenly, the knight beside him groaned and stirred. His eyes opened, rolled feebly in their sockets, then closed again. Gods preserve us! Tristan leaped madly to his feet. This man has attacked you twice, ran through his mind. He’s raving and violent and desperately sick in the head. Hurry, hurry, or he’ll attack you again! In an ecstasy of haste, he fumbled for his girdle and bound the knight’s hands and feet. Then he sat down beside the great prostrate form and buried his head in his hands.

“What in the name of the Great Ones am I to do?” He groaned aloud. Wildly, his thoughts ran on. If I leave him here, even to go to fetch help, he’ll be helpless against the wild creatures of the wood. And to be torn by fang and claw when he could not defend himself . . . What a fate to overtake any man, trapped and alone.

But to move him now might stir up his madness again, and how long would the makeshift bonds hold? He’s as wild as any creature of the wood and more dangerous, because of his size. Half frantic, Tristan looked up at the sky. A fat yellow sun smiled down at him through the trees, then slid behind a cloud. Well past noon, he noted, and running down toward nightfall, even on these long summer days. He had to get the knight to safety before dark.

There was another sudden movement at his side as the knight came to himself with a flurry of jerky movements and strange cries.

“Get back!” he exclaimed hoarsely. His sunken eyes darted to and fro. “I see you, all of you. Bring up your army; you don’t frighten me!”

He thrashed about, straining against his bonds. Tristan took him by the shoulder and laid a hand on his head.

“There is no army, sir,” he said gently. “Only you and I. And I am a knight of the King. I shall do you no harm.”

The bulging eyes quieted. “I’m burning inside,” the stranger said, quietly. “But when I’m not, I’m a knight of King Arthur, too.” He smiled and fixed Tristan with a guileless stare. “I am one of the Round Table Fellowship of knights.”

Alas, alas, poor soul . . . A knight of King Arthur? Tristan wanted to weep. He began again in a firm and gentle tone. “Oh, sir, that cannot be. I know all of them, and none of them wears a beard.”

“Neither do I.”

The prisoner paused and frowned. Then he brought his bound hands to his chin and felt at the mass of hair. “I don’t know how this came here,” he said with open surprise. “But I’m one of the Fellowship all the same.”

Tristan stared at him in pity. Could it be? By the height of him, he might have been Sir Lancelot, or one of the four Orkney brothers who were King Arthur’s kin. They were the tallest of the Round Table knights besides himself. But this knight was too broad for Sir Lancelot, who was as lean as a willow, and far too thin for Sir Gawain or his brothers Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth. And the stranger was sick; who knew what was in his mind? This knight was only dreaming of being a great hero, as lesser men always did.

What was that? Tristan heard a rustling in the wood. In a panic, he leaped to his feet, reaching for his sword. Making their way stealthily through the undergrowth were half a dozen shadowy figures with others behind them, lurking beneath the trees.

“Who’s there?” he cried. “Come forward, show yourself.”

There was no answer. Tristan raised his sword and charged forward, repeating his cry. “Come forward, or you’re dead men, all of you!”

“Hold, sir!” came the fearful response. “We come in peace. Pray you, put up your sword.”

Emerging from the dense thickets of bracken and gorse was a hesitant, un-warlike figure gowned in gray. A monk, could it be? Hastily, Tristan raked him from head to foot: sandals, but no tonsure; a rough woolen habit, but no cross. A hermit, then, not a priest in holy orders or a monk. There were many such, some dwelling alone in isolated cells, others living together as brothers, renouncing the world. Some were Christians, others followed their own Gods or the God within, but all kept to the same faith of calm and goodwill. Tristan sheathed his sword. He would have nothing to fear from this man and his fellows following behind.

“Greetings, brother,” he hailed the hermit, hoarse with relief.

“And to you, sir knight,” the newcomer returned.

Close up, the hermit had shed his earlier fear and came to meet him with a deliberate step. Tristan saw with approval a man of middle years, upright and bright-eyed and clad in the invisible garment of inner peace. “How may we call you, sir?” the newcomer asked courteously.

