The Lady of the Sea (17 page)

chapter 23

O
h, Tristan, Tristan . . .

Where are you, my love?

He was her first thought in the morning, and her last of the day as she lay down at night. Alone in her bed, she shivered with a dry, hard longing as her fingers remembered the touch and feel of him, and her body craved the attentions she so sorely missed.

And all the more now that she was ready to bear his child. Following the Lady’s instructions with desperate care, she had prayed to the Mother the same night and begged Her help by the light of a smiling moon. Hardly able to breathe, she had taken the strange little bottle, read its ancient runes, and shivered at their raw, mysterious power.

I AM LIFE AND THE MOTHER OF LIFE

WHO CHOOSES ME RISKS ALL.

Dare she risk everything? She hovered in an agony of doubt. Then, in a headlong rush of courage, she brought the vial to her lips and threw the contents down. The thick, pungent liquid hit the back of her throat and made her choke. Gasping, she felt it working its way to her center, scouring every passageway and nerve. For a while she shook with a fever like a fit, then afterward she slept as sweetly as a child.

When she awoke, Tristan came into her mind in all the springtime glory of their love. She saw him tall, young, and ardent as he had been when they met, and waves of longing for him swept her, leaving her weak with desire, groaning in her bed. Then she knew that her body was urging her to make a child with Tristan, a child of their love.

These were the good days. At other times, anger shook her as a dog shakes a rat.
Where are you? Why don’t you come to me? Can’t you even send me word?

Often she felt him near, and never nearer than now, when her longing seemed to bring him closer every hour. But the feeling was false. He was not near, he was not thinking of her. In all these weeks there had been no sign of him, nothing to suggest whether he lived or died. Indeed, he could have fallen by the way, tricked by harsh fate or trapped by some strange, enchanting woman, as the best knights often were.

But you feel him approaching,
she tried to hearten herself. Sometimes she even caught his scent on the air, the rich green smell of the woodland, wholesome and sweet.

False, all false.
Harshly, she suppressed her yearning desire.
Love deceives. And those in love always deceive themselves.

Then a new sound came chiming into her ear.

And never forget, my girl . . .

Suddenly the late Queen was alive before her eyes, vibrant as ever in her flashing red and black.

Remember, little one, all men betray.

Oh, Mawther, Mawther, women betray, too.

Women may betray, and Queens may do as they will. But never forget that you are always the Queen. You are the sovereignty and the spirit of the land. You must do what the land requires.

Must I court Darath, then? Humor his advances, feast him and flatter him?

And bed him, if need be. What else?

This evening, a sweet silver mist rolled in from the sea as Brangwain silently robed her and groomed her and braided her hair. The queenly green silks and velvets soothed her mind, and her heart lifted as always at the kiss of her gossamer veil. When she moved, her light, drifting gown whispered like a willow in spring, and she knew the royal emeralds of Ireland in her crown put a new, commanding light in her sea-blue eyes. But every thought of Tristan was like a blow.

What are you doing, where are you? What’s keeping you away? Why aren’t you here?

Above all, tonight.

Tonight I have to feast Darath. Why do I have to deal with him on my own? You’d know how to handle him for me, man to man.

With an effort, she forced all these thoughts from her mind. This evening the needs of the country must come first. Whatever took place in her conference with Darath would shape the Western Isle for years to come.

Well, she was ready for him now. After hours of impassioned debate, she had hammered out a policy with her lords.

“We shall not fight,” she had insisted. “till the last hope of settlement is gone.”

“But the Picts have invaded our lands and killed our men,” Sir Vaindor urged. “We should attack without mercy and kill them in return.”

Isolde frowned. Vaindor would not be so eager for this fray if he had to fight himself. But it was easy enough to throw younger men’s lives away.

“We must find out what they want,” she responded firmly, “and what we can offer them without danger to ourselves.”

Sir Gilhan seconded her gravely. “There’s danger here, yes. Already they’ve gained a foothold on our northern shore, and they’re here in Dubh Lein as our invited guests. We must be careful not to give too much away.”

“Or too little,” came the voice of old Doneal. “If we throw them off as a dog shakes off fleas, they’ll only be back next spring to bite us again.”

Hour after hour the discussion raged to and fro. At last she had won their agreement, but would Darath accept what she had to say? She gritted her teeth.
Only if I woo him and win his consent. Flirt and flatter, remember, advance and retreat. I must play him like a fish on a line. But never forget that this fish has teeth like a pike’s. And all this I must do for Ireland, not for myself.

All for Ireland?
A mocking voice sounded inside her head.
Is that true, my dear? Aren’t you enjoying the admiration of a fine young man?

Was she? Was that what Darath had started to mean to her? Thoughts and fears swirled round her head like wasps. But welling inside her she could feel a raw sensual curiosity, an excitement not felt for years.
Will he? Won’t he?
danced unbidden through her mind.

Will he? Won’t he?

What?

She did not know.

