The Lady of the Sea (20 page)

The look in her eyes made Tristan catch his breath. He had never wanted her more in all his life. Blindly, he moved to fold her to his chest. If only he could take her in his arms. But to his shock, she recoiled from his touch like the plague.

“I can’t love you like this,” she said with a fierce intensity. “If I lie with you, we could have a child. I’ll never bring a child of anger into the world. If we do this at all, it must be with love.”

“You wanted my child before.” A new horror struck Tristan. “It’s the Pict, isn’t it?” he said wildly. “You want a child by him!”

“It was your child I wanted!” she burst out. She knew the pain between them was growing every moment, but she could not stop.

“But not now?” She could see he was white with shock. “You don’t want a child of mine—?”

“How can I?” she raced on. “First you insist on choosing Mark over me. Then you come back without warning and make trouble like this.” She turned away from him, ready to tear her hair. “How can I even think of bearing your child?”

He could hardly speak. “You mean to discard me. Then you’ll take the Pict.”

“No, I won’t!”

“Will you make him your knight? Will you take him to your couch?”

“Tristan—”

“Will you marry him?”

“This is nonsense! Believe me, Tristan—”

“How can I?”

Isolde clutched her head. “D’you think I’m lying?”

Did he think that . . . ? A thousand devils were dancing in Tristan’s head.

Yes, he did, this very minute . . .

No, never in the world . . .

Clutching his head, he cried out like a stag in a trap.
Betrayed,
began to hammer at his mind. Betrayed by Isolde, ambushed and betrayed by Mark. There was no one left to trust in all the world.

He went through the sketchy motion of a bow. “I must leave you, lady,” he said hoarsely. His eyes were as black as pits.

Terrified, Isolde reached out a hand. “Don’t—”

But already he was halfway out of the room. And beaten in body and mind, she let him go.

chapter 28

A
cloud-laden wind was sweeping in from the sea. In the woodlands behind Dubh Lein, the fiery berries of the rowan were setting the margins of the forest aflame, but everything else in the world was drowned in gray. Isolde stood in her window watching the falling rain.
Oh Tristan, Tristan . . . Where are you, my love?

Meanwhile, she had to deal with Darath, and that was hard. Harder than ever, now that Tristan was gone.

Gone? Yes, without a farewell. Yet still she could hardly believe it.
Where are you, my love?

At first she thought she would see him again that night, when all the court assembled in the Great Hall. They’d quarreled bitterly, that was true, but by nightfall all her anger had drained away. Remorse and fresh hope tripped over one another in her mind.
We can do better, love, we’ll recover from this . . . I should have been more patient and loving, more, more, more . . .

Then her heart leaped with the fresh and joyful thought,
At least he’s still here. Tristan’s here in Dubh Lein and he loves me still.
Thinking like this made Darath fade from view.
When I feast them together tonight, Tristan will outshine Darath as the sun outshines a star.

Tristan, oh, my love . .

How long till evening comes?

“Come, Brangwain, make me fine,” she ordered the maid, her skin crackling with excitement at the thought of seeing Tristan again. The long, slow, silvery hour when twilight descended and the fires were lit had always been her favorite time of the day. Old friends and new gathered by ones and twos, communing by candlelight as the wine went round. For Isolde, the scent of apple wood on the hearth and the candles’ soft glow, the ruby gleam of the wine and the warmth of the flames, all blended together into one seamless joy. Tristan was here. He would be waiting for her now.

But he was not there when she entered the Great Hall. As she moved among the crowd, her eye never left the door.
Where are you, my love? Hurry, come to me, I am here.

But he did not come. Sir Gilhan and her lords, her courtiers and her knights, all claimed her attention and wanted her company. Darath appeared in the doorway surrounded by his knights, and they made a magnificent entrance clad in leather, bronze, and gold, drawing breathless sighs from every woman in the room. The salt of the sea and their own wild animal tang came in with them, and the air in the chamber quickened with their approach. And still Tristan did not come.

“He must be keeping to his chamber, lady,” Brangwain said, her face tight with concern. “To rest and recover himself.”

Numbly, she agreed But his last words loomed dark in her mind. I must leave you, lady, he had said. Leave her? Did he mean leave and go away? Or had he simply intended to bid her good night? She could not get fears like this out of her head.

When did she know for sure that he would not come? Was it when her eyes were squinting from looking at the door, and she could no longer order the servants to delay the feast? When Darath seized her hand to lead her to her seat, and she knew he would not have dared if Tristan had been there? When she saw Darath’s men exchange a flurry of bright-eyed nods and grins, and she knew they were sharing their master’s triumph in their strange, yelping tongue?

