The Lady of the Sea (21 page)

chapter 30

T
he mountain range lay black against the sky. Below it, the land ran gently down to the sea, where the line of the forest broke around a sheltered bay. From a distance, the whole landscape seemed asleep. But the early morning foxes, weasels, and stoats, like the ravens, crows, and blackbirds wheeling overhead, were intrigued to see that they had company.

Winding down the valley came a procession of horses and men, bright with lances and banners and gleaming with silver and gold. The new dawn, still red and raw in the sky, lit their path through the trees and down to the sandy shore. Isolde rode with Darath at the head of the glittering line, while all his companions and knights rode behind. Apart from the few who had stayed to guard the ships, all the Picts were there in force.

As they had to be, Isolde knew, if her plan was to succeed.

If . . .

No one trusted her judgment, she knew. She could hear the Picts now muttering behind her back, sharing their doubts and dissatisfaction in dark tones. Even though she did not understand what was said, there was no mistaking Cunnoch’s sharply expressed suspicion and its echo in Findra’s low, guarded replies. Findra’s young kinsman, Agnomon, was staring and muttering to himself as he rode along. All Darath’s men were against her, that was plain. Even their familiar strong, heathery smell had changed to something more feral and furtive as they hid their fears.

And in Dubh Lein, too, her lords had dismissed her scheme. In her own home and heartland, even the loyal Sir Gilhan had turned against her as he never had before.

“It’ll never succeed,” he said flatly. “Not with the Picts.” He leaned forward across the Council table, folding his battle-scarred hands. “At least take a troop of our soldiers to keep you from harm.”

Isolde shook her head. “That would only convince the Picts they have something to fear.”

Gilhan frowned in despair. “Madam, this may well cost you your life.”

“My life?” She had laughed then, an unconvincing trill. “As long as our men do their part, the Picts won’t kill me. Why should they?”

“Oh, madam—” Sir Doneal burst in with savage scorn. “A Pict never needs a reason to kill. If they spurn your offer, kiss the world good-bye.”

The world and Tristan.

Oh, Tristan, Tristan, where are you, my love?

Her heart wept. Then her mother’s voice came dropping into her ear.
No tears, no fears. Remember you are Queen.

She stiffened her spine.
And a queen does what is best for the land.

She felt a hot hand on hers and came back to herself. “You are silent, lady. What are your thoughts?”

It was Darath, of course, riding too close to her side. She flashed him an enigmatic smile. “Why, nothing I care to reveal.”

“No?” His bright eyes were alive with malice. “Let me guess. You’re pining for Sir Tristan, your long-serving knight.”

Had she realized before how cruel he could be? With a great effort, she shrugged the comment off. “A queen will always have her knights.”

He looked around and laughed with open disdain. “Even here?”

She speared him with a glance. “A thousand knights leap to my bidding here. Why do you worry about one?”

Darath returned her shrug. “He was a gallant opponent when we fought. I hope his wounds have not taken a turn for the worse.”

What wounds? Oh, Tristan, did you suffer more than I knew?
She struggled to recapture a light, bantering tone. “Enough of Sir Tristan. The King of the Picts has all my interest now.”

As does delaying you here till the storms of the season set in,
she did not say.
Keeping you and your Picts in Ireland as winter descends. Do you see that, sir? Do you understand the game?

Her thoughts were thudding so loudly she felt he must hear.
If not, you play into my hands. You invaded our land in midsummer, when the sea was calm. But now—
she looked at the wintry sea and wanted to laugh
—trapped by storms, cut off from hearth and home, my enemy becomes my prisoner.

And I alone hold the key to this island of ours.

“See, sir.”

She pointed ahead through the trees. As the forest thinned out, they saw a wide natural harbor with a row of neat houses behind, all clustered together around the edge of the bay. Between the forest and the houses lay a ring of tidy homesteads and well-kept farms, sheltered by the trees from the worst of the winter storms.

On the beach, a row of fishing boats lay drawn up above the waterline, each with its ropes and nets coiled neatly inside. Passing between the houses and pausing to laugh and gossip on the sand were the women of the village, old and young, many of them with babies on their backs and children round their knees, but all healthy and strong. Most had the red-gold hair and pale skin of Ireland, but here and there were some with a fall of hair as black and glossy as a beetle and eyes as blue as a speedwell in spring. Even in the dull light of a December day, the village teemed with life.

Isolde watched the young mothers and their babies with a peculiar pain.
This is how I would be, if I had Tristan’s child.
She forced her mind away.

She turned to Darath and gestured to the scene below. “What do you notice here?”

He was dazzled by the women, she could see, especially the tallest, a queenly young thing with a basket of fish at her feet. He shook his head, unable to tear his eyes away. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Isolde questioned. “Look again. Some time ago a huge shoal of fish was seen far out at sea, greater than any have ever seen here before. All the men, young and old, took to the boats to harvest this rare tide. None of them came back. Ever since we call the village Womenswold, ‘the place of women,’ in our tongue.”

She had caught his interest, she could see. “What happened?” Darath demanded, openmouthed.

“No one knows. A great wave, perhaps, to overwhelm the fleet, or some monster of the deep. Afterward the sea threw up the masts and timbers of the sunken ships. But the men were gone as if they had never been.”

Darath’s gaze swiveled back to the beach. “So all these women live here as widows or virgins in a world without men?”

“And not by choice,” Isolde agreed somberly. “Their life is very hard.”

She pulled her horse around and looked Darath in the eye. Behind him she could see Cunnoch and his knights, tense and alert, drinking in every word she said.