Well, she’d find out tonight as soon as he arrived. “We must take the lead from the first,” she instructed Brangwain. “I am Queen here. He must see that I’m in command.”

Coolly, she waited for the tread of booted feet, the cry of the guard, and the opening of the door. But one glance at Darath made her think again. He had dressed for battle, and it was clear that the struggle between them would not easily be won.

His leather kilt was the same chestnut brown as his eyes, adorned with a thousand studs of yellow gold. His shadowy gaze was lit with the same pinpoints of light, and she tried in vain to read the expression on his face. Strangely wrought swirls and scrolls in bronze and gold embellished his cloak, designed like his fabulous tattoos to bring him the power of the dragon and the magic of the boar. With an odd, unpleasant sensation she saw that despite all his finery, he still wore his four favorite daggers at his waist.
What, man? Even here, in a lady’s chamber?

He followed her gaze and laughed. “Lady, would you have me leave my friends behind? They are dearer to me than anything could be to you, for they’ve saved my life many times. Let me introduce you.”

Fondly, he fingered the richly jeweled hilts, moving from the shortest to the longest as he spoke. “The youngest brother, that’s Flesh-Biter here. Then there’s Blood-Drinker, and Sun-Darkener comes next. But those who taste the oldest of my little clan know the truth of his name. I call him Go No More.”

Crooning, he fingered the deadly, shining blades.
He loves them!
Isolde stood gripped with shock. Mesmerized, she watched the play of his hard brown hands and the glinting gold bangles snaking up his naked arms. His kingly bronze collar depicted a savage boar, and his belt bore a pair of stags fighting to the death. Already she felt his unbridled animal power. Smiling a wide, white smile, Darath struck home.

“Lady, I’ve offered you my bed and sword. What’s your reply?”

Isolde gathered her strength and struck back. “What would your countrymen say to a ruling queen?”

“Only what they’ve said for a thousand years,” he laughed. “We Picts trace our descent through our mothers, as you do here. The women rule, the men go to war.”

Isolde raised her eyebrows. “Is it so?”

“From the dawn of our race. You and I spoke of the time of the mingling of our blood, when our forefathers courted your foremothers and won them as wives, on condition they could always be queens.”

“I remember,” Isolde cut in. “And the bravest of our women returned to strengthen your land.” She paused to get his attention. “As some may do again.”

Darath cocked his head, suddenly alert. “The women of Ireland return with us to our land? How?”

Good!
She had taken him off balance. She could see he had no idea what she meant.

“We have women here in Ireland who still long for lusty lovers and men they can trust. Your people are weakened by famine and sickness and the loss of your crops. Let your men woo and win the boldest of our girls, and we’ll send them to Pictland with grain for their sowing and cattle for their byres. There’s not a female in Ireland who can’t raise a crop and milk a cow. You and your men can take back our living treasure to restock your land anew.”

“Take back?” he demanded, unsmiling. “You have decided, then, that we must leave?”

“Oh, I think you know you must,” she replied in her gentlest tones. “Or we’ll hack you to pieces and sweep you into the sea. This is your choice. You may leave your bones to rot on Ireland’s shore or depart with honor and with the best of our women as wives.”

His eyes widened, then darkened again. “Why should I believe you?”

She laughed in her throat. “Believe me, this is the best of what we have. I’m offering you honest plain dealing between a woman and a man, the way of the Mother as it has always been.”

“The way of the Mother?” Catching her mood, he drew nearer, a dark light in his face.

She stepped forward to meet him and gave him her hand. “The way of a man with a woman since time began.” She looked into his eyes and pushed on. “What do you say to my proposal, sir?” she asked huskily, lowering her gaze.

He took her hand and drew her toward him with an uncertain grin. Isolde suppressed another gleam of delight.
So I’ve surprised you again. Good, good!

“Your proposal, lady?” he said urgently. “What about mine?”

The tattoo on his shoulder was gorgeous, rich, and strange. Her fingers itched to follow its lavish scrolls and trace the curves right up to the base of his throat. The strong scent of him reached her now, the moorland tang of his skin and the oil in his hair, the leather of his kilt and the sharp smell of danger he conveyed. Breathing deeply, she laid her hand on his chest with teasing slowness and prepared to disengage. “Oh, sir—”

She was rewarded with another sideways glance and for the first time felt ahead in this battle of wits. Only keep him guessing, she schooled herself, play him to and fro, and you’ll win the day. Then there’ll be peace for Ireland and throughout all the isles. No killing at all, but the chance of love for our women and the hope of new life.

New life, yes!

She scented the smell of victory in the air. An unfamiliar sense of her own power bloomed in her heart and ran triumphing through her veins. It lasted till she caught a commotion in the corridor, the jangle of spurs and a sudden shout from the guards.

“Out of my way!” she heard. “I must see the Queen.”

Then the door opened and Tristan came striding through.

chapter 24

A
t first, all he saw was Isolde. The long, slow evening was fading into dusk, and her fiery hair burned dark in the silver light. Her sea-washed eyes called to him as they always did, her fine green gown shimmered with her every breath, and already he could feel her body in his arms.