She could not think of eating. Tristan was alone in his quarters. Was he injured, was he ill? But enthroned on the dais in full sight and sound of all, she could not even send a servant to find out for fear of drawing attention to herself. And Brangwain was probably right after all. Perhaps he only wanted to be left to rest. If he needed help, he could always send for her.

The night was long. She forced herself to entertain Darath royally, talking and laughing with his companions, too. But every moment dragged by like impending death, and she could not fight off a sense of dread. Now the feast was waning as the night wore on, and her hopes were fading, too. Dully, she watched the candles’ winding shrouds making their way down each white, waxen stem.

At last all the farewells were made, and she could withdraw. In the chamber, Brangwain helped her to disrobe and hastened away.

“Till tomorrow, lady,” she whispered. “And may the Great One Herself watch over you tonight.”

Dry-eyed, Isolde nodded and retired to bed. She would not weep. Tomorrow she’d send for Tristan and repair this rift. She’d make him see that she loved him after all. She would make things better. Everything would come right. Tossing and turning, she dozed in and out of newly minted hopes and bright dreams.

A fitful night gave way to a troubled dawn. Dense, clay-colored clouds boiled up from the face of the sea and lumbered over the horizon, darkening the sky. Crosswinds rose to meet them and it started to rain. Rivulets of water ran down the greeny glass as Isolde stood in her window watching time tick away. Time passed unnoticed but for slow loss of hope. And still the clouds wept till all the world dissolved in tears.

Where are you, Tristan? Where are you, my love?

“News from the harbor, lady.” Brangwain came through the door grimly shaking the rain from her cloak. “My lord has taken ship.”

“Taken ship? Without saying good-bye?”

“They said at the quay that he sailed away last night.”

“On the evening tide?”

“No, at noon.”

That meant he had gone straight from her chamber down to the dock. Isolde’s mouth was dry. “Where did he go?”

Brangwain pursed her lips. “No one knows. He boarded the ship, paid the captain, and away they went.”

Gone, then, without a word.
All her rage returned and filled her to the brim.
Is this the way to treat a woman who has loved you faithfully for all these years? Is this how you leave me—without a word of good-bye?

Isolde’s head lifted and her shoulders snapped back.
You may leave me, sir, but I will not leave you. As soon as I can, I’ll come seeking you.

She fixed her eyes on Brangwain. “Any word from the King of the Picts?”

Brangwain snorted in disgust. “He’s here, madam, in attendance outside. He says he’ll wait all day if he has to, but he’ll see you in the end.”

“Very well.” Isolde drew a breath. “I did not send for him, and I can’t deal with him now. Let him wait.”

T
HE
K
ING OF THE
P
ICTS MADE TO WAIT
like a servant—like a dog? Brooding, Cunnoch watched Darath from beneath his lids as the younger man paced the antechamber to and fro. Darath had lost his mind to this Irish queen, that was plain. All that Cunnoch and the others had warned him against had come true.

And still the young fool would not hear him. Furiously, the older knight eyed the faint rays of sun through the window and resolved to try again. They had walked up to Dubh Lein in the first chilly fingers of dawn and waited out the downpour that ensued. Now the sky was clear, and there was no reason why the Queen and Darath could not walk or ride out. Except that she wanted to keep him dangling here.

Cunnoch crossed to the window and pretended to study the sky. “The rain’s stopped,” he announced unnecessarily. “If the Queen won’t see you, we should get back to the ships.”

Darath stretched his lips in the semblance of a grin. “Oh, she will.”

“What makes you think that? I swear she has no intention of seeing you today.”

“I have a better opinion of her than you do.”

Cunnoch shook his head. “Why d’you trust her?” he growled. “Can’t you see what she’s doing to you?”

Darath looked at him with an expressionless stare. “What’s that?”

Cunnoch gestured toward the window, which framed a skein of wild geese forging its way through the sky. “Autumn’s here now and winter’s on its way. Once the storms set in, we’re caught like rats in a trap. The Queen won’t even have to call up her knights. When our supplies are exhausted, we’ll die of hunger as we’d have done if we’d stayed at home.”

Again he received the same bland, empty look. “I know,” Darath said.

Cunnoch gritted his teeth. “Why are we here?” he ground out.

Darath fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “To win the Queen.”

“In marriage?” Cunnoch fumed in disbelief. “She’s playing with you, boy. She won’t marry you. Sir Tristan’s her knight, and there’s many here who’ll swear he’s her only love.”

“And he’s gone.”

“Forever?”

Darath bared his teeth. “I’m ready to deal with him if he comes back.”

“And of course Isolde would be pleased if you did that,” Cunnoch scoffed. “D’you think she’d ever forgive you for killing her knight?”

Darath sighed. Why was Cunnoch trying to provoke him? Sooner or later he’d have to admit he was right. “Hear me, Cunnoch—”

“Sire—” came a voice from outside. The door opened and a servant entered with a bow. “This way, if you please, King Darath. The Queen begs your attendance now.”

chapter 29

H
ow beautiful are Thy ways, O Lord our God!

Sighing with satisfaction, Dom Arraganzo pressed forward into the Audience Chamber of Castle Dore. If he had ever doubted God’s wisdom in making women the lower creatures of His world, he saw the divine purpose now. It was absolutely right that the female of the species should be kept out of the world, restricted to nunneries and confined to women’s quarters when they were at home. Dealing with the two daughters of the King of Dun Haven had made him more thankful than ever that he lived his life among men.

For the two Princesses walking behind him now were a living advertisement for the sins of Eve. Oh, he was sure they were following him demurely enough, as they all made their way into the presence of King Mark. With his liberal chastisement, their father had certainly taught them how to behave. But what a pair they were!

The fat one—lean as he was, Arraganzo could not think of her any other way—Theodora as they called her, embodied all Eve’s greed, cupidity, and lust. The thin one, Divinia, was consumed with the same beady-eyed curiosity that had caused the Fall of Man, a deadly hunger to know things women should not know. Neither of them had a shred of respect for men, not even a Papal Legate or their father the King. Arraganzo sighed. It was clear to him now why their father had beaten them so much. If he’d been the King of Dun Haven, he’d have laid on the rod himself.

Still, they would undoubtedly interest King Mark. Either of them would make a stir on her own, and together they formed a challenge to any man. One round and plump as a pudding, one slender and fragile like a hazel twig in spring. One dark, one fair; one inviting, one cool and remote. The fat one trussed up in a rich mulberry velvet with a heavy gold train, the thin one floating in a cloud of pale blue voile. Arraganzo reviewed his own handiwork with pride. Whatever could be done for these two girls had been done to the hilt.

And now they were about to be put to the test. Ahead of them Mark gazed openmouthed from his throne, already transfixed by the sight of them. Around him, the busy courtiers whispered and stared, assessing the procession as it came along. In the front, Arraganzo was a vision in scarlet from his cardinal’s cap to his hand-stitched kidskin boots. Behind him came the two sisters, striking in their contrasted shades of earth and sky, attended by their maids in virginal white. Bringing up the rear like two dark clouds were the black-clad Dominian and his pupil, Simeon. Arraganzo purred with delight. No wonder Mark was goggling like a fool. Castle Dore had never seen anything like it before.

They came to a halt at the foot of the throne. Dominian moved forward with a clumsy bow.

“Your Majesty,” he proclaimed, “may I present a visitor from the Holy See, the Pope’s emissary from Rome, the Cardinal Legate of Spain?”

Mark gazed at Arraganzo, overawed. “We are honored, my lord.”

“Oh, sire, the honor is mine.” Arraganzo made a courtly Spanish flourish and stepped aside. “And may I commend two young Christian princesses to your care.” He waved a hand at the fat one. “Princess Theodora,” he declaimed.

Simeon gave Theodora a violent jab in the back. Prompted, Theodora fell to her knees and clasped her hands. “Sire, give us your blessing.”

“And the Princess Divinia,” Arraganzo intoned.

Hearing her name, Divinia knelt, too. “Bless us, sire,” she breathed in a high, lisping voice.

Arraganzo leaned forward. “Their father the King is dying,” he said quietly. “He begs Your Majesty will take them as your wards.”

“My wards, eh?” Mark murmured, stroking his chin as he eyed the two girls up and down. The well-covered one was a fine-looking wench, to be sure, but the half-starved waif in blue was appealing, too. And both were staring at him with huge sad eyes as if he were the most important man on earth. Well, nothing wrong with that. Nice to see two young women showing such mature judgment and good sense.

He turned to Arraganzo. “Soon to be orphans, you say?”

Arraganzo inclined his head. “Unless they find a new father in yourself. A king should be a father to his people, as Our Lord decreed. And sometimes he may be more.”

Mark’s shriveled spirit soared. Oh yes, oh yes. It would be an excellent thing to have these two beauties at court, hanging on his every word and following him devotedly to and fro. He could certainly be a good father to them, and maybe more. Well, to one of them, at least. Now, which one?

Then an inner prompting made him shake his head. He turned to Arraganzo with regret. “Alas, I have another commitment I can’t escape.”

Arraganzo raised a magnificent eyebrow. “And what is that?”

“The Quest for the Holy Grail,” said Mark importantly. “Half the knights of the Round Table have already set out, and my knights and I must play our part in that. We’d have been on the road by now but for Tristan’s treachery and desertion, the villainous wretch.”

Dominian folded his hands. “Sire, the Quest is not your concern. You may leave that to King Arthur and his knights.”

Arraganzo nodded. “There is more than one way to do God’s work, my son.”

“But I swore to join them,” Mark protested. “The names of the Grail knights will never die. I want to be remembered along with Lancelot, Gawain, and Galahad. We’ll still be honored in a thousand years.”

Arraganzo stepped forward, drawing himself up. “Do not desire to join the fellowship of the Grail,” he said commandingly. “The Quest they follow is only one of many of God’s works. As you see, He has another task for you here. The lives of these two virgins lie at your feet.”

Virgins, eh? Mark felt his interest quickening at the thought. Virgins, yes, of course, they wouldn’t have known any men. Neither of them would scorn him and spurn him as Isolde did. And fresh meat would be more than welcome after the stale, resentful mistress he had cast off.

“And think of this, sire,” Arraganzo resumed. “The Holy Grail is the pure vessel of Christ’s passion and the symbol of His love. It can only be found by the most peerless knight in the world, free from sin, without weakness, taint, or shame.”

He paused, closely watching Mark’s face. Not me, then, was clearly written in every twitch of the King’s muddy countenance and shifting, flickering eyes. Certainly not me.

Arraganzo seized his moment and pressed on. “For the rest of mankind, there is another grail. That is the holy innocence of a maiden, whose pure body they desire to penetrate. Mortal men may possess that holy grail through carnal knowledge of a virgin’s inviolate vessel when they plunge themselves in her maiden form.”

“Is it so?” Mark was overwhelmed.

“It is God’s word and will,” the Cardinal Legate averred in his most thrilling tones, “His sacred mystery revealed to His lesser creation here on earth. A man loses himself in a woman to gain what all men seek. That is the terror, that is the miracle.”

Mark looked at the two Princesses with new eyes. Terror and miracle, eh? he chuckled to himself. Which was which? The fat one could well be a terror, but the shy one might prove to be a miracle. The quiet ones were often the best in bed.

“So, sire?”

Arraganzo, Dominian, the two Princesses, and Simeon the young monk were watching Mark in a silence that gripped all the court. He struggled to find a masterful, kingly tone.

“If God wills me to take these two lost maidens under my wing,” he declared in ringing tones, “it shall be done. Bring them to my privy apartments, where I may consider their needs.”

He rose to his feet. Barely containing themselves, the courtiers bowed as the King, the Princesses, and the men of God left the chamber, then fell to gossiping with a vengeance as they all followed out. At last the chamber was empty but for a lone figure lurking in the shadow of the dais. Breathing heavily and gripping the hilt of his sword, Andred tried in vain to still his raging discontent.

What else, he fumed, did the jealous Gods have in store for him? First the failed ambush as Tristan rode to the port, leaving his deadly rival alive and at large after all the money he had spent to achieve the opposite result. Then those cretins Fer de Gambon and Taboral limping back to court, ready to blackmail him as soon as they dared. Already he could hear their weaselly demands: We need money, sir, and a place at court, then help us to a piece of land or a small estate. He sucked in his breath and gave a mirthless grin. He’d probably have to kill them now, of course. The only question was when.

And now the accursed Christians were on the move. Andred groaned aloud. If they got Mark interested in a Christian girl, that scarlet-clad eminence from Rome would have the marriage to Isolde annulled before you could say “pagan whore.” That very night one of those princesses would be in Mark’s bed. Nine months later there’d be a bouncing Christian bairn and Andred would be as Isolde and Tristan were, no longer wanted or needed, a part of Mark’s past.

And with no hope of coming to the throne.

So, then . . .

Motionless, Andred thought long and hard. What to do? Wait till he saw which princess caught Mark’s eye, then have her killed before the wedding day? Lay false information that they were unchaste and get them both sent back to Dun Haven in disgrace? Poison them with a draught that mimicked the wasting sickness that was so often the death of young maids? Or better still—he laughed soundlessly—poison Mark?

He laughed with bitter delight. Already he could see Mark falling prey to the cleverer of the two Princesses who were even now trotting happily into the King’s House. A savage, baleful grin took over his face. Do what you will, uncle dear, I shall have you in the end. And princesses both, enjoy your time in Castle Dore. It will all be over before you’ve even begun to understand what you’re doing here.