“Sir, when we met,” she began, “you spoke of the past, when the men of your land wooed the women of ours. Here in this village it could happen again. If you and your men court these women and win their consent, I promise a bride-gift for each marriage made. Do this, and you and your men will return to Pictland far richer than you came, with grain for your barns and cattle for your byres. Above all you’ll have strong healthy women to renew your race. And there will be kith and kin bonds between us from now on.”

He gave an arrogant laugh. “I came here for a queen, not for a fisherwife. And I will not leave without taking you to my bed.” He turned to look at his knights, grinned widely, and raised his voice. “We refuse.”

Isolde smiled. “Think again, sir.” She drew her sword and flourished it over her head. At her signal, the dark forest came to life. A thousand lances glinted among the trees, and a thousand rays of dancing, broken light flashed on the arrowheads pointed at the Picts.

“It’s an ambush!” screamed Cunnoch, diving for his sword. “She’s going to kill us all!”

“Agnomon, here!” Already Findra had gathered the staring young man to his side and was prepared to sell his life for his sister’s son.

“You have nothing to fear,” Isolde called back to them in ringing tones. “Your lives are safe. My word is still is my bond. And you see I’m alone and undefended among you here. But I give you a choice. Take the offer I have made to your King, woo our women, and marry those who will consent. If they are unwilling to leave their native place, wed them and make your homes here. You’ll be dearly welcome if you stay in Ireland with us.”

They were staring at her like rabbits at a snake. Determinedly, she pressed on. “For every woman who goes back to your land, we’ll send cattle and grain. She and her man and her children will always be able to come back to the Western Isle at any time. And any man of the Picts who marries one of our women becomes one of us, too. That is our offer.”

She paused, and drew a deep breath. “Take it, and peace and plenty lie ahead. Refuse it”—she gestured toward the forest with its hidden force of men—“and we give you war, blood, and defeat.” She lifted her sword and swung it through the air. “Like my mother and all my foremothers they call the battle ravens of the Western Isle, I shall sweep you into the sea.”

“But lady—” Darath’s face was glistening like a man in the throes of death. “I wanted your love,” he said in a faint, ghastly voice.

Isolde shook her head sadly. “Sir, I am not for you. Somewhere the woman awaits you who will be your Queen. And all women are queens where the Goddess rules.”

Darath mustered a sickly grin. “Perhaps,” he murmured.

Isolde nodded. “Take time to consider your choice. We sent orders ahead that you and your men are to be welcomed here. But you have your own welcome, as you can see.”

Smiling, she indicated a group of the villagers drawing toward them up the path from the beach. At their head was the tall young woman Darath had noticed before, with a cloak of black hair and piercing forget-me-not eyes. She wore a handsome cloak of silver gray fur, and her step had the leap of a salmon in spring.

“Welcome, strangers,” she called boldly, eyeing the Picts up and down. “I am Medhebar, the head of this village here. Do you come as enemies or friends?”

Isolde looked at Darath. “What will your answer be?”

“Friends, lady,” he cried hoarsely.

Medhebar opened her arms and gestured to her basket of fish. “Then come and feast with us. You’re just in time for the catch.”

Already the younger Picts were jumping down from their mounts. Cunnoch still sat on his horse, snarling fiercely at all around, but Findra and Agnomon were yielding, Isolde could see. She smiled at Medhebar. “Thank you for your gracious hospitality. We are pleased to accept.”

As she dismounted, she saw that more and more of the Picts were doing the same. She turned to speak to Medhebar, who was still keenly assessing the newcomers with open interest and delight.

There was a voice in her ear. “Lady, what of me?”

Darath stood before her like a man bereft. Suddenly he looked young and forlorn, a lost boy. But there was only one answer she could make to Darath now.

“Sir, your fate lies before you. Another woman is waiting to take you to her arms.”

“Not you, then.” He gritted his teeth, and she felt his pain. Then he flashed the familiar grin and tossed back his hair. “At least give me something to remember you by.”

She laughed, startled. “What?”

He held an endless pause. “A kiss.”

Isolde paused. But why not? He was a gallant loser, and the peace she had won for Ireland was worth the price.

“Come here,” she said. As he stepped toward her, she took his face between her hands and kissed him on the lips.

“Lady!” he gasped. She felt him trembling. Then he threw his arms round her and crushed her to his chest.

“Again!”

Oh, Tristan . . .

Once, long ago, Tristan had kissed another woman, and the fear that he’d been unfaithful had killed her heart. But then she learned that the woman had helped him escape from prison and that he had bought his freedom with that kiss.
I am not betraying Tristan,
she told herself.
Or if I am, I am buying Ireland’s future with this kiss of mine. I am making allies of the Picts, not enemies.

His kiss was fleshy yet hard, a boy’s kiss, not a man’s. Again her deep hunger for Tristan began to stir.
Where are you? Will I find you again? If I do, can you forgive this? Can I ever forgive you?

She hardly felt Darath disengage from her, but she could tell he was reluctant to let go his hold. As she opened her eyes, his were shining with desire.

“Darkness and devils!” he cried passionately. “If only you would take me to your bed! Think what ancient dragon magic we two would unleash, the warrior daughters we would make and the blood-drinking sons. It’s a sin against nature to deny me that.”

“You will have warrior girls and fearless boys,” she promised him with a smile. “Believe me, that is written in your stars.”

“As you are in mine,” he murmured, kissing her hand. “Call on me again if ever you need a sword. I’ll be your champion till the day I die.”

“And before that, sir, you will bring your Queen and your warrior brood to visit us here.” She paused for emphasis. “In peace. You must swear an oath of peace.”

“That may be hard.” Darath glanced broodingly at his lords. “Still, we have had the blood adventure we wanted when we left. Our hungry swords have had their meat and drink.”

“And lady, you have given us a promise of hope,” Findra put in. “If we go back with all the goods you have promised us, we are not leaving here as beaten men.”