Tristan hurriedly introduced himself. “And you, brother?”

The hermit shook his head. “I have no name since I forsook the world. I answer to ‘Brother.’ That is all I need.” He gestured to the knight lying on the ground. “Truly you have done a good deed here today.”

Tristan looked down uneasily at the knight, who was regarding them wonderingly with a pair of bright blue eyes. “How so?”

“To help this wretched man.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No, but we know what brought him to this pass.” The hermit sorrowfully shook his head. “It is a strange, sad tale. No one knew this knight errant when he came into our lands, but the villagers say that he’s one of King Arthur’s knights.”

There it was again. Tristan shook his head. “Alas, no. That’s his delusion, I fear. What brought him here?”

“They say he was unluckily passing this way on the Quest for the Grail.”

“Yes, indeed,” Tristan agreed grimly. “Unlucky for the poor lady at the castle when he tried to take her estate.”

A look of distress passed over the hermit’s face. “Sir, he never oppressed the young Lady Unnowne.”

“What?” Tristan cried. “But she told me herself—”

“She tells everyone the same tale, to hide her shame. Oh, it’s true that he knew her. He called at the castle to beg a bed for the night as he passed by. Ravished by his appearance, she courted him with unbridled passion and took him to her bed. He stayed for a while, enjoying her favors, and she treated him like her husband and her lord. But one day he told her that he had to go. He was on the Quest. He could not delay.”

Tristan heart dropped like a stone. “How d’you know all this? Those around her agree with what she says.”

“They try to protect her out of misplaced loyalty. Most of them served her father and revere his name, and they fear she’ll be dishonored if this gets out. But one of our brethren here has a sister who serves the lady, and she saw it all. The lady had set her heart upon this knight and lost her mind when he cast her off.”

“So she—?” But Tristan already knew what he would hear.

The hermit sighed heavily. “Disowned and rejected, she planned a cruel revenge. She blandished him to take one last meal with her and fed him a dish that made him run mad.”

Tristan gaped in horror. “What was it?”

“Who knows?” The hermit spread his hands. “It could have been many things. The red cap mushroom rots the mind and makes its victims see enemies that are not there. Then there’s ergot, the blight that forms on rotting rye, which causes cramps and inner burning and hallucinations, too. She could have made him a porridge of such grains and berries as he left her castle to go on his way.”

“And ever since he’s been trapped here in the wood, lost to himself and in fear of everyone?” Tristan turned on the hermit in anger and distress. “Could no man help him?”

“Oh, sir, we tried.”

It was another of the brothers at the leader’s side, a small, timid man with shortsighted, blinking eyes. “The stranger would not be approached. There are six of us here, but we dared not go near him for fear of our lives. We could only hope and pray for a knight strong enough to overcome him, as you did.”

“We have the means to heal him, now he is subdued,” offered a third. He indicated the bunches of herbs hanging at his waist. “I am the apothecary of our brotherhood. Whatever poison nature ever made, she gave us the antidote.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure we can help him. With quiet and care, most men recover in time.”

The leader smiled encouragingly. “Leave him to us, sir.”

Tristan turned back to the knight and knelt down at his side. “Did you hear that, my friend? These good souls will help you now. You’re safe in their hands, and you’ll soon be well again. Do you understand?”

A gleam of comfort flickered across the knight’s face. He moved his head slowly in a sign of assent. Tristan squeezed his hand. “Farewell.”

“Fare you well, sir,” the hermit said.

“One thing more.” Tristan searched for his purse, and pressed money into the hermit’s grasp.

“No need, no need,” he murmured.

But Tristan would brook no refusal. “Take it all the same.”

After a few warm words of farewell, he whistled up his horse, then watched the hermit and his brothers as they lifted the knight between them and bore him away. As they went, a great coldness settled on his heart. A vast and unspeakable wrong had been done to this knight. It was time to return to the castle of Lady Unnowne.