Then he saw that she was not alone. Two figures were standing at the end of the chamber, Isolde and a man he did not know. A Pict, that was clear from his painted face and body, but whoever he was, he was standing too close to Isolde, far too close. They were not heart to heart or lip to lip, but the man’s keen brown eyes did not hide the secret of his desire. Already the painted stranger could picture Isolde’s long slender body lying next to his, Tristan could tell.

And Isolde? His head reeled. When he came in, she had been smiling, almost glowing with delight. Isolde
smiling
at this . . . this barbarian the way she always used to smile at him? And then leaping away from the stranger, dropping his hand? Tristan saw all this and could not believe what he saw.

He stared at Isolde as if he were seeing a ghost. A pale flush of horror had silenced her now, but she had been deep into her dealings with the Pict, that was plain. He had not slept on the voyage, daydreaming of this moment, and see what he had found. He laughed in disbelief and could not breathe for pain.

Goddess! Mother!
Isolde berated herself in a torment of grief.
If only he’d come at another time! Then I’d have been beside myself with delight, rushing forward to throw myself into his arms. And now he’s caught me with another man, a candlelight banquet ready by the wall and the sense of love in the air.

Darath’s love.

His rival.

Another man.

There was no sound but Tristan’s labored breath. The three stood like standing stones, trapped in a moment as long as eternity. But every nerve and vein in Isolde was on fire.
Tristan—oh, Tristan—why did you come like this?

She knew at once how it must look to him. It came to her in a second of bleak awakening that he’d never been present at her meetings with fellow rulers before, had never watched her mix statecraft and seduction as all women leaders did. It must look to him as if she desired Darath.
Goddess, Mother, show me what to do!

And she could not even greet him as her body craved. One glance at the hawk-eyed Darath told her she had to keep up the pretense that Tristan was only one of her knights.
Oh, my love . . . I can’t even hold you or kiss you or touch your hand.
Aching in every nerve, she stepped forward to meet him with a hollow smile.

“How are you, sir?” she said in her brightest tones. “I am glad to see you here.”

False, brittle words. The smell of betrayal hung heavily in the air. Tristan looked at Darath and hot loathing filled his mind. The Pict was shorter than he was but almost as big-built, with shoulders like a stallion’s and well-muscled thighs and flanks. He wore the deep bronze belt of a warrior, carved with running stags, and the boar collar of a king with the same hammered design.

Yet there was something womanly and repulsive about his braided hair, each knot knitted tightly at the scalp, then woven into its neighbor across his broad head. The florid blues and purples of his tattooed skin darkened his face like a creature of the night, and his eye upon Tristan had all the kindness of a wolf. Was it for this barbarian that Isolde had decked herself out in her favorite silks and emeralds with a hundred adornments besides?

Gods above, was she courting him? A lightning bolt of panic split Tristan’s brain. Isolde had married before to keep Ireland safe. She only took Mark as her husband when she feared he would invade the Western Isle. Now, with Darath on her doorstep, would she try it again?

The Gods alone knew.

For a moment Tristan tasted the madness of jealousy, then he struggled with himself to set it aside. The Pict was a King, a fellow knight and a guest. The laws of chivalry and hospitality demanded that he be treated well.

“So, sire,” he forced out. “Tristan of Lyonesse at your service. May I know your name?”

“My name?”

Darath felt Tristan’s hatred and grinned. He loved to provoke these old men. “I am Darath the Pict,” he threw out, “and I yield to no man.”

Isolde treated him to a flashing stare. “Come, sir, you both meet as Kings. We’ll have no fighting talk.”

“As you wish,” Darath shrugged. He would not concern himself with this blundering fool. Whoever had said he was the Queen’s chosen one? If he’d been anything to Isolde, he’d have been here at her side.

A cruel laugh twisted his face. And look at him now, pale and sweating and speechless as a ghost. Get to your bed, old man, he conveyed in a soundless sneer. What, has the sea voyage been too much for you?

Isolde followed Darath’s gaze. With a shock, she picked up Tristan’s pallor and the sickly gray sheen on his skin. His left arm was hanging awkwardly at his side, and he was swaying on his feet.

Goddess, Mother, are you sick, Tristan? What’s happened to you?

She turned to Darath. “Sire, I have had your proposal and you have had mine. Let us take time to consider, then meet again.” She switched her attention to Tristan. “And Sir Tristan, you have traveled hard today. You must be ready to take to your quarters and rest.”

“Till tomorrow, then.” Darath sauntered forward and lingered over kissing Isolde’s hand.

“Tomorrow, my lady,” Tristan echoed in a deadly tone.

“Good night.”

Stiffly, Isolde bowed them both out of the room. Even then she dared not give vent to her distress. The walls of a palace had ears, and her enemies and invaders were at the gates. When the stronghold of Dubh Lein was her own again, then she could weep her fill.

Tristan, Tristan, my love, forgive me?

Goddess, Mother, spare him. Spare